PORTRAIT OF AN ADEPT

A face began to take shape on the blank page-a lean bearded face, with
deep eyes and a patrician nose above a stern, passionate mouth. The face
was surmounted by a conical helmet of steel over a chain mail coif, in
the style of the late thirteenth century. Adam's own eyes widened as he
realized that Peregrine was seeing him not as he was now, but as the
Knight Templar he had been nearly seven hundred years ago. . . .

1 THE ADEPT SERIES by Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

THE ADEPT

THE LODGE OF THE LYNX THE TEMPLAR TREASURE

DAGGER MAGIC DEATH OF AN ADEPT

2 KATHERINE KURTZ and DEBORAH TURNER HARRIS

ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK

3 If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that
this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed"
to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received
any payment for this "stripped book."

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either

are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously,

and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE ADEPT

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with Bill Fawcett and Associates

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace edition / March 1991

Copyright © 1991 by Bill Fawcett and Associates and Katherine Kurtz.
Cover art by Tom Kidd.

All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced

in any form without permission. The scanning, uploading, and

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Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New
York 10014.

ISBN: 0-441-00343-5

ACE®Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New
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ACE and the "A" design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12

4 For

Betty Ballantine,

who has a special knack

for finding and encouraging new authors.

She bought a first trilogy from each of us,

across a fifteen-year stretch,

and then had the uncommon good sense

to introduce us.

Thanks, Betty!

5 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Sincere thanks are due to the following people who contributed
materially to the realization of this book:

Dr. Richard Oram, for his authoritative advice concerning matters of
medieval Scottish history and archaeology, especially with respect to
early Scottish cartography;

Mr. Kenneth Fraser of the St. Andrews University Research Library, for
his valuable assistance in locating difficult-to-find research materials;

Dr. William Such, for his help in rendering the Greek terminology used
in this book;

Robert Harris, for his help in reviewing the Latin;

Mr. G.H. Forsyth, caretaker; at Melrose Abbey, for his useful
information on the whereabouts of Michael Scot's grave;

And finally, the staff of the St. Andrews Tourist Information Bureau,
especially Mrs. Maggie Pitkethly and Mr. Andrew Purvis, for providing a
wealth of miscellaneous information not to be found in history books.

6 THE ADEPT

7

THE autumn night was clear and sharp, with a bite to the still air that
promised frost before morning. No moon eased the darkness, but the
starlight cast its own faint luminescence over the Scottish countryside.

Partway up the slope of a wooded hill, a black-clad man waited in the
shadow of ancient beech trees, hugging himself against the cold, now and
again flexing black-gloved hands to keep his fingers supple for the work
ahead. Several times in the last half hour, he had peeled back the cuff
of his left glove to peer at the face of a military wristwatch. Now he
did so again. The luminous dial read half past two.

The rear windows of Mossiecairn House were blind and dark. Upstairs, the
last light had gone out some time ago. The old caretaker had long ago
completed his last rounds, and could be expected not to budge again from
his gate lodge until after daylight. The time would never be better.

Smiling slightly, the man in black zipped his leather jacket closer and
pushed a black knitted watch cap up off his ears for better hearing,
flexing his fingers again as he started working his way down the slope.
He covered the distance swiftly, moving with the quiet assurance of a
man well-schooled in night maneuvers, keeping to the shadows. A shallow
burn was crossed by leaping lightly across a string of exposed stones.
He paused for a final precautionary survey of the area before darting
off across the open lawn, finally gaining shelter in the shadow of a
porch over the kitchen entrance.

8 2 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Disarming the house's security alarms presented little challenge to the
man in black. By American standards, Mossiecaim's alarm system was
woefully unsophisticated. Besides, the man in black had been in the
house earlier in the day as a tourist, making note of everything that
was likely to present problems when he returned.

Now he eased his way carefully across the darkened kitchen, lighting his
way with a tiny pocket torch that cast a pencil-thin beam. He spared not
a glance for the shelved candelabra and punch bowls and ice buckets, or
the drawers full of silver flatware, as he passed through the butler's
pantry and into the dining room. Likewise disregarding a valuable tea
service displayed on the dining room table, he made his way swiftly
along the inside wall to the double doors at the other end. There a deft
twist of a lock pick let him into the adjoining library, avoiding the
outer corridor and the electric eyes guarding the doors into it.

Again he paid little attention to the many valuable items on display as
he swept his light around, avoiding the windows. The portraits were
particularly fine, ranging from the Jacobean builder of the house down
to the present owner. The one above the ornate fireplace he had admired
earlier in the day: a Cavalier gentleman in velvets and silks the color
of fine port wine, with a froth of lace at his throat and the curls of a
long, dark wig showing under his plumed hat.

Antique weapons and other military accoutrements studded the walls
between the paintings, and smaller items were displayed under glass in a
series of shallow table cases set along the walls. Rare books occupied a
heavy library table in the center of the room.

The intruder passed them by without a second glance, heading for the
cases flanking the fireplace. Most of the items in the cases were medals
and decorations won by previous occupants of the house, or oddments of
domesticity such as watch fobs and ladies' fans and miniatures painted
on ivory. A few, however, were bits of memorabilia associated with
notables of Scotland's heroic past: Bonnie Dundee or Mary Queen of Scots
or Bonnie Prince Charlie. Noting one silk-tied lock of hair in passing,
cased in a

9

golden locket of breathtaking workmanship, the man in black wondered how
the Stuart pretender had managed to have any hair left at all, by the
time he escaped over the sea of Skye and then took up his sad exile in
France. It reminded him of all the splinters of the true Cross he had
seen over the years-which, if put together, would have made enough
crosses to crucify a dozen Kings of the Jews.

So he supposed the Scots could have their relics too. It mattered not to
him. And the Scottish relic of tonight's interest would bring a pretty sum.

He smiled as he approached its case and shone his light through the
glass, heedless of the Cavalier watching from above the mantel. The
swept-hilt rapier and its scabbard lay on a bed of dark blue velvet,
elegant tributes to the ornate style favored by Italian armorers of the
late sixteenth century. The gold of the hilt and guard was deeply
chased, and gold-washed etching glittered on the blued blade.

The scabbard was a more modest item, executed in Moroccan leather, but
several semiprecious gems flashed discreetly along its length and at the
throat. Between blade and scabbard, creamy white against the dark blue
velvet, a small card carried a terse three-line inscription in an
elegant copperplate hand:

The Hepburn Sword

once owned by Sir Francis Hepburn

the "Wizard Earl" ofBothwell, d. 1624

The man in black breathed a small grunt of satisfaction. Taking the tiny
flashlight in his teeth, he extracted a delicate lock pick from an inner
pocket and probed briefly at the case's lock. When it yielded, he raised
the lid and engaged its stops. The hilt of the sword fit his gloved hand
as if made for it, and he felt a thrill of imagination as he drew the
weapon from the case and tried its balance, sighting along its blade
where the etching caught the torchlight. Why, oh, why had he not been
born a Cavalier?

Only briefly savoring the rush of excitement he felt as he picked up the
sword, the man in black flourished the sword in ironic salute to the
portrait above the marble mantelpiece,

10 4 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

then pulled the scabbard out of the case and sheathed the weapon with
brisk efficiency.

The sword of the Wizard Earl, indeed! Games were well and good, but he
had not been born a Cavalier; and if he lingered long, he might begin to
regret he had ever been born at all. His employer was said to be a most
exacting man, if eccentric in his tastes.

All business again now, the man in black reached inside his jacket and
pulled out a much-folded black nylon duffel bag, long and narrow to suit
his needs. Into its open end he slipped the sheathed sword, pausing to
tie it firmly closed before slinging it over his back.

Then, before closing the case and locking it again, he produced from yet
another pocket a small card similar to the one already there. This one
read: Display Removed for Conservation.

After that, it was simply a matter of retracing his steps. On his way
out, he showed no more interest in any of the other contents of the
museum than he had shown on the way in. Once outside the kitchen door,
he paused briefly to re-arm the security system, but then he faded back
into the shadows up the hill, silent as a whisper, heading for the
shelter of the woods and a service lane behind the house.

His transport was waiting-not the charger that would have been a
Cavalier's steed, but a powerful Japanese-built motorcycle that had seen
him through many an escapade since being assigned to overseas duty. His
imagination transformed the black crash helmet into a tilting helm as he
donned it and wheeled the machine out of the underbrush, giving a strong
push with his weight behind it. As the motorcycle rolled forward,
gathering momentum on the downhill slope, he mounted on the run, letting
the machine coast down the zigzag trail. Only at the foot of the hill,
well out of earshot of the house, did he kick in the engine-and within
minutes was roaring westward up a two-lane country road, into the frosty
Scottish night.

An hour later, after an exhilarating run along the M8 Motorway, the
rider was threading a more sedate course through the sleeping streets of
Glasgow. Following precise instructions, he headed away from the
city-center on a route

11

that eventually brought him into a wilderness of abandoned buildings in
the heart of the docklands of Clydebank. The low rumble of the engine
echoed dully off the cobbles as he drew up outside the gates of a
disused shipyard, going suddenly silent as he cut the ignition.

The man in black removed his helmet. Five minutes passed. The man
glanced at his watch, got off his machine, and began slowly pacing back
and forth, keeping to the shadows. His breath plumed on the frosty,
salt-tinged air, and he stifled a sneeze.

Finally, as he turned in his tracks for the fourth time, his straining
ears picked up the quiet murmur of a powerful car approaching. He
returned to his machine. A moment later, a sleek, dark-colored Mercedes
emerged from a side-alley and came to a smooth halt on the opposite side
of the street.

As the headlamps were extinguished, the dark-tinted windows on the right
side of the car glided down in automated unison. Pale face-blurs of a
driver and a rear passenger showed in the darkness.

Relieved, the motorcyclist set his helmet on the saddle of his bike and
sauntered over to the side of the car. Bending from the waist, he
favored the passenger in the backseat with an ironic salute and drawled,
"Morning, Mr. Rae-burn."

The backseat's occupant acknowledged the greeting with a cool nod. "Good
morning, Sergeant. I believe you have something for me?"

The sergeant pulled a cocky smile, exposing strong white teeth in a face
weathered by years under Texas suns.

"Christmas gets earlier every yeait" he replied. "Just call me Santa
Claus." l

With an exaggerated flourish he unslung the duffel bag he still carried
over his shoulder. The Mercedes' passenger elevated an eyebrow.

"Did you encounter any difficulties?"

The American gave a derisive snort. "Are you kiddin' me? I'd have had
more trouble taking candy from a baby. What folks your side of the
Atlantic don't know about security must cost your insurance people a mint."

As he began methodically unlacing the neck of the duffel

12 6 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

bag, the man in the backseat of the Mercedes watched his every move.

"I trust," said the man, "that you were not tempted to exploit the
situation beyond the terms of our contract?"

His tone was conversational, but there was more than a hint of steel
beneath the silken inquiry. It elicited a sharp glance from the
sergeant, and an almost petulant disclaimer.

"Hey, I got a reputation to maintain!"

The man in the car smiled in chilly satisfaction. "You reassure me.
Reliable help is not always easy to find nowadays."

The American did not bother to acknowledge the comment. As he jerked
open the mouth of the duffel bag and drew forth the sword by its hilt, a
map light came on inside the car. The light glinted off the gold and
cut-steel as he passed it through the open window, point first.

"It's a pretty enough toy, I'll grant you," he remarked, "but I guess
you know you could've had half a dozen fancy swords made for half what
you're paying me to steal this one."

His employer took the Hepburn Sword in both gloved hands, briefly
drawing the blade partway from the scabbard, then sheathed it with a
sigh and laid it carefully across his knees.

"An object's worth is not always to be measured in terms of money," the
man murmured.

The sergeant shrugged. "Whatever you say, Mr. Rae-burn. You're a
collector, and you know what you want. Me, I'm a-an acquisitions agent."
He savored the sound of the title on his tongue. "And us agents do what
we do for the money."

"Of course," said his employer coolly. "You've fulfilled your part of
the agreement. I am now prepared to fulfill mine."

He nodded to his driver in the rearview mirror. The man in the front of
the Mercedes wordlessly reached into the breast of his coat and drew out
a fat leather wallet, handing it through the open window without
comment. The recipient opened it casually and riffled through the thick
sheaf of

13

7

American currency inside, one eyebrow raising in pleased surprise.

"As you see, I have included a small bonus," the man in the backseat said.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Raeburn," the American said with a broad grin. "It's been
a pleasure doing business with you."

"I think I may safely say the same."

The man in the backseat drew the glove from his right hand. A signet
ring set with a blood-red carnelian seal glittered richly on the third
finger as he extended his hand through the open window.

The American accepted the proffered handshake. His employer's clasp was
surprisingly hard. The man in the car gave a savage downward jerk, and
the thief found himself staring into the muzzle of a silencer-one of the
sleek West German ones.

This alone the American had time to grasp, even as the man in the car
pulled the trigger at point-blank range. He never heard the quiet cough
of the first shot, much less the second or third.

His body crumpled to the pavement with a loose-limbed thud as his hand
was released. When he did not move, his killer slipped the silenced
automatic carefully under the seat and signalled his driver to go on.
The sound of the Mercedes' engine turning over was far louder than the
shots had been, but neither raised any ripple of curiosity as the car
crept almost soundlessly out of the Glasgow docklands.

14

IT was not until the following Monday, while waiting for his breakfast,
that Sir Adam Sinclair became aware of the incident in Glasgow. He was
still in riding clothes, having just come in from a brisk, early morning
canter over the grounds of his country estate, not far from Edinburgh.
Sunlight was pouring into the little parlor always called the "honey-bee
room," because of the pale gold pattern of bees and flowers on the
wallpaper, so he shrugged out of his hacking jacket and tossed it over
the back of a nearby settee before pulling out the chair set before the
little table in the wide window bay.

On the table, centered on a snowy tablecloth of fine Irish linen, a
crystal vase of cut chrysanthemums reigned over a single place setting
of antique silver and fine delft breakfast china. On top of his
leather-bound appointment book, the morning edition of The Scotsman lay
neatly folded in its customary place to the right of the china and
cutlery. Adam unfolded it with a sharp flick of the wrist and scanned
the main headlines as he sat down, absently loosening the knot of his tie.

Nothing of major interest had happened over the weekend. The European
Parliament was poised to ratify a new set of air pollution control
standards; a Japanese electronics firm had announced its intention to
open up a manufacturing plant in Dundee; members of the Scottish
Nationalist Party had staged another protest against the poll tax. He
almost missed the item tucked away in the paper's lower lefthand corner:
Body of Alleged Drug Dealer to Be Returned to U.S.

15 10 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Raising an eyebrow, Adam folded down the top half of the paper and
continued reading. As a physician and sometime police consultant, he
tried to keep up with progress-or lack thereof-in the ongoing war
against illegal drugs, but this seemed to be a follow-up to a story he
somehow had missed, toward the end of last week. According to the
article, the body of an American serviceman had been found in a derelict
area of Glasgow's docklands- probably the victim of a drug deal gone
wrong, judging by the execution-style shooting and the amount of money
found on the body.

Given only what was in the article, Adam allowed that the police theory
probably was correct, for drug trafficking, unfortunately, was becoming
more and more a fixture in Scotland's largest city. Still, the thought
crossed his mind, for no rational reason he could fathom, that the case
might not be as open-and-shut as the Glasgow police seemed to think it was.

Further speculation was diverted by the arrival of Humphrey, his butler
and valet of some twenty years' service, bearing a laden silver
breakfast tray.

"Good morning, Humphrey," Adam said easily, lowering the paper as the
butler set down a rack of buttered toast and a steaming porcelain teapot
beside the immaculate breakfast service.

"Good morning, sir. I trust you had a pleasant ride."

"Yes, Humphrey, I did. I rode up by die castle ruins. I was appalled to
discover that there are several small trees growing out of the debris on
top of the first floor vaulting. And the ivy doesn't bear thinking about."

Humphrey gave a subdued chuckle as he poured his master a cup of tea.

"I understand that even the Queen Mother wages a constant war against
ivy, sir," he murmured. "Absolutely hates the stuff. It's said that
weekend guests are apt to be drafted to help pull it down. Perhaps we
might consider the same tactic, here at Strathmourne."

"Hmmm, yes," Adam replied, with a twitch of his newspaper. "Well, I
didn't realize ours had gotten so bad over the summer. I left a message
for MacDonald to get a

16

11

crew up there today, if possible, and start clearing it away. If he
should call, you can confirm that for me. We can't have the thing
collapsing any more, just when I'm intending to start restoring it next
spring."

"Indeed not, sir," Humphrey agreed. "I'll see to it." As the butler
retreated to the kitchen, Adam helped himself to toast and opened the
paper to pages two and three. He skimmed over the first few headlines on
the left-hand page, not paying particularly close attention, until his
gaze was arrested by another item, tucked away in the lower right-hand
column: Antique Sword Goes Missing.

The dark brows raised slightly as Adam bent for a closer look. As a
connoisseur and sometime collector of edged weaponry himself, such an
article never failed to pique his interest. He scanned it once through,
quickly, then turned the paper inside-out and folded it in half to read
the article again, while he sipped his tea, trying to supply what the
article did not say.

Lothian and Borders Police are investigating the disappearance of a
historic sword from the museum in Mossiecairn House, outside Edinburgh.
The sixteenth-century Italian rapier, known as the "Hepbum Sword," has
long been associated with Sir Francis Hepburn, the fifth Earl of Both
well, who died in 1624. The sword is presumed stolen, but the actual
date of the theft is uncertain. Its disappearance was not noticed for
several days, owing to confusion on the part of museum staff, who were
under the impression that the weapon had been removed from its case for
cleaning. The sword is valued at approximately £2000. A reward is
offered for information leading to its recovery. . . .

Adam sat back in his chair, lips pursed, dark brows drawn together in a
deep frown. Though he told himself that his interest came of the subject
matter in general, some sixth sense insisted that this story almost
certainly reflected more than met the eye. Taking a pen from beside his
appointment book, he drew a circle around the entire article. Then he
reached around behind him and leaned back in his chair to snare the
telephone off a side-table next to the settee.

17 12 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

The number of the Lothian and Borders Police in Edinburgh was a familiar
one. He dialled swiftly, identified himself, and asked to speak with
Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod. There was a short delay while the
police operator transferred the call to Press Liaison. Then a familiar,
bass voice rumbled in his ear.

"Is that you, Sir Adam? Good morning. What can I do for you?"

"Good morning, Noel. I've just been casting my eye over the morning
paper. If you've got a moment, I'd like a word with you concerning one
of the items on page two of The Scotsman."

"Oh, aye?" The voice on the other end of the line sounded anything but
surprised. "I suppose that'll be the piece about the Hepburn Sword."

"You seem quite certain it wasn't the report on the latest sighting of
the Loch Ness Monster," Adam said, smiling.

"Monster sightings," said McLeod, "are five pence a dozen. And you
wouldn't be phoning me, you'd be phoning the constabulary up at
Inverness. On the other hand, the theft of a sword that once belonged to
Sir Francis Hepburn might well be of interest to you-given the good
earl's reputation."

"As a wizard?" Adam replied, careful to phrase his next words with
suitable ambiguity, just in case anyone should chance to listen in. "I
know of no reason," he said ingenuously, "to dispute with tradition on
that account."

There was just the slightest of hesitations on the other end of the
line, before McLeod replied, "I see."

"As a collector of edged weaponry myself," Adam went on, "I was
disappointed that the newspaper account was so thin on detail. It's a
beautiful sword. Can you supply any additional information?"

McLeod made a noise between a growl and a snort, back now on more
neutral ground.

"I wish I could," he said. "We've got two good men assigned to the case,
but they've not got much to show for their pains. One thing's for
certain: it wasn't a conventional theft. Nothing else in the place was
lifted-not so much as a silver spoon."

18

13

"Which means," Adam replied, "that the thief was after the sword, and
that alone. Was it an amateur job?"

"Most definitely not," McLeod said emphatically. "Quite the reverse. Our
jolly thief disarmed the security alarms at the back of the house and
then avoided the hall sensors by going through the dining room and
picking the lock on the connecting doors. We figure he must have visited
the house at least once to case it, so we're following that lead, to see
if any of the staff remembers anyone suspicious."

His sigh conveyed a world of exasperation.

"Unfortunately, I doubt any of this will come to anything. We're not
even certain when the theft occurred, because our boy left a sign in the
case: Display Removed for Conservation. Oh, he was clever, this one.
Needless to say, we didn't find any prints."

"In other words," said Adam, "you haven't any leads."

"Not one worth a wooden ha'penny," came the tart reply. "We'll just have
to keep our eyes open, and hope for a break. It's possible the sword
will turn up eventually in one of the auction rooms or arms fairs-though
I doubt it. The case has all the earmarks of a contract acquisition for
some collector who fancies items with odd provenances."

"Hmmm, as a collector with similar proclivities, I would tend to agree,"
Adam said, "-though you can rest easy, Noel," he hastened to add,
smiling. "/ haven't got your sword!"

McLeod's easy chuckle left no doubt that the inspector had never even
considered such a notion.

"It would help if we had some idea what kind of person might go after an
item like the Hepburn Sword," McLeod said. "As a psychiatrist as well as
a collector, would you care to speculate?"

It was an unofficial way of inviting Adam to tender an opinion-and to
articulate an idea that probably had already occurred to the canny
McLeod, though he would never dare to admit it in any official capacity.

"Well," Adam said, again choosing his words carefully, "I believe we can
rule out a simple profit motive. A £2000 sword simply isn't worth the
effort and expertise it took to

19 14 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

evade the security system and steal it. The fact that nothing else is
missing would tend to support that theory. This means that the thief was
after this specific sword."

"Aye," McLeod agreed.

"So we must ask ourselves, what sort of a person would want this
particular sword?" Adam went on. "It isn't especially unique for its
kind; I have several similar blades in my collection, some of them
previously owned by men far more historically important than the Earl of
Bothwell.

"So it has to be something else about the sword's past. What else do we
know? It belonged to the Wizard Earl of Bothwell. I shouldn't want this
to be taken wrong, Noel, but it is not inconceivable that the thief-or
someone for whom he is acting-is someone who believes that the sword is
imbued with some measure of the powers ascribed to its former owner."

"Now there's an interesting thought," McLeod said. The tone of this
noncommittal reply made it quite clear to Adam that the other man was
well aware of the Wizard Earl's legendary fame as a necromancer.

"Assuming less esoteric motives, however," McLeod continued blandly, "I
think I'll still have my chaps keep an eye on the auction rooms and arms
fairs."

"That's what / would do," Adam agreed.

McLeod snorted. "Somehow I figured you would! Meanwhile, if some poor
sod turns up impaled on Francis Hepburn's blade, in culmination of some
satanic rite, I'll be sure to let you know before the press get wind of it."

"Thank you," Adam said drily. "I'd appreciate that." He pushed the
newspaper aside thoughtfully. "Oh, there was one other item I wanted to
ask you about, since I've got you on the line. I don't suppose you've
formulated any personal theories concerning that American serviceman who
turned up dead in Glasgow?"

"No. I was just relieved that he didn't turn up dead in my
jurisdiction," McLeod said baldly. "The Glasgow police have been getting
a hell of a row from the people at the Home Office, who have been
getting a hell of a row from the American embassy-" He broke off
abruptly. "Do you

20

15

think there might be some connection between the two cases?"

"I don't know," said Adam. "I was merely wondering."

"That," said McLeod, "is anything but reassuring. Whenever you start
wondering, I know it's only a matter of time before something happens
that I'm going to have trouble explaining to the satisfaction of the media."

Adam allowed himself a companionable chuckle. "I am sorry, Noel. If this
case produces any unusual complications, you know you can count on my help."

"Oh, aye," came the gruff reply. "But as they say somewhere or other: I
knew the job was dangerous. Anyway, I've got another bloody phone
ringing. Call me if anything else occurs to you, all right?"

"You know I will."

With this assurance, Adam rang off and resumed his breakfast, thinking
about the Hepburn Sword. He was just finishing his second cup of tea,
and thumbing through his day's appointments, when Humphrey reappeared
with the morning's post on a silver tray.

Adam accepted the stack of mail with a murmur of thanks and gave it a
cursory riffle, then set it aside and handed Humphrey the front section
of The Scotsman.

"I've circled an article on page two. I'd be obliged if you'd file it
for me. We may have occasion to refer to it again."

"I understand, sir." Humphrey folded the paper and tucked it neatly
under his arm before casting an eye over the table. "Are you quite
finished here, sir?"

Adam nodded, rising as he gave a glance to his watch. "Yes, I am. Good
Lord, where does the time go? I want to call in at Kintoul House before
I head into Edinburgh."

Humphrey paused in the act of clearing the table, his expression all at
once one of concern. "Nothing wrong with Lady Laura, I hope, sir?"

Adam grimaced. "I don't know yet, Humphrey. I won't know until I see
her. Incidentally, did you remember that I'm dining with the Bishop of
Saint Andrew's tonight?"

"Of course, sir. I've laid out your dark grey suit, and there's a fresh
shirt in your briefcase."

21 16 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

"Perfect!" Adam said with a grin, pulling off his tie as he headed for
the stairs. "If anyone wants me, then, you know where I'll be. Oh, and
if Inspector McLeod should happen to ring after I've left the hospital,
tell him where I'm dining, and that I'll get back with him directly."

"Very good, sir," said Humphrey. "I'll attend to everything."

22

A SCANT twenty minutes later, freshly showered and xVshaved, Adam
emerged from his private apartments, riding clothes replaced by the
crisp white shirt and formal three-piece suit that are the uniform of
the medical profession.

The images that kept pace with him in the mirrors that lined the entry
hall of Strathmourne House were those of a tall, dark-haired man in his
vigorous forties, who moved with the purposeful air of one to whom time
is always precious and in all too short supply. He had been a fencer and
a promising dressage rider in his younger days, before the allure of
medicine and other pursuits turned his energies to different priorities.
The grace and suppleness required to excel at either sport persisted in
an elegance of carriage that could not be taught, only inborn. The
silver at his temples softened a patrician profile that, in other men,
might have been regarded as severe.

Yet any severity of temperament was that of a man who expects more of
himself than of anyone else around him. And it was compassion that
tempered the air of brilliant intensity that Adam Sinclair wore as
naturally as he wore his clothes. Even in unguarded moments of
relaxation, the dark eyes promised the smouldering potential of a banked
peat fire-a glow that could kindle spontaneously into comforting warmth
or, more rarely, flare into sudden, formidable anger. The latter
instances were rare, indeed, and usually balanced by a dry wit that
could defuse nearly any taut situation.

23 18 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

His sense of humor came through now, as he passed from the hall into the
vestibule. Outside, Humphrey had brought up the sedate and conservative
blue Range Rover that Adam usually took into the city when he drove
himself, and was waiting to hand him trenchcoat, hat, and briefcase; but
as the day was promising to be fine, Adam shook his head as he emerged,
heading for the garage instead.

"I've changed my mind, Humphrey," he said, bidding him toss case, coat,
and hat under the tonneau cover of a dark blue XJ-S convertible, a
recent and prized acquisition. "It's a perfect day for the Jag. If I get
out of Jordanburn on time, it should still be light when I drive up to
Perth. I don't believe the bishop's seen this beauty yet. If he's very
respectful, I may even let him drive her before dinner."

Humphrey chuckled as he helped Adam zip back the tonneau cover on the
driver's side and tuck it behind the leather seat.

"The bishop should enjoy that, sir."

"Yes, he should. She's a very fine motorcar." He grinned as he slid
behind the wheel and began pulling on driving gloves.

"Then, after I have eaten his food and drunk his very fine port-and so
that he shan't feel totally deprived-I shall hand him a rather
substantial cheque for the cathedral fabric fund. I believe Saint
Ninian's could do with some roof work."

"Can you name me a cathedral that couldn't, sir?" Humphrey replied with
an answering smile, as Adam turned the key in the ignition and the
powerful engine roared to life.

Soon he was easing the big car out the stableyard gate and down the
tree-lined avenue, bare-headed under the sun, enjoying the breeze in his
hair. The copper beeches were at their very best on this mid-October
day, and as he turned the first curve, the gothic front of Strathmourne
vanished from his rearview mirror in a sea of flame-colored leaves.

He kept his speed down as he threaded past a row of cottages belonging
to the estate. Beyond the houses, the fields were patch worked brown and
gold, dotted with circular bales of new-mown hay. Up on the high ground,

24

19

one of Adam's three tenant farmers was ploughing up the soil in
preparation for sowing a winter crop of barley. A cloud of white birds
circled in the wake of the plough, screeching and diving for grubs and
worms in the newly turned earth.

Nearly a mile from the house, the drive passed through a second set of
gates, usually left open, and gave onto a good but narrow secondary
road. Adam turned left rather than going right toward Edinburgh, winding
along a series of "B" roads until at last he approached the main
entrance to the Kintoul estate, marked by the distinctive blue-and-white
sign bearing the stylized symbol of a castle.

Gravel hissed under the tires as he nosed the Jag under the arch of the
stone-built gate house and on down the long avenue. The autumn color at
Kintoul-the fiery shades that were Lady Laura's favorites-was as
spectacular as that at Strathmourne, and as Adam continued toward the
house, he found himself wondering again why he had been summoned.

Since he had known Lady Laura since boyhood, there were any number of
possibilities, of course, both professional and personal. He had
received her brief note just before the weekend, enjoining him to come
up to Kintoul on Monday. The tone had been casual and witty, as was
Laura's usual wont, but Adam had been left with the lingering impression
that the invitation was issued to some unstated purpose besides the mere
pleasure of his company. He had phoned Kintoul House the same morning,
but Lady Laura firmly declined his offer to come sooner. This
strengthened Adam's suspicion that she had chosen this particular day
for a reason.

Beyond the gatehouse, the dense plantation shortly gave way to rolling
pastures, finally affording Adam a glimpse of the great, sprawling pile
that was Kintoul House. Seen from a distance, it presented a fairy-tale
silhouette of towers, turrets, and battlements, the rugged roughness of
its ancient stone work overlaid with silver-white harling. The corbels
supporting the parapets, like the timbers framing the windows, were
painted a smoky shade of grey that matched the slates covering the
rooftops. The bright blue and white of

25 20 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Scotland's national standard-the Saint Andrew's flag or, more
familiarly, the "blue blanket"-fluttered from a staff atop one of the
highest turrets, but the Kintoul banner was not in evidence, indicating
that the Earl of Kintoul, Lady Laura's oldest son, was not at home.

This did not surprise Adam, for Kintoul, like many historic houses in
Scotland, had become as much a museum and showplace as it was a
residence. In the summertime, the earl opened the grounds and twelve of
its twenty-eight rooms to public view. It was a matter of economics.
Everything was still well maintained; but picnic tables, a visitor
center, and a children's playground now occupied a stretch of lawn that
formerly had been reserved for croquet and badminton. It saddened Adam,
in a way, but it was better than having historic properties like Kintoul
turned into hotels, or broken up for conversion into flats. He hoped he
could spare Strathmourne that fate.

Remembering shuttlecocks and croquet hoops and the summer days of a
childhood now long past, Adam carried on past the visitors' car park,
all but deserted now that the tourist season was nearly over. A paved
extension to the public drive took him through a gateway and around the
eastern end of the house into a smaller parking area adjoining the
family's private entrance.

He parked the Jaguar next to a car he did not remember having seen at
Kintoul House before: a Morris Minor Traveller, with dark green
paintwork and recently refinished timber on the sides. The backseat had
been folded down to accommodate several large canvases, all of them
blank so far as Adam could see. As he took off his gloves and briefly
ran a comb through his hair, he wondered briefly who the owner might be,
but he put the curiosity aside as he mounted the steps to the Kintoul
side door.

The bell was answered by a liveried manservant Adam had never seen
before. As he conducted Adam into the vestibule, they were joined by
Anna Irvine, Lady Laura's personal maid and sometime secretary.

"Sir Adam, it's good to see you," she said, welcoming him with a strong
handshake and a smile that was tinged

26

21

with worry. "Her ladyship is in the long gallery. I'll take you to her,
if you'll just follow me."

The gallery ran the full length of the north wing-a narrow, chilly
chamber, more like a hallway than a room. A handsome Persian carpet
stretched along its length, boldly patterned in rose and peacock blue,
but because it was little used as a living area, the furniture consisted
mainly of a row of delicate, spindle-legged chairs arranged along the
interior wall, interrupted by the occasional sideboard or hall table. In
its heyday, the gallery had been intended to provide the occupants of
the house with space for indoor exercise during times of inclement
weather. Nowadays, it served mainly as a corridor connecting the other
reception rooms on the ground floor, except when summer visitors came to
view the Kintoul collection of family portraits.

Today, however, the far end of the gallery had been transformed into
something resembling a stage set. As they approached it, Adam recognized
several pieces of furniture from other parts of the house-a settee, a
wing-backed chair, an ornamental screen-brought together to create the
illusion of a much smaller room. Set in profile in the midst of this
artificial setting, regal as a porcelain costume doll, stood a pert,
elderly woman in a floor-length white ballgown. A length of tartan sash
was brooched to one shoulder and across her breast, its silken fringes
bright against the gown's brocade, and a diamond tiara glittered like a
crown of ice crystals on her soft, upswept white hair.

As the maid led Adam nearer, he saw that a large canvas had been mounted
on a tall standing easel positioned a few yards back from the composed
little scene. He caught the piney smell of turpentine, and then just a
glimpse of someone moving behind the easel. Before he could gain any
clear impression of the artist, the woman in the tiara turned her head
and saw him, her face lighting in a delighted smile.

"Adam! My dear!" she called. "Stay where you are, and I'll be right with
you."

With an apologetic wave in the direction of the artist, she abandoned
her pose in front of the screen and came eagerly down the gallery to
meet him. Watching her with the critical eye of a physician, Adam was
reassured to see no signs of

27 22 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

weakness or hesitation in her bearing. She held out two thin,
blue-veined hands to him as the distance between them closed. Adam bent
down as he took them, and received a swift, motherly kiss on one cheek.

"Adam, I can't tell you how delighted I am to see you," Lady Laura said,
as he, in turn, kissed both her hands. "It was so good of you to come."

"Did you really think I could ignore an invitation from my favorite
lady?" he said with a smile. Then his expression sobered. "How are you,
my dear?"

Lady Laura dismissed the question with a small shrug, also waving
dismissal to the maid.

"I'm as well as can possibly be expected, given the conditions of my
age," she said easily. "Never mind me. How are you getting on, with your
latest covey of student-doctors?"

"Not too badly-though life would be much simpler if I could persuade mem
not to go haring off after every new theory that comes along, with nary
a second thought for common sense." He gave her a rueful grin. "There
are days when I feel strongly akin to a sheepdog."

"Ah, and you know you love it!" she scoffed, with a knowing twinkle in
her eyes.

"Yes, I suppose I do, or I wouldn't keep at it." Adam stood back and
surveyed his hostess appraisingly. "But you-Laura, you look positively
splendid in all your regalia! You really ought to have your portrait
painted more often."

"Perish the thought!" The Dowager Countess of Kintoul rolled her china
blue eyes in mild dismay. "This is only my second sitting-or standing,
as I suppose I should say-and I assure you that the novelty of the whole
experience is already beginning to wear quite thin. I can only hope that
Peregrine won't insist on too many refinements."

"Peregrine?" Adam cocked his head in new interest. "That wouldn't be
Peregrine Lovat, would it?"

"Why, yes," Lady Laura replied, looking quite pleased with herself. "May
I take it that you've seen his work?"

"Indeed, I have," Adam said. "Some of his portraits were hanging at the
Royal Scottish Academy, the last time

28

23

I went. I was quite impressed. There was a luminance to his style, an
artistic insight-one almost had the impression that he was painting more
about his subject than would be visible to the naked eye. I should very
much like to meet the man himself."

"I'm very pleased to hear you say that," she said, "because I should
very much like him to meet you, too."

This candid disclosure earned her a penetrating look from her visitor.

"I don't suppose that would be the reason you asked me here today?"

Biting at her lower lip, Lady Laura breathed a long sigh and averted her
eyes.

"I think he needs your help, Adam," she said quietly, linking her arm in
his and leading him farther out of possible earshot of their subject.
"Perhaps I've no business meddling, but-Peregrine is more than a casual
acquaintance. You probably don't remember, but he was a friend of
Alasdair's. They met at Cambridge. Alasdair used to bring him up to the
lodge at Ballater for the salmon fishing- before the accident."

Encouraged by Adam's attentive silence, Lady Laura continued. Alasdair
had been her youngest and favorite son.

"Peregrine was away painting in Vienna when it happened," she went on a
bit more strongly, "but he came home for the funeral. That was the last
I saw of him for quite some time, though he wrote regularly to let me
know where he was and how he was doing. At times, I almost felt I had a
replacement son.

"So you can imagine my delight when I learned he'd rented a studio in
Edinburgh," she went on brightly. "I immediately invited him to come up
and paint the children. He drove up the following week to do the
preliminary sketches. If I-hadn't arranged the meeting in the first
place, I hardly would have recognized him."

She made a show of studying one of the tassels on the front edge of her
plaid. "He was always rather a quiet boy," she went on more slowly,
"with more reserve, perhaps, than was strictly good for him. But he had
quite a charming smile when he forgot to be serious. And now-now he

29 24 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

hardly seems to have anylife in him at all. It's almost as if he-wants
to cut himself off from the rest of the world. And if someone doesn't
come to his rescue soon," she finished bleakly, "I'm afraid he might
very well succeed."

As she raised her eyes to meet Adam's at last, her expression was one of
mute appeal. Adam gave her frail hand a comforting squeeze.

"Whatever else may be said about this young man of yours," he said with
a gentle smile, "he is fortunate in his friends. Why don't you come and
help us make one another's acquaintance?"

Peregrine Lovat was standing behind the easel as they approached,
nervously dabbing at a palette with a brush whose end was well chewed.
Every line of his body suggested tension. Seen at close range, he was a
classically attractive young man of middling height, apparently in his
late twenties or early thirties, with fine bones and shapely,
strong-fingered hands. Fair-skinned and fair-haired, he was meticulously
attired in light-weight wool trousers and a vee-neck cashmere sweater,
both in muted shades of grey. The sleeves of the sweater had been pushed
up, the cuffs of the ivory shirt turned back neatly. The silk tie
knotted precisely at his throat proclaimed his Oxford connection, and
permitted no allowance for relaxation, even when he was working. His
oval face and symmetrical features might have provided a study for da
Vinci, except for the gold wire-framed spectacles riding on the bridge
of his nose. The large lenses made it difficult to read the color of his
eyes.

As Lady Laura embarked on the necessary introductions, Adam set himself
to refining his initial impression, going beyond mere physical
appearance. What he saw at a second, more searching glance lent
substance to the fears the countess had expressed on Lovat's behalf.

Everything about the younger man suggested a state of acute emotional
repression. The thick, bronze-pale hair had been barbered to the point
of ruthlessness at sides and back, and the chilly monochrome of his
attire only served to leach any remaining color from a face already pale
and drawn, thinner than it should have been. The line of the
tight-lipped mouth was strained and unsmiling.

30

25

Lady Laura's voice recalled Adam from his impromptu assessment. She was
speaking, he realized, to the artist.

"Adam's a psychiatrist, Peregrine, but don't let that put you off," she
was saying. "He's also an old and dear friend-and an admirer of your work."

"I am, indeed, Mr. Lovat," Adam said, smoothly picking up his cue. "I'm
very pleased to meet you."

He smiled and offered a handshake, but he was not surprised when
Peregrine found a way to avoid it.

"Forgive me, Sir Adam," the younger man murmured, nervously displaying a
set of paint-smudged fingers. "I'm afraid I'm in no fit state to return
your courtesy."

With this tight-lipped apology, he retreated to the work-table next to
the easel and began wiping his hands on a linen paint-rag. His fingers
were not entirely steady. When Adam moved a step closer, as though to
view the work in progress on the easel, Peregrine reached out and
hastily flicked a flap of cream-colored hessian over the partly-finished
canvas.

"No matter, Mr. Lovat," Adam said, affecting not to notice. "I apologize
if I've interrupted your work. Judging by what I've been privileged to
see in the past, you have a rare talent for portraiture. I was
particularly taken by your study of Lady Douglas-McKay and her two
children. In my opinion, it was one of the finest pieces in this year's
RSA exhibition."

Peregrine shot Adam a fleeting, almost furtive glance from under lowered
lids, then pointedly returned his attention to the brush he had started
cleaning.

"I'm obliged to you for the compliment, sir," he mumbled stiffly.

"Your handling of children as subjects is particularly masterful," Adam
continued calmly. "I was visiting the Gordon-Scotts only last week, and
couldn't help but notice your recent portrait of their son and daughter.
I knew it for your work even without seeing the signature. Your gift for
capturing the spirit behind each face you paint is really quite
distinctive."

The younger man murmured an incoherent phrase that might have been
self-deprecation and put aside his paint rag. He glanced at Adam again,
then abruptly took off his

31 26 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

glasses and scowled at them as though dissatisfied. Out from behind the
glasses, his eyes were a dull shade of hazel, with dark hollows
underscoring them.

"Now, Adam," Lady Laura said abruptly, from behind them, "if you and
Peregrine are going to debate the relative merits of artistic technique,
I'm sure we can do it far more comfortably somewhere other than this
draughty hall. If the pair of you will excuse me, I'll go tell Anna to
have coffee sent up to the morning room."

She was gone before Peregrine could raise an objection- and Adam was not
about to lose the opportunity she had created. The artist hastily put
his glasses back on and followed the countess' departure with eyes that
held an expression akin to numb desperation. Adam wondered why.

"Well, as ever, Lady Laura is a very perceptive and practical woman,"
Adam said amiably, affecting to rub his hands together against the
chill. "Coffee would be most welcome, just about now. I'm surprised your
fingers aren't too stiff to paint. May I?"

Before Peregrine could prevent him, Adam crossed to the easel in two
easy strides and was reaching for the hessian drop-curtain. The
smoothness of the sudden movement caught Peregrine completely off guard,
and he instinctively reached out a hand as if to grasp at Adam's sleeve,
only recollecting himself at the last moment.

"No-please!" he protested, his hand fluttering helplessly to his side as
Adam started to lift an edge of the cloth. "I'd-really rather that you
didn't-I mean, I don't like anyone to see my work before it's properly
finished-"

Adam gave the younger man a sudden, piercing look. It stopped Peregrine
in his tracks, his voice subsiding abruptly into silence. Adam returned
his gaze to the canvas. With studied deliberation, he lifted aside the
hessian drop so that the painting beneath was exposed to full view.

The canvas was an almost surreal fusion of scenes that might have been
taken from two totally different pictures. Adam knew the three Kintoul
grandchildren. In the foreground, Walter, Marjory, and Peter Michael
gazed happily out at the world with bright, laughing eyes. Their portion
of the canvas was vividly aglow with warmth, life, and color.

32

27

The expression of mischievous innocence in young Peter's round face
elicited an involuntary smile from Adam. The smile died as his eyes
travelled upward to take in the other half of the portrait.

The graceful figure presiding in the background was that of Lady Laura.
The likeness was faultless, but where the children's forms were bright
and solid, Lady Laura's was pale and insubstantial, like an image
printed on water. The expression in the eyes was sweet and sad, the
mouth wistful as a word of farewell. The scene glimpsed through the
window behind her was of a white winter garden sleeping under a blanket
of fallen snow.

Adam stared at the painting for a long moment in unbroken silence. Then
he released the curtain so that it settled gently back over the canvas.

"Now I understand," he said softly, still facing the painting. "You see
it. Don't you?"

Behind him, Peregrine gave a small strangled gasp. Surprised, Adam
turned to look him squarely in the face. Behind the wired lenses, the
younger man's eyes were full of pain and bewilderment. Quite clearly,
Peregrine Lovat had no idea what had prompted him to paint what he had
painted.

"I am sorry," Adam said softly, his own dark eyes softening with
compassion. "I see now that you didn't actually know. But yes, she is
dying, Mr. Lovat. I doubt if half a dozen people in this world know-and
she doesn't want them to-but you can see it. Or rather," he finished
quietly, "you can't help but see it."

Peregrine's gaze widened. He took two steps backward, then halted,
visibly shivering. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.

"My dear boy, it's all right," Adam murmured. "There are many ways of
seeing; some of them are tantamount to knowing. This faculty of yours is
a gift, not a curse, You can learn to use it, rather than letting it use
you."

Peregrine made a small, defensive gesture with trembling hands and
swallowed hard. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said hoarsely.

"No, it's clear that you don't-at least not now," Adam

33 28 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

agreed. "But for your own sake, I hope you'll at least consider what
I've just said."

A small stir at the eastern end of the gallery prevented either of them
from saying more. Lady Laura's maid soon joined them to announce that
coffee was now ready, up in the morning room, where the countess was
waiting to receive them. Peregrine excused himself from accompanying
Adam, claiming that he would follow as soon as he had a chance to wash
his hands. Adam made no demur, but went on to the morning room alone,
leaving the younger man to regain at least some semblance of composure.

The morning room, in contrast with the more formal gallery, was
cheerfully done up in sunny shades of gold and leafy green. Adam arrived
to find Lady Laura comfortably ensconced on a chintz-covered sofa before
the fireplace, where a log fire crackled cheerily. A matching chair
faced the sofa across a small table holding the coffee service.

"A most interesting young man," he said in response to her inquiring
look, as he sat down beside her. "You were right to bring him to my
attention."

"Will he be all right?" she asked, clearly still worried. "Adam, what's
wrong with him? Do you know?"

Adam patted her hand and smiled reassuringly. "On such a short contact,
I can only make an educated guess, but I believe I've given him
something to think about. Let's just wait and see, shall we?"

Peregrine seemed uneasy and rigidly self-contained when he joined them a
few minutes later, though the monochromatic grey now was broken by a
smart navy blazer with shiny gold buttons. He accepted a cup of coffee
from Lady Laura and sat down across from her, but he declined anything
to eat. Reassured by a look from Adam, Lady Laura smoothly took command
of further conversation, embarking on a series of comic anecdotes
revolving around some of the more eccentric characters represented in
the family portrait gallery. Presently Adam set aside his cup and saucer
and consulted a handsome silver pocket watch.

"Ah, do forgive me, Laura, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to run," he
said, slipping the watch back into a vest pocket. "I'm expected on
rounds in half an hour, and

34

29

goodness knows what new flights of speculation will lure our fine
student-doctors off in all directions, if I'm not there to supervise.
Sometimes I wish that psychiatry was a more exact science."

"You're forgiven, my dear," Laura said, smiling. "Far be it from me to
monopolize your time at the expense of your duty."

Adam stood up smoothly. "The temptation to linger," he said with a
laugh, "is by no means inconsiderable. Thank you very much for the
coffee. If I may, I'll try to call round again on Wednesday."

"You know you're welcome any time," she replied, turning her cheek for
his kiss. "Thank you for coming, Adam."

"The pleasure was all mine, dear lady."

He turned to Peregrine, sitting withdrawn and silent on the other side
of the little table.

"And Mr. Lovat," he continued, "I'm very happy to have made your
acquaintance." Then he reached into the inside breast pocket of his coat
for a monogrammed card case.

"Here's my card," he told Peregrine, handing one across. "Please feel
free to call upon me in the near future. After what I've seen today, I
should like very much to discuss the possibility of your painting my
portrait."

35

THE next two days passed without hearing anything from Peregrine Lovat.
On Wednesday afternoon, Adam returned to Kintoul House for his promised
visit. To his surprise, Peregrine Lovat was not there. After satisfying
himself that Lady Laura was in good spirits and reasonably comfortable,
Adam inquired after the young man.

"I can't really say, Adam," she said, sipping tea with him in the
morning room. "He didn't show up yesterday; and then he rang me this
morning to say that something had come up with an agent from some
gallery in London. If I didn't know better, I would accuse you of having
frightened him away."

"Well, he's certainly frightened," Adam agreed soberly. "Unfortunately,
there isn't a great deal I can do to help him until he becomes more
afraid of himself than he is of me."

He turned the conversation to other subjects after that, for he did not
want to reveal the reasons for his interest in Peregrine Lovat-not to
Lady Laura Kintoul, whose impending death Peregrine had seen. After
chatting for nearly an hour, and exacting her promise to call if she
should feel the need of him either as a physician or a friend, he took
affectionate leave of her.

In the normal course of things, Adam would have called in to Lady Laura
again on Friday, but on Thursday a bleak autumnal tempest swept in off
the North Sea, bringing blustery gales, torrential rains, and a
spectacular thunderstorm. Within the space of twenty-four hours, the
trees on the northeast flanks of the hills had been stripped bare of

36 32 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

their leaves, the furrows in the fields turned into long ribbons of
standing water. The storm left the air charged, sending several of
Adam's patients at Jordanburn into suicidal depressions. He was kept
busy far beyond his usual clinic hours, helping the staff cope, and
consequently Peregrine Lovat was even farther from his thoughts than
Laura Kintoul.

Professional crises were under control by Saturday morning, however, in
time to embark upon his weekend social obligations as planned. The
weather was still unsettled, but by ten, as Humphrey drove him out of
the car park at Jordanburn and headed west, the sky to the north hinted
of a possible clearing later on. The elegant old Bentley that was Adam's
favorite vehicle, even above the Jaguar, lived up to its reputation as
the "silent sportscar" as they bowled along the M8 toward Glasgow and
Ferniegair, to the south.

His lunchtime engagement was at Chatelherault, a magnificent hunting
lodge built in the early eighteenth century for the Duke of Hamilton,
where Adam had promised to deliver a birthday tribute in honor of the
present duke. As the old man had been a close personal friend of Adam's
father, Adam regarded his own contribution to the festivities as a
pleasure rather than a duty. Bringing the Bentley today was another way
of demonstrating his affection, for his father and the duke had been old
car buffs together.

He would have preferred to take the wheel himself, but delegating that
task to Humphrey allowed time to read over the text of the speech he had
prepared. During the drive he also reviewed his notes for a second
address he was to make later that evening in Edinburgh, at a charity
performance of Die Zauberflote-which was another good reason to have
Humphrey drive. Adam hated having to park in the city. In addition,
since the day's tight scheduling precluded any return to Strathmourne
between engagements, he had had Humphrey bring along a complete set of
dinner clothes, so he could change before setting out for the concert
hall. It was a fairly typical Saturday for Sir Adam Sinclair, Baronet.

The Hamilton affair went off without a hitch, despite the persistence of
poor weather. During a lull in the rain, Adam

37

33

took the old duke out to the car park to kick the Bentley's tires and
reminisce about the old days, when he and Adam's father used to drive
far older cars far faster than Adam or Humphrey drove the stately Mark
VI. Afterward, Adam was persuaded to stay for drinks after most of the
other guests had left, so that he had just enough time to change before
leaving Chatelherault to pick up his companion for the evening.

She was ready on schedule, and they arrived at the concert hall in good
time. Janet, Lady Fraser, was the wife of one of Adam's medical
colleagues who had been called away on a consultation in Paris. The
Frasers lived just north of Edinburgh, on the other side of the Firth,
and like Adam, were generous patrons of the opera. Both Frasers had been
friends since Adam's childhood.

Janet Fraser also was an incurable romantic, who teased Adam
unmercifully about his bachelor eligibility and was forever trying to
arrange matches with young ladies of suitable lineage. Once Adam had
made his speech and returned to their box, she confined her good-natured
badgering to the intervals, letting him lose himself in the magic of the
music, but she could not resist further sly digs once they were safely
ensconced in the privacy of the Bentley and on their way home.

"You really are impossible, Adam," Janet was saying, as Humphrey drove
them north across the Forth Road Bridge. "I'm always delighted to have
you as an escort when Matthew has to be away on one of his trips, but
you need a lady of your own. You could have had any of a number of
bright young things on your arm tonight."

Adam sighed and sat back in the Bentley's deeply cushioned leather,
beginning to tire of the game. He had not yet abandoned the hope of
eventually sharing his life with a wife and family, but the lady of his
admittedly exacting dreams seemed to be maddeningly elusive.

That was not Janet's fault, of course. Still, he was glad she could not
see how her persistent harping on the subject was beginning to annoy
him. Though the white of his scarf and wing-collared shirt would be
starkly visible above the black of his dinner jacket, he knew that his
face was only a

38 34 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

vague blur. She was wearing ubiquitous black as well, and blended almost
invisibly into the darkness of the backseat, except where a choker of
diamonds glittered against a vee of white throat opening upward toward
the whiter patch that was her face.

"Must I keep reminding you that I'm saving myself for the right woman?"
he quipped, giving her the light-hearted rejoinder that he knew she
expected. "You're already married, after all."

"Oh, Adam! You are so incorrigible. It isn't that you don't have normal
appetites-I know that from long ago. Lately, though, you seem to enjoy
living like a monk!"

Adam considered the accusation. In that part of his life that he shared
with only a few close intimates, some aspects of their common work did
recall the discipline and dedication required of monks; but that was
hardly anything he was prepared to discuss with Janet, dear a friend as
she might be.

"Will you think me less monkish if we stop at Strath-mourne for a drink,
before I take you home?" he asked lightly. "I hasten to remind you that
this is only an invitation for a drink. Lovely married ladies are always
welcome at Strathmourne Abbey's refectory table, but my monkish cell
remains sacrosanct."

"Oh, Adam," she giggled. "I don't know why I put up with you. I don't
know why I ever did."

But she allowed him to change the subject, once he had told Humphrey to
make the necessary diversion, settling into drowsy companionship with
her head against his shoulder by the time Humphrey turned up the avenue
to Strathmourne.

The Bentley prowled up the winding track toward the gate-arch in a hiss
of wet gravel. As they rounded the last bend below the house, Humphrey
reached for the remote control box to unlock the gate. Then he uttered a
startled exclamation and applied the brakes.

The Bentley skidded to a halt in a back-sheet of rainwater. Adam sat up
sharply and peered ahead through the forward windscreen, Janet stirring
sleepily beside him. Drawn up at the closed wrought-iron gate and
blocking it

39

35

was a dark green Morris Minor with timber sides. To the left of the car,
a slight, rain-drenched figure spun around in the full glare of the
Bentley's headlamps.

"Good God, is that Peregrine Lovat?" Adam exclaimed, already reaching
for the door handle.

The artist was wearing neither hat nor scarf. The rain had soaked
through his trenchcoat, and his fair hair was plastered flat to his
skull. He evidently had been pacing beside his car for some time, for
his feet had worn a path through the wet carpet of fallen leaves. For an
instant he stood arrested, as though mesmerized by the headlights; then
he lurched forward, staggering toward the Bentley like a sleepwalker. He
was not wearing his glasses.

"Is he drunk?" Janet asked.

"I don't think so."

Throwing his topcoat around his shoulders, Adam stepped out of the car
just in time to catch the younger man before he fell to his knees. Seen
at close range, in the merciless revelation of the headlights, Peregrine
looked even worse than Adam had imagined. His eyes were bloodshot and
deeply hollowed from lack of sleep, and an ugly bruise stained his right
temple.

"Peregrine, what on earth has happened to you?" Adam demanded. "You look
dreadful!"

Peregrine made a sound between a sob and a moan and clutched at Adam's
sleeve with rain-chilled fingers.

"Help me," he mumbled brokenly. "Please-you have to help me."

"Of course I'll help," Adam assured him. "But let's get you in out of
the weather first."

Humphrey had left the driver's seat of the Bentley, and was coming
around the front of the bonnet to join them. Janet's face was a pale
blur in the opening of the left rear door. With sudden decision, Adam
headed Peregrine toward the Morris Minor, putting his own coat around
the younger man's shoulders before bundling him into the passenger seat
with Humphrey's help.

"I'll deal with this," he told the butler, as he closed the door on
Peregrine and headed around to the driver's door.

40 36 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

"You drive Lady Fraser home. Tell her I'll ring her tomorrow and explain."

As Humphrey retreated to the Bentley, bending to speak to Janet as he
closed the door, Adam glanced at Peregrine. Huddled deep in Adam's coat,
the artist was shakily pulling his spectacles from an inner pocket,
sliding them onto his face with trembling hands. Adam reached for the
ignition, for he wanted to get Peregrine back to the house, but the keys
were not there.

"I'll need the car keys, Peregrine," he said quietly, holding out his hand.

Peregrine dragged them clumsily from his coat pocket. When he unclenched
his fingers to drop the keys into Adam's waiting hand, Adam caught sight
of a row of raw, half-moon gouges across his palm where he evidently had
driven his own fingernails deep into the skin. Adam said nothing for a
moment, merely locating the correct key by the light of the Bentley's
headlamps and then starting the car.

Humphrey activated the gate from inside the Bentley, and Adam put the
Morris into gear and eased it through, glancing sidelong at his silent
passenger as he negotiated the few dozen yards to the garage.
Floodlights came on as he pulled into the stableyard, triggered by an
electric eye, and Adam parked the Morris under one of them.

"I'm-sorry to be such a bother," Peregrine murmured huskily, when Adam
had pulled on the hand brake and switched off the ignition. "I wouldn't
have come here, but I had nowhere else to turn. I-think I must be going
mad."

Adam's dark gaze was steady. "Why do you say that?"

Peregrine made a small gesture of miserable helplessness, not daring to
meet Adam's eyes.

"I wanted to kill myself earlier," he muttered. "If I'd had a gun in the
studio, I probably would have done it. Then I thought of gouging out my
eyes with a palette knife. I only just managed to stop myself, by
clenching my fists as hard as I could and slamming my head against a
wall." He gave a bitter, half-hysterical laugh. "If that's not mad, I
don't know what is."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" Adam said

41

37

quietly. "Can you tell me what made you suddenly decide on this course
of self-destruction?"

A long shudder wracked the younger man from head to foot. "Lady Laura,"
he said hoarsely. "She's dead. She died this afternoon."

This bald announcement kindled a gleam of enlightenment as well as grief
in Adam's steady gaze.

"You were right to come to me tonight," he said, after a heartbeat's
silence. "I'm only sorry, for your sake, that you didn't come sooner."

"Then you think you can help me?" Peregrine asked disbelievingly.

"I think you can be helped," Adam corrected carefully, still taking it
all in. "For my part, I shall do whatever lies within my power.
Meanwhile, we should get you out of those wet things."

With Humphrey otherwise engaged, it fell to Adam to manage the domestic
details. After showing Peregrine the location of the library, he
shepherded the younger man upstairs to one of the auxiliary bedrooms and
laid out dry clothing from his own wardrobe, returning downstairs then
to make a phone call. The tear-choked voice that answered at Kintoul
House belonged to Anna, Lady Laura's maid, and confirmed, without
having-to ask, that Peregrine had told the bare truth about Lady Laura.

Adam identified himself and apologized for the lateness of the call,
then gently related what he had been told. The maid supplied sparse
details in a voice close to breaking- how Lady Laura had died shortly
before four o'clock that afternoon, slipping away peacefully in the
middle of an afternoon nap. Her eldest son and other members of the
immediate family were now all gathered at the house. Funeral
arrangements had not yet been decided.

It was the expected scenario for a death in a noble family. Nor did the
death itself come as any surprise to Adam, whose long-time friendship
had widened to include professional attendance when Laura Kintoul first
learned of her terminal illness. He requested a brief word with the earl
in order to convey his condolences, along with his willingness to render
any personal service the family might require.

42 38 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Then he rang off with the promise to call by Kintoul in the morning.

As he laid the receiver gently back in its cradle, he found it
increasingly difficult to hold at bay his own feeling of sudden loss,
coupled with a fleeting twinge of doubt, that perhaps he had not done
all he could.

/ knew this was only a matter of Jime, he thought. Perhaps I should have
been there. To which another part of himself responded, All had been
done that needed to be done. Laura was ready to make this journey. You
yourself opened her eyes to the way. . . .

A sound in the hall outside the library recalled him to more practical
considerations, and things needing doing for one still living. Seconds
later, Peregrine appeared hesitantly at the library door, shuffling in
outsized velvet slippers bearing Adam's heraldic crest and wrapped up in
a quilted blue dressing-gown at least two sizes too large for him. He
said nothing as he allowed himself to be steered numbly to a chair
beside the library hearth.

He was still deathly pale from cold and the trauma of the afternoon and
evening. He was also terrified. Feigning unconcern, Adam went to the
drinks cabinet in the corner and poured two stiff measures of whiskey
into cut crystal tumblers. He gave Peregrine a reassuring smile as he
pressed one into his chilled hands.

"Here-drink this," Adam advised. "I've just rung Kintoul House. Let me
get a fire going, and we'll talk about it."

He put his own drink on the mantel and bent wearily to the hearth,
slipping a fire-starter briquette under the kindling already laid and
lighting it with a long match. When he had nursed it to a healthy blaze,
he took back his drink and sat opposite Peregrine.

"I spoke to Anna, Lady Laura's maid," he said quietly, in answer to the
artist's look of shrinking inquiry. "Of course she confirmed what you
told me earlier. But you mustn't mourn for her. She travels now in
bright company."

Peregrine's eyes flew wide at this calm statement of assurance.

43

39

"What do you mean?" he demanded shakily. "You speak as if you know."

"I do."

"But-how can you know that? Who-what are you, anyway?"

Adam schooled his expression to one of bland neutrality, wondering just
how much Peregrine was seeing.

"You know my name. You see my face," he ventured.

Confusion and fear flared again in Peregrine's taut face.

"Yes," he whispered. "That's part of what frightens me. Oh, God, if only
I could stop seeing!" he moaned, shaking his head. "If you have some
kind of power-if-if you're some sort of-of wizard or something-for God's
sake, lift this curse!"

His eyes were feverish bright, his hands clenched so tightly around the
tumbler that Adam feared he might crush it.

"I told you, it isn't a curse!" he said sharply. "And I haven't the
power to make you stop seeing, even if I had the authority. Before we
carry this conversation much further, though, you're going to have to
try to relax." He jerked his own glass pointedly at the one in
Peregrine's hand. "I wouldn't want to have to pick glass out of your
very talented hands, if that shatters. If the whiskey isn't to your
liking," he added more gently, "I can give you a sedative."

Peregrine blanched and shook his head, alarmed, but he did loosen his
death-grip on the glass.

"N-no, please. No sedative. That only makes matters worse. If I take
pills, I lose what little control I have left over this vision of mine."

"Then you do have some control."

Peregrine gave an unsteady, mirthless laugh.

"You're humoring me, aren't you? You think I really have gone mad."

"No, I am genuinely interested to hear what you have to say," Adam said
truthfully. "But if I'm to help you, you must make up your mind, here
and now, to be absolutely candid with me-however outrageous you may
think you sound! I promise not to judge-but I have to know. It's a

44 40 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

leap of faith, I realize-you hardly know me-but I can't help you unless
you do your part."

Adam waited. Peregrine stared at him for a long, taut moment, totally
motionless, then breathed out a long sigh, running a hand over his face
and through his drying hair, dislodging his glasses.

"I'm sorry. I-there's really never been anyone I could talk to, about
this. Where shall I start?"

"The beginning is usually best," Adam replied. "When do you first
remember-seeing!"

Peregrine swallowed painfully, removing his glasses for a moment to rub
the back of his hand across his eyes. Then he put the glasses back on,
to stare down at the whiskey in his tumbler.

"I-can hardly remember a time when I couldn't," he murmured. "When I was
a child, I used to see all kinds of things-things that weren't really
there. I used to see pictures on walls that afterward turned out to be
blank. I used to see other faces in mirrors, besides my own. Sometimes I
would see things happening around me that seemed to belong to other
times. ..." His voice trailed off.

"Were you frightened by what you were seeing?" Adam asked.

The question seemed to take Peregrine off guard. He frowned, remembering.

"No, now that you mention it, I wasn't," he said. "But it scared the
hell out of my father, when he found out about it. He thought there was
something seriously wrong with me."

He took a breath before continuing. "When I was really small, I had a
whole host of friends who used to come and talk to me all the time-tell
me stories, play games with me. I know that lots of kids have imaginary
friends, but eventually they outgrow them. Mine seemed very real. When I
first went away to school, some of them used to help me with my studies.
Sometimes they even gave me clues during exams-though they would never
actually tell me the answer."

He shot an oblique glance at Adam, encouraged when Adam remained
attentively silent.

45

41

"It-seemed so natural that I never thought much about it," he went on,
"-until I started talking to some of the other boys. That was when I
realized that-no one else was aware of my friends' existence. Eventually
I made the mistake of asking my father about it."

"Why was that a mistake?"

Peregrine hunched his shoulders and grimaced. "If you had known my
father, you wouldn't have to ask. He was very much the hard-nosed
realist. He was appalled to think that any son of his should be so
fanciful."

"Then, you discussed the matter in some detail?"

"I wouldn't say that we discussed it," Peregrine said, with a bitter
curl of his lip. "Let's say that we had words. It was made quite clear
to me that my overactive imagination was not to be indulged.
Unfortunately, that wasn't much help. In fact, it only made the problem
worse. It seemed like the more confused and upset I got, the more prone
I became to seeing things. . . ."He glared down into the liquor in his
glass.

"How old were you?" Adam asked.

"About eleven," Peregrine replied tonelessly.

"And do you know if your father ever considered submitting you for
psychiatric evaluation?"

Peregrine shook his head, not daring to look Adam in the eyes.

"He thought it would reflect badly on the family, if word ever got out.
Eventually he abandoned trying to reason with me, and simply made it
clear that if I-wanted to continue being his son, I had better learn to
control my delusions."

Adam only nodded. He had seen the pattern too many times before.

"Go on."

Peregrine closed his eyes briefly and then continued.

"As you can imagine, the threat was a good one. I made every mortal
effort to shut my eyes to the other world, I suppose his methods were
vindicated, because by the time I turned thirteen, I'd finally succeeded
in blotting it all out."

The tone in his voice was dreary, rather than triumphant-After a pause,
Adam said casually, "Let's leave that for a moment. When did you first
start drawing and painting?"

46 42 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Peregrine looked relieved.

"That's easy enough," he said. "It was at the beginning of my third year
of prep-about the time everything else had shut down. I took an art
class as an honors elective." He smiled wanly. "It was incredible. I'd
never known I had it in me to draw. After that, it was as if a whole new
world had opened up for me, to replace the one I'd lost."

"What did you draw?" Adam asked, trying to steer him away from the
emotional mine field of his sight.

"Oh, nice, safe landscapes and buildings, for the first year, with a
strong emphasis on perspective." Peregrine's voice had a more confident
ring to it, as he talked about his art. "Most of my classmates hated the
technical assignments, but for me, the exercises in perspective were
like a kind of-oh, I don't know-a form of magic, I suppose. There were
rules you had to follow, but the possibilities were almost infinite. The
art mistress was very supportive, and I started picking up the pieces of
my self-confidence."

He took a tentative sip of the whiskey before continuing thoughtfully.

"It got even better, once we started in on life studies. Portraiture was
my forte from the start. In my final year, I did a portrait of the
headmaster as Robert the Bruce that was good enough to win me an
important prize. My father was dubious about all this artistic effort-he
would have preferred excellence in sports, I think-but you can't argue
with a picture on the cover of Scottish Field. Fortunately, my exams
were good enough that even he couldn't complain about that.

"I wanted to go to art school next-he wanted me to read law-so we
compromised on art history at Oxford, and then art school." He grimaced.
"I wish now that I'd done as he wanted and read law-or even become a
banker or an economist."

"Do you?" Adam carefully kept his tone uninflected.

"Yes!" Peregrine declared vehemently. "Oh, I started out well enough,
during those first few years after I finished art school. I got a lot of
lucky breaks, thanks to Lady Laura and others. I was even on the way to
gaining a reputation, when things took a turn for the worse."

47

43

"In what way?"

"My vision-changed," Peregrine said. He took another swallow of whiskey.
"I started seeing things again. I tried to control it, but I couldn't
always. More and more often, when I started on a new portrait, I began
to see things I had no business seeing. Sometimes when I looked at a
subject's face, I would catch myself looking into his future-"

"Seeing his death, you mean." Adam made it a statement.

Peregrine's mouth tightened grimly. "It didn't happen every time. But it
happened often enough to convince me that painting anyone over the age
of legal majority was courting insanity."

"Which is why you've mainly painted children, in the last few years,"
Adam finished, nodding. "What persuaded you to paint Lady Laura?"

"Did you ever try saying no to Lady Laura?" Peregrine replied, giving
Adam an almost incredulous glance. "Besides, the original commission was
to paint her grandchildren. It was only after I'd started that she asked
to be included in the picture. I couldn't very well refuse her; she was
the kindest and most generous of patrons-almost like a mother, if you
really want to know. That's why, when I realized what I was painting-"

He drew a deep, unsteady breath and tried to go on.

"I tried to tell myself that it couldn't be true," he whispered. "It was
all I could do to continue working. I tried to blot out the knowledge,
but I couldn't. Then you showed up-and continuing to deny it became out
of the question. Now she's dead, as I foresaw. And I-haven't got any
tears left for her."

He buried his face in his hands, a single dry sob wracking his frame.
Sharing his grief, Adam reached across to lay a comforting hand on one
taut shoulder.

"Peregrine," he said quietly, "Lady Laura Kintoul was diagnosed with
terminal cancer nearly six months ago. That was long before you made a
start on her portrait. Foreseeing someone's death is not the same thing
as causing it."

When Peregrine offered no response, Adam tried another tack.

48 44 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

"Is death the only thing that you see?"

Peregrine gave a quick shake of his head.

"What else do you see?" Adam prompted.

Peregrine lifted his head, making a gallant attempt to get his emotions
under control again.

"Well, it's-hard to describe," he said hesitantly. "I see-the sorts of
things I seem to remember seeing when I was very young. Sometimes it's
only the background that changes-and then it's as if I'm looking into
some other time or some other place. Sometimes the face itself changes
when I look at it from another angle, or in another light. It's still
the same person-but different somehow."

Adam nodded. "Can you give me an example?"

Peregrine bit his lip. "Well, take you, for instance. Even as I sit
here, I can't be entirely sure what you look like. Something about your
aspect keeps changing. I see you differently now than I did only a
minute ago."

Adam was listening intently. "Is it my death that you see?"

Peregrine flinched at the question, then recovered himself. "No. Not
your death . . ." He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head at several
different angles, as though trying to stabilize his vision.

"It's no use," he said after a labored pause. "I can't tell you what it
is I see."

Adam sat silent for a moment, weighing his next words very carefully.

"I think we ought to see if there isn't some way to remedy that," he
said at last, setting aside his untouched glass. "There are ways to
separate and clarify one's perceptions. If you're willing, I propose
carrying out a simple experiment."

"An experiment?" A wild, almost cornered look flitted briefly behind
Peregrine's eyes, but then he took an impulsive gulp of whiskey.

"Why not?" he said, suddenly reckless. "I certainly can't go on the way
I have been.. If this experiment of yours offers any hope at all, I'm
willing to give it a try."

49

GOOD lad," said Adam approvingly. "Now all we need are a few simple props."

He left his seat and shifted a small rosewood side table away from the
end of the adjoining settee and into the space directly in front of
Peregrine's chair. Then he returned to the drinks cabinet to rummage in
a bottom drawer. When he rejoined Peregrine a moment later, he was
carrying a fisherman's float made of transparent, pale green glass. He
handed it to Peregrine, who set aside his tumbler to take it.

"A crystal ball?" the artist said, with more than a trace of skepticism
in his tone.

"If you wish," Adam replied, smiling. "I'll explain everything in a
moment. You can decide then if you want to carry this any further."

From the mantelpiece he took one of the pair of silver candlesticks
flanking an oil of a hunting scene, bending to light the stub of a long
fireplace match from the fire and then using that to light the candle in
the silver candlestick. This he brought to Peregrine's table, setting it
carefully in the center. Peregrine watched all these preparations with
mingled fascination and uncertainty. By the flickering candlelight, the
intricate inlay pattern in the top of the rosewood table seemed almost
to glow.

"Now," Adam said, as he resumed his seat opposite Peregrine. "As you
probably already know, the keys to most upheavals of the psyche
generally lie buried in the individual's unconscious mind. Before we can
get at those keys, we need to set the conscious mind at rest. There are

50 46 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

chemical ways of doing this, of course, but they all have their side
effects. Besides, you've already told me that drugs just make your
problem worse.

"What I propose, then-and what I prefer anyway-is that we use one of
several meditational techniques I've found useful in the past. One of
the ways the unconscious guards its secrets is by projecting fear into
the conscious. So I'd like to direct you in a simple relaxation
exercise, to see if we can't bypass that fear and get down to what's
really troubling you."

"I know what's troubling me," Peregrine muttered. "I keep seeing things
I shouldn't]"

"Why don't you humor me by pretending that I do know what I'm doing?"
Adam said mildly. "I know you're a bundle of nerves-and I understand
why-but it isn't going to get any better if you won't let me help you."

Brought up short by this gentle rebuke, Peregrine blinked owlishly at
Adam from behind his spectacles, then drew a determined breath.

"I'm sorry," he said, subdued. "What do you want me to do?"

"First of all," Adam said easily, "I want you to take the float between
your two hands and hold it so that you can see the flame of the candle
through the glass."

"All right." Peregrine turned the glass globe around experimentally,
peering through it from several different angles. "Should I take off my
glasses first?" he asked.

"You may, if it will make you feel more comfortable. How well do you see
without them?"

"Oh, well enough, this close," Peregrine replied. "They're really for
distance. Will it make any difference with the experiment?"

"Not really."

"In that case, I'll leave them on." He glanced doubtfully at Adam. "Are
you going to hypnotize me?"

"So, you know my tricks already," Adam said, leaning back in his chair
with a look of faint amusement. "You needn't worry. It won't be like
Svengali or Count Dracula, robbing his victim of all power of will. I
promise you, you'll remain in control of the situation at all times."

51

47

The assurance produced the desired smile, if still a bit strained.
Subsiding, Peregrine bent his gaze to the float and the light of the
candle. Seen through the slight distortion of the hand-blown glass, the
flame seemed to take on a life of its own, expanding and contracting in
a succession of bright dancing forms.

By degrees, as Adam's low voice began urging relaxation and a centering
on the image of the flame, Peregrine felt himself drawn closer to the
warm, lively glow, bathing in its brightness as it filled his field of
vision. A growing lightness seemed to permeate his limbs, as though his
body were shedding its weight. Far from being strange, the sensation was
oddly familiar, even comforting.

Peregrine closed his eyes, trying to recall when and where he might have
felt this way before. At the same time, he heard Adam Sinclair's deep,
resonant voice speaking to him in words that were clear but remote, as
though carried over a great distance.

"That's right. ... Go ahead and close your eyes. Relax and float.
There's nothing to fear now. You're perfectly safe. Just relax. Relax. ..."

Gradually the remaining tension drained away from the young artist's
face. As he began to relax, his breathing came more easily, with the
shallow regularity of someone just on the verge of sleep. Adam fell
silent for a few seconds, to see if he would rouse himself, but
Peregrine only gave a little sigh and seemed to settle even more.

"That's very good," Adam said softly. "Can you hear me clearly?"

"Yes." The answer was almost inaudible.

"Excellent." Adam kept his tone quiet and reassuring. "At the moment,
you're perfectly aware of what's going on around you; it's simply too
much bother to pay attention to other things. You're relaxed and safe
and perfectly at peace. Now, I'm going to fetch something from across
the room. When I return, I shall ask you to perform a simple task for
me-one that is perfectly within your ability. Will that be all right?"

"Yes."

Satisfied, Adam went to the desk at the far end of the

52 48 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

room, returning with a pencil and a blank pad of paper. Peregrine was
sitting as he had left him-relaxed and motionless, eyes closed.

"You're doing just fine," Adam reassured him, in the same quiet tone he
had used throughout. "We're finished with the float for now, so I'm
going to take it out of your hands," he said, suiting action to words.
"I'm giving you a pencil and some paper instead. I want you to take a
few more deep breaths, to let go of any remaining tension or anxiety
that might still be with you. Then, when you're ready, I want you to
open your eyes and look at me, with all your inner intuition as well as
your physical eyes, and draw what you see. Do you understand?"

Peregrine nodded his assent, his closed eyelids fluttering as he drew a
slow, deep breath. Quietly Adam retreated to his chair, sitting back
casually to watch, legs crossed. When the artist looked up, a few
seconds later, the dull, hazel eyes had taken on an inner luminance,
like lamps newly kindled.

Adam neither moved nor spoke, only watching his subject's minute nuances
of expression, feeling Peregrine's eyes on his face. After a moment's
searching scrutiny, the artist brought pencil and paper together and
began to sketch rapidly, his gaze rarely leaving his subject. After a
moment he frowned and scribbled vigorously over what he had drawn, and
began on another. When he scribbled out the second sketch and started
again, looking more and more confused, Adam quietly rose and came to set
one hand on his shoulder in gentle restraint, the other pressing lightly
to his forehead.

"Close your eyes and relax, Peregrine," he murmured. "Relax and let
yourself drift. It seems I've set you a more difficult task than I
realized. Just relax and rest easy for a few minutes, while I see what
you've drawn."

Peregrine surrendered the pad and pencil without resistance, eyes
closing and hands fluttering to his lap with a relieved sigh. Adam
watched him for a few seconds, absently sticking the pencil through the
spiral binding at the top of the pad, then turned his attention to what
Peregrine had drawn.

Fortunately, the scribbling had not entirely obliterated the

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work. The sketch at the top showed a lean, bearded face with deep eyes
and a patrician nose set above a stern, passionate mouth. A chain mail
coif surrounded the face, surmounted by a conical helmet in the style of
the late thirteenth century. The device delicately shaded on the left
shoulder of the mantle was the distinctive, eight-pointed Maltese cross
of, among others, the Knights Templar.

Adam pursed his lips, nodding as he realized what Peregrine had
glimpsed-echoes of a past life whose details were only accessible to
Adam himself when in a deeply altered trance state, and mostly elusive
during ordinary consciousness. As a psychiatrist, he preferred to
believe that his "far memories" were psychological constructs- tricks
that the mind played, in order to deal with material more acceptably
couched in the fantasy of a past existence than in the cold, stark terms
of reality. The mystical part of him preferred to believe that it all
was literally true, in some way he could not begin to explain.

As a compromise, he permitted himself to function as if it were true,
simply accepting and using the insights he sometimes received from his
"previous selves," because they usually worked-even if the methods he
employed often did not square with his medical training or blunt logic,
much less his affiliation with the religious establishment to which he
gave generous support.

Meanwhile, more tangible proofs confirmed that Sir Adam Sinclair,
Baronet, did have ancestral ties, at least, to the Knights of the Temple
of Jerusalem. The tower house awaiting restoration in the north field
had been in the Sinclair family for at least five hundred years-a former
Templar site, as, indeed, were most places in Scotland with "temple" in
the name. It was Templemor, not Strath-mourne, from which the Sinclair
family took their baronial title. And it was said that Templar blood ran
in the Sinclair line as well, from the dark times after the Order had
been suppressed nearly everywhere except Scotland.

At this remove, some of the historical "proofs" were hazy, of course-not
that it really mattered. Some truths simply were. And the ultimate truth
about the Templars, which even history books tended to substantiate-and

54 50 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

which Adam's heart had never doubted-was that the Knights of the Temple
of Jerusalem had pursued a course of single-minded devotion to the
defense of hallowed ground and the guardianship of secret truths, many
suffering burning martyrdom rather than betray what the Order held
sacred. And though a fourteenth-century King of France had set out to
destroy the Order, hoping to gain possession of their legendary wealth,
he was never to know that the greatest treasure of the Templars lay not
in gold, but in knowledge. . . .

Knowledge. Peregrine Lovat seemed to have it-though it was clear that he
did not know what he had. Thoughtful, Adam returned his attention to the
young man's work. Behind the scribbling, the second sketch showed the
same strength of determination as the first, but the face was
clean-shaved and hawk-visaged, framed in lappets of boldly striped
linen. The tall headpiece Peregrine had sketched above the linen was the
double crown of Upper and Lower Egypt, incorporating a solar disk set
between tall ostrich plumes-the adornment of an Egyptian high priest.

No longer really seeing the sketch, Adam turned slightly to gaze into
the fire. The second drawing was far more startling than the Templar
Knight had been, for it depicted the most vivid of Adam's far memories.
He wondered, briefly, what other faces Peregrine might have sketched,
had Adam not stopped him.

The boy had the gift, though. There was no doubting that. The question
was, who was Peregrine Lovat, that he should possess the ability to
penetrate beyond the mask of matter and see another's soul, especially
that of one trained as Adam had been trained? The answer to that
question might well have far-reaching consequences, not only for
Peregrine, but for Adam and his associates as well.

He turned to regard the young artist for a long moment, reaching deep
inside himself for guidance on how to proceed. Peregrine was sitting
quietly, hands lying gently cupped in his lap, the eyes closed behind
the wire-rimmed spectacles, but Adam had some doubt that the level of
trance was deep enough for what he had in mind to do next.

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51

Setting the pad on the mantel, he decided to find out how good a
hypnotic subject Peregrine was.

"Peregrine," he said quietly, "I'd like to take this a step further, if
I may. Will you trust that what I ask is only for your well being?"

At the younger man's drowsy affirmative, Adam reached down and gently
removed the glasses, so he could monitor better by watching the eyelids.

"Just keep your eyes closed now," Adam directed. "I've taken off your
glasses so you can be more comfortable. You don't need to see for a
while anyway. I want you to take a deep breath and concentrate on your
heartbeat. I'm going to count your pulse, and I want you to count with
me." He pressed his fingertips against Peregrine's wrist and felt the
pulse, strong and steady.

"Take a deep breath and concentrate on your heartbeat," he continued.
"Feel the pulse and rhythm of your life gently taking you even deeper
and more relaxed as we count down from ten-nine-eight-seven-"

He could see Peregrine's lips moving, continuing the counting, and he
could feel him slipping deeper, hardly even whispering the final, "One."

"Good," Adam replied, half-breathing the word himself. "Very relaxed . .
. very deeply relaxed. And now, as my hand touches your forehead, I want
you to sink into an even deeper-sleep."

At the word "sleep," he shifted upward to touch his subject lightly
between the eyes. A quiver of eye movement registered briefly beneath
the lowered lids, but then Peregrine drew a long, even breath and
exhaled on a shallow sigh, his head lolling forward slightly, nodding.

The response was precisely what Adam was looking for. Leaning down to
take one of the slack hands, he lifted his subject's arm to shoulder
level and stretched it out straight, running his free hand down it
several times from shoulder to wrist.

"Now imagine that your arm is becoming as stiff and rigid as an iron
bar," Adam said, testing at the lock of the elbow for emphasis. "It's
becoming so rigid that neither you

56 52 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

nor I can bend it, and you cannot lower it. Try if you wish, but you
cannot bend your arm."

Peregrine did seem to try. Adam could see the consternation on the
younger man's face, but the arm did not budge. Quickly, before Peregrine
alarmed himself or did move the arm, Adam stroked along its length again.

"That's fine, Peregrine. Your arm is going back to normal now. It's no
longer stiff. You can stop trying to move it, and relax. Let your arm
return to your side. It's perfectly normal now, and you will have no
aftereffects. Sleep now. Deep sleep."

Silently Adam considered what to do next. He could simply try to regress
Peregrine to a past life, hoping to find some clue t<5 his problems in
the present; but there was a quicker way, and one far more certain. It
was hardly a usual psychiatric procedure-most of his medical colleagues
would be scandalized-but then, there did not seem to be much that was
usual about Peregrine Lovat.

"Now, Peregrine," he finally said, "you're doing very well indeed.
You've achieved a very useful level of deep trance, and in a moment I'm
going to ask you to go deeper still.

"For now, however, I have further instructions for you. For reasons I'll
eventually explain, you're to remember nothing of what is about to
happen, when you wake up later on. But if and when I ask you to recall
it at some later date, it will come back to you in full detail. I have
my reasons for asking this, but it isn't appropriate for you to know
them just now. So you will retain no conscious memory of anything you
might hear or experience in the next little while, for your own well
being. Nod if you understand and accept this."

When Peregrine nodded, Adam drew his own chair closer to the rosewood
table, reducing the distance between himself and his subject.

"Thank you. I will not betray the trust you've given me. Now, I want you
to go very, very deep-twice as deep as you are now. Go so deep that
nothing you may hear with your ears will register on any conscious level
until I touch your wrist like this and tell you to come back." He briefly

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pressed Peregrine's wrist between the first two fingers of both hands.

"Only if real physical danger should threaten, such as a fire, will you
counter this instruction and come out of trance. Now lean your head back
and sleep. Sleep deeply, hear nothing, and remember nothing. Deep asleep."

When he was satisfied that Peregrine was, indeed, oblivious to his
surroundings, Adam moved behind the chair, reaching into his coat pocket
to take out a heavy gold signet ring set with a handsome sapphire.
Slipping it onto the third finger of his right hand, he touched the
stone briefly to his lips, then laid the backs of his hands along the
tops of the chair wings to either side of Peregrine's head, open palms
turned upward. Taking as a centering point the candle still burning on
the table before Peregrine, he drew a deep, centering breath and slowly
exhaled, at the same time breathing the opening words of an almost
silent invocation, couched in the Hellenic Greek and Latin of
third-century Alexandria:

"Ego prosphero epainon to photi ..."

He offered the rest in the silence of his mind, lifting his heart and
his hands in selfless oblation.

/ offer praise to the Light in the person ofRa: Pantocrator, Deus de
deo. . . . ofHorus: Logos, Veritas veritatis. . . . of Isis: Hagia
Sophia, Regina Caeli. . . . and of Osiris: Nous, Lumen de lumine. . . .
Thou, O Lord, art Light Eternal, Alpha and Omega, Source and Ending.
Preserve us unto everlasting day. Amen.

Briefly he brought his hands together, palm to palm, touching the
fingertips to his lips reverently, in salute to That which he served.
Then, drawing a deep breath, he set his hands on the chair wings again,
to either side of Peregrine Lovat's bowed head, closing his eyes to the
physical flame before him.

"As Above, so Below," he murmured. "As Without, so Within. ..."

The brightness of the flame's after-image shimmered behind his eyelids,
establishing a glowing point of reference. He focused on that point to
the exclusion of all other internal images. As it receded, twin threads
of brilliant

58 54 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

silver unreeled in parallel against the expanding ground of his internal
vision, fine as spider-silk. One was the silver cord of his own life;
the other, he knew, was Peregrine Lovat's. The threads began to spiral
as he plunged after them, not falling but flying.

In the still, pristine silence of his own mind, Adam made himself a part
of that cosmic spiral. It gathered momentum, whirling faster and faster
through gauzy fields of lights like scattered stars. The star-points
elongated into other silver threads, all wheeling and spinning. The
myriad filaments all converged toward a single distant point, like the
heart of a coalescing nebula.

Never relenting, Adam fixed on the unbroken spiral of Peregrine's silver
cord and followed it into the shimmering midst of the dance.
Anticipated, but never quite expected-as usual-came an icy thrill of
disorientation that left him momentarily breathless and slightly dizzy.
When the universe righted itself again, he found himself standing in
spirit before two immense doors of immeasurable height, robed in white,
his feet bared to tread on holy ground. It was familiar ground-the eye
of the cyclone, the calm at the center of the storm, the hub of the
wheel-but the awe was always new.

Adam had the Word of an Adeptus Major. As he spoke it, the doors opened
with ponderous majesty. Beyond lay timeless vaults of silence: the
unmapped and unmappable halls of the Akashic Records, the imperishable
archives of all lives for all time. Into the vaults of the future, he
might not go; but guided by the silver cord that was Peregrine's
connection into the Sephiroth, Adam passed into the vaults of the past,
threading a circular, inward-tending course along corridors iridescent
as mother-of-pearl. At the heart of the labyrinth lay a convoluted
chamber, whorled and curved like the walls of a nautilus shell. And at
its center, on a canopied altar, lay a great book. As Adam approached
the altar, the book opened of its own accord.

Hands pressed palm to palm in respect, Adam bent his head over the book,
framing his intent in wordless query. As if conjured by some mystic
wind, the pages began to turn and images to be presented for his
gaze-the strands of

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the thread that linked the many lives of the one now known as Peregrine
Lovat.

He skimmed over the early material, searching for the key-that initial
moment of awakening, the point at which the soul first encountered its
own spiritual likeness mirrored in the greater soul of the Divine Light.
For Peregrine Lovat, that epiphany had taken place at Delphi in the age
of Pericles. The oracular gift bestowed at that instant of enlightenment
was what made itself known now, as the gift of seeing. Not to many was
such vision given; and to endure the gift, its use-and disuse-must be
mastered. Such would be the task of Peregrine Lovat-and of Adam, to
teach him.

So. The soul that now was Adam Sinclair bore witness to the mandate: to
make of a potential curse a gift, a tool for his own further spiritual
advancement and in the service of the Light-for Peregrine had made that
unreserved dedication to service before. It remained but to reawaken him
in this life-a task which Adam, as a healer of souls as well as of
minds, had performed before.

But as he closed the book, preparing to go, light darted from roof to
floor to roof again in quicksilver flashes too swift for the eye to
follow, lively as summer lightning. The signature was unique, portending
the imminent arrival of one of those to whom Adam answered on the Inner
Planes.

Stilling his curiosity, for he had not asked for audience, Adam
acknowledged the authority of One who had long ago progressed beyond the
need to manifest in physical form, bowing his head and opening his hands
at his sides in a posture of receptivity. The other manifested in a beam
of pure white light that pooled momentarily on the floor of the dais
beneath Adam's feet and then surged up and around to envelope him in a
shimmering pillar of opalescent fire.

Restive forces brood at the edge of the Abyss, Master of the Hunt, came
the unexpected warning. Do you seek our help?

The question startled Adam, for he had perceived no threat requiring his
attention. He had been functioning in his capacity as a physician of
souls tonight, not as a cosmic keeper of the peace.

60 56 {Catherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

No, Master. I have come on an errand of mercy, as a healer of souls.

Explain.

It is written that all pilgrim souls must enter the world as children,
and that so long as the personality is immature, the intellect
untrained, even an Adept may be kept from achieving his full potential.
There is such a one come to me-an Adept, I find, of rare gifts-who has
been crippled, half-broken in childhood, before mind and intellect had
sufficiently matured to protect the indwelling spirit. I believe his
destiny may lie within the mandate of my mission, but the fledgling hawk
must be re-pinioned, before he is ready to rejoin the Hunt. I would help
him learn to fly again, that the potential of his gifts may be regained.

The desire is worthy, came the response, but you should know that
opposition threatens, and a risk is involved.

What opposition, and what risk?

The Veil obscures details, even from us, but a threat exists. You will
be a focus, though even the opposition will not know it for some time.

I am not afraid to face this threat, Adam replied. But, is the fledgling
to become an ally, then? How, if I can neutralize the self-doubt that
cripples him, so that his potential is released? May he take his
rightful place before the Light?

He may. If the fledgling proves steadfast, you have authority to receive
him; but this is by no means foreordained. Do you accept the commission
to rehabilitate this soul?

The question bore of no answer but one.

My office as physician in the Outer was not lightly undertaken, Master.
Nor do I take lightly my vows on the Inner, as a sentinel of the Light.
I see the spark in Peregrine Lovat-a spark too bright to be wasted in
aimless wandering, when it could be directed to Service. I accept the
commission.

So be it, then, Master of the Hunt. But tread softly, lest he and you
should plummet into the Abyss.

It shall be so, Adam replied, with a deep bow.

Between one heartbeat and the next, the enfolding

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presence simply was not there any longer. The Chamber of Records wavered
around Adam and then disappeared, and he arrowed back toward the
material world. The slight disorientation of soul-flight ended with the
faint psychic jolt that signalled the spirit's reunion with matter. When
Adam opened his eyes, swaying a little on his feet, he was standing once
again in the familiar library at Strathmourne, hands resting on the back
of the chair where Peregrine Lovat slept. Details of what had just
transpired grew more hazy by the second, but a clear plan of action lay
before him now.

Almost perfunctorily, he brought his palms together in salute to the
Light, the touch of his fingertips to his lips closing and sealing the
rite he had just performed. Then he came around in front of Peregrine's
chair, settling fully back into his role as physician and teacher.

The younger man was as Adam had left him, head tilted back in the angle
of the wing-backed chair, eyes closed. After blowing out the candle,
Adam bent to touch Peregrine's wrist lightly in pre-arranged signal.

"Peregrine, listen to my voice," he said firmly, no longer uncertain of
his way. "Can you hear what I am saying?"

The younger man's lips parted slightly, in a scarcely breathed, "Yes."

"Excellent," Adam said. "In a moment, I am going to ask you to return to
waking consciousness. Before I do that, however, there is something you
should know, even though it may be some time before you arrive at a full
understanding of what I am about to tell you."

He settled carefully back into his chair, watching the other man closely.

"It is a fact, though I cannot prove it to you in any rational,
scientific manner, that an individual's personal history often goes back
beyond the boundaries of his present lifetime. I have reason to believe
that the vision which you have been at pains to suppress since childhood
is actually a valuable legacy from earlier stages of your development.
And there is no doubt that you can control it-provided that you
acknowledge the gift for what it is."

62 58 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Vague hope stirred the trembling eyelids as Peregrine's lips moved
soundlessly to frame a single word.

"How?"

"First," Adam said, "you must learn to sort out the different kinds of
information that, up until now, have been coming in uncontrolled. In a
word, you must learn to focus your talent, and to turn it on and off
when you decide-not just when it happens. The techniques for doing this
already exist in your own subconscious mind, but they are buried. They
can be retrieved through dreams. I should like to leave you with a
posthypnotic suggestion to strengthen your ability to remember those
dreams. Do you agree?"

Peregrine nodded his acceptance.

"Very good. Then, you will accept that suggestion, and know that you
will dream the knowledge that will set you free. You will dream it as
you are ready to receive it, and you will remember what you dream."

"Yes," Peregrine whispered, his head nodding slightly.

After a slight pause, Adam also nodded.

"Now, in a very few minutes, you are going to wake up of your own
accord. At that time you will have no conscious memory of the
conversation that has just passed between us. However, the ideas
themselves will filter through to you in the course of the next few
nights, couched in dreams that you will remember very clearly. I want
you to record any dream that should happen to come to you-write it down,
or make a sketch, if that suits you better-and then we'll talk about it
at the first opportunity. Will you do that for me?"

"Yes," came the whispered response.

"Very good. Now in addition, because looking at people with your
artist's eye seems to be what triggers your vision, I'm going to suggest
that you not set out to draw anything for several days, other than in
connection with your dreams. Give yourself a bit of a rest, while your
unconscious begins sorting things out. Lady Laura's death has been a
shock, I know, but it's also the catalyst that seems to have brought
everything to a head. Then, after a few days, I will ask you to draw
quite a lot. If you can link your ability to see with an intention to
draw or paint the results, that can be the first step toward gaining
conscious control.

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"Now, in your own good time, awaken feeling refreshed and relaxed and
remembering my instructions."

He sat back in his chair and waited, making a steeple of his forefingers
and tapping them lightly against his chin. A few moments later, as
instructed, Peregrine stirred and sighed, then opened his eyes. Seeing
Adam in watchful attendance, he drew himself upright and stretched a
little sheepishly.

"I was half-expecting to find myself sprawled out on the sofa in my
studio," he said. "How long have I been under?"

"Hmmm, the best part of an hour," Adam said, glancing at an ornate
carriage clock on a side table, "but never mind. For what it's worth, I
think we've made a very good beginning. How do you feel?"

Peregrine summoned a crooked attempt at a smile. "Not too bad. More
tired than anything else-which is a distinct improvement." He flexed
stiff shoulders, then glanced down at his wristwatch. "Good Lord, if
that really is the time, I ought to retrieve my own clothes and go home
while there's still time for you to get a few hours' sleep."

"Sleep is a luxury I can do well enough without, now and then," Adam
said. "Besides, you're not really in any fit state to drive. The room
where you changed can be yours. I expect Humphrey can supply anything
you need."

"Well, I don't want to impose," Peregrine began.

"It's no imposition-simply common sense. As a matter of fact," he
continued casually, at the artist's look of continued uncertainty, "it
would probably be no bad thing if you were to move in here at
Strathmourne for a few days. It's clear from what you've told me tonight
that you have a lot of soul-searching to do. And in my experience, it's
generally a good idea not to embark on that kind of inner journey
without the benefit of someone standing by, ready to step in, if you
feel the need of a mediator."

Peregrine flushed slightly. "That's uncommonly generous of you, Sir
Adam, and I'm very grateful-but as you know, I didn't exactly come
prepared for an extended visit."

"That needn't worry you in the least," said Adam with a deep chuckle.
"It's one of the many good reasons for having a faithful manservant.
I'll give your keys to Humphrey, and

64 60 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

he can drive down to Edinburgh first thing in the morning and collect
whatever you need from your flat."

A relieved smile eased the younger man's weariness. "You think of
everything, don't you? In that case, I'll take you up on your
invitation-at least for a few days. I can't seem to summon up the energy
to argue with you."

"You'll find it rarely does any good, when I set my mind on something,"
Adam said lightly, getting to his feet. "And we'll discuss the length of
your stay when you're more rested. In the meantime, I highly recommend a
late-night snack before we turn in. I heard Humphrey come in a little
while ago. He makes exceptionally good hot ham sandwiches, and his
recipe for cocoa, I'm convinced, has more than a touch of brandy in it."

65

HALF an hour later, feeling relaxed and comfortably full-fed for what
seemed like the first time in days, Peregrine bade his host a drowsy
good-night and made his way upstairs to the room he had used earlier.
Though he had been in no condition to appreciate it before, the room was
spacious and elegant, like most of what he had seen, thus far, at
Strathmourne. The walls were a cool shade of Wedge wood blue, with the
woodwork and cornices picked out in white. The center section of the
coffered ceiling had been painted to resemble the sky by night. When he
had shed his slippers and robe and climbed wearily under the
chintz-covered comforter, he lay back on the feather pillows and gazed
up dreamily at the tempera fresco of clouds and constellations for
several minutes before switching off the bedside lamp. It was the serene
image of a starry firmament that he carried with him as he settled
unresisting into deep, untroubled sleep.

Overwhelmed by sheer fatigue, he had no dreams that he could clearly
remember. When at long last he roused again to full awareness, the room
was suffused with a subdued submarine glow, and from far, far away, he
could hear the sound of church bells. Shrugging himself out from under
the bedclothes, he padded barefoot over to the curtained window-bay and
parted the blue damask drapes. Sunlight poured into the room, and
outside, the sky was clear and bright.

But the continued ringing of the church bells told him that it must be
far later than he first had thought. Blinking, he

66 62 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

retired to the bedside table and snatched up his wrist watch. To his
amazement, it was nearly half past eleven. Could he really have slept so
late?

He found his clothes of the night before, clean and neatly pressed, laid
out over the back of a chair to the right of the bathroom
door-^Humphrey's work, no doubt. On the counter beside the bathroom sink
were his shaving kit and other small, assorted personal effects,
obviously retrieved, according to plan, from his flat in Edinburgh. A
quick foray back into the bedroom to inspect chests of drawers and
wardrobes revealed that a thorough selection of the rest of his clothing
had been brought as well. Marveling at the efficiency of Adam Sinclair's
soft-spoken manservant, Peregrine made shrift to bathe and dress as
quickly as possible, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

There was no sign of Humphrey, when Peregrine made his way downstairs.
Nor, at first, could he find evidence of anyone's presence. As he paused
on the bottom-most step to get his bearings, however, he noticed that
the door to the library was standing slightly ajar. Taking his courage
firmly in hand, he went up to the threshold and rapped lightly on the
paneled oak.

"Come in," said Adam Sinclair's deep voice from inside.

Peregrine pushed the door open and stepped timorously into the room.
Adam was sitting at his desk with his back to the window, the sleeves of
an immaculate white shirt aglow in the morning sun against a dark
waistcoat and cravat. The jacket of the morning suit was hanging over
the back of another chair. Peregrine was surprised to see his host so
formally attired until he remembered, with a pang, that Adam had
promised to pay a sympathy call on the Kintoul family that morning, and
apparently had done so.

"You've already been up to Kintoul House, haven't you?" Peregrine said,
flinching from the direct gaze as Adam looked up. "I-I meant to go with
you. You shouldn't have let me sleep."

Smiling, Adam set aside a newspaper cutting he had been reading, laying
it on a stack of similar items in an open manila file folder.

"I felt that you needed the sleep more than the family

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needed yet another caller this morning," he said easily. "There will be
ample time for a more meaningful visit in the week to come. Besides," he
added, not unkindly, "I think you may be sure that Lady Laura would not
have begrudged you the benefit of a good night's sleep."

Peregrine opened his mouth as if to protest, then shut it again when he
realized that Adam had spoken no more than the truth. While he was still
searching for a suitably chastened rejoinder, Adam said, "Humphrey's set
up a table for brunch in the room across the hall from this one. If
you're sufficiently wide awake to feel peckish, I'll ring down to let
him know we're ready for something to eat."

When Peregrine made no demur, Adam reached across the bay to tug at an
embroidered bellpull, then returned his attention to tidying up the
stack of cuttings in his file. The motion drew Peregrine's gaze like a
magnet, and the words, "Antique Sword," jumped out at him from the
headline on the top cutting, just as Adam closed the folder.

"You'll find I have a variety of interests," Adam said casually, taking
no apparent note of the slightly guilty look of surprise on Peregrine's
face as the artist quickly looked up. "Every once in a while, I get
akked to assist the police with cases that have aspects of the-j-shall
we say, unusual about them. For quite some time now, I've made a habit
of saving anything in the papers that happens to catch my eye. More than
once, this eccentricity has given me advance warning that my services
may be called for."

Peregrine blinked and nodded, but he had the sudden, inexplicable
feeling that something had just gone totally over his head. Adam's
manner seemed as relaxed as ever, but Peregrine abruptly was certain of
one thing: his host's apparently simple and open explanation was
camouflage for something far from simple. Whatever the nature of the
case involving this mysterious sword, Sir Adam Sinclair had some
personal stake in the affair.

"I'm sorry, Sir Adam," Peregrine said stiffly. "I didn't mean to pry."

Adam cocked his head at Peregrine in some amusement. "Sir Adam?" he said
archly. "If we're going to work together, Peregrine, I think you might
be entitled to drop the

68 64 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Sir, at least in private. And you're not prying. If you'd not been meant
to see this, do you think I would have been reading it when I knew you
might come in at any time? Besides, it's all been in the newspapers at
one time or other. Have a look, if you're interested."

He held out the file folder, still smiling, but Peregrine shook his
head, aware of feeling a little silly to have made such a fuss, yet
quite certain that Adam was not laughing at him.

"That isn't necessary," he murmured. "I-just didn't want you to think
I'd take advantage of your kindness. And frankly, even if I did read
that," he jutted his chin toward the folder with a sheepish grin, "I
doubt I'd be any the wiser."

"Perhaps not," Adam agreed with a chuckle. He opened a drawer on the
right-hand side of the desk and deposited the folder inside before
reaching for his jacket. "Shall we go? I seem to recall that Humphrey
mentioned something about fresh salmon. ..."

Later, after they had disposed of the salmon, not to mention eggs
Benedict and fresh asparagus, Adam took Peregrine on a long guided tour
of the house. The present Strathmourne House was not of any great
antiquity, having been rebuilt on the site of an earlier house ravaged
by fire in the mid-nineteenth century-which, in turn, had been built on
an old monastic site. In its present form, it was a Victorian rendering
of Scottish vernacular architecture, designed and built, at the
instigation of Adam's grandfather, by a talented local architect named
Forbes. Pundits south of the Sol way and River Tweed tended to label
Forbes' distinctive style as neo-Gothic; Adam, when feeling particularly
irreverent, was reminded of a favorite childhood picture book of Wind in
the Willows, with its illustrations of Toad Hall.

"Toad Hall" notwithstanding, Forbes had gained a sufficient reputation
to eventually be awarded a knighthood, in recognition of the excellence
of his architectural achievements; and it was widely accepted that
Strathmourne exemplified some of his best technical work. Peregrine's
artistic sensibilities were impressed, not only by the layout

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of the rooms and galleries, but by the close attention Forbes had paid
to small details of embellishment. The vine-leaf friezes adorning the
walls throughout the rooms on the ground floor were reminiscent of the
best designs of the High Gothic period. Similarly, the stained glass
window in the private chapel depicted the dream of Jacob with a medieval
richness of jewel-like color.

Peregrine was particularly struck by a heraldic crest carved and painted
on the central boss of the ceiling in the great hall-a phoenix taking
flight out of a nest of fire, within a traditional Scottish buckle and
strap.

"That's a striking crest," he said, shading his eyes with both hands to
peer up at it. "Is it a Sinclair device?"

"Aye, one of several." Adam smiled. "According to the Alexandrian
Physiologus, the phoenix betokens life eternal. When it reaches extreme
old age, it builds itself a pyre of Arabian spices and is consumed, to
rise up again out of the flames as a new creature, reborn to ongoing life."

"Reincarnation," Peregrine murmured. "Do you think such a thing is
possible?"

Adam flashed him a penetrating look from under raised brows. "Is it
possible that we are born again and again in the course of fulfilling
our individual spiritual destinies? Don't ask me. Ask yourself."

Glancing startledly at the chiseled face of his companion, Peregrine
found himself without a word to say.

They left the great hall and moved upstairs. Peregrine's discomfiture
gradually subsided as they wandered in and out of the apartments in the
north wing. The pair of adjoining rooms at the end of the corridor
boasted an intriguing collection of Edwardian toys.

"This was the nursery, when my father and his brother were boys," Adam
said, watching indulgently as Peregrine bent to inspect a child-sized
mechanical pony and cart. "My sister tells me that when she was a child,
she used to regard it as a special treat to be allowed to come and play
up here. That was one of her favorites."

The mechanical pony had a removable leather harness, and a mane and tail
of real horsehair. Peregrine fingered the

70 66 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

brass rail behind the seat on the cart, cocking his head to admire the
designs stenciled on the side.

"I didn't know you had a sister," he said. Somehow, in spite of all his
social grace and obvious charm, Adam Sinclair seemed strangely
solitary-as though somehow set apart even from his friends.

"Theodora's quite a bit older than I am," Adam replied. "Actually, she's
my half-sister-not that it matters. Her mother was my father's first
wife. There's quite a good portrait of her in the room next to yours.
Come along and I'll show it to you."

The portrait was full-length, and showed a slender, dark-haired girl
with laughing eyes, hugging a shawl of tartan silk over an elegant white
ballgown.

"That was painted shortly before Theo's twenty-first birthday," Adam
said. "The following year she married Sir Thomas Mac Allan. He was in
the diplomatic service. They've spent most of their married life in the
Far East, though they're home now. All three of the children were born
abroad. I'd love to see what you'd do for a family portrait of all of them."

"Where is home now?" Peregrine asked.

"Over in Argyllshire, not far from Inveraray," Adam replied. "It's a
pretty place, if a trifle tame after the Orient. But Theo, I think, was
more than ready to settle down in one spot, after so many years spent in
foreign climes. Thomas retired a few years ago. Theo tells me he rather
enjoys being his own man for a change."

The rest of the tour was taken up with travel anecdotes, ending up in
the library once more. While they were waiting for Humphrey to bring up
the tea tray, and Adam was making a phone call, Peregrine prowled idly
up and down the array of bookcases that lined the walls adjoining the
desk. A handsome volume bound in Moroccan leather caught his eye.

On an impulse, he drew it off the shelf and turned it over in his hands,
appreciating the workmanship of the fine binding. Riffling through the
pages, he discovered that it was a first edition of Psychologie und
Alchemie by Carl Jung, dated 1944. On the flyleaf, a handwritten note read:

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"To Philippa Sinclair," followed by an inscription in German. The
signature was that of Jung himself.

A shadow fell across Peregrine's right shoulder. "My mother was a
student of Jung's," Adam said from behind him. "She's also a
psychiatrist. He sent her that book shortly after she and my father were
married."

Peregrine turned to glance at his host, the book still open in his
hands. "Is she Swiss, then?"

"No, she's an American," Adam said, "but she was in Switzerland,
studying with Jung, when the Second World War broke out. When the United
States entered the war in 1942, she joined the U.S. Army Medical Corps.
She and my father met up in a field hospital behind the lines-and the
rest, as they say, is history."

Peregrine closed the book and carefully returned it to its place on the
shelf. "I gather she's still alive?"

"Oh, quite," Adam returned with a laugh. "At the moment she's in
America, supervising the running of her clinic in New Hampshire. That
was a bone of contention while my father was alive, since he thought she
should be here all the time, attending to her duties as lady of the
manor. Since his death, however, that's where she spends most of her
time. She maintains that the work keeps her young."

He might have said more, but at that moment Humphrey's discreet knock
heralded the arrival of tea and scones. As Peregrine followed Adam back
to the fireside, he reflected that a capacity for remarkable
achievements seemed to run in the Sinclair family.

They passed the evening quietly at Strathmourne. A simple but excellent
dinner was followed by brandy in the now-familiar environs of the library.

"I suggest we make an early evening of it," Adam said. "I think you'll
agree that last night was-ah-something less than restful, and tomorrow,
after I make my rounds down at Jordanburn, I've got to drive up to
Gleneagles for the afternoon. It's the quarterly meeting of the Royal
Scottish Preservation Trust, and I'm speaking. Perhaps you'd like to
come along."

"Well, I-"

72 68 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

"It's no intrusion, if that's what you're thinking," Adam said with a
smile. "I think you'd enjoy it-and it would give me the chance to
present you to some good friends of mine who are members of the
Trust-friends who might be the source of future commissions," he added,
raising his glass in smiling salute, "if the prospect of my company for
the day and a bunch of probably boring lectures aren't sufficient
enticements."

Warmed through by the brandy and the glow of their growing camaraderie,
Peregrine found himself agreeing. Only much later, after he had retired
to his room for the night and was drifting off to sleep, did it occur to
him that this was the first social engagement in months that he had
allowed himself to accept. Nor had he thought even once about the
despair that had driven him here to Strathmourne not twenty-four hours
before.

The next day, Monday, dawned fair and fine. After an early breakfast,
Adam left Peregrine on his own for a few hours while he zipped into
Edinburgh to see patients, returning just after eleven to pick him up.

"Traffic was lighter than I expected," Adam said, as he leaned across to
open the passenger door of the Jaguar for Peregrine. "We may even have
time for a proper lunch. I told some friends we'd try to join them, if
we got there before one."

They arrived at the Gleneagles Hotel with plenty of time to spare.
Adam's friends turned out to be the Duke of Glendearn, who was president
and principal patron of the Trust, and several other titled notables,
several of whom were acquainted with Peregrine's work. The warmth of
their reception did much to dispel Peregrine's initial shyness, and by
the time lunch was finished, he was well on the way to finding himself
at home.

Peregrine glanced at the program leaflet Adam handed him as they went
into the lecture room. The morning's program, he found, had included the
society's business meeting and several addresses on various aspects of
Scottish history. The events scheduled for the afternoon included
several more speeches and a series of panel discussions-

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none of which turned out to be at all boring, so far as Peregrine was
concerned.

Adam's own contribution, last on the agenda, was a lecture on the
subject he termed "Intuitive Archaeology." Interestingly enough, to
Peregrine's way of thinking, no one seemed inclined to leave early. In
fact, people who had been wandering in and out during the afternoon made
a point to come back in as the duke was introducing Adam. Evidently Sir
Adam Sinclair was one of their more popular speakers.

"This is intended to be an exercise in creative speculation," Adam
warned his listeners, with a smile that compelled their instant
attention. "What I am proposing is that, for the next fifty minutes, we
waive all consideration of empirical methodology, in order to examine
the intuition as a prime tool for archaeological investigation."

"Intuition," he repeated, looking around the room. "It's something that
many people think women have more of than men do." That comment brought
a chuckle. "People working in the so-called 'hard sciences' tend to
mistrust it, because it can't be 'proven' by scientific logic. People
working in the 'soft' sciences-and psychiatry is one of them-know that
intuition can be a very valuable tool, especially when confirmed by
results. Perhaps, then, the line between logic and intuition is not as
hard and fast as the hard scientists would have us believe."

As Adam turned to the next page in his notes, Peregrine settled down
contentedly to take it all in. This was turning out to be every bit as
interesting as he had hoped it might be.

"Actually, many hard scientists do use intuition," Adam went on, "though
most of them would squirm, if forced to admit it. After all, it isn't
'logical.' However, it is no secret that some researchers are infinitely
more adept than others at arriving at correct hypotheses on the basis of
slender or confusing physical evidence. Putting this into an historical
perspective, I would like to suggest that intuition may, in fact, play a
very large role in reconstructing history on the basis of artifacts. ..."

There followed a series of factual anecdotes involving a number of
eminent archaeologists and their discoveries. As

74 70 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Peregrine listened, it began to dawn on him that the faculty Adam was
describing was, by any other name, a kind of extrasensory perception. He
glanced around him, wondering if any of the other members of the
audience had caught the masked drift of the discourse. Before he could
form any distinct impressions, the presentation took an even more
radical turn.

"If we accept that intuition does, in fact, play a vital expository role
in archaeological investigation," Adam said coolly, "we may well find
ourselves obliged to modify our definition of physical reality. To that
end, I am going to suspend, for a moment, all consideration of Newtonian
physics in order to broaden the concept of nature to include that
elusive field in which the intuition operates."

This announcement generated an interested stir amongst those present.
Without pausing to refer to his notes, Adam continued, leaning forward
conspiratorially on the podium.

"All physical reality is traditionally quantifiable in terms of three
dimensions: height, width, and depth. But such an assessment fails to
take account of the fact that objects- and people, for that matter-also
exist in the dimension of time. This temporal factor is something that,
for lack of a better term, I should like to call Resonance."

Peregrine sat forward in his chair. He felt suddenly as if he were on
the brink of hearing something of vital personal importance.

"To draw an analogy," Adam went on calmly, "resonance can be interpreted
as a kind of existential echo: a subtle shadow of how things used to be.
As a theoretical psychologist, I would submit that the ability to
perceive resonance is a rare function of the human psyche. In antique
times, that faculty was the trademark of priests, seers, and mystics. In
these latter days, it is still a factor among those whose livelihood
depends on their developing that faculty of vision: archaeologists,
psychiatrists, artists. ..."

Artists? Startled, Peregrine was suddenly swamped by a host of
half-realized implications. Was this why Adam had wanted him to come
along? He was still struggling to untangle his own thoughts when he was
roused from his reverie by an outburst of hand-clapping. He looked up to

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see Adam descending from the podium into a crowd of would-be questioners.

It was some time before Adam was free again to join him. By then
Peregrine was sufficiently master of his own whirling speculations to
follow along gracefully while friends and acquaintances offered their
congratulations and goodbyes. The shadows were lengthening by the time
they pulled out of the car park. Peregrine held his tongue until they
were back on the main road toward Strathmourne, then abruptly voiced the
question that he had been at pains to suppress for more than an hour.

"This business of resonance that you spoke of-is that another way of
saying that objects can somehow generate images from their temporal past?"

Wry amusement plucked at the corner of Adam's long mouth. "You were
listening closely, weren't you? Yes, that's the basic idea. The same
principle applies to people as well. Those resonances are sometimes
described, in psychic circles, as 'auras.' And they can resonate forward
in time, as well as backwards."

"Oh," said Peregrine. For a moment he stared hard at the road ahead.
Then in a rush he said, "This problem of mine-this problem with seeing
things that other people can't see-could it be somehow related to this
notion of resonance?"

"It's at least a theory," said Adam. "But I can't give you any hard
answers. I suggest you sleep on it."

That proved to be his last word on the subject. Balked in several
further attempts to draw out his host in greater detail, Peregrine at
last gave up and allowed the conversation to drift into other channels,
equally fascinating, but of far less personal import, so far as
Peregrine could tell. Later that night, none the wiser, he went to bed
with no expectation of falling asleep readily, let alone dreaming.

But as he lay in bed, staring up at the starry patterns on the ceiling,
his thoughts drifted so subtly from conscious into subconscious
awareness that he was not aware of having fallen asleep until the onset
of the Dream.

76

pHE dream began as though he were waking up from a X light doze. He was
still in bed in the Blue Room at Strathmourne, but the door was standing
half-open, emitting a wedge of unearthly light. Peregrine rose from the
bed and crossed to the doorway. When he looked beyond the confines of
the room, he realized that he was standing on the threshold of some
other reality.

He should have been facing another door, in a corridor papered in a
willow-herb pattern designed by William Morris. Instead, he was
confronting a square chamber, empty and bare, whose blank walls had the
silvery sheen of mirrors. The wall to his right was broken by a high
archway, affording him a view of a succession of other rooms beyond. The
light that suffused all the rooms seemed to be emanating from somewhere
off in the distance, in that direction.

Peregrine was seized by a sudden desire to locate the source of the
light. His dream-self stepped out into the middle of the square chamber,
and his own reflection sprang out at him from three sides. He fetched up
short, for the reflection did not match up with his appearance.

His dream-persona was wearing the modern clothes he had worn when he had
fled to Adam Sinclair in search of counsel. But the self that gazed back
at him out of the mirror was wearing only sandals and a striped woollen
chlamys thrown over the left shoulder, in a style that recalled amphorae
paintings from ancient Greece. Apart from the differences in clothing
and hairstyle, however, the

77 74 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

reflection conformed with Peregrine's every look and gesture. It
occurred to him, within the framework of the dream, that what he was
seeing might be a true, if deeply hidden, part of himself.

He moved hastily through the arch into the adjoining room. This chamber
was mirrored too, and in this one, his reflection wore the short tunic
and leather body armor of a Roman centurion. In the room after, he was
greeted by a long-haired image of himself in a rich Byzantine dalmatic
of embroidered silk. More images followed, detailed like a fantastic
display in a museum of historical costume. But the face was always his own.

The strange gallery of mirrors brought him at last to the foot of a tall
door. Ornately carved as the entry port of a church, it yielded smoothly
when Peregrine gave a tentative tug at the latch. He felt no sense of
danger, so he stepped across the threshold and paused to look around.

The chamber in which he found himself was vaulted like a Greek Orthodox
chapel, its curving dome overlaid with mosaic work in marble and gold.
LigHt spilled down from a glowing filigree lamp suspended on golden
chains from the ceiling. Directly below the lamp, on an upraised dais of
white marble, a curiously fashioned pedestal supported a shimmering
globe the size of a royal orb.

Aware that he was still dreaming, Peregrine gazed at the orb in wonder.
It had a nacreous sheen, like a great pearl. The silken beauty of it
drew him like a magnet. Without pausing to consider his actions, he
strode across the floor and mounted the dais, hands reverently
outstretched to touch it.

The instant of contact brought a radiant flash, like a surge of heat
lightning. Reeling, Peregrine flung up his arms to shield his dazzled eyes.

He took his hands away to find the chapel gone, himself suspended in an
iridescent sea. Fear of falling gripped him, and he kicked out
frantically in an attempt to find the floor. His violent and instinctive
movement sent a wave of color surging through the opalescent matrix
surrounding him. The wave folded back on itself, fragmenting in a
kaleidoscopic explosion of fractured light.

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Straightaway Peregrine was swallowed up in a polychrome tempest. He
thrashed about in the eddying tides like a swimmer in danger of
drowning, becoming more disoriented by the second. Panicking, he choked
out a gasping cry for help.

A chorus of voices answered him, calling out reassurance and
encouragement. They spoke in different languages, but he understood all
of them. In that Pentecostal moment, he realized that they were all
echoes of his own voice, all telling him the same thing: Be still. Be
still, and know that thou art lord of all.

He stopped struggling. At once the wild fluctuations of light became
less erratic. Holding himself motionless, he willed the storm to
subside. By degrees, the warring colors resolved into a unified field of
light, like a pearly lake-and he could walk upon it! Awed and
astonished, he set off in perfect silence. . . .

A soft blue light grew up all around him, gradually overwhelming every
other color. In trying to blink back focus, he discovered that his eyes
were closed. When he opened them a moment later, he found himself gazing
up at a painted sky full of painted stars. He was back in his room at
Strathmourne.

He sat up in bed, puzzled and abstracted, as he mentally reviewed the
very vivid dream he had just experienced. At the same time, a mild
compulsion laid hold of him to commit the details to paper. He found pen
and notebook on the table beside his bed, and he switched on the bedside
lamp and began to scribble down an account of the dream's scenes and events.

By the time he had finished, it was past eight o'clock. Mindful that his
host was an early riser, Peregrine rushed through his ablutions and,
with his notebook tucked under his arm, hurried downstairs to the
morning room where Adam habitually ate breakfast. He arrived rather
breathlessly to find Adam in the act of pouring himself a steaming cup
of tea, a newspaper at his elbow. The wide bow window beyond the table
showed the day starting out to be a misty one.

"Good morning," Peregrine said, tendering the older

79 76 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

man a sheepish grin. "I hope I haven't disgraced myself by being late
again for breakfast."

"Not at all," Adam laughed, putting aside his paper. "I've only just sat
down myself. Join me, by all means." A discerning look produced a raised
eyebrow. "Is anything amiss?"

"Not amiss, no." Peregrine slid eagerly into the chair across from Adam.
"I had the most extraordinary dream, just before I woke up. Could we
talk about it?"

"Certainly," Adam replied. "Did you make notes?"

Nodding, Peregrine produced his notebook and proffered it across the
table. "It's all here-everything I could remember. You don't actually
have to read it right now," he added, somewhat self-consciously. "You
can have your breakfast first."

Adam took the notebook and hefted it in his hand, smiling.

"I think I'll do both at once," he said lightly. "I've found that such
material makes far more interesting breakfast reading than the
newspaper. In the meantime, by all means have something to eat. ..."

Peregrine went through the motions of taking toast and tea while Adam
read and then re-read the closely penned lines. The account ran to
several pages. When at last he raised his eyes from the notebook,
Peregrine abruptly pushed aside his plate, all further appetite at least
temporarily fled.

"Well?" he said, a little apprehensively. "What do you make of it?"

"The textbook response from me," said Adam, "is, what do you make of it
yourself?"

Peregrine grimaced. "I was afraid you'd say that." After a moment's
thought, he said with some hesitation, "Based on what you said yesterday
in your lecture, I suppose it's all about history-history, and the
resonance that history generates. What I don't understand is, why the
self-portrait gallery?"

He glanced obliquely at Adam as though inviting an explanation. Adam
gave him a penetrating look from under

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his eyebrows and carefully set the notebook on the table between them.

"I don't think you really need my help in extracting meaning from this
experience. Do you?"

Peregrine bit his lip, clearly groping for words. "No. No, I suppose I
don't. But-" He shook his head impatiently, then said in a rush, "Adam,
I was brought up to be a good Presbyterian. It isn't easy for me to
reconcile notions of reincarnation with Christianity."

"And yet, Christianity itself embraces a multitude of different
interpretations of the same basic story," Adam responded. "Otherwise, we
shouldn't have all the different denominations of Christians, who all
think their way of approaching God is best."

"Then, you think the two are compatible?" Peregrine asked doubtfully.

Adam shrugged. "That's a matter of conscience, for you to decide. My own
feeling-and I say this as a committed Christian, and having dined with
my bishop only last week-is that Christianity quite possibly embraces
far greater and more universal truths than are generally accepted and
taught in its various churches."

This rather pointed observation reduced Peregrine to wide-eyed silence.
After a long moment, he said slowly, "This is crazy. You're a
psychiatrist, yet you're telling me that you believe my delusion is no
delusion at all, but the truth."

"I didn't say that," Adam replied. "But if it makes you any more
comfortable, accept that the illusion of past resonances-past lives, if
you will-is a useful metaphor for utilizing some seventh sense for which
we have no adequate explanation at present. In a word, if it works, use it."

Goggle-eyed, Peregrine simply stared at him for a moment, taking it all
in. Then he nodded slowly.

"I think I understand what you're saying," he murmured. "Somehow, it
even makes sense-of a sort."

"Intuitive sense?" Adam asked, smiling.

"Maybe. But you're right about one thing: whether it's real real or only
seems real, it's better than anything I've

81 78 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

been able to come up with to explain what's happening to me." He
fingered the notebook on the table between them, then looked up again.

"So let's assume that I have had several other lives before this one,
just for the sake of argument. If the same is true of you," he continued
in the same reflective tone, "then what I was seeing the other night,
when I tried to draw you, was-resonances of your past?" He looked to
Adam for confirmation.

"Somewhat over-simplified," Adam agreed, with a wry half-smile, "but
essentially correct, as far as it goes."

Peregrine assimilated this. After a pause he asked, "Do you ever find
yourself seeing shadows of my past lives?"

"Not spontaneously, if that's what you mean."

"Why not?"

"For one thing," Adam said, "I suspect that it's because I've developed
the ability to limit my temporal perspective as well as expand it. For
another, that isn't where my major talents lie."

Before Peregrine could demand a fuller explanation, Adam squared his
shoulders briskly and set his cup and saucer aside.

"Are you a horseman, by any chance?"

The sudden shift of subject took Peregrine totally by surprise.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you ride?"

Blinking, Peregrine said, "I used to be quite keen when I was at school.
Why?"

"As I think I may have mentioned," Adam said, "I've had a crew doing
some badly needed clearance work up at Templemor Tower, during the past
week. There's a chap coming by this afternoon-an archaeologist from
Ancient Monuments. Before I give him the go-ahead to carry out a survey
of the ruins, I'd like to take a good look at what's been done so far. I
was planning to trek out there on horseback later this morning, and it
occurred to me that you might like to come along, do some sketching. I
think we can kit you out in some of my nephew's breeches and boots- he's
about your size-if you think you'd be interested."

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Peregrine was studying Adam with amazement tinged with suspicion. "Is
this going to be another experiment?" he asked.

Adam threw back his head with a laugh. "So much for the subtle approach.
Yes, it's going to be another experiment. I assume you've got a pocket
sketchbook? Good, then bring it along. I'll tell you what I have in
mind, once we're on our way."

John, the ex-Household Cavalry trooper who looked after Adam's horses,
had Adam's favorite grey gelding already saddled by the time they found
riding gear for Peregrine and got down to the stable, and was just
leading out the blood bay mare that was to be Peregrine's mount. The
mare nickered as she caught sight of Adam, and the grey pricked his ears
and pivoted on the forehand to look too. Behind them in the stable
aisle, two more heads poked out above stable doors with equine interest.

Their keeper grinned and lifted a hand in affable greeting, almost a
salute, as he cross-tied the mare and began saddling.

"Morning, sir. He's all ready to go, and I'll have Poppy ready in a minute."

"Good morning, John. Thank you," Adam said. As he ran a gloved hand over
the grey's satiny neck and down the near front leg, the animal whuffled
softly and presented its face to be scratched.

"And good morning to you, too, Khalid," he murmured, with indulgent
compliance. "Ah, you like that, don't you? Are you and Poppy ready for a
little outing?"

"Oh, he'll give you a good ride today, sir," John said with a chuckle,
finishing with the mare's girth and moving on to bridle her. "Not that
there's a mean bone in either of them," he added, for Peregrine's
benefit. "You shouldn't have any trouble, Mr. Lovat, if you've ridden
much at all."

"I used to hunt, when I was still at school," Peregrine offered.

"Well, then, you'll do fine with this lady. And she'll keep pace with
that great grey lump there," he said, giving

83 80 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Khalid an affectionate smack on the ramp as he led the mare past. "She
should give you a very good ride."

After John had given him a leg up and helped him adjust his stirrups,
Peregrine waited for Adam to mount and then fell in behind him as they
walked the horses out of the stable yard. The mare moved out obediently
in response to his legs, clearly ready to be off, if called upon to do
so, but making no demands-a perfect lady, as John had maintained.

They continued walking for the first ten minutes, to let the horses warm
up-and let Peregrine reaccustom himself to being in the saddle. Then,
after a short trot along a drainage ditch that separated two fields,
they set off across a rolling pasture at a canter. In deference to
Peregrine's long hiatus from riding, Adam took them through gates rather
than jumping fences and hedges, reining back to a walk as they
approached the wooded slope of Templemor Hill.

It was Adam's intention to have Peregrine look at the castle ruins with
an eye to locking in on some of its resonances from the past. He had set
the stage in his previous day's lecture, and it had occurred to him that
the artist might find it less threatening to look at a structure rather
than at a person, as he began allowing his talent of seeing to reassert
itself. Ahead, through the ragged lattice of wind-stripped branches, the
jagged ramparts of Templemor gleamed gold-grey in the morning mist-a
classic Z-plan fortalice with two headless stair turrets jutting from
opposite corners of a roofless keep.

Adam stood and stretched a little in his stirrups as they approached,
wondering what the man riding at his side would see when asked to look
beyond the mere physical of the rain. He was not seeking or expecting
anything for himself, content merely to be present as facilitator and
guide for Peregrine, as the younger man learned to harness his gifts.

Guard relaxed, then, he was startled when suddenly, in the space of an
eye-blink, a fragment of his own past intruded on the present. As if by
magic, a shaft of sunlight lanced through the bare branches above them
and struck the castle walls, fanning in an eye-dazzling corona of golden

84

sunfire. The alchemy of light suspended time and reason, and revealed,
standing before the ruined doorway of Tem-plemor, a tall, bearded man
wearing the red, eight-pointed cross of the Knights Templar on the
shoulder of his white mantle, gauntleted hands resting on the hilt of a
great, two-handed broadsword planted in the earth before him.

Between one startled heartbeat and the next, the vision vanished. Adam
blinked several times, hoping to recapture it, but ghosts of even older
memories briefly surfaced instead, all unbidden-sitting at a table
littered with scrolls in an ancient library. . . . standing at the prow
of a papyrus funeral boat drifting along the west bank of the River
Nile. . . .

Then Khalid stumbled on a root, and the present moment reasserted
itself, and he was once more Sir Adam Sinclair of Templemor, riding
toward a derelict castle in the misty brightness of a Scottish morning.

Shaken more than he hoped he showed, Adam glanced aside at the young man
riding at his knee, but Peregrine seemed not to have noticed, his gaze
set attentively ahead on the sun-dappled ruins. Relieved-for frightening
Peregrine was the last thing he wanted to do-Adam set himself to
deciphering what the vision meant.

It was not a warning of danger, as such-though the image of the armed
knight might symbolize a need to be watchful, and perhaps presaged a
future necessity to dispense justice on some level. In more general
terms, however, such an unsolicited and unregulated intrusion of his
past into his present usually signalled change-a subtle shift in the
balance of powers that governed the wheeling of the universe, such as
sometimes required his intervention. The warning he had received on the
Inner Planes had hinted as much.

But the focus of any impending threat remained unclear; and until he
understood the nature of the coming shift in balance, he could only
watch and wait, until he had more information. In the meantime, his
immediate concern must be for Peregrine-who, he was beginning to
suspect, was being thrust into his life at this particular point in time
for more reason than mere happenstance.

85 82 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

He glanced again at Peregrine, briefly wondering whether he was doing
the right thing, where Peregrine himself was concerned. Thus far, the
young artist's far-seeing had encroached only slightly upon Adam, other
than in his professional capacity. The artist had come to Adam as
patient to physician, wanting only to be "cured"; but Adam, quickly
discerning the root of Peregrine's "problem," had more or less taken it
upon himself to convert that problem to an asset-not to shut off
Peregrine's special sort of seeing, but to channel it.

That was not what Peregrine had asked for. Nor was it too late to pull
back and simply "cure" him, as he had requested-though a point of no
return could not be too far away, if Peregrine learned as quickly as
Adam was beginning to suspect he might. Right now, today, Adam still
might put Peregrine and his wayward talent at arm's length, simply by
retreating to the role of only a psychiatrist, agreeing that the
far-seeing was a mental aberration, helping him learn to blot it out, as
he first had wanted. And any questioning of Adam's professionalism, if
Peregrine later spoke about his methods to anyone else, might be
dismissed as the delusions Peregrine himself had posited from the beginning.

Reverting to mere psychiatry was not really an option in Peregrine's
case, of course-though Adam always made himself examine all the likely
permutations, before taking that plunge of deeper commitment on the
Inner Planes. For good reason, he still might back off; but the
potential reward was worth a great deal of risk: another Adept restored,
ready to take his place in the Work of the Light-and possibly, a
valuable ally for Adam himself. Most compelling of all was the fact that
Adam Sinclair, as medical practitioner, spiritual healer, and warrior of
the Light, was constitutionally incapable of turning away someone in
need, whom he had the ability to help.

So. Now to see what Templemor had to offer Mr. Peregrine Lovat. Adam
already had intimations that energies were stirring, or he would not
have glimpsed visions of his own, merely approaching the ancient site.
Casting his gaze ahead, and putting his own concerns out of mind,

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83

Adam led the way into the narrow clearing surrounding the base of the
old tower house, casually pointing out a knee-high series of
foundations, just outside the castle wall, and several piles of cut
stone off to their left.

"I see the lads have been busy," he said, reining in and dismounting.
"Most of those foundations are from the old outbuildings. The piles of
stone are debris they've hauled out from inside, where walls fell in and
roofs collapsed. We'll leave the horses here to graze while we explore."

He forgot to worry about Peregrine while they saw to the horses, caught
up in the changes just since his last visit, but a week before. The ivy
was gone, for a start, and the trees formerly growing atop the first
floor vaulting had been ruthlessly rooted out, along with the debris in
which they had been growing. Pleased, Adam led the way toward the
doorway of the castle itself.

"That was probably a family crest, there above the door," Adam said,
pointing out a blurred irregularity in the stone. "I've always assumed
it was the same as the phoenix you saw in the great hall, up at the
house, but it could be a different Sinclair crest, or something else
altogether. Unfortunately, it's so far gone that we may never know for
certain."

There was no response from Peregrine. Adam glanced back over his
shoulder. The artist was standing at the bottom of the steps leading up
to the entry-way, his sketchbook clutched tightly in front of his chest,
his expression all at once pained and rigid.

"Peregrine? What's the matter?" Adam asked sharply.

The young artist started slightly at the sound of his name, eyes screwed
to mere slits behind his glasses, and looked hastily at the ground.

"I don't think I ought to have come here," he said softly.

He swayed on his feet and staggered backwards. Swiftly Adam sprang to
his side and guided him to a seat on a block of stone at the edge of the
clearing.

"Whyever not?" he demanded.

"It's this cursed, bloody ghost-sight of mine!" Peregrine said between
gritted teeth. "If I could only blot it out-"

"No, that's the last thing you want to do," Adam

87 84 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

interposed with soft urgency. "Don't fight it. Don't even try to control
it for now. Just relax and let the experience run its course."

"But-"

"I said relax," Adam said. His voice this time carried a sharp note of
command as he laid a hand across Peregrine's furrowed forehead,
steadying his head with the other hand behind. "Relax, Peregrine," he
repeated, more quietly. "I want you to go back into trance for me, like
you did the other night. Fighting isn't the answer. Relax. Remember your
dream. Remember. ..."

Under Adam's hands and persuasion, some of the tension eased out of the
younger man's taut form. His eyes remained closed, and when he finally
settled down enough to take a deep breath and let it out softly, Adam
took his hands away and moved back a step.

"That's better," he said, watching his subject closely. "Just keep your
eyes closed and listen to me. Don't you see? This is precisely why I
brought you here today-to give you a chance to test out your various
levels of vision. I thought a structure would be easier than people.
Before we can explore ways of selectively controlling what you see, we
need to find out what happens when you make no attempt to control it at
all."

Peregrine shook his head dreamily. "I know what you're saying, but it's
so-confusing. I can shut out some of the confusion, if I look straight
at whatever it is, but the images in my peripheral vision-" He paused to
swallow noisily. "Even with my eyes closed, I still see more than I
should. It's like-like trying to see through a bunch of transparencies
all stacked on top of each other."

"A good analogy," Adam agreed, "but if you'll only stop struggling, the
storm of images may subside of its own accord. What did your other
selves say in the dream?"

"Be still," murmured Peregrine. "Be still, and know that thou art lord
of-Good God!" His eyes popped open. "Do you think I'm causing the
turbulence?" -

"There's only one way to find out," Adam said, sitting carefully on
another block of stone. "Do what your other selves told you to do. Be
still. Relax and breathe deeply.

88

Close your eyes again for a moment, until you find your balance.
Concentrate on each breath as you take it, in ... and out. ..."

Peregrine obeyed. His chest rose and fell. The rigid lines of tension
eased in his face. After a long moment, his fingers eased their death
grip on the sketching pad.

"Good," Adam said. "Now open your eyes and draw what you see-whatever
you see-just as you did that first night in the library. It's perfectly
all right."

Peregrine cracked his lids a cautious chink. Colors-green, grey,
brown-shimmered giddily before him. He took another deep, slow breath,
then opened his eyes wide.

The scene in front of him flickered and flashed, oscillating between one
state and another like a holographic projection. One moment he was
looking at a derelict ruin, open to the sky; the next, he was seeing a
manorial keep with its roofs and windows intact.

"Don't tense up," Adam's deep voice advised from somewhere off to his
left. "You're seeing beyond the mere physical now, and that's good. Just
let the images flow."

Peregrine managed a slight nod of acquiescence. As he continued to gaze
unresistingly at the castle, even a little bit beyond the castle, the
vision of a different Templemor began to stabilize, building up layer on
layer. The twin stair turrets were capped off with square overhanging
garret chambers, their crow-stepped roofs snugly overlaid with slates.
The heraldic crest above the door, so badly weatherworn in the present,
now showed a sharply-cut and freshly-painted device of a Maltese cross
surrounded by seven stars-not the phoenix rising from the flames, as he
had seen in Adam's house. The motto underneath the crest read, Morte
nunquam re get-"Death shall have no dominion."

Peregrine blinked-slowly-but the image did not dissolve away when he
opened his eyes. More confident now, and catching a little of the
satisfaction that he could actually keep the thing in focus, he opened
his sketchbook and began rapidly to draw. ...

After a few minutes, Adam came to look on over the artist's shoulder.
Under Peregrine's deft, busy hands, the ruin was transformed on paper
into a stout tower-house, half

89 86 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

fortress, half manor. The dormer windows sported heavy wooden shutters,
and there were shot-holes in the flanking stair turrets to allow for
protective fire across the main block of the building. Short parapet
walks along the sides of the two overhanging garret chambers commanded a
guarded view of the ground below.

For the next hour, Peregrine continued to draw, pausing only now and
again to sharpen his pencil before moving into a new position, to catch
a different perspective. By the time he finally handed the notebook to
Adam, standing up to stretch, he had completed no fewer than a dozen
comprehensive drawings.

Adam looked them over, marvelling at the wealth of detail running
throughout. The restoration of the crest was particularly interesting,
for it depicted a much earlier version of the Sinclair device, harking
back to the time when the name had been Saint Clair, and the Templar
connection had been quite unmistakable-a variation known to Adam, though
not expected here, and certainly nothing that Peregrine Lovat could be
expected to know. Given the accuracy of this heraldic detail, far beyond
the scope of coincidence, there was little doubt in Adam's mind that
Peregrine had reproduced an accurate record of the structural features
of the house, inside and out.

The plan of the ground floor showed two vaulted storage chambers behind
an entry hall, with the kitchen housed in the northeast tower. The great
hall occupied the center of the building on the first level above the
ground, with auxiliary family rooms opening off into the towers at
either corner. The space on the next level up was divided into two
bed-chambers, a strong room, and a solarium. The rooms on the garret
level gave access to the parapet walks, where household guards would
have kept watch in times of trouble. It was a plan fairly typical for
castles of this era, but many of the interior details could not have
been deduced merely from looking at the ruined remains, and certainly
not in the short time Peregrine had spent drawing them.

"Peregrine, these are truly excellent," Adam said, looking up. "May I
show them to the surveyor when he calls round this afternoon?"

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The young artist had plopped down on the bottom-most step in front of
the port, with his booted feet stretched out in front of him. He was
looking slightly weary, but there was no longer any strain in his face.
At Adam's question, he looked up and chanced a tentative smile.

"If you really think they'll be useful-certainly."

"If he's any good at his job," Adam replied, "I think 'useful' will be a
gross understatement. How do you feel?"

Peregrine considered. "That's very odd," he said. "I'm tired, but you
know, I feel quite relaxed-as though I'd got something bothersome out of
my system."

"And your vision?"

"It's gone back to normal," said Peregrine. He added with a half-laugh,
"I think your experiment worked." He sounded almost elated.

Adam gave him a knowing nod. In the last hour, they had passed the point
of no return.

"I believe it did," he replied. "How soon do you think you might be
ready to start looking at people again?"

Peregrine's eyes widened, but this time there was none of the fear that
would have accompanied contemplation of the question, but hours before.

"Do you really think I could?" he asked.

"Why not?" Adam replied. "Was this frightening for you, once you
actually got into it?"

"No."

"Well, then." Adam smiled. "People are the next step. It's the step
you're going to have to take, if you really mean to see this through."

Peregrine drew a deep breath and let it out with a determined sigh.

"All right," he said. "If you think I can do it, I'll give it a try.
Just tell me when and where."

Adam nodded, considering. "How about tomorrow? I've got to go into
Edinburgh in the morning to offer testimony in a case before the High
Court. One of the other men scheduled to be present is someone I'd like
you to look at very closely. ..."

91

THE following day dawned gusty and changeable. Peregrine and Adam left
Strathmourne House shortly before nine, with Humphrey behind the wheel
of the reliable blue Range Rover that was the workhorse of Adam's stable
of motorcars. By the time they reached the Forth Road Bridge, most of
the morning's rush hour traffic had subsided, leaving the roads
relatively clear into the center of the city.

Humphrey let his passengers out on the front steps of Parliament House,
directly across from St. Giles' Cathedral. Peregrine shifted the strap
of his small artist's satchel on his shoulder and hunched down in the
collar of his trenchcoat as he and Adam headed up the steps.

"You don't let a chap start out easily, do you?" he said. "I think I
understand what you're hoping for, and I have to admit that the case is
fascinating. But I'd still be curious to know why you want me to
concentrate on sketches of the arresting officer, rather than the
defendant or any of the witnesses."

Adam reached ahead to open the door into the courthouse building,
holding it so that Peregrine could pass through ahead of him.

"Oh, you can sketch the others as well, if you feel up to it-though I'm
not too sure I'd dwell on the defendant, at this early stage of your
training. I'd rather not go into any further detail, though, because I
don't want your reactions to be influenced by anything I might say.
You'll understand

92 90 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

better, I think, once you've had a chance to put your gifts to use."

"All right," said Peregrine, somewhat dubiously. "I'll do my best, in
blind faith."

The case was being tried in a courtroom on the third floor. It had been
in the papers for months-a gradual buildup of bizarre events involving
threats of retaliation by black magic, a series of bizarre animal
executions, and culminating in an attempt to burn down a house belonging
to an elderly woman who kept dozens of cats. Initially, Adam had been
called in to construct a psychological profile of the probable
perpetrator. When the police eventually arrested the son of a prominent
and wealthy businessman, Adam had been asked to perform a psychiatric
evaluation on behalf of the courts-and would be presenting testimony as
an expert witness in that regard today. He had reviewed his notes on the
way in, familiarizing Peregrine with the essential background of the
case. Now, as they stood waiting for the lift, Peregrine glanced
speculatively at his mentor.

"Your suspect-he really took all of that black magic nonsense seriously,
didn't he?"

"That black magic nonsense, as you so eloquently phrase it, should be
taken seriously," Adam replied, though a faint smile softened any rebuke
that might have accompanied the bald statement. "Some of what the
uninformed call black magic can be put down to psychological aberration
and delusion, I would be the first to admit. But as you yourself have
cause to know, the lines between delusion, illusion, and fact can be
very fine, indeed."

The stark reference to Peregrine's own situation produced the desired
surprised silence, just as a soft chime announced the arrival of the
lift. The doors opened, discharging a bewigged trio of barristers in
their black courtroom robes. When Adam headed briskly into the empty
car, Peregrine had to scramble a few steps to keep up.

"Let me see if I've got this right," Peregrine said, when the doors had
closed. "Are you saying that the suspect really was working black magic?"

"Oh, there's little doubt he was trying," Adam replied.

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Peregrine stared at Adam in shock.

"Did he succeed?" he asked.

"No." The flat denial hung in the air between them as Adam gazed
somewhat distractedly through the lift's control panel. "This wretched
young man, not content with the material advantages he already had,
aspired to powers he was not entitled to. He began to practice what he
fancied was a form of black magic. Unfortunately, helpless animals
suffered unspeakable torture and an innocent old woman lost her home,
her beloved pets, and very nearly her life. If there had been anything
else to it, beyond a degree of petty and vicious immaturity, his
activities might have attracted my notice sooner. As it was, he was only
deluding himself in thinking that he was actually accomplishing
something- which is better, I suppose, than the real tbing, except that
the victim still suffers, to one_degree or another."

"You're implying that black magic is real, then," Peregrine said,
obviously finding it hard to believe what he was hearing.

"Oh, it certainly can be," Adam said, fixing him with one of his bland,
matter-of-fact looks. "The High Roads are many, and the Dark turnings
have always been enticing to those of evil intent, who have a true
affinity for spiritual power. And those who choose to travel the Dark
Roads often engage in far blacker practices than animal sacrifice."

The sheer nonchalance of his tone made the actual words somehow even
more ominous in their impact. Even though it was close in the lift,
Peregrine shivered. Before he could press for further information, the
lift grounded with a bump and the doors parted on a corridor full of
people waiting to be admitted to the courtroom.

"Inspector McLeod will be sitting with me behind the Crown prosecutor,"
Adam murmured, as they stepped out and headed down the corridor, as
casual as if they had just been discussing the previous day's racing
results. "If you make for the right-hand side of the visitors' gallery,
you should be able to get a reasonably good angle on his face."

The visitors' gallery extended along the back of the courtroom, with
flanking extensions running halfway along the walls on either hand.
Peregrine shouldered his way

94 92 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

through a mixed group of journalists and idle spectators to secure a
seat in the front row, overlooking the bench which Adam was sharing with
a fit-looking grey-haired man in a tweed suit. The moustache and
gold-rimmed aviator-style glasses tallied with the brief description
Adam had given him. Never doubting that he had located his intended
subject, Peregrine hauled his sketchbook from his satchel and embarked
on his first sketch.

Other testimony occupied the better part of two hours. Adam immersed
himself in the proceedings, only allowing himself a glance up at the
visitors' gallery when it came time to take the stand himself. He was
pleased to note that Peregrine was hard at work, his expression
intensely absorbed. As Adam was sworn in, he briefly found himself
wondering what McLeod would say when he learned he had been subjected to
such penetrating scrutiny. After that, however, he gave his full
attention to the questions of the Crown prosecuter, and then of the
counsel for the defense.

Adam's testimony was finished just before the court recessed for lunch.
Taken as a whole, the morning had not gone well. As he and McLeod made
their way toward the back of the courtroom, moving with the flow of
attorneys and witnesses and spectators, McLeod gave vent to an
uncharacteristic rumble of complaint.

"Sometimes I don't know why we bother," he muttered through clenched
teeth, so that only Adam could hear him. "That smirking little weasel
back there is going to get off with a fine and probation, when by rights
he should be locked away before he gets a chance to really hurt
somebody. I'll lay you any odds you like that we get him back again
within the year-and next time, it won't be just for torturing animals."

"I doubt you'll get any takers, even at those odds," Adam replied.
"However, there's no point in dwelling on the limitations of the law.
You're through for the day, aren't you? Why don't you join me for lunch?
I have someone I'd like you to meet."

"That young man who was sketching, up in the gallery?" McLeod asked. "I
thought he might be with you. Unfortunately, I'm not through for the
day." He glanced at his

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watch and grimaced. "And if I don'f get my skates on, it'll be my hide,
too."

"What, have you been seconded for royal protection duty this afternoon?"
Adam quipped, certain that McLeod was doing no such thing. "I seem to
recall that a certain Royal Duke is in town."

McLeod rolled his eyes and snorted. He had little patience with what he
regarded as royal baby-sitting.

"Don't you dare wish that on me, Adam. Let the younger chaps have the
glory, so that old fogies like me can concentrate on real police work.
No, this is some colonel from the S.A.S., come to teach a special
workshop on using anti-terrorist tactics against inner city drug barons.
I've already missed the morning session."

"Next time, then," Adam replied. "You are going to want to meet my young
friend."

"Hmmm, then I expect I'd better make the effort. Call me later in the
week, will you?"

"I'll do precisely that," Adam agreed.

The two men parted outside the courtroom. Adam found Peregrine waiting
for him in front of the lift, watching McLeod disappear into the crowd.
The young artist was clutching his sketchbook to his breast, his eyes
bright with eagerness behind his spectacles. Sensing that Peregrine was
about to thrust the drawings at him, Adam fended him off with a smile
and a restraining gesture.

"No, don't show them to me now," he said. "There's an excellent French
restaurant a few blocks from here. I had Humphrey book us a booth in the
back, so we can have some privacy. I'd hoped the inspector could join
us, but unfortunately, he has another commitment."

The restaurant was located down a stepped close off the Grassmarket. In
between courses, Adam looked over the sketches Peregrine had made. He
had not drawn the defendant.

"I could hardly bear to look at him, Adam," he said, as he handed over
his sketch pad. "There was a fuzzy black line all around him, like
someone had taken charcoal and smudged it. But at the same time, he
looked-slimy is the only word that comes to mind."

"Hmmm, yes," Adam said, casting Peregrine a wry,

96 94 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

I-told-you-so glance as he opened the pad. "Now perhaps you understand
why I suggested you not try to sketch him. Selectively is very important
at this stage of the game."

But the sketches of Noel McLeod were precisely what Adam had expected.
The first was a lively study of the inspector on the witness-stand,
moustache bristling above a mouth set in a bulldog scowl, wire-rimmed
aviator glasses lending him a slightly dashing air. Another showed him
and Adam behind the Crown prosecutor's table, listening intently to
testimony, both precisely as they would have appeared to everyone else
in the courtroom.

The other drawings, however, were of far greater interest to Adam. In
one version, McLeod's bright blue eyes stared uncompromisingly out from
under a Highland bonnet with a white cockade pinned to the band. In a
second, he wore the cowled visage of a medieval monk. In yet another,
the police inspector of the present day had assumed the guise of a
raffish sea-captain with a bushy beard. Adam smiled involuntarily.

"I always thought McLeod had a touch of the pirate Henry Martin in him,"
he observed out loud. "You've just confirmed that suspicion."

Peregrine looked up from stirring cream into his coffee. "You and he
have more in common than first meets the eye," he said on impulse. "The
inspector's another one like you, isn't he?"

Adam confirmed it with a slight smile and a nod of the head. "Though he
would be slow to admit it in so many words," he said carefully, "Noel
McLeod owes a great deal of his professional success and effectiveness
to his hidden talents. The inspector is not alone in this respect," he
added pointedly.

The startled look on Peregrine's face told him that the point had struck
home.

"If you're talking about me," the artist said, "I don't see how my gift
for seeing this kind of thing can be of much use to the rest of humanity."

"Keep working to perfect it," said Adam, "and you might be surprised."

So saying, he signaled the waiter to bring them the bill.

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Adam's cryptic words stayed with Peregrine, cropping up when he least
expected them. He pondered them repeatedly, but he was not aware of
being any the wiser. Indeed, he was kept far too busy to even think very
much about them, for Adam kept giving him ever more demanding exercises
to develop control.

The weather had cleared after lunch, so they walked down to Princes
Street Gardens, where Adam had him sketch passers-by, sometimes opening
his sight to all impressions, looking for the deeper resonances,
sometimes deliberately limiting himself to what he saw with his physical
sight. The next day, the challenge deepened when Adam took him along on
a consultation session at Jordan-burn Hospital, where two of his
patients had given their consent to have their portraits sketched.

This time, however, Peregrine was instructed to disregard all the
psychic resonances he might detect-either from their former lives or
from their present psychic disturbances-in order to focus on external
appearances only. The task proved less difficult than he had expected.
Instead of fighting to blot out the now-familiar overlay of ghost
pictures, he found himself merely looking beyond them, focusing his
artistic acuity by means of the deep breathing technique that Adam had
taught him. In almost no time at all, the warring images seemed to
dissipate before his very eyes, leaving him free to concentrate on the
purely physical aspects of his subjects.

In consequence, the portraits he produced on this occasion had all the
sharp clarity of feature and expression that Adam had so admired in
earlier Lovat portraits. At the same time, the drawings were unclouded
by the unsettling spiritual elements that had dominated his study of
Lady Laura.

"Excellent!" exclaimed Adam, when he reviewed the portraits that night.
"You see, you can shut it down, when you want to; and you don't have to
let it take control of you. I believe you're well on your way to taking
command of this talent of yours."

The real test of Peregrine's new-found control, however, came on Friday
afternoon, when he accompanied Adam up to Kintoul to attend Lady Laura's
funeral.

98 96 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

The service was held in the Episcopal church in the village. Though
Humphrey got them there early, Adam and Peregrine arrived to find the
pews filled to capacity with mourners come to pay their final respects.
Fortunately, places had been reserved for them near the front of the
nave, in one of the pews directly behind the family's private prayer
stall. An usher escorted them down the center aisle and to the left,
while the organist improvised vaguely melancholy-sounding background
accompaniment.

Because Adam knelt after slipping into their assigned place, bowing his
head in brief prayer, Peregrine did too, though he was not accustomed to
kneeling in the church of his childhood. It was not that which made him
ill at ease, however. The very air was heavy with undischarged emotion,
and the church seemed all at once far too small to hold all the people
present. Though it was well-heated, he suddenly felt clammy and cold.

Nervously Peregrine fingered the formal line of his starched collar,
conscious of a growing tightness in his throat. When Adam finally slid
back onto his seat, quietly opening the service leaflet the usher had
given him, Peregrine followed his example. Sitting did not seem to help
much. Trying another tack, the artist forced himself to inspect the high
ceiling beams and rafters of the old church, hoping that artistic
distraction might help him avoid acknowledging the reason they had come
here today.

He had not expected it to work, and it did not. Inexorably his gaze was
drawn toward the chancel area, just inside the communion rail. Lady
Laura's coffin lay before the altar, within the protection of six tall
candlesticks, looking very small under its blanket of red and white
chrysanthemums. The sight unnerved him, but he would not allow himself
to look away. To his infinite relief, no ghostly apparition manifested
itself before his shrinking gaze.

Wondering why he should have been so afraid, Peregrine closed his eyes
and took several long, deep breaths to relax, as Adam had taught him.
Gradually the tightness in his throat abated. He was still searching his
memory for a prayer appropriate for the moment when the organ up in the
choir loft segued into a prelude by Palestrina, signaling the

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beginning of the service. Toward its conclusion, the clergy entered in
procession: cross-bearer and candle-bearers and white-surpliced vicar.

The familiar pattern and repetition of the music had drawn and held
Peregrine's attention. His emotional turmoil began to recede. The Handel
introit which followed was performed by an accomplished contralto. All
at once, Peregrine seemed to hear Lady Laura's voice with that of the
singer, speaking comfort to him through the lilting strains of what had
been one of her favorite arias:

"Art thou troubled? Music will calm thee. ..."

He stopped trying to pray in words and let his spirit rest.

The theme of comfort continued with the opening hymn, this one based on
a fifteenth-century poem by Bianco da Siena and set to a melody by
Vaughan Williams:

"Come down, O Love divine. Seek thou this soul of mine, And visit it
with thine own ardor glowing. ..."

Anchored by the stability of the familiar hymn, Peregrine found himself
able to join in with the rest of the congregation. Beside him, Adam's
resonant bass lent added support, full of depth and latent passion. The
mingled pride and reverence in the other man's upright stance reminded
Peregrine of the statue of a Crusader-knight he had seen once in a
chapel in Provence. The deep eyes held a faraway glow, as though they
were reflecting back some measure of the brightness of his own inner
vision. Abruptly Peregrine remembered that first sketch he had made of
Adam-had it really been less than a week ago?

The hymn ended, and the moment passed, but to Peregrine's unmitigated
relief, all the prayers and readings that followed spoke eloquently of
light and transcendence.

"Behold, I show you a mystery," the vicar declared in the words of St.
Paul. "We shall not all die, but we shall all be changed. ..."

Adam had told him on the way here that the readings were Lady Laura's
own choice. She had known she was going to die-had had time to prepare
for it-and she had selected the words of comfort with the same care with
which she had lived her life, sensitive to the end of the feelings of
those she had loved and was leaving behind.

100 98 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Adam had been one of the few to know she was dying. How much of his own
knowledge had Adam shared with her, in those days before her passing,
Peregrine wondered?

Lady Laura's eldest son came forward then, speaking briefly but
emotionally of his mother's life and the causes she had loved, bidding
her farewell on behalf of all the family. Then, to Peregrine's surprise,
Adam Sinclair went forward, mounting the lectern and withdrawing a
single piece of paper from an inside pocket.

"It was my privilege to enjoy Lady Laura's confidence and affection for
many years," he said simply. "Lord Kintoul has asked that I share with
you this short reading, which was one of her favorites. It comes from
the final paragraph of a novel by Thomas Wolfe, entitled You Can't Go
Home Again."

He glanced down at the paper and slowly began to read, but it
immediately became clear to Peregrine that the words needed no prompting
from any written text.

Something has spoken to me in the night,

burning the tapers of the waning year;

something has spoken in the night

and told me I shall die, I know not where.

Saying:

"To lose the earth you know, for greater knowing;

to lose the life you have, for greater life;

to leave the friends you loved, for greater loving,

to find a land more kind than home, more large

than earth,

whereon the pillars of this world are founded, toward which the
conscience of the world is tending- a wind is rising, and the rivers flow."

"We shall miss you, Laura," Adam finished quietly, in the hush of the
crowded church, "but we bid you Godspeed and send you on your way with
all our love and blessings."

The words had moved Peregrine profoundly, and he knew that he was not
the only one to blink back tears. But as Adam made his way back to his
seat, Peregrine found that his pain had gone, and with it any lingering
guilt that he might have contributed to Lady Laura's death. On the

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contrary-and he knew this was a certainty tinged neither with pride nor
with false modesty-his regular appearances to work on her portrait had
given her much pleasure and comfort in those last weeks and months.

That acknowledged, he found that he could bid her an affectionate
farewell from the depths of his heart, as serene now as he had been
anxious earlier. He would miss her, but he knew that any lingering
sadness must be for himself and not for her.

Still, as the vicar bade them kneel for the benediction, Peregrine
reflected that he was glad there would be no graveside farewell. He knew
it made no difference to Lady Laura, but he still shrank from the idea
of anyone he loved being buried beneath the earth. Once the congregation
had left, she would be laid to rest ill the medieval vaults underneath
the nave, to sleep with Kintouls and Kintoul wives of many another
generation. She had been proud of her heritage; she would have liked that.

The prayer finished. The congregation stood. The tune of the closing
hymn was by Michael Praetorius, the lyrics a translation from St. Ambrose:

O Splendor of God's glory bright, O thou that bringest light from light,
O Light of Light, light's living spring, O Day, all days illuminatjng. . . .

Freed now from all the guilt and confusion attending his vision of Lady
Laura's passing, Peregrine let the words of the fourth-century bishop
speak for him as well, now also free to let his newly biddable vision
quest out as it would. At the same time, he again found himself hearing
other voices, distinct from the general congregation. Almost without
thinking, he allowed his eyes to be drawn to the singers in turn. Deeper
impressions followed.

The reedy tenor coming from somewhere in front of him belonged, he
discovered, to a sleek young man with a fox's clever face. Peregrine had
met him once. He was a distant nephew of Lady Laura's, only present
because he was hopeful of gaining something material from her will. By

102 100 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

contrast, the gruff, tuneless baritone from one of the back rows
advertised the presence of Lady Laura's elderly chauffeur, stoically
accepting what he had no power to change.

Then, for Peregrine, all the other voices fell silent before a single,
silver-bright soprano, soaring heavenward like the song of a lark. It
was a woman's voice, but thin and pure as a young boy's, poignantly
mingling piercing clarity with aching sorrow. The singer herself was
somewhere off to Peregine's left and ahead, in the direction of the
family stall. Eagerly he scanned the people standing there. A moment
later he found her, far to the left, almost against the north wall.

She was standing in a pool of colored light cast down through the
stained glass window immediately above her left shoulder. The hair that
she wore swept back off her slender neck was a pale bright shade between
copper and gold. Her averted profile was as delicate as that of a
Botticelli madonna, traces of tears glistening beneath her lowered
eyelashes.

Peregrine's heart went out to her in that instant, his perceptions
quickened by compassion. Though he did not think she was any
blood-relation to Lady Laura, her grief was as strong as any daughter's.
Drawn by her beauty, he studied her more deeply-and was touched to
discern a gracious gentleness of spirit.

Who is she? he wondered.

The recessional hymn ended on a harmonic Amen. After a moment's
respectful delay, the mourners began gathering themselves to leave the
church. The family made their departure by a side door, and the girl
with the face of a grieving madonna made her way with them, though
unaccompanied. Peregrine followed her slender figure with his eyes until
she had disappeared, only coming to his senses when Adam nudged his elbow.

"Her name is Julia Barrett," Adam murmured in his ear, as he urged the
younger man into the center aisle. "She's Lady Laura's god-daughter."

Peregrine half-turned, long past being surprised that Adam Sinclair
should be able to read him so clearly.

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"Is she?" he wondered aloud. "I can't think why we never met before."

"Her father was Sir Albert Barrett," Adam said softly. "He had holdings
down south, in Buckinghamshire."

Peregrine glanced at Adam, noting the two uses of the past tense.

"Her father's dead?" he whispered.

Adam inclined his head in discreet confirmation, keeping his voice low
as they made their way along with the crowd.

"A few years ago, he was involved in a financial scheme that went badly
awry. When the company he had helped to found went bankrupt, he sold off
his own properties in order to make good the losses to the shareholders.
It was an honorable thing to do, and no word was ever spoken against him
personally, but rumors hinted increasingly that his business partners
might have been involved in professional improprieties. It took the
heart out of him. A few months after the bankruptcy, he was found dead.
The official verdict was death by natural causes, but there were some
who said he had taken his own life. Needless to say, the affair put an
enormous strain on his family. I think things might have gone very ill
with Julia and her mother if Lady Laura hadn't stood by them."

They reached the door of the church in time for Peregrine to catch a
disappointing glimpse of Julia Barrett stepping into a waiting car. He
looked for her again at the reception back at Kintoul House, but without
success. He was distracted from any further thoughts on the subject when
the Earl of Kintoul called him courteously aside to inquire about the
completion of his mother's unfinished portrait. To his own private
surprise and relief, Peregrine discovered that the thought of coming
back to the painting no longer filled him with shrinking alarm.

"I can resume work any time you wish, my lord," he assured the earl.
"I'm doing some work for Sir Adam Sinclair at the moment, but I know
he's also eager to see the portrait finished."

When the earl shortly departed to look after his other guests, Peregrine
went wandering in search of Adam. He found him by one of the windows in
the drawing room,

104 102 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

engaged in absorbed conversation with a lissom, laughing-eyed blond whom
Peregrine recognized as Lady Alyson MacBaird, the elder daughter of the
Earl of Kilrevan. He had painted her several years before. Unwilling to
interrupt what was obviously a pleasurable encounter for both parties,
Peregrine was about to withdraw, when the scene before him underwent a
sudden disturbing change.

A shadow seemed to pass over the brightly-lit room, like a storm cloud
passing over the sun. The darkness gathered over Adam's corner of the
hall, spiraling around him like smoke.

Peregrine gave a gasp and blinked his eyes hard, but the darkness
remained, hovering queasily in the air like a screen of poisonous gas.
Throwing discretion to the winds, Peregrine called out sharply and
started forward.

"Adam!"

The older man turned his head, his expression one of question. Halfway
to the middle of the room, Peregrine fetched up short as the darkness
abruptly vanished before his eyes. He stumbled to a halt, feeling
foolish and confused.

"What is it, Peregrine?" Adam inquired mildly.

Peregrine shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other,
aware of Lady Alyson's amused blue gaze.

"I beg your pardon," he told her. "I was looking for Sir Adam, but it
can wait. ..."

Later on, however, when he and Adam were in the car driving back to
Strathmourne, he related what he had seen.

"I haven't a clue what it was," he confessed. "It wasn't like any of the
other things I've been seeing. A-almost an intelligent presence, perhaps
some kind of elemental force-like the energy buildup before a tornado or
a hurricane. It was definitely menacing. And you were at the center of it."

Adam assimilated this without speaking. When the silence lengthened,
Peregrine finally asked, "Adam, are you in some kind of danger?"

Adam's mouth was thin and unsmiling. "If I am, it has yet to assume a
particular shape and form."

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"Have you any enemies that you know of?" Peregrine persisted.

"Yes. Who hasn't?" Adam stated shortly. Then his expression softened.
"Look, I don't doubt for an instant that you've caught intimations of
some form of trouble to come. But I make it a rule never to worry, until
I have something specific to worry about. Sufficient unto the day," he
finished drily, "is the evil thereof."

"All right," said Peregrine on a heavy note. "At least you've been
warned." He added mentally, And I'll do anything I can to help, if that
will serve. . . .

106

ON Saturday, the twenty-seventh, with the sinking of the sun, a cold,
dank fog drifted down off the three hills of Eildon into the narrow
streets of the Scottish border town of Melrose. As the night darkened,
the mist grew steadily thicker, reducing street- and window-lights to
ghostly smears in the gathering gloom. Before very long, the fog was so
dense that it was impossible to see more than a few yards in any
direction. On the east side of the town, the famous ruins of Melrose
Abbey became all but invisible, drowned in a sea of cloud.

Shortly after eight o'clock, a white patrol car bearing the markings of
the Lothian and Borders Police rambled downhill along the crooked length
of Abbey Street and slowed to a halt outside the entrance to the abbey's
grounds. The officer at the wheel cut the engine, then rolled down his
window to listen while his partner stepped out of the car to shine a
torch into the mist beyond the gates. The fog diffused the beam without
illuminating anything, but the stillness was reassuring. Satisfied that
all was in order, the officer returned to the warmth of the car, and the
pair continued on their way.

The tail lights of the patrol car vanished into the mist. As the drone
of its engine receded into the distance, five dark-clad figures emerged
from the shadows flanking the enclosed garden of St. Mary's School,
across the street from the abbey. Silent as wraiths, they darted across
the road and ducked into Cloisters Road, a single-track lane running
along the north side of the abbey compound. Once inside

107 106 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

the lane, the leader switched on a shielded electric torch and led the
way to an iron gate in the churchyard wall.

The gate was locked, but one of the party made short work of it with a
deftly wielded lock pick. Swiftly the little procession filed through
the open gate and set out across the fog-bound lawn toward the vaulted
ruin of the abbey church, skirting the eastern side of the cloister
ruins and slipping through what once had been the processional door from
the cloister into the church. Three of the five shouldered bundles
containing an assortment of workmen's tools; a fourth carried a pair of
battery-powered lanterns. The leader bore a bulky leather satchel and a
narrow canvas case, the latter long and thin like a fencer's kit-bag.

Once inside the shell of the nave, the five made their way purposefully
toward a small chapel set into the corner between the north transept and
the presbytery, shielded from outside view by thick outer walls on two
sides and the bulk of the abbey on the others. One man scurried across
to the south transept to peer searchingly through a doorway in the south
wall, then came back to post watch down the gravel-paved nave. Two of
the others directed the dim, blue-filtered beams of the electric
lanterns low against the chapel floor, while the fourth produced a whisk
broom and with it swept the gravel off an oblong section of flagstone
paving beneath the narrow east window. When his work was finished, the
leader came forward and went down on his knees, taking off his gloves to
run bare hands over the stones just exposed. A signet ring on the third
finger of his right hand flashed blood-dark in the blue light.

Whatever he was looking for, he found. Getting to his feet, he gave his
subordinates a nod by way of confirmation and backed off a few paces to
sit on a piece of foundation stone by the chapel doorway and rummage in
his satchel. One of the-men came to crouch beside him, while the other
two began unpacking the shovels and crowbars and pickaxes they had
brought with them for excavation.

"I still think we could have done this part ahead of time, Mr. Geddes,"
the crouching man whispered, as the leader drew first a leaden bowl and
then a length of leather thong out of the satchel.

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The lead made a dull thunk as the leader set the bowl beside his boot,
but he only glared at his companion before shrugging out of the left
sleeve of his leather jacket and pushing up the sleeve of the black polo
shirt underneath.

"You know better than to use real names," he replied, also whispering,
but with an undertone that brooked no argument. "And you also know that
the ritual requires that the blood be as fresh as possible. Do it!
There's no time to waste."

He handed the thong to the other man and held out his left arm, at the
same time shifting the leaden bowl into his lap and leaning back against
the stump of a Romanesque column. His assistant offered no further
comment, merely applying the leather thong as a tourniquet and then
delving into his jacket pocket to produce several small items sealed in
plastic packets.

From the first came a sterile wipe, pungent with alcohol. The leader
straightened his arm, impassively clenching and unclenching his fist to
pump up the vein as his assistant scrubbed the skin over the inner
elbow, rolling the vein under his fingertips to be sure of (the location
in the dim light. A second packet produced a coil of clear plastic
tubing, with a clamp midway along its length and a connector for
attaching it to the stejrile needle unit the man withdrew from the third.

"Keep your arm straight now," he murmured, swabbing over the vein a
final time and then pulling off the needle's protective cap with his teeth.

His subject displayed no flicker of reaction as the needle went in.
Briefly releasing the clamp in the center of the tubing allowed a dark
line of blood to race into the near end, confirming accurate placement
of the needle. Satisfied, the man pulled the tabs from a butterfly
bandage and used it to stabilize the needle against the leader's inner
arm, then ran his hand lightly down the length of the plastic tubing
until he found the free end, which he set in the leaden bowl for the
leader to hold in place.

"You're all set," the man whispered, loosening the tourniquet. "Shall I
leave you alone for a few minutes, after I start it?"

109 108 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

At the leader's taut nod, his assistant thumbed the clamp, watching for
a moment until blood had begun to pool in the leaden bowl, then got to
his feet and backed off a few paces. The leader leaned back his head
with eyes closed and began to murmur something under his breath, hugging
the leaden bowl to his chest. With a slight shudder, the assistant
turned away to assist his colleagues, who were uprooting the paving
stones and leaning them against the chapel wall.

A few minutes later he returned. The bowl was more than half full,
containing perhaps a cupful of blood. Kneeling, the man pulled a roll of
adhesive tape and a pair of blunt bandage scissors from his pocket,
along with a packet containing a ball of sterile cotton. He drew off a
short length of tape from the roll and cut it, sticking one end lightly
to the side of his thigh while he opened the packet with the cotton. The
faint sound caused the leader to stir, opening eyes that, just for an
instant, seemed to glow in the bluish light, almost forbidding the hand
that came to close the clamp and stop the flow of his blood.

But then the moment was past, and he was handing over the leaden bowl,
holding up the doubled end of the tubing so it would not drip, extending
his arm for removal of the needle. When it was done, and cotton and tape
in place over his wound, he eased his sleeve back down his arm and put
his jacket back on while his assistant gathered the debris from their
work into a plastic bag, which he stashed in the leather satchel. From
that satchel he then removed an aspergillum of black horsehair, which he
handed to the leader before getting to his feet, also picking up the
leaden bowl of blood.

"Careful when you stand up," he warned, though he made no move to
assist. "You may be a little light-headed."

The leader staggered a little on his feet as he came full upright,
pausing to catch his balance on the column while he drew a few deep
breaths, but then he held out his hand for the bowl.

"Give it to me," he commanded, at the same time snapping his fingers at
the two men finishing up on the floor slabs. The pair immediately
abandoned their activities to

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move to the center of the area, also joined by the man who had been
assisting the leader.

The leader moved to the northern edge of the area they had cleared,
dipping the tuft of black horsehair into the bowl. As he raised it,
blood dripped onto the stone of the foundations there.

"The blood of life," he whispered fiercely.

Turning westward then, he began pacing off a circle to include the
entire chapel area, going widdershins, shaking blood lavishly to mark
the outline, his voice pitched barely above a whisper as he chanted the
measured verses of a ritual invocation. The men within watched avidly,
bowing deeply as their leader paused at each quarter to make a sign and
splash an additional measure of blood on the ground and confining stones
of the walls. When the circuit was complete, the leader closed the
circle with another sign. The leaden bowl was all but empty, and he
wrapped it and the aspergillum in a square of fine black cloth and a
plastic bag before stashing them in his satchel again.

"The temenos is sealed," he told his men. "You may now begin."

His three subordinates hefted their implements and began to dig. Earth
and gravel went flying as the excavators quarried their way into the
ground. Inside the guarded circle, the air rang loud with the busy
tumult of picks and shovels. Outside, where the sentry kept watch along
the darkened nave, it was quiet as the grave.

Two hours passed. The men continued to work uninterrupted. By the middle
of the third hour, they had uncovered a deep oblong pit the size of a
coffin, perhaps three feet below the level of the floor. Shortly
thereafter, one of the diggers struck his shovel against something hard
that rang out dully like gun metal.

"This should be it," one of the men murmured.

After that, they worked more carefully. In a quarter hour's time, their
excavations had unearthed a heavy slab of fine-grained silvery granite.
The leader sprinkled the face of the slab with salt that had been mixed
with sulphur and muttered a word of command.

Spidery lines sprang to life, glistening in the light from

111 110 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

the electric lanterns. The lines flowed together to form an intricate
spiral of hieroglyphics. The leader smiled thinly at his associates.

"This is indeed his resting place," he told them. "Let's raise the
marking stone."

Under the combined efforts of the team, the slab came up with a hollow
groan. Beneath it lay a plain stone sarcophagus. Two members of the trio
heaved aside the sarcophagus lid, exposing a mummified form swathed in
the cobwebby remains of a linen shroud.

The senior member of the excavation team explored the spaces on either
side of the body with hands that were trembling with eagerness. He
carefully shifted the corpse and groped beneath its head, back, and
legs, muttering to himself when he discovered nothing there to find. The
face he upturned toward his leader was black with disappointment.

"It isn't here!" he declared bitterly. "Damn it, it isn't here!"

The leader dismissed the import of this heated announcement with a
laconic gesture.

"A small setback, nothing more. I came prepared against this eventuality."

He motioned his men to alight from the pit. When they were clear, he
opened his satchel again and produced a handful of scarlet tapers and a
stick of black chalk. The former he gave to his men to position at the
four quarters of the circle he had circumscribed with blood, himself
methodically chalking out an equilateral triangle at the north side of
the grave slot, its apex pointing toward the body. A clay incense burner
was set at the center of the triangle.

After he had completed these preparations, he returned to the satchel
for the last time and drew out a carefully folded packet of black silk
which, when shaken out, became a short hooded cape. This he slipped
around his shoulders, drawing up the hood and carefully arranging the
rest so that it fell in smooth folds, just to his elbows. Silver
embroidery in the shape of a snarling beast's head glimmered to the left
of the throat clasp. From an inner pocket of his leather

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jacket came a final piece of ceremonial regalia: a silver pendant
hanging from a heavy silver chain.

The three men with him had brought similar hoods, embroidered with the
same beast device, but in red. While they were putting these on, the
leader lit the tapers and set the incense burning. The smoke was heavy,
welling over the edges of the clay incense burner and spreading slowly
over the floor, spilling down into the open coffin. As the heavily
scented smoke began to obscure what lay inside, the leader unzipped the
narrow canvas bag. Damascened gold and silver-work blazed cold in the
light of the filtered torches as he drew out a splendid, swept-hilt
rapier, fashioned in the ornate style favored by Italian armorers of the
late sixteenth century.

Carefully he drew the sword from its gem-studded scabbard. Ranked by his
henchmen, behind and to either side, he positioned himself behind the
triangle he had drawn on the ground, with his feet all but touching the
triangle's base. Extending the sword at arm's length, he traced a symbol
in the air above the opened grave, then lowered the tip of the blade so
that it came to rest precisely on the crowning point of the triangle.
For a moment he was silent, marshalling mind, body, and spirit. Then,
rousing himself, he uttered the opening cantrip of a potent and
dangerous incantation.

Harsh as stone against the ear, the archaic Latin phrases built within
the invisible boundaries of the warded circle. Out of realms of air and
shadow, dark powers rose in answer. The three acolytes present at the
graveside shuddered in mingled awe and ecstasy as their leader exerted
the strength of his will to take command of the forces he was raising.
His own power temporarily magnified by borrowed arcane energies, he at
last reached out in spirit to wrench another soul from its orbit.

The clash of opposing wills rocked the circle, but the binding force of
the ritual was strong enough to maintain it. Relentlessly, the leader of
the group spoke the final words of power, summoning his victim by name.
For a long moment nothing visible seemed to happen, while tensions
crackled over and around the grave. Then all at once, the air

113 112 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

above the triangle became charged with a pale, silvery mist, different
from the heavy smoke still pooling in the grave.

The mist thickened, slowly gathering shape and density. Two pallid
points of light flashed briefly in the midst of the suggestion of a
face. Shaking his head, the hooded leader of the group moved the point
of the sword to the edge of the pit, uttering another word of command.

Writhing in something like anguish, the mist descended into the grave
and mingled with the smoke. Gradually both smoke and mist began to
dissolve, once more revealing the mummified corpse. But this eerie
miasma was not just dispersing; it was actually sinking into the corpse.
And as the air grew clearer, the body itself began spasmodically to twitch.

114

v I "*HE heavy fog that shrouded Melrose that Saturday jL night extended
north of the Firth of Forth as far as the River Tay. In the Fifeshire
town of Dunfermline, however, the chill mists did little to dampen the
spirits of the revellers who had come to attend a full-dress ceilidh and
dinner-dance sponsored by the local churches in aid of a new counseling
center. In the botanical gardens adjoining Dunfermline Abbey, a series
of striped canvas marquees had been erected on the rolling lawns among
the glass hothouses. Ablaze from within like so many great Chinese
lanterns, the pavilions rang merry with the sounds of mingled music,
dancing, and laughter.

Adam and Peregrine were numbered among the party of guests invited by
Janet and Matthew Fraser. In anticipation of a pleasurable evening of
Scottish country dancing, nearly everyone had turned out in full
Highland dress. Adam, never one to miss such an opportunity to display
his Scottish heritage, wore the red tartan kilt of the Sinclairs with
panache, a froth of lace jabot showing at the throat of a doublet that
had been his father's. The sapphire brooch amid the lace had been given
his great-grandmother by Queen Victoria.

He was greeting his hostess, resplendent in a gown of royal blue, with a
silk sash of bright red-and-blue Fraser tartan brooched to the right
shoulder and blue ribbons woven through her upswept hair. Peregrine had
been temporarily waylaid by an old flame.

"Heavens, Adam! No one, seeing you, could ever

115 114 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

maintain that romance is dead!" Janet exclaimed, taking him by both
hands to survey him by the lights on the lawn. "You look like a
character out of a Robert Louis Stevenson novel!"

Adam laughed and bent his dark head to kiss her hand in gallant
acknowledgement of the compliment.

"And you look like a heroine by Sir Walter Scott!" he told her, dropping
one of her hands so he could rest his own on his heart.

Joy to the fair! whose constant knight Her favour fired to feats of
might! Unnoted shall she not remain Where meet the bright and noble
train. . . .

"He does that very prettily, doesn't he, Matthew?" she said aside to her
husband, dimpling. "It's from 'The Crusader's Return,' isn't it? But you
know you really shouldn't squander your store of poetry on me. You ought
to be saving it for the lady of your dreams."

The lady of your dreams. . . . Janet was at it again. The evening
promised to be one of those affairs. As he turned his outward attention
to greeting the Frasers' other guests, he briefly envied Peregrine, who
had already connected with an old love and who might even bump into the
lovely Julia Barrett before the night was through. Perhaps one day he
would be so fortunate-though if he remained as uncompromising in his
choice of women as he was about so many other things, that day might be
long in coming.

The rollicking strains of a Scottish jig called him back to the
present-and to awareness of his present companion, who was quite
charming enough to command his willing courtesy. Smiling, he offered
Janet his arm.

"I hear the music livening up," he said. "It's time we set a good
example, and let our fine ceilidh band know we appreciate their efforts.
If Matthew has no objections, I should esteem it a signal honor to lead
you out for the next dance."

"I suppose you might as well," Sir Matthew said from

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the rear of the group, peering down his handsome nose at his wife and
their friend with an assumption of mock austerity. "Some of us came here
with duties to perform," he reminded them. "By all means, enjoy
yourselves. I'll join you once I've talked to the vicar, about when to
present the fund-raising awards."

The rest of the party carried on into the marquee, where the couples on
the floor were just finishing up a round of "Strip the Willow." The
music concluded with a flourish, attended by breathless laughter and
applause from the dancers. As the floor began slowly to clear, the
stout, green-kilted leader of the band hefted his accordion and pulled
the microphone closer.

"Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. Form sets now for 'Dashing
White Sergeant.'"

Janet beckoned forward her brother-in-law and his wife, who were swiftly
joined by Janet's sister, Lady Eloise McKendrick.

"We need one more person!" exclaimed Janet. "Adam, where's your handsome
Mr. Lovat?"

Adam stood an inch or two taller than most of the other men in the room.
From his advantage of height, he scanned the room and spotted a slim,
upright figure in a kilt of Hunting Fraser moving toward the outer edge
of the dance floor, now unaccompanied.

"Peregrine!" he called, catching the younger man's eye and waving him
over. "We need another man."

As Peregrine came to join them, grinning selfconsciously, Janet caught
up his hand with an indulgent little laugh and urged him toward her left.

"I'm afraid we can't afford to let you stand by and observe right now,"
Janet said, as they squared up their line, the three of them facing the
other three across the set.

Almost immediately the band struck up the introductory bars of a Black
Dance reel, accompanied by ragged bows and curtsies of the dancers
toward their opposite lines, as hasty final adjustments were made within
the sets of six. Naturally neat-footed, Peregrine had no trouble keeping
pace with Adam and Janet as the members of their set joined hands and
circled first to the right, then to the left, before

117 116 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

breaking back into their groups of three. Janet, in the middle, matched
steps first with Adam, then with Peregrine, before leading the way into
a figure of eight. They joined hands again then, advancing and retiring
with their opposite trio, then advancing again to pass through this
time, one group ducking laughingly under the upraised arms of their
counterparts to meet the next set of three.

Groups joined up briefly, then broke away again to form other set
combinations as they progressed round the floor. One dance tune led into
another, in a spirited medley. Peregrine found himself enjoying it,
laughing as he dipped his head to pass through an archway of arms-and
raised it again to find himself coming face to face with Julia Barrett.

Surprise almost brought Peregrine to a standstill. This was not the
grave, grieving girl he had seen at Lady Laura's funeral. Under the
lively enchantment of the music, Botticelli's grieving madonna had been
transformed into Flora of the Primavera. Rather than Highland attire,
she wore a diaphanous frock patterned in traceries of flowers and vine
leaves, and her rose-gold hair was flying loose except for a cascade of
green silk ribbons catching back the front. Even as he faltered in his
step, her gaze met his for a brief instant of electric contact.

As their respective groups merged to circle, he reached out and took her
hand. Her eyes were a clear aquamarine blue, her look as guileless as a
fawn's. He tightened his clasp, struggling to think of something to say
to her, but before he could devise anything like a suitable remark, the
conventions of the dance forced him to release her. All too soon, her
two partners whisked her away, and she was lost from view among the
crowds of other dancers.

They completed four more patterns before an upsurge in the melody
signaled that the dance was coming to a close. When the music died,
Peregrine turned hurriedly to Janet.

"Please excuse me, Lady Fraser!" he told her. "I've just seen someone I
want very much to speak to."

He darted off before she could question him, slipping adroitly through
the milling couples on the floor until he caught sight of a slender,
girlish figure with rose-gold hair.

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117

She was standing by the doorway, fastening the throat of a hooded green
velvet evening cape she had donned over her floral gown. Peregrine
quickened his pace, overtaking her just as she was at the point of
stepping out into the fog.

"Hello," he said rather breathlessly. "I hope you haven't tired of the
dancing so soon. The evening's hardly begun."

She turned her fawn's eyes on him, her expression faintly smiling.

"Oh, I know. My part in the festivities begins in about a quarter hour,
over in the conservatory. With the air as damp as it is tonight, my harp
will be badly in need of a last-minute tuning."

"Your harp!" Peregrine was intrigued. "Are you a professional musician,
then?"

She laughed. "Hardly that. A dedicated amateur, at best. I don't
generally perform in public at all," she continued, "but I'm a
parishioner at St. Margaret's, across the road, and when the vicar asked
me to take part tonight, for charity, I couldn't very well refuse."

"I suspect you're being far too modest," Peregrine said with sincere
conviction. "If you play even half as well as you sing, it will be the
crowning performance of the evening."

She gave him a tip-tilt look, composedly curious. "We haven't met
before. Have we?" !

"No, we haven't." Peregrine shook his head with a rueful grin. "I'm
sorry. I ought to have introduced myself at once. I'm Peregrine Lovat."

"And I'm Julia Barrett," she returned. "If we haven't met before,
wherever did you hear me sing?"

"In-in church," Peregrine murmured lamely, suddenly aware that this
revelation had been thoughtless. "I-1 was at Lady Laura Kintoul's
funeral yesterday."

He dreaded seeing the shadow of grief return to her face, but to his
relief, she merely nodded wisely.

"Ah, that explains it," she said. She smiled slightly and extended a
slender hand. "I'm pleased to have met another of her friends. She was
very special."

"Yes, she was," Peregrine said lamely. Her fingers felt warm and vital
within the compass of his own. For a

119 118 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

moment both of them were silent. Then he said impulsively, "Have you
anyone in particular waiting on you tonight?"

Pleased comprehension lent a sparkle of mischief to Julia's blue eyes.
"Well, I'm sure my uncle would like to think that he's a particularly
favorite uncle," she said, smiling. "Come and let me introduce you to
him, before it's time for me to play. ..."

Their departure did not go unobserved.

"Really, Adam," said Janet in tones Of mild reproof, "you might have
warned me that your shy young friend had already set his sights on
Albert Barrett's niece."

Adam accepted this censure meekly. "I'm sorry. I wasn't certain she
would be here tonight."

Matthew Fraser grinned down at his wife. "Disappointed that you aren't
going to be able to indulge in your passion for match-making? Never
mind, there's always Adam to fall back on."

"Oh, Matthew, I am quite out of charity with Adam at the moment," Janet
said, pretending to pout. "It would be nothing less than just, if I were
next to introduce him to some garrulous old dowager with a neck like a
turkey hen, and then leave him to fend for himself."

"Mercy!" exclaimed Adam. "How can I make amends?"

"You can begin," said Janet, "by fetching us all some refreshments. ..."

The dancing and music continued. Nearly an hour later, Peregrine
reappeared with Julia on his arm. Quick as ever to take command of a
promising situation, Janet accosted them with the smiling suggestion
that Julia and her uncle should join the Fraser party for the light
buffet supper that had been laid on for the guests later in the evening.
Urged on by Peregrine with a rare show of forcefulness, Julia shyly
accepted the invitation. Thereafter, the two parties merged for the
remainder of what Peregrine, for one, considered to be one of the most
pleasurable evenings he had spent in a long time.

By two in the morning, the ceilidh was beginning to break up, the
counseling center richer by several thousand pounds and no one able to
say that he or she had not had their fill of entertainment or good food.
Peregrine reluc-

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119

tantly escorted Julia to her uncle's car, regretful that he was not in a
position to drive her home himself. He watched wistfully as the tail
lights of Albert Barrett's car vanished into the fog and mist.

"She said she wouldn't mind seeing me again, Adam," he confided, as
Humphrey opened the door of the Bentley for them. "She's really quite a
remarkable girl!"

Lost thereafter in his own pleasant reverie, he failed to notice the
wistful look of something akin to envy in Adam Sinclair's dark eyes.

Humphrey had them home within half an hour. Pleasur-ably weary,
Peregrine bade his host a cordial goodnight and retired. He shed his
evening clothes quickly and climbed into bed, fully expecting to fall
asleep the instant his head touched the pillows. But though his body was
glad to be at rest, his mind remained strangely active.

At first his thoughts were still dominated by Julia Barrett and the
events at Dunfermline. But as the minutes ticked away, his musings
unaccountably took a darker turn. In retrospect, mentally moving among
the pavilions and the botanical gardens, he saw that though all was
light and life and movement inside, outside the mist-shrouded grounds
were haunted by shadowy figures with grasping, long-fingered hands. . . .

A wave of fog rolled over the scene, masking it behind a smothering
curtain of cloud. When the cloud thinned again, Peregrine found he was
no longer surveying the botanical gardens. Crooked gravestones jutted
upright among the grassy mounds of a medieval churchyard, and a dim,
skeletal figure was lurching unsteadily toward a gap in a high stone
wall. . . .

Peregrine sat up with a start and groped for his watch. To his surprise,
the time was ten minutes past six. He shook his head, realizing that he
must have drifted off to sleep in the midst of his imaginings. He was
about to lie down again, when he heard somewhere off in another part of
the house the sudden, urgent ringing of a telephone.

By the time Humphrey knocked at the door of his apartment, Adam was
already out of bed, tying on a

121 120 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

burgundy wool dressing gown. One glance at his manservant's face told
him that something important was afoot.

"I'm sorry to disturb you so early, sir," Humphrey said. He too wore a
dressing gown, hastily donned over striped pyjamas. "It's Inspector
McLeod, calling from Melrose."

"Melrose?" Adam was all at once aware of a pricking in his thumbs. "I'll
take it in here," he said, as he moved toward the extension telephone on
the table beside the bed.

Humphrey paused by the door. "Shall I wait, sir?"

"I think so." Adam lifted the receiver and spoke without preamble. "Here
I am, Noel. What is it?"

The police inspector's voice came gruffly through a crackle of static on
the line.

"My apologies for calling you at this unseemly hour, Adam, but we've had
a rather peculiar incident down here at Melrose. I'll not go into
details over the phone, but it's something that I think you'll agree
requires your most particular attention."

Requires? McLeod's choice of words, along with a subtle shift in the
tone of his voice, conveyed unspoken volumes.

"Indeed?" Adam said, his own inflection carefully noncommittal. "In that
cause, I shall certainly come along to tender my opinion. Is there a
particular place that you'd like me to meet you?"

There was a weighty pause. "Make your way to the abbey ruins," rumbled
the voice from the receiver. "You'll see the police lines. If I'm not
there when you arrive, one of my men will know where to find me."

McLeod clearly was taking precautions in case unauthorized ears might be
listening in-which again pointed to something beyond the usual scope of
police expertise.

"I'll make the abbey my starting point then," Adam said with apparent
lightness. "It's-what?-a quarter past six," he went on, with a glance at
a clock on the mantel. "It should take me-perhaps two hours.
Fortunately, it's Sunday, so there won't be much traffic. I'll be there
as quickly as I can, though."

"A man can't ask for more than that." McLeod sounded more than a little
relieved. "Thank you, Adam."

"Not at all."

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121

As McLeod rang off, Adam turned to face Humphrey, his dark eyes glinting
keen as a hunting hawk's.

"I think I'd better take the Jaguar," he said. "And I'd like to be out
of here in the next half hour. From the sound of things, the sooner I'm
in Melrose, the better."

Humphrey nodded. "You'll want the top up, then, sir. It's a raw day
outside. Shall I see to it?"

"Please do," Adam said, heading for his dressing room. "I'll want some
tea and toast, too, if you can manage it quickly. But before you do any
of that, I'd be very much obliged if you'd go and wake Mr. Lovat. Tell
him what's afoot, and say I'd like him to come with me, if he's willing.
I've a shrewd suspicion he's about to come into his own."

123

WELL within the half hour Adam had specified, Peregrine found himself
sitting in the passenger seat of Adam's blue Jaguar. The gloved hands of
the laird of Strathmoume were steady on the wheel as he piloted the
powerful car south in the direction of Edinburgh. Still a little
breathless from having to get ready so quickly, Peregrine eased his
portable sketchbox off his lap onto the floor between his knees. Adam
had instructed him to bring it, but something in the older man's manner
just now made him hesitate to ask the reason why.!

It was nearly seven o'clock, but the fog and overcast made it seem much
earlier. The Jag's headlamps did little to illuminate the gloom, and the
lights of occasional oncoming cars dazzled in the mist. The motorway was
mostly deserted, as Adam had predicted, but the fog and occasional
drizzle made it necessary to pay particular attention to his driving, if
he hoped to make good time. Nonetheless, he found a part of himself
speculating, even though Noel McLeod's telephone call had given him
nothing whatever to go on besides sheer intuition. Despite all reason to
the contrary, he could not help the vagu£, foreboding suspicion that one
mystery was about to lead him and his associates into the heart of
another, even more dangerous than the first.

Even with Adam's skillful driving, it was well past nine by the time
they reached the outskirts of Melrose. Sunday traffic this early
remained light, especially with the weather, but roadworks forced
several detours, carrying them many

124 124 {Catherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

miles out of their way. Round about Galashiels, the fog gave way to a
cold, drizzling rain, verging on sleet. Adam adjusted the defoggers and
increased the speed of the wipers as they approached the town of
Melrose, cruising past the imposing facade of the Waverly Hotel and then
reducing speed as they carried on along Waverly Road and entered the
lower end of the High Street.

By-passing the police station on their right, which seemed to be a
bustle of activity for a Sunday morning, they turned left into Buccleuch
Street and made directly for the abbey, as McLeod had suggested. In the
abbey car park, directly across the street from the main entrance to the
ruins, Adam was not surprised to see a pair of white police cars, a
police van, and several other unmarked vehicles, probably police as
well. A barricade had been set up before the entrance itself, manned by
a sturdy young constable in a yellow mackintosh with Police stenciled
across the back. With him was a second man in plain clothes.

The Jaguar turned heads as Adam nosed it into the car park. A number of
curious townsfolk were milling about outside the barricade, peering and
pointing from under their dripping umbrellas, and they shifted their
attention to Adam as he eased the car into a space beside one of the
white police vehicles. Beyond the barricade and the black iron fence
that closed off the abbey grounds, Adam could make out lines of
fluorescent yellow tape strung like cobwebs among the ruins. More
anonymous figures in rain-slick macks were moving around among the
abbey's crumbling walls.

"Lots of activity," Peregrine observed, craning his neck. "Do you
suppose there's been a murder?"

"Nothing so conventional as that, I fancy," Adam said grimly, switching
off the ignition, "though perhaps something every bit as serious."

Retrieving a tweed motoring cap from behind the front seat, he eased
open the door and got out of the car, hunching under its shelter and
that of his taupe leather trenchcoat as he squinted against the fine,
penetrating screen of mingled rain and fog. Peregrine, looking more than
a little dubious,

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125

got out from his side and pulled up the collar of his duffel coat,
scowling up at the sky.

"I wish I'd had the sense to bring a cap," he grunted.

Adam settled gloved hands deep in his pockets and gestured toward the
car with his chin.

"There's an umbrella under the front seat," he told Peregrine. "And
don't forget your sketchbook."

They locked the car, and together picked their way through the puddles
to the abbey's entrance, eliciting less interest from the bystanders as
they got farther from the car. The young constable came to attention as
they approached the barrier, starting forward as if to warn them off,
but he paused when the plainclothes man laid a restraining hand on his
shoulder and muttered something in his ear.

"Come right through, Sir Adam," the man in plain clothes said with a
grim smile. "I should ha' known, from that great, purrin' beast of a
motorcar, but wi' yer hat pulled down like that, I almost didnae
recognize ye."

"Well, Melrose is hardly my usual stomping ground," Adam said with a
smile, as he and the man exchanged handshakes. "Good to see you, Hamish.
Incidentally," he added, as the plainclothes man ushered them past the
barrier, "this is my associate, Mr. Lovat. Peregrine, this is Detective
Sergeant Hamish Kerr, one of Inspector McLeod's best men."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Kerr murmured, also extending a
hand to Peregrine.

"So, is the inspector anywhere about?" Adam went on, casting about with
an inquiring look as they moved on past the constable.

"Not here, sir. He went on up to the Angler Hotel about half an hour
ago. Shall I send one of my lads to fetch him down for ye?"

Adam shook his head. "He'll want me to have a look around first, I'm
sure. Can you tell me briefly what happened?"

An odd, guarded look came over the detective's face.

"It's an odd one, it is, sir. The lads have cordoned off an area inside
the ruins, right up at the front. Forensic chaps

126 126 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

were there for more'n an hour. Damnedest thing I ever saw-pardoning the
language, sir."

Adam controlled a droll smile. "Why, Hamish, I do believe you're
shocked-a police officer of your experience and acumen!"

"It-wasn't natural, sir," Kerr muttered. "I dinnae like it at all."

"So I gather." Adam glanced around casually, noting Peregrine's strained
look of curiosity. "Well, why don't we start by letting me read over the
incident report, and then Mr. Lovat and I will take a look around. You
and I have worked on odd cases before, Hamish."

"Och, aye, sir, that we have."

Without further ado, the sergeant conducted them into the shelter of the
entrance kiosk behind the gate. The abbey's custodian was sitting on a
stool behind the counter, complaining to a constable in uniform.

"It makes honest, God-fearin' folk wonder what this world's coming to,"
he was saying. "I've never seen anything like it."

The constable merely shrugged. Sergeant Kerr reached around his
subordinate and plucked a paper-laden clipboard off the counter top.

"Here's the report, Sir Adam," he said as he handed it over. He added
with a grimace, "If ye ask me, somebody's been watching too many
late-night horror videos. Who'd have thought we'd wind up with a
grave-robbing in a quiet, law-abiding place like this?"

A grave-robbing? Conscious of a prickling at the base of his skull, Adam
skimmed down the page, tilting it so that Peregrine could read over his
shoulder. The account was stark in the manner of police reports
everywhere. Under cover of last night's fog, some person or persons
unknown had penetrated the confines of Melrose Abbey, either by climbing
the fence separating the south burying ground from an access alley or by
coming through a gate found open by the main road, to the north. Once
inside, they had dug up a section of the floor in the northeast chapel
to unearth a twelfth-century stone coffin. The coffin, according to the
report, now lay broken and empty.

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127

"The body that apparently was in the coffin turned up in the wine bar up
at the Angler," the sergeant informed them. "It's that badly decomposed,
it's no much more than a skeleton. We're all of us still trying to work
out how the pranksters who dug it up could ha' gotten it out of the
ground and up the road, still in one piece." He paused to shake his
head. "Really makes ye wonder who'd want to do such a thing in the first
place. And why."

"Indeed." Adam handed the report back, his expression inscrutable.
"Thanks very much, Hamish. Now let's have a look at that grave site."

The detective sergeant led the way down through the ruins, along the
nave toward the desecrated chapel by the northeast angle of the
transept. As they approached the restraining lines of yellow tape strung
at the crossing, Adam became aware of a subliminal chill in the air that
had nothing to do with the weather.

Black Wards ahead, decaying but still potent! By all the gods that ever
were, could someone really have been so foolish as to abandon a magical
operation without properly dismantling it first?

Shoving his gloved hands into his coat pockets again, Adam drew a deep
breath and madean invisible ritual sign of personal warding, briefly
turning then to glance at Peregrine matter-of-factly, just before they
reached the barrier tapes.

"Hold up just a moment, Peregrine. Do you see that frieze back there?
Yes, that one, just above the side altar. I'd like you to make a sketch
of it before we get involved with making any pictorial records of the
grave-site itself."

He was careful to make it sound like a casual request. None the wiser,
Peregrine obediently turned back and went to do as Adam had asked. With
the young artist's attention safely occupied elsewhere, at least for a
few moments, Adam continued with Kerr and bent his gaze on the space the
police had cordoned off, letting his subtler perceptions come into play.
As he had sensed from farther back, the area immediately surrounding the
opened grave was overshadowed by a lingering pall of baleful psychic energy.

So. The force of what the perpetrators had left behind

128 128 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

was definitely on the wane, but there was still sufficient residual
power in it to inflict a severe shock on anyone unshielded yet sensible
to s'uch things, as Peregrine would be. Kerr, fortunately, was either
oblivious or naturally shielded. Adam wondered what McLeod's initial
reaction had been.

"I'll wait here, sir," Kerr said, catching hold of the tape and lifting
it so Adam could duck under. "Shall I pass Mr. Lovat, when he's finished?"

"Yes, thank you," Adam replied. At the same time, he reached deeper into
his right-hand pocket and closed his gloved hand around a piece of
lodestone the size and shape of a large wolf's tooth. As he advanced
cautiously toward the wavering wards the graverobbers had left, he
casually withdrew his hands from his pockets, keeping the lodestone
palmed where Kerr would not be able to see it. He halted just short of
contact to murmur an invocation that was already ancient when the great
library of the Ptolemies went up in flames.

The words invested the lodestone with a spiritual potency equivalent to
the drawing power of a magnet. Adam waited until he felt a lively quiver
at the center of his hand, then shifted his grip. Holding the
tooth-stone like a sword hilt, his first finger extended along its
length, he extended it until the tip penetrated the shadowy field in
front of him.

The shield imploded like a soap bubble, totally silent. He could feel
the lodestone absorbing the residue of force. A moment later, all traces
of malignant energy had vanished. Grimly satisfied, ignoring Kerr's
puzzled glance, Adam pocketed the lodestone and moved forward again to
the side of the grave-opening.

It came as no surprise to see that the pit was circumscribed by splashes
of what could only be blood. The array of burnt-out tapers and the black
triangle chalked at one side of the opening bore further witness to a
profane act of summoning.

His patrician face grimly intent, Adam knelt down and peered into the
grave itself. The up-ended slab of granite had required no little effort
to raise and prop against the side of the pit. The stone coffin it had
covered was roughly

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129

trapezoidal, with a circular area cut out at the head end and a great
crack splitting it in two. It was like a hundred others Adam had seen
over the years, many of them in this very church yard. The one thing of
which Adam was certain was that its occupant had been unlike any
ordinary man.

The sound of footsteps crunching on gravel interrupted his speculation,
and he glanced back to see Peregrine slipping under the tapes to join
him at the side of the opened grave pit.

"Here's the sketch of that frieze you asked for," the young artist
began, flourishing his sketchbook. "I can't think why you wanted it-it
isn't very old-but I-"

As he fell abruptly silent, Adam rose and turned in a single fluid
movement. Peregrine had stopped short in his tracks. He was fumbling
with his drawing pad again, hazel eyes wide and intent behind his
spectacles as he scanned the desecrated chapel, seemingly transfixed.
After a breathless moment, he whipped out his pencil and began to sketch
rapidly.

Adam sidled around behind Peregrine and stole a swift glance over his
shoulder. A scene was beginning to take shape under the artist's rapidly
moving pencil: a small group of indistinct figures gathered around an
open grave.

Adam realized what was happening and backed away. Leaving the younger
man to work on without interruption, he ducked back under the tapes and
withdrew to the nave where Sergeant Kerr was waiting for them.

"I think I've seen all I need to see here," he informed McLeod's
subordinate. "As soon as Mr. Lovat is finished, we'll be on our way. You
said I might find Inspector McLeod at the Angler Hotel?"

Kerr nodded. "Aye, sir. It's just a wee walk from here. I'd leave the
car, if I was you. Head straight up Abbey Street till ye get to the
square. The Angler's the big white place on yer right, just opposite the
Mercat Cross."

Out of the corner of his eye, Adam could see that Peregrine had put his
pencil away and was now folding over the cover to his sketchbook.

"Thanks very much for showing us around," he told the

130 130 {Catherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

sergeant. "Mr. Lovat and I can find our own way out to the street. ..."

The Angler Hotel was easy to locate. It was a comfortable,
prosperous-looking place that boasted a restaurant, dining room, and
wine bar on the ground floor. A number of cars were drawn up in front of
the building. Scanning the array of vehicles present, Adam recognized
the big white Range Rover with police plates as the one McLeod regularly
used on official business outside the city of Edinburgh. They found
McLeod himself in the hotel foyer, hemmed in between a delegation from
the town council and a pair of local journalists armed with notebooks.

"Aye, it was a ghoulish prank," McLeod was saying grimly, "and rest
assured we'll do our best to see that there aren't any more incidents of
this kind. That's why I've come down from Edinburgh to assist with the
investigation."

He flashed a look in Adam's direction and drew himself up. "We're
looking into the possibility that the perpetrators of last night's act
of vandalism may be members of an itinerant gang of some sort. But
that's all I'm prepared to say to anyone at this point. You'll get more
facts if and when we have them."

He cut short any attempts to question him further with a curt wave of
the hand, and stepped briskly between the two reporters to join Adam and
Peregrine by the main entrance to the hotel.

"Adam, am I glad to see you!" McLeod said. "I hope no one's had the
brass neck to keep you waiting."

Adam shook his head. "Not in the least. Noel, I'd like you to meet
Peregrine Lovat, a young artist of considerable promise. I hope you
don't mind that I've brought him along."

"I suspect that you have excellent reasons," McLeod replied, subjecting
Peregrine to a shrewd look as he extended a blunt-fingered hand to
deliver a firm handshake. "I remember you, Mr. Lovat. You were up in the
visitor's gallery at the High Court last week, while evidence was being
presented in the Sherbourne case. We were supposed to have lunch."

Peregrine looked a little surprised. "That's right, sir." He

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cast an oblique glance at Adam, and added neutrally, "I was there to do
some portrait studies."

"Well, I hope you weren't put off by what you must have overheard in the
courtroom. Not if you're here to help out in this case."

Before Peregrine could respond to this ominous-sounding remark, Adam
interposed.

"We've already been up to the abbey," he said briskly. "Is there any
place around here where we can talk in privacy?"

"There's the lounge," McLeod said, indicating the indoor entrance with a
jerk of his chin. "In view of what happened there last night, it's been
declared off limits to the rest of humanity until I say otherwise."

In spite of himself, Adam almost smiled. "That's sufficiently secure for
me," he told McLeod. "Lead the way."

The lounge was a spacious, oblong room, with red-curtained windows and a
stone fireplace at the far end. A few feet to the left of the threshold,
some anonymous forensics officer had drawn the splayed outline of a
human body in white chalk on the red carpet.

"That's the place where the corpse decided to lie down," McLeod said. He
favored Adam with a darkling look and scowled. "I told you it was only a
matter of time before something happened that was going to be difficult
to explain to the press. I'm having the devil's own time convincing the
locals that this whole incident wasn't really as uncanny as it looked."

Adam pulled out a wooden chair and sat down, his gesture inviting the
others to do the same.

"What exactly did happen?" he asked.

"You're not going to like this, any more than I did." McLeod snared
himself a stool at the bar and set an elbow on the counter top.

"This place is licensed to stay open till two," he explained. "Round
about half past one, according to the barman, he and his customers heard
a scrabbling at the door. One of the late-night patrons went over to
open it. The corpse was standing up on the threshold. As soon as the
door swung wide,

132 132 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

it tottered forward a couple of steps and collapsed on the spot indicated."

His jaw tightened. "Needless to say, the witnesses in the bar were more
than a wee bit upset by the incident. The barman called the hotel
manager, and she called the police. Fortunately, one of my own men got
wind of it pretty early in the game, and he called me at home to tell me
about it. That was at about three. At that point, they still didn't know
where the body had come from."

"So you came down to check it out," Adam said.

McLeod nodded. "When my man was telling me about it, all kinds of alarm
bells started going off inside my head. You know the feeling. Anyway, by
the time I got here, one of the local constables had arranged for the
cadaver to be removed to the morgue at Borders General, while the others
on night duty went on a tour of the cemeteries in the area. No one
thought to look in the abbey at first, because there haven't been any
burials there for years-just in the churchyard outside. As soon as it
got light, though, it didn't take them long to discover the excavation
left behind inside the abbey, where the body started out on its travels."

As he paused for breath, Peregrine could contain himself no longer.

"Surely you're not saying that the corpse really did walk here to the
hotel under its own power!" he said incredulously.

McLeod glared at him from under grizzled eyebrows. "You can bet your
last copper we're not! The official story is that the whole affair was
engineered by a band of malicious punks, who made it out to look as
though that's what happened." He shrugged. "That version might stick, if
we repeat it often enough-especially since the only people in a position
to gainsay us are a handful of late-night drinkers whose view of the
whole situation is bound to have been at least somewhat affected by
alcohol."

"An account of a walking corpse is certainly too outlandish to win
widespread public acceptance," Adam agreed. "Even though at least two of
us in this room know that it could very well be true."

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Peregrine gasped. He opened his mouth, as though to speak, and then
thought better of it.

"This business is far from finished," Adam continued soberly. "I think
I'd better see the body, as soon as possible."

McLeod nodded in agreement, getting to his feet with a scraping of the
legs of his bar stool.

"Right you are. We'll take my car, to make it official."

134

TWENTY minutes later, a pathologist at Borders General Hospital ushered
Inspector Noel McLeod and his associates into the chilly confines of the
hospital mortuary. Peregrine followed close behind Adam, still clutching
his sketchbook. He had not dared to look closely at his latest drawings,
so disturbing had they been, and Adam had grimly bade him close the book
after only a cursory glance. The smells here in the morgue made him a
little queasy, especially in light of how the case was developing.

"Inspector McLeod would like to see the body that was brought in from
the Angler earlier this morning," their escort told the attendant. "Sir
Adam Sinclair and Mr. Lovat are his associates."

The attendant raised an eyebrow and indicated one of the smaller autopsy
rooms opening off the cold room.

"He's in there, doc," the man said, switching on the lights. "I don't
know what his story is, but I'd say he's been dead a long time."

The harsh overhead lights revealed a sheet-shrouded form lying on a
stainless steel table. The attendant came with them into the room,
starting to reach for the sheet, but McLeod tapped him on the shoulder
and shook his head in dismissal.

"We'd like to view the body in private, if you don't mind. Sir Adam is a
physician. It's all right."

The attendant exchanged glances with the pathologist, but neither made
any objection. As soon as they were gone,

135 136 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Adam approached the table and carefully drew back the concealing drape.
McLeod registered no surprise, for he had seen the body in the lounge,
but Adam exhaled softly through pursed lips. Peregrine took one
slirinking look, then hastily averted his gaze from what lay revealed.

Mouldering shreds of a shroud and a monkish black robe hung in
threadbare tatters about a form that was little more than a skeleton
held together by a desiccated sheath of leathery skin. The bones
protruded through the skin in places-the frame of a man near Peregrine's
height but heavier, suggesting that the living individual had been
sturdy and muscular in his prime. Hands like fossilized claws lay curled
in stiff knots over the jutting flange of the breastbone. Empty
eyesockets gaped wide and dark above a lipless death's-head grin full of
yellowing teeth.

Adam studied the body for several minutes in somber concentration,
unmoving, striving to read signs invisible to the naked eye. When, at
last, he spoke, his voice was a low murmur of most bitter condemnation.

"It's bad enough that the perpetrators of this crime had sufficient
power at their command to conjure a dead man's spirit back to the body's
resting place," he said quietly. "It is infinitely worse that they were
able to force that same spirit back into this wretched house of bones."

The force of his anger throbbed in the air like thunder, though his
volume never went above normal conversational levels. McLeod remained
impassive, but Peregrine shivered slightly, not daring to say a word.

"This is as sordid a piece of work as I've ever had the misfortune to
encounter in recent years," Adam continued, in the same freezing tone.
"It is the work, moreover, of dangerous neophytes. Only someone too
arrogant to reckon with his own limitations would ever have attempted
this rite of summoning, given the identity of the individual he was
trying to bend to his will."

Peregrine finally summoned enough courage to give the mummified body a
more direct look, shuddering as a wave of chill shivered down his spine,
like the touch of icy fingers.

"Who-" he managed to whisper-"who was he, then?"

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Adam did not answer. The expression on his stern face was one of
shuttered introspection, as though he were privately considering
alternate solutions to a difficult problem. McLeod's lip curled in a
smile completely devoid of humor.

"You ought to go back to school, laddie. Melrose Abbey is traditionally
the resting place of the wizard Michael Scot."

Peregrine blinked. "Michael Scot?"

This time the question penetrated Adam's reverie. "None other than
Scotland's most famous magician," he informed Peregrine. "He was a man
of many parts: scholar, alchemist, physician, and demonologist-not to
mention sometime court astrologer to the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick
II. In terms of the sheer breadth of his learning, he was arguably one
of the most illustrious adepts of the twelfth century."

"The twelfth century!" Peregrine's eyes widened in disbelief. "But
that's-what?-seven or eight hundred years ago! Surely there should be
nothing left of him but dust by now!"

"Not necessarily." Adam's dark eyes resumed. their intense study of the
object of discussion. "Quite apart from the possibility that conditions
of burial sometimes lead to extraordinary preservation or even
mummification of bodies, you should recall that in Christian
tradition-to cite a single example-it's by no means unusual for the
bodies of saints and mystics to resist corruption. In fact, the
phenomenon has long been accepted as a posthumous sign of an
individual's spiritual potency. Scot was a wizard of incredible
potency-which could explain the survival of his corporeal remains."

As Peregrine digested this bit of revelation, Adam's gaze shifted to an
unfocused spot somewhere off to his right.

"One thing does disturb me profoundly, however," he went on quietly.
"All my reading suggests that Michael Scot most assuredly was not a man
lightly to be trifled with. Whoever summoned his spirit would have had
to overcome massive resistance. I keep asking myself how the deuce they
managed to do it!"

137 138 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

"They would've needed some kind of power focus," McLeod murmured. "Maybe
a talisman of some sort- maybe even something that once belonged to Scot."

Adam nodded thoughtfully. "A power focus-aye. That would certainly
account for a lot. I can't say I've ever heard that anyone has anything
that Scot once owned, but-dear Jesu, that's it. The Hepburn Sword.
That's why someone stole the Hepburn Sword."

His gaze met McLeod's.

"Oh, bloody hell," the inspector said succinctly.

After a brief, stunned silence, Peregrine whispered, "The Hepburn Sword?
Isn't that the one you were reading about in the paper, just last week?"

"Yes."

"But, that was a-a sixteenth-century weapon-a swept-hilt rapier." He
blinked owlishly at Adam. "You said Scot lived in the twelfth century."

"So I did," Adam replied. "However, I think you may have misconstrued
what I said about the requirements for a power focus. It isn't necessary
that the connection with Scot be one of previous ownership. Think about
the owner of the Hepburn Sword."

"The Earl of Bothwell?" Peregrine said.

Adam nodded. "The same. In his day, Francis Hepburn-the earl of
Bothwell-was notorious as a black adept. It was widely believed that he
held regular intercourse with the dead. He was one of the foremost
wizards of his day. Eventually, the combined forces of the Church and
the Law gathered sufficient evidence against him to warrant his arrest.
He only narrowly escaped to France, leaving behind everything he
owned-including his sword."

He cocked his head at the artist, his keen gaze sharpening. "Peregrine,
something has just occurred to me. Let's have a closer look at those
sketches you made back at the abbey."

Mystified, Peregrine produced his sketchbook, shivering as Adam turned
back the cover. The first sketch, finished now since Adam's initial
glimpse of it in the chapel, showed a group of men in short, hooded
capelets ranged about the

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excavated grave-slot. The leader stood at one side of the pit, where a
triangle had been drawn on the ground. He wore a medallion about his
neck and a ring on his right hand. With the same hand he grasped the
hilt of a thin-bladed sword, its point directed toward the open grave.

Adam peered at the sword, trying for greater detail, then began leafing
through the rest of the drawings-close-up studies drawn from the same
scene. From among these, Adam singled out a detailed sketch of the sword
itself: an elegant weapon with a swept hilt, crafted in ornate
Florentine style. So far as Adam knew, Peregrine had never actually set
eyes on the Hepburn Sword; yet he had drawn it to perfection. Just to be
certain, Adam offered the sketch for McLeod's perusal.

"What about it, Noel? Is this the blade that went missing from the museum?"

McLeod gave a brisk nod. "That's it, right enough." He transferred his
gaze to Peregrine. "You're good at your work, lad. I'm beginning to
understand why Adam brought you along."

Peregrine flushed slightly under the inspector's sharp look.

"Maybe there's something else, too, then," he said, "if I was right
about the sword. There was a symbol-an animal's head of some
kind-inscribed on both the medallion and the ring. Try as I would, I
couldn't quite make out what it was. I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize," Adam said, looking again at the sketches. "The
fact that you couldn't see it clearly probably has nothing to do with
you. They had very strong wards all around the working area. The sword
they used was Francis Hepburn's, though, beyond all doubt. And that is
sufficient to confirm our theory."

"Aye, you have to give them credit for ruthless invention, whoever they
were," McLeod agreed, glowering down at the master-drawing and curling a
lip. "What better way to control one dead wizard than with another dead
wizard's sword?"

Adam nodded. "My thought, precisely. Almost any object used in a magical
connection will pick up a charge of

139 140 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

residual power after a while-and Francis Hepburn's sword would become a
particularly potent weapon. Those who stole the sword must have tapped
into that energy to bind Michael Scot to their will."

"But, whyV Peregrine asked, repressing a shudder. "What do you suppose
they were after?"

"Well, Scot spent a lifetime collecting rare and dangerous lore from all
manner of sources," Adam said. "Just offhand, I'd guess our intrepid
graverobbers were probably after Scot's masterbook of spells. Many of
the legends claim it was buried with him. Of course, some of the legends
say he was buried at Glenluce Abbey rather than Melrose," he added,
"which goes to show that one can't necessarily trust legends."

McLeod nodded ponderously. "That's true, in general. However, I'm
inclined to think it was the spell book they were after. The question
is, did they get it?"

"I don't think so," Adam said. "If it had been buried with him, there
would have been no need to bring him back. They would have taken the
book and been on their way. My guess is that when the book wasn't to be
found in the coffin, the graverobbers used the sword to summon Scot back
to his body, with the intention of forcing him to disclose the book's
present whereabouts.

"I think he must have been obliged to tell them, too," he continued, his
mouth tightening. "His interrogators left the graveside in a hurry-too
eager to get on with the hunt to bother tying up loose ends."

"Which explains why Scot's corpse went walking," McLeod finished. He
gave his head a wondering shake. "Didn't they realize that might happen?"

"I don't think they much cared," Adam said. The look in his dark eyes
was steely. "That piece of criminal negligence is going to cost them, if
I have anything to say about it."

"W-what are you going to do?" Peregrine whispered.

"Well, first of all, we must finish what they failed to do, and set
Scot's spirit free."

McLeod made a noise under his breath that might have masked a strong
expletive.

"Good God, Adam," he sputtered, "are you telling us

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that Scot's spirit is still bound to that"-he indicated the shriveled
corpse on the table, "-even as we're standing here?"

Adam shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, nodding soberly. "I
didn't come prepared for anything like this, I'll confess," he admitted.
"We'll just have to improvise, and hope we'll be able to undo what's
been done. If we're particularly lucky, Scot may be able to tell us who
summoned him, and where they might have gone from here. If not ..."

His voice trailed off as he considered how to approach the task set for
him. Peregrine's eyes were wide and frightened behind his spectacles,
but Adam did not think the young artist would bolt. McLeod was his usual
pillar of inscrutable support. After a moment, Adam squared his
shoulders and drew himself up to his full height, a plan taking shape in
his mind.

"All right," he told his two companions. "I'm going to see what kind of
a rapport I can establish with Scot. Peregrine, I want you to stand by
with your sketchbook. You know enough now to recognize when your deep
sight is about to key in. Draw whatever strong images come to mind-in as
full detail as you can manage. It may very well be vitally important."

When Peregrine had given him a nervous nod, Adam turned to McLeod.
"Noel, I may need to call upon you later, but for now I'd be obliged if
you would simply guard the door. This is going to be difficult enough,
as it is, without risking interruptions."

The inspector nodded. "Right you are, Adam. Short of a construction crew
with a bulldozer, no one gets into this room!"

Adam accepted this assurance with a fleeting smile, waiting until his
two aides had taken up their respective positions before drawing his
sapphire signet ring from his trouser pocket. He fingered it absently
for a moment before slipping it onto the third finger of his right hand.
Then, with the first two fingers of that hand, he traced once around the
edge of the stainless steel table, moving clockwise from the head,
before laying both hands flat on the shiny metal surface, as if it were
an altar.

141 142 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

For a moment he remained thus, head erect, eyes closed, while he drew a
succession of long measured breaths, sinking past surface consciousness
toward levels of deeper awareness. From the island of silence at the
center of his being, he raised his brief prayer of invocation:

"Star of the Sea, Wisdom most potent, be thou a light before me and
behind me," he whispered. "Be thou a beacon in the darkness, a bright
star to guide and protect me. ..."

At first he could sense nothing beyond the shadowy sea-surge that was
his own unconscious, ceaselessly rolling, ebb and flow, in the waiting
stillness. Then, all at once, a breath of wind stirred in the darkness,
moving over the face of the deep and bringing with it the invigorating
kiss of inspiration. As he spoke the Word of his grade in his heart of
hearts, the dawning came.

At first he could see nothing for the radiance that surrounded him.
Then, as the brightness subsided, he found himself standing in spirit at
the center of a bare stone chamber. Before him was a massive door, bound
with iron like a dungeon port. On an iron peg to the left of the door
hung a heavy, rust-encrusted key.

The atmosphere within the chamber was charged with roiling anger. Adam
felt it in his nerve ends like the ionizing crackle of sheet lightning.
The source of that anger lay on the other side of the dungeon door. He
was seeing in symbols, but he could entertain no doubt that the identity
generating that anger once had answered to the name of Michael Scot.

Adam studied the scene for a long moment, weighing up the psychic
reality underlying the visual imagery. Symbolic logic dictated that he
should take up the key and unlock the door in order to set Scot free. He
distrusted the apparent simplicity of the solution, but could find no
hidden alternatives. In the end, grimly aware that he was courting
danger, he braced himself and reached for the key. It came away in his
hand without resistance.

Adam mentally breathed a sigh of relief and examined the key more
closely. It was solidly made and intricately whorled beneath the rust,
but even under close scrutiny its

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precise form eluded the eye. Conscious of a warning tingle at the base
of his skull, he set the key in the lock and gave it a strong turn to
the right.

The mechanism yielded and the door burst wide. In the same instant,
Adam's whole frame of reference exploded in flames.

Fire crackled and surged all around him. He tried to elude it and
discovered that he was bound fast to a tall stake. The twin towers of a
gothic cathedral loomed above him, wreathed in clouds of greasy smoke.
In the courtyard below, masses of spectators were howling blasphemous
abuse in the language of another age.

Searing heat lashed out at his feet and legs, charring the flesh on his
bones. Within seconds his whole lower body was engulfed in a devouring
conflagration. Ashes choked the tortured screams that rose in his throat
as the flames rose higher. There was no escape ... no escape. . . .

NO!

Somewhere in the midst of his agony, the voice of reason made itself
heard. This isn't Paris! shouted the modern part of his mind. Paris was
then. This is now!

NOW!

You're not Jauffre de Saint Clair! You're Adam! Sir Adam Sinclair-laird
of Strathmourne-Baron of Templemor- Master of the Hunt!

Clinging to these phrases that were his present identity, he recited his
name and titles over and over like a litany, denying the past that was
past and affirming the present. The flames wavered momentarily in the
face of his conviction, and he used that brief instant of respite to
call up the saving powers that were the gift of Light. New strength
welled up within him, like a spring of living water. The bonds that held
him frayed and broke; the fire flickered out in a malevolent hiss of
quenched energies. Like the phoenix of the Sinclair crest, his liberated
spirit took flight out of the cinders of a previous existence. When he
snapped back to normal consciousness, he was back in the confines of the
morgue at Borders General Hospital.

Peregrine was staring at him, his expression acutely

143 144 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

concerned. As soon as he saw that Adam's eyes were open, he started forward.

"Are you all right?" he demanded.

As Adam nodded a little dazedly, McLeod's face appeared beside Peregrine's.

"What the devil happened? You cried out. I was afraid someone from the
hospital staff was going to be down on us."

Adam drew a long, shuddering breath, still struggling to restore calm.
"For a moment, I thought the past was about to repeat itself," he said
thickly.

"You mean your own past." McLeod made it a curt statement. "What was it
then, some kind of trap?"

"Not exactly." Adam frowned, remembering. "Not even so much a trap as
a-an associated effect of the binding spell our arrogant friends used to
restrain Scot." At McLeod's look of question, he groped for a clearer
explanation.

"Let me try it another way," he ventured. "Let's say that the spell is
designed to-reawaken resonances from the past. Anyone entering the field
risks reliving some episode from his personal history."

"You think they were expecting interference, then?" McLeod asked.

Adam shook his head, still thoughtful. "Not on that level, certainly. I
doubt they even expected knowledgeable investigation. If they had, it
would have cost them far less effort simply to tidy up at the gravesite,
rather than taking the time to set a deliberate trap. I'm not even
certain that was deliberate. It may simply have been left over from what
they did to compel Scot back. It's precisely this random quality to
their actions that's going to make them difficult to predict and
dangerous to follow. We'd better be on our guard from here on out."

Peregrine nodded, his expression one of mingled awe and uncertainty, and
McLeod grunted by way of assent.

"What about Scot, then?"

"I've only broken a part of the binding," Adam replied. "There's still
the physical unbinding to be done. It shouldn't

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be as tricky as the first, though. And if I can, I'd like to find out
what he told them."

McLeod favored Adam with an appraising look, then shrugged, apparently
satisfied.

"If you say so. I'll mind the door, as before."

He moved back to his post. Peregrine watched in owl-eyed silence as Adam
drew a deep breath and then went through a series of ritual gestures
that culminated in the tracing of a pentagram and then a circled cross
in the air over the body. After that, the older man inscribed a third
symbol on Scot's forehead with his thumb, then touched the thumb and
fourth finger of his right hand to Scot's temples and closed his eyes
with a murmured word of command too low for Peregrine to catch.

The body on the table began to shudder. The lipless mouth moved, yellow
teeth chattering. The shuddering mounted to a wracking paroxysm that
lasted for several seconds. Then all at once the body fell still, with
only the bony fingers left twitching feebly.

Adam remained motionless for the space of several heartbeats, then
opened his eyes. He took his hand away from Scot's forehead and glanced
at McLeod.

"Sorry, but I'm going to need you, Noel," he said softly. "Scot's
willing-eager, even-to communicate with us, but this body is too far
gone. Will you be his voice?"

McLeod grimaced and gave a resigned sigh. "I was afraid it might come to
this," he said, summoning Peregrine to take his place, and bending
briefly ;to check the door lock again before crossing to join Adamt
"It's a good thing the minister of my kirk isn't here to see this, or
he'd have me thrown out of the General Assembly."

He made a ritual sign of recognition as he approached the table that had
become their working altar, and the juxtaposition of magical gesture and
pious concern elicited a faint smile on Adam's part as he answered the
salute.

"Never mind the minister of the kirk," he said lightly. "What about your
police superiors?"

"Aye, they'd have their knickers in a twist, too! Let's get on with it."

Moving around to the other side of the table, so that the

145 146 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

body lay between them, McLeod took off his glasses and slipped them into
a breast pocket, then set his hands on the table's edge as Adam had
done, closing his eyes. Almost at once, his respiration settled into the
slow, measured rhythm Peregrine had begun to associate with the onset of
a trance. Adam's face took on a relaxed, dreamlike appearance as well,
though he did not close his eyes.

Silence profound settled over the room. After a long further moment,
Adam reached across to lightly touch McLeod between the eyes. Then he
set his hands back on the table, glancing briefly at the corpse between
them.

"The door stands open to receive you," he intoned. "Enter the vessel
without fear."

A heartbeat's pause. Then a shiver passed through McLeod's sturdy frame.
He inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. Across the room, Peregrine
stifled a gasp, for the lively intelligence reflected in the darting
blue eyes was no longer that of the police inspector.

"Speak, brother," Adam's voice urged softly.

McLeod's lips parted. For an instant no sound came out. Then an
unfamiliar voice spoke in tones of imperious urgency.

"What is this place?" demanded the being that had taken command of
McLeod's body. "Where am I, in space and time?"

"You are at Melrose," said Adam, his own voice deep and even. "But eight
centuries have passed since you were laid to rest there."

"And how long since the summoning?"

"We do not know for certain," Adam said. "At least twelve or fourteen
hours, perhaps as long as eighteen."

"Eighteen hours!" Something like fear flashed behind the blue eyes. Then
the piercing gaze shifted, ranging beyond Adam and Peregrine as though
searching distractedly for something at a distance.

"The cord. . . . The silver cord is fraying!" muttered the voice of
Michael Scot. "The heart is faltering-"

"The heart!" Adam stiffened visibly, his next words sharp with concern.
"Have you, then, an identity in this present age?"

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"Yes!" The presence that was Michael Scot sent a tortured shudder
through its host body, growing distraction in the voice. "A child now .
. . only a child. And death is perilously near!"

This declaration sent a cold chill racing up Peregrine's spine. His
vision blurred. In his mind's eye, he saw the image of a young girl,
barely into puberty. She was lying motionless on a hospital bed, in the
icy grip of a deep coma, her face blanched white under an adolescent
powdering of freckles. . . .

"Time runs short," the voice of Michael Scot murmured. "I must return at
once, or abide another turning of the Wheel." The voice throbbed with
sudden, desperate appeal. "By all that is holy, if thou be truly
brother, I charge thee to release me! Release me, while I yet have a
living body to return to!"

"And so we shall," Adam promised in swift assurance, "but first I beg
you to tell us-if you know-who summoned you and why."

"Rievers from the Dark Road. . . ." Scot's tone seemed increasingly
distracted. "They wanted my book, my gold- the philosophers' gold that
is the secret to unlock all other secrets! They bound me, and I was
powerless to hold back the knowledge of the treasure's resting place."

Scot's voice broke into a dry sob, and McLeod's blue eyes closed as a
spasm of pain wracked his body.

"The book and the gold are guarded," the wizard's voice continued
raggedly, "but the Rievers may yet prevail, through the power they have
usurped." The eyes blazed up at Adam once again. "Swear to me that thou
shalt pursue them, and I shall give thee freely what they took from me
by force!"

"I swear it!" Adam said. "By my Office, as Master of the Hunt, I swear
that I will do my utmost to see justice done."

This declaration won a grim nod of acceptance from Scot. Triumphant, he
turned his compulsion on Peregrine. All at once the artist found himself
entrapped by the burning gaze, unable to look away. Pain lanced his
eyes, bringing with it a flood-tide of mental pictures, compelling him
to put pencil to paper. His present surroundings forgotten, he

147 148 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

lost himself in a feverish race to sketch down everything that passed
before his inner eye.

A castle on a low cliff ... a sweep of dark water below. A crescent of
pebbled beach ... a rock-bound cave. His pencil flying, Peregrine filled
the next several pages of his sketchbook at a speed he could not
control. By the time Scot at last released him, his whole hand was
aching with strain. Without volition, his fingers flexed to relieve
their cramping, his pencil slipping from fingers too numb to retain
their grip.

The pencil struck the bare floor with a wooden clatter. Adam shot
Peregrine a lightning glance, then returned to face Scot. For an instant
they locked eyes. Then Adam made a sign between them in the air.

"By the authority of the Seven do I release you, brother," he declared
in a deep voice that rang clear as a bell. "Go in peace, to fulfill your
appointed destiny."

Air left McLeod's lungs in a rush. He breathed in again sharply and
lurched against the autopsy table. The corpse before him seemed all at
once to fold inward on itself. Under Peregrine's incredulous gaze, it
crumbled in seconds into so much powdery grey dust.

In the same instant, McLeod lost his precarious balance and crumpled to
his knees, his breath now coming swift and hard. Adam had darted around
the head of the table at the first sign of distress, and had an arm
under his even as he collapsed in a faint. Propping the inspector
upright against his knee, he groped in his pocket for an ammonia
capsule, which he snapped open with a flick of his thumb and passed
under McLeod's nose.

"Steady, old friend," Adam murmured, as McLeod twitched and tried to
escape the pungent aroma. Relentlessly Adam brought it under his
patient's nose again. This time the inspector managed a speechless jerk
of his head and opened his eyes, though they still were not quite
focusing properly.

"Good man!" Adam's voice reassured, as he shifted to press two fingers
to the other man's carotid pulse. "You're doing just fine. Don't try to
move too quickly, though. I

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think he must have pulled out faster than you were expecting."

"Och, aye, he did that," McLeod muttered, sitting up cautiously with
Adam's help and taking several deep, ragged breaths. "God, I hate it
when they do that! My head feels like to explode."

"You'll be all right in a few minutes," Adam replied. "Do you want to
try standing?"

"Aye."

With Adam's help, McLeod got his feet under him and climbed to his feet,
bracing himself on the edge of the table again, apparently unperturbed
that the body was now but a narrow mound of dust. Adam, when he was
satisfied that the other man had his legs firmly under him again, stood
back and banished the protective warding on the table with a swift
sequence of gestures. Only then did he seem to remember that Peregrine
was there.

"I hope all this didn't frighten you," he said. "What did you get?"

The artist was clutching his sketchbook to his chest like a
life-preserver, his owi-eyed concern for McLeod only gradually fading as
he realized the inspector was safe and that Adam was speaking to him. In
response to Adam's look of inquiry, he blinked and hazarded a wan grin.

"Well, I got something, from somewhere," he said, looking from one to
the other of them uncertainly. "Inspector, when you started staring at
me, pictures came into my head, and I couldn't make them stop. And then
my-hand started drawing, and I couldn't make it stop, either."

McLeod chuckled mirthlessly. "It wasn't me, laddie," he murmured.

"You're implying that it was Michael Scot, then," Peregrine said
uneasily. "I suppose that's a relief, because-well, I certainly didn't
dream this up by myself." He shifted his grip to the side edges of the
sketchbook's cover, his hands shaking.

"Anyway, whatever it was, and wherever it came from, it's all here," he
said, raising his chin defiantly. "Do you want to take a look?"

149 150 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

At this declaration of acceptance of what had occurred, Adam permitted
himself a faint sigh of relief.

"Well done," he said approvingly. "You've gone far beyond the how and
why and focused on the what. But I think we'd better wait until we've
finished up at the abbey. There are still a few loose ends that we
wouldn't want innocent folk tripping over, just because we didn't do our
clean-up properly."

He turned to McLeod. "Are you up to moving yet?"

The inspector looked up from adjusting his tie and putting his glasses
back on.

"Aye, I'm fine now, thank you. All I needed was a bit of a breather." He
surveyed the dusty outline on the table and pursed his lips
thoughtfully. "I suppose that was bound to happen, once the body was
exposed for a time to the air-as any archaeologist will tell you."

He and Adam traded knowing glances.

"I'll be happy to certify that explanation," Adam said. "In the
meantime, we'd better be getting back to the abbey."

"Right," said McLeod. "Once you and I are finished there, I'll arrange
for Scot's dust to be returned to its resting place. ..."

150

BACK at the abbey, Peregrine was left to play the role of fascinated
observer while Adam and McLeod systematically went back over Scot's
disturbed gravesite, this time countering the residues left behind by
the grave robbers with banishing signs of their own. Most of their
movements were too deft and subtle for Peregrine's eye to catch, but he
became gradually aware of a lightening in the atmosphere within the
confines of the violated chapel. By the time the two older men had
finished, all lingering traces of their adversaries' work had been
effectively nullified. As Peregrine wordlessly followed Adam back to the
car park, he sensed that a delicate balance had been restored.

By then it was well past one. At Adam's suggestion, the three of them
convoyed to the Waverly Hotel for a much-needed meal. McLeod
commandeered a small room off the main dining room for their private
use; and once their order had been taken, Adam finally allowed Peregrine
to bring out his sketchbook.

"Keeping in mind that waitresses will be intruding from time to time, I
think it's safe enough to talk here," he said, opening the book. "Now,
let's see what we've got."

Peregrine had made five sketches in all. The castle in the first drawing
was a simple structure, more fort than fortress, consisting of a squat
central bailey enclosed within a dry stone motte. The second presented
the same castle from a higher angle, so that they could see that it
occupied a high point of ground on a fist-shaped peninsula overlooking a
broad expanse of dark water. The third sketch showed the

151 152 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

same bluff from the waterside, where a crescent moon of stony beach
yielded to burgeoning undergrowth below a beetling outcrop of boulders.
The fourth was a more detailed view of the boulders themselves, while
the fifth was an interior view of a cave hollowed out in the shape of a
horseshoe. It was this fifth drawing that held Adam's gaze the longest.

"This is no ordinary cave," he said, leaving the pad open to that page
and tapping the sketch with a fingernail. "Now I understand the full
import of what Scot meant, when he said that his book and his gold were
protected. Look there."

He pointed to a spot at the entrance of the cave in the picture, where
Peregrine's pencil-strokes had come together, apparently at random, to
form a curious glyph, like a quatrefoil knot of spidery lines. McLeod
adjusted his aviator glasses and subjected the design to closer
scrutiny. After a moment, he shook his head.

"If that's a symbol of some sort, I can't say it means anything to me,"
he said to Adam. "What is it, then?"

Adam's dark eyes had taken on their familiar inner luminance.

"It's a seamrag-the sign of the Sidhe," he said, a thin smile plucking
at the corners of his mouth. "It would appear, gentlemen, that Scot's
spellbook and gold are in the keeping of the 'people of the hills'- the
'unseelie coort' of the fairies."

"Fairies?" Startled, Peregrine regarded Adam with a wary eye, uncertain
whether or not this was meant as a joke. He glanced aside at McLeod, but
the inspector merely looked intent. Returning his gaze to Adam, the
young artist said flatly, "Surely you're not serious."

"On the contrary, I'm completely serious." The light in Adam's eyes
hardened to a cool gleam. "However, if you're harboring sentimental
visions of pretty little flower-sprites with gauzy wings, I strongly
suggest that you dismiss them once and for all. The Sidhe-to give them
their ancient Gaelic name-are beings belonging to the elemental order of
creation. They wield powers all out of proportion to their manifest
size. All of them are capricious. Most of them are

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dangerous. And some have a lively appetite for human flesh and blood."

Peregrine shifted uncomfortably in his chair, no longer disposed to laugh.

"They would make formidable guardians for any valuable object," Adam
continued, "all the more so because they are fiercely-in some cases,
murderously-territorial. And they are not to be bought off; one might as
well attempt to bribe a brushfire." He sighed.

"It is, however, possible to divert them, or even to fight them,
provided that one has the appropriate knowledge and sufficient power.
Given what our grave robbers were able to accomplish here at Melrose,
their leader may well have the necessary resources at his command.
Certainly, that's what Scot himself feared. And we have no choice but to
proceed on that assumption."

"I'll be happy to proceed however and whenever you say the word," McLeod
muttered, "provided that you can tell me where."

"This castle is where," said Adam, flipping back to the earlier
drawings. "The hard part is going to be determining its location in this
time period."

McLeod did not seem surprised at this declaration, but Peregrine
suddenly looked crestfallen.

"Don't tell me," he said. "I locked in on past-time resonances, rather
than the present."

Adam shrugged wistfully. "It isn't your fault. The images that you
received were drawn from Scot's own living memories of the
place-memories nearly eight hundred years old. The castle that Scot knew
almost certainly has changed over the years-if it even still stands.
Finding it, or even its former site, is going to present something of a
challenge."

Peregrine scowled down at the sketches he had made.

"It's a pity Scot couldn't simply have given us the name of the place."

"You're assuming that it had a name, or that it had the same name then
that it has now," Adam replied. "Locally, it may have been quite
sufficient merely to call it 'the fort,' or 'the castle.'"

153 154 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

He paused to let this point sink in before continuing.

"At any rate, we haven't got a name-and we mustn't blame Scot for that.
He did the best he could, given his condition at the time. If the
situation had been any less critical-if he himself had been in any fit
state to sustain further verbal communication-he might conceivably have
been able to tell us more, in fuller detail. As it was, he was summoned
and bound under torture, and was suffering acutely by the time we got to
him. If we'd detained him longer, however worthy our intentions, it
would have unjustly prolonged his torment and aggravated the injuries he
had already sustained. I was honor-bound to release him when I did."

Peregrine lapsed into thoughtful silence. McLeod picked up the sketch
pad and leafed through the drawings again.

"Looks as if we do this the hard way, then, with a magnifying glass and
a fine-toothed comb," he said with a sigh. "At least we can eliminate
any and all medieval sites that aren't situated near water. I wonder if
there'd be any point in my checking these drawings against aerial survey
photos of Scottish archaeological sites."

"If all else fails, we'll certainly try that," Adam agreed, as McLeod
tossed the pad back on the table between them. "However, there may be a
better way."

His two companions eyed him expectantly.

"Fortunately, we do know that Scot's spirit has been reborn in this
present time, and is presently a child," Adam said. "If we can locate
that child, it's possible I may be able to retrieve sufficient
information from his subconscious mind to put us on the right track."

"It's a little girl," Peregrine said, before he could keep the unbidden
words from popping out of his mouth.

Both men turned startled glances on him, and Peregrine shrank before
their scrutiny in confusion, trying to recapture the image that had
flitted in-and out of-his mind, unremembered until just that instant.

"I-before Scot had me start drawing-" he stammered, shaking his head as
he tried unsuccessfully to pin down the elusive image. "I had this-this
brief flash of-of-a little girl, I think. ..."

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155

As he looked at Adam in appeal, shaking his head in frustration at not
being able to recapture it, Adam glanced beyond him, to see if anyone
was coming, then reached over to lay his hand across Peregrine's forehead.

"Close your eyes and relax, Peregrine. Take a deep breath and let it
out." He removed his hand as Peregrine obeyed, turning the sketch pad to
a fresh page and pushing it across the table top to nudge at the slack
hands resting on the table.

"Now, let your mind go back to that room at the hospital, and see the
image again that Scot showed you-the image of a little girl who is
Scot's present incarnation. Nod when you've got it."

Grim determination played behind the closed eyelids, but then the
bronzed head nodded.

"Good." Not taking his eyes from his subject, Adam held out a hand to
McLeod for a pen, and put it into Peregrine's hand. "Now, open your eyes
and draw what you see. Nothing will distract you until you've finished
the drawing."

Dreamily Peregrine opened his eyes, the pen already moving on the blank
page before him. Hardly blinking, he bent to his task with single-minded
concentration, not looking up even when a waitress brought them water
and retreated. As he finished and laid the pen aside, Adam lightly
touched his hand.

"Excellent. Now rejoin us, in your normal waking state."

As Peregrine breathed out with a sigh, blinking several times, Adam
turned the sketch pad so he and McLeod could look at it. The inspector
only shook his head as Peregrine, too, bent to see what he had drawn.

Surrounded by the stark whiteness of a hospital bed, a young girl lay
with her eyes closed. She looked to be anything from ten to about
fourteen or fifteen, light curls cropped short around her face, a
sprinkling of freckles across her nose giving her a slightly gamine
look, except for the taut pallor around the mouth, and an impression of
tension in the slender body vaguely outlined beneath the sheets. To
either side, a few pen strokes suggested the presence of several people
keeping watch beside her bed-

155 156 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

whether anxious parents or medical staff was hard to determine, for the
ball-point had not allowed of the fine detail Peregrine usually captured
with pencil.

"This is very interesting, Peregrine," Adam said, glancing up at him.
"This is what you saw, back in the morgue?"

Peregrine nodded. "I'd forgotten, until this very minute. I guess the
images of the castle overwhelmed me. Is it useful?"

"Hmmm, it could be. Noel, does this mean anything to you?"

The inspector regretfully shook his head. "Afraid not. It could be any
hospital, and any young girl."

"Yes, but it's a modern hospital, and it isn't just any young girl,"
Adam pointed out. "She appears to be Caucasian, perhaps twelve or so,
these may be parents to either side, and-what's this at the end of the
bed, Peregrine? Is it a chart?"

Startled, Peregrine bent his head to turn the sketch pad and stare. He
had begun sketching a chart-there, just jutting above the foot of the
bed. He almost, if he held his head just-so-could bring the chart into
focus.

"Adam, put me under again," he whispered, fumbling for a pencil in his
pocket.

McLeod raised an eyebrow, and Adam gave the doorway behind Peregrine a
surreptitious glance, but then he cupped a restraining hand over
Peregrine's wrist.

"Peregrine, what do you see?"

"I can't see it yet," Peregrine whispered. "Just put me under again,
now\ Deep!"

McLeod had to work at controlling a smile, for no one ordered Adam
Sinclair to do anything, but Adam, after another glance behind his
subject, lifted his hand to brush Peregrine's forehead again. The hazel
eyes closed immediately, tension draining out of him as if the string
had been cut on a puppet.

"That's fine," Adam murmured. "Settle back into trance. You can do this
yourself, you know, but for now, I'll talk you through it. Relax and
take a deep breath, and feel yourself go twice as deep as you were
before. You see

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something that you didn't notice before. Something that's very important.

"Take another deep breath and go deeper. It's starting to come into
focus. Keep taking yourself deeper, refining the image, and when you can
see it clearly-draw it."

For several long seconds, nothing outward happened. Eyes closed,
Peregrine lowered his forehead to rest on his left hand, that elbow
propped on the table. For a full minute and more, by McLeod's watch, as
the two older men exchanged speculative glances, all Peregrine did was
breathe. Movement behind the closed eyelids suggested intense internal
activity, but it was not reflected in any movement of the pencil in his
hand.

Then, suddenly, the pencil twitched, the eyelids fluttered and then
opened to merest slits, and the pencil hand began sketching feverishly.
In far finer detail this time, the foot of the hospital bed emerged from
the shaded grey pencil strokes. And at the foot of the bed, not on the
chart itself but writ bold on a strip of tape across tjie top of the
clipboard holding the chart, could be read a name: Talbot, Gillian.

As Peregrine wound down and the pencil stopped, Adam touched his hand again.

"Are you finished?" he asked softly.

At Peregrine's dazed nod, Adam glanced at McLeod. "All right. When
you're ready, come back to full, waking consciousness. Take your time,
because you've been pretty deep."

He turned the sketch pad so he and McLeod could look at it as they
waited for Peregrine to come back. After a few seconds, the artist let
out a very heavy sigh and opened his eyes. i

"Are you sure about this?" Adam asked, looking up at him and indicating
the pad.

Peregrine rubbed a hand over his face, looked at the pad, and nodded.

"As sure as I can be, about this stuff. If the other is real, then this
is, too. It felt the same."

McLeod nodded and gave a sigh, rocking back in his chair.

"Right. Well, at least we can say that Gillian Talbot is a

157 158 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

good English name. Do you suppose it would be too much to hope that she
lives somewhere in the U.K?"

"We can certainly give it a try," Adam replied. "I won't be up to it
until I've had some sleep, but we should be able to narrow it down."

Peregrine blinked, only now realizing what was being suggested.

"You don't really mean that you're going to try to find her?" he asked,
appalled. "Besides," he shook his head, "this doesn't make sense. How
can Michael Scot be a young girl?"

Adam's faint smile suggested that the latter was but one more notion
about which Peregrine was going to have to readjust his thinking.

"We'll discuss the psycho-sexual aspects of reincarnation on the way
home," he said dryly. "Meanwhile, here comes lunch-which you, my friend,
have certainly earned with this piece of work."

So saying, he closed the sketchbook and gave his attention to the meal
being set before them-and to more specific discussion with McLeod of how
to defuse the aspects of the case that really had no rational
explanation, so far as the police and media were concerned. Peregrine,
though he clearly longed to pursue his earlier line of questioning, kept
his silence and merely tried to take it all in-which spoke well of his
self-restraint, for times to come.

It was nearly three before Adam and Peregrine started back for
Strathmourne. The Jaguar had been eating up the miles for perhaps ten
minutes when the artist finally screwed up his courage, as Adam had
known he would, to ask again how Michael Scot's current body could
possibly be female.

"I simply don't understand," he said. "Maybe I was mistaken. I mean,
Michael Scot's presence was unquestionably male. How could he be
reincarnated as a woman? Isn't sexual identity a vital part of an
individual's personality?"

"Speaking as a psychiatrist, of course it is," Adam said. "But when we
enter the realm of the spirit, perhaps different rules have to apply. I
put it to you that the human spirit, as

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opposed to the personality, is intrinsically neither male nor female.
Rather, it possesses the potential to be either. Would you agree that
the perfection of the spirit is to be regarded as an ongoing process of
pursuing wholeness, with the ultimate goal of reunion with the Divine
Light?"

The question took Peregrine slightly aback. "I-suppose so," he said
uncertainly.

"Very well, then," Adam said. "Wholeness implies, among other things,
completion-and balance. Now I ask you: How can any individual soul hope
to become complete, unless life has been experienced in all its various
aspects, including both kinds of sexuality according to nature?"

A glance in Peregrine's direction revealed that the concepts were
finding root, but he shook his head in dismay, not yet able to frame any
answer.

"Let's try another angle," Adam began again. "I can see that this is
difficult for you. You have yet to realize this on conscious levels,
perhaps, but there are some aspects of the Light that one may best
understand as a man, other aspects that one can come to know only as a
woman. To put on femininity at such times is to put on the sacramental
mask necessary if one is to enter into those chambers of the sanctuary."

As he glanced again at Peregrine, the artist permitted himself a
perplexed sigh.

"Let's backtrack about five steps and get down to very basic concepts,"
he said tentatively. "Have you ever reincarnated as a woman?"

"Certainly."

"Have I?"

"No doubt."

"Then why haven't I seen any of the female incarnations, when I've
looked at you-or in my portrait-gallery dream?" Peregrine asked
triumphantly.

"I suspect," Adam said archly, "that it's because you weren't yet ready
to deal with your feminine side at this level. The thought simply hadn't
occurred to you. I hasten to add that this is not meant as any
reflection on your sexuality-I'm not saying this as a psychiatrist-but

159 160 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

merely a statement of possibility, given your limited experience in
these matters--at least in this one of your incarnations. You haven't
been at this very long, after all. Give yourself time."

Peregrine struggled with this revelation in silence.

"If-what you say is true," he said at last, after some obviously
difficult cogitation, "it rather looks as though I'm going to have to
drastically revise my ideas about the nature of existence."

At Adam's slightly bemused nod of agreement, Peregrine sighed and ran a
hand through his short, pale hair.

"All right. I'm not going to even pretend that I understand this; but
for the moment, I'm going to take a leaf from your book and pretend that
it's true. If you say so, I'll accept as a given that the wizard Michael
Scot has been reincarnated as a young girl named Gillian Talbot, because
that's what I myself saw. But if his spirit has been reborn as you say,
why did it answer to us at Melrose as Scot, and not as Gillian? Which
person is he?"

"He's both, of course," Adam said. "You must understand that the
individual is not merely brain, or mind, or spirit, but a complex
interaction of all three functions simultaneously. The brain, obviously,
is physical-part of a physical body. It's the computer, if you like,
that drives the physical body; but the information that it stores and
processes-memory, and what is done with that memory- constitutes mind,
an aspect of personality-and that can impinge on the purely spiritual
soul. For it's through the human experience of a given personality that
the soul progresses in its journey toward the Light, life by life.

"I spoke a moment ago of the soul's putting on a mask," he went on. "We
might think of personality as the mask that the soul wears in any given
incarnation, suitable for the time and circumstances, one mask per life.
An Adept such as Michael Scot learns to retrieve those masks and change
them at will, to reaccess useful aspects of earlier personalities. You
can learn to do that, too. You're already learning to see other people's
masks; that's part of what makes you such a fine artist. You've caught
glimpses of several of my masks."

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Peregrine nodded. Adam could tell by his expression that he was now
thinking furiously.

"Some people can deal with pure spirit," Adam resumed. "We sometimes
call them saints or even gods. Most people, however, need more concrete
points of reference. When we're in our bodies, we're all wearing our
masks; and we tend to interact more effectively with other masked
beings. If a soul should be temporarily displaced from its present
physical incarnation-as Scot's was-resuming an earlier incarnation to
seek help is far more useful than trying to interact as a purely
spiritual entity. Which is precisely what he did, and why."

"I'm going to have to think about this," Peregrine said dubiously. "But
don't be surprised if it takes a little while for it all to sink in."

He fell silent after that-they were nipping around the Edinburgh Ring
Road now, heading for the Forth Road Bridge-and when he began nodding
off, exhausted from his accumulated exertions, Adam at last could turn
his thoughts to other aspects of the day's events besides wrestling with
Peregrine's logic. There were aspects to the case surrounding Michael
Scot that still did not quite add up.

Aside from the appalling violation of the soul of Michael Scot, and the
need to rectify its effects in young Gillian, if possible, the most
important question raised by the circumstances of the case at Melrose
concerned the status of those responsible, and their apparent intention
to go after Scot's book of spells. Upon further reflection, Adam stood
by his earlier conjecture that the thieves were neophytes. The muddled
approach to their whole assault on Scot was a clear indication of their
comparative inexperience.

On the other hand, he had crossed swords with the members of various
black lodges often enough in the past to know that the Lodge-Masters of
such fraternities were quite capable of allowing their more enterprising
underlings a degree of apparent autonomy, whenever it served their own
veiled purposes to do so. Was the summoning of Michael Scot no more than
what it seemed: the ill-judged act of overly-ambitious apprentices? Or
did it represent an opening gambit in a much more complicated chess game?

161 162 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Adam was forced to admit that, on the basis of the information he
possessed at the moment, he was in no position to say. And until he got
some rest, he was not likely to improve on the situation. As they turned
into the drive at Strathmourne, he became acutely aware of the leaden
sense of fatigue he had been holding at bay for some hours now, born of
the labors he had undertaken to liberate Scot and cleanse his burial
site. And one glance at Peregrine, jerking back awake as Adam stopped
the Jag and turned off the engine, was enough to confirm that the artist
was similarly exhausted-and far less able to cope with the weariness.

"Thank you, Humphrey," Adam said, as the butler opened the door on their
approach, ready to relieve them of their coats. "It's been quite a day.
I'd be very much obliged if you'd bring us tea in the library-and even
more obliged if you could manage to provide some sandwiches to go with it."

"I'm certain I can manage to put something together, sir," Humphrey
said, with every appearance of aplomb. "And I lit a fire in the library
about an hour ago. You should find it quite comfortable by now."

As he followed Adam along the corridor toward the library door,
Peregrine spared Humphrey a backward glance.

"He always seems to know just what you're likely to want or need,
doesn't he?" he remarked wonderingly. "I hope you're not going to tell
me he reads minds. How does he do it?"

Tired though he was, Adam could not suppress a chuckle. "No
mind-reading-just ease of long habit, I suppose," he said, gesturing
Peregrine toward his now accustomed chair by the fireside. "If I know
Humphrey, he'll be up with the tray in a trice. Why don't you have a
seat and make yourself comfortable . . . ?"

Half an hour later, Peregrine found himself yawning uncontrollably over
his tea.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said apologetically. "I can't think why I should
be so sleepy when it's barely five o'clock. Granted, last night was a
rather late one, and we were up and about early this morning, but that's
still no excuse for

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nodding off in the middle of a sentence. And it's only been a few hours
since we ate, but I was absolutely ravenous! Anyone would think I'd been
out digging ditches all day!"

Adam helped himself to another buttered scone, starting to feel more human.

"A common enough misconception. Most people don't realize that psychic
work can be far more exhausting than the roughest forms of manual labor."

"Psychic work?" Peregrine caught himself short in the middle of another
yawn. "But I haven't been doing any work at all, psychic or otherwise."

"Ah, but you have," Adam replied. "What did you think you were doing,
when you were making all those sketches?"

The question earned him an owlish look from Peregrine.

"In case you hadn't noticed," Adam went on, "today you took a rather
active part in what is turning out to be a significant psychic event.
The fatigue you're feeling now is a direct consequence of your
participation. It's something you'll have to learn to deal with, if you
think you want to become any further involved in this business than you
already are."

Peregrine lifted his head. "Am I allowed to become further involved?" he
said in surprise.

"Yes, you're allowed-and encouraged, in fact. The way things are
starting to move, I can't promise I'll be able to find time to explain
everything that's happening, perhaps until it's all over, but I want you
to understand the nature of at least some of what you've seen today-and
what you may see me do in the future."

Peregrine pursed his lips, breathing out in a low, soundless whistle as
he turned his gaze to the fire, seeking a familiar anchor in the dancing
flames.

"I don't know if I'm ready for this, Adam. Tell me what it is you really
do-I mean, really do. I think I'm beginning to get a little scared."

With patience and even compassion, Adam leaned back in his chair and
sighed, choosing his words carefully. In everything Peregrine had done
today, he had shown himself ready to be introduced more fully to the
mysteries that were

163 164 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Adam's life and purpose. But what Adam chose to tell him now must be
weighted very carefully, striking just the proper balance of the
familiar with the mystical, lest Peregrine shrink from the destiny
unfolding before him.

"As you quite possibly have gathered by now," Adam began tentatively, "I
sometimes act as a physician of souls as well as of minds. In another
sense, I suppose one also could say that, like Noel McLeod, I have an
additional function as a keeper of the peace. I won't even try to define
my jurisdiction for you just now, but it lies somewhere within that
realm of experience that Noel and I, and others like us, call the Inner
Planes. They're a-separate reality, if you will, lying outside of time
and material space, but nonetheless accessible to the mind of man
through the interior motion of the spirit. The Inner Planes are the
wellspring of dreams, the origin of inspiration, the source of prophetic
vision. The ordinary man visits the Inner Planes only by the natural
accident of sleep or unconsciousness, and brings back only fractured
memories of what he encountered there. The Initiate, however, may
journey there at will, in full awareness of what he does; and what he
brings back is knowledge."

Peregrine was listening raptly, still not looking at Adam; but all at
once he had the look of a man who has just heard a distant trumpet.

"You're describing what I do when I paint," he said softly. "Not the
Initiate part-the other. That's part of what my seeing is all about,
isn't it? That's where my inspiration comes from. That's what you've
been trying to tell me, what my portrait-gallery dream was trying to
tell me. 'Be still, and know. . . .' "

Adam smiled. "It seems I should have used the language of the artist
from the start. I suspect that further insight may come along when you
least expect it. You aren't frightened any more, are you?"

Peregrine tensed for just an instant, a slightly anticipatory look upon
his face, as if probing for a sore tooth. Then he breathed out as if a
great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, turning his head
finally to look Adam squarely in the eyes.

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165

"No. I'm not."

Adam nodded. "I thought not. In that case, we'll continue this
discussion in the morning. I, for one, shall be curious to see whether
you dream."

165

ADAM left instructions with Humphrey for breakfast at nine. He willed
himself to wake at six. Fifteen minutes later, he had showered, shaved,
and dressed with the brisk self-discipline of long habit. As he made his
way quietly downstairs to the library, leaving his butler and young
associate to enjoy a few more hours' much-needed rest, the house was
still and silent.

Peregrine had left his sketch pad on the table before the library
fireplace. Adam opened it to the second sketch of Gillian Talbot as he
carried it over to his desk and sat down. Rummaging in a desk drawer
produced an ornately decorated jeweller's loupe of antique design, which
he set on the desk atop the sketch pad. Then he spun his chair around
and propelled himself with a push to the nearest bookcase.

The lowest shelf housed an assortment of maps and atlases. Adam selected
a large, fold-out road map of Britain and a world atlas. He hoped he
would not need the latter. Pushing himself back to the desk, he set the
atlas and jeweller's loupe aside and opened the map. It covered most of
the desk when he spread it out, and he pulled the sketch pad out from
under it as he sat back in his chair, tapping it lightly against his
hand in distracted speculation as he cast his gaze over the map. Then he
drew a deep breath and shifted his gaze to the sketch of Gillian Talbot,
fixing her image firmly in memory, before slipping the pad back under
the map.

"All right, Gillian, my girl," he murmured, setting his right hand on
the map over the bulge of the sketch pad.

166 168 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

"You're going to have to help me a little on this. Let's see if you're
anywhere in the British Isles. ..."

Closing his eyes, he set himself to settling into trance, focusing on
the sketch pad under his hand, and the resonances echoed in the sketches
Peregrine had made. He tried for the Michael Scot connection first,
since his personal experience was of that identity; but that facet of
the soul he sought was nowhere in evidence on the Inner Planes.

Temporarily stymied, he shifted his focus to the Gillian Talbot matrix.
Here, he had less to go on from firsthand experience, for he knew
Gillian only by the sketches Peregrine had made; but the Gillian
identity had the advantage of being currently in incarnation, physically
anchored somewhere on this planet. Her astral traces should be easier
than Scot's to pick up-if he could identify them.

Patiently, eyes still closed, he began running his hand over the map of
Britain, mind still and receptive, using a vast, overlapping
figure-eight pattern that eventually would sweep across every square
inch of the map. As he settled into the sweeping motion, he tried to put
the physical appearance of the familiar map out of mind, focusing on the
energies, as if they were eddies of current in some vast cauldron to be
stirred with his hand. Slowly he began to detect variations within the
currents, subtle shadings of temperature and pressure.

He let himself flow with them, letting his hand be a thing apart,
letting it quest toward contact with the entity he sought. Slowly,
gradually, the sweeps of his figure-eights decreased, at last starting
to zero in on a location on the map. When the hand finally came to rest,
Adam opened his eyes to see it spread squarely across the city of London.

"Really?"

He stared at the grey cross-hatching of the city in mixed relief and
disbelief. To cross-check himself, for London seemed far too easy, he
stood and picked up the map, closing his eyes again and turning the
sheet round and round, totally at random, before laying it back on the desk.

Again he began his sweeping figure-eights across the surface, again
stirring the eddies, looking for the fluctua-

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169

tions. When the hand had stopped a second time, it was once again
resting directly over London.

"Well, well," he murmured. "That does simplify matters. Let's see if we
can't narrow down the focus a bit more."

Pulling the U.K. map onto the floor of the bay behind him, Adam pushed
himself back to the map shelf again. This time, he selected a
large-scale map of the City of London, marked out on the national grid,
and a recent edition of the London A to Z Street Atlas and Index. He put
the street atlas temporarily to one side and spread the map out flat on
the desktop, smoothing it with his palms and scanning it briefly. This
time, a more exacting methodology was called for.

He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, palms upturned on the
chair arms in a posture of receptivity. A single deep breath relaxed and
centered him. A slight shift of weight brought all the lines of his body
into balanced alignment with the plane of the floor underfoot.
Effortlessly maintaining that equilibrium, he drew another long, deep
breath, this time releasing it with a silent petition to the Pantocrator
for stability and insight.

In almost immediate response, the image of an unfinished pyramid took
shape before him in his mind's eye. Holding the image, he concentrated
on building it up to its apex, carefully adding each course of stones,
seeing the pyramid take shape. As he set the capstone in place, the face
of the pyramid was split in two, the two halves opening outward to
reveal the single, All-Seeing eye at the pyramid's heart.

A tongue of flame flared within the pupil of the eye. He let the rest of
the pyramid dissipate as he drew that ocular fire into his own living
spirit. A corresponding point of radiant warmth sprang up at the center
of his forehead, at the site of the mystical Third Eye of esoteric
awareness. As it grew and glowed, he released the vision and opened his
physical eyes.

For a brief instant, the room was bathed in luminous rainbows. Not only
could he see objects, but also their auras, projected in every frequency
of the spectrum from infrared to ultraviolet. Two items in the room
stood out in

168 170 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

white: the London map spread on the desk before him and the sketch pad
holding all the images connected with the soul that Adam sought.

The rainbow effect dissipated as Adam brought his vision under the
regulating influence of his will. Picking up the jeweller's loupe, he
slid the sketch pad underneath the map as he had done before, then put
the loupe to his eye, training it on the upper left region of the map
where the area had been marked into squares on a grid. Then, with
deliberate care, he began scanning the grid, inch by inch, from left to
right and back again.

Names flashed past him, borough by borough: Edmonton, Walthamstow, High
Gate. More boroughs- Hampstead, Islington, Hackney-and still no sign of
what he was seeking. He shifted his attention down to the next row on
the grid and scanned past Stepney, Westminster, and Kensington without
getting any response. Then his eye lighted on the area of Hammersmith.

A point of blue light flared beneath the crystal lens of the jeweller's
loupe. Adam paused, adjusted his eyepiece, and looked more closely. A
fleeting expression of satisfaction crossed his face as he caught the
pulse of blue again.

"So, she's in Hammersmith, is she?" he murmured softly, sitting back in
his chair and lowering his glass. "Let's see if we can draw the net
closer. ..."

He reached for the A to Z street guide, consulted the index, and turned
to the pages showing the street plan of the Hammersmith district, south
and west of Hyde Park and Kensington. Weighting the book open with a
gold letter-opener, he set his loupe in place again and repeated the
scanning process. His survey of the left-hand page brought no response,
but when he shifted his activity to the right-hand page, he got a
telltale flicker of blue to the south of Hammersmith Tube Station.
Closer inspection enabled him to pin-point the location more precisely:
Charing Cross Hospital.

Frowning, Adam lowered the loupe and sat back in his chair, pulling the
sketch pad out from under the map. He did not doubt that Gillian was
there. And as a physician, gaining access to his prospective patient
should be relatively

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171

easy. He knew several of the senior consultants on staff at Charing
Cross, if assistance was needed.

But he had hoped not to find Gillian Talbot in hospital at all. The fact
that she was still there gave him a prickle of uneasiness. The reunion
of spirit and body should have signaled a return to normal good health.

It was possible, of course, that the girl's attending physician was
merely retaining her for observation, out of professional caution.
Healthy children normally did not lapse into spontaneous coma, for no
good medical reason. But it was equally possible that the period of
soul-separation had been the cause of extensive damage. And if that was
the case, Adam reflected grimly-quite aside from the possibility of
damage to Gillian herself-his chances for reestablishing contact with
the submerged personality of Michael Scot might well be reduced from
slim to nought.

But, first things first. Before he went haring off to London, he needed
to confirm that Gillian Talbot was, indeed, at Charing Cross Hospital.
He trusted his methodology, but whenever possible, it was also wise to
double-check one's findings by more conventional means. Pulling out a
London medical directory, he skimmed down the Hospitals section until he
found the entry for Charing Cross. While he dialled the number and
waited for it to be picked up, he formulated his plan.

"Charing Cross Hospital."

"Good morning," Adam replied, deliberately omitting to identify himself.
"I'm trying to locate a patient by the name of Gillian Talbot. She would
have been admitted sometime yesterday morning. Could you tell me whether
you have someone by that name?"

"What was the name again, sir?"

"Gillian Talbot."

"Hold for a moment, please, and I'll check."

The line clicked, then reconnected to a recording of what sounded like
the chimes of Big Ben played on a child's xylophone. Grimacing, Adam
glanced at the receiver in disbelief. Midway through the third
repetition, the operator's voice broke back in.

"We do show a patient listed by that name, sir. It's a

170 172 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

child, though. She was admitted to Pediatrics at about half past ten
yesterday."

"That's the one I'm looking for," Adam said. "Who's the attending
physician, please?"

"That would be Dr. Ogilvy," came the prompt reply. "Shall I put you
through to Pediatrics?"

Adam had started automatically jotting down the doctor's name, but his
pen paused at the question. He did not want to speak to the unknown Dr.
Ogilvy just yet; not until he had invented some plausible explanation
for his interest in Gillian Talbot.

"That won't be necessary just now," he said, thinking fast. "I know your
people are terribly busy, this early in the morning. What times does Dr.
Ogilvy usually finish rounds?"

He could hear the crackle of pages being turned.

"She usually signs out by about one," came the reply. "I expect her
within the hour. Shall I take a number, and ask her to ring you?"

"No, I'll catch her later. I'm not certain where I'll be. Thank you very
much."

Before the operator could ask any more questions, he hung up, carefully
reviewing his conversation as he sat back in his chair. He had avoided
leaving his name. Nor, on analysis, did he think he had aroused any
undue curiosity. Anyone could inquire about a patient's presence in
hospital, and the name of the attending physician. And by skillful
direction of the questioning, Adam also had learned that Gillian was in
Pediatrics, and that her attending physician was a woman doctor who had
not yet arrived to begin rounds.

Now, if he hoped to gain any more information before actually going down
to London, he had best make his follow-up inquiry fairly quickly.

He checked his directory again, hoping for a separate Pediatrics
listing, then shook his head and dialled the general number again. His
luck held. The voice that answered this time was slightly different from
the first one.

"Pediatrics, please," he said.

"One moment," came the brusque reply.

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173

Adam drew idle circles around Ogilvy's name while he waited for the call
to be transferred, focusing again as a voice announced, "Pediatrics,
Matron O'Farrell."

"Good morning, matron, this is Dr. MacAdam," Adam said, using a name he
had used before when wishing to retain his anonymity. "You have a
patient on your ward, a young girl named Gillian Talbot. Dr. Ogilvy
admitted her yesterday morning. Can you tell me how she's doing today?"

His tone was authoritative but not demanding, as if he had every right
to be asking what he was asking. That, plus the cachet of the medical
title, apparently diverted any reluctance Matron O'Farrell might have
had about releasing information.

"Ah, the Talbot girl. Yes, doctor. She regained consciousness yesterday
afternoon, as you probably know, but she's remained totally out of touch
with her surroundings. The house psychiatrist on Pediatrics is to look
in on her sometime today, and Dr. Ogilvy has scheduled more tests for
this morning."

"I see," Adam said. "Ah, what tests have been ordered, please?" he
added, almost as an afterthought.

"Just a moment, doctor." The sound of rustling paper intruded briefly.
"Yes. She's ordered more blood work and a CAT scan. Is there some
problem with that?"

"No, not at all. Thanks very much for your help, matron."

"You're very welcome, doctor. Shall I have Dr. Ogilvy call you? She
should be here within the hour."

"Thank you, no," Adam said again. "I won't be reachable by telephone for
the next few hours. Perhaps I'll check back later in the day."

When he had cradled the receiver, Adam sat back thoughtfully in his chair.

So. The two telephone calls had gained him a great deal of useful
information, but only so far as it pertained to getting him in to see
Gillian Talbot. Unfortunately, he was not likely to learn anything else
of use until and unless he could examine the girl-and hopefully,
reestablish communication with that part of the soul that once had been

172 174 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Michael Scot. Whether or not he could accomplish that would depend, at
least partially, on luck. If the damage had been great, re-integrating
the soul's present personality might be a long and tedious process.

There was another aspect of a trip to London that might not depend so
much on luck, however. As Adam folded away his maps and stashed the
jeweller's loupe in its drawer again, it occurred to him that if his own
line of investigation proved in vain, perhaps Peregrine's burgeoning
talents might provide an alternative avenue of approach. Of more
immediate urgency than repairing the damage that might have been done by
Scot's tormentors was the thwarting of their intentions concerning
Scot's book of spells and his gold.

To do that, Adam and his colleagues needed to know where the
perpetrators were headed-and that information might well yield to more
conventional methods of investigation, especially if augmented by
Peregrine's increasing ability to see on many levels. The artist already
was as deeply involved in this affair as either McLeod or himself- not
least because Michael Scot had singled him out as the recipient of
information he hoped would enable his rescuers to bring his summoners to
justice. And, Adam reminded himself, however inexperienced Peregrine
might be in his present life, his soul was still that of a trained
occultist.

Once an Initiate, always an Initiate, he thought, and put his lingering
doubts behind him.

He stood up and stretched, then glanced at his watch. He and Peregrine
were about to have another busy day. Though it was just approaching
eight o'clock, he knew Humphrey would be up by now-probably in the
kitchen already, dealing with breakfast. He picked up the in-house
telephone and rang there first. Humphrey answered on the second ring.

"Mr. Lovat and I need to go down to London today," he informed Humphrey,
settling briskly down to business after exchanging good mornings. "I'd
be obliged if you'd ring the airport as soon as the reservation desk is
open and book seats on one of the midday flights. Route us into
Heathrow, if you can, and notify me as soon as you have the details."

173

"Certainly, sir." Humphrey's voice was imperturbable as ever. "Will you
be staying overnight?"

"I think so," Adam said. "You'd better pack a bag for me, just in case.
And book us rooms at the Caledonian Club, if you can get us in. If not,
one of my other clubs will do."

"Very good, sir. Shall I arrange for a car and driver?"

"No, we'll make do with taxis this time, I think."

Peregrine entered the breakfast room just before nine o'clock, wearing
grey flannels and his navy blazer, for Humphrey had already alerted him
regarding the impending flight to London. He found his mentor already
seated at the table, dressed for the city in a navy three-piece suit,
riffling through his morning's mail. He had a stack of books at his elbow.

"Good morning," Adam said, with one of his wry smiles. "I hope you're
feeling fit for active duty."

"Never better," Peregrine said. He seated himself opposite Adam and
pretended casual interest in unfurling his napkin. "Humphrey tells me
he's booked us seats on the noon flight to Heathrow. He also said I
ought to bring along at least one change of clothes."

"That's correct," Adam said. "I've been able to locate the precise
whereabouts of Gillian Talbot."

"Have you?" Astonishment and relief mixed in Peregrine's expressive
eyes. "Where is she, then?"

"She's a patient at Charing Cross Hospital, in Hammersmith," Adam
replied. "I rang there just a few minutes ago. There seems little doubt
that she is, indeed, the child we're looking for."

"That's amazing!" Peregrine declared, his expression then changing to
one of concern. "But-why is she still in hospital? I thought you said
she'd be all right, once Scot got back."

"I had hoped she would be," Adam replied. "Unfortunately, the news in
that regard is mixed. As you rightly surmised, she was in a coma for a
time. She was brought in as an emergency case yesterday morning. She
regained consciousness yesterday afternoon-you can guess at about

174 176 {Catherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

what time-but she appears to be completely out of touch with her
surroundings. I know the name of her doctor now, and what tests have
been ordered-not that they'll tell anyone much. It's my plan to go to
the hospital and try to see her, try to get a few minutes alone with her
without arousing unwanted curiosity."

"You don't want me there, then," Peregrine said. "I don't know anything
about hospitals. I've never even been a patient."

"No, I've got a separate commission for you in another part of London,"
Adam agreed. "How's your Latin?"

Peregrine gave him a quizzical look. "Rusty, I'm afraid. It's been a few
years."

"You may be surprised at how quickly it comes back. Here."

Adam passed Peregrine the topmost book from his stack: a handsome volume
bound in brown Moroccan leather, with creamy pages the quality and
texture of good watercolor paper. The gilt lettering on the spine read:
Miscellany of the Maitland Club-Vol. IV, Pt. I. Opening to the title
page revealed that the Miscellany was a collection of "original papers
and other documents illustrative of the history and literature of Scotland."

"Look at the second entry," Adam directed, "beginning on page twenty-one."

"Brevis Descriptio Regni Scotie," Peregrine read aloud. "A Brief
Description of the Kingdoms of Scotland." He looked to Adam in question.

"The Brevis Descriptio is a thirteenth-century account of Scotland as
seen through the eyes of an itinerant Englishman," Adam explained. "In
the absence of any contemporary maps, it's the earliest surviving
document of recorded locations in Scotland. The original manuscript is
in the British Museum. I want you to go and take a look at it."

"All right," Peregrine said. "But what exactly am I supposed to be
looking for in the original, that isn't in here?"

"Psychic correspondences-if any," said Adam, "between the Brevis
Descriptio and your own drawings from Melrose. If that castle Scot
showed you was still in existence at the time the Descriptio was made,
you may be

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177

able to pick up sympathetic resonances between your sketches and the
manuscript that will give us a clue to the castle's general'location."

At Peregrine's growing expression of dismay-and self-doubt-Adam paused
and smiled.

"You needn't worry," he said. "I would not send you on this errand, if I
did not think you were capable of the task. The process is not unlike
setting up an electrical conductor between two points. Here is the
method I recommend that you use. ..."

Peregrine listened intently as Adam proceeded to explain, incredulity
gradually changing to eager agreement.

"I think I can do that," he said, when the older man had finished. "Not
only do you make it sound easy, but somehow the idea doesn't daunt me at
all-though if you'd told me, even a week ago, that we'd be having this
conversation, I'd have said at least one of us was daft."

Adam smiled. "Life is an ongoing learning process-and the learning
stretches from life to life as well."

"I think I almost believe you," Peregrine replied. "There's one
practical aspect of this that still worries me a little, though. I
understand what I'm to do, once I get my hands on the appropriate
manuscripts. But getting the museum staff to let me see the manuscripts
in the first place may pose a bit of a problem. I don't have any
academic credentials for this kind of research."

"No," Adam agreed, "but fortunately I do. I've prepared a letter of
introduction for you-stuck there in the back of the book-addressed to an
acquaintance of mine in the Department of Medieval Antiquities. He's a
specialist in medieval geography and cartography, and will give you all
the assistance you may require."

The noon flight from Edinburgh touched down at Heathrow Airport only a
few minutes later than its scheduled arrival time, amid an autumn haze
of thin fog backed by pallid sunshine. En route, Adam pointed out an
article in that morning's edition of The Scotsman: Bizarre Grave
Desecration at Melrose Abbey. His own copy of the article had already
made its way into his files. After reading it,

176 178 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Peregrine could only exchange an amazed look with his mentor. The
article did not even hint at supernatural goings-on. Noel McLeod had
done his job well.

With only carry-on baggage to contend with, the two made their way out
of the main terminal at Heathrow with reasonable efficiency, though
engaging a taxi proved more difficult than usual. The drive to the
Caledonian Club also took far longer than Adam had hoped, though the
doorman at the Caledonian recognized Adam at once, and took charge of
their luggage with cordial efficiency, necessitating scarcely any delay
at all.

The Caledonian Club lay just off Belgrave Square, in Halkin Street, near
Hyde Park Corner. It was Adam's favorite London club, of the several to
which he belonged, and it was also quite centrally located for what both
he and Peregrine had to do. Had time not been of the essence, he would
have had their taxi double back and drop him at Charing Cross Hospital
before taking Peregrine on to the British Museum-or hailed another taxi.
But the doorman told him 4hat taxis seemed to be in short supply today,
and they already knew that traffic was moving very slowly.

Fortunately, Adam's destination was reasonably convenient to the London
Underground-which would be far faster than fighting surface traffic.
Accordingly, he had the taxi deposit him by one of the entrances at Hyde
Park Corner, passing a folded wad of currency to Peregrine to cover the
fare and instructing the driver to continue on to the British Museum.
The artist had his Melrose sketches locked away in the briefcase
clutched across his knees, along with his letter of introduction, and he
gave Adam a "thumbs up" sign just before the taxi pulled away.

Adam had forgotten how busy the London Underground could be, even
outside rush hour. Fortunately, the correct train was waiting at the
platform as he stepped off the escalator. Six quick stops later he was
alighting at Hammersmith Station, following the signs that directed him
along the pedestrian tunnels to surface on Fulham Palace Road, just
under the Hammersmith Flyover. He paused briefly to get his bearings,
then struck off along Fulham Palace Road, the collar of his trenchcoat
turned up against

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a wind that suddenly had grown chill. Five minutes later, he was
mounting the steps to the main entrance of Charing Cross Hospital.

He shed his trenchcoat as he entered the hospital lobby. Without it,
outside and on the Underground, his three-piece suit would have set him
a little apart from most of the men around him; here, he blended right
in. Drawing anonymity from the "uniform," he made his way purposefully
to the hospital directory, confirming that Pediatrics was up in the west
wing, where he remembered. A casual inquiry at the reception desk
revealed that, as hoped, Dr. Helen Ogilvy was not in.

"I'm very sorry, doctor," the receptionist told him. "You must have just
missed her. If it's urgent, you could probably reach her at the
children's hospital in Great Ormond Street, in about half an hour."

Reassured that he probably would not have to deal with Gillian Talbot's
physician, Adam thanked the receptionist and made his way to the
escalators on the other side of the lobby. Visiting hours had just
begun, so he was able to blend in easily with the many other non-staff
people moving about. He alighted on the first floor amid half a dozen
people, obviously concerned parents, heading toward Pediatrics and
followed along with them toward the nurses' station. Scanning the status
boards behind the desk, he found the name TALBOT,G. printed with two
others in a space indicating a four-bed ward at the end of the corridor.
Without stopping at the nurses' station, he headed in that direction,
hopeful of making his first contact without interference.

The door was open. It was not difficult to decide which bed was
Gillian's. The two closest to the door were occupied by younger
children, one with a plastered leg in traction and one sporting an arm
in a cast and supported by a sling, each engaged in contented chatter
with a doting parent. The third bed was empty. The child in the fourth
one, next to the windows, had to be Gillian.

She was sitting bolt upright in her bed-a slender, angelically fair
creature with short blond curls, an engaging spray of freckles, and a
rosebud mouth-with wide blue

178 180 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

eyes staring fixedly at the wall just to the right of the door. The
round, childlike face was utterly devoid of expression, and the
small-boned hands lay curled aimlessly in her lap, occasionally plucking
at the edge of the blanket.

Adam watched her for a full minute from the far side of the corridor,
assessing her condition with growing concern, noting the hands and
skirted lap of someone sitting close beside the bed on the right, though
he could not see the rest of the person. When he finally decided to
enter, a comely blond woman in her late thirties started up from a chair
at the bedside. So marked was the resemblance to the girl in the bed,
Adam had no doubt they were mother and daughter.

"Good afternoon, I'm Dr. Sinclair," Adam said, smiling. He left his coat
draped across the foot of the bed as he came to take her hand. "You must
be Gillian's mother."

The woman's eyes met Adam's, wide and frightened, but when Adam retained
her hand, she made no move to withdraw, already engaged by his direct gaze.

"Yes, I'm-Iris Talbot, doctor," she admitted, with confusion and
apprehension mixed. "Did-Dr. Ogilvy ask you to look in on Gillian?"

"Not exactly," Adam said truthfully. "But I heard about Gillian's case,
and thought I might be able to help." He neglected to mention just how
he had heard. "I'm a specialist in psychiatric medicine. I've dealt with
similar cases in the past."

"Then, it's isn't hopeless!" Iris Talbot whispered. "There is some hope-"

"There is always hope, Mrs. Talbot," Adam reassured her. "I must urge
you not to expect miracles-these things sometimes take time-but rest
assured that I shall do everything within my power to bring Gillian back
to her previous, happy state."

"Oh, if only you could help," Mrs. Talbot murmured, both adulation and
desperation edging her voice. "Gillian is our only child, and the doctors-"

She was on the verge of tears, exhibiting every sign of nervous
anxiety-for which Adam could hardly blame her. But she also was primed
to listen to anything he might say,

179

eager for any shred of reassurance that things were not\as bad as they
seemed.

To find out whether that was true or not, Adam needed a few
uninterrupted minutes with Gillian-which meant diverting her mother's
attention for a little while. He had already done the groundwork, by the
confident projection of his medical authority. With a little care, he
should be able to guide the situation in precisely the direction necessary.

"Why don't you sit down and tell me a little more about it, Mrs.
Talbot?" he urged. She made no resistance as he gently guided her back
to her chair, sitting as he released her hand. "In fact," he continued,
as he moved to pull the drapes around the bed cubicle to afford at least
a little visual privacy, "before you tell me that, perhaps I should
first assure you that I find no fault whatever in Dr. Ogilvy's handling
of your daughter's case so far. On the contrary, she has done everything
I would have done, had you been referred to me in the first place. In
psychiatric cases, however, there are sometimes limits to what
conventional medicine can accomplish. I hope to overcome those limitations."

As he returned from the curtains to stand beside her, he casually
slipped his pocket watch from his vest pocket and let it dangle from
about six inches of antique gold chain, spinning and gently swinging to
and fro so that the gold caught the afternoon sunlight in small,
rhythmic flashes. Mrs. Talbot's troubled gaze was drawn to it
immediately, as Adam had intended it should be.

"Tell me what happened, Mrs. Talbot," he urged softly. "When did you
first notice that something was wrong with Gillian?"

"Yesterday morning," Mrs. Talbot said, watching the watch turn and spin.
"Her father and I tried to wake her for school, and she-wouldn't wake up."

"So you called the doctor, didn't you?" Adam murmured, "and she was
brought here to emergency."

Mrs. Talbot nodded, her blue eyes a little unfocused, her voice going a
little flat and sing-song as she continued.

"They said she was in a coma. They couldn't wake her

180 182 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

either. They ran some tests. And then, sometime early in the afternoon,
she woke up-but she wasn't herself. ..."

"In what way was she not herself?" Adam questioned, lifting the dangling
watch a little, so that she had to look up.

"She just lay there and-and stared at the ceiling. It was as if she
couldn't hear us. We couldn't get through to her. Dr. Ogilvy said it was
au-autistic behavior."

"I think I understand," Adam murmured, gently laying his free hand on
her shoulder and continuing to let the pocket watch catch the light.
"You're very, very tired, aren't you?"

As she nodded dreamily, swaying a little under his hand, he went on.

"So tired-and who can blame you? I can see you've been too distressed to
sleep. Why don't you take a little nap right now? It will do no harm if
you close your eyes for just a few minutes' rest. I'll call you if your
daughter should need you. It's all right to rest for a while. ..."

As he continued speaking softly, her eyelids drooped heavier and
heavier. Within only a few minutes, under his skilled guidance, she had
settled into a passive state of hypnotic relaxation, her eyes safely closed.

Adam noted the time before pocketing his watch again and spared a swift
glance at the curtains around them, cocking his head for the background
sounds. Nothing seemed to have changed, but he might have only a very
short time to accomplish what was needed. If nothing else, visiting
hours would not go on forever-and who knew when a curious nurse might
notice the closed curtains and come to investigate?

Turning his back on the mother, and also interposing himself so that her
view of her daughter would be blocked, should she come out of trance
before he was finished, Adam took one of Gillian Talbot's slack hands in
his own. He laid his other hand on her forehead, easing her back until
her head was resting on the pillow.

She made no resistance, even when he brushed his fingertips down over
her eyelids, holding them there until the eyes stayed closed. Because
time was short and he had no idea when someone might walk in on them, he
used a

181

shorthand method for casting a protective circle of warding around
himself and his patient-a rapid sketching of the circle with a circular,
clockwise motion of one up-raised forefinger, accompanied by the
appropriate interior petitions of dedication and empowering. That
accomplished, he set up a scenario for visual misdirection, should
anyone come in, pressing his fingertips to Gillian's wrist as if
counting her pulse rate, head bowed over the pocket watch in his hand
once more, eyes closing as he began his real work.

A single deep breath took him deep into an altered state of
consciousness. Carefully, like a man testing his way across a rickety
bridge, he moved in spirit out of himself and into the borderlands of
Gillian's inner being. He had expected the changeover to be profound,
with so little time to make the passage, but entering her world was like
stepping from a lighted room into a wilderness.

The interior landscape was like a scene from an earthquake: all cracked
earth and heaps of rubble. Off in the distance, Adam glimpsed broken
outlines of structures that might have been buildings, now fallen into
ruin. Even as he steeled himself to set out across this wasteland, a
subterranean rumbling broke out in the deeper regions below. A moment
later, fresh upheaval rocked the ground.

The surrounding landscape began to break up. Whole patches of earth
crumbled and fell away, leaving only chaos behind. He quit the unstable
ground to hover above it, scanning all about him in growing dismay. The
degree of psychic disruption was appalling. In all his years of function
on the Inner Planes, he had rarely encountered such a complete breakdown
of personality.

All around him spun floating clusters of psychic debris- thoughts,
memories, fragments of personality. It was as though a cyclone had swept
through a room full of jigsaw puzzles, scrambling up the pieces and
scattering them far and wide in indiscriminate confusion.

All the diverse elements that had gone into the making of Gillian Talbot
were out there somewhere, along with those elements belonging to Michael
Scot-and doubtless others besides. In time, one might sort out the
pieces, put the

182 184 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

puzzles back together, rebuild the masks. But only in time. For now,
Adam was forced to concede that bringing Michael Scot back in any
meaningful way, at least in the immediate future, was out of the
question-which meant that any hope of timely assistance regarding the
Melrose incident lay with Peregrine. And repairing the damage to Gillian
Talbot was another question entirely.

He was just starting to withdraw into his own body again when the sound
of the curtains being briskly swept back catapulted him precipitously
back to normal waking consciousness. He schooled himself to make no
outward sign of alarm, composing himself in that space of two or three
seconds before he calmly turned to look at the nurse standing between
the parted curtains. Her expression was one of incensed disapproval.

"Here, now, what do you think you're doing?" she demanded, looking from
Adam to the startled Mrs. Talbot and back again.

Affecting no concern whatsoever, Adam pocketed his watch and produced
several business cards from inside his coat.

"You needn't alarm yourself," he said, handing her one of the elegantly
engraved cards. "Mrs. Talbot asked me to examine her daughter. I've
agreed to transfer Gillian to a clinic nearer my usual practice, if her
condition does not improve within a few weeks." He jotted a number on
the second card with a gold fountain pen and handed it to Mrs. Talbot.

"I've noted a second number where I can be reached at any hour, Mrs.
Talbot," he went on, closing her hand around the card and holding it for
just a moment, to underline the post-hypnotic suggestions he was
placing. "Please do call me again, if I can be of any assistance at all."

As Mrs. Talbot nodded agreement, still looking a little dazed, the nurse
read the card Adam had given her, eyes widening at the professional
credentials listed.

" 'Sir Adam Sinclair, Fellow of the Royal'-I am sorry, Sir Adam," she
said, looking up at him apologetically. "Dr.

183

185

Ogilvy didn't mention that you'd be seeing Gillian. When I saw the
curtains drawn-"

"I'm sorry, I should have checked at the desk," he said, bending over
Mrs. Talbot to take her hand in farewell. "Don't get up, Mrs. Talbot.
I'm expected elsewhere, so I really must go now, but I'll have a look at
Gillian's chart before I leave. I did mean what I said before, however.
If her condition does not improve, don't hesitate to call me."

"Yes-I will," Mrs. Talbot agreed.

"Brave lady," Adam whispered, patting her hand a final time before
releasing it.

He retrieved his coat from the end of the bed, gesturing for the nurse
to accompany him as he said, "I'll see that chart now."

Then he was leading her out of the room toward the nurses' station. He
managed to take back his card as well, when she laid it down to fetch
Gillian's chart.

But the chart told him little he did not already know or expect. All the
blood work was normal, the neurological tests were normal, the CAT scan
was normal. Everything was normal-except that it was not normal for
healthy twelve-year-old girls to end up in the condition Gillian Talbot
was in. Adam resolved then and there to apprehend those responsible-and
to bring them to his own sort of justice, if the Fates did not supply a
justice of their own.

184

MEANWHILE, Peregrine had parted company with Adam in a state of
suppressed excitement. As the taxi crawled up Park Lane and then right,
into Oxford Street, he drummed impatient fingers on the armrest of his
seat and scowled abstractedly out the window at the people crowding the
pavements on either side. The air was acrid in his nostrils, heavy with
exhaust fumes. He was relieved when at last they reached the quieter
streets flanking the museum.

Not that the museum itself was quiet. Peregrine stepped out of the taxi
into a bustling exchange of visitors coming and going. Just inside the
museum entrance he was overtaken and engulfed by a uniformed troop of
schoolchildren, and had to wait while their teacher consulted the
curator at the information desk concerning how to get to the exhibition
of Greek sculpture. As the group moved noisily away, Peregrine reflected
that if the reading rooms in the Manuscript Section were half as busy as
the rest of the museum, he was going to have a hard time carrying out
his intended mission without attracting undue attention.

He half-expected his own credentials to be questioned when he presented
Adam's letter and asked to be directed. But the uniformed woman behind
the desk merely nodded politely and reached for the telephone at her
elbow. After only a brief exchange with someone on the other end of the
line, she turned back to Peregrine with a brisk smile and informed him
that Mr. Rowley would be along very shortly to meet him.

In person, Peter Rowley proved to be short and broad,

185 188 Katherjne Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

with a spiky fringe of black hair wreathing a bald crown. Rowley's black
eyes were disconcertingly shrewd behind their old-fashioned bifocal
lenses. But after reading over Adam's letter of introduction, he
extended a hand with every appearance of cordiality.

"You not the first person who's come to examine the Brevis Description
he stated genially. "But if Sir Adam has seen fit to take you on as his
assistant, I expect you'll make better use of it than some might. Let's
go down to my office."

Rowley's office was located deep in the bowels of the museum's
underground vaults.

"This place is a veritable warren," he commented, as they threaded their
way along several connecting corridors. "Still, if you want to get
anything really useful done in the way of research, you've got to get as
far away from the general public as possible. Here we are."

He opened a door with his name on it and ushered Peregrine into a small,
cramped anteroom lined with file cabinets and overflowing bookshelves.
From an island at one side of this academic clutter, a grey-haired
secretary looked up inquiringly from the console of a very up-to-date
word processor.

"Mrs. Trayle, this is Mr. Lovat," Rowley informed her. "He's here to do
some work on folio 239 of Cotton MS Nero D.II. Would you fetch it for
us, please? That, and some tea."

He led Peregrine on through an inner door giving access to a slightly
larger but no more tidy office beyond.

"I expect you'd rather look over the manuscript someplace where you can
count on a bit of privacy," Rowley observed matter-of-factly. "I've got
a lecture to give over the road at the university in half an hour's
time, so you might as well make use of these humble premises while I'm
gone."

His gaze connected squarely with Peregrine's. In that instant, Peregrine
caught a flickering succession of companion images overlaying the
cartographer's rubicund face. Adam, quite clearly, had had more than one
good reason for sending him to Rowley.

186

"That's uncommonly kind of you, sir," he found himself saying, without
any lingering trace of doubt. "I'm not terribly familiar with the
museum, and I was wondering where I might find a quiet corner to work."

The secretary intruded briefly to deliver the requested manuscript,
returning a moment later with a laden tray. Rowley stayed long enough to
drink a cup of tea, giving Peregrine a few brief instructions on how to
handle historical documents, before suddenly glancing at his watch and
starting to shovel a sheaf of lecture notes into an untidy folder.

"Good gracious, where does the time go? I'm due across the street in
five minutes. I shouldn't be much more than an hour," he continued,
pulling on coat and hat as he paused by the door. "If there's anything
more that you require in the meantime, Mrs. Trayle will attend to it."

Left alone, Peregrine opened his briefcase and took out the sketches he
had made at Melrose. He laid them carefully to the left of the
manuscript containing the Brevis Descrip-tio, then sat back in his
chair, mentally rehearsing the instructions Adam had given him. His
heart was racing with repressed excitement. He felt, he realized, almost
like a criminal poised to execute some illicit operation.

For God's sake, you idiot! he told himself in exasperation. You're
trying to retrieve information, not rob a bank!

He took a firmer grip on himself and concentrated on bringing his
breathing under control. As his respiration slowed, his heartbeat
returned to normal. Continuing to breathe in disciplined measure, as
Adam had taught him, his present situation lost its strangeness. All at
once he felt calm and clear-headed, as sure of his ground as one
treading a familiar path.

The feeling of certainty brought with it an attendant sense of
self-mastery. He became conscious of being in control of all his
faculties, as he could not recall ever having been before. Without
stopping to think, he laid his left hand on the stack of drawings, palm
down. With the other, he smoothed flat the folio page in front of him
and began to study it in detail.

Using his right forefinger as a pointer, he traced over the

187 190 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

whole manuscript once from beginning to end. At first the medieval
script looked strange and crabbed, a chaotic collection of minims,
smudges, and run-on lines. But by the time he returned to the start of
the entry, he discovered he could, in fact, disentangle word from word
quite easily. His concentration narrowing, he began slowly to read.

An hour earlier, he might have been surprised that the
thirteenth-century Latin should be so readily decipherable to his
untrained eye. Now he hardly gave the matter a second thought,
translating without conscious effort the lines spread out before him.
The author of the Brevis Descriptio treated each Scottish province by
name, beginning with the border areas of Teviot and Lothian. Peregrine
passed over them without sensing any response, and continued reading:

Postea est terra de Fifin qua est burgus Sancti Andree et castrum de
Locres. . . . Next there is the land of Fife in which there is the city
of St. Andrews and the castle of Locres-Leuchars, by modern spelling. . . .

Subsequent entries dealt with the province of Angus and the Grampian
Mountains, known to the writer as "Le Mounth."

Oblivious to the passage of time, Peregrine read on past mention of the
east-coast cities of Aberdeen and Elgin until he came to another natural
break in the text. The next sentence conformed grammatically to the ones
preceding it: Et postea est terra de Ros. . . . But as Peregrine came to
the word "Ross," he felt a sudden tingling in the palm of his left hand
where it rested over the drawings Michael Scot had prompted him to make.

He returned his index finger to the place-name and held it there,
stationary. The tingling in his opposite hand became stronger, ceasing
altogether when he briefly lifted his hand from the stack of drawings
and resuming when he made contact once more.

That's it! he thought triumphantly. Scot's castle must be somewhere in
the ancient kingdom of Ross!

He knit his brows, casting his mind back over what he remembered of the
medieval period of Scottish history. The kingdom of Ross, he recalled,
had taken in a wide area between Loch Ness to the south and the mountains of

188

191

Sunderland to the north-still a great deal of ground to cover.

Peregrine sighed and shook his head.

If only I had a map to go along with this piece of text! he thought.

No such map existed, of course, but the notion suggested another tangent
of speculation.

"How early are the earliest maps of Scotland that do survive?" he
wondered out loud.

"If you're prepared to consider Great Britain as a whole," said Rowley's
voice from the doorway, "the very earliest ones in our collection date
from the thirteenth century. They're cartographical drawings,
actually-not really maps in the usual sense."

Peregrine looked up with a start.

"I'm sorry-I thought you heard me come in just now," the cartographer
added. He gestured toward the Brevis Descriptio. "Did you find what you
were looking for?"

"Yes, I think so," Peregrine said. "At least in part. But I've still got
a lot of unanswered questions." He paused to adjust his spectacles.
"Would it be possible for me to take a look at those maps you just
mentioned?"

Rowley shrugged. "I don't see why not. But I must warn you, they're
wildly inaccurate when it comes to Scotland. The man who drew them,
Matthew Paris, was an Englishman, a monk of St. Albans. His practical
knowledge of Scottish geography seems to have been limited to the region
south of the River Tay."

"I'd still like to see them, if I may," Peregrine said. "What else have
you got, that's more accurate?"

"Let me see . . ." Rowley pursed his lips and searched the air slightly
above Peregrine's head. "The earliest would be Lansdowne 204, an
untitled map by one John Hardyng, dated roughly 1457. It's not much more
of a map than the Paris ones-in the nature of an illustrated diagram,
actually-but it's got about fifty place names on it. After that, there's
a parcel of sixteenth-century maps by various people. Are you interested
in printed maps, or only in original manuscript drawings?"

"I wouldn't mind having a look at whatever there is

189 192 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

dating from before sixteen hundred," Peregrine said. "Provided that you
can spare the time."

"I'll make time," Rowley said cheerfully. "I could do with a diversion."
He lifted a bushy eyebrow. "How do you want to do this? In chronological
order?"

"Unless you can think of a better way," Peregrine replied.

"So be it, then." Rowley poked his head back out into the front room.
"Mrs. Trayle, can you spare a moment? I need you to pull a few more
items for me. ..."

For the better part of the next two hours, the two men pored over a
whole series of early maps, concentrating on those that showed the area
of the ancient kingdom of Ross. At first Peregrine was shy of
demonstrating his eccentric method of investigation in front of Rowley.
At the same time, however, he could see no way of avoiding it. After his
first assay, he fully expected Rowley to question him quizzically about
what he was doing. Instead, the museum's cartography expert treated the
situation with an offhand manner suggesting that this sort of thing was
nothing new to him.

Rowley's matter-of-fact attitude put Peregrine at his ease and made his
self-appointed task that much easier. At the same time, the work itself
proved singularly unproductive. Some of the maps Peregrine looked at
were portularies- maritime charts showing only coastal regions. The rest
proved to be insufficiently detailed in other respects. By the time the
clock in the outer office struck six, Peregrine was forced to accept
that, much as it galled him to admit defeat, there was nothing more to
be gained from continuing.

He swallowed the lukewarm dregs of his third cup of tea and sat back
with a heavy sigh. Rowley, watching him, gave a sympathetic nod.

"I know just how you feel," he said philosophically. "In my experience,
most research is ten percent discovery and the rest a waste of valuable
time." He cocked his head in inquiry. "Do you want to carry on?"

Peregrine flexed tired shoulders and shook his head. "Thanks for the
offer, but no. If I haven't turned up anything by now, I doubt I ever
will-not from these

190

sources, at any rate." He gave the other man a rueful grin. "I suppose
I'd better be on my way, and let you be on yours. Thanks for your help,
all the same."

"Don't mention it," Rowley said robustly. "Just tender my regards to Sir
Adam." He waited until Peregrine had finished putting his drawings back
into his briefcase, then offered his hand. "Don't hesitate to call on me
again if I can be of any further assistance."

As they shook hands, a telephone jangled loudly in the outer office,
interrupting any protracted response on Peregrine's part, and a moment
later, Rowley's secretary ducked her head around the door-frame.

"It's for you, Mr. Rowley: Dr. Middleton."

"Ah!" Rowley moved toward the telephone on his desk.

"Go ahead and take your call, sir," Peregrine said, raising a hand in
farewell. "I'll hand these maps back to your secretary and find my own
way out. And thanks again."

Rowley gave him a nod and a wave before picking up the receiver.
Snatches of his end of the conversation filtered through into the
adjoining room as Peregrine lingered long enough to allow Mrs. Trayle to
take the requisite inventory of the documents involved.

"Hullo, William! So, how was the Highlands and Islands Conference? Oh?
Oh, really? I'm sorry to hear that. Still, Raeburn was bound to be
there, wasn't he? After all, he's got business interests in Inverness,
as well as academic ones. ..."

Peregrine realized he was listening in, and gave himself a mental shake,
mildly surprised at himself.

Whatever they're talking about, it's hardly any concern of yours, he
told himself as he made for the door. It puzzled him that fragments of
that conversation continued to echo in his mind long after he had left
the museum.

He had forgotten about the incident completely, however, by the time he
had hailed a taxi and made the short trip back to the Caledonian Club.
He entered the main hall to find Adam already there, sitting in a club
chair in the angle of the staircase and thoughtfully sipping at a
whiskey. The

191 194 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

older man looked up immediately at Peregrine's entrance, raising his
glass in invitation to join him.

"Hullo," Peregrine said, flopping his briefcase on the settee next to
Adam and pausing to shed his trenchcoat. "I hope I haven't kept you
waiting."

"Not at all," Adam replied. "I've only been back a little while myself.
How did you make out at the Museum?"

Peregrine sat down beside Adam and gestured to catch a waiter's
attention, pointing to Adam's glass in signal for another of the same.

"I'm afraid my luck was variable," he said. "In going over the Brevis
Descriptio, I was able to narrow down our area to the kingdom of Ross.
But that was the best I was able to do with the materials available." He
sighed and grimaced. "Most of the maps Rowley showed me were prints
rather than drawings. Maybe I'd have done better if I'd had access to
the manuscript originals. ..."

"Don't be too quick to underrate your achievements," Adam said. "Ross
narrows the field considerably. You've provided us with a clue that may
prove vital-not the least, because it's the only clue we have at the
moment." Seeing Peregrine's startled expression, he went on to explain.

"I saw the Talbot girl. She is the individual we're looking for.
Unfortunately, the information we need is, for the moment, completely
inaccessible."

"Why? What's happened?"

"The summoning and binding at Melrose had far more destructive
consequences than I supposed," Adam said bluntly. "There's been a
complete breakdown of personality. At all levels."

"Did she not come out of her coma after all, then?" Peregrine asked.

Adam allowed himself a weary smile and shook his head, bowing his
forehead briefly to press against the cool side of his glass.

"I wish it was that simple, Peregrine," he murmured. "Clinically, the
girl is conscious; but she's in an almost catatonic state. She displays
classic autistic responses-or non-responses. No, the personality has
been fragmented, at all levels. I know. I was there."

192

Peregrine's brow furrowed in confusion-and concern for Adam's apparent
exhaustion-but before he could pursue either question, a waiter
delivered his drink. He gave a distracted nod of thanks as the man
discreetly withdrew, sipping automatically and then with more focused
attention before raising the glass slightly in approval.

"This is very good," he remarked, rolling the flavor on his palate.
"Single malt?"

Adam nodded. "The MacAllan. You were about to comment?"

Peregrine swallowed and nodded, gesturing slightly with his glass.

"You said her personality was fragmented-but isn't Michael Scot a
separate personality?"

"Yes, but remember that I likened the personalities of successive
incarnations to masks," Adam replied, keeping his voice down as their
conversation got more specific. "The spirit is the essence of what is
ongoing, immortal- what wears the mask in a given incarnation. But pure
spirit, unless it is extremely evolved, cannot interact with incarnate
humans except through the agency ^)f a mask-either a past one or a
current one. !

"I would venture to say that all of the masks once accessible to the
spirit now occupying the body called Gillian Talbot have been
fragmented-including the Michael Scot mask. Until that one, at least,
can be reassembled, we'll get no further access to information that
would have been accessible to the Michael Scot incarnation."

Peregrine's eyes had grown round behind his spectacles. "Is there
anything you can do to repair the damage?"

"Not in the short term," Adam said. "I've offered to take Gillian under
my care as a private patient. If her parents decide to avail themselves
of my services, there are some grounds for hope. Otherwise ..."

He shrugged and took another deep pull from his drink, and Peregrine's
eyes gradually went cold and grim behind his spectacles.

"The people responsible for this," he said after a mo-

193 196 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

ment. "They're the ones who dug up the abbey, aren't they? The ones I
sketched."

At Adam's grave nod, the artist leaned a little closer.

"Well, then, let's find them, Adam," he whispered. "They can't be
allowed to get away with something as-as bloody awful as this!"

"My thought, precisely," Adam agreed.

"So, what do we do next, then?" Peregrine demanded.

"For tonight," Adam said, "we have a proper dinner and early to bed. And
in the morning, I propose that we pay a visit to the Scottish
Geographical Society-which, illogical as it might sound, has its
headquarters here in London."

Peregrine furrowed his brow. "Will they have materials Rowley didn't
have at the British Museum?"

"They'll have different kinds of materials," Adam replied. "And from
those, we shall learn everything we can about fortified sites in the
ancient kingdom of Ross."

194

LESS than twenty-four hours later, on the Isle of Skye, in a castle that
had been the seat of the Chiefs of Clan MacLeod for more than seven
hundred years, a present-day MacLeod regaled yet another group of
visitors with tales of the clan's past glories. Finlay MacLeod was not
the Chief, but he was proud to be one of the Chief's principal
retainers-what would have been called a henchman, in the old days.

Henchmen no longer were expected to bear arms for their Chief in any
literal sense, except for ceremonial occasions, but in fact, Finlay had
borne arms at his Chief's command-during the Second War. He carried
pieces of German shrapnel in his knee to this day, and walked with a
stick when the weather was bad.

Now Finlay and his wife lived in honorable retirement, as live-in
caretakers for the castle, and extra household staff when the Chief was
in residence. During the tourist season, they also filled in as castle
guides, especially toward the end of the season, when the extra staff
hired on for the summer had gone home and the visitors began to thin
out, as the harsh weather of late autumn and winter approached. Today
Margaret was manning the ticket desk in the main entry hall, while
Finlay circulated in the castle drawing room. The Chief was in America,
attending one of the large highland gatherings, and was expected back
the following week.

Finlay gravitated back toward his customary post near the white-painted
window bays as another shoal of visitors

195 198 {Catherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

began to drift through the room, flicking an imaginary speck of dust
from an imposing Bosendorfer grand piano. The last lot had been a
busload of Japanese, with expensive cameras and only a smattering of
English. The current batch appeared to be the more usual mix of western
Europeans, mostly Scots and Brits and a fair number of Americans.

Finlay enjoyed his job. He enjoyed people, and he particularly enjoyed
trying to guess the origins of the castle's visitors, especially if he
could identify them before an accent gave them away. Over the years, for
example, he had found that he could almost always spot Americans by
their clothes: the older ones in new London Fog raincoats and tartan or
Burbury scarves, and the younger ones uniformly sporting running shoes,
backpacks, and puffy down jackets.

Finlay liked the Americans, even though some of them were a bit brash
and loud by local standards, because often they came looking for their
MacLeod roots-which was one reason that all the castle staff wore some
item of MacLeod tartan when on duty. Margaret and the other two women
working this afternoon favored sashes in the bright yellow-and-black
tartan affectionately called "loud MacLeod," worn baldric-fashion and
brooched to the shoulder with cairngorms or agates set in Scottish silver.

Finlay preferred tartan trews in the predominantly green sett known as
MacLeod of MacLeod. He noticed that several of the visitors in the
current batch wore ties or scarves in that tartan. As one looked
expectantly in his direction, Finlay cleared his throat genially and
clasped his hands behind his back, preparatory to beginning his
customary spiel.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of our Chief, I bid ye
welcome again to Dunvegan Castle. This is the drawing room, which is one
of the oldest parts of the castle. Its Georgian decor may not suggest
great age, but just through that door and around the corner, on t'other
side o' that wall," he gestured to his left, "ye can look down into the
old bottle-neck dungeon-hardly a Georgian feature. I will nae waste yer
time by dwellin' on things that ye can read about for yerself in the
guidebook, but I would like to

196

199

point out perhaps the greatest treasure of the Clan MacLeod, which is
kept in this very room: am Bratach Sith, the Fairy Rag."

As he indicated the wall between the two seaward windows at his back,
all eyes turned toward the antique frame hanging there--an impressive
gilded thing measuring perhaps three feet wide by four feet high, hung
against a background of peachy-salmon.

The flag itself was a tattered web of translucent gossamer the color of
parchment, with patches of brown and scarlet where the fragile fabric
had been mended in centuries past. To preserve it from further
deterioration, it had been mounted behind glass on a stabilizing mat of
natural-colored linen. Figured brocade draperies of a burnt orange on
ivory were drawn to either side of its frame, with a pleated sconce of
the same material hiding the curtain mechanism above. Finlay's staunch
Presbyterian sensibilities would have been affronted at even the hint
that he condoned religious frippery, but it did not seem at all odd to
him that the flag's setting should resemble nothing so much as a High
Kirk religious shrine.

"There are several versions of how the MacLeods got the Fairy Flag,"
Finlay said, his voice dropping into the awed silence as his audience
moved in for a closer look. "Some historians believe that it was the
war-banner of Harald Hardrada, lost during his defeat at Stamford Bridge
and brought to Skye by his descendants. Others believe that it was a
Saracen banner captured during the crusades and brought back from the
Holy Land."

Several people in the front row nodded approvingly, for what remained of
the fabric behind the glass did resemble oriental work.

"MacLeods hold, however, that the Flag came from no earthly source,"
Finlay went on, "but was. the gift of a fairy lady to a beloved MacLeod
Chief, with the promise that future Chiefs might unfurl it three times
when the clan was in need, and the fairy folk would come to their aid.
Tradition says that the Flag has been unfurled twice already, an' that
the fairies did come, so ye can imagine how

197 200 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

carefully each new Chief considers whether he should be the one to
unfurl the flag for the third an' final time."

"That's ridiculous," a male voice murmured from the rear of the group,
to which a female voice responded, "Shut up, George. I wanna hear about
how the fairies gave them the Flag."

Finlay smiled indulgently. After more than a quarter century of dealing
with the public, he was well used to coping with scoffers.

"As with most old stories, we have several versions of how the fairies
happened to give us the Flag," he went on blithely. "The one I like best
tells of a MacLeod Chief who fell in love with a beautiful fairy lady,
an' she with him. Though both families opposed the match, eventually it
was allowed-but with the stipulation that the fairy lady might remain
with her human lord for only a year or until the birth of an heir,
whichever came first.

"Well, the Chief an' his fairy bride were deliriously happy, an' just
before the year was out, she bore him a son. But then she must return to
her people, across the Fairy Bridge ye can see just north o' the castle
here.

"But during the festivities to celebrate the birth of the Chief's heir,
his nurse left him sleeping in his cradle in the tower, back where ye've
been, next t' what is now the dining room. As will happen, th' wee bairn
kicked off his blankets and began tae fret. His nurse didnae hear his
cries, but the mother did. Drawn by her love for her bairn, she came
back across the Fairy Bridge tae comfort him, an' wrapped him in her
shawl against the cold. She fled when the nurse returned, but there was
no mistakin' where the shawl had come from. An' that is where the Clan
MacLeod got the Fairy Flag-or so the legend goes."

His droll delivery elicited the expected chuckle, and several of the
Americans crowded in for a closer look, including a middle-aged couple
with a prepubescent boy in tow.

"Excuse me, sir," the boy said tentatively, "but you don't really think
the Flag came from the fairies, do you?"

Finlay leaned down and gave the lad his grave appraisal.

"What, do ye no' believe in fairies, laddie?" he asked.

198

As the boy shrugged noncommittally, Finlay nodded.

"I see. Well, I wouldnae presume t' tell a man what he ought to believe,
but I can tell ye this," he confided. "The Fairy Flag stands for th'
luck o' the MacLeods, wherever it came from. During the Second War, many
young MacLeod flyers carried a photograph of the Fairy Flag as a good
luck charm. An' do ye know what? Every single one o' them came back."

The boy was goggle-eyed, and even his parents looked impressed.

"Is that really true?" the boy's father asked.

Finlay smiled and slowly took out his wallet, thumbing through the
contents of one inside pocket until he could extract a yellowed and
dog-eared photograph of the Flag in its frame.

"Mine brought me back safely," he murmured, showing it to them. "That's
one reason I feel privileged to guard the Flag itself." He gestured at
it over his shoulder as he slid the photo back into his wallet for
safekeeping. "Ye can believe what ye will, regardin' how the Flag came
to be in MacLeod hands; but I know that it was given tae my ancestors by
th' Fairies."

The remark served as a conversation-stopper, as it always did; and after
looking more closely at the Flag behind its glass, the three wandered on
out of the room with the other visitors. A few more drifted through, but
the numbers were dwindling as closing time approached. Looking at his
watch, Finlay knew that Margaret would have admitted the last of the
day's ticketholders a quarter hour ago.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed five. Finlay heard the last lot
coming along the corridor from the dining room and met them at the door,
ushering them through the drawing room with courtesy, but not
encouraging them to linger, either. They moved on to look at the
dungeon, and then at the other MacLeod treasures in the two display
rooms beyond, eventually heading downstairs to the Clan Center and gift
shop.

Noises filtered up from the front hall downstairs-a genial hum of voices
that eventually was silenced by the hollow closing of the front door.
Assured that the last of the

199 202 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

day's visitors had departed, Finlay made a leisurely circuit of the
drawing room, noting everything in its familiar place, easing around the
piano to close the window in the left-hand bay. Some fifty years before,
following a serious fire in the castle, a metal fire-escape ladder had
been run up the side of the building from the gun court below, whence
great cannons once had guarded Dunvegan Castle from attack by sea.
Safety regulations required that access must be kept available during
the day, when visitors were coming and going, but the window was always
locked during the night, lest a burglar climb up from below and break
in. Of course, one would have to breach the castle's outer walls first.
. . .

Nonetheless, checking all the windows had become second nature to Finlay
MacLeod after decades at the castle, so he gave the matter hardly a
second thought as he secured the window latch and drew the drapes in the
bay.

The Fairy Hag was another matter entirely, and never, never received
perfunctory, unthinking service. Coming around to face the Flag
squarely, old Finlay drew himself smartly to attention and raised his
right hand in a brisk, formal salute. He held for a moment, remembering
the yellowed photo in his wallet, before slowly lowering his hand.

Then, just before he drew the brocade drapes that covered the Flag at
night and protected it from the light when the castle was not open, he
kissed the fingertips of his right hand and touched them fondly to the
lower right-hand corner of the frame. The gilt was a little worn there,
from years of Finlay's devotion, and he smiled as he eased the drapes
into place. He gave the room a last, fond glance as he headed for the
door, turning off the lights before making his way downstairs to the foyer.

Margaret was still in her seat behind the ticket desk, counting up the
proceeds from the afternoon. She greeted his arrival with a cheerful
wink and held up a finger while she continued counting, warning him not
to interrupt. Finlay acknowledged with a companionable nod and moved
toward the nearest bench. Before he could sit down, there was a sudden,
peremptory knock at the door.

200

"Hello, is anyone in there?" called a muffled female voice from outside.
"Please, could you open up a minute?"

The voice sounded distressed. Finlay's wife shot him a look over the top
of her spectacles.

"Sounds like someone's forgotten something," she said, with a slight
frown. "Better see what she's wantin'."

"Aye." Finlay strode over and unbolted the door.

The forlorn figure waiting on the doorstep was a young woman he vaguely
recalled seeing in the castle during the last hour or so, drab and
anonymous in a brownish suit of nondescript tweed. In fact he would not
have remembered her at all, except that she had spoken English without a
trace of regional accent. He had decided at the time that she must be
Canadian, or perhaps American-maybe a nurse or a secretary.

Probably a secretary, he decided now, as he eyed her anxious expression
and the hands twisting nervously at the strap of a plain leather
shoulder bag. On closer inspection, he judged her to be thirtyish, with
dark brown hair cut in a neat bob and a clear-skinned oval face that was
neither plain nor pretty, framed by dark-rimmed glasses. The pale eyes
behind the lenses were worried-looking.

"Oh, thank goodness someone's still here," she said. "I'm awfully sorry
to bother you, but I seem to have misplaced my car keys. I had them when
I came in, because I remember putting them in my bag when I paid my
admission, but I can't find them now-and I certainly can't go very far
without them. I can only imagine that they must have fallen out in the
gift shop-or maybe in the drawing room. I did open my bag when I was
there, to take out my guide book. Do you think we could go and look?"

All the while she was speaking, she had been pressing forward. Before
Finlay knew it, she was across the threshold and in the entry hall. This
discovery was slightly disconcerting, but a Scottish gentleman could
hardly ignore the pleas of a lady in distress.

"Och, aye, we'll go up and take a wee look 'round," he said indulgently,
with a sidelong glance at his wife. "I didnae see any keys in the
drawing room, but mayhap Mrs.

201 204 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

MacCrimmon has found 'em downstairs. If they're anywhere about, we'll
find 'em, never fear."

"Oh, thank you so much!" their visitor exclaimed. "I really am sorry to
disturb you this way, after closing time and all. I don't know how I
could have been so silly! I'm not usually this scatterbrained."

"Och, dinnae worry, dearie," Margaret said comfortably. "I must've done
the same myself half a dozen times or more. On ye go now, Fin, and see
what's tae be done. I'll wait for ye down here, tae lock up."

Finlay led the way back up the wide stone stairs, flipping on lights as
he went. At the top he paused to unhook the guard-rope that had been
placed there to direct the flow of tourist traffic left, toward the
dining room rather than right, toward the drawing room. As soon as the
rope was down, the brown-haired woman slipped past him and threw open
the drawing room door. Taken slightly aback, Finlay sprang after her.

"Here-gi' us a moment," he admonished, and reached for the light switch
just inside the doorjamb.

The room sprang to life again. Without waiting for Finlay, the
brown-haired woman darted over to the left-hand window bay, plopping her
bag on the piano and feeling across its surface.

"I remember resting my bag here while I went after my guide book," she
said over her shoulder to Finlay. "They aren't here, though. Maybe they
fell on the floor."

Together they made a search around and under the piano on hands and
knees, though without success. The brown-haired woman sat back on her
heels with a sigh of mingled apology and exasperation.

"Well, they don't seem to be here," she said. "Maybe I did leave them in
the gift shop-though I could have sworn I only took out my change purse
down there."

Finlay repressed an avuncular impulse to cluck his tongue at such
carelessness. "Mrs. MacCrimmon'll no' hae gone home yet," he said. "I'll
take ye down and let ye have a word with her."

"You're very kind." The brown-haired woman beamed at him gratefully and
made a move to get up, giving a small

202

205

shriek as her hand inadvertently snagged the strap of her shoulder bag
and pulled it off the piano, spilling its contents onto the polished
wooden floor. Cosmetics and toiletry items scattered, and loose change
bounced in all directions.

"Oh, no!" she cried. "How could I be so clumsy?"

Finlay wondered the same thing, but a gentleman did not say that to a
lady in distress. Murmuring reassurances, he left his companion to
gather up the more personal items while he chased after errant coins and
pens that had gone farther afield. With his back turned, he did not see
her take a swift sidestep to the window and trip the latch that unlocked
it. By the time he rejoined her, she had gone back to returning her
scattered belongings to her purse.

"Thank you so much," she murmured, as she got to her feet. "I really
don't know what's come over me. I broke a mirror, too." She showed him
the shattered glass in a cheap pink plastic compact. "They say that's
seven years of bad luck."

"Och, dinnae worry about that, miss," Finlay reassured her. "Here at
Dunvegan, ye have the luck o' the MacLeods to cancel out any bad luck.
We'll go down now an' see if Mrs. MacCrimmon has yer keys."

They left the room as they had found it, in darkness. Unaware that
anything suspicious had occurred, Finlay ushered his companion down the
stairs and into the gift shop, where a birdlike little woman with
silvered black hair was making notes in a well-worn ledger.

"Hullo, Mrs. MacCrimmon," he said genially. "Ye've no' found a set of
keys lyin' about, have ye? This young lady's lost hers, an' she thinks
she may ha' dropped 'em in h-"

His good-humored explanation faltered as he realized that Mae
MacCrimmon's face had suddenly gone white and stiff. She was staring not
at him but past him, at the young woman with the brown hair. Nonplussed,
Finlay turned his head to see what she was staring at-and found himself
gazing down at a very lethal looking automatic pistol levelled at his
midsection.

Shock rendered Finlay momentarily speechless. The pistol had been fitted
with a silencer-which meant that this

203 206 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

woman was no amateur. A part of him noted that he had taken similar
weapons off Gestapo officers at the end of the war. It probably was a
fairly small caliber, but the muzzle looked like it would fire
cannonballs, seen from the business end. His heart gave a queer
fluttering lurch, reminding him why his doctor had been cautioning him
for months to retire.

With a curt motion of the barrel of the gun, the young woman with the
brown hair beckoned Mrs. MacCrimmon to join them. Wide-eyed as a rabbit,
the older woman did not move, apparently paralyzed with fright.

"Come on!" their captor snapped. "I haven't got all night."

She pointed the weapon at Mrs. MacCrimmon, finger tense on the trigger.
Hastily, Finlay reached out for Mrs. MacCrimmon's arm and drew her from
behind the counter, glaring at their captor with all the dignity he
could muster.

"All right," he said sourly. "We can see ye've got a gun. If ye want tae
go ahead and empty the till, neither of us will try tae stop ye."

The young woman with the brown hair smiled thinly. "Some other time,
perhaps. Right now, I'd like you both to put your hands on your heads
and move slowly towards the door."

Mrs. MacCrimmon's face went a shade paler, and Finlay was afraid she
might faint.

"Wh-where are you taking us?" she stammered.

"Upstairs to the drawing room," said their captor. "If you do as you're
told, you won't be haimed. Now move, while I'm still in the mood to be
polite."

Not daring to disobey, Finlay mutely hurried Mrs. MacCrimmon up the
steps, conscious all the while of the gun aimed at the small of his
back. If she fired, the bullet would likely go right through him and hit
Mrs. MacCrimmon as well.

A chilly stream of air came rushing down the stairwell to greet them as
they ascended. When they reached the top and made the turn back toward
the drawing room, Finlay was surprised to see the drawing room door
standing open, and the lights on. He was even more surprised, when they

204

entered the room, to see the fire-escape window gaping wide, with
curtains billowing wildly in the cold sea wind.

"Over there, by the piano," their captor ordered.

Finlay obeyed, herding Mrs. MacCrimmon with one hand and keeping his
other hand raised. Glancing aside at the window, he saw smears of mud on
the broad sill where a second intruder evidently had gained entry by way
of the fire-escape. In the same moment, they all heard a scuffle of
movement below, and footsteps started up the stairs from the direction
of the front hall. A voice that Finlay recognized as his wife's said
indignantly, "It's well for ye that the Chief himself's no' at home just
now. Otherwise, ye wouldnae be havin' things all yer own way!"

Ah, feisty Margaret. She was first through the door into the drawing
room, but Finlay's hope that the intruders might have missed out on Mrs.
McBain, the library docent, died stillborn when she stumbled across the
threshold a step behind his wife, looking terrified. The second member
of the intruder's party was a man in a ski mask, dressed in the sort of
tight-fitting black clothes that Finlay had seen worn by spies and cat
burglars in the movies. However theatrical his appearance might be,
there wasi nothing fanciful about the silenced pistol he, too, was
carrying. His close-set black eyes ranged briefly over Finlay and Mrs.
MacCrimmon before meeting the gaze of his counterpart.

"Any trouble?" he inquired.

The brown-haired woman shook her head, her expression disparaging. "No.
They came along like lambs."

The man in black nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned to the
prisoners to gesture with his gun.

"Now then, all of you: Over there."

To Finlay's consternation, the intruders herded the four of them into
the adjoining guardroom. From here, a heavy trapdoor gave access to the
castle's fourteenth-century dungeon: a steep-sided pit nearly fifteen
feet deep, cut right into the castle rock. The man in black caught
Finlay by the shoulder and gave him a shove in the direction of the
closed trapdoor.

"Pull it up," he commanded.

Mae MacCrimmon made a small noise between a gasp

205 208 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

and a sob. "Oh, not down there, please\" she whimpered. "There might be
rats, and-"

The man in black turned to face her squarely, raising the silenced
muzzle of his pistol to point directly at her forehead.

"Perhaps you'd prefer the alternative?" he suggested.

Mrs. MacCrimmon wilted into shivering silence, cowering with the shaking
Mrs. McBain in the circle of Margaret's arms as the man returned his
attention to Finlay.

"How about you?"

The old caretaker needed no further encouragement. Being dropped into
the pit wasn't going to be pleasant, but it was better than a bullet.
Within seconds, he had the trap door open and was glancing up expectantly.

"Go ahead. Put 'em in."

Dutifully Finlay lowered the women into the chilly darkness of the
pit-Margaret first, so she could help the other two land, for it still
was a nasty drop, once he lowered them to arm's length. It also got her
farther away from the man's gun. The women shrieked and cried out, but
he wished they would save their breath; there was no one to hear them.

"All right, old man. Now it's your turn," the man said, when the women
were down, gesturing with his gun.

Glowering like a thundercloud, and wishing he was twenty years younger,
Finlay stiffly eased his way to a sitting position at the edge of the
dungeon mouth, feet dangling over the edge, then turned to support
himself on his hands and forearms and start lowering himself. Shoulders
protesting, he had let himself down to hang by the length of his arms
when the man in black gave his clutching fingers an impatient nudge with
a boot.

Finlay lost his grip and plummeted into the midst of the shrieking
women. He landed crookedly, and bit back a curse as his ankle turned
under him. In the darkness of the dungeon Margaret MacLeod groped for
her husband's hand. The intensity of his grip told her he was in pain.

"A curse on ye, whoever ye are!" she shouted up at their captor, a dark
silhouette against the lighted opening above

206

209

their heads. "By the luck of the MacLeods, I hope and pray ye may get
what ye deserve for this night's work!"

The intruder's response was a sneering laugh and then the hollow boom of
the trapdoor being closed over the opening again, shutting out the
light. . . .

As soon as her male accomplice had herded his prisoners into the next
room, the brown-haired woman set her weapon aside on the piano long
enough to close the window and draw the curtains back into place again,
to keep up appearances from the outside. That done, she slipped her
weapon back into a zippered compartment in her bag and carefully drew
out a small red snap-pouch of Chinese silk.

Inside was a heavy silver medallion slung from a silver chain. She
slipped the chain over her head and turned toward the wall between the
two seaward windows, where the Fairy Flag hung behind its sconced
curtains. When she moved, the pendant caught the light, revealing a
device like the snarling head of some predatory beast.

She opened the curtains and caught a brief, slightly distorted glimpse
of herself mirrored in the glass that covered the Fairy Flag. She did
not like this job. One of the stories the old man had told her tour
group this afternoon was that anyone besides a MacLeod who touched the
Flag would go up in a puff of smoke. That obviously did not refer to the
frame or the glass, because she had touched both when the caretaker
wasn't looking, but she mistrusted these ancient legends. You could
never tell when there might be a grain of truth to them, and she had
broken her mirror. . . .

But mat was just as ridiculous as imagining that the medallion would
afford her any protection, if the stories were true-though she wore it;
because they had told her to. Still, when she reached out with both
hands and grasped the ornamented sides of the frame, she smiled as
nothing untoward happened.

She shifted it back and forth to test its weight, then took a firmer
grip on the moulding and lifted the frame down off the wall. The frame
was large, but it was not particularly heavy. Its size simply made it
awkward to carry.

Resting it briefly against the wall, she closed the drap-

207 210 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

eries again, so its absence would not be noticed immediately. Then,
carrying her prize gingerly in front of her, she moved off toward the
door that led to the stairs, making her way cautiously down to the front
hall to wait for her accomplice.

She knew he was on his way down when the lights began to go out in the
stairwell. When he had joined her, he let them both out through the
front door, locking it with keys he had taken from the ticket-taker's
desk. It was nearly dark outside, so no one could see them cross over
the castle bridge and climb down the embankment toward the single-lane
drive normally used by the Chief and his family and staff.

She had left the car in the shadows under the trees, a dark coupe almost
invisible in the gathering gloom. The man in black unlocked the car and
got in on the driver's side while his female associate carefully loaded
the Fairy Flag into the back seat, covering it with a tartan lap rug. As
she took the passenger seat in the front, the driver started the engine,
driving without lights as they moved slowly up the lane in the direction
of the main road.

A short drive brought them along the water's edge to a little rock-bound
inlet. At a wooden dock jutting out into the shallows, a small cabin
cruiser floated quietly at her moorings.

The driver of the car flashed his headlamps. Aboard the cruiser, someone
beamed an answering signal from one of the cabin ports. A moment later,
two dark figures emerged onto the deck into the open air.

The two thieves climbed out of the car, the woman again handling the
Fairy Flag in its frame. With her accomplice following, she carried it
out along the dock to where her employers from the cabin cruiser were
waiting to receive it. When she arrived, the shorter member of the pair
bent down to examine the frame and its contents by the glow of a pencil
flashlight. As he did so, the light glanced rosily off the fine
carnelian signet ring he wore on his right hand.

"Very good, indeed," he commented, raising his eyes to meet hers.
"Excellent, in fact."

208

The woman raised an eyebrow in sardonic acknowledgement.

"Thank you. As jobs go, it's more dignified than mud-wrestling. And it
pays better. Excuse me while I get rid of this."

Hooking her fingers in the hair at the front of her face, she gave a
backwards tug. Short blond hair gleamed pale in the fading light as the
brown wig came away in her hand, and she shook her head lightly as she
ran her free hand through the hair to riffle it. The man with the
carnelian ring watched her from under hooded lids.

"I assume you'll want your pay, so you can be off," he said, motioning
to his colleague to take the frame as he reached into the breast of his
jacket for a fat brown envelope.r-"I think you'll find everything in order."

His colleague wore a medallion like the one still around the woman's
neck. She eyed it as she reached for the envelope in the other's hand,
not noticing that her erstwhile accomplice was moving in closer from
behind, drawing his silenced pistol from behind his leg.

In the same instant that her hand touched the envelope, the man in black
pressed the muzzle of the silencer just behind her left ear and pulled
the trigger. The quiet cough of the shot was inaudible even on the
shore, much less in the castle or on the road above. And the second and
third shots he fired into her heart, once she was down on the dock, were
no louder.

Her employer did not spare her a second look, only turning to follow his
underling below decks with the Flag. The man in black knelt briefly to
remove the silver medallion from around the woman's neck, then pushed
her body over the edge of the dock with no more concern than he would
have given a sack of rubbish or a dead cat.

Then, as the boat's engines rumbled to life, the man in black cast off
the line securing it to the dock and leaped lightly aboard. Ten minutes
later, boat, passengers, and stolen treasure had disappeared into the
twilight, leaving only a faintly phosphorescent wake that faded steadily
with the lowering dusk.

209

MEANWHILE, as planned, Adam and Peregrine had spent their second day in
London at the Docklands headquarters of the Scottish Geographical
Society. Upon their arrival, Adam introduced himself to the receptionist
as Dr. Sinclair, at the same time presenting Peregrine as his research
assistant. He did not mention that his title was that of a medical
doctor rather than an academic one. A seemingly offhand reference to the
talk he had given the previous week at Gleneagles helped to reinforce
the impression that he was a historian gathering material for a series
of scholarly lectures.

"Oh, dear," said the woman behind the desk, though she clearly was
favorably impressed with Adam's manner and appearance. "I'm afraid we
don't seem to have you written into our appointment book, Dr. Sinclair,
but maybe something can be arranged-since you're only here for the day.
Why don't you and Mr. Lovat have a seat, and I'll phone upstairs to ask
if someone might be free."

"That's very kind of you," Adam said warmly. "Of course we'll wait. And
thank you very much."

It took some doing, but in the end they were able to secure the services
of one of the senior archivists, a stocky, middle-aged Glaswegian by the
name of Ronald McKay. Under his guidance, Adam and Peregrine spent the
morning reading through microfilmed articles on archaeological
fieldworks in Ross-shire. After lunch they examined the Society's
accumulated wealth of pictorial data-survey photos and reconstruction
blueprints-in comparison with

210 214 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

the sketches Peregrine himself had made. By the end of the day, after
exhausting every available file on the subject, they had managed to
compile a list of four Ross-shire castles worthy of further
investigation: Foulis, Strome, Eilean Donan, and Urquhart.

"Whew! I hope we don't have to do that again, any time soon!" Peregrine
exclaimed, as they climbed into a taxi to return to the Caledonian Club.
"One hour more, and I would have had a headache the size of Blenheim
Palace!"

Adam smiled distractedly, mentally reviewing the four names on the list.
All four were located on sites overlooking water, and all four had been
in existence at the time Michael Scot had lived, but beyond that, they
had not managed to narrow the field any further.

"Well, we might have done worse," he said with a sigh, "but I must
confess, I had hoped we might do significantly better."

Peregrine grimaced. "I know what you mean. Any one of the sites on our
short list could turn out to be the castle we're looking for-or none of
them, for that matter. I may be totally off base."

"Do you think you are?" Adam asked.

"No. But unless you know of any other documentary sources we haven't yet
considered, I can't think of any way to narrow down the list to one."

Adam shook his head. "I'm afraid you're quite right. We've done
everything that paperwork could accomplish. Our only recourse from here
is to visit these places in person."

Peregrine looked slightly daunted. "You mean, go there?"

"Yes."

"But-won't that take rather a lot of time?"

"A day or two," Adam admitted. "But if we don't begin, we shan't find
out, shall we?"

"I suppose not," Peregrine said. "Will we be flying back to Scotland
tonight, then?"

A line appeared between Adam's dark brows, and he leaned back against
the vinyl-upholstered seat of the taxi, looking suddenly weary.

211

215

"No, we'll catch an early shuttle in the morning," he said. "We've done
enough-more than enough-for one day. Nothing hampers the mind like
fatigue. I want us well rested before we set out for the Highlands."

Back at Adam's club, they ate dinner early, while the dining room was
still largely empty. Once the meal was over, Peregrine found himself
more than ready to retire to his room. His neck was stiff from the
unaccustomed hours he had spent hunched over the microfilm reader, and
his eyes were burning from the effort of doing too much close work in
poor lighting. A hot shower helped to alleviate the worst of his aches
and pains, and he fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Dreams came and went, most of them quite unmemora-ble. But sometime in
the dead of night, he woke suddenly to what he thought at first was the
angry braying of a trumpet. He started up in bed and listened intently,
but his straining ears could pick up nothing but the omnipresent rumble
of traffic moving through the midnight streets of the capital.

/ must be imagining things, he thought with a shrug, and lay back down.

But echoes of the strange, angry alarm continued to reverberate at the
back of his mind, like a memory of the warhorns of Elfland wildly
blowing. Eventually he fell asleep again, with the half-formed intention
of relating the incident to Adam the next day; but in the cold light of
morning, the whole thing seemed too trivial to be worth mentioning.

Keep on like this, and before long, you'll be running around claiming
the sky is falling, he told himself with a grimace, as he finished
knotting his tie and ran a comb through his hair. Adam's already got
enough to worry about, without you inventing new distractions.

With this admonition in mind, he put the matter aside and went
downstairs, appearing promptly at seven, as agreed the night before. He
decided that Adam must have spent a restless night as well, because his
mentor was uncharacteristically silent and even a little testy over
breakfast. His usual perusal of the morning paper seemed more intent than

212 216 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

usual, as if he were looking for something specific; but he offered no
explanation, and Peregrine did not press the issue.

Still on schedule, so far as Peregrine could tell, they were walking out
the front door of the Caledonian Club well before eight, their few bags
in hand. But no sooner had they emerged onto Halkin Street, intending to
have the doorman hail them a taxi to the airport, then Adam eyed the
already heavy traffic of morning rush hour and instead began herding
Peregrine in the direction of Hyde Park Corner.

"I'll swear the traffic gets worse, every time I come to London," he
said sourly, consulting his watch. "I hadn't reckoned on it being this
heavy, this early. We'll have to take the Tube. It will be standing room
only, at this hour, but I'm afraid it's the only way we're going to make
our flight."

The Tube was standing room only. Flowing with the expected crush of
morning commuters, in an atmosphere increasingly redolent of stale
clothing and warring perfumes, they boarded the first available
westbound train and spent the next forty-five minutes clinging
precariously to handholds along the ceiling, bags braced between their
feet. Only past Acton did the crowd begin to thin out, and even then,
they had to stand for several more stops.

They arrived at Heathrow with a scant twenty minutes to spare before the
9:30 shuttle. Fortunately, Adam had booked seats the night before, and
they had only carry-on luggage, so securing their tickets and checking
in was a relatively rapid procedure. After signing off on the credit
card slip, Adam sent Peregrine off to buy a Glasgow newspaper while he
telephoned Strathmourne. There would be copies of The Scotsman aboard
the shuttle, so he would check that during the flight up.

"After looking at where we've got to go, I've changed my mind about
taking the Jag," he told Humphrey, after verifying that they would,
indeed, be arriving on the flight Adam had designated in the previous
night's call. "I think you'd better pick us up in the Range Rover. And
please pack us each a change of clothes suitable for stomping around
uncertain terrain in uncertain weather. If my suspi-

213

cions are correct, and time is running short, we can't afford even
slight delays in getting under way."

"I understand, sir," Humphrey replied. "I'll make all the necessary
arrangements."

The loudspeakers were announcing the final call for their flight. All he
and Peregrine had to do now was make the plane. They were not the last
ones aboard, but delays at security screening had him fidgeting for a
few minutes. As he and Peregrine buckled up and the plane started to
taxi out to the runway, Adam at last allowed himself to relax a
little-which only gave him time to feed his growing apprehension.

Something new was brewing, almost certainly some new facet of what they
had left behind in Scotland. He searched for it in the copy of the
Glasgow paper Peregrine had brought him and in The Scotsman, but nothing
spoke to him.

Were the obstacles they were encountering a part of some emerging
pattern of opposition on the Inner Planes, or were they random? He told
himself that most of the obstacles could be chalked up to coincidence;
but another part of him worried that it was all part of some sinister
design being carried out by an enemy he had yet to meet face to face.

Until he knew more, all he could dc

was trust to the innate

survival instincts of his higher selF, and hope that their adversaries
would soon show themselves-and hopefully, make a mistake.

Their flight was routine, though the air turbulence increased the
farther north they flew. The skies over southern Scotland were patched
with racing scuds of dirty grey, and their aircraft descended through
gusty showers. They touched down at Edinburgh on a wet runway and taxied
to the terminal amid windblown outbursts of rain.

By the time the jetway was run alongside and they were permitted to
begin deplaning, Adam had decided to ring Noel McLeod as soon as they
got inside the terminal building. With single-minded impatience, he led
Peregrine toward the arrival gate, raising a hailing hand as he spotted
Humphrey, waiting just beyond the barrier.

But his valet was not alone. Adam stiffened as he

214 218 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

recognized the moustached figure in the trenchcoat, all the
slowly-building apprehension of the past twelve hours or so finally
crystallizing.

"What is it?" Peregrine asked.

"There with Humphrey-it's Noel McLeod," Adam replied. "And unless I'm
very much mistaken, his presence confirms the trouble I couldn't find in
the papers this morning. Come on!"

Leaving Peregrine to make his own way, Adam lengthened his stride and
darted forward, weaving his way through the intervening throngs with an
evasive skill a professional soccer-player might have envied. Humphrey
and McLeod converged to meet him. The inspector's craggy face was
looking uncommonly grim, and his mouth was tight.

"Why do I get the distinct impression you're about to give me news I
don't want to hear?" Adam said to McLeod, at the same time handing off
his carry-on to Humphrey. "I was going to call you as soon as I could
get to a telephone. Peregrine, get in here, so he doesn't have to tell
it twice."

Peregrine hurried to join them, looking slightly ruffled and mystified.
McLeod greeted the artist with a curt nod and ushered them all aside,
Humphrey taking up a station with the bags a few paces away, to deflect
passers-by.

"This comes totally out of left field," McLeod said, "but suddenly
everything starts to make sense. Not quite two hours ago, I received a
phone call from my clan chief. He's in New York right now. He'd just had
words with his staff up at Dunvegan Castle. It seems that the Fairy Flag
has been stolen."

Neither of his listeners needed any explanation of what the Flag was.
The Fairy Flag of the MacLeods was one of Scotland's most famous
artifacts, and the legends surrounding it were common knowledge to
anyone with even a modicum of interest in Scottish folklore. More
knowledgeable than most, Adam experienced a sick, sinking feeling in the
pit of his stomach.

"When did this happen?" he asked.

"Late yesterday afternoon, some time between five and six o'clock, as
near as anyone can make out," McLeod

215

219

replied. "We're a bit short on details yet, but it seems the thief was a
woman posing as a tourist. She had a male accomplice, but he wore a ski
mask, so we have no description of him. Both of them were certainly armed."

"Was anyone harmed?" Adam asked.

"No, thank God. At least nothing serious. A twisted ankle, some bumps
and bruises. There were four members of the castle staff on duty, and
the thieves put them down the castle dungeon for the night. It's one of
those bottle dungeons-a nasty drop, but they were safe enough, once they
were down.

"They'd probably be there still, except that a busload of English
pensioners showed up for a prearranged tour, before regular opening
hours, and got concerned when they saw cars in the staff car park but
couldn't rouse anyone inside. The local police are investigating,
checking out every car in a fifty-mile radius, but you know] as well as
I that the perpetrators could be anywhere by! now. They've had all night
to make their getaway."

Peregrine had been looking more and more incredulous as McLeod's story
went on, and by now could not contain his indignation.

"This is incredible. How did they get in? It's a castle, for God's sake!
That's hardly the usual target for breaking and entering."

McLeod favored the younger man with a sour smile. "The woman apparently
played the damsel in distress- came back to the castle, minutes after
closing time, claiming to have lost her car keys somejwhere on the
premises. The caretaker, being the trusting sort, let her in-and she
managed to let in her accomplice. The rest you can gather for
yourselves. The staff were all old-age pensioners themselves. What kind
of fight could they put up against armed and determined robbers?"

During the course of this recital, most of the other newly arrived
passengers had dispersed, leaving the three of them standing alone at
the side of the concourse. Humphrey waited patiently beside their
luggage, affecting not to overhear their conversation. McLeod glanced
briefly up and down the concourse before going on.

216 220 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

"Anyway, the MacLeod himself has appointed me to act on his behalf," he
said, his blue eyes bright and sharp. "He's most concerned that the
perpetrators be tracked down and the Flag recovered, before they get a
chance to misuse it or even destroy it. I phoned Strathmourne as soon as
he'd rung off, and when Humphrey told me he was just leaving to collect
you, I thought it would save time if I passed on this latest development
in person. I'm acting in a private capacity, of course, but I've
arranged for a chartered plane to fly me up to Skye in about an hour.
There's seating room to spare, if you think you might be able to come
along. I've a feeling that this may all tie into the fun and games last
Sunday at Melrose."

"We'll come, of course," Adam said, "though I'm wishing I'd known in
time to have Humphrey bring along a few useful accoutrements."

At the mention of his name, Humphrey cleared his throat and moved a step
closer.

"Begging your pardon, Sir Adam, but I believe I may have anticipated
this eventuality. After speaking with the inspector earlier this
morning, I took the liberty of bringing along some additional items
besides what you specifically requested. You know the ones I mean,
sir-in that medical bag that you often take on house calls."

A brief but pleased smile flitted across Adam's otherwise stern demeanor.

"Humphrey, somehow you always manage to make me look far better than I
would on my own accord." He turned to the waiting McLeod. "And Noel-it
appears we're better prepared than I thought."

"Is that the royal 'we,' or will Mr. Lovat be coming as well?" McLeod
inquired blandly.

"Well, of course I'm coming!" Peregrine said indignantly.

"Not so fast, son," McLeod warned. "It could be dangerous-probably a
damned sight more dangerous than you imagine."

"Oh, bother thatl" Peregrine declared. "Do you think I can't handle
myself in a pinch, or that I want to miss out on

217

all the excitement? I've put in my time with the books and musty
documents, Adam. Please let me come."

McLeod looked askance at Adam. "You know how hairy it's apt to get, if
this means what I think it does. Do you really think he's ready for this?"

"Actually, I think we may well need him," Adam replied, to Peregrine's
unmitigated relief.

"Right then. If you want him along, that's good enough for me. Humphrey,
are those all the bags?"

"Yes, Inspector."

"Then I suggest you take them over to the lounge at Hangar B," McLeod
went on, "if that's all right with you, Adam. They're gassing up our
plane and doing the pre-flight checks. We've just about got time for a
quick sandwich and cup of coffee before we head over-God knows when
we'll have time to eat again. Meanwhile, Humphrey can bring in your
changes of clothes. Our pilot tells me the weather's blowing up
something fierce, over by Skye." !

A few minutes and a short prione call later, to alert Airport Security
that Humphrey would be arriving, the three of them were tucked into a
booth at the back of the airport cafe, continuing their discussion of
the theft at Dunvegan over stale sandwiches and tepid coffee. Adam was
frowning as he chewed, his dark eyes fiercely thoughtful.

"I detect an ugly pattern emerging here," he murmured. "The theft of
Francis Hepburn's sword, the violation of Michael Scot's grave-and of
Scot himself-and now this. It all has to be the work of the same people.
And whoever they are, it's plain they're quite determined to get what
they want."

"But, what do they want with the Fairy Flag?" Peregrine asked, looking
from Adam to McLeod and back again. "Presumably they aren't MacLeods. No
MacLeod would do what they've done. So what earthly use would they have
for the Fairy Flag, unless-" A look of sudden enlightenment came over
his face.

"Of course! It isn't an earthly use at all. It has to do with fairies.
And Scot's book and his gold are hidden in a fairy cave!"

218 222 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

"Precisely," Adam agreed. "And just offhand, I would guess that our
thieves believe the Flag has power to protect them from the cave's
guardians, just as they intend to use the Hepburn Sword for that
purpose." He glanced at McLeod. "You're the expert here, Noel. Have they
the right of it? Will the Flag keep the Sidhe at bay?"

McLeod scowled down at the coffee stains left in his styrofoam cup.
"That's going to depend on how they handle it," he said slowly. "One of
our very ancient traditions states that if anyone not a MacLeod were to
lay hands on the Flag, he'd go up with a bang, in a puff of smoke. It
would appear that the thieves left the Flag in its frame when they took
it, so that legend hasn't been tested yet. But whether or not they can
use it for their own purposes, without actually touching it, is an open
question. Maybe they intend to leave it as it is, and use it literally
as a shield."

"What if they were to try unfurling it?" Adam asked.

McLeod shook his head. "It wouldn't muster up the fairy host to give
victory to the summoners, if that's what you're thinking. Only a Chief
of the MacLeods can do that, and only on behalf of the clan."

At Peregrine's look of question, Adam pushed aside his empty cup.

"When the Fairy Flag first came into the possession of Clan MacLeod," he
explained, "the Chief at the time was told that the Flag would guarantee
victory in battle to whomever should unfurl it. However, this favor
would be limited to three occasions. Since then, the MacLeods have twice
unfurled the Flag to save the clan from defeat and destruction-once at
the battle of Glendale in 1490, and a second time at the battle of
Trumpan Brig in-1530, was it, Noel?"

"Aye. What worries me, on a purely personal level, is that the Flag may
be destroyed-whatever else may happen. If they are intending to use it
as a shield, and its frame gets broken open in the process, that could
be tragedy enough, the thing's that ancient and fragile."

"Unfortunately, I think they probably will use it as a shield," Adam
said. "Even in its frame, if they know what they're doing, they may be
able to harness its power in

219

another way. It's a fairy talisman, after all-use fairy power to control
fairies. I suspect that's what they're banking on."

Peregrine's expression had been growing steadily more indignant
throughout this recital.

"That's appalling!" he exclaimed. "Where is this all going to end?"

"At the castle where Scot hid his book and gold," said McLeod, "and
where those who seek that treasure will also use Francis Hepburn's sword
to ward off the treasure's rightful guardians. God, if we only knew
which castle it was!"

"Well, we're closer than we were, thanks to Peregrine's work in London,"
Adam said. "We think we've narrowed down the choices to four castles in
Scot's old haunts. Perhaps the final clue we need is waiting for us at
Dunvegan." He consulted his watch. "Which reminds me that we'd better be
on our way, if you think the plane is ready. Unless I miss my guess,
matters may very well come to a head tonight."

"Why tonight?" Peregrine asked.

McLeod pulled a mirthless smile as he rose and began gathering up their
luncheon debris.;

"In case you may have forgottenj tonight's the last night in October,
Hallowe'en, the night before All Hallows. We Christians call it All
Souls' Night. Others might prefer to call it Samhain."

"Samhain ..." Peregrine repeated. McLeod had pronounced it in the
Highland manner, Sow-an, and the younger man savored the name
uncertainly on his tongue.

"Samhain, the Witches' Sabbat," Adam said. "Perhaps the single most
perilous night in the year. The night when the doors that separate the
physical world from the worlds of the spirit are thrown wide, and all
objects and entities of power are at the height of their influence."

His dark gaze strayed beyond the confines of their immediate
surroundings. "Yes, it would be an appropriate time to hazard a
confrontation with the People of the Hills. The Fairy Folk themselves
will be powerful enough, but the occult influences of the sword and the
Fairy Flag also will

220 224 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

be at their most potent, from the rising of the moon tonight. ..."

As planned, they made a brief detour to the Hangar B lounge, so that
Adam and Peregrine could don the more serviceable outdoor clothing
Humphrey had brought: tweed trousers, stout walking shoes, and a tough,
thorn-proof hacking jacket over a good Arran sweater for Adam; and
cords, a turtleneck sweater, and a quilted shooting vest for Peregrine.
Outer wear had been provided as well: Peregrine's navy duffel coat and
the green waxed jacket that Adam wore riding when it was wet. As
Peregrine was lacing up a stout pair of hiking boots, he glanced up just
in time to glimpse Adam slipping something long and narrow and shiny
black into the inside breast pocket of his hacking jacket.

"Necessities of the hunt," Adam remarked, seeing Peregrine's interest,
though he made no move to show Peregrine what it was or to offer any
further explanation.

Pretending he had not really seen, Peregrine hastily averted his gaze
and finished with his boots, wondering if this might be one of the items
from the mysterious black medical bag Humphrey had mentioned. Now that
he thought to look for it, he noticed it sitting at Adam's feet, closed,
but with the latch unsnapped. Whatever it might contain, Adam's manner
suggested that it was something to be kept private, at least for the
present.

They left their extra luggage with Humphrey, taking only a shaving kit
apiece, Peregrine's sketchbox, and Adam's black bag before going outside
to join McLeod. He was pacing the tarmac beside a trim Cessna six-seater
whose starboard engine was already warming up. Their gear fit easily
with his in the plane's small tail hold, and he gestured impatiently for
them to board.

As Adam settled into the seat behind the pilot, Peregrine stuffed their
coats into one of the rear seats and buckled in beside him. McLeod
closed the cabin door and came forward to take the copilot's seat as the
port engine roared to life. The craft's twin propellers spun whirring
ghost-circles in the air as they moved out along the taxi strip and

221

headed toward an active runway. Within a matter of minutes, they were in
the air and on their way.

The flight took nearly two hours. In the smaller plane, the turbulence
Adam and Peregrine had experienced on the approach to Edinburgh was more
pronounced, and increased as the Cessna winged its way north-northwest
amid buffeting crosswinds. Very quickly, the green, rolling hills around
the Firth of Forth gave way to the higher, darker slopes of Strathclyde.
The rugged highland landscape beneath them showed plum-brown and
grey-green through the tears in the clouds.

North they flew along Loch Linnhe, heading westward between Loch Eil and
Loch Arkaig, and then picking up Loch Hourn as it led up toward the
Sound of Sleat. Beyond loomed the Isle of Skye, its stony headlands
overshadowed by a lilac pall of mingled cloud and rain. They curved
right to parallel the sound, then followed the curving coastline around
to the seaward side. Looking down, Peregrine caught sight of the island
ferry ploughing its way unevenly across the channel through a choppy
expanse of white-capped waves. Very shortly, the Cessna banked sharply
left again and started to descend.

"Airstrip ahead, gents," the pilot called back over his shoulder. "Check
your seat belts and brace yourselves. It's going to be a bit bumpy
coming down."

The island's airfield turned out to be little more than a windswept
expanse of grey-black tarmac overlooking the white-capped water. No
other planes were on the ground, and the place looked utterly deserted.
Their pilot taxied the plane in front of a small hangar with white
plastic siding, just inside the barbed wire perimeter fence, and cut the
engines. They could feel the wind buffeting the plane as he made his way
to the rear and opened the door, jumping down to offer a steadying hand
as his passengers also began to disembark.

"Not much of a place, is it?" the pilot remarked, pitching his voice
loud into the spanking breeze. "There is a control tower, over in that
portable building, but they don't man it except on special
occasions-mostly in the summer. Here, I'll get your gear."

222 226 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

Opening the hatch to the Cessna's small cargo bay, he began handing out
what little personal baggage his passengers had brought with them.
Peregrine shrugged on his duffel coat and buttoned it, turning up the
collar against the gusting wind. As he picked up his shaving kit and
portable sketchbox, he noticed that both Adam and McLeod had bundled
woolen scarves around their necks, and he dug into his own pockets for a
pair of fingerless woolen gloves.

The pilot closed the cargo hatch and clamped his cap more firmly to his
head, his freckled face puckering with concern as he peered up at the
thickening clouds.

"I hope you're planning either a very short visit or quite a long one,"
he said, "because I'm going to have to get out of here pretty sharpish.
The Highland weather service started handing out storm warnings on the
way here. It's gonna get a whole lot worse before it gets better."

He pointed across the airstrip to where a bright orange windsock was
flapping wildly against its moorings. "You can see for yourselves how
the wind's freshening. If I hang around, I'm likely to find myself
grounded."

"Go ahead, then, while you still can," McLeod said. "You've done your
bit, getting us this far. We'll make our own arrangements from here."

"If you say so," the pilot said with an amiable grin. "I'm off, then.
Cheerio. ..."

He climbed back aboard the Cessna and closed the door, waiting until the
three had moved a few yards away before starting up the engines. As the
little aircraft trundled down the runway and again became airborne,
side-slipping as gusts buffeted it, the men left on the landing strip
turned their backs to the wind and drew closer together. Blowing on his
exposed fingertips, Peregrine cast a dismal eye over their surroundings.

"I hate to say this," he announced, "but I don't see any sign of a
telephone."

"There isn't one," McLeod said matter-of-factly. "That's why I brought
my own."

He unzipped one of the side pouches on his overnight bag and extracted a
cellular phone unit. He was about to switch

223

it on when a grey Volvo estate car came rumbling into view along the
unpaved track that connected the airfield with the main road.

"Perhaps you won't have to bother with that," Adam said. "It would
appear that someone's sent a welcoming party."

The Volvo was moving fast, its wheels throwing up sprays of wet gravel
as it negotiated the ruts. As McLeod straightened to watch, it rattled
noisily across the cattle grid that lay just outside the open gate,
shooting on through the gap and coming to an abrupt halt but a few yards
from where the three of them were standing. A fair-haired young man in a
cloth cap rolled down the window and gave McLeod a wave.

"Hullo, Inspector!" he called. "Would ye be needin' a lift, now?"

McLeod's craggy face creased in the first smile Peregrine had seen all day.

"Sandy!" he exclaimed. "How did you know when to come? I was just about
to put in a call to the castle, and here you are!"

"Och, we saw the plane comin' in, so I thought I'd better get down here.
My da had word direct from the Chief tae say ye'd be handling this case
for us, so we figured it had tae be you. We dinnae get that many planes,
this time o' year." He threw open the door and stepped out onto the
turf, unfolding to well over six feet. "The Chief said ye were tae have
all the assistance we could give ye. Dad took that tae mean not leaving
ye tae cool your heels at the airstrip any longer than anyone could
help. Can I help ye with yer bags?"

McLeod chuckled with genuine good humor as he turned to Adam and Peregrine.

"You see how helpfulness and good sense run in the MacLeods," he said.
"I want you both to meet Alexander MacLeod. His father is head caretaker
at the castle. Sandy, I'd like you to meet Sir Adam Sinclaii of
Strathmourne and his associate, Mr. Lovat. They're going to be giving us
a hand with the investigation."

Sandy gave a tug at the brim of his cap. "I'm sore pleased

224 228 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

tae meet both of ye, gentlemen. An' if ye can help the inspector get the
Rag back for us, ye may be sure of the friendship of the MacLeods
forever-for the luck of the clan stands or falls by it."

225

RELIEVED to get out of the wind, Adam and Peregrine slid into the rear
seat of the Volvo, stowing their scant luggage behind the seat and
leaving McLeod to sit up front. With an admonition to hang on, Sandy
swung the car around in a tight U-turn and headed back up the lane
toward the main road. Within minutes they were roaring along the A850
toward Dunvegan Castle.

The road was narrow and winding, and fortunately empty. Sandy drove at
top speed, making scant allowance for dips and bends, cutting the inside
of curves. As they bore left at Sligachen, changing to another "A" road,
Peregrine braced himself and briefly closed his eyes, taking but little
comfort in the assumption that Sandy MacLeod must know this stretch of
road like the back of his hand. White-knuckled and silent, he soon
abandoned all thought of admiring the scenery as they raced through the
hills under a lowering pall of cloud.

They ran into a squall just north of the village of Bracadale. The
driving downpour eased a few minutes later, but the wind persisted,
whistling shrilly through the wet heather on the high ground. By the
time they reached the fork in the road leading up to Dunvegan, the
broken cloud banks had begun to close ranks, and the turbulent air
carried the bitter tang of ozone, like a threat of impending lightning.

"I don't like the feel of this," McLeod muttered over his shoulder to
Adam and Peregrine. "There's something uncanny about the way the wind
keeps changing."

226 230 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

"Changing?" Adam was instantly alert.

"Aye," said McLeod. "Hadn't you noticed? It's chasing itself around in
circles, widdershins. Whatever else it is, it isn't natural."

He spoke with authority. It reminded Peregrine that McLeod had spent at
least one previous lifetime battling the elements at sea. Adam peered
out the window for a moment at the racing scenery, and presumably the
errant wind, then shook his head.

"I wish I could reassure you that it's nothing to worry about," he said,
"but unfortunately, I can't. If it's what I suspect, this may be even
harder than we thought. But there's nothing to be done about it just now."

On that enigmatic note, he fell silent-which only made Peregrine worry
more, for he had not a clue what the other two were talking about. The
wind just looked like wind, to him. He glanced at Sandy, hoping the
younger man might offer some additional comment, but Sandy seemed intent
on his driving-for which Peregrine was grateful, for the driving
conditions were atrocious. Still, his silence did nothing to reassure
Peregrine about the enigmatic wind.

Their route to the castle took them steadily northwest, eventually
skirting briefly along the eastern shore of Loch Dunvegan. About a mile
short of their destination, within sight of the weathered timbers of
Dunvegan Pier, Sandy suddenly emitted a grunt of surprise and began
applying the brakes.

As the Volvo lurched to a halt, its three other passengers saw that a
police barrier had been set up across the road. A broad figure in a
fluorescent macintosh stepped out from behind the barrier and strode
forward to meet them, sergeant's stripes bold on both sleeves. Sandy
cranked down his window as the wearer came around toward the driver's side.

"What's goin' on, Davie?" he asked. "Have ye no' had enough trouble for
one day?"

"Aye, ye'd think so," the sergeant replied. "As if it wasnae bad enough
ye had the robbery up at the castle, Tarn Dewar's just pulled a body out
o' the water, out past the seal

227

231

colony. Happened about an hour ago. He an' his brother were checkin'
their lobster pots."

Beyond the barrier, two police cars and an ambulance van were pulled up
on the left-hand shoulder of the road. The wind-driven stretch of
exposed beach below was dotted with moving figures, anonymous in
glistening macs and rain-hoods, and there was more activity on the pier.

McLeod threw a sneaking glance over his shoulder at Adam before asking,
"Was the victim somebody local?"

The Island policeman eyed him in unconcealed surprise.

"An' who might ye be, sir?"

"Now, Davie, there's nae need tae gawk like a mackerel," Sandy said
tartly, before McLeod could answer. "This is Detective Inspector Noel
McLeod. The Chief's called him up from Edinburgh, tae look into last
night's theft. Show him yer ID, Inspector."

"I'm not here in any official capacity, understand," McLeod said, as he
produced his police credential. "Just as a favor, from a clansman to his
clan and Chief. I'm sure your people are quite capable of handling the
police side of things."

The sergeant's troubled face cleared slightly at the statement of
confidence, and as he verified the ID.

"Weel, now. That's all right, then, isn't it? If the Chief called ye in.
... Tae answer yer question, the dead woman wasnae anyone from around
here. We didnae find any identification on the body, but all her clothes
had foreign labels. We think she may hae been Dutch-or possibly
Scandinavian. We'll know more, maybe, when we get the fingerprint report
back from Fort William."

"How did she die?" asked Adam. "Did she drown?"

The sergeant turned to gaze at Adam as though seeing him for the first time.

"This is Sir Adam Sinclair," McLeod said crisply. "He's a physician. He
and his associate, Mr. Lovat, are here to lend me a hand."

"As ye say, sir." The police sergeant accepted McLeod's explanation with
a nod, before returning his attention to Adam. "No, she didnae drown.
She was shot in the side o'

228 232 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

the head, at pointblank range, and she took two more bullets tae the heart."

At Adam's noncommital, "Ah," McLeod scowled even more darkly.

"Are you saying it was an execution, Sergeant?"

The sergeant shrugged. "Weel, I wouldnae go so far as that," he said.
"Granted, we dinnae get much o' this sort o' thing around here,
but-weel, it did look tae me like the killer made a professional job of
it. Ye might care tae have a wee look at the body for yerselves, before
the medics ship it off tae the hospital morgue in Portree. The bullet
that killed her made a bit of a mess o' her face, but otherwise, she
fits the general description o' the woman who took part in yer robbery."

"I think we will have a look at that body," McLeod said, already opening
his car door.

Sandy stayed behind with the Volvo. Adam and McLeod set off down the
beach in the company of the police sergeant, shoulders hunched against
the buffeting of the off-shore gale. Peregrine lagged behind long enough
to retrieve his sketchbox from the back of the car, then followed after.
A random gust sent a shiver up the back of his neck, but he told himself
it was just the cold and hugged his sketchbox closer to his chest.

He caught up with his companions halfway along the length of the pier.
The body was lying stretched out on a heavy sheet of tarpaulin a few
feet short of the pier's end. The men from the ambulance were getting
ready to transfer it to a black plastic body-bag.

"Hold up a minute, Geordie," the sergeant called. "We've got a couple o'
experts here tae take a look at what we've found."

The men stood back to make room for the newcomers. While McLeod looked
on, Adam crouched down to examine the body. Peregrine hung back,
white-knuckled.

The woman appeared to have been in her early thirties, with blond hair
clipped so short it was almost crewcut. An overnight immersion in
seawater had washed away most of the blood, but the cause of death was
unmistakable. The bullet had entered just behind the left ear, exiting
below the

229

right eye. From the sergeant's description, Adam had expected major
facial disfigurement, but in fact the damage was fairly minimal-not that
the face elicited any twinge of recognition.

Sighing, Adam turned his attention to a superficial inspection of her
body. The chest wounds were self-evident; and other than a few
lacerations on the legs-apparently made after death, since there was no
bruising-he could find no other visible marks, no signs of a struggle.
The hands were neat and well-manicured, the fingers slender and
tapering, blackened at the tips from taking a set of fingerprints.

"Good hands for a thief," McLeod grunted at his elbow. "I'll wager a
month's salary she's got a police record someplace-even if it isn't here
in Scotland."

"A professional, done to death by a professional," Adam said quietly.
"And you think she was involved in stealing the Flag?"

McLeod nodded. "I feel it in my bones, Adam. I don't know why she was
killed, but she's our lady thief, mark my words."

Adam looked around for Peregrine. The young artist was clinging to one
of the pilings closer to shore, fair hair feathered wild by the wind. He
was gazing out at the tossing waves with a wooden expression on his thin
face. It was clear that he was not finding it easy to come to terms with
the physical evidence of premeditated murder.

Adam got to his feet and went over to him. At his approach, Peregrine
turned and gave him a hollow look.

"I thought it couldn't be worse than Melrose," he said bleakly, "but
somehow, it is."

A white-crested wave crashed into the pier, sending seawater splashing
high into the air. Both men shrank from the flying spray, and Adam
steadied Peregrine with one strong hand.

"I think I know what you're feeling," he said, his voice carrying clear
and low through the surge of wind and water. "Sudden and violent deaths
always disturbing. That's what makes it something to be resisted with
equal intensity." Continuing to watch Peregrine closely, he added, "Noel and

230 234 {Catherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

I don't always enjoy the work we do, Peregrine. But it still has to be
done."

The younger man lowered his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be
difficult. Did you want me to make some sketches?"

Adam tilted his face to the stormy sky. "Can you, in these conditions?"

"I'll manage," Peregrine said, squaring his shoulders.

Moving closer to the corpse, he shielded his sketchbox with his body and
took out a drawing pad and pencil. Seeing what he was about to do,
McLeod moved over to help Adam screen him from the force of the wind.
Peregrine's face was stiff and pale at first, as he stared down at his
subject, his initial pencil strokes tentative and halting.

Then all at once he seemed to relax. His gaze focused and sharpened, and
his sketching became swift and decisive. Intrigued, Adam and McLeod
watched over his shoulder as a finely detailed image took shape.

The portrait was that of the murdered woman-not as she was now, but as
she must have appeared shortly prior to her death. The face and clothing
were unchanged, but the hair now was longer and dark, cut in a
fashionable bob. She wore glasses, too-missing now, after her buffeting
in the sea.

More significant still, to Adam's way of thinking, was the fact that
Peregrine had drawn a large medallion hung on a chain around his
subject's neck. As if in response to what was in Adam's mind, the artist
indicated the pendant with a touch of one forefinger.

"There's another one of those medallions, like the one I drew at
Melrose," he murmured dreamily. "I'd swear it carried the same
device-only I still can't make out what it is."

Adam laid a quieting hand on his forearm. At his touch, Peregrine
recollected himself, closing his sketchbook selfconsciously and then
making a nonchalant show of putting it away. Thoughtful, Adam turned
back to the Island policeman, who had been watching all with undisguised
curiosity.

"Mr. Lovat is a forensic artist," he explained, stretching

231

the truth only a little, to defuse any further speculation. "Tell me,
was this woman wearing any jewellery when her body was recovered?"

The sergeant shook his head, apparently satisfied with the explanation.

"Jewellery? No, sir. Not a ring, not a brooch, not even so much as a
wristwatch. I know the men who found her," he added, "and I'll vouch for
their honesty. Tarn's an elder o' the Kirk."

"That's fine," Adam said. "I wasn't questioning-just wondering."

As he and McLeod traded glances, the inspector drew him a few steps
farther away, leaning in so that his mouth was close to Adam's ear.

"I guess that confirms what we already suspected: that the folk who
engineered this job are the same ones who summoned Michael Scot at
Melrose and who stole Francis Hepburn's sword."

Adam nodded. "I agree. And it occurs to me that this murder has some of
the same earmarks of another unsolved murder that I've remarked upon
before. I wonder if your mystery drug-dealer, over in Glasgow, could
actually have been hired to steal the sword, and then was killed for his
efforts, with it made to look like a bad drug deal. I'd guess this woman
was also an outsider-a small-time professional, hired on for this
particular job and then killed to safeguard the identity of her employers."

Peregrine huddled in closer to follow what they were saying.

"But-if she wasn't a member of the gang," he ventured, "why give her a
medallion?"

"Not a gang," Adam corrected. "More in the nature of a magical lodge,
I'm beginning to suspect-a lodge of black magicians, by the evidence so
far. And to answer your question, they would have given it to her for
protection."

"Protection from the Flag," Peregrine asked, "because she wasn't a MacLeod?"

"Quite likely," Adam agreed. "The Fairy Flag is a powerfully charged
artifact. Even insulated behind glass, which probably would make it safe
to handle, it still

232 236 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

represents a potentially dangerous source of elemental energy.

"So the woman's employers took what measures they could to make sure she
would survive long enough to perform her function. They let her wear one
of their medallions. The fact that you can't see its design clearly,
Peregrine, tends to confirm that it, too, was a powerfully charged
talisman of some sort, perhaps representing a symbol peculiar to this
particular black lodge."

McLeod sighed heavily. "I was afraid it might come to this. Do you think
she was shot as soon as she handed over the Flag?"

Adam thought a moment, then nodded. "I do. And my guess is that the
shooting probably took place somewhere along the shore here, since I
doubt the killers would have bothered to transport the body any great
distance. That suggests they may have intended to take the Flag away by
boat, rather than by car."

"Which means that the Flag really could be anywhere by now," McLeod
said, glowering out at the sea beyond the dock. "If they didn't take it
in a car, that throws an entirely different light on our investigation."

"Not necessarily," Adam said. "If we're right about their motives, then
they're going after Scot's book and gold tonight. Those are hidden
somewhere right here in the Highlands, probably in or near one of the
four locations Peregrine and I have identified. I suggest we go on up to
the castle and see where the Flag was stolen from, and see if we can
pick up a lead on where it went from there."

A respectable drizzle had started up again while they talked, and they
took leave of their helpful police sergeant with a hurried word of
thanks before beating a prudent retreat to the Volvo. Sandy was pacing
the ground at the side of the road, anxiously awaiting their return.
McLeod was the first to reach him.

"We were right to stop here first," he told the younger MacLeod. "It
seems someone shot your lady robber. I think we'd better go on to the
castle now."

Sandy needed no extra encouragement. After creeping around the police
barrier, he accelerated sharply up the hill,

233

237

skilfully negotiating the tight turn between the piers at the gate and
heading along the tree-lined lane used by the castle's residents and
staff. Very shortly, they were pulling up outside the main entrance,
just to the landward side of the bridge that led up to the main door. A
sign just to the right of the door read, "Castle closed today."

The police had already departed, having done all they could for the time
being. As Adam and his companions followed Sandy MacLeod into the
vestibule, they were greeted by a grizzled man on crutches and a plump,
grey-haired woman with eyes bright as a sparrow's behind twinkling
spectacles.

"So, there ye are, Noel McLeod!" the latter called, coming to embrace
him with a swift hug, damp trenchcoat and all.

"Margaret. Finlay," McLeod replied. He and the man shook hands as his
companions gave their damp outer wear into Sandy's willing hands.

"They were on duty last night, wihen the bastards stole the Flag," Sandy
said, when he had finished introductions. "Da got his ankle bunged up,
when they threw him in the dungeon. They'll gi' ye a first-hand account
of what happened."

"Nah, there's no' much more tae be said, than what Sandy's probably
already told ye," Finlay muttered, his lantern-jawed face furrowed with
remorse. "When the lady came knockin' on the door, 'twas I that had the
bad sense tae let her in." He paused and gave his head a rueful shake.
"I wish now I'd turned a deaf ear tae all her talk o' lost keys!"

"Hush, Fin! It was no fault of yours," his wife admonished, giving him a
pat on the arm.

"Be that as it may," said Finlay, "I'd rather ha' lost my right arm
than.tae have failed in my duty tae the Chief-an' the Flag."

McLeod pulled a sour grimace and stripped off his sodden trenchcoat.

"If you'd had the ill fortune to meet up with the mastermind behind the
theft," he said, "you might have lost more than that, Finlay. Your
persuasive lady thief was shot

234 238 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

dead not long after she left here-apparently by a superior who had no
further use for her. They've just brought her body ashore at the pier."

Finlay and his wife exchanged wide-eyed glances.

"It was that black-masked man that did it!" Margaret stated. "Och, he
was a mean 'un! I didnae like his voice!"

"Och, never mind that," Finlay said. "What about the Fairy Flag?"

"We believe it's in the hands of whomever hired her to do the job in the
first place," Adam said. "Hopefully, we can still recover it, but
there's no time to be lost. Which way to the drawing room?"

235

BECAUSE Finlay was on crutches, it fell to Margaret to lead them
upstairs, muttering that she did not know what good that would do, since
the Flag was no longer there. Adam had slipped on his signet ring during
the drive from the airstrip, and now, as they climbed the broad main
stair, he caressed the ring's band with his thumb, beginning to trigger
the higher level of consciousness he would need as he searched for clues
at the scene of the crime.

Extrasensory input assailed him as he and his companions entered the
drawing room, at once drawing Adam's gaze to the wall between the two
seaward windows. Damask curtains had been drawn back from a blank oblong
where the salmon-colored paint showed a shade darker than the
surrounding wall. From that entire quarter of the room, Adam could
detect residual traces of super-elemental power.

"The Flag was there?" Adam asked, gesturing in that direction.

Margaret looked a little surprised. "Aye."

"I thought as much."

The concentration of residual power increased as Adam came within an
armspan of the wall, palpable as the warmth that lingers over a firepit
after the embers themselves have died. Willing himself to center and
open, Adam stared for a moment at the empty space where the Fairy Flag
had hung, then briefly closed his eyes.

Blurred colors resonated before him, stabilizing into the ghost image of
a tattered swathe of brownish silk, mounted

236 240 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

flat within a golden frame. Fixing that image fast in his mind for what
he proposed to do next, he opened his eyes and redirected his attention
to Margaret, who was hovering uncertainly by the doorway.

"Mrs. MacLeod," he said, "do you suppose you might find me a photograph
of the Fairy Flag?"

"Aye, we hae postcards doon in the shop," she replied. "Shall I bring ye
one o' those?"

"That will be perfect," Adam said. "Would you know if the shop also has
ordnance survey maps of the area? This whole western region, if
possible, perhaps as far north as Inverness."

Margaret looked more doubtful at this request.

"Aye, sir, we do carry those normally-if we havenae sold out. It's the
end o' the tourist season, ye know."

"I'm sure you'll do your best," Adam said. "Could you check on those for
me now, please? I'll need a bit of string, too-or heavy thread would be
even better."

"Aye, sir, whatever ye say."

"Thank you. Mr. Lovat, why don't you go with Mrs. MacLeod and bring
those things back, so she won't need to climb the stairs again? She
looks tired. I'm sure she must be exhausted, after the strain of the
last twenty-four hours."

Adam's observation had the force of compulsion. Margaret blinked and
gave in to a wide yawn, as if his words had granted permission at last
to succumb to her fatigue. Peregrine looked a little startled, but a
brief eye contact with Adam was sufficient to forestall any questioning
on his part. Putting on one of his most ingratiating smiles, he offered
his arm to the older woman with a gallant flourish.

"Please lean on me, if you're feeling tired, Mrs. MacLeod," he said.
"And after we've collected those things Sir Adam wants, you can put your
feet up and have a nice cup of tea."

"Aye, a wee nap wouldnae go amiss," Margaret agreed, yielding him her
hand and looking a little dazed. "We'll gae doon the back way."

He ushered her out of the room without a backward glance, passing the
dungeon room and heading for the back

237

stairwell. When they had disappeared from sight, McLeod subjected Adam
to an inquiring stare.

"Did you do that?"

"Did I do what?"

"Never mind. It's got rid of our good lady for the time being, which is
obviously what you wanted. Now, what are you thinking to do?"

Adam smiled thinly. "Nothing you haven't seen before- though I think it
might have alarmed our good hostess, had she stayed, and I'm going to
have to make some adjustments to avoid startling Peregrine. Our basic
problem is that conventional evidence can only tell us what has already
happened. If we're to have any chance at all of getting the Flag back
before it's too late, we're going to have to look at things from another
angle. ..."

Five minutes later, the sound of footsteps on the stairs heralded
Peregrine's return. He came through the doorway brandishing a sheaf of
maps in one hand and several spools of thread in the other.

"Mrs. MacLeod wasn't sure what you wanted to do with the thread, nor was
I, so she gave me three different kinds. One's carpet thread, I think,
and she said this green one, folded up in a skein, was for embroidery.
And since I wasn't entirely sure what you meant by this area, I've
brought maps of Skye and the next two sheets over and up. They'll form a
continuous map, if you put them together, including all four of the
castle sites we isolated. And here's the photo of the Flag."

"You're becoming a credit to your training," Adam said with a fleeting
smile, as he ran his eyes over what Peregrine had brought and started
unfolding maps. "Yes, these should do nicely. Let's open them out on the
piano, here-that's right. Skye and Glen Cannich on the lid, and the
Torridon one on the piano bench. Be sure we get them properly aligned,
Noel, so north is really north. You can leave the photo and threads
right there.

"Is this what you want?" McLeod asked.

"Yes, it's perfect. Now, if you gentlemen would do me the favor of
minding the doors, we'll see what we can discover."

238 242 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

"Just keep a sharp lookout by the other door," McLeod said, at
Peregrine's look of question, himself heading for the entrance from the
main stair. "We don't need to close the doors; we simply don't want to
be interrupted. This way, you can watch what Adam's doing, too. I think
you'll find it interesting."

Interesting was not the word Adam would have chosen to describe what he
was about to do, but he hoped it at least would not be frightening.

"I'm going to start by performing a brief warding ritual," he said,
mainly for Peregrine, "because I don't know how powerful our opposition
might be, or what nasty surprises they might have left behind. A warding
is simply a form of psychic protection. It will take a minute or two, so
bear with me."

Putting Peregrine out of mind then, he moved to the center of the room
and faced east, opposite to where the flag had hung, and bowed his head
for a moment to collect himself, the fingertips of his folded hands
pressed lightly to his lips. Then, with his left hand resting on his
breast, he raised his gaze and his right hand far above his head.

Gently the first two fingers curved as if plucking something from the
air and drawing it downward to touch his forehead. In his mind, the
words were in Hebrew-Ateh, Malkuth, Ve Geburah, We Gedulah, Le Olahm-but
he said them aloud in English for Peregrine's benefit.

"Unto Thee, O God ..."

The words brought a deeper silence to the room, intensifying as his hand
moved downward to touch his solar plexus and he said:

"The Kingdom ..."

Then it moved back up and to the right as his fingertips brushed first
his right shoulder, then his left-

"The Power . . . and the Glory ..."

As the hand came back to fold with the other again, he completed the
formula-"Unto all the Ages."

And as his head bowed once more, he whispered the final, "Amen."

For a few breathless seconds he could feel the silence and the
centering, but he could also feel Peregrine's eyes upon

239

him-incredulous, a little awed, but not frightened. Ordinarily, he next
would have traced pentagrams in all four directions, charging each with
a different Name and aspect of Deity, but he decided Peregrine was not
ready for that yet; nor was such formality really necessary. A mere
sealing of his aura would suffice for now.

The prayer he chose as vehicle for the procedure was an old monkish
formula, not terribly long-lasting, but potent while in force. It should
serve for whatever protection he needed for the next little while.
Spreading his arms in a cross, he threw back his head and turned his
face heavenward, speaking softly but with unshakeable conviction.

"By the power of the Christ of God within me," he said, "Whom I serve
with all my heart and with all my soul and with all my strength." He
began turning slowly to his right, visualizing a circle being defined by
the span of his outflung arms. "I encompass myself about with the Divine
Circle of His protection, across which no mortal error dares to set its
foot."

When he had turned full around, completing the circle, he sealed the
rite as he had begun it, again tracing the Qabalistic Cross over his
body with his right hand. The sapphire set in his signet ring seemed to
leave a trail of luminescent blue that only faded from vision when he
took a step into it and absorbed it. He knew McLeod had been aware of
it; and by Peregrine's expression, the artist had seen it, too.

"Well, then, that's done," he said, giving Peregrine a nonchalant glance
as he headed for the piano. "Now, let's see what useful things we can
learn."

Returning to the piano, and facing where the Fairy Flag had hung, he
moved the photo of the Flag in front of him, then took up the spool of
carpet thread and unreeled about an eighteen-inch length, which he
snapped off between his two hands. Doubling the thread and making a knot
at one end, he removed his signet ring and fed the knot through, running
it through the loop at the other end and pulling it snug. Then he held
the knot between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and let his
elbow rest on the

240 244 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

piano top, allowing the ring to dangle over the photo like a pendulum.

Now he must establish appropriate responses to make the pendulum a tool.
He had used this technique often before, with excellent results. Drawing
a deep breath and slowly exhaling, he willed himself to center and
relax, focusing his attention on the picture of the Flag. Concentrating
on the reality the photo represented, he framed the first question in
his mind-one that could only be answered yes.

Is this a true likeness of the Fairy Flag?

He held the question in his mind and waited. Gradually, through no
conscious effort on his part, the pendulum began to swing up and down,
along the length of the photo.

Very well. A yes answer would be signified by an up and down motion.

Nodding, he stilled the pendulum with his free hand and framed the
second question, which would establish a no response.

Is the Fairy Flag still in this room?

This time, after a few seconds, the ring began to swing from side to side.

Stilling it again, Adam concentrated on the third sort of query he might
need to make.

Will we be able to retrieve the Fairy Flag before irreparable damage is
done or the Flag is destroyed?

It was a question no one could answer just yet, so Adam was not at all
surprised to see the ring start to circle slowly clockwise, signifying,
/ don't know or / don't want to answer.

"Very well," Adam said softly, glancing briefly at McLeod and Peregrine.
"I've established the responses for yes, no, and / don't know. Now it's
time to ask some questions to which we don't know the answers."

Drawing another deep, centering breath, he concentrated on the ring again.

"Is the Fairy Flag still on the island?" he asked.

With little delay, the pendulum swung back and forth, signifying no.

"No. Did the woman who was shot Jake the Fairy Flag from this room?

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245

At the pendulum's yes response, Adam nodded.

"Yes. Did she take it on a boat?"

When the pendulum signaled no, he frowned and glanced over at McLeod,
who was watching and listening with great interest.

"It says no. Did she take it in a car?-yes."

"But she didn't take it very far," McLeod said. "She couldn't have done.
I would've sworn she'd taken it to a boat, and that's where they shot her."

"I thought so, too," Adam replied, "but it said she didn't-ah! Did she
get on the boat?-no.

"So she took it to a boat-in a carl Yes."

He smiled a little as he glanced up at McLeod again. "Now I think we're
getting somewhere. We have to remember how literal this technique
requires one to be. That makes sense, though. She put the Flag into a
car to run it down to the dock, turned it over to someone on a boat but
didn't go aboard, and then was shot for her pains.

"So now we need to ask, Was the Fairy Flag taken away in a boat?

"Yes, the pendulum says.

"Is it still on a boat?

"Yes, again."

"Then, maybe it isn't all that far away," McLeod said. "With the seas
running the way they've been, how far could a small boat go?"

"Let's not make any hasty assumptions," Adam warned. "Has the Fairy Flag
been on a boat all this time?-no."

'Wo?" McLeod cried. "Was it landed somewhere and put in a car again?"

Adam held up his free hand for silence and stared at the pendulum again.

"One question at a time, please. Was the Fairy Flag taken off the first
boat and put-wait, I'll rephrase that. Was the Fairy Flag taken off the
first boat?-yes.

"Was the Fairy Flag placed in a land vehicle of some kind?-yes.

"And it is now on another boat?--yes."

Throughout this exchange, Peregrine had been watching and listening with
growing amazement.

242 246 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

"Adam, do you really believe the information you're getting this way?"

Adam allowed him a tiny smile. "It's been proven correct before. Do you
have any better suggestions?"

"Well, no, but-"

"Just listen, then. Noel?"

"Yes?"

"We haven't a clue who's behind all of this," Adam said, "and we could
play Twenty Questions all night, without getting any closer. Therefore,
I'm going to propose switching my inquiries to a more specific focus on
the Flag's whereabouts."

"I understand," McLeod replied, and glanced pointedly at Peregrine. "No
further interruptions, please, Mr. Lovat. He's going to need all his
concentration."

As Peregrine nodded solemnly, Adam moved the photo of the Fairy Flag off
the map, leaving his left hand resting lightly upon it, and then
positioned the dangling ring over the spot marking Dunvegan Castle on
the map of the Isle of Skye, his right elbow propped on the piano.

"All right, my pretty," he murmured under his breath, addressing the
photo of the Flag. "Where are you now! I know where you've been, and I
know you've been wrenched from your rightful place by violent humans,
for their own purposes, but you're going to have to help me, if I'm to
help you. Use me and the pendulum, to show me where you are. I know we
can make the connection, if we try."

For a moment he was perfectly still, eyes shuttered and slightly
unfocused, marshalling his concentration for the task at hand. Mentally
invoking the astral image of the Fairy Flag, he breathed gently on the
ring to set it spinning, at the same time inviting the resonances vested
in the Flag to communicate its present whereabouts.

At first there was no response. His breathing light and controlled, Adam
closed his eyes and threw wide the doors of his own spirit, petitioning
the living wisdom of the Light both to amplify the magnetic influences
of the Flag and to enhance his own receptivity. A tingling energy
stirred at the center of his being, rising and uncoiling-the serpent

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power, coursing up his spine and all along his extremities.

A complementary pulse went resonating up the thread, with the ring for
its conductor. The two currents met and merged at his fingertips in a
burst of confluent powers. Contact brought with it an unexpected
awareness of something more: a great and growing anger, manifested in
the storm that was descending upon the Isle of Skye. The source of that
anger was a swirling conflagration of elemental presences which Adam
recognized immediately for what they were: the Fairy Hosts of earth,
sky, and sea.

The tide of their anger washed blindly over him and rolled on, circling
now in the room itself, coalescing in a maelstrom of coruscating fire
and shadow. He saw it in his mind, suddenly swirling in the space
between the piano and the wall where the Fairy Flag had hung, and when
he opened his eyes he saw it with his sight as well-and a glance at his
companions confirmed that they saw it, too.

A skeletal face began to focus in the maelstrom as he looked back in
surprise, shifting and mutating, terrible in its beauty. He could only
guess its particular identity-perhaps the elemental essence of the fairy
that had ensouled the Fairy Flag-but its type was that of the ban-sidhe,
snake-like locks writhing around its head, greenish fire glowing in the
empty eye sockets, clawed talons flexing and flashing, poised to reach
out and rend.

"Hold your anger, Child of Nature!" Adam said evenly, his voice
reverberating on psychic levels as well as audible ones. "I am not your
enemy. I am a friend who would help you right the wrong that has been
done here."

Humans are but false friends to the Sidhe! the being replied, in a voice
that wailed like ripping silk and sent mortal terror surging
involuntarily down his spine. Tell me why I should not slay you where
you stand! How dare you summon me, when your kind have violated my
sacred trust?

Trembling despite his control, Adam made himself bridle his fear,
forcing himself to look into the hell-fire pits that were the being's eyes.

"Do you think you are alone in your outrage?" he challenged. "Those who
have offended you have offended me as well-I, a Councillor of the Seven,
who am charged

244 248 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

by my Superiors to safeguard the Light and all the forces of Nature who
serve It, both human and fairykind. By summoning from beyond the grave
the wizard Michael Scot, a man once beloved of your kind, these rogue
practitioners of the arts magical have transgressed immortal Law. They
have shattered the personality of Scot's present vehicle-an innocent
girl, who may never regain what was taken from her. Undeserving, these
offenders seek Scot's treasure, which your kind guard. It is they who
should be subject to your just wrath-not I, who would stop them, if I can."

The maelstrom roiled and flickered, fresh anger warring with the fragile
thread of logic Adam had just presented. Adam was aware of McLeod and
Peregrine staring, transfixed with horror, but the unfettered power
immanent in the center of the room would not let any of them move. As
the being towered above him, threatening to engulf him, Adam threw back
his head and looked up at it unflinchingly, vesting all his hopes in one
final plea for mercy.

"I am not the one you want," he said. "The ones you want are the ones
who stole am Bratach Sith-who carry it even now, intending to steal
Scot's book of spells and your fairy gold! Show me where that is, and I
shall do my best to stop them. Nor shall I or mine do any harm to what
rightfully belongs to Faerie. Furthermore, if I can, I swear that I
shall restore urn Bratach Sith to its rightful place."

He could feel the being's encroaching power prickling at the edges of
his soul, threatening oblivion. He swayed on his feet, unable to help
himself, but he not would let himself look away from what threatened to
overwhelm him. Brazenly he lifted the photo and the dangling ring on its
thread.

"Show me!" he commanded.

At his words, the being let out an unholy shriek and came for him,
talons raking the piano top and sending maps and thread spools flying.

"Show me!" Adam commanded again, flinching involuntarily, but never
shrinking from the challenge.

Then a sound reverberated in his mind like a thunderclap and shook him
into unconsciousness. He must have been out for only a few seconds, but
he came to on the floor

245

beside the piano, with his head raised on one of McLeod's arms and
Peregrine kneeling stricken beside him. The photo of the Fairy Flag was
still in his left hand, but the ring on its thread was nowhere to be seen.

"Thank God, yer alive!" McLeod whispered, reverting to a broader
Highland accent in his agitation. "Good Lord, man, ye goaded her!
Whatever possessed ye?"

A little dazed still, Adam struggled to a sitting position.

"It's all right, Noel. I think I knew what I was doing. And Peregrine,
don't look like you've seen a ghost. It was only a banshee."

"A banshee?" Peregrine breathed. "But-"

"I think, in specific, it may have been the spirit of the Fairy Flag,"
Adam continued, trying to get his feet under him. "Help me up, you two.
Since I'm alive, I think it must have worked. I want to know where my
ring has gone."

"Your ringV McLeod yelped. "Don't ye know ye've just been that close to
oblivion, man? Take it easy, or you'll pass out again. Where's one o'
those ammonia capsules, when ye need one?" he added, patting down
several of Adam's pockets. "You doctors never come prepared!"

Making wordless, placating gestures, Adam struggled to his feet anyway,
hauling himself up with both hands on the edge of the piano and casting
his gaze over the aftermath of a banshee's rage. The map that had been
on the piano stool was on the floor with the spools of thread, and
shreds of technicolor paper scraps all around the piano told the fate of
one of the maps that had been on top. The piano itself was deeply scored
with six long parallel scratches, but they ended next to the map
remaining. And on that map, a gold-set sapphire winked in the light.

"Oh, there's your bloody ring," McLeod said, starting to reach for it.
"An' lookit what's happened to the piano!"

But Adam stayed his hand. For the ring, its thread extending straight as
an arrow back to Dunvegan Castle, had landed partway down Loch Ness, the
bright gold of the band encircling the words, Urquhart Castle.

246

Q TUNNED, the three of them crowded around the piano Oto stare at the
words encircled by the ring on the map.

"Urquhart Castle!" McLeod murmured.

"Does that mean what I think it means?" Peregrine asked, apparently a
believer at last.

Eyeing the gouges on the piano top, Adam prodded at the ring with a
tentative forefinger, then picked it up and took off the thread.

"It means," he said, slipping the ring back on his finger, "that
Urquhart Castle is the hiding place of Michael Scot's treasure-and that
the Fairy Flag is being taken there to help hold the treasure's rightful
guardians at bay."

"Urquhart," Peregrine repeated, looking distractedly off into the
distance. "So we were on the right track all along." He shook his head
wonderingly. "It makes perfect sense, of course. When I remember what I
drew, and compare those sketches to the photos we looked at, it's plain
to see how the castle evolved, over the centuries. In fact, the
references did say there were caves in the area-some of them underwater."

"Aye, and the Loch Ness monster is also guarding the treasure, if it's
even there!" McLeod muttered under his breath. "Adam, are you sure it's
Urquhart, where we're meant to go?"

Adam had begun scanning the map around Loch Ness more closely, and now
he looked up at McLeod just a little impatiently.

"Noel, I've just put my life and maybe my very soul on

247 252 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

the line-not to mention my word as an Adept-to induce a ban-sidhe to
tell where a fairy treasure's hidden. And helping the Sidhe protect that
treasure isn't all that's at stake."

"I know that," McLeod replied.

"No, I'm not certain you do," Adam said. "You're worried about the Fairy
Flag of the MacLeods, as well you should be. But making unlawful use of
the Flag is only the beginning. If the thieves are successful, they'll
get their hands on Michael Scot's book of spells-a fearful enough
prospect, in its own right-but they'll also get the fairy gold. Do you
hear that wind outside?"

"Of course."

"Well, you were right when you said there was something uncanny about
it," Adam went on. "This isn't just another seasonal storm. It's being
generated through the agency of the Sidhe-and it's going to get worse
until they're appeased, one way or another."

"What exactly are you saying?" McLeod said stonily.

Adam's long mouth tightened before he spoke. "The fairies gave the Flag
to the MacLeods as a rare token of their favor. Its theft represents an
offense against the whole realm of Faerie. The Sidhe have never taken
such offenses lightly. And stealing their gold will merely add insult to
injury. Already, their anger has unleashed elemental forces that,
unchecked, could devastate the Highlands."

His last word was cut short by a sudden skirl of wind that set the
seaward windows rattling violently. Peregrine flinched and looked around
apprehensively, instinctively moving a little closer to the other two men.

"I think I'd better tell you about the odd dream I had last night," he
said uneasily. "I was going to mention it over breakfast, but it seemed
so trivial in the light of day."

"Go on," Adam urged.

"Well, I thought I heard horns blowing in the distance- like trumpets
sounding a call to battle. In view of what's happened, I think it must
have been some kind of warning-only I didn't know enough then to
recognize it as such."

Adam's face had grown increasingly troubled as Pere-

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grine made this revelation, and now he sighed heavily and leaned both
hands on the piano, glancing down.

"I wish you had told me," he murmured. "Not that it would have made any
difference in what we have to do."

"Why? What did it mean?" Peregrine asked.

"Well, it wasn't exactly a warning," Adam said slowly. "More like a call
to arms-maybe even the summoning of the Faerie Rade-the Wild Hunt. If
that goes unchecked, I hate to even contemplate the possible consequences."

McLeod looked stricken, and could hardly raise his eyes to meet Adam's.

"Adam, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Nor did I. None of us did. But it makes our task just that much more
urgent."

Shaking his head, Adam drew a deep breath and seemed to take a grip on
himself.

"All right, gentlemen. We now need to formulate a plan of action. We
know that the fairy gold and Scot's book are at Urquhart Castle.
Presumably, the thieves know that too, and are on their way there now,
with the Flag, intending to do-whatever it is they're going to do-as
soon as it's properly dark and the forces of Samhain are at their peak."
Adam scanned the map between Dunvegan and Urquhart, running a finger
along the red lines of the roads they would have to take, rather than
going as the crow flies.

"From the pendulum, we also know that the Flag is on a boat," he
continued, glancing up at McLeod. "That means they must be coming either
up or down Loch Ness. But Urquhart is their destination, whichever way
they're coming. How fast do you think we can get there?"

McLeod drew closer to the map, adjusting his glasses and using his thumb
and first finger as calipers to estimate the distances.

"Well, it's near fifty miles to the ferry, and you've seen that road."

"Yes-"

"I'm not as familiar with the one from there to Urquhart," McLeod went
on, "but it looks like, oh, seventy or eighty more, allowing for the
twists and turns." He shook his head and grimaced. "I'd say-close to
three hours,

249 254 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

allowing for the weather and the ferry crossing. And that presumes that
the ferry is running-which, in this kind of weather, is not at all certain."

Adam glanced at his watch and then began folding up the map. "We'll
worry about that when we get to the ferry crossing," he said.
"Meanwhile, we'd better get going, because it's past five already. That
means we can't expect to make Urquhart much before eight."

"Is that a problem?" Peregrine asked.

"I hope it won't be," Adam replied. "The critical time factor has to do
with the beginning of Samhain. If / were running their operation, I'd
want to delay beginning until well after sunset-and after moonrise as
well-when the powers of the sword and the Fairy Flag will be at their
peak. But sunset is going to seem to come early tonight, because of the
storm. If they get too greedy, they might try to start sooner-so it's
essential we get there as quickly as we can. Noel, can you get us a car?"

McLeod nodded. "I'll commandeer the Volvo. After all, the MacLeod did
authorize us to take whatever we need. And before we leave, I want to
ring my counterpart in Inverness and see about some mundane
reinforcements. Magic is all very well and good, but the Opposition have
already used firearms at least once, and I doubt they'll hesitate to do
so again. I'll have a police boat sent down the Loch."

He took a last look at the ruined piano top and sighed.

"I can cope with possibly ruining the Chief's car. That goes with the
job. I just wonder how I'm going to explain about the piano."

With that disgruntled observation, he turned and made for the door
leading to the main stairs, Adam and Peregrine falling in behind him.
They had taken only a few steps when all the lights in Dunvegan Castle
suddenly flickered and then went out.

"Damn, that's all we need!" McLeod muttered, groping for the wall as the
others stumbled to a halt behind him. The darkness was not absolute, as
their eyes adjusted, for the windows still showed a flat, lighter grey,
but it was too dark to see very well.

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255

"What do you think's happened?" Peregrine whispered.

"Storm's probably taken out a power line, or blown a transformer," Adam
murmured. "Have they got an emergency generator, Noel?"

"Aye. It should kick in any minute."

Standing shoulder to shoulder in the murky darkness, they could feel the
stone floor vibrating under their feet as, outside, the mounting storm
waves beat about the rock on which the castle was founded. But after a
few seconds, as predicted, the lights came back on, to the accompaniment
of a mechanical hum from somewhere deep in the bowels of the building.

"At least something's working," McLeod muttered. "It may not last,
though. Keep close behind me, and mind the steps on the way down."

Together they made their way down the wide main stairs, keeping to the
railings on either side, lest the lights fail again. Before they reached
the bottom, the lights resumed their flickering. Sandy MacLeod met them
in the entry hall, a lighted oil lamp in one brawny hand and a look of
concern on his face.

"I was just on my way tae fetch ye down tae the parlor," he told them.
"Something's no' right wi' the generator. Da's gone down tae the
basement tae see what he can do."

"Never mind the generator," McLeod said. "Are the phones working?"

Sandy goggled at him. "I couldnae say. I dinnae think anyone's thought
tae try 'em."

"In that case, let me do the honors," said McLeod. "Is there one here,
in the lobby?"

Sandy turned and pointed. "Aye, over there-under the desk."

Scowling, the inspector strode over and whisked the telephone out onto
the desktop. He lifted the receiver to his ear, sighed, and pumped the
call button several times, pausing intermittently to listen. After
several attempts, he shook his head.

"No joy here. The line's dead as a bloody doornail."

"What about that cellular phone you brought with you?" Adam asked.

251 256 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

"It's still in the back of the Volvo, in my bag," said McLeod.

"I'll go get it for ye," Sandy volunteered. "It's the blue bag wi' the
pockets?"

"Aye."

Rain gusted into the entry hall as Sandy dashed outside, wind wailing up
the staircase and raising chills not altogether born of the cold. The
lights continued to waver on and off. In a few minutes, a rather damper
and more windblown Sandy returned, McLeod's bag clutched close to his
chest. He watched with undisguised fascination as McLeod unzipped one of
the side pockets and took out the cellular phone.

"I don't know whether this is going to work," he warned his companions.
"These things are none too reliable at the best of times. Still, nothing
ventured ..."

Moving closer to the doorway, where there was apt to be less
interference from the stone, he activated the phone. After listening for
a dial tone, he punched in the number of the Inverness constabulary. The
line rang through for two short rings, then cut out in a sudden, fierce
burst of static.

McLeod disconnected and tried again. Seconds after he finished dialling,
the same angry crackle burst from the receiver, popping and snapping
like an amplified electrical short. McLeod killed the noise with a
stroke of his thumb and rolled his eyes in bleak exasperation.

"Distance could be a factor," Adam said. "Why don't you try Fort
Augustus? It's about the same distance from Urquhart, but it's forty
miles closer to us, as the crow flies. Do you know the number?"

"No, but I've got it here somewhere," McLeod said, already thumbing
through a small notebook he had produced from an inside pocket. "Here it
is."

He punched in the number, juggling notebook and phone and grimacing the
while, his face brightening as the number began to ring.

"A-ha! It's ringing, at least. I can't say this is a much better line,"
he said over his shoulder to his companions, "but so far-hullo? Is.that
the constabulary? Very good. This is Inspector Noel McLeod, Edinburgh
branch . . .

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257

hullo, are you still there? I want the officer in charge, please. ..."

In the course of the next few minutes, McLeod struggled through
outbursts of static to outline as much of the situation as he dared.
Eventually his conversation was cut short when the line abruptly went
dead. McLeod uttered a single well-chosen epithet as he switched the
phone off and turned back to his friends.

"Well, that's that," he stated peevishly. "If we're lucky, the lad I
just spoke to got enough of what I was saying to send up the units I
requested. But I wouldn't count on' it-especially with this storm moving
in."

"So it's up to us?" Adam asked.

"I'm afraid so." McLeod sighed wearily. "It's typical. Whenever you want
something done right, you generally end up doing it yourself."

As he knelt to stash the phone back in his bag, Sandy could contain his
curiosity no longer.

"Ye're no' really goin' tae Urqfchart, are ye?"

"Aye." |

"But, why would anyone wantj tae tak' the Fairy Flag thereV j

McLeod rose and clapped Sandy on the shoulder. "If I'm right, I'll
explain later," he said. "And about the piano upstairs. Meanwhile, we're
going to need a vehicle. How's the Volvo for petrol?"

"Och, she'll get ye there, easy, but I dinnae know how ye propose
gettin' off the island. The ferry'11 no be runnin'."

"We'll worry about that when we get to the ferry," McLeod replied. "Are
the keys in it?"

Sandy looked dubious. "Aye, they are. But if ye are determined tae go
out in this, at least come intae the mud room an' tak' some proper rain
gear. Ye cannae go wi' just what ye wore before; ye'U get fair soakit."

To this concession, at least, McLeod was forced to agree. He had not
really allowed himself to think about what they might have to do, once
they reached Urquhart, so concerned was he about simply getting there;
and the prospect of doing it wet and freezing was daunting, indeed.

"Sandy's right, Noel," Adam spoke up, before McLeod

253 258 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

could answer. "We can't work at peak efficiency if we're cold and wet."

"This way, then," Sandy said. "The mud room's here, underneath the
stair. We've a good assortment, between what belongs tae the staff and
what visiting members of the family hae left behind. Take whatever ye
need, an' I'll gae tell Dad what's afoot. ..."

He vanished down the back stairs, leaving them to sort through the
contents of the mud room. Among the several dozen pairs of rubber
Wellington boots lined up along two walls, they easily found three pairs
to fit; and loose-fitting rain slickers layered over their own clothes
seemed the best choice for protection from the wet. McLeod exchanged his
trenchcoat and suit jacket for a thick sweater and a waxed jacket like
Adam's. They had scarcely finished kitting themselves out when Sandy
returned, accompanied by his mother. Margaret MacLeod was carrying a
small wicker picnic hamper, which she presented to McLeod.

"Trust a man tae go chasing off after those rascals wi' no thought for
yer tea till it's too late," she told him, with a matronly cluck of her
tongue. "Here's sommat tae take with ye in the car. It's no' very
fancy-just sandwiches an' scones-but it should keep ye going till ye can
find time for supper."

McLeod accepted the hamper with a grateful nod of the head and passed it
off to Peregrine without comment, before clumping back into the entry
hall to pick up his blue bag. Sandy and Margaret followed to see them
off. At the door, as the three of them donned caps and scarves and
zipped up slickers, preparing to brave the elements, McLeod glanced
aside at Adam.

"Shall I drive, or would you rather?" he asked.

Adam shook his head. "You're the professional. Why don't you let me
navigate, and be an extra set of eyes, if the going gets really bad? The
visibility out there is going to be worse than bad, once it really gets
dark."

"Aye, there's no arguing that," McLeod agreed. "All right, let's go!"

The wind wailed as Sandy opened the front door of the

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259

castle and held it, gusting rain into the entry and sending Margaret
scurrying for cover.

"I dinnae suppose ye'd want another pair o' hands?" the young man
offered, as Peregrine and then McLeod bolted for the car.

A brief smile touched Adam's lips. "Not this time, I think-though the
offer is appreciated. What you can do, if you would, is to stand by, if
the Chief should call, and tell him where we've gone. If we do succeed
in recovering the Fairy Flag, he should be on hand to receive it."

"Aye, sir, I'll do that."

With that, Adam clapped him on the shoulder and dashed into the rain,
taking his place up front beside McLeod.

"Everybody buckle up and hold tight," the inspector warned, giving the
ignition key a turn. "It's going to be a rough ride."

The trees lining the avenue were thrashing crazily back and forth, and
bare branches lashed at the sides of the car as it eased back up the
narrow avenue. The flickering lights of Dunvegan Castle receded into the
gathering gloom behind them, disappearing well before they reached the
main road.

Turning right, the big car picked up speed along the road toward
Dunvegan village. No lights showed in any of the houses and shops along
the High Street, and the rain-swept pavement was empty. A truck had
stalled out in the junction leading off to the north, but McLeod barely
slackened speed as he whipped the Volvo around and carried on, past the
outlying buildings and on toward the rugged country beyond.

The road wound back and forth between rain-drenched ridges of high
ground. The wind that blew down off the heights carried an eerie
whistling note, like the keening of inhuman voices. McLeod drove with
single-minded concentration, taking each successive bend in the road
with calculated precision. In the back seat, Peregrine clung
white-knuckled to the nearest armrest and the back of Adam's seat,
hardly daring even to think about the miles still to go before they
reached the ferry, somewhere beyond the airstrip.

They sped through Struan and Bracadale and carried on

255 260 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

toward Drynoch. Rain whipped across their path in driving squall-sheets,
leaving the tarmac slick as an oil-spill. McLeod held the Volvo
ruthlessly to the roadbed at speeds well in excess of what Peregrine
considered to be safe. Sitting motionless in the seat next to McLeod,
Adam fingered the sapphire on his hand but said nothing.

Forty minutes after setting out from Dunvegan, they rolled into Kyleakin
to find ongoing traffic at a standstill, with cars being turned back at
a barrier ahead. As McLeod crept up to the barrier, a slicker-clad
policeman armed with an acetylene lamp trotted up to the side of the car.

"Sorry, sir, but the ferry isnae running, on account of the storm," he
informed them, when McLeod rolled down the window. "I'm afraid ye'll
have tae turn around."

Scowling, McLeod reached inside his coat and produced his police ID.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, laddie," he said. "I'm on official
business, and we've got to get over to the mainland as quickly as possible."

The policeman's face fell. "Well, now, that is a problem, sir. But it's
the ferry captain's decision. Ye cannae blame him for no' wanting to
venture out o' port in such a storm. He made his last run half an hour
ago, an' I dinnae think he's going anyplace."

"Well, maybe I can persuade him to change his mind." McLeod's blue eyes
were glinting behind his spectacles. "Where can I find this ferry captain?"

A look of incredulity crossed the policeman's face, but he was better
trained than to argue with a superior about a matter that really did not
concern him.

"Please yourself, sir. I think he may still be aboard. If he isnae
there, ye'll probably find him and his mate holed up in their office.
It's at the end of this row of cottages."

"Thank you," McLeod said, with tart satisfaction. "Now, if you'll shift
that barrier out of the way, we'll be on about our business."

Once clear of the barrier, they made a swift descent along the sloping
street that led down to the water. Off to their right, a covey of small
boats jerked and tossed at their anchors behind the stone breakwater
protecting Kyleakin's

256

small harbor. The ferry itself was close-moored to the pilings at the
end of the pier, its superstructure dimly visible in the blustery
storm-gloom and the harsh yellow illumination of sodium lamps. A wide
concrete ramp sloped gently down to the water beside the pier, and
McLeod eyed the waves rolling up on it as he halted the car at the top.

"It doesn't look so bad, once you get out a bit-mostly swells," he
observed. "The tricky bit will be getting the car across the
ramps-timing ourselves, so we don't end up in the drink."

"After you've persuaded the ferry captain to go out at all," Adam said.
"How bad is it, Noel?"

McLeod managed a wry smile. "I've sailed in worse. Now let's see if he
has. Mr. Lovat, why don't you stay with the car?"

He did not wait for Peregrine to reply. Turning up his collar, he opened
the car door and got out quickly, as did Adam, heading purposefully down
the pier. Lights showed aboard the ferry, in the little purser's office
on the car deck, and McLeod and Adam darted across the heaving gangplank
and headed there. The door to the office had a round glass porthole, and
through it they could see a stocky, balding figure in a shapeless grey
pullover and battered captain's cap, drinking coffee. A younger man was
with him, tall and lean, with a shaggy thatch of ginger hair.

McLeod gave a perfunctory knock at the door, but he did not wait to see
if the men inside had heard. ID in hand, he opened the door and entered,
Adam at his back. The two men looked up in surprise.

"Here, what's this?" the younger man began.

"Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod," he announced, holding up his ID
and addressing the older man. "Sorry to disturb you, but are you the
skipper of this vessel?"

"Aye. Archie MacDonald's the name," the captain said. He indicated the
young man behind him with a jerk of his thumb and added grudgingly,
"This here's my mate, Charlie Baird. Wha's amiss?"

McLeod didn't mince words. "We need you to ferry us back to the mainland."

257 262 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

"What, nowT' MacDonald was incredulous.

"Yes, now."

"Ye must be daft!" MacDonald stated flatly. "In case ye havenae looked
outside lately, it's blowin' up a right gale out there. If the wind
doesnae drive us all the way tae Loch Duich, the waves'11 toss us about
like a rugby ball. Take it from me, ye wouldnae enjoy the ride."

"We're not looking to take a pleasure cruise," McLeod retorted. "This is
police business, not an outing for the Boys' Brigade!" Seeing that the
two were still looking mulish, he added testily, "If I have to, I'll
commandeer this vessel. I have the authority."

"Do ye now?" MacDonald said, bordering on belligerent. "And who's going
tae pilot her, if I might ask?"

"I'll pilot her myself, if need be," McLeod snapped. "I've held a
master's rating, in my day, and I could do it as well as yourself-"

"If we don't get across," Adam interjected with quiet emphasis, "many
other lives besides ours could be at stake. If this wasn't an emergency,
we wouldn't be asking you and your associate to take this risk. But it
is, and we must."

His tone, like his bearing, conveyed a subtle force of authority. The
captain gazed across at him with grudging respect.

"An emergency, eh?" he said, somewhat mollified. "What kind of an
emergency?"

"I'm afraid we're not at liberty to tell you that just now," Adam said,
in the same well-modulated tone. "You'll simply have to accept my word
for it that people besides ourselves are in danger. I assure you," he
went on, "we are telling you as much of the truth as we can, under the
circumstances. Will you do as the inspector asks?"

Adam's mellow voice carried the ring of incontrovertible sincerity. The
ferry captain gnawed thoughtfully at his lower lip, clearly wondering
what Adam's status might be, but after a moment longer, he cast a look
over his shoulder at his mate.

"Well? What about it, Charlie?"

The mate shrugged. His eyes, too, were on Adam. "I'm game, if you are,
skipper."

258

The ferry captain accepted this verdict with a bob of his head. Drawing
himself up, he returned his attention to Adam.

"All right, we'll gi' it a try," he said heavily. "But I'll do the
piloting myself," he added, with a sidelong glance at McLeod. "The old
tub may no' be much, but I'm fond o' her. If anybody's going tae scuttle
her, it'd better be me."

He pulled a well-worn yellow slicker off a hook and shrugged into it,
his mate following suit.

"Ye can ride out the crossing in here, if ye like. Just dinnae be sick
on my clean deck."

"Perhaps we didn't make ourselves entirely clear," Adam said smoothly.
"We have a third passenger waiting-and a car."

"A car." MacDonald paused in the act of doing up his slicker, exchanging
an incredulous glance with his mate. "Ye think ye can get a car aboard,
in weather like this?"

McLeod's reply was stark and succinct.

"Yes."

MacDonald eyed the inspector long and hard, then slowly nodded.

"Weel, ye just might get her on, this side. But gettin' her off, at
t'other side, may be another matter. She'll end up in the drink."

"We'll take that chance," McLeod replied.

With a snort of disbelief, the captain shrugged and threw up his hands.

"All right, since ye seem determined. But I'll no' accept liability."

"That's understood," Adam said.

"Get back tae yer car, then, an' wait till ye hear me sound the horn
before ye come down the ramp. Charlie an' I'll do our best tae hold her
steady."

Outside, McLeod and Adam trotted back along the pier toward the waiting
car. As soon as they were back inside, Peregrine sat forward eagerly.

"Is he taking us, then?" he asked.

"Aye-and hopefully, the car too, if I can manage it."

"Can you?" Adam asked.

259 264 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

McLeod nodded, eyes straight ahead on the surging waves and fingers
clenched tight on the steering wheel.

"Aye. But leave the doors unlocked, and be ready to hit the release on
your seat belts. If I do put this beast in the water, I'd rather just
worry about explaining it to the Chief. I don't want to feel guilty that
I've drowned the two of you as well."

Peregrine shut up at that, as the peril of their next few minutes became
clearer. Time seemed to stand still, drawn out longer still by the
shrill keening of the wind, the crash of the surf on the concrete ramp.
After a moment, McLeod restarted the engine and turned on the wipers,
letting the engine idle to keep it warm. Through the rain-spattered
windscreen, they could make out the blurred amber dots of the ferry's
maritime running-lights, moving slowly from behind the end of the pier.

McLeod switched on the headlights as the ship edged closer, illuminating
heavy turbulence churned up by the ferry's stern engines as her master
fought to line her up with the concrete ramp. She eased in very close,
her horn hooting as her forward loading ramp started coming down. As
soon as it was past the horizontal, its edges awash, McLeod popped the
car into gear, holding it with one foot on the brake until just the
right moment.

"Here we go," he muttered-and set the Volvo in motion down the concrete
incline.

His timing was impeccable, as was the ferry captain's. Just as a giant
swell receded, bringing the ferry's steel ramp into grating contact with
the concrete, the big car bumped jerkily over the meeting point and
carried on, up onto the car deck. In perfect coordination, the steel
ramp rose behind them in a backwash of brine. The incoming swells lifted
the ferry up and away from the ramp and out into the channel, heading
north and east toward Kyle of Lochalsh.

As soon as the Volvo was stationary, McLeod engaged the emergency brake
and killed the engine. No one said anything for several seconds.

"How-how long does this crossing normally take?" Peregrine finally
asked, when he could breathe easily again.

"Normally?" McLeod let out a snort and gave a wry

260

265

smile. "About five or ten minutes. Tonight-your guess is as good as mine."

In the silence that descended, punctuated by the whine of the wind and
the crash of the waves outside, Adam sighed and glanced at his watch.

"It's after six," he said quietly. Then, "What's it going to be like at
the other end?"

"Worse," McLeod replied. "The pier's more exposed, and I seem to recall
that the ramp is steeper. If it really looks bad, we may have to go
ashore on foot and find other transport."

"I'd rather not do that, though," he went on, scowling. "I think I can
construe all of this as legitimate police business, after the fact, but
commandeering a vehicle could be dicey. Besides, you never know what
you'll get. This old bus isn't the high-performance vehicle I'd prefer
for a run like we need to make, but at least I've gotten to know her on
the way here. She'll get us to Urquhart in good time-if we can get her
off the ferry."

This pronouncement produced an even deeper silence than the one before.
The ferry ploughed through the waves like a pregnant sea cow, engines
laboring at full throttle. Rain and spume beat against the car windows
as the deck pitched and rolled, the salt smearing under the wiper
blades. The opposite shore was only dimly visible as an opaque black
mass, a shade darker than the lowering sky. The water on all sides
showed sharp white peaks like gnashing teeth.

Minutes crawled by. The mainland shore loomed closer. The ferry's
forward floodlights cut pale, watery swathes through the tossing
spindrift, revealing a sudden, blurred glimpse of the pierheads of Kyle
of Lochalsh.

The ferry wallowed like a mired pig as the captain brought her in under
the lee of the land, trying to align her with the floodlit loading ramp.
Some of the waves were breaking nearly to the top of the ramp. A warning
hoot from the ferry's Klaxon drew their attention away from the shoreline.

"That's our cue," Adam said thinly. "Time to get ready to disembark-if
we can."

The wind was keening like a banshee. McLeod started

261 266 {Catherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

the Volvo's engine and crept the car closer to the raised ramp that
closed off that end of the car deck as MacDonald brought the ferry in
close under half speed. Battered by incoming waves, the vessel
fishtailed clumsily into the water gap between the pierheads. Rumbling
rustily, the exit ramp began to fold downward.

There was a jolt like a minor earthquake as the ferry's flat keel struck
the submerged concrete of the sloping ramp. Smoke billowed up from the
ferry's exhaust funnels as her diesel engines labored to bring her back
into alignment. The end of the ferry ramp moved to within several feet
of the concrete, then surged away again on a heavy swell.

"He's going to have to do better than that," McLeod muttered.

Adam only nodded, suddenly gone very quiet.

Three more times the ferry approached the concrete landing ramp, only
once lined up squarely and coming closer than about two feet. As the
captain lined up for yet another approach, McLeod was shaking his head.

"I was afraid of this," he said. "He isn't getting in close enough."

"Can we even get off the ship?" Peregrine asked. "I don't know about the
two of you, but I don't think / could jump across that gap."

"Maybe not," Adam said thoughtfully. "But I wonder if Noel could jump
the car across."

As he glanced sidelong at McLeod, the police inspector stared at him.

"Jump the car?"

Adam nodded. "Didn't you ever jump a car off a ramp, when they put you
through that anti-terrorist driving course?"

"As a matter of fact, I did-several times. But this is-"

Calculating, he looked out at the wave-swept ramp, at the water
separating it from the end of the ferry ramp, at the distance between
the end of the ramp and the car-then out the Volvo's back window.

"It might just work," he said thoughtfully. "If I were to back up to the
other ramp, it would probably give me

262

enough of a run forward. Traction might be a problem, though, on these
steel decks."

"I saw some sand in those fire buckets, up by the stair to the pilot's
bridge," Adam said. "We could spread that under the wheels."

McLeod turned to look him full in the face. In the back seat, Peregrine
was practically holding his breath, hardly able to believe they were
actually discussing it seriously.

"You really want me to try it, don't you?" McLeod said. "Adam, I wasn't
joking before, about putting the car in the drink. And that wasn't even
with jumping involved. What'll I tell the Chief, if I screw up?"

"You'll tell him you screwed up," Adam said, "but at least you'll have
tried. And meanwhile, as you pointed out before, we can always
commandeer another car. But we're wasting time right now."

"Right now," Peregrine pointed out, as the engines changed their pitch
and the ship lurched, "the question may be academic. I think the captain
has given up."

His elders turned their attention forward once more. As Peregrine had
noted, the ferry was falling away from the loading ramp, turning to head
for the pier, and the front ramp was going back up.

"You'd better come with me," McLeod said to Adam, putting the car in
Park and setting the handbrake. "I may need your particular persuasive
ability. Mr. Lovat, I'll ask you to stay with the car again."

Hunching down against the driving rain, McLeod and Adam made a mad dash
across the car deck and up the outside stair to the pilot's bridge,
where the figures of MacDonald and his mate were silhouetted by the
cabin lights.

263

YE want tae do what?" MacDonald gasped, staring at the two intruders on
his bridge as if they had just announced their intention to walk on
water. Behind him, hands frozen on the ship's throttles, the mate also
was staring.

"I know it's taking a bit of a risk," McLeod conceded, "but I told you,
lives are at stake. The worst that can happen is that I'll grossly
underestimate and end up in ten or fifteen feet of water."

"Aye, an' what if ye cannae get oot? I dinnae want anybody drowning on
account o' me!"

"Captain, we don't expect to drown," Adam said reasonably. "In fact, we
don't even expect to get very wet, if you do your proper part."

"My proper part? I've done as good as I can, man! In this sea, I dinnae
think anybody could hae got her in closer."

"We hadn't decided to try the jump, when you did it before," McLeod
said. "Just repeat that performance- bring her in that close-just three
attempts-and I'll either go or give it up."

MacDonald looked him up and down appraisingly, cast a similar glance
over Adam, then returned his gaze to McLeod.

"Ye swear ye'll gie it up, after three tries?" he .said.

"After three tries," McLeod agreed.

"And if we even get to attempt the jump," Adam added, reaching into an
inside pocket, "I'll send each of you a £100 bonus. Here's my card. I
assure you, I'm good for it."

264 270 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

MacDonald took the card and eyed it tentatively.

"Sir Adam Sinclair, Bart.," he read. "Fellow of the Royal College
of-ye're a doctor?"

"I am."

"A psychiatrist, it says here?"

Adam nodded.

"An' he's no' crazy?" MacDonald asked, gesturing toward McLeod.

"No, only a little desperate. And while you're dithering, lives are
still at risk. Now, do you want the bonus or not?"

At MacDonald's glance at his mate, the other man only shrugged and
nodded. Tight-lipped, MacDonald turned back to McLeod.

"Three tries, then-an' I sure hope ye know what ye're doin'. Flash yer
headlamps when ye're ready for me tae bring her in."

As they clattered down the outside stair again, hunched down against the
rain, McLeod glanced back over his shoulder at Adam.

"Thanks, Adam. I could've just ordered them to try it again, but your
offer certainly sweetened the deal. If we don't make it now, it won't be
because our chaps didn't give it their best shot."

"Nothing like a little extra incentive," Adam replied.

They retrieved the buckets of sand on their way back to the car,
Peregrine joining Adam to help spread it while McLeod backed the car to
the very rear of the car deck, back bumper nearly touching the raised
rear ramp.

"Same drill as before," McLeod told them, as they piled back into the
car. "Be prepared to bail out, though, if I botch it."

"You aren't going to botch it," Adam said confidently, as they watched
the front ramp starting down again. "It's merely a matter of timing."

McLeod said nothing. After flashing the headlights in signal, he set his
left foot hard on the brake and shifted into Low. With his right foot he
revved the engine, eyes fixed on the end of the ramp and the shrinking
expanse of water between it and the wave-washed target of the landing
ramp, as the ferry slowly moved into position for an approach.

265

The first attempt was no good. A swell caught the ferry and slewed it
sideways just at the critical moment, so that a corner of the steel ramp
struck the concrete instead of making square contact. The impact echoed
through the ship's steel, and the engines roared as they fought to bring
her steady. The retreating swell carried the ferry out the same way,
wallowing and pitching on the angry waves, so that it took several
minutes to line up for the next approach.

Peregrine braced himself against the back of the seat behind Adam and
peered anxiously ahead. Just visible in the rain and the glare of the
lights up on the pier, they could see several slickered figures moving
along the top of the concrete ramp.

"I hope those chaps have enough sense to get out of the way," Peregrine
murmured.

"If we go," McLeod retorted.

"We'll go," Adam replied confidently.

Ponderously the ferry began her second approach. She started out a
little too far to the left, but a gust of wind brought her directly in
line, heading right for the concrete ramp.

"Hang on, this may be it," McLeod warned, as the distance closed.

Time seemed to slow almost to a standstill. Slowly the gap narrowed from
ten feet to eight feet to six, and still was closing. If everything
stayed steady-

With a hoarsely whispered, "Now!" McLeod released the brake and punched
the accelerator. The big car shot forward, fish-tailing a little on the
slick deck, even with the sand under the tires, but moving fast-hitting
the end of the ramp as it came within about a yard of the concrete. The
car went briefly airborne, then made contact with the front end, in a
shriek of metal bumper scraping concrete, and a gigantic splash as the
rear end hit about six inches of water, fortunately receding with the
swell that also was carrying the ferry away again.

"Hang on!" McLeod shouted. "We're not home yet!"

Fighting the wheel to keep the car straight-and from sliding back down
the ramp and into the sea-he bore down on the accelerator. Spume spun
off the rear wheels as the

266 272 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harms

Volvo fought for traction-the exhausts were underwater, blowing smoke
furiously-but after a heart-stopping moment of foundering, the tires
gripped the concrete and the car shot up the ramp with a roar, seawater
streaming from its undercarriage.

Slickered figures scattered, an array of blue-flashing emergency
vehicles becoming visible as the Volvo crested the top of the slope.
McLeod had a wolfish grin on his face as he jammed on the brakes and
brought the car sharply to a standstill, and he gestured back toward the
ferry in his rear-view mirror as he glanced at Adam.

"Grab that big torch and send him V for Victory, Adam!" he said
triumphantly, paying no heed to the several figures now converging on
the car from the direction of the flashing blue lights.

As Adam cheerfully complied, flashing three short flashes and a long one
out his window in the direction of the ferry, his salute was answered
almost immediately by the ferry's Klaxon-three short hoots and a long
one that reverberated all the way to the diaphragm.

All three of them were laughing as Adam repeated the signal and was
answered again. The broad-shouldered figure in fireman's gear who came
splashing toward them, his torch aimed at the driver's window, was not
laughing.

"Just what d'ye think ye're doin', mister?" he sputtered, leaning down
angrily to peer into McLeod's window. "I dinnae like yer humor! Another
few inches tae th' right, an' ye would've had me for a hood ornament!"

Still chuckling, McLeod rolled down his window and showed the man his ID.

"Sorry. We aren't laughing at you. It's sheer, quaking relief at having
made it off that bloody ferry! Didn't mean to give you such a scare.
We've got a rather urgent police matter on our hands."

"Weel, then, that's different," the man said, his anger deflating into
grudging respect. "An' I haftae say, I havenae seen driving like that
'cept in the films. I didnae even think the boat was running."

"It wasn't," McLeod said, "but we persuaded the captain

267

it was his civic duty to get us across. What's the road condition
between here and Fort Augustus?"

The man snorted, garrulous good nature returning, in the face of their
common dilemma.

"Now, that I couldnae tell ye. We've enough tae worry about, right here.
This storm is really queer-like. I've never seen anything like it. Nae
warnin' frae the weather service-an' it's rippin' roofs off buildings,
an' knockin' doon power lines- We lost the phones hours ago."

Behind him, the disarray gave mute testimony to his words. Off to their
left, the wind had lifted the roof off a small concession kiosk, hurling
one twisted roof panel through the front window of a nearby shop. Broken
glass and sodden newspapers littered the surrounding pavement, and men
were trying to board up the windows of a nearby cottage whose windows
also had fallen victim to the storm. The pungent smell of gas proclaimed
a ruptured main somewhere. Rescue workers in fluorescent armbands were
laboring to clear away the debris that lay between them and the source
of the problem.

McLeod nodded sympathetically. "I don't envy you your job. Have you got
a radio?"

The fireman paused to wipe the rain off his face before answering.

"Aye, but I cannae promise that ye'U get through. There's weird
electrical stuff goin' on, with the thunder an' lightning an' all. But
ye're welcome tae try."

"I'd appreciate that," said McLeod. "If we can raise Fort Augustus,
maybe somebody there can put me in touch with the police."

"We'll do our best," said the fireman. "Best move yer car first, though.
There's a petrol station over there." He pointed off behind him. "It's
closed, but ye can pull up under the overhang tae give yerselves a bit
of shelter. I'll meet ye over by the truck. ..."

While McLeod was away, Peregrine remembered the hamper they had been
given by Margaret MacLeod, and dragged it up onto the backseat beside him.

"How about a sandwich, while we're waiting, Adam?"

268 274 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

he asked, starting to rummage in it. "We may not get a chance to eat,
later on."

Adam, studying their map with the aid of a small penlight, merely shook
his head.

"Nothing for me, thanks. This kind of work is best undertaken on an
empty stomach."

"It is?" Peregrine put down the sandwich he had been about to unwrap and
looked at Adam quizzically. "Why is that?"

Adam turned his head partway toward Peregrine and smiled. "Do you want a
medical explanation or an esoteric one?"

"Oh. You mean, there's more than one?" Peregrine asked.

Adam chuckled good-naturedly and half-turned in his seat to rest his arm
along the back.

"The reasons are akin, actually. Physiologically speaking, the digestive
process draws blood away from the brain-which means that mental
functions are going to be less than optimum after eating. That's why one
often feels like taking a nap after a good meal."

Peregrine nodded. "That makes sense. And the esoteric explanation?"

"Taking in food is a grounding process-which is why it's recommended
that one have something to eat and drink after meditation or any other
psychic procedure. Remember how I fed you, that first night you showed
up on my doorstep?"

"Yes."

"But if one is about to work on the higher planes, it follows that one
would not want to be grounded," Adam went on. "One wants the brain to
function at peak efficiency. So one fasts-or at least goes light on
food. We could have something to drink, if it's nonalcoholic."

Peregrine produced a thermos flask from the hamper and opened it,
sniffing at the mouth.

"Tea," he announced, as the aroma filled the car and confirmed his
opinion. "Is that all right?"

"That's fine," Adam replied.

They sipped at steaming cups of it while they waited for

269

McLeod to return. It was sweet and strong, and warmed cold fingers as
well as insides, as they cupped their hands around it. After a few
minutes, Adam set his on the dash and twisted around to glance at Peregrine.

"Hand me that phone out of Noel's bag, would you? I doubt I'll be able
to get through, but we just might be able to enlist some additional
backup for what's waiting at Urquhart."

Wide-eyed, Peregrine passed the phone forward, watching as Adam lowered
his window slightly, extended the phone's antenna through the opening,
and punched in a series of numbers. He could hear the static, even in
the backseat, and had begun to lose interest by the time Adam tried the
fourth or fifth call.

"A-ha," Adam murmured. "This one's ringing. And what do you want to bet
I'll get the answering machine?"

His expression, as the line picked up, confirmed the prediction. Thus
Peregrine was startled to hear Adam leaving a most cryptic message.

"This is Adam, at-six thirty-seven pm on the thirty-first," he said,
glancing at his watch. "In an hour or so, Noel and I are going to be
hunting rather nasty game. If you get this message in time, I want you
to go to the club and join us. Alert the others, if you can; I'm calling
from a cellular phone, and can't raise anyone else. This is most
important. That is all."

As he turned off the phone and shoved the antenna back into the
receiver, Peregrine gaped at him.

"How many others of you are there?" he breathed.

Adam's smile, as he cranked his window back up, was enigmatic.

"Enough to give the Opposition pause, when need be," he said.

McLeod's return precluded further questions. As the inspector got back
into the car, pausing to shake the worst of the rain from his slicker,
Peregrine poured him a cup of tea. McLeod gulped the first few swallows
gratefully, setting it aside then, while he polished his rain-spattered
glasses with a dry handkerchief.

"I tried to raise the others, while you were gone," Adam

270 276 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

informed him, passing the phone back to Peregrine. "No luck, except for
Lindsay's machine. I left a message, but I doubt it will be picked up in
time to do any good."

"Sounds like it's up to us, then," McLeod replied, retrieving his tea.
"Actually, I'm amazed you got through at all. The radio certainly wasn't
much use. The storm's blanked out everything east of Loch Cluanie."

"And the road?" asked Adam.

McLeod gulped down the rest of his tea and shook his head. "Nobody has a
clue. We'll just have to take our chances."

On that dismal note, he handed his empty cup back to Peregrine and
started the car, hooking up his seatbelt and switching on windscreen
wipers and headlights again and letting the engine warm for a few
seconds, for the rain had gone much colder, even in the short time he
had been gone. Peregrine eyed the sandwiches wistfully as he put the
thermos flask and cups away, but all thought of food quickly fled at
McLeod set the big car in motion. A heavy gust hit them broadside as
they emerged from the shelter of the garage, strong enough to rock the
Volvo on its tires and make Peregrine grab for an armrest and the back
of Adam's seat.

"Damned good thing we're not driving a Mini," McLeod muttered, and took
a firmer grip on the steering wheel.

Creeping among the emergency vehicles still ranged around the pier area,
they slowly made their way out of the village and started heading east.
The storm whirled round them, howling like a wolf. Off to their right,
the waters of Loch Alsh threatened to burst the boundaries of the shore.
The wind hurled scuds of sea froth across their path as they battled
their way down the coast toward the village of Dornie.

The causeway just before Dornie was all but under water. Foam flew like
shrapnel as white-capped breakers crashed against the raised levee that
carried the road. At the end of the causeway, they could not even see
the grey hulk of Eilean Donan, which should have been looming only a few
hundred yards off to the right.

"Another hour, and we'd have found ourselves cut off,"

271

McLeod remarked grimly. "I wonder how much worse this is going to get."

The weather notwithstanding, they made good time along the five-mile
stretch beside Loch Duich, even though the darkness was now complete.
Skirting the end of the loch, however, the rain got worse. Glen Shiel
opened before them, a black wind-tunnel running east and west through
the mountains of Kintail, and the rain grew even heavier, pelting onto
the windscreen almost faster than the wipers could strike it away. The
headlights pierced the storm no more than a car-length or two ahead.
McLeod's jaw was clenched tight as he manhandled the Volvo around a
series of zigzag curves, slowing more with each change of direction.

"It's no use-I can hardly see past the bonnet," he told Adam, as they
crept along a straight stretch at no more than fifteen or twenty miles
an hour. "If we're to carry on, I'm going to need some assistance."

Adam nodded wordlessly, clipping his penlight onto the edge of the map
to free his hands. The road ahead was barely visible through the
sheeting downpour.

Squaring himself in the seat, feet braced wide against the Volvo's
firewall, Adam cupped his left hand over the sapphire on his right,
bowing his head and drawing a deep breath as he closed his eyes. As he
exhaled, centering to his intent, he murmured a silent invocation to the
Author of Lights:

Domine noster, Lumen semper ardens, Ubi sunt tenebrae, Fiat lux!

He could feel the Light suffuse him in answer to his prayer, radiating
from the stone that was its focus and spreading all along his
nerve-paths until his every fiber tingled with its presence. The warmth
spread inward, touching heart and mind, and upward, to fill his mind and
surround him.

That moment of inner illumination brought with it the

272 278 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

power to see the outer world by the light of his own internal vision,
not so much changing what he saw, but enhancing his ability to sort out
the information coming to him by other senses besides the mere visual.
Lifting his head to look at the road ahead, he now found himself better
able to interpret the grey subtleties of pavement and curve, to filter
out the blustering chaos of wind and rain.

It was no objective difference that he could quantify with instruments
or even by describing with words, but it was nonetheless real. Where
before the road had been obscured by the darkness and driving rain, now
his vision extended as it might have done, had the rain not been there;
and potential hazards, hidden only moments before, were now at least
vaguely visible.

McLeod had slowed to a snail's pace while Adam prepared, keeping his
eyes straight ahead and intent on the road, trying to maintain what
headway he could. Now, as Adam raised his head, McLeod glanced at him
briefly.

"Ready?" Adam asked.

"Aye."

Smoothly Adam reached across and set his right hand on the steering
wheel just below McLeod's left, making sure their hands touched. McLeod
drew a long, deep breath, shrugging the tension out of his shoulders,
then gave his attention back fully to the road, hands steady on the
wheel, craggy face composed. Peregrine looked on in owl-eyed silence,
wondering what his two companions could possibly be up to.

"We're clear ahead," Adam murmured, "and you've got a comfortable margin
of space on either hand. Fortunately, we're most unlikely to meet
oncoming traffic. Guide on the center line and start accelerating. I'll
tell you when to ease off."

With Adam's hand on the wheel with McLeod's, the Volvo began picking up
speed. The needle on the speedometer edged up from twenty to thirty,
then to thirty-five.

"That's fine . . . that's good enough for now," Adam continued, in the
same low, level voice. "Take her ten degrees to the left . . . now back
to twelve o'clock . . . now fifteen degrees right . . . now steady on. .
. ."

273

Under Adam's direction, McLeod brought the Volvo's speed gradually up to
fifty. They held to that speed for the next twenty minutes, while Adam
continued to read the road ahead for bumps, curves, and obstacles. Like
a pilot flying blind on instrumentation, McLeod accepted Adam's
instructions with confident assurance, his hands responding to the
minuscule promptings of Adam's. Watching from the backseat, Peregrine
began to suspect that this was not the first time his two companions had
worked together to pull off such an extraordinary feat of teamwork.

They left Glen Shiel and began to skirt Loch Cluanie. The banks of the
loch were full to overflowing, and the road was flooded in places. Twice
they were forced off the tarmac to creep along higher ground on the
left-hand shoulders. Each time, Adam was able to guide them safely back
onto the highway, with only a few precious minutes lost.

When the loch was safely behind them, Adam passed the map back to
Peregrine, never taking his eyes from the road.

"Check the map, Peregrine," he said softly. "We should have a junction
coming up, and I don't want to miss it in the dark."

Briefly Peregrine used the penlight to confirm their route.

"You want the left-hand fork," he said, looking up. "It should be marked
A887 or Inverness-if the signs are still up."

Even as his eyes strained to penetrate the rain and darkness, Peregrine
caught a sudden, blurred glimpse of a road-sign as they flashed past it
in the storm.

"Any time now," Peregrine warned. "Actually, it's more of a bearing left
than an actual turn."

"We're coming up on it," Adam told McLeod. "Slow down and get ready to
bear left with I give the word. Easy . . . now-and straighten out. Well
done, both of you."

Those words of praise gave Peregrine welcome comfort after simply
rattling along as a passenger for so many miles, beginning to wonder why
they had even brought him along. He consulted the map again, but there
was only one more turn to be made, just as they actually got to Loch
Ness and

274 280 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

headed north. Still, he kept track of the few tiny villages through
which they passed; it gave him reassurance that he was a part, however
small, of what was going on.

Thunder rumbled low on the horizon ahead and to the left, and lightning
lit the sky increasingly as they continued north and east, along the
swollen torrent of the River Moriston. Road work along the route
necessitated several slight detours onto unpaved stretches, slowing
their progress, and a few miles past the village of Dundreggan, they
came around a sharp bend in the road to find their way blocked by a
flock of wet, bedraggled sheep.

McLeod braked even as Adam's mouth was opening in warning, bringing them
to a halt mere inches from the nearest animals.

"Bloody stupid beasts!" McLeod muttered. "If we'd hit one, our trip
might well have ended right here. Let's see if I can shift them."

He tapped the horn without result, then eased the Volvo forward.
Rain-sodden and bewildered by the headlights, the sheep edged nervously
aside from the car's long bonnet. One wall-eyed ewe stood rooted to the
spot, only shying away when the bumper nudged her shoulder. The rest
blundered toward the verges, finally leaving the car a narrow space to
pass through.

With the sheep safely behind them, McLeod gradually picked up speed
again. Very soon they passed the wind-twisted remains of a signpost. The
route sign itself was lying facedown at the side of the road several
yards away.

"This must be Invermoriston," Peregrine said, peering between the front
seats as they slowed through the village. "We should have a junction
with the A82, any time now. You'll want to bear le-"

"Flares ahead!" Adam suddenly said. "Look out!"

Hissing under his breath, McLeod braked to a crawl, slowly approaching a
man in oilskins who was putting out more flares. Behind him, an
articulated lorry lay on its side, the trailer and cab still connected.
A car was stopped beside it, emergency flashers adding a yellow glare to
the red of the flares.

275

"I hope no one's hurt," Adam murmured, as they crept closer. "As a
physician, I'm bound to offer aid."

As they crept even with the man laying the flares, Adam took his hand
off the wheel and McLeod cranked down his window.

"Anyone hurt?" McLeod called.

The man grimaced, holding a newly-lit flare out and away from his body.

"Only my pride," he said. "And it didn't do me rig any good. I was
trying to make it down to Fort Augustus, but the winds got so bad, I
thought I'd better stop. Should've stayed on the main road. A gust
caught me, coming around this curve, and blew me right over."

McLeod nodded sympathetically. "I doubt you'll get a recovery vehicle
out tonight," he said. "What's the road like, heading north?"

The man shook his head. "I wouldn't advise trying it. The road's clear,
but the wind is really bad, and visibility is minimal. There was some
thunder and lightning, too, a bit farther north. And the loch's really
choppy."

"I'll watch myself," McLeod said, raising a hand in thanks. "Good luck
to you."

"Aye, and to you."

As they crept on around the overturned lorry, making the transition onto
the main road, Adam put his hand back on the wheel beneath McLeod's. The
inspector glanced at him, then returned his attention straight ahead as
he crept their speed up once more.

"How are you holding up?"

Adam's face was showing signs of strain, but he smiled slightly, not
taking his eyes from the road.

"It can't be much more than fifteen miles from here to Point Urquhart.
I'll manage."

The car shuddered as if struck by a giant's hand as they came onto the
edge of Loch Ness, heading north in the direction of Inverness. The
wind, funneled by the long, narrow confines of the loch, could sweep for
more than twenty miles without resistance, to batter the edges of the
loch with the full fury of the storm.

More heavily traveled than the route through Glen Shiel,

276 282 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

the highway here was dotted with stranded vehicles of all shapes and
sizes, their drivers forced to the shoulder by the blinding fury of the
tempest. Some had not been totally in control when they did so, and
rested with one or more wheels in a ditch or with a front fender
crumpled against a stone wall.

With Adam still guiding him, McLeod threaded the Volvo swiftly in and
out along a ten-mile obstacle course of stalled cars and minor road
accidents. Off to their right, the black water of Loch Ness raged along
the shore below, gnashing at the rocks like a live thing possessed.

But the focus of the fury lay ahead of them. As they drew nearer to Glen
Urquhart, even Peregrine became aware of a ghostly, blue-white glow
flickering in and out of phase on the fringes of his vision. It was
different from the lightning that also lit the sky periodically-a
lambent luminance sensed more with inner perceptions than with physical
sight.

He could see that it worried Adam and McLeod, too. The inspector kept
glancing off at it, even though Adam seemed still to be focused on the
road ahead. Far ahead, at the level of the loch, streamers almost like
the aurora borealis thrust ghostly fingers upward to unite with the
powers of earth and sky. Thus entwined, they formed a centrifugal whirl
of elemental energies, brooding ever more threatening above the highland
hills.

The significance of the manifest shape was not lost on Adam, even though
his focus seemed directed elsewhere. He knew it for what it was, and
what it meant: The denizens of the realm of Faerie were raising up a
cone of power in their righteous wrath, investing it with all the
unbridled fury of the elements. Unless the fairy anger could be
appeased, its force would fall indiscriminately on everyone and
everything caught within range of its influence. And the only way to
appease the offended fairies was to compel their offenders to answer the
harsh, uncompromising balance of High Justice.

Adam glanced ahead at the sky again. In the same instant, as they came
into a turn, something large and dark

277

broke out of the darkness on the left and bolted across the road in
front of the car.

McLeod uttered a startled exclamation and veered sharply to the left. He
missed whatever it was, but the Volvo went into a skid and left the
road, bouncing over the remains of a low freestone wall and coming to a
rest with a sudden, thick-sounding splash, partway down a sloping
embankment. One headlight went dark, but the remaining one showed a
water-filled ditch just beyond their front wheels.

For a heartbeat or two, the only sound was the pelting of the rain on
the car's roof and bonnet and the low purr of the engine. Then McLeod
drew a deep breath and eased his grip on the steering wheel.

"Everybody all right?" he asked.

At Adam's steady, "Yes," Peregrine leaned shakily forward from the
backseat, his face pale and inquiring.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We almost hit something," said McLeod.

Peregrine glanced at Adam. "Did you see what it was?"

"Not clearly," Adam said. "From the general outline, it might perhaps
have been a deer."

Certainly, the image resonating in the back of his mind was that of a
horned shape in flight. Beyond that, however, he was not prepared to
speculate out loud. McLeod shot him a curious side glance, but probed
the matter no further.

"Well, whatever it was, it's gone now," the inspector said. "And so, I
fear, is our transportation."

He shifted the Volvo into reverse and slowly pressed down on the
accelerator, but the rear wheels only spun. The big car remained
anchored to the spot.

Scowling, McLeod killed the engine and got out of the car, gingerly
working his way down the slippery slope to inspect damage to the front
end. He came back along the left side, steadying his balance on the
fender. As he came even with Adam's door, Adam rolled down his window
and handed him the big electric torch. McLeod was longer at the back of
the car, and did not look happy when he rejoined them.

"Well, we aren't going anywhere without a tow truck,"

278 284 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

he announced. "Even if I haven't torn out the underside by going over
that bit of wall, we're mired up to the axle in front, and the rear
wheels are dug in. Sorry, Adam."

"No matter," Adam murmured. "No one else could have done any better. I
should have given you warning. At least no one's hurt. We'll simply have
to go the rest of the way on foot. Let's have a look at that map,
Peregrine."

Peregrine handed the map forward, and Adam consulted it briefly under
the dash light, then glanced back out McLeod's side and out the rear
window at the light show still visible ahead and behind the embankment
of the road.

"I don't see how we could be much more than about a mile from Urquhart
Castle," he said, his brow furrowed in calculation. "That's no great
distance to cover on foot, even in this storm. In fact, going the rest
of the way on foot might even be an advantage-give us more of an element
of surprise. It's beastly weather for it-but it's no better for our
comrades at Urquhart."

The brief flash of his grin in the dim light was almost predatory, and
McLeod answered it with a grim chuckle.

"Aye, that's true enough," the inspector said. "Mr. Lovat, if you'll be
so good as to pass my bag up here, we'll arm ourselves for the hunt, as
it were. Adam, do you need yours as well?"

"No, I have what I need," Adam replied, as Peregrine wordlessly passed
McLeod's bag forward and looked at him in question. "I believe I do have
an extra torch, however. You might fetch that, Peregrine."

Peregrine did as he was bidden, lifting the black doctor's bag onto his
lap and gingerly opening it. He was peering into its shadowed depths,
trying to spot the torch, when Adam leaned back over the seat and shone
the big torch into it, at the same time extracting the second torch and
handing it to Peregrine. During that brief moment of illumination,
Peregrine caught just a glimpse of small boxes and vials and
plastic-sealed disposable syringes-the usual paraphernalia one might
expect in a doctor's bag-but also several oddly-shaped items wrapped in
what looked like white silk. He looked up in question as Adam snapped
off the torch.

"Tools of my various trades," Adam said, by way of

279

explanation. "But I won't need any of the rest of that tonight. You can
put it back behind the seat."

Wide-eyed, Peregrine obeyed. He was curious, but Adam's instruction
precluded further discussion. Besides, McLeod had just pulled a very
serviceable-looking automatic from his bag. Upholstering it, the
inspector shoved an ammunition clip into the butt, then pulled back the
slide to chamber a round, letting it snap back with a deadly-sounding click.

"Browning Hi-Power," McLeod said, thumbing on the safety and sticking it
determinedly into the front of his waistband. "It's a 9mm
automatic-fires the standard NATO round. Gives me fourteen shots before
I have to reload."

As he pulled two more clips from the bag and stuck one in each coat
pocket, Peregrine gaped in dismay.

"Do you really think you're going to need that?" he asked.

"I hope I won't," McLeod replied. "But I want to be ready, if I do. We
know that they've killed at least once. You saw the body on the dock."

Feeling a little queasy, Peregrine nodded. Until that very moment, even
through the ordeal of the ferry crossing, it had not truly occurred to
him just how dangerous this might be. The banshee had threatened a peril
of its own, of course, but somehow that did not represent the same kind
of danger as bullets.

"Take heart," Adam said. "If I'm right in my speculations, our
gun-toting thieves are going to have a lot more on their minds than
worrying about us."

With that assurance, he flung open his car door to the storm, McLeod
doing likewise. As the two climbed out, Peregrine unhooked his seat belt
and followed.

280

HPHE temperature had dropped even more since leaving X. the ferry at
Kyle of Lochalsh. They stayed reasonably dry at first, in the gear they
had borrowed from Dunvegan, but the full force of the wind hit them when
they climbed up the slippery embankment and emerged on the road,
chilling to the bone, and the wind-driven rain stung exposed hands and
faces like icy needles.

Shivering, Peregrine hunched deeper into his collar and pulled a fold of
his borrowed scarf closer around his neck and lower face to keep out the
rain, wishing he had thought to borrow proper gloves. His fingerless
ones were not much good; besides they were soaked through already.

Adam was not even wearing gloves, though Peregrine knew he had some, for
he had heard Humphrey mention putting a pair in the pockets of the green
waxed jacket, back at the airport. He was carrying his electric torch in
one bare hand, with the other thrust into a coat pocket; and whenever
the exposed hand got too cold, he would shift the torch to the other
hand and shove the frozen one into a pocket to thaw. McLeod, likewise,
was gloveless-though at least his torch was one of the long, metal-cased
police ones, long enough to clamp under one arm while he burrowed both
hands into his pockets-a bit awkward, but it would keep his hands supple
enough to handle his pistol, if need be.

This perception led Peregrine to wonder what Adam was going to do for a
weapon, when they eventually reached Urquhart Castle. He had a feeling
that the narrow, hand-length black object he had seen Adam slip into his
jacket,

281 288 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

back at the airport, might be a weapon of some sort; but he was
virtually certain it was not a gun. Whatever it was, Peregrine doubted
whether it would be effective defense against fairies; Adam certainly
had not produced it when threatened by the banshee. And Adam's torch, no
bigger than his hand, was hardly a weapon-though McLeod's might qualify.

Not that the torches were much use in this rain. As they trudged
single-file along the right-hand shoulder of the road, Adam leading and
McLeod bringing up the rear, Peregrine decided that one of the worst
things about being out in the weather, besides getting cold and wet, was
that one's glasses got streaky and fogged. McLeod would be contending
with the same annoyance, though Peregrine was pretty sure the inspector
only needed his for reading. Peregrine briefly considered simply
pocketing his spectacles, for the rain was so heavy that he could only
see a few feet past Adam anyway; but he put his head down instead,
deciding it was better to see things through a blur of rain, if there
eventually was anything to see, than to remove the glasses and be sure
of seeing nothing. Not that he was eager to see anything like the
banshee again. . . .

The rain continued to pelt down steadily. Like automatons, the three of
them trudged along for nearly a quarter of an hour, the eerie light-show
ever before them and to their right, thunder rumbling almost
continuously above the wail of the wind. They met no traffic. As they
got colder and wetter, they began to encounter pockets of hail that
battered down across their shoulders like a rain of hard gravel.

"Adam, is it my imagination," McLeod called hoarsely from the rear, "or
is this getting worse?"

"Well, it wasn't hailing before," Adam replied.

Before Peregrine could comment, a louder rumble punctuated the general
thunder and lightning, even reverberating through the soles of their
boots. At the same time, greenish light flared down at the level of the
loch, ahead and to their right, giving a fleeting glimpse of black water
and also, to their astonishment, the ragged silhouette of a ruined
medieval castle. Ahead, but twenty yards or so, the castle's

282

modern-day car park opened off the road into a flat, paved plateau
overlooking the ruin.

"Look! That must be it!" Peregrine cried, pointing ahead with a cry of
excitement. He started forward impulsively, but McLeod caught him by the
sleeve.

"Easy, laddie," the inspector warned, quickly switching off his torch.
"That'll be Urquhart, right enough, but you can see for yourself there's
something bloody peculiar going on down there. It'd be poor tactics to
go rushing in before we've had a chance to take our bearings."

Beside him, Adam likewise had turned off his torch, and distractedly
drew the other two men closer-for his attention was still on the lights
below.

"Noel's right," he murmured. "Let's see if we can get a better look from
the car park. And no more torches, if we can possibly manage without,"
he added, pocketing his. "With the lightning flashes, and what's going
on down there, I think we can see well enough, if we keep to the edge of
the road. But there's no sense announcing our arrival before we're ready
to act."

Bending their heads to the wind, the three managed the few remaining
yards to the near end of the car park without incident. A railing
brought them up short along the downhill side, and they lined up along
it, crouching to peer down. The eerie green light continued to flicker
in cold flashes along the cliffs fronting the loch, apparently coming
from behind the south end of the castle.

"Well, whatever it is, it certainly isn't lightning," Adam said.

"Aye," McLeod agreed. "Apart from the sound, if I didn't know better,
I'd say there was artillery fire going on down there."

"Unfortunately," Adam replied, "it may well be akin to that. When we
start down, we'd better be prepared for a fight."

Even as he spoke, a deep, sonorous boom shivered the air, echoing up
from the water's edge like the aftershocks of an explosion. All of them
ducked instinctively as green sparks fountained upward behind the
shoreline bluffs and hung there, whizzing and darting like a swarm of
incandes-

283 290 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

cent bees. The glow was enough to illuminate the trail down to the
castle quite clearly.

"I believe we may be just in time," Adam murmured. "Unless I miss my
guess, someone has just opened up Scot's Fairy Cave! Let's have a closer
look."

The fence at the edge of the car park was a two-rail affair of tubular
steel, with bars as thick as a man's wrist. Ducking his head between the
two, Adam swung up a booted leg and wormed his way through, aware that
McLeod and Peregrine were following as he started down the footpath
toward the castle. Avoiding a potentially noisy flight of wooden steps,
they skidded down the embankment to one side, clinging to the railing to
slow their descent, then clambered unceremoniously over the barrier at
the kiosk where tickets were usually sold.

They kept their heads down as they trotted down a long, gradual slope
almost to the level of the castle walls, guided by the railings that ran
along either side. At the bottom, the path made a sharp left down a
slippery flight of timber and concrete steps and then continued along a
wooden catwalk that led toward the bridge spanning the castle fosse, but
Adam led them to the right instead, down another short flight of steps,
heading for a small outbuilding set just outside the south rampart.

They paused in its shadows to peer ahead, for beyond that, a muddy path
led downward among storm-tattered trees toward a narrow crescent beach.
Beyond the beach, the black waters of the loch frothed with the storm.
Between lightning flashes, the whole area pulsed with a fey, greenish
light that shimmered and snapped like static electricity.

"Listen," McLeod whispered, as the wind brought them the faint,
mechanical thrum of a diesel engine. "D'ye hear that?"

Silently the three slipped along the side of the building and crouched
again at the end, peering ahead for a glimpse of the source of the
sound. From their new vantage point, they could just make out the bulk
of a powerful speedboat drawn up close to the crescent-shaped beach. A
man in black oilskins and cap was at the helm, holding the craft

284

steady, with its prow nudging the rough shingle, a stone's throw below
the mouth of a horseshoe cave.

Adam tugged at Peregrine's sleeve to get him down as the three of them
cautiously dashed across the path and took cover farther to the right,
behind some bushes, where they could get a better angle on the cave. The
entrance was raw as a wound. The huge stones flanking the opening and
scattered across the beach looked as though they had been newly
quarried. Inside the cave, the air was dense with flecks of bright green
light, whirling and flying like sparks from a blacksmith's forge.

"The records say nothing about a cave here," Peregrine whispered. "Do
you really think they just now opened it?"

"Almost certainly," Adam replied.

The man in the boat was watching the entrance expectantly.

"The rest must be inside," McLeod muttered, warily scanning around them,
in case all were not. "Care to estimate how many that might be?"

Adam peered at the boat and the cave, calculating. "I'd guess maybe five
or six more, if they all came in the boat-which is likely, since there
were no cars in the car park. Given that men like these don't like to
share the loot, that also suggests keeping numbers to a minimum. If it
is five or six more, do you think we can handle them?"

McLeod snorted softly. "Do we have a choice?"

"No," Adam said, "but we do have the element of surprise."

"For now, aye, but keep your heads down," McLeod cautioned.

He shoved his torch into his left-hand pocket and padded off down the
slope, Adam and then Peregrine following. At the point where the path
hooked right, he ducked to the left into a thick stand of wet elderberry
bushes. A crouching, ten-yard scramble through the underbrush brought
him to the base of a large, saddle-topped boulder, half the size of a
small car. Beyond, the ground fell away brokenly toward the beach and
the mouth of the newly-opened cave.

The wind had died down under the cliff, leaving the air cold and still,
and the rain had petered out to a chill,

285 292 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

saturating mist. The sudden, localized lull was ominous, like the zone
of calm at the eye of a hurricane. As Adam flattened himself against the
boulder beside McLeod, he wondered how long the calm would last.

A showery rustle in the shrubbery heralded Peregrine's arrival. The
young artist threw himself down next to Adam, his eyes wide with excitement.

"Have you seen anything yet?" he breathed, rearing up cautiously on one
elbow to get a better look at the play of lights inside the mouth of the
cave.

Adam tugged him downward with a hiss of warning.

"Careful!" he breathed.

"But, what are all those flecks of light?" Peregrine whispered. "They're
flying about almost as if they were alive."

"They are alive," Adam murmured, "or hadn't you guessed? Those are the
denizens of the cave."

"Fairies?" Peregrine caught his breath and stared.

"That's right," McLeod muttered, from Adam's other side. "And they'd
just as soon eat you alive as look at you. I'm serious, boy-don't look
at me like that!"

As Peregrine gasped at his two companions, speechless, Adam slipped the
sapphire ring from his finger and held it out to the artist.

"Here. Take this and put it on," he said. "Whatever happens from here on
out, you're going to need some protection. If we should come under
attack from the Faerie Host-which is likely, before this is all over-the
virtues vested in the stone should keep them at bay-at least for a
little while."

"But, aren't you going to need this yourself?" Peregrine asked, gloved
hand closing automatically on the ring.

"No, I have other weapons."

Partially unzipping the front of his slicker, Adam reached his right
hand deep inside. It came out clasping a small, black-sheathed dagger.

Or, no, not just a dagger, Peregrine amended. It was a skean dubh-the
Highland blade customarily worn with a kilt, stuck in the top of the hose.

But even in the erratic light, Peregrine could see that this

286

was no ordinary skean dubh. The sheath alone was a work of art, half the
overall length of about seven inches and mounted with exquisite silver
interlace at throat and tip. He could not see the details of the carving
on the hilt, because of Adam's hand, but the pommel was set with a clear
blue stone nearly the size of a pigeon's egg. When Adam unsheathed the
weapon, slipping the sheath back into his pocket, the polished blade
shone like quicksilver under the lowering sky, a pale blue light
flickering about its edges like reflected moonlight-or like the
reflection of powerful intent.

At the same time, McLeod had pulled the Browning automatic from his
waistband, thumbing the safety off with a faint but audible click as he
raised it, ready, beside his head. However, it was not the sight of the
gun that made Peregrine blink; he had done that already, back in the
car. It was the sudden flash of blue fire off the back of McLeod's
gun-hand. A closer look revealeji that McLeod was now wearing a sapphire
ring almost identical to Adam's.

Both men had in their eyes the intent, preoccupied look of hunters on
the trail of dangerous prey. Gazing at his companions in owlish silence,
Peregrine suddenly became keenly aware that he was seeing them in a
wholly new light. During the past few weeks and even hours, he realized
that he had come to accept, almost casually, that Adam and McLeod had
powers and abilities he could not begin to understand. Now that they
were preparing to close in on their quarry, Peregrine realized he hadn't
a clue what they might do.

He had no idea, for that matter, what he was going to do himself. It was
not a comfortable reflection. Glancing down involuntarily at Adam's ring
in his hand, he hastily pulled off his gloves and slipped the ring
hastily onto the third finger of his right hand, as he had seen Adam
wear it. The fit was loose, but its presence somehow made him feel less
vulnerable. As he returned his attention to the distant cave, he squared
his shoulders and closed his fist tightly, so the ring would not slide
off, hoping he would not prove to be more of a hindrance than a help.

Even as this thought crossed his mind, a sudden, high-

287 294 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

pitched screeching broke out below. The angry dance of emerald lights
quickened to a feverish tarantella, and a sullen glow flared deep inside
the tunnel, spreading unevenly toward the mouth of the cave. A moment
later, a cluster of black-clad figures became barely visible at the
cavern's horseshoe-shaped entrance.

The man in front was tall and slight, moving with arrogant grace, both
arms raised above his head. The three men following behind him looked
bulky by comparison. Two of them were staggering under the weight of a
smallish metal-bound chest that seemed inordinately heavy for its size.
The man who brought up the rear was carrying a large oblong picture
frame elevated like a shield between himself and the motes of light that
whirled menacingly above him.

"The Fairy Flag?" Adam murmured to McLeod.

"Aye, and the chap at the front must be controlling it. Look! He's got a
sword. You can't see it except when he turns just right."

Peregrine craned his neck for a better look, so much that Adam had to
tug at his sleeve.

"I think it's the Hepburn Sword!" he whispered eagerly. "If only I could
get a closer look-but I'm nearly certain it is!"

"No doubt it is," Adam replied. "But if you don't keep down, you're
liable to get a much closer look at it than you'd care to."

As the party emerged fully from the mouth of the cave, under the milling
cloud of the Faerie Host, more details became apparent. All of the men
were wearing hooded black macs, but the leader also was masked across
the eyes like an executioner, with a silver chain of office about his
neck that Peregrine was willing to bet held a medallion he had tried
several times to draw. He was holding the sword horizontal above his
head, one beringed hand gripping the basket hilt, the other clasping the
naked blade a few inches from the point.

A baleful greenish light played about the damascened blade, but the
source was not the sword itself, but the frail fabric of the Fairy Flag,
held aloft in its frame by the party's rear guard. The sword seemed to
draw light out of the Flag

288

like a spindle gathering floss, subtle as spider-silk, weaving a ghostly
canopy above the procession. Green fairy-motes swooped down on the four
from all sides, only to sheer off and retreat as though repelled by an
invisible wall of force.

"Is the Fairy Flag doing that?" Peregrine whispered.

"Aye, that and the Hepburn Sword," Adam replied. "The sword is an
implement of summoning and control. The leader is using it to call forth
and direct the Flag's protective influence, against the very creatures
who gave the Flag its power."

"But, how can he do that?" Peregrine wanted to know.

McLeod glared down at the procession's leader in mingled revulsion and
disbelief.

"Not by any honest means, that's for certain," he muttered. "But it's
bound to be costing him dear." He glanced at Adam. "How long do you
think he'll be able to sustain the power-link?"

"Probably long enough to allow his party to reach the boat with their
plunder," Adam said. "Unless, of course, we provide a suitable
diversion. Noel, do you think you could work your way around to the far
side of the cave without being seen too soon?"

McLeod cast a shrewd eye over the ground above the cave-mouth. "I'll do
my best," he agreed, and began edging away through the undergrowth to
the left.

"What about me?" Peregrine whispered eagerly.

Adam flashed him a swift, commanding look. "You stay here and keep
watch-and try to avoid being eaten."

Before the artist could react, Adam was gone, slipping lightly down the
hillside and over the rocks. At the lower end of the rough incline, he
stopped with one foot braced against a knee-high boulder and leveled the
point of his skean dubh at the cluster of men struggling across the flat
toward the boat, drawing himself up to his full height. Power welled up
within his grasp, tingling at the center of his palm, but he held that
power in check as he drew breath to call out.

"That's far enough, gentlemen. Halt where you are!"

The little cavalcade started around at the sound of his voice, someone
muttering an imprecation as they spotted

289 296 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

him. The leader whirled to face him, silencing his followers with a
sharp command, but he did not lower his arms. His left hand opened and
then closed on the end of the blade, as if he longed to turn the sword
against his challenger; but Adam knew he dared not, lest he lose control
of the Fairy Flag.

"Who the devil are you?" the man demanded, the voice hard and cool
against the continued drone of the fairy voices. "And just what do you
think you're doing here?"

"You may address me as Master of the Hunt," Adam replied, keeping an eye
on the boatman as well. "As for my purpose-I am here to see justice done."

This announcement elicited a murmur of uncertainty among the leader's
subordinates, but the leader himself only curled a sneering lip.

"Justice, indeed? And what are our alleged crimes?"

"They include, not least, the injuries done to one once known as Michael
Scot of Melrose, for the purpose of gaining unlawful possession of his
property," Adam said sternly, pointing at the chest. "I believe you have
it there.

"In addition, there is the matter of the Fairy Flag of the MacLeods,
which you have wrongfully appropriated and grievously profaned. The
sword in your hand is also stolen, I believe. If you are wise, you will
relinquish the artifacts you have stolen and submit yourselves to the
temporal authorities, while there still is time to make reparation for
your grosser crimes against the laws of the Inner Planes."

The air above the four was seething with bright fairy-shapes, the
mounting buzz of their anger like the buildup of an electronic overload.
Watching helplessly from behind his concealing boulder, Peregrine cast
an anxious glance in the direction McLeod had gone. The inspector's head
and shoulders showed briefly above the boulders overshadowing the cave's
entrance, and then a ripple in the bushes beyond marked his progress
toward a sizeable outcropping of stone on the opposite side of the archway.

Down on the shore, the masked man was staring at Adam in bristling defiance.

"I think you overestimate your own importance, 'Master of the Hunt,' or
whatever your true name might be. My

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colleagues and I do not recognize your authority. Nor do we accept your
right to judge our actions."

"You mistake me," Adam replied. "Your own actions have already condemned
you. I am here to demand your surrender-and to compell it, if necessary."

By now, McLeod had had time to reach his chosen lair among the rocks to
the right of the cave-mouth. From his concealed vantage point, he saw
the hooded leader of the opposition make a covert sign to the pilot of
the speedboat. The man nodded almost imperceptibly and reached below the
craft's steering console. As he straightened, McLeod glimpsed the sleek,
deadly silhouette of an Uzi in his hands.

"Adam, look out! The boatman's got a gun!" he shouted.

291

ADAM had already seen the boatman move, and threw himself flat as a
chuttering spray of bullets cut the air where he had been standing a
heartbeat before. In the same instant, the gunman swung around on
McLeod's position. Rock chips flew and shrubbery disintegrated under a
withering volley, but McLeod was already pressed flat against the inside
face of the outcrop, bracing himself to return fire.

Another salvo brought down a clump of sapling trees to his left. The
gunman paused briefly to let the debris settle, and in that scant
interval McLeod reared up from cover, steadied his wrist, and squeezed
off three quick rounds.

The first shot ricocheted off the speedboat's hull; the second and third
shattered the windscreen. The gunman flinched aside, then fired off
another burst, but McLeod was already down. Lead thudded harmlessly into
the seamed cliff-face above his bent head, but then, before he could
dive out of the way, the weakened section of the wall collapsed,
partially burying him under a stunning battery of loose earth.

Adam started up in alarm, all but certain McLeod was shot, but the
gunman fired off another burst in his direction, forcing him to hug the
ground again. Meanwhile, the rock slide that had knocked down McLeod
rumbled on down the hill. Catapulting stones hit the shingle and
rebounded. The flag-bearer at the rear of the party recoiled before the
shower of flying gravel, and as he gave a yelp and sprang backwards, he
collided with his nearest companion.

The impact jarred his grip on the sides of the Flag's

292 300 Katherjne Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

protective frame, and it twisted in his hands. As it did, one comer
struck the ground sharply and the frame burst apart with a dissonant
tinkle of shattering glass.

Instantly the protective canopy above the party collapsed. The leader
gasped. Shrilling triumphantly, the hovering Faerie Host swooped in for
the kill.

The men carrying the chest dropped it, screaming and beating the air
around them as the fairies tore at them with needle teeth and claws,
like tiny, ravening piranhas made of light. The Fairy Flag lay on the
ground, tangled in a debris of glass and ruined frame. Crazed by fear,
his exposed face and hands already running with blood, the flag-bearer
made a panic-stricken dive to retrieve the only source of protection he
could think of. But as his profane hands touched the sacred relic, there
was a sudden, sulphurous bang and a greasy surge of black smoke.

As the smoke thinned, no trace of the flag-bearer could be seen. Stunned
by what he had just witnessed, Adam cautiously lifted his head again
just in time to see the fairy vanguard descend on the next man. As the
man sank screaming under a seething blanket of tiny, glowing forms, his
horrified leader clutched hard at the shoulder of the remaining porter
and gestured toward the boat, still brandishing the Hepburn Sword above
his head with one hand.

"Help me get the chest aboard!" he ordered shrilly. "They can't follow
us over water!"

The man's face and hands were a mass of bloody gouges, but somehow he
managed a comprehending nod. The fairies seemed still intent on tearing
their other adversary to bits, and the leader's sword kept the
occasional scout at bay. Between them, the two managed to manhandle the
chest over the remaining yards of rocky beach. The boatman, no longer
under fire from McLeod and unable to see Adam, threw aside his machine
gun and slewed the boat around sideways, reaching over the side to help.

"Get the chest on board!" the leader shouted. "I'll keep them off!"

Leaving his subordinates to wrestle the chest over the side, he turned
to beat back the advancing Faerie Host with fierce, slashing sweeps of
the Hepburn Sword. Scores,

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perhaps hundreds, of glowing shapes snapped and buzzed about his head
like a swarm of enraged wasps, but every time the sword connected with
one, sparks crackled at the point of impact and a tiny light went out,
in a curl of wispy smoke. A look of triumph was beginning to light the
leader's face when suddenly he spied an upright figure moving from
behind the fairy cloud, heading directly for him.

Adam was holding his skean dubh elevated before him like a holy relic,
the pommel uppermost rather than the blade. The blue stone set in the
hilt gave off a soft, shimmering glow like the clear light of summer
twilight. The fairies shied away from him as he passed among them to
halt only a few paces from the masked man.

"Two of your companions already have perished needlessly," Adam said
sternly. "Leave the chest and put yourselves under my protection, before
you pay for your obstinacy with your lives."

The masked man hackled like a jackal.

"You go to hell!" he shouted. "I've paid for this chest, and the cost
wasn't cheap! I'll be damned if I'll let you have it for nothing!"

With a sudden savage backlash, he whipped out at Adam with the blade of
the Hepburn Sword. Instinctively, Adam raised his skean dubh to parry
the blow. Peregrine, who had been creeping nearer while the leader was
distracted, let out a horrified cry of protest as the two blades clashed
in a flash and a crackle of blue-white fire. In that instant, all the
intimations of mortal danger he had seen hanging over Adam in the days
gone by came surging back to memory.

Without thought for what he might be able to do once he got there,
Peregrine broke from cover and dashed across the dozen yards still
separating him from Adam and his foe-and the fairies-praying that Adam's
ring would give him some protection from the latter. Blood-hungry motes
of light closed around him in a screeching throng, but he flailed at
them with his bare hands and continued, half-blind, toward the place
where he had last seen Adam. Abruptly, two dark shapes loomed before
him, one on one knee on the ground, bathed in a pale blue light and reared

294 302 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

back on one supporting hand, the other poised above him with steel death
in his hand, already starting his downward blow.

The Hepburn Sword flashed green as it descended. Not thinking of the
possible consequences, Peregrine grabbed for it with both hands. His
left briefly blocked the mother's wrist jarringly at the basket hilt,
slowing it, but not with enough force to keep his right hand from
impacting solidly with the blade, right across the palm and back edge of
his hand. Searing pain flung him backwards against Adam, rolling him
into a tight ball as he clutched his right hand to his chest, fire
searing down his fingers and shooting up his forearm. All he could
think, in that infinite instant of first agony, was that he might never
paint again.

But before he could even draw breath to scream, a heavy boot took him
bruisingly in the ribs, with enough force to tumble him farther across
the rough shingle. Somehow he managed to protect his head, and not to
lose his glasses, but what he saw as he twisted round gave him no
comfort as his adversary turned to attack Adam again.

Shouting wordlessly, his lips drawn back in an almost feline snarl, the
swordsman lifted his blade to slash. But as the blade descended, Adam
was already lifting his skean dubh-not with the hilt uppermost this
time, but with the point directed toward the air between them, to
rapidly sketch an arcane symbol.

Blue fire left a visible trace as the skean dubh flashed. It was nowhere
near the intended path of the descending blade, but suddenly the sword
was diverting to meet it, like steel drawn to a magnet. White-eyed with
disbelief, the swordsman tried to correct, but Adam merely made a sharp,
wrenching movement with the skean dubh.

His adversary gave a hoarse cry as the basket-hilt twisted in his grasp.
Unable to hold onto it, he flung the weapon from him in defiant anger
and turned to make a desperate running leap for the side of the waiting
speedboat.

He never reached it. Alert for just such an opening, the Faerie Host
swooped down again with greedy shrills of elation, blood spattering from
their midst as they snapped and snarled and tore like piranhas in a
feeding frenzy,

295

keening their triumph. Adam flung himself protectively across Peregrine,
at the same time closing his free hand around the hilt of the Hepburn Sword.

The two remaining men on the boat did not linger to see any more. They
had their chest aboard. Terrified, the man at the helm gunned the
engines and swung his craft around in a flurry of white water. Peregrine
managed a dazed glimpse of the vessel pulling away from the shore, but
he bit back a sob as fire shot up his right arm again from his wounded hand.

Half a dozen yards away, the fairy cloud was lifting from a fading
crimson smear on the rocks, their keening almost deafening as they
realized their foes were escaping. A few tried to pursue the boat across
the water, but they could not maintain altitude and fell into the waves,
perishing in high-pitched screams and puffs of steam.

Peregrine stifled a little sob, dazedly cradling his hand against his
chest, not daring to open it for fear of what he might see. He was still
wearing Adam's ring, but dark blood was welling between his fingers,
dripping onto the wet shingle of the beach.

"Where's Noel?" Adam demanded, dragging Peregrine to his feet and
looking around worriedly. "Do you see Noel anywhere?"

"No, I-"

"Here, take this and stand back to back with me!" Adam said, handing him
the skean dubh. "They'll be coming after us next. Use the blade to cover
yourself."

Even as he spoke, the shining emerald cloud yammered at the shoreline
and then converged upon them, borne on a piercing skirl of high-pitched
fairy voices. Numbly Peregrine raised the skean dubh as he had seen Adam
do, though every fiber of his being shrieked that it was hopeless. . . .

Meanwhile, up on the high ground to the right of the cave-mouth, McLeod
stirred groggily to find himself half-buried under earth and rubble.
Somehow, his pistol was still in his hand, but he had managed to lose
his glasses.

He turned his attention down to the beach. He could see no sign of the
black-clad shore party, but a greenish swarm of lightmotes was whirling
angrily just at the shore-and

296 304 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

just beyond their reach, the speedboat was laboring desperately, trying
to make headway against the dark chop of the loch. He could make out two
black-clad figures in it.

Scrambling to one knee and locking into a combat stance, McLeod took
careful aim and squeezed off half a dozen rounds at the men in the boat,
even though he knew they were probably out of range. They were-but
before he could even begrudge them their escape, his attention was
arrested by new movement by the fairy column, now spiraling up from the
water's edge-and swooping down on two familiar figures standing back to
back at the shore.

With a hoarse croak of dismay, McLeod launched himself down the slope,
skidding on his butt and barely getting his feet under him as he hit the
bottom. He was already in motion as he staggered to his feet and started
toward them-and nearly tripped over the smashed frame of the Fairy Flag.

Intention sprang into his mind even as his body already was moving in
response. Jamming his pistol back into his waistband, he bent over the
Flag, in its shattered glass. No doubt assailed him, for he was a
MacLeod-and he had not seen the flag-bearer perish for his presumption.

But Adam had-and realized what McLeod was about to do.

"Noel, don't touch it!" he shouted, trying to ward off the menacing
fairies and watch McLeod at the same time. "The legend is true! The
flag-bearer went up in a puff of smoke!"

"Then he wasn't a MacLeod!" came the inspector's defiant reply, hardly
even faltering.

Reverently he gathered the Fairy Rag out of the ruins of its frame,
lifting it triumphantly in MacLeod hands-and did not die! MacLeod blood
singing to the music of ancient battle tunes, he draped the Flag around
his shoulders like a mantle and then bounded toward his beleaguered
companions, shouting the ancient MacLeod motto at the top of his lungs:
"Holdfast!"

Heedless of the milling fairies, he plunged into their midst to thrust
himself between the astonished Adam and Peregrine. A strong,
blunt-fingered hand clasped each

297

firmly by the shoulder as he raised his voice fearlessly above the din.

"Avaunt ye, children of Earth, Air, and Fire! In the name of the MacLeod
of MacLeod, Chief of all the Clan MacLeod, I, Noel Gordon McLeod, take
these men under the protection of the Fairy Flag of Dun vegan! Harm them
not, lest the ancient covenant be broken between MacLeods and the Faerie
Folk!"

At once the ear-piercing skirl of inhuman voices subsided to a sullen
buzz and the cloud lifted slightly, though the fairies continued to
swarm angrily above their heads.

"Lower your blades," McLeod muttered, in an emphatic aside to his two
companions. "I've got to convince them that we are not the enemy. You've
seen what steel can do to them."

Without hesitation, Adam lowered the Hepburn Sword, Peregrine more
reluctantly letting the skean dubh sink to point at the ground. As the
hum of the fairy voices wavered, McLeod raised his face toward them again.

"Ye have, indeed, been grievously wronged, O People of Peace," McLeod
began again, "but do not vent your just anger on those who would be your
allies. It is not we who have despoiled your treasure! Out there lie
your enemies!-" he gestured briefly with the hand on Adam's
shoulder-"not here beneath the Fairy Flag!"

For several breathless heartbeats, all three of them waited-Adam and
Peregrine with blades still poised, McLeod standing defiantly between
them, his arms spreading the protection of the Fairy Flag across their
shoulders. But then, to their infinite relief, the tornado whirl of the
Faerie Host slowly began to unwind, the column lifting gradually above
their heads.

However, the host did not disperse. Instead, the dancing motes of light
spread along the water's edge like a diaphanous ribbon of emerald
separating earth and sky, keening softly. The surface of the loch had
gone flat, and an eerie silence fell, pregnant with expectancy.

"They're waiting for something," McLeod muttered in Adam's ear. "What in
the world could they be waiting for?"

Above the loch, pale lightning was flickering erratically

298 306 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

among low-lying clouds. By its light, out on the loch, they could still
make out the shape of the fleeing speedboat, laboring southwards. The
low rumble of its diesels was clearly audible above the rising whistle
of the wind, and off to the left new lights were approaching-not the
expected police backup from Fort Augustus, if it came from that
direction, but two smaller craft, no doubt attracted by the pyrotechnic
show of the last little while. Their searchlights lanced across the
gloom, first one and then the other eventually spearing the escaping
craft in their beams- though their quarry had the advantage of speed,
and was starting to draw away toward the south.

But then an odd thing happened. All at once, an eye-searing bolt of
greenish lightning struck the water directly in front of the fleeing
speedboat, accompanied by a simultaneous crack of thunder. For just an
instant, the dark waters of the loch lit up in an eerie, fluorescent
green all around the boat.

Abruptly the speedboat lost power, all systems knocked out by the near
lightning strike. Off to the left, still several hundred yards away, the
other two boats had also lost their engines, and the focus of their
searchlights became more erratic as the occupants bent their attention
to balky mechanical devices.

But there was nothing mechanical about what was happening in the
vicinity of the first boat. As it drifted to a stop on the tossing
swells, dead in the water, its two stunned passengers began shouting and
frantically trying to restart the engines-for not far astern, between
them and the shore, the dark waters were beginning to boil. Illuminated
only sporadically by the now random bobbing of the searchlights, and
more dimly by the luminescent waves, a dark, triangular head smoothly
broke the surface, rearing upward on a long, powerful neck to turn two
eye-points of fire in sentient scan of the surrounding darkness.

"Bloody, bloody hell!" McLeod breathed, almost reverently. "Does
everyone else see what I see?"

Neither Adam nor Peregrine answered, but the Faerie Host greeted the
creature's appearance with shrieks of malevolent glee. For a moment the
creature hung there in

299

the verdant gloom, almost as if listening to the sound of voices only it
could hear. Then the great head dipped as if in acquiescence, and the
basilisk gaze turned purposefully toward the stalled speedboat.

Majestically the great neck crested, the motion rippling along dark,
serpentine coils that seemed to have no end. Then, with a languid sweep
of its mighty tail, it began moving in on its chosen prey, bearing down
with ever-increasing speed.

"Oh, my God!" Peregrine whispered. "They're sending it after the boat!"

The speedboat rocked and bobbed as its two occupants frantically renewed
their efforts to start the engines. The searchlights still swept the
area randomly, but the occupants of the other boats did not seem to
realize what was happening. In a vee of luminescent emerald wake, the
creature drove toward its target. One man snatched up the Uzi and
started firing wildly, but the great head merely submerged and the vee
kept coming.

It never rammed the boat, though. In the end, it was the great, dark
coils of the creature's body that surged upward, under, and around the
vessel, swamping the helpless craft and sucking it under. The man with
the Uzi disappeared without a trace, but faint screams carried thinly
over the water as the other man surfaced and tried to swim away,
thrashing in blind terror-until white water burst around him and he,
too, disappeared from sight.

As those ashore watched in fascination mixed with awe, the great head
broached once more, a weakly struggling human form pinned in its jaws.
But then man, monster, and the shattered remains of the boat disappeared
in a whirlpool of foam as the creature bent its neck and sounded,
carrying its struggling prey into the bottomless depths of Loch Ness.

As the churning waters subsided, utter silence settled on the leaden
surface of the loch, finally broken by the diesels coughing back to life
aboard the other two vessels, searchlights tentatively beginning to
quarter the dark waters for survivors who did not appear.

The fairies, meanwhile, seemed appeased at last. Rising in joyful
chorus, the dancing green motes of the Faerie Host

300 308 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

careened in mad circles above the heads of the three men left standing
alone on the shore-though for one breathless instant, Peregrine feared
they might be gathering to renew their assault.

But then, instead of attacking, the fairy vanguard suddenly wheeled
about and streaked back toward the mouth of the cave. The rest of the
host followed. They poured into the tunnel in a rushing torrent,
carrying rock and soil after them in the gale-wind of their passing. As
the last of the host swept into the cave, the cave mouth closed up
behind them with a crack like a clap of thunder. In the brittle silence
that followed, the sky overhead began to clear, a bright galleon of a
moon emerging from behind scudding clouds.

McLeod sat down heavily on the nearest boulder, looking more than a
little drained, then slowly and carefully began lifting the tatters of
the Fairy Flag from around his shoulders. Peregrine had sunk to his
knees in trembling after-reaction, clutching his wounded hand and the
slcean dubh to his chest. Adam, with a wordless glance at the sword in
his hand, turned toward the fairy cave, now visible only as a raw
depression in the face of the cliff.

For a moment he stared at it, giving silent tribute to the powers that
had spared them. Then he lifted the blade in grave salute, ending by
thrusting the point into the pebbled beach at his feet. As he released
it, the basket hilt swayed slowly back and forth like a heavy pendulum.
Beyond, the dark waters of Loch Ness had settled under a moonlit sky,
giving lie to the violence only minutes past. The two small boats
continued to search the waters fruitlessly, and off in the south, new
lights were approaching.

"I think we're about to have more company," Adam said, bending wearily
to take the skean dubh from Peregrine's unresisting hand. "Your police
backup, perhaps?"

McLeod craned his neck to look southward, then slumped back on his rock
as the sound of very large engines drifted across the loch and
searchlights criss-crossed the water ahead.

"Now they get here!" he muttered, easing out of his slicker and using it
to wrap around the loosely-folded Fairy

301

Flag. "Not that it would have made any difference, if they'd gotten here
sooner. In fact, it's probably best they didn't."

Adam took the skean dubh's sheath out of his pocket and slipped it back
on the blade, then tucked the whole back inside his coat, still looking
out at the approaching lights. Seen by the moonlight and the reflection
of her own searchlights, the newcomer was a stout forty-foot cruiser
with a canopied upper deck.

"She looks like a pleasure boat," Peregrine observed, trying not to
think about his throbbing hand.

"Aye, she is." McLeod rose to have a better look, then turned back to
them, shaking his head. "She's called the Queen of Alba. During the
tourist season, she operates as a tour boat out of Fort Augustus. But
she gets seconded for Coast Guard duty every now and again, if a police
vessel's needed in the area. Christ!" He slumped back down on his rock
and shook his head. "How am I going to write the report on this? If I
write what I really saw, they'll haul me off to the department shrink-no
offense, Adam."

"None taken," Adam said with a distracted smile, taking out his pocket
torch and crouching down to reach for Peregrine's wounded hand. "How
about holding this light for me? I'd like to see what the damage is to
Peregrine's hand, before we get inundated with people asking difficult
questions."

Peregrine's heart was still pounding in after-reaction to what they all
had seen, but now a new fear gripped at his heart as McLeod took the
torch and Adam carefully began uncurling the bloody fingers.

"Adam, I'm an artist," he whispered shakily, squinting against the glare
of the light in McLeod's hands. "I can't feel anything in my fingers."

"Good, then it won't hurt as much as I straighten them out. Yes, indeed.
..."

"Adam, I'm going to pass out," Peregrine managed to gasp.

"No, don't do that." Adam peered at the hand and nodded. "Come over here
closer to the water and let me rinse off some of the blood," he said,
helping the younger man move. "You're fine. Just take a good, deep breath.

302 310 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

You're not going to faint. This isn't going to hurt nearly as much as
you think. The water's cold. Good man!"

He sluiced the hand in the icy water and took a closer look, pressing
around a shallow gash across the heel of the hand and part of the palm,
then carefully worked his ring off the third finger, also slightly
lacerated, and passed the ring to McLeod.

"Well, the ring's going to have to be redone," he said lightly, probing
at the bones in the area around the wound, "but whatever else it may
have done for you, I do believe it's saved you two fingers. Have a look
at what the band stopped."

A little dazedly, Peregrine glanced at the ring McLeod proffered on the
palm of his free hand. The heavy band had a deep gouge in the gold,
angled where the blade of the Hepburn Sword had struck.

"You're lucky nothing's broken," Adam said, rinsing the hand again and
then wrapping it with a handkerchief that McLeod offered. "You'll need a
few stitches, but I don't think you'll even have much of a scar. Now, if
only the rest was going to be as easy to explain. ..."

On the loch beyond, the whoop of a police siren announced the approach
of the Queen of Alba, one of her searchlights lancing through the
darkness to spotlight the three crouching on the beach.

"Ahoy there!" came an authoritative voice, amplified by a loud-hailer.
"This is the police. Who are you?"

303

THE discovery that McLeod was a senior police officer, well out of his
own jurisdiction, produced more confusion than clarification at
first-though the sergeant aboard the Queen of Alba soon realized that it
was McLeod whose garbled call had summoned them. After ordering the two
remaining boats to stand by, the Queen of Alba touched in at the tour
dock north of the castle, long enough to disgorge several officers, then
joined the boats still searching the waters offshore for any survivors
of what already was being described as a freak accident. During the next
hour, reinforcements began arriving from Inverness: half a dozen police
cars, a forensic van, and an ambulance.

McLeod's statement that he had been pursuing the thieves who stole the
Fairy Flag seemed to come as no great surprise to his police colleagues.
They had heard about the theft through normal police channels, and did
not seem to think it at all odd that a MacLeod had managed to trail the
thieves to Urquhart with it, following a "hunch."

The conjecture that McLeod himself presented was that an unidentified
group of ne'er-do-wells had stolen the Fairy Flag of the MacLeods for
reasons yet to be determined. He did not attempt to explain the murdered
woman back at Dun vegan.

As for the pyrotechnic display reported by the occupants of the small
boats-though interestingly, to McLeod's way of thinking, they offered no
speculation regarding what had actually sunk the speedboat-McLeod
pleaded uncertainty, due to being stunned by a fall of earth during an
exchange

304 312 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

of gunfire-a claim substantiated by the police surgeon who examined him
and the recovery of expended shell casings in the area where he said he
had fallen. Based on the scant evidence emerging in the pre-dawn hours,
the theory was evolving that the gang who had stolen the Fairy Flag,
desperate enough to murder and attempt murder-for reasons of their
own-had somehow gotten themselves killed in pursuit of some likewise
unknown objective.

"Sounds like a little more than a Hallowe'en prank gone wrong, if you
ask me," one officer was heard to remark.

Satisfactory answers to the questions of "how" and "why" continued to
elude them, however. And there was a limit to how much information Adam
was prepared to offer in the interest of making matters clearer.

"I believe that Inspector McLeod was called in privately, by the Chief
of the MacLeods, after the Fairy Flag was stolen," Adam told the
sergeant taking his statement, as they stood in the shelter of the
forensic van. "The inspector knew of my concern for the preservation of
Scottish national treasures, through a long-term personal friendship, so
he invited me along."

"And this Mr.-ah-Lovat?" the sergeant asked, referring to his notes.

Behind them, Peregrine was sitting on the back bumper of the ambulance,
having his hand looked at. Before the first officers came ashore from
the Queen of Alba, the three of them had agreed on the basics of the
story they would tell.

"Oh, Mr. Lovat is an artist," Adam replied glibly. "He's been doing some
sketches for an article I'm writing, on the lesser-known treasures of
Scotland. We'd been going over some of them when Inspector McLeod rang.
So naturally, he asked to come along."

"Hmmm, right," the sergeant murmured, scribbling busily in his notebook.
"And you say he cut his hand on some glass?"

"That's correct. In their rush to get aboard the boat and escape, the
thieves dropped the Fairy Flag, shattering the glass and utterly
destroying the frame. Naturally, we were concerned that this priceless
artifact would be damaged by

305

the rain, so we tried to rescue it. Unfortunately, Mr. Lovat's zeal was
not matched by his dexterity. In helping to extricate the Flag and get
it out of the weather, he cut himself rather badly."

"Yes, I see," the sergeant said patiently, convinced-as intended-that
Adam's involvement, if a trifle eccentric, was certainly innocent. After
all, he was a respected member of the medical profession.

"Now, you mentioned the getaway boat, Sir Adam," the sergeant continued.
"I believe Inspector McLeod said he thought it must have hit something
in the water. Can you verify that?"

"Well, I should imagine it must have hit something-a submerged log,
perhaps, or something like that."

The sergeant glanced up at him, pen poised. "Did it, sir?"

Adam arched one eyebrow and allowed a faintly mocking smile to touch his
lips. "Come, now, my good man. I'm a psychiatrist. You surely don't
expect me to tell you that I saw the Loch Ness Monster sink it?"

The sergeant grinned, shaking his jhead as he ducked it to write in his
notebook again. i

"You'd be amazed at the storiesj I hear, sir. I've been working out of
Inverness for nearl^ twenty years, and I drive along this loch almost
every day. Sometimes I think the place attracts loonies!"

"Hmmm, some places do," Adam agreed.

"So. You think the boat hit a submerged log?" the sergeant said, still
writing.

"I honestly can't say-though it must have been something of that sort.
Actually, I was a bit preoccupied with Mr. Lovat's hand. It's rather a
nasty cut, you know, and he's an artist."

"Yes, well, thank you, Sir Adam," the sergeant replied, closing the
cover of his notebook with a sigh. "We may want to ask you some further
questions, later on, but for now, I think the ambulance blokes have got
some hot coffee. You look like you could use some."

The real investigation could not start until first light, of course,
though the Queen of Alba and the other boats

306 314 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

continued their sweep of the loch, looking for anything they could find
of the wrecked speedboat and its occupants, and police secured the area
around the south end of the castle. With the dawn, they could begin
combing the beach, searching for any minute clue as to what might have
happened.

By noon, the sum total of evidence was minimal and grisly: McLeod's
expended shells, shattered pieces of wood and fiberglass, shreds of torn
clothing, fragments of lacerated flesh, and splashes of dried blood. It
was the new depression of raw earth below the castle-walls that
eventually gave rise to a theory of sorts: that there had been some kind
of an explosion, perhaps involving a live hand grenade.

"I suppose the cave area does look a bit like a shell crater," Peregrine
remarked dubiously to Adam. "But now they're thinking in terms of a
terrorist plot! What's to terrorize, at an ancient monument? It isn't as
if Urquhart is even a symbol of Scottish nationalism, or something like
that."

They were drinking coffee in the back of one of the police cars from
Inverness, having just returned from having Peregrine's hand sutured.
The attending surgeon had done a masterful job, surpassing even Adam's
exacting standards; but the local anaesthetic had worn off more than an
hour ago, and the hand gave a twinge as Peregrine remembered, too late,
not to try using it to open the window a crack. In the car park beyond,
a police van and several more police vehicles were drawn up at odd
angles, and yellow police tapes were stretched across both entrances to
the car park, with a constable assigned to keep the public out.

Watching the constable pace back and forth before the farther entrance,
Adam took a sip from his styrofoam cup and glanced speculatively at
Peregrine.

"I'll grant you that a grenade sounds a bit far-fetched-to us. But it's
the tale-however improbable-that best fits the facts as the police know
them. People have learned to cope with the notion of terrorism, however
distasteful that might be. How do you think the general public would
react to the truth?"

307

Peregrine fingered the bandage on his right hand and grimaced, suddenly
aware that even the truth of how he had gotten his injury would only
raise questions that none of them were prepared to answer.

"I suppose I take your point," he said, after a moment. "Still, they
might have done better than to give out that the speedboat cracked up on
a floating log."

"Ah, but such things do occasionally happen," Adam said. "Back in the
fifties, a chap named Campbell hit a log while trying to establish a new
speed record, in a boat called the Bluebell. At least everyone said it
was a log. Eyewitnesses to another racing accident described a sudden
turbulence in the water ahead of the boat, just before it capsized and
exploded." He gave Peregrine a sardonic grin.

"For that matter, during the Second War, a high-speed Royal Navy launch
is said to have hit precisely what we all know we saw last night. In
trying to explain the damage to the bow, I believe the captain described
what he hit as 'soft and squelchy." Hardly a log-but boats do hit logs
sometimes. At least often enough to lend credence to this incident."

As Peregrine considered these incidents, Adam allowed his gaze to stray
across the castle car park once more. Down by the south entrance, the
grey Volvo from Dunvegan was parked on the tarmac. A crash recovery
truck had towed it out of the ditch an hour earlier. Apart from a
liberal coating of mud and festoons of weeds trailing from the
underside- and the broken headlamp McLeod had noted at the time-it
seemed little the worse for the mishap.

Beyond the car, McLeod was deeply engaged in conversation with a tall,
distinguished-looking man in a well-cut tan trenchcoat. A police car had
brought him in half an hour before. Following Adam's attentive gaze,
Peregrine noticed for the first time that McLeod's companion was wearing
a Balmoral bonnet with three eagle feathers brooched on the band-the
designation for a full Highland Chief.

"Adam," he murmured, "is that who I think that is?"

Adam nodded, a faint smile playing about the corners of his long mouth.
As they continued to watch, McLeod carefully took a flat,
plastic-wrapped bundle from the breast

308 316 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

of his borrowed waxed jacket coat and tendered it to the Chief. To mere
vision, it appeared to be only a folded lump of beige fabric, flecked
with bits of vermilion, but to Peregrine's inner sight, even in the
sunshine, it seemed to shimmer still with the pale, greenish glow of
fairy magic.

The tall man received it with the same sort of reverence they had
observed in the inspector, what seemed like a lifetime ago, as he lifted
it from its shattered frame. Then, after shaking McLeod's hand warmly,
he stood aside to let the driver's door be opened for him, slipping
behind the wheel and carefully depositing his treasure on the seat
beside him as McLeod firmly closed the door.

McLeod stood back as the man in the highland bonnet started up the
engine and eased the big car out of the car park, past the police
barricade, raising a hand in farewell as it made the turn onto the main
road and headed south, on the return route to Dunvegan. He joined them a
moment later, slipping into the front passenger seat with a sigh of
mingled weariness and satisfaction.

"Wasn't that evidence we just saw you give away?" Adam said, smiling, as
the inspector poured himself a cup of coffee from the flask in the front
seat.

McLeod snorted and took a sip of his coffee, making a face at the taste.

"Faugh! How can you two drink this stuff? What evidence? It was
recovered property, apt to sustain further damage if it wasn't put into
responsible hands. I've signed for it. Besides, we couldn't have the
entire West Highland Constabulary going up in smoke-other than MacLeods,
of course."

"Would they have?" Peregrine asked. "I mean, did that man really go up
in a puff of smoke when he touched the Fairy Flag?"

McLeod laid his arm languidly along the back of the seat and gave
Peregrine a droll glance across his shoulder.

"You're asking me! You're the one who saw it, my friend. / was having a
nap under some rocks and earth. Of course, the official version is that
the chap met with a nasty mishap involving a grenade."

He started to take another sip of his coffee, then thought

309

better of it and cracked his door open to dump the contents of the cup
outside.

"Oh, and by the way, Mr. Lovat," he added, glancing back over his
shoulder at Peregrine as he closed the door again, "you didn't do too
badly last night. Just remember to follow orders next time."

"Next time?"

As Peregrine's eyes widened behind his spectacles, Adam gave a contented
chuckle.

"Noel is having a little fun with you, Peregrine," he said easily. "He
means you've passed your entrance exam."

"Beg pardon?"

"You may recall that I told you, several days ago, that I had several
functions besides being a psychiatrist. Noel and I are part of a small
group of-shall we say, specialists?- whose responsibility it is to deal
with affairs of this kind: criminal cases involving elements of what the
uninitiated would call the supernatural. I suppose one might call us a
kind of-ah-occult police force."

Peregrine had gone very still and quiet, and he could not seem to take
his eyes from Adam's.

"You-you aren't joking, are you?" he whispered.

"I think you know the answer to that," Adam said, still smiling. "It's
our job to see to it that mischief of the kind you saw last night isn't
allowed to run its course. And because a little knowledge is a
dangerous-not to say, terrifying-thing, it's also our job to see to it
that the circumstances surrounding these cases are suitably camouflaged,
for the peace of mind of the rest of the population."

"Take this particular case," put in McLeod. "As far as the man in the
street is concerned, the events of last night were merely a series of
accidents-bizarre accidents, maybe, but still explainable according to
material logic. Even though we may be stretching credibility a long way,
human beings generally believe what they expect to see- and that lets us
supply and support the appropriate cloak-ery."

He glanced back at Adam, who gave Peregrine a confirming nod.

"All this is by way of an invitation," Adam said. "Your

310 318 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

manifest talent for seeing marks you out as one of us in spirit. We
would like you to become one of us in common purpose-a part of the team.
If you think you might be willing."

Peregrine could feel the blood pounding in his temples. He stared at
Adam for a long moment, trying to fathom the full extent of what the
older man was asking, but only new questions came to mind-not answers.

"I-think I understand what you're saying," he began carefully, "but I-
Yesl" he blurted, throwing caution to the winds. "I am willing. I want
to be a part of it! I haven't the first notion what to do, but-"

"Fortunately, it isn't so much a question of doing anything," Adam
interjected smoothly, "as it is as a matter of becoming something more
than you are at present. You have enormous potential, as I believe
you've convinced even yourself in this past week or so. I would be both
pleased and honored to help you fulfill that potential and put it to
constructive use. But the decision must-"

"Hold on a minute, Adam," McLeod murmured, raising a warning hand.
"There's a constable headed this way, looking purposeful."

As the man drew nearer, McLeod rolled down his window expectantly.

"Are you looking for me?" he called.

"Aye, sir. Supervisor wants you, over by the van."

"I'll be back as soon as I can," McLeod murmured, as he got out and went
with the officer.

Left alone with Peregrine, Adam considered for a moment before picking
up the thread of their conversation.

"As I was about to say, the decision must be yours," he said. "The offer
we've just made you was not made lightly, and I shouldn't want you to
make any binding answer without due consideration. You remarked that you
didn't know what to do, and I replied that it isn't a matter of doing
but, rather, being. However, there is something you can do to help the
process along, if you're serious."

"Yes?"

"It's quite within your ability, I assure you," Adam replied, smiling at
Peregrine's look of anxious inquiry. "I

311

319

should imagine they'll be done with us in the next hour or so. We should
be able to get a flight out of Inverness-or a train, at least. And with
any luck, we'll be back at Strathmourne by bedtime. In the morning,
after you've rested, I would suggest that you do a portrait of yourself.
I think that may give you all the further guidance you need, in deciding
where to go from here."

"A self-portrait . . . ," Peregrine murmured.

"That's right. Think about the sketches you've done of me, and of Noel,
and then ask yourself whether you're ready to draw the inner Peregrine
Lovat. Think about it."

Adam could almost hear the tumult of thoughts racing through the younger
man's mind. And when Peregrine slowly nodded, breathing out with a long,
soft sigh, Adam smiled and got out of the car, satisfied that he had
given his new colleague something more to think about than the horrors
of the previous night.

Strolling over to the railing, he gazed down idly at the police still
moving on the slope below. Beyond, Loch Ness stretched bright as a
blackened mirror under the noonday sun, hiding-

"Adam, could you step over to the van for a moment?" McLeod said,
startling him out of his reverie. He had an odd expression on his face.
"Something's just come to light that I think you ought to see."

The police van was parked at the entrance to the car park. The back of
the van was open. Just inside, Adam caught a glimpse of the Hepburn
Sword, bagged in plastic and with an evidence tag looped through the
basket hilt, lying on the floor. Waving off the constable standing guard
beside the van, McLeod reached past the sword and plucked a clear
plastic evidence envelope out of one of the collection bins. He handed
the envelope to Adam.

"See what you make of that," he said gruffly.

The envelope contained a bloody fragment of a human finger. Caught
between the knucklebones was a carnelian signet ring. Pressing the
plastic closer against the stone, Adam could see that the device on the
ring was that of a feline visage with tufted ears and cheeks, its jaws
agape in

312 320 Katherine Kurtz and Deborah Turner Harris

a defiant snarl. He stared at the ring for a long moment, then handed
the envelope back to McLeod.

"The Sign of the Lynx," he murmured evenly.

McLeod gave a heavy sigh and tossed the bag back into the proper bin,
sinking wearily onto the bumper of the van to rub at his forehead
between the eyes.

"I thought it was," he said, "though I couldn't be certain, without my
glasses. It's been a long time since I last saw a signet like that-and I
must say, I was hoping I never would again. Does this mean that the
Lodge of the Lynx is becoming active again?"

"I'm afraid," said Adam, "that it can mean nothing else."

For a moment he stood silent, lost in thought. The finding of the ring
lent sudden weight to Peregrine's premonitions and his own sense of dark
events set in motion. Now he knew what the young artist had been trying
to draw, on unseeable rings and medallions. Adam had dealt with the
Lords of the Lynx in times gone by. That the Lodge was mustering again
promised trouble to come.

For the moment, however, the situation was under control. He and Noel
were forewarned, with a new recruit to train up for the Hunt-and in all
likelihood, the Opposition would not know who had thwarted their intentions.

Not that inquiries would not be made, once they learned what had
happened to their confederates. But Adam would make his own
inquiries-tonight, when he returned to Strathmourne, as soon as he had
rested. The Inner Chiefs must be informed-and must ratify the
recruitment of Peregrine Lovat.

So. The Hunt was being called again. But when the time came for further
confrontations, as it surely must, he and his would be ready. In the
finest of Templar tradition, they would not shy away from battle,
however adverse the odds might be. And there were others willing to do
their parts-if he could finally get past telephone answering machines!

Adam shook his head, smiling at the idiocy of it all, and glanced at McLeod.

"We'll have to alert the others," he said quietly, closing his hand in
his pocket around the symbol of his own Lodge.

313

321

"We'll need feelers put out all around. If the Lodge of the Lynx has
gone active again, there're none of us immune to attack, once they find
out we're on to them."

McLeod snorted and got to his feet, squaring his shoulders as he turned
his face to the freshening wind.

"You're not worried, I hope."

"Worried? Not really. Challenged, perhaps?" Adam smiled. "As I recall,
one Sherlock Holmes had the right phrase."

Grinning slyly, McLeod glanced at Adam and nodded.

"Aye," he said. "The stakes may be a bit different, but the object's
still the same. The hunt is up. And as Holmes would say, 'The game's
afoot!'"

314

TWO days later, when the incident at Urquhart had hit most of the
newspapers, a woman sitting at a desk in a Glasgow office tower scanned
over the day's newspapers while she sipped her morning coffee. The
Urquhart article caught her eye as soon as she turned to the second
page, and she read it through twice before picking up one of the three
telephones on her desk.

"Get me Mr. Raeburn," she said.

315 New York Times Bestselling Author

KATHERINE KURTZ

KING KELSON'S BRIDE A novel of the Deryni

As a rival monarch takes his rightful place on the

throne of a nearby land, it becomes more imperative

than ever that King Kelson produce a long-awaited

heir. Love is set aside for duty-and Kelson the king

must make the choice that Kelson the man cannot.

0-441-00827-5

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