Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 01, page 28
"But you don't really need Thorne's spellbook, do you? You're doing the—" Truth was reduced to waving her hands, uncertain of the proper terminology to describe what she meant.
"Our Circle is indeed doing the Ritual of the Opening of the Way, sometimes called the Opening of the Gate," Julian supplied with a teasing pomposity. "Without the book.
"Since you've given me the opening, I'll go on to explain that the Opening is the last part of a series of rituals that take about ten days to perform; they're keyed to the Tree of Life—which is, oh never mind; the Kaballah would take me years to explain. To make a long story positively cryptic in its brevity, the first part of the Opening has been published—in a number of variorum forms, I might add—and forms the principal part of the Blackburn Work as it is done today. These nine rituals are collectively called the Smoothing of the Path, and form a complete Working by themselves. Thorne prescribed that the Smoothing be done several times as an end in itself to get a Circle working fluidly, but when it must be done is as a prelude to the Opening of the Way."
It was amazing how plausible all this was, even logical. In her own mind Truth hesitated; if magick as Julian described it was more than the mere elaboration of a delusion, how much more was it?
"Which you don't have," she said again, bringing the discussion back to ground she was sure of.
"Neither did Thorne—once," Julian said, almost snappishly. "I'm sorry, it's just that I've been hearing the same thing from Irene and Ellis for weeks, and it's true: I don't have the Opening as it is written in Venus Afflicted. But I have Irene, who rehearsed it with Thorne's original Circle several times, and I have . . . well, I won't tax your magnanimity with a blow-by-blow account of more forays into the home life of Science's Dark Twin."
That was a phrase of Colin MacLaren's that Dylan was especially fond of quoting—and Thorne had known Professor MacLaren years ago. She looked at Julian. Charming, sane, and nearly normal—and handsome and rich besides! It would be so easy to ask Julian about Thorne and MacLaren—and to tell him. . . .
To tell him . . .
About Thorne. About the book. That she had it, it was here, he didn't have to try to re-create the ritual, that—
"What do you suppose the chef has planned for dessert, Julian? Do you know?" Truth said brightly, shattering the spell.
Dessert, when it came, was breathtaking; individual compotes of fresh fruit lightly poached in liqueur and sugar and piled into a dish made of colored spun-sugar.
"It's too pretty to eat!" Truth protested.
"It will only melt if you don't," Julian responded with cheerful ruthlessness. To Truth's relief, Julian seemed to be willing to abandon the subject of Thorne Blackburn and Venus Afflicted, and become once more what he appeared to be—a man of wealth and sophistication.
As the waiter who had placed the dishes retreated, the wine steward approached with a sweating, white-swathed bottle. Another uniformed attendant carried away the standing ice bucket that held the melted ice and empty champagne bottle.
"Your champagne, sir. The cellarer couldn't supply a nineteen eighty-two grande cuvee blanc, but we did have an 'eighty-five double cuvee pink, which I hope you will find acceptable." He paused, waiting for Julian's decision.
It was very odd, Truth decided, to look into a world not only where sentences like this made sense, but where the questions those sentences framed actually mattered, and mattered desperately: the world of great wealth, a world polished so smooth by the application of privilege that any flaw in the seamless perfection was seen as an enormous defect.
Julian frowned, and for a moment Truth even thought he might make a scene, but then he smiled and the anxious steward relaxed.
"Of course. Pink champagne, Truth?"
Cuvee, Julian explained, was a sweet dessert champagne. The wine in their glasses was a delicate shell pink, and its sweetness made it slide down her throat as if it were the scent of roses made liquid. It would be easy to become reckless, irresponsible, drinking this, and part of Truth welcomed the thought.
But if I'm going to do anything rash, I'm going to do it because I want to, and not because I'm hopped up on expensive booze. She put the half-empty glass down.
"Don't you like it?"
"It's lovely. But I'm afraid academics don't see much of the high life. I'm not used to it."
"We'll just have to accustom you, then. Do you dance?"
Truth would have bet hard cash that there wasn't any place in the Hudson Valley where you could still find ballroom dancing; and if she could have found anyone to take her bet she would have lost her money. Julian found such a place—in fact, he found three of them, beginning with the River View Inn itself, which had a small dance floor tucked off in what had once been the conservatory wing, and a live band to provide the music.
So it was very late indeed when Julian's BMW drew up at the front door of Shadow's Gate.
"I'll let you off here and go put the car away around back. Oh, and if you're looking for yours, I had Gareth move it today. With the bad weather setting in, it's just as well to have everything under cover."
"How did he move it?" Truth asked. "I didn't give him the keys." Nor would she, when the ignition key opened the trunk as well, and the trunk contained Venus Afflicted. She'd even made sure to take them with her this evening.
"No? He might have left it then; he'll probably ask you for the keys tomorrow. But sleep well, darling."
So there wasn't to be a proffered nightcap and a skillful pass, subtle or un-. Truth felt a sense of relief; she couldn't handle one more complication in her life just now and Julian seemed astute enough to know it. She got out of the car.
"And you," she said, turning back to close the door. Julian reached out and took her hand, raising her fingers to his lips for a quick Continental salute; the gesture had enough of conscious self-mockery in it that she didn't find it embarrassing. Truth turned away and heard the car move off behind her.
Though her head was mazed with wine and music, the sense of responsibility that was so much a part of her nature made her follow the drive around to the pass-through where she'd left her car the last time she'd driven back from Shadowkill.
It was still there, untouched. Relief combined with the champagne made her suddenly giddy, and the distant sound of a car door closing, carried on the still night air, warned her that if she didn't want this evening to continue in a direction she wasn't ready for, she'd better get inside before Julian returned.
Despite her distraction, the sense of sanctuary that she'd thought dispelled forever filled her senses as soon as Truth stepped into her room.
She knew what to call it now. It was Thorne's presence she sensed. He would never hurt her. She knew that with the unquestioning intuition of a child; felt the burden of hatred for him she had carried in her heart all these years simply . . . vanish.
Know the truth, and the truth will set you free. Thorne Blackburn might be dead, he might have returned from the dead, the things he'd done in life might still be weird, hateful, or simply puzzling to her, but he would never knowingly or intentionally hurt his daughter.
He'd loved her.
He loved her now, and with that certainty some needy, stunted part of Truth Jourdemayne began to flex and spread its wings.
"Champagne talking," Truth muttered aloud, embarrassed at the tenor of her own thoughts. She flopped down on the bed and groaned, kicking her shoes off. Her new shoes, in which she'd gone dancing the first time she'd worn them. So much for common sense.
She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, frowning.
Love was all very well, but it certainly wasn't enough to bring somebody back from the dead; if it was love alone that mattered, surely there would be thousands—millions—of the dead come back to comfort grieving loved ones. Love alone could not explain Thorne's presence.
If he really were here. If this wasn't the self-delusion of a woman heading full-speed for a world-class nervous breakdown. Her very conviction could be a symptom of her sickness.
What proof did she have? What proof could she get? Something tangible—or, failing that, some information only Thorne could have, something that she could check. What had he been doing in her room anyway?
Oh, of course—he wants his jewelry back. It's still in the car with Venus Afflicted. /'// have to get it for him . . . she found herself thinking.
And maybe her unquestioning acceptance of Thorne's reality ought to be the most frightening thing of all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TRUE LIES
when my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
"AUNT CAROLINE TOOK VENVS AFFLICTED AWAY WITH HER THAT
night. She's the only one who could have. But why? Tell me why?''
A drumming in the distance, like the clamor of approaching hooves.
"You're a bright girl, Truth. You've got all the facts. You've even got the
book. You figure it out."
Not horses—
"But—" Truth protested, even she felt herself—
—jerked out of sleep to find herself lying abed, dizzy and dazed, and the hammering having followed her into the world.
"The door," she said at last, pleased to have figured this out with a brain that seemed to be full of butterflies.
"I'm coming," she said. She glanced at the clock. Nine o'clock. Nine o'clock A.M. in the morning? an outraged part of her mind protested. She'd had less than four hours' sleep—no wonder she was so disoriented.
"Truth?" Gareth called through the door. "There's a big truck here
with six crates—they say they're for you."
Ten minutes later Truth, hastily dressed and far from awake, was standing in the foyer looking out the drive at a white truck standing in the drive. Three four-foot-high crates stood on the gravel, and a fourth was being gingerly downloaded from the truck's ramp. All four of them were stenciled FRAGILE and THIS SIDE UP and MARGARET BERESFORD BIDNEY INSTITUTE—DO NOT DROP.
Dylan had come through for her. This was the equipment she'd requested.
"Somebody's got to sign for this. Are you Ruth Jourdemayne?" the driver demanded, as if it were a question he was tired of asking.
Truth recognized him vaguely—this was the usual freight service the Institute used; she'd seen the driver before. She felt a pang of relief that Dylan hadn't come himself. What could she say to him; 'Hi, Dylan, I've had a long talk with my dead father and you were right all along'?
"Truth Jourdemayne," Truth corrected. She reached for the clipboard.
"Good morning," Julian said.
Unlike Truth, Julian had made no effort to get dressed; he wore a paisley silk dressing gown over black silk pajamas, and his black hair fell across his forehead in an unruly comma. He narrowed his eyes in the bright morning light and looked at Truth, raising an eyebrow quizzically.
"The Institute seems to have sent the equipment I asked for," she said superfluously. A fifth crate joined the other four on the gravel. Truth looked down at the clipboard in her hands.
"They have a wonderful sense of timing." He raised his voice slightly. "You can bring them inside. We can open them at a more civilized hour," Julian added to Truth.
"Hey, fella, all they told me to do was bring 'em here—they didn't say nothing about anything else," the driver said argumentatively.
Julian went completely still.
"Oh boy," Gareth said, very softly. Truth glanced back at Julian. She didn't need any psychic powers to know that the level of tension in the foyer had soared—all she had to do was look at Gareth's face.
Julian took a few steps forward, until he was standing at the edge of the steps. As he passed Truth he plucked the clipboard from her hands. The morning sun turned his hair to a black halo, blinding as a raven's wing.
"But I'm sure you won't mind bringing them inside?" Julian said pleasantly. "You certainly can't expect the lady to carry them inside by herself, can you?" There was nothing in the words, in the even, measured voice, to make what Julian had said so frightening. But Truth was frightened. And so was Gareth.
"Hey, mister, I didn't mean to— It's just extra, that's all."
"The Institute—" Truth began.
"Naturally I'll take care of any additional charges," Julian said, smiling. But Truth wasn't comforted, and when she glanced around, she saw that Gareth had fled.
"There now," Julian said turning back, all mildness once more. "An improvement, anyway." He stifled a yawn. "Gareth, is there room . . ."
Julian only just then seemed to notice that Gareth wasn't there, and once more Truth felt that sharp bolt of tension.
"Gareth . . ."Julian said, very softly.
"Why don't we put it in the library?" Truth said quickly. "Some of it's going to be used there anyway."
"Fine. They can put them all there."
Truth watched as the first of the six crates was brought up the steps with planks and dollies. She went ahead, into the library, leaving Julian in the front hall.
The room looked odd and unfinished without the portrait of Thorne Blackburn looming over it. She wondered what Julian had done with the damaged painting—she hadn't thought to ask him about it last night.
The crate was wheeled in, and Truth gave instructions that they should place it in the middle of the floor and move the tables back if they had to. While the workmen were doing that, she stepped back to the doorway.
And saw Gareth come toward Julian, unwillingly, like a small boy being dragged. Saw Julian's smile widen—and his hand flash up in a vicious backhand slap that left Gareth staggered. The sound was loud, flat, and final.
Truth flinched back inside the doorway, putting her hand to her own jaw in sympathetic reaction. Why had Julian done something like that?— Gareth was the most harmless creature she knew!
The workmen trundled out of the library, going for another crate. After a moment, Truth steeled herself and peered out the door again.
Julian stood there alone. He looked toward her inquiringly, and for the first time Truth really felt the tug and flow of the sleeping mind of Shadow's Gate as it eddied around her, bent on its own fulfillment. Using them all as tools.
After all, what she'd seen had probably been some part of the Blackburn Work. And if Gareth didn't like the way he was treated, as far as Truth could tell he was perfectly free to leave.
And maybe what she'd seen hadn't happened at all.
Julian walked over to her.
"You're looking peaked this morning," he said, putting an arm around her. The warmth of his body was palpable through the thin layers of silk he wore, the heat passing from his body into hers, and she was close enough to smell the faint skin-warmed scent of his cologne.
"I'm just . . . not a morning person," Truth floundered. The awareness of the thin layers of silk as they shifted over Julian's bare skin was maddening; a painful eroticism that replaced the confusion of her rough awakening and her earlier fear. It would be so easy to respond to his subtle invitation; to raise her hand to stroke his cheek; to follow where he led.
When the workmen came back with the second crate it was almost a relief.
By the time they were done, most of the rest of the household was roused and Truth could see why the carriers had been so reluctant to do the work of bringing their load inside. By the time the last crate had been set to rest, all three men were sweaty and red-faced.
"Would you like some coffee before you go?" Truth said, feeling guiltily responsible.
"All I want is to get out of here, lady, so if you'll just sign this—" The driver held out the clipboard one more time. Truth took it.
"Maybe you ought to have them unpacked first and check for damages?" Julian suggested with malicious sweetness. Beside him, Caradoc snorted.
Julian leaned against the doorway, holding a steaming mug of coffee. He'd taken the time to dress while the crates were being moved, and now looked formidably casual in a collarless linen shirt and a dark Armani suit.
The driver looked at Julian; a hopeless hostility in his eyes, like a dog cornered by a leopard.
"I'm sure they're fine," Truth said quickly. "And if they aren't, I have no way of knowing just by looking." She scribbled her signature on the top sheet and handed the clipboard back. The driver took it and hurried out.
"Drive safely," Julian called after him cheerfully.
"Julian, chat was mean," Truth said, torn between reproof and a sneaking admiration for the deftness with which Julian had gotten his own way—and a little of his own back.
"A confession," Julian said, sipping from his mug. "I hate thieves, particularly stupid ones."
"Thieves?" Truth said, surprised. She'd expected Julian to say "bullies."
"He was stealing services you had a right to expect and keeping the potential labor for himself. He wished to charge an additional fee for bringing the crates into the house, but I somehow suspect that of hardly being the terms of the original delivery agreement. Extortion, plain and simple."
When Julian explained it that way it seemed flawlessly logical.
"I guess you're right," she said reluctantly.
"What Man is capable of, Man has a right to do," Caradoc said. "The Blackburn Work."
"But," said Truth, confused to be arguing philosophy at this early hour, "that means the driver had the right to cheat me."
"If he could," Julian agreed meditatively. "But he couldn't."
"Breakfast," Caradoc announced, making it a general invitation. He ambled off, leaving Truth and Julian alone.
Julian smiled at her.
"But enough Jesuit logic. Come; we're here, we're—God help us— awake, it's a beautiful morning, and my time is my own until this afternoon. What would you like to do?" Julian asked invitingly.
Truth looked through the open doorway at the crates. "I suppose that duty calls," she said reluctantly.
"You'll at least join me for breakfast, stunning Monsieur Hoskins inexpressibly," Julian said. "Oh, and give Gareth your keys, will you? The car's still there, I noticed."
