'Sure. What's wrong with that?'
She hugged him tighter, her fingernails biting through his clothes.
'I'll do whatever it takes to make sure I'm with you when all this blows over.'
'Cross mighty oceans?'
'Yes.'
'Climb the highest mountain?'
'Yes.'
'Travel the length of time and scour the universe?'
'Yes and yes.'
'You're a lying git, but I love you too.' He could feel her tears soaking through his T-shirt. She gave him another playful hit on the arm and then stepped back. 'Go on with you, then. Just make sure you're back for lunch.'
Tom was sighing loudly and shifting from foot to foot when Church returned to him. He made to speak, but Church silenced him with a jabbed finger. 'Don't say a word.'
Michael stepped in and motioned towards the chapel. 'It's this way.'
Church could feel the lines of force buzzing through the soles of his boots; he could have found his way to the destination blindfold.
Outside the chapel door, Michael paused. He looked both unsure and ecstatic. 'This is it, then?'
Tom took Michael's hand and shook it firmly. 'Well done. You've discharged your duty well. The long watch is over.'
'Well, I don't quite know what I'll do with my time.'
'Be patient. And pray to your God for success.'
Tom slapped him on the shoulder to send him on his way back to Ruth before stepping into the chapel with Church at his heel. Inside it was cool and dark, filled with the ages-old smell of damp stone.
'What am I going to find?' Church asked.
'You'll know when you get there.'
'You're a great bloody help, aren't you?'
The very air was charged with the earth energy; from the corner of his eye, Church could see blue sparks, like stardust.
'There are realities upon realities,' Tom said. 'You can't rely on anything you see, hear, smell, touch, taste. But that's always been the way. The only thing that matters is what's in here.' He levelled his fist at Church's heart.
'Nothing is fixed in the Fixed Lands,' Church said, repeating the words that had haunted his thoughts.
'Exactly. There are realities that may not be to your taste.' He was looking at Church in such a strange way it was troubling; Church tried to make sense of the unease he saw behind Tom's eyes, but it wouldn't come; something else the Rhymer wasn't telling him. 'Sour realities. Pinched and mean. Places where there are none of the values that make life worth living-friendship, love, honour and dignity. Where there is only power and greed and money. You don't have to accept them, Jack. Wish the world better. Everything is illusion. You just have to wish hard enough to shape it.'
He looked as if he was about to hug Church, but he caught himself at the last. In the end he stepped aside and pointed to a small stone stairway not far from the altar.
'What's down there?'
'A tomb about nine foot square cut out of the rock. In 1275 the monks here came across the bones of a man eight feet tall. A giant.'
'Who was he?'
'Not important.'
'The place is important?'
He nodded.
'Are you coming with me?'
'No. This is something you have to do alone.'
Church sighed, tried to force a smile but it wouldn't come. Without another word, he put his foot on the first step.
Chapter Fifteen
Blood thundered in Church's head as he made his way down the steps to the chill interior of the tomb. Trepidation filled every part of him, but it was tinged with relief that finally there would be some kind of revelation after so many mysteries.
Inside the bare tomb was a powerful sense of presence. Narrowing his eyes, Church allowed his deep perception to take over until the walls, floor and ceiling came alive with a vascular system of Blue Fire, interlocking at pulse points, drawing together at one section where the depth of blue glowed in the shape of a hand. He steeled himself, then placed his own palm down hard on the spot. There was an instant of hanging before the wall juddered apart to reveal a dark tunnel beyond. Church slipped through quickly and the rock closed behind him with a resounding clash.
The tunnel reminded him of so many others he had experienced in the dark, secret places beneath the earth, although he knew that description was not wholly correct. The Celts and the people who came before them understood perfectly the symbolism of the routes they had established; indeed, it was probably the main reason for their location. He was entering the womb, going back to the primal state.
After a few minutes, the tunnel opened on to a wide corridor filled with different coloured light filtering through a gently drifting mist; near the roof it was golden, near the ground the rich, sapphire tones of the Blue Fire, and in between were flickers of red and green and purple. The mist gave the place an ethereal quality that was deeply soothing. The air smelled like dry ice.
For a while he hovered anxiously, concerned that it was impossible to see what lay ahead. Knowing he had no choice, he strode out, feeling the unnatural sensation of feathers on his skin as he entered the mist. If it resembled the other secret places he had visited, somewhere ahead would lie a puzzle with a particularly lethal sting; if Tom's description of the place was correct, this one would be worst of all.
Within the mist, he lost all his bearing. After a while, a dark smudge appeared in the drifting white, quickly forming into a figure. The Sword was in Church's hand in an instant, electric against his skin. It was a man, dressed in the armour and white silk of a Knight Templar, the red cross on his chest glowing eerily. His face was drawn, his eyes hooded above a drooping white moustache. He rested on the long sword the Templars favoured.
Church waited for him to adopt a fighting posture, but the Knight simply motioned for Church to continue along the corridor. There was an air of deference about him, but his face was dark and threatening. Inexplicably, Church shuddered as he passed.
Further on, other figures emerged from the mist. These were Celts ready for battle, naked and tattooed, their hair matted, spiked and bleached with a lime mixture. They stood against the walls on either side, watching him with baleful eyes. Some broke away, loping past him in the direction from which he had come. Again he felt the same old mixture of wariness and reverence, but his fear of a sudden attack had started to wane.
As he progressed, representatives of the races that preceded the Celts floated in and out of the mist, but most of them were swallowed up again before he got good sight of them. At some point, a troubling noise had started up, so faint at first he hadn't noticed it, but it built until it was pulsing through the walls with steady, rhythmic bass notes that resonated in the pit of his stomach. It sounded like war drums, or the beating of an enormous heart.
And then, suddenly, the mist cleared and he was looking at something so incongruous it was at first hard to take: a large window, and beyond it people in modern dress stared back at him with hard, uncompromising expressions. Before he could see any more, the mist closed in once again. There had been something dismal and
