Jack of Ravens

7

The journey took ten days, across a mythic landscape of forests that stretched as far as the eye could see, their secret depths dark and cool and mysterious, and sweeping grasslands skirting the edge of mountains that scraped the sky; through verdant, peaceful glens and past mirror-glass lakes where clouds scudded silently.

The landscape almost served to soothe Church’s unease. But at night, as he lay beside the campfire, the deep waters inside him moved with a slow, tidal pull. The Libertarian’s words hinted at a hidden pattern behind the mundane reality of his life, but he could not find the connections that would give him understanding.

Jerzy had been his guide, poring over maps given to him by Niamh’s advisors and studying the sun and the stars. He had been silent for much of the last leg of their journey, but as they rounded the base of a crag above which eagles soared, he said in a troubled voice, ‘The tension makes me queasy. When will the queen make her move?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Surely you do not expect to reach your destination?’

‘Why not?’

‘It is not the way of the Golden Ones to give a person what they desire. They love their sport. We will wake one morning in the Court of the Soaring Spirit and find the entire journey a dream. Or as you reach out to knock on the door, the Court of Peaceful Days will turn into a stone at the roadside, or an egg in the nest of one of those eagles. Or-’

‘If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen. But I think Niamh might just allow me this one thing.’

‘Why would she do that? It is not her way.’

‘There was something different about her after the Libertarian left … I don’t know.’

Jerzy shrugged. His fixed grin took the edge off his downcast manner.

Soon after, the Court of Peaceful Days hove into view, a network of interconnecting, long, low stone buildings with a wood growing all around it, and amongst the residences, and in some places within the buildings themselves, sprouting out of the red-tiled roofs. Flags and banners fluttered from many buildings, while emblems were embedded in the walls. A winding path led to the main door, passing through a solitary wrought-iron gate that soared up nearly fifteen feet, topped with spearheads. The gate swung open soundlessly to allow Church and Jerzy through.

Standing outside the main door, they could hear the measured, heavy beat of drums reverberating from somewhere deep within the complex, never slowing or missing a step, like the beat of a giant heart.

Church was afraid the drumming would obscure his knock on the door, but it opened soon after to reveal two rows of guards in shining silver armour, bristling with swords, spears, halberds, axes and maces. Up near the roof beams, two red and purple globes floated around. They appeared solid, but occasionally passed through each other.

At the end of the ranks stood a woman, also in armour. Her silver breastplate caught the sun, momentarily blinding Church. When his vision cleared, he saw she was wearing a helmet that covered both cheeks to her jawline, curving round the orbits of her eyes to protect her nose, so that her eye-sockets were thrown into shadow. Silver hawk-wings rose up on either side, and from the spike on top hung a red ribbon.

‘Welcome,’ she said in a sonorous voice that rang with the same tone as the pounding drum, ‘to the Court of Peaceful Days.’

Jerzy gave a deep bow. Church nodded slightly. ‘My name is Jack Churchill. I am here-’

‘I know why you are here, Fragile Creature. My sister sent word of your arrival. My name is Rhiannon. I am queen of this great court, and of the army it contains. Come with me.’

She turned and strode down a long corridor, the clank of her armour echoing off the walls. They came to a large hall that had the reverential atmosphere of a cathedral. Stained-glass windows depicting brutal moments in battle lined two opposing walls, and incense filled the air.

‘I have been charged with providing you with a weapon fitting for my sister’s honour guard,’ Rhiannon said.

Church realised with a sinking heart that rather than reward him, Niamh had simply promoted him.

The hall was filled with rack upon rack of every weapon imaginable, but Rhiannon strode past them all to a large table at the far end. On it lay a sword. A blue glow limned its edge, just like the sword Church had reluctantly given up.

This is Llyrwyn,’ Rhiannon stated, ‘one of the three great swords of Existence. I have yet to comprehend why my sister wishes such an honour on you — a test, perhaps. But here it is.’

‘Why is it so special?’

‘The three great swords are forged from the essence of Existence. They can cut through the foundations of all there is. One is the sword of Nuada Airgetlamh. The second is corrupted, the Blue Fire that burns within it now black. Its whereabouts is unknown. And this is the third.’

Church picked up Llyrwyn. Just like the sword of Nuada, for the briefest second it felt as if he was holding another object entirely. Then it hummed a low song of greeting and settled into his hand. The blue light flickered like static discharges in a summer storm.

Rhiannon handed him a scabbard and Church sheathed the sword. ‘When you no longer need Llyrwyn, you must return it,’ she said. That is the only rule.’

Church felt strangely comforted by the sword. It warmed his leg where it hung from his belt, whispered quietly into his flesh and bones. Without another word, Rhiannon led Church and Jerzy out of the hall and along a mazy route through corridors filled with marching men, and chambers where soldiers sparred or practised with their weapons. Every room and passageway echoed with the clash of steel and the distant thump of the drum, a martial madhouse where it was barely possible to think.

Finally they came to a room breathtaking in scale. Light flooded through a crystal glass roof eighty feet or more above their heads, and everywhere there fluttered flags and banners denoting victorious past campaigns. In the centre of the hall was a pillar of white marble glowing in the sunlight.

‘This is the Wish-Post,’ Rhiannon announced. ‘From this point all Existence can be viewed, the solid past and the fluid future, or vice versa, the Fixed Lands, the Far Lands, and all other places, real or imagined. But beware: when you look into the Wish-Post, it looks into you. It will see all lands within as well as without.’

Church felt a frisson. This was the moment when he would see Ruth again. His heart beat faster. ‘How does it work?’

‘Stare into it. You will step into the place you wish to visit as a ghost, observing but unable to influence.’

‘I will be here with you, good friend,’ Jerzy said quietly.

Barely able to contain his anticipation, Church stared directly at the gleaming surface of the Wish-Post. After a brief moment of disconnection, he felt himself fall through white space.

Then he was standing in the warm light of sunset, smelling exhaust fumes and dust, and the grimy, sweaty odours of a city, the thrum of traffic a constant backdrop. Church recognised the London skyline, and nearby the languorous movement of the grey Thames, tinted red and gold by the setting sun. He was standing on the South Bank in the shade of some trees, not far from Albert Bridge. Nearby a woman was leaning on some railings, watching the river.

Church’s heart broke into a thunderous rhythm and he felt drunk — relief, love, yearning, desperation, all churning together. It was Ruth, her long, dark hair a mass of curls and ringlets framing a pale face. She wore the shiny, unflattering overalls of a care home helper, the name of the home stitched in white above her left breast. Church was shocked by how inconsolably sad she appeared. That was not how he remembered her — in his head she was always smiling, filled with hope and passion.

He wanted to ease whatever pain she felt, but when he absently reached out, his hand passed through her. Rhiannon was right — he was a ghost. He wondered if he had done the right thing: to be so close to her yet still unable to connect was almost more painful than being separated by a gulf of more than two millennia.

Ruth,’ he whispered. The word caught in his throat. ‘I love you.’