disturbingly elusive.
To his infinite relief, there was no pursuit; nor were there any Fomorii in the immediate vicinity. But what he had half seen continued to haunt him long after the sun had driven the greyness out of the landscape.
Chapter Eighteen
Inverness appeared out of the dark Highlands landscape like a small island of light in a vast sea of shadows. Witch and Tom walked down from the hills with leaden legs, burdened with the crushing weight of exhaustion. They had spent the last few days endlessly dodging the Fomorii, who were swarming across the purple moorland in increasing numbers. Tom had utilised some of his tricksa ritual, some foul-tasting brew made from herbs and roots-which made the two of them oblivious to the Night Walkers unless they were in direct line of sight. But that still entailed endless hours of creeping along rocky gullies, taking the hard route over peaks or skulking in woods until the danger had passed.
It was a far cry from the first leg of their Scottish journey, when they had dined out on wholesome provisions from the villages they dropped in on. Now Veitch was heartily sick of wild game, roots and herbs, however well Tom cooked it. He had an almost unbearable craving for pizza or a curry, washed down with a beer.
'You reckon we'll get time to stop off for a ruby?' he said wearily as they trudged into the outskirts of town.
Tom looked at him blankly.
'Ruby Murray. Curry. It rhymes.'
Tom shook his head contemptuously. 'Eight days left. Why don't we go on a pub crawl while we're at it? We could have a few drinks for Ruth. That should make her well.'
'All right. No need to act so bleedin' crabby.' He took a few steps, then muttered, 'Twat,' under his breath. That made him feel better.
The truth was, their nerves were growing frayed. Time was running away from them. Lughnasadh was close, and the presence of Balor was almost tangible. They had both dreamed of a single eye watching them malignantly from the dark, and had woken sweaty and sick, with the feeling that the monstrous god of the Fomorii was aware of them. Even when they walked, they could feel his attention sweeping over them, the air thick with dread; with it came an overpowering sense of black despair that conjured thoughts of suicide, which they had to fight constantly to repel.
The weariness shucked off their shoulders the more they progressed into town. It felt good to see sodium lights after the oppression of a country night, to smell motor oil and the aroma of home cooking. But the closer they got into the centre, the more they began to realise something was wrong. No cars had passed them at all. Nobody walked the streets, even though it was only just past ten. The pubs were all locked, the curtains drawn, although Veitch could hear people drinking within; when he hammered on the doors a deep silence fell, but no one ever came to answer.
Eventually an old man swung open an upstairs window and hung out, his face filled with such fear Veitch gaped for a second.
'For God's sake, man, get yourself to your hearth!' The old man glanced up and down the street; he hadn't noticed Veitch wasn't alone. 'Can you not see it's after dark!' He slammed the window shut and drew the curtains before Veitch could question him; Veitch shouted to him several times, but there was no further response.
'What's up?' Veitch asked Tom with disquiet.
Tom continued to walk briskly, seemingly oblivious to the sense of threat. 'What' up? Old friends have come to visit Inverness and they won't leave until they've expressed their infinite kindness.' Sarcasm dripped from his words.
'You're talking about the ones we're going to see?'
'The Queen of Elfland-'
A curiously amused expression jumped on Veitch's face. 'You're kidding me.'
'The Queen of Elfland. That's what they used to call her in the old stories. As if to pretend she was some kind of nice, acceptable fairy-' the word was filled with bitterness '-would somehow deflect her attentions.'
'So what would you call her?'
'Nothing she could hear.' He looked away so Veitch could not see his face. 'The moment we cross over, we must be on our guard.'
'You make her sound like some witch ready to tear our bleedin' heads off.'
'She will be filled with charisma, magnetic and alluring. That is her danger.'
'Okay. No problem.'
'No, you do not understand. The slightest wrong move could be the end of you. Every court of the Tuatha De Danann is different. The Court of the Yearning Heart embraces chaos and madness, which is why it is given over to pleasure. It is very easy to be seduced by it.' The deep tone of personal experience was unmiss able. 'Listen carefully. You know the rules of Otherworld, and they go doubly here. You must accept no food nor drink from anyone or you will instantly fall under the power of the Queen. And she will find it greatly entertaining to trick you into doing so. You have to be sharp, Ryan. You have to be sharp.'
Veitch was shocked by the familiarity of Tom's use of his Christian name. For the first time, he felt the Rhymer was truly concerned about his safety. 'What'll happen, you know, if I do-?'
'Don't.'
'But if I do?'
Tom sighed. 'You will not be allowed to leave the Court of the Yearning Heart, at least not until the Queen has taken you apart down to your very molecules and has rebuilt you in whatever way her whims take her at the time. Until you have suffered every pain and pleasure imaginable, until it has become such a way of life that you want such suffering. And when she has finished, you will no longer be the man you are. You will no longer be a man.'
If Tom had tried to scare him, he'd succeeded.
'There isn't a man alive who couldn't love her,' Tom continued. 'But she dishes out joy and cruelty in equal measure; sometimes she isn't even aware that's what she's doing. The gates at Tom-na-hurich remained intermittently open long after the Sundering. There is a story of two itinerant fiddlers who crossed over. The Queen paid them to entertain the Court and allowed them to eat one of the sumptuous meals that are always laid out there. The fiddlers played their hearts out for the rest of the night. But when they were taken back to the Hill of Yews come the morning, they crumbled into dust. Two hundred years had passed without them knowing, and the Queen had taken great pleasure in hiding this from them.'
Veitch was silent for a moment. 'So how come you didn't turn to dust?'
Tom laughed hollowly. 'Why, only humans suffer such fates! The Queen has seen that I can never fit that bill.' He stopped in the middle of the road and looked out across the city to beyond the River Ness; Veitch guessed their destination lay in that direction. 'The legends say I lie under Tom-na-hurich with my men and white horse, ready to save Scotland in her hour of need.'
'Well, that's what you're doing, ain't it?'
Tom snorted. 'Heroes only exist in stories. There's no nobility in what people do. We're all driven by a complex stew of emotions and it's down to fate whether people see us as good or bad.'
'You're a cynical git,' Veitch said dismissively. 'And you're wrong.'
They continued in silence for the next fifteen minutes until Veitch noticed a golden glow washing over the shops of the High Street. It was moving gradually towards them, casting strange shadows up the grim brick walls of Eastgate Centre. 'What's that?' His hand went to his sword under his coat.
'The welcoming committee.'
As the glow drew nearer, Veitch saw it was coming off a small group of people wandering along the road, although there was no sign of any light source. The moment he looked at the figures he experienced the now- familiar disorientating effect.
