Always Forever (23 page)

"The Fomorii are already moving out across the country?"

"It won't be long before they're everywhere." Ruth shivered at the memory
of what she had seen.

Church's shoulders were knotted with tension. He watched the crew
preparing the landing boat. It had an oddly shaped prow that curled up and over
the rowers. "Being here makes you feel detached from it all, even when it's buzzing
away at the back of your head. I needed a slap like that to focus my mind."

"I wish we could just get to where we're going." She hugged herself, despite
the heat.

He saw Baccharus and Niamh lining up to join the small band ready to go
ashore. "Maybe we can gee them along."

He led her over to the boat as it was hoisted up above the level of the rail
ready for the crew to climb aboard. Church pulled Baccharus to one side. "We'd
like to join you. All of this is new to us. We want to experience-"

"Of course."

Church was taken aback by the speed of Baccharus's agreement, but he
wasn't about to question it. He quickly climbed aboard, with Ruth behind him.
Niamh was already seated at the aft. She gave him a warm, secret smile, hidden
from the crew who silently filled the seats. Church was curious to see that they
all wore the gold and ivory armour of the warrior caste.

Ruth echoed his thoughts. "They're expecting trouble," she whispered.

Even though her words were barely audible, Baccharus picked up on them.
"The greeting is always issued," he said ominously, his darkly golden eyes flickering towards the lofty castle.

The oarsmen propelled them across the flat sea with powerful, seasoned
strokes. Church had the oddest impression they were skimming the surface of a
mirror, so disturbingly smooth was the water. Even around the base of the rocky
islands there was only the slightest swell and no breakers. It was as if the ocean
itself was holding its breath.

Ruth was driven to cover her mouth to block out the choking stagnant
odours. Church passed the time swatting away the alien insects, some of which
were like meat flies that had grown as big as his fist, others like minute, jewelled dragonflies, sparkling as they whizzed by.

At the base of the island was a tiny jetty. Once the boat had been made
secure with a thick rope, they clambered out. There was barely room for them
all to stand, so they progressed one at a time along an uneven path that wound
upwards around the island. It was just wide enough for one person and dangerously precarious the higher they climbed. On the outer edge it was badly eroded
by the elements; one wrong foot would have sent them plummeting into the
waves or on to the protruding rocks. Church and Ruth held their breath as they
fixed their gaze on the next step, but Baccharus and the other Tuatha lle Danann
climbed nonchalantly, oblivious to the drop.

The higher they rose above the flat, green sea, the harder it became to avoid
feelings of vertigo. For distraction, Church found himself focusing on the wiry
grass and diminutive yellow and white flowers that thrived in pockets on the
rock face. His fingers gripped the stone until the joints hurt; behind him he
could hear Ruth's laboured breath.

They climbed for almost an hour, until their thigh and calf muscles were
fiery. Near the top, the buffeting wind threatened to snatch them off their
uneasy perch so that even the Tuatha lle Danann had to face the rock and edge
around the path.

Finally they passed through cloud to reach the flat summit and an area the
size of a tennis court leading to the castle's imposing gates. That close it was
even harder to understand how the place had come to be built in that almost
inaccessible position; how it continued to survive there. The bronze and opaque
glass walls rose up high above their heads, too bright to look at in the seething
sunlight. Windows looked out on every vista, but they were all too dark to see
within. It was unpleasantly quiet.

"Maybe she's not in," Ruth muttered.

"The mistress of this place never leaves its walls." Baccharus looked up to
the battlements, as impassive as ever, but troubled.

At the castle gate they considered their actions. "A knock," Church
suggested.

Baccharus agreed. "Cover your ears," he said to Church and Ruth. They
looked at each other curiously. "Sound has power. Mere words, or the sound they
make, can alter existence. You know that?" He read their faces, then nodded in
approval before continuing; Church and Ruth both felt like children being
guided by a knowledgeable parent. "The reverberations from the striking of this
door will send all Fragile Creatures into a deep sleep, for-" he struggled with
the mortal concept "-a long time."

"How many Fragile Creatures do you get up here?" Ruth asked.

Baccharus returned his attention to the door. "It is the way it is."

Church and Ruth covered their ears, but even through their hands they
could feel the strange vibrations of the struck door driving like needles into
their heads, making them queasy at first, then drowsy. Baccharus shook them
both roughly to keep them awake.

They waited for long minutes after they had announced their arrival, but all
they could hear was the wind blowing around the castle walls, sounding at times
like plaintive human voices.

Niamh, who had the position of superiority in the group, stepped forwards.
"We enter."

Two of the guards put their shoulders to the gates, but they swung open
easily, as if they could have been moved with the touch of only a finger. Beyond
was a breathtaking hall soaring up to a glass roof that made the interior as bright
and hot as a greenhouse. Within, they were assailed by numerous sensations.
The breeze moved the most melodic chimes hanging in enormous trees that
grew mysteriously out of the tiled floor, their tops almost brushing the roof. A
white waterfall gushed down from an opening halfway up one wall, splashing in
a cool pool that emptied out through a culvert in the floor. The smells were as
complex and heady as any they had experienced in T'ir n'a n'Og. Church picked
up lime, honeysuckle, rose and cinnamon before he gave up.

"It's beautiful." Ruth was overcome by the sheer wonder after the air of
threat without.

"It is the mistress's palace. Her sanctuary," Niamh noted. "She loved the
Fixed Lands and wished to bring her memories of that place to life here." She
paused thoughtfully before adding, "She loved a Fragile Creature-"

"Well, there's no future in that, is there?" Ruth ignored Niamh's pointed
stare.

"And she retired here to nurse her broken heart?" Church asked. Niamh
replied with a sad smile.

They pressed on through the hall into a maze of rooms decorated in different
earthly styles: mediaeval, Celtic, Mexican, Japanese, Native American. Yet each
felt as if an unpleasant presence had been in it only moments before, although
there was no visible sign of recent occupation. Even the usually stoic Tuatha De
Danann appeared uneasy.

Occasionally Church and Ruth glimpsed flitting grey shapes on the edge of
their field of vision, accompanied by barely audible but insistent whispering,
and a growing anxiety. Sometimes they caught sight of faces, most of them
unknown, but one or two that were almost recognisable.

"Can you see them?" Ruth hissed after they had passed through a room where
the shapes swarmed at their backs, disappearing the moment they turned round.

"They are the spirits of the dead," Baccharus interjected. "You will
encounter them throughout the Western Isles."

"Ghosts?" Church moved his head sharply to try to bring one of the figures
to the centre of his vision, without much luck. "Real ghosts?"

"Some of the dead are drawn here, Fragile Creatures with a yearning nature,
unsettled, troubled. It has always been that way. The Western Isles are a destination for those of a questing nature." The figures kept well away from Baccharus as he spoke.

"Are they dangerous?" Ruth asked.

Baccharus chose his words carefully. "They can be. The dead bring their
dark emotions with them. Many are fuelled by bitterness, resentful of those still
living. Beware of them and their whispered words. They will wish to lure you
to your doom."

A chill turned Church's skin to gooseflesh. Another face he half thought he
knew. Ruth gripped his hand in hers, fixing her attention on the path ahead.

The layout of the castle was incomprehensible; they trailed from room to room
without encountering anyone, constantly sensing a passing presence, always one
step ahead.

"Maybe we should head back to the ship," Ruth said. "She's obviously not
here."

"But she should be here," Baccharus said. "She may be in need of assistance."

"I thought you Golden Ones rarely helped each other," Church said.

"We are not all the same." It was a passing comment, but Church caught
the briefest glimpse of something in Baccharus's face that gave him pause.

Before he had time to consider it further, one of the guards said curtly, "In
the next chamber," although it was impossible to tell how he could know when
the door was closed.

As one, the guards drew long golden swords from hidden pockets in their
armour. They approached the door cautiously. Church's blood was pulsing
loudly in his head; now he could also sense something, and although he couldn't
pinpoint it, it set his nerves on edge. In the room. He saw Ruth could feel it too.
Her warning hand fell on his forearm, urging him back.

Niamh made a sign to the captain and the door was thrust open. The guards
surged through, with Church so close behind, he ran into them when they came
to a premature halt. They were so still Church first thought they were the victims of some enchantment until he realised they were staring at the corner of the
room. He eased his way through until he had a better view.

The remains of a woman were slumped over a divan, her body breaking up just as Cormorel's had done on the point of death. Her body had been torn apart from
neck to crotch. There was nothing anyone could do for her: the flight of golden
moths had dwindled to a handful fluttering up intermittently to the ceiling, where
they passed through it like wisps of light. Church guessed it was Hellawes.

Niamh thrust past him and dropped to her knees in front of the divan, an
unnerving keening sound of grief emanating from her. She kneaded her hands
together, dipped and raised her head, barely able to comprehend what she was
seeing. Baccharus looked away, sickened.

"Cormorel's murderer-" Church began.

"No." Baccharus eyed him forcefully. "This crime was not committed by the
same."

"Who would want to kill a woman who lived like a hermit?" Ruth said.

The guards slowly moved backwards until they had formed a circle, swords
ready to repel an attack from any direction.

"Remember: the mistress of this place was a Golden One," Baccharus cautioned. "To do this to her takes tremendous power, or specific knowledge." The
words caught in his throat and he raised the back of his hand to his mouth in
disgust, unable to hide his feelings any longer.

"Who committed this crime?" Niamh wailed.

The nerves along Church's spine suddenly sparked. "Something's coming,"
he said hoarsely, feeling it acutely as he spoke.

Ruth looked up at him curiously. "I don't sense anything."

His left arm began to tremble uncontrollably. He gripped it at the wrist to
steady himself. "You haven't got a cocktail of alien shit in your blood," he said
hoarsely. He half stumbled; Ruth caught him. "Fomorii," he wheezed. The taint
of the Kiss of Frost was responding to the presence nearby.

The guards glanced at him, concerned, then at Niamh for guidance. "Listen
to him," she ordered. "He is a Brother of Dragons. He understands the Night
Walkers." She hurried behind their line of swords as the group began to back
out the way they had come.

Before they were halfway across the next room, a guard's head split open.
The blow had come so quickly no one had seen it. The Fomorii were all around
them. To Church, they appeared to rise from the floor and drop from the ceiling,
oil black and filled with malevolence, armed with the cruel serrated swords. His
stomach knotted at the waves of evil washing off them. The air was filled with
an animal stink, the walls ringing with the echoes of their shrieks and grunts.
He still couldn't bear to look them in the face, so all he got were fleeting impressions: darkness and shadows, moving fast, shapes continually changing, horns
and bony plates, sharp teeth, ridges and staring eyes. But most of all, power.

The Tuatha lle Danann responded with force. Their swords were a whirling
golden blur, and while they had appeared delicate before, now they carved easily
through any Formor who came close enough. The ferocity of the attack had
obviously shocked the gods; more, the simple fact that the Fomorii had attacked
at all. In their arrogance they had presumed the Fomorii would leave them alone
out of fear. Now their very existence was at risk.

"What the hell are they doing here?" Church wished he had some kind of
weapon to join in the fray, but the guards had formed an impenetrable wall
between him and the Fomorii.

"It doesn't make sense." Ruth was preoccupied, trying to find a space to
concentrate so she could use some aspect of her craft, but in the melee it was
impossible.

Another guard fell, split almost in two. Church saw none of the golden
moths, so he couldn't tell if the victim was dead or not; there were still so many
unknowns about the Tuatha De Danann, but there was no time to dwell on the
puzzle. The Fomorii surged all around, black water shifting and changing,
striking with venom, desperate to prevent the gods leaving the building.
Church couldn't tell how many there were-a handful; a raiding party-but
there were enough.

As they inched backwards through the next room, it became clear the Tuatha
lle Danann were prepared to respond with equal ferocity. Church had always seen
the Fomorii as bestial and the Golden Ones as aloof and refined, but the guards
hacked and slashed with a brutality that matched their historic enemies.