Death of an Adept

"The connection between the two is to be found in various common features of the workmanship and design. Like the tore, the dagger is fashioned of meteoric iron, and shows evidence of having been made by a similar process of smelting and forging. Certain ogham inscriptions on the blade are likewise closely akin to those on the tore, containing idiosyncratic elements I have not encountered anywhere else."

"Which means what?" Richter ventured.

A faint smile stirred Raeburn's lips, though his eyes remained cold. "The Head-Master used the Soulis tore as the focus for invoking Taranis, hailed by the ancient Picts as the lord of air and darkness and, especially, storm. In exchange for promises of service and sacrifice, he received the power to call down lightning from the realm of eternal tempest - which authority he delegated to me, though only as it related to the tore."

"Which was destroyed," Angela reminded him.

"I have already conceded that point, Angela dear," Raeburn said evenly. "Fortunately, I now have every reason to hope that, properly manipulated, this dagger will provide a similar focus for re-establishing contact with the Thunderer. If I am correct in my expectations, we may soon find ourselves in a position to reclaim the power of the storm and direct it toward Dorje, or Sinclair, or anyone else who thinks he has a right to meddle in our affairs."

The silence that briefly fell upon his listeners was pregnant with speculation.

"You say 'properly manipulated,' " Richter mused, after a thoughtful silence. "Perhaps you would care to instruct us regarding what, specifically, will be required of us."

Raeburn inclined his head in graceful acquiescence.

"It is a basic axiom of esoteric practice that objects intended for ritual use must first be consecrated to that purpose and empowered. The dagger is no exception. If we wish to make it actively responsive, in the same degree and to the same purpose as the Soulis tore, it follows that we must determine what rituals were applied in the first instance, and repeat them in conjunction with the dagger, with whatever modifications can be deemed appropriate in the light of our present circumstances."

"Just where are you planning to get your information?" Angela inquired, much of her former waspishness dissipated in light of the facts Raeburn had just presented. "Our latter-day grasp of Pictish culture is sketchy at best - and I expect that the priests of Taranis would have guarded their mysteries as jealously as any modern occultist. Unless the inscriptions you mentioned a moment ago supply the necessary details."

Raeburn shook his head patiently. "The inscriptions have some bearing on the case, but they convey a series of cryptic clues rather than a set of explicit instructions. I've no doubt that a dedicated scholar might eventually unravel the conundrums, but we can't afford that kind of time. That's why I've taken the liberty of calling in a specialist whose resources in these matters far exceed my own."

Even Barclay looked somewhat askance at this announcement.

"What kind of specialist?" Richter asked, with an uneasy glance toward the windows. "You said nothing about outsiders."

"His name is Taliere," Raeburn replied, "and he isn't exactly an outsider. He was an associate of my father's."

This disclosure silenced Richter and elicited a grave nod from Barclay, for those in Raeburn's inner circle were well aware that their chief had been born the son of one David Tudor-Jones, a powerful Welsh Adept whose esoteric interests and activities had spanned a wide variety of subjects, many of them decidedly dark in focus. Only Angela seemed unsatisfied by Raeburn's explanation.

"An associate of your father's? That could mean anything," she muttered. "I'm a public figure, Francis. Before I agree to make this person privy to any secrets of mine, I'm going to need to know a bit more about him."

"As you wish."

Reaching into the left-hand drawer of his desk, Raeburn produced a black and white snapshot and flipped it across the desk in front of Angela. She captured it and turned it right-side up, tilting it to accommodate Richter as he also leaned closer to inspect it.

The man in the photograph was elderly and majestic of mien, with luxuriant white hair to his shoulders and a long white walrus moustache. He appeared to be wearing theatrical costume - a fantastic headdress featuring bird's wings, and a mantle of dark fur clasped over a long white robe. Dependent from a broad leather belt cinching the robe were a drawstring pouch and a small, sickle-bladed knife. His left hand grasped a gnarly staff surmounted by the skull and antlers of a stag.

"What is he, an actor?" Angela inquired somewhat incredulously.

"A Druid," Raeburn corrected. "And not just a modern pretender, either. Taliere is an ardent and discerning follower of the old ways. You may take it from me that his knowledge of his tradition reaches far into the distant past."

"That sounds almost like high praise," Angela said.