Jack of Ravens (13 page)

Church was touched by Jerzy’s reaction. ‘I just saw you in trouble and reacted—’

‘Yes. You did not even have to think. That is the wonder of it. I believe we shall be good friends, Jack Churchill.’ For the first time his grin looked happy.

Their conversation was interrupted by Evgen, who was strangely uneasy. ‘Her highness requests your presence in the library.’ He nodded to Jerzy. ‘You may come, too.’

Evgen’s tone made it clear there was no choice in the matter. Church and Jerzy followed him along torch-lit corridors until they came to a large hall lined with shelves of books. Niamh sat at the head of a table surrounded by several other members of the Tuatha Dé Danann, all talking at once. Before her were spread piles of ancient leather-bound books with yellowing pages, scrolls and numerous maps printed in gaudy colours. Niamh waved her coterie away with frustration and summoned Church to her.

At the scooped breast of her gown, Niamh wore a piece of silver jewellery. Church was shocked to see it move of its own accord. At first it shivered, before the edges blurred and it reshaped itself into a silver egg that sprouted legs and scurried over Niamh’s breast and onto the table.

Church realised this must be one of the Caraprix of which Jerzy had spoken. He was mesmerised as the creature shifted its form again, growing into an upright, flat oval shape. In its movements, Church recognised a warped echo of the black spider that had burrowed into his arm.

The oval took on a glassy appearance; all Church could think about was Snow White’s wicked stepmother asking who was the fairest. The glass grew smoky, and when it cleared a moving image played across the surface.

‘I have been informed of your recent troubles.’ Niamh maintained her haughtiness, but now Church could hear an unfamiliar tone of unease beneath it.

‘Our apologies for being such a trouble, Your Highness,’ Jerzy said with a fawning bow. ‘We will ensure such a thing does not happen again.’

‘How can we ensure it?’ Church said. ‘Not that I’m not thankful for the last-minute rescue, but I’m betting you didn’t do it out of the goodness of your heart. You just didn’t want your possessions harmed.’

Niamh waved his comments away. ‘I would know the nature of the thing that hunted you.’

‘I don’t know what it was or why it was after me,’ Church half-lied. ‘Perhaps it’s like you, preying on humans just because it can.’

Niamh eyed Church forensically before indicating the Caraprix-mirror. ‘Reports have arrived from the very edges of the Far Lands, where they disappear into the mysterious heart of Existence. The foulest things in all of this realm are being drawn there.’

In the mirror, dark shapes tramped across a bleak landscape of volcanic rock and scrubby trees and brush, like ants trailing back to their nest from different directions. Fires sent up thick clouds of greasy smoke that added a
hellish tone to the view. Church glimpsed a Redcap, its hair covered by ragged human skin, the remnants of intestines draped around its neck like jewellery. There were other things that Church half-recognised, though whether from his own memory or some bad dream he wasn’t sure, and others so horrific he had to look away.

‘What is their purpose?’ Jerzy saw Niamh’s expression harden and added hastily, ‘If you do not mind me asking, Your Highness.’

‘That is not yet known, though there have been reports of a structure being formed – a nest, perhaps, for these scurrying creatures.’

‘Something you can’t control?’ Church taunted.

Niamh’s eyes flashed. ‘At this time there is no need for the Golden Ones to pay it any attention.’

‘But you’re still worried that what hunted us is connected to it in some way.’

‘Begone! I find you tiresome. I will summon you again the next time I require entertainment.’ Her words were designed to sting, but Church found them reassuring; she was not as all-powerful and controlling as she pretended.

5

Church’s prison was as big as a city. He was free to roam it, like a convict sent out to the yard to exercise, and like the hero of some jailbreak movie he spent his time searching for an escape route. But the Court of the Soaring Spirit was surrounded by seemingly impenetrable defences, made even more stringent since Etain’s incursion. A forty-foot-thick stone wall that soared up the length of a football pitch was broken at regular intervals by watchtowers, and guards patrolled the top relentlessly.

Church had already identified a hierarchy amongst the Tuatha Dé Danann that he couldn’t quite comprehend. The Golden Ones of Niamh’s rank resembled humans, but were breathtakingly attractive with skin that appeared to radiate a faint golden light. Yet the gods who made up the guards and the more menial ranks had a touch of bland plasticity to their features, as if they were mannequins given life.

Though the Tuatha Dé Danann ruled the court, they were far from the only residents. The court was a seething cauldron of cultures, shapes, sizes and abilities. Church wandered the winding streets in a state of rapt wonder. He saw short, grizzled men with axes and hammers, complexions pale from being too long underground; women with serpents for hair; others with blazing red eyes that pierced his soul; humanoid creatures with leathery wings and scaly skin; monkeys that smoked and chatted. A new burst of astonishment around every corner, a new chill in every dark alley.

Occasionally he would stop and talk with shopkeepers who appeared more amazed by him than he was by them. Every nugget of information about the strange, twisted rules of that world was a piece of the key that would unlock his shackles. Yet every time he learned something new it only led to further conundrums, and the means of his escape remained elusively just out of reach. The one stark fact that struck him hardest was that only Niamh could release him from the obligation he had placed himself under when he had consumed her food and drink.

That realisation darkened his mood and his thoughts turned to Etain and Ruth, both of them lost to him by an unbridgeable gulf. Though he attempted bravado with Jerzy, he feared he was fated to die without ever seeing Ruth again, and that notion was almost more than he could bear.

Two weeks after his arrival in the Far Lands, Church made his way down Winding Gate Street in the direction of the Hunter’s Moon, which he had decided to make his base during his search for an escape. The route was filled with traders from the Market of Wishful Spirit, a travelling band of traders offering just about any object that could be desired, though Jerzy had warned him that the price was often more than anyone would be prepared to pay.

Occasionally, insistent figures in odd costumes that hinted at Elizabethan or Victorian styles tried to grab him from the cover of their stalls. Their voices were mesmerising, the artefacts they pushed towards him more so – dreams in a jar, new eyes that could see across Existence.

During his numerous jaunts around the city, Church had become adept at dodging them while keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead. But this time he felt a heavy hand fall upon his shoulder. Before he could shake it off, a deep cold radiated from the fingers into the heart of him, and he realised with mounting distress that he could no longer move. Whoever was behind him leaned in to whisper barely audibly as he passed. The tone was urbane and laced with a hint of mockery. Church grew colder still when he realised what had been said: ‘Ruth will die.’

Unable to turn his head, Church had only a fleeting glimpse of a man in a dark overcoat, long, black hair trailing behind him as he weaved his way into the depths of the market crowd ahead.

6

‘You must try to see things from beyond your limited perspective!’ Jerzy implored.

Finally recovered from the paralysis and back at the palace, Church looked out of the window across rooftops painted silver by a summer
moon. Anxiety tied his stomach in knots. ‘All I know is that here, a long way from my home, some bastard told me that my girlfriend in the future is going to die. And it wasn’t, “She’s going to die like we’re all going to die one day.” It was, “She’s going to die because I’ll slit her throat and dump her at the side of the road.” ’

‘Church—’

‘And I can’t do anything about it!’

‘Good friend!’ Church turned at Jerzy’s sharp tone and was surprised to see concern in the Mocker’s face. ‘Please, do not hurt your heart!’

‘What’s going on, Jerzy? How did I end up here? Why does everyone want to kill me and the people I care about?’

‘You were born in the Fixed Lands and you expect everything to be fixed. But as I told you at our first meeting, the closer one gets to the heart of Existence, the more fluid things become. Even time.’ Seeing the incomprehension in Church’s eyes, Jerzy sighed and tried again. ‘Time is not the same here in the Far Lands as in your world. It flows back and forth, or remains a constant always now.’

Church recalled the folkloric tales of people transported to Fairyland for a night of dancing, only to find on their return that a hundred years had passed. Possibilities dawned on him. ‘I could while away a few months here and then drop back into my world in my own time.’

‘If the Queen of the Wasteland frees you from your obligation.’ His tone suggested Niamh would never agree to this.

‘Except that I have no idea how fast time is passing in my world, so if I sit around here for too long I could end up missing it completely. Walk out into some world of flying cars and personal jet packs, and everyone I know dead.’

‘You must not set your hopes too high,’ Jerzy cautioned.

‘I’ve got no choice. I have to talk to Niamh.’

It was near midnight, and the palace slept. As Church and a reluctant Jerzy trailed along the echoing corridors, guards stood silently, their numbers increasing the closer they came to the royal apartments. Their eyes fell on Church, but he was not a threat to be challenged. He had the run of the place like a favoured poodle. Sit up. Beg. Play dead. Defiantly, Church increased his pace.

As he neared Niamh’s door, the air grew colder and soon he could see sparkles of frost on the stone. Jerzy indicated with an uncertain finger the guard who stood outside. His skin gleamed white, his eyebrows and hair rigid with frost.

‘Frozen,’ Jerzy whispered. ‘Do not enter, friend Church,’ Jerzy pressed. ‘Leave what lies beyond these doors to the Golden Ones.’

Despite his apprehension, Church was eager for answers. He marched
in. Ice shimmered on the floor, walls and ceilings. The bodies of Niamh’s inner guard were scattered in an arc near the door, ribs protruding like dinosaur teeth, slippery organs trailing. A slaughter, quick and brutal. Church wondered briefly what could have the power to dispatch these beings before his attention was caught by a rapid fluttering of golden lights over one of the bodies, then another, and finally over all of them.

They were shimmering moths, composed entirely of light, spiralling up from the bodies to the ceiling and then passing through it like ghosts. As the moths departed, the gods’ bodies began to break up, as though they were as insubstantial as light. When the final moth had fluttered away, all the bodies had vanished.

Church snatched up one of the guards’ short swords and progressed towards the heavy drapes that sealed off Niamh’s bed-chamber. Pulling back the thick fabric, he found Niamh being menaced by the stranger from the market. Church recognised the long, black hair and overcoat, but the face … it was a thing of abject horror. Noting Church’s arrival, the stranger’s lips twisted into a cruel grin revealing needle-sharp animal teeth, stained with blood. Church registered a goatee beard and an aquiline nose, but it was the eyes he would never forget – lidless and fiery red with a small black pupil. When the full force of them was turned on him, Church felt their gaze pierce his very soul.

‘Well, this is something I hadn’t bargained for.’ The attacker crooked his arm tighter around Niamh’s neck, her beautiful features fragile next to his brutal frame. His right hand was raised ready to strike, the fingers pointed to reveal bloody talons.

‘Leave her alone,’ Church said.

‘What’s this? Misplaced loyalty? Or have you already grown into your role of lapdog? Jump through hoops for the mistress. Woof, woof!’

Church bristled at the echo of his own thoughts. ‘She doesn’t deserve to die like those others out there.’

That would be a matter of opinion. I think she does deserve to die. I presented her with a perfectly good opportunity and she chose to turn me down. I find that very disrespectful.’

Jerzy had been watching the scene, wrapped in the drapes. Tentatively, he stepped forward and tugged gently at Church’s arm. His eyes pleaded but he said nothing.

‘Speak up, you grinning buffoon!’ the intruder said. ‘Ah, I see. You don’t want to be seen to be disloyal in case, by some extremely slight probability, your mistress escapes with her life.’ The intruder said to Church in a tired voice, ‘What he’s trying to tell you is that you should let her die because then you will both be free of her control. And that sounds eminently sensible to me.’

‘But even then I’d still be a prisoner,’ Church replied, ‘of my guilt.’ His eyes briefly locked with Niamh’s.

‘You really have been seduced by her propaganda, haven’t you?’ the intruder said wearily. He flexed his fingers and prepared to strike.

‘Who are you and what do you know about Ruth?’