Heartland-The Second Book of the Codex of Souls (51 page)

"We all needed some time to heal," she replied, wandering into the studio. She saw the canvas on the easel, and I wondered
what
she saw. I wanted to ask her; part of me still thrilled at the idea of hearing her interpretation, of being drawn in by her vision.

"It's going to take longer than a few weeks," I said, pushing that desire away.

Marielle nodded. "It's a new world, Michael. The old ways have been abandoned, but not forgotten. We needed a clean break, no matter how painful. We are not snakes; we don't slough off our old shells every year. It takes a little longer."

She caught a hint of the objection rising in my chest. "Regardless of how quickly our flesh regenerates. Broken hearts and spirits take a little longer." She shrugged. "But, children are resilient and eager to learn. They do heal, and they do learn to forgive."

"Is that what you're telling them? That they'll forgive you eventually?"

"Me?" Her eyebrows went up. "Why would they need to forgive me?"

"Did he ask you to kill him, or did you decide to do it on your own?"

Something that might have been a sneer started to move across her lips, but she hid it quickly, burying it beneath a sad smile. "A year ago, my father told me the Land had nearly rejected him at his last Renewal. He didn't think he would be strong enough to renew his oath this spring, and so he was forced to decide who would take the Crown after him, and how they would take it."

"Did he ask you to kill him?" I repeated.

"No child should ever have to bear the blood of their parents on their hands," was her response.

"That's not the way he remembers how the ritual goes."

"But he is gone, and there is no one to confirm what he thought, and so my way will be the way it is."

"Convenient."

"It is a better pattern, Michael, for all the threads. You See that."

I did. I had had some time to think about it since I had left her and Antoine in the church with the Grail. I had had time to figure out who was really playing whom. Whose vision was really the deepest.

Marielle came closer, studying my face. "In the end, my hands are clean," she said, "and that is the way my reign shall be. That is the way they will know that I will always be smarter than them, that I will always See further and deeper than any of them. They may not like that a woman leads them, but they will not be able to dismiss the fact that I earned the right to do so. And from this point, we will work toward a future where they will understand. Where they will Know, and in Knowing, they will be strong."

"Why?" I asked. "Why the object lesson?"

She took up my new hand and raised it to her lips. They were warm and her kiss invigorated my new flesh. I wanted to pull away, but I was rooted to the spot, caught in the magnetic whirlpool of force she carried within her. That she had always carried in her. The Chorus flickered into the room, falling back into my skull, and the skin of my new hand began to tingle. The teeth marks on her right ring finger whitened, old memories coming to the surface. The opals in the signet ring on her left thumb glowed like the moon.

She looked at her hands, holding mine. "You and Antoine broke my heart a long time ago," she said, "and I made the mistake of going to my father and telling him of the pain. Do you know what he told me?"

I remembered the last conversation between Philippe and myself, burned into my brain from two perspectives.
Most die in darkness and in pain.
"I can imagine," I said.

"He told me I had made that choice. I was responsible for what happened between the two of you, and I needed to own that responsibility." She shook her head. "I knew he was manipulating me, that he was twisting my thread. He wanted me to be confused and angry. As if I could plant that guilt and water it with my tears. As if I could make it grow with all that misplaced frustration and hurt. He wanted me to hate both of you, because he knew—when it came time—that I would have to play you two against each other again."

She looked at my eyes, and I knew she saw the memory of my own
Qliphotic
blackness there. "It is an easy choice, isn't it?" she whispered. "When you are bound in darkness. When you are frightened and willing to do anything to make the emptiness go away."

"It is," I said.

She leaned forward, hesitating for a moment, and when I didn't pull away, she brushed her lips against mine. All the air in my lungs vanished, drawn down into the whirlpool of her psychic beauty. "The sun has come back," she whispered, her lips still close to mine. Her face, so close to mine. "The world turned, and dawn brought light to our darkness. We can choose new paths now, can't we? We can put the past behind us and try again. Isn't that the opportunity given to us by the Land? We are the kings and queens of the world, Michael. We can choose any path we want. To walk into the light, or to stay in the dark." Her lips touched me again, flooding me with warmth. "Which path will you take?"

I pulled my hand out of hers and crushed her to me, kissing her fiercely. At some point, she broke away with a tiny noise, but it was a brief moment—an inhalation more than a reaction—and she then grabbed me again. I had already told her my choice, and I wasn't going to change my mind. No matter the allure of her words, or the touch of her flesh. No matter the path she offered.

Our lips parted eventually, but we remained close. Touching at chest, hip, and thigh. Hands lightly tracing each other. I wiped the moisture from her cheeks with my right hand and she tried to kiss my fingers once more. On her finger, the white ring of teeth marks. She would carry them forever, just as I carried Reija's hair about my throat.

We all carry our scars. Some of them are more welcome than others. Some of them don't remind us of pain, but of the things we once loved.

I thought of Lafoutain and Vivienne.
We can't control how other people love us, can we? Eventually we recognize that they do.

In his own way, Philippe had loved his daughter too. As best he could.

"Your father left me a memory of this place," I said. "You. When you were about eight. Chasing geese out in the field."

She nodded. "They came back every spring. As soon as the frost broke, I would leave my window cracked at night. So that when they came back, I would hear them. They always came at first light, chased by the dawn. I knew it was spring when I heard their voices again."

"Really? Your father was a very visual man. Most of his memories are like silent films. Little loops of imagery." The memory played again in my head. Little Marielle, laughing, chasing white shapes in the field of yellow flowers. This time there was sound, and I probably imagined it.

But maybe not.

"Thank you for telling me," I said.

Reluctantly, she let go and took a step back. A shy smile tugged at her lips. "I'm glad you know."

"Goodbye, Marielle."

"Goodbye, Michael."

After she left the studio, I didn't go to the window and watch her drive away with her Shepherd. What was done was done, and what was gone was gone.

Even though the equinox had passed, the sky was still empty of stars at night and the wind off the river was cold. When it got dark, I made a fire in the main house and read from a copy of Eschenbach's
Parzival
until I couldn't stay awake any longer.

The sun would wake me in the morning. The main sitting room looked toward the hills in the east. The dawn light would creep across the valley, stir up fog on the river, and steal through the large picture windows. It would wake me, and I would rise, free to make any choice I wanted.

Free to chose any path.

We all pass through Yesod
.

I thought I might stay a few more days, though, in case the geese came back. Just to see them with my own eyes.

Emm, Ess, and Zee sustain me. As always.

My mother and father are thoroughly enjoying their retirement, and based on the pictures they keep sending along, I like to think of them as my location scouts. Even when they send pictures where they are going nose-to-beak with penguins. I know they mean well, and the angst such pictures generate gets redirected into the making of words, so it's all good in the end.

Jeremy Bornstein, Geoff Gibbs, Cooper Moo, and Jonathan Wood provided enthusiasm and asked pointed questions that I had to go figure out how to answer so as not to embarrass myself in this manuscript. Jeremy kept me honest with the Latin. Thank you, gentlemen.

Kristopher O'Higgins kept me on track when I caught the brain fever and wanted to wander, screaming, into the wilderness. Being an agent is, more often than not, like being the night intern at a mental hospital. Marty Halpern provided a stern editorial pencil, saving me from appearing like I can't hook two phrases together. I threw a lot of italics and outlandish phrases at him, and he took all of it in stride. The lads at Night Shade Books—Jason, Jeremy, and Ross—have given the Codex books a home, and I appreciate the continued opportunity to bring Markham's adventures to life. Jay Caselberg graciously went out into the streets of Paris and took pictures for me; I'm sure it was a real drag. Tom Dancs was, once again, an unsuspecting source of knowledge about jumping off of things. Thank you, all.

Barth Anderson, Darin Bradley, and John Klima provided moral support and were party to many a creative diversion. Somehow, even with them enabling me, the book managed to get done.

I listened to a lot of Fields of the Nephilim again (thank you, Carl), Die Warzau (thank you, Jim and Van), Laibach (thank you, brother citizens of NSK), Ulver (thank you, lads), and various incarnations of the Positronic Sound (Sister Machine Gun, Micronaut, and so on; thank you, Chris) while banging out the words. If the energy of the book is too manic, blame them.

As always, I have taken some liberties with various occult rituals and practices. For creative purposes, of course. You may blame me for oversights and errors. I do appreciate the interest and support from my readers, so thank you all as well.

Keep seeking, my brothers and sisters.

Salve.

THE FIRST WORK

I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII

THE SECOND WORK

IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV

THE THIRD WORK

XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII

THE FOURTH WORK

XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX

THE FIFTH WORK

XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI

EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS