That realisation darkened his mood and his thoughts turned to Etain and Ruth, both of them lost to him by an unbridgeable gulf. Though he attempted bravado with Jerzy, he feared he was fated to die without ever seeing Ruth again, and that notion was almost more than he could bear.
Two weeks after his arrival in the Far Lands, Church made his way down Winding Gate Street in the direction of the Hunter’s Moon, which he had decided to make his base during his search for an escape. The route was filled with traders from the Market of Wishful Spirit, a travelling band of traders offering just about any object that could be desired, though Jerzy had warned him that the price was often more than anyone would be prepared to pay.
Occasionally, insistent figures in odd costumes that hinted at Elizabethan or Victorian styles tried to grab him from the cover of their stalls. Their voices were mesmerising, the artefacts they pushed towards him more so – dreams in a jar, new eyes that could see across Existence.
During his numerous jaunts around the city, Church had become adept at dodging them while keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead. But this time he felt a heavy hand fall upon his shoulder. Before he could shake it off, a deep cold radiated from the fingers into the heart of him, and he realised with mounting distress that he could no longer move. Whoever was behind him leaned in to whisper barely audibly as he passed. The tone was urbane and laced with a hint of mockery. Church grew colder still when he realised what had been said: ‘Ruth will die.’
Unable to turn his head, Church had only a fleeting glimpse of a man in a dark overcoat, long, black hair trailing behind him as he weaved his way into the depths of the market crowd ahead.
6
‘You must try to see things from beyond your limited perspective!’ Jerzy implored.
Finally recovered from the paralysis and back at the palace, Church looked out of the window across rooftops painted silver by a summer moon. Anxiety tied his stomach in knots. ‘All I know is that here, a long way from my home, some bastard told me that my girlfriend in the future is going to die. And it wasn’t, “She’s going to die like we’re all going to die one day.” It was, “She’s going to die because I’ll slit her throat and dump her at the side of the road.” ’
‘Church—’
‘And I can’t do anything about it!’
‘Good friend!’ Church turned at Jerzy’s sharp tone and was surprised to see concern in the Mocker’s face. ‘Please, do not hurt your heart!’
‘What’s going on, Jerzy? How did I end up here? Why does everyone want to kill me and the people I care about?’
‘You were born in the Fixed Lands and you expect everything to be fixed. But as I told you at our first meeting, the closer one gets to the heart of Existence, the more fluid things become. Even time.’ Seeing the incomprehension in Church’s eyes, Jerzy sighed and tried again. ‘Time is not the same here in the Far Lands as in your world. It flows back and forth, or remains a constant always now.’
Church recalled the folkloric tales of people transported to Fairyland for a night of dancing, only to find on their return that a hundred years had passed. Possibilities dawned on him. ‘I could while away a few months here and then drop back into my world in my own time.’
‘If the Queen of the Wasteland frees you from your obligation.’ His tone suggested Niamh would never agree to this.
‘Except that I have no idea how fast time is passing in my world, so if I sit around here for too long I could end up missing it completely. Walk out into some world of flying cars and personal jet packs, and everyone I know dead.’
‘You must not set your hopes too high,’ Jerzy cautioned.
‘I’ve got no choice. I have to talk to Niamh.’
It was near midnight, and the palace slept. As Church and a reluctant Jerzy trailed along the echoing corridors, guards stood silently, their numbers increasing the closer they came to the royal apartments. Their eyes fell on Church, but he was not a threat to be challenged. He had the run of the place like a favoured poodle. Sit up. Beg. Play dead. Defiantly, Church increased his pace.
As he neared Niamh’s door, the air grew colder and soon he could see sparkles of frost on the stone. Jerzy indicated with an uncertain finger the guard who stood outside. His skin gleamed white, his eyebrows and hair rigid with frost.
‘Frozen,’ Jerzy whispered. ‘Do not enter, friend Church,’ Jerzy pressed. ‘Leave what lies beyond these doors to the Golden Ones.’
Despite his apprehension, Church was eager for answers. He marched in. Ice shimmered on the floor, walls and ceilings. The bodies of Niamh’s inner guard were scattered in an arc near the door, ribs protruding like dinosaur teeth, slippery organs trailing. A slaughter, quick and brutal. Church wondered briefly what could have the power to dispatch these beings before his attention was caught by a rapid fluttering of golden lights over one of the bodies, then another, and finally over all of them.