The Gates of Sleep

pronounced it a grimoire, rather than a grammary, which at least meant that the artist recognized it for what it was. Andrew could never think of the book without thinking of the old ballad of “The Lady Gay”:

There was a lady, and a lady gay, of children she had three. She sent them away to the North Country, to learn their grammary.

Most, if not all, scholars thought the song meant that the children were being sent to learn reading and writing. Little did they know the song spoke of the long tradition of wizards and witches of the North Country, who fostered the children of Masters and taught them the Elemental Magics that their parents could not… a tradition which Andrew himself had unwittingly replicated, though he’d gone up to Scotland rather than the North of England.

He shook himself out of his reverie. He was going to need a protector while he worked his magics, and for that, he thought, Sebastian Tarrant would be the best suited. Despite not being of the same Element as Andrew, Tarrant had more of the warrior in him than either his wife or brother-in-law. If they could strengthen Marina and pick up his duties—

He pulled on a clean shirt and went to find the newcomers—and predictably, two of the four were with Marina. As Eleanor had said, Margherita and Thomas were—God bless them!—tending his patients. Sebastian and Lady Elizabeth were at Marina’s side, and both stood when he entered.

And the moment he laid eyes on Lady Elizabeth, he knew that she would be better suited to guard his back as he scryed into the past than Sebastian.

In fact, he had to restrain himself from bowing so deeply over her hand that he looked like a fop. He did take her extended hand, and he shook it carefully. “You must be Lady Hastings,” he began. “I’m Andrew Pike—”

“We haven’t time for formalities, Doctor,” she said crisply, before he had done more than introduce himself. “What is it you wish us to do?”

He nodded gratitude, and hoped she saw it as he released her hand. “I’m going to use this to scry into the past, Lady Hastings,” he said, holding up the book that was tucked under his other arm.

“Elizabeth,” she interrupted him. “Why?”

That was when he sat down and explained exactly what he thought had been going on in Madam’s household for all these years. More than once, Sebastian and Elizabeth sucked in a surprised breath. More than once, he suspected, they cursed themselves for not seeing it themselves.

But why should they? Most of those who considered themselves to be black magicians and Satanists were pathetic creatures, more interested in debauchery than discipline, in the interplay of status than power itself. They had neither the learning nor the understanding to make use of any magic that they acquired, either by accident or on purpose. And even if they’d had the knowledge, they simply weren’t interested in anything past the moment. The few times to Sebastian’s knowledge that self-styled Satanists had warranted attention, it was the police that were needed, not the Masters or some other occultists. In fact, to everyone except the dour lot up in Scotland, Satanic worship was more of a joke than a threat. And perhaps, that was what had been the protection for the few real Satanic cults in the modern world; that no one believed in them.

It’s our protection, too, after all. When something becomes a fairy tale, the ordinary sort of fellow can look right at it and not believe in it.

“So, you’re going to go look back in time to when this book was being written and try to see what lay behind those journal entries,” Elizabeth stated, summing up his intentions nicely. “Can you do the work here?”

“It’s the best-shielded room in the place at this point,” he replied. “What I’ll need from you is guarding.” He frowned. “I hope that I don’t sound superstitious to you, but—” He was reluctant even to voice his suspicions, but if he didn’t and something happened—”Look, I know that the idea of demons is something less than fashionable among Masters at the moment, but, well, the only way I can think of for Madam to have done some of what she’s done is to have a servant or a slave that is sensitive to magic power. And as a Satanist—well—I suppose she could have attracted some of the nastier Elementals, but how would she have seen them? So what does that leave but the Satanist’s traditional servant?”

Tarrant made a sour face. “I have to admit that a demon, a Mephistopheles to Arachne’s Faustus, is the most logical answer. I don’t like it. I might as well believe in vampires, next—”

“Or brownies?” Elizabeth said suggestively, and Sebastian flushed. “I agree with you, Doctor. And that is yet another good reason for us to do as little as possible magically, and make most of that passive. I had a feeling I ought to use the telegraph rather than occult means of calling the other Masters, and now I’m glad I did. I wish I knew if holy symbols really worked against demons, though.” She bit her lip. “The wearing of my grandmother’s crucifix is very, very tempting right now.”

“I suspect that depends entirely on the depth of belief of the one using them,” Tarrant replied, regaining his equilibrium. “And I will make no judgment on the state of your belief, Elizabeth. As for myself—” he hesitated. “I suspect for me, that any holy symbol would be as efficacious, or not, as any other. Doctor, if you are ready, so are we.”

With the room already shielded, all he needed to do, really, was to set up the other object he had brought with him besides the book. This was an amber sphere about the size of a goose egg with no inclusions, amber being about the only material suitable for an Earth Master to use for scrying. Then he placed the book in front of it, and sat facing the sphere at the tiny table below the window, both hands atop the book, which was open to the relevant passage.

Then, after invoking his own personal shields, he “touched” the book with a delicate finger of power.

Show me—he whispered to it. Show me your author, and what was happening when he wrote these words.

He was hoping for a scene in the sphere, or at least a few suggestive hints that he could concentrate on to bring things further into focus. At best, he hoped for a clear image of the old Master in the midst of his single combat with the Satanic magician he had tersely described in his entry.

He did not expect what he got.

He was jolted—exactly like being struck by lightning—as power slammed into him from the pages of the book themselves, knocking him back in his chair, and breaking his contact with the volume.

“Bloody hell!” he yelped, shocked beyond measure. But before he—or either of the other two—could react, a column of light flung itself upwards from the open book, reaching floor—to—ceiling—a golden-yellow light, like sun on ripening corn.

“Bloody hell!” Sebastian echoed, as Lady Elizabeth yelped.

And in the very next moment, he found himself looking up into the eyes of a vigorous man of perhaps late middle-years, bearded, moustached, crowned with a flat cap and attired in a laced and slashed doublet, small starched ruff, sleeved gown identical to an academic gown, hose and those ridiculous balloonlike breeches that the Tudors wore. The fact that the fellow was entirely colorless and transparent had no bearing whatsoever on the sensation of force he radiated.

The light radiated from him, and it was as utterly unlike the black-green poison of the curse holding Marina as it was possible to be. Andrew wanted to drink in that light, eat it, pull it in through every pore. And as for that power, that force—

The man also radiated the palpable force of an Earth Master as far above Andrew in power as Andrew was above Thomas Buford. And more.

Details of the man’s appearance branded themselves on his brain. The square jaw underneath a beard neatly trimmed, but with one untidy swirl, as if there was a scar under the hair. The bushy eyebrows that overhung a pair of keen eyes that might have been blue. The doublet, dark and sober, contrasting wildly with the striped satin of the puffy breeches and an entirely immodest codpiece ornamented in sequins and bullion. The equally sober robe he wore over both—a robe of velvet that had been badly rubbed in places, as if it was an old and favored garment that the man could not bear to part with, despite it being a bit shabby.

“God’s Blood!” the man barked—audibly. And with a decided Scots brogue to his words.

Andrew started again; he hadn’t expected the apparition to speak!

The spirit stamped his foot—no sound. “Devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon! Where gottest thou that goose-look? It’s half mad I’ve been, wondering if thee’d the wit to use the book! Damme, man, thee took thy leisure, deciding the menace here!”