This time it was different. When the door burst open, the first face she saw was the corrupt beauty of the hybrid Fomorii priest Calatin, his expression contemptuous and cruel. He wore a filthy white shift top and leather breeches; his long hair was greasy and infested, a parody of a sophisticated aristocrat.
"Serith Urkolhn," he said in his guttural dialect as he nodded to Ruth. "I thought I had seen the last of you. You proved a minor irritation until your grand failure exposed how truly pathetic you were. An insult to the very essence of the Pendragon Spirit. Oh, how your world must have mourned and wailed and cursed your name into the cold void. In that most important hour, you proved yourself as insignificant as the rest of your kind-we needed waste no more time on you.
"But then there you were, delivered to our door, at a turning point in our plans." He chewed on a fingernail and giggled. "And a notion came to me of great irony. Oh, to strike a blow against the feeble order of nature! To throw up an abomination! To show our contempt for all existence!"
"Just get it over with," Ruth spat.
This time they dragged her to a different room. No furnace, no torture instruments; it was almost stately by Fomorii standards. Rough wood and stone, a tapestry hanging on the wall depicting scenes Ruth couldn't bring herself to examine, and, in the centre, a strange curved bench which appeared to be made of polished obsidian. Flickering torches cast a sickly, ruddy glare over the room.
Ruth was so weak she could barely stand. The Fomorii strapped her to the bench with harsh leather straps that bit into her flesh. Her head was spinning so much from her fragility she couldn't begin to understand what was happening. Instead she focused on the small joy that came from the knowledge there would be no torture that day.
Through watery eyes she watched Calatin pacing the room, suddenly intense and serious. He examined the bench, the straps, and then gently stroked a long, thin finger down her cheek and smiled cruelly. "You have proved you are ready."
He stepped to one side and motioned to the rear of the chamber. Two Fomorii emerged from the gloom carrying an ornate wooden chest which they placed somewhere below her feet. Through the thick stone walls Ruth heard a deep, slow rhythm, as if an enormous ceremonial drum was being hit. Every few beats it was followed by the grim tolling of the distant bell she had heard before; there was something about the relentless sound that made her very frightened.
"What are you going to do?" she croaked.
Calatin merely smiled. He motioned to the other Fomorii, who bent down to open the chest. A second later they rose with a purple velvet cushion on which lay an enormous black pearl, the size of a child's bowling ball. When Ruth saw it, she was overcome by an irrational wave of terror. Unable to control her feelings, she tried to drive herself backwards and off the bench, but the straps held fast.
Two more Fomorii moved in on either side of her and held her head fast. "No," she gasped.
One of the Fomorii forced some kind of metal implement between her lips and then ground it between her teeth. With a snap he forced her mouth open so sharply pain stabbed through the tendons at the back of her jaw.
Almost tenderly, one of the other Fomorii lifted the pearl and brought it towards her.
Ruth had a sudden flash of what Calatin intended. Her eyes widened as panic flooded through her system, but she couldn't move, couldn't even scream; the only sound that emerged from her throat was a desperate, keening whine.
"If it will not go in, break her jaw," Calatin said curtly.
Ruth watched in terror as the pearl came towards her. It was so big it would choke her instantly. She thrashed from side to side, but the Fomorii held her fast.
And then the pearl was so close it was all she could see; the darkness engulfed her every sense. Her lips touched it and it felt as cold as ice, but it tasted of nothing. It pressed hard into her mouth, grinding against her teeth. Her muffled gasps grew more laboured. Her panic obscured all rational thought. There was simply the constantly increasing pressure, the pain as they forced her mouth wider and wider still, the thought that it would never fit, the horror if it did.
And then somehow her mouth was around it and just as she waited for them to retreat, they increased the pressure and began to ram it further, trying to force it down her throat.
She choked, felt her lungs protest at the lack of oxygen. And still they pressed and rammed and forced.
And then a strange thing happened. Through her overwhelming anxiety, she felt an odd sensation deep in her throat; it seemed like cotton wool at first, and then as if her throat was coming apart in gossamer strands.
And then the black pearl began to go down.
The last thing Ruth felt was an enormous pressure and a terrible coldness filling her neck. And the last thing she saw was Calatin's face swamping her vision, grinning triumphantly.
Shavi and Laura woke at first light, entwined together as if they were desperate lovers afraid to face the world. No words were exchanged as they crawled out into a land of drifting white mists and thick greenery. The morning was chill, despite the season, and an eerie stillness hung over all, punctuated only by the occasional mournful cry of a bird and the regular drip of moisture from the leaves. The nagging atmosphere of lament and loneliness had not dissipated in the slightest.
They ate a breakfast of beans and bread in silence against the dull rumble of the river which was so unceasing they no longer heard it. Laura kept a surreptitious eye on Shavi, who still appeared pale and drawn, but whenever he saw her looking he flashed his open, honest smile; even so, she could tell the weight of the night and what was to follow lay heavy on him.
After breakfast they washed the pots in the river and packed up the tent with a meticulousness that suggested they were both playing for time. Eventu ally they had no choice but to pick their trail back along the glen until they reached the steep path up to the bridge.
Ten minutes later they stood outside the chapel compound trying to get a glimpse of the building, but it was obscured by trees and high walls as the current custodians intended. The mist collected even more tightly around them, so it was impossible to see beyond the perimeter of the small, stoney car park outside the visitors' centre. It had the odd effect of distorting sounds so that at times they felt someone was approaching, only for the noise-whatever it wasto materialise yards away. They waited and listened, but after a while they had to accept there was no one else in the vicinity.
"I guess we climb over the wall," Laura said tentatively.
Shavi nodded, rubbing his chin introspectively.
"But what then? Where do we even begin to start looking for…" She glanced over her shoulder uncomfortably, as if she had sensed someone standing there "… that thing we're looking for?"
"The chapel is consistently described as an arcanum, a book in stone. The carvings that cover the building are a code designed to be pondered upon. They may offer religious guidance, or fables-"
"Or they may tell us where the prison cell is." Laura hugged her arms around her. "Okay. Now don't get me wrong-you're a mustard-sharp guy, Shav-ster. But if people have been trying to decipher this place for centuries, what makes you think you can waltz in and do it in a few minutes?"
Shavi wagged a finger at her, smiling. "I never said I could decipher it in minutes. But we have two things denied the searchers who came before us."
"Yeah? And what's that?"
"Firstly, we know what we are looking for." He took the wagging finger and tapped the side of his nose. "And secondly, intuition."
"A shaman's intuition, you mean. You going to be doing some more of your funny stuff?"
His smile grew enigmatic as he looked towards where the chapel was hidden. "I intend to allow the building to speak to me."
"Well, give it my regards." She turned and walked towards the compound wall. Shavi heard her mutter, but obviously loud enough for his benefit, "You nutter."
She gave him a leg up on to the wall and he pulled her up behind him. A second later they had dro
pped into the chapel grounds. The building lay just a few feet away across the wet grass, a grim, Gothic pile that looked like it had been designed for some thirties Expressionist movie; it was breathtaking, despite the ugly, silver scaffolding that clung to it. An oppressive, brooding aura rolled off the building, dampening their spirits, almost physically forcing them to bow their heads. It was both threatening and frightening, Laura decided.
"You know that supercharged feeling we got at all the other sacred sites, whatever the religion? I don't get it here." She could see Shavi felt the same.
Slowly they advanced on the chapel, as if it were sleeping, as if it could turn on them and bite. Despite his growing anxiety, Shavi marvelled at its intricate design. Rows of spired columns ranged around three sides like sentinels, or missiles waiting to be launched: the last defence against an uncaring higher power? Towards the west end, a towering wall separated the baptistry from the rest of the chapel. It seemed oddly out of place, like a shield to repel invaders from the west; Shavi could tell from its design that from above, each end of the wall was shaped like a cross.
"A bit over the top, isn't it?" Laura ventured. "I know these old piles were thrown up to show the glory of God and all that bollocks, but this is even more ornate than York Minister. And it's just a tiny chapel in the middle of nowhere."
"It is special," Shavi replied distractedly. "But the architecture itself is a message, or many different messages. Everything has been included for a reason, every stone, every tiny carving."
"Well? Is it talking to you yet? Because I'd really like to get out of here as soon as possible."
"What are you doing?" The stern voice made them both start. They whirled to see a man standing near the door into the visitors' centre. He was in his sixties with a pale, wrinkled face and thinning silver hair, and he was wearing a dog collar beneath an unsightly purple anorak.
"Shit. Rumbled." Laura hissed to Shavi, "You better do the talking. He'll probably think I'm Satan incarnate."
Shavi walked forward, smiling, proffering an open hand. The cleric eyed it suspiciously. "We apologise for the illicit entrance, but time is of the essence," Shavi said.
"The chapel doesn't open until 10 a.m.," the cleric said in his mild Borders accent. "I'll have to ask you to leave until then. And to be honest, you're lucky I don't summon the police."
"We are not tourists," Shavi continued. "We are on a mission of vital importance-"
"We get a lot of strange types round here," the cleric interrupted, "and they all say they're on some kind of mission or other. The legends that surround the place seem to attract all sorts of unsavoury types and, frankly, many of them are distinctly unbalanced." Despite his words he seemed to be eyeing Shavi a little more thoughtfully; he made no further attempt to move them on, as if he was waiting to hear what Shavi had to say.
"We would like to meet with a Watchman." Laura could tell Shavi was shooting in the dark, but his words seemed to have an effect.
"What do you know of the Watchmen?"
"I know they are the secret guardians of places like this. We met one of their number in Glastonbury. He helped us in our mission." Shavi paused. "Are you a Watchman?"
"I may be. What would you be wanting?"
"You know of the change that has come over the world?" The cleric nodded. "Your traditions talk of five people who will fight to save mankind. At least that is what the Watchman in Glastonbury told us. We are two of the five."
The cleric's gaze flickered briefly towards Laura. "You don't look like much."
Shavi held up his hand to silence Laura before she let forth a stream of bile. "Nevertheless, we are a Brother and Sister of Dragons, and we are here at a time of great peril."
"A Brother and Sister of Dragons, eh?" The cleric smiled disbelievingly, although they could see the name resonated deeply with him. Shavi spent a further ten minutes convincing him of their credentials until they saw his expression become confused, then troubled. "Perhaps you are who you say. Then what has brought you here to Rosslyn?"
"You know why this place is?" Shavi turned to face the building. "You know what it hides?"
"I know some of it. Stories, traditions. It is hard to pick truth from myth sometimes. And every tale has a different meaning, depending which mouth tells it." The cleric walked over and peered deeply into Shavi's eyes. "You know," he began with a new seriousness, "I believe you actually might be who you say you are." He suddenly appeared flustered. "Then this is an important time. I've been remiss. To be honest, I never really expected this to happen in my lifetime." He caught Shavi watching him intently. "I never expected it to happen at all," he backtracked. "When you get as old as I am and you don't see any sign of all the things you've been taught, you start to lose your…" He made a gesture with his hand to fill in the missing word. "But how would you know the traditions of the Watchmen, if there was no substance to all I've been taught?"
He was obviously finding the psychological and philosophical repercussions of the sudden revelation troubling. Shavi recognised his growing anxiety and held out his hand once more to deflect the cleric's thoughts. "My name is Shavi. This is my companion Laura. We would appreciate any help you can give us."
This time the cleric took the hand. "Seaton Marshall. Of course I will give you any help I can. But what can Rosslyn offer you?"
"There is trouble in Edinburgh. We are doing what we can, but we are not strong enough. We were told there was power here that could help us, if only we could locate it."
"Power?" Marshall looked puzzled. "Really? Well, I always wondered… You know, I've been coming here on my rounds at this time every day since I took on the responsibility of the Watchman thirty years ago, and never once have I encountered a soul. It was such a surprise to see you, such a surprise." He was clearly overjoyed at this exciting break in routine. "Then the stories are true? That's amazing, that truly is. Come." He took Shavi's arm and led him towards the North Door. "Let me show you one of the most puzzling and marvellous buildings on God's earth."
The interior of the chapel was illuminated only by subdued lighting which had obviously been installed for the benefit of the tourists; it smelled of damp, stone and candles. It was also small, which added to the sense of claustrophobia; gloom collected in the roof and corners like bats. It took a second or two for Shavi's and Laura's eyes to adjust to the shadows, but then they were instantly hit by the true wonder of the place. Everywhere they looked there were intricate carvings in the stone: grinning devils, beatific angels, Green Men peering from the foliage, daisies, lilies, roses and stars, too much to take in. As Shavi slowly surveyed the amazing detail, though, he began to get a sense of the allegories and messages coded in the stone. Books get lost, parchments turn yellow and crumble, but here was something that would carry its meaning for centuries; and how important was that meaning if such a place had to be constructed at such great cost and effort to preserve it?
He felt a frisson that could have been excitement or unease when he realised how many of the carvings translated to their own experience: the Green Men that were everywhere, peering down with the terrifying beneficence of Cernunnos, the angels and devils that bore a disturbing resemblance to the Tuatha De Danann and the Fomorii. He stopped and caught his breath. There, at the foot of a pillar, was the image with the greatest resonance: a dragon, so out of place in any church, yet at the foundation of the great edifice, as the blue fire and the dragons that represented it were at the root of everything. "Amazing," he whispered. It was all there. Stories and legends, teaching and warnings. It was nominally a Christian place, but here it was speaking of things that were potent long before Christ walked the earth. What did it mean; for them; for all the great religions that sprang from that time?
"Ask me any question you want," Marshall said. "I know the history of this place back to front. I've mulled over every carving until my head hurt, trying to understand what Sir William St. Clair meant when he had the place built. Sometimes I think I've got it. I see G
od in the great scheme of it all, but-"
"But the Devil is in the detail," Laura said coldly. Shavi was surprised; she was normally at best silent and at worst openly virulent in the face of religious authority.
Marshall coughed uncomfortably. "Not quite what I meant to say, but, yes, I do get a sense of great unpleasantness in certain areas."
"And that's not what I meant," Laura replied, but her attention had already been drawn by the disturbing iconography.
"Why did Sir William decide to build it?" Shavi asked. "There must be some records."
"Many of them went missing in 1700 after a cleric drew on them to write a history of the St. Clair family," Marshall said. "Just one of the mysteries that surround the place."
"Perhaps he uncovered something that others wanted to remain hidden."
"Perhaps. But it may have been that the St. Clairs remained Roman Catholics instead of giving in to the Reformation. The religious divide has always remained strong in Scotland and many Catholics have suffered persecution down the centuries. The desire to remain secure in such a volatile atmosphere has led both the truth and the history to be obscured." His eyes were bright and intelligent; he seemed to have been transformed by boyish enthusiasm at the hope that some of the mysteries might finally be unveiled. "But the St. Clairs also had very strong links to the Freemasons, who guard their secrets jealously. And, some say, to the Knights Templar. And the Rosicrucians. It has been said that the true history of the world is the history of secret societies and if that is true, then all history converges here at Rosslyn."
"Are you going to keep me in the loop or carry on speaking in this foreign language?" Laura asked tartly. "In which case I'm going off to find an icon to kick."
In the Middle Ages there were many stories about the existence of Enlightened Ones," Shavi explained patiently, "the Rosicrucians, an intensely secret society whose leaders were only known to an innermost circle of adepts and the great and good leaders of society who protected them. They were supposedly highly advanced alchemists who were former members of the Knights Templar." Laura gave a weary sigh and made a hand motion for him to continue.
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