‘What’s happening?’ he asked. The atmosphere had taken on a dreamy, hallucinogenic quality.
Beside him, Niamh was smiling. ‘They could not stay away.’
Figures were becoming visible amongst the trees, ghostly at first but gaining more substance as they approached.
‘The Seelie Court is one of the twenty great courts, but they remain detached from my brothers and sisters. They prefer their own rules, their own culture, subtly different, unique, perhaps,’ Niamh explained. ‘They are wanderers across the lands, and have no palaces or castles, no walled enclaves. They have no banner and no name but the one the Fragile Creatures gave them. They have always had a great affinity with the Fixed Lands and with your people, but they believed this place was changing and that there was no longer a home for them here.’
Some of the mysterious figures were clearly Tuatha Dé Danann, golden-skinned, ethereal and alluring. Some were grotesque, with strange faces that reminded Church of carvings on Gothic buildings. Others were simply monstrous, all scales and bat-wings, horns and tails and cloven hooves. The Golden Ones who were clearly the king and queen led the stately procession. They came to a halt in front of Church, Niamh and Tom.
‘Sister, we see you again sooner than we expected,’ the king said.
Niamh gave a formal bow. ‘A pleasure, as always, my brother.’
He turned to Church and surveyed him with a curious eye. ‘And you are the Brother of Dragons about whom we have heard so much?’
Mostly Church felt indifferent to the Tuatha Dé Danann and their interference in humanity, but he felt a strange connection with this group. He could tell from the way some of the more monstrous creatures shifted hungrily that they were dangerous, and at the least prone to mischief, but there was something almost paternal about the king. Church bowed. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. My name is Jack Churchill.’
‘Or Jack, Giantkiller,’ the queen said with a wry smile. ‘Tales are already being told of your exploits in the Far Lands. Of how you tricked the Master of Tongues to win the Cunning Key, and how you climbed the Malign Mount to free the daughters of the Lord Tempest from the Ice Dolls—’
‘I’m sure they’re exaggerated. You know how tales get.’
‘I do indeed, Brother of Dragons.’ The king gave an enigmatic smile. ‘We would introduce ourselves, but our names are legion amongst the Sons of Adam. We are the king and queen of the Seelie Court. Will that suffice?’
‘It’s good enough for me.’ Church noticed Tom had slipped several feet back and was skulking near the vegetation.
‘You have returned, then, brother?’ Niamh said.
‘A brief visit, sister. It saddens us to see what is transpiring in the Fixed Lands. The rivers are filled with poisons. Smoke blackens the sky over foul factories. The cities sprawl across green fields. It is not surprising that the Blue Fire has fallen asleep in many parts of the land.’
‘But there are still places like this,’ the queen added, ‘where wonder is ignited in the Sons of Adam. We come to drink of their astonishment and delight. And we shall until Reason drives us away for ever.’
The sound of smashing glass echoed from somewhere near at hand. Church turned to Niamh. ‘Police?’ The Seelie Court did not look perturbed, although the king’s face hardened as he scented the air.
His black coat swirling around him, Veitch strode out of the shadows to stand in the circle of light beneath one of the torches. ‘Well, what the bloody hell’s all this, then?’ he sneered.
Church grew cold, remembering Lucia and Etain, and all the others Veitch had murdered.
Veitch drew his sizzling black blade and pointed it towards the king. ‘Don’t stick your nose in, all right? This is between me and him.’
‘I wouldn’t get on their wrong side, Veitch,’ Church said.
‘I’m not scared of them.’ Veitch held out his silver hand. ‘See this? A present from Dian Cecht and the Court of the Final Word. Only when you get presents from that lot they never turn out how you expect. They can’t be trusted, any of them.’
The Court of the Final Word: Jerzy, Tom and now Veitch. The connections were becoming clearer to Church.
He could see the cold hatred in Veitch’s eyes, and the hot, barely constrained anger bubbling behind it. They were the eyes of a man on the edge. Church drew his sword. The blade sang and fizzed with Blue Fire, but it was much depleted from its original state and Church wasn’t convinced it could stand up to the black fury of Veitch’s sword.
Veitch saw it, too. ‘You’re only half a man since Janus had his way with you. You’re a joke now. You don’t stand a chance.’
‘So what’s the plan? Drag me off again so your vampire can suck out the rest of my spirit?’
Veitch’s eyes narrowed. ‘Nah. This time I’m just going to kill you.’
‘Your bosses won’t like that.’ Tom came forward defiantly. ‘You know they need the Pendragon Spirit. They’re terrified of it – they must find a way to contain it. Only it can’t be contained.’
‘Shut up!’ Rage lit Veitch’s face. ‘You always were a pain in the arse.’
Church looked from Veitch to Tom. Veitch saw the betrayal in Church’s expression and laughed. ‘I forgot – you forgot. In the future, you wankers. A hundred and fifty years from now. He was with the Five of us. And her.’ He nodded towards Niamh.
Veitch advanced a few steps. Church hefted his sword, but Veitch was lost to his bitterness. He jabbed his sword towards Tom and Niamh. ‘They both gave up their lives for the cause – that’s how sick all this is. She loved you – ’ Niamh winced as if she had been slapped ‘– but you didn’t care because all you wanted was Ruth. And that bastard thought you were some kind of hero. So you let them both walk away and die, and just carried on getting what you wanted. I wish you could remember so I could see your face. See if there’s any guilt there. See if you care at all.’
The rage finally broke though and Veitch rushed forward, swinging his sword. Church parried, and a massive explosion of energy lit up the whole Crystal Palace; black lightning flashed and Blue Fire erupted in wild bolts. Both men were thrown yards across the hard stone floor as though opposing polarities had been brought violently together.
Stunned, and with every bone ringing, Church staggered to his feet. Veitch had already recovered and was bearing down on him. Church avoided the arc of the black blade, but Veitch caught Church full in the face with his silver hand. The blow sent Church spinning across the floor once more until he crashed into the side of the fountain.
Through a haze of pain and blood, Church was aware of the Seelie Court watching silently; he felt like a gladiator fighting before the emperor as entertainment.
Veitch drove Church into the pool of the fountain. Water rained down in sheets all around, obscuring the rest of the exhibition. Their blades met again, and the cascading energy raged all around them, turning every droplet into a miniature sun.
Veitch forced Church back, pressing his face so close that Church could see the gleam of his snarling teeth. ‘See – you’re too weak. I could gut you in a second.’
Church was determined not to let everyone down. He drilled down into his depleted reserves and took the fight to Veitch, driving him back by rapidly changing between techniques he had learned in the Iron Age, Roman Britain and in Tudor times. It made up for the relentless savagery of Veitch’s approach. He took his knocks, a cut here, a blow there, and came back just as hard. When he laid open Veitch’s forearm, he felt a glimmer of satisfaction that he had paid Veitch back for the licks he had taken in Rome.
Amidst the explosions of light, they tumbled out of the fountain and battled their way up one of the winding wrought-iron staircases. On the balcony overlooking the concourse, Church realised how much he missed the Pendragon Spirit as his energy levels flagged while Veitch fought on as powerfully as he had begun.
It would have been easier to give up, or to run and hide, but Church wanted to find within himself the person that
everyone else recognised, but he had never seen: the hero, the king. He fought back again just as hard, but now he was taking cuts all over his upper body and his blood was running freely.
Finally, he slipped on his own blood splattered on the floor and crashed back against the railing. Veitch moved in quickly, determined to drive Church over the top and onto the hard stone far below.
‘Say goodbye,’ Veitch whispered.
But as he raised his blade for the final blow, a figure shot up behind Church. It landed on the railing and balanced perfectly. Blue Fire burst into Veitch’s eyes, blinding him.
Veitch staggered backwards, clutching at his face, and Church prised himself away from the railing. Spring-heeled Jack’s face was impassive. He balanced on the railing for one more second, and then he gave another enormous leap and was gone.
The intrusion was enough for Church to recover. He rebalanced himself and gripped his sword defensively as Veitch, cursing loudly, righted himself. But before he could attack once more, he cried out in pain. A small knife protruded from his back. Behind him, Tom quickly retreated, pale and frightened.
‘You bastards!’ Veitch raged, but the rest of his comments were drowned by the sound of breaking glass. Riding down the sheer face of the glass and steel wall were Etain, Tannis, Branwen and Owein. Church felt sick when he saw them, the feelings of what had been lost still as raw as when he had found their bodies in Carn Euny. Yet when he looked at their dead faces and saw their hate-filled eyes, he also felt scared, for he could see they were now capable of any atrocity.
The Brothers and Sisters of Spiders steered their demonic mounts onto the balcony and circled Veitch. Church backed away, knowing he did not have the strength to fight them.
They made no attempt to attack. Etain bent down to pull Veitch onto the back of her horse, where Church had once ridden not so long – or maybe an age – ago. Veitch’s face was strained with pain, but he still had the strength to point one finger at Church. That simple gesture contained all his hatred and bitterness and a promise that revenge would be swift and terrible.
And then they were away, rising eerily up the wall to disappear through the hole in the roof.
Church sagged to his knees, what little energy he had dissipated by the shattering battle.
Niamh ran up and put an arm around his shoulders, while Tom helped him to his feet. ‘Thank you,’ Church said to Tom. The Rhymer nodded curtly. Yet they could barely look at each other after Veitch’s statement that Niamh and Tom would give their own lives for Church’s cause in the future. The revelation was both heart-warming and a terrible burden; none of their relationships would ever be the same.
8
While a handful of police officers investigated the disturbance at the main doors, the king and queen of the Seelie Court whisked Church, Niamh and Tom out of the Crystal Palace – one moment they were standing on the main concourse and the next they were on the edge of Hyde Park. Church sensed that what the Seelie Court had witnessed had changed them in some way, though he could not define how.
Everything Veitch had said haunted him, reopening old wounds and adding to his confusion about his purpose. Was he really as corrupted as Veitch made out, and if so, could he make amends?
There were other mysteries: what part was Spring-heeled Jack playing? What had happened to Jerzy? And what was the significance of Helena Blavatsky’s cryptic words?
Church was so lost to his thoughts that he did not notice a carriage pass the edge of the park. In the back seat sat a thirteen-year-old girl called Annie, desperate and apprehensive at what the future might hold, but also hopeful. She had bought herself a fresh start in a new life with a guinea that had been delivered to her, one single moment of grace and charity that had changed her entire existence.
Chapter Eight
SATYR DAY AND SUN DAY
1
Church stood at the window and looked out over the Court of the Soaring Spirit. When he had first arrived it had been a grim, labyrinthine prison of the mind and soul. Now it was a source of transcendental magic with lanterns gleaming in every window and torches ablaze in the streets and public places. Music rang out from the inns and drifting fragrances were caught on the breeze. The Far Lands altered continually, like life, like emotions. You could never see the same view from a window twice.
He tried to recall Ruth – not her face, which was as clear as ever, but the subtleties that were the foundation of any relationship: the looks, the touches, the shared words, the fleeting moments in between the big occasions. They were all lost. Even his trips to the Wish-Post didn’t help, for they only reminded him of the threat and what was missing, not the heart. He feared he was losing her.
He gently hummed ‘In the Wee Small Hours’, taking refuge in the familiar: old songs, old friends, old times. The past had always offered him great comfort, but now he couldn’t shake his troubled sense of foreboding. What had happened in London was so bizarre it betrayed any kind of understanding. The mysterious disappearance of Jerzy, the equally mysterious appearance of Helena Blavatsky telling him about Gnostic thought, the apparently coincidental arrival of the Seelie Court and the involvement of Spring-heeled Jack – Church was convinced they were linked in some way, but the connections eluded him. Patterns were forming all around him, then disappearing from view just as quickly. He felt as though he was being poked and prodded in a certain direction without any real understanding of why. The sensation was both creepy and infuriating.
At least his wounds had healed reasonably well. He was angry that he had not been able to prevent Veitch from escaping, but he had started to believe that nothing would be resolved until one of them was dead.
‘They’re ready.’ Tom leaned against the wall, casually rolling himself a smoke with some of the herbs he bought from one of the shadowy stores in the Gothic quarter.
Church reluctantly left the window and turned his mind to the struggle that lay ahead. As he passed Tom, he paused. ‘What Veitch said—’
‘Forget it. He’s a liar and a murderer. You don’t want to start believing the words of scum like that.’
In the moment of silence that passed between them, the lie in Tom’s words was evident and he looked away, inhaling a deep draught of the aromatic smoke.
‘All right,’ Church said. ‘I’m glad you were with me in the Crystal Palace and … I’m glad you’re still around.’
Tom nodded. ‘Don’t let them push you about. You’re the king, remember.’
‘I don’t feel like it.’
‘Does any king?’
Church entered the vast Hall of Whispers, where every sound was magnified into a susurration of invisible beings, travelling back and forth until they slowly faded. In the centre was an ancient, huge oak table, and all around, some sitting, some standing, were representatives of Niamh and Lugh’s courts. Church surveyed the faces, his perception swimming when his eyes fell on creatures he had never seen before until his disoriented mind settled on an image it found acceptable. Many were unfamiliar to him, but some echoed descriptions of gods from Celtic mythology. Math, the sorcerer with the four-faced mask, was there, as was Ceridwen, a nature goddess with flowing black hair and a sensitive face.
All eyes turned to him as he entered. Niamh rose from her chair at the head of the table and said, ‘The Brother of Dragons has arrived. Let the council begin.’
‘Do we recognise the authority of this Fragile Creature?’ Math said gruffly from behind a bear mask.
Lugh stood and said, ‘I recognise his authority, as does my sister, and so our two courts shall also recognise him.’
Math nodded but did not appear to concede the point. Church could see in some of the other faces the contempt in which Fragile Creatures were held; it would be a hard fight to overcome that prejudice.
‘We are gathered here to discuss the information we have collected,’ Niamh announced, ‘and to discuss our response to the Army of the Ten Billion Spiders.’
‘Why should we respond
? We are the Golden Ones,’ someone said.
‘They mass on our borders,’ Lugh said. ‘Their fortress grows by the day and is now larger than any court. The army swells with stolen Fragile Creatures, and the lesser races who are easily controlled. They have Redcaps, Baobhan Sith, the Gehennis, and more.’
Discussion about the relative powers of both sides ranged back and forth for a while, with the majority of the group unshaken in their belief in their innate superiority under any circumstances. Church grew angry with the arrogance and signalled to Niamh that he wished to speak.
Suspicious eyes fell on him as he stood. ‘You’re seeing the Enemy in the wrong light,’ he began. ‘You consider them lesser because they’re marshalling Fragile Creatures and Redcaps and all the others. But they’re none of those things. They’re not even spiders. Those things are just the surface, symbols representing what lies behind them. And what they will be, very shortly, is you.’
Church looked around at the beautiful faces. ‘They have in their possession a magical artefact – a crystal skull. I don’t know where it came from, but I do know what it is capable of: summoning you against your will. It’s a lure for gods. That in itself is not enough. They have also obtained another weapon, the Anubis Box. With it they can corrupt any captured god and control them.’
A ripple of angry voices ran round the room. Some called out for Church to be expelled.
‘What the Brother of Dragons says is true,’ Lugh interrupted, ‘for I was almost corrupted by those very weapons. And I saw it take another.’
‘Who?’ Math asked.
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