Lammas Night (53 page)

The chamber was much larger than Graham first had thought—long and narrow, with a barrel-vaulted ceiling nearly lost in shadow, but it had the same heavy feel of that other room in Vogelsang. The air smelled just a little stale; the red-tile floor was not quite damp beneath Dieter's boots. The walls bore the same kind of red, black, and white hangings, but they fell limply in this stillness, the lower edges weighted with a hint of condensation.

No torches guttered on these walls. Instead, squat black candles in holders as high as a man's waist formed a large circle at one end of the vaulted hall. At the center of the circle stood a chair draped with the same red, black, and white of the walls. A few of the men were already gathering around it in expectation.

At some prearranged signal that Graham did not catch, the rest of the men began to congregate inside the circle as well. He flinched with Dieter at the dark chill as they passed between the black candles and took a place in the first row of a triple ring. After a long silence, increasingly oppressive, a door opened at the other end of the hall, and all eyes turned in that direction.

The men who entered were black-robed like the rest, the first two bearing torches whose light somehow did not illuminate the masked faces inside the raised hoods. Behind them, two more half led and half carried a bound and naked figure whose superficial resemblance to William was so startling that Graham's psychic gasp almost provoked a physical reaction from Dieter. The man's arms were lashed cruelly behind his back, but he seemed not to feel the pain his bonds must surely have caused him or to notice his surroundings.

Drugged
, came the reason, as Dieter caught a glimpse of the eyes.

Another man walking behind the sacrifice—for such he surely was—bore a large golden chalice with handles on either side.

Sickened, Graham flashed for an instant on the old photographs, for he knew the man's intended fate, but no reaction came from Dieter. The German's attention was locked firmly on the last two figures in the procession, shocked astonishment growing as the first two entered the circle.

One of the final men was Sturm—the same heavy-set figure, the same casual assurance of motion, the same scar extending below the mask, the same rune-carved dagger held before him as if in salute. It was the other man who caused Dieter to stiffen minutely as he watched, fear mingling with surprise even as a murmur of anticipation and awe rippled among the men surrounding them.

Black-robed and masked like Sturm but not so tall and perhaps a little more lightly built, there was no mistaking the walk, the arrogance of bearing, the mad, hypnotic glitter of the eyes, the telltale mustache that bristled below the mask.

It was the Führer himself!

C
HAPTER
22

In reflex horror, Graham rebounded from the link with Dieter and slammed back into his own body, curling onto his side with a groan and gasping for breath as he struggled to sit up. His eyelids felt like lead as he fought to open them, and even when he succeeded, he kept seeing the hated image in his mind and felt the panic rising.

“What is it?” Alix whispered, seizing his shoulders with a little shake as she turned him around to face her. “Gray, what's happened? Are you all right?”

“He's got Hitler himself in there tonight
!” Graham gasped, his voice harsh and rasping as he tried to bring her into focus. “Goddamn bloody sonofabitch!”

“Who, Dieter?” Selwyn demanded.

“No,
Sturm!
He didn't warn
anybody
in advance. God, I'm no match for Hitler! I can't take
him
on!”

Muttering under his breath, Ellis shouldered the stunned Alix aside and grabbed Graham's wrists, signaling Selwyn to support his back as he forced Graham to recline: Selwyn pulled Graham against his chest, holding him when Graham would have resisted, and Ellis released one wrist to snap his fingers repeatedly in front of Graham's face.

“Gray? Gray, look at me, damn you! Take a breath and pull yourself together!” Ellis ordered, touching him between the eyes when Graham at last tried to comply. “Again!—and once more. Now, tell us exactly what you saw. We haven't much time.”

With another profound heave of his chest, Graham managed to trigger the response he knew Ellis was looking for, abandoining himself to the flood of blessed calm as Ellis's direction interceded. The tension drained out of him so quickly that he was lightheaded for an instant, but at least he got a grip on his panic.

Then he was blinking dazedly and staring at the end of the measure protruding from his fist, sanity and reason restored. The dual reinforcement of Ellis and Selwyn kept him calm even as he conjured up the known but feared face. Richard was kneeling beside him, holding his left hand, and Geoffrey and Audrey also moved in closer around his feet. Graham took another deep breath as his eyes flicked across their faces.

“They're at the Berghof. Hitler's there,” he said haltingly. “There must be—thirty or forty of them, all Hitler's elite—SS and such, besides Sturm's core group. They've got a—a human sacrifice who—looks like William.”

As he shivered despite their support, he felt Selwyn's arms tighten around his shoulders in comfort, his chief's head resting briefly against his own.

“God, I'm sorry, Gray,” Selwyn whispered. “
I
should have been the one. And even Dieter shouldn't have to face
that
alone. Give me the measure. I'll go.”

The offer jolted Graham back to stark reality with a speed that left his head incredibly clear. He was almost calm as he shook his head and clutched the measure more closely to his chest, now thoroughly resigned to what he knew he had to do.

“No, you won't,” he said steadily. “It's my job. We've known all along that it might come to this. And after this afternoon …” He sighed. “I'm willing. It won't be the first time. Tell him for me if I can't, Wesley.”

At Ellis's nod, he glanced beyond to Richard, but before he could even speak, Richard squeezed his hand and nodded solemnly.

“I promise,” Richard said.

With a grateful smile, Graham reached across to touch their joined hands, then, with Richard's help, pulled the sword up to rest in the crook of his left arm.

“We'll be with you, Gray,” he heard Alix whisper. And as he turned to look at her, he saw the tears starting to well.

Slowly, he reached up his right arm and drew her down to him, heedless of Selwyn's presence behind him as their lips met. Abruptly, he knew that Selwyn had always recognized the love he felt for Alix and that it was accepted as part of that perfect bond of love and trust that bound all of them.

Thoroughly at peace now and prepared for whatever might come, Graham let himself sink into the sweet bliss of this one last kiss. He felt the power potentials surge back to their previous levels and beyond as the others settled into rapport once more and the old links fell into place, and he used the energy as a launching point to hurl him back to Dieter. He was hardly aware of hs body, slumping bonelessly back against Selwyn's, as he soared out onto the Second Road again, but he felt the sure support of all of them as he began to focus in on that other place.

William sensed nothing of what was occurring at Oakwood or in Germany. Kneeling still in his Garter stall at Windsor, the prince had spent the past half hour in fervent if fitful prayer: calling on votive patterns learned as a child, using his candle as a focus as he had seen Gray do, trying to keep his mind on visualizing a weak and vacillating Hitler. His attention kept wandering. He quickly realized that there was more than he thought to the mental discipline Gray and those like him seemed to take for granted.

He was disappointed in himself for not being able to concentrate any better than he had but realized the limits imposed by lack of experience over which he had no control. Needing a break from the unaccustomed tension, he sat back in his stall and allowed his mind to wander to more immediate and unsettling thoughts.

Events of the afternoon were the most vivid. Even dismissing the assassination attempt, disturbing enough in its own context, there was still that mind-riveting recall of Becket, at Canterbury, and William's growing perception of what the great archbishop really had been about, in addition to all the pious motives generally ascribed to him by history. Somehow it was not enough only to say that Becket, in addition to his role as martyr for the authority of the Christian church, had also been a sacred victim for the land. Something else was involved that thus far eluded him.

He understood what Michael had been trying to tell him about the essence of the king and the archbishop being linked. Nor was the periodic sacrifice of the sacred king or his substitute any longer a wholly alien concept, the way both Gray and Michael had explained it. Jesus Himself could be seen in that light, after all.

But there had been more to it than that. He knew now that
he
, as Becket, had been the victim in that other life—slain in the place of the king for the good of the land. He had welcomed it, in the end, and had gone to his death with dignity and full awareness of the many-faceted role it had been his privilege to play. But somehow it also mattered that his slayer had been Gray.

Gray. William was quite sure of that now, just as he was sure that Gray knew the Becket dream had been no dream at all but memory of past lives shared between them. Gray had been the leader of those knights in the cathedral—Reginald FitzUrse; the name came, unbidden—personally chosen by Becket to strike the first blow. That had been nearly as much a privilege and honor to FitzUrse as it had been to Becket to die in that manner, William wondered why Gray had tried to deny it. The bond between slain and slayer was an indispensable one, without which there could be no sacrifice. Even Christ could not have been delivered to His glory without His Judas. William understood now why he had always held a soft spot in his heart for the miserable disciple who had betrayed his Lord. There had
been
no betrayal. Judas, too, had been playing his part—an honored and essential, if unappreciated role. And Gray?

William sighed. If he hoped to gain any further insight without Gray to turn to, the only thing he could think to do was to try another regression. The key, he was certain, lay back in that life as Becket. He was not certain he ought to attempt two such operations in the same day or whether he could even get back to Becket again, away from Canterbury and its associations, but the only way to find out was to try. Any qualms he might have had after his difficulty grounding earlier in the day had utterly vanished in light of the even more disturbing notion of himself as sacred victim and Gray as his slayer.

Gingerly, he shifted position and got as comfortable as he could, though the straight-backed choir stalls were hardly designed for ease of body. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on his breathing for several minutes, searching for and finally finding that inner stillness he had learned to associate with trance. It was easier this time.

Going backward was more difficult, especially after his earlier experience, but by remembering Gray's words of guidance and imagining his touch drawing him deeper and more closely centered, he felt his aimless drifting shift to purpose. Abruptly, he hit on the right procedure and found himself hurtling back through time again—though his control was less than sure.

He flashed on Becket and the knight with Gray's eyes, but he could not hold either one. Even further back he went. In a surge of lightheadedness, he came to a halt in a chamber he knew he had never seen before in his current life—but again, the man seated across from him had Gray's eyes.…

The white-washed walls were hung with tapestries. Sunlight streamed through the open window and onto the benches where he and the man sat facing one another, the other wearing a scarlet tunic. He saw a hand he knew was his lift a jeweled goblet and hold it to the sun in salute, the gems catching the light. Then he drank deeply and held it out to his companion. The man flinched as William put the half-drained goblet in his hand.

“Drink thou of the cup. I would not have it pass,” William murmured, in memory studying the man who lowered his eyes over the goblet's rim. “Canst thou not recall the good times between us? Who better should I ask to do me this last service?”

The man with Gray's eyes sighed, staring at their booted feet set toe to toe, then shook his head in resignation and drained the cup in four great gulps. When he had set it upsidedown on the bench beside him, he buried his face in his hands, his breathing harsh in the silence. William gave a sympathetic shrug and sighed, lacing his fingers between his knees.

“Let be, Wat. I know 'tis not an easy burden to accept, but thou knowest the law. For this was I chosen long ago. The cycle must be observed. The succession shall pass in orderly fashion. I have made all the arrangements. Wouldst have some other hand less loving strike the sacred blow?”

“No.” The other man leaned his head against the wall and finally met William's gaze. “I recognize the honor you do me, Lord, and my hand shall not falter when the time comes. It is my mortal heart which aches, heavy in my breast, for I shall miss you. The slayer goes not with the slain.”

“Alas, no.”

Wistfully, William took a long, skin-wrapped bundle from the floor at their feet and laid it beside him on the seat cushion, untying the thongs with steady fingers. Inside were six new crossbow quarrels, the points keen-honed and deadly. Two of these he took out and fondled, testing the sharpness of the barbs against his thumb before holding them out to the man before him.

“To the best shot must go the finest arrows,” he said softly. “I hope that two will be more than sufficient, for I have no more love of suffering than the next man. I rely on thee to do the task with dispatch. This role of God does not come easily, in its ending.”

The man with Gray's eyes took the quarrels and touched callused fingertips to each point, then sighed and saluted with the shafts as if they were a sword.