Robert Charrette: Find your own truth

Only Katherine Hart's presence restrained him. She disapproved of such unprofessional displays of concern. She prized poise, coolness, and style. Indeed, she embodied those qualities in her looks, clothes, and masterly presentation. And he, prizing her good opinion, tried to emulate her, at least in the latter. His barely average looks could never match her slender, ethereal beauty. As for his clothes sense, the worn and comfortable garb he had adopted since entering the life of the shadows would never be cutting-edge fashion.

So he sat and fretted silently, wondering why the others weren't as concerned. Dodger sat in his habitual corner, eyes closed as he meditated. The elven decker looked entirely too serene. Gray Otter stood in the opposite corner. The beadwork was almost the only thing that made her stand out against the dirty wall. Her position would have given her a clear view of the squat's one window, but her eyes were turned to her counterpart among the Sylvestrines. For all his religious devotion Brother Paulus was a soldier, armed and wary. The burly Sylvestrine monk showed no sign of affiliation, save for a black enameled chi-rho belt buckle on his armor-lined coat. A datajack was embedded into his temple and induction pads in bis palms; when in motion, he moved with the occasional jerkiness of those with cyber-enhanced reflexes. Like his companions, Brother Mark wore no obvious sign of his religious calling. But while his somber, austere expression, and the unrelieved black of his suit and coat, might hint at his clerical nature, they concealed his puissance as a hermetic magician. Like Dodger's, Brother Mark's eyes were closed. Unlike the elf, he

was working, warding the apartment while the third member of his order studied the fire opal.

That good priest sat slumped in his chair, hands folded around the gem that rested on the rickety table. Father Pietro Rinaldi was an adept, able to read the auras of persons and things. Though incapable of other magicks, he was superb in his specialty, far better than Sam, Hart, or Brother Mark. He had been at his examination for over an hour now. Occasionally, he muttered. Usually the words were unintelligible, but Sam had made out "curious" and "fascinating." He wished the priest would remember that other people also wanted to know what he was finding out.

Time moved with the speed of a slug. At long last Rinaldi sat back, lacing his fingers behind his neck as he stretched. When he relaxed, he sat unmoving and breathing deeply.

Unleashed by the obvious conclusion of the priest's studies, Sam leapt up. "Well?"

Rinaldi gave him a shrug and a smile. "It's powerful, my friend. Of that there is no doubt. But it is most unusual as well. The stone shows no sign of having been worked by tools, yet its aura indicates that it was made. Also, the residual structures of some potent spells linger on it. I think it may have been molded by magic."

"Who cares how it was made? Is it usable?" "Usable? I should think so." "Good. I would hate to have wasted the trip." "The trip only cost you time and money, and only the time was of real value. But perhaps I know you well enough to see your real concern. Do not hang yourself about with guilt. Any adventure in this world has dangers, and those who undertake such activities must expect to face their share of them. Your allies are dead but you are not at fault, and you have not squandered their lives to gain a pretty bauble. I suggested you acquire a magically potent artifact to focus and amplify your power, and you came back with something more powerful than any of the talismans in the armory of the Sylvestrine monastery at Saint Luc."

"Then it will work?" Sam asked eagerly.

Rinaldi looked at the table, avoiding Sam's eyes. "I didn't say that. As I have told you often enough, this whole operation is speculative. The stone will channel an enormous quantity of power, but as you know, tools alone are insufficient. The form of the ritual must be exact, and the will driving it must be pure and focused. I would not wish to raise false hopes."

^Indeed," Brother Mark agreed. "Success is not likely. The transformation you seek is beyond the bounds of magic as man understands it."

"And who is to say that man understands all magic?" Hart smiled sweetly and lifted a hand to brush back her hair in a gesture that revealed one pointed ear.

"Implying elven secrets is a poor ploy, Ms. Hart. Elves are but a subspecies of mankind, a mere subset of the genetic pool awakened to phenotypic expression in these latter days. Your race's higher-than-average predisposition to magically active individuals gives no special magical abilities or knowledge."

"Art thou sure, good brother?" Dodger asked. "Elves once ruled your ancestral Ireland, and once again hold it as their domain. They say they have only returned from the sunset lands to reclaim the lands they walked of old. Art thou of such a great age to dispute their claim with certain knowledge of your own?"

"I need be no older than I am to dispute such foolishness. Save for a few isolated cases in the decades preceding the so-called Awakening of 2011, there were no elves. Or dwarfs, for that matter. Elven and dwarf phenotypes are quite distinctive. How could the exis tence of such persons never have been noted in centuries of historical and scientific records?''

"How indeed, good brother?"

"Dump it, Dodger. Brother Mark is here to help. He doesn't need your foolishness."

"My apologies, Sir Twist, to both you and to Brother Mark. I sought but to lighten the mood with this idle talk.''

Sam sighed. "How come every time you get bored, you start looking for trouble? If you can't be useful, Dodger, at least try not to insult guests and start feuds."

"Be charitable," Rinaldi suggested. "Dodger has little to offer in this endeavor. His idleness chafes at him. It's no sin. His attendance is a sign of his concern and support."

"You're right, Father. It's not his idleness that's the sin. It's my own. While Janice remains as she is, every day puts her closer to damnation."

"We're all aware of that, Sam." Hart put her hand on his shoulder. "We've got the stone now. We don't have to wait anymore."

"I-know you understand. Without your connections we would have lost her after she left England, and I'd have no idea where she had run to or how she was doing."

"And how is that?" Mark asked. "Are you sure that she has not succumbed to her wendigo nature? Her sins are already great, but if she has given in to despair and freely embraced the way of the wendigo, she has gone beyond salvation. How do you know that she has not abandoned her humanity? Have you spoken with her?"

Sam shook his head. "She wouldn't speak with me in Vancouver, and she refused to acknowledge any of the letters I had waiting in towns along her path. She hasn't taken any communications equipment, and I can't send electronic mail because the Matrix doesn't reach where she is now. Too few people."

' 'There are no reports of wendigo predation in the area," Hart said.

"Which is a good sign," Rinaldi said. "Her chosen retreat places her far from temptation. Everything seems to indicate that she still retains some vestige of humanity. Her success bodes well, for denial of the wendigo nature would be a strong factor in reversing the curse.''

"If it can be done," Mark said.

"I fervently pray that it is possible," Rinaldi said. "For her sake, as well as for others whose souls we might unburden if we succeed."

"Do you fear the loss of her soul, Father?" Dodger asked. "Or are you having second thoughts about letting her go in England? Do you feel the weight of innocent, eaten souls?"

"I mourn the straying of any soul from the path of righteousness. She has eaten manflesh, but that can be forgiven in the light of her body's perverted needs. As far as we know, she refrained from actually killing in order to feed. That, I believe, would be the point beyond which the wendigo nature would rule her and she would be lost to us and to God."