She barely noticed they had taken her to a new cell, as depressing as her old one, but almost palatial in size; although it was pitch dark she could tell how large it was from the bouncing echoes of her footsteps. After the cramped confines of her last prison, it should have been cause enough for joy, but her every thought was taken up with the struggle to accept she was still alive. When the black pearl was being forced into her mouth, she had so convinced herself she was going to die her survival had left her disoriented, shocked and, in an odd way, depressed.
She could still feel the awful weight of the pearl deep in her stomach; it was radiating cold into every fibre of her being. She turned to one side and vomited on the flags, sickened by the pressure and the changes taking place in her body. The nausea never left her. What did it all mean? They'd be coming for her again soon and she really didn't know how much more she could bear.
She crawled away to the other side of the cell, trying to avoid the smell of vomit, but the stench was too strong. She retched again. Shaking, she lowered her head on to the cold floor and hoped sleep would come soon to save her from the nightmare.
Veitch's instincts had been sending sharp prompts throughout the morning, and by late afternoon he had already made up his mind to move by sundown. Scarcely had he accepted the decision than he heard a tumult echoing across the city from the Old Town. From his window he could see nothing but scattered groups of people looking up to the old, grey buildings that crested the great ridge which ran down from the castle, so he quickly made his way outside.
Dark storm clouds hung oddly over the Old Town, while the rest of the city was bathed in the reddish light of the setting sun. Further down the Royal Mile towards Holyrood those clouds seemed to be churning and there were flashes of light that were not lightning erupting among them; each flash was accompanied by a rumble like distant gunfire.
The crowds were uneasy and apprehensive. It was a manifestation of all their deepest fears that had grown since the Old Town had been so mysteriously sealed off. "What's going on up there?" one man asked darkly, of no one in particular. Those nearest looked at him fearfully, looked back at the disturbance, said nothing.
Veitch watched it for a moment or two longer, until he decided it might well be the diversion for which he had been waiting. He didn't know if it was the doing of Shavi and Laura or Church and Tom, but he should move fast to seize the moment. He broke away from the crowd and hurried in the direction of the Old Town.
He realised how much had changed the moment he began to climb the steep steps of Advocate's Close. Within the space of a few feet the temperature had changed from summer balm to deepest winter; his breath clouded and the steps shimmered with hoar frost. When he reached the summit he was startled to see thick, fresh snow drifting across the Royal Mile, unspoilt by footprints or tire tracks. The mist had quickly descended, casting a spectral pall over the entire area.
Shivering, he zipped his leather jacket to the neck and waded out into the street. The covering of snow was crisp; it was several degrees below zero.
Another flash and rumble startled him. The battle, or whatever it was, was still raging at the foot of the Royal Mile, obscured by the haar. His first instinct was to head straight to the castle, but he knew he had to be sure the Cailleach Bheur was being distracted. He made his way out into the middle of the road where the snow wasn't so deep and set off towards the disruption.
About halfway down the Royal Mile the mist had thinned out enough for him to see what was happening. The Cailleach Bheur stood with her back to him, both hands grasping her gnarled staff, which was planted firmly in front of her. Bubbles of blue energy were forming around her, increasing in size rapidly, then rushing out in waves. Whenever they burst, the deep rumble rolled out, making Veitch's ears hurt. That close to her, it was almost unbearably cold; Veitch convulsed with shivers.
The object of her attack was a gloriously beautiful young man floating several feet above the road, his long hair whipped by the force of the energy. He seemed to glow with an inner golden light, but there was some unpleasant quality in his face which disturbed Veitch immensely. The flashes of light appeared to be generated somewhere within him; they were diffuse, like a heat haze on a summer day. Veitch occasionally felt their warmth breaking through the cold. He guessed this was the power Shavi and Laura had been despatched to find and was pleased by their speedy success. The first strike went to the underdogs, he thought; perhaps things weren't so bad after all.
Although the two forces were obviously in battle, Veitch saw no anger, no emotion of any kind that he recognised. But he was relieved to see the new arrival was more than a match for the wintry ferocity of the Cailleach Bheur. With renewed vigour, he left them to their fight and hurried back up the steep road.
Edinburgh Castle stood at the very summit of the Royal Mile on a mound of volcanic rock created three hundred and forty million years before. The Fomorii had chosen their location well. Surrounded on three sides by sheer cliffs, its position was impregnable. And if the Fomorii had somehow burrowed into the very rock beneath the castle, Veitch knew they would be almost untouchable. His comfort came from the knowledge that he didn't have to defeat them-that would be up to the others-he must merely get Ruth out.
To that end he had spent his time well since the departure of the others, reading up on the fortress's history and studying its layout in intricate detail until he had his strategy well mapped out in his mind. Subterfuge was the only way forward. In the times when the garrison had fallen into English hands, the Scots had only been able to retake it through stealth, once by scaling the cliffs and taking the defending troops by surprise, once by disguising themselves as merchants and using their supplies to block open the castle gates so a larger force could sweep in. Deception went against his nature-a direct assault always made him feel much better-but he was learning rapidly.
The approach to the castle was across the wide-open forecourt where the Tattoo was held every year. In normal weather Veitch would not have been able to cross it unseen, but the drifting thick mist provided reasonable cover. He sneaked into an entryway near the Camera Obscura for a few minutes while the sun set completely. Then, with the night providing added protection, he crept around the perimeter wall.
It was an eerie scene. The castle was ablaze with light reflecting off the thick snow, a Christmas confection designed to lure tourists from across the city, but there wasn't a sound in the vicinity. The drifting mist that resembled smoke on a battlefield muffled any sound from the New Town and obscured any view of the modern city. Veitch felt like he had been transported back in time.
The castle gates were open-the Fomorii obviously feared no direct assault. Witch ducked below the level of the low stone wall and crept beneath the dark arch of the gatehouse. Adrenalin was coursing around his body; he felt revi talised, ready for anything. In the Lower Ward he paused and glanced through a window back into the gatehouse. A guard in military uniform stared blankly across a bare table. Veitch couldn't reconcile the army presence with the Fomorii until he recognised the waxy sheen to the guard's face; on close inspection, it resembled a mask: it was a shape-shifted Fomor. This was obviously how the Fomorii had managed to take the castle in the first place, quietly, unnoticed, while the Old Town bustled around them. Somewhere, he guessed, there lay a charnel house filled with the bodies of all the soldiers who had been replaced.