Lucifer's Crown (37 page)

Stavros looked in the door. “Anyone for Scrabble?"

"I'm on,” said Thomas. “Maggie?"

"Sure. Just don't penalize me for American spelling. I take it y'all don't want to play?” she asked Mick and Rose.

"No, thank you,” said Mick.

Rose waited until she heard the tiles clicking in the dining room and then turned to him. “I shouldn't have given Robin the satisfaction of doubting you for even one minute."

"Nor I,” he returned. “If I can trust anyone, lass, it's you."

She saw the words leave his lips like bubbles of light. Trust was truth. It had to be chosen, like faith, even though it sometimes took a heck of a lot of courage to do it. “At least,” she whispered, “if Robin keeps trying to break us up, then he keeps pushing us to make up, too."

"Then let's be making up,” Mick whispered back.

Rose slipped as easily into his arms as though she'd been doing it for years. She rubbed her cheek from the muscle of his shoulder up to the angle of his jaw, inhaling his scent of shampoo and wool, and buried her face in his hair. Yes, he'd existed in her own personal Dreamtime for a very long time.

His mouth brushed her forehead. “I was scairt I'd not be seeing you again. And there's so much I'm wanting to see of you."

"Yes.” And in blissful surrender she raised her mouth to his.

Light streamed across a crystalline sky. The surface of Loch Tay looked like silvery blue glass. Nothing moved, not a branch, not a bird, not another car on the road besides the Range Rover. A loud noise or a heavy breath, Maggie thought, would shatter the fragile peace and reveal—what? Chaos? Or an even deeper tranquility? “Where are we going?” she asked in a whisper.

Even Thomas's baritone was quiet. “To the center point of a triangle whose corners are at Fortingall, Methven where the Bruce was defeated, and St. Fillan's shrine at Tyndrum. Between Killin, St. Fillan's cell at the southwestern end of Loch Tay, and the village actually named St. Fillans at the eastern end of Loch Earn, lies a place marked on an ancient map as
Tobar nan Bride
, St. Bride's Well."

"Another Bridget's Well,” said Rose.

Mick said, “You're thinking Malise the
deoradh
hid the stone at one of those ancient shrines adopted by Christians?"

"I think so, yes."

At last they passed another car. A haze hung over the roofs of Aberfeldy where Thomas turned south. Not far past Amulree he said, “Look behind us, please, and tell me if that's a green Jaguar."

Snapping around, Maggie took a long, hard look. “It's a green car, but it just turned off.” She tried to look every direction at once, but saw only the landscape, all Celtic curves, the road, the hills, leafless trees, a stream rimmed with ice, walls built stone upon stone and snaking away over the skyline. Vehicles of any color seemed anachronistic.

A mile past the town of Comrie, Thomas turned onto a road narrower than Maggie's driveway. A shabby red car passed, slowed as though for a look and then sped up.

Everyone pretended not to notice. The only reason Maggie couldn't hear teeth grinding in the back seat was because her own were making too much noise. Nobody needed to speculate what might have happened to Mick two days ago if he hadn't been as fleet of foot as of brain. Nobody needed to speculate just what might happen today.

As the road climbed above the trees the land opened out. The shining sheet of Loch Earn stretched away westward. Beyond it the mountains were waves of blue and purple shading into the blue of the sky.

Thomas pulled off the paved road onto a dirt track, and then after a few minutes went jouncing right out into a sheep pasture. Bundles of brownish wool with black faces stared as the car angled down the hillside into a hollow shaded by a Scots pine. Finding a level place, Thomas stopped.

They climbed out of the car and stood close together, their breaths rising into a sparkling cloud. “That knob of rock on the far side of the loch is an old Pictish fort, St. Fillan's seat,” said Thomas. “Below it lies a well that pilgrims visited on the old Celtic holy days."

Maggie nudged a hump of heather with her toe. The snow-dusted ground was so lumpy with rocks and brush that anything up to and including a Volkswagen could be hidden here.

"One source mentions a hawthorn grove instead of this splendid pine ... Ah, several stumps. And the ghost of a path leading up from the loch—see, where the snow outlines a furrow?"

Rose brushed the snow from a bit of broken stone. “Here are some carvings. Spirals and knotwork, really weathered."

"We're in the proper place, right enough.” Mick hiked up his coat and pulled out his
sgian dubh
. “It's buzzing like a bee."

There was no wind. There was no noise at all besides their own hushed voices. Maggie couldn't think of any place she'd ever been—museums, churches—as still as this lonely place. Still, calm, peaceful—and alert.

"Earth to Maggie,” Rose teased.

"Just appreciating the—the spirit of the place."

"The
anima loci
,” Thomas said with a nod. “Mick, if you would be so good as to use your knife as a sensor."

Frowning in concentration, Mick held the knife by its sheath and turned in a circle. “It's like an electric current running up my arm, strongest there, by that ruined wall. It disna look like more than a sheep fank."

"A small oratory once stood here, built of flat rocks angled inward at the top to make a roof. I daresay its stones were re-used.” Thomas stepped across the low wall and into what would have been the center of the building, assuming the building was the size of the Paleologos's dining room. He began picking up rocks. “We're committing archaeological vandalism here. Ian Graham has already offered absolution, but I think we should have a care not to create too much of a mess even so."

Mick set the
sgian dubh
on the larger stump. With Thomas, the alpha male, directing, they cleared the interior of the building down to a few brownish-gold lichens and ferns. Then with the trowels and shovels Thomas had borrowed from Stavros they scraped away the plants and several inches of what felt like soggy potting soil, revealing a slate floor.

The eastern end of the chapel was built into the slope of the hill. There the slate paving stopped at a rough slab of stone. Ordinary stone, Maggie saw, the same sparkly gray stuff she'd been heaving around. Scraping the mud off the slab revealed an incised Celtic cross. “Was this an altar? Don't you always put a relic of some sort inside the altar?"

"Here, I should think, the relic is below.” Thomas brushed off his hands. “Very good. We've earned our luncheon."

"I could eat one of those sheep,” said Rose, indicating the dozen or so animals which had meandered closer while they worked.

"We've attracted an audience,” Thomas said bemusedly.

"A riff on the Good Shepherd theme,” joked Maggie, but still she looked around to make sure only sheep were watching.

Mick was pulling Fiona's picnic basket from the car. “Oh good—flasks of tea, sandwiches, cake. Apples. Here you are, lass."

With a crunch Rose bit into the apple.
Eve and the tree of knowledge
, Maggie thought.
Comfort me with apples for I am sick of love
... Thomas handed her a sandwich. “Thanks."

The sun hung far to the south. A quarter moon flirted with the western horizon, just as it had done the day she stood with Gupta outside the youth hostel. Toy-like cars moved on the road far below and a boat etched the surface of the loch. The human race hadn't vanished, then.

"Listen!” Thomas said.

Water dripped. Icicles on the pine? No. The drips were coming closer together. Running water. Inside the semi-circle of stumps, the sacred precinct, the snow was melting. Some of the bushes broke out with bright yellow flowers. The ground smoothed into a green lawn dotted with more yellow blossoms. Thomas took off his glasses, mopped them with his handkerchief, and put them back on. “Dandelions, St. Bridget's flower."

"We're onto something,” said Rose.

Thomas nodded. “Very much so."

The crisp air softened, a warm draft welling upward from the ground itself. A black lamb had appeared among the sheep, Maggie saw, an ambulatory stuffed toy who watched with bright beady eyes as they returned to the chapel and lifted the altar stone to one side.

The flat stone beneath was pierced by small holes. “Finger holes,” Rose said. “It's a trap door. Sweet!"

Thomas used a trowel to clear the mud away from the square stone and ream out the holes. Together he and Mick heaved the slab up and, with an echoing thud, back. Beneath it opened a dark, circular hole. A thick musty odor wafted up from it, centuries of mud and decay. “This isn't a treasure room,” Maggie said. “This is the well."

"So it is.” Pulling a flashlight from his pocket, Thomas shone it into the darkness. Rose, Mick, and Maggie bumped heads trying to look. The light revealed a cylindrical, stone-lined passage, clogged about ten feet down with rubble. Pale root tendrils clung to the walls amid rivulets of water. “Rats,” said Rose. Maggie had the feeling she'd almost said,
yecch
.

"We could clear it out,” Mick said, without enthusiasm.

Thomas's jaw was set hard. Disappointment didn't describe it. He was doubting his own judgment. Averting her eyes, Maggie straightened and looked around. As though disappointment wasn't enough, she had the damndest itch between her shoulder blades ... Well, everyone, especially Thomas, had looked over their shoulders as often as they'd looked at their work.

Except for the twenty or so sheep and a bird so high up it was almost microscopic, Maggie couldn't see one living creature. The lamb stood at the edge of the lawn, a dandelion hanging from its mouth.

Flowers didn't pop up out of frozen ground, she told herself. There was something here, they just had to find it. She looked at the engraved slab lying on its side by the wall. One corner was chipped. No big deal, it was an old stone ... “Thomas?"

"Yes?” He tucked the flashlight back into his pocket.

"That stone there. Is it the same size as the capital-S stone?"

"The sources say the Stone is large enough for a man to sit upon without folding his knees to his chest. Taller than its sandstone copies. And larger than this. However...” Thomas knelt by the slab and traced the cross with his fingertip. Then he pulled out his handkerchief. “Mick, could you wet this in the rivulet, please? And fetch your
sgian dubh
."

"This stone's granite, isn't it?” Rose asked.

"It's schist, the common stone in this area, just as red sandstone is the common stone at Scone. Thank you, Mick.” Thomas wiped the stone clean.

It was silvery gray, dusted with tiny quartz crystals that sparkled in the sunlight. Holding the
sgian dubh
by its sheath, Mick leaned over and touched the handle and its black marble chip to the carved cross. “Ow! It's gone and shocked me!"

A slow grin spread up Thomas's face. “Let's set this stone back in its place.” The trap door thudded down. The slab fit back into its template in the mud. “It's not so heavy as you'd think, is it? Now take the knife from its sheath, if you would, Mick—the sheath is modern, the stone doesn't recognize it—and fit the chipping to that broken corner."

Kneeling, Mick held the knife close to the stone. The chip was the right shape, but the wrong texture and color ... The
sgian dubh
flipped out of his hand and with a note like the ringing of a bell landed point first in the center of the circled cross. Landed, and sunk into the rock until the blade was completely hidden.

"I'll be damned,” said Maggie.

"Oh no,” Thomas said with a laugh, “I think not. There you are, Mick, the sword and the stone. Rose, look!"

The silver of the stone darkened. It grew larger. Each upper corner sprouted into a curved extension—the horns of the altar, described in the Bible and discovered by archaeologists from Rome to Crete to Israel. The stone was a deep, luminous black, like ripe berries or the pupil of an eye. Its surface was carved with sinuous figures that seemed to change as Maggie looked at them—animal, plants, clouds. She shook her head in amazement, magic not being something she was ever going to get used to.

"Here I have been expounding on the Unseen,” said Thomas, “and yet I failed to recognize the Unseen laid before me. The Stone was incomplete. It was like a locked door that needed its key. Thank you, Maggie."

"No problem,” she returned, with what was probably a dazed smile.

Mick reached toward the knife. “Should I pull it out?"

"I'd replace the chipping first."

"But it's glued on tight.” With wary thumb and forefinger Mick tried the chip. It came right off. “Ah,” he said, and set the chip into the broken corner. It attached itself to the stone and merged with it, the seam disappearing into the black marble whole. Mick removed his knife, effortlessly, and rock oozed back into the hole it had made, leaving the Stone unscarred.

"Glory be to God, by whom all things are made.” Thomas stood up, laughing as free a peal of laughter as Maggie had ever heard from him.

Rose and Mick gave each other high-fives. Blowing out a sigh, Maggie turned around and saw that fifty sheep stood ranged around the site. Where had they all come from? Their hooves were as silent as cat's paws.

A wavering cry cut the still air and then faded away. A closer one rose and fell like the wail of a soul treed by the Wild Hunt. The sheep twitched. Rose took a jerky step closer to Mick. Mick went pale, but still managed a jaunty, “There are no wolves left in Scotland. He'll not be scaring us away with illusions."

Two cars appeared on the hilltop. “They're no illusions,” Maggie said, her elation icing over. “Here we go, folks."

Thomas's expression went stern and cold. With his knife Mick traced a circle on the pavement. All four of them stepped inside and stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the Stone.

A green Humvee lumbered down the hillside, squashing plants and sending more than one sheep jogging away. A decrepit red Nissan lunged and bounced and finally stopped just below the brow of the hill. A tall, gangly man climbed out and hurried down the path of destruction toward the Humvee.