The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx (35 page)

“But why here?” Peregrine wondered, casting a glance around him.

“There, I think, is part of the answer,” said Adam, and pointed.

Peregrine looked and saw that he was indicating the fire-scarred grave marker behind the body of the fallen man. Looking more closely, he saw that the stone bore a curious carved device: a circle with a triangle inside, with a left hand inside the triangle, palm out and fingers together, with an eye in the palm of the hand.

“Unless I totally miss my guess,” said Adam, “that’s an old Masonic symbol of protection. Am I right, Noel?”

Nodding, McLeod ran one hand over the worn carving. “It certainly looks like it to me.”

“Furthermore,” Adam said, “I’d be very surprised if this particular burial ground hasn’t been used in the past for significant Masonic interments. That being the case, I suspect our enemies were using these premises not only to perform a sacrifice, but also to test the strength of their own offensive power.”

Surveying the scene yet again, he set his hands on his hips and heaved a bleak sigh.

“I think we may take it as read that they accomplished what they came for,” he continued. “Wherever the trail leads from here, there will be more deaths along the way unless we can move more quickly than they can. For that, we’re going to need knowledge. Noel, how soon can you get me the transcripts of those interviews you and Cochrane took in Stirling?”

“How about tomorrow?” McLeod said. “Sunday, at the latest. I’ll bring a copy up to the house myself, and I’ll see to it that you get a copy of the forensics report on MacPherson as well, as soon as one becomes available.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

BY DAWN
the next morning, aerial visibility over the Cairngorms had been reduced almost to nothing by thick, low-lying fog. Flying mostly on instruments, Raeburn’s pilot Barclay muttered under his breath as he nursed the helicopter forward above a creamy blanket of white that looked substantial enough to walk on, avoiding the occasional snow-capped peak that extended above the level of the fog. Raeburn himself sat impassive in the seat beside Barclay as the copter chuffed along in a preternatural silence. The strengthening beep of a homing beacon announced their imminent arrival.

The pilot half held his breath as he started their descent. It was like sinking into a glass of melted cream. After a heart-stopping few seconds of utter blindness, they emerged in murky twilight above a blanket of snow that shrouded everything. Just ahead, landing lights beside the castellated manor-house pointed the way to a safe landing just before it.

Minutes later, Raeburn was making a quick, frigid dash from the helicopter across the snowy lawn to the front door, head ducked instinctively under the slowing blades, his briefcase tucked under one arm. Once inside, silent, attentive servants helped him exchange his outer garments for one of the loose, white robes that passed for a uniform under this roof. Thus adorned, he let them escort him to the foot of the stairs that led up to the Head-Master’s tower.

It cost Raeburn some effort to make the ascent. His pale, ascetic face showed unwonted lines of strain as he mounted the steps one at a time. His limbs were still shaky with fatigue brought on by his first assay in the use of the torc, but it was a weariness in which he reveled, welcome proof of his growing aptitude for power. He drew a fortifying breath as he knocked thrice on the door and then eased it open.

The Head-Master sat amid his cushions at one edge of his circle of acolytes. Before him on its mat of black ram skin lay the manuscript, with something atop it wrapped in scarlet silk. The atmosphere within the circular chamber was charged with expectancy, a dozen pairs of eyes glinting hungrily in the gaslight. The Head-Master’s wizened face was Inscrutable, his eyes like burning coals within their matrix of wrinkles.

Stepping just across the threshold, Raeburn pulled the door closed behind him and made the Head-Master a profound bow, head bending almost to the level of his knees. As he straightened, aware of all eyes upon him, he announced, “It is done, Head-Master. The Lord Taranis has been pleased to accept our oblation.”

The note of jubilation in his voice echoed off the ancient stones. A sigh whispered around the circle, a murmur of greedy elation. Echoing the sigh, the Head-Master beckoned Raeburn to approach, nodding as the younger man knelt in token submission before him.

“Welcome, Son of the Tempest-Bringer,” he said. “This day has the Thunderer truly begotten thee.”

He reached across the manuscript to trace a runic symbol on Raeburn’s brow with his thumb. His touch was cold and dry as snakeskin, and the younger man shivered slightly at the touch of chill authority.

“Let it be recorded in the Annals of Shadow that the death-agony of the temple-builder has been judged a worthy sacrifice,” the Head-Master proclaimed, with harsh satisfaction. “May his life force nourish the storm that soon will blast the Temple itself with immortal lightnings. And may the hour be soon in coming when the Thunderer himself shall enter into the world through the gateway of flesh prepared to receive him.”

This invocation was greeted by an echoing murmur of assent from among the ranks of his acolytes. Raeburn alone was silent, his face hard and pale in the wan flicker of the gaslights. The Master elevated a hairless eyebrow.”

“Son of the Thunderer,” he said, “have you something more to say?”

“I do, Head-Master,” Raeburn said. “Something which concerns all present. I have further news of the Hunting Party that is dogging our heels. And unless I much mistake the matter, it could jeopardize all our plans.”

This announcement provoked another rustle of movement around the room. The Head-Master’s wrinkled lips framed a scowl of displeasure.

“Explain.”

Raeburn made his superior another slight bow, rocking back on his heels.

“All here are aware that our recent attempt to neutralize a member of the Hunt was frustrated through the intervention of one Sir Adam Sinclair of Strathmourne, whom we now have reason to believe is actually Master of the Hunt,” he said. “What has yet to be told is that Sinclair apparently has managed to use what he and McLeod and Lovat observed at Melrose, following our reanimation of the wizard Michael Scot last month, to track down Scot’s latter-day incarnation. Very soon, if he has not done so already, Sinclair undoubtedly will attempt to bridge the gap of centuries to get at the knowledge Scot holds in his keeping.”

If he had intended to cause a sensation, he was not disappointed. The Head-Master stiffened and glared, his parchment face contorted in the malevolent grimace of a gargoyle.

“How was this allowed to occur?” he demanded. “Why was I not informed of this sooner?”

“The information could not be verified until several days ago,” Raeburn said impassively. “Until Tuesday of this past week, none of us suspected, and it took several days to confirm.”

“And who
is
Scot’s current incarnation?” the Head-Master demanded.

“A child named Gillian Talbot,” Raeburn said, to stirrings of consternation among the Master’s disciples. “She is currently listed as a mental patient under Sinclair’s medical supervision. She first came to notice on Monday, when one of this house’s lesser operatives noted her arrival at the Edinburgh hospital where Sinclair has his practice. Since Sinclair ordinarily does not deal with children, my operative was curious. Careful inquiry revealed that the child had been transferred up from a hospital in London, where she had lain in a coma since the morning after our summoning of Scot.

“To facilitate our further investigation, samples were procured of the child’s hair and blood, which were subsequently used as the physical link for launching an inquiry into her astral past. Our researches sufficed to confirm that Gillian Talbot is, indeed, the most recent aspect of Scot. Fortunately, as a result of the prolonged separation of Scot’s soul from the body last month, she is not at the moment in what can be termed her right mind—but should Sinclair be able to bring her to her senses, there is no doubt that she possesses past knowledge that could damage us significantly in our present enterprise. “

The acolyte to the Head-Master’s right raised a hand, face all but invisible in the shadows of the white hood.

“Speak,” he said harshly.

“Head-Master, it is known that much of Scot’s knowledge was committed to his book of spells,” said a woman’s voice, her speech touched with an accent that might have been German. “That book is now at the bottom of Loch Ness. If it is beyond our reach, surely it is beyond Scot’s own as well, especially if his soul now resides in the body of a child,”

“Except that, as Master of the Hunt, Sinclair may have the resources to retrieve that information directly from Scot or even from the Records themselves,” the Head-Master said acidly.

He set his hands carefully on splayed knees, rheumy eyes hot and hard as he raked them with his gaze.

“Bah! What do any of you know!” he muttered, his breath wheezing in his lungs. “The
Fuhrer
did not know. He moved too soon, without truly mastering the wisdom of Taranis, and the power turned on him.”

One trembling, taloned hand reached out to caress the top page of the manuscript.

“I
have not made that mistake,” he whispered, not really seeing any of them in that moment. “For half a century have I studied and sacrificed, in ways that you can hardly hope to comprehend, and I understand what
he
did not.
I
can call Taranis’ wrath to rend the frail canopy that keeps back Darkness! When the way is opened—”

A smothered cough recalled him, and he shook his head slightly, returning his gaze to Raeburn, his face set like flint.

“Do not fail me, Son of the Thunderer! I do not intend to stand by and see everything lost now, when success is within reach. Arrange matters so that this child does not survive to become a tool in the hands of our enemies.”

“Would that it were that simple, Head-Master,” Raeburn said cautiously, sensing a precarious balance between sanity and madness. “Yesterday Sinclair removed both the child and her mother to the safety of his own house at Strathmourne. We don’t know for certain what aroused his suspicion, but unfortunately this puts the girl beyond our reach. The defenses about the place are unbreachable—we’ve already tried and failed to penetrate them. Our only other recourse, since we cannot get in ourselves, is to induce Sinclair to come out.”

“What good will that do?” a woman asked sullenly, a faint French accent coloring her voice. “If anything, would not Sinclair be likely to strengthen his personal defenses outside the protection of his own home?”

“I would not presume to test his psychic defenses in such a situation,” Raeburn said with a thin smile, regaining a little of his confidence. “But such defenses are of little use against more conventional assaults.”

“An assassin’s bullet?” said the man seated at the Head-Master’s right.

“That is one of the options being considered,” Raeburn agreed. “I assure you, the matter will be resolved in time to prevent his interference in our next operation.”

“See that it is,” the Head-Master growled. “Sinclair has become entirely too inconvenient. Meanwhile, you are to keep me informed of the plans and their progress. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, Head-Master,” Raeburn said with a bow. “You will not be disappointed.”

“See that I am not. More than your life may depend upon it.” He scanned the room again, both anger and madness still smouldering in the rheumy eyes, then breathed out with a sigh.

“But enough of this. Work remains to be done which requires the full concentration of all present. You have brought the torc?”

“Here, Head-Master,” Raeburn said, setting his briefcase flat beside him and thumbing open the clasps.

“And the medallion?”

“Here as well.”

He handed over what was left of the medallion first—a small, silk-wrapped bundle of scarlet that gave off the clink of shifting pieces of metal. Folding back the scarlet silk, the Head-Master laid his hand over the lightning-slagged remains of the medallion used at Calton Hill, then passed it with a nod to the hooded woman on his left.

“See that this is consigned to the furnace,” he instructed.

“It will be done, Head-Master,” the woman said, and tucked the medallion out of sight among the folds of her robe.

As she did so, Raeburn bent over his briefcase a second time and took out the torc, also swathed in heavy scarlet silk. With some reluctance, he laid this reverently across the Head-Master’s outstretched palms, still insulated in its silken wrappings.

“Excellent,” his superior breathed. “Let us begin.”

He set the torc on the floor before him as the acolyte to his right took up the smaller scarlet-wrapped bundle that still lay atop the manuscript on its mat of ram skin. As he carefully unwrapped it, gaslight glinted yellow off another silver medallion marked with the device of the Lynx, a twin to the one Raeburn had used at Calton Hill. A guttural invocation whispered among the ranks of the other acolytes as the Head-Master took up the medallion by its chain and lifted it to eye level in two claw-like hands.

“All hail to Taranis, Bringer of Lightnings!” he said, his voice harsh and cracked as the caw of a raven. ‘’To thee, Master of Storms, do we consecrate this medal, ore of the earth and work of the hands of thy servants. Let iron be wedded to silver, conjoined by elemental fire. Let silver be handmaid to the iron, receiver of the flame of heaven!”

So saying, he bowed slightly in his place, then laid the medallion slightly to one side. Unwrapping the Soulis torc, he took it up in both his hands, raised it in salute, and passed it three times over the medallion in a circling fashion, anti-clockwise. On the last pass, he dipped his hands so that the torc and the medallion came briefly into contact. The touch produced a sizzling crackle and a brief burst of sparks, but did not seem to affect the wielder of this darkling magic. When the flare faded, the air was tinged with the smell of ozone as the Head-Master extended spider-thin arms, now elevating the torc above Raeburn’s head in a gesture of oblation.

“Praise be to Taranis, Author of Thunders!” he rasped. “To thee, Tempest-rider, do we once more consecrate this man to be thy servant, herald of thy name and bearer of thy charge. Deliver into his hands the fire from heaven, and he shall honor thee with holocausts to thy greater glory!”

As he briefly touched the torc to the bowed head, Raeburn twitched at the sudden prickle of energy that blossomed at the base of his skull. Like static electricity it rippled down his spine, sending branching tendrils of power flickering along his nerve-lanes all the way to his fingertips and toes. The sensation gave him a delectable thrill of pleasure, all the more titillating for being laced with pain. He drew a sharp breath as he stiffened slightly, then released it with a sigh as the acute instant of delight dissipated into a certainty of latent mastery.