Darkest hour

Chapter Six

Dawn came up over Calton Hill like gold and brass. Summer heat quickly dispelled the cool of the night, and the air was soon filled with the chorus of waking songbirds and the aroma of wild flowers. Amongst the treetops that clustered to the southwest side of the hill, tiny figures danced and swooped on the warm currents, their gossamer wings sparkling in the sun's first rays.

For Veitch, it was a transcendent moment that pointed up the hollowness of the world before the change. His hard face softened as he followed the winged creatures' magical trail; the tension eased from his muscles. His smile transformed him into the kind of man he might have been if he hadn't grown up at a certain time in a certain place, trapped by destiny, punished by reality for no crime apart from existing.

And Shavi watched Veitch, and he too smiled. And the others looked to Shavi and felt the genuine warmth and hope he exuded, even in the darkest moments. It was he who had suggested the ritual to greet the sun as a way of marking the next phase of their life, and as a memory of something good to carry with them into dark places. Tom had helped out with the details of the ancient rite which had been carried out at the stone circles in the long-forgotten days, and they had chosen Calton Hill, where every year Edinburgh residents gathered for a pagan rite of seasonal renewal on Beltane. It was the place, it was the time.

And there, in the aftermath, they all felt stronger and they could turn their eyes away from the still-sleeping, geometrical streets of the New Town to the clouded, chaotic and thunderous bulk of the Old. Above it, the winter clouds still churned.

"We will always remember this moment." Shavi's voice was a whisper but it carried through the still air with a strength and clarity that sent a shiver down their spines. "This is not just an age of darkness and anarchy. It is a time of wonder and miracles too. Never forget. Light in dark-"

"The best of times, the worst of times." Church smiled.

"Sweet and sour," Laura chipped in. "Cabbage and chocolate-"

"All right!" Shavi laughed. "You have no sense of occasion!"

"And you'd get on a pretentious spiral up your own arse if we'd let you." Laura rolled on to her back, chuckling playfully.

For that brief time, Church forgot his brooding nature and turned to look through the twelve Doric columns of the National Monument towards the sun, pretending it was Athens, dreaming of Marianne-but no longer in a bad way.

Tom, stoned and grinning, looked more like a Woodstock refugee than he had done in weeks. When he smiled, the lines of suffering and despair turned to crinkles of good humour and his piercing eyes sparkled with a blissed-out hippie's playfulness. "Shavi's right." His voice, too, became less sombre, and more of its original Scottish brogue was evident. "Make the most of it."

"Okay," Church said. "Pop quiz. Favourite golden oldie. I'll start: `Fly'-"

"-'Me to the Moon,' you predictable Sinatra dickhead," Laura chided. "You hadn't mentioned the great elan for a while. I thought you'd grown out of that."

"We haven't had much time to kick back and listen to music."

"`Scooby Snacks."' Veitch's voice surprised them all, floating out dreamily and distracted while he watched the sprites in the trees. "Fun Lovin' Criminals."

"`Strange Brew' by Cream," Tom grinned.

Laura stared at him as if he was insane. "No, wasn't that Beethoven?" she said sarcastically.

"Stop criticising and chip in so we can criticise your musical taste," Church said.

She wrinkled her nose. "Oh God, I don't know. `Hey Boy Hey Girl' by the Chemical Brothers. Or maybe something by Celine Dion," she added with a sneer. "What's yours then, Shav-ster?" Laura raised her sunglasses slightly to get a clearer view of his expression. "Some Andean pan pipe music? Kashmiri drum and bass? Tibetan chants? Aboriginal didgeridoo solos?"

"`Move On Up' by Curtis Mayfield, if you must know," he said with mock playfulness. "The ultimate positivity in music."

"Oh God, can't you just say you like the beat?" She pulled off her boot and threw it at him. He ducked with a laugh and crawled behind Tom, who suddenly looked very perturbed.

Church didn't want to break the mood, but it had to happen sooner or later. "We need to talk about divvying up," he began. Nobody looked at him as if he had only thought the words, but he sensed a change in the atmosphere, as if everything was suddenly hanging in stasis.

"I think it's up to me to go into Arthur's Seat-"

"And you said that with a completely straight face, Church-dude." Laura's voice was suddenly weary. "I always said you had no comic timing."

11 — and I think Tom should go to Rosslyn Chapel-"

"No," Tom said firmly.

"But you know the history of what happened there. You've been taught some of the knowledge of the people who did the binding. It's obviously yours," Church protested.

"No," Tom said again.

Laura scanned his face for a moment. "He's scared."

Tom glared at her. "Yes, I am, and I don't mind admitting it, as any wise man would do. But that's not the reason. We've all got a part to play here and mine is as teacher, as guide to the ways of the land, the earth energy. I need to go with Jack to show him, tell him, teach him. I may not be the embodiment of the Pendragon Spirit like you, but I am bound to it for all time. It lights my way. And I, in turn, help it in any way I can."

"So it's not about you being scared at all, then," Laura said, with a false smile. Tom looked away.

"Veitch, Laura and I can go to Rosslyn Chapel," Shavi began, but this time it was Witch's turn to refuse.

"I'm staying here." He turned towards them, his face set.

"Why?" The fresh stitches in Church's finger began to ache.

"Someone has to get Ruth out."

"On your own!" Church exclaimed. "I know I asked you for a plan, but I expected it to be one you'd thought about for more than five minutes."

"I know what I'm doing-"

"Right. So you're going to waltz into a stronghold filled with Fomorii out to tear you limb from limb, go directly to Ruth and carry her out like at the end of An Officer and a Gentleman."

"Something like that."

"And, of course, it'll be no problem that when the Well of Fire is ignited or redirected or whatever I'm doing, you'll be right at ground zero."

Veitch shrugged. He obviously wasn't going to be deterred.

"Muscle boy's in love," Laura mocked in a singsong voice. Veitch flashed her a cold, hateful stare, but said nothing.

"Ryan-" Church began.

"I'm going to find a way in to that place and I'm going to do my best to get her out. Because it's the right thing. Just like you're trying to do the right thing for everybody else. If I can get in just before the shit hits the fan, there's a chance-"

"How will you know the right time?"

"I'll know. I feel things. You know, the right way to act. The right thing to do at the right time. I don't know where it's coming from, but it's getting stronger. You said it yourself." He stared into the middle distance, faintly uncomprehending. "I'm different now. Better. I'm not going to let it go to waste."

Church searched his face for a moment, then nodded. "It's decided, then. I go to the Well with Tom. Laura and Shavi head south to Rosslyn Chapel. And Veitch-"

"Attempts Mission: Impossible. I don't fancy your chances, even for a big, tough, street boy." Church heard a surprising note of concern in Laura's voice. "A nest of Fomorii. Their biggest stronghold, protecting the thing most valuable to them. And you." She paused. "Shall I order the pine box?"

"I'll take my chances. Let's face it, I'm the only bastard who actually has a chance among you bleedin' lot. If I kick the bucket, well, you know, it was for the right reason. That's what this is all about, right?" He turned to Church. "That's what you keep saying, innit? Do it for the right reason. This is nay right reason." He seemed surprised to see admiration in their stares and grew uncomfortable.

Laura attempted to break the mood with some glib, mocking comment, but for once the words escaped her. Church watched her face sag as she bit her lip; he wondered what lay behind her sunglasses.

"Where are we gonna meet up afterwards?" Veitch asked optimistically.

"Greyfriars Churchyard." Church had spent most of the previous afternoon planning, armed with a map of the city and the guidebook, while fighting back nausea from the pain in his finger.

"Why there?"

"Because I always wanted to see that statue of the little dog that sat by his master's grave. Greyfriars Bobby-what a great tourist attraction that is." He tried to make light of the conversation, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Veitch wouldn't be meeting them. "I think we can pick a quick route out of town from there. And it's an easy place to find if the shit really is hitting the fan."

They all thought about this for a moment.

Nobody wanted to be the first to go, but eventually Shavi shouldered the responsibility. He knelt beside Veitch and gave his shoulder a brief squeeze before setting off down the hill. Tom followed, resting one hand on Witch's head in passing, a restrained show of respect that was surprisingly voluble in a man normally so emotionally detached. Laura paused, but couldn't bridge the gap and hurried uncomfortably after the others.

It was only then Church realised how truly strong were forged the bonds that joined them. Their communication was silent, but deeply expressed; powerful emotions united them, of respect and trust, friendship and faith, even love. It was even harder to believe the Celtic spirits' accusation that one of them was a traitor.

"Are you going to be okay here on your own?" he said.

Veitch grinned with fake confidence. "No, but fuck it." He stripped off his shirt to feel the sun on his skin, his tattoos gleaming across his torso. "See this?" He pointed to a pentacle picked out in an intertwining Celtic design. "I always wondered what that was. But it's us, innit? See, five points, all separate, but all joined together, and stronger for it."

Church gave him a friendly clap on the shoulder. "You're a smart bloke, Ryan. You shouldn't hide it so much."

"Yeah, smart like shit." He fumbled for Church's hand and shook it awkwardly. "You know, I never thought I'd ever be a part of something like this… fuck it!" He shook his head, embarrassed. "You better get going. It's time to go to work."

Church set off down the hill. Halfway down, where the trees began to close in around the path, he glanced back to see a figure silhouetted against the dawn sky, framed by the soaring Athenian columns. It was such a sad, lonely sight he quickly turned and hurried after the others.

It was already early afternoon as Shavi and Laura made their way south. The sun had started to give way to the sea mist the locals called the haar. It swept in from the northeast, obscuring Arthur's Seat and the castle, rolling out across the rooftops and clinging hard to the streets. They had considered hiring a car, but Church had cautioned them about keeping a low profile, so Shavi had convinced Laura to walk the six and a half miles towards the misty, purple bulk of the Pentland Hills. She refused, however, to carry any of the camping gear which was mounted on a framed rucksack on his back. As they set out through Tollcross the Old Town seemed uncomfortably close; Laura was convinced she could feel a wintry chill radiating out from the streets that emptied on to Lothian Road. They kept to the other side, near to the comforting modernity of the new financial district, until the blackened, ancient buildings of the Old Town were far behind.

Although it was not raining, the haar infused the air with so much moisture their clothes soon became damp and Laura's spikey hair sagged on to her forehead.

"You can probably remove your sunglasses now," Shavi said wryly.

"When you get the pomposity out of your arse." She looked around. "Not much traffic for a capital city."

"People are only making journeys when they feel it is absolutely important. They subconsciously sense the danger that is all around."

"And it hasn't got so bad yet."

The street rode the rolling hills, past rows of smart shops where a few people seemed at ease enough to hover outside the windows, up towards the ring road. Laura leaned over the barrier, still curious to see such little transport.

"Well, the airport is shut now all the flights have been grounded," Shavi pointed out. "And with the Old Town closed off I suppose they have lost the parliament, the newspaper offices, many businesses-"

"Don't they realise they can't carry on with their lives?"

"I think they probably do. But it is human nature to carry on with routines in an attempt to maintain normalcy, often in the face of all reason."

A little further on Laura began to complain of aching feet, and from then on, as they left the city behind and wound out into the countryside, they had to take numerous long breaks while she nursed her burgeoning blisters.

"I've never walked this far in my life," she moaned.

"I once walked the entire length of Kashmir-"

"Oh, shut up." She was limping away before she had to listen to any more of his tale. "It hurts enough already," she muttered.

It was late afternoon before they reached the Rosslyn Chapel sign which pointed down a lane off the main road. Between wet fields and under a slate-grey sky, it took them in to the village of Roslin.

"Did you know," Shavi began, "that the Roslin Institute is nearby, where they cloned Dolly the sheep. A place of mysteries both old and new."

"Whoop de doo."

They were barely in the village when another tiny lane led them off to the right. A little way down it they reached the chapel car park; they could tell they were nearing their destination from the stark change in atmosphere: it grew oppressive and brooding, as if the mystery that lurked there was potent enough to affect the air itself. The chapel was completely obscured by trees, a visitor centre and high fences which made it difficult for anyone to get inside. The custodians had already locked up for the day.

Shavi checked the sky and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, but before he could speak, Laura said, "Pull yourself together. We're not going in there today. I'm not going to be caught anywhere near the place after night has fallen."

Shavi smiled. "Then we make camp."

They needed to find somewhere where they wouldn't be stumbled across or reported to the authorities. Picking their way down a steep path, they came to the graveyard, with its neatly tended plots, ancient and new stones mingling together. Another footpath led off to one side where the trees grew thickest. The whole area was still. No traffic rumbled, no birds sang.

"Maybe it's just the weather, but I can feel something like… despair." Laura glanced into the thick vegetation beneath the tree cover where the water dripped from the leaves in a steady rhythm.

Shavi nodded, said nothing.

The path wound around until the graveyard was lost behind them and the branches closed over their heads, sealing them in a gloomy, verdant world. A rabbit started at their approach and dived into the undergrowth. Eventually they could hear the splashing water of a stream or falls, and then they were out of the trees again, suddenly confronted by the breathtaking view of a treeclustered glen far beneath them. The haar drifted eerily in white tendrils among the treetops. Everywhere was still, waiting.

"It's beautiful," Laura said. "But there's something not natural about the place. Which is a pretty stupid thing to say about the countryside."

The path wound round until it crossed a tiny stone bridge which soared high above the glen. On the other side, hanging over the steep sides of the valley like some fairy-tale fortress, were the majestic stone ruins of Rosslyn Castle. Just beyond the broken turrets and fallen walls they could see lights; part of the building was still in use. They picked up a rough track just before the bridge which led them scrambling down into the glen and then the trees were closing over them again. Oak, ash and elm mingled all around, hinting at the great age of the woodland, and this was reflected in the diversity of the undergrowth that prospered beneath the tree cover: wood sorrel, ransoms, golden saxifrage, dog's mercury and wood-rush.

The place was so lonely Laura couldn't help but feel unnerved and when she glanced at Shavi she could see it reflected on his normally stolid face too; it was in the air, in every tree and rock. They trekked along the floor of the glen by the banks of the white-foamed North Esk until they found an isolated clearing where the smoke from any fire would not be seen from the castle.

"Are you sure we shouldn't go back and find a B amp;B?" Laura ventured. She was even more disturbed when she saw Shavi almost considered it.

They pitched the tent with its rear end in an impenetrable cluster of undergrowth to prevent anyone approaching them from behind. To Laura's growing anxiety, the flora all around was so dense, the noise from the swishing leaves and the thundering river so great, it would have been impossible to discern strangers until they were almost upon them.

"If this was a movie," Laura began, "I'd say, `I can't shake the feeling there's somebody watching us."' Shavi nodded. "You're supposed to say, 'Don't be so stupid, it's just the trees,"' she added irritably.

"I think we should take a chance and light the fire now." He looked up at the streaks of drifting white in the gloomy treetops. "It will get dark here much quicker than if we were out in the open."

"You can build a beacon they could see in Holland for me."

Shavi spent the next half hour collecting enough wood to last them all night while Laura sat morosely in the mouth of the tent. Her anxiety eased a little when he finally had a small fire glowing in the clearing a few feet away from them. They boiled up a little rice while Shavi roasted kebabs of peppers, onions and tomatoes, which they ate while listening to the crack, drip and shiver of the living wood around them.

Shavi was correct about the dark, which swept in unnervingly quickly until it was sitting just beyond the glimmer of the campfire, breathing in and out oppressively.

After a while Laura found herself leaning against Shavi; she had shuffled up to him almost unconsciously, for comfort. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, out of friendship; there wasn't a hint of any of the passion they had shared in Glastonbury. And she leaned her head gently against his shoulder, glad he was there, for so many reasons she could barely count them.

"You seem unhappy," he ventured.

"And you look like a dickhead, but do I take it out on you?"

He smiled and waited for a few moments while the rushing of the river took over. "Romance is by necessity difficult."

"Everything is difficult." Then: "Why 'by necessity'?"

"The value of anything is defined by the effort it takes us to get it. And romance is the most valuable thing of all."

"That's one opinion. Me, I'd go for an iced bottle of Stolichnaya, an ounce of Red Leb and some peace and quiet."

"Jack is going through a difficult time. He has suffered an extreme emotional blow-"

"We've all got our problems."

— and a great deal is expected of him, more than he thinks he can possibly give. He is torn between the things he wants to do, the things his heart is telling him, and what he feels is the right thing to do."

"He's too wrapped up in this whole `heroes have to sacrifice' thing."

"Yes, he is." Shavi gave her a faint, comforting squeeze. "But he is a good, decent man. The best of all of us."

"I know that."

"Everyone knows it. Except Jack."

"And you're about to say I should cut him some slack."

"No. I am just saying this by way of explanation."

"You think I've done the wrong thing by getting in with him, don't you?" She looked round at him, but his gaze was fixed firmly away in the trees.

"I think your romance would have a better chance at a different time. There are so many obstacles being placed before it by external events."

She looked away so he couldn't see her face.

"But you know your heart better than I." He turned and stared at the back of her head, hoping she would look at him, but she kept the barriers up. "And if there is any lesson from all this hardship we are experiencing, it is that things are worth fighting for and fighting to the last, and tremendous things do happen."

"Who do you think he should be with?"

"I-" He struggled to find words that would not hurt her. "My opinion does not matter."

"It matters to me." When he didn't answer, she said in a barely audible voice, "He's my last chance."

"What do you mean?" he asked curiously.

"Nothing."

Shavi thought about what she said for a moment. "You are a good person," he stated firmly.

"No, I'm not. I'm a bad girl. And I've got coming to me what all bad girls get."

"No-"

Her face flared with long-repressed emotion. "Don't give me all that redemption shit! Don't even begin to tell me everything will turn out bright and sunny. That's not how it works!"

"It does in my world."

That brought her up sharp. She eyed him askance, then looked away, her expression so desolate with the flood of uncontrollable feelings and ideas that Shavi wanted to pull her tightly to him to comfort her.

But before he could act he caught a movement away in the trees. It was barely anything, a shift of a shadow among shadows in the gloom, and it could easily have been some small animal investigating the fire, but his instincts told him otherwise.

Laura felt his body stiffen. "What is it?" she asked, sensing his urgency.

"I do not know." He rose and advanced to the fire.

"Didn't you ever see Halloween?" she cautioned. "Don't go any further, dickhead."

"I am simply trying to see-" The words strangled in his throat in such an awful manner Laura didn't have to see his face to know he had glimpsed something terrible.

"What is it, for God's sake?" she hissed.

The fear surged into a hard lump in her chest, but it melted into burning ice when she saw him moving quickly away from the firelight into the dark.

"Don't go!" Her yell trailed away in dismay and disbelief. How could he be so stupid?

And then she was alone in that dismal place with the dark pressing tight around her, feeling small and weak in the face of all the awful things loose in the world. She couldn't bring herself to move even a finger. Instead, she strained to hear the sound of his returning footsteps, any sound from him that proved he was still alive. But there was nothing. Just the constant rustle of the leaves, the creak of branches under the wings of the wind, the rumble of the river; the lyrical sounds oppressed her. It was too noisy, too alive with nothing.

"Shavi," she whispered, more to comfort herself with the sound of a voice than in the hope he might hear. Don't do this to me, she wanted to say. I'm not strong enough to deal with this on my own.

She sat there for an age while she grew old and wizened. Her rigid muscles ached, her stomach was clenched so tightly she thought she was going to vomit or pass out. And still there was no sign of him. He could have been swallowed up, torn apart; there could be things feeding silently on his remains right then, waiting to finish their meal before moving on to her.

And then he suddenly lurched into the circle of light and all of it erupted out of her in a piercing scream.

"Don't worry," he croaked.

"You stupid bastard!" she shouted in a mixture of embarrassment and angry relief.

But then, as he clambered down next to her, she saw his normally dark, handsome features were grey and there was a strained expression which made him look fifteen years older. "What was out there?" she said, suddenly afraid once more.

He couldn't seem to find any words. Then: "Nothing."

It was such a pathetically inadequate response she hit him hard on the arm. "Don't treat me like an idiot. Don't try to protect me like some stupid little girlie. That's the worst thing you can do to me." She swallowed, glanced fearfully beyond the firelight.

"It is nothing. Nothing for you to worry about."

"Then, what?" She searched his face and saw things in his eyes which unnerved her on some deep plane. With his philosophical outlook, Shavi had always seemed immune to the terrors that plagued the rest of them; he was an anchor for her, a sign that it was possible to cope better. And suddenly all that fell away. "What is it, Shavi?" She reached tentative fingers to his cheek. "What did you see out there?"

"What did I see?" His voice sounded hollow. "I saw Lee. My boyfriend. Two years dead now, two years dead. His head smashed out in the street. And he spoke to me. The things he said…" His voice was dragged away by the wind.

Laura recalled how Shavi had told them of the murder arranged by the Tuatha lle Danann, one of the deaths that had prepared them all for their destiny. "He was really there?" Her concern for Shavi was suddenly overtaken by the sudden fear that if Lee was there, her dead mother could be too. And that really would be more than she could bear.

Shavi seemed to sense what she was thinking, for his face softened a little. "It is my burden. The price I had to pay for getting the information from the spirits in Mary King's Close."

"But that's terrible! That's not a price, it's a sentence! It's not fair!"

"It is my burden. I will cope with it." It was obvious he couldn't bring himself to speak any more, and however much she wanted to ask him what the spectre had said, she knew it was something he would never tell. But she could see from the expression on his face that it must have been something awful indeed. How much longer would he have to put up with it, she thought? The rest of his life? The thought filled her with such pity that all she could do was hug him tightly and bury his face in her shoulder.

When she awoke in the dead of the night, she was surprised she had actually managed to fall asleep. Shavi's haunted face had hung in her mind, feeding every deep, mortal fear she had about death and what lay beyond it. She remembered stroking his head as it lay on her breast, desperately trying to comfort him, although he gave no voice to his fears; but then she looked in his eyes and she knew there was nothing she could do that would ever make him feel better.

The thoughts faded with the realisation she was awake, and the knowledge that she had woken for a reason. At first, in her sleep-befuddled state, she had no idea why. Shavi slept soundly beside her. Outside the tent the wind moaned gently among the trees and the leaves and branches sighed, but no more nor less than at any other time during the night.

As she went to lower her head back to the pile of clothes she was using as a pillow she realised… it was there on the edge of her senses, barely audible, almost a hallucination. Her fingers felt the gentle yet insistent throb of it from deep within the ground. When she lowered her ear towards the groundsheet, she could hear it. Lub-dub, lub-dub. So distant, which made her realise how powerful it must be; never ceasing. She tried to tell herself she was mis-sensing it on the edge of a dream, that it was a water pump, that it was the reverberation of the river through the soil and the rock.

Lub-dub, lub-dub.

It seemed to be calling out to her and issuing a warning at the same time. And then she knew what it really sounded like. The beating of a heart that would never know death, buried far beneath the ancient landscape. The image spawned a wave of terror. Laura screwed up her eyes and covered her ears, but it was there inside her head and there was nothing she could do to get it out, and she knew she would not sleep again that night. Lub-dub, lub-dub. The relentless rhythm of death and madness.

While Laura and Shavi were just winding their way out of the city centre, Church and Tom skirted the edge of the Old Town before cutting across its easternmost edge to break into the green expanse of Holyrood Park. The sedate mass of the Royal household loomed up silently through the haar which obscured all of Arthur's Seat apart from the lowest twenty feet. The area, normally a haven for joggers and dog-walkers, was deserted. In its desolation it seemed unbearably lonely and ancient.

No words passed between them until they were standing before the wellhead, feeling unseasonably cold.

"Here we are then," Church said banally.

Now they were there, they could see how out of place the well-head looked, surrounded by the wild grass and bare rock of the wilderness that soared up above the city: a defiant statement that man would not be bowed by nature. Iron bars ran on both sides of the forecourt before the well and up the hillside over the top of it. The well-head itself was dark stone stained with the residue of years; the water trickled out into a small pool just out of reach beyond more vandal-proof bars. It smelled of cold iron and dark tombs. Above it was a plaque which said:

St. Margaret's Well

This unique Well House dates from the late 15th century. It originally stood at Restalrig, close to the church, and its design is a miniature of St. Triduana's Aisle there. In 1860 it was removed from its first site, which was then encroached upon by a railway depot, and was reconstructed in its present position near a natural spring.

Church read it carefully then said, "When they moved it, did whoever was in charge know this was the entrance to the path beneath Arthur's Seat? Or was it coincidence?"

"There is no coincidence." Tom surveyed the well-head carefully, as if he were looking for a lock.

"So someone did know?"

"Perhaps. A great deal of secret knowledge has been maintained down the years. There are numerous societies which keep their version of the truth close to them, many secret believers passing words down from mother to daughter, father to son. Or perhaps the people who moved the well-head were simply guided by an unseen hand."

A few weeks earlier Church would have met such a comment with derision, but now he was more than aware of what lay behind the visible. "So how do we get in? Can you see the switch like you did at Tintagel?"

"I can, but I'd be remiss in my job if I didn't start teaching you."

"I can't see anything!"

"That's because you are not looking correctly," Tom replied with exasperation.

Church squinted in the feeble hope it would reveal some hitherto obscured detail, but it only brought an irritated snort from Tom. "Haven't you learned anything yet?"

"I've learned you're an annoying bastard," Church snapped.

"The mistake you people constantly make is that you see the five senses as separate, and as the only tools at your disposal. Haven't I told you to trust your intuition? Sense where the switch is. Feel the power of the earth energy in this spot, its arteries and veins, where it pulses the strongest. Then let it inform each sense in turn, until they are all working together. Smell the switch, taste it in the air. Hear it calling to you."

Church attempted to do what Tom said. After a few seconds he said, "It's not working."

Tom cuffed his shoulder so that Church spun round in irritation. "You're not trying hard enough. Concentrate. Open your mind and your heart to it. If you don't believe, you won't do it."

"Why should I be able to do it?"

"Why? Because you're special, though God knows why. You are a manifestation of the Pendragon Spirit. Its force moves through you. You're closer to the land and the energy than I am. In an ideal world, you should be teaching me!"

Church sighed and turned back to the well-head. "It's not easy to believe in something like that."

"Stop whining. Get on with it."

Church concentrated. After a while he gave up trying to look at the detail in the stone and closed his eyes; that seemed to help. In the dark behind his eyelids he imagined he could see blue tracings like the trails left by firework sparklers. But then he realised it wasn't his imagination, and if he concentrated, he could make the paths stronger, see the faint web they made. A little more concentration and he could hear them fizzing, as if he were standing near a hightension power line; they smelled and tasted like burnt iron.

And then he opened his eyes and he could still see the blue trails glowing beneath the surface of the stone and the surrounding grass. "It's there." His awed voice was hushed. He let his gaze slip slightly to the side and he could see the blue arteries continuing out and up into Arthur's Seat, across the ground behind him towards the city. "It's in everything. Everywhere."

He noticed that some of the arteries and veins glowed with a paler blue and others appeared oddly truncated, as if they had withered and died. With this realisation and the conscious stream of thoughts it generated, he began to lose control of the vision. It flickered as his senses fragmented, became individual units again. Desperately he launched himself forward and hammered the palm of his hand on to the point on the well-head where the blue fire had appeared to converge. There was a surge of needle-pain in his fingertips and blue sparks flew. With a deep rumble, the well-head split open, flooding water out, but giving access to a dark tunnel which lay beyond the spout of the spring.

Tom grabbed his elbow and propelled him in. The moment they set foot in the tunnel the well-head ground shut behind them. Church had expected stifling darkness, but there was a faint phosphorescent glow to the slick rock walls which gave the passage the gloomy appearance of the last minutes of twilight. But it was enough to see by, and Tom was already marching ahead.

Church caught up with him with a double-step, breathing in the dank air and shivering slightly. His footsteps echoed off the walls. "That was amazing." Although there was no reason for it, he spoke in a whisper. "Is that how you see things?"

"Sometimes. When I allow myself."

"It's-" He searched for the right word, but couldn't find one to match the immensity of what he felt. He settled for, "Tremendous. I can understand how people could get all religious about that. It showed the interconnectedness of everything. That blue, spiritual fire, in the land, in the rocks." He gazed at the back of his hand. "In us."

"It's the neolithic mindset. Once everybody could see things that way."

"Then what happened? Why did we lose it?"

Tom shrugged. "The more we developed the rational side of the brain, the more we lost touch with the intuitive. We simply forgot the skill to combine the senses, to be holistic in feeling. It's one of the great arrogances of man that we consider we are constantly evolving, that to dwell wholly on reason and science and logic is somehow better. But what would you think of a man who chopped off his left arm to make his right arm stronger? That ability to combine the senses, to feel, that was the most amazing skill of all. Man hasn't been whole for a long time, yet everyone in this century thinks they're some kind of superman, the pinnacle of existence. If it wasn't so bitter, the irony would make me laugh."

Church thought about this. The passage began to slope down, but just as he thought they were going to head into the bowels of the earth it rose up sharply, then descended again. Soon he'd lost all sense of direction.

"I've got a question," he said eventually.

"Go ahead."

"In all the stories there's a myth that the fairies are scared of iron. The Fomorii and Tuatha De Danann don't seem to have any problem with it."

"Correct."

"But I noticed the earth energy seems to smell and taste of iron-" Tom's sudden grin brought him up sharp.

"Very perceptive! You've found the source of the myth! It's the blue fire and everything it represents that fills them with fear. That's what can bind them. And in its most potent form, that's what can destroy them."

Church surprised himself with the awe he felt. "I didn't realise the power of it. Then if we can control it-"

"The Brothers and Sisters of Dragons truly can be the defenders of the land."

"We have to awaken it," Church said firmly, almost to himself.

"That's your destiny," Tom added.

Ahead of them the tunnel dipped down into the darkness again. Church found himself subconsciously going for the locket given him by the young Marianne; it filled him with strength in a way he still couldn't quite understand.

"What lies ahead, then?" he said uneasily.

Tom shrugged. "It won't be an easy journey. This close to such a powerful source of the earth energy, time and space will warp. It will be disorientating. We will have to keep our wits about us."

"And when we get to where we're going, how are we supposed to get the blue fire moving again?"

"Do I look like the fount of all knowledge?" Tom said irritably. "We'll find out when we get there. Hopefully."

And with that he set off into the darkness.

The hotel seemed empty without the others around. Veitch ate dinner early, steak and potatoes with a good red wine, but the high life he could never have afforded before did little to raise his spirits. With everything in such a state of flux, so many pressures and so much at risk, there was too much even to think about. And it wasn't just that the world was changing, it was the deep things shifting within him. Here, finally, was a chance to change; he could leave behind the Ryan Veitch he had despised all his life and become the person he always dreamed he would be: good, decent, unselfish, caring. Until chaos had descended on the world, he had dismissed the idea with the certain knowledge that he was who he was-he would never change. But now he had a chance, he was determined not to let it slip through his fingers.

When the sun started to go down he took his brooding with him to the bar. The room was near-deserted. It would have been wiser to stick with wine, but he couldn't resist ordering a pint of lager, which he took to a table where he could see the door; an old habit.

He'd got halfway down his drink when he noticed the elderly gentleman who'd come up to him in the lobby the previous day. He was smiling at Veitch from a nearby table, as elegant as ever with his smart suit and his swept-back white hair. He sat with his hands crossed on top of his cane.

"You know, this old place used to be thronging at this time of year," the man said. Veitch smiled politely, but he had never been one for small talk, particularly with a higher class. Toffs always made him feel insignificant, stupid and uncultured, whatever his better judgement. But this man seemed pleasant enough; his smile was warm and open, and there didn't seem any judgment in the way he looked at Veitch. "Do you mind if I join you?" He smiled at Veitch's reticence. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not some predatory shirtlifter. I merely wish to share your company and, well, and perhaps my thoughts." His smile changed key, but Veitch couldn't read what it signified.

"Okay," Veitch said, recognising his own loneliness. "I'll have a drink with you." He took his lager over to the man's table and sat opposite him. Up close, he could see the man's eyes sparkled with a youthfulness that belied his age. He smelled of expensive aftershave and pipe tobacco.

"Gordon Reynolds," the old man said holding out a well-tended hand. Veitch shook it and introduced himself.

For the next hour they exchanged small talk: about how Veitch was finding Edinburgh, about the weather, the best tourist sites, the malts that really ought to be sampled and a host of other minor issues. Reynolds broke off to sip at his whisky and when he replaced his glass there was a gleam in his eye. "You look like a bright young man," he said. "You are aware, of course, that something very strange is going on in the world."

"I've seen some funny things." Veitch sipped at his lager.

"They closed off the Old Town today."

Veitch nodded.

"You're very reticent." Reynolds smiled. "I suspect you know much more than you're saying."

"I know a bit. Don't like to talk about it."

"It's bad, then. No, don't bother telling me otherwise. I've some friends in Wick who used to keep in touch before the telephones went down. They were keen hill-walkers, used to go off into the wilderness. Well, rather them than me. Give me a warm fire and an old malt by it any day. But one day, not so long ago, they went off into the wilds and saw some… quite terrible things. Quite terrible. Now they never leave the town. No one does. The wilderness is offlimits." He scanned Veitch with a dissecting gaze, taking in every minute movement of the Londoner's face. "But you know all this, I can see. Then you know it's not just happening up in Wick. There's word coming from all over. Here in Auld Reekie, with our sophisticated ways, we could laugh at the superstitions of our country cousins. And now they've closed off the Old Town."

"It's going to get worse before it gets better."

"I'm sure it is, I'm sure it is. And there's the Government with the hints and whispers and `it's a crisis, we can't give you too much information,' trying to make us think it's the Russkies or the Iraqis or God knows who while they desperately flounder around for an answer that will constantly evade them. Never trust the Establishment, my boy. They're in-bred with arrogance. They think we're too stupid to be told anything as radical as the truth."

"I'll drink to that." Veitch drained his pint and glanced towards the bar, hoping for a lull in the conversation so he could get a refill.

"The ironic thing is that most of the people are starting to know better than they. The Establishment is too inflexible and this new age needs people who are prepared to take great leaps forward. They'll be left behind. Only the fleet of mind will survive. What do you think of that?"

"I think-" Veitch raised his glass "-I need another lager."

Reynolds looked up and motioned to the barman. A minute later another round of drinks arrived at their table.

"How did you manage that?" Veitch asked. "They don't do table service."

"Oh, I've been a resident here for many years, my boy. They grant me my little indulgences out of respect for my great age and my deep wallet."

Veitch laughed. "You're all right, Gordon."

"That's very decent of you to say, my boy. But tell me, you're troubled, aren't you? I could see it written all over your face whenever I saw you around the hotel. Share your burden. I may, may, I stress, be able to help."

Veitch sighed, looked away. "No, best not." But when he caught Reynolds' eye, the elderly man seemed so supportive he said, "Oh, bollocks, what's the harm."

He wasn't sure it was completely wise of him, but over the next hour he proceeded to tell Reynolds everything that had happened since he had encountered Church in the old mine beneath Dartmoor. He was sure some of it made no sense-he could barely grasp the intricacies himself-but Reynolds kept smiling and nodding.

"So that's the way it is, Gordon," he said after he had related the latest impending crisis. "Sometimes I wonder, what's the fucking point." He caught himself and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. Bad habit."

Reynolds dismissed his apology with a flourish of his hand. "So, you feel it's hopeless. Hopeless in that you feel there's only five, or six, or whatever, ineffectual people facing down the hordes of hell. And hopeless because the girl you love is locked away in some dismal place with no chance of a rescue."

"I never said I loved her!" Veitch said indignantly.

Reynolds waved him away again. "Of course you do! It's obvious!"

Veitch coloured and shook his head. "And I'm not saying it's hopeless. I mean, I'm going in there to get her, you know. I'm giving it my best bleedin' shot."

"But you don't hold out much hope of getting out again."

"Ah, who knows?"

Reynolds sat back in his chair and thought for a moment, sipped at his whisky, then thought again. Veitch watched him with growing impatience. Eventually, tweaking his moustache, Reynolds said, "Are you in the mood for a story, my boy?"

"A story?"

"Yes. A true-life story. Like they have in the women's magazines. It's about a young man of style and elegance, dashing and debonair, not really one for books, but a whizz with the girls-" He laughed richly. "Now I can't fool you, can I? Yes, it's my story. Still interested?"

Veitch nodded. He had warmed to Reynolds; his old prejudices had been forgotten for the moment.

"Let me tell you then. I was twenty-four, from a very good family with a little money in my pocket and a lot of confidence. A dangerous combination. My mother and father had always considered me for a career in the law. Edinburgh is the lawyers' city, after all. But, you know, that thing with the books…" He shook his head. "No, not for me. I wanted something a little more colourful. Why should I consign myself to a prison of dusty old books when I could run off to sea or enlist in some war in an exotic clime? And that's just what I did. I set off on foot for Leith with a head full of Robert Louis Stevenson and dreams of hiring aboard some tramp steamer to the Orient."

"Nothing wrong with that," Veitch mused. "Better than getting stuck in a rut at home."

"Exactly! But then the strangest thing happened to me. As I walked towards Leith with the sun climbing in the sky, I came across a vision of such beauty it made me stop in my tracks. Now this wasn't film star beauty, do you understand? But she was beautiful to me." Veitch nodded. "Even to this day I don't know why I did it. Perhaps it was because I was filled with the kind of joy you can only experience when you embark on something new, or perhaps it was the quality of light, or the fresh tang on the wind, or all those things aligned in an unrepeatable harmonious conjunction. But that moment was so special it felt like my skin was singing."

He caressed the ornately styled head of his cane for a long moment, so deep in thought he appeared oblivious to the people around him. But when he spoke again, his voice was so infused with happiness Veitch felt warmed simply to hear it. "Her name was Maureen. She had red hair that fell in gorgeous ringlets and skin so pale it made her eyes seem uncommonly dark. She was walking into town on the other side of the street. What did I do? Why, I threw all my plans in the air and ran across the road to talk to her."

"You're an old romantic, Gordon."

"Oh, indeed," he chuckled. "I thought perhaps I'd pick up my plans later in the day, or the next day, or the next week. But as we walked and talked, and as she laughed, and as we recognised, in our looks and our gentle touches, that we were carved from the same clay, I realised I would never set sail from Leith. It takes someone very, very special for you to give up all your dreams in a single moment. But it was there, love at first sight, like all the poets say. Do you believe in that?"

Witch sat back in his chair and looked up into the dark sky through the window. "I'm not sure, Gordon. I think I'd like to, but it's not the kind of thing you get to think about too much in Greenwich, know what I mean?"

"I think you're not being very honest with yourself," Reynolds said with a knowing smile. "Maureen and I quickly became inseparable. On the surface we had very little in common. She came from a good, upstanding family, but they had little money, little of any material possessions. She had been forced to leave school at thirteen to help earn the family's keep. But those things don't matter, do they?"

"S'pose not."

He pressed his fist against his heart. "These are where the real bonds are made." Then he touched his temple. "Not here. But there was one difference even we could not overcome." He paused; the muscles around his mouth grew taut with an old anger. "I was a Protestant and Maureen was a Catholic, you see. That means nothing to you, I can see, and that's good. You're a modern manyou're not burdened with centuries of stupidity. Everybody thinks of that kind of prejudice as the Irish problem, but it's always been here in Scotland, even to this day. You told me you'd heard the stories in the city about Mary King's Close, the street boarded up to let the Black Death sufferers die."

Veitch flinched at the coincidence. He nodded.

"The people of Mary King's Close were Catholics. Demonised, made less than human. Mothers of the time would frighten their children by saying the terrible people of Mary King's Close would get them if they weren't good. Would the horrors inflicted on them have happened if they were Protestants in this most Protestant of cities? I think not."

"But Protestants might have got it in a Catholic city."

"Of course, and I've damned them both to hell many times."

Veitch tried to read his face. There was a seam of ancient emotion fossilised just beneath the surface. But he kept smiling, his eyes kept sparkling. "What happened to her?" Veitch asked.

"Ah, you see which way the story is going. We kept our romance a secret from my family and friends for as long as we could, but in a city as watchful and atrociously gossipy as Edinburgh it was bound to come out sooner or later. To say it was a scandal would be to overstate the case. In the wider sense, no one cared about a thing like that, and that is to the general population's merit. The people of Edinburgh are good people. But in my own particular circle…" He sighed.

"You got a hard time from the folks," Veitch said with understanding.

"My father was apoplectic. My mother took to her bed for days. The rest of my family treated me as if I'd developed some severe, debilitating mental illness. My close friends, who came from the same social circle, were acidic in their comments, but they directed most of their vitriol towards Maureen, who must, quite obviously, have led me astray."

"And there was trouble." Veitch took a long swig of his lager, trying to delay what he knew was coming.

Reynolds's face crumpled, but only for an instant before he brought the smile back; in that tiny window Veitch saw something that made him flinch. "There was blood. They found her with her head stoved in on the edge of Holyrood Park. She'd been raped, several times, they said, not just murdered, but humiliated. Taught a lesson, in the good old-fashioned way." His words were bitter, but his tone was as gentle and measured as ever.

"God Almighty!" Veitch went to take another drink, then had to put his glass down. He was overwhelmed by a terrible sense of injustice against a man he was sure, in the short time he had known him, was better than most. He felt a surge of anger, a desire to rush out and gain retribution in the most violent way possible, forgetting the crime had happened decades earlier. "Who did it? Who fucking did it?"

"Oh, no one was caught. Understandably. The rich and well-to-do are always protected by the law. There was an outcry in the city, but it blew over when the next scandal came along, as these things do. Who did it?" He raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. "One of my friends, several of my friends, all of them, my family. I would suppose they are the prime suspects. They were all guilty, whatever the detail."

"Didn't you try to find out who it was? Didn't you try to get them?" Veitch felt the heat rising up his neck to his face.

Reynolds shook his head dismissively. "No, of course not. It didn't matter, you see. Nothing mattered. Maureen was gone. My life was over."

The baldness of the statement made Veitch bring himself up sharp.

"I loved her, you see. I loved her in all the cliched ways-more than life itself, more than myself. We'd devoted ourselves to each other in a way that, I think, people find hard to understand these days. The night before her death we'd spent six hours talking about our life, about what we meant to each other, about the here and now and the sweet hereafter. In all the world she was the only person that mattered. And a few hours later I was more alone than anyone could be."

There was a long silence which Veitch couldn't bear to fill. After a while the emotions between them became unbearable too, so he said in a quiet voice, "How did you carry on, mate? I don't know what I'd have done… Blimey… His words failed him.

"Why, I carried on. As Maureen would have wanted me to do. But I carried on a different person, as you would have expected. I went into the law, which made my family very happy. And I never married, which was better than they feared, but not what they hoped. I never kissed another woman. I never smelled another woman's perfumed hair. I never touched a woman's skin."

Veitch felt a lump rise in his throat. He thought he might have to go to the toilet before he made a fool of himself.

But then Reynolds said, "Come up to my room for one last drink. I have a bottle of malt that is quite heavenly. I retire early these days. It gets lonely when the night falls."

They moved slowly through the quiet, deserted hotel, their thoughts heavy around them. "You're a better man than me," Veitch said as they reached the lifts.

"No," Reynolds said assuredly. "I lived a life without hope and thus wasted it. In what you told me I can tell you have hope, or at least the potential for hope. And perhaps I can help you." They entered the lift and he punched the floor number. "I lived a life with nothing to believe in," he continued. "How could I believe in anything? Family? Friends? Religion? What kind of God would let a thing like that happen? What kind of God was worshipped by the people closest to me?"

The thick carpet muffled their footsteps. It was comfortingly bright in the corridor.

"There is a gun in the drawer of my bedside table." It seemed like a non sequitur, but Witch was suddenly alert, Reynolds was going somewhere. "An old service revolver. A family heirloom." He laughed. "Fitting, really."

Veitch looked at him, but he kept his pleasant gaze fixed firmly ahead. "I'd made my plans, composed my mind and a few nights ago I was ready to kill myself." His smile made it sound as if he was discussing attending a picnic. "I'd had enough of the drudgery of days. The emptiness of thoughts. The coldness of life. It seemed time for a Full Stop. Wrap things up neatly. The end of my story."

"So why didn't you do it?"

Reynolds looked at him in surprise. "My, you are a blunt man. I like that. You wouldn't get that in my family. They'd just pass the brandy and someone would see fit to mention it a few days down the line. Why didn't I kill myself? Why didn't I?" he mused, as if he had no idea himself. "Because of my very last conversation with Maureen, that's why."

Reynolds unlocked the door and they stepped into his suite. It was spacious and well turned-out, but still a hotel room; there were no personal touches to show it had been his home for so long. It spoke of an empty life lived for the sake of it.

"Nice place," Veitch said uncomfortably.

Reynolds poured two large glasses of twenty-year-old malt and handed one to Veitch. "It's a place to rest my head."

Veitch perched on the edge of a desk. "So, are you going to tell me, or punish me for a bit longer?"

Reynolds laughed heartily. "I wanted you to hear my story before I got to the crux of the matter. Stories are important. They provide a framework so we can't easily dismiss the vital messages buried at the heart of them." He pulled open a bedside drawer and took out the service revolver, which he tossed to Veitch so he could examine the archaic weapon.

"Blimey, that's a museum piece. You're just as likely to have blown your bleedin' hand off as your head."

Reynolds gave a gentle laugh. "The last conversation with Maureen has never left me." He lowered himself into a chair on the other side of the desk, put his head back and closed his eyes. "All those years and I can still smell her hair, feel exactly how her hand used to lie in mine. And I can remember every word we said. Most of it, I'm sure, would seem nauseatingly cloying out of the context of our lives, but it held meaning for us. But there was one point…" He drifted for a moment, so that Veitch thought he had fallen asleep, but then his voice came back with renewed force. "The only thing left to discuss was what would happen should one of us die. We knew our situation, that anything could happen. And we made a pact that whoever went first would send a sign back to the other that love survived, that there was hope beyond hope, a chance, at the end of the long haul, of being reunited. Love crosses boundaries, that's what we felt. Our feelings were so strong, you see. So strong. How stupid you must think we were."

"No-" Witch began to protest, but Reynolds held up a silencing hand.

"After her death I waited every day for that sign. Weeks passed, months. Of course, there was no sign. Two people in love create a fantasy world where anything can happen, one that has no connection with reality. In reality there is no hope. Love does not cross boundaries."

Veitch stared into the golden depths of his drink, his mood dipping rapidly. Gradually he became aware that Reynolds was staring at him and when he looked up he saw the elderly man was beaming.

"And then the other afternoon, when I woke from my nap, I found this on my pillow in a slight indentation." He dipped in his pocket and held up something almost invisible in the light.

"What is it?" Veitch said squinting.

Reynolds summoned him closer. Between the elderly man's fingers was a long, curly red hair. Reynolds brought it gently to his nose, closed his eyes, inhaled. "And here I am, all those years ago." When he opened his eyes they were rimmed with tears. "Her scent was on the pillow, and again this morning."

"You're sure-?" Veitch began, but he saw the answer in Reynolds's face.

Reynolds traced away one of the tears with a fingertip. "I wasted my life believing in nothing when there was everything to believe in. I wasted my life by not holding hope close to my heart. Don't make the same mistake, my boy. Don't wait until you're too old and wrinkled to appreciate what life has to offer, and don't wait until you're nearly on your deathbed before you gain some kind of salvation. There really is a bigger picture. We might have no idea what it is. It might not fit any of our past preconceptions. But knowing it's there changes the way we look at the world, the way we deal with each other, the way we face up to hardship. It changes everything." He smiled as another tear trickled gently down his cheek.

Veitch took a hasty swig of his whisky as another lump rose in his throat.

"In the last few weeks nothing has changed, really, truly, apart from a way of seeing the world. An old way, made new again. We forgot it for so long, settled for a new reality that seemed better, but was much, much worse," Reynolds said quietly. "There may be a lot of trouble that has been introduced into the world in recent times. But everything is defined by its opposite, and with the fear and terror have come hope and wonder. These times are not all bad, my boy. There are a lot of wonderful things out there. And perhaps, for all the suffering, this new world is better than what existed before: all its machines that made our lives so easy, yet no wonder, no magic. This is what we need as humans, my boy. Hope, faith, mystery, a sense of something greater. This is what we need. Not DNA analysis, faster cars, quicker computers, more consumer disposables, more scientific reductionism. This is what we need."

"I've been thinking," Witch began; he struggled to find the right words. "Maybe it's not all as bad as people have been making out. You know, for me, personally, I think it might be better."

"Then go into your big quest with a strong heart," Reynolds said, "but don't try to make things back the way they were, for all our sakes."

Veitch drained his malt slowly, thinking about Ruth, about the terrors they were facing. "Something to believe in," he said quietly, almost to himself. "That's all we need."