He had played his final card. He had said the finest and the worst things that he’d had to say, here in the chill wind, and without real forethought, with only his instinct to guide him. Finally he looked at his teacher and at his friend, and saw that both had been impressed by these words, perhaps even more than he could have hoped.
“Yes, it was this fourth entity, as you call him, who killed my friend,” said Stuart quietly. “You are right about that. And we know that the power, the future of this fourth entity, is unimaginable.”
“Yes, exactly,” said Tommy in a flat murmur.
“But the death of Aaron is a terrible, terrible thing! You will never, either of you, ever speak to me of it again, and never, never will you speak of it lightly to anyone.”
“Agreed,” said Tommy.
“My innocent friend,” said Stuart, “who sought only to help the Mayfair family.”
“No one in the Talamasca is really innocent,” Tommy said.
Stuart appeared startled, at first enraged and then caught by this simple statement.
“What do you mean by this?”
“I mean that one cannot expect to possess knowledge which does not change one. Once one knows, then one is acting upon that knowledge, whether it is to withhold the knowledge from those who would also be changed, or to give it to them. Aaron knew this. The Talamasca is evil by nature; that’s the price it pays for its libraries and inventories and computer records. Rather like God, wouldn’t you say, who knows that some of his creatures will suffer and some will triumph, but does not tell his creatures what he knows? The Talamasca is more evil even than the Supreme Being, but the Talamasca creates nothing.”
So very right, thought Marklin, though he could not have said such a thing aloud to Stuart, for fear of what Stuart would say in return.
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Stuart under his breath. He sounded defeated, or desperate for some tolerable point of view.
“It’s a sterile priesthood,” said Tommy, the voice once again devoid of all feeling. He gave his heavy glasses a shove with one finger. “The altars are barren; the statues are stored away. The scholars study for study’s sake.”
“Don’t say any more.”
“Let me talk of us, then,” said Tommy, “that we are not sterile, and we will see the sacred union come about, and we will hear the voices of memory.”
“Yes,” said Marklin, unable to assume such a cold voice. “Yes, we are the real priests now! True mediators between the earth and the forces of the unknown. We possess the words and the power.”
Another silence had fallen.
Could Marklin ever get them off this hill? He had won. They were together again, and he longed for the warmth of the George and Pilgrims. He longed for the taste of hot soup and ale, and the light of the fire. He longed to celebrate. He was wildly excited again.
“And Tessa?” asked Tommy. “How is it with Tessa?”
“The same,” said Stuart.
“Does she know that the male Taltos is dead?”
“She never knew he was alive,” said Stuart.
“Ah.”
“Come on, teacher,” said Marklin. “Let’s go down now, to the hotel. Let’s dine together.”
“Yes,” said Tommy, “we’re all too cold now to speak anymore.”
They began the descent, both Tommy and Marklin steadying Stuart in the slippery mud. When they had reached Stuart’s car, they opted for the drive rather than the long walk.
“This is all very good,” said Stuart, giving over the car keys to Marklin. “But I will visit Chalice Well as always before we go.”
“What for?” asked Marklin, making his words quiet, and respectful, and seemingly expressive of the love he felt for Stuart. “Will you wash your hands in Chalice Well to cleanse the blood off them? The water is already bloody itself, teacher.”
Stuart gave a little bitter laugh.
“Ah, but that is the blood of Christ, isn’t it?” Stuart said.
“It’s the blood of conviction,” said Marklin. “We’ll go to the well after dinner, and just before dark. I promise you that.”
They drove down the hill together.
Eight
MICHAEL TOLD CLEM he wanted to leave by the front gate. He’d bring the suitcases out. There were only two of them-Rowan’s and his. This was no vacation that required trunks and garment bags.
He looked at his diary before he closed it. There was a long statement there of his philosophy, written on Mardi Gras night, before he had ever dreamed that he would be awakened later by a plaintive gramophone song or by the vision of Mona dancing like a nymph in her white nightgown. Bow in hair, fresh and fragrant as warm bread, fresh milk, strawberries.
No, can’t think any more about Mona just now. Wait for the phone call in London.
Besides, it was the passage he wanted to read:
And I suppose I do believe, in the final analysis, that a peace of mind can be obtained in the face of the worst horrors and the worst losses. It can be obtained by faith in change and in will and in accident; and by faith in ourselves, that we will do the right thing, more often than not, in the face of adversity.
Six weeks had passed since that night, when, in illness and in grief, he’d written those sentiments. He’d been a prisoner of this house then, and up until this very moment.
He closed the diary. He slipped it into his leather bag, tucked the bag under his arm, and picked up the suitcases. He went down the stairs, a bit nervous since neither hand was free to reach for the rail, reminding himself that he would suffer no dizzy spell now, or any other form of weakness.
And if he was wrong about that, well, then he would die in action.
Rowan stood on the porch talking to Ryan, and Mona was there, with tears in her eyes, peering up at him with renewed devotion. She looked as delectable in silk as in anything else; and when he looked at her now, he saw what Rowan had seen, saw it as he had once been the first to see it in Rowan-the new swell of the breasts, the higher color of the cheeks, and a brilliance in Mona’s eyes, as well as a slightly different rhythm to her subtlest movements.
My child.
He’d believe it when she confirmed it. He’d worry about monsters and genes when he had to. He’d dream of a son or a daughter in his arms when there was a real chance of it.
Clem took the suitcases quickly, and carried them out the open gate. Michael liked this new driver so much better than the last, liked his good humor and his matter-of-fact ways. He made Michael think of musicians he’d known.
The trunk of the car was shut. Ryan kissed Rowan on both cheeks. Only now did Michael pick up Ryan’s voice.
“… anything further that you can tell me.”
“Only that this situation won’t last long. But don’t for a moment think it’s safe to let the guards go. And don’t let Mona out alone under any circumstances.”
“Chain me to the walls,” said Mona with a shrug. “They would have done it to Ophelia if she hadn’t drowned in the stream.”
“Who?” asked Ryan. “Mona, so far I have taken this whole thing very well indeed, considering the fact that you are thirteen years old and-”
“Chill, Ryan,” she said. “Nobody’s taking it better than I am.”
She smiled in spite of herself. Ryan stood baffled, staring at her.
This was the moment, Michael figured. He couldn’t endure a long Mayfair goodbye. And Ryan was confused enough.