It was an ugly thing, forged out of iron, its blade pitted with age and corrosion. The stubby hilt surmounting the blade was overlaid with grotesque zoomorphic traceries reminiscent of the interlocking figures occasionally to be found on Pictish standing stones. Obviously an object of great antiquity, the dagger had about it a subtle aura of crude violence. Its decorative designs, dark and sinuous, drew the eye like a magnet, exerting a fearful fascination.
Richter licked his lips, his pale face alight with hungry admiration. "It is herrlich - magnificent," he breathed. "Where did you get it?"
"It was a legacy," Raeburn said. "From the Head-Master."
The significance of the name was not lost on his three listeners, though only Barclay had been present with Raeburn at the bequeathal. The individual so-named had once been a powerful member of Hitler's inner circle, before private ambition or perhaps mental instability had impelled him to decamp to Britain. By means known only to himself, the Head-Master had survived the war, secured his freedom, and subsequently contrived to establish a base for himself in the mountains of central Scotland.
There he had remained until two years ago, quietly working his dark intentions, until the Hunting Lodge led by Adam Sinclair had taken his scent and run him to ground. He had perished amid the ruins of his Highland fortress, but his malign influence was still making itself felt, and would continue to do so for a long time yet to come.
Angela was among those who retained a clear recollection of the Head-Master himself, though she had not been present at his demise.
"He would have valued such an important artifact," she said. "How did you convince him to part with it?"
Raeburn showed his teeth. "Arguments from me were superfluous, with the Hunting Lodge threatening to knock down the walls around our ears. Suffice it to say that neither of us saw any virtue in allowing it to fall into the hands of Adam Sinclair."
"Why haven't you told me about this before now?"
"There was little of substance to tell," Raeburn said. "Only now, at the end of two years' study, do I find myself in a position to expound reliably on the secrets of its origin and its esoteric associations."
He steepled his long fingers before him with the air of a university professor about to deliver a lecture.
"To digress briefly," he went on, "and primarily for Mr. Richter's benefit. Those of you who had the distinction of serving under the Head-Master will remember that among his most prized possessions was an ancient relic which he referred to as the Soulis tore. As the name implies, the tore had come to be associated with one William Lord Soulis, an infamous Scottish mage of the fourteenth century - though the tore itself was already ancient by the time it passed into his possession. It was a product of Pictish workmanship, embodying its makers' rapport with the powers of the elements."
"Why don't you cut to the chase, Francis?" Angela said sharply. "We all know that the tore was destroyed, partly thanks to Sinclair. What does it have to do with the dagger?"
"Your impatience begins to wear thin, my dear," Raeburn replied. "To continue, I have been able to establish, to my satisfaction, that this dagger belongs to the same period as the tore, and may even be the product of the same craftsman.
"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.