Dantes Key: Part 2 Of The Four Gates

By B.L. Voorhees

Wanted on a false charge of desertion by the American army, with no memory of the other world, Nick Herron has found a new and agreeable life as captain of The Raymond Lull, a dive boat operating out of the small Caribbean

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sunyata Books
• Release date: Nov 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087947495

B.L. Voorhees

B. L. Voorhees is a writer, educator, and storyteller currently residing in Taos, New Mexico. With a career that has taken him around the globe-from the deserts of Arabia and the American southwest to the jungles of South America-Mr. Voorhees melds the richness of his studies in mysticism and world culture with the multifaceted training of an Air Force Pararescue Specialist, newspaper editor, aide to Saudi Arabian nobility, and university professor.

Book preview

CHAPTER

1

SIANIAVE OPENED HER EYES. At first there was only darkness. The journey had ended with a jolt strong enough to knock the wind out of her. Apparently she’d fallen from some height. The last thing she remembered seeing were the torches lining the walls of the Left Tower’s council chamber and the intent faces of the attendant Sisters. Moments later she found herself here—wherever here was—lying face down in a thin layer of mud.

She took a deep breath and stretched. The air smelled not unpleasantly of piñon smoke and recent rain. She took another breath, less painful, rolled to her side and stood; sore, but no real damage. Any bruising would be gone quickly, of course, but for the moment she felt as if she’d been pummeled by a half-dozen pages with training swords.

She was in a large roofless pit or room of some sort. Overhead a black sky was filled with stars, diamond-like in their brilliance. All was quiet, the silence of a tomb.

Definitely not Kilkenney Castle, where she’d expected to arrive. Not unless some catastrophe had destroyed the chapel there and the locals were importing piñon wood for their fires.

She studied the stars. Sparkling Sirius trailing the Big Dipper. Arcturus and Beldan, Cassiopeia, the Horse and Lion, the distant pale light of the Pleiades high overhead. Where was Venus? It would be lower, to the west, out of her line of sight because of the enclosing wall.

North America, the Southwest. It fit with the smell of piñon. Late spring, she decided. Knowing now where she was, she began to relax. At least, came the grim thought, she was in the right world, though why here rather than her intended destination raised a very troublesome question.

The enclosure she found herself in was circular, with a diameter of perhaps thirty feet. The walls were an arm’s length taller than her own five foot nine inch height. It was too dark to see their composition but she was already beginning to suspect where the gods—or whomever—had tossed her.

She moved to the wall, running her hands across its surface. The rough stonework confirmed her suspicions. The wall was composed of irregular, flat-sided stones, set without mortar. A kiva.

A kiva was a ceremonial chamber common to the Pueblo tribes of the American Southwest. Both the lack of a roof and her own intuition told her this particular kiva had long ago been abandoned. As her eyes continued to adjust to the dim light she noticed a darker shadow in the wall, an opening. As she approached she could make out a stone staircase; seven steps for the seven directions, she knew: east, west, north, and south, upward to the sky, downward to the lower realms. The seventh direction was inward.

Mounting the steps, she found herself atop a low hill. Snowcapped mountains stood in the background. Venus and a bright half moon were now visible on the western horizon, peeking out from behind a mass of departing storm clouds. Every now and again a bolt of lightning would flash somewhere in the distance, illuminating the clouds like a fireworks display. A single lane dirt road passed at the foot of the hill, ending at a large, two-story house perhaps a half-mile distant. A high wall surrounded the house. A single light shone on the wall’s front gate, but otherwise the house was dark.

The fact that she knew the house only deepened the mystery. Encantada, an eighteen-room adobe hacienda she herself owned fifteen miles northwest of Santa Fe, New Mexico. She hadn’t been there in years.

The kiva had been the reason for purchasing the property, a rare Way on private land. Its builders had vanished a millennium ago. The Indians who’d come later believed it to be haunted. They’d filled it with dirt and sealed its entrance, moving on soon after. Ironically, it was the act of burying the kiva that had saved it from dissolving into the hard earth. The estate’s previous owner, a wealthy New York attorney, had ordered it excavated and restored, more as a landscape adornment than cultural preservation.

Exhausted by the dimensional shift, naked, covered in mud, dry-mouthed and sore, Sianiave started down the narrow gravel path that led toward the house. Her intent was simple: rouse the caretaker, shower, find a bed, and get some sleep. With rest and the light of morning she would be better able to think, to sort things out, come up with an explanation as to how she’d come to be there.

She stopped as she approached the gate. An unfamiliar wooden sign was bolted to the wall, lit by a single lamp:

Casa Encantada Bed and Breakfast

Thirty years, she reminded herself. Things change. Even so, the sign should not have been there. Her foundation in New York managed all her American properties, including this one. The foundation’s sole reason for existence was clearly spelled out in its charter: maintain the properties, pay any relevant fees and taxes and, most important, never sell, however high the offers might be. Nowhere did it allow for the running of a commercial business.

A Navajo couple had been caretakers, Louis and Marasol Begay. After thirty years it was doubtful either was still among the living. They’d been well into their fifties even then. Still, any new caretaker should have been filled in on the required duties and responsibilities. The sign indicated a flouting of the charter, but also, and more saliently, the possible presence of guests, guests who might not find it amusing at being woken up in the middle of the night by a naked woman, covered in mud and demanding a room.

A sound broke the silence, the solid creak of a door opening. The tall, slender figure of a man was approaching. He was carrying a flashlight, the beam playing across the cobbled pathway. Sianiave stood unmoving in the shadows, waiting.

Miss Langton? Is that you?

The reedy, gentle voice was one she recognized despite the intervening years. Astonished, she stepped forward. Louis?

Louis Begay removed a key from the pocket of his worn jeans and bent to unlock the elaborate iron gate. His hair was as long and full as she remembered, though turned completely white. He was thinner, his dark skin seamed with age. He appeared unsurprised, neither by her sudden appearance nor her lack of dress. It’s chilly out here, he said. I expect you could use a warm shower.

Now why would you think that? she replied dryly, both amused and intrigued.

Louis chuckled as the gate swung open with a squeal. That mud doesn’t appear to be intentionally applied, but I could be wrong.

No. You’re not wrong. Without any pretense of modesty she entered the courtyard. You don’t know how happy I am to see you, Louis.

You also, Miss Langton.

Had he somehow known she was coming? It appeared so. Why did he show no surprise? The questions could wait.

The guests are sleeping, Louis said as he led her into the house. It’s probably best if we don’t awaken them.

The interior of the house had not changed much, Sianiave thought, noting the Saltillo tile floors, tribal rugs and heavy Southwestern furniture, local art hanging from white plaster walls. A new addition was a large oak table in the foyer, its surface covered with art magazines, tourist maps, and publicity flyers offering rafting trips, studio tours, and local restaurant discounts.

They passed through the high-ceilinged great room, then down a long hall that ended at a carved wooden door, which Louis opened with another key. I saved the master suite for your return.

She remembered the room but had never slept there. In the past she’d preferred staying at a hotel in Santa Fe. The room smelled vaguely of sage. Smudged recently. The bed was king-size, the sheets turned back. The embroidered duvet was frayed, but looked clean. There was a sitting area with chairs and a low tea table. A window looked out on what was possibly a garden, though at the moment it was too dark to tell.

You knew I was coming?

It was time, and I had a feeling. When Mr. Corey called—

Corey? Carl Corey? He told you I was coming? Sianiave looked at the old man, startled. Carl Corey was the name Corwin went by in this world. If true it would explain a great deal.

No, said Louis, once again surprising her. He didn’t know where you were. He said he’d been trying to reach you, that he was calling every place he knew to call. He said if you did show up to tell you he would be having dinner at La Fonda on the twenty-first. A seven o’clock reservation. He said after that he would be difficult to locate but that it was important he speak with you. It was then I was certain you would be arriving tonight.

Mystery atop mystery. How could this old man have known she was coming when she hadn’t known herself? And Corwin wanted to meet with her. If Corwin said it was important, then it was sure to be important. Was her arrival here his doing? She wouldn’t put it past him, though she’d never heard of anyone, even someone as knowledgeable as Corwin, who could influence the Ways. Yet what other explanation was there?

She turned suddenly. What day is it?

It’s three o’clock Thursday morning.

No. I mean the date.

Why, it’s the twentieth of March. Tomorrow is the Equinox. Mr. Corey’s dinner invitation is for tomorrow night.

Sianiave sighed. Louis, I have many questions to ask you, but it’s late and I’m sure you’re as tired as I am. I’m also muddy and undressed and want nothing more than a shower and a few hours’ sleep. Will you be here in the morning?

Of course. I live in the servants’ quarters on the other side of the house. The cook comes to serve breakfast at seven.

Cook?

A granddaughter. A great-granddaughter, really. She lives in Pojoaque with her husband. He takes care of the grounds now. They have a child of their own. She’s going off to college in Berkeley this fall. There was pride in the old man’s voice as he said this.

And your wife, Marasol?

Mara passed away a year ago. In August.

I’m sorry.

It was an easy passing.

Louis turned to leave, then looked back. My granddaughter is tall, nearly as tall as you. I’ll see that she brings you some clothes.

CHAPTER

2

A FIVE-PIECE WESTERN BAND was playing in Santa Fe’s old plaza when Sianiave arrived at La Fonda. The plaza was crowded with tourists in shorts and tennis shoes, children running between legs, couples holding hands, others in cowboy hats and big-buckled belts, two-stepping in front of the bandstand. A Mercedes was backing out of the hotel lot and Sianiave pulled her borrowed SUV into the vacated space.

The previous morning, after her strange arrival, she’d awakened early with the sun. The cook, Louis’s great-granddaughter, was a no-nonsense, middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Cassie. She appeared at the door with the promised clothes: a turquoise, ankle-length skirt and white blouse, leather sandals, silver concha belt, and new silky underwear. All was of such excellent quality Sianiave felt a touch of guilt in accepting them. It was obvious they were the woman’s best.

The other guests were not yet up but Louis joined her at breakfast. When questioned, it was clear he had no real knowledge of the Ways or how she’d come to be there. His claim to knowing, she decided, was nothing more than native intuition. Still, it was curious.

His explanation of how a private estate she’d once owned had become commercial was more straightforward, if just as troubling. Twelve years before, with no forewarning, the monthly maintenance checks from the Langton Foundation had abruptly ceased. Louis had contacted the foundation only to learn it had gone into receivership. The new owner had reorganized it as a for-profit corporation. With no clear directive as to how to proceed and nowhere else to go, he and Marasol had decided to stay in the house until the matter of their employment was made more clear. They were, after all, owed several months salary. A month passed, then another. To make ends meet they began taking in boarders. A letter finally arrived, stating that the property was up for sale at a price they knew to be far below its real worth.

Having fallen in love with the house after so many years, they decided to buy it themselves. Their personal credit was excellent and they had a large extended family, some of whose members were fairly successful. They managed to scrape together a respectable down payment. To test the waters, Louis made an initial offer so low he fully expected it to be rejected. To their delight the offer was accepted, without even a counter. The new owner just wanted to get rid of the place, I suspect, Louis said, chuckling.

New owner?

Fellow back in New York. Forget his name. We got it licensed as a hostel, kept it pretty much as it was. We figured you’d be back someday.

Why would you think that?

Louis looked away, uncomfortable with the question. It was a thing we, Mara and I, talked about.

Sianiave didn’t press. She felt she knew the answer.

Louis loaned her the company vehicle to drive, a big, silver-grey thing. He called it an SUV. Despite its lorry-like dimensions she found it surprisingly easy to drive, the large leather seats nearly as comfortable as any Bentley’s. She spent much of the morning at a local branch of Bank of America in an attempt to have money transferred from her London account. The manager was a small, pinched-faced woman who insisted on being called Mrs. Gonzales.

Miss, um, Langton is it? You must understand. We deal with people like you all the time. Absent a cash deposit, we can’t possibly approve a new account in less than a week, particularly when the funds supposedly are coming from a foreign source. She slid the paperwork back across the desk dismissively.

People like me! Supposedly!

Sianaive stifled her anger and nodded at the phone on the woman’s desk. May I use your telephone?

You’ll have to ask downstairs. This is a private line.

The underlings downstairs were more accommodating. She called a number at Barclays, spoke to the manager, then sat down with a recent copy of Time magazine to wait. What she read was troubling. This world really was heading into chaos.

Twenty minutes had passed when a nervous teller approached. Miss Langton? Mrs. Gonzales will see you now.

She left the bank with a new Visa card, a leather-bound checkbook, ten thousand dollars in crisp new hundred-dollar bills and the surprisingly satisfying experience of being personally attended to by a suddenly obsequious Mrs. Gonzales. Moments previously, the bank had received a wire transfer of $5 million in the name of Sianiave Langton.

She spent the next afternoon shopping for clothes and luggage, visiting jewelry stores as she searched for the proper stones to replace the protective ones she seemed to have lost. She settled on two emerald earrings set in silver and a silver set lapis lazuli bracelet. She’d been growing more and more irritable as the day progressed, a nervous, anxious feeling. Limbic stuff. A symptom of the discordant energies at work in this world.

She was dressed more to her nature as she entered the hotel: loose white linen slacks, leather coat over a pale apricot silk blouse, a tribally inspired vest and soft calf leather boots, all purchased at an expensive boutique on Canyon Road. Her new jewelry had yet to have any noticeable effect on the discord she was feeling. The pressure was unrelenting, testing her wards like the insistent probing of contaminated water against a leaky dike.

Santa Fe’s La Fonda had once been a Harvey House and still held much of its early Southwest charm. Carefree bar laughter, the subdued conversations of diners, and the pungent smells of cilantro and roasting chili greeted her as she entered the high-ceilinged dining room.

The waiting area was crowded. A stocky man in an expensively tailored grey suit was loudly berating the beleaguered hostess. The man’s head was shaved, glowing as if polished. His tan was too even and oddly colored to be natural. A well-manicured blonde half his age stood at his shoulder.

Twenty minutes! That’s unacceptable! Do you know who I am!

Yes, sir, the hostess replied with a strained smile. You’re Barry Hampton, CFO of LINK Capital. It’s written right here on the reservation. But as I said, all our tables are taken. There’s a conference in town.

The man drew himself to his full height, still an inch shorter than Sianiave’s. I know about the damn conference! It’s why I’m here! My assistant made this reservation three days ago! This wouldn’t happen in New York! Where’s your manager!

The hostess, an attractive Hispanic with black eyes and short black hair, somehow managed to keep her smile. I am the manager, Mr. Hampton. Because of the crowd our regular hostess is helping bus the tables.

She was doing her best to retain a gracious manner but Sianiave could see this was not about to last. The man was oblivious. Playing to the girlfriend, no doubt.

You? It was a sneer. If you’re really the manager, then be a good little one and find us a damn table!

The scene was a cliché. Sianiave couldn’t have said why the man so irritated her. Probably the general dis-ease she’d felt since her return. Assuming a friendly smile, she stepped forward, the heel of her boot coming down hard on his instep. She followed this with a subtle but precise shove that sent him sprawling sideways into his consort. The blonde gave a squeak of dismay and stepped quickly sideways, causing Barry Hampton to tumble awkwardly to the floor.

What the hell! He managed to stand, only to stare in confusion when he saw his assailant was a rather elderly looking woman.

Oh, I am sorry, said Sianiave blithely. Did I step on your foot? I really must be more careful. Ignoring him further she turned to the hostess. I’m to meet someone for dinner. Carl Corey?

Of course. You must be Ms. Langton. The hostess’ smile had returned, real this time. Come this way. Mr. Corey is expecting you.

Barry’s look of frustrated outrage was replaced by one of disbelief. "Carl Corey? The Carl Corey?"

Corwin was sitting alone in a back booth. He rose as the two women approached. He was dressed in his usual style, casual but with an almost courtly elegance: black jeans, grey silk shirt with no tie, silver buckled belt, black Armani blazer. Sianiave, I’m really glad you made it. I’d almost given up hope, and then you called. Strange, your being in Santa Fe at just this time.

Yes, it is strange, said Sianiave dryly. She’d been hoping for a reaction but all his face showed was a mild puzzlement. But then he’d always had a good poker face. Louis gave me your number, she added.

Louis. The caretaker. Of course. Corwin nodded as though a question had been answered. Thanks, Marly, he said as the hostess handed them menus.

Marly let out the wide girlish grin she’d been doing her best to hide. I have to thank your friend here, Carl. I was about to create a scene. She turned to Sianiave. But I must ask, did you shove that poor man intentionally?

Absolutely, said Sianiave.

Marly laughed in delight. Excellent.

She gave the table a quick glance to see that everything was in order, then winked at Corwin. You have cool friends, Carl. Enjoy.

Corwin waited until she was out of sight. Did I miss something?

A boor was giving her difficulty. I’m sure she could have handled it herself, but he annoyed me.

Annoyed? You? Half joking. And he’s still alive?

He wasn’t important. As I said, a boor.

I’ve known Marly Sandoval for years. Good woman. Manages the restaurant here. Worked her way into a minority ownership. Her husband died in a plane crash a couple of years back. She has a young son. Been a tough go.

It wasn’t surprising Corwin was a friend with the woman, Sianiave thought. Santa Fe had always been one of his favorite haunts in this world. It made her feel better about having interfered.

A waiter arrived with a basket of tortilla chips along with dishes of salsa and guacamole. A waitress brought a pitcher of margaritas, with glasses rimmed with salt. Made with Patrón Silver, said Corwin as the waitress filled their glasses.

You read my mind, said Sianiave. It’s been years since I’ve had a good margarita.

Years? Corwin gave Sianiave a quizzical look but didn’t pursue it, waiting for the waitress to leave.

She finished half the cocktail before setting the glass down and picking up the menu. I’m starved. Haven’t eaten since breakfast. Any recommendations?

The apricot and chicken enchiladas are always good. I’m having the Oscar filet myself. I’m told it’s particularly good tonight. Organic rib eye medallions, wild rice with tips of asparagus, and an excellent béarnaise sauce.

Sold. I need something substantial.

Sianiave studied Corwin’s face as a waiter took their orders. In some indefinable way he looked older than she remembered. It was subjective, of course. She doubted even he knew his true age. His eyes, still the same penetrating blue, but somehow—dare she say—softer? Darkly handsome as ever, wry upturn at the right edge of his mouth, the same aura of dangerous self-sufficiency, as though there was little he needed from those around him, even love.

You obviously felt it unwise to speak openly over the phone, she said after the waiter had taken their orders and left.

Corwin nodded. The capacities for surveillance here have grown to the point even the best security measures can’t keep up.

You have reason to believe someone is watching you?

Not at the moment. Not intentionally. But you can’t be too careful. Somewhere, by someone, it’s all recorded.

All? You’re exaggerating, of course.

If only. You drove a vehicle to get here, didn’t you?

I did. A big, sturdy thing. A Tahoe, I believe it’s called. Quite comfortable, really.

Is there a little screen on the dash that told you things? Gives your location, a camera when you back up?

There is. I had no idea how to use it.

Computer. It’s all chips and computers these days. If they wanted they could take control of the car, run it off a cliff or drive it into a brick wall. Certainly track you. I go low-tech as much as possible. I drive a thirty-year-old Mercedes, no chips. Tomorrow my phone goes in the trash. I use burners only. I fly myself in an old prop-driven Beechcraft. Again, no chips.

You’re having me on.

Afraid not. I have the best electronic defenses money can buy, but with enough computer power even they can be bypassed.

Computers were something Sianiave knew little about. It was a lack, she realized, she would have to remedy, and soon. This restaurant? she asked, looking around.

Safe enough for now, though that will change tomorrow. I’m giving a speech in the morning. The keynote, actually. It’s not going to endear me with the powers that be.

This convention I heard about? Financial?

Corwin nodded. A fairly major one. Then, changing the subject. When did you get back?

Two nights ago.

Two nights only? Then it really is a coincidence, your being here at this time.

More than you might imagine. I had the thought that it was your doing. I intended to arrive in Ireland.

Ireland? And instead you found yourself in Santa Fe. Extraordinary. I wasn’t aware the Ways could be challenged.

Nor was I. I have to say I find the atmosphere here . . . disturbing.

It is that. I’m afraid the lily pond is about to be covered.

I miss the allusion.

When lilies grow enough to cover the entire pond, oxygen can’t get in. The lilies die of asphyxiation.

Charming simile.

But apt. Crux of my speech tomorrow.

I begin to see.

Corwin dipped a tortilla chip into the guacamole, took a sip of his drink and settled back in his seat. How is everything? Over there, I mean? The marriage working out?

As well as can be expected. Ren had twins. Boys. Six weeks premature. There was a question as to the father.

Oh? Is there a suspect?

That young lieutenant I took over, Nick. A mutual crush of the heartrending kind. They managed a night together, before she became queen.

Corwin chuckled. Good on ‘em. I imagine Artos was upset, though. Solid fellow, but something of a prig, even as a kid.

On the contrary. He’s rather proud his sons may have been sired by a demigod—which is what the songsters have built Nick up to be.

He’s dead, I take it. The lieutenant, I mean.

No. Severely wounded, but I managed to hold him in abeyance. Everyone there thought him dead. Exchanged his body with that of a fallen soldier. Ren was in on it. She knew it was for the best. He was healed in the crossover. Suspended time.

You have some useful skills, m’lady.

Sianiave smiled sardonically as they clinked glasses. I would love to take the credit. But the entire affair left my hands early on. I had a strong sense some other Power was helping him.

Didn’t you choose him?

"Not really. I’d attempted something, an advertisement in the London Times. A spell of a sort. He was the only one to answer. I grew quite fond of him personally. But in the end, I had no more inkling of who he really was than he had of himself. He did show glimmers of ability. Given proper training he might become a player."

He’s here? Should we get in touch with him?

"He left England rather abruptly. I might have looked deeper into his past but it was more important I return to Anor. Delicate time there, new paradigm and all. I did remain long enough here to learn he’d hired on as a crewman delivering a sailboat to Cancún. His memory of Anor was mostly gone, of course. Probably imagines it all a dream if he recalls it at all. I arranged for him to win a power yacht in a poker game—to settle our account. A way to avoid troubling questions. Rather than sell it, he decided to go into business, opened a charter operation. San Cristóbal of all places.

He knows how to do that?

Run a dive boat? He mentioned once he loved the ocean. His foster father taught him boating. He learned diving in the Special Forces. I sent someone to keep an eye on him.

It’s been what, two, three years?

Three here. Eight there.

Eight! Corwin looked at her in unfeigned surprise.

The Lock is failing. The time streams are diverging. Travel was difficult. I would have returned sooner had I been able. As it was I had to ask the Sisters for help.

Corwin leaned forward as if to ask more questions, but their waiter had returned. House salads for both of you? Balsamic vinaigrette? Blue cheese for the lady?

Thank you.

That fellow outside, Sianiave remarked once the waiter had moved off again. The boor. He had a strange reaction to your name. Am I wrong in assuming you’ve made yourself known? This speech tomorrow—?

Corwin still seemed to be digesting the implications of the time flow difference. You’re not wrong, he said finally, bringing himself back to the moment. I set up a little venture capital shop a few years back. It’s done quite well.

I can imagine. This conference, then. Your doing?

No. Sheer coincidence, its being here, at this time, my being asked to speak.

Just a coincidence?

Corwin looked up, the wry smile returned. All right. Considering the circumstance of your young lieutenant, and your timely arrival here, I suppose we need to start calling these things by their rightful name. Synchronicities.

Which would seem to indicate another player is involved. Any thought on whom that might be?

Philosophical ideas only. The ‘coming of the Magi’ thing. The nature of a playful universe. Fate. Interested extra dimensional entities. God.

God? Really?

Or the effective equivalent. Certain archetypes are returning, have returned. I often remind myself we’re not the only actors in the play. We’re in a mythic time. The threat of extinction does that to a world. Add that to the fact this particular world is important for more reasons than its relationship to the Ways. Forces are gathering. Events are speeding up—

Corwin stopped, all pretense at humor gone. For myself, at least, I’m afraid it’s time to plant the flag.

Such sober directness was unlike Corwin. Despite the proximity of their table to the room’s large fireplace, Sianiave felt a sudden chill.

That might be dangerous, she said evenly. The enemy is entrenched here in ways I’ve never seen before.