Death of an Adept

"Yeah, I - I'm fine." Harry groped automatically for his sunglasses, folding them clumsily into a breast pocket of his flying jacket, then stiffened as he saw the curled scrap he had dropped. His finger began trembling as he pointed it out to Peregrine.

"Do you see that?" he whispered.

"Yes."

"The damned thing - bit me!" he said, for want of a better descriptor - though Peregrine had a sudden inkling of what he meant. "Fetch McLeod, would you?"

McLeod was out in the long avenue that led back to the car park, conferring with the two police constables as they gestured around the location and the nearest cottages, apparently discussing who might or might not have been able to see anything. Chisholm was back in the police car, talking on the radio. Heading partway back to McLeod and the two constables, Peregrine raised his sketch pad to catch McLeod's eye.

"Inspector, can I see you a minute?"

McLeod excused himself immediately and came to join the young artist, his brow furrowing at the look on Peregrine's face.

"What is it?"

"I dunno. Something just happened to Harry. He seems to be all right now, but he said that something 'bit' him. I think he meant psychically. It looked like a fragment of bull hide."

"Did he touch it?"

"I think so."

McLeod nodded and headed in Harry's direction.

"That's one of the reasons I brought him along. I expected that something like this might happen, if I just gave him time and opportunity. I do believe our Harry may have made a personal breakthrough."

Harry had struggled to his feet during Peregrine's brief absence, and was leaning heavily against the central monolith on the side away from the others, folding something into a pocket handkerchief.

"I didn't touch it a second time," he said in a low voice, as McLeod came close beside him. "Didn't mean to touch it the first time, but it sort of slid onto my hand when I was trying to scoop it up with one of the stems of my sunglasses. It's in here," he added, handing the folded handkerchief to McLeod and immediately wiping his hands against the legs of his trousers, as if to divest himself of something unpleasant.

Very carefully McLeod opened the handkerchief enough to see what was inside, nodding as he glanced back at Harry.

"Care to tell us about what happened, Counsellor?"

Harry swallowed audibly and managed a sickly grin. "Tell me this, first. Would there have been a reason to sew somebody inside the skin of that bull?"

McLeod nodded carefully.

"And some kind of binding in addition to that?" Harry persisted. "Some kind of ligatures around the wrists, the upper arms, the ankles?''

Again McLeod nodded, refolding the handkerchief over its contents and slipping the bundle into an inner coat pocket.

"Restricting the movement of a subject is a form of sensory deprivation," the inspector explained. "It can enhance states of altered consciousness. And the ligatures would restrict blood flow to the limbs - and hence concentrate blood flow to the brain - also enhancing psychic activity. Psychotropic drugs are sometimes given for the same reason. What did you see, Harry?"

Harry glanced at the remnants of the circle outlined in blood, hugging his arms across his chest to suppress a shiver.

"Something really dark," he whispered. "And for just a few seconds, I seemed to be part of it."

"Tell me," McLeod said quietly.

Harry swallowed and nodded. "I was lying in the center of that circle of blood. I was sewn tight into that damned bull hide with my arms strapped to my sides, stark naked inside. I couldn't move, I could hardly breathe; my feet and hands were numb."

"Go on."

"There were - a couple of men were bending over me," Harry continued, blue eyes going unfocused as he remembered. "One of them was old, with white hair and some kind of crown on his head - I'd know him if I saw him again. The crown wasn't metal, or even leaves. It had wings like a bird, but - close to the head. Not Viking or anything like that."

"Did he say or do anything?" McLeod asked.

"Aye. He - put a flask to my lips and tipped something into my mouth. I can almost taste it, even now - odd, aromatic… And then things really began to get weird…."

He paused and gulped for breath. Peregrine had an odd look on his face, but McLeod only nodded slowly.

"I don't suppose this man had a name?"

Harry closed his eyes, wrestling with a memory just at the edge of retrieval. "He did. It wasn't said, but somehow I knew who he was. Something - something beginning with a T". Tal - Toller, maybe? No, more like Talley… but longer. Tallier. That's not quite it. Tallier… No - Taliere. Yes, that's it. Taliere."

"Taliere." McLeod tasted the four syllables, then shook his head. "It doesn't ring any bells. What happened then?"