I drew myself carefully up those final few inches, peering past fractured stone and down into the interior of the ruined structure. It appeared to have been some sort of church. The roof was fallen, and the far wall still stood, in much the same condition as the one I clung to. There was an altar in bad repair in a raised area off to my right. Whatever had happened here must have happened long ago, for shrubs and vines grew in the interior as well as without, softening the lines of collapsed pews, fallen pillars, fragments of the roof.
Below me, in a cleared area, a large pentagram was drawn. At each of the star’s points stood a figure, facing outward. Inward from them, at the five points where the lines crossed, flared a torch, its butt driven into the earth. This seemed a somewhat peculiar variation on the rituals with which I was familiar, and I wondered at the summoning and why the five were not better protected and why they were not about the work in concert, rather than each seeming off on a personal trip and ignoring the others. The three whom I could see clearly had their backs to me. The two who faced in my direction were barely within my line of sight, their faces covered over with shadows. Some of the voices were male; some, female. One was singing; two were chanting; the other two seemed merely to be speaking, though in stagy, artificial tones.
I drew myself higher, trying for a glimpse of the faces of the nearer two. This because there was something familiar about the entire ensemble, and I felt that if I were to identify one, I might well realize all of their identities.
Another question high on my list was, What was it they were summoning? Was I safe up here on the wall, this close to the operation, if something unusual put in an appearance? It did not seem that the proper constraints were in place below. I drew myself higher still. I felt my center of gravity shifting just as my view of affairs improved yet again. Then I realized that I was moving forward without effort. An instant later I knew that the wall was toppling, carrying me forward and down right into the midst of their oddly choreographed ritual. I tried to push myself away from the wall, hoping to hit the ground rolling and run like hell. But it was already too late. My abrupt push-up raised me into the air but did not really halt my forward momentum.
No one beneath me stirred, though rubble rained about them all, and I finally caught some recognizable words as I fell.
“… summon thee, Merlin, to fall into my power now!” one of the women was chanting.
A very effective ritual after all, I decided, as I landed on my back upon the pentagram, arms flopping out to my sides at shoulder level, legs spread. I was able to tuck my chin, protecting my head, and the slapping of my arms seemed to produce a break-fall effect so that I was not badly stunned by the impact. The five high towers of fire danced wildly about me for several seconds, then settled once again into steadier blazing. The five figures still faced outward. I attempted to rise and found that I could not. It was as if I were staked out in that position.
Frakir had warned me too late, as I was falling, and now I was uncertain to what employment I might put her. I could send her creeping off to any of the figures with orders to work her way upward and commence choking. But so far I had no way of knowing which one, if any, might deserve such treatment.
“I hate dropping in without notice,” I said, “and I can see this is a private party. If someone will be good enough to turn me loose, I’ll be on my way —”
The figure in the vicinity of my left foot did an aboutface and stood staring down at me. She wore a blue robe, but there was no mask upon her fire-reddened face. There was only a tight smile, which went away when she licked her lips. It was Julia, and there was a knife in her right hand.
“Always the smartass,” she said. “Ready with a flippant answer to any situation. It’s a cover for your unvillingness to commit yourself to anything or anyone. Even those who love you.”
“It could just be a sense of humor, too,” I said, “a thing I’m beginning to realise you never possessed.”
She shook her head slowly.
“You keep everyone at arms distance. There is no trust in you.”
“Runs in the family,” I said. “But prudence does not preclude affection.”
She had begun raising the blade, but she faltered for a second.
“Are you saying that you still care about me?” she asked.
“I never stopped,” I said. “It’s just that you came on too strong all of a sudden. You wanted more of me than I was willing to give just then.”
“You lie,” she said, “because I hold your life in my hand.”
“I could think of a lot worse reasons for lying,” I said. “But, unfortunately, I’m telling the truth.”
There came another familiar voice then, from off to my right.
“It was too early for us to speak of such things,” she said, “but I begrudge her your affection.”
Turning my head, I saw that this figure, too, now faced inward, and it was Coral and her right eye was covered by a black patch and she, too, held a knife in her right hand. Then I saw what was in her left hand, and I shot a glance back at Julia. Yes, they both held forks as well as knives.
“Et tu,” I said.
“I told you I don’t speak English,” Coral replied.
“Et by two,” Julia responded, raising her utensils. “Who says I don’t have a sense of humor?”
They spit at each other across me, some of the spittle not quite going the distance.
Luke, it occurred to me, might have tried settling matters by proposing to both of them on the spot. I’d a feeling it wouldn’t work for me, so I didn’t.
“This is an objectification of marriage neurosis,” I said. “It’s a projective experience. It’s a vivid dream. It’s —”
Julia dropped to one knee, and her right hand flashed downward. I felt the blade enter my left thigh.
My scream was interrupted when Coral drove her fork into my right shoulder.
“This is ridiculous!” I cried as the other utensils flashed in their hands and I felt fresh stabs of pain.
Then the figure at the star’s point near my right foot turned slowly, gracefully. She was wrapped in a dark brown cloak with a yellow border, her arms crossed before her holding it closed up to her eye level.
“Stop, you bitches!” she ordered, flinging the garment wide and resembling nothing so much as a mourning cloak butterfly. It was, of course, Dara, my mother.
Julia and Coral had already raised their forks to their mouths and were chewing. There was a tiny bead of blood beside Julia’s lip. The cloak continued to flow outward from my mother’s fingertips as if it were alive, as if it were a part of her. Its wings blocked Julia and Coral completely from my sight, falling upon them as she continued to spread her arms, covering them, bearing them over backward to become body-size lumps upon the ground, growing smaller and smaller until the garment simply hung naturally and they were gone from their points of the star.
There came a slow, delicate clapping sound then, followed by a hoarse laugh from my left.
“Extremely well executed,” came that painfully familiar voice, “but then you always liked him best.”
“Better,” she corrected.
“Isn’t poor Despil even in the running?” Jurt said.
“You’re being unfair,” she told him.
“You liked that mad Prince of Amber more than you ever cared for our father, who was a decent man,” he told her, “That’s why Merlin was always your pet, isn’t it?”