Katherine Kurtz – Adept 05 – Death of an Adept

 

 

Mystic and historian, Sir Adam Sinclair is Master of the Hunt, leader of a secret brotherhood at war with the dark and unholy Powers that menace our world.  In his time, he has challenged the forces of evil and been victorious. Now evil is rising once again – an extraordinary evil born of ancient elemental magic and twentieth-century ambition.

And Adam Sinclair will face the most unthinkable crime against his kind: murder.

DEATH OF AN ADEPT

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author PRINTING HISTORY Ace hardcover edition / December 1996 Ace mass-market edition / November 1997 AH rights reserved. Copyright © 1996 by Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris Cover art by Joe Burleson.

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To David and Ursala Winder, Just because…

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once again, we are indebted to a number of people for their valuable technical advice and assistance, among them:

Dr. David P. Winder, MD, ChB, FRCA, Consultant Anaesthetist, Hull Royal Infirmary, who graciously allowed himself to be drafted as consultant anaesthetist for this project, and who was not the model for the slimy Dr.  Mallory;

Inspector Ian MacPherson, Highlands and Islands Police, Stornoway, for guidance on policing procedures on the Isle of Lewis, Outer Hebrides, who hardly batted an eye when informed that we were bringing crime to his island;

First Officer Bob McLellan, Loganair, for allowing us to pick his brain about island-hopping and civil aviation procedures at Stornoway Aerodrome;

Sgt. Frank Urban, Strathclyde Police, Motherwell, for telling us where the bodies go;

Margaret Carter, for sleuthing out the corridors of UCSF-MountZionMedicalCenter in San Francisco;

Peter Morwood, for again providing technical background on helicopters and the SAS.

To these and all the others who assisted our development of the background for this story, our most sincere thanks.

prologue

SOMEWHAT unusually for mid-December, Paisley-town lay under a dusting of winter-white. The citified blend of building heat and traffic fumes that kept the snow from lying in the streets of Glasgow, ten miles away, did not prevent a thin layer of powder from settling on the crow-stepped gables of a tall Victorian house that stood in stately seclusion behind a high stone wall at the southern edge of the town. The bells of a nearby church were striking eleven o’clock when a steel-grey Lancia sporting the logo of one of Scotland’s leading press agencies nosed into the upper end of the street, creeping along to halt outside the front gate of the house.

The dark-haired woman who emerged from the driver’s door in a swirl of silver fox conveyed an immediate impression of expensive cologne and couturier fashions, but the artfully made-up eyes behind the designer sunglasses she removed and tossed onto the dash were hard, the red-painted lips set in an expression of taut annoyance as she stalked up to the gate in a brittle tattoo of high-heeled leather boots.

The gate swung back with a discordant screech, and she scowled as she continued up the steps to the white-painted door, impatiently tugging off black leather gloves. The ring on the hand she raised to the ornate brass door-knocker flashed blood-red in the grey daylight – a carved carnelian caught in a modernist setting of heavy gold. Adorning the oval stone was the incised design of a lynx’s tufted head, its mouth agape in a feral snarl.

The dark-eyed Spanish houseboy who answered the door backed off immediately at the sight of the ring, glancing aside with a deferential murmur. Emerging from behind a newspaper, a somewhat older man in olive-drab military sweater and khakis unfolded himself from a wing chair just inside the entry hall, a lazy grin splitting his well-tanned face as he laid the paper aside.  “Morning, Miz Fitzgerald,” he said, tugging the bottom of his sweater over his trousers – and the bulge of an automatic pistol in his waistband – as his gaze swept from well-coifed head to leather-booted toe. “My, my, the newspaper business must be good.”

Angela Fitzgerald, one of Scotland’s more highly paid gossip columnists, flung a sharp glance over her shoulder at the otherwise empty street and pushed past the houseboy.

“Save your American sarcasm, Barclay,” she muttered. “You know I don’t like coming here. And have that gate oiled. Where is he?” “Upstairs in the library. Jorge will show you. My, but we are testy today, aren’t we?” he added under his breath, continuing to smile as she jammed her gloves into a coat pocket and headed up the stairs, shedding her furs to reveal a smart ensemble of emerald-green. The cowed Jorge scurried after her to take the coat, only barely overtaking her to knock at a gothic-arched door at the top of the stair.

“What is it?” a voice from within demanded.

“Senora Fitzgerald to see youjefe,” the houseboy ventured.

“Come in, Angela,” the voice replied.

The room beyond displayed the flamboyant neo-gothic style made popular by such arbiters of Victorian taste as Pugin and Burges. Above the fireplace, Minton tiles in shades of red and gold depicted a colorful scene from Chaucer’s “Nun’s Priest’s Tale,” and the handsome mahogany bookcase gracing the south wall bore the design signature of Philip Webb.

The dominant presence in the room, however, belonged to the fair-haired man seated behind the desk in the wide bay window, his willowy frame clad in a dark wool suit of impeccable cut.

“How good of you to come,” he said, rising gracefully from the leather-upholstered depths of his chair. His smile was slow and lazy, dangerous.  “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Angela ignored both the irony and the veiled menace in his greeting as she flounced into the room, the houseboy withdrawing with alacrity to close the door behind him.

“This had better be important,” she said. “By your own account, it isn’t safe for any of us to be seen together, here or anywhere else.” Francis Raeburn elevated a blond eyebrow in mild irritation as he waved her to one of the three lyre-backed chairs opposite the desk and resumed his own seat.  “We aren’t exactly going to be seen together,” he answered, settling back to steeple his fingers before him. “And the house is of sufficient architectural interest that, as a reporter, you can certainly claim a legitimate reason for being here. Besides that, there are sufficient safeguards in place that I think you need not worry about being discovered in my company.” “You mean Barclay, with his ridiculous pistol?” she retorted.  “You are well aware that Mr. Barclay has other talents at his disposal. The pistol is the least of our defenses, though it and he would serve their purpose, if required. But as long as you are under this roof, I promise that you are in no danger of discovery.”

“I certainly hope not,” she muttered. “I don’t want to end up like Kavanagh, with a headline for an obituary: ‘Suspected terrorist found dead in prison:

Police report no leads.’ “

Raeburn began idly rearranging some of the items on the desktop before him.  Fluid and precise, his movements called attention to the handsome carnelian lynx ring that he, too, was wearing.

“Kavanagh was a competent operative, but he had a somewhat inflated notion of his own abilities,” he said coolly. “He was warned that a Hunting Lodge might try to interfere. When they showed up, he should have known better than to try and cross swords with them single-handed.”

“So he made an error in judgement. Was that any reason to leave him where Dorje’s operatives would have no trouble finding him?” “And what would you have had me do?” Raeburn asked. “Stage a jailbreak on his behalf? You know as well as I do, that would have left a trail so conspicuous that even those witless clods who pass for ordinary policemen might have been able to track us down. No, I had the welfare of the rest of us to consider – a fact for which 1 should think you would be grateful!” The Kavanagh to whom they were referring had been arrested the previous spring during an attempt to salvage a Nazi treasure trove from a submarine left hidden in a sea cave on the northwest coast of Ireland. While the trove had included a sizeable cache of diamonds, their immense worth had been negligible compared to the accompanying chest of manuscripts on Tibetan black magic.  Recovery of the items had been commissioned by a man called Dorje, shadowy superior of an obscure Buddhist monastery tucked deep in the Swiss Alps, whose inner cadre of initiates recognized him as the current incarnation of an infamous black Adept known to Tibetan legend as the Man with Green Gloves. Born Siegfried Hasselkuss, the product of Nazi selective breeding, Dorje’s esoteric resources seemed to support that claim; and recovery of the knowledge contained in the manuscripts, called Terma or ‘ ‘treasure texts,” would have redoubled his already formidable powers.

Raeburn himself was no novice in such matters; but neither was he a match for Dorje. Drafted by Dorje to undertake the salvage operation – and in expiation for a previous venture gone wrong – Raeburn had reluctantly agreed to accept a share in the diamonds as payment for his services, fully intending to appropriate the Terma texts for himself if a suitable opportunity arose.  But the recovery operation had been thwarted by agents of a secret enforcement organization known as the Hunting Lodge, themselves practitioners of esoteric disciplines no less potent than those of Raeburn or Dorje. Raeburn had narrowly escaped with a share of the diamonds, but only at the expense of betraying his Tibetan handlers, abandoning the manuscripts, and leaving the luckless Kavanagh to be arrested by conventional law enforcement authorities on charges of terrorism.

Nor had Kavanagh languished long in jail before being found dead in his cell, of causes yet to be explained by medical science but which Raeburn had no doubt could be laid at the feet of the vengeful Dorje. Lacking the occult resources to combat his former employer on equal terms, at least for the present, Raeburn had temporarily dispersed his own followers and gone into hiding, leaving his associates to find what safety they could while he himself went searching for the means to shift the balance of power in his favor.  Angela’s expression was stormy as she contemplated a well-manicured thumbnail.  “No doubt I am meant to be reassured by the knowledge that you threw Kavanagh to the wolves,” she said coldly. “All that tells me is that you wouldn’t hesitate to dispense with me or Barclay or anyone else in this organization, if it suited your purposes at the moment.”

“Then take comfort from the assurance that I value your talents far too much to dispense with them for any trifling reason,” Raeburn said drily. “Why else do you think 1 forbade you to employ your occult abilities until further notice, if not to ensure that you didn’t betray yourself to our enemies?” “Don’t you mean your enemies?” she said archly.

“I doubt very much that Dorje would make that distinction,” Raeburn said, “and neither should you, if you want to survive.”

“If survival is all you care about,” said Angela, “perhaps you should think about resigning as Lynx-Master. A change of leadership might do this organization a world of good.”

“Are you proposing to replace me? Don’t even think about it,” Raeburn warned with a chilly smile. “Not unless you really believe you’re up to taking on Barclay and Richter as well as me. And even if, by some miracle, you did succeed in bringing me down,” he continued, “do you suppose for one moment that would pacify Dorje?”

“You could consider giving him back his diamonds, by way of a peace offering,” she ventured.

Raeburn dismissed this suggestion with a snort of bitter laughter.  “If I had ten times the value of that chest to give him, Dorje would still consider me in his debt for letting his precious Terma fall into the hands of the Hunting Lodge,” he replied. “Besides that, I earned those diamonds. As it is, I remain Dorje’s principal target. Remove me, and you merely add insult to injury by cheating him out of the chance to wreak his revenge on me. And the only ultimate beneficiaries are Adam Sinclair and his Hunting Lodge.” The mention of Adam Sinclair brought a grimace of malevolent dislike to Angela’s carefully tinted face. In the social circles in which she moved professionally, Sir Adam Sinclair was regarded as one of Scotland’s most eligible bachelors.  Angela herself had been dazzled by his dark good looks, even as she connived at his death a few years before. Titled and accomplished, with a comfortable independent income and a gracious country house just north of Edinburgh, not only was Sinclair a patron of the arts and a much respected amateur antiquarian, but his professional reputation as a psychiatric physician was matched by few others in Great Britain.

What the world at large never suspected was that he was also a powerful agent of the Law – not as that Law was represented by conventional police authority (though he did work regularly as a police consultant), but in its transcendent expression as the ruling principle of Divine Order, enforced by groups of dedicated individuals formed into Hunting Lodges on the Inner Planes. Scotland’s Hunting Lodge regarded him as their Chief, Master of the Hunt. As adversaries of the Hunting Lodge, ironically, Raeburn and his reluctant guest knew far more about Sinclair’s secret vocation than did the innocent and unsuspecting public he and his so diligently served.

“Sinclair!” Angela hissed under her breath. “Damn him and all the rest of his ilk. What I wouldn’t give for a chance to wipe the smug smiles from their sanctimonious faces!”

“That opportunity may be closer than you think,” Raeburn said blandly. “I believe I’ve finally found a way to repair our broken fortunes.” Before Angela could demand a fuller explanation, a knock at the door heralded the arrival of Barclay, who ushered in a blue-suited man of similarly compact build, with a dense blond crewcut and square, steel-framed glasses. As Barclay closed the door behind them and continued into the room, the newcomer drew himself up with a snap reminiscent of a military salute.  “Guten Morgen, Herr Raeburn,” he said, reverting then to accented but otherwise flawless English. “I trust I am in good time for this meeting?” “Punctual as always,” Raeburn agreed pleasantly. “I believe you remember Angela?”

Klaus Richter accorded her a cool nod of his head. Like the other three present, he was wearing a lynx ring. Angela eyed him up and down with no trace of commendation, not stirring from her chair.

“Mr. Richter,” she said stiffly.

“I believe we’ll have some refreshment before we proceed to the reason for this meeting,” Raeburn said with a faint smile, waving Richter and Barclay to two remaining chairs. “But I can assure you that what I have to say will be well worth the risk all of you took to come here.”

A tug at the antique bell pull next to the desk recalled Jorge, this time carrying a china tea service on a heavy silver tray. Setting it on a corner of Raeburn’s desk, the little valet stayed long enough to distribute a round of tea before retiring from the room with timorous alacrity. Raeburn sipped at the delicate Queen Anne blend with the thoughtful appreciation of the connoisseur.  Then, abruptly, he bent his pale, steely gaze upon the expectant faces of his subordinates.

“I think I need not tell you that these past five months have seen a sad decline in our affairs,” he began dispassionately, setting aside his cup and saucer.  “Suffice it to say that being sought by two enemies at once has left us in an unprecedented state of disarray. With Dorje on the one hand and Sinclair on the other, we’ve been forced to abandon a whole range of promising enterprises and divert all our energies to the necessary but not exactly exalted pursuit of retaining our lives and our liberty. That situation is about to be changed, however – and the instrument of change is in my possession.” With this dramatic announcement, he opened the desk drawer and withdrew a long, narrow bundle wrapped in undyed silk, which he placed before him on the blotter.  As his three associates leaned forward with varying degrees of expectation, he plucked aside the wrappings to expose an ancient-looking dagger.  It was an ugly thing, forged out of iron, its blade pitted with age and corrosion. The stubby hilt surmounting the blade was overlaid with grotesque zoomorphic traceries reminiscent of the interlocking figures occasionally to be found on Pictish standing stones. Obviously an object of great antiquity, the dagger had about it a subtle aura of crude violence. Its decorative designs, dark and sinuous, drew the eye like a magnet, exerting a fearful fascination.  Richter licked his lips, his pale face alight with hungry admiration. “It is herrlich – magnificent,” he breathed. “Where did you get it?” “It was a legacy,” Raeburn said. “From the Head-Master.” The significance of the name was not lost on his three listeners, though only Barclay had been present with Raeburn at the bequeathal. The individual so-named had once been a powerful member of Hitler’s inner circle, before private ambition or perhaps mental instability had impelled him to decamp to Britain. By means known only to himself, the Head-Master had survived the war, secured his freedom, and subsequently contrived to establish a base for himself in the mountains of central Scotland.

There he had remained until two years ago, quietly working his dark intentions, until the Hunting Lodge led by Adam Sinclair had taken his scent and run him to ground. He had perished amid the ruins of his Highland fortress, but his malign influence was still making itself felt, and would continue to do so for a long time yet to come.

Angela was among those who retained a clear recollection of the Head-Master himself, though she had not been present at his demise.  “He would have valued such an important artifact,” she said. “How did you convince him to part with it?”

Raeburn showed his teeth. “Arguments from me were superfluous, with the Hunting Lodge threatening to knock down the walls around our ears. Suffice it to say that neither of us saw any virtue in allowing it to fall into the hands of Adam Sinclair.”

“Why haven’t you told me about this before now?”

“There was little of substance to tell,” Raeburn said. “Only now, at the end of two years’ study, do I find myself in a position to expound reliably on the secrets of its origin and its esoteric associations.”

He steepled his long fingers before him with the air of a university professor about to deliver a lecture.

“To digress briefly,” he went on, “and primarily for Mr. Richter’s benefit.  Those of you who had the distinction of serving under the Head-Master will remember that among his most prized possessions was an ancient relic which he referred to as the Soulis tore. As the name implies, the tore had come to be associated with one William Lord Soulis, an infamous Scottish mage of the fourteenth century – though the tore itself was already ancient by the time it passed into his possession. It was a product of Pictish workmanship, embodying its makers’ rapport with the powers of the elements.” “Why don’t you cut to the chase, Francis?” Angela said sharply. “We all know that the tore was destroyed, partly thanks to Sinclair. What does it have to do with the dagger?”

“Your impatience begins to wear thin, my dear,” Raeburn replied. “To continue, I have been able to establish, to my satisfaction, that this dagger belongs to the same period as the tore, and may even be the product of the same craftsman.  “The connection between the two is to be found in various common features of the workmanship and design. Like the tore, the dagger is fashioned of meteoric iron, and shows evidence of having been made by a similar process of smelting and forging. Certain ogham inscriptions on the blade are likewise closely akin to those on the tore, containing idiosyncratic elements I have not encountered anywhere else.”

“Which means what?” Richter ventured.

A faint smile stirred Raeburn’s lips, though his eyes remained cold. “The Head-Master used the Soulis tore as the focus for invoking Taranis, hailed by the ancient Picts as the lord of air and darkness and, especially, storm. In exchange for promises of service and sacrifice, he received the power to call down lightning from the realm of eternal tempest – which authority he delegated to me, though only as it related to the tore.”

“Which was destroyed,” Angela reminded him.

“I have already conceded that point, Angela dear,” Raeburn said evenly.  “Fortunately, I now have every reason to hope that, properly manipulated, this dagger will provide a similar focus for re-establishing contact with the Thunderer. If I am correct in my expectations, we may soon find ourselves in a position to reclaim the power of the storm and direct it toward Dorje, or Sinclair, or anyone else who thinks he has a right to meddle in our affairs.” The silence that briefly fell upon his listeners was pregnant with speculation.

“You say ‘properly manipulated,’ “ Richter mused, after a thoughtful silence. ‘ ‘Perhaps you would care to instruct us regarding what, specifically, will be required of us.”

Raeburn inclined his head in graceful acquiescence.  “It is a basic axiom of esoteric practice that objects intended for ritual use must first be consecrated to that purpose and empowered. The dagger is no exception. If we wish to make it actively responsive, in the same degree and to the same purpose as the Soulis tore, it follows that we must determine what rituals were applied in the first instance, and repeat them in conjunction with the dagger, with whatever modifications can be deemed appropriate in the light of our present circumstances.”

“Just where are you planning to get your information?” Angela inquired, much of her former waspishness dissipated in light of the facts Raeburn had just presented. “Our latter-day grasp of Pictish culture is sketchy at best – and I expect that the priests of Taranis would have guarded their mysteries as jealously as any modern occultist. Unless the inscriptions you mentioned a moment ago supply the necessary details.”

Raeburn shook his head patiently. “The inscriptions have some bearing on the case, but they convey a series of cryptic clues rather than a set of explicit instructions. I’ve no doubt that a dedicated scholar might eventually unravel the conundrums, but we can’t afford that kind of time. That’s why I’ve taken the liberty of calling in a specialist whose resources in these matters far exceed my own.”

Even Barclay looked somewhat askance at this announcement.  “What kind of specialist?” Richter asked, with an uneasy glance toward the windows. “You said nothing about outsiders.”

“His name is Taliere,” Raeburn replied, “and he isn’t exactly an outsider. He was an associate of my father’s.”

This disclosure silenced Richter and elicited a grave nod from Barclay, for those in Raeburn’s inner circle were well aware that their chief had been born the son of one David Tudor-Jones, a powerful Welsh Adept whose esoteric interests and activities had spanned a wide variety of subjects, many of them decidedly dark in focus. Only Angela seemed unsatisfied by Raeburn’s explanation.

“An associate of your father’s? That could mean anything,” she muttered. “I’m a public figure, Francis. Before I agree to make this person privy to any secrets of mine, I’m going to need to know a bit more about him.” “As you wish.”

Reaching into the left-hand drawer of his desk, Raeburn produced a black and white snapshot and flipped it across the desk in front of Angela. She captured it and turned it right-side up, tilting it to accommodate Richter as he also leaned closer to inspect it.

The man in the photograph was elderly and majestic of mien, with luxuriant white hair to his shoulders and a long white walrus moustache. He appeared to be wearing theatrical costume – a fantastic headdress featuring bird’s wings, and a mantle of dark fur clasped over a long white robe. Dependent from a broad leather belt cinching the robe were a drawstring pouch and a small, sickle-bladed knife. His left hand grasped a gnarly staff surmounted by the skull and antlers of a stag.

“What is he, an actor?” Angela inquired somewhat incredulously.  “A Druid,” Raeburn corrected. “And not just a modern pretender, either. Taliere is an ardent and discerning follower of the old ways. You may take it from me that his knowledge of his tradition reaches far into the distant past.” “That sounds almost like high praise,” Angela said.  “I always like to give a man his due,” Raeburn replied. “In this instance, I believe he is precisely the one to assist us in divining what we need to do.” “When do we meet him?”

“As soon as I can arrange a safe rendezvous – which, with the help of Mr.

Richter, should be in a few days’ time.”

“I am prepared to assist,” Richter said, “but also I have questions. Why should this Taliere be interested in helping us? What does he have to gain?” “A measure of revenge, among other things,” Raeburn replied. “Besides sharing some of the same aims, we also share at least one common enemy.” “Meaning Adam Sinclair,” Angela declared, more a statement than a question. When Raeburn did not deny it, she added, “How are we going to prevent our peerless baronet from poking his long nose into this affair?” “By moving quickly, before he has time to rally his forces,” Raeburn said, wrapping up the dagger again. “Thanks to our own recent spate of inactivity, I doubt he suspects I’m in Scotland. I’ve also been careful to stay clear of the Edinburgh area.

With any luck at all, we’ll be able to achieve our objective before he’s any the wiser.”

Angela made a face. “1 wouldn’t count on that.” “Wouldn’t you?” Raeburn’s solicitude carried a hint of malice. “Then you’ll be pleased to know that I’ve already taken the precaution of having Sinclair watched, along with those members of his organization we’ve been able to identify. If any of them should show signs of becoming a problem, we shall take steps to eliminate the offending party.”

chapter one

ADAM Sinclair was a regular at the Royal Scots Club in Edinburgh. He never visited its premises in Abercrombie Place without remembering his late father, Sir Iain, who had been a member of the club since his regimental days – and his father, before him. On this frosty afternoon in mid-December, with the early winter dusk crowding in low over the castellated rooftops of the city, the club’s brightly lit windows seemed to beckon with the bidding warmth of a blazing coal fire.

Bracing himself against a biting wind, Adam hunched deeper into the shelter of topcoat and scarf and dashed the last few yards to the front door to ring the bell, with the easy air of a man paying a call on an old friend. The porter who came in answer was quick to recognize the patrician features of the tall, dark-haired man at the top of the steps, and opened the door with a welcoming smile.

“Sir Adam, come in out of the cold,” he exclaimed. “A very happy Christmas to you and yours!”

“Thank you, Hamish, and a very happy Christmas to you,” Adam replied, as he came into the foyer and let the porter relieve him of coat and scarf. “Inspector McLeod and Mr. Lovat were supposed to be meeting me here. Have they arrived yet?”

“Aye, sir, they have. You’ll find the pair of them waiting for you in the lounge bar.”

The lounge was a cozy panelled room at the front of the building, redolent of port, pipe smoke, and leather upholstery. Not yet crowded with the evening clientele, it had the comfortably lived-in look of a favorite pair of old slippers. A venerable silver-haired gentleman, who had known Adam’s father, was smoking a pipe in an armchair near the fireplace, placidly poring over the pages of The Scotsman, and raised his pipe in amiable greeting as Adam approached.  “Evening, Adam.”

“Good evening, Colonel. You’re looking very fit.”

“Not bad for an old-timer,” the old man allowed. “Your friends are over there.” He gestured with his pipe to where Adam had already spotted two familiar figures at a table in one of the window bays – the elder of the pair clad in a dark tweed jacket with white shirt and knit tie, the bespectacled younger man stylishly informal in grey flannel trousers and a turtleneck pullover of the same shade. Murmuring his thanks, Adam clasped the colonel’s shoulder in affection before moving on toward them.

Judging by appearances alone, the two might have seemed an unlikely pair. A twenty-year veteran of the Lothian and Borders Police, Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod was craggy and solid as a block of Highland granite, with a thatch of grizzled hair and a bristly military moustache bracketing gold-rimmed aviator spectacles. Youthfully slight by contrast, with hair like cornsilk and candidly observant hazel eyes, Peregrine Lovat was gaining a widespread reputation as a portrait artist and was in increasingly well-paid demand for his talents. Though a casual observer might wonder what the two men could possibly have in common, Adam was in a position to appreciate the complementary nature of their differences.

McLeod was the first to notice Adam’s arrival, sitting with his back to the wall and a clear view of the room and its entrance, in instinctive adherence to good police procedure. Alerted by the sudden shift in McLeod’s attention, Peregrine half turned in his chair to grin and wave as he, too, spotted Adam.  Returning the salute, Adam made his way over to join them. The two had whisky glasses on the table in front of them, with an untasted third glass set before the one remaining chair.

“I’m glad to see that you two haven’t been shy about making yourselves at home,” Adam remarked. ‘ ‘Is that extra measure of the MacAllan spoken for yet?”

“We’ve been keeping an eye on it for you,” Peregrine said.  “Aye,” McLeod agreed with a twinkle. “But it won’t go to waste, if you’d prefer an alternative.”

“Not at all!” Adam said. “Nothing else would do justice to the company.” He folded himself gracefully into the vacant seat and appropriated the glass in question, lifting it briefly in salute before tasting. As he rolled the whisky’s peaty savor to the back of his tongue and swallowed, his gaze lighted upon the colorful assemblage of parcels piled on the floor beside Peregrine’s chair.  Protruding from the top of one large carrier bag marked Jenners Department Store was a child’s costume kit that included a horned helmet, a circular shield, and a large plastic battle-axe.

Amusement tugged at the corners of Adam’s expressive mouth as he set down his glass.

“Who’s the aspiring Viking in your life?” he asked.  The young artist grinned. “Alexandra Houston,” he replied, naming the younger daughter of a clergyman colleague of theirs. “Christopher’s been reading her stories from Norse mythology. She’s decided she wants to become a shield maiden when she grows up. Or failing that, an opera singer.” Adam chuckled. “There’s a noble ambition for you. I’m sorry I won’t be here to share in the fun on Christmas morning.”

“So am I,” Peregrine said, “but I expect your regrets will evaporate pretty quickly, once you get to the States.”

“Once he gets past his medical symposium in Houston,” McLeod corrected gruffly.  “You make it sound as if I’m going there to fight a dragon, not deliver a paper,” Adam said.

“Even if you were,” said Peregrine, “it would take more than a titan among all dragons to keep you away from that fair lady of yours. What time is your flight tomorrow?”

“Seven a.m. Once at Heathrow, I’ve got nearly four hours to kill before the Houston flight – but this time of year, anything less leaves too slender a margin for comfort. And I don’t relish the holiday rush.” This observation was attended by a grimace. Flying visits to the States had become an increasingly frequent occurrence for Adam over the past eighteen months, and more than once his travel arrangements had been disrupted by missed connections.

The lure that kept drawing him back to the opposite side of the Atlantic was Dr.  Ximena Lockhart, an American surgeon turned trauma specialist, whom he had met two years before whilst undergoing treatment in the otherwise unromantic confines of the emergency room at Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. The mutual interest kindled by that initial encounter had subsequently blossomed into a bright flame.

That flame had remained constant despite the separation forced upon them when Ximena learned that her father had fallen victim to a terminal illness. Though she had gone home to San Francisco to care for him, the strains of time and distance had failed to dampen the ardor of the relationship still growing between her and Adam. In this instance, an invitation to address a gathering of American medical colleagues was providing Adam with a professional excuse for being absent from his Edinburgh practice in order to spend the Christmas holidays with Ximena.

“In some respects, it’s going to be an awkward visit,” he admitted to Peregrine and McLeod. “I’ll finally get to meet Ximena’s family, but her father isn’t doing well at all.”

“What is the latest word on his condition?” Peregrine asked quietly.  “No better than it’s ever likely to be, I’m afraid,” Adam replied. “Given the original prognosis, it’s nothing short of miraculous that he’s lasted this long.”

“Aye, and one has to wonder whether that’s really a mercy,” McLeod murmured.

“That form of cancer is pretty painful, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid it is,” Adam replied. “And he’s already lasted six months beyond what his doctors ever expected. Ximena can’t even talk about it. I can only imagine that he must have some very powerful, private reasons for wanting to cling to life. I’ll be in a better position to form an opinion once we’ve met face to face.”

“I’m frankly surprised that Ximena hasn’t introduced the two of you before now,” Peregrine said.

Adam shrugged. “I expect it’s a reflection of the helplessness she feels as a physician – not being able to help her father when she thinks he needs her most.  If I meet him, she has to deal with that helplessness.”

“Is that why you’ve always met elsewhere?” McLeod asked.  Adam nodded. “This is the first time she’s consented to let me fly all the way out to the West Coast. I’m given to understand,” he added lightly, “that it would be bad form on her part to let me make all the travel concessions – hence, our metropolitan tour of the East Coast.”

The list of cities they had visited together in recent months included Atlanta, Boston, and New York. Adam had not disputed the choice of venues, knowing that these were places where Ximena could escape, however briefly, from the cares and responsibilities that burdened her at home. For that very reason, her invitation to meet this time in San Francisco gave him cause for no small concern. If she was now afraid to leave her father’s side – and ready to face her own helplessness – the end must truly be in sight.

“That reminds me,” Peregrine said, breaking in upon Adam’s reflections. “I’ve got something here for you – if only I can find the right bag.” With these words, he ducked partially from view below the level of the table.

The sound of energetic rummaging shortly gave way to an exclamation of triumph.  When Peregrine re-emerged, he was holding a parcel gaily wrapped in Christmas paper.

“Your real present will be waiting for you when you get back,” he told Adam with a puckish grin. “This, on the other hand, is for opening now – sort of a bon voyage present. It may come in handy if you should accidentally get separated from your friendly native guide.”

“Why, Peregrine, this feels like a book,” Adam said with a pleased smile, as he began stripping off the paper. “Surely you haven’t forgotten that I already have a book?”

“You don’t have this one!” Peregrine said gleefully as Adam pulled free a copy of Fodor’s pocket-companion to San Francisco.

“Indeed, I don’t, and I thank you very much,” Adam said with a grin, as he flipped through a few pages. “The Baedeker I have back at the house must be a quarter century out of date. My mother brought it back from a trip she took when I was in my teens.”

“So I discovered, the last time you left me alone in your library,” Peregrine said drily. “This one should keep you ait fait with the attractions of the present day. Use it in good health.”

“So I shall,” Adam promised, bending to set it on the floor beside his chair.  “And what about your Christmas plans?” he asked, adroitly diverting the conversation from himself. ‘ ‘Will you and Julia be getting away at all for the holidays?”

Peregrine made a wry face and shook his head. “We can’t go anywhere before Christmas Day. Julia got roped into a concert on Christmas Eve – Hebridean carols. It’s at St. Margaret’s in Dunfermline, where we were married, so when Father Lawrence told her that all proceeds would be earmarked for the church roofing fund, she couldn’t very well say no.”

“Indeed, not,” Adam agreed. “I’ll be sorry to miss it.” “She’ll be sorry, too,” Peregrine replied. “As for me, I’ve still got quite a bit of work to do on that group portrait that Sir Gordon’s Masonic Lodge commissioned for their centenary. If I can at least get all the facial studies finished, I’ll feel justified in taking the week off between Christmas and the new year. In that event, we’ll probably head up to Aviemore to check out the prospects for a few days’ skiing.”

“Lucky you,” McLeod grunted. “It’s going to be business as usual at police headquarters. All too many of our local ne’er-do-wells think of Christmas as the season for taking, rather than giving. Only yesterday, four blokes in workmen’s coveralls hijacked a removal van carrying a baby-grand piano.” “A valuable historical piece, I take it?” Adam said.

“So one would think, based on the furor the theft has caused,” McLeod replied sourly. “No, this one was new. According to the inventory, it was painted pearl-pink, with rhine-stone inlay.”

Peregrine’s reaction proclaimed a startled mixture of disbelief and artistic affront.

“Someone’s having you on!” he declared. “Why on earth would anyone even want to make a thing like that, let alone steal it?”

McLeod shrugged, his blue eyes lighting with the humor of the affair. “I’m afraid the report is legit. The piano was being delivered to a new American-style nightclub that’s just getting ready to open down at the foot of the Grassmarket. The transport company is one that usually specializes in household removals. I expect the thieves thought they were making off with a load of furniture and small appliances. Are they going to be surprised!” At McLeod’s grin, Peregrine’s eyes rolled behind his gold-framed spectacles.

“Talk about a waste of police resources…”

“Aye, but believe me, I’m quite content to chase burglars for a change, given what sometimes gets dished up to us. If things stay quiet – as I dearly hope they’ll do, with Adam away – Jane and I might sneak away to a hotel for a few nights, so my daughter can have the house to herself and her university friends over Hogmanay. And I may take a few extra shifts, to give some of the younger lads extra time with their families. Otherwise, I’ll be at home, trying to dissuade the cats from stealing the baubles off the Christmas tree.” “Surrounded by thieves and robbers!” Adam said with a laugh, picking up his glass. “Perhaps it’s time we had a toast. Noel, will you go first?” The inspector knit his brow briefly, rubbing at his moustache, then lifted his glass. “All right, here’s one my grandfather favored:

“Lang life and happy days,

Plenty meat and plenty does;

A haggis and a horn spune,

And aye a tattle when the ither’s dune.”

“Your grandfather was a practical man!” Peregrine said with a chuckle, when the toast had been duly solemnized.

“He certainly knew what was really worth having out of life,” McLeod replied, and cocked an eye at the young artist. “How about it, laddie? Have you any pearls of wisdom you’d like to contribute on this festive occasion?”

“I might,” Peregrine said. He thought a moment, then recited:

“Lang o ‘ purse,

And licht o ‘ heart.

Health tae thee,

In every part.”

Once again the three friends lifted glasses to their lips. “I think this makes it your turn, Adam,” Peregrine said, as he set down his glass.  “Very well,” Adam said. “Since I’m off to the West, I have in mind a Gaelic blessing. Somehow it seems appropriate:

“May the mad rise to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face.

May the rains fall softly upon your fields until we meet again. May God hold you in the hollow of his hand.  Breaking off, he smiled at his companions. “It’s going to be up to you to keep the peace while I’m away. But I know you’re equal to the task. Slainte var!” “Slainte var!” the two of them repeated, as they drank the ancient toast.  It was still dark the following morning when Adam set out for the airport, driven by his faithful valet-butler, Humphrey. An overnight drop in the temperature, with the attendant promise of ice on the roads, made the steel-blue Range Rover, with its four-wheel drive, the only choice of vehicle. As they nosed out of the stable mews, high-performance tires crunching on a white carpet of frost, the windscreen wipers only barely kept at bay a moist ground-fog that was verging on a drizzle. Looking back over his shoulder as they crawled down the drive, Adam could see the turrets and gables of Strathmourne silhouetted against a crystalline backdrop of morning stars. The windows in the kitchen wing showed a scattering of lights where Mrs. Gilchrist, his cook and housekeeper, was clearing up the remains of a frugal breakfast.

The avenue leading to the gates passed between sentinel ranks of copper beech trees, their branches black and bare against the pre-dawn sky. Off to his left, through the passenger window, Adam glimpsed another cluster of lights marking the location of a stout, stone-built steading held by one of his tenant farmers.  A gentle bend in the road brought them abreast of the gate lodge, its darkened windows confirming that Peregrine and Julia, his bride of seven months, were still asleep.

Hunching down contentedly in his topcoat, Adam let his thoughts touch fondly on the couple as Humphrey eased the big car quietly past their front door and swung onto the main road. Peregrine had been still a bachelor when he first accepted Adam’s invitation to take up residence in the gate lodge, in exchange for what Adam quaintly termed a “peppercorn rent.” The fair Julia had come to share her husband’s affection for the little house, and considered Adam to be the most agreeable and charming of landlords, but both Lovats eventually realized that they were going to need more room if they ever intended to have a family.  Toward that end, with Adam’s help and encouragement, the pair had recently purchased a decommissioned chapel, but a few miles away, and had happily begun working on plans for its conversion into a residence. That alone might take upwards of a year, sandwiched in between Peregrine’s portrait commissions; and Adam guessed that completion of the work might take another year or even two.  Even so, the Lovats would ultimately be moving – not far, but Adam still would be sorry to see them go. Quite apart from the convenience of having another member of the Hunting Lodge so close at hand, Peregrine had taken on aspects of close friend, star-pupil, favorite nephew, the younger brother Adam had never had, and the son he wished one day to father.

The wistful notion of a son of his own, a child of his body as well as his heart and soul, turned his thoughts to the woman he hoped could be persuaded to share his life and bear that child. Thus preoccupied, and still lulled by the early hour, he failed to notice a flicker of movement among the shadows clustering under the trees outside the gates – and Humphrey was focused on road conditions.  As the Range Rover carefully picked up speed, its tail-lamps receding in the wet, pre-dawn darkness, a black-clad figure rose from cover behind a stand of broad oak trees and raised a wrist-strapped micro-corn to the mouth-opening of a black ski mask. The wearer’s report was rendered in a clipped undertone, after which he settled back to resume his surveillance of the gates and the lodge beyond.

Some five miles ahead, at a wooded junction where the narrow country back road to Strathmourne connected with the A-route to Edinburgh, a head-scarfed woman in a dark grey Volvo set aside a similar comlink and sat up straighter, peering through the screen of trees that hid the car from the road. Only when the blue Range Rover had whispered past did she smile a mirthless smile in the darkness, reaching down to start the engine and then pulling quietly onto the road to follow.

The ground fog had mostly dissipated by the time Humphrey pulled the Range Rover onto the M90. Local traffic was light at first, but increased steadily as they headed south toward Edinburgh. Content to leave the driving to Humphrey, and made somewhat drowsy by the rhythmic hiss of tires on pavement and the hypnotic sweep of the windscreen wipers, Adam leaned back against the headrest and lost himself in fond reflections of the woman he was on his way to see, letting himself drift, searching for Ximena wherever she was to be found amid memories of past joys and parting sorrows.

With an ease born of habitual longing, his mind’s eye lit upon Ximena as he first had seen her. In that hospital setting, kitted out in surgical green, she had been all brisk, well-scrubbed efficiency, as supple and well-honed as a steel blade, with a wit to match and a keen sense of humor that gently teased but never mocked. It cost him a pang to recall how that bright resilience had later melted under the reverent caress of his hands and lips, revealing a warm responsiveness of flesh vibrant with laughter and desire.  The memory brought a wistful smile to his lips. With almost painful immediacy he found himself recalling the way her dark, unbound hair spilled like silk through his fingers, the porcelain quality of her skin, smoothly drawn over the finely chiselled bones of her face. Of all the women he had ever known, she alone seemed to have the power to release him from the convoluted toils of his own intellect, to set him free to enjoy the simplicity of the present moment. In exchange for such a gift, he was willing to offer everything he himself had to give. But he was by no means certain that she would find it in herself to take it. And while her father lived, Adam’s conscience would not allow him to argue his own case.

His mood of introspection did not go unnoticed by Humphrey, though the older man was well accustomed to his employer’s silences and had learned not to let his own vigilance be distracted. Trained in the driving techniques necessary for executive protection, as well as the skills that made him an outstanding butler and valet, Humphrey made automatic note of the dark grey Volvo keeping pace with them along the M90; but any real concern evaporated when the vehicle in question turned off at the exit for Dunfermline and Kincardine.  Relaxing a little, he concentrated thereafter on minding the traffic along the approach to the Forth Road Bridge. When a black Edinburgh taxi nosed in behind them in the queue for the bridge tollbooth, its appearance was so commonplace that Humphrey hardly spared it a second glance.

They arrived at the airport just as a big Aer Lingus jet was coming in for a landing. Bypassing the short-term car park, Humphrey made for the terminal building and pulled into a space reserved for limousines outside the main concourse. Adam roused as the car came to a halt, and vouchsafed his faithful valet an apologetic smile as he undid his seat belt and reached behind for the briefcase on the back seat.

“Sorry to be such a poor companion, Humphrey. As Mrs. Gilchrist would say, I’m ‘awa’ wi’ the fairies’ this morning.”

“I trust nothing is wrong, sir?”

“No, not at all. Everything is very right – or as right as it can be, under the circumstances. And I promise to keep my feet firmly on the ground from here on out – at least until my flight is airborne.”

A faint smile played at the corners of Humphrey’s mouth as he glanced at the steering wheel between his gloved hands, then essayed a glance at his employer.  “If I may say so, sir, I hope that when you reach San Francisco, you’ll not bother too much with keeping your feet on the ground. I – would regard it as a great favor if you were to convey my particular greetings to Dr. Lockhart.” “I shall certainly do that,” Adam said quietly, well aware of Humphrey’s hopes that Ximena might become the next Lady Sinclair. “But it’s a difficult situation, as you know.”

“I do, sir,” Humphrey murmured. “And she and her father are in my prayers.” “Then they have a powerful advocate. Thank you.” Adam sighed heavily, then glanced at his luggage in the back of the car and reached for the door handle.  “Well, if you’ll see to the luggage and get me checked in, I’ll meet you at the Air UK desk. If the news agents are open yet, I believe I have time to pick up a copy of The Scotsman before boarding.”

“You do, indeed, sir. I’ll take care of the bags.”

Alighting from the car, Adam shrugged out of his overcoat and slung it across his arm, then headed into the terminal, making for the nearest news kiosk. Five minutes later, as he approached the Air UK check-in, he found Humphrey just turning away from the counter, replacing a handful of travel documents in their paper folder.

“Here we are, sir,” Humphrey murmured, as they moved a few paces away from the desk and Adam set down his briefcase between his feet. “Here are your tickets, your passport, and your boarding card. The bags are checked through to Houston, and you have a bulkhead seat for this flight, with plenty of leg room. Your seat on the Houston flight is pre-assigned.”

“Humphrey, you are indispensable,” Adam replied with a smile, tucking the tickets into an inside pocket. “I’ll check back with you from time to time to see how things are going. I’ve left a full itinerary back at the house, if anyone should need to reach me.”

“Very good, sir. Have a safe trip.”

He handed Adam his briefcase and raised a hand in farewell as his employer headed off toward the gate, watching until he had disappeared through the security checkpoint before turning away to return to the car.  Across the departures hall, a nondescript-looking man in a dark suit gazed after Humphrey from behind a newspaper, then furled it under his arm and strolled casually in the direction of the security checkpoint, glancing at his watch and then at the monitor that announced imminent departures. When the London flight had disappeared from the display and his quarry did not emerge, he turned and headed purposefully toward the Air UK desk, discarding his paper in a convenient refuse barrel and then elbowing past a queue of passengers waiting to check in.  “I’m Dr. Travis,” he announced to the pretty ticket agent tagging a bag on the scale beneath her counter. “I do beg your pardon, madam,” he said, turning briefly to address the passenger he had shoved aside. “Did a Dr. Sinclair get on your London flight that just left?”

A male agent one position down looked over with interest.

“Sir Adam Sinclair? I believe he did, sir. Is there some problem?” Feigning dismay, “Dr. Travis” glanced at his watch, then back at both agents in more urgent appeal.

“Oh, dear, I’d hoped to catch up with him before he got away. It’s rather an emergency. Do you know if London was his final destination? If so, I might be able to track him down there. His nurse only said he was on his way to the airport. Fortunately, there aren’t too many flights this early.” As the two ticket agents exchanged bewildered glances, their inquisitor lifted both palms in entreaty.

“Please, I need to know where to reach him,” he insisted. “It may be a matter of life and death.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Travis. Dr. Edward Travis. I’m a colleague of Dr. Sinclair.” Won over by his urgency and apparent authority, the male agent quickly called up Adam Sinclair’s flight details on his computer terminal. Ten minutes later, “Dr.  Travis” was ringing his employer from a pay phone in another part of the airport terminal.

A little over a hundred miles away, in a secluded Victorian house in Paisley, Francis Raeburn’s Spanish-born valet took the call, then strode to the dining room.

“Senor Richter, you are wanted on the telephone,” he announced, as Klaus Richter was just sitting down to an early breakfast. “It is Mr. Toynbee.” Richter took the call in the seclusion of the adjoining study. Through a burst of background noise, he could hear a voice relaying information over a public address system.

“Richter here. What is it?”

“I’m at the airport in Edinburgh,” came the voice from the other end of the line. “There’s been an interesting development.”

“Yes?”

“The chief subject you’re interested in has just boarded a flight to Heathrow,” his informant reported, above the din of another flight announcement. “From there he flies on to the United States, with a two-day stopover in Houston and then an onward connection to San Francisco. How long he intends to stay there is anybody’s guess, but he checked two bags. That suggests more than an overnight visit. The return ticket is open-ended.”

“Open-ended, you say? That may be worth knowing. Well done,” Richter acknowledged. “Will you be able to confirm that he makes that Houston flight?” “We can hack into the system to confirm that he checks in for it, and that his bags are en route. We can also flag the system to alert us when he books his flight back.”

“Excellent. As soon you are certain he is on the Houston flight, you will transfer your attentions to the other individuals on your list. In the meantime, an appropriate compensation for your services will be deposited in your account, as usual. Thank you very much, Mr. Toynbee.”

Raeburn appeared at the door of the study just as Richter was cradling the phone.

“That was one of my men checking in,” Richter announced with a thin smile.  “Sinclair is leaving the country. And there is evidence to suggest that he may be planning to be gone for some time.”

When Richter had recited the particulars he himself had just received, Raeburn gave a satisfied nod.

“I sense a matter of personal importance,” he observed. “I hope it’s nothing trifling. The longer Sinclair stays away, the better. But in any event, I propose to take full advantage of his absence.”

chapter Two

“SCHOLARS!” Jasper Taliere said with a derisive snort. “What know they? Their reliance on the tools of so-called science has made them deaf and blind to the promptings of their own intuition. They treat the past as if it were naught but a quarry, to be mined without discrimination or respect. Is it any wonder that the greater truths forever elude them?”

The old man’s deep voice carried across the library with theatrical resonance, reminding Raeburn of the actor Richard Burton at the height of his form.  “Not everyone can boast your particular sense of historical perspective, Taoiseach,” Raeburn said mildly, “especially with regard to the ancient mysteries of our native isle.”

Raeburn had used the Gaelic title meaning “Head,” an apt honorific. Accepting it as his due, Taliere turned restlessly from the window bay, where he had been gazing out at a flight of snow geese silhouetted against the wintry sky.  Despite his age, Taliere was a hale figure of a man, broad across the shoulders and gnarled as a mature oak tree, with shaggy, beetling white brows and lush moustaches lending eccentric character to a lean, sharp-nosed face. A receding hairline had endowed him with a natural tonsure approximating those shown in lithographs of ancient Druids, hairless across the top of his head from ear to ear, with the rest of his hair swept back in a silvery mane. Though clad unalarmingly in baggy tweeds and a nondescript pullover, out at the elbows, the overall effect was that of an ageing and unpredictable lion – an aspect that grew more pronounced as he studied his host through yellow-green eyes.  “You need not exert yourself to flatter me, Francis,” he growled. “I have already agreed to do what you desire.”

“On terms of your own dictating,” Raeburn pointed out drily. “Mind you, I’m not complaining,” he continued when the older man showed signs of bridling.  “Knowledge never comes without a price. But don’t pretend that you’re lending me your assistance purely out of the goodness of your heart. You stand to profit as much from this experiment as I do.”

“I doubt that,” Taliere said bluntly. “You have your father’s propensity for seeing that the scales are weighted in your favor. But I did not come here to quibble. Where is this dagger you wish to show me?” “One of my initiates is fetching it from the safe,” Raeburn said. “He should be here momentarily.”

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. At Raeburn’s acknowledgement, Barclay came in with a small wooden casket under one arm. He accorded Taliere an unabashedly curious glance as he crossed to set the casket on the desk before his superior.

“Here you are, Mr. Raeburn. Do you want me to wait, so I can put it back in the safe, or shall I just leave it here?”

“I’ll call you when I’m ready for it to go back,” Raeburn said. “For now, why don’t you and Mr. Richter make certain the wards are secure?” With a nod, Barclay retired from the room. As the door closed behind him, Taliere pulled a scowl and ensconced himself into one of the chairs opposite Raeburn.

“That man of yours is far too inquisitive for one of his degree and station,” he observed disapprovingly. “What prompted you to take an American into your service?”

He pronounced the word “American” as if it were an epithet. Raeburn shrugged.

“He’s an excellent pilot.”

“But you described him as an initiate.”

“The two functions are not mutually exclusive.”

Taliere’s response was a disgruntled snort.

“I dislike Colonials,” he informed Raeburn. “They have too much regard for their own self-worth. That kind of arrogance fosters an unbecomingly cavalier attitude toward authority. I would not recommend you trust this Barclay too far.” “I know just how far he’s to be trusted,” Raeburn said blandly. “He is equally clear on what to expect from me, should he ever consider violating his articles of service. On that understanding, we contrive to get along quite well. Mr.  Barclay may be a rough diamond, but he has incidental facets to his character that are sufficiently brilliant to outweigh many a shortcoming in his deportment. As you will discover, if matters progress as we both would wish.” With these words he indicated the casket in front of him. “Here is the dagger.

Will you or will you not examine it?”

“That is not the question,” Taliere said grimly. “The question is, Are you fit to share any revelations I may encounter?” Raeburn professed shock and reproach.  “How can you doubt it? Am I not my father’s son?” “In many respects,” Taliere allowed. “But not all.” He subjected Raeburn to a penetrating glare. “Do you know what sets Britain apart from her sister-nations on the Continent? It is more – much more – than any intervening body of water.  No, of all the estates of Europe, Britain alone still preserves intact the living spirit of her ancient past, the spirit which has always safeguarded her identity. That spirit was given to her by the old gods in the days before the coming of the White Christ. It has endured patiently over the centuries, sustained by those few of us who still remember the gift and revere the Givers.  But if we should ever fail in our charge, that spirit would wither and die, and the land would be empty again – a body without a soul.” He leaned back in his chair and studied Raeburn down his long nose. “Your father had a proper reverence for the old gods,” he went on. “Had he not, I would never have given him the benefit of my assistance. Before we proceed with this venture, I must know what your position is. What exactly do you want from the old gods, and what are you prepared to give them in return?” “What I want,” Raeburn said simply, “is power. As to what I intend to offer…” He let the sentence hang a moment before going on. “I will be frank with you. As matters stand at the moment, 1 am caught between two enemies. One of them is a foreign sorcerer, a scion of the self-proclaimed master race which tried to overrun this island – and, indeed, the world – fifty years ago. The other is native-born, but a traitor to his birthright – an Adept who has forsaken the ancient paths for the sake of the White Christ.

Each, in his own way, would like to see the old gods driven out of this corner of the world in order to make room for the patron that he serves. In providing me with the means to defend myself, the old gods would be giving me the means to protect their own interests as well.”

“You have yet to mention where your own service lies pledged,” Taliere said.  “All my former alliances were terminated when the Head-Master’s citadel was destroyed by those who claim to champion the New Light,” Raeburn said. “As of now, any principle of power which aids me will find me appropriately grateful.” “I hope, for your sake, that there is no guile in your words,” Taliere muttered.  ‘ The old gods are not to be mocked. If you are lying, they will not countenance your profiting from their indulgence. And I warn you now, they have ways of taking revenge against those who abuse their trust.” “The old gods have already seen my willingness to serve,” Raeburn replied, a trifle sharply. “Two years ago, when the lord Taranis permitted me to wear his tore and bear his lightnings, I showed my gratitude by giving him many holocausts. I would be prepared to do the same again, in return for a similar loan of power. What I require is a focus for communicating the terms of the bargain.”

“If all of this is true,” Taliere said, “then I hope that this dagger is all you claim it to be.”

“By all means, see for yourself,” Raeburn replied, opening a hand toward the casket before him.

Making no secret of his reservations, Taliere rose and approached the casket from his side of the desk. As soon as his fingers touched it, however, his face underwent a marked change of expression. Leaving the casket unopened, he stroked questing fingers over the lid, his touch as perceptive and knowledgeable as that of a blind man reading an inscription in Braille.

“There is, indeed, considerable power represented here,” he said softly, glancing at Raeburn in wonder. “The resonance it generates is sensible even at one remove. Whether the blade itself will consent to speak with me regarding its affinities is another matter. But we shall know soon enough.” Gingerly, he opened the box. The dagger lay visible within, pillowed on layers of silk. Taliere drew breath sharply, then let it out again in a gusty sigh.  “If I am to commune with this object, it must be in the spirit of its own time,” he said, not taking his eyes from the dagger. “I can return there by passing through the sacred grove, but may I rely upon you to stand ready as an anchor-line to the present?”

Raeburn smiled thinly. “Have no fears on that account, Tao-iseach. With so much at stake, I would be foolish to let you lose yourself among the shadows of the past.”

Taliere signified his acceptance with a nod. After further silent contemplation of the dagger, he struck a formal posture of invocation, feet braced apart and gnarled hands upraised above his head. When he opened his mouth to speak, it was in a long-dead tongue that Raeburn only belatedly recognized from rare encounters with its graven form.

At once adamant and oddly liquid, the words spilled from the old man’s lips like angry waters rushing down a cataract, an ancient formula to set the stage. At the conclusion of his utterance, he abruptly dropped his arms and brought his hands together in an intricate sign of warding. Only then did he venture to pluck the dagger from its nest of silk, clasping both hands around its hilt and carrying it to his breast, its point toward the ceiling.  “I am ready to set out,” he announced, as he closed his eyes in an attitude of stiff composure.

“And I am ready to guide and guard you,” Raeburn said.  He rose smoothly and came around to stand next to Taliere, lifting his left hand to rest lightly on the older man’s right shoulder. At once Taliere’s rate of respiration quickened.

After a moment, the old man drew a deep breath, held it a moment, then released it in an explosive gust of expelled air. With his next deep intake of breath, his face went momentarily blank. Then he began to mutter to himself, stringing words together in a singsong, semi-metrical chant.

“I have been the blind striving Of a worm turning in the earth.

I have been the racing of the blood In the heart of the running deer.

I have been the captive silence Of a trout in the singing brook.

I have been the rooted strength Of the oak tree in its prime.” The chant trailed off and he began to sway, but Raeburn’s hand on his shoulder steadied him.

“Tell me where you are now,” Raeburn murmured, after a long pause.

Taliere’s face took on a look of fierce exultancy.

“Home,” he murmured. “Among the trees, before the Burning Time.”

His voice lifted again in bardic song.

“Tall and green were the sacred groves,

when the sky rained fire from heaven.

Then did we take up our sickles of gold,

venturing into the fields by night

to reap a harvest of fallen stars.”

With these words he broke off, his hands tightening around the dagger’s hilt while he cocked his head, as if listening for some approaching sound.  “Yes… Yes…” he murmured.

“The iron speaks with a creaking voice.

It cries aloud in the tumult of the storm.

I hear its clamor in the hollows of the hills.

I hear the echoes in the chasms of the sky.

Raeburn stared more intently at the old man, his eyes pale and bright.

“Tell me what the iron is saying,” he instructed softly.

A look of consternation passed over Taliere’s lined face.  “The speech it employs is not that of the wood,” he breathed. “The sense is there, but not the words….” He struggled a moment longer, as if trying to fix an elusive impression.

“The Thunderer speaks, but only in riddles,” he muttered at last. “One must be found with the skill to interpret. The storm-wind waits to carry him aloft. Let him harness the tempest and make his ascent – “ A sudden seizure gripped Taliere, choking off anything more he might have said.  As the dagger fell from his palsied fingers, a violent shudder sent him caroming against a lyre-backed chair, which overturned despite Raeburn’s attempted intervention. As the old man collapsed twitching to the carpet, a white foam frothing at his mouth, Raeburn was only partially able to break his fall.  “Barclay, get in here!” Raeburn shouted.

Barclay answered the summons on the run, bursting through the library door to find his employer kneeling over the thrashing Taliere, forcing the spine of a paperback book between his teeth.

“Give me a hand here, damn it, before he does himself damage!” Raeburn barked.  Between them they managed to restrain the old Druid until the fit showed signs of subsiding. As the final paroxysms trailed off, Raeburn cautiously eased the tooth-marked paperback from Taliere’s jaws and looked around him. The dagger was lying under the overturned chair. Drawing a deep breath, he retrieved the dagger, set the chair right-side up, and laid the artifact back in its casket.  As he turned back to Barclay and the supine Taliere, he saw that his aide had one hand clasped to the Druid’s scrawny wrist.

‘ ‘His pulse is hammering like a freight train,” Barclay said. “Is he going to be all right?”

“He’ll need someplace dark and quiet to rest for a while,” Raeburn replied, “but I doubt there’s any harm done. The ancients sometimes called this the ‘divine madness.’ In this case, it’s a sign that he probably made a genuine contact.” “Do you think Dr. Mallory should have a look at him?” Barclay asked.  “Aye. When Mallory arrives, send him up to check him over. Meanwhile, get Jorge to help you carry him up to one of the spare bedrooms. He can rest there until he feels sufficiently recovered to rejoin us.”

Taliere was already showing signs of regaining consciousness by the time Jorge arrived. Once the old Druid had been safely installed in his room, Barclay returned to the library to report on his condition. Raeburn was seated behind his desk again, turning the dagger thoughtfully in long fingers.  “He’s looking a bit better, but he still seems disoriented,” Barclay told his employer. “When I left him, he was muttering to himself in some strange language of his own. If he doesn’t manage to pull himself together, there won’t be much point in going through with this afternoon’s meeting. Do you think maybe you’d better put it off until tomorrow?”

Raeburn shook his head. “Don’t underestimate Master Tal-iere’s powers of recovery. I’m quite confident he will be back in full possession of his faculties by the time the rest of the party arrives.”

“Guess you’ve been acquainted with him long enough to know, Mr. Raeburn,” Barclay said with a philosophic shrug. “He sure doesn’t waste much time trying to make himself easy to live with, though. Does he really have the authority he claims to have, or is it all just attitude?”

Raeburn permitted himself a tight smile and replaced the dagger in its casket.  “Taliere is a Druid of the old school,” he told his aide. “He sees himself as one of the last bastions of Britain’s ancient mysteries, charged with the responsibility of keeping those mysteries alive. If he seems a trifle fanatical, that’s because he is. His inner life is rooted in the soil of Anglesey.” “Anglesey?”

“The holy island of Druid Britain,” Raeburn explained. “Only a narrow strait separates it from Wales. It was the nerve center of the Druid religion, in much the same way that the Vatican represents the heart of Catholic Christendom.  Following the Roman occupation, Anglesey became a pocket-of native resistance, and in A.D. 64, Agricola gave orders that the community there should be destroyed.

“Taliere’s past memories stretch back to the days when the Roman legionnaires invaded the island, slaughtered its priestly inhabitants, and put the sacred groves to the torch. It would be safe to say that a part of him has never left that time and place.”

“How does that make him useful to us?” Barclay asked.  “As a vehicle of knowledge,” Raeburn replied. “The Druids, like the followers of Taranis, recognized and venerated the cardinal powers of the elements. Although separated geographically, both cults were active in Britain at roughly the same time. Both shared an affinity for the gifts of prophecy. That the two traditions were closely akin to one another is reflected in such artifacts as the famous Gundestrup cauldron, which pictures a figure of Taranis side by side with that of Cernunnos, the horned god of the wood. If anybody can determine what we need to do to recover our link with Taranis,” he concluded, “Jasper Taliere is the one.”

Shortly before three o’clock, Raeburn assembled his chosen lieutenants for the appointed briefing. Of the three people summoned to the previous meeting, Angela Fitzgerald was absent, having already been given a separate assignment to fulfill. Her place for this occasion had been taken by a well-built young man with smoldering eyes and extravagant pretensions toward fashion, whose dark-haired good looks were somewhat marred by early signs of self-indulgence.  With the addition of Taliere, who now seemed fully recovered after his seizure, those present constituted a company of five.

Directing the others to chairs set around the library table, Raeburn took his place at the table’s head and prefaced his opening remarks with a round of brief introductions for Tali-ere’s benefit.

“You and Mr. Barclay have already met. Now let me present Klaus Richter, my chief advisor on matters of security, and Dr. Derek Mallory, one of our most promising associates.”

Mallory preened slightly at the compliment, already aware of his brief to examine Taliere after the meeting was concluded. Ambitious, and apparently without moral scruples, he had begun his career with the Lodge of the Lynx while still an intern, augmenting his burgeoning medical expertise with impressive psychic ability as his competence in both disciplines progressed. Now a qualified anaesthetist, he had recently secured a residency at the Royal Edinburgh Hospital, which listed Dr. Adam Sinclair among its senior psychiatric consultants. Mallory’s promotion to Raeburn’s inner circle, replacing another physician who had failed in his duties, not only restored that facet of functioning to the Lodge of the Lynx, but Mallory’s particular situation gave him an ideal opportunity to keep an eye on Sinclair’s movements and interests.  Richter was the first person called upon to report. An attentive silence reigned as he delivered an updated account of what his surveillance agents had observed in the course of the two days since Adam Sinclair’s departure from Scotland.  ‘ ‘My operatives in the States have been able to confirm that Sinclair is in Houston, attending a medical symposium. Of the nine telephone calls that have gone out from his hotel room, five have been directed to a number in San Francisco, which is listed to a Dr. X. Lockhart. A computer search of Dr.  Lock-hart’s personal records identifies her as the physician who attended Sinclair two years ago, and with whom he has since formed a romantic liaison.  All the evidence so far accumulated suggests that he intends to remain in the United States for the duration of the Christmas holidays. This leaves us free to concentrate our attentions on his known associates.” From the black leather briefcase he had brought with him Richter produced a selection of black-and-white photos. The first set of pictures to be circulated showed a head-and-shoulders shot of a grizzle-haired man whose craggy features were offset by a bristling military moustache and a pair of metal-rimmed aviator spectacles.

“This man, as most of you will know, is Detective Chief Inspector Noel Gordon McLeod, of the Lothian and Borders Police,” Richter noted coolly. “Though it is never officially acknowledged in police circles, he is the officer always detailed to deal with cases involving any esoteric or occult element. He is particularly adroit at misdirecting the attentions of the press – for which we can be as grateful as our opposite numbers.”

As Taliere slowly nodded, Richter continued.

“Besides being a Master Mason, McLeod is also known to be a member of the Hunting Lodge. There is strong evidence to suggest that he ranks as Sinclair’s second-in-command. So far, all his recent movements have been routine and accountable, but my operatives will be alert for any changes. His near dependents – if I may refer you to the other photos you have before you – include his wife, Jane Ellen, and one daughter, Kate Elizabeth, who is in her fourth year of studies at the University of Aberdeen. We are keeping all three of these subjects under surveillance, and will continue to do so until further notice.”

The next photograph to be circulated was that of a much younger man, also bespectacled, but fair-haired and clean- shaven, with features that might have been chiselled by Delia Robbia.

“This man is Peregrine Andrew Lovat, a portrait artist whose reputation has soared since he was first taken under Sinclair’s patronage about two years ago.  The full spectrum of his talents has yet to be determined, but it would seem that his artistic abilities are augmented by some form of extrasensory perception that allows him to see and record resonances of the past. He has been significantly involved in a number of police investigations in which Sinclair and McLeod have likewise been factors. There can be little doubt that he is a Huntsman, and since the visionary nature of his talents makes him a particular danger to us, we shall be watching him very closely, indeed.  “His wife’s involvement is, at present, unknown,” Richter went on, tossing out a fifth set of photos. “They were only married last spring, but Sinclair seems to have introduced them, or at least encouraged the match. Her name is Julia.” “Very nice,” Mallory murmured, allowing himself a broad grin as he scanned up and down a publicity photo of Julia posed beside one of her harps. “Any time your people get tired of watching her, I’d be delighted to lend a hand.” “Sadly for you. Doctor, your talents are likely to be required elsewhere,” Raeburn said, on a crisp note that wiped the smile from the younger man’s face.  “Mr. Richter, I think we’ve spent enough time acquainting Master Taliere with the principal opposition players. With Sinclair temporarily out of the picture, I don’t think we need worry overmuch about the others.  “The reason I’ve called you all here,” he went on, “is to hear from Taliere himself regarding our coming operations. Earlier today, he took time to examine the dagger I obtained from the Head-Master. After reflection, he has some recommendations to make regarding its future empowerment. Tao-iseach!  The old Druid set his fingertips together in a narrow triangle, regarding them with eyes the color of peridots.

“Each of the Lords Elemental has his own realm and his own tongue,” he began, with ponderous dignity. “As a servant of the Wood, I have little grasp of the language of fire. Nevertheless, at the behest of your chief, I sought audience with the lord Taranis and was granted it after a fashion. No words passed between us, but I have been given to understand that the Great One is willing to look with favor on the prospect of renewing your former alliance.” This announcement drew murmurs of approval from his listeners.

“What must we do to secure this alliance?” Richter asked.  “Lord Taranis will dictate his terms directly to those desiring to take part in the bargain,” Taliere declared. “In so doing, he will set his seal upon them, so that thereafter they may understand and obey his commands. To receive his instructions, the ancient methods of divination must be employed, as prescribed by the Druids in ancient times. The eve of the Winter Solstice shall be the appointed time, some four days hence. Listen closely, for this is what must be done.”

chapter three

“I’M taking you back to my apartment first,” Ximena murmured, as she and Adam embraced at the USAir gate in San Francisco after his late-morning arrival. “I want some time for us before I share you with my family.” She did not mention her father as they walked arm-in-arm to the baggage-claim area, chattering a little too single-mindedly about heavy traffic on the way in and the expected ordeal of trying to retrieve Adam’s luggage amid the pre-Christmas crowds. It was only as they made their way out to the airport car park that she even skirted the unspoken question that lay between them.  “Oh, Adam, if I’ve learned nothing else during these past months, it’s how much I miss your company,” she blurted, as they wheeled his luggage trolley out of one of the car-park elevators. “I’m so glad you’re here.” The glance she directed his way spoke volumes, as did the taut caress of her hand against his, just before she gestured down the next aisle in the car park.  Feeling the tension, and all too aware of his own long-banked yearnings, Adam only smiled and said, “So am I.”

Her manner turned brisk again as she directed him toward a black Honda Prelude neatly inserted in a space between two larger vehicles.  “Well, this is my current bus,” she said, as she opened the trunk to accommodate his bags. “It isn’t a Morgan, but it’s never let me down.” One of the things Ximena had left behind her in Scotland was a yellow Morgan sports car, presently collecting spider webs under a dust-sheet in one of Adam’s stableyard garages.

Watching her buckle up, he was obscurely glad she hadn’t had the heart to get rid of it. As they pulled out of the car park and headed northward on the freeway from the airport, it was clear that she had lost nothing of her flair for driving.

“Thanks for not asking questions that I’m not ready to answer,” she said over her shoulder, as she overtook a pickup truck pulling a sailboat on a trailer.  “I’ll make sure you don’t regret this. Just promise me something.”

“What’s that?”

“Promise me that for the next few hours you won’t speak of anything that doesn’t apply directly to us. There’s time enough for – the other.” He could not see her eyes behind the sunglasses she had donned before taking to the road, but her grip on the steering wheel was stronger than it needed to be.  “I promise,” he agreed, and simply reached across to touch a hand to her knee before subsiding into companionable silence for the duration of the drive to her apartment.

By common consent, neither of them allowed any shadow of the future to intrude upon their lovemaking. Initially wary of giving full rein to his passions, Adam had been moved beyond words to find himself courted with a fervor equal to his own. Sheer physical delight, long denied by their separation, washed over him in a dazzling torrent. Temporarily bereft of all intellectual reservation, he surrendered blindly to their shared ardor, finding in that union a rare moment of release.

The intensity of that pleasure left behind a lingering glow of profound well-being, but precious as that sensation was, Adam would willingly have exchanged it for the burden of care he knew Ximena must shortly resume. Time was moving on, and there was nothing he could do about it. But if he could not keep her from the grief that lay ahead, perhaps he could still offer her a prospect of happiness beyond.

Possibly to hold her own thoughts at bay, Ximena had set some music playing in the next room before she went off to shower. Adam let the music wash over him without particular awareness, fresh from his own shower and a change of clothes as he settled on the couch in her little sitting room and put his feet up, curling his palms contentedly around a steaming mug of Earl Grey tea.  Her apartment occupied the top floor of a newly renovated town house near San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. The view of the neighborhood, seen from the living room windows, embraced a vivacious fin-de-siecle collection of gables, cupolas, and widow’s walks decorated in gingerbread woodwork. On a clear day it was possible – so Adam had been told – to catch a fugitive glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge beyond the dark green feathering of trees that marked the intervening presence of the Presidio. Today, however, both the park and the bridge were shrouded under a silvery haze of the dense fog for which the city was famous.

Relaxed and beginning to feel gently jet-lagged, Adam withdrew his gaze from the neighboring skyline to contemplate the more intimate features of the apartment’s interior, sipping distractedly at his tea.

Ximena’s rented flat in Edinburgh had been comfortably suited to her needs, especially for a busy ER physician who frankly spent little time there, but it had come already furnished, leaving her little or nothing to say regarding the decor. This place, by contrast, had started off empty, giving her ample scope for indulging a more personalized expression of taste. Adam expected that much of the furniture had been handed down from her parents or bought second-hand during her student days, but most of the appointments seemed to bear what he was beginning to recognize as Ximena’s distinctive style. Left to his own devices while she showered, Adam found it instructive as well as pleasant to contemplate the effects of her self-expression.

The room was sparely appointed, in keeping with the clean, sunlit expanse of wide windows and stripped woodwork. The variegated tones of wood, tile, and stonework contrasted elegantly with the thick, cream-colored plushness of the fitted carpet. The sofa upon which Adam was sitting was a luxuriously comfortable design piece executed in brick-red Cordovan leather.  That terra-cotta hue was reflected several times over in the selection of prints by Diego Rivera and Joaquin Torres-Garcia that were scattered across the walls.  Among the original objets d’art in the room were a stained-glass depiction of a smiling Madonna done in rich blues and golds, an art naif oil painting of three jaguars, and a lively bronze casting of two dogs dancing that recalled examples of Calima statuary Adam had once seen in an exhibition of pre-Columbian art. He was touched to see a blue glass votive candle he had given her, set beneath the portrait of the Madonna.

The overall effect was one of discriminating eclecticism. That effect was all the more commendable since Alan Lock-hart’s progressively worsening condition had left his daughter with little opportunity for shopping – or indeed anything else – in the months since her return.

Despite Ximena’s earlier protestations that she would not allow her concerns to intrude on their time together, she had finally updated Adam on her father’s condition before sending him off for his shower, huddled miserably in the circle of his arm while she recited the essentials in detached clinical phrasing that left little doubt of her growing sense of helplessness.  Though Lockhart’s attending physicians initially had been able to arrange his medication to permit relative comfort and alertness during the daylight hours, steadily mounting levels of pain had eaten into that schedule until now he was left with only two narrow windows of lucidity each day: a few hours early in the morning and a similar period late in the afternoon. By structuring their own activities to take advantage of his periods of alertness, Lockhart’s wife and family had managed to achieve a fragile semblance of routine. But there was no hiding the fact that Ximena’s father was rapidly approaching the point where conventional medicine could offer him nothing more than a choice between agony and oblivion.

Adam had in mind a third alternative – though whether Ximena’s father would be receptive to the idea could only be determined at first hand. Formal introductions were to take place later that afternoon, when Lockhart would be awake and all the other members of Ximena’s family would be present.  In the meantime, there had been this precious interlude. Adam finished his tea and set aside his mug with a sigh, cocking an ear toward the bedroom as awareness of a different piece of music drew his attention back to more pleasurable contemplations.

Passionate and precise, the rippling string-notes of a vihuela provided intricate accompaniment to a woman’s clear contralto. From the formal structures of counterpoint, Adam was willing to guess an origin in Renaissance Spain. After a while, Ximena’s own voice floated in from the direction of the bathroom, matching that of the recording artist, note for note:

“Yo me soy la morenica…

Soy la sin espina rosa

Que Salomon canta y glosa…

Yo soy la mata inflamada Ardiendo sin ser quemada….” I am the dark girl… I am the rose without thorns, that Solomon sings of. I am the bush in flames, burning without being burnt….

Ximena’s accent was virtually flawless. But then, Adam reminded himself, her mother was a native-born Spaniard. Teresa Constanza Morales and Alan David Lockhart had met thirty-six years ago in Granada, where Lockhart, then a student of architecture, had come to study the designs which glorified the memory of the Nasrid empire. They had married the following year, thereby setting in motion the stars of fates other than their own.

Still humming along with the music, Ximena appeared at the door to the bedroom hallway, wearing a casual suit of forest green. Pausing in the doorway, she cocked her head first one way and then the other as she fitted on a pair of gold-and-jade earrings in the form of Aztec totem frogs. Adam watched her with a smile playing over his lips.

“Morenica,” he said aloud.

Ximena looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are the dark girl, morenica cuerpo garrida.”

Ximena wrinkled her forehead at him. “ The dark girl with the handsome body’?  Don’t let my parents hear you call me that before they get a chance to know you better.”

Adam chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he assured her. “What time are we meant to be there?”

Coming forward, Ximena leaned down and kissed him on the mouth. “In about as long as it takes to drive from here to there,” she said with a smile. “Are you ready?”

“I will be, as soon as I’ve put on a tie,” Adam said, stretching to retrieve the one he had draped across the back of the couch. “Your parents are expecting a Scottish laird. I’d better look the part.”

Laughing, she took the tie from him and looped it around his neck, pulling him closer for another kiss.

“I’m content with el sefior de corazon, the lord of my heart,” she told him happily, pulling him to his feet.

It was another five minutes before they reluctantly left the apartment.  UCSF-Mount Zion Medical Center lay to the north of Golden Gate Park, between Post and Sutler Streets. With the onset of visiting hours, the hospital car park was crowded, but Ximena swung in through the emergency room entrance and tucked the Honda into one of the spaces reserved for members of the staff.  “Lucky for us you have some rank to pull here,” Adam remarked lightly as Ximena turned off the engine and set the handbrake.

“Lucky, indeed!” Ximena agreed with a rueful grimace. “My old supervisor must have pulled a dozen strings to get me reinstated. I’m going to owe a lot of favors when this is over and done with.”

They entered the hospital through the door adjoining the ambulance bay. Inside, Ximena paused to trade greetings with admiring members of the nursing staff and several of her colleagues, though she kept moving the two of them in the direction of the elevators. Adam could sense her pleasure in her co-workers’ reaction as she introduced him – he was long accustomed to turning female heads, and not a few male ones – but her manner was brisk as they made their way together into the heart of the hospital complex.

It was only when they came within sight of the doors leading into the concentrated care unit that her composure showed signs of wavering. The indications were subtle, but Adam was instantly aware of them.  “Are you all right?” he asked.

Ximena squared her shoulders, not looking at him. “I will be,” she murmured.

“Let’s go in.”

Adam stepped in front of her long enough to open one of the double doors. Once past the threshold, they carried on along a carpeted corridor, Ximena nodding to several nurses as she passed. At the nurses’ station halfway down the corridor, a slim, erect woman in a bright red jacket and black skirt was conversing with one of the nurses.

The woman was similar in height and build to Ximena, with smooth dark hair, densely threaded with silver, caught up in a chignon at the back of her neck.  When she turned her head, her profile had the attenuated elegance of a study by El Greco. Mentally matching up images, Adam knew that the woman could only be Ximena’s mother.

His conviction was confirmed a moment later when the sound of their footsteps caused the woman to look around. Her thin, sensitively molded face lit up at the sight of Ximena.

“Oh, there you are, mi corazon!” she exclaimed. “I was hoping I might catch you as you came in. Your father is having a chat with Mrs. Jenny. It seemed a good time for me to slip out and stretch my legs – and to exercise my maternal curiosity.”

Before Ximena could speak, her mother’s liquid dark eyes transferred their gaze to Adam, and the smile grew warmer still.

“There can be no doubt that you are the dashing Scottish gentleman of whom our daughter has spoken at such length. It is a great pleasure at last to be meeting you, Dr. Sinclair.”

Her voice was deeper than Ximena’s, her English overlaid with the stately accents of her Andalusian homeland. Taking the slender hand she held out to him, Adam raised it to his lips in courtly salute.

“The pleasure is mine, Senora. And no one regrets the delay more than I do.” “Ah, I perceive that you have the manners of a grandee, Dr. Sinclair. But I hope that will not prevent you from addressing me as Teresa,” she said with a bit of a twinkle in her eye.

“Only if you agree to call me Adam,” he replied, releasing her hand.  “That I will do,” she agreed, shitting to draw Ximena into a fond hug, though her twinkle quickly faded as they drew apart. “But we must not keep your father waiting. He has waited a very long time for this moment.” Alan Lockhart had been installed in a private room not far from the nurses’ station. His visitors arrived to find the door standing partly open. A petite, dark-haired young woman in a neat grey suit and clerical collar was standing just inside the doorway, jotting down entries in the notebook she carried in the crook of one arm.

“I’m glad you remembered that one,” Adam heard her say. “It’s always been one of my favorites. Did you have anyone in mind for a soloist, or will you trust me to find someone? I’ve got more than a few contacts over at the university music school – some lovely voices.”

An indistinct murmur came from within the room. Adam could make out nothing of the words, but the woman paused to write down something more in her notebook.  “I’ll see what I can do,” she promised. “I’ll make some phone calls and get back to you in the next few days. In the meantime, I’d better say goodbye. I’m due over at the Student Mission Center at four, and I’ve got a couple of other people to see before I leave.”

Turning, she pulled up short as she became aware of Teresa Lockhart and her companions.

“You mustn’t go just yet, Jenny,” Teresa said with a smile, motioning her to come into the corridor. “Here is Ximena, and a gentleman from Scotland whom we both would very much like you to meet. His name is Dr. Adam Sinclair, and I am told he ranks as an expert consultant in the field of psychiatric medicine. Dr.  Sinclair, allow me to present the Reverend Jenny Carstairs, one of our hospital chaplains.”

“For my sins!” Jenny Carstairs directed an ironic glance toward the ceiling, then extended a firm hand and a pixie-like smile. “Nice to meet you, Dr.  Sinclair. I understand you just flew in this morning.” “I did,” Adam replied. “I was addressing a medical symposium in Houston, and I was delighted to escape.”

“Well, I’m sure everyone is delighted that you did,” she said. “I’ve heard very nice things about you.”

“Probably greatly exaggerated,” Adam protested, with an amused glance at both Ximena and her mother.

“Jenny has been a great comfort to all of us,” Teresa said, her smile still in place but shading into sadness. “Sometimes I don’t know what we would have done without her, especially these past few months.”

“Now, Teresa, that’s giving me far more credit than I deserve,” the chaplain answered robustly. “You and the rest of your family have been the real workhorses.”

“Speaking of which, where’s Austen?” Ximena asked. “I thought he and Laurel were going to hold the fort until I got here.”

Jenny Carstairs gave her hand a pat. “Your father had a few things he wanted to discuss with me in private, so your brother volunteered to make a run down to the cafe in search of coffee. Laurel and Emma have gone down to Mrs. Chang’s room so that Emma can show off her costume for the Christmas play.” “My granddaughter is a gregarious soul,” Teresa explained wryly. “She has made friends with several of the other patients here. Mrs. Chang is a particular favorite. She can make animals out of folded paper. As far as Emma is concerned, origami might as well be magic.”

“Maybe it is,” Adam said with a smile, thinking of Mc-Leod. “I have a friend with a similar interest. I’m not sure there isn’t some magic in the way he gets his results.”

“Well, I told Laurel I’d let her know as soon as we were finished here,” the chaplain said. “Dr. Sinclair, I’m happy to have met you, but I’d better be on my way. Goodbye for now, and I hope I’ll be seeing you again. Teresa, Ximena – I’ll check back with you in the morning.”

With a farewell wave, she headed off down the hall. As her footsteps receded, Ximena drew herself up and summoned an air of determined calm.  “Time to make our entrance,” she observed aside to Adam. And pushed the door open wide.

Tall enough to see over her head, Adam found his gaze drawn immediately to the bed that dominated the room. The gaunt figure under the sheets was lying very still, eyes shut, jaw set in an attitude of grim endurance. An image came to Adam’s mind of a cadaverous tomb effigy left behind as a memento mori by a medieval bishop of Aries. It seemed hard to credit that the ravaged frame of Alan Lockhart could still harbor a living spirit.

“Hello, Daddy, I’m back,” Ximena said as she headed toward him. “I’ve brought someone to meet you.”

Lockhart roused himself with visible effort, his face a sunken mask from which all color had long ago fled. Only his eyes were still alive, burning with a preternatural intensity fuelled by the spirit within.

“Bene fa, nina.” He greeted her with the merest flicker of a smile. “How is your Flying Scotsman?”

His voice was roughened by suffering. Advancing to the bedside, Ximena reached down and lifted her father’s wasted hand to her lips.  “Why don’t I let him tell you himself? Adam, come and be introduced. This is my father, Alan Lockhart.”

Joining her beside the bed, Adam found himself subjected to searching scrutiny.  Returning that regard, he received a vivid impression of the man Alan Lockhart had been in his prime – tall, vital, and vigorous, as stalwart and individualistic as the buildings he had designed during his working lifetime. To see so much that had once been fine and strong now reduced so spitefully to ruin gave Adam a pang of grief he had experienced all too often in his career as a physician. It was like seeing a noble cathedral wantonly levelled by the ravages of war.

A war of insurrection. To be a victim of cancer run rampant was to have one’s own body rebel against itself in pitiless self-destruction. Adam still intended to read Alan Lockhart’s case notes when he got a chance, but those notes, he knew, could go only so far in detailing the course of devastation. The human effect was much, much worse.

Their mutual scrutiny lasted but a few heartbeats. Blinking, Lockhart extended a hand that was nothing but bones and tightly stretched skin. Adam took it with careful firmness, wincing inwardly at the insubstantial fragility of the long fingers.

“Forgive me if I don’t get up,” said the man in the bed, in a labored display of humor. “I’m very much the prisoner of my condition these days. Jenny Carstairs has been helping me plan my escape. But I’ve one or two pieces of unfinished business yet to attend to, before I can make good on those arrangements.” His words were painfully measured, but the force of the soul behind them reached out to Adam in an almost palpable appeal. Nor did the man seem inclined to release Adam’s hand.

“Sometimes it’s good to let someone else take on some of the burdens of responsibility,” Adam said. “Under the circumstances, perhaps you ought to consider appointing a deputy.”

“Maybe so,” Lockhart conceded, his eyes never leaving Adam’s. “The difficulty lies in finding the right man for the job.”

His transparent lids drooped, and for a moment he seemed to fold in upon himself. Adam waited steadfastly, Lockhart’s hand still in his, until the other man drew a sighing breath and re-opened his eyes.

“You’ve come a long way to visit my daughter. I’d like to know more about you – in your words, not hers. Pull up a chair and tell me about your house.” Though the request seemed a trifle odd on the surface, Adam sensed that it was not the non sequitur it appeared to be.

“What would you like to know?” he asked, releasing Lock-hart’s hand and moving a chair closer to the head of the bed to sit.

Lockhart’s chest rose and fell. “Anything and everything,” he said with a faint smile.

“Don’t be silly, Daddy,” Ximena murmured, interposing uneasily. “The rules to your game won’t apply here. Strath-mourne has been the Sinclairs’ family residence for several generations. Knowing about the house won’t tell you very much about Adam himself.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Lockhart told her, with a flash of his former strength. Directing his gaze toward Adam, he said, “Humor me.” As Adam scooted his chair closer, prepared to oblige, he felt Ximena’s hand on his shoulder.

“As an architect. Daddy has always maintained that you can tell a great deal about a person’s character from the kind of house he lives in,” she warned.  “I see nothing amiss in that,” Adam said, with a reassuring smile. “On the contrary, I expect an architect would find Strathmourne of great interest.” While Lockhart lay back and listened, and Ximena and her mother drew up chairs on the other side of the bed, Adam began describing the house, from its Palladian fa9ade and gothic windows to the allocation of space in the kitchen wing. More and more, however, he found himself digressing to talk about Templemor, the seventeenth-century tower house elsewhere on the Strathmourne estate. Once a ruin, Templemor had been undergoing extensive renovation during the past two years. Most of the structural repairs were now complete, and Adam was starting to consider plans for the interior refurbish-ments which would eventually make the old tower habitable again.

Almost without being aware of it, he found himself pouring out his enthusiasm for the project with a fullness he had rarely shared with anyone outside the ranks of the Hunting Lodge. Lost in contemplating the image in his mind’s eye, he only belatedly became aware that Alan Lockhart was smiling up at him with genuine warmth. He stopped himself with a self-deprecating grin.  “You’ll have to pardon my misplaced fervor. Restoring Templemor has been an ambition of mine since childhood.”

Lockhart’s smile remained in place, his voice firm when he spoke, even if weak.  “Sounds as if you’re not only a traditionalist, but a romantic as well,” he said softly.

Adam gave the architect a quizzical look. “Is that good or bad?”

“Either way,” said Lockhart, “it makes you a man after my own heart.” A sudden commotion from the direction of the hall put an end to any further discussion. An instant later, a small figure came bursting into the room in a diaphanous flutter of white robes, papier-mache wings, and a tinsel halo atop titian curls. This cherubic apparition was closely pursued by a taller figure in royal blue, who scooped up her quarry with maternal single-mindedness.  “Easy, Emma!” she admonished. “This is a hospital, not a circus tent.”

Laurel Lockhart had fiery-red hair and the springy fitness of a natural athlete.  Her freckled cheeks were flushed with the chase, and she grinned good-naturedly over her daughter’s somewhat tousled head as she noticed Adam.  “Excuse me if I seem to have my hands too full to offer any other form of greeting, but I’m Laurel Lockhart,” she said. “You must be Adam. There couldn’t possibly be a second man fitting the descriptions we’ve had from Ximena.” A diversion from Emma spared Adam the necessity of framing a response. Wriggling loose, she darted over to the bed to stretch on tiptoe, flourishing a slightly crumpled construction in silver paper.

“Look, Grandpa!” she urged. “See what Mrs. Chang made me!”

Lockhart retained strength enough to feign ignorance. “Is it a goose?” “No, silly, it’s an angel!” Emma crowed triumphantly. “Mrs. Chang says it’s supposed to be me.”

“That was very complimentary of her,” said a joking male voice from the doorway.

“It’s a good thing Mrs. Chang doesn’t know you like we do, eh, pumpkin?” Emma whirled away from the bedside. “Daddy!” she exclaimed happily, and hurled herself at the newcomer with puppy-like abandon. Clearly Ximena’s brother, he bore a close resemblance to what their father must have looked like in his youth.

“I’m Austen,” the man said, staggering under the impact of his daughter’s embrace around his knees. “You must be Adam. It’s a pity we couldn’t have met sooner. Now that you’re here, I hope you’ll be staying long enough for us to get better acquainted.”

“I hope so, too,” Adam said, turning a physician’s eye on the elder Lockhart.  “In the meantime, though, perhaps we’d all better adjourn to the lobby. Your father looks as if he’s needing a rest.”

Even as he spoke, a nurse appeared at the door.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she apologized, “but it’s time for Mr. Lockhart’s medication.”

“That’s all right. We were just getting ready to leave,” Austen said. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Dad. And we’ll take pictures of the angel for you – if monsters disguised as angels register on film!”

So saying, he scooped up his daughter, being careful not to crush her wings, and carried her giggling into the corridor, followed by Laurel, Ximena, and Adam, leaving Teresa to sit with her husband as he drifted off into drug-induced oblivion. Adam watched briefly from the doorway before turning to join Ximena and her brother, while Laurel attempted to straighten little Emma’s halo.  “This play of Emma’s starts in just over an hour,” Austen was saying to Ximena, “and we still have to grab a bite to eat. I don’t suppose you and Adam would care to join us at McDonald’s?”

“That sounds fine to me,” Adam said, before Ximena could decline. “I’m game, if you are,” he told her.

“Play and all?”

“Play and all,” Adam agreed. He cocked an eyebrow at Ximena and added, “You can regard it as a test of my devotion.”

“More like a trial of courage,” Ximena murmured, “but you did volunteer.” “Obviously he doesn’t know the difference between courage and foolhardiness,” Austen said with a laugh. “But never mind, Adam: The experience may one day stand you in good stead.”

chapter four

EASTWARD across a continent and an ocean, on the northernmost island of the Outer Hebrides, less angelic forces were gathering to enact far darker drama than a play to celebrate the birth of a God of Light. Francis Raeburn had set the night’s agenda, and took particular satisfaction in the knowledge that one of the more troublesome champions of that Light, Adam Sinclair, was at least temporarily occupied many thousand miles away.

The ancient site selected by Raeburn’s associate, Taliere, was well suited to the night’s work. Sprawled across a wind-scoured flatland beside a sea loch thrusting deep into the western coast of the Isle of Lewis, the standing stones of Callanish loomed stark and ever mysterious under a frosty, moonless sky, in grandeur second only to Stonehenge in all the British Isles.  The heart of Callanish centered on a ring of thirteen rough-hewn stones, almost all of which were taller than a man. At the foot of a slender, even taller stone in the center of the circle, the remains of a small chambered tomb-cairn lay half-hidden under a frost-scorched mound of peaty grass and a light powdering of snow.

A broadening avenue of lesser stones stretched northward from the circle for nearly a hundred yards, with shorter single lines of stones radiating east, west, and south. The overall pattern greatly resembled a slightly skewed Celtic cross, though its unknown builders had laid it out nearly three thousand years before the coming of the Child whose birth was about to be celebrated in Christian lands, and whose adherents had appropriated cruciform shapes to symbolize a new faith.

The stones themselves were known by more than one name amongst the Gaelic-speaking people of the island. Some called the stones an Fir-Bhreige Chalanois – “The Deceitful Men” – recalling obscure legends of a band of forsworn outlaws changed into stone by an enchanter. Indeed, in Victorian times, clearance of encroaching peat from a height of four to five feet around the bases of the stones had left a bleached effect on the lower halves that inspired one illustrator to depict the color difference as the clothing of the “deceitful men,” with a skeleton emerging from the newly uncovered tomb-cairn and winged spirit-forms cavorting in the air above the stones.

That Callanish had long possessed associations with the supernatural was undoubted. Another name for the site was Tur-sachen, betokening a place of pilgrimage and mourning where, in bygone days, it had been customary for courting couples to come and make their marriage vows. Some few would recall how this local tradition was rooted in a far more distant past, when other seekers had come to Callanish to bind themselves with darker oaths in the brooding presence of powers ancient even when the stones themselves were new.  The folk who lived within sight of the Callanish Ring had long ago come to terms with its presence. By day, especially in sumfner, when the tourists had retreated to accommodations in the island’s main town of Stornoway, some fifteen miles to the east and north, it was not uncommon to find local children playing among the stones. By night, however, all and sundry tended to keep well clear, content to leave the ancient ring to guard its own secrets. This was especially true in the dead of winter, when the northern darkness closed in early and the bone-numbing chill of the near-Arctic dusk drove people indoors by mid-afternoon, there to huddle gratefully around the warmth of their own hearths as the cold winds blew, with no desire to venture out again.  On the twenty-first of December, the ice-blue clarity of the lowering twilight promised a night of bitter cold. By five o’clock, the temperature had plummeted past the freezing point. By suppertime, the open ground between the houses was aglitter with traces of gathering frost. Shortly after ten, the last of the village lights winked out.

Not long thereafter, a small black Mini Cooper bearing four men ghosted quietly through Callanish Village from the north, dousing its lights as it entered the unpaved car park far at the south end of the village. Beyond the wire fence at the edge of the car park, the distant stones of Callanish glistened under crystalline starlight bright enough to cast shadows.

At that same moment, a compact recreational vehicle was backing into a construction site behind the rocky outcropping known as Cnoc an Tursa, several hundred yards to the other side of the stones, where work had been suspended for the winter on what was scheduled to become a National Trust visitor center for the site. The RV’s weathered paint and air of gentle decrepitude suggested nothing of any dark intent on the part of its occupants as its driver doused the headlights and killed the engine.

In the car park, silent under the winter stars, the passenger door of the Mini Cooper opened to disgorge two male figures kitted out in snow-camouflage coveralls, ski masks, and infrared night-goggles. Though their brief was to prevent any untoward interruption of what their employer had planned, hopefully by ensuring that no one became aware of anything amiss, both carried long-barrelled pistols loaded with anaesthetic darts – and both were prepared to use the silenced Lu-gers they wore bolstered as backup, if lesser force failed.  As the second man quietly pressed the car door closed and the Mini Cooper moved off silently along a single-track road, quickly disappearing from sight, his partner was already melting into the shadows near the end of the thatched cottage fronting the car park. With a glance in that direction to mark the location, the second man vaulted a closed gate in the fence and positioned himself behind one of the larger stones marking the northern avenue. When he had settled, he whispered briefly into the slender curve of a miniature microphone close beside his mouth.

Back at the construction site, inside the darkened RV, Klaus Richter pressed a headset to his ear, nodding as he whispered a brief reply, then turned to his employer, who was sitting in the front passenger seat beside Barclay. Like the men he had just spoken to, all of them wore snow-camouflage.  “Erich and Gunther are in position at the upper car park,” he said quietly. ‘ The Mini is taking up position at the bottom of the road to meet the horse-box when it arrives. Otto will drive it in.”

“Excellent,” Raeburn replied. “Then we’ll begin securing the site. Barclay, why don’t you give him a hand?”

As Barclay headed aft between the two front seats and Rich-ter opened the RV’s side door, Derek Mallory swivelled his chair and moved his medical bag aside to let Richter pull out two zippered duffel bags, one of which he handed to Barclay before the two of them disappeared up a path leading around the dark outcropping that was Cnoc an Tursa.

Behind Mallory, the white-robed Taliere was seated on the long couch that stretched across the back of the RV, head bowed in the shelter of the robe’s hood. He did not stir as Raeburn donned a headset and then came aft to pull on a similar white robe over his heavy winter clothing. When Raeburn had returned to his seat, silently gazing out at the road where the horse-box was expected, Mallory also drew on a white robe, settling less patiently into the growing chill to wait.

After perhaps five minutes of this, when Taliere stirred enough to smother a slight cough, Mallory glanced at his watch, then back at the old Druid.  “It’s getting late,” he murmured. “If those rustic colleagues of yours have gotten lost…” Taliere’s expression could not be read in the darkness, but his voice was sharp with disdain.

“They know the island,” he muttered. “They will be here.” Before Mallory could frame a reply, Raeburn held up a hand and hissed for silence, listening intently to his headset.

“The horse-box is on its way up,” he whispered, laying the headset aside. “We’d best be ready to greet our honored guest.”

He and Taliere were waiting in front of the RV as a battered white Land Rover towing a horse-box slowed and stopped a few yards past the entrance to the construction area, followed by the Mini. After a slight pause, the Rover reversed the dark bulk of the horse-box neatly into the space to the left of the RV, with the noses of the two vehicles lined up. One of Rich-ter’s men was at the wheel, and alighted from the driver’s side as soon as he had killed the engine and set the brake.

As the Mini tucked in neatly ahead of him, also disgorging its driver, the Rover’s two other occupants disembarked rather more tentatively, though they let themselves be guided to the rear of the horse-box by the Mini’s driver. They were brawny specimens, already attired in the capacious white woollen robes deemed proper for the night’s work, and looked palpably relieved when Taliere appeared from between the two vehicles. Inside, the hotse-hox, something large and heavy shifted restlessly in the confinement of the narrow space, churning straw underfoot.

“Let us waste no time,” Taliere whispered, touching each man’s arm in reassurance. “You know what to do.”

He stood aside to watch as they folded down the tailgate of the horse-box, bidding one of Richter’s henchmen assist in spreading a quilted rug on the ramp to muffle the sound of hooves. The animal attached to the hooves was a fine black Angus bull, its eyes rolling white in the surrounding darkness as its handlers entered the compartment and backed it down the ramp, clinging to its halter and a ring through its nose.

While they gentled the bull, its snorting breath pluming in the cold, Taliere fetched a crown woven of holly and mistletoe from the RV. This he fastened around the bull’s horns, attaching it with two twists of wire and then blowing softly into the bull’s nostrils as he crooned a low-voiced charm. The animal immediately became docile.

“You know the path to the stones,” Taliere said to his men, ignoring Raeburn’s expression of bemusement. “Await our coming, outside the circle.” As Taliere withdrew to the RV to finish robing, Raeburn signalled Mallory to accompany the men with the bull, himself returning to the RV to fetch the casket containing the Pictish dagger. This he tucked possessively under one arm while he turned to watch Taliere complete his preparations by the light of a single candle.

“That was a rather impressive trick with the bull,” he said mildly, as Taliere fastened on a silver necklet incised with ogham figures. The old Druid had already bound a cincture of braided horsehair around his waist, from which hung a tooled-leather bottle and a small sickle of burnished bronze, its blade edge honed to no less a sharpness than the gaze he turned to Raeburn’s darkling reflection in the mirror.

“It was no trick,” he said in a low voice. “And you had better have no trick in mind when we enter the sacred circle. I hope you realize what you are doing.” Raeburn lifted an innocent eyebrow. “Doing? Why, my objective is entirely straightforward, dear Taliere: I wish to renew my alliance with the lord Taranis.”

“I do not question your aim,” Taliere replied, sullenly shouldering a cope-like mantle woven with many-colored feathers. “1 do have grave reservations about your methods.”

“So you have told me, repeatedly,” Raeburn coolly acknowledged. “Nevertheless, we shall proceed according to my instructions.”

Snuffling disapproval, the old Druid donned a feathered headdress in the form of a speckled bird with volant wings, scowling at his reflection as he adjusted it to his liking.

“If you persist in departing from the old ways, you are inviting trouble,” he warned. “The rituals I have specified were instituted long ago, when men hearkened more closely to the dictates of nature. To permit – even encourage – interference from modern science is to commit a breach of faith. And by doing so, you risk compromising the results.”

“It is a risk I am prepared to take,” Raeburn said softly.  “Would that the risk were yours alone!” Taliere retorted, turning to take up a stout staff of peeled ash wood, its height trimmed to match his own. “The diligence with which a suppliant is prepared to execute his charge reflects the purity of his intentions. As your mediator in this transaction, I am less than eager to see myself implicated in what might well be perceived as a violation of respect.”

“You take too much upon yourself,” Raeburn said. “In the final analysis, it will be for the lord Taranis to decide whether or not the bargain I offer him is acceptable – and it is I who offer it, not you! Come. We have important work to do.”

With these words he blew out the candle and stepped outside, the dagger casket still cradled under one arm. Taliere alighted after him, his back stiff with disapproval, but made no further argument, though he moved as if his limbs were weighted with lead as the two of them trudged along the trail that led to the stones of Callanish.

They saw the stones as they crested Cnoc an Tursa, stretched before them in the windswept moonlight like an inverted cross, with the sleeping village of Callanish silent in the distance. As they drew nearer, a faint shadow as of ground fog seemed to obscure their view of the central circle of the stones.  The black bulk of the bull waiting just outside the circle was all but invisible behind the white robes of those attending it. Barclay had robed after arriving at the circle, though his weathered face was set and uncharacteristically pale in the starlight. Mallory had his medical bag tucked under one arm. Richter stood between two of the stones with a wand of birch wood in one hand, surmounted by a fragment of rock crystal.

“Lynxmeister, I give you charge of the circle,” he said in a low voice, offering the wand to Raeburn with a brisk dip of his chin. “Taoiseach, the nemeton is prepared.”

Bowing, Raeburn handed off the casket to Barclay, then took the wand from Richter and stepped aside, back pressed against one of the stones. He could feel familiar power stirring in his hand as he held the birch wand aloft and the others fell into processional order behind Taliere: first the two assistants flanking the still docile bull, then Barclay and Mallory, and finally Richter, bringing up the rear. When all were in position, Taliere thrice struck the ground between the two stones with the butt of his staff, then lifted his eyes toward the icy stars as he clasped the staff with both hands.  “This is the hour appointed,” he whispered, in a tone both hushed and resonant, “the hour of darkness that belongs neither to the sun nor to the moon. This is the hour of blood and prophecy. Let all who hunger come forth from the darkness and be present at the feast!”

The light wind seemed to die, giving way to an expectant hush. The winter stars shone out with sudden, fierce brightness, as if the intervening air had been thinned and rarefied by an abrupt shift in altitude. As the hush lengthened, Taliere drew himself up and stepped through the gap into the compass of the ring.

Those behind him followed, the bull snuffling in mild protest, for where the air outside the circle had been dark and clear, here within the perimeter it was luridly brightened by the glare of oil lamps set at the four quarters. Once all the members of the procession had passed within, Raeburn stepped inside the circle and scribed his wand three times across the gap between the two stones, then laid it across the threshold in final sealing. Content for the moment to let Taliere take center stage, Raeburn positioned himself beside Barclay, standing with his back to one of the stones, and nodded his readiness for Taliere to continue.

The old Druid moved to the center stone, between it and the darker depression of the ruined cairn, and halted to bend at the waist in profound obeisance. For a moment he remained thus, silent and with head bowed, gnarled hands knotted together around the neck of his staff. Then slowly he straightened and solemnly began to chant.

The language he used was not Scots Gaelic, but an ancient Celtic dialect called up out of the distant past. Soft at first, his voice accumulated pitch and force, sending dissonant echoes ricocheting eerily around the circle from stone to stone, though Raeburn knew that the sound could no more pass outside than the light of the lanterns could. The chant peaked to a crescendo, then ceased. In the heavy silence that followed, as Taliere turned to regard his fellow celebrants, his gaze took on an otherworldly sharpness, as did his voice.  “Know ye that this is the place of oath-fasting, sacred to the Lords Elemental.  Know that these stones were erected to honor Them; nor will They abandon this site for so long as the stones themselves retain their memory.  “To quicken that memory, I invoke Earth in the presence of Cailleach, Mother of All,” he continued, raising his staff, “and Fire in the person of Gruagach. the Long-haired One. Water I invoke in the presence of Shoney, Lord of the Western Seas. But it is to Taranis, the Thunderer, Lord of the Air, that I stand ready to offer sacrifice. May he be pleased to accept our oblation, and look with favor upon the petitions that we bring!”

On cue. his two assistants led the bull forward into the shadow of the monolith.  Barclay accompanied them at Rae-burn’s signal, opening the ash-wood box to offer it in oblation.

Laying aside his staff, the old Druid reverently drew out the ancient meteoric dagger, cold and deadly in the starlight. Pivoting to face the standing stone, he elevated the dagger before him in both hands.

“Here is the instrument of sacrifice!” he announced. “Be present, Lord Taranis, in this blade, born of a stone which fell from the sky. Taste and savor the blood we offer in token of our devotion.”

With this invocation, Taliere turned again and advanced on the bull. Hitherto docile, the big animal flung up its crowned head in sudden uneasiness, snorting in wall-eyed alarm, and it took the combined strivings of both handlers to steady the animal until Taliere could again work his charm.  But then the bull stood unflinching, hooves planted wide as Taliere moved a step sideways and drew back his arm. And as one of the handlers seized the animal by its nose-ring and wrenched its head upward, a darkling glimmer seemed to shiver along the ancient dagger, lending it life of its own.

“Taranis!” Taliere cried, as a stunning surge of strength drove his arm down and then up in a deadly arc, the blade rending the vulnerable throat and piercing deep into the brain.

With a hoarse bellow, the bull started back, but it was already dying.  Nonetheless, the violence of its recoil tore the dagger loose – for Taliere would not relinquish it – widening the wound and sending a dark fountain of blood spraying outward from severed arteries.

But the big animal was already sinking ponderously to its knees, its crowned head weaving. As Taliere stepped clear, his attendants moved in to steady the dying beast. At the same time, the old Druid raised a blood-drenched arm to point the dagger at Mallory in a summons not to be denied.  Mallory was ready, though he had not expected the compulsion that accompanied the gesture. Almost without volition, he found himself scurrying closer to press a large stainless-steel basin under the bull’s streaming throat, watching it fill as the animal bled out its life.

He did not remember returning to his place beside Barclay, though the bowl of blood steaming at his feet testified that he had done so. Taliere had shed his feathered mantle and was watching the bull’s final agonies, the handlers drawing back as it slowly rolled onto its side and was still.

But Taliere was not finished. Bidding the handlers stand back with another imperious gesture of the ancient dagger, he approached the bull again and, in another display of uncommon strength, bent over the bull’s still-twitching carcass to plunge the blade into the belly, ripping open the body cavity with a single stroke.

A tangle of entrails spilled onto the ground in a noisome effusion of blood and digestive juices, steam softly rising above the body opening. Back at Mallory’s side, Barclay went a little pale, but Raeburn only moved a half step closer to observe.

Crouching closer beside the bull, Taliere breathed in the reek of blood and bile as he examined the exposed mass of the bull’s internal organs, poking at some of them with the tip of the dagger, muttering under his breath as he lightly shook his head. After a moment, Raeburn moved impatiently closer to crouch beside him.  “Well?” he prompted. “What do the signs portend?” The old Druid rocked back on his haunches, gazing almost stupidly at the dagger in his hand – suddenly only a dagger – then lifted his gaze to Raeburn’s, his expression one of consternation.

“I find the auguries less than favorable,” he said uncertainly. “This bull you have offered, while outwardly unblemished, possesses a number of hidden imperfections. The heart is slightly enlarged and I have observed a scattering of lesions on the liver.

“Such anomalies may point to unforeseen complications which have not yet manifested themselves. Or they may indicate that your own motives in making this offering are less pure than you profess. Either way, I would not advise that we continue this night’s work.”

“Why not?”

Raeburn’s voice was calm, but contained a hint of underlying menace. Taliere set his jaw.

“To be wholly acceptable as a sacrifice, the animal in question must be completely without flaw,” he replied. “Whatever the implications of the signs I have noted, there is a very real possibility that the lord Taranis will spurn the offering as unworthy. If you persist under these circumstances, I cannot be answerable for the consequences.”

“I see.” Glancing around the circle, Raeburn considered for a moment, then shook his head.

“I am not frightened by your caveats,” he said quietly. “I require information – and suspension of our quest for that information is not an option, having committed ourselves thus far. As you yourself pointed out earlier, you are our mediator. If the lord Taranis is disposed to be overly dainty in his requirements, I rely upon you to smooth over any difficulties.”

chapter five

DESPITE Taliere’s grave misgivings, Raeburn remained adamant in his determination to carry on. When it became clear that he would not be moved, the old Druid grudgingly agreed to continue. His assistants appeared less than pleased, but dutifully bent to the task of stripping the bull’s hide from its still-warm carcass – a heavy, messy task that left both men mired with gore.  While they were busy plying their knives, Taliere took the basin of blood that Mallory had collected and began tracing bloody symbols on the inner faces of the stones that circumscribed the circle, chanting a sibilant singsong under his breath as he did so. From there he returned to the base of the central monolith and proceeded to mark out the perimeter of a smaller circle between it and the sunken depression of the tomb-cairn, with bloody 5 runes radiating outward from the center, like the broken spokes of a wheel.

While Raeburn observed these preliminaries, his three remaining henchmen were making their own preparations. Moving into the lee of one of the larger stones, Barclay cast off his robe to reveal himself stripped to the buff beneath, shivering as he hastily rewrapped himself in the warmth of a goose-down sleeping bag which Richter shook out and draped around his shoulders. At Mallory’s direction, he hunkered down and then sat at the base of the stone, suffering the physician to apply a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope while Richter rolled up the discarded robe and laid it atop the now empty duffel bags. After a moment, Raeburn drifted back to glance questioningly at Mallory.  “He’s ready for you,” Mallory said, pulling off the blood pressure cuff and returning it to his bag, though he left his stethoscope clamped around his neck as he rose and backed off.

Huddled motionless under the sleeping bag, Barclay sat with forehead bowed on folded arms atop his knees. He lifted his head as he sensed Raeburn taking Mallory’s place beside him, but his eyes had already taken on a glazed, faraway look, and his breathing was shallow and slow.

“No last-minute reservations, I hope?” Raeburn asked.

Barclay bestirred himself enough to shake his head dreamily. “No, sir.” “I knew you would not disappoint me,” Raeburn murmured. “This will be your greatest challenge, but also your finest commission. So long as your nerve holds, I foresee no difficulties.”

Three days of rigid fasting had sharpened the planes of Barclay’s already lean face and drained him of some of his usual vitality, but the flash of wry grin he offered his employer reaffirmed his customary good humor.  “Just promise me I’ll get that big, juicy steak I’ve been dreaming about, Mr.  Raeburn. And a huge baked potato with lots of sour cream and butter. And plenty of cold beer to wash ‘em down.”

“I expect that can be arranged,” Raeburn replied softly, smiling as he laid a hand lightly on one of Barclay’s. “Settle yourself now. You’ve important work to do.”

Barclay put his forehead back on his knees and closed his eyes in passive anticipation, slipping effortlessly into trance at a few further words from Raeburn. Mallory stood by watching, his expression one of cynical attention, and moved a few steps apart with Raeburn when the latter rose.  “A man of rather ordinary appetites,” he observed. “Are you sure he’s the right man for this job?”

“Have no doubts in that regard,” Raeburn returned frostily. “Whatever his social shortcomings, Mr. Barclay’s talents as a medium are second to none.”

“But to play host to one of the Patrons – “

“Will constitute a laudable triumph,” Raeburn said. “Help Richter bring him over to Master Taliere. I believe he’s ready for him.”

The old Druid was standing impassively beside the bloody bull’s hide, now spread hair-side down beside the rune-marked circle he had earlier inscribed. Half a dozen narrow, bloody strips of bull’s hide dangled from his bloody fingers as he bade Mallory and Richter guide the now somnambulant Barclay to a recumbent position in the center of the hide. The discarded sleeping bag Raeburn wadded under his head for a pillow.

Without speaking, Taliere crouched to bind rawhide ligatures tightly around Barclay’s ankles, wrists, and upper arms – restriction of blood-flow to subtly shift Barclay’s body chemistry and enhance his altered state. Then he passed a longer strip beneath Barclay’s torso to hold in place the dagger, still bloodied from its kill, which he positioned on Barclay’s chest with the point against his throat.

Finally, at Taliere’s nod, his assistants moved in to wrap the gory sides of the bull hide close around Barclay’s naked form, one stretching the bloody edges to meet while the other began sewing him tightly into the hide with laces of bloody sinew, starting at his neck and working toward his feet. Barclay seemed to take no note of any physical discomfort, even though his rigid body rocked with the force of each stitch through the tough bull hide.

After a moment, Raeburn knelt at Barclay’s head and bent to whisper in the pilot’s ear, fingertips tracing a symbol on his forehead and then continuing to stroke the weathered brow.

“Hear me, Barclay, and know this for your mission. The dagger at your breast is the key which will unlock the door to the elemental planes. Once past the threshold, you are to seek out the lord Taranis with this message: Your votaries languish for want of your empowerments, O Mighty One. Return to us and renew our strength. Defend us by your lightnings from our enemies, and we will honor you with offerings of blood and sacrifice. Repeat what I have just said.” Barclay repeated the message three times before Raeburn was satisfied. Each recitation added to the tension building within the circle, but by the third recitation, Taliere’s now thoroughly be-gored assistants had finished their grisly work. When Taliere had pronounced himself satisfied, he directed the pair to shift the cocooned Barclay onto the sleeping bag which Richter and Mallory now spread atop the blood-runes beside the central monolith. When they had zipped him into it, Raeburn crouched at his head and administered a further prompting that sent Barclay plunging even deeper into trance.  Meanwhile, Taliere had instructed his associates to withdraw to the other side of the circle, where the central monolith blocked much of their view. Richter shifted closer to watch them. When the two had settled, side by side with backs against one of the stones, the old Druid donned his feathered mantle again and crouched opposite Raeburn to anoint Barclay’s forehead with bull’s blood, muttering a charm under his breath. But when he removed the leathern bottle from his belt, Raeburn thrust a restraining hand against his wrist.  “I told you to save your potions,” he said to Taliere. “We have more reliable means for liberating the psyche.”

The old Druid stiffened. “Tradition requires that the emissary be given a draught of mistletoe to speed his spirit on its inward journey.” “I’ve no doubt that such herbals once had their uses,” Raeburn replied. “But it’s been my experience that modern psy-chotropic equivalents act more predictably, and with fewer unexpected side effects. Dr. Mallory?” Moving forward from beside Richter, Mallory blandly displayed a capped hypodermic syringe. With an explosive exclamation, Taliere sprang to his feet and planted himself indignantly between Mallory and their subject.  “This is entirely unacceptable!” he protested over his shoulder to Raeburn. “Let me remind you once again that the lord Taranis is one of the higher powers of nature. How can you possibly hope to win his favor when you continue to demonstrate this kind of contempt for the natural world?” His face was flushed with barely controlled anger, his fists clenched at his sides. Behind him, watching from the sidelines, Klaus Richter drew himself up, muscles tensing as he prepared to step in. Raeburn, however, signalled with a glance for the German to hold his position.

“Your objection is not without merit, Taoiseach,” he acknowledged formally.  “Very well. For the sake of tradition, I will agree to a small dose of this mistletoe brew of yours – in addition to my own methods. But make it no more than a sip. I shouldn’t want to risk another chemical interfering with the effects of Dr. Mallory’s drug.”

Grudgingly Taliere accepted the compromise. Returning to Barclay’s side, he bent to tip a small measure of mistletoe liquor into the pilot’s mouth, then corked the leathern bottle and rose again to lift his arms above his head in a gesture of invitation.

“Mighty Lord Taranis!” he called out in a loud voice. “Here is one who offers himself as a consecrated vessel. Descend, we implore you, upon this, your servant, and speak to us through his mouth.”

Mallory, meanwhile, had dropped to one knee at Raeburn’s signal and was scrubbing an alcohol swab over an area just below Barclay’s left ear. Pulling the cap from the hypo with his teeth, he held the barrel briefly to the light of the nearest lamp, then injected its contents directly into the jugular. He had finished almost before Taliere realized what was happening, capping the hypo and dropping it into his open bag as he moved back beside Richter.  The drug worked quickly, given thus. A shuddering sigh escaped Barclay’s slack lips. An instant later, his eyes flew wide, their dilated gaze shifting sightlessly across the starry firmament overhead. He took a hoarse, choking breath. Then all at once he began to tremble.

“Seize him, Taranis!” Taliere whispered, sinking to his knees to watch avidly.  The tremors increased in violence and intensity. Mallory glanced anxiously at Raeburn, but the latter’s gaze was glued to Barclay’s face. Within a matter of seconds, the pilot’s whole body was twitching and jerking uncontrollably, as if caught in a surge of electrical current, his visage contorted in an expression of mingled anguish and ecstasy. Only the confinement of the hide wrappings prevented him from rolling out of the circle painted on the ground.  “Take him, Taranis!” Taliere whispered fiercely, fists clenched at his chest.  Barclay’s eyes bulged in their sockets as an even stronger convulsion seized him. His jaw gaped, tongue protruding from his mouth like that of a hanged man, and strangled noises began to issue from his throat.  “He’s in trouble!” Mallory muttered, starting forward with his medical bag.

“Be still, you fool!”

Taliere’s vehement command stopped Mallory in his tracks no less than Raeburn’s urgent gesture to forbear. Before the young doctor could even consider disobeying, a torrent of garbled speech began pouring from Barclay’s writhing lips.

“Can you make out what he’s saying?” Raeburn whispered to Taliere.  The old Druid shook his head. Suddenly Barclay gave a rending shriek, then began to rant in a harsh, rolling voice that patently was not his own.  “Cowards! Traitors!” he howled. “How dare you presume to venture here, thinking with mere words and token oblations to win the ear of the lord Taranis? A curse upon you, false son of Thunder, and a curse upon all who aid you! The Prince of Storms is not to be cozened by oath-breakers such as you! So long as I retain a tongue to speak, you will never gain a hearing in his presence!” The tirade degenerated into incoherent ravings, but not before Raeburn began to discern an eerie note of familiarity in the harsh timbre of the voice.  Stiffening, he placed it: the embittered accents of the man he himself had once hailed as the Head-Master.

Even as the unwelcome implications of that discovery began to dawn on him, the voice renewed its rantings through the foam-flecked lips of its medium.  “Vilest of ingrates! Betrayers of Taranis! May his lightnings scourge the flesh from your bones! May the fury of his storms consume your very souls! May your spirits be raked across the plains of desolation on the talons of the wind! May you never more know rest or resolution!”

With these words, the voice broke off with another anguished howl. A violent convulsion racked Barclay’s bound form from head to foot. For a moment it seemed as if he must surely either burst his bonds or break his limbs. Then all at once the paroxysm ceased and he went limp.

The silence that suddenly descended was almost physical. Raeburn was the first to recover. Scrambling closer on hands and knees, he set one hand on Barclay’s forehead and thrust the other hard against the side of his neck, searching for a pulse as Mallory also dashed to their patient’s side and thumped to his knees, himself checking Barclay’s pulse and then frantically rummaging in his medical bag for another preloaded syringe. Barclay was still breathing, but his face was ashen and his heartbeat erratic.

“Let’s get him out of this!” Raeburn barked, tearing at the sleeping bag’s zipper and at the same time summoning Richter, who was already on his way.  “It can’t have been the drug,” Mallory protested, as he found what he was looking for and injected Barclay in the neck again.

Richter produced a Swiss Army knife and began cutting Barclay free of his bull bindings, and once the ancient dagger had been freed, Raeburn used it to assist Richter. Meanwhile, Mallory jammed his stethoscope into his ears and thrust its bell into the growing opening over Barclay’s chest, relaxing a little at what he heard; and Taliere at last bestirred himself to take up the sickle at his belt and use its sharpened blade to cut the ligatures binding Barclay’s arms and ankles. By the time they had the pilot completely freed, both Mallory and his patient had begun to breathe more easily.

“I thought for a minute we were going to lose him,” Mallory murmured, as he and Richter lifted Barclay’s limp and blood-smeared body free of the remnants of the bull hide and laid it on the white robe Raeburn had stripped off and spread beside it. “If we don’t get him warm pretty quick, we may yet lose him.” As they wrapped Barclay in the robe and Mallory stood long enough to strip off his own, adding it to the first, Richter ran to fetch the robe Barclay had discarded earlier. This, too, was bundled around the hapless pilot. As Mallory wound his blood pressure cuff around Barclay’s slack arm and pumped it up, Richter lifted a corner of the bloody sleeping bag.

“Do you want this, too?” he asked.

“No, it’ll be clammy from all the blood,” Raeburn replied. He snapped his fingers at Taliere’s two assistants, who had scrambled apprehensively to their feet during the crisis. “You men, give him your robes. Derek, how’s he doing?” Nodding, the physician released the pressure on the cuff and bent briefly to peer under one of his patient’s eyelids, then slipped his stethoscope from his ears and breathed out a cautious sigh.

“He’s still shocky, but I think we’re past the worst of it. We need to get him back to the RV. I want to put him on oxygen.”

“Right,” Raeburn said, getting to his feet. “You men, help carry him,” he said to Taliere’s assistants. “Richter, open the circle and go with them, and recall your men. Taliere and I will finish up here and join you shortly.” Richter nodded acknowledgement, his pale eyes unreadable in the lantern-glare as he retrieved the birch wand and cut a doorway between the two nearest stones.  Before stepping outside, he laid the wand on the grass beside the closest lantern, pointing at the opening.

Taliere’s assistants meanwhile had folded the discarded sleeping bag with the bloodiest surface inside and zipped it shut, forming a narrow, makeshift stretcher onto which they shifted the unconscious Barclay before lifting it by both ends. As they carried him carefully after Richter, Mallory closed his medical bag and followed along at his patient’s side.  Taliere watched in stony silence as the party receded against the darker mass of Cnoc an Tursa, turning only when Raeburn brushed past him, the dagger in one hand and Taliere’s staff in the other, to lay the staff beside the open gateway that Richter had left. The old Druid said nothing as he watched the younger man replace the dagger in its casket, which he then slipped into one of the duffel bags lying there.

“When you proposed sending this servant of yours to seek audience with the lord Taranis,” Taliere said softly, as Raeburn bent to pick up the nearest lantern, “why did you neglect to mention that another – an adversary, moreover – would be there ahead of us to dispute the way?”

Raeburn had been anticipating a question along those lines, and decided that truth would serve as an answer for now.

“Why? Because before now, I knew nothing about it myself,” he replied, lifting the lantern to blow it out. “I assure you, I was as much surprised as you were to encounter such violent opposition.”

Taliere glared at him sourly, following as Raeburn picked up a second lantern, extinguished it, and pressed the handles of both into the old man’s hands.  “I find that hard to believe,” Taliere retorted, “given that our contact’s animosity seemed to be directed principally toward you. Have you any idea who he might be, that he sees reason to heap curses upon your head?” Raeburn picked up the third lantern and favored the Druid with a calculating glance.

“What would you say if I told you that it was none other than the Head-Master?” Just before he extinguished the lantern, he was gratified to see that this announcement had reduced Taliere momentarily to stunned silence.  “When the Hunting Lodge overran his stronghold in the Cairngorms,” Raeburn went on, moving to pick up the fourth lantern, “I urged him to flee, but he refused.  The citadel was levelled soon after, and I assumed that he perished in its fall.  “I see now that he must have been caught up, body and spirit, into the realm of eternal storm. The translation,” he finished, with a puff of breath to blow out the last light, “does not appear to have improved his sanity.” Digesting this information as Raeburn pressed the last two lanterns into his hands, Taliere turned his gaze distractedly in the direction of the bull’s carcass, now discernible only as a glistening mound under the starlight.  “I warned you that the auguries in this matter were unfavorable,” he whispered.  “You ought to have listened to me. As it is, we have squandered valuable time and resources to no good purpose.”

Behind him, Raeburn bent to pick up the birch wand from where Richter had left it pointing to the circle’s gateway.

“On the contrary,” he said, “we have gained a revelation which will be of considerable value to us the next time.”

Taliere stiffened, hardly noticing as Raeburn lifted the wand and turned a full circle counterclockwise, murmuring the words to dispel the illusion that had cloaked their work.

“Next time?” the old Druid repeated blankly. “There will not be a next time.” “Of course there will be a next time,” Raeburn replied softly, taking Taliere’s arm. “Surely you don’t think I would let this one temporary setback stand in my way. If we cannot contact the lord Taranis by one method, we shall simply have to find another.”

As he led Taliere from the circle, the two guards who had been stationed at the upper car park were waiting to take the lanterns Taliere still held, hurriedly packing them away in the remaining duffel bag. Each man shouldered one of the bags as they fell in behind Raeburn and Taliere, one of them pausing to retrieve the old Druid’s staff while the other spoke briefly into his microphone.  Speechless, Taliere allowed himself to be escorted nearly back to the waiting vehicles before he found words to express his displeasure.  “Francis, this cannot continue,” he whispered, as they approached the RV. “You may do as you like – you always have – but if you intend to persist in this rash course of action, then you will have to do it without my help. I have already been persuaded to compromise my principles, by assisting you thus far. I cannot allow my integrity to be further eroded by continuing this association.” Shaking his head, Raeburn glanced casually back at the men following them, then ahead to where a faint glow spilled from the open side door of the RV, between it and the Land Rover. The darker silhouette of the Mini Cooper was just visible beyond the Rover, positioned to lead out. The driver of the Mini was half-sitting against the RV’s near front bumper, but he came to his feet and moved a little closer as Raeburn and Taliere approached. Of Taliere’s two assistants there was no sign.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Taoiseach,” Raeburn said softly, as they passed between the horse-box and the rear of the RV. “I suppose you speak for your associates as well.”

“I do,” Taliere said stiffly.

“A pity.”

Even as Raeburn’s hand tightened on Taliere’s elbow, a soft call from inside the RV summoned the Mini’s driver to the open door to reach in and take the booted feet of a slack, burly form. Taliere gasped as the rest of the form emerged, the head and shoulders of one of Taliere’s assistants supported by Rich-ter, but heavy hands on his own shoulders from behind warned the Druid not to cry out.  “Dear God, what have they done to him?” he said, his voice breaking in a muffled sob as he watched Richter and his man drag their dead or unconscious charge toward the front of the Land Rover. He turned his gaze to the face of the man who suddenly had become his captor. Raeburn’s smile was as cold as a shark’s.

“My dear Taliere,” Raeburn purred, “I should have thought it would be obvious.  Your associates were always expendable, but tonight’s little setback has sealed their fate.”

“But – “

“Think about it: After what happened tonight, did you really think I could risk having my involvement discovered through some accident of indiscretion? As you cannot have failed to notice, I already have more than my share of powerful enemies looking for me; I don’t need the civil authorities as well. Sometimes, for the greater strategy of the game, a few pawns must be sacrificed.” “Are they dead?” Taliere asked numbly.

“No, but they will have to die,” Raeburn replied, not unkindly, as Richter returned to direct the removal of Taliere’s second associate from the RV. “If it’s any consolation, Dr. Mallory tells me the preparation will have been relatively painless. It always amazes me what can be done with a couple of bottles of cheap whisky, a funnel, and a few feet of rubber tubing in the hands of someone medically trained – and with a whiff or two of chloroform to ease the inevitable resistance. I believe Mr. Richter has an accident in mind: alas, too much drink before driving an altogether too treacherous road.” While Raeburn spoke, Taliere’s second assistant was carried away, and the men accompanying Raeburn and the Druid had stowed the duffel bags and Taliere’s staff in the RV. As Richter returned to fetch two fresh liquor bottles, lifting them to the old mas in ironic salute before heading back toward the Land Rover, Raeburn gently removed Taliere’s headdress and feathered mantle and handed them off to one of Richter’s men to stow. Taliere did not resist as Raeburn took him by the elbow and guided him to the door of the RV, but he shook off the other’s grip and mounted the step himself.

Inside, Mallory was adjusting an oxygen mask on the still unconscious Barclay, who was stretched out on the couch across the back of the cabin and wrapped in a bright silver thermal blanket. The physician turned as Raeburn and Taliere entered, picking up a loaded hypodermic syringe while Raeburn pushed his captive into one of the padded swivel chairs toward the front. Outside, the engines of the Mini Cooper and then the Land Rover rumbled to life, the two vehicles pulling out just before Richter and one of his men entered the RV and closed the door.

“Time to settle in for a long ride, Taoiseach,” Raeburn said softly, as Richter’s man went forward and Richter himself came to hold the old man for Mallory’s ministrations. “Dr.

Mallory is going to give you something to relax you.” Taliere turned his face away as the deed was done, not resisting, his eyes dull with incomprehension. When Mallory had returned to his other patient, turning out the interior lights in favor of a small pocket flashlight, and Richter had retreated to the front passenger seat, Raeburn slid into the chair beside Taliere, carefully buckling the old man’s seat belt.

“Why do you not just kill me and be done with it?” the Druid asked, as the RV’s engine turned over with a muffled purr. “Why should I be spared, when my associates must die? They trusted me, Francis, and you have betrayed that trust.”

“Why do I spare you?” Raeburn said, himself buckling up. “Why, I entertain the fond notion that you may still prove useful to me. At very least, you have provided me with an abundance of red herrings to confound those who would try to interfere with my plans. Why do you think I didn’t bother cleaning up the physical evidence at the circle? Investigating it will give the police something to occupy their time, but they haven’t the resources to learn much from it. And if, by chance, tonight’s work should come to the attention of some higher investigative authority, the signature of power is yours, not mine.” As the RV pulled quietly onto the road and began its slow progress back toward Stornoway, Taliere turned his face away and closed his eyes, not bothering to fight as Mallory’s sedative dragged him gently into oblivion.

chapter six

I can’t claim to be an experienced judge of such matters,” Adam said the next morning, over breakfast with Ximena, “but in my humble estimation, your niece’s nativity play went extremely well.”

“Yes, it did, didn’t it?” Ximena agreed, pausing to spread wild blackberry jam on a bite of warm croissant. “I hope your memory is in good working order. Dad is going to want a full account.”

“I thought that’s why you and Laurel took so many photographs,” Adam said, amused.

“The photos are just the starting point,” Ximena replied. “They don’t cover the backstage details – which, as far as Dad’s concerned, is where the meat of the entertainment lies. More coffee?”

“Please!” Adam said with feeling. “If only to hone my faculties as a drama critic.”

They were breakfasting together in the small dining area adjoining Ximena’s kitchen, both wrapped in terry-cloth robes. It was early yet, and the sun was shining diaphanously through tattered mist outside the windows. Watching as Ximena deftly replenished his cup from a glass cafetiere, Adam marvelled anew at the unstudied grace that seemed to invest her every move. Even at rest, she had the lissom poise of a gypsy dancer.

“You make me think of scenes from the court paintings of Goya,” he remarked fondly. “It takes very little effort to imagine you in a lace mantilla.” “Ever the romantic!” Ximena laughed. She returned the cafetiere to its place on the starched damask tablecloth, then glanced at her watch.  “Good heavens, is that the time?”

“Why, are we late?”

“Not yet,” she conceded. “But we can only afford the luxury of lingering over our fancies for another quarter of an hour. After that, I have to start getting ready to cut a professional figure in the eyes of the workaday world.” At nine o’clock Ximena was scheduled to deliver a lecture on triage procedures for the benefit of new trainees on staff. Following the lecture, Teresa Lockhart would be meeting them at the hospital so that they could all be in attendance together during her husband’s morning period of wakefulness. Provisional plans had been made for Ximena and Adam to break away for lunch together out on Fisherman’s Wharf, but Adam was well aware how those plans might have to be rewritten at a moment’s notice.

While he was finishing his second cup of coffee, Ximena went and fetched the collection of Polaroid photographs from the night before. A whimsical smile played about her lips as she flicked through the stack.  “A penny for your thoughts?” Adam offered, noticing her expression.  “I suppose I was just… remembering,” she said wistfully, jogging the stack of photos into an orderly pile. “Christmas is such a special time for children.” “I know what you mean,” Adam agreed. “You may remember that my friend Christopher has two young daughters – incorrigible charmers, the pair of them.  I’ve promised myself the pleasure of shopping for something really special to bring back for them. Something out of the ordinary that wouldn’t be available in any of the toy shops back in Scotland.”

“I can recommend a good place for you to start,” Ximena said. “There’s a little shop in the Mission District that does handcrafted wooden toys. I’ll be sure to take you there.”

“You sound as if you know the place well,” Adam said.  “I suppose I do,” Ximena said with a small laugh. “Browsing in toy shops has always been a favorite pastime of mine. Having a four-year-old niece is a good excuse to indulge in it.”

Adam debated with himself a moment, then decided to speak his mind. “Having children of your own is an even better excuse,” he pointed out softly.  Ximena avoided meeting his eyes.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I seem to recall my dad saying much the same thing.” She stopped and bit her lip. When she found her voice again, it had the air of one determined to change the subject.

“What was the best Christmas present you ever received as a child?” she asked.  Adam thought before answering. “I’d have to say it was my first pony,” he told her. “She was a lovely little dapple-grey who went by the name of Felicity. She was ten years old – twice my age at the time – and my father said she was sensible enough for both of us. The following summer she carried me to my first-ever pony club victory. I still have that rosette somewhere. I suppose it’s one of my most treasured childhood mementoes.” He set his cup aside and smiled. “What about you?”

Ximena straightened up in her seat, her gaze reminiscent.  “I think it would have to be the doll’s house my father made for me when I was eight. It wasn’t just a house, it was a palace. Dad modelled it on one of the Moorish castles he visited in southern Spain. It had arches, and turrets, and trellises – even a facsimile of a fountain in the central courtyard. Needless to say, I was completely enraptured. It wasn’t until much later, when I grew up, that I came to understand what a labor of love it was.” “What became of it?” Adam asked. “Is it still in your parents’ house?” Ximena nodded. “Mother’s looking after it until Emma’s old enough to appreciate it.”

Adam cocked an eyebrow at her. “You don’t think you might one day have a daughter of your own to pass it on to?”

This time Ximena met his gaze squarely. “I won’t deny I haven’t fantasized about it now and then,” she told him. “But that belongs to a future I can’t begin to plan as long as my father needs me. God knows, he devoted himself to my brothers and me when we were small. The least I can do is be here for him now, doing whatever I can to make what life he has left a blessing, not a curse.” The silence that followed was painfully brittle. Ximena drew a deep breath before continuing, her voice suddenly trembling under the stress of her emotions.

“Adam, this may be heresy,” she said quietly, “but I can’t help asking what my father ever did to deserve a fate like this. He’s always been a good and upright man, a man of principle and integrity. Surely he deserved better than to end his life like this… suffering so.”

The slight catch in her voice was like the first crack to appear in a dike. It bespoke a crisis of faith that had been many months in the building. But Adam had seen enough of human grief, in his personal life as well as his professional experience, to recognize the thorny issue that lay at the heart of the matter.  “What you really want to know,” he amended quietly, “is, ‘Why do bad things happen to good people?’ Or, if you prefer, ‘How can any God worthy of the name permit such a blatant miscarriage of Divine justice?’ You’re hardly the first to ask such questions, and you certainly won’t be the last. 1 pondered the problem long and hard myself when my own father passed away.” “And what conclusions, if any, did you come to?”

To answer obliquely, Adam realized, would be tantamount to condescension.

Nothing less than total honesty would do.

“Let me see if I can articulate this without sounding like a psychiatrist,” he said. “First of all, I’ve come to understand that suffering is not to be seen as Divine retribution for some past unatoned sin. On the contrary, it’s simply one of the dangers inherent in being the mortal creatures that we are.  “Human beings appear to be unique amid the whole of creation, for having both a spiritual and a physical aspect to their existence,” he went on. “As physical creatures, we’re subject to the same natural laws that govern the rest of material creation. Nothing stands still in the material world; everything is caught up in a complex pattern of cause and effect. If these overlapping patterns of change now and then give rise to some destructive natural event in our vicinity – say, an earthquake, or an accident, or the encroachment of some deadly disease – we’re compelled by our physical nature to suffer the consequences.”

“I understand that much,” Ximena said. “What I don’t understand is, If God is as loving and benevolent as Scripture claims, why doesn’t this God intervene and stop us from becoming victims of these natural disasters?” “Because such intervention would violate the conditions that enable man to operate according to his own free will.”

“How does that follow?” she asked.

“A fair enough question. One of the proofs that we have a spiritual, as well as a physical, side to our makeup is our ability to override natural instincts to control our own behavior. In other words, we are free to make conscious, evaluative choices regarding what we do and how we do it. In order for us to exercise that freedom of choice, however, the surrounding world in which we operate has got to be coherent and consistent. Do away with these governing principles, and you’re left with nothing but chaos – a chaos as devoid of meaning as it is of morality.”

“You’re saying that God can’t set aside His own law?” she asked.  “Of course He can,” Adam replied, “since, by definition, God is omnipotent. But He doesn’t; nor should He. If God were to suspend every process that might have destructive consequences, the effect would be to undo creation itself. A world governed by natural laws, therefore, is the only world possible. If, in the process, the physical body falls victim to the operation of those natural laws, that is the price we pay for spiritual immortality – the voluntary ability to seek and find union with God.”

“I suppose this is meant to give me comfort,” Ximena said miserably.  “It is,” he replied softly. “Because this much is also true: that when the physical body fails. God is on hand to guide the spirit home.” She gazed at him for a long moment, then said softly, “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I know it,” he corrected.

Sighing, Ximena set her hand on his.

“I wish I had your faith,” she said. “Maybe you could spare me some.” “It’s been my experience,” Adam said, “that those who want faith are given it – and from a source that flows far stronger and clearer than my own.” Ximena had little to say while they dressed and made their way to the hospital.  It was plain from her expression that she was deep in thought. What the outcome of her musings would be, Adam could not begin to predict. He could only hope that he had succeeded in pointing her toward some resolution.

While she was off giving her presentation, he made his way up to the floor where

her father was in residence. Alan Lock-hart was still asleep – if his

drug-induced state of temporary oblivion could rightly be called that. After

re-introducing himself to the nursing staff and acquainting them with his

credentials, Adam took advantage of Ximena’s absence to read over her father’s medical records in careful detail. He was pondering the results of his reading when Lockhart’s attending physician arrived for morning rounds.  Dr. Andrew Saloa was a big, hearty man whose smooth, coffee-brown skin and almond eyes proclaimed his Polynesian background. Once Adam had identified himself both as a physician and friend of the family, Saloa proved more than happy to discuss the case. Adam could see from the outset that his colleague had a lively sympathy and liking for his patient – qualities which Adam regarded as essential under the circumstances. He was further encouraged by the fact that Saloa made no secret of the fact that he was at a loss to account for the lengthy duration of Lockhart’s illness.

“Why do some cancer patients succumb within a few weeks or months, while others manage to hold out long past what anyone might expect?” he observed to Adam with a genial shrug. “If I could come up with an explanation for that, I’d be well on my way to a Nobel prize. What we do know is that those who have some strong reason to live tend to hold out far longer than those who simply give up. But then, as a psychiatrist, you probably know far more than I do about the power of mind over matter.”

Adam could only agree that Lockhart must have some powerful motivation for hanging on, though he could hazard no guesses, based on so short an acquaintance.

“Well, he’s hanging on, for whatever the reason,” Saloa said. “I can’t but admire his fortitude, but I have to tell you that I’m not at all satisfied with his pain management.”

“I believe young Austen intends to speak to you about increasing his father’s medication,” Adam offered.

“Believe me, I’d love to,” Saloa replied. “Unfortunately, Alan is a very stubborn man. I tried him on patient-controlled analgesia, but he wouldn’t use it often enough. He contends that the level of painkiller he really needs leaves him too muddle- headed to make the most of the time he has left. I respect that decision, but I know it periodically makes his existence a living hell. I wish there were an alternative.”

“Perhaps there is,” Adam said. “Has anyone suggested trying hypnosis?” “Funny you should ask that,” Saloa replied. “Only yesterday, I was reading a Lancet article about using hypnosis as an alternative – or at least an adjunct – to drug analgesia. But I’ve no experience with hypno-technique, and don’t know anyone on the staff here who does. Unless you might possibly have some expertise in that area?” he added, with a shrewd glance at Adam.  Adam smiled. “As luck would have it, it’s rather a specialty of mine. I’d be more than happy to offer my services, if you think your patient might benefit.” “I’m certainly willing to give it a try,” Saloa said. “But the deciding vote will have to come from Alan himself, of course.”

“Then, if you have no objection, I’ll put the suggestion to him at the first likely opportunity.”

“You do that,” Saloa replied. “I’ll leave you to choose your moment.” Adam accepted the other doctor’s cordial invitation to be present during his morning visitation. Lockhart was just rousing when they entered his room. A night’s rest had brought the sick man a fragile measure of restoration, but the sunshine streaming in through the window only served to highlight the parchment-like transparency of his skin.

Lockhart greeted both doctors warmly, though his expression indicated some surprise at seeing Adam in the absence of his family. Saloa conducted his routine examination with relaxed efficiency, his medical inquiries deftly intermingled with bantering small-talk. When he was finished, he bade his patient goodbye and absented himself in a show of breezy good humor. Left alone with Adam, Lockhart quirked an ironic eyebrow.

“I gather you’ve been powwowing with Saloa,” he observed. “He’s a good man.  You’ve also managed to give my daughter the slip. What brings you back here all on your own?”

Adam smiled. “She’s busy teaching just now. Besides that, I got the distinct impression you wanted to speak with me further. I thought you might find the conversation less tiring if there were just the two of us present.” Lockhart’s gaze conveyed full appreciation for what Adam was suggesting. “You’re very perceptive,” he said. “Pull up a chair. Now, where were we, when we were so rudely interrupted by my obstreperous granddaughter?” “I seem to recall being encouraged to go on at length about my pet restoration project,” Adam said, settling into a chair close beside the head of Lockhart’s bed.

“The tower-house, yes,” Lockhart murmured. “Ximena tells me that the property itself has been in your family for many generations. It must be very satisfying to see this monument to your family’s history brought back to life.” “My workmen and I have met with our share of obstacles along the way,” Adam said, “not least of which is the problem of how to incorporate such modern-day necessities as electricity, plumbing, and heating, without doing violence to the structural design. But we’re making progress. One day I hope to be able to take up residence there, at least for part of the year. Your daughter has been gracious enough to indulge my bit of whimsy.”

This observation drew a wan grin from his listener.  “Hardly whimsy, where my daughter is concerned,” Lock-hart replied. “She has a lively interest in history. Even as a child, she was fascinated by ruins. When she was twelve, we took her with us on a trip down to Chichen Itza. The expression on her face when we arrived at the city was something I’ve never forgotten.”

Adam listened with complete attention as Lockhart reminisced about this and other trips he had taken with his wife and children. The recollections helped Adam begin to build a comprehensive picture of the relationship the older man shared with his daughter. Lockhart was manifestly proud of Ximena’s personal and professional achievements, but it troubled him that, for all her talents and abilities, she had yet to find a place to anchor her affections.  “She’s always been in love with a challenge,” Lockhart mused, almost as if he were thinking out loud. “When she was little, I thought I was doing the right thing by encouraging her to exercise her intellectual curiosity. Now I begin to wonder if I pushed her too far in that direction. In nurturing her academic development, did I also, unwittingly, encourage her to neglect her emotional growth and satisfaction?

“You haven’t been a father – yet,” he continued, “so I’m going to tell you something about parenthood that you may not realize. You’ll want your children to have everything you never had, everything you ever had, and then some. You’ll want them to partake in full measure of all the joys, wonders, and pleasures you’ve ever tasted in this life. And so far, Ximena’s only halfway there.” “What do you feel she’s in danger of missing?” Adam asked quietly.  “A family of her own,” Lockhart said bluntly. “What my daughter needs now, more than anything else in her life, is a reason to look beyond the day after tomorrow. Having a husband and children would give her that change in perspective. Responsibilities like these would encourage her to shift her sights toward a future greater and more far-ranging than her next career move.” “Do you regret her professional success?” Adam asked.  “Good heavens, no! That’s just the point. She’s woman enough to have it all. I want her to have it all. But she has to find it for herself. And I’m not sure she’s looking in the right places – or if she is, she’s blinding herself to what’s staring her in the face.”

As the older man paused to gather his strength, Adam wisely said nothing, for he sensed that Lockhart was building up to some point in particular. That suspicion was confirmed when Ximena’s father spoke again.

“Adam, I have to tell you something. I’ve always been a man of my word, and I know enough not to give that lightly. Upholding one’s word is, after all, a matter of personal honor. I’ve never made a promise I didn’t mean to keep, and I’ve always done my best to follow through. And that puts me in a very difficult position now.”

Adam raised an eyebrow in inquiry but did not speak.  “Ximena probably doesn’t remember this,” Lockhart continued, “but when she was eight she made me promise I would come to her wedding. I gave that promise solemnly, in good faith. And it goes hard with me now that I may not be able to keep it.”

“I see.” An inkling of the reason for Lockhart’s continued survival suddenly became clear to Adam. “Does that mean you wish you hadn’t made it?” Lockhart gave a gasp of laughter. “God, no! But that’s one reason why I’ve been looking forward to your visit – wanting to see what kind of man you are. I’ve been hoping you’d be the one my daughter’s been looking for all her life. Are you?”

Adam did not allow his gaze to waver, for Lockhart deserved an honest answer.  “I don’t know,” he told the other man truthfully. “For my own part, I think she’s what I’ve been looking for – and we’ve certainly talked about marriage, if mainly in the abstract. But so far, she hasn’t seemed disposed to commit herself.”

After an uncomfortable pause, Lockhart whispered, “It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

“If so,” Adam said quietly, “you may be sure it was only out of love.” “Dear God,” Lockhart said, almost inaudibly – for, like Adam, he now was forced to consider the ironic possibility that, by postponing all decisions regarding love and marriage, Ximena might unwittingly have made him feel impelled to cling to life long past all reason – and thereby sentenced him to needless suffering.  “Adam,” he said softly, “maybe it’s time to talk to my daughter again.”

“Does this mean I have your official permission to renew my suit?” Adam asked.  A ghost of a smile touched Lockhart’s ashen lips. “Of course you do – and I won’t ask you to promise me anything. But if you’re even half the man I think you are, and my daughter has even half the sense I give her credit for, the two of you ought to be able to come to some understanding.” “I’ll do my best to justify your faith in me,” Adam said, smiling. “And here’s my hand on it.”

He reached down, enfolding Lockhart’s skeletal fingers in a firm, light hold that was more than a handshake. Recognizing the grip of a Master Mason, Lockhart shot Adam a look suddenly luminous with pleasure and surprise.  “You…” he breathed.

Adam nodded, meeting the older man’s gaze with steady reassurance. “Yes, I am your brother, sworn in faith. As your brother – and I hope as your friend – I swear that I will do everything in my power to safeguard the welfare and happiness of the daughter you love.”

Lockhart’s frail hand returned the clasp, tears welling in his eyes, beyond the need to speak. For a long moment, the two men remained thus, in silent affirmation of their common bond.

Then the sound of the door latch broke the spell. Their hands parted only seconds before Ximena and her mother entered the room. Adam rose easily to his feet.

“Oh, there you are, Adam,” Ximena said, as she and her mother came to greet her father. “Good morning, Dad. Did you have a good night?” “Actually, a bit better than most,” he assured her with a smile. “Teresita, did you bring me the pictures from Emma’s play?”

“I did,” Teresa replied, “and I can assure you that our granddaughter performed exactly like an angel!”

While she sat down at her husband’s bedside to share the photos, Ximena slipped an arm through Adam’s and casually drew him aside.  “It looks as if you and Dad have been finding plenty to talk about,” she remarked.

“We continue to discover how much we have in common,” Adam said. “He’s a fine man. Tell me, is there someplace we can go, away from here? A chapel, maybe?” Ximena looked at him slightly askance. “There’s a meditation room downstairs.” “Then let’s excuse ourselves, shall we?” Adam said. “I’d like a few words with you in private.”

chapter seven

THE meditation room was a tiny, intimate retreat tucked away on the ground floor at the far end of the lobby. Perhaps eight feet by ten, it housed two small pews capable of seating three to four people, a lectern against the far wall, and a stained-glass panel suspended in front of a floor-to-ceiling ivory curtain that filtered the light from a window beyond. The panel, done in blues and rich jewel-tones of gold and crimson, read: The Lord bless thee and keep thee. At the rear of the room, a small shelf held a vase of dried flowers and copies of the Bible and the Torah.

“Good, there’s no one here,” Ximena said, leading Adam inside and closing the door. “Now, what on earth did my father say to you that made you want to bring me all the way down here to tell me about it?”

Given the tragic ironies of the situation, Adam knew he was going to have to tread delicately. Smiling gently, he drew Ximena to sit beside him in the rear pew.

“He said very little on his own account,” he told her. “Mostly, we talked about you. It won’t come as any surprise to you to hear that he loves you very much.  What you may not realize is the scope of the many aspirations he cherishes on your behalf.”

A small, puzzled furrow appeared between Ximena’s winged eyebrows.  “I know he’s always wanted me to be happy and successful,” she said. After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “Have I somehow failed to satisfy him on those accounts?”

Adam mentally drew a deep breath. “Let us say that his satisfaction in life won’t be complete until he feels that yours is.”

Ximena’s perplexity deepened. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Then let me see if I can help,” Adam said, choosing his words carefully.

“Forgive me if, for a moment, I sound like a psychiatrist again.  “Everyone has some notion of what it would take to make him or her perfectly happy. Happiness is frequently denned as that state of contentment which an individual experiences when he or she has satisfied a significant number of personal goals. It’s a sense that one’s life is in balance – an awareness of personal harmony that comes from living out one’s highest aspirations and promises. In short, it’s the conscious attainment of wholeness which thereafter becomes the rock upon which the rest of life can confidently be founded.  ‘Fulfillment’ might be an apt one-word descriptor.”

He broke off, his dark eyes earnestly searching hers, but she turned her gaze away.

“What are you trying to tell me?” she asked.

“If you feel your life is already complete as it is, then your father needs to be assured of the fact,” he replied. “If not, it might set his mind at ease to know that you’re at least aware of what you truly want, and have some notion how to go about getting it.”

He paused to give Ximena a chance to offer comment. When she remained mute, only lowering her eyes, he forced himself to continue.

“Ximena, yesterday you asked me to promise to think only of the present, and I agreed,” he reminded her. “Now I’d like to ask you to change that perspective.  I’d like you to overleap all thoughts of the present and think about the future.”

“How far into the future?” Ximena asked. Her face was pale and her voice strained, and she would not meet his eyes.

“Far enough to put yourself beyond any of the grief you’re no doubt anticipating,” Adam said. “Maybe five years from now. If you could shape that future any way you wanted, where would you like to be, and what would you like to be doing?”

Ximena plucked at a fold of her skirt, still not looking at him. “You’ll have to give me a minute or two to think about that,” she murmured. “You’ve got to understand that for over a year I’ve been teaching myself to take things one day at a time.”

“I understand completely,” Adam said. “Take as long as you want.” He settled down to wait, one arm resting along the back of the pew but not daring to touch her. After a moment, she buried her face in her hands and was motionless for a very long time. When she raised her head at last, she had recovered some measure of her usual composure. She spoke softly, and with great deliberation, as she redirected her attention to Adam’s watchful face.  “My father used to say that building a future for yourself is a bit like designing a house,” she said. “You draw up the plans to meet your expectations, then start in on the construction. Sometimes there are builders’ strikes or shortages of materials, and sometimes you have to modify the plans, but you go on as and when you can.

“The way it looks right now, my future has more than its share of empty rooms,” she said more firmly. “But I know what I’d like to put in them, if I were allowed to have my way.”

“Please go on,” Adam said softly, as she glanced at him for reassurance.  She nodded, her gaze shifting unfocused to a point on the back of the pew before them.

“My career will always be important to me,” she said, “but it isn’t everything and it certainly isn’t enough. Above and beyond the satisfactions of being a doctor, I want to love and be loved in return. I want children to cherish and nurture in celebration of that union. I want the joy of growing old in fond companionship. In other words,” she finished on a softer note, looking up at him beseechingly, “I want you.”

Adam’s heart swelled within him, and his hand shifted to her shoulder. But before he could say anything, Ximena laid a silencing finger tenderly across his lips.

“No, let me finish, darling. This isn’t easy to say, and I don’t want to lose my nerve. I know I’ve caused you no end of frustration in the last year or so, with all my dithering and indecision. At the same time, I guess the fact that you’re here means you don’t intend to hold that against me. With all you’ve put yourself through on my account, you deserve to hear me say that there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to redress the balance – that is, if you think you’re still willing to have me.”

Their eyes met. Ximena’s were bright beyond all shadow of remaining doubt, and answered whatever hesitation Adam himself might have entertained. Only barely containing his joy, he took her hand and turning her palm up, kissed it with a tenderness approaching reverence.

“This is not the setting I imagined,” he told her gravely. “Certainly not the one this moment deserves – but it will have to do.”

In a single fluid movement, he left the bench and sank down on one knee before her, keeping her hand in his.

“We’ve talked about marriage before, but never come directly to the sticking point,” he continued. “Well, I’m coming to the point now. I would give you the sun, the moon, and the stars thrown in, if that would make you happy. Will you marry me?”

Ximena was wavering between laughter and tears. With her free hand she dashed the wetness from her eyes.

“Adam, you dear fool, of course I will!” she exclaimed. “Just tell me when and where.”

Although Dr. Philippa Sinclair was American born and bred, and currently residing in New Hampshire, she had spent more than half of her life in Scotland as the wife of a Scottish laird. Among the British customs she had adopted in the course of her marriage was the time-honored ritual of afternoon tea.  That custom had been introduced as a regular feature at the private psychiatric clinic at which Philippa was chief consultant. On the twenty-second of December, she was taking tea in the parlor with senior members of staff when one of the secretaries poked her head into the room.

“Dr. Sinclair, I have your son on the line. He says he’s ringing from San Francisco.”

“It’s Adam? Good heavens. Put it through to my office, please, Janine.” She had known, of course, that Adam was stateside. He had rung her from his hotel in Houston, primarily to advise her of his safe arrival, but they had also spent some time discussing the situation he expected to encounter when he joined Ximena on the West Coast. En route to her office, as she calculated the time difference between California and New Hampshire, she concluded that something significant must have occurred to warrant Adam’s phoning in the middle of the day.

Her first thought – that Adam was calling to report the death of Ximena’s father – was put to flight the moment she heard her son’s voice, buoyed up with a strange note of excitement that conveyed a wide range of emotion.  “Philippa,” he said, “are you sitting down?”

“No,” his mother said astringently. “Should I be?”

She thought she detected the suppression of a chuckle.

“Quite possibly. I’ve got a fairly important announcement to make.”

“1 see,” Philippa said, groping behind her for her chair. “All right, I’m ready.

Now, what’s your news?”

“I think you’ll find it to your liking,” Adam said with a laugh. “Will you mind terribly if I bring a new Lady Sinclair home to Strathmourne?”

“What? Do you mean – “

“That’s right. Ximena and I are getting married.”

Philippa restrained an undignified impulse to squeal.

“Oh, thank heavens!” she exclaimed. “And about time, too! Have you set a date?” “Ah. That’s partly why I thought I’d better call you as quickly as possible,” Adam replied, on a note of apology. “Do you think you could get out here for Christmas Eve?”

“This Christmas Eve?” Philippa blurted, then made haste to recover herself.  “Probably not without a minor miracle,” she allowed, “but this being a good and worthy cause, I daresay I could probably conjure one up.” “I know. I’m sorry. I know this must seem a bit sudden.” He sounded like a guilty schoolboy – which gave Philippa an absurd twinge of delight.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said airily. “I’ve seen it coming for at least the last year. So far as I can see, the only mystery involved is what took you so long.  That having been said, I hope you’ll forgive me for asking why you’re going ahead so precipitously now?”

Adam’s voice took on a more serious note.

“I’m afraid the rush isn’t intended for our benefit. It seems that, many years ago, Alan Lockhart promised his daughter that he would attend her wedding – and Ximena and I would like to make that possible. He’s already waited far longer than he should have done.”

Philippa’s agile mind was quick to seize the unspoken implications of this disclosure, but she made herself move on to practicalities.  “I see. Holiday air schedules aside, have you considered other important logistics?” she asked. “Blood tests shouldn’t be a problem for two doctors, but this close to Christmas, the license might be.”

“We’ve already decided not to worry about that for now,” Adam replied. “We haven’t the time. Alan Lockhart hasn’t the time. We’ll have a second ceremony when we get back to Scotland. Besides, Christopher will be crushed if he doesn’t get to officiate.”

“Quite so,” Philippa agreed, somewhat taken aback.  “Meanwhile, we’re making arrangements for a small, very intimate ceremony in Alan’s hospital room,” Adam went on. “The chaplain who’s been working with the family has agreed to preside, and to offer a Eucharist, and she’s in full agreement with our reasons for rushing things through and waiving the legalities. Even if the wedding isn’t technically legal, it will be sacramentally valid.”

“Very sensible, under the circumstances,” Philippa concurred, “though that still leaves a great many loose ends to tie up. Professionally speaking, is Ximena quite resigned to giving up her job there in San Francisco?” “It wasn’t her job that brought her back to San Francisco,” Adam reminded his mother quietly, “though she wouldn’t be human if she didn’t have a few regrets.  Fortunately, with her qualifications, she’ll never have any shortage of job offers. I was pleased to learn that she’s kept up her contacts with her old colleagues at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. Apparently most of them would be delighted to have her back, including the head of section. But even if that doesn’t work out, she assures me that she’s still committed to returning to Scotland, once her responsibilities here in San Francisco are discharged.” “You seem to have the larger issues well in hand,” Philippa said, deciding not to pursue the lingering questions centered around Ximena’s father. “Just to give you more to think about, I wonder if you’ve thought about your own obligations back in Scotland. Social obligations, if nothing else. I know you’ve thought about the others.”

“Social obligations’?” Adam said, puzzled.

Philippa clucked her tongue. “Adam, Adam – getting married ought to be one of life’s most memorable experiences, not only for the bride and groom, but also for those who are closest to them,” she pointed out. “You needn’t make any decisions just yet, but speaking as the most senior surviving member of the Sinclair family, 1 would like to see you celebrate the event in a style worthy of your station and equal to a mother’s fondest ambitions.” This declaration earned her a chuckle from her son’s end of the line.  “I see what you’re getting at,” he said. “Did you think I’d make Ximena settle for a registry office wedding?”

“Well, hardly that. You did mention having Christopher preside, and he’ll insist on bells and smells, even if you’d prefer to run away to Gretna Green. Just remember that most little girls dream of a fairy-tale wedding to a handsome prince. If that’s Ximena’s dream, you wouldn’t want to deprive her of it.” “It’s my fondest wish never to deprive her of anything,” Adam replied with a chuckle, “but I’m afraid she will have to settle for a baronet rather than a prince. But never fear: Ximena deserves nothing but the best – and whether she knows it or not, I intend to see that our ‘official’ wedding is no exception.  Since we’ve got to go through the forms a second time in any case, we might as well make the most of the occasion.”

“Then, there will be a splendid party! Excellent!” Philippa exclaimed. “I shall look forward to helping the two of you plan the details. Incidentally, have you given any thought to a ring?”

“Not yet,” Adam admitted.

“Then don’t,” Philippa said. “Unless, of course, you think Ximena would be averse to wearing the sapphire that belonged to my mother.” “The Rhodes sapphire?” Adam was obviously taken with the idea. “Mother, you have me at a loss for words. Thank you. I’ll ask her, but I imagine she’d be delighted to wear it.”

“Then I’ll be sure to bring it with me,” Philippa said crisply. “Being a surgeon, she’ll probably want a plain gold band to go with it, but we can sort that out later. At least you’ve left me twenty-four hours’ grace to get it out of the safe deposit box.”

“I gather this means you approve of the match,” Adam said wryly.  “Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” Philippa countered, and smiled to herself. “If your stars have been slow on the ascendant, my dear, their impending conjunction presages as bright a future as any two people could ever wish for.”

chapter eight

THE Lothian and Borders branch of the Scottish police had its Edinburgh headquarters in a large office block on Fet-tes Avenue. Despite the seasonal garnishes of tinsel and holly scattered throughout the building, Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod was not in a particularly festive mood, thanks to an eight-hour shift spent trying to reduce an accumulated backlog of paperwork. He had nearly cleared his desk and was thinking fondly of going home when there was a sudden, unwelcome knock at his office door. Stifling an inward groan of misgiving, he barked, “Come!”

The door opened, admitting Sergeant Donald Cochrane, one of McLeod’s most promising investigative aides. The younger man was brandishing a piece of fax flimsy in one hand.

“Glad I caught you before you left, sir,” he said. “You remember that tarted-up pink piano that went missing last week?”

Cochrane’s expression indicated that he might just have found it.

“Aye,” McLeod said apprehensively.

“Well, I’ve just taken a call from Sergeant McGuinness over in North Berwick. He thinks he’s found it.”

“He thinks’?’ McLeod muttered testily. “Hell’s teeth, Donald, there couldn’t be two like that! Where is the damned thing?”

“The van turned up in a derelict warehouse,” Cochrane said. “A watchman stumbled on it more or less by accident, and notified the police. When they went to check it out, they found the piano in the back. McGuinness just faxed through the report.”

Rolling his eyes heavenward, McLeod put out his hand.

“I know – crime of the century,” Cochrane said, as McLeod skimmed the details.  “But McGuinness thinks it might tie in with some heavy-duty burglaries in another part of his patch, and he and his lads have locked down the warehouse until the lab can get someone over there to dust for prints. I can handle it, if you want to get on home,” he added, noting his superior’s sour grimace.  Shaking his head, McLeod rose and retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair.

“No, I’ll go. I’ve been cooped up here all day. Besides, you have a pretty young wife at home, and a baby daughter about to experience her first Christmas. You shouldn’t miss that.”

“You’re sure?”

“Aye, off with you. I’ll scare up a print man and get over there as soon as I can – and call Jane to let her know I’ll be late for dinner. Just ring McGuinness before you leave, and tell him he’d better be at the warehouse when we arrive, or I’ll sign it off and he can whistle for his prints. That club owner has been on my back three times a day since the blessed thing was stolen.  With any luck, he may just be able to have it ready for his Christmas Eve opening after all.”

“Will do, Inspector. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” It was after eight o’clock by the time McLeod returned from North Berwick. Back in his office, he was just putting the finishing touches on his report when the telephone rang. This time McLeod did not scruple to curse out loud as he reached for the receiver. But his initial irritation soon lost its edge when the caller introduced himself.

“Inspector McLeod? This is Detective Sergeant Hugh Chis-holm, ringing from Stornoway, Isle of Lewis.” Chisholm’s voice held the soft lilt of the Western Isles. “We’ve not had occasion to speak before, but I believe you’ve worked with my wife’s nephew, Sergeant Callum Kirkpatrick, who works out of Blairgowrie.” McLeod’s stomach did a slow, queasy turn, for Blairgowrie recalled the ritualistic murder of a member of the Hunting Lodge – though that connection had never come to light during the investigation following its discovery. What had emerged was a well-orchestrated campaign to destroy prominent Freemasons, masterminded by a cult of black magicians operating from a secret base in the Cairngorm Mountains. Though Kirk-patrick, himself a Mason, had never learned the full truth behind the murders, he remained high on McLeod’s list of approved contacts. Which meant that Chisholm also was likely to be more than a casual contact.

“Callum Kirkpatrick,” McLeod repeated slowly. “Yes, indeed. I remember him well.  He’s a good man, and a fine police officer. I was impressed with his handling of that Blairgowrie case.” He paused a beat. “I hope you aren’t ringing to tell me you’ve got another one like it?”

“Not exactly,” Chisholm allowed. “But there are some creepy similarities.”

“Are we talking about a murder, Mr. Chisholm?”

“No, no – or at least I don’t think so, though we’re still checking on the human angle. But there certainly appears to have been some kind of ritual sacrifice involving a bull.”

“I think you’d better give me all the details,” McLeod said, reaching for a pen and notepad.

“Right. I don’t suppose you know the stone circle at Cal-lanish?” McLeod had never been to Lewis, but he had read about the Callanish Ring and seen photos.

“Not directly,” he replied, “though it strikes me as a hell of a place for nasty doings.”

“Well, your instincts are dead accurate where that’s concerned.” Quickly Chisholm outlined the case, stressing his own inexperience with such matters.

“We figure it must have happened late last night,” he said thoughtfully. “We can account for at least three vehicles, plus a trailer or horse-box to transport the bull, and maybe six or eight perpetrators. You’d think someone in the village would’ve seen or heard something, but no one’s talking, if they did. You know how local superstition can run in a place like this – and apparently for good reason, in this case. Besides, folk aren’t apt to poke their noses out of doors much past about seven o’clock, this time of year – and the snow and wind would have muffled most sound anyway. The perps sure left an unholy mess, though. There was blood everywhere.”

“Yes, you mentioned something about a ritual sacrifice,” McLeod said, trying to shake off mental images of another secluded, snow-shrouded location drenched in blood, two years before, and a friend and colleague lying dead in the snow.  “Mind telling me exactly what you found?”

A heavy sigh issued from the receiver. “Well, the bull had had its throat cut and its entrails pulled out, and then someone had flayed off the hide, quite expertly. We also found remnants of what looks like a crown of mistletoe and holly. And like I said, there was blood everywhere: daubed on the stones, painted on the ground – “ “Sounds like some kind of divination ceremony,” McLeod said, praying that was all it had been. “What makes you think there might be a murder involved, as well?”

“Well, we found a sleeping bag near the scene, literally saturated with blood,” Chisholm replied. “When we examined the bull hide, it showed signs of somebody maybe having been sewn up inside it, so we’re hoping it’s bull’s blood on the sleeping bag, but we just don’t know yet. We had a man fly the bag over to Grampian Labs in Aberdeen this afternoon, but we won’t have the results until sometime tomorrow. It’d be just our luck to find that some wretched camper has been done in.”

McLeod had been busy jotting down the details as Chisholm relayed them. Now he paused, pen in hand, and scowled at the page before him.  “We’ll hope it doesn’t come to that,” he observed. “Who made the initial discovery?”

“A young chap, name of lolo MacFarlane. He’s a bit of an eccentric, but reliable enough. I’ve known him since he was a wee tad. He’s got a New Age sort of group who style themselves latter-day Druids, and they occasionally stage ceremonies up at the circle – all quite harmless, we thought, at least until now.” “Any chance he could have reported the incident to cover his own group’s activities?” McLeod asked.

“lolo? Not a chance. Like I said, I know him; hell, I know most of his lot. They were slated to do a Winter Solstice ceremony at noon today. Needless to say, that had to be cancelled. No, he went up to the site just after sunrise, planning to start setting up, and immediately roused one of the neighboring villagers – who phoned the station officer up at Carloway, who phoned me in Stornoway when he’d had a look. The rest you know.” Chisholm sounded anything but happy about it, and the inspector couldn’t blame him.

“How are the press reacting?” McLeod asked. “I assume that’s at least part of the reason you called me.”

“Aye, they’ve been sniffing around all day. The Solstice ‘do’ would’ve brought them out in any case, and this was just an added bonus, where they were concerned. It’s hard to keep something like this under wraps on an island this small. I’ve got a man out at the site tonight, but I didn’t want to dismantle too much until I’d talked to you.”

McLeod could sense the incipient request to come in person, but he decided to forestall it for as long as possible.

“How about your neo-Druids?” he asked. “Are they apt to talk, if some reporter buttonholes one of them?”

“I doubt it,” Chisholm replied. “Any publicity connected with this case is apt to be bad, so they’ll want no part of it. They’ve worked hard to keep up a a good public image. I can’t guarantee their silence, of course, but I expect they’ll have the sense to keep their mouths shut.”

McLeod shunted aside the question of press curiosity for the moment in order to focus on more practical matters. “How about the bull?” he asked. “Have you been able to find out where it came from?”

“Not yet,” Chisholm replied, “though I’ve got a man checking that angle. We’ve mostly sheep here on the island, but there are a few farmers who raise cattle, mostly for dairy herds. They’d know who has bulls, but someone could easily have brought one in for last night’s piece of work. Horse-boxes come and go all the time, and no one would notice if a bull was in one.” “And no one’s reported a stolen bull?”

“Not on the island – though it’s early on. Farmers don’t always check their fields every day. I’d hate to think any of our local men might be mixed up in something like this, but the evidence – or rather the lack of evidence – seems to be pointing that way. Unless you have a better suggestion, I intend to press on with this line of inquiry until I get an answer.”

The only alternatives McLeod could think of demanded the exercise of talents beyond the scope of an otherwise competent investigator. Chisholm, meanwhile, was worrying out loud.

“Legally, we’re on uncertain ground here, even if we do find the perps,” he went on. “Unless that turns out to be human blood on the sleeping bag, we’ve only got offenses relating to the defacement of a public monument and violations of various public health statutes. You should have seen the carrion crows flocking around the site by the time we got there.

“At the same time, I don’t like to think of some weird cult setting up operations here in my patch. There’s a degree of depravity at the back of this affair that really puts my hackles up. I know it’s a long way from Edinburgh up to the Hebrides,” Chisholm finished, “and I know it’s a terrible time of year to ask this, but I’d really feel easier in my mind if you could manage to fly up here and examine the site for yourself – and maybe help me deal with the press.” It was the appeal McLeod had known would be forthcoming – and if the Stornoway officer’s instincts were correct, then the sooner a full investigation could be implemented – McLeod mentally emphasized “full” – the better the chances for arresting the evil before it could spread. Chisholm, meanwhile, was still talking.

“I know you can’t get up here tonight,” he said, “but how about tomorrow? I feel really out of my depth, Inspector.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” McLeod told Chisholm. “Leave me a phone number where you can be reached, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve managed to sort out the necessary travel arrangements. I’m going to have to call in a few favors.” “I do appreciate this, Inspector,” Chisholm said, sounding greatly relieved.

“I’ll wait to hear from you.”

The Stornoway policeman rang off with a promise to fax McLeod a copy of the incident report. Returning his telephone receiver to its cradle, McLeod mentally reviewed his assignments for the following day and decided there was nothing on his agenda so urgent that it couldn’t be either delegated or left to lie fallow for a day or two.

Chisholm’s report was waiting for him out in the fax room by the time he finished jotting off a note to Cochrane to cover for him the next day. He read it through once, clipped it to Cochrane’s memo, then ran a finger down his address file to check a number. If Harry Nimmo was available, he was the perfect man for the job. And Peregrine Lovat’s talents would be useful, as well.  The harp notes drifting in from the adjoining room had the light, bell-like clarity of music-box chimes. Pausing to listen, Peregrine recognized the hauntingly beautiful melody of the Hebridean carol known in English as “The Christ Child’s Cradle Song.”

It was one of several pieces Julia had been practicing all week in preparation for her Christmas Eve concert, now only two days away. Peregrine was privately of the opinion that his wife could hardly hope to improve her already-perfect performance, but he was always happy to listen whenever she played.  Shortly after coming to live at the gate lodge, he had converted the smaller of the two upstairs bedrooms into a studio. It was here that he still did most of his painting in the daytime. Whenever he had any additional work to do in the evening, however, especially research, he preferred to do it downstairs in the sitting room, where he could enjoy simultaneously the glowing warmth of an old-fashioned fireplace and the pleasure of his wife’s company.  Just now he was ensconced in one of the armchairs by the hearth with a notebook on his knee and a stack of art history books on the table at his elbow. The local chapter of the Saltire Society had invited him to give a lecture on the history of Scottish portraiture, and having agreed to do it, he was now reviewing the subject by way of advance preparation. His efforts at note-taking were being somewhat hampered by the latest addition to the household, a roly-poly black and white kitten whom Julia had christened Hero. Having had his pencil knocked twice from his hand, Peregrine was attempting to fend off yet another spirited mock attack when the telephone rang.  “I’ll get it!” he called through to Julia.

Surrendering his pencil to Hero, he reached for the receiver. The caller was McLeod.

“What’s your schedule like tomorrow?” the inspector wanted to know.  Peregrine’s intuition went instantly on the alert. “I’ve heard that line before,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Something that warrants our attention,” came the gruff response from the other end of the line. “There’s been an incident up at the Callanish Ring on the Isle of Lewis. A police colleague has paid me the dubious compliment of asking my opinion – at the scene. He’s related by marriage to Callum Kirkpatrick, up at Blairgowrie.”