Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know? Read online

  Carved out of the stone forming the temple’s rear wall—seventy feet tall, if an inch—stood the temple’s crowning work of art. The skeletal representation of Death exuded strength and a sense of inescapable finality. Absent was any cloak to obscure his nature. His scythe had shrunk to a sickle in one hand and he held a bouquet of nightshade in the other.

  Rake leaned forward, resting his hands on the balustrade. “Magnificent.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Magnificent evidence that you completely ignored my advice.”

  “I told you that you doubted me at your peril. This is, of course, the most grand of my Lord’s temples, and fitting that we built it beneath the world’s greatest city. Please, let us go down. It is more impressive from the floor, and almost time for evensong.”

  Rake shook his head. “I watch cheap theatrics, I do not participate in them.”

  Marcus stepped forward. “Tell me your will, my lady, and he will abide by it.”

  She found Marcus’ comment laced with jealousy—and decidedly more revealing of his emotional state than she expected. She considered, just for a heartbeat, granting him permission to do whatever he wished to Rake. She feared Marcus might pitch the man over the balustrade, dashing his brains out on marble floor. That would have been an inconvenience, and caused a delay which, however brief, would have been intolerable.

  “He will come along, Marcus. No need for force.”

  “He does not scare me, Countess.”

  “But I should.” Rake straightened up. “I say this to you less in any belief you will heed my words, than my desire for them to ring in your ears as you die. Run now, Marcus. Run away and live a long life away from her and her madness.”

  Marcus’ resolve locked his features into an iron mask.

  Ariadne Dyre laughed. “Your charm, dear Idris, lay always in your brooding taciturnity. Marcus is mine, heart and soul. We have no secrets. As you raised me up, so I have done with him. A person cannot love and fear another at the same time.”

  Blue sparked in Rake’s dark eyes. “Oh, he really is a dull boy. No matter.” He offered her his elbow.

  She slipped her hand through the crook, and guided him back through her chambers and down a wider set of winding stairs. Rake had to duck his head, and walked on the outside. Their descent, his closeness and the hint of his scent took her back to their time together. As lovers, they would have hurried. As a student, she’d always trembled, because often such descents would end in Rake inculcating her in some new occulted truth.

  And now, I will reveal to him mysteries he has never dared to explore. Her stomach tightened, hoping for wonder on his part, and yet fearing derision and rebuke. As a Master he had always been stingy with praise, and yet generous with discipline. She’d never sensed any desire to hold students back in this, but more to remind them that the forces with which they worked were dangerous. Now that she had surpassed him, a trickle of annoyance played through her. She did not need his approval, but she found herself desperately wanting it.

  They stepped out onto the floor and she turned him to face the wall with the balcony. “Again, more impressive, no?”

  She caught his nod from the corner of her eye. “Quite. The windows… intriguing.”

  As the temple had been constructed underground, the addition of stained glass windows had been a cosmetic choice. Sorcery had kindled eldritch flames in niches carved out behind the glass. Their light illuminated scenes from Apocryphal scriptures, depicting stories of alternative creations. Fittingly, no snake appeared in the Garden of Eden, but Death himself usurped that role. God had trapped him in the Garden out of fear, hoping that harvesting human souls would distract Death sufficiently that he would forget that God’s time was at hand. And, later, Death granted Jesus resurrection and ascension to remind His father that Death had not forgotten.

  “Your invention, interpretation or…”

  “I have uncovered many things since we were last together. I should love to claim creation of that story, but I have merely restored what the Church shunned.” She led him toward the heart of the temple. “Mortality so terrified men that Church fathers transformed Death into an infantile surrogate over which God had dominion. Yet even His son died, accepting my Master as his Master.”

  Rake smiled slyly. “Yet, if I correctly recall, Jesus resurrected multiple people. Likewise Simon Peter and even Paul. So who, truly, was the master?”

  “Fanciful stories. Slanders transformed into libelous gospels.” She glanced at him. “Unless you know a different truth.”

  “Truth and religion have always been contentious bedfellows.”

  “But when they are one and the same, as they are here, reality is unlocked.” She freed her hand from his arm and clapped once. “And this is the Truth you must understand.”

  From somewhere high up, in a chamber hidden beyond the ceiling’s vaults, bells began to toll. Not too loudly, nor brightly, but deep and resonant enough that they sent vibrations through her chest. Though she had heard them ring countless times, they never failed to thrill. They celebrated her success, in sharp contrast to the stony silence Rake had spared her efforts.

  Drawn by the tolling bell’s echoes, people gathered in the temple. They entered through the large doors for the most part, proceeding in a stately and measured fashion around the dark pool. A few came through small doors from adjoining chambers. Most all wore somber clothing, many adopting raiment styled after that worn by Puritans. A few chose finer clothes, complete with high boots, quilted waistcoats and long jackets or gowns—yet of subdued colors. Some came as couples, and a few approached as groups, but the majority came alone.

  She wondered how long it would take for Rake to notice the difference between himself or Marcus and her congregants. Though she watched closely, she missed the point where he must have realized what was going on. It should have been simple, really, since the temple was something she’d always described as a consequence of her studies. His delayed reaction she put down to his utter disbelief at her success, and then his stubborn refusal to give her the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

  He gave no outward sign until one man walked past close enough that Rake could have reached out and touched him. Rake’s eyes tightened. He stared hard, then failed to suppress a shiver. “That cannot be.”

  “But it is. The Conqueror himself. He is not the oldest congregant my Lord has given to me, but is one of the most treasured.”

  Rake fixed her with his obsidian gaze. “But he appears…”

  “As he was? Yes.” She spread her arms to take all the congregants in. “My Lord Death has graced me with a community of wondrous people. Some have returned to prove His power and beneficence. Others—you will see them later—have yet to enjoy His embrace. They fervently believe, however, and worship wholeheartedly.”

  “And their donations fund your work.”

  “Their generosity is a testament to their faith.” Ariadne couldn’t help but smile openly. “You would be more than welcome to enter fellowship with us.”

  “I was always more inclined to be a hermit than a High Priest.”

  Marcus snorted. “That’s not a position needs filling.”

  Rake turned his back toward her lover. “If that is so, why am I here?”

  “My congregation is full of the best and brightest of human beings ever to stride the world beneath stars, moon and sun. Philosophers, astrologers, artists and writers, conquerors and kings, generals, chieftains, emperors and empresses—separated by centuries, yet all united in the bosom of my Lord. All people so vital, with so much strength of mind and personality, that though my Lord took them at their appointed time, He cherished them enough to restore them to the world. In his judgement, their lives had been so exemplary that the only justice was to bring them back.”

  Rake shook his head. “How is it he manages the choosing? The spin a wheel of good fortune or…?”

  “He whispers the name to me, in those quiet moments, when I think of
nothing at all.” She brought her hands together as if in prayer, stilling their nervous flutter. “He made a choice, a recent choice, and this is why you are here.” One of the reasons, anyway.

  Rake arched an eyebrow. “Your lord regrets that Deimos died prematurely, then?”

  “My Lord makes no mistakes, has no regret.” Ariadne, unable to conjure up even a faded image of the dead apprentice’s face, waved away Rake’s comment. “No, He desires the Bard of Avon to enter into our fellowship.”

  Rake’s laughter filled the lugubrious cathedral. Fury flashed through Ariadne. Marcus’ lips peeled back in an unvoiced snarl. None of the congregants seemed to recognize the laughter for what it was, nor did they even try to locate the source. For them it was purposeless noise, but it lashed her.

  Rake sighed. “Your lord wants him resurrected, or is it you who wants him back? Your cheeks yet burn because you talked yourself into believing that sonnet was written about you.”

  It was! Mortification curdled in her stomach. “You paid him to deny it and publicly humiliate me.”

  “By all things holy, woman, that happened well past a century ago. You will resurrect him to do what? To tell you that, yes, I did pay him to lie? He was a writer. He would have written anything I paid him to write.” Rake hugged his arms to himself as much as the manacles would allow. “His grave is cursed, it is writ plain in stone. Nothing good will come of disturbing his bones.”

  “I made no choice, Idris Rake. This is the command of My Lord Death.” She smiled easily. “And I know of that curse. I have been to the church. I sensed the curse’s nature. The unique peculiarities of your magic alerted me to your role. My Lord wishes the Bard’s brilliance to affirm His beneficence and mercy through fellowship, and you are the means of accomplishing His will.”

  “Thus your master requires I remove the curse on the grave.”

  “No, my friend. That has been done.”

  Marcus laid a hand on Rake’s shoulder. “I managed that myself. Rather easy.”

  “She has taught you much.” Rake nodded once. “Then you need me for…?”

  Ariadne waggled a finger at him. “The other curse. The one on the leaden casket holding his remains. Remove that.”

  “Happily.” Idris held up his hands. “Remove the gloves.”

  She stepped close and stroked a hand over his cheek. “Even were you to promise to do nothing untoward, I shouldn’t return to you the means to work your magic. No, reveal the key to me and I will do Marcus the honor of letting him remove the curse.”

  “And the benefit to me?” He looked her in the eyes and her heart quickened. “Recall that I do not fear your master.”

  “Nor do I.”

  “You deceive yourself, Ariadne. Again. You have always feared Death. What you first sought to appease, you now worship.”

  She turned from him. “We both worship Death.”

  “No. My mastery of necromancy concerns death only in that I desire to know what the dead have known.” Rake spread his hands to the extent the chains made possible. “You, this…”

  Ariadne spun back. “This, Idris, is my Lord returning the dead to us so they can continue to create and think and guide. You want information they knew. Here they discover new things, they produce new things. Artwork and concertos, new plays and poems and potions which make life more enjoyable. My Lord does not enjoy suffering. He dispenses the mercy that God dictates we should show one another, yet He denies to us all. My Lord Death not only ends suffering, but returns to us those who will relieve it, not just tell us to endure it.”

  Rake shrugged. “This is your new Truth. So be it. But, again, what benefit do I reap by helping you?”

  “I have discovered answers to questions which greatly concerned you before.”

  “Such as?”

  “I realized you had authored both curses, not just because you had been my teacher and my lover, but because of tiny little aspects of your thaumaturgy. I found those peculiarities, traces really, elsewhere.” She watched his face and how his expression froze. “Not left behind by someone you mentored, but someone with whom you shared a mentor.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Why is it impossible for me to have uncovered something for which you have searched for eons.” She opened her arms to take in the temple. “This here, these people, a century and a half ago, you thought would never return from their graves. I have accomplished one impossibility, why not another?”

  “Point taken.”

  “And I shall reveal the information to you, happily; and even assist in your assessing its import, in exchange for this one, tiny favor.”

  Rake’s eyes focused above and beyond her. He had not changed since she last saw him, so recognizing that expression came by reflex. Once she’d marveled at the way he shut out the world, letting his mind devour a problem. She felt a touch of the exhilaration she’d known, and its potency surprised her.

  Yet now, it seemed like such a waste. Idris Rake had once traveled the same path as she, but had balked at the single-minded devotion and dedication she’d lavished on Death. At first she believed his aversion came from a refusal to acknowledge anything being greater than he was. But as his attitude soured and he withdrew, she discovered the true reasons. Jealousy. Envy. He would never enjoy the close communion she had cultivated with Death. To avoid facing the truth, to avoid acknowledging that he had lost her forever, he’d denigrated her work and abandoned her. That she had murdered his new apprentice and had caused the deaths of others close to him had not been to anger him, but to prove her devotion to her Lord and Master.

  Rake stroked his chin. “Very well. I agree to this bargain.”

  “As I knew you would.” She looked at Marcus. “Fetch the casket and place it by the Resurrection Pool. Get everything else ready, please.”

  “I should remain with you, my lady.”

  “Run along, puppy. I shan’t hurt her.”

  Marcus looked from him to her, but Ariadne waved him away. “Quickly now.”

  As her lover departed, Rake returned his attention to the gathering of the dead. “Have you a service to conduct. Do they sing at evensong? Take communion? What is it they eat?”

  She followed his gaze. The dead had seated themselves in chairs and at tables, most facing their god’s terrible visage. A few had bent their heads in prayer, while others sat in silent contemplation. She wished she knew their thoughts as they came into the Temple, but that remained a mystery to which her Master had denied her access.

  “They do not eat as a rule, though they may, and those who had a passion for food and drink, yet indulge. Such consumption does not sustain them. For that, they undergo a Ritual of Renewal in the Resurrection Pool. Their need for it differs, largely based on how long they have been cradled to my Master’s bosom. Some, very recently dead and regrettable experiments, have become apostate and sustain themselves by drinking blood from the living. They are not true vampyr, but close enough to be mistaken for same. More, really, like the ghul of the Arabias.”

  Rake stepped closer to one of the seated congregants. “Time in the grave equates to a diminution of their skills and abilities, yes?”

  “Actually not.”

  “Truly?”

  “Your work, my dear Idris, does not recover memories, it plunders them. Your magics destroy the fragile structures that defined them. The sacrament of Revivification rebuilds the congregants physically and since there is only ever one soul for one body, that soul reenters immediately. The process of active cognition takes some time, as if they are waking from a long nap. If one is patient, one gets more than information, one gets a person who is capable of thought.”

  “How is it that the Conqueror appears here as he did in life? No one alive today has seen him, so to sculpt his likeness so faithfully…”

  Ariadne laughed indulgently. “I do not sculpt…”

  “Your master, then.”

  “No, they do it themselves. You’ll see, they are a bit Protean at firs
t, but over time they grow into their new bodies. The sacrament returns to them the essence of who they are, and that includes what they appear to be. Their bodies mold themselves to those conceptions.”

  “You make it sound as if they return to life perfectly. Perhaps in a state of grace.”

  She ignored his mocking tone. “Not quite.” Ariadne pointed to one man seated alone. “That is Sixtus Cerialis. He served with Legio IX Hispana, fighting Boudica. He died beneath the wheels of her war chariot, and even now is unnaturally skittish around horse-drawn carts.”

  “Passions and fears linger, then?”

  “Traumatic death does leave a scar, as so often seen in ghosts. But here, made flesh again, most can get beyond that and return to the passions which made them worthy of resurrection.” She pointed toward the Resurrection Pool, where a handful of living acolytes had made preparations for the sacrament. “Come. When I had confided my plans to you previously, I had not anticipated this level of success. And I understand your skepticism, which is why I am pleased to have you here today.”

  He did not offer his arm to her, and she chose to take no umbrage at the slight. That had always been his way—cold silence masking resentment. She still felt its hurtful sting, but muted, because she understood. Her former master, brilliant as he was, had never accepted the need to adapt his thinking to changing realities. Instead, he sought to bend reality to his will, and spurned any evidence which indicated he had failed in those attempts.

  Several female acolytes—as were their male counterparts, clad only in plain loincloths and equipped with small, ceremonial daggers—arranged tall, gold candlesticks in a circle at the pool’s narrow end. They reverently set thick red candles atop all dozen of them. Symbols cast in gold—this time in the Enochian script John Dee had claimed to discover—had been affixed to the candles and other arcane scripts decorated the candlestick shafts. Male acolytes laid a stiff, rectangular canvas sheet at the heart of the circle, with the foot pointing toward the pool.