She was about to get up when she realized what she’d said, and that Rowan would never face this particular dilemma again. But Rowan seemed not at all offended by her words, and certainly not hurt. Her face was very quiet. She was looking at the cigarettes.
“Get out of here so I can smoke in peace, will you?” Rowan asked, smiling. “And then we’ll wake up Michael. I have an hour and a half to make the plane.”
“Rowan, I … I’m still sorry about doing it with him. I just can’t be sorry about the child.”
“Neither can I,” said Rowan. “If he comes out of this with a child of his own, and a mother who’ll let him love it, well, maybe he’ll find a way to forgive everything as the years pass. Just remember. I’m still his wife, Jezebel. You’ve got the emerald and the baby. But Michael is still mine.”
“Got it,” said Mona. “I really like you, Rowan. I really, really like you. That’s aside from loving you because you’re my cousin and we’re Mayfairs. If I wasn’t pregnant I’d make you take me with you, for your sake and Yuri’s and everybody else’s.”
“And how would you make me take you, Mona?”
“What were your words? Secret weapons of my own.”
They looked at one another, and then slowly Rowan nodded and smiled.
Seven
THE HILL WAS muddy and cold, but never had Marklin made this slippery climb, either in winter or summer, when he had not loved it-to stand on Wearyall Hill beside the Holy Thom and look down upon the quaint and picturesque town of Glastonbury. The country round was always green, even in winter, but now it had the new intense color of spring.
Marklin was twenty-three, and very fair, with blond hair and pale blue eyes, and thin clear skin that chilled easily. He wore a raincoat with a wool lining, and a pair of leather gloves, and a small wool cap on his head that fitted well and kept him warmer than one might expect from such a little article of clothing.
He’d been eighteen when Stuart had brought them here-he and Tommy both eager students, in love with Oxford, in love with Stuart and eager for every word that dropped from Stuart’s lips.
All during their Oxford days, they had honored this place with regular visitations. They’d taken small, cozy little rooms at the George and Pilgrims Hotel, and walked High Street together perusing the bookshops and the stores that sold crystals and the Tarot, whispering to each other of their secret research, their keen scientific approach to things which others held to be purely mythological. The local believers, called variously the hippies of yore or the New Age fanatics, or the bohemians and artists who always seek the charm and tranquillity of such a place, held no charm for them.
They were for decoding the past, rapidly, with all the tools at their command. And Stuart, their instructor in ancient tongues, had been their priest, their magical connection to a true sanctuary-the library and the archives of the Talamasca.
Last year, after the discovery of Tessa, it had been on Glastonbury Tor that Stuart had told them, “In you two, I have found everything I ever sought in a scholar, a pupil, or a novice. You are the first to whom I truly want to give all I know.”
That had seemed a supreme honor to Marklin-something finer than any honors awarded him at Eton or Oxford, or anywhere in the wide world where his studies had carried him later on.
It had been a greater moment even than being accepted into the Order. And now, in retrospect, he knew that that acceptance had meant something only because it had meant everything to Stuart, who had lived all his life as a member of the Talamasca, and would soon die, as he so often said, within its walls.
Stuart was now eighty-seven, and perhaps one of the oldest active men alive in the Talamasca, if one could call tutoring in language an activity of the Talamasca, for it was more the special passion of Stuart’s retirement. The talk of death was neither romantic nor melodramatic. And nothing really had changed Stuart’s matter-of-fact attitude to what lay ahead.
“A man of my age with his wits about him? If he isn’t brave in the face of death, if he isn’t curious, and rather eager to see what happens, well, then, he’s wasted his life. He’s a damned fool.”
Even the discovery of Tessa had not infected Stuart with any last-ditch desperation to lengthen the time remaining to him. His devotion to Tessa, his belief in her, encompassed nothing so petty. Marklin feared Stuart’s death far more than Stuart did. And Marklin knew now that he had overplayed his hand with Stuart, and that he must woo him back to the moment of commitment. To lose Stuart to death was inevitable; to lose Stuart before that time was unthinkable.
“You stand on the sacred ground of Glastonbury,” Stuart had told them that day, when it all began. “Who is buried within this tor? Arthur himself, or only the nameless Celts who left us their coins, their weapons, the boats with which they traveled the seas that once made of this the isle of Avalon? We’ll never know. But there are secrets which we can know, and the implications of these secrets are so vast, so revolutionary, and so unprecedented that they are worth our allegiance to the Order, they are worth any sacrifice we must make. If this is not so, then we are liars.”
That Stuart now threatened to abandon Marklin and Tommy, that he had turned against them in his anger and revulsion, was something Marklin could have avoided. It had not been necessary to reveal every part of their plan to Stuart. And Marklin realized this now, that his refusal to assume full leadership himself had caused the rift. Stuart had Tessa…. Stuart had made his wishes clear. But Stuart should never have been told what had really happened. That had been the error, and Marklin had only his own immaturity to blame, that he had loved Stuart so much he had felt compelled to tell Stuart everything.
He would get Stuart back. Stuart had agreed to come today. He was no doubt already here, visiting Chalice Well as he always did before coming to Wearyall Hill and leading them up on the tor itself. Marklin knew how much Stuart loved him. This breach would be repaired with an appeal from the soul, with poetry and with honest fervor.
That his own life would be long, that this was only the first of his dark adventures, Marklin had no doubt. His would be the keys to the tabernacle, the map to the treasure, the formula for the magic potion. He was utterly certain of it. But for this first plan to end in defeat would be a moral disaster. He would go on, of course, but his youth had been a chain of unbroken successes, and this too must succeed so that his ascent would lose no momentum.
I must win, I must always win. I must never attempt anything that I cannot do with utter success. This had always been Marklin’s personal vow. He had never failed to keep it.
As for Tommy, Tommy was faithful to the vows the three had taken, faithful to the concept and the person of Tessa. There was no worry with Tommy. Deeply involved in his computer research, his precise chronologies and charts, Tommy was in no danger of disaffection for the very reasons that made him valuable; he was not the one to see the whole scheme, or to question the validity of it.
In a very basic sense, Tommy never changed.
Tommy was the same now as the boy whom Marklin had come to love in childhood-collector, collator, an archive unto himself, an appreciator and an investigator. Tommy without Marklin had never existed, as far as Marklin knew. They had first laid eyes, upon each other at the age of twelve, in boarding school in America. Tommy’s room had been filled with fossils, maps, animal bones, computer equipment of the most esoteric sort, and a vast collection of paperback science fiction.
Marklin had often thought that he must have seemed to Tommy to be one of the characters in those fantastic novels-Marklin himself hated fiction-and that Tommy had gone from an outsider to a featured player in a science fiction drama upon meeting Marklin. Tommy’s loyalty had never, for even one moment, been in question. Indeed, during the years when Marklin had wanted his freedom, Tommy had been too close, always on hand, always at Marklin’s service. Marklin had invented tasks for his friend, simply to give himself space to breathe. Tommy had never been unhappy.
Marklin was getting cold, but he didn’t mind it.
Glastonbury would never be anything for him but a sacred place, though he believed almost nothing, literally, that was connected with it.
