Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04

by Heartlight (v2. 1)

  The curtains were drawn back from the glass, and Colin was unsurprised to see that the sky was turning grey with predawn light. The world had survived another All Hallows Eve, and the Day of the Dead had dawned.

  Behind him, Alison was explaining the fundamental beliefs of the Light to Jonathan. "There is an energy that binds us all together—at the turn of the century it was called the aethyr, though that term is rather out of date now. This part of us—the Light Body—is what allows us, as a race, to do all those things that are usually lumped under the heading of'parapsychology and the occult' on bookstore shelves."

  Colin's thoughts turned away from the conversation and back to the girl upstairs. The moment he'd seen her in Jonathan's car, he'd experienced a bone-deep flash of recognition. He'd known this girl before, in some other life.

  Since he'd returned to the United States, Colin realized that he'd been waiting, as if for orders. Claire London's arrival was as direct as a command: the Lords of Karma required him to be about the business he had been dedicated to and had set this task in his way.

  But though he had faced far more perilous tests than one young girl, for the first time in his life Colin wondered if his will and his skill were equal to the thing he meant to do. Was Claire the one who had been sent to him to train, to shape, to guide? And if she was, what then?

  Behind him, the fresh wood kindled strongly, sending new heat out into the room. Colin turned away from the window, to where Alison and Jonathan were sitting beside each other, talking intently.

  "Once you accept that you are more than just a body—that you have a subtle body as well, with its own senses and needs—you've taken your first step into a larger universe, and set your foot on a path whose passage can take you many lifetimes."

  Jonathan gazed at her, caught halfway between automatic rejection of such an outlandish idea and a hopeful, hungry belief. Watching the two of them, Colin was surprised to recognize in himself a sudden brief pang of envy. Alison found it so simple to speak of these things, to set a new seeker's feet upon the Path. If she felt any of the misgivings or qualms that Colin felt about the danger and the responsibility inherent within her actions, she gave no sign.

  But then, Alison was no stranger to teaching—Simon Anstey was only the latest of her many students; their lives like a garden of flowers that she had touched during her time on earth. Alison Margrave's was a life well spent, a life of service to the Light.

  Could Colin truly say the same? He had fought great and terrible battles in the service of the Light, but an Adept's life should be the crowning work of his mind and heart, and Colin was not yet satisfied with what he had made of himself.

  "If it was LSD that is responsible for what happened to Claire," he said into a lull in the conversation a few minutes later, "I'd like to know more about how she came to take it. You say that it takes effect fairly quickly, Alison— doesn't that mean she must have gotten it at the party she and Jonathan went to?"

  "I guess so, Professor," Jonathan said slowly. "It was just, well, one of Toller's parties. Everyone knows what they're like. Claire did."

  "Assume we don't," Alison said in ironic tones. "Just a minute. I'd better go check on the girl." She got to her feet, glass in hand, and headed for the stairs.

  Jonathan turned in his seat, looking over his shoulder to where Colin stood.

  "I guess I'm in a little bit over my head here tonight, eh, Professor?" he asked ruefully.

  "You're doing fine," Colin told him. "A cool head in a crisis, and a willingness to follow orders intelligently, will do a lot toward taking you down any road you want to travel."

  "This is the road I want to travel," Jonathan said strongly. "I know it sounds crazy, but it feels as if I'm coming home."

  Not as crazy as you think it does, Colin thought with an inward smile. One of the fundamental tenets of the Light was the unending process of learning, as the Self returned to incarnation for life after life. Perhaps this was not the first life in which Jonathan Ashwell had pursued a deeper meaning to existence.

  Alison returned. "Still sleeping. Pulse and respiration both good and strong; I think that when she wakes up tomorrow she'll be fine—at least physically. As for psychically . . ." Alison hesitated. "I suppose we'll deal with that when the time comes. Although the person I'd really like to deal with is whoever threw the party the two of you were at, since he seems to think that drugging his guests is funny."

  "Nobody thinks you're to blame, Jonathan," Colin said reassuringly. "But anything you can tell us will be helpful."

  Under Colin and Alison's patient questioning, a pattern began to emerge.

  Toller Hasloch was the original BMOC—Big Man On Campus. He was twenty-two, a pre-law student from a well-to-do Baltimore family. He lived off campus in a rambling Victorian in an older section of town and threw frequent, famous parties. He was involved in a number of different clubs on campus of a less-than-respectable nature and had a reputation for both intellectual and physical daring.

  Drugs—mostly marijuana and pills—were available at Toller's parties. Everyone knew it. But as far as Jonathan knew, no one had ever been forced to take them.

  "If she was drugged, it had to be the punch," he said. "There was a big bowl; it was spiked with vodka, but everyone knew that. Claire knew, too— she usually doesn't drink, but she was drinking that night; I warned her about the booze and she just laughed at me. But a little liquor wouldn't do that to someone, would it? And if there was anything else in the punch, Toller was the one who put it in there," Jonathan added positively. "He likes to seem laid-back, but I don't think much goes on around him that he doesn't know about."

  "How hard would this drug be to get?" Colin asked Alison.

  "Not very," she admitted. "And it would be fairly simple to make, if you had access to a chemistry lab)—or were dating a chemist."

  "I take it that Mr. Hasloch fulfills at least one of the above criteria?" Colin asked Jonathan.

  "Sure," Jonathan said uncertainly, beginning to be uneasy. "I mean ... he can get all kinds of things," he said reluctantly. "At least, I've heard he can. I don't want to get him into trouble, Professor. . . ."

  "He's already in trouble," Alison said darkly. "Assuming, of course, he's truly the one at fault. But for the sake of convenience, we'll assume that he is, that he got his hands on some LSD and thought he'd liven up his own Halloween party by providing some real—or realistic-seeming—ghosts and goblins. He's just lucky that Claire was the only one affected in that particular way—at least I hope so. And it's a good thing you didn't have any of whatever it was he spiked the punch with—at least, I'm assuming you didn't," Alison said. "LSD can have some pretty bizarre effects."

  "No," Jonathan said gratefully. "I didn't drink any of the punch. I stuck to beer. That is—" he said, realizing what he'd said.

  "Under the circumstances, I'd say your sins were minor," Colin said. "And forgiven."

  "Sins," said a new voice from the doorway. "I suppose it's too much to hope that I've been committing any?"

  Colin had been right when he'd guessed Claire London would be tall: five-eight or -nine, what Colin's Scots ancestors would have called "a braw strapping lassie." She was barefoot, her skirt and sweater slightly rumpled from having been slept in. She was holding to the doorframe for support as she ran her free hand through her short blond hair. Her mouth was set in a grim, suspicious line.

  "We thought you'd sleep for several hours more," Alison said calmly.

  "Why should I?" Claire snapped. "Did somebody slip me a Mickey? You, Johnny?" she added mockingly.

  "You . . . got sick, Claire," Jonathan said feebly. "At Toller's party, remember? I was talking to you; by the punch bowl—you'd just gotten yourself another cup of punch, remember? We were both wondering where Toller was. . . ."

  "No." The denial came too quickly, and Claire's edgy mockery was gone, leaving the naked fear beneath. "I don't remember anything, became nothing happened. Got it?"

  Her ey
es flicked sideways, toward Colin, and she stared at him with a look very like horror.

  Yes, Colin realized with an irresistible flash of insight, they had known one another before. In life after life, since their first meeting in the halls of the ancient Temple of the Sun, in the City of the Temple when the man then known as Riveda first plotted the betrayal whose expiation had bound him to the Wheel of Rebirth ever since.

  The jarring moment of transcendence faded, leaving Colin shaken with its power. "Everyone needs help sometimes, Miss London," he said, knowing these were somehow not the words he ought to be saying.

  "Not me," Claire responded, still with that brittle gaiety. "Nobody looks out for me but me," she added warningly. "And I can take care of myself— God knows I've had to."

  "How long have you been hearing voices, dear?" Alison said gently.

  The response was as dramatic as if she had struck the younger woman. Claire's face went white, and she sagged at the knees. Jonathan sprang up out of his seat and just managed to catch her before she hit the floor.

  "I'm not crazy," Claire muttered desperately as Jonathan half-carried her over to the couch. "I'm not crazy, I'm not, I'm not—"

  "Listen to me, child," Alison said sharply. "All evidence this evening to the contrary, you are not losing your mind. I'm a licensed psychiatrist—you can take my word for it."

  Claire London stared into Alison's eyes, seeming to actually see her surroundings for the first time. "You're ... a doctor?" she said shakily. Tears welled up in her blue eyes, magnifying the still-dilated pupils.

  "Licensed to shrink heads at reasonable hourly rates," Alison answered acerbically, "and, among my many other skills, I also play piano. But truly, Claire, you're among friends here. I don't think you're crazy—and neither does Colin."

  Claire looked toward Colin. "Colin . . . MacLaren?" she asked. "I've heard about you. You're the new professor in the Psych Department—the one who believes in ghosts and tea leaves and all that nonsense. Some advocate," she groaned, leaning back against the couch and closing her eyes.

  "I'll freely admit to believing in ghosts," Colin said, "and you can see tea leaves yourself in any bag of Lipton's. As for the rest—would you rather be thought gifted, or crazy?"

  " 'Gifted' . . . don't you think that's a complete load of rot, Professor?" With the febrile energy that Alison said was a side effect of the LSD, Claire sat up and smiled at him coldly. There was a cynical edge to her voice, and her lips curved in a mocking smile. "Unseen worlds—mystic visions—you're going to want me to believe in little green men, next."

  "Only if warranted," Colin said gravely. "And with sufficient proof. Claire, let us help you. I know that tonight has been a terrible shock for you, but you must understand that you've been given a great gift, use of senses that few people still retain access to. I know that it all seems overwhelming to you now, but believe me, you can learn to control these perceptions—consciously, rationally—"

  "So much of everything," Claire whispered, slumping back and seeming to forget once more that they were there. "So much noise . . . going on and on and on. . . ."

  "Claire," Alison said, reaching out to clasp the younger woman's wrist. "Come back to us. Nothing bad can harm you while you're in my house, no matter what you see. You've been given a drug that makes these things seem more upsetting than they are. It will wear off in a few hours. Try to be strong."

  "No!" Claire pulled away from the touch with a scream. "You're going to die—I see you—he loved you and he killed you—you're dead and there's blood everywhere; blood, blood, blood—" Claire babbled, huddling blindly in the corner of the couch.

  "You're seeing the future," Alison said reasonably. "Everyone dies, my dear, including cranky old musicians—just because you see it, doesn't mean you've caused it. Listen to me, Claire; I'm not dead. I'm right here, see? You can open your eyes and see me—"

  Alison droned on soothingly, until at last, Claire effortfully opened her eyes again. Colin could see that the girl was exhausted; her face was sickly pale and there were dark circles beneath her eyes.

  "How did you know?" she asked wonderingly.

  "It was just a good guess," Alison admitted. "But I've known a lot of people like you. You aren't alone, Claire—you have to believe that. It's a rare gift, but it isn't unknown. Many people have possessed it down through history."

  Claire stared into Alison's eyes, hopeful and reluctant all at once. Colin could see the moment her eyes clouded over; the moment when Claire rejected the idea of trusting Alison. She shook her head.

  "If you won't believe her, believe me," Colin said. Now, at last, he found the words. "You know me, Claire—you've known me before—do you believe that I will always tell you the truth?"

  He could see her frame the flip response and then hesitate over it. He watched as Claire struggled with herself; the stubbornness and innate honesty of her basic nature refusing to allow her to lightly dismiss his question.

  "I ... suppose you will," she said unwillingly. "You've got too much to lose if you don't," she added with a sneer.

  Did she know how truly she spoke? Colin wondered. To an Adept of the Light, a deliberate falsehood was the same act as physical self-injury; it was not something to be done lightly, if at all, and it always had damaging consequences, some extending beyond the gateways of this single life.

  "I will never lie to you," Colin repeated firmly. "Will you believe me when I tell you that there's nothing sick or abnormal about you? You're sensitive to impressions that most people are not. To say that you're crazy because you see what you do would be like calling someone with extraordinarily acute hearing crazy because he can hear what most people cannot. But the psychic gift can best be said to correspond to a gift for music—it can take many forms, and it can be trained—or ignored."

  "I'm tired," Claire said petulantly. "Alison said that somebody drugged me—oh, my God, it must have been something at the party, that son-of-a—"

  "Claire!" Colin said sharply. "Don't try to evade this subject—it won't go away."

  "Oh, yeah?" Claire muttered under her breath, and Colin repressed a smile. Frightened and emotionally damaged as she was, the girl had the spirit of a fighter.

  "What happened to you tonight isn't something you can just pretend never happened. It has permanent consequences. I imagine you've been pretending not to see or hear a lot of things in your life. It will be much harder after tonight. Despite what you may believe, you have been reaching out with your Gift to the world around you. You've been given this ability for a reason, and it isn't something you can run from any longer."

  The girl hesitated.

  "Please, Claire," Colin said. "Trust me. Let me help you."

  "Oh, all right," Claire said, sighing ungraciously. Though her voice was harsh, her eyes glittered with painful tears. "Do your worst, Professor. I guess I'm fresh out of choices."

  INTERLUDE #1

  BERKELEY, 1961

  TRYING TO REMEMBER THE CHILD ONE ONCE WAS IS LIKE TRYING TO remember another lifetime—how much is truth, and how much hopeful imagination? I think there is something in all of us that chooses to forget; I think it would be too painful if we could really remember the hopes our younger self held for the future. I think every child expects the world to be reasonable, for events to have a kind of fairness and balance that is found only in fiction. As we age, we realize that life is otherwise. Some become bitter; others philosophical.

  It is hard to remember the girl who first met Colin MacLaren almost four decades ago. I think she was an angry child; I know she had grown up hating the world because she thought it had lied to her. What she did not know— what it took her years to truly learn and believe—was that the world she lived in was a far different place from that of her mother and sisters, because she was born with the Sight.

  The Sight places a heavy burden on those who possess it. For them, Space and Time are not absolutes; they see around corners and into the depths of the human heart. It is a cru
el burden for a child to have to bear, and I rebelled passionately against it. By the time I was in my teens I had learned to show the world a cynical indifference, hurting others and pretending not to care when I was hurt. Lord knows why I chose nursing as a profession, feeling as I did then about people—in my own defense, I can only say that the career choice for women in those days was between nurse and librarian, and even then I rebelled at the thought of being stuck behind a dusty desk all day as the world passed me by.

  I was at war with the world, and I intended to make it pay for all it had done to me.

  But you cannot strike back at the world, only at the people in it. When I came into Colin's hands—through something greater than mere chance, I firmly believe—I was drowning in my own despair, perilously close to committing some act that would ruin my life beyond my modest power to mend it.

  And the only person I was hurting was myself.

  THREE

  BERKELEY, NOVEMBER 3, 1961

  Why didst thou leave the trodden path of men

  Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart

  Dare the unpastured dragon in his den?

  — PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

  THAT FRIDAY, COLIN MACLAREN FINALLY MANAGED TO RUN HIS QUARRY TO earth.

  He'd seen Claire London back to her dorm Wednesday morning, concocting a complicated tale of an all-night psychology experiment to satisfy the housemother's inquiries about her overnight absence. He thought he'd passed things off fairly well—he only wished he could be as confident about his handling of Claire herself. She was frightened, angry, argumentative—Colin wasn't sure he could even reach her, let alone teach her what she needed to know. And though he and Claire had been close through life after life, he had realized that this time Claire had not come to him as a disciple. The Path was not her way—in this life, the knowledge he could provide was merely a tool that Claire needed in order to make a journey of her own.