Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2) (70 page)

The truth was, their nerves were growing frayed. Time was running away from them. Lughnasadh was close, and the presence of Balor was almost tangible. They had both dreamed of a single eye watching them malignantly from the dark, and had woken sweaty and sick, with the feeling that the monstrous god of the Fomorii was aware of them. Even when they walked, they could feel his attention sweeping over them, the air thick with dread; with it came an overpowering sense of black despair that conjured thoughts of suicide, which they had to fight constantly to repel.

The weariness shucked off their shoulders the more they progressed into town. It felt good to see sodium lights after the oppression of a country night, to smell motor oil and the aroma of home cooking. But the closer they got into the centre, the more they began to realise something was wrong. No cars had passed them at all. Nobody walked the streets, even though it was only just past ten. The pubs were all locked, the curtains drawn, although Veitch could hear people drinking within; when he hammered on the doors a deep silence fell, but no one ever came to answer.

Eventually an old man swung open an upstairs window and hung out, his face filled with such fear Veitch gaped for a second.

“For God’s sake, man, get yourself to your hearth!” The old man glanced up and down the street; he hadn’t noticed Veitch wasn’t alone. “Can you not see it’s after dark!” He slammed the window shut and drew the curtains before Veitch could question him; Veitch shouted to him several times, but there was no further response.

“What’s up?” Veitch asked Tom with disquiet.

Tom continued to walk briskly, seemingly oblivious to the sense of threat. “What’ up? Old friends have come to visit Inverness and they won’t leave until they’ve expressed their infinite kindness.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.

“You’re talking about the ones we’re going to see?”

“The Queen of Elfland-“

A curiously amused expression jumped on Veitch’s face. “You’re kidding me.”

“The Queen of Elfland. That’s what they used to call her in the old stories. As if to pretend she was some kind of nice, acceptable fairy-” the word was filled with bitterness “-would somehow deflect her attentions.”

“So what would you call her?”

“Nothing she could hear.” He looked away so Veitch could not see his face. “The moment we cross over, we must be on our guard.”

“You make her sound like some witch ready to tear our bleedin’ heads off.”

“She will be filled with charisma, magnetic and alluring. That is her danger.”

“Okay. No problem.”

“No, you do not understand. The slightest wrong move could be the end of you. Every court of the Tuatha De Danann is different. The Court of the Yearning Heart embraces chaos and madness, which is why it is given over to pleasure. It is very easy to be seduced by it.” The deep tone of personal experience was unmiss able. “Listen carefully. You know the rules of Otherworld, and they go doubly here. You must accept no food nor drink from anyone or you will instantly fall under the power of the Queen. And she will find it greatly entertaining to trick you into doing so. You have to be sharp, Ryan. You have to be sharp.”

Veitch was shocked by the familiarity of Tom’s use of his Christian name. For the first time, he felt the Rhymer was truly concerned about his safety. “What’ll happen, you know, if I do-?”

“Don’t.”

“But if I do?”

Tom sighed. “You will not be allowed to leave the Court of the Yearning Heart, at least not until the Queen has taken you apart down to your very molecules and has rebuilt you in whatever way her whims take her at the time. Until you have suffered every pain and pleasure imaginable, until it has become such a way of life that you want such suffering. And when she has finished, you will no longer be the man you are. You will no longer be a man.”

If Tom had tried to scare him, he’d succeeded.

“There isn’t a man alive who couldn’t love her,” Tom continued. “But she dishes out joy and cruelty in equal measure; sometimes she isn’t even aware that’s what she’s doing. The gates at Tom-na-hurich remained intermittently open long after the Sundering. There is a story of two itinerant fiddlers who crossed over. The Queen paid them to entertain the Court and allowed them to eat one of the sumptuous meals that are always laid out there. The fiddlers played their hearts out for the rest of the night. But when they were taken back to the Hill of Yews come the morning, they crumbled into dust. Two hundred years had passed without them knowing, and the Queen had taken great pleasure in hiding this from them.”

Veitch was silent for a moment. “So how come you didn’t turn to dust?”

Tom laughed hollowly. “Why, only humans suffer such fates! The Queen has seen that I can never fit that bill.” He stopped in the middle of the road and looked out across the city to beyond the River Ness; Veitch guessed their destination lay in that direction. “The legends say I lie under Tom-na-hurich with my men and white horse, ready to save Scotland in her hour of need.”

“Well, that’s what you’re doing, ain’t it?”

Tom snorted. “Heroes only exist in stories. There’s no nobility in what people do. We’re all driven by a complex stew of emotions and it’s down to fate whether people see us as good or bad.”

“You’re a cynical git,” Veitch said dismissively. “And you’re wrong.”

They continued in silence for the next fifteen minutes until Veitch noticed a golden glow washing over the shops of the High Street. It was moving gradually towards them, casting strange shadows up the grim brick walls of Eastgate Centre. “What’s that?” His hand went to his sword under his coat.

“The welcoming committee.”

As the glow drew nearer, Veitch saw it was coming off a small group of people wandering along the road, although there was no sign of any light source. The moment he looked at the figures he experienced the now-familiar disorientating effect.

Tom drew himself up; the faintest tremor ran through his body, but his face was a mask of calmness. Veitch moved in next to him, tight with apprehension.

Five figures were approaching, all of them wearing outlandish clothes which mixed golden armour and red silk, topped by unusual helmets like enormous sea shells.

“The Queen’s guard,” Tom noted. “Out hunting for entertainment.”

Veitch took his lead from Tom, although his instinct was to hide. He watched as the guard progressed down the street, glancing into alleyways and side streets, shining their terrible regard into windows.

When they first clapped eyes on Tom and Veitch, sly smiles spread across their faces and they picked up their step as if they expected their quarry to flee for their lives. As they neared, their expressions became even more triumphal with recognition.

“True Thomas!” the leader of the guard exclaimed; there was a dark glee in his words, a contemptuous sneer shaping his mouth.

“Melliflor,” Tom said in greeting, giving nothing away.

“Why, we thought you had gone from our doors for all time, True Thomas!” Melliflor smiled with barely disguised mockery. “The many wonders of the Court of the Yearning Heart are hard to resist, are they not? It calls to you always, even when you do not want to hear. Or,” he mused, “is it your mistress who has brought you back? Our Lady of Light would be overjoyed to see you, True Thomas.”

Two of the guards had moved behind Veitch and Tom, to prevent any retreat. Veitch watched them suspiciously from the corner of his eye.

“Then take me to her, Melliflor,” Tom said. “It will be good to see my Queen again after so long.”

Melliflor made an exaggerated sweeping gesture with his right hand to allow Tom to lead the way. After a few steps he arrived by Tom’s side; Veitch might as well not have been there.

“May I enquire why you have returned to our doorstep?” Melliflor asked artfully.

“To renew acquaintances, Melliflor.”

“I hear you played a significant part in our return to the solid lands. I am sure our Queen will wish to offer her gratitude in her usual way.”

“Lead on, Melliflor. I have come far these last few days and I am too weary for conversation.”

Melliflor’s sneering smile suggested he knew the meaning behind Tom’s words; Veitch could quite easily have loosed the crossbow at him there and then.

They moved silently at a fast pace through the deserted streets, crossing Ness Bridge with the water rolling silently beneath, then along Glenurquhart Road, past suburban houses all deserted; some were merely burnt-out shells. Tomna- hurich Cemetery loomed up suddenly, the white ghosts of stones gleaming. Melliflor led them past the neatly tended plots to a road running up a hill which looked strangely unnatural on the flat valley bottom. It soared steeply, cloaked in a thick swathe of trees: yews, oaks, holly, pine, sycamore, all interspersed with thick clumps of spiny gorse; the air was heady with the summery aromas of the wood. Hundreds of graves were hidden among the trees right up the hillside, as if they too had grown there. The road curved in a spiral dance around the hill to the summit, modern in construction but hinting at an ancient processional route. “Welcome to the Hill of Yews,” Melliflor said respectfully, “known by the local people as Tom-na-hurich.”

They followed the road round until they were swallowed by the trees and the lights of Inverness were lost. It was a strange, mysterious place, eerily still, yet their footfalls echoed in an unusual and unnerving manner; no one felt like talking until they had reached the summit. Here a large area had been cleared at the centre and filled with the jarringly regimented rows of a Victorian cemetery. The fringes were thickly treed with the oldest yews and oaks. At the highest point a cross had been raised to mark Remembrance Day.

They stopped at a nondescript spot among the crumbling, brown gravestones. Melliflor took a step forward and bowed his head before muttering something under his breath. A second later the ground vibrated with a deep bass rumble, as if enormous machinery had come to life, then the grass and soil prised itself apart. From within the long, dark tunnel which had materialised Veitch could hear faint music that immediately made him want to dance; the tang of rich spices wafted out into the balmy night and he was suddenly ravenously hungry. But then he glanced up at Tom and all his desires were wiped clean; the Rhymer’s face was as white as a sheet and taut with the effort of keeping in his fear; a faint tick was pulsing near his mouth which, in the emotionless dish of his face, made him look like he was screaming.

At the other end of the tunnel were a pair of long, scarlet curtains. Melliflor held them aside for Veitch and Tom to pass into a great hall which appeared to be the venue for a riotous party. The music was almost deafening; Veitch heard fiddles, drums, a flute, other instruments he couldn’t quite place, although he could see no sign of a band. A roaring fire in one corner made the air very warm, but not as uncomfortable as he would have expected at the height of summer. It was filled with an amazing range of scents, with each fresh waft bringing a new one: lime, pepper, roast beef, strawberries, cardamom, hops-so many it made his head spin.

So much was happening in the hall, he couldn’t concentrate on one sense for too long. Long tables ranged around the outside of the room on which were heaped every food imaginable, though many he couldn’t recognise and some made him turn away, although he couldn’t explain why. In the centre of the room the Tuatha De Danann were dancing. Scores of them whirled round and round with wild abandon to the odd music, which occasionally flew off the register of Witch’s hearing. It was like a turbulent sea of gold waves crashing against the tables and the walls; it made him queasy to watch.

The assault on Witch’s senses was so great he felt his knees go weak and for a moment he was afraid he was going to faint. But then the rush hit him powerfully and he was swept up in it all. His body was reacting as if he had taken a cocktail of drugs, some mild hallucinogen and an amphetamine; he wanted to fling himself into the seething mass.

He was vaguely aware of someone on his right proffering a goblet of deep, red wine. Unconsciously he reached out to take it, his gaze still fixed on the dance floor.