Stuart looked at Tommy and then back at Marklin. Marklin saw the old spark, the love.
"Stuart," he went on, "the killing is done. It's finished. Our other unwitting assistants can be phased out without their ever knowing the grand design."
"And Lanzing? He must know everything."
"He was a hireling, Stuart," said Marklin. "He never understood what he saw. Besides, he too is dead."
"We didn't kill him, Stuart," said Tommy, in an almost casual manner. "They found part of his remains at the foot of Donnelaith Crag. His gun had been fired twice."
"Part of his remains?" asked Stuart.
Tommy shrugged. "They said he'd been a meal for wild animals."
"But you can't be sure, then, that he killed Yuri."
"Yuri has never returned to the hotel," said Tommy. "His belongings are still unclaimed. Yuri is dead, Stuart. The two bullets were for Yuri. How Lanzing fell, or why, or if some animal attacked, those things we can't know. But Yuri Stefano is, for our purposes, gone."
"Don't you see, Stuart?" said Marklin. "Except for the escape of the Taltos, everything has worked perfectly. And we can withdraw now, and focus upon the Mayfair witches. We don't need anything further from the Order. If the interception is ever uncovered, no one will ever be able to trace it to us."
"You don't fear the Elders, do you?"
"There is no reason to fear the Elders," said Tommy. "The intercept continues to work perfectly. It always has."
"Stuart, we've learned from our errors," said Marklin. "But perhaps things have happened for a purpose. I don't mean in the sentimental sense. But look at the overall picture. All the right people are dead."
"Don't talk so crudely to me of your methods, either of you. What about our Superior General?"
Tommy shrugged. "Marcus knows nothing. Except that he will very soon be able to retire with a small fortune. He'll never put all the pieces together afterwards. No one will be able to. That's the beauty of the entire plan."
"We need a few more weeks at most," said Marklin. "Just to protect ourselves."
"I'm not so sure," said Tommy. "The smart thing may be to remove the intercepts now. We know everything the Talamasca knows about the Mayfair family."
"Don't be so hasty, so confident!" said Stuart. "What happens when your phony communications are finally discovered?"
"You mean our phony communications?" asked Tommy. "At the very worst, there'll be a little confusion, perhaps even an investigation. But no one could trace the letters or the interception itself to us. That's why it's very important that we remain loyal novices, that we do nothing now to arouse suspicion."
Tommy glanced at Marklin. It was working. Stuart's manner had changed. Stuart was giving the orders again ... almost.
"This is all electronic," said Tommy. "There is no hard evidence of anything anywhere, except a few piles of paper in my flat in Regent's Park. Only you and Mark and I know where those papers are."
"Stuart, we need your guidance now!" said Marklin. "We go into the most exciting phase yet."
"Silence," said Stuart. "Let me look at you both, let me take your measure."
"Please do it, Stuart," said Marklin, "and find us brave and young, yes, young and stupid, perhaps, but brave and committed."
"What Mark means," said Tommy, "is that our position now is better than we could possibly have expected. Lanzing shot Yuri, then fell, fatally injuring himself. Stolov and Norgan are gone. They were never anything but a nuisance, and they knew too much. The men hired to kill the others don't know us. And we are here, where we began, at Glastonbury."
"And Tessa is in your hands, unknown to anyone but the three of us."
"Eloquence," said Stuart almost in a whisper. "That's what you give me now, eloquence."
"Poetry is truth, Stuart," said Marklin. "It is the highest truth, and eloquence is its attribute."
There was a pause. Marklin had to get Stuart down from this hill. Protectively, he put his arm around Stuart, and to his great relief, Stuart allowed this.
"Let's go down, Stuart," said Marklin. "Let's have our supper now. We're cold, we're hungry."
"If we had it to do over again," said Tommy, "we'd do it better. We didn't have to take those lives. It might have been more of a challenge, you know, to accomplish our purpose without really hurting anyone."
Stuart seemed lost in thought, only glancing at Tommy absently. The wind rose again, cuttingly, and Marklin shivered. If he was this cold, what must Stuart be feeling? They must go down to the hotel. They must break bread together.
"We are not ourselves, you know, Stuart," Marklin said. He was looking down at the town, and conscious that both of the others were staring at him. "When gathered together, we make a person whom none of us knows well enough, perhaps, a fourth entity which we should give a name, because he is more than our collective selves. Perhaps we must better learn to control him. But destroy him now? No, that we cannot do, Stuart. If we do, we all betray each other. It's a hard truth to face, but the death of Aaron means nothing."
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 ali
ve," 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.
"Ryan, I'll be in touch with you as soon as possible," he said. "We'll see Aaron's people. Learn what we can. Come home."
"Now, can you tell me exactly where you're going?"
"No, can't do it," said Rowan. She had turned and was headed right out of the gate.
Mona suddenly clattered down the steps after her. "Hey, Rowan!" she said, and Mona flung her arms around Rowan's neck and kissed her.
For one moment Michael was terrified that Rowan would not respond, that she'd stand like a statue beneath the oaks, neither acknowledging this sudden desperate hug, nor trying to free herself from it. But something entirely different happened. Rowan held Mona tight, kissing Mona's cheek and then smoothing her hair, and even laying her hand on Mona's forehead.
"You're going to be all right," Rowan said. "But do everything that I've told you to do."
Ryan followed Michael down the steps.
"I don't know what to say except good luck," Ryan said. "I wish you could tell me more about all this, what you're really doing."
"Tell Bea we had to go," said Michael. "I wouldn't tell the others any more than you have to."
Ryan nodded, obviously full of suspicion and concern, but basically stymied.
Rowan was already in the car. Michael slipped in beside her. In seconds they were sliding away beneath the lowering tree branches, and Mona and Ryan made a little picture, standing together in the gate, both waving, Mona's hair like a starburst, and Ryan clearly baffled as ever and highly uncertain.
"Seems he's doomed," said Rowan, "to run things for a coterie who will never tell him anything that's really happening."
"We tried once," said Michael. "You should have been there. He doesn't want to know. And he will do exactly what you tell him. Mona? Will she? I have no idea. But he will."
"You're still angry."
"No," he said. "I stopped being angry when you gave in."
But this wasn't true. He was still hurt to the quick that she had planned to leave without him, that she had seen him not as a companion on this trip, but as some keeper of the house, and of the baby inside Mona.
Well, hurt wasn't anger, was it?
She'd turned away. She was looking forward, and so he felt maybe it was safe to look at her. She was too thin still, far too thin, but her face had never been more lovely to him. The black suit she wore, the pearls, the high heels--all of it had given her a deceptively wicked glamour. But she had not needed these things. Her beauty lay in her purity--in the bones of her face, in the dark straight eyebrows that so vividly determined her expression, and in her soft long mouth which he wanted to kiss now with a brutal male desire to waken her, part her lips, make her soften all over in his arms again, have her.
That was the only way, ever, to have her.
She lifted her hand and pressed the button for the leather privacy panel to go up behind the driver. Then she turned to Michael.
"I was wrong," she said, without rancor or pleading. "You loved Aaron. You love me. You love Mona. I was wrong."
"You don't have to go into this," he answered. It was hard for him to look her in the eye, but he was determined to do it, to calm himself inside, to stop being hurt or mad or whatever this was right now.
"But there's something you have to understand," she said. "I don't plan to be kind and law-abiding with these people who killed Aaron. I don't intend to answer to anyone about what I do--even to you, Michael."
He laughed. He looked into her large, cold gray eyes. He wondered if this was what her patients had seen as they looked up, right before the anesthesia began to work on them.
"I know that, honey," he said. "When we get there, when we meet Yuri, I want to know, that's all, what he knows. I want to be there with you
both. I'm not claiming to have your capabilities, or your nerve. But I want to be there."
She nodded.
"Who knows, Rowan?" he asked. "Maybe you'll find a purpose for me." The wrath had come out. It was too late now to draw back in. He knew that his face had gone red. He looked away from her.
When she spoke this time, it was a secret voice he'd never heard her use except with him, and in the past months it had gained a new depth of feeling.
"Michael, I love you. But I know you're a good man. I'm no longer a good woman."
"Rowan, you don't mean that."
"Oh yes, I do. I've been with the goblins, Michael. I've been down into the inner circle."
"And you've come back," he said, looking at her again, trying to put the lid on these feelings that were about to explode out of him. "You're Rowan again, and you're here, and there are things to live for other than vengeance."
That was it, wasn't it? He had not roused her from her waking sleep. It had been Aaron's death that had done the trick, bringing her back to all of them.
If he didn't think of something else quick, he was going to lose his temper again, the hurt was so intense, it was so out of his control.
"Michael, I love you," she said. "I love you very much. And I know what you've suffered. Don't think I don't know, Michael."
He nodded. He'd give her that much, but maybe he was lying to both of them.
"But don't think you know what it's like to be the person I am. I was there at the birth, I was the mother. I was the cause, you might say, I was the crucial instrument. And I paid for that. I paid and I paid and I paid. And I'm not the same now. I love you as I always did, my love for you was never in question. But I'm not the same and I can't be the same, and I knew it when I was sitting out there in the garden, unable to answer your questions or look at you or put my arms around you. I knew it. And yet I loved you, and I love you now. Can you follow what I'm saying?" Again he nodded.
"You want to hurt me, and I know you do," she said.
"No, not hurt you. Not that. Not hurt you, just ... just ... rip your little silk skirt off, perhaps, and tear off that blazer that's been so skillfully painted on and make you know I'm here, I'm Michael! That's shameful, isn't it? It's disgusting, isn't it? That I want to have you the only way I can, because you shut me out, you left me, you ..."
He stopped. This had sometimes happened to him before, that in the midst of cresting anger, he had seen the futility of what he was doing and saying. He had seen the emptiness of anger itself, and realized in a moment of utter practicality that he could not continue like this, that if he did, nothing would be accomplished except his own misery.