"Not yet. Travelling, I suppose. Seeing how the landscape now lies. Finding out what I can do."
"I could offer you a position."
"Oh?"
"You've heard talk of the Culture?" Shavi said he had. "The Culture were the original wise people. In society from the earliest days, from when man had just a few sticks to hack out a life, I reckon. The Egyptians sailed to these shores for guidance from us about the pyramids. The Celts revered us. We knew all the lore of the land, how animals and birds acted, trees and plants grew. We knew about the stars and the planets. The spirit fire. We knew everything. And then the damn Romans came. Slaughtered some, drove the rest underground where we couldn't do the job that we were meant to do. The colleges at Glastonbury and Anglesey were destroyed. It was hard to pass on the knowledge. And then, thanks to that God-awful Age of Reason, the Culture gradually died out."
"And you are the last," Shavi said.
"Now wouldn't it be a shame for all that thousands of years of knowledge to die out with me?"
"What are you suggesting?"
"The land needs the Culture. The people need the Culture-especially now when they need to learn a new way of living to cope with what it's going to be like out there." He faced Shavi, his eyes sparkling. "I want to start the colleges up again, pass on all the knowledge I've got before I'm gone. Build a new Culture."
"And you want me to help?"
"I want you to be the first to learn. And then I want you to help me pass it on. Maybe set up at Glastonbury, I don't know. What do you say?"
Shavi's face was so serious as he considered the offer that the Bone Inspector was convinced he was going to refuse. But then a warm smile crept across his face. "I think that would be an excellent idea."
When they returned to the fire, thoughts of what lay ahead were put to one side, and once more they were old friends enjoying each other's company. They remembered the ones they had lost and thought about the times they had spent together, and they cried a little. But as good friends should, they helped each other along the rocky path, and after a while they even found the strength to laugh.
Lying back beneath the sweep of stars, there was some sadness that they would soon be going their separate ways. But though they might not meet again, they would never forget all that they had shared, and everything they had learned: in the midst of hardship they had discovered the best that life had to offer, both in the world, and in themselves.
And though there were undoubtedly hard days ahead, they had been forged in the worst of times, and with hope and optimism in their hearts, the road would always rise before them.
Church woke on a hard, cold floor surrounded by the smell of wood smoke. A deep ache suffused his limbs, though slowly fading; his stomach turned queasily. Strange dreams had paraded through his head, of people in dark suits and army green, but the last vibrant thoughts he had were of the dying light in poor, tormented Veitch's eyes, of the desperate love in Ruth's face, and of plunging into nothingness in the company of a deep shadow. He was still clutching Caledfwlch tightly. His free hand moved to his side where Veitch had torn him open, but there was no blood, no wound. It made no sense.
He levered himself up to see he was in a dark, round room constructed from wood. The only light came from a fire smouldering in the centre, the smoke drifting up to disappear through a hole in the turf roof. It was undeniably primitive, filled with the aromas of animals and damp vegetation.
His thoughts careered. Where were the others? Where was Balor? As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he realised with a start that he was not alone. Jumping to his feet anxiously prompted a shriek from the dark shapes huddling across the other side of the room.
Moving past the fire, he could see a woman was protecting her two children. She had long dark hair that framed a face hardened by harsh living. The children, a boy and a girl of around seven or eight, had the same dark hair and eyes. They were all terrified.
"Don't worry. I won't hurt you," he said gently, but his voice only agitated them further.
The woman jabbered in a language he didn't understand until he caught one word: Samhain.
As he repeated it, the woman froze, her eyes widening. "Samhain," she said again.
And then the elements began to fall into place: the house, the basic peasant clothes of the woman and children, the language. Somehow the gate had flung him into the distant past, amongst one of the tribes that modern scholars had lumped together under the catch-all title of Celts.
He closed his eyes and rested on his sword as he fought the rising panic. His first thought was that it couldn't be true, but everything he saw, heard, smelled, told him otherwise. Then the impressions came thick and fast: isolation, utter loneliness amongst people who would consider him an alien or a madman, the brutality of life in those times, of Ruth, whom he would never see again, of his friends, and his world. Slowly, he went down on to his knees, unable to bear the weight.
His torment was disturbed by the woman gradually advancing. She pointed tentatively. "Nuada?"
She was indicating the Sword. He held it up, nodding. "Nuada Aigetlamh." It was the god's sword; of course she would be familiar with it.
She suddenly pointed towards the open door and jabbered once more, excitedly this time. There was little else for him to do but follow her direction.
Outside, a wild electrical storm lit up other roundhouses clustered nearby. Frightened horses and cattle added to the deafening cannon-fire of thunder. A terrible wind tore across the landscape, though there wasn't even the faintest hint of rain; in the gale was the familiar stink of corruption that had surrounded Balor.
He looked round, overcome with the strangest impression someone familiar had only just left the vicinity. Despite the grinding sense of disconnection, he felt uncannily good, and he knew why. His deep perception showed him the Blue Fire was stronger in the land, and the buildings and the animals than he had ever seen it before. That was why the wound in his side had healed. As a Brother of Dragons he had tapped into it.
And with that realisation came another thought: he recalled Tom telling him there were no coincidences, no accidents. Then why had he been saved? There was no obvious answer, but he had the strangest feeling that somebody had wanted it to happen for him.
As he tried to decide what his next move would be, he became aware of a faint golden glow approaching across the dark, storm-torn countryside. It was Niamh. His shock was palpable until he accepted this was long before she had sacrificed herself to save them all.
She came up to him sharply, an unfamiliar contemptuous expression inscribed on her face. "Fragile Creature!" Her words were the arrogant bark of someone used to complete deference. "Is that the Sword of my brother?" As always, he understood her words in a way that transcended language.
It was intriguing to see the difference in her. Here she was more like the worst of her kind, cold and aloof with a hint of cruelty. "It was once. It's my Sword now."
Fury tinged her features. "How can a Fragile Creature dare to touch so powerful an object? How can you dare to take it from my brother, and now, when he needs it most?"
"I'm a Brother of Dragons."
This puzzled her a little. "I have not seen you amongst that dismal brood."
His spine prickled as connections began to be made. "What's happening?" he asked, listening to the noise that was almost masked by the storm.
"You do not know? It is the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh. This night the future of the Golden Ones will be decided, when the Night Walkers are finally driven into the sea after their bitter rule."