up into a fetal ball.
When it subsided, she jumped to her feet, unable to believe her luck. Where the depot had stood, an inferno blazed up so high she could feel the heat on her face from fifty feet away, blackening the midday sky. Nothing could have survived.
Relief mingled with worry about what had happened to Church, but then another realisation surfaced. Slowly she scanned around the blasted site: Tom was nowhere to be seen.
Church no longer had any idea which way he was going. The corridor twisted and turned, often folding back on itself as if it had been designed by some insane architect. Nor was he helped by the unending array of stone walls, flickering torches, occasional windows on to nothing and, every now and then, a door, although most of them had been locked. Of the two that had been open, he had received more startlingly clear visions, seemingly of his life. The first showed him sitting on a hill watching the burning of a city which looked disturbingly like London. Billowing clouds of black smoke turned the sky almost as dark as night, although somehow he was sure it was daytime. Yet it was the way he looked that affected him the most: though he didn't appear much older, his face was burdened with trouble and suffering that made him seem closer to forty. He was hunched over as he scanned the horizon, clutching an ornate sword to his chest like one of those characters who spent their weekends re- enacting ancient battles. His hair was longer and he had a tightly clipped goatee; there were tears in his eyes at what he saw.
The second door showed him pale and broken, alone in the flat the day after Marianne had died. Seeing the terrible torment frozen in a face that had never experienced such depths before brought back the intensity of the emotions and he slammed the door and ran down the corridor before any more of the tableau could present itself to him.
What could it all mean? He suspected that wherever he was lay outside of the existence he knew; time seemed to flow back and forth randomly and he wondered if it were possible to see any point in the past or the future. If he opened a door at the exact right moment, would he see Marianne in the weeks or days or hours that led up to her making her tragic decision to take her life? The thought brought with it a blast of such hope it made his head spin.
As if in answer, he rounded a corner and came upon another door. Nervously he stood before it for a full minute until he found the courage, and then he swung it open.
He was instantly deflated when the scene was unfamiliar: a green bank running down to a fast-flowing stream that passed under a stone bridge. Someone lay on his back in its shadow, the head and shoulders submerged in the foam, unmistakably dead. Church knew who it was before the white water cleared for a second to allow him to see the pale skin and staring eyes.
This was how he would die.
He threw the door shut and pressed his back against it, his head in his hands. He hadn't looked much older than he was now.
How he kept going he didn't know; his head was spinning and his emotions were so raw he wondered if he were having a breakdown. Nothing made sense. There was just a queasy disorientation and a sense of growing despair.
He wandered on in a daze until he realised something had changed: there was a faint trail of incense in the air, like the hint of a lover's perfume in an empty room. Then, as he progressed, the music grew noticeably louder- for the first time since he had been in that place. The melody was powerfully evocative, of warm summer nights beneath a full moon, of the smell of pine forests and the taste of a cool mountain stream; yet despite the images that flashed through his mind the words seemed to be in some alien language, so exquisitely formed they wove in and out of the music to create something greater than the sum.
It made Church's heart quicken until a sudden joy overcame all the negative thoughts that had been consuming him. He broke into a jog and then a sprint, any reticence left behind in the rush.
When the corridor opened into a wide, lofty room he almost tumbled into it. Ahead of him, windows twice as tall as a man ranged in a semi-circle, offering a prospect out into the void. An ornate, gold telescope stood in front of them. On either side of the hemisphere, braziers burned, filling the air with the sweet, soothing incense. Intricately designed tapestries hung on the walls showing a vast range of scenes like a more exquisite Bayeux Tapestry, while thick rugs lay on the stone flags. And looking through the telescope with her back to him was the woman who had appeared in his childhood bedroom.
She turned as he entered and her beautiful face was even more potent than in the vision through the door. Her cheekbones were high, her lips full and her skin seemed to glow with an inner, golden light that mesmerised him; her cool, blue eyes, filled with wisdom and passion, were so deep he felt he could never reach the bottom of them.
'Who are you?' In his head his voice sounded weak and pathetic.
She smiled and he instantly felt like his veins had been flooded with honey. 'A friend.'
'Was that you singing?'
She nodded gently. 'It is a song from the old world, from the time before times, about two star-crossed lovers capturing one night for themselves before they are torn apart. It is sad but beautiful, like all things that move the soul. Come closer.'
She held out one delicate hand and Church descended the three steps into the room. 'You came to me when I was a boy.'
'Many times, always on the edge of dreams.'
'Why?'
'To convince myself you are who you are.'
'Which is what?'
'A Brother of Dragons.' She looked at him with a faint, curious smile, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Church shrugged. 'I don't know what that means.' But at that moment it didn't seem important. What mattered was the tint of her skin, the faint emotion that flickered around the edges of her mouth, the musical timbre of her voice, the smell of her, like lemongrass and cardamon, so seductive he was mesmerised. Right then she could have said anything of importance to him and it wouldn't have registered. Finally he became aware that he was staring and he blushed, looking around uncomfortably. 'Where is this place?'
'It is called the Watchtower. A place between the worlds, neither human nor faery, neither sun nor moon, neither sand nor water. Time flows around it.'
'Is it your home?'
Her laugh was as musical as her voice. 'It is a refuge for now. And, if you like, it is an adequate stepping stone for someone from your land. I would not wish to present the majesty of my true home to you until you were fully adjusted.'
'I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here. I was curious-'
She took his hand and her fingers were as cool as a stream in summer. 'You should be here,' she said forcefully, leading him to two carved wooden chairs, between which was a table on which was a jug with a thin neck and twin pewter goblets. 'I have been waiting for you.'
Church looked at her curiously. 'I didn't know I was coming here until today.'
'I knew you were coming here.' She sat him down and poured him a drink from the tall jug. 'Do not worry. The laws of my home do not apply here. You are free to take of this place what you will.' It looked like water, but the taste was heavenly, so complex on the palate that Church experienced a new flavour every instant until he gave up and just let it slip down his throat; it felt like liquid gold, glowing bright as it infused him.
'That's amazing,' he said.
She nodded. Then her face slowly darkened. 'There are many things of which we must talk, and time is growing rare. Your world is turning from the light.' Church felt a sudden frisson; Tom had used the same phrase. 'The old Covenant has been broken and now the Night Walkers have returned to the land of man to shape it to their own way. They must not be allowed to succeed. In the time before time they defeated my people and brought in the Season of Eternal Night, a rule so bitterly vicious the Filid's lays can bring tears from the coldest heart. The land was blighted, the people lived in permanent shadow and no corner of the world was free from suffering and despair. Never again.'
'The Night Walkers.' He knew whom she meant without questioning her further.
