Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2) (22 page)

Since she had been snatched from the hotel in Callander she had cried so many tears of pain and anger and frustration she didn’t feel she had any more left in her. Through all the hours of meaningless torture, it was the hope that kept her going: that she would find a way out, however futile that seemed; that the others would rescue her. But it had been so long- She drove the thought from her mind. Stay strong, she told herself. Be resilient.

It would have helped if all the suffering had been for a reason, something she could have drawn strength from by resisting, but the Fomorii holding her captive seemed merely to want to impose hurt on her in their grimly equipped torture chambers. They had held back from inflicting serious damage-they always stopped when Ruth blacked out-but she felt it was only a matter of time before they lost interest in their sport.

Feeling like an old woman, she shuffled into a sitting position. Her straw bedding dug into the bare flesh of her legs. She’d mapped the cell out in her mind long ago: a bare cube carved out of the bedrock, not big enough to allow her to lie fully out, smelling of damp, scattered with dirty straw, a roughly made wooden door that had resisted all attempts to kick it open.

There’s still hope. It was her mantra now, repeated every time the despair threatened to close in.

She couldn’t remember anything about her capture, who did it, how it happened, where she had been brought. Her recent memory began with the shock and dismay when she discovered her missing finger and she wondered if it was the upheaval of that discovery which had driven out all the other thoughts.

Somewhere distant the deep, funereal tolling of a bell began. Soon they would come for her again. Tears sprang to her eyes unbidden and she hastily wiped them away with the back of her hand. She wasn’t weak, she would survive.

There’s still hope.

Afterwards, with the pain still fresh in her mind and her limbs, she enjoyed the cool, anonymous embrace of the darkness, where thoughts were all; this was the place she could live the life she wanted to live. But, as had happened so many times, the balm was soon disrupted by the familiar voice which made her think of the serrated teeth of a saw being drawn across a window pane.

“Does the light still burn?”

“It burns,” she replied. “Not brightly, but it’s there. You’re a good teacher.” She caught herself. “Teacher. I still haven’t worked out what our relationship is. Are you a teacher, aide, confidant-?” She wanted to add master, but a frightened part of her made her hold back.

“All of those, and more. I have been entrusted with your well-being.” The sound of his words made her think he was smiling darkly, wherever it was in the gloom he existed. Though he had been helpful and supportive, she had an abiding sense that buried within him was a contempt for her powerlessness.

“What are you?” she asked, as she always did in their conversations.

And he replied as he always did: “I am who you want me to be.” It had almost become their little joke.

But she didn’t know, and that unnerved her. She remembered all she had read throughout her life about familiars being demons or sprites doing the Devil’s bidding, and however much she had grown to realise that was propaganda put out by the early Church, she still couldn’t shake the irrational fears it had set in her. Whatever, she knew she would have to stay measured and protective in her dealings with him.

“I think I prefer you as an owl,” she noted. When the Goddess had gifted her the familiar in the dark countryside outside Bristol, she hadn’t realised what she was taking on; certainly with regard to what the Goddess had planned for her, but she had grown into it, reluctantly. And after her meeting with the woman who practised the Craft in the Lake District, she had seen its benefits. But still, she was scared. There was so much she didn’t know, so many repercussions she couldn’t begin to grasp. And she was afraid that when they did happen they would be terrible; and it would be too late to go back. “So what’s the lesson for today?” she continued hesitantly.

The voice began, telling her dark, troubling secrets: about the way the world worked, about nature, some things she didn’t feel comfortable hearing at all, for they hinted at greater, darker mysteries which underpinned every aspect of existence. But her body of knowledge about the Craft was growing. There in the dark she had learned how to use thorn apples and white waterlilies to make flying ointments, how Christmas roses could convey invisibility, how periwinkles could spark passion in the right potion and how henbane could be used to conjure spirits and intensify clairvoyance. She had discovered which plants could be used for healing and which for protection. And she knew the release of sexual energy was the core of all magick, linked directly to the blue fire that bound together the spirit of the world. Amazingly, she seemed to understand it all on first hearing and forgot none of it.

Time passed. There was a brief discussion about the raising of storms and communication with animals, enough to pique her interest and to make her realise how much there still was to learn.

“And all of this works as you say?” she asked.

“All works if applied in the correct manner by the right strength of will.”

“If I don’t get out of here all this information is going to be a complete waste, isn’t it?”

He ignored her question. “This secret knowledge exists to be put into practice and it will be meaningless to you until you do so. Do you understand the message that underpins this gift I give you?”

She thought for a moment. “No, I don’t. I don’t understand anything.”

“Listen, well. There is no reality. There is no shape to anything, except the shape you give it. In these matters, your will is all-powerful. If you learn to apply it-“

“I can do anything.” She weighed his words carefully. “If you’re to be believed …” Her voice faded. Then: “There’s always hope. That’s what it means. It’s down to me.”

In the dark, he concurred. “There is always hope.”

Church paced around the hotel room before coming to rest at the window, as he had done repeatedly over the last three hours. The sun was just beginning to tint the sky pink and pale purple away to the east.

“You are worried about her,” Shavi stated.

“She can look after herself.” The words sounded hollow the moment he uttered them. He knew Laura was resilient enough to cope in almost any situation, but the danger she always carried with her was the dark, self-destructive demon buried in her heart. And after their argument he feared she had been prepared to give full vent to that side of her nature, to punish both herself and him.

He turned back to Shavi, whose face was still bloodless an hour after he had returned to the hotel. Church knew that there was much more to his experiences in St. Mary’s Close than the bare bones of information he had told them. But Shavi was defined by his decency and he wouldn’t tell them anything that might burden them; his suffering was his own. Church couldn’t resist clapping a supportive hand on his shoulder as he passed. When everything else seemed to be falling apart, he was glad for the people he had around him. It was more than he could have hoped for; he was surprised by the warmth of the feeling.

“Look, forget all the bollocks the spooks spouted,” Veitch said with a grin. “Ruth’s alive and kicking. That’s the good thing, right? That’s the important thing.” He grew irritated when he looked around the room to see only gloomy expressions. “What’s wrong with the lot of you?”

“The spirits implied her situation was dire,” Shavi began. “We should not get our hopes-“

“Why should we believe them? All they do is talk in bleedin’ riddles anyway-

“She’s with the Fomorii, Ryan,” Church cautioned. “We’ve both been there.”

Veitch fell silent.

Shavi ran his fingers through his long hair. “What could they possibly want with her? I was under the impression we were beneath their notice since we failed to win over the Tuatha De Danann.”

Tom waved a hand dismissively. “Her situation is not paramount-‘

Church stepped in before Veitch could jump to his feet angrily. The South Londoner’s eyes were blazing with the barely controllable rage he always carried close to the surface. “What’s wrong with you? She’s a friend, you bastard.”

“This is about more than any of us. We’re all dispensable.” The coldness in Tom’s eyes made Church shiver; the emotional detachment was so great he wondered how apart from them Tom really was.

“I thought you were supposed to be the big mythic hero,” Veitch sneered. “Turning your back on a girl in trouble isn’t very heroic, is it? You weasel.”

Tom turned to Church. “Tell him. You understand.”

Of course he understood, but he could barely put it into words because it was the antithesis of everything he felt: they were all disposable, their petty little human concerns, hopes and fears meaningless against the end of everything. He felt like he was trading off his humanity little by little. If they succeeded, would it be worth it if there was nothing of him left to appreciate it?

Before Church could open his mouth, Veitch saw in his face what he was about to say. With a contemptuous shake of his head, Veitch stalked over to the other side of the room where he stood with his back to them.

Tom pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Now that’s out of the way-

“Have a little heart, for God’s sake,” Church snapped. “Just because you’re right doesn’t mean you have to stamp all over people’s feelings.”

Tom eyed him coolly. “Keep a level head,” he cautioned.

“Let us examine the evidence,” Shavi said diplomatically; his smile was calm and assured. “Do we have enough to move forward?”

Church sighed wearily. “Every time we try to get some information from anything supernatural it always ends up as mysteries wrapped in smoke and mirrors, so vague you can never be sure you’ve deciphered it correctly.”

“They do it on purpose,” Tom said. “They want to see us misinterpret their words and fail or suffer. It’s a power thing. Good sport. But they have given us enough.” He nodded to Shavi. “You did well.” Coming from Tom, it was like a cheer.

Shavi looked down shyly. “`Seek out the stone from the place that gave succour to the plague victims.’ Do you have any idea what that means?”

“Something particularly relevant to the residents of St. Mary’s Close. A little research should turn it up.”

“Then that will lead us to the Well of Fire,” Church said. “And if we can find some way to bring that back to life, then we stand a chance of disrupting the Fomorii stronghold which we now know is somewhere beneath the castle.”

“Destroy that,” Tom said, “and we will prevent Balor returning. They would not have guarded the place with something as terrifying as the Cailleach Bheur if this was not the location for the ritual of rebirth.”

Since they had been in Edinburgh they had all felt a darkness pressing heavily at their backs. It was something more than a premonition, almost as if the threat of Balor were reaching out from whatever terrible place his essence inhabited; as if he were aware of them. It left them desperate to win the struggle ahead, and dreading what would happen if they failed.

“And then we get Ruth,” Veitch chipped in pointedly without turning from his investigation of the mini-bar. He pulled out a bottle of lager.

“But the spirits said the blue fire was not enough,” Shavi noted. He stretched out his legs and rested his head on the back of the chair. “They said we should call for the Good Son, whatever that means.”

Out of the corner of his eye Church saw a flicker cross Tom’s face; it was like a cloud obscuring the sun. “What is it?” he said to Tom.

“Nothing.” Tom looked at his feet. “A story I heard once long ago.”

“Oi. Spit it out then. You were the one who said all those old tales were important,” Veitch said irritatedly.

Tom walked over to the window where he seemed to be eyeing the rising sun suspiciously. “The Good Son was the name given by the ancient worshippers to one of the most important of the Tuatha De Danann. The Celts knew him as Maponus or Mabon-which simply means Son-or Oenghus. He was, in their stories, the son of Dagda, the Allfather, and the Great Mother. The Son of Light. When the Romans came into the Celtic lands he became associated with Apollo. When the Christians came, he was the Christ. He was linked to the sun, the giver of life. More double meanings, you see. The Good Sun.”

“What, you’re saying Jesus didn’t exist?” Church asked.

“Of course not,” Tom snapped. “I’m simply saying Maponus was an archetype. An original imprint that other cultures drew on for their own myths.”

“Well, I’m glad you answered that one, then,” Veitch said sarcastically.

“He was widely worshipped throughout the world,” Tom continued. “The Divine Youth who would lead the world back into the light; he was a great musician, the player of the lyre, a great lover, a patron of the arts, worshipped at the sacred springs and seen as a direct line to the powers of creation. Beautiful, witty and charming. But there was another side to him.” He paused. “The Irish used to call him the Lord of Love and Death.”

The sun broke through the window, casting his distorted shadow across the wall; Church had a sudden vision of something monstrous moving across the room. “What happened?” he asked quietly.

“I have no idea. After the great sundering, when all the old gods and creatures of myth left here for Otherworld, some of them, the ones with the greatest bond to our world, returned. Maponus was one of those. His links were possibly the strongest of all. There was a reason he, of all the Tuatha lle Danann, was seen as a saviour by mortals. And then, suddenly, he disappeared.”

The others waited for him to continue. “What happened?” Church prompted.

“The Tuatha lle Danann would never speak of it,” he said hesitantly. “In all my time in Otherworld it was the one question I dared not ask.” A shadow crossed his face. “That’s wrong. I did ask it once. But never again.” Church caught a glimpse of the same terrible expression Tom had worn when he had first told them about the suffering he underwent during the gods’ ganger. “The Tuatha lle Danann indulged me. I was an amusement, a curiosity, but certainly not an equal. They considered me so far beneath them they would never discuss something they considered important. And this, whatever it was, was obviously of vital importance.”