"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."
"If he disappeared, how the hell are we supposed to find him?" Veitch asked.
"When I returned to this world and was inducted into the secret knowledge of the land by the Culture…" He looked at them sharply as if he had given something away. "… the people of the Bone Inspector, I learned another strange story which perhaps shed a little light on it. One of the great old gods had been bound by the Culture in a place just south of Edinburgh, sealed in the earth for all time."
"I don't fucking understand." Witch's irritation was growing. "If this geezer was so loved, why was he banged up?" He glared at Tom as if the hippie was personally setting out to confuse him.
"I never learned why. That information was kept by the highest adepts within the Culture. I never stayed with them long enough to rise that high."
"The Culture… the people of the Bone Inspector… they seemed to have a lot of influence. Power," Church noted.
Tom nodded. "Supposedly eradicated by the Roman forces, they simply went underground, for centuries. But in the time when they bound the old god, they were at their strongest, worshipping in their groves, tending to the people, turning to face the sun at the solstice, standing proud, no longer stooped in hiding."
Veitch drained his lager and tossed the bottle into the waste bin with a crash. "I don't get it. I've seen these things in action. You can't just stand up and wave a sword at them."
"At that time, the keepers of the knowledge had unprecedented control of the lifeblood of the Earth. They used the blue fire to shackle a god."
"Then he is imprisoned still," Shavi noted, "waiting to be released?"
Tom merely looked out of the window towards the sun, closing his eyes when the light caught his face.
"Sounds a bit dodgy to me," Veitch said suspiciously. "He's not exactly going to be of a mind to help us after being underground all that time."
"I thought you were the one prepared to risk anything for your lady-love?" Tom said curtly.
"Can we control him?" Church asked. "How do we know the dead weren't lying to us, playing another of their games so we'd actually get into an even bigger mess? Like having an angry god giving us a good kicking for his unjust treatment."
"We don't know." Tom sighed. "But it makes a queer kind of sense. If the Fomorii are preparing for the rebirth of Balor in their fortress beneath the castle, it will have been deemed impregnable. They will not risk losing their sole reason for existing. The Cailleach Bheur…" He swallowed hard; his mouth had grown unfeasibly dry. "She is a power of nature, greater even than many of the powers you have already witnessed. Of all the gods, Maponus is possibly the only one who could hold her at bay, contain her so she didn't unleash the fimbul- winter. And if, at the same time, we could awaken the Well of Fire then the shadows might finally be turned back."
"Alternatively, everything could go to hell in a handcart," Church said acidly.
Tom shrugged. "Did you expect easy choices?"
"No, but I don't expect you to be glib, either," Church replied. He knew the decision would ultimately rest with him and he didn't feel up to making it. So much seemed to lie on every choice. He wished he could just return to the pathetic little life he had before.
"Do you know where Maponus is imprisoned?" Shavi asked.
"Not exactly. Not to the foot. But I know the place." He took off his glasses and rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. "A place called Rosslyn Chapel."
"I have heard of it," Shavi mused. "A place of many mysteries. But it was founded many years after the time of which you speak."
"And the Good Son was there long before the first stone of Rosslyn Chapel was laid. The building was devised as a resting place."
"I remember now." Shavi took the bottled water Veitch handed him from the mini-bar. "The chapel is famous for its blend of Celtic, Christian and Masonic iconography in its structure. For a supposedly Christian place of worship there are pagan symbols everywhere, more representations of the Green Man than anywhere else in the land."
"And The Green Man," Church said, "is another way of saying Cernunnos-"
"Cernunnos was an important element in the ritual of binding. He is, to be glib-" he glanced at Church "-the flip side of Maponus. The thick, dark forests to the sunlit plains. Winter to summer. Night to day."
"His brother," Church ventured.
"As if that term means anything to them."
"I am impressed that the memory of Maponus survived the centuries strong enough to prompt the erection of such a magnificent, codified building," Shavi said.
Tom nodded thoughfully. "A good point. Of those few who held the knowledge, a separate group was established in perpetuity. The members were called, in our parlance, Watchmen. Their aim was not only to keep the knowledge of the old god's imprisonment, but that a line of civil defence would be established to prepare for any further incursions from Otherworld. They were of their own creed to begin with, but as the role was essentially spiritual, when Christianity began to become established, representatives were chosen from the new Church. And from all the other faiths that eventually set up roots in this land. Over time, each faith's Watchmen became almost separate entities, unaware of those groups formed by their rivals. But they all kept the same knowledge and the same mission."
"It was one of the Watchmen who pointed us in the right direction at Glastonbury." Shavi moistened his throat with the water. Some of the blood seemed to have returned to his features, much to
Church's relief. "And it was another group which built Rosslyn Chapel?"
Tom nodded. "Under the direction of Sir William St. Clair, a prince of Orkney. In the increasingly Godless twentieth century most of the groups have withered. I have no idea if one still exists at Rosslyn-"
The faint knock at the door made him tense, as if he had heard a gun being cocked. Before anyone could speak, Veitch was already moving on perfectly balanced limbs until he was poised at the door jamb, ready to act. He looked to Church for guidance.
Church waited a moment then called out, "Who's there?"
"Laura." Her voice sounded like paper in the wind.
Veitch wrenched open the door and she almost collapsed in. Church moved forward quickly to catch her.
She looked into his face before her eyelids flickered and a faint smile spread across her lips. "You know, I always saw it like this."
It was midmorning before she had recovered. Faintly contrite but determined not to show it, Laura sat in a sunbeam on the bed, wrapped in a blanket, her skin like snow, her pupils still dilated so much her eyes seemed black. She had attempted to tell them the full horror of what had happened at the club, but so much had been tied into her trip she couldn't separate reality from hallucination herself. "Maybe that spy was right," she said. "Maybe it is all how we see it in our heads. Who knows what's really happening?"
"Exactly!" Shavi began excitedly. "Liquid nitrogen would cause-"
Veitch pushed forward, barely able to contain his irritation. "What's wrong with you? Look at the state of you-off your face, talking bollocks. This isn't a holiday. You can't just carry on having a good time-"
Church clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Not now, Ryan."
Veitch glared. "Jumping to her protection just because you're shagging her, even though you know I'm right?"
"It's not like that. We all know she could have made some better choices, but this isn't the time."
Veitch shook his head angrily. "This is war. We've got to have some strict rules. Because if one person fucks up, it could drag the rest of us down."
"He's right," Tom said. "We have to have discipline-"
"And that's one thing I haven't got, right?" Laura said sharply. "You lot are such blokes."
She desperately wanted to talk about her fears, about what was happening to her body, but everyone seemed more ready to criticise than to listen. She didn't feel any different, but the shock of seeing what happened to her blood lay heavy on her. Part of her wondered if she had contracted some hideous new virus which had crossed over from Otherworld; there were so many new rules, so many things still hidden, it was impossible to put any event into any kind of context. Perhaps it had lain in her, dormant, but was now beginning to ravage her body. But with all their talk of discipline and missions and responsibility to the cause, how could she even bring it up? It was something she had to deal with herself.
Veitch leaned against one of the lobby's marble columns, adopting a look of cool detachment while secretly believing the attendants were all sneering at him, whispering behind their hands that he shouldn't be there, that someone ought to throw him out. It made him feel angry and hunted and at any other time he wouldn't have subjected himself to it, but those feelings paled in comparison to the betrayal he felt at Church's dismissal of Ruth's plight. He understood in an oblique way what Church said about obligation and responsibility, but loyalty to friends overrode it all; and love was even more important than that.
He was suddenly aware of an old man moving across the lobby towards him. His gait was lazily elegant, although he looked in his seventies. The sharp cut of his expensive suit, the delicate way he held his silver-topped cane, the perfect grooming of his swept-back white hair and old-style handlebar moustache, all suggested a man of breeding.
Here we go, Veitch thought. Somebody who wants the riff-raff thrown out.
But as the elderly gentleman neared, Veitch saw he was smiling warmly. "I am an excellent judge of a man's face," he said in the well-formed vowels of a privileged Edinburgh brogue, "and I can see we've both been touched by magic." His eyes twinkled as he took Witch's left hand in both of his; Veitch was so shocked he didn't snatch it back as he normally would have. "I can see troubles too," the gentleman continued. "And if it is any comfort, hear the words of someone who has grown wise in his long life: never give up believing." He tapped Veitch once on his forearm and then, with a polite nod, turned and moved gracefully back across the lobby.
"What was that all about?" Church had come up on Veitch while he curiously surveyed the gentleman's retreat.
"Dunno. Some old duffer who's had too much sun."
As they wandered in the morning sunlight towards the sandwich shop to pick up lunch, Veitch put on the cheap sunglasses he had picked up at one of the department stores on Princes Street. He couldn't contain himself any longer. "I don't know how you can dump her, mate."
Church nodded, relieved it was finally out. "I know how you feel, Ryan. More than you might think. But after how I almost screwed things up before Beltane because I was so wrapped up in my own problems, I've got to keep my eye on the big picture. I learned the hard way that we all come second."
Veitch shook his head; the sunglasses masked his emotions from Church. "I hear what you're saying, but it's not right." His feelings were heavy in his voice, but he was managing to control himself. "She's one of us. We should look after our own."
"And maybe we can. There might be a way we can do what we have to do and save Ruth at the same time. I just haven't thought of it."
"Well, you better get thinking. It's your job."
"Why is it my job?" Church bristled. "Did I miss the election? How come I ended up leading this pathetic bunch?"
Veitch looked surprised, as if Church had asked the most stupid question in the world. "Course it had to be you. Who else could do it?"
"Shavi."
"He's got his own responsibilites. Listen, you know your strengths. Thinking, planning. Seeing the big picture."
Church grunted, looked away. "Well, I don't like it."
"You're good at it. Accept it."
"Okay," Church said. "Well, you accept this. The Pendragon Spirit, or whatever it is, is pushing all our strengths out into the open and yours are obvious too. You're not just the fighter, the warrior, you're the strategist. I've seen it in you-you're a natural at choosing the right path whenever we're in a tight spot. So here's your job: sort out how we can save Ruth and do everything else we need to do."
Veitch looked even more surprised at this, but after a moment's thought he said seriously, "All right, I'll take you up on that. But if I do it, you've got to give me a good hearing."
"Deal."
The relief on Veitch's face was palpable. As they crossed Princes Street, he said, out of the blue, "So what's happening with you and the big-mouthed blonde?"
Church shrugged. "We get on well. We've got a lot in common."
"I don't trust her."
"I know you don't. But I do. Is that what you want to hear?"
"Yes." He paused outside the sandwich shop and turned to Church. "She's got it bad for you, you know."
"So you're an expert on affairs of the heart now, are you?"
"I know what I see. Do you feel the same about her?"
Church shifted uncomfortably, then made to go into the shop, but Veitch stood his ground. "Everything is a mess these days," Church said irritably. "All I can do is get through each day acting and reacting, not thinking at all." He missed Ruth much more than he might have shown, but he kept quiet because he didn't want to give Witch any more fuel for his argument; but Ruth was the only one to whom he could truly talk. Her listening and gentle guidance had helped him unburden numerous problems. "Is that the end of the inquisition?" he asked sharply.
"One more thing. Something that's been on my mind. That dead girlfriend of yours. How you coping with that?"
Church winced at Veitch's bluntness. "You have got this strategy thing, haven't you? Checkin
g up I'm not a liability?"
"No-"
"Yes, you are. You just don't realise it. Marianne's death doesn't haunt me any more. Neither does she, if that's what you mean. Since the Fomorii stopped bothering with us they've not sent her spirit out to make me suffer. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten they've still got her." He tapped his chest and then his head. "It's in here and it's in here. And one day soon I'm going to set her free and get my own back."
This seemed to satisfy him. "I just wanted to be sure."
Church watched him disappear into the shop with an increasing sense of regard. His skills as a warrior were growing stronger with each passing day, as if ancient history were shouting through his genes. The Pendragon Spirit had chosen well, each of them maturing into a different role, the resources most needed for the task at hand. Perhaps there was a chance after all.
As they made their way back to the hotel they noticed signs of activity on The Mound just beyond the National Gallery. Two police cars were parked across the road, lights flashing, and armed soldiers had been discreetly positioned near walls and in shadows in the vicinity. A crowd had gathered near the cars with a mood that seemed at once irritated and dumbfounded.
"Looks like trouble," Veitch said. "We should stay away."
"I want to find out what's happening."
He grabbed the arm of a man at the back of the crowd to ask for informa tion. "They're closing off the Old Town," he replied, obviously troubled by an event which seemed to shake the natural order. "Public safety, they say. If the Old Town isn't safe, what about the rest of us?"
"I hear there was some kind of Government laboratory up there doing top secret experiments and they had an accident," a middle-aged woman whispered conspiratorially.
"Now why would they do experiments where people live and all the tourists go?" another woman said with a dismissive snort.
A young man with a shaved head and a pierced nose butted in. "No, it's a serial killer. A pal o' mine went to a club up there last night and he dinnae return home. The word is a whole load of people were murdered."
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