The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (23 page)

Slowly the air in the chamber came to life with darkling energy. Still chanting, the Head-Master gravely unwrapped the torc and presented it to the four quarters of the circle, beginning in the north and turning widdershins. His blood racing, Raeburn bent low and touched his forehead reverently to the parchment heaped upon the ram skin. The scent of centuries of secrets was in his nostrils as he straightened once again, gaze fixed on the Head-Master. All around him the other acolytes lifted up guttural voices to join in their leader’s prayer of supplication.

The chant reached its crescendo. With a hoarse shout, the Head-Master drew himself upright, elevating the torc above Raeburn’s head like a crown.

“Come, thou dread, invited guest!” he intoned. “Taranis the Thunderer, we beseech thee to hear us!”

Something rustled among the parchments on the ram skin. The top few leaves lifted and separated, as if stirred by a breath of moving air, then settled back with a susurrant sigh. Heart pounding, Raeburn threw back his head, his pale eyes alight with inner fire, swaying a little on his knees as the Head-Master circled round to stand behind him with the torc still poised above his head.

“Descend among us, dread lord,” the old man urged in a rasping whisper. “Descend and look with favor upon these thy servants. I give thee one who desires communion with the Storm. Examine him, I charge thee, and if he be found acceptable in thy sight, let him be received into the fellowship of those who command the Lightning!”

So saying, he bent to slip the torc about Raeburn’s neck from behind. Raeburn caught his breath and reared back, his face blanching white in the guttering gaslight. In the same instant, a sudden, heavy rumbling broke out deep underground.

Like the pulse of an underground earthquake, it shuddered its way up from the base of the tower to boom like a thunderclap, tumbling several of the acolytes onto their sides. The Head-Master kept his balance, feet splayed wide, and flung his arms wide as if to offer an embrace.

“Welcome, Taranis!” he crowed. “Hail, mighty Thunderer! Enlighten your servants with a sign of your pleasure!”

A breathless stillness suddenly filled the chamber, as if the air in the chamber had suddenly been withdrawn. In the next instant, a savage flash of blue light surged upward from the sheaf of parchment at Raeburn’s knees, leaping in a hungry arc from the manuscript to the torc about his throat. He choked out a cry, half pain and half ecstasy, his body stiffening in the rigor of power almost too potent for the vessel.

For an instant, the only sound in the room was the raw crackle of energy, paralyzing all volition. Then, just as abruptly, the blue flare flickered and winked out.

Raeburn sagged forward on his hands, drawing breath in a deep, gasping gulp. Then he slowly straightened to sit back on his haunches, his hands stealing upwards to touch the torc, his expression one of mingled wonder and exultation.

“The bearer has been accepted!” The Head-Master proclaimed. “All praise to the Thunderer!”

Raeburn was rapidly recovering himself. Pale eyes bright with triumph, he wordlessly offered his hands to the Head-Master. The old man brought his own hands to rest on the younger man’s upturned palms in a gesture of bestowal.

“The builders make bold to raise up a Temple to the Light,” the Head-Master whispered. “Into your hands do I now deliver them. Destroy the builders, and the Temple itself will fall. In the absence of the Light, so shall the Darkness flourish.”

* * *

Thursday morning dawned cold and grey. Adam and Philippa breakfasted Continental-style on hot chocolate and fresh croissants before setting out in a taxi for their morning appointment at Charing Cross Hospital. Philippa had changed her scarlet of the night before for a tailored ensemble in royal blue, stylish but professional looking; Adam wore the ubiquitous three-piece suit of his profession.

Outside the Caledonian Club, the inner London smell of Thames water and diesel fumes was sharpened by an icy touch of frost. As their cab skirted Hyde Park and then headed down Kensington High Street toward Hammersmith, just behind the worst of morning commuter traffic, Adam found himself looking forward to the impending meeting with an eagerness that was overcast with worry.

Like the streets outside, the lobby of Charing Cross Hospital was bustling with activity. Taking Philippa’s arm, Adam ushered her past the central reception desk and onto the escalator, the two of them blending easily with the flow of consultants on their way to rounds and nurses and technicians going about their business. They alighted on the first floor and moved with the flow of people heading into the West Wing, toward the Pediatric Ward, making their way unchallenged up the hall to the nurses’ station.

The ward had undergone some needed redecoration since Adam’s previous visit, a month before. The nurses’ station, like the adjoining corridors, had been done over in circus scenes picked out in cheery primary colors. As Adam and Philippa approached the desk, a spritely, dark-haired ward sister in a pastel-blue maternity uniform looked up from the stack of charts in front of her. She gave them a swift, all-encompassing glance and the beginnings of a smile as Adam produced his card from a breast pocket and laid it on the counter before her. He had already stolen a look at her name tag.

“Good morning, Mrs. Reynolds,” he said pleasantly. “We’ve come to see Gillian Talbot. I believe Dr. Ogilvy is expecting us.”

Philippa wordlessly placed her own card on the desk next to Adam’s. The ward nurse picked up both cards, her rosy face registering a mixture of surprise and respect as she took stock of the Sinclairs’ professional qualifications.

“It’s a privilege to have you with us, Sir Adam—and you as well, Dr. Sinclair,” she said as she handed back the cards. “We were told to expect you—but we didn’t realize you’d be
two
doctors with the same name.”

Adam chuckled. “Actually I don’t believe I mentioned a second name when I spoke with Mr. Talbot last night—only that I intended to bring along a professional colleague—which my mother certainly is. But I assure you, this isn’t the first time that the family tie within the profession has given rise to some confusion. Are the Talbots here yet? And Dr. Ogilvy?’

“Dr. Ogilvy should be along any minute, Sir Adam,” the nurse replied. “She’s just finishing rounds. And Mr. and Mrs. Talbot came in about a quarter hour ago. If you’d like to join them, they’re waiting in their daughter’s room, just down the hall.”

“Actually,” Philippa said, “I think we’d like to have a look at Gillian’s chart first, if you don’t mind—along with her case file, if you have that handy.”

“Yes, Doctor, I have that right here,” the nurse said, dragging out a manila folder from behind the desk. “And here’s her chart as well.”

With a word of thanks, Adam took the folder and opened the flap. There was a small handwritten note pinned to the topmost sheet of the enclosed sheaf of reports. The message, scrawled in the notoriously bad penmanship of most physicians, read,
Dr. Sinclair: Thought it might streamline matters if you were to find this waiting for you. Hope it proves helpful.
The signature, barely decipherable, was
H. Ogilvy.

This voluntary gesture of cooperation spoke well of Gillian’s attending physician. Relieved to discover he was not going to have to waste time soothing the ruffled sensibilities of a fellow consultant, Adam got down to the business of leafing through the file, Philippa glancing over the chart and then reading over his shoulder. It required only a cursory perusal to determine that Gillian’s condition had deteriorated drastically since his last visit to London.

“From bad to worse, I’m afraid,” he said grimly to Philippa. “Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds. I believe we’ll go take a look at the patient now, and meet the Talbots.”

Gillian had been moved out of the ward into a private room. Her parents were sitting in chairs on the far side of the bed, holding hands and gazing longingly at their daughter. When Adam and Philippa entered from the hall, both Talbots sprang to their feet with a nervous alacrity undoubtedly born of the stress of Gillian’s mysterious illness.

“Dr. Sinclair! Oh, thank you so much for coming!” Iris Talbot exclaimed, clinging fearfully to her husband’s arm. “This is George, Gillian’s father. I believe you’ve already spoken on the telephone.”

Iris Talbot was much as Adam remembered her from their previous meeting: a comely blonde woman in her late thirties, except that her prettiness was dulled now by additional weeks of sleeplessness and anxiety. Her husband was a sturdily built man in studious horn-rimmed spectacles, who might have been described as “comfortable” if he hadn’t been looking so worn.

“Of course. A pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Talbot,” Adam said, extending a hand. “This is my mother, Dr. Philippa Sinclair, who’s taught me a great deal of what I know. We hope that between us we’ll be able to get to the bottom of whatever has caused your daughter’s malady.”

“So do I, Doctor!” George Talbot said fervently. His handshake was firm, but his brown eyes were deeply troubled as his attention strayed back to his daughter’s unmoving form. “It’s been so difficult, watching her just fade away—”

He stopped abruptly, before his voice could crack. Following George Talbot’s gaze, Adam could well understand his distress. Though Gillian had already been ill when he himself last saw her a month ago, she still had been a fair, rosy child, gifted with the robust look of a tomboy.

Now, stretched supine in the starched hospital bed, she looked frail and desiccated, her round face blanched to a waxy pallor, the spray of freckles stark against the pale skin. The crown of golden curls was flattened now, the eyes closed behind blue-shadowed lids. A nasal feeding tube was taped into place along one sunken cheek, and a wrist-cuff loosely immobilized one wasted arm, from which an I.V. tube snaked upward to a drip-support frame beside the bed—ominous proof that Gillian was no longer even able to feed herself.

“If only
somebody
could reach her,” Iris Talbot said helplessly. “George and I have tried our best. We come every day, but—”

Her small gesture of defeat made it clear that both parents were appalled at their apparent failure to communicate with their only child, but Philippa’s brisk voice cut across their pained silence like an astringent breath of fresh air.

“If it’s any comfort, I don’t believe love is the answer here,” she said crisply. “If it were, the problem would have been solved long before now. You mustn’t blame yourselves.”

The Talbots exchanged glances, as if slightly startled by Philippa’s plain-speaking.

“I concur absolutely,” Adam said. “Whatever is amiss with your daughter, you may be quite sure that neither of you is to blame that she hasn’t responded so far. I assume that Dr. Ogilvy has discussed with you in detail the complications involved in the treatment of autistic behavior?”

“Indeed she has—insofar as clinical definitions can be said to apply in this particular case,” said a practical contralto voice from behind him. “And that’s all the more reason for all concerned to welcome some input from specialists of your caliber.”

Adam and Philippa both turned. Standing in the doorway was a tall, stoutly-built woman in her late forties, with brown hair liberally streaked with silver. Shrewd grey eyes favored Adam and Philippa with a smile of friendly irony.

“The Doctors Sinclair, I presume?” she said. “How do you do? I’m Helen Ogilvy.”

Adam and Philippa spent the better part of the next half hour sifting through the medical particulars of the case with Dr. Ogilvy and conducting a brief neurological examination. From Adam’s point of view, the conference was more for the benefit of Gillian’s parents than it was for Gillian herself. He and Philippa already understood the true nature of Gillian’s illness all too well, but it was important that they should win the confidence of Gillian’s family and attending physician.

When they had run through all the questions Adam could think of to ask for the moment, he left Philippa to carry on talking with the Talbots while he stepped aside for a private word with Dr. Ogilvy.

“I greatly appreciate your cooperation,” he told her with a smile. ‘’I’m sure we’ve both had dealings in the past with other consultants who were far from helpful.”

Dr. Ogilvy shrugged and smiled companionably. “This is a big inner city hospital, Dr. Sinclair. The psychiatric cases we commonly see on a daily basis are those related to drugs, alcoholism, and acute stress-related neuroses. Most of the disturbed children who come our way have every reason to be disturbed. They come from broken homes, deprived backgrounds, families with histories of violence or substance abuse—or all of the above. Autistic children are a
rarity—
not
my area of specialization at all. And Gillian doesn’t fit any of the rest of the profile either.”

She sighed. “I’ve already got all the cases I can handle of the types I’m familiar with. Since I don’t honestly see any way I can help Gillian, I’m only too happy to hand her into the care of someone with a fighting chance to get positive results.”

Adam smiled at her directness. “Thank you for the vote of confidence. I promise I’ll do everything I can to merit it.”

“You’re entirely too modest, Doctor,” Dr. Ogilvy said. “Your reputation goes before you, even here in London.” She glanced back into the room at the Talbots, still deep in conversation with Philippa, then continued bluntly, “To be frank, when Mrs. Talbot told me she’d been in contact with you early on in this case, I wondered why she and her husband hadn’t elected to retain your services in the first place. I’m a qualified and seasoned professional, but I’m not ashamed to admit I’m out of my depth on this one.”

Adam shrugged. “No mystery there. When I first saw Gillian, it seemed clear that everything that could be done was being done—and close to home, where family and friends could visit on a regular basis. There was always the chance that contact with the familiar might snap her out of it. But since that hasn’t happened, it’s time to rethink our strategy.”

“Does that mean you’re thinking of removing her to another hospital?”