Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 (52 page)

 
          
Or
avenge its defeat.

 
          
Ingolstadt
,
Bavaria
.

 
          
Colin
watched, helpless and horrified, as the tiny spark of intention was shaped: the
spirit of an age, a soul as young as the century, owing nothing to elder
civilizations and older laws. It would be cruel, this child, and ruthless: the
blond beast, the Superman that Nietzsche and his acolytes had prophesied, that
Hitler had invoked and dreamed
of.

 
          
Somewhere
on the planet, a child conceived for this purpose was being born to house this
inhuman spirit, and Colin MacLaren remembered the date exactly: it was
November
9, 1938
.
The rite was timed to coincide with the SS demonstrations in
Germany
.

 
          
Krystallnacht.

 
          
The
Magus raised his hands. The spirit flew to its destination, and Toller Hasloch
was born in a country across the sea, a country that would not enter the war
with
Germany
for three more years.

 
          
When
the first staccato peal of machine-gun fire stuttered out, Colin remembered the
rest of what had taken place here tonight. With doubled attention, he both
watched and was his younger self
—
eighteen this year, nineteen
next spring, if he lived
—
run into the
Temple
, a hooded mask pulled over
his face.

 
          
He
and his comrades wrecked the
Temple
, pulling over everything
they could, flinging down pieces of the consecrated Host among the implements
of magick in an attempt to wreck the ritual. They hadn't even known what was
being done here tonight, only that it was important to the infant
AhnenerBe
—
and fortunately so secret an
undertaking that there were only half a dozen SA guards here on the estate.

 
          
Colin
watched his younger self set fire to the
Temple
draperies and flee in the
confusion. A dozen of them had come on this raid, and after tonight only three
had been left alive.

 
          
When
he'd gotten back to the Lodge, Colin had demanded to take the oath that would
make him the Sword of the Order. He had already taken his first oaths, but not
his most binding ones; those he would take after tonight were nearly as
terrible as the evil they sought to combat.

 
          
And
look where that Oath has brought me,
Colin thought bleakly. The past faded
as suddenly as it had been summoned, and Colin realized that his hands
were
empty. The cord of Hasloch's life that he had held between them was torn and
severed.

 
          
Let
it be so.
With an instant's thought he summoned up the Sign that would permit
the chains that bound Hasloch to endure in the Overlight until the memory of
Man had passed away, trapping Toller Hasloch's spirit here forever, sealed away
from the Wheel and the eternal cycle of rebirth.

 
          
Toller
Hasloch had been destroyed, for now and for Ever, as surely and completely as
though he had never been born.

 
          
The
apartment seemed icy when Colin opened his eyes. Automatically he checked his
watch. Less than ten minutes had passed since he'd opened the front door.
Hasloch was still breathing, but Colin knew that now it was only an automatic
reflex.

 
          
He
was shaken to the core of his being by what he had learned. Hasloch was not a
mortal soul, a spark begotten of the Light, but a
Zeitgeist
given human
form. Colin was not certain what effect his binding would have upon
an  artificial soul. Would the chains he had forged hold such a
creature?

 
          
Had
they even been necessary at all?

 
          
It
is done past all undoing,
Colin told himself brutally.
Now all that
remains is to see that no innocents are harmed by what I have done here.

 
          
Working
quickly, Colin unbound Hasloch from the chair and dragged him back into the
bedroom, wadding the tape up in his pocket and replacing the chair in its place
in the living room.

 
          
It
wasn't enough to fool an experienced police officer if foul play was suspected,
but now the apartment wouldn't immediately scream "murder scene" when
the body was discovered.

 
          
The
body.

 
          
Colin
suddenly felt every one of his fifty-two years and more. More than anything the
outside world could bestow, he realized, he had always valued his good opinion
of himself, and today he had lost it forever. He had perverted the teachings
that had been entrusted to him. He had used them to ' kill.

 
          
He
did not question why he felt it so necessary to cover his tracks
—
to get away with murder when
all his Order's training had been that an individual should accept full
responsibility for the consequences of his actions.

 
          
But
half an hour's work had rendered the apartment once more much as he had found
it, and at a little past six in the morning, Colin MacLaren exited the building
on Central Park South as silently and unnoticed as he had entered.

 
         
He
caught a cab at
Columbus Circle
—
the van had been safely
garaged hours ago
—
and rode downtown through the awakening city. He still felt
numbed by what he had done, and his imagination painted for him the picture of
Toller Hasloch, half-naked in his cold and lonely bed, as his heart slowed . .
. slowed . . . stopped.

 
          
And
all because Colin MacLaren had set his own judgment above that of, the Law
which he served, acting on his own Will instead of at the urging of the Lords
of Karma. He felt soiled, unclean, and ill. He wanted nothing more than a drink
and the comfort of his own bed, though no matter what he did, he could not
elude his own condemnation.

 
          
He
was so wrapped up in his own bleak thoughts that Colin didn't even notice that
the lights were on in his apartment until Claire opened the door.

 
          
"Colin!
Where have you been?" She flung herself into his arms, holding him
tightly.

 
          
He
could not imagine what she was doing here, when he'd left her at the door to
her own apartment less than two hours before.

 
          
"I
was so worried
—
I thought something had happened to you, too!" she
said.

 
          
It
took a moment for the sense of her words to penetrate the fog that seemed to
veil Colin's wits, and at first they only confused him. Something
had
happened
to him. Something terrible.

 
          
"Has
Jamie . . . ?" he began.

 
          
"No!"
Claire said fiercely. "It's Simon
—
there's been an accident
—
he's been hurt.

 
          
"He's
dying," Claire added raggedly.

SAN FRANCISCO
, JANUARY  1973

Some random truths he can impart,
—

The harvest of a quiet eye,

That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

—
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

 
 
          
THE
HARSH, DRUGGED BREATHING OF THE MAN IN THE BED WAS THE loudest sound in the
room. Colin sat in the uncomfortable chair beside the bed, watching Simon
sleep.

 
          
His
face was swathed in bandages, both eyes covered. Just after the accident, the
doctors had been sure he'd lose his sight. Now they thought they'd be able to
save at least the right eye, but Simon Anstey would never again be cover-model
handsome.

 
          
Disfigurement
was bad, and blindness would have been worse, but it was not the most terrible
injury that Simon had sustained in the accident.

 
          
Automatically,
Colin's gaze strayed to Simon's left hand. It, too, was swathed in bandages,
held immobile in a brace to keep him from flexing it.

 
          
The
doctors had wanted to amputate, but Simon would not give them permission. He'd
been hysterical
—
Colin could well imagine the scene
—
refusing opiates, refusing
to let the doctors touch him unless they would promise to leave his hand alone.
If he had not been a fixture in the Bay Area community for so many years they
might not have listened to him, but everyone in that emergency room had known
Simon Anstey, who soloed with the San Francisco Symphony and taught at the
conservatory.

 
          
He'd
held them off until Alison had gotten there, and only after he'd extracted her
promise to help him did he allow the doctors to begin their work. And Alison
had kept her promise, fighting the doctors until they had given in, refusing to
consider the possibility of amputation.

           
They had worked miracles, but though
Simon's hand was intact, no one thought he would ever use it again. The bones
of two fingers were crushed, the delicate nerves destroyed. Though someday he
might lift a cup to his lips with his left hand, it was unthinkable that he
would ever regain the fine control over it that a concert musician required.
His career
—
his
life
—
was over.

 
          
He
was twenty-nine years old.

 
          
This
is my fault.
Though he knew it smacked of hubris, Colin could not shake
that conviction. Somehow, he thought, if he had been stronger, if he had not
surrendered to temptation to act without sanction . . .

 
          
If
that is so, then this, too, is part of your punishment,
Colin had told
himself inexorably.

 
          
The
door to the hospital room opened.

 
          
"How
is he?" Alison said in a whisper.

 
          
"Still
sleeping," Colin answered softly. Alison tiptoed into the room and seated
herself in a chair on the other side of the bed. She was haggard and drawn,
looking every day of her seventy-four years even in the soft January light.

 
          
"If
only I'd been with him," she said.

 
          
"Then
you'd be dead, too, just like the girl who
was
with him," Colin
pointed out.

 
          
"Damn
all drunk drivers to hell," Alison said with quiet venom. The driver who
had killed Simon's passenger and ended his performing life had walked away from
the collision without a scratch, as drunk drivers almost always did. At least
the culpability was clearly his
—
Simon had been sitting, stopped at a red light
—
but no legal judgment could
repair what he'd destroyed.

 
          
Simon
began to stir restlessly, fighting his way up through the morphine.
Automatically, Colin sketched a Blessing in the space between them, hoping to
gain a few more moments of peace for Simon.

 
          
"Alison?"
Simon's voice was slurred. He plucked at the covers with his free hand.

 
          
"I'm
here, Simon." She took his right hand gently, lifting it to her cheek.

 
          
"My
hand. Don't let them take ..."

 
          
"It's
all right, Simon. I won't let them operate," Alison said soothingly.

 
          
He
began to thrash restlessly, obviously in terrible pain but unable to remember
why. For one whose psychic centers had been opened by training, the loss of
self-control that came with narcotics was equivalent to going to bed with all
the doors and windows of the house unlocked and open. Anything might walk in
—
and wreak untold havoc while
the house's true occupant lay helpless to prevent it.

 
          
"I
will play again!" he muttered. "No matter what. ... I will
—
I will
—
"

 
          
"You'd
better ring for the nurse," Alison said to Colin. "Simon. Hush, my
darling. It's all right."

 
          
Colin
finally located the call button
—
it was pinned to the pillow on the right side, where
Simon's good hand was
—
when the nurse came in, already holding a syringe. With
brisk efficiency she pressed it through the intravenous tubing that led into
Simon's arm, and almost instantly he subsided into a troubled sleep again.

           
"Dr. Margrave," she said,
once her patient had quieted. "How are you today?"

 
          
Alison
gave her a tired smile. "As well as can be expected, I suppose the saying
is, Rhonda. Is there any news?"

 
          
"Dr.
Kiley is going to change the bandages on his face tomorrow; if everything looks
good he's going to leave the left eye uncovered, which should help Simon stay
awake." She smiled with professional encouragement. "I gave him some
Valium just now; he's been insisting that he doesn't want anything at all, so
he and Dr. Kiley compromised on a mild tranquilizer."

 
          
No
trained Adept, Colin knew, would willingly submit to the impairment of his
faculties that drugs brought, preferring to trust to the disciplined Will to
overcome the pain. And a hospital room was by its very nature a public space,
nearly impossible to consecrate and Seal in any meaningful fashion, though both
he and Alison had erected what Wards they could.

 
          
"I
know that everyone here is doing the best for him that they possibly can,"
Alison said raggedly.

 
          
"He
has a tremendous will to heal," Rhonda said encouragingly. "That's
the most important thing."

 
          
But
when the damage to the physical body was so great; when the pain continued for
so long . . .

 
          
Claire
arrived half an hour later to spell them, and Colin took Alison out to a nearby
restaurant, making sure she ate and doing what he could to lighten her mood.
Despite Colin's efforts, it was a melancholy meal, each of them lost in his own
unspoken thoughts. The early winter dark was falling by the time Colin drove
Alison back to Greenhaven.

 
          
"Both
of you look pretty whipped." Claire was there to greet them, having left
the hospital at the end of visiting hours. She'd already made plans to stay out
here for a while, both to keep Alison company, and to help Simon as much as she
could.

 
          
Alison
gave her a tired smile, stepping inside. "It kills me to see him like
this. Such a ... waste." Tears glittered in her grey eyes.

 
          
"I
suppose there's no hope at all ... ?" Claire asked tentatively.

 
          
She
led them back to the parlor, where a cheery fire was adding light and color to
the room. The drapes were drawn against the night, making the room seem
intimate and cozy. Alison had redecorated it since the last time Colin had been
here; it was now aggressively modern in burnt orange and plum, the stark Danish
Modern replaced by a couple of sleek leather sofas.

 
          
"They
still want to amputate," Alison said, as if that were a full explanation.
"I spoke to the staff neurologist a few days ago; he said there was no
nerve function in the fingers, and that even if the nerves had been intact
after the crash, the swelling of the tissues around them would probably have
crushed them by now. And if blood poisoning sets in, Simon could lose a lot
more than two fingers."

 
          
"He
does keep saying that he'll get the use of his hand back," Claire pointed
out.

           
"I don't think so," Alison
said simply.

 
          
"What
a terrible loss," Claire said softly. "Poor Simon."

 
          
"Don't
let him hear you say that," Colin warned gently. "He'd rise up from
his sickbed and smite you as Sampson smote the Philistines."

 
          
"With
the jawbone of an ass?" Claire grinned wanly and went over to fix them all
drinks.

 
          
Though
Claire was two years older than Simon, Colin had once cherished vague hopes
that the two of them might make a match, and had not wholly abandoned them.
Certainly they could understand one another in the fashion those not touched by
the Gift could never master.

 
          
Alison
stared into the fire, a haunted expression on her face. "I think
—
in a way
—
that this accident might
have been a blessing in disguise for Simon," she said.

 
          
Both
of the others stared at her in shock. This was the last thing they'd expected
to hear from the woman who had all-but-raised Simon.

 
          
Alison
sighed harshly. She turned away from the fire and reached for a malachite box
on the coffee table. She took out a cigarette, and Colin lit it for her. Claire
handed Alison her drink.

 
          
"For
the last couple of years . . ." Alison began, and stopped, shaking her
head. "Well, actually, it goes back further than that. Simon has always
been . . . adventurous."

 
          
"Adventurous?"
Claire said blankly.

 
          
From
her expression it seemed an inadequate condemnation, but Colin understood
exactly what Alison meant. "Adventurous" meant that Simon had turned
aside from the practices and exercises his teacher had set him and had gone
exploring the paths of power by himself.

 
          
"He
. . . oh, hell, Claire, you know what Black Magick is. Simon played around with
it a bit as a boy, before I caught him at it and gave him merry hell. I thought
I'd set him right; the stuff's as bad as hard drugs, and just as seductive. But
somewhere
—
" Alison broke off to sip at her drink, wincing as if
it were medicine. Her cigarette made lazy blue spirals up toward the ceiling.