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Chapter Sixteen

He was a giant, half again Richard's height, broad of shoulder, and clad in blood red armor. Again, there was no sign or emblem of any sort on his things. His face was hidden by a tall, conical helmet with small, hooded eye slits. In one hand he held a mace.

"Come to test me, boy?" he boomed, his voice harsh, mocking.

Richard hurriedly seized the sword and shield—just in time. He barely got the shield up to block a devastating blow from the mace. The force of it cracked against his lower arm and traveled up his shoulder, knocking him to the ground.

Training from centuries past reasserted itself. He cast his shield arm to the side and rolled that way on the momentum, keeping his sword close to his body. He got clear and was on his feet before the return swing, circling to keep just out of the giant's line of sight. It would be severely limited by the helmet.

"Who art thou who gives no challenge?" he demanded.

"Thy life and death at once!"

The great man lashed out wide. Richard ducked, darting forward and thrusting up at the unprotected base of his weapon arm. The point of the blade connected and bit deep, raising a howl of pain and anger. Reaction was quick, though; he had to drop and roll again, feeling the breeze of the mace as it brushed just over the hair of his head.

I can't smell the blood, he thought. He could see it, glistening as it flowed over the armor.

The giant paused only long enough to shift the mace to his left hand. He strode forward, roaring. He moved very fast, each stride a match for two of Richard's, and as for his reach . . .

Richard used his shield again as the mace crashed down. The wood began to splinter along some hidden flaw. Richard chopped at the man's extended arm on the inside, striking sparks against the mail.

"Weak vessel," taunted the giant. "Unworthy! Think thou art a man?"

The mace swept down. Richard danced just outside the radius of the swing and went close again, this time trying for the back of a leg. He succeeded, slamming a strong enough blow to buckle the left knee, but failed to cut through the mail to break flesh. He blocked the return strike of the mace with the shield. He got his sword up and caught the knight hard on the wrist. The armor prevented him from severing it, but the weapon dropped.

"Yield!" he shouted.

"Never!"

"I would not kill thee. Yield and depart."

The giant seemed not to hear and struck out. The thick mail of his gauntlets saved his hands as he warded off sword blows, laughing as he pressed on.

The best Richard could hope for was to keep the giant at a distance. Though larger and much stronger, the weight of all that armor would tell on him sooner or later. When that happened . . .

But Richard had to keep backing away, step-by-step, his chest aching for want of air. He should not be so tired. In a few moments he'd be too exhausted himself to fight.

"Come, boy! Come and show me just how weak you are!"

Still backing, fighting defensively, trying to catch his breath and plan. He was faster and could see better than his opponent, about the only advantages left; time to use them before he was too spent.

He feinted to the left, then darted right, out of the giant's view. Before he could turn, Richard had reached the woman. He dropped the shield, using both hands to arc his sword down on the heavy chain.

More sparks. He struck again and again to no effect, then the blade snapped in two.

No time to curse the luck. The giant seized him round the waist, lifting him high. Richard struggled, swinging down and backwards, hacking at those massive arms. That helped; he was half-thrown, half-dropped to the springy turf. He'd forgotten what it was to take a fall from a horse, all bruises and disorientation; this was like that. He pushed upright, focusing to hold onto the sword. At a sound behind him, he instinctively dodged, whirled, struck. Metallic clank. Bellow of outrage. Something hit his shoulder. He spun and nearly fell.

He needed the lance. The length and weight of it called for much skill on horseback, which he possessed, but there was no time to mount the tethered beast, and certainly no room to maneuver in this all-too-small clearing.

Richard stumbled to the tree, discarded the sword and grabbed the lance. It was heavier than he expected, more clumsy to balance than he remembered.

But now he was reduced to ordinary strength.

He'd have only one chance with it, too, for there was no way he could prevent the giant from taking the weapon. To him, it would be as light as a jackstraw and as easily plucked away.

Point control. One of the hardest things to master. Difficult enough on the back of a galloping horse, holding balance, keeping the lance steady and level, placing it precisely in one telling spot, all that while another man is charging at you with the same intent—and yet it was still easier than trying to do the same thing on foot.

He held it crosswise over his body like a spear, quickly moving on as more laughter erupted behind him.

"Think you to defeat me with that?"

He turned. The giant was in the center of the clearing, and except for the blood coming from his wound, seemed little the worse for wear.

"Come and charge me, boy! Unhorse me with that twig." He shook both his fists. There was less movement in his right arm.

Richard hurried to his right, the giant's left, causing him to turn. Sluggish he was, and there was pain in that booming voice. All his effort was in intimidation and insult. He was in midword, when Richard suddenly cut left, bringing the long staff to the horizontal as he rushed forward.

The sharp point ran true and caught the giant in the same wound. The impact was not as devastating as it might be for a man full tilt on a horse, but it was enough. The giant screamed now and tried to fall back and escape, but Richard kept pushing on.

Then the giant's feet tangled upon each other, and down he dropped.

Richard let go the lance and hurried to retrieve the sword. He returned just as the giant began to right himself. Richard threw a side kick at the helmet. That hurt his foot, but it resulted in the giant's sudden collapse.

"Yield!" he cried, standing over him. He pressed the broken sword up under the helm, past the chain mail coif, the shattered end on the vulnerable flesh under his jaw. "Yield and live."

"Never! Kill me and be done!"

"As you wish!"

Richard drove in solidly with all his remaining strength, driving the broken sword deep. The great body flailed in its death throes; one massive arm caught Richard, sending him staggering.

His legs gave out, the earth jarred his back. He shut his eyes against the spinning sky above and lay inert on the grass, striving to breathe again. God, but he was tired. And how he thirsted. How strange it was to thirst this way, without hunger, without the strength of his beast to carry him forward to hunt.

When the dizziness passed and he could trust himself to walk without falling, he rose and went to the giant. Blood had fair gushed from him, soaking the turf. Richard felt no hunger for it; indeed, he was repulsed and wished to avoid contact, but hanging from the man's belt was a key.

He took it away and went to the lady. Though he must have been a fearsome sight himself with his batterings, torn clothes, bloodings, and doubtless wild eyes, she did not shrink from him. Instead, once he'd unlocked her bindings, she gathered him close to give comfort.

"I thank thee, good Richard," she whispered.

He had no surprise that she knew him, for he seemed to know her. He pulled back to look at her, but there was something odd about her face. It seemed to change like an image trapped in water, shifting as light and shadow played over it. He shook his head, rubbing his eyes.

She left him a moment, then returned with a water skin. He eagerly drank; though warm and tasting of leather it was yet sweet on his parched lips and dust-dry throat.

"Who was that knight?" he asked.

"He was your life and death. Ending and deliverance."

Richard twitched a smile. "That wants explaining."

"You will find the answer with him."

"Who art thou?"

"Your death and life. Beginning and continuance."

And perhaps she would give a more clear reply, when the time was right for him to hear it. "Why did he treat you so?"

"He did love and seduce me once upon a time. Fate and his own cruelty made him hate me."

An old story, he thought, and went back to the knight. He dragged off the huge helmet.

The man's eyes were open, giving the world one last angry glare. Though definitely dead, there was still a movement about him. Like the lady, his face seemed to change, rippling.

In that face Richard recognized the features of many men; his father, his brother, Luis, Alejandro . . . they and more like them shifted skin and bone like malleable clay. Hundreds of faces, callous enemies all, some he'd killed himself, others he'd simply outlived.

He thought he understood now, and returned to the lady. She was also one of hundreds, perhaps thousands. For a few seconds she was Elaine, then Stephanie, then Ghislaine, then Elena and Seraphina, both grown to the womanhood they'd been denied—all were beautiful to him. One face he did not know, yet she above the others drew him the strongest.

"Do I know thee, lady?"

"You have always known me."

How can such ice-blue eyes be so warm? he wondered. Then the answer came to him and he was on his knees, arms around her, holding her like life itself. He had no tears, for he'd wept them out centuries ago, wept them for the mother he'd never seen, the mother who had bled out her life delivering him . . .

She crooned to him, gentle hands caressing his hair. "You cannot stay, good Richard."

"I know, but 'tis sweet. There is so much I would say to thee, so much I would hear."

"Then speak to me in thy dreams, for I have always heard you."

"But I shall not hear you in turn."

"Nay, but you do. Thy heart has ever known my voice. I love thee and am proud of thee."

He'd thought himself exhausted of tears. Fresh ones sprang to his eyes.

"You must find the child, now," she said after an all-too-brief moment. "And quickly."

"Yes, I swear it. Come with me. Guide me to him."

"You know the way yourself. Though you walk in the darkness, the light within has ever guided you. Let it guide you again."

"Mother . . ."

"Fare thee well, sweet Dickon."

And she was gone. He remained on his knees, arms out as though in prayer. Between them was a shaft of sunlight from a summer out of time. It flared brightly, then faded. The wood around him dimmed for want of her presence.

His heart ached, his whole being ached. Pierced right through he was, yet he took a strange comfort from it. She loved him, had always been there, though he'd known it not.

That was changed. "I will speak with thee again and soon," he promised.

No reply came. Saddening, and he could not linger to mourn. He got tiredly to his feet, looking around for the next sign to follow.

The big war-horse snorted and stamped as though to mock his lack of perception.

Richard boosted onto its back, dug his heels in, but held the reins loose. As he presumed, the big beast knew its own way, taking a trail from the clearing. A sudden turning around a stand of beech trees marked the end of the wild forest and the beginning of open fields. He was on a rise, his road leading down to a lake and a shallow fording.

Of course. It had to be. 

Beyond the lake was his father's castle. No reflection of it lay on the water, yet he knew it to be real. To himself at least. In this place.

He kicked the horse forward to a gallop, splashing over the ford, surging up the next rise and thence to the gates and through. Within, all was silent. No armsmen called a challenge, no servants scuttled up to attend him; he was quite alone but for his stamping mount.

He threw a leg over its neck and slipped down. Untethered, it trotted off to the stables, there to vanish, he supposed, as the hart had done, as had his mother. This journey, he now understood, was less to do with Michael than with himself. His prayer was that he'd not been delayed too long.

Ignoring his stiff muscles and bruises, he pushed into a shambling run, going through the tall doors that opened to the feasting hall. It was also empty, having no sign that anyone had been there in centuries.

He took the door opposite into the winding hall. No light shone here, but he knew the way, had walked it often enough in nightmares. It ended, as the dreams always did, with the door to his father's chamber.

He pushed through.

The great throne was yet there, next to it a simple table. The air stank of fat from the burning torches along the walls. Their light was red, unsteady, the smokes rising black to layer the sooty ceiling.

On the throne . . . Michael, looking very small and frail. His dead eyes gazed out, all unseeing. He leaned wearily against one arm of the chair.

To his horror, Richard saw that the boy was bleeding from his side, a deep wound, the blood flow slow but steady. The terrible stream marched down the base of the throne to the floor, where it pooled, growing.

Richard rushed to him, but the closer he got the thicker the air seemed, until he was unable to move forward at all.

"Let me go to him!" he shouted at he knew not what.

"Would you heal him?" a voice asked. It was neither male nor female, kind or cruel. It just was.

"Yes! Of course!" he answered, looking wildly about for the source. "Let me pass. Please!"

"You know him not."

"I don't have to!"

"Then learn."

Michael's face changed, his form shifted, grew. No longer a little boy, a grown man sat in his place, the same agonized posture, the same dead eyes. Such eyes Richard had last seen on Michel when they both lay wounded on the grass that day so long ago.

He could not breathe. Before him was the truth he'd always known in his heart, but never dared to speak. How many lives have you had, boy? How many woundings? Could I have spared you?

"Do you forgive?" the voice asked. "Do you forgive what had to be, what you could not help?"

He shook his fists in frustration. "I forgave, years past I forgave. You know it to be so."

"You never forgave yourself. You still carry anger within for not doing more to stop the impossible."

"My anger is nothing to his need. Please, let me pass."

The man's form shrank in upon itself to that of the desperately hurt child. "Wouldst heal him of this living death?"

"Yes!"

"You know not the price."

"Name it, I will pay."

"See it first."

The form on the throne shifted, grew. Richard saw himself seated there, face gray and gaunt, eyes hollow and lost, but wretchedly aware. He was old, ancient, hair and beard gone so white as to be transparent, his wrinkled, spotted flesh hanging loose from aching bones. One skeletal hand was pressed to his bleeding side; the pain like cold fire, unable to consume itself and die. His shrunken body trembled from relentless weariness; he could not lay himself down. There was no escape, no rest, only the unending torment of an injured soul.

"Thus will it come to pass, thus will it be for you forever," said the voice. "To save the boy, you must take his place, assume his hurts. You will live on in this agony until the last fall of night. And when that may be no one knows."

Richard swallowed hard. "Never to die and find release?"

"Never. The cup of life will ever sustain you."

On the table was the Grail. Its presence alone, he knew, had power enough for miracles. But that the miracle of life could be so twisted . . . how could they ask so much of him? To leave him perpetually dying, yet alive, without hope, alone . . .

But such was what the boy now endured, where he was trapped, and unlike Richard, he had no understanding of why.

Richard was himself again, standing before the throne, looking at Michael—and just able to step forward. The resistance was less than it was, but still strong. "I've seen your price and it matters not. Do what thou wilt with me, but save the boy. Restore and heal him, I beg you."

"Are you certain, Richard d'Orleans?"

In answer, he pushed closer until he could reach Michael. As soon as he touched him the thick resistance ceased. He gently gathered the boy into his arms. Precious burden. The last time he would ever hold him. It would have to be enough.

He reached for the Grail. Picked it up. There was dark red wine in it, or something that appeared to be wine.

He put the cup to the boy's lips, persuading him to drink. Michael did so, then shut his dead eyes, seeming to sleep.

God and Goddess, help him! 

Richard searched his face for some sign of change, then held him close. "There is so much I would say to thee, so much I would hear. Speak to me in thy dreams, my son. If the gods are kind they may let me listen. They may let me reply."

The voice around him was silent to this. No sound was within the chamber except for his own breath and the hiss and burn of the torch fires.

He felt a wet warmth on his hand. Michael yet bled.

No! No more! 

He put the holy cup on the table, then stepped away from the throne, taking Michael clear of the pool of blood at its base. With nowhere else to put him, he had to lie on the cold flags, no covering, no pillow. Richard peeled off his tunic. A wretched blanket, torn, bloody, and sweat-stained, but better than nothing.

He wrapped Michael with it, kissed his brow, and backed away. "Sleep, boy, and may heaven have pity on thee."

Richard approached the throne. A memory of his near-fatal childhood punishment came to him. He tiredly thrust it away, turned, and sat.

It was worse than in the vision. The wounding he'd taken in the field in the far past was negligible to this. In that same spot as the spear thrust, his flesh parted from within to without in a gash longer than his hand. He gasped as though struck, clutching his side as though to stave the blood flow and agony, all for naught. The pain devoured all his senses. Nothing else existed. Weak unto fainting, he leaned against the arm of the throne to wait until the first shock of it passed.

Only it did not.

The bitterness held undiminished. Each time he shifted to ease himself only added to his suffering.

I chose this. I will endure. Better me than him. 

So he did not cry out; he bit off all complaint. He remained in place, and watched as his blood trickled down the same path as Michael's to merge with the pool already there. In the hours, the years to come, it would cover the whole of the floor, spread to the rest of the castle, be soaked up by the earth outside, cloak the world.

He shivered. How could such a close-aired chamber be so chill? The gooseflesh plucked at his bare back and arms like knife points. He dared not move to rub warmth into them, lest his pain increase.

He wondered if his face and form would also shift before the eyes of any who saw him. Would a visitor someday come and take pity on him, try to ease his pain? He doubted it. This was his world from now on, this drab, cold chamber with the smoking torches, season beyond season unchanged forever. In unbroken solitude he would count the stones of the walls and listen to his own heartbeat and groans of anguish. Sabra had warned him of danger, but not the depth of it, not the permanence. There were worse things than dying. He hoped she would forgive him for leaving her. Perhaps she would wait for him as she'd done before, but this time he would not return.

But Michael . . . there, he was waking. All would be worth it if he could live free.

The child did not see him, his gaze was fixed on the open door. Pale light shone there, pale, but growing stronger, brighter as something approached in the passage beyond. Richard held his breath as one by one several women slowly filed in. They were of a kind with their serene faces, and unadorned white robes. Their bare feet whispered over the flags. The light they carried was their own, shining out from their smooth flesh. Eight in all, eight of the nine sisters of Avalon, they surrounded little Michael, who showed no fear of them. Three of them—they looked much like the boy's mother and sisters—lifted him up and carried him away. Their light went with them, dimming with distance, then vanishing altogether.

None had marked Richard or shown any sign of his existence.

Richard was alone.

He slumped, accepting it, accepting everything. Wincing, he leaned back in the chair, knowing the pain would keep him from ever sleeping again, but wishing for a respite all the same. He wished only. Here, there was no more hope.

He felt the blood seeping past his fingers. He'd borne a thousand such woundings and worse and survived. They'd always healed, physically. This, though, represented not only all of Michael's hurts, but the inner wounds Richard had endured over the centuries, the ones whose scars yet bled when his thoughts touched on them. He would have much time now to think.

He closed his eyes.

Let go. The agonies of the past imprison and torture us all, but only if we allow it. Let go. 

Indeed, were it only that simple.  

It is. You cannot have the past you wanted, only that which you had. Accept that it made you what you are and move on. 

How? he wondered.

Just let go. Move forward. 

I want to. How? Whose was this out-of-time voice? Was it part of the room or within his mind?

Release the past. Let go. 

Then sleep stole over him after all . . . and dreams.

He dreamed that he was able to sink back into the chair and find true comfort, true rest. His cares slipped away, spiraling off into sweet darkness.

He dreamed that gentle arms were wrapped around him, a soft hand caressed his brow, a softer voice called his name.

"Wake now, Richard. Come to me. Move forward and come to me."

He drew a great breath, like a diver just surfaced, and struggled to sit up. The pain clutched at him, holding him down.

" 'Tis over," Sabra whispered close to his ear. She cradled his shoulders and head in her lap. "Waken, my love."

He saw a black sky and full moon, glass and metal framing above, none of it seemed real, not at all solid as this chamber. One vision was hard upon the other, each wavering, fighting to assert itself.

"Come to me," she said.

Her voice drew him like a lifeline. "But I must stay . . . for Michael."

"He's here. Come to us."

Richard shook his head, trying to force his eyes to open on the right reality, the right time. The chamber of pain faded; the torches winked out. Sabra was with him instead, holding him. And there was a weight on his chest.

He sat up a little. Michael was unexpectedly in his arms, curled against him, his small fists hanging tight to the fabric of the old blue bathrobe. He slept, but with that wonderful abandon that only children know. His little face was relaxed now, at peace.

Richard fiercely tightened his embrace around the child and kissed the top of his blond head. He looked at Sabra. "Is he well? Truly well?"

"He is. You delivered his soul from its darkness. He will be able to heal in this world, now."

"But I thought I had to stay."

"Your willingness to do so was enough. The difficulty was persuading you away. You're a man of duty, my Richard."

"I saw my mother there."

"I know. Michael saw his, and long they spoke."

"They may still be speaking, if he dreams."

She nodded. "As it is for you. He is a special child."

"Michel come back to me."

"He's done so before, only you knew it not. His soul has been in many vessels over time."

"If only I had known."

"Nay, but each life must be what it is, not what it was before, else there is no learning, no growth. You must prune off limbs from a tree so that the trunk sprouts new ones more lush."

"And sometimes the cutting is harsh?"

"But what must be. You and he have endured much, learned much, he through many lives, you through this one. I think you will each understand one another better now."

"What do you see for him?" He thought better of the question as soon as he'd asked it. Her Sight was a terrible gift.

"His mother and sisters are close, you cannot see them, but he will know and they will comfort him. They will speak to him in his dreams and guide his waking steps. He has much power and must learn to be wise with it."

"Power?"

"He has gifts from the Goddess even I cannot grasp."

"Like the Sight and the giving of visions?"

"Yes. Those among others."

Richard thought of the nightmare vision he'd had of the house, the killings, the chase into the fields, and looked down at Michael in wonder. The animal blood had not forced that imagining. It had been Michael, reliving the memory, projecting it into Richard's mind as a reality. Dear God. "He is waking to them. But so young."

"He needs teachers, you and I, and more, many, many more."

"You will take him north with you, to the tribe there?"

"They will help with his healing as no others can."

"I thought as much."

"Perhaps you will come?" she asked.

Richard knew he needed healing as well. He would find it in the shadows of those tall woods with a wise people who yet understood the Old Ways. "Yes," he whispered. "As soon as may be."

With Michael still enfolded protectively in his arms, he leaned back against Sabra and, for a time, slept with that same peaceful abandon.

Relentless sun, blistering heat, muggy air. High noon in Texas.

Richard ignored those annoyances as he left his rental in the dust of a little-used lane and stalked through the scrub oak. He carried a heavy rucksack slung over his shoulder. Now and then he checked his compass. When the tangle of trees and briars opened up to a field, he saw the hill he wanted a quarter-mile ahead. He used the mirror on the reverse side of the compass and caught the sun in it, aiming the reflection at the trees on the summit.

A moment later, two flashes returned to him.

He kept close to the edge of the field, walking as quickly as he could manage through the trees. His new hat and old drover's coat helped shield him from the sun, but the additional shade meant he could stay out longer.

The last few days had been busy. Bourland had arrived, still weighed down with grief and in need of work to ease it. He efficiently took on the red tape of local officialdom, claiming the bodies, running interference for Richard's part in things, and generally smoothing the way for Michael to leave the country.

Seated in the air-conditioned shelter of the New Karnak flat, a drink at his elbow, Bourland had listened somberly to Richard's version of things. He'd frowned hard over Luis's disappearance from the Anatole hotel.

"My guess," said Richard, "is that Alejandro had people watching all the major hotels in town, waiting for Luis to surface. As soon as he walked in with Michael it was all up and they grabbed him. There must have been a hell of a reward out."

"That seems a pretty massive effort on Alejandro's part. Quite a long shot, in fact," said Bourland, doubtful.

Richard fixed his old friend with a long look. "Nevertheless, that's how it must have happened. Alejandro took them both, killed Luis, then tried to use Michael as a lever against me. Thankfully, it didn't work." He delicately released his mental hold.

Bourland shook his head, still frowning, but oblivious to what had just happened. "Poor Luis. You and Michael were damned lucky to have escaped that mess. The police are still trying to sort out what happened on the property. All those men dead? Alejandro, yes, he can rot in hell forever, but so many others?" He looked across at Richard, as though finding it hard to believe that so quiet and controlled a man was also capable of such savage violence. He knew it to occasionally be Richard's business, but had rarely seen evidence of it. The police crime photos had been most graphic.

"It's an ugly world, Philip. I did what was necessary to save Michael. Let the police form their own conclusions so long as he's left out of them."

"Oh, absolutely. But what could have happened to poor Luis?"

Richard shrugged. "We may never know."

"It'll be hard on the boy."

"He'll deal with it. My friend Sabra is an expert at grief therapy. She'll be there for him. We all will."

"Yes. My daughter is already working on the custody papers for Michael. After that, it's a short step to adoption. Michael Bourland is a strong name, don't you think?"

"Very strong. A good one."

Richard gave the same story—and hypnotic nudge—to Dr. Sam and Helen. Both were astonished at the change in Michael, going from near-comatose withdrawal to subdued but close-to-normal interaction with the world again. Both were delighted.

"He just needed a little time," said Sam after a final examination. He, too, was being shielded by Bourland's influence. The police knew nothing about Dr. Samuel Ross George's part in things, and it would remain so.

Richard's own story of going to the house to visit an old employee friend, then finding Michael wandering about the ruins in shock was also accepted. His delay in coming forward got him a stern rebuke from the investigators, but nothing more.

"They're not going to bother you again?" Sam asked, surprised.

"No. I explained my reasons about wanting to protect the boy by keeping him clear, and they accepted them. They're thinking that after the explosion, one of Alejandro's men defected to a rival, who simply caught up with him."

"But that's a Federal case! It's still being run on CNN."

Richard had shrugged, unconcerned. "You just need to know how to talk to people, that's all."

Sabra stayed with Richard and would be flying back with Michael and Bourland when the time came. She and Bourland became fast friends within minutes of being introduced, but that was only to be expected of her when she wished it. She also knew the value of cultivating important contacts. Bourland was certainly in that category.

And he was a big, handsome man.

"Please don't break him," Richard advised her sotto voce, well aware of her preferences. But she merely smiled.

One last detail remained for Richard to see to; Sabra alone knew of it, but said nothing either way of what she thought.

This was strictly his business.

Drenched in sweat and red of face, he reached the top of the hill. In the shade beneath the trees he thought he could risk removing the heavy coat, but the hat remained in place. At least now he could feel the wind, even though its source point must have been an oven.

"Over here," said Jordan Keyes, quietly.

It took a moment for Richard to spot him.

He was again dressed to blend with the background, this time in green cammos, with a matching bush hat. Except for the sunglasses, it all looked to be army surplus, well broken in. Richard gave him a once-over.

"What, no face paint?" he asked.

"The damn stuff gets in the beard." Keyes had not shaved in several days, nor bathed, indication to Richard that he'd been constantly on the job. He looked tired, but gave no sign of leaving his post just yet. "All I have to do to be invisible is keep low and not make noise," Keyes said. "No one comes out here, though."

"So it would seem. How do you know of this place?"

"Deer hunting range. Owner of the property's out of the country."

"Friend of yours?"

"Nope. He's never heard of me. I found this acreage awhile back, liked it, and looked up who had it. I keep tabs on him. If he ever decides to sell, I'll be first in line."

He and Keyes walked to the summit. It commanded a fine view of the woods and fields below. Here Keyes had set up something resembling a hunting blind. He'd strung camouflage netting around an area just large enough for him to lie down in and high enough to be above his head while seated. Within, he'd set up a folding camp chair and brought some paperbacks to read. Near the chair was a rucksack similar to the one Richard carried. It held empty food wrappers, depleted plastic water bottles, insect repellent, and a roll of biodegradable toilet paper.

"Glad you found the place," said Keyes. "I'm down to my last shot of water."

"How are things progressing?"

"About what you'd expect. He was pretty noisy the first day, but the duct tape took care of that. He can't talk any more, tongue's too swollen. Probably won't be too much longer, a couple, three days. Want a look?" He offered up a pair of very powerful binoculars.

Richard took them, peering down the hill toward a tree some fifty yards away. The figure by it sprang close in every awful detail.

Luis Trujillo was chained with his back to the tree, collapsed at its base. He was naked, but covered in patches of vicious red skin that seemed to clothe him. His body occasionally twitched, and he kept shaking his head as though trying to dislodge something. His face was puffed, his eyes sunken and bordering on madness.

"It's a wonder he's not passed out yet," Richard commented.

"That little refinement you wanted . . . I added to it."

"In what way?" Hanging from a limb in front of Luis was a large plastic bag holding liquid. A flexible tube extended from it, the end of which was within easy reach of his mouth, allowing him to drink whenever he wished. The bag was nearly three quarters gone.

Keyes took a liter-sized bottle from his sack and twisted it open. "It struck me that just putting water down there to make him last longer was a good start. I substituted some sports drink, and just to improve the taste mixed in a good dose of antihistamines and some uppers."

"The drink I understand, but the rest?"

"I'm figuring the antihistamines to help counteract anaphylactic shock and the uppers to make sure he enjoys every fun-filled moment."

"Very creative. My compliments."

Richard held himself steady, staring hard through the lens, adjusting the focus. He could just make out minute lines creeping over Luis's flesh. He writhed under them. Flies dotted his face and he shook his head again. If he groaned or cursed, it went unheard in the distance.

"Of course," Keyes continued, "if he really goes into serious shock then the fat lady's done with her chorus. That's when I pack up and boogie."

"But not before—"

"Oh, hell no. Can't let the fire ants get all the glory."

"What have you got for it?"

"Party favor." He pointed to an MP-5 on the ground by his chair. On top of it, a pair of surgical gloves. "Still has Nick's prints on it. I can pop three rounds in the skull, leave the gun, then it's home for Stoli time."

This was also the plan should someone happen along and find Luis. Keyes was to kill the prisoner to silence him, then vanish. In this heat, so far from anywhere, the happenstance was remote, but both men believed in preparation.

"What'd you bring me?" Keyes asked, reaching for Richard's sack.

"More water, more food bars. The kind you said you wanted."

"Great, I ran out this morning. I was getting hungry." He tore the wrapper off one, taking a healthy bite. "These are most bueno, but they stop you up like a summabitch—though out here that's just as well. What's happening in the rest of the world? I take it no one followed you."

"Not to worry. I was careful and your directions were clear." Richard gave him a summation of events. Most of it was even true. "No one knows what's become of Luis. The general assumption is that Alejandro killed him."

"That's fine. Just what you wanted."

"You had no trouble getting Luis out here?"

"Not too much. I kept him drugged in the car until I found a good spot for each of us. I knew about this hill; it was finding the right tree close enough to it that was the problem."

"Right tree?"

"One that had fire ants. I lucked out, though, and turned up a mound next to that one. He woke up pretty fast when I sat him down on it. Had to be quick with the chains to keep him there, then he started hollering, so we had fun with the duct tape. He was freaking out for most of the day, then settled down. Too damn tired to keep it up. Next morning I could take the tape off so he could drink. That's when he tried to buy me off. Tried to say he had the locations of some of his brother's accounts. Like I could believe that. He got pretty crazy, babbled a lot. Just to humor him I wrote the stuff down. Doubt if anything will come of it, but I can play hacker and see what I turn up. If you hear any news about me buying an island you'll know I nailed it."

Richard rather hoped he would. "All this is rather above and beyond."

"Maybe so. Indirectly, he cost me a steady paying customer. 'Cause of him I had to bump Trujillo before he bumped me. Now that would have probably happened sooner or later, but it's annoying all the same. But what really chaps my hide is what he did to his family. That was wrong."

Agreed, Richard thought. But is this not just as wrong? 

Even lowering the binoculars could not remove the sight of the dying Luis from his mind's eye. Richard had thought long and hard about the punishment he would inflict on Stephanie's butcher. It had seemed just. Certainly he'd done worse things to enemies in the past, but this time it was different.

The righteous satisfaction was not there.

He understood and had often reveled in its sweet, raw heat. But now . . . nothing. He couldn't feel pity for Luis, but could summon horror within for his own actions.

I've changed. This vengeance I thought so important is no longer necessary. 

"Have you plans for after this?" he asked Keyes.

"I thought about buying a ticket to Aruba for the summer, but the cats'd hate it. They wouldn't have me around to bitch at. My neighbor who checks on them isn't as much fun."

"Perhaps it's time you went back to them."

Keyes finished his food bar and stuffed the wrapper into one of the sacks. "You wanting to cut this short?"

"He looks too far gone for anything more to matter to him."

"I expect so. The ants would have stopped biting sometime back. They're eating on him by now. Different kind of intense, but his mind . . ."

"You've other things to do, I'm sure."

"I can think of a few. You gonna do the honors?"

"Yes."

Richard helped Keyes break camp. It took but a few moments to roll up and stow away the camouflage netting. Richard hiked down to the tree and unhooked the plastic bag, draining it out on the return trip. Luis was so far gone he did not seem to notice his presence.

Keyes had folded the camp chair and put his books away. He hooked the bundle straps over one shoulder then stuck a hand toward Richard.

They briefly shook.

"It's been a pleasure," said Keyes. "Let's not do this again sometime."

God forbid. 

Richard waited until Keyes was well gone. Before too long he caught the faint sound of a car motor turning over. He waited, spying a cloud of dust rising along the line that marked the road into the property. He waited until the dust drifted lazily back into place.

Then Richard put on the surgical gloves.

He raised the gun, sighting along the barrel. He could see no real detail without the binoculars, but they weren't necessary.

An easy enough shot.

Who was he? Did he deserve his fate? 

An easy enough answer.

The figure down below moved fitfully, as one in the torment of a nightmare. Richard waited until the man went still again.

And why was I the one chosen to deliver it to him? 

That one was easy as well.

Richard squeezed off a three-round burst. The cracking of the shots echoed briefly, then the summer silence reasserted itself once more over field and wood.

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Framed

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Contents

Chapter Sixteen

He was a giant, half again Richard's height, broad of shoulder, and clad in blood red armor. Again, there was no sign or emblem of any sort on his things. His face was hidden by a tall, conical helmet with small, hooded eye slits. In one hand he held a mace.

"Come to test me, boy?" he boomed, his voice harsh, mocking.

Richard hurriedly seized the sword and shield—just in time. He barely got the shield up to block a devastating blow from the mace. The force of it cracked against his lower arm and traveled up his shoulder, knocking him to the ground.

Training from centuries past reasserted itself. He cast his shield arm to the side and rolled that way on the momentum, keeping his sword close to his body. He got clear and was on his feet before the return swing, circling to keep just out of the giant's line of sight. It would be severely limited by the helmet.

"Who art thou who gives no challenge?" he demanded.

"Thy life and death at once!"

The great man lashed out wide. Richard ducked, darting forward and thrusting up at the unprotected base of his weapon arm. The point of the blade connected and bit deep, raising a howl of pain and anger. Reaction was quick, though; he had to drop and roll again, feeling the breeze of the mace as it brushed just over the hair of his head.

I can't smell the blood, he thought. He could see it, glistening as it flowed over the armor.

The giant paused only long enough to shift the mace to his left hand. He strode forward, roaring. He moved very fast, each stride a match for two of Richard's, and as for his reach . . .

Richard used his shield again as the mace crashed down. The wood began to splinter along some hidden flaw. Richard chopped at the man's extended arm on the inside, striking sparks against the mail.

"Weak vessel," taunted the giant. "Unworthy! Think thou art a man?"

The mace swept down. Richard danced just outside the radius of the swing and went close again, this time trying for the back of a leg. He succeeded, slamming a strong enough blow to buckle the left knee, but failed to cut through the mail to break flesh. He blocked the return strike of the mace with the shield. He got his sword up and caught the knight hard on the wrist. The armor prevented him from severing it, but the weapon dropped.

"Yield!" he shouted.

"Never!"

"I would not kill thee. Yield and depart."

The giant seemed not to hear and struck out. The thick mail of his gauntlets saved his hands as he warded off sword blows, laughing as he pressed on.

The best Richard could hope for was to keep the giant at a distance. Though larger and much stronger, the weight of all that armor would tell on him sooner or later. When that happened . . .

But Richard had to keep backing away, step-by-step, his chest aching for want of air. He should not be so tired. In a few moments he'd be too exhausted himself to fight.

"Come, boy! Come and show me just how weak you are!"

Still backing, fighting defensively, trying to catch his breath and plan. He was faster and could see better than his opponent, about the only advantages left; time to use them before he was too spent.

He feinted to the left, then darted right, out of the giant's view. Before he could turn, Richard had reached the woman. He dropped the shield, using both hands to arc his sword down on the heavy chain.

More sparks. He struck again and again to no effect, then the blade snapped in two.

No time to curse the luck. The giant seized him round the waist, lifting him high. Richard struggled, swinging down and backwards, hacking at those massive arms. That helped; he was half-thrown, half-dropped to the springy turf. He'd forgotten what it was to take a fall from a horse, all bruises and disorientation; this was like that. He pushed upright, focusing to hold onto the sword. At a sound behind him, he instinctively dodged, whirled, struck. Metallic clank. Bellow of outrage. Something hit his shoulder. He spun and nearly fell.

He needed the lance. The length and weight of it called for much skill on horseback, which he possessed, but there was no time to mount the tethered beast, and certainly no room to maneuver in this all-too-small clearing.

Richard stumbled to the tree, discarded the sword and grabbed the lance. It was heavier than he expected, more clumsy to balance than he remembered.

But now he was reduced to ordinary strength.

He'd have only one chance with it, too, for there was no way he could prevent the giant from taking the weapon. To him, it would be as light as a jackstraw and as easily plucked away.

Point control. One of the hardest things to master. Difficult enough on the back of a galloping horse, holding balance, keeping the lance steady and level, placing it precisely in one telling spot, all that while another man is charging at you with the same intent—and yet it was still easier than trying to do the same thing on foot.

He held it crosswise over his body like a spear, quickly moving on as more laughter erupted behind him.

"Think you to defeat me with that?"

He turned. The giant was in the center of the clearing, and except for the blood coming from his wound, seemed little the worse for wear.

"Come and charge me, boy! Unhorse me with that twig." He shook both his fists. There was less movement in his right arm.

Richard hurried to his right, the giant's left, causing him to turn. Sluggish he was, and there was pain in that booming voice. All his effort was in intimidation and insult. He was in midword, when Richard suddenly cut left, bringing the long staff to the horizontal as he rushed forward.

The sharp point ran true and caught the giant in the same wound. The impact was not as devastating as it might be for a man full tilt on a horse, but it was enough. The giant screamed now and tried to fall back and escape, but Richard kept pushing on.

Then the giant's feet tangled upon each other, and down he dropped.

Richard let go the lance and hurried to retrieve the sword. He returned just as the giant began to right himself. Richard threw a side kick at the helmet. That hurt his foot, but it resulted in the giant's sudden collapse.

"Yield!" he cried, standing over him. He pressed the broken sword up under the helm, past the chain mail coif, the shattered end on the vulnerable flesh under his jaw. "Yield and live."

"Never! Kill me and be done!"

"As you wish!"

Richard drove in solidly with all his remaining strength, driving the broken sword deep. The great body flailed in its death throes; one massive arm caught Richard, sending him staggering.

His legs gave out, the earth jarred his back. He shut his eyes against the spinning sky above and lay inert on the grass, striving to breathe again. God, but he was tired. And how he thirsted. How strange it was to thirst this way, without hunger, without the strength of his beast to carry him forward to hunt.

When the dizziness passed and he could trust himself to walk without falling, he rose and went to the giant. Blood had fair gushed from him, soaking the turf. Richard felt no hunger for it; indeed, he was repulsed and wished to avoid contact, but hanging from the man's belt was a key.

He took it away and went to the lady. Though he must have been a fearsome sight himself with his batterings, torn clothes, bloodings, and doubtless wild eyes, she did not shrink from him. Instead, once he'd unlocked her bindings, she gathered him close to give comfort.

"I thank thee, good Richard," she whispered.

He had no surprise that she knew him, for he seemed to know her. He pulled back to look at her, but there was something odd about her face. It seemed to change like an image trapped in water, shifting as light and shadow played over it. He shook his head, rubbing his eyes.

She left him a moment, then returned with a water skin. He eagerly drank; though warm and tasting of leather it was yet sweet on his parched lips and dust-dry throat.

"Who was that knight?" he asked.

"He was your life and death. Ending and deliverance."

Richard twitched a smile. "That wants explaining."

"You will find the answer with him."

"Who art thou?"

"Your death and life. Beginning and continuance."

And perhaps she would give a more clear reply, when the time was right for him to hear it. "Why did he treat you so?"

"He did love and seduce me once upon a time. Fate and his own cruelty made him hate me."

An old story, he thought, and went back to the knight. He dragged off the huge helmet.

The man's eyes were open, giving the world one last angry glare. Though definitely dead, there was still a movement about him. Like the lady, his face seemed to change, rippling.

In that face Richard recognized the features of many men; his father, his brother, Luis, Alejandro . . . they and more like them shifted skin and bone like malleable clay. Hundreds of faces, callous enemies all, some he'd killed himself, others he'd simply outlived.

He thought he understood now, and returned to the lady. She was also one of hundreds, perhaps thousands. For a few seconds she was Elaine, then Stephanie, then Ghislaine, then Elena and Seraphina, both grown to the womanhood they'd been denied—all were beautiful to him. One face he did not know, yet she above the others drew him the strongest.

"Do I know thee, lady?"

"You have always known me."

How can such ice-blue eyes be so warm? he wondered. Then the answer came to him and he was on his knees, arms around her, holding her like life itself. He had no tears, for he'd wept them out centuries ago, wept them for the mother he'd never seen, the mother who had bled out her life delivering him . . .

She crooned to him, gentle hands caressing his hair. "You cannot stay, good Richard."

"I know, but 'tis sweet. There is so much I would say to thee, so much I would hear."

"Then speak to me in thy dreams, for I have always heard you."

"But I shall not hear you in turn."

"Nay, but you do. Thy heart has ever known my voice. I love thee and am proud of thee."

He'd thought himself exhausted of tears. Fresh ones sprang to his eyes.

"You must find the child, now," she said after an all-too-brief moment. "And quickly."

"Yes, I swear it. Come with me. Guide me to him."

"You know the way yourself. Though you walk in the darkness, the light within has ever guided you. Let it guide you again."

"Mother . . ."

"Fare thee well, sweet Dickon."

And she was gone. He remained on his knees, arms out as though in prayer. Between them was a shaft of sunlight from a summer out of time. It flared brightly, then faded. The wood around him dimmed for want of her presence.

His heart ached, his whole being ached. Pierced right through he was, yet he took a strange comfort from it. She loved him, had always been there, though he'd known it not.

That was changed. "I will speak with thee again and soon," he promised.

No reply came. Saddening, and he could not linger to mourn. He got tiredly to his feet, looking around for the next sign to follow.

The big war-horse snorted and stamped as though to mock his lack of perception.

Richard boosted onto its back, dug his heels in, but held the reins loose. As he presumed, the big beast knew its own way, taking a trail from the clearing. A sudden turning around a stand of beech trees marked the end of the wild forest and the beginning of open fields. He was on a rise, his road leading down to a lake and a shallow fording.

Of course. It had to be. 

Beyond the lake was his father's castle. No reflection of it lay on the water, yet he knew it to be real. To himself at least. In this place.

He kicked the horse forward to a gallop, splashing over the ford, surging up the next rise and thence to the gates and through. Within, all was silent. No armsmen called a challenge, no servants scuttled up to attend him; he was quite alone but for his stamping mount.

He threw a leg over its neck and slipped down. Untethered, it trotted off to the stables, there to vanish, he supposed, as the hart had done, as had his mother. This journey, he now understood, was less to do with Michael than with himself. His prayer was that he'd not been delayed too long.

Ignoring his stiff muscles and bruises, he pushed into a shambling run, going through the tall doors that opened to the feasting hall. It was also empty, having no sign that anyone had been there in centuries.

He took the door opposite into the winding hall. No light shone here, but he knew the way, had walked it often enough in nightmares. It ended, as the dreams always did, with the door to his father's chamber.

He pushed through.

The great throne was yet there, next to it a simple table. The air stank of fat from the burning torches along the walls. Their light was red, unsteady, the smokes rising black to layer the sooty ceiling.

On the throne . . . Michael, looking very small and frail. His dead eyes gazed out, all unseeing. He leaned wearily against one arm of the chair.

To his horror, Richard saw that the boy was bleeding from his side, a deep wound, the blood flow slow but steady. The terrible stream marched down the base of the throne to the floor, where it pooled, growing.

Richard rushed to him, but the closer he got the thicker the air seemed, until he was unable to move forward at all.

"Let me go to him!" he shouted at he knew not what.

"Would you heal him?" a voice asked. It was neither male nor female, kind or cruel. It just was.

"Yes! Of course!" he answered, looking wildly about for the source. "Let me pass. Please!"

"You know him not."

"I don't have to!"

"Then learn."

Michael's face changed, his form shifted, grew. No longer a little boy, a grown man sat in his place, the same agonized posture, the same dead eyes. Such eyes Richard had last seen on Michel when they both lay wounded on the grass that day so long ago.

He could not breathe. Before him was the truth he'd always known in his heart, but never dared to speak. How many lives have you had, boy? How many woundings? Could I have spared you?

"Do you forgive?" the voice asked. "Do you forgive what had to be, what you could not help?"

He shook his fists in frustration. "I forgave, years past I forgave. You know it to be so."

"You never forgave yourself. You still carry anger within for not doing more to stop the impossible."

"My anger is nothing to his need. Please, let me pass."

The man's form shrank in upon itself to that of the desperately hurt child. "Wouldst heal him of this living death?"

"Yes!"

"You know not the price."

"Name it, I will pay."

"See it first."

The form on the throne shifted, grew. Richard saw himself seated there, face gray and gaunt, eyes hollow and lost, but wretchedly aware. He was old, ancient, hair and beard gone so white as to be transparent, his wrinkled, spotted flesh hanging loose from aching bones. One skeletal hand was pressed to his bleeding side; the pain like cold fire, unable to consume itself and die. His shrunken body trembled from relentless weariness; he could not lay himself down. There was no escape, no rest, only the unending torment of an injured soul.

"Thus will it come to pass, thus will it be for you forever," said the voice. "To save the boy, you must take his place, assume his hurts. You will live on in this agony until the last fall of night. And when that may be no one knows."

Richard swallowed hard. "Never to die and find release?"

"Never. The cup of life will ever sustain you."

On the table was the Grail. Its presence alone, he knew, had power enough for miracles. But that the miracle of life could be so twisted . . . how could they ask so much of him? To leave him perpetually dying, yet alive, without hope, alone . . .

But such was what the boy now endured, where he was trapped, and unlike Richard, he had no understanding of why.

Richard was himself again, standing before the throne, looking at Michael—and just able to step forward. The resistance was less than it was, but still strong. "I've seen your price and it matters not. Do what thou wilt with me, but save the boy. Restore and heal him, I beg you."

"Are you certain, Richard d'Orleans?"

In answer, he pushed closer until he could reach Michael. As soon as he touched him the thick resistance ceased. He gently gathered the boy into his arms. Precious burden. The last time he would ever hold him. It would have to be enough.

He reached for the Grail. Picked it up. There was dark red wine in it, or something that appeared to be wine.

He put the cup to the boy's lips, persuading him to drink. Michael did so, then shut his dead eyes, seeming to sleep.

God and Goddess, help him! 

Richard searched his face for some sign of change, then held him close. "There is so much I would say to thee, so much I would hear. Speak to me in thy dreams, my son. If the gods are kind they may let me listen. They may let me reply."

The voice around him was silent to this. No sound was within the chamber except for his own breath and the hiss and burn of the torch fires.

He felt a wet warmth on his hand. Michael yet bled.

No! No more! 

He put the holy cup on the table, then stepped away from the throne, taking Michael clear of the pool of blood at its base. With nowhere else to put him, he had to lie on the cold flags, no covering, no pillow. Richard peeled off his tunic. A wretched blanket, torn, bloody, and sweat-stained, but better than nothing.

He wrapped Michael with it, kissed his brow, and backed away. "Sleep, boy, and may heaven have pity on thee."

Richard approached the throne. A memory of his near-fatal childhood punishment came to him. He tiredly thrust it away, turned, and sat.

It was worse than in the vision. The wounding he'd taken in the field in the far past was negligible to this. In that same spot as the spear thrust, his flesh parted from within to without in a gash longer than his hand. He gasped as though struck, clutching his side as though to stave the blood flow and agony, all for naught. The pain devoured all his senses. Nothing else existed. Weak unto fainting, he leaned against the arm of the throne to wait until the first shock of it passed.

Only it did not.

The bitterness held undiminished. Each time he shifted to ease himself only added to his suffering.

I chose this. I will endure. Better me than him. 

So he did not cry out; he bit off all complaint. He remained in place, and watched as his blood trickled down the same path as Michael's to merge with the pool already there. In the hours, the years to come, it would cover the whole of the floor, spread to the rest of the castle, be soaked up by the earth outside, cloak the world.

He shivered. How could such a close-aired chamber be so chill? The gooseflesh plucked at his bare back and arms like knife points. He dared not move to rub warmth into them, lest his pain increase.

He wondered if his face and form would also shift before the eyes of any who saw him. Would a visitor someday come and take pity on him, try to ease his pain? He doubted it. This was his world from now on, this drab, cold chamber with the smoking torches, season beyond season unchanged forever. In unbroken solitude he would count the stones of the walls and listen to his own heartbeat and groans of anguish. Sabra had warned him of danger, but not the depth of it, not the permanence. There were worse things than dying. He hoped she would forgive him for leaving her. Perhaps she would wait for him as she'd done before, but this time he would not return.

But Michael . . . there, he was waking. All would be worth it if he could live free.

The child did not see him, his gaze was fixed on the open door. Pale light shone there, pale, but growing stronger, brighter as something approached in the passage beyond. Richard held his breath as one by one several women slowly filed in. They were of a kind with their serene faces, and unadorned white robes. Their bare feet whispered over the flags. The light they carried was their own, shining out from their smooth flesh. Eight in all, eight of the nine sisters of Avalon, they surrounded little Michael, who showed no fear of them. Three of them—they looked much like the boy's mother and sisters—lifted him up and carried him away. Their light went with them, dimming with distance, then vanishing altogether.

None had marked Richard or shown any sign of his existence.

Richard was alone.

He slumped, accepting it, accepting everything. Wincing, he leaned back in the chair, knowing the pain would keep him from ever sleeping again, but wishing for a respite all the same. He wished only. Here, there was no more hope.

He felt the blood seeping past his fingers. He'd borne a thousand such woundings and worse and survived. They'd always healed, physically. This, though, represented not only all of Michael's hurts, but the inner wounds Richard had endured over the centuries, the ones whose scars yet bled when his thoughts touched on them. He would have much time now to think.

He closed his eyes.

Let go. The agonies of the past imprison and torture us all, but only if we allow it. Let go. 

Indeed, were it only that simple.  

It is. You cannot have the past you wanted, only that which you had. Accept that it made you what you are and move on. 

How? he wondered.

Just let go. Move forward. 

I want to. How? Whose was this out-of-time voice? Was it part of the room or within his mind?

Release the past. Let go. 

Then sleep stole over him after all . . . and dreams.

He dreamed that he was able to sink back into the chair and find true comfort, true rest. His cares slipped away, spiraling off into sweet darkness.

He dreamed that gentle arms were wrapped around him, a soft hand caressed his brow, a softer voice called his name.

"Wake now, Richard. Come to me. Move forward and come to me."

He drew a great breath, like a diver just surfaced, and struggled to sit up. The pain clutched at him, holding him down.

" 'Tis over," Sabra whispered close to his ear. She cradled his shoulders and head in her lap. "Waken, my love."

He saw a black sky and full moon, glass and metal framing above, none of it seemed real, not at all solid as this chamber. One vision was hard upon the other, each wavering, fighting to assert itself.

"Come to me," she said.

Her voice drew him like a lifeline. "But I must stay . . . for Michael."

"He's here. Come to us."

Richard shook his head, trying to force his eyes to open on the right reality, the right time. The chamber of pain faded; the torches winked out. Sabra was with him instead, holding him. And there was a weight on his chest.

He sat up a little. Michael was unexpectedly in his arms, curled against him, his small fists hanging tight to the fabric of the old blue bathrobe. He slept, but with that wonderful abandon that only children know. His little face was relaxed now, at peace.

Richard fiercely tightened his embrace around the child and kissed the top of his blond head. He looked at Sabra. "Is he well? Truly well?"

"He is. You delivered his soul from its darkness. He will be able to heal in this world, now."

"But I thought I had to stay."

"Your willingness to do so was enough. The difficulty was persuading you away. You're a man of duty, my Richard."

"I saw my mother there."

"I know. Michael saw his, and long they spoke."

"They may still be speaking, if he dreams."

She nodded. "As it is for you. He is a special child."

"Michel come back to me."

"He's done so before, only you knew it not. His soul has been in many vessels over time."

"If only I had known."

"Nay, but each life must be what it is, not what it was before, else there is no learning, no growth. You must prune off limbs from a tree so that the trunk sprouts new ones more lush."

"And sometimes the cutting is harsh?"

"But what must be. You and he have endured much, learned much, he through many lives, you through this one. I think you will each understand one another better now."

"What do you see for him?" He thought better of the question as soon as he'd asked it. Her Sight was a terrible gift.

"His mother and sisters are close, you cannot see them, but he will know and they will comfort him. They will speak to him in his dreams and guide his waking steps. He has much power and must learn to be wise with it."

"Power?"

"He has gifts from the Goddess even I cannot grasp."

"Like the Sight and the giving of visions?"

"Yes. Those among others."

Richard thought of the nightmare vision he'd had of the house, the killings, the chase into the fields, and looked down at Michael in wonder. The animal blood had not forced that imagining. It had been Michael, reliving the memory, projecting it into Richard's mind as a reality. Dear God. "He is waking to them. But so young."

"He needs teachers, you and I, and more, many, many more."

"You will take him north with you, to the tribe there?"

"They will help with his healing as no others can."

"I thought as much."

"Perhaps you will come?" she asked.

Richard knew he needed healing as well. He would find it in the shadows of those tall woods with a wise people who yet understood the Old Ways. "Yes," he whispered. "As soon as may be."

With Michael still enfolded protectively in his arms, he leaned back against Sabra and, for a time, slept with that same peaceful abandon.

Relentless sun, blistering heat, muggy air. High noon in Texas.

Richard ignored those annoyances as he left his rental in the dust of a little-used lane and stalked through the scrub oak. He carried a heavy rucksack slung over his shoulder. Now and then he checked his compass. When the tangle of trees and briars opened up to a field, he saw the hill he wanted a quarter-mile ahead. He used the mirror on the reverse side of the compass and caught the sun in it, aiming the reflection at the trees on the summit.

A moment later, two flashes returned to him.

He kept close to the edge of the field, walking as quickly as he could manage through the trees. His new hat and old drover's coat helped shield him from the sun, but the additional shade meant he could stay out longer.

The last few days had been busy. Bourland had arrived, still weighed down with grief and in need of work to ease it. He efficiently took on the red tape of local officialdom, claiming the bodies, running interference for Richard's part in things, and generally smoothing the way for Michael to leave the country.

Seated in the air-conditioned shelter of the New Karnak flat, a drink at his elbow, Bourland had listened somberly to Richard's version of things. He'd frowned hard over Luis's disappearance from the Anatole hotel.

"My guess," said Richard, "is that Alejandro had people watching all the major hotels in town, waiting for Luis to surface. As soon as he walked in with Michael it was all up and they grabbed him. There must have been a hell of a reward out."

"That seems a pretty massive effort on Alejandro's part. Quite a long shot, in fact," said Bourland, doubtful.

Richard fixed his old friend with a long look. "Nevertheless, that's how it must have happened. Alejandro took them both, killed Luis, then tried to use Michael as a lever against me. Thankfully, it didn't work." He delicately released his mental hold.

Bourland shook his head, still frowning, but oblivious to what had just happened. "Poor Luis. You and Michael were damned lucky to have escaped that mess. The police are still trying to sort out what happened on the property. All those men dead? Alejandro, yes, he can rot in hell forever, but so many others?" He looked across at Richard, as though finding it hard to believe that so quiet and controlled a man was also capable of such savage violence. He knew it to occasionally be Richard's business, but had rarely seen evidence of it. The police crime photos had been most graphic.

"It's an ugly world, Philip. I did what was necessary to save Michael. Let the police form their own conclusions so long as he's left out of them."

"Oh, absolutely. But what could have happened to poor Luis?"

Richard shrugged. "We may never know."

"It'll be hard on the boy."

"He'll deal with it. My friend Sabra is an expert at grief therapy. She'll be there for him. We all will."

"Yes. My daughter is already working on the custody papers for Michael. After that, it's a short step to adoption. Michael Bourland is a strong name, don't you think?"

"Very strong. A good one."

Richard gave the same story—and hypnotic nudge—to Dr. Sam and Helen. Both were astonished at the change in Michael, going from near-comatose withdrawal to subdued but close-to-normal interaction with the world again. Both were delighted.

"He just needed a little time," said Sam after a final examination. He, too, was being shielded by Bourland's influence. The police knew nothing about Dr. Samuel Ross George's part in things, and it would remain so.

Richard's own story of going to the house to visit an old employee friend, then finding Michael wandering about the ruins in shock was also accepted. His delay in coming forward got him a stern rebuke from the investigators, but nothing more.

"They're not going to bother you again?" Sam asked, surprised.

"No. I explained my reasons about wanting to protect the boy by keeping him clear, and they accepted them. They're thinking that after the explosion, one of Alejandro's men defected to a rival, who simply caught up with him."

"But that's a Federal case! It's still being run on CNN."

Richard had shrugged, unconcerned. "You just need to know how to talk to people, that's all."

Sabra stayed with Richard and would be flying back with Michael and Bourland when the time came. She and Bourland became fast friends within minutes of being introduced, but that was only to be expected of her when she wished it. She also knew the value of cultivating important contacts. Bourland was certainly in that category.

And he was a big, handsome man.

"Please don't break him," Richard advised her sotto voce, well aware of her preferences. But she merely smiled.

One last detail remained for Richard to see to; Sabra alone knew of it, but said nothing either way of what she thought.

This was strictly his business.

Drenched in sweat and red of face, he reached the top of the hill. In the shade beneath the trees he thought he could risk removing the heavy coat, but the hat remained in place. At least now he could feel the wind, even though its source point must have been an oven.

"Over here," said Jordan Keyes, quietly.

It took a moment for Richard to spot him.

He was again dressed to blend with the background, this time in green cammos, with a matching bush hat. Except for the sunglasses, it all looked to be army surplus, well broken in. Richard gave him a once-over.

"What, no face paint?" he asked.

"The damn stuff gets in the beard." Keyes had not shaved in several days, nor bathed, indication to Richard that he'd been constantly on the job. He looked tired, but gave no sign of leaving his post just yet. "All I have to do to be invisible is keep low and not make noise," Keyes said. "No one comes out here, though."

"So it would seem. How do you know of this place?"

"Deer hunting range. Owner of the property's out of the country."

"Friend of yours?"

"Nope. He's never heard of me. I found this acreage awhile back, liked it, and looked up who had it. I keep tabs on him. If he ever decides to sell, I'll be first in line."

He and Keyes walked to the summit. It commanded a fine view of the woods and fields below. Here Keyes had set up something resembling a hunting blind. He'd strung camouflage netting around an area just large enough for him to lie down in and high enough to be above his head while seated. Within, he'd set up a folding camp chair and brought some paperbacks to read. Near the chair was a rucksack similar to the one Richard carried. It held empty food wrappers, depleted plastic water bottles, insect repellent, and a roll of biodegradable toilet paper.

"Glad you found the place," said Keyes. "I'm down to my last shot of water."

"How are things progressing?"

"About what you'd expect. He was pretty noisy the first day, but the duct tape took care of that. He can't talk any more, tongue's too swollen. Probably won't be too much longer, a couple, three days. Want a look?" He offered up a pair of very powerful binoculars.

Richard took them, peering down the hill toward a tree some fifty yards away. The figure by it sprang close in every awful detail.

Luis Trujillo was chained with his back to the tree, collapsed at its base. He was naked, but covered in patches of vicious red skin that seemed to clothe him. His body occasionally twitched, and he kept shaking his head as though trying to dislodge something. His face was puffed, his eyes sunken and bordering on madness.

"It's a wonder he's not passed out yet," Richard commented.

"That little refinement you wanted . . . I added to it."

"In what way?" Hanging from a limb in front of Luis was a large plastic bag holding liquid. A flexible tube extended from it, the end of which was within easy reach of his mouth, allowing him to drink whenever he wished. The bag was nearly three quarters gone.

Keyes took a liter-sized bottle from his sack and twisted it open. "It struck me that just putting water down there to make him last longer was a good start. I substituted some sports drink, and just to improve the taste mixed in a good dose of antihistamines and some uppers."

"The drink I understand, but the rest?"

"I'm figuring the antihistamines to help counteract anaphylactic shock and the uppers to make sure he enjoys every fun-filled moment."

"Very creative. My compliments."

Richard held himself steady, staring hard through the lens, adjusting the focus. He could just make out minute lines creeping over Luis's flesh. He writhed under them. Flies dotted his face and he shook his head again. If he groaned or cursed, it went unheard in the distance.

"Of course," Keyes continued, "if he really goes into serious shock then the fat lady's done with her chorus. That's when I pack up and boogie."

"But not before—"

"Oh, hell no. Can't let the fire ants get all the glory."

"What have you got for it?"

"Party favor." He pointed to an MP-5 on the ground by his chair. On top of it, a pair of surgical gloves. "Still has Nick's prints on it. I can pop three rounds in the skull, leave the gun, then it's home for Stoli time."

This was also the plan should someone happen along and find Luis. Keyes was to kill the prisoner to silence him, then vanish. In this heat, so far from anywhere, the happenstance was remote, but both men believed in preparation.

"What'd you bring me?" Keyes asked, reaching for Richard's sack.

"More water, more food bars. The kind you said you wanted."

"Great, I ran out this morning. I was getting hungry." He tore the wrapper off one, taking a healthy bite. "These are most bueno, but they stop you up like a summabitch—though out here that's just as well. What's happening in the rest of the world? I take it no one followed you."

"Not to worry. I was careful and your directions were clear." Richard gave him a summation of events. Most of it was even true. "No one knows what's become of Luis. The general assumption is that Alejandro killed him."

"That's fine. Just what you wanted."

"You had no trouble getting Luis out here?"

"Not too much. I kept him drugged in the car until I found a good spot for each of us. I knew about this hill; it was finding the right tree close enough to it that was the problem."

"Right tree?"

"One that had fire ants. I lucked out, though, and turned up a mound next to that one. He woke up pretty fast when I sat him down on it. Had to be quick with the chains to keep him there, then he started hollering, so we had fun with the duct tape. He was freaking out for most of the day, then settled down. Too damn tired to keep it up. Next morning I could take the tape off so he could drink. That's when he tried to buy me off. Tried to say he had the locations of some of his brother's accounts. Like I could believe that. He got pretty crazy, babbled a lot. Just to humor him I wrote the stuff down. Doubt if anything will come of it, but I can play hacker and see what I turn up. If you hear any news about me buying an island you'll know I nailed it."

Richard rather hoped he would. "All this is rather above and beyond."

"Maybe so. Indirectly, he cost me a steady paying customer. 'Cause of him I had to bump Trujillo before he bumped me. Now that would have probably happened sooner or later, but it's annoying all the same. But what really chaps my hide is what he did to his family. That was wrong."

Agreed, Richard thought. But is this not just as wrong? 

Even lowering the binoculars could not remove the sight of the dying Luis from his mind's eye. Richard had thought long and hard about the punishment he would inflict on Stephanie's butcher. It had seemed just. Certainly he'd done worse things to enemies in the past, but this time it was different.

The righteous satisfaction was not there.

He understood and had often reveled in its sweet, raw heat. But now . . . nothing. He couldn't feel pity for Luis, but could summon horror within for his own actions.

I've changed. This vengeance I thought so important is no longer necessary. 

"Have you plans for after this?" he asked Keyes.

"I thought about buying a ticket to Aruba for the summer, but the cats'd hate it. They wouldn't have me around to bitch at. My neighbor who checks on them isn't as much fun."

"Perhaps it's time you went back to them."

Keyes finished his food bar and stuffed the wrapper into one of the sacks. "You wanting to cut this short?"

"He looks too far gone for anything more to matter to him."

"I expect so. The ants would have stopped biting sometime back. They're eating on him by now. Different kind of intense, but his mind . . ."

"You've other things to do, I'm sure."

"I can think of a few. You gonna do the honors?"

"Yes."

Richard helped Keyes break camp. It took but a few moments to roll up and stow away the camouflage netting. Richard hiked down to the tree and unhooked the plastic bag, draining it out on the return trip. Luis was so far gone he did not seem to notice his presence.

Keyes had folded the camp chair and put his books away. He hooked the bundle straps over one shoulder then stuck a hand toward Richard.

They briefly shook.

"It's been a pleasure," said Keyes. "Let's not do this again sometime."

God forbid. 

Richard waited until Keyes was well gone. Before too long he caught the faint sound of a car motor turning over. He waited, spying a cloud of dust rising along the line that marked the road into the property. He waited until the dust drifted lazily back into place.

Then Richard put on the surgical gloves.

He raised the gun, sighting along the barrel. He could see no real detail without the binoculars, but they weren't necessary.

An easy enough shot.

Who was he? Did he deserve his fate? 

An easy enough answer.

The figure down below moved fitfully, as one in the torment of a nightmare. Richard waited until the man went still again.

And why was I the one chosen to deliver it to him? 

That one was easy as well.

Richard squeezed off a three-round burst. The cracking of the shots echoed briefly, then the summer silence reasserted itself once more over field and wood.

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Framed