The Order took itself very seriously. Lancelyn did not tolerate time-wasters. Some members were well known in their professions; judges, doctors, politicians, even aristocrats - but when they all dressed in robes with their faces covered, they shed their identities, relishing secret escape from their public roles.
For a few years, everything was perfect.
When things went wrong, the catalyst - Ben realised after the event - was their mother’s death.
Holly sensed the death in one of her psychic flashes, soon confirmed by a letter from his parents’ solicitors. Ben tried to attend the funeral, but his father, unrepentant, drove him away in a rage. That was Ben’s last attempt to contact him. His father lived alone at Grey Crags now and could rot there for all he cared.
However, it was Lancelyn’s utter indifference to their bereavement that crystallised Ben’s frustration. As Ben grew into his own power, he began to resent Lancelyn’s authority, his casual assumption that Ben and Holly were his protégés, eternal assistants. That was why Ben built his own temple. Working alone, he entered Raqia with increasing ease to soar through the ethereal mountains of the astral world. No esoteric words or symbols were needed; only the force of his own will. He saw wonders and sensed dark-winged creatures around him, beings who were frustratingly oblivious, untouchable.
If Lancelyn communicates with them, he thought, he is either infinitely more adept than me - or he’s hallucinating - or telling lies! Ha, heresy!
The brothers were growing apart, though neither dared admit it. The process began even before they discovered the Book, long before the deaths of James and Deirdre. Ben finally acknowledged the schism as he walked along tree-lined streets to confront his brother.
Lancelyn, your meetings are fruitless and theatrical, he wanted to announce. You have not unveiled Wisdom. You have done nothing new.
I am younger and stronger than you. So why are you still in power?
* * *
Benedict stood on Lancelyn’s doorstep, hands pushing his coat pockets out of shape. I don’t want to face this, he thought. I risk having all my dreams shattered. But I have to. I want everything, or nothing!
A manservant showed him into the study. Lancelyn was sitting at his desk surrounded by his books and manuscripts. Another figure, a disembodied torso on the edge of the desk, made Ben start. Some sort of dummy, wearing a Mexican hat and striped shirt. One of Lancelyn’s restored toys. Damned ugly thing, Ben thought.
“Come in,” Lancelyn said gruffly. “Cigar?”
“Thank you,” said Benedict.
Lancelyn leaned over to the dummy and pressed a lever. Whirring, it came to life, raising its hands to produce a box of cigars, then opening the lid to Benedict. The fixed grin on its badly painted face was unsettling.
“Nice toy, eh?” said Lancelyn. “I completely rebuilt the mechanism. Makes a pleasant change from brain-work.”
Ben took a cigar. The automaton flicked a thumb, held out a light, then sank back to rest.
“Remarkable,” said Ben, through clouds of smoke. He sat in a leather armchair, putting on a show of relaxed confidence. “You’ve heard the unfortunate news about James and Deirdre?”
“Of course.” Lancelyn sat down behind his desk. “Very sad. Most regrettable.”
“Any possibility that it wasn’t suicide? That they were victims of a magical attack?”
The magus’s reaction was subtle. He became very still, face expressionless and eyes hard. “A strong possibility, I’d say.”
“But who would do that to them?” Ben said. “Why?”
“They must have upset someone. No one with such powers uses them lightly, so it must have been very serious. Flouting the Laws, perhaps, or breaking their oath of secrecy.”
Ben moistened his dry lips. Would Lancelyn speak so openly, if he were guilty? “D’you know who they quarrelled with? Does any member of the Order possess such power... apart from you?”
Cool amusement creased his brother’s face. “What is this, Ben, a police investigation?”
“I need the truth. I understand that both Deirdre and James quarrelled with you.”
“Indeed? What else did Deirdre tell you?”
“I never said she told me anything,” said Ben, playing Lancelyn’s game. “But she was afraid. She had a visitation. In the light of what subsequently happened, it sounded remarkably like a nightmare vision of a train.”
“Perhaps she had a fear of trains; a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Lancelyn said thinly. “Be careful, Ben. Be very careful.”
The room seemed to darken. He blinked hard. “Why?”
“There is much you don’t understand. Why d’you think I am head of the Order and you are not?”
Ben was stung. “Because I respect you!”
“Respect? Have you no ambition? Are you suggesting that your power is equal to mine, but you hold back out of brotherly love?”
“No. And I’m not here to argue, only for a straight answer. Did you have anything to do with the deaths of my friends?”
Again the room darkened. Lancelyn appeared tiny and distant, as if Ben were viewing him through the wrong end of a telescope. Ben began to shiver. Animal terror seized his mind. There was only one word for the current that surged into him: evil.
The feeling vanished. Too stunned to react, he heard Lancelyn’s response to his question. “You disappoint me. First, there’s no use you can make of the answer. Second, no magical attack is undertaken lightly; the reasons of the magus are deep and complex beyond society’s shallow morality. One cannot be judged by the other. Third, you haven’t so much asked a question as given an answer: that you do not trust me. Tell me, Ben, what use is a disciple if he lacks absolute faith in his master?”
Ben stood up, swayed, caught himself on the edge of the desk. He felt frightened, outmanoeuvred, and angry. “So, I am useless -for daring to question you?”
“Perhaps the fault is mine. I wonder why I promoted you to such high office when you clearly don’t understand the rules.”
“Since when has murder been in the rules?”
Lancelyn spoke with menace. “I am not a murderer, Ben, but I shall never forget your insinuation. Our search for Wisdom is a deadly serious business. If you don’t understand how serious, you’d be better off out of it.”
“Are you expelling me?”
“No, no.” Lancelyn’s hard tone softened. “I’m warning you. By the way, I hope you’ve brought back the Book.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“How goes the translation?”
“Slow, but -” Ben stopped. He no longer had any intention of telling Lancelyn about the summoning. It was a matter of principle.
“Then if you can make no useful progress, I must work on it myself. Kindly bring it back immediately.”
Ben straightened his jacket and said, “I’m afraid I can’t.”
“What?”
“I haven’t finished my studies. I came here ready to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I won’t be spoken to like an imbecile. I’ve as much right to the Book as you; I’ll give it back when I’m ready. That’s all. Now I’ll bid you good morning.”
* * *
“The message is clear,” Ben told Holly. “Anyone who crosses Lancelyn will be punished. His warning is blatant: ‘I have the power to kill with magic; no use rushing to the police because they can’t prove a thing; but anyone who challenges me will meet the same fate.’ Even me!”
Holly listened, her face pinched with misery. “I can’t believe he’d hurt his own brother.”
“Hang it, we aren’t brothers any more!” he said. “We’re rivals, and he knows it. But I won’t take this. I’ll find a way to defend myself - and you, Holly. Good grief, if he won’t stop at me or Deirdre, why should he spare you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, he’d never hurt me!” She spoke more in fear than anger.
“I can’t take the risk.” He added sadly, “I don’t know Lancelyn any more. Perhaps I never did.
I was too busy worshipping him to see what he really is. But he’s gone too far. I’ve got to take the Order away from him before he destroys it.”
* * *
Benedict stood alone outside his attic temple, holding the Book. It was heavy as stone and icy to the touch, as if, instead of rotting, it had petrified.
Ben trusted Holly’s intuition, but had been astonished when she’d envisioned the Book’s location so accurately. When he and Lancelyn found the tunnel and saw the book in the tiny dank cell, exactly as she’d described -!
An unspeakably weird place, the lair of some medieval hermit. Eeriest of all, there had been five imprints on the cover, as if someone had recently touched the Book and snatched their hand away.
“I don’t like it,” Holly had said when they brought it home. “It has a horrible aura. I wish I’d never had the vision, and that you’d left it where it was.”
But Ben had tasted its power. Now he was going to use it again - even though he was breaking his promise to Holly - in self-defence.
Wanting to avoid arguments, he’d persuaded her to visit a friend for a few days, insisting that she needed a rest. She’d gone reluctantly, saying goodbye with a sullen mouth and suspicious eyes. She must suspect... Still, now she was out of the way, he’d worry about the consequences later.
Lancelyn, you can send all the psychic currents and nightmares you like against me, he thought; I am going to shape something real to send against you!
He was ready to begin.
The attic was dismal, the outside panels of the temple as grey and dull as the surroundings. He’d constructed the shell within the roof space so he could walk all the way around it.
One of the panels was a door. Ben opened it and went inside.
Within, the ten-sided space was lined with mirrors, replicating each other to infinity. Ceiling and floor were black, each with a ten-pointed star painted in white lines. He lit an oil lamp and replaced the violet glass shade; he ignited galbanum and frankincense in a censer. Fragrant smoke filled the air.
Benedict was wearing his ritual clothes: pale mauve robe with the ten-pointed star on the breast, full-face mask and hood.
On the floor, in the centre of the star, he placed the Book. First, a meditation to settle his mind; then, breathing fast to make himself dizzy, he began to spin round and round the temple.
His mind was resistant to the trance. Trickles of doubt diverted his concentration. Although he dreaded failure, he was even more afraid of success.
Will it be the same being that answers, or a different one?
God, I wish Holly were here.
Lancelyn’s fault... He began this... Does he think I’m weak, so easily intimidated? He needs to learn and he has to be stopped.
Breathe deep. Kill the doubts and concentrate.
As Ben trod the circle, he chanted a deep, piercing note until the bones of his skull vibrated. He found it easy these days to touch Raqia. He was an adept, in no need of the elaborate trappings and rituals of lesser initiates.
Reflections whirled past him, purple, black and silver. His vision darkened; green and red exploded across his eyes as he grew faint. Sweat poured from him, ice cold. His head ached from chanting, as if he were pounding his skull against a door... a vast ebony gate to hell itself.
The barrier burst open. He was out of his body and soaring through clouds. Dark gold, deepest blue. He leapt across a livid chasm and saw a vast white halo, scintillating far above.
He reached up to the halo and touched it! Shimmering coldness broke over his hand as he tried to grasp a piece of the higher realm and absorb its power...
Visualise... Power striking his enemy like lightning. A hellish wind blowing through the enemy’s house. A cloud in the darkness of his bedroom, settling on his chest and sucking out his life...
Succubus. Lamia.
He cried, “Spirits of Raqia, you let me into your world; now come with me into mine! Hear the plea of your faithful servant. Aid me now and I’ll repay you richly. Come to me... come now...”
Ripples flowed from his hand. He was plummeting backwards, losing his hold on the realm too fast. Yet the ripples flowed on. They shook the whole realm of Raqia; not a pebble but a boulder thrown into a lake...
Benedict burst out of the trance with a shout of pain. He ached and trembled as if he’d been crushed by a train. He struggled for control; now he needed all his strength to master the forces he’d called.
The temple swung into semi-focus. Something lay in the centre of the double pentacle, a white shape. Benedict stared. As before, it looked like a skeletal corpse, curled on its side like a crescent moon around the censer, lamp and Book. The lavender glow was as coldly mystical as moonlight.
“It worked!” he whispered. “By God Almighty and all the powers of Sophia, it worked!”
The first time had not been a fluke. He’d brought a solid, real being from another world into this. Again, his instinct was to recoil and banish it, but he controlled himself. Be scientific...
Had the transition killed it?
It looked dead, desiccated, ash-white. Cold vapour swirled from its skin and Benedict shivered. The entity brought winter with it, and snow lay on the floor as if blown there by the brief opening of an arctic door. Crystals glittered in the lamplight.
Benedict watched the creature. How to protect himself? He turned slowly, envisioning pentagrams in the north, south, east and west to guard the space... knowing that the true purpose of words and symbols was to concentrate his mind. That was where magic lay. In the mind.
Suddenly the apparition made a sound, a thin dry groan that went on and on. “Ahhhh...”
Fresh sweat burst out on Benedict’s back. Not dead! He edged towards the mirror panel that concealed the door. This was too real.
“I am Benedict,” he said, trying to sound authoritative. “I have summoned you from Raqia to Earth to do my bidding. You are here at my command. Can you understand me? Can you speak?”
It heard. The groan grew louder. It shifted a few inches with a scraping sound, and stretched out a hand with a terrible dry crackle, as if the effort might shatter its frame. It lifted its chin and Benedict saw the face. A mummified angel. He stared with overwhelming horror and pity at the papery skull and mindless, shrivelled eyes.
He tried again. “All respect to you, Spirit; you are safe here. I wish us to help each other. Tell me what it is you need.”
The groan turned into a word: “You.”
The creature pushed itself up on bony forearms. Benedict wrenched open the temple door and was through in a second; he glimpsed a pale streak as it leapt at him, heard a leathery thud and the shattering of glass as he slammed and locked the door just in time.
He stood outside with the key in his hand, shaking, wondering how he would cope with the creature he’d unleashed.
Reduced at a stroke from adept to terrified probationer. This was the line between imagining he knew everything, and realising he did not; between belief and horrific reality. He’d imprisoned the thing, but there was only wood and glass between them.
Caught between terror and growing elation, he put his eye to a gap between panels.
In the glow he saw the bare wood of the damaged door, the creature lying at its base amid shards of glass. A corpse of ash. Tragic, it looked. Ravenous... for flesh, or blood? How on earth was he to control and nourish it?
The secrets were never meant to be used like this, he thought. Worst possible abuse of privilege. God help me, I’ve done it now.
Suddenly, as if the temple shell were transparent, the corpse stared straight at him, the wizened face feral and ghastly. He caught his breath. Then, in a white streak, it sprang.
Glass exploded like a shell-burst. Benedict screamed. The panel splintered and the creature came surging through and straight onto him, bearing him to the floor.
Its strength was impossible. Dead-white hands closed on his neck, forcing the screams back into his lungs... and as he strained, uselessly
, to keep its fangs out of his throat, its wide-open mouth and staring eyes were a perfect mirror of his own.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE EYES OF A NIGHTBIRD
When Karl first mentioned Katerina, Charlotte had visualised her as small, gentle, and sisterly. The woman who bloomed from the husk was not at all what she had imagined.
Within two weeks, their care restored her to stunning physical condition. It was impossible to believe that the sleek beauty who reclined on the chaise longue was the same creature. She was stately, with glossy dark-brown hair that lay in skeins over her broad shoulders. Beautiful, but not ethereal; her features were strong, her mouth full, her brown eyes haughty.
Charlotte tried to dismiss Ilona’s warnings, but all the same she couldn’t stop herself watching Karl with Katerina. The more she tried to prove Ilona wrong, the more her worst fears came true.
Karl’s attentiveness to Katerina ran deeper than kindness to a dear friend. She saw the way he looked at her, the tenderness with which he brushed her hair from her face. He would sit holding her hand for hours, talking softly, in both English and German. At first she did not respond, but soon she began to look at him, frowning a little, listening. Sometimes her lips would move, as if she were trying to speak.
At the same time, Karl became distant towards Charlotte, giving her minimum attention before returning to the patient.
He’s preoccupied, he’s concerned, it won’t be for long, she told herself, but rationality failed to soothe her paranoia. She’d never seen him like this with anyone, even Ilona. The easy warmth he showed Katerina made her jealous.
When Karl went out to feed and to rest in the Crystal Ring, Charlotte no longer went with him. Instead she was expected to stay with Katerina.
Charlotte endured these times. She could barely bring herself to speak to the invalid. If she tried, Katerina’s only response was a wary sideways stare.
Her unease deepened towards animosity.
The hostility, it seemed, was mutual. To please Karl, Charlotte would sit and read to her, but it was always with the creeping feeling that Katerina might attack her at any moment.
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