Wolfking
Date: 2016-04-21 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: **The Apocalypse has come – and it has left the World in ruins… ‘A smashing writer who really knows how to weave a tale…’ *Booksellers’ Choice* ** Following the terror of the Apocalypse, life in the community of Tugaim, Ireland is simple – but controlled. Families eek out their meagre livings from the blasted earth, carefully avoiding the forbidden patches of land that still shine with eerie light… Joanna Grady is happy in this community, and has even met Flynn, whom she loves and hopes to be matched to. They dream of Ancient Ireland, a land of magic, royalty and terrible foes. But bloodlines
Publisher: Venture Press

WOLFKING THE OMNIBUS

Books 1-4

Sarah Rayne

© Sarah Rayne 1991, 1992, 1993, 1994

Sarah Rayne has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published 1991-1994 by Headline under the pseudonym Bridget Wood.

This edition published by Venture Press, an imprint of Endeavour Press Ltd in 2016.

Table of Contents

Wolfking

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

EPILOGUE

The Lost Prince

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

Rebel Angel

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Sorceress

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Epilogue

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Wolfking

CHAPTER ONE

Before the apocalypse Joanna would not have had to draw water from the well and carry it in pails to the kitchen. There would have been levers that you turned, and there the water would have been. Some of the legends even said you could have the water hot if you wanted, but this was not generally thought correct. Joanna’s father said if all the stories about the Letheans were true, they ought to have been able to fight the Apocalypse and destroy it before it destroyed them. They certainly ought to have been able to stop it from stalking the world and laying waste and burning up cities wholesale. It was only a pity, said Joanna’s father, that a bit more of the Letheans’ fabled learning had not survived, and then Joanna would not have to pull up pailfuls of water, and her mother would not have to wrestle with the cauldron of clothes on wash days, and he himself could have travelled to every corner of the farm in a machine that drove itself, like the Letheans were said to have done.

The Letheans. The Forgotten Ones. Named after the River of the Underworld — the Lethe — whose waters made the souls of the dead forget their lives on earth. And, what was so terrible to Joanna, they had been given the name because so little of them had survived that no one now knew for sure what they had been called.

“Ah, it’s a grand old name for them,” said Flynn O’Connor. “And aren’t they truly the forgotten ones, anyway? In some lands they call them the Quondam!”

Joanna asked what that meant.

“That which once was, but is no longer.”

You could not altogether trust Flynn’s information, because like most Irishmen he could spin a good tale if he thought he could get away with it, but you could not entirely dismiss it either. The O’Connors were honoured in Tugaim. “Old Stock,” said Joanna’s Aunt Briony reverently, but then Aunt Briony’s information could not really be trusted either, because she had once been betrothed to be conjoined to Flynn’s great-uncle Diarmid, and was apt to be sentimental about the family. Joanna’s father said that Diarmid O’Connor had deliberately disappeared one night, rather than face conjoining with Aunt Briony, but Joanna did not believe this either.

Aunt Briony was inclined to promote a conjoining between Joanna and Flynn because it was a tradition, and a linking of two great Irish families. “The land marches along — well, we know that. And Joanna would like marrying Flynn. He has books,” said Aunt Briony reverently, “from before the Apocalypse. Not the thin, rubbishy stuff your father reads, my dear, but real books. Paper like satin and printing so clear you wouldn’t believe it. Remarkable things.” She had read one once, she said. “All the way through, and not one word in ten did I understand, which just shows you. A great city it was, with desperate criminals and horses drawing the finest contraptions to carry folk about. And a man who wore an odd hat solving the crimes, and a doctor helping him. A fine old tale it was, but it was nothing like we have in the world today.”

There was not very much crime in Tugaim of course, unless it might be Seamus Flaherty carrying off Fingal O’Dulihan’s pigs, and swearing it was a wild bull got them.

You were not really supposed to possess anything from before the Apocalypse, although of course people did. But if you had anything that your ancestors had salvaged, you were supposed to take it along to the People’s Museum in Dublin, so that everyone could see how the Letheans had lived. Everyone thought that was a fine idea, but nobody ever donated much, because, as Joanna’s mother said, hadn’t they all sufficient to do all day without digging up the fields to see if the Letheans had buried anything there before Devastation? Joanna knew all about Flynn’s books and the maps and the copper pans and the pewter jugs, and she did not see why Flynn’s family should not keep these things for themselves if they wanted to.

But nobody really owned very much from the Letheans’ time. Except land, of course, and anyone could have land. There was so much of it. But it was usually a problem to find land where crops would grow properly, and land that did not glow in the dark.

“Never,” said Joanna’s mother, “never ever live on land that does that, acushla!”

“Why not?”

But Joanna’s mother did not know. It was one of the legends, an old wives’ tale, some kind of ancient warning handed down from the survivors of the Letheans’ Great Battle. It was sometimes extremely irksome, because it meant that acres of good flat land could not be built on. But no one had ever risked going against the warning, and so no one had ever really found out why the Glowing Lands were unsafe. One day Joanna was going to coax Flynn to take her to Tara’s Hill, where a soft incandescent light sometimes showed, and picnic there by moonlight and find out what happened. She thought she would do it quite soon, but she thought she would have to be feeling extra brave, because she had once seen the great ruined city of Cork glowing like a massive furnace against the night sky, though it was generations since the Apocalypse had stalked Ireland and everywhere else in the world. Had it come to Ireland first? Or last?

“No one knows,” said Flynn, lying down on the hillside, his hair tossed into wild disarray, his eyes bright blue and his thin cheeks whipped to colour against the sky. “Oh, it was a shocking thing, Joanna. The Last Battle … the world in flames. But they say that the Letheans were so weakened by their dissolute way of life, and so flabby from generations of soft living and greed and arrogance, that they hadn’t the backbone to put up a fight.”

“I don’t see them as greedy and arrogant,” Joanna picked out an apple from their lunch basket and prepared for a good argument. “I see them as sad. Misguided. Hadn’t they missed the point of life somewhere — the stories all tell that over and over. Weren’t they so taken up with their machines and their fine cities that they forgot about the important things? They were children,” said Joanna, her grey eyes black-fringed and enormous in her little pointed face. “Children with huge machines they failed to master.”

“They were heedless children,” said Flynn, his eyes sparkling, for Joanna, the darling girl, always gave a man a great old argument. “They deserved to be punished.” He rolled over on to his back. “But if the Apocalypse came back today, wouldn’t he find a different story! Oh wouldn’t he just! We’d give the creature a fight for his impudence, Joanna! We’d skin the ruffian and tweak his tail and send him to the rightabout!”

Flynn visualized the Apocalypse as something between a mischievous boy and an enraged pig, but Joanna knew that the Apocalypse had been something so huge and so incredibly powerful that your mind would never grasp it. An immense evil, a vasty spirit conjured up from another world. It had destroyed the Letheans and their marvellous world so completely that only the thinnest of memories of them were left.

The Letheans. The Lethe. The Forgotten Ones.

It was achingly sad to Joanna that a race, a culture, a whole world, could have so cruelly and so comprehensively disappeared.

“We have nothing of them,” she said.

“We have a little,” said Flynn.

But it was so little that all it did was tantalise you.

“If,” said Joanna, lying back on the springy turf at Flynn’s side, “if I could work magic, I believe I should go back to their time.”

“And meet up with the Beast? Girl dear, he’d huff his scorchy breath on to you and you’d be frizzled up in a minute! He’d have you for breakfast and spit out the bones. Much better to stay here.”

“It’d be before the Apocalypse came,” Joanna replied, suddenly warm inside at Flynn’s soft cajolery, “when the Letheans lived in their great glittering cities, and had machines to take them everywhere, and got water from levers and fire from pressing buttons. They could fly — did you know that? Oh wouldn’t that have been grand. Flynn, you’re not listening.”

Flynn said, “But there was once a much better time, acushla.” And Joanna shivered and delight ran all over her, because when Flynn looked at her like that and called her acushla, which was a very privileged word indeed, it sent rivulets of pleasure trickling down beneath her ribs. It would not do to admit it of course. Conjoining was meant to be strictly practical. It was a weighty undertaking. Her father often said so. The Kin Book had to be consulted, so that people did not conjoin with near relations — which might bright forth idiots; the joining up of land had to be considered, so that Glowing Lands were not farmed or built on — which might bring forth anything at all.

“A business arrangement,” said Joanna’s mother, explaining it to Joanna. “And all very sensible.”

The Letheans had conjoined freely and wherever they chose.

“Too freely,” said Joanna’s mother. “They were like animals.”

“And look where it got them,” said Joanna’s father. And taking her quietly aside, he explained that there was nothing particularly wonderful about conjoining, as so many of the young people seemed to think. “A simple physical process. Something to be done to bring children into the world. Be guided by me.”

Even so, Joanna thought her mother sometimes looked a bit wistful, almost as if she was thinking: is this all there is? And what about the soft look on Aunt Briony’s face when she talked about Diarmid O’Connor. And what about her own delight when Flynn smiled at her and called her acushla, which was such a very old and very precious word? She thought she could easily be envious of the Letheans who had known about conjoining with whoever you wanted; who had known, as well, about indulging their every appetite. “Overindulging it,” said Joanna’s father. “That’s where they went wrong. We shall do better.”

The Letheans had done disastrously, of course, everyone knew that, but even so, they had married whom they liked and conjoined where they pleased, and had not had to bother about Kin Books and land registrations.

But, since you were not supposed to care about such things, Joanna did her best to conform. Even, said her mind, even when Flynn lies beside you on the hillside, and even when you ache with wishing he would just reach out and touch your face, your neck, your breasts …

Even then. It did not do to be different. And even these days, even with the Great Devastation so far behind them, nonconformity was still looked at askance. The coming of the Apocalypse had produced so many odd things, that to begin with, there had been laws about certain people being let to conjoin at all. There had been a word: mutation. Joanna had never seen a mutation. “Of course not,” said Aunt Briony. “They had died out by the time you were born.”

“Had they?” said Joanna’s mother, and sent a wary look through the window to where the great grim bulk of the Gealtacht, the terrible House of Mutants, stood on its hill overlooking Tugaim. Everyone tried to pretend that the Gealtacht was empty these days, and that it had been empty for years, but everyone knew that lights still showed there sometimes, and that dreadful screams could be heard if you went near to the hill. Hardly anyone ever did go near to the hill of course, because it was sinister and repellent, and because the very thought of being out there alone on the cold hillside in the dark was enough to send most people scurrying to the safety and the comfort of their firesides. Some of the older people occasionally hinted at terrible things; monsters, deformities, all shut away inside the House, but no one really believed this. And no one Joanna knew had ever actually seen a Mutant.

Even so, the idea of something not quite as other people had remained like a tender spot on a good many consciences. You had to be absolutely the same as everyone else, otherwise you might find you were crossed from the Kin Book altogether, and not allowed to own land, except the Glowing Lands, which nobody wanted anyway.

And so, although Joanna often lay awake and imagined how Flynn’s hands would feel caressing her body, and how his mouth would taste, she could not let anyone know. When Flynn said, “There was once a much better time,” and smiled, she moved back a little and said, “Tell me about the better time,” and tried not to know that he smelt of masculine skin and clean hair, and the wild strawberries they had been eating for their lunch. His mouth would taste of the strawberries, sweet, tender and quite beautiful and you could drown in the delight of it …

Flynn smiled at Joanna, and thought: what would she do if I reached for her now? Dare I? Would she go running off to Grady the Landgrabber, shrieking “rape”? Oh, but her mouth would be soft and sinless, and I could lay her down on the hillside and take her innocence, my sweet lovely girl, because for sure she’ll be innocent …

He would not do it. He would abide by the unwritten laws that permitted of no conjoining before marriage, and he would slake his hungers on the women of Peg Flanagan’s, whose business that sort of thing was. But none of it stopped him lying wakeful and alone in the yellow and white bedroom beneath the eaves, and none of it stopped him aching with longing, because he would never really want anyone other than Joanna.

He turned away, rolling on to his front so that he could throw stones down the hill and see them splash into the Sidh Pool far below, and Joanna at once felt a sense of loss — a withdrawal. He had been looking at her and smiling, and there had been something so tender and so full of promise … I am on the brink of something wonderful, she had thought.

But she had been reared in a stern school, and so she put the thought of Flynn’s mouth and his hands on her body from her mind, and said, “Tell me about the better time.”

Flynn sat up, his eyes sparkling, reached for the wild strawberries again and began to talk about an ancient Ireland, an Ireland of long ago.

Neither of them had ever heard those magical words “once upon a time”, for the art of story-telling, like so many of the other arts, had been lost. For the last three hundred years, men and women had been too taken up with rebuilding a shattered, burnt-out world to think of such mundane things as telling stories. But some things never quite die, and both Joanna and Flynn were imaginative; both were Irish, with the true Irish gift for telling and hearing a story. If Flynn did not say “once upon a time”, he did not need to, for the magic was in his voice and in his eyes, and Joanna was immediately and wholly enthralled.

*

“So long ago, that it was nearly the beginning of time, Ireland was ruled by a great and wonderful Court,” said Flynn softly. “The Court of Tara, where the High Kings sat on the throne of Dierdriu of the Nightcloak, and of Niall of the Nine Hostages.

“It was a time when the land was ruled by sorcery and heroism and intrigue; when men were better than human and when women lay with the beasts of the forest, and gave birth to strong and cruelly beautiful children who had the blood of the wolves and the eagles and the lions in their veins. Did you ever see a Bible, Joanna? An immense book, very greatly honoured by the Letheans at one time in their history. In one place, it says ‘There were giants on the earth in those days.’ Giants, Joanna. Creatures better than human. Neargods. The people of the old, old Ireland were that, acushla. Beautiful mystical beings. Creatures to revere and serve, and perhaps fear. Yes, I think one would be a little frightened of them, but one would never be able to resist them. Half human and half animal, so that they had power over the animals, so that they could call them, summon them to their side in battle. Did you ever hear of the Battle of Cormac of the Wolves? The Wolfram, they called him. He was exiled from the Court, but he swore to return, and he stood on Tara’s Hill and sent out a call to his brothers, the wolves. And they came, they obeyed him, they came streaming out of the forest, down the valley, and converged on the hill at his side.

“Remarkable,” said Flynn, his eyes faraway.

“It’s there I’d go if you could work your magic, Joanna. To the Old Ireland: the land of half-humans, magic and wars, princes and enchanted beings, and great battles, mist shrouded forests. Do you know we’ve never seen mist, Joanna? The Apocalypse burned us up so that all the moisture went from the world. But they had mists then — like great smoky clouds they were. They called Ireland the blue and green, misty island. Beautiful. Men sailed the seas just to catch glimpses of it, for tales of it had spread half across the world. It was beautiful, acushla. Not the dry, arid place it is now. We have the Hard Rain, but once there was a soft gentle rain in Ireland, so soft that it shrouded the land in blue and purple mist.” He sat up. “Would you come with me, Joanna? Follow me into a land so old that its memories are lost in the beginnings of time? So old that the Letheans had forgotten it, just as we have forgotten the Letheans. Would you do it, acushla?”

It was impossible to resist Flynn when he talked like this; absurd extravagant nonsense that you did not quite believe, but that you could not quite disbelieve either. For a moment, just for the briefest second, Joanna had seen it all quite clearly; the beautiful cruel faces of the children, and the slant-eyed intelligence of people who would not obey human laws, and who might not obey the laws of the animals either.

“Oh,” said Joanna, her hands clasped tightly together, her eyes shining, “oh, if only we could go back, Flynn. If only we could.”

“Would you come with me?”

All my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay and follow thee my lord throughout the world …?

The beautiful tragic words were lost for all time, but even so, an echo lingered. Joanna looked at Flynn and said slowly, “I believe I would.

“Yes, I believe I would.”

*

Joanna’s father knew himself for a reasonable man. Everyone said he was. “John Grady’s as reasonable a man as you’d find in a week’s search,” they said.

He was part of the ruling body of Tugaim, one of its Elders. He had a say in the entering up of the Kin Book, and he was almost always asked to make one of any inquiries that were set up when laws were broken. He hoped he was not guilty of the Letheans’ sin of complacency, but he thought he could be just the smallest bit proud of himself. A reasonable man. One of the Elders of Tugaim, and a Grady, a member of that grand old Irish line. Not everyone could boast of possessing that coveted second, family name these days; names, memories and lineages, like so much else, had been lost during Devastation. The surviving families had not always known who they were when they crawled back up into the light after the Apocalypse had at last exhausted its strength. But the Gradys had kept their name, and everyone knew that the Gradys of Tugaim had been a highly thought of family before Devastation.

“Utter rubbish,” said Seamus Flaherty, stinging from John Grady’s stern sentence after the unfortunate episode of Fingal O’Dulihan’s pigs. “He’s no more a Grady than O’Dulihan’s pigs. He might be a graibeir.” And then several people had to be reminded that a graibeir was a landgrabber. “That’s where the famous ‘Grady’ comes from,” reiterated Seamus, pleased with himself, carrying Fingal off to Peg Flanagan’s wine shop where they could both drink poteen and cry destruction on the Elders and lasting death to the Apocalypse, and confusion to the Landgrabbers. It was a sorry thing when a man could not do that, and you might thank whichever god you paid homage to that one of the things the Apocalypse had not destroyed was the secret of making poteen.

John Grady was not a landgrabber, of course, the very idea was absurd. Everyone knew that Seamus Flaherty was the biggest romancer in Tugaim, and everyone knew that you could not trust a word he said. Of course there had been graibeirs after Devastation; of course people had taken what land they could, started up little farms, and then bigger ones. Land had been there for the asking anyway, and no one had needed to do any grabbing. He would deal with Flaherty more sternly the next time the ruffian came up before the Elders, and the man would certainly not be left free to go off drinking poteen with his arch-enemy and lifelong friend O’Dulihan. John Grady disapproved of Peg Flanagan’s wine shop and the poteen that Peg made; he did not hold with becoming intoxicated any more than he held with frivolity. Too much poteen gave people ideas, and you had only to go back three hundred years — probably more like two hundred and fifty — to see where intoxication and getting ideas got people.

It was to be hoped that Seamus did not spread his nonsense about graibeirs too far. John Grady remembered a word that the Letheans had used: snob. It had signified someone who thought he or she was better than anyone else. The Letheans had set a lot of store by that kind of thing; possessions and standing in the world. John Grady knew the worthlessness of such things, of course. Even so, you had to have standards, you had to remember that there were always those who led and those who followed. John was glad to think himself a leader, and he was very glad indeed to know himself above snobbishness. You did not often hear the term nowadays, but it was descriptive, nevertheless. It did not, naturally, describe John Grady, although he had his standards. It would not do for people in Tugaim to be saying his ancestors had been one of those unprincipled marauding gangs who had roamed the desolate wastes that were all the Apocalypse had left to mankind, taking land and plundering people’s homesteads. Everyone knew about them; everyone knew, as well, about the courage and the determination of the survivors. A terrible time it must have been, and the pity was that the graibeirs — the real ones — had succeeded, so that even in Tugaim there were descendants of them. He dared say that Seamus Flaherty was one.

You could not be too careful whom you allowed your family to conjoin with these days. He was going to be very careful indeed about Joanna. The child had been given some ridiculous Lethe notion about love and romance and suchlike; she was off with the wild O’Connor boy whenever the opportunity presented itself, and that was one of the things that was going to be stopped. Briony, foolish old woman, had encouraged her in her nonsense, but then Briony had always been more or less witless. Small wonder that Diarmid O’Connor had disappeared rather than be conjoined. Not that conjoining needed any particular degree of intimacy, of course. John himself had never been especially intimate with Joanna’s mother, it was a silly Lethe idea to think you had to live like that. The business of bed and board, and of day to day life could be done quietly and without fuss. There was a certain amount of messiness about conjoining, of course, he’d known that before he did it, but he’d gone through with it staunchly, because in these times it was every man’s duty to beget good sturdy children for the world.

Joanna was certainly not going to be conjoined with Flynn O’Connor. Doubtless the boy had his worth, but John Grady did not think that Flynn had anything in his head other than daydreams and Lethean nonsense. As for the O’Connor land, well, there was certainly a lot of it, but John did not think it was so very marvellous. He had looked at the maps carefully. Mostly fruit, of course. Some wheat and maize and a few sheep as well. And that treacherous belt of Glowing Land on its southeast boundary.

“A grand spot,” Michael O’Connor, Flynn’s father, had told him. “Can’t you see the Mountains of the Morning from there. The finest sight in all Ireland.”

Grady had been surprised. He had said, “You have actually walked across Glowing Land? Actually stood on it?” and a strange look had come into Michael’s eyes.

He’d replied, “Well now, wouldn’t any man be tempted?” and Grady had hardly been able to believe his ears, for didn’t everyone know, quite certainly, that the Glowing Lands were absolutely and finally forbidden?

O’Connor had said gently, “But do you know why they’re forbidden, John Grady?” and John had had to admit that he did not. But then no one did.

“Do they not?” said Michael softly. “Oh, do they not, indeed.” And John had taken himself off grumpily.

Joanna was certainly not going to be given into such an impractical family. John would not be at all surprised to find a hidden Mutant or two in the O’Connor background. You were not supposed to conceal Mutants, although people did; you were supposed to take the poor creature to the House of Mutants where it could be looked after and kept with its own kind. You had, as well, to enter the Mutant in the Kin Book, and if a Mutant was born into your family, you could not breed again. The line had to die out. Mutants had pretty well ceased to be born now, but occasionally you came across one … terrible creatures. Ah, when you were an Elder, you had to see some shocking things. You had to make some hard decisions. John was very thankful that the Gealtacht stood a little apart from Tugaim, remote on its high hill — a dreadful thing indeed if normal, whole people had to mingle with those deformities!

Joanna should be conjoined with Brian Muldooney. The Muldooneys were what was called New Stock; John did not think they had owned any land before the Apocalypse — you could nearly always tell when people were not accustomed to owning and possessing and having; but of course, this was not something which had to be taken too much into account. It certainly did not have to be taken into account when the land in question marched so neatly alongside Grady land, although John would not, of course, allow this to influence his decision.

Joanna should be conjoined with Brian Muldooney and that was all there was to it. The Muldooneys were scrupulous about keeping the laws, which was a thing to be considered; they paid their dues and they did what they should, and if they had ever harboured a Mutant, it would be a very great surprise. Which was more than you could say about Flynn O’Connor and his father.

The Muldooney farmlands would round off John’s own acres very nicely. It had been ridiculous of anyone to seriously consider Flynn, what with his impractical ways and his daydreaming family and his blend of arrogance and disinterest. John, who knew his own worth, and who knew, as well, that he himself was a natural leader of men, did not always care for Flynn O’Connor’s air of calling no man master. All men were equal, and that was what everyone today believed. It had not been what men believed before the Apocalypse, of course, they all of them knew that. There was even an ancient, carefully preserved book which the Letheans had thought well of, which said that all men were equal but that some were more equal than others. John had seen a copy of it in the People’s Museum, and had been very much shocked to see such a sentiment actually written down for all to read. He thought it told you a good deal about the Letheans.

Anyway, Joanna was going to Muldooney.

CHAPTER TWO

Michael O’Connor was feeling altogether great. Life was grand if you made it so; life was a fine old thing for a man these days. To be sure, his ancestors had bargained with the devil, and they had lost, so that the devil had walked in to the world and gobbled most of it up — the memories were not so many, but they were there, and people knew a little of that time. But weren’t there grand compensations at times? Wasn’t O’Connor land as safe as ever it had been, and didn’t they do well enough with their fruit orchards and their sheep rearing, which was as yet modest, but would not always be. And wasn’t the square stone farmhouse as snug a home as you’d find anywhere in Ireland?

Best of all, wasn’t it the finest thing in the world to be keeper of a secret so immense and so breath-taking that a man might be pardoned for feeling a touch arrogant now and then; he might be pardoned for feeling just the smallest bit superior to the likes of Grady the Landgrabber when he came poking his long nose, asking questions, actually sizing up an O’Connor for conjoining with his lovely daughter. Michael liked Joanna very much; he would have been very glad for Flynn to have Joanna; he thought Flynn would be glad as well. But wasn’t it as plain as a cowpat that the Landgrabber had no notion of Flynn for the child? A very great pity, and if there was anything Michael could do, he would do it, but Grady was a hard man, an inflexible man. He was suspicious, as well; would you only look at how he’d quizzed Michael about the Glowing Lands, and drawn in his prim mouth and looked disdainful. They could well do without the likes of John Grady in Tugaim.

The secret of the Glowing Lands was safe, of course. Michael would never betray it, not even when he had drunk Peg Flanagan’s poteen; certainly not when he had taken Peg or her sister, or both, off to bed for the night.

To be appointed one of the Keepers of the Secret had been the most tremendous honour. Michael’s father, initiating Michael when he was twenty-one, had said it was only because of the accident of geography; the Glowing Lands were on their territory and the thing had been preordained. A modest man he’d been. But Michael’s grandfather, who’d been a grand old ruffian and whose memory was still green in Tugaim today, had winked and grinned at his grandson, and said hadn’t the Keepers been chosen with great care throughout the world?

“Throughout the world?”

“There’ll be one or two in every land, even in England, although that’s always been known for a terrible dull place. Coldblooded the English. Weren’t we for ever at war with them?”

“Were we?”

“Even the English will have Keepers,” said Michael’s father. “For there’ll be Glowing Lands in every corner of the world — the Apocalypse made sure of that, may he rot in hell for ever.”

But the Apocalypse, wherever he was now, had done the world a curious favour. “Although,” said Michael’s father seriously, “if he’d known it, he’d have found a way of avoiding it. He intended destruction, you see; he brought down War, Plague, Famine and Death. He left the Glowing Lands as a permanent reminder. They say he touched them with his scorching breath as he passed through the world, and that they will glow for ever. Some people call them Gateways to Hell.

“But of course,” said Michael’s father, “they are no such thing.”

*

Michael O’Connor thought wasn’t it remarkable the way life moved in a circle. Twenty years ago he had stood on this very spot, his father at his side, and looked down the hillside to the ovoid below them that was one of Ireland’s Glowing Lands. Now he stood here with Flynn at his side, and felt excitement and fear mingle in exactly the way his father must have done. Would Flynn understand? Could he be trusted with the Secret? Had his own father wondered these things? And in twenty years’ time, would Flynn stand here with his own son? Michael hoped so. In any case, it had to be an unbroken line. Father to son. The first Keepers had been firm about that. Continuity. Father to daughter might be permitted, or perhaps father to grandson or nephew, but a special Council would have to sit, and the Keepers were always cautious about meeting together more than was absolutely necessary.

“We dare not,” the first Keepers had said, “draw attention to ourselves.”

Nor had they. They met when required; when one of them was admitting a son into the Secret. Or when no son existed, they met to consider who in that Keeper’s family might be handed the trust. They met stealthily, carefully, nearly always at night. Michael had attended perhaps three assemblies of Keepers since his own admission twenty years earlier. They were solemn gatherings, and they were not to be lingered over. There was a prescribed ritual to be followed.

“For,” said the first Keepers, “anyone adjudged indiscreet; anyone who it is considered will not keep absolute and total silence about the reality of the Glowing Lands, cannot be allowed to live.”

It was a harsh law, but it was a necessary one. Even so, twenty years earlier, the young Michael, brought before the Keepers, had stammered, “But I cannot take a vow of silence until I know what the Secret is.” And then, with a spurt of anger, “In any case, how would any of you know if I broke my vow?”

“We would know,” said the Keepers.

Flynn would be trustworthy; Michael thought he could be sure of that. The boy was a bit wild, he was a dreamer – still, I trust him, thought Michael, glancing at the silent figure at his side. And wondered was that an odd thing to think about your own son.

Flynn was amused and intrigued by this midnight meeting; he was also intensely curious. No one, or at least no one Flynn could think of, went up Tara’s Hill after nightfall, and no one ever stood on its summit and looked down on the Glowing Lands.

“Haunted,” said the villagers and shuddered, but Flynn thought that if the Hill was haunted, it was not haunted by anything you could put a name to. Several tales of hauntings had survived from the Letheans’ time, but Flynn knew that Tara’s Hill was not haunted by anything the Letheans would have recognised. There was a tremendous sense of anticipation tonight; there was a feeling of someone (something?) existing on the Hill, just out of sight and just out of hearing. Something that tried ceaselessly and tirelessly to make itself seen and heard. Flynn mentioned this to Michael as they began to ascend the hill, but Michael only said, “Perhaps. There are some odd things in the world since Devastation,” and fell silent.

Flynn was aware, as never before, of the immense stillness of Tara’s Hill, and of a queer thrumming note on the night air. He tilted his head listening, for surely his father could hear it as well. But Michael, appealed to, said, “I hear nothing.”

“Yes … listen. Surely it is music …”

But no music he had ever heard the like of. Few of the Letheans’ music-making machines had survived, but some had. People had lately begun to rediscover these machines’ secrets; there was a little more time now from the healing of the land, there was not quite such a need to be endlessly tilling and planting and reaping. People were learning how to relax just a little. A family in Donegal had found music notation in an old tin trunk; someone had fathomed the principles of it. Flynn and his father had actually heard the most marvellous sounds made by something called a violin, and something else called a piano, played at a gathering of O’Connor families. Remarkable. The music had been written long before the Great Devastation, hundreds of years, it was thought. A German, someone said.

But van Beethoven’s music had been nothing like the music Flynn was hearing now. He thought: I am not just hearing it, I am feeling it. The someone or the something that is just out of sight is pouring it into my soul, as easily as pouring water from one jug to another. He felt himself filling up with the music, until it spread to every pore of his body, and he wanted to shout aloud with delight and he wanted, as well, to turn and run away, because there was besides something cold and inhuman and rather cruel. I think, said Flynn to himself, that to listen to this for too long might drive a man insane.

He glanced at his father again. “Do you truly not hear it?” he said, and Michael replied, “I hear nothing,” so that Flynn fell silent, for his father’s tone was dismissive.

They had crested the summit of Tara’s Hill now, and below them, Flynn could see clearly the incandescent light. The Glowing Lands. There were many belts of them throughout Ireland; throughout the world, it was believed. They were known to be dangerous, although no one knew why, and they were thought to have been cursed. They were feared and avoided and they were never built on. “Never build on Glowing Lands,” said the old warning, and no one ever had.

“Are we going down there?” said Flynn.

“We are.”

“To the Glowing Lands?”

“Yes.” Michael looked at his son out of the corners of his eyes. “Afraid?”

“Terrified,” said Flynn, and grinned. “Will I lead the way?”

“If you wish.”

And then Flynn saw the hooded and cloaked figures waiting for them.

*

They were welcomed courteously, but rather solemnly, into the circle of dark figures; Flynn thought afterwards that there was an air of glancing over the shoulder about them. He thought they were not exactly afraid, these unseen faces, but they were very, very wary.

There were not very many of them; were there ten? Perhaps eleven or twelve. Certainly not more. One of them stepped forward and handed Flynn a cloak.

“You must put this on.”

“Why?”

“You will blend better into the night. We do not want to be seen.”

Flynn considered rebelling, but only for a second. His imagination was stirred and his curiosity aroused. As well as that, his sense of humour was awake. Were they all to caper goat-like on the damp grass and invoke the Old Gods? I’m not missing any of this, thought Flynn, and donned the cloak and a sober mien, and waited to see what came next.

The men drew round him in a circle, and the one who had given him the cloak looked at him intently. Flynn thought, he is attempting to see into my soul, and felt at once uneasy.

The man said, “Flynn O’Connor. Son of Michael, son of Liam, son of Patrick, son of Seamus, son of Donal, the First Keeper of the O’Connors. Listen. And listen carefully. Do not interrupt.

“When the Great Devastation nearly killed the world and the Apocalypse stalked the land, many things died. Many things the world knew then will never be known to the world today.

“But when the Apocalypse left his paw marks on the world, he did not know that in doing so he had disturbed something very ancient and very dangerous.”

A pause. Michael glanced at Flynn, but Flynn was silent.

“Ours is not the only world,” said the speaker, his eyes in shadow. “There have been many other worlds; there are still many other worlds, and there will be many worlds that will come after us. We cannot know of them, nor they of us. Ever since time began, they have been hidden from us, for the Gods who made the world drew down the Time Curtain, so that there should be no passage between these many and varied worlds.”

Again the pause, as if he was listening to Flynn’s reactions. He appeared satisfied; he gave a small nod, and continued.

“Imagine, if you can, Flynn O’Connor, son of the unbroken line of an old Irish family, the men and women who lived through the Great Devastation. Think of those ancestors of ours, think of what they endured. They were Letheans — the last of those extraordinary people, and yet they were the first of a new race as well. They had lived in the Lethe world with all its marvels and its learning and its luxuries. Its decadence, also, for we know that the Letheans, towards the end, had become very decadent. They had been born into it, those ancestors of ours, and they had never known any other world.

“And then the Apocalypse came. We do not know what sort of warning they had, but we can assume there was some. Think of them, terrified, powerless, visualising the horrors about to be unleashed on them, for whatever else they may have lacked, we know they did not lack imagination.

“And when the Apocalypse came, there would have been unimaginable terrors. Fiery walls of light. Blazing furnaces. Cities burning and floods and earthquakes. And afterwards, when the Apocalypse had gone, there would have been disease and hunger and thirst. People dying by the thousand. It has been said, and perhaps truly, that the unfortunate ones were those who survived …

“The world was a burnt-out graveyard, Flynn, but the people who survived were courageous beyond description. They were survivors in the truest and oldest sense of the word. An extraordinary people. They were strong and they were fearless.

“They rebuilt the world, Flynn, and they tried to explore all of its possibilities, and they took on tasks that we would perhaps shrink from.

“The Glowing Lands fascinated them. They knew the dangers — they knew they were the stigmata of the Great Devastation, but they still explored them. This is perhaps the greatest example of their courage, for we know that the Glowing Lands were very much brighter than they are now, and they would have been frightening places. They are dimming, you see, Flynn. With every generation that passes, the Glowing Lands — and their powers — are fading. A little each year. It may be that one day in the future, there will be no such things as Glowing Lands, and then there will be no need for Keepers of the Secret.”

He stopped speaking and appeared to wait. Flynn said cautiously, “But what is the secret? And why does it need – all of this?”

“The secret is a vast one,” said the man. “When it was discovered, it was thought by our ancestors to be too vast and widely reaching for it to be made generally known. Only the people who had Lands on their own territories …”

Again the pause. “Yes?”

The speaker seemed to hesitate, choosing his words.

“When the Apocalypse stalked the world he did something to it that no one could have thought possible. I have not the learning to explain it to you fully; none of us has. The Letheans, with their scholars and their men of science and their philosophers might have done, but even then we cannot be sure. There are no recorded instances …”

Once again Flynn said, “Yes?”

“It is simple enough,” said the man. “The Apocalypse tore the Time Curtain, Flynn. The Glowing Lands, every one of them, are gateways to the past.”

At once there was an air of relief about the silent figures; a feeling of: at last it is out in the open again! Now we can talk, even if only for a short while; for a short while we can relax our guard and share with our own kind the marvellous, terrible inheritance of Devastation.

Flynn did not speak. His mind was tumbling with new ideas, struggling to adjust to something he had never before thought about. Or had he? Did so much not now become clear? The other-world feeling of Tara’s Hill. The strong sense of something pressing close to him whenever he was there. And the music — oh yes, above all, the cold, beautiful music. And then above that, of course, above everything, the knowledge that Tugaim had of the past. Not the near past; not the Letheans and their terrible battle, which had been only eleven — was it eleven? — generations ago; not that.

The Deep Past — everything remembered and written and preserved. Every ancient book hoarded and jealously guarded by Flynn’s family. “For,” had said Flynn’s grandmother, “this is our heritage, and we must keep it so that it can be handed on.” And there had been fire-lit evenings when the family would gather in the long low-ceilinged room of the farmhouse and weave stories and tell legends, and there had been long drowsy afternoons in the apple orchard when they would sing some of the old old songs, old before the Letheans’ time, of the Ancient Ireland.

The Ancient Ireland — the misty beginnings of time when creatures not quite human but not quite animal had ruled; when the Court of Tara had sat in unguessed-at splendour on this hill — oh dear God yes, thought Flynn, this very hill — and when Ireland had been ruled by sorcery and enchantment and by cunning and strength and intrigue. The Plain of the Fál, the Stone of Knowledge, phallus-shaped and giving voice when touched by the destined High King. The people of legend: Niall of the Nine Hostages, and the Twelve Chariot Warriors, and the Couch of Conchobar. Mab the Intoxicating One and Cormac mac Airt, Cormac of the Wolves, who had been exiled from Tara. Flynn sat and stared and listened and all the time thought: of course it is true! Of course we know it all. We were there. In the lost past of Ireland. In the mist-shrouded days when there were High Kings and sorcerers and battles.

People were there. Recently. Since Devastation. The Apocalypse tore the Time Curtain and people have been back. That is why it has been so important to preserve the past. That is why the past is so important to us. A great sense of awe filled him, and he leaned forward, anxious to hear, eager not to miss anything.

The discussion had become general now; the hooded figures were seated in a tight little circle on the grass, words tumbling from them, clearly keen to welcome him into their ranks, delighted to give the newcomer as much knowledge as they had.

There were Glowing Lands throughout the world, said one; there were Keepers of the Secret in every country the Apocalypse had visited.

Flynn asked: was the Great Devastation after all so widespread? What of the rumours that a few lands had escaped? Was that only a myth?

“We do not believe any part of the world escaped,” said the man sadly. “Devastation was total. The Apocalypse was merciless, for although in other lands he is called by a different name, the results of his wrath are exactly the same.”

Flynn was at once intrigued by the idea of knowledge filtering in from other lands, and the man, sensing this, said, “We have occasionally met Keepers from far-off countries. From time to time, the journey has been undertaken, for although it is arduous and long to travel such immense distances, still we have done it in order to learn and in order to gain a little understanding.”

“Everywhere, it is the same,” said another. “The Great Devastation. War, plague, famine and death. In some lands, the Apocalypse is called the Armageddon. In others he is called by a name we could not pronounce. But everywhere it is the same.”

“And everywhere has belts of Glowing Land,” said yet another. “In every country, the Time Curtain has been torn.”

“But what happens? How does it work?”

There was a sudden silence, and Flynn thought: I should not have said that. They are shocked.

But they considered his question courteously; they glanced uneasily at one another, until, at length, the man who had told the story, and who appeared to be some kind of leader, said, “That is one of the things we do not know. It is one of the things you must promise, Flynn. Never to test the power of the Lands. Never to try to go back.”

If you break the vow, we shall know … Michael, quietly listening, contributing little to the discussion, remembered his own initiation, twenty years earlier. If you break the vow, we shall know … of course they would know.

“We know the power of the Lands,” said the leader, “for it is one of the things the first Keepers discovered, and one of the things they have handed down to us. We know that some of them did go back.”

“And returned?”

“Yes,” said the leader, carefully, “yes, they returned. But as each decade passed, it was a little more difficult for them to do so. It is easy to travel back, but it is not so easy to return.”

And the power of the Glowing Lands is dimming … No one said it, but the words hovered. Flynn thought: to go back there, to find undreamed of wonders and terrors, but perhaps never to return …

“Eventually,” said the leader, “it was agreed that to test the power of the Gateways must be strictly forbidden. That is one of our two laws, Flynn. The other is absolute secrecy. You must never speak of what you have learned tonight, and you must never, under any circumstances whatsoever, try to go through the Time Curtain.”

*

“But of course, people have gone through it,” said Michael, walking slowly back to the snug stone farmhouse, where fires would still burn for them, and where they would pour themselves tots of Peg Flanagan’s poteen and probably talk until first light of what had happened.

“Of course they have gone back,” said Michael again. “It is how we in Tugaim have acquired our knowledge of Ancient Ireland.”

Flynn said, “But why only Ancient Ireland? Why just that one time?”

“If I had the learning,” said Michael, who was, in fact, a gentle, scholarly man when he had not taken poteen, “if I had the learning, I could explain it all clearly. As it is, I can tell you best by saying that each piece of Glowing Land is like a doorway. It opens on to one part of the past, and one part only. There are Tunnels of Time, great echoing caverns, which go on and on, and where a man might wander forever in the dark, searching for the doorways that would lead him into the Past. They say that there are endless winds in the Tunnels,” said Michael, his eyes staring ahead unseeingly now. “And wouldn’t that be a terrible thing to find yourself trapped in one of those Tunnels.

“But the tears in the Time Curtain are not where the Tunnels are,” he said, “therefore, we do not have unlimited access to the Past. We cannot get into the Tunnels and walk along them until we reach the doorways we want. Whole centuries are still sealed.

“But each of us who owns Glowing Land, has a gateway into a portion of the past. A direct doorway, you see. The English have a chink through to the days of the druids, and another to the time of a chieftain they revered — Arthur. And there are many others I wouldn’t know about. The Keepers are reticent. Each guards his Gateways jealously.”

They had reached the farmhouse now. Normality! thought Flynn. And was glad to see the place again. Wasn’t he? And then he remembered that strange, beckoning, other-world music on Tara’s Hill, and wondered if he was glad. He lit lamps from the embers of the fire on the hearth, and tugged off his boots. There was a basket of sweet-scented applewood logs in the fender, and he tipped several of them on to the dying fire. Yes, normality. Perhaps after all it was safest.

“Tell me about the Keepers.”

Michael sat down and stretched his legs to the blaze. It was good to be home. It was very good indeed to be able to talk to Flynn about the Secret.

“The Keepers came into being after Devastation. When people who owned Glowing Lands began to discover the truth. No one knows how they did discover it, and to be sure, the Lands themselves were nothing to take much notice of. They were always blackened and arid. Nothing ever grew there. But there were reports of odd visions; strange lights, creatures that did not fit into any known category. That, of course, was not so very remarkable then; you have heard of the Mutants —”

“Yes. Oh yes.”

“Well, they were not Mutants, of course. No one knows quite what they were. Little by little, our ancestors pieced together the truth. As you heard our leader say tonight, they were brave people. Some of them must have gone through the Time Curtain.”

“And?”

“They brought back tales. Those who came back.”

Those who came back … There it was again, the chill suggestion that once beyond the Time Curtain, one might not be able to return. Flynn shivered, and went quickly to the built-in oak cupboard for the poteen. They’d have a pinch of spice in with it, to warm them.

“At length,” said Michael, taking the glass from Flynn and sipping it gratefully, “there was consternation. Our ancestors began to be worried by what they had found. There was too much to be done here; there was too much rebuilding of a world nearly destroyed to worry about other worlds. Mankind could not be allowed to escape to the past. The idea of guardians was put forward; people who owned Glowing Lands to be admitted to the truth, but no one else. Absolute secrecy to be demanded. And careful rumours to be spread that the Lands were dangerous.”

Flynn said softly, “Never build on Glowing Lands.”

“Yes.” Michael leaned back, savouring the warmth of the fire and of the wine. “It was decreed that the Secret was to be kept within the Keepers’ families — handed on to the eldest son when he reached the age of twenty. And the two laws: secrecy at all costs, and the promise never to go through the Time Curtain.” He looked at Flynn. “The penalty for breaking either law is death.”

“But why? Why is it so strictly forbidden? Could we not learn from these other worlds? Find out about our beginnings?” Once again, Michael heard the echo of his own self, twenty years earlier.

“The reason is twofold, Flynn. The first Keepers did not want people escaping their responsibilities here. It would have been a harsh, cold world then; even harsher to the Letheans who had lost everything.

“But there is also the undoubted fact that Time cannot be tampered with. The Time Curtain exists for a purpose. Think. If you or I or anyone went back into the past, think of what might happen. We would become involved; we would meddle, for mankind is an inquisitive species. Events that shaped our history might be altered. Supposing our ancestors were killed before they had founded our line … whole families might become unborn.

“And so the two laws were made. No journeys through the Time Curtain. And the knowledge to be guarded by the Keepers. It was not thought that the knowledge would have to be guarded for ever, anyway.

“The Glowing Lands are dimming, Flynn. The tears in the Time Curtain are healing. It may be that we shall only have to guard the secret for another generation or two. You may have to admit your son, as I admitted you tonight, but he may not have to admit his in turn. The Glowing Lands will cool and they will become one of our myths. Even so, the Keepers are strict. They brook no flouting of the laws.

“Anyone betraying the Secret, or attempting to go through the Curtain is put to death.”

*

Joanna could not believe it when her father took her into the small front parlour of the farmhouse, which was only used for special occasions and which smelt rather cold and stuffy, and asked her to sit down and then told her of the match arranged for her.

Muldooney! Brian Muldooney the pig farmer! Muldooney who was fat and oily. Joanna knew him — not very well — but she knew him. He was gross. His skin was coarse and it was pink like his pigs. He had small eyes and a tight small mouth. People said the eyes were the windows of the soul, that you could read a person’s character from his eyes, but Joanna thought that mouths were a much better indication. Muldooney’s mouth was tight and mean; it folded itself into a prim puckered line and looked as if it had never uttered a generous word in its life.

Flynn’s mouth … ah no, she must not think of Flynn.

“This is quite an honour,” said her father, watching her in what Joanna suddenly thought was a rather unpleasant way. A glittery, sly, sort of way. “Brian Muldooney is a very fine fellow, Joanna. You are very lucky.”

And Brian Muldooney’s farmlands are very extensive, which is even luckier … It would not do to say it, but Joanna thought it anyway.

She said slowly, “So you are going to conjoin me to Muldooney …”

“A very minor matter,” said her father, in what Joanna could not help thinking of as a rather too careful voice. “Over very quickly.”

And when it is over, I shall be left with a fat, oily pig farmer whose farmhouse is miles from anywhere, and miles from Flynn. I shall be without Flynn! thought Joanna in sudden panic. I can’t do it! I can’t!

“But,” said Joanna’s mother, when appealed to, “you will have your own household. You will like that.”

Joanna would not like it the smallest bit.

“Miles from anywhere,” said Aunt Briony, with that curious habit she sometimes had of picking up one’s thoughts. “Of course, it has to be …” She continued with her mending, not looking up. “Pigs,” she said, rather meaningfully.

“I don’t — oh I see. The smell.”

“The least of Joanna’s problems will be the smell of the pigs,” said Aunt Briony, biting off a length of cotton viciously, and Joanna thought: oh please don’t let her mention Flynn. I shall be all right if only she doesn’t mention Flynn.

“What about Flynn?” said Aunt Briony, and Joanna remembered that your wildest pleas were never really answered.

“What about him?” That was Joanna’s father, frowning at Aunt Briony, and drumming his fingers on the table in the way he did when anything displeased or discomfited him.

“Joanna was intended for Flynn.”

“Not really. Not seriously.”

“It’s a tradition,” said Aunt Briony. “John Grady, you’re a hard man.”

“It’s a matter of business.”

“You’re selling Joanna to a pig-man.”

“Joanna go to bed. This is not for your ears.”

It was the ritual that worried her most. She thought she could get used to living on Muldooney’s farm, because you could make even the most dismal of places quite comfortable if you put some thought into it. She could probably get used to the pigs as well. Pigs were pleasant creatures. Placid. And piglets were rather sweet. Also, you did not need to concentrate solely on them. She could have chickens which would run about the farmyard and cluck and produce nice golden eggs. There was an old Lethe dish in which you beat up the eggs with butter and milk over a slow heat. Delicious. Yes, she would certainly want to keep chickens.

But along with the made-comfortable farmhouse and the nice homely chickens and the eggs, would be Muldooney himself. And the ritual. And Flynn would be beyond her reach. He would only be a mile away to the east, but he would be as far from her as if he was on the other side of Ireland, or on the other side of the world, or on another world altogether.

Perhaps if she did not think about Flynn it would be all right. And to disobey her father was unthinkable (wasn’t it?). I shan’t think about Flynn, said Joanna firmly, but she did think about him. Aunt Briony was right, she had been intended for Flynn.

*

She was driven over to Muldooney’s farm by her father in the cart, with Bess jogging over the ruts and the potholes. In some places they had made good smooth roads, but the road that led to Muldooney’s farm had not been smoothed at all. Perhaps Muldooney had not thought it was necessary to make the road easier for his guests. Perhaps he did not have many guests. If this was the only road to his farm, Joanna was not surprised.

The outing was so that she and Muldooney could become better acquainted.

“And to see the house, of course,” said her mother, and Joanna caught a look between her mother and father, and felt excluded.

“The house is a fine place,” said her father, but as they approached it now, Joanna found that her heart was sinking. It was bleak. It was in the middle of nowhere, and it was bleak and gaunt and comfortless. It did not look as if it would be as comfortable as the Grady house, which had been built by Joanna’s ancestors shortly after Devastation — Landgrabbers, said Flynn’s father — and which was square and large and modern. It was definitely not as nice as the O’Connor house which was very old.

“Pre-Devastation,” said Flynn, grinning. “Stone, you see. It stood up to the Apocalypse quite well. Or perhaps the Apocalypse never wanted it.”

Joanna loved the O’Connor farmhouse with its low ceilings and beams, and the huge fireplace and bright copper pans in the kitchen, which Flynn’s ancestors had buried in the garden when they knew the Apocalypse was coming.

“So that they could cook a meal when he had gone,” said Flynn solemnly. “My great-great — oh, several times great-grandmother was frying bacon and eggs as he disappeared over the horizon in a cloud of smoke.”

Muldooney’s farmhouse did not look as if anyone had ever done anything so homely as fry bacon and eggs there. It certainly did not look as if anyone made a joke or laughed in it. It looked what it was; a place where pigs were reared and where drab plain meals were cooked and eaten. You could not imagine people enjoying a glass of poteen, or gathering round the fire to tell stories, like they did at the O’Connor house when neighbours called at harvest time; or even having huge family gatherings like Joanna’s parents did, when the kitchen was filled with the scent of baking for days, and Joanna’s mother could not be appealed to on any subject that did not concern the preparation of food.

Still, they were made welcome enough by Muldooney, who had dignified the occasion by donning his best moleskin breeches and by having scrubbed his large face until it shone. They were given a glass of wine — “Just this once,” said John Grady, frowning slightly — and Joanna was taken to see the house by Muldooney himself.

“While your father takes a look at the yards,” said Muldooney looking at Joanna in a way that made her feel uncomfortable. She looked to her father for guidance and saw a look of — understanding was it? — pass between the two men, as if a question had been asked and answered. And so there was nothing to be done but to go with Muldooney and be shown the parlour, and the office where he saw to the ordering of stock and the selling of his pigs, and the rather cold scullery. And the bedrooms.

The bedrooms were cold and rather sparsely furnished — Muldooney had no time for prettifying, but Joanna would alter all that, wouldn’t she? He knew that ladies like to primp and fuss and prettify a room. Not that there was money to spare for unnecessary things, of course; she must not think him a wealthy man, for he was no such thing.

“This is our room,” said Muldooney, his face suddenly close to hers, his small brown eyes hot. They were pig’s eyes. Muldooney was a pig. Joanna would not be surprised to discover he had little pink trotters instead of feet. She would certainly not be surprised to find out that he grunted when he was asleep and snorted when he ate. Cold panic seized the pit of her stomach.

“We’ll be here together,” said Muldooney, his hands on her arms. “For the conjoining. Have they told you about that?”

Joanna was certainly not going to let him think she was ignorant. “Oh that. Oh, I know all about that.”

“Do you now? Do you indeed?” He was standing very close and he was fidgeting in an embarrassing fashion, and his eyes were glittering. Horrible man. She could not possibly live here in this cold, comfortless house with a man who grunted and snorted and glittered at her. She definitely could not go through with the conjoining … whatever it turned out to be.

“Will we have a bit of a taste of it, then?” said Muldooney, and quite suddenly, his hands were on her body, fumbling at buttons and fastenings, thrusting inside her gown until they found her breasts.

Joanna backed away, her eyes huge, crossing her hands over her breasts protectively. “Don’t —”

“Oh, ‘tis always done, and no harm in it — come on to the bed my pretty dear — oh, you shan’t escape me, never fear, my little dearie …”

It was dreadful. It was so dreadful that Joanna felt sick. He was pulling at her clothing and at his own; she did not dare look, it was quite unspeakably embarrassing.

“Let me go,” said Joanna furiously, but she said it in a low voice, because it was unthinkable to scream and bring her father running up the stairs. “Let me go!”

Her struggles seemed to make him even more determined.

He had her by the arms now, and he was pinning her down to the bed. His fingers were thick, repulsive, they were biting into her flesh. As if I am one of his pigs, thought Joanna. Dare I scream? Would Father hear?

Muldooney said softly, “For one who knows all about conjoining, you’re mighty reticent, my dearie. So you know what’s expected, do you?” He was pressing his warm fat body close to hers and Joanna bit back a shudder. “By the gods, if John Grady’s sold me damaged goods …” The small eyes bored into hers. “Was it the O’Connor boy? Did he put it to you, my pretty? Well now, you’ll see what a real man’s like … Wait, ‘til I show you.”

He was fumbling with his trouser fastenings, reaching inside and tugging at something. Joanna was horrified; she knew, of course, that men were different to women — “All to do with making babies,” her mother had said — but she had not been prepared for anything quite like this.

She had certainly not been prepared for this ugly swollen stalk of flesh protruding from Muldooney’s trousers, or for the leering of his sweaty, red face as he watched her.

“D’you see it then, my pretty dear? A grand sight, isn’t it? You’ll not find a better. I’ll wager the O’Connor boy never had a one like that now.”

“Let me go,” said Joanna again, torn between a wish to burst into tears, and another to bring her nails raking down across the face so close to hers.

“A foretaste of what you’ll be getting,” said Muldooney. And then, slyly, horribly intimate, “Y’can touch it, my dearie. Give me your hand — he likes being touched by a pretty lady’s hand.”

Joanna snatched her hand back as if it had been burnt, and scrambled from the bed, pulling the torn bodice of her gown about her.

“Well now,” said Muldooney softly, “well now, so the pretty little dear thinks herself too good for me, does she?” He moved across the bed, and Joanna thought wildly: he is ridiculous. He is comical. You could not be afraid of a man who lunged at you with his trousers wide open and that, that thing hanging and flopping. I am not afraid of him, said Joanna backing into a corner, looking about her for something to use as a weapon.

He grabbed her roughly, and half dragged, half threw her on to the bed. “So, the pretty dear would escape me, would she? Oh, that will never do, and me having paid your father what I did pay. An investment, my little one, that’s what you are. Any man who knows me, will tell you Muldooney makes the most of his investments. Did the O’Connor boy put it to you, then? Did he do this, and this …” His hands were pulling aside her gown, reaching up between her legs, probing, stroking, fingering. Joanna thought: I believe I am going to be sick. If he does not stop, I shall be sick in his face.

Muldooney was panting and grunting now, a slick of sweat on his face, his breath rather sour as he blew it into her face. “That’s more like it, isn’t it … oh my, you’re a soft tender little piece, aren’t you … oh my, I’m going to enjoy you —”

“Please — let me go …”

“In a minute, my dearie. I’m not done yet — Oh, Muldooney isn’t one of your two-minute merchants, as you’ll see — a proper man, Muldooney is. You just let me show you. You let me put him here where he wants to be …”

There was a sudden convulsive movement, and a snorting grunt, and something glutinous and warm spurted across Joanna’s thighs. Muldooney sagged across her, still half on top.

Joanna lay very still: I am not bearing any of this. It is dreadful. It is the most dreadful thing that has ever happened to me. I think I shall be sick. I think I might faint. Would it be better to faint and not know what came next, or would it be worse? It would serve him right if I was sick all over him. What was it he did? It’s all over my legs. It’s disgusting. If he doesn’t move in a minute, I really will be sick.

Muldooney stirred. He sat up and pulled his trousers together, not looking at Joanna. His face was blotchy now, the redness fading in patches. When he was dressed he stumbled from the room, still not looking at her.

*

In the downstairs room, John Grady and Brian Muldooney looked at one another. There was no need for words, of course, between men it was understood what had happened. Decent men did not refer to such things. But John Grady knew that Muldooney had just done to Joanna what John himself did to Joanna’s mother from time to time. It was nothing to make a fuss over; men occasionally had the need to do it, rather in the way they needed to empty a full bladder, although not, of course, as often. Joanna’s mother was always very good about it, and Joanna would learn to be the same. She would have to, for the price Muldooney had paid was a good one, and John had no intention of returning any of it.

The women, of course, never knew about this side; they were flattered to think themselves sought; they were pleased to believe they had been requested for conjoining. There was no need for them to know about the purely business side; women did not understand these things, John had always known that. The Letheans had allowed women to meddle in business, and look what had happened to the Letheans.

Still, there was a code of good manners to be followed, and John Grady said, “Everything satisfactory?”

No man ever admitted to another that an excess of excitement or a lack of self-control had brought matters to a precipitate conclusion. Muldooney had his pride, and he thought: admit to John Grady that I shot my load before I got within sight of target! Not likely! And the girl would soon learn obedience, she could be taught her duty. He would rather enjoy doing that. He would certainly enjoy dismissing the woman who had cooked and cleaned for him in desultory fashion these last ten years. Joanna could do all that now, and a sight cheaper as well! Muldooney was very pleased with his bargain.

He said, “Perfectly satisfactory.”

“In that case, I’ll be off,” said John, because there was no sense in prolonging the stay. The deal was concluded; Joanna had been conjoined and he could go back to his own home and see to the apple harvest. There was a good crop this year, damsons as well. Joanna’s mother would bottle the damsons; the apples would be stored under the roof where they would scent the house until next spring. He turned to go, and then bethought himself of something else.

“Since you’re satisfied, Joanna may as well stay here. I’ll send her things over.” No sense in making a double journey.

“Yes. Oh yes, you leave the pretty dear here,” said Muldooney, and a slow smile creased his face.

CHAPTER THREE

Joanna was in despair. She had managed to sponge away the sticky fluid with water from the ewer, and had scrubbed at her gown where it was stained. While replacing the ewer on the washstand beneath the window, she had seen her father drive away, clicking to Bess to pick up her feet, holding the cart’s reins with his left hand as he always did when he was feeling jaunty.

He was leaving her. He was leaving her with a man who grunted like one of his own pigs, and who could not remember her name.

That was the part that hurt most. Throughout the dreadful intimacy, Muldooney had not once called her Joanna. He had said “my pretty dear,” “my little dear,” “my pretty one.” Exactly as he would to a child or a plaything. Joanna, horror rising in her like sickness, thought: I am shut away with a man who will look on me as a plaything.

She had the dreadful thought that in this house, conjoined to Muldooney, the real Joanna would eventually disappear; she would shrivel up and die for lack of recognition; so quietly that no one would notice, and in her place would only be Muldooney’s woman, nameless, rarely speaking, called upon to cook and clean and do with Muldooney the things they had done a short time ago. Every night, perhaps. In this room and on that bed. And he would have the right. He would own her. Joanna stared out through the windows to where her father was only a tiny moving speck on the cart track, and thought: I can’t do it.

She could not. She could not stay here, shut away in this cold house with a man who would never use her name. She would do anything rather than stay here. Even though there was nowhere to run, still she would run away.

The thought brought an overwhelming relief. I have decided that I cannot bear it. I have decided not to bear it. She would not ever again be called on to face Muldooney’s proddings and probings. She would not have to stay here in the comfortless bleak farmhouse.

Where would she go? Home? No, for her father would certainly make her return and her mother would support him. Through Joanna’s mind there flickered the thought of Aunt Briony. An ally? Yes, Aunt Briony might just possibly be an ally. Only I must not involve her unless I have to, thought Joanna. Even so, the thought of Aunt Briony brought a faint far-off comfort. Aunt Briony understood. She knew that Joanna was meant for Flynn.

Flynn.

A smile curved Joanna’s lips. She reached for her cloak and unlatched the bedroom door.

*

The twilight was thickening as she slipped from the house, a silent shadow, unheard, unnoticed. The dusk was lilac-scented; Flynn’s father called it the Purple Time, this half-light, this odd mysterious dying of the day and emerging of the night. “A time when magic may be abroad,” he had said, and smiled, and Joanna had never been quite sure whether he was serious.

She slipped across the fields of Muldooney’s lands and on to the track that would lead to Flynn’s house.

She had hardly ever been out at night before, and she had certainly never been out at night by herself. The men went out; they went to Peg Flanagan’s to drink poteen, or they went farther afield into Cork, but the women were expected to stay at home.

“Men’s business,” her mother had said, and Joanna had known a moment of rebellion. Had the Lethe women sat meekly at home while their men went off into the cities? Not for a moment! thought Joanna.

Even so, it was a bit frightening to be out like this by herself. She thought she would not give in to the feeling of nervousness, because there was really nothing to be nervous about. If she said it several times, very firmly, she would begin to believe it.

Tara’s Hill loomed to her left, a dark secretive mound, sprinkled here and there with trees and thickets which had escaped the Apocalypse’s blast. When Joanna had been very small she had thought Tara’s Hill was an enchanted place, a place where you might see anything in the world. But …

“Fairy story nonsense,” her father said indulgently. “Not for little girls to waste their time on. You will do better to help your mother with the butter making.”

But Joanna had never quite lost the feeling that Tara’s Hill was a magical place, that there were other worlds to be discovered there, and even now, fleeing from Muldooney — oh would he have found her gone yet? — even running helter-skelter through the dusk, even like this, she could spare a glance for the Hill and its lure. Easy to imagine other worlds locked inside it; easier still to imagine those magical half-beast, half-human creatures Flynn had talked about. Had they existed, those beautiful cruel beings, or was it only a story?

The countryside looked quite different at night. It felt different and it sounded different. Once an owl — or was it? — flew from a tree and hooted softly overhead. Once something moved in the bushes a little ahead of her, and went scurrying through the undergrowth in search of its supper or its mate. Joanna thought about the Hill coming alive, waking, and the night creatures coming out. The animals and the forest creatures had nearly all disappeared during the Great Devastation, but not quite all. Sometimes you saw them, if you were very quiet and looked very hard. Badgers and moles who would have been underground when the Apocalypse walked. Owls and bats and creatures of the night, and other creatures whose names had been lost, but who had somehow secreted themselves away from the Apocalypse’s fury.

The countryside was beautiful. People said, “Oh, but it would have been breathtaking before Devastation.” But Joanna liked it now. There were still portions of the forest that had once sprawled half up Tara’s Hill, and within it huge patches of undergrowth. Not everything had died. Things had survived. Joanna would survive. Even out here, even in the dusk, with Muldooney and probably her father raising the alarm for her? Yes, even then. And I am going to Flynn, thought Joanna, and a tremendous delight began to well up inside her. It suddenly seemed completely right that she should be going through the lilac-scented dusk to Flynn. Ahead of her she could see the lights of the O’Connor farmhouse, oblongs of warm yellow colour. Then I am nearly home, thought Joanna, and smiled at her choice of word. But yes of course it was home. Flynn was there and it was home.

It came as no surprise, as she rounded the curve in the path, to see Flynn coming towards her, his face pale in the dim light, his hair windswept, and his eyes glowing. How often had she come running like this, down the path with the briar thicket and the wild hedge rose in summer; past the great lilac bushes, and up to the wicket gate, only to see Flynn coming to meet her. She thought: he knows. Not what has happened, only that something has. He knows.

I always will know, my love …

Joanna quickened her pace, until she was flying over the rough ground, her hair streaming behind her, her mind alight and alive with delight. Oh how, sharing this with Flynn, this oneness, this awareness, how could I possibly have stayed with Muldooney?

The wind stirred the lilac and the scent came round her like an embrace.

Flynn held out his arms and Joanna ran straight into them.

*

Flynn had no defence against Joanna’s distress. The longings so firmly banked down and sternly quenched for so many years — “For,” he had thought, “they will never let me have her, and I would not cause her pain.” — rose up now to betray him, so that he pulled her against him, and began kissing her hungrily. An immense delight closed over him, of course this is how it is meant to be! This is what is missing with the girls down in the village, satisfactory for a half hour’s release, for a night’s drinking and bedding, forgotten as soon as they are out of sight. This is what the Letheans knew about, and what the survivors of Devastation tried to stamp out. And he cupped Joanna’s face between his hands and kissed her searchingly, but with such love and with such infinite longing that the night blurred about him.

In Joanna’s mind there was no kinship between what had happened with Muldooney a few hours earlier, and what was happening now with Flynn. The cold, comfortless bedroom and Muldooney’s soft fat body had no place in this safe secret warmth where Flynn’s arms held her, and where the dusk was scented with its own magic — the Purple Hour! Oh yes, now I believe! — and where Flynn’s lips were soft and demanding and exciting, and where his body was hard and strong and gentle.

When he drew away a little, she thought, oh no! He cannot stop now! I shall not bear it! But then Flynn was scooping her up in his arms, and after all they were still together, and the bond that had proved itself out here was not breaking. Then Flynn carried her into the farmhouse. The scents and the familiar feeling of the house closed about Joanna; old oak and polish and stored apples. The scents of welcoming. Of safety. Flynn murmured something; Joanna thought it was to do with his father being out in the barns with a sick animal, but she barely heard, because the blood was singing in her veins, and the world was slowing down to a soft slow heart-beat, and there was no one in the world but herself and Flynn, and there was nothing in the world to fear, and nothing to bother about, except this soft slow melting, this merging of one person with another.

The windows of Flynn’s bedroom were open to the night air, and the lilac was there again, and the soft liquid notes of some night bird in the tree outside …

The nightingale or the lark …? No, no, my love, it is yet the nightingale, and we have the entire night before us …

She heard Flynn laugh softly, and then the sheets were brushing her skin, cool, scented linen on warm living skin; Flynn’s body was against hers, warm and insistent, and the nightingale was singing somewhere inside her head now …

There was a moment of swift, secret pain, and then there was a whirlpool of delight, and the most complete sense of sharing, and Joanna took Flynn’s face in her cupped hands, and kissed him, because like this, like this, he was strong and gentle and infinitely precious, and he was somehow dreadfully vulnerable as well, and she could bear him being strong and gentle, but somehow she could not bear his vulnerability …

And then the whirlpool took them on, upwards and inwards, and they clung to each other; Joanna thought she was crying but she could not be sure, and Flynn moved convulsively and cried out. Just as Joanna felt the world splinter into a cascade of purest delight that descended on them in a soft blanket.

*

Joanna awoke in the yellow and white bedroom and lay watching the oblong of dark grey sky, still star-spattered, begin to lighten. Odd how the new light gave you courage. Hadn’t there been a race, long ago, certainly before people began to record history, who had worshipped the sun, and who had believed that men drew strength from the dawn? It was a belief that Joanna found easy to understand. There you were, in the dark, somehow confused and unsure, and frightened, and then you saw the sky begin to lighten and become streaked with grey and then with pink, and you drew strength. There was something immeasurably comforting about its inevitability. After the dark the light. Had the people who had lived through Devastation found that? Or had the light disappeared altogether for a time? Endless darkness … I won’t think about it, said Joanna.

Beside her, Flynn still slept, easily and noiselessly, his black hair falling across his forehead, a faint sheen on his eyelids. Tenderness welled up in Joanna, so strong that for a moment it hurt, and she wanted to reach out and pull him to her, and she wanted to shut out the world for ever.

It could not be done, of course. The world was waiting to be faced; her father and Muldooney were waiting to be faced. And I must do it, thought Joanna, drawing confidence from the dawn light. It is something I must certainly do.

She thought she could do it now. Now; warm and safe and drowsy from Flynn’s love-making, her mind and her body still singing with delight — “I shall never want to leave,” she thought, and smiled, because that was what she had said to Flynn, somewhere between dusk and dawn:

I shall never want to leave …

And I shall never let you go, my love.

She need never go. She could stay here with Flynn in the comfortable whitewashed farmhouse, and nothing else could be contemplated.

I shall never let you go … And I shall never want to go …

There had been no need to say any of it because Flynn had known. He always will know said a voice in her head, and Joanna smiled.

Muldooney and her father would certainly come after her. Probably they would come quite soon, because it was pretty certain that Muldooney had already raised the alarm. They would come here first. To the place where she had always fled as a child. Would they? Yes, she thought they would. She turned her head on the pillow again and regarded the sleeping Flynn. Not to be thought of that she should bring Flynn into danger. Not to be contemplated that through her Flynn — and his father — should suffer. Flynn could outface anyone, of course, and he could certainly outface her father and Muldooney. “With one hand tied behind my back, acushla,” he would have said. But it was not just those two that Joanna was worried about.

Supposing her father invoked his powers as an Elder of Tugaim? Supposing — just supposing — that he rallied the men of the village to search for her? Joanna thought that this was very likely indeed. John Grady was not especially popular — “Too prosperous!” he would have said with one of his complacent smiles — but he had his supporters. You might call them flatterers — Joanna did call them flatterers — but put them all together and rouse them up a bit and they would form quite a considerable bunch. And daughters, such useful pawns, were valuable.

“Grady’s girl?” they’d say. “By God, has Grady’s girl disappeared? Won’t we go out at once to search for her?” And off they’d go.

And worse.

“Conjoined?” they’d say. “Isn’t that a terrible way to behave? Every man out and start the search!”

Joanna could visualise it all very clearly. She could certainly visualise that the first place any of them would think of to search would be the O’Connor household.

“Michael O’Connor’s farm,” they’d cry. “For isn’t the Grady girl forever with Flynn O’Connor, and the pair of them as close as sheep in a fold! If she’s anywhere, she’ll be there!” And out they’d come, a loud shouting mob, not violent, because nobody in Tugaim — well anywhere really — was violent these days. Violence was something that the survivors of Devastation had stamped out, and there would be no thought of it in the minds of the mob that John Grady would summon.

The violence would be in John himself.

And Flynn might be hurt.

Joanna lifted herself cautiously on one elbow and looked at Flynn again. Unbearable to think of Flynn in the hands of an angry crowd of men, led by her father, who was certainly capable of violence, who had a side of him that nobody but Joanna had ever guessed at.

What I must do, thought Joanna, is hide away, just for a day or two, just until everything has died down. Just so that when they come here, as they surely will, they will not find me. It would not be difficult. She could manage it all quite easily. Food and water. Her warm cloak. Yes, she could do it.

As to where she should go — a smile curved her lips again. Where in all of Tugaim was the one place where no one, and least of all John Grady, and Brian Muldooney, would venture?

“Never build on Glowing Lands” said the old warning. And alongside the warning, ran a fear, a superstitious, deeply buried, race-memory dread of the Lands.

But I shall be perfectly safe, thought Joanna, and went quietly down the stairs into the silent scullery.

She thought that neither Flynn nor his father would mind her taking food — only enough for a couple of days — a fresh loaf and a rich round cheese. There were some slices of cold meat — ham, was it? Yes. Very sustaining. There were dishes of apples and early pears from the O’Connor orchards. She would take those as well. And one of the large leather water sacks. She could fill it from the pump if she was very quiet. Or perhaps milk would be easier — there were two large covered jugs of milk sitting on the cold marble slab. She tipped one up carefully and heard it run into the leather sack.

Last of all was a note for Flynn. “Only until the fuss and flurry has died down … they will search here first, and I could not bear to bring such violence into your house … ” Oh yes. “This way is safer,” wrote Joanna, “and they will not think to look for me where I am going …” Would Flynn guess where that was? Joanna smiled and slid the note under the nearer of the milk jugs where it could not possibly be missed, and then she was ready.

*

The countryside was grey and silver in the dawn light; it was scented in a way she had never noticed before. From here you could see nearly all of Tugaim spread out below you like one of the old tapestries she had read about. There was Flynn’s farmhouse, and over to the west was her father’s. No lights burned. Then I am still safe.

Just ahead was the belt of Glowing Land. Then she was still on O’Connor land, the thought was comforting. The important thing now was to summon up her courage to actually go into the centre of the Lands. Did she dare? In the farmhouse kitchen with the new sunlight filtering in it had seemed quite an easy thing to do. It had seemed rather trivial to worry about the Lands. Out here, in the thin, raw dawn, it was not trivial at all. Joanna hesitated, watching the incandescent light that rose into the sky. The Lands were beautiful, but they were frightening as well. You felt a great power emanating from them. People said they would glow like that for a thousand years, but other people, older people, said they were dimming, and that in another few generations they would be like everywhere else.

Did she dare? Joanna stood watching the light, uncertain, trying to summon up the courage. “Never build on Glowing Lands,” said the old warning. Most people would not even walk on them.

But I expect people do cross them, Joanna thought now. I expect they do. It was not in human nature not to go where you were forbidden. It was certainly not in human nature to leave places unexplored. The Letheans had been great explorers, they had known every corner of the world … And the Letheans had died, said a small warning voice in her head.

I don’t care, said Joanna defiantly. This is the safest place for me to be, and I don’t think anything very terrible is going to happen to me. I don’t think anything is going to happen to me at all, really. I shall just be here, and I shan’t look at anything. I shall just be quietly hiding, I might even fall asleep. There had been little sleep to be had during the night … Oh Flynn, Flynn, please don’t come after me. Not yet.

The edges of the Glowing Lands were not so very different from anywhere else to begin with. Joanna’s confidence rose. It was all a pretence, a nothing. Perhaps there had once been something here; perhaps after Devastation there had been something very terrible indeed. Perhaps — this was rather a dreadful thought, but — perhaps the Apocalypse had not vanished from the world, but had stayed behind, lurking and skulking in a patch of Glowing Land. Joanna did not really believe this, and she certainly did not believe it now, standing here summoning up courage to step on to the Lands. But it would account for all the stories, and it would certainly account for all the old warnings. But now, the Lands would be like everywhere else. Of course they are, thought Joanna, taking the first step out.

And with the first few steps her confidence came back. Nothing happened. There was no growling sound, no flashing light. Fairy-tale nonsense, said Joanna, remembering her father’s words.

Even so, it was curious that the nearer she got to the centre of the light, the stranger she began to feel. She thought she could hear sounds and then she thought there was a soft rich scent. But she could not be sure of any of it.

The sound was like nothing she had ever heard in the whole of her life. Sweet and soft and rather cold. The louder it got, the nearer she got to it, the colder it became. Something from the bottom of the ocean, or from the other side of the sky. Something that might crawl out from beneath the caves and tap at your windows in the night. Icicle-fingers on glass. Joanna was dreadfully afraid, but she could not resist …

A beckoning. Come to us Joanna … come through the Time Curtain … we are fishers of souls, Joanna, and we will take you to worlds you did not dream existed …

Joanna stood stock-still at the centre of the light, and thought she was surely going mad.

There was a ripple of amusement. Not mad, not mad, let her not be mad, sweet heaven keep her sane … A thousand voices pressed in on her. We can quote your poets, Joanna. They died before your world began, but still we can quote them … Come into the music, Joanna … we are fishers of souls and we will gather up your soul for our master …

The most extraordinary part about the whole thing was how safe she felt. How secure and warm. As if, after a long journey, a wearisome journey of a thousand years, she was coming home. This is where I belong. In here, in the music, in the steady glow of the Light, in the rich warm scent. I know this place.

Of course you know it, Joanna … it is the end of all journeying and the beginning of delight … you belong here, as you always belonged … COME NEARER, JOANNA …

Joanna took a few hesitant steps forward. She thought: of course, none of this is happening. I have fallen asleep — yes, that is it. I have fallen asleep on Tara’s Hill, and I am dreaming all of this … Quite soon I shall awake …

Awake and find you here upon the cold hillside …

There was a deeper light ahead of her, and Joanna had the sense of thin green and blue arms reaching out to draw her towards them. She thought: of course, I am not believing any of this; even so, it is all very curious. But I am not really experiencing any of it.

Oh yes you are, Human Child, oh yes you are …

Beyond the light was a mist, and beyond that the shapes of trees and mountains. The blue and green, misty island … I am coming home, thought Joanna, and something triumphant rose up inside her. There are other worlds, and I am about to see one. There are creatures of mist and magic and wild woodland blood, and I am about to meet them.

And if a man should dream and go to Paradise, and pluck there a rose … and if, on waking, he should find himself still possessed of that rose — what then? Come into the light, Human Child, and we will show you wonders that your poor bleak world never dreamed existed …

Pluck the rose?

And wake finding you are still possessed of it … And what then, Human Child …

I suppose, thought Joanna, that it will be all right. After all, I can always come back.

*

Flynn stood in the farmhouse kitchen and broke eggs on to the stove for breakfast, began to slice bread. His mind and his heart were warm, still upstairs in bed with Joanna, and he was intensely happy. He had half woken when she slipped from his bed, and then had drifted back into sleep, lulled by the warmth of the bed and the lingering scent of her that still was with him. He had vaguely thought that she must have gone out for a breath of early morning air. He had certainly not thought any more than that.

For I will never let you go, my love …

He smiled as he set the table and put out the earthenware mugs for the milk they would drink with breakfast. The Letheans had drunk steaming beverages; beans that you ground up and steeped in boiling water and which had a scent so strong and so sweet that it had embodied the essences of the hot far-off lands where they grew. And there had been some kind of plant as well, dried and seasoned in some way, that was served from a spouted utensil and taken with milk or lemon. Flynn thought he would have enjoyed both, but the secrets were lost like so much else. They drank milk at breakfast and at the midday meal. In the evenings there was often poteen or homemade wine from the apples and plums in the orchard; if the weather was particularly cold they heated the wine and sweetened it with honey. Once or twice, he had tasted a strong, distilled drink called brandy — it had been like drinking liquid fire — but there was only a very small supply of it left in the world, and it was believed that it took a very long time to mature and that even then it was enormously expensive to produce.

He stood for a moment longer, enjoying the sunshine that was pouring in, making the dish of honey transparent and warming the old pearwood chest that stood by the window and always soaked up the sun, so that by the afternoon you could smell the fragrant wood and the beeswax that generations of Flynn’s ancestors had used to polish it.

Probably Joanna would appear at any moment. Flynn smiled at the thought. They would eat breakfast together, just the two of them, for his father would still be outside somewhere, and in any case, he would understand at once what had happened and he would be tactful. Flynn stood in the warm sunlit kitchen and all the years ahead when he and Joanna would eat breakfast here stretched out before him, and all the mornings when they would smile at one another over this table rose up to delight him. They would each have their own chair, and there would be warm honey, just as there was today, and fresh bread and butter from the churn, and they would discuss the day’s plans, happy and peaceful and at home. A feeling of deep contentment settled over him as he opened the pantry door to fetch the milk from the settle.

As Flynn read Joanna’s note, he experienced a sudden cold hollowness, as if something inside him had fallen down a huge bottomless hole.

Nothing had changed and everything had changed.

An image of Joanna came strongly into his mind, so that he saw her with swift startling clarity. Joanna, with her cloudy dark hair and her wide-apart eyes and her little pointed face that a man would ache to take between his hands and kiss until solemnity dissolved.

I shall never want to leave you …

And I shall never let you go, my love …

And with the coming of the day she had gone, running into hiding to protect him.

Flynn knew at once where she had gone. He did not know how he knew it, but he did know. Some kind of link between them, was it? Better to say nothing of it in any case. Mutants were looked at askance; they were outlawed and sent to live in the grim grey building on the edge of Tugaim. They were made comfortable enough, but they were not allowed to mingle with people who were normal. They were certainly not allowed to conjoin or even, Flynn believed, to form ordinary friendships. They were looked on as freaks, and it was considered very shameful indeed to have a Mutant born into your family. How would people view it if it was known that an O’Connor was so far from being ordinary that he knew about events before they happened, or that he could pick up the feelings and the fears of people he was close to? Flynn thought he was very close to Joanna now, but he thought that such a power — could you call it a power? — would be looked at strangely, and so he had always kept silent about it. Had his father guessed? Yes, probably. Quite often, Flynn had found Michael looking at him in a strange intent way; quite often, Michael himself had known what Flynn was thinking, or what he was going to say before he said it. Some kind of sharing gift? Best to say nothing anyway.

After what had been between him and Joanna last night he thought he could feel her thoughts and her emotions very clearly indeed. And oh my love, my love, you are in some terrible danger, and I must somehow save you.

For a few minutes he pretended that it was only a physical danger, even though it sent his mind into agony to think of Joanna lying injured somehow, crying from the pain of a splintered bone, unable to crawl for help. It was perfectly possible, of course.

But it was not like that. Flynn did not know how he knew — only that you could not be hurt, my darling girl, and I not suffer with you — but he did know it.

Joanna had gone to the Glowing Lands so that she would be safe from her father and Brian Muldooney. She would be at the centre of the light now, Flynn knew this quite definitely, and unless they were very quick she would have gone, or been taken, through the Time Curtain.

And the Lands are dimming, and the Curtain is re-sealing itself, and once beyond Time it is not always possible to return …

That was the agony now, and Flynn flinched.

But if Joanna had truly gone through the Time Curtain, then there was only one thing to be done.

He would have to go in after her.

The idea of following Joanna, of doing the absolutely forbidden thing, the thing that his ancestors had warned against for several generations, did not strike into him the terror it ought to have done. There was a tremendous excitement: a feeling of awe, a feeling of at last I shall see and at last I shall know!

The Glowing Lands were quiet when he reached them; they were quiescent and bland, and they were not in the least sinister or threatening. But Flynn knew them; he knew that they were neither quiescent nor bland. They could change in a breathspace, they could become strong and awesome and they could beckon. Had they beckoned to Joanna? Had she in her headlong flight from Muldooney stumbled into their centre, and had she heard that other-world music, cold and distant, and been tempted, or taken, through the Time Curtain?

Flynn stood irresolute on the boundaries, watching the soft light, thinking that the stories were true at least, the Lands were dimming, they were dying. Panic swept over him. Supposing he went in and could not get back. It was his old nightmare; the thought of being trapped in a far-off, long-forgotten land, unable to return to everything that was familiar and safe.

But then supposing he could not get through anyway? Suppose, just suppose, that the gap was closing, that it had closed already, that Joanna had somehow slipped through the final chink?

I won’t think about it, said Flynn. But he did think about it, he sat down on the ground and stared at the Lands, and thought about Joanna carried far beyond his reach, in some merciless half-human world. I must get her out, he thought. It can be done, surely. Others have gone through the Curtain. There is nothing whatsoever to be afraid of. My father said others have done it, and that is why we know so much about the deep past. Despite himself, he felt his senses stir at the thought of seeing that ancient lost Ireland, the world he had so often heard about and dreamed about.

At last he moved forward, feeling the ground warm beneath him. He thought there was a soft thrumming in the air, and then he was not so sure. He certainly thought there was an echo of the music he had heard on the night he met the Keepers, but he was not certain about that either. It was like something heard from a long way off; an echo down a long dark tunnel, the briefest of glimpses of dark forests and mist-shrouded plains; the suspicion of creatures with long flowing hair and slanting eyes and beautiful cruel mouths.

He thought, I am missing something, I am here at the wrong moment, or else it is the right moment but the wrong place. Or I am saying the right words, all but one, or perhaps adding one that is not needed.

Oh open up to me, let me through; for if I lose Joanna I have lost everything!

There was a moment of silence so complete that for a second he thought he had succeeded. The air seemed to waver, and he thought he saw a huge silver blue sheet that stretched up and up, as far as he could see, and down into the core of the earth, and away on each side to all the horizons. The Time Curtain! He took a deep breath and waited. For an instant, the dark misty forest came a little more sharply into focus, and then it blurred and seemed to slip back. Flynn had the sensation of something infinitely precious and infinitely beautiful slipping through his grasp, and he could have wept. There were dreams in the forest, and there were moving figures and red eyes gleaming, and prowling creatures that sometimes went on all fours and sometimes walked upright like men.

And then there was nothing. He was alone, sitting on the damp grass, a little breathless, a little dazed, and the Glowing Lands were as they had always been.

Joanna was as far from him as ever.

*

Joanna had not been aware of passing through the silver-blue light, but she had seen, at the edge of her vision, an immense flare of something intangible as the Time Curtain parted and she was pulled through.

For a moment, she stood, unable to think or see, blinded by the flare, dazzled by the sight that met her eyes.

The blue and green, misty island … the Dark Forests of Flynn’s tales, and the extravagant vegetation of a world not yet scorched into arid barrenness by the Apocalypse’s anger. I have gone back, thought Joanna in awe. Somehow I have gone back to the deep past. I am not believing any of this, but still it is happening.

The music was still with her, but distantly, a little way off. As if — absurd thought that it was — but as if someone was playing a song and beckoning her to follow. Over the hills and far away … yes, and over hill, over dale, through bush, through briar … through flood and fire … there is a bank whereon the wild thyme blows … there dwells the Master … come farther in, Human Child …

Joanna thought: is this the world of all the stories? Has someone — something? — taken me back? Or will I awake and find me here upon the cold hillside … And if he should awake and find himself still possessed of the rose … Where had those words come from?

From out of the past, Human Child, and from out of the future for past and future are all one to those who come through the Time Curtain …

Joanna turned in the direction of the sound, but there was nothing. I am alone in an alien world, I am alone in the past, and I have escaped from Muldooney more completely than I hoped was possible.

She was very much afraid, but she was a child of the New World, of the devastated world brought to near ruin by mankind’s folly and greed, and she had had to work and struggle. In her veins ran the blood of the men and women who had survived a disaster greater than had ever been envisaged by anyone at any time: she was a survivor.

I am afraid, thought Joanna, but at least I can pretend not to be. Pretend and the pretence will become reality … Yes, that was a good maxim.

The music was still reaching out to her, and through the trees she began to make out shadowy figures. Flowing creatures of green and blue and silver, never quite still, never quite staying in one place, constantly changing and flowing with the music. Were they the music makers?

Yes we are, Human Child, we make the music of the world, we scoop up the rivers and the forests and the skies and turn them into music … And you must come with us, you must follow us, for there is no resisting the music … there is no fighting the music …

Long fingers, twined about with slender birch twigs beckoned to her, and here and there she caught the curve of a cheek, the fall of a curtain of hair. Creatures never fully seen. Beautiful but with something strange about them. Were these the half-human beings of the old stories?

We are not human at all, Joanna, we are the sidh, and in our veins runs the icy blood of the seas and of the worlds beyond the skies … But our music is the music that has lured Men to their fates ever since Time started, and perhaps before that … We are the sirens who sit on the rocks and we are the mermaids who draw sailors down to the worlds beneath the seas … We sat at the side of the Thracian poet Orpheus and gave him the power to call up the trees and the waters, and to play his magical lyre that has lived on in men’s memories … And we sat on the shoulder of the rat-catcher of Hamelin when he drew the rats from the City … Temptation we are and Desire … Sin we are and Lust … But we are beautiful, Human Child, and we serve our master, and there is no resisting us …

They were drawing her through the forest now, but so gently, so subtly, that she was barely aware of it. And yet, there were pine needles beneath her feet, thick as any carpet, and there were sounds overhead that would be birds, but no birds that she had ever heard. Beautiful, thought Joanna, afraid and excited and enchanted as she was.

Yes, our land is beautiful, Human Child …

The sidh were still with her, flowing about her, pulling at her with their slender arms, and binding her with their soft flowing hair. Once or twice she caught again the glimpse of translucent skin, of slender arched feet, but the sidh kept to the edges of her vision, so that she never quite saw them.

The forest was quite unlike anything she had ever seen. There were blues and purples and there were gentle mists. To one accustomed to vast barren stretches of fields and burnt-out rock faces, it was beyond everything.

She moved on, half mesmerised by the music, fascinated by everything she saw. There were rustlings all about them, so that Joanna looked about her, hoping to see the creatures that had disappeared before her world began. Badgers and squirrels, and otters and beavers. Had they really existed? Would she see them now? Oh I do hope so, thought Joanna.

The trees were thinning now, and ahead of them was a great rearing building, darkly outlined against the sky, its turrets and towers clearly limned. Was this one of the Letheans’ huge marvellous cities? Had she after all only gone back to their time, or had she truly in some incomprehensible way gone back to Flynn’s magical ancient Ireland?

There were lights in the building — might it be some kind of fortress? — and Joanna was reminded of the tales of lighthouses; huge towering constructions with lights glowing from the topmost windows to guide sailors through dangerous coastlines. Joanna thought that the lights from the fortress were guiding her now.

The fortress was dark and forbidding. From the edges of the forest, Joanna could see that it had a massive, iron, studded door, and that the windows were narrow slits. As she came out of the forest, she saw that it stood on the other side of some kind of ravine, so that you had to walk along a little bridge to get to it. Someone lives there who does not want the world to get in, she thought. Or who wants to keep the world out … There is something in there that someone wants to keep very well hidden, she thought, and knew a sudden chill. But, I am not frightened, she thought, and clung to that thought, because it was a good thought to have when you were standing on the edge of a dark forest with a huge grim fortress directly ahead of you.

The mist was thicker here, so that the fortress swam in and out of her sight. Then that is settled, thought Joanna, relieved. I shall not need to go up to it, because I shall not be able to find it. The mist will hide it. But should she go back? Could she go back? Grope her way back through the blue and green lights, into the unfriendly world of Tugaim, to Muldooney waiting with his hot pig eyes and his thick fingers that prodded? What had those mist creatures said? A Time Curtain? How remarkable, thought Joanna. Perhaps I should at least see a bit more before I go back.

And although Flynn’s books had certainly included a fairy tale or two, salvaged from the world of the Letheans, Joanna had never really given them much credence. She thought she would not do so now. She thought it was quite important not to remember that strange sinister world, brimming with giantish castles approached by means of a narrow bridge, where doors swung open at a touch, and a deep soft voice from the darkness said, “Come inside, my dear.” It was very important indeed not to remember ogres who could smell the blood of humans at ten leagues, or of their cooks who made man-pies, or of witches who put children in cages and fattened them.

It was certainly sensible not to recall silly foolish girls who wore brave red cloaks and who went skipping through forests, heedless of danger, and who followed creatures such as wolves in the most ridiculously trustful way imaginable. In any case, there were no wolves left anywhere in the world.

*

There were no wolves left anywhere in the world, but there were wolves directly ahead of her. Lean grey creatures, who guarded the entrance to the narrow bridge, and who were watching her unblinkingly. The sidh drew back and there was a hiss of anger, but the wolves stood stockstill, only their eyes showing they were alive. Then the leader licked his lips, and Joanna caught the gleam of white pointed teeth.

All the better to eat you with, my dear …

She hesitated, uncertain of what to do next, for strange as the sidh were, there was at least a sense of safety about them. They might be luring her to all kinds of dreadful fates, but Joanna, child of the Brave New World, could not imagine anything worse than being made to lie in a bed with Muldooney. Or could she? Was there not, after all, some remnant of race memory, some thin vein of atavism remaining in the corners of her consciousness, so that fear awoke at the sight of the thin grey creatures, and she wanted to turn and run?

The sidh had vanished, dissolving into the forest, blue and green streaks melting into the trees and the rocks. The music had gone as well, so that Joanna felt suddenly cold and very much alone. Should she turn and go back? Her mind shuddered away from the thought. Back into the forest where there might be badgers and squirrels, but where there would almost certainly be other things as well? The thread of atavism strengthened; Joanna did not know that the forest held dangers, but she sensed that it did.

Onwards then? Up to the iron-studded door, to request admittance? Cross the narrow bridge in the company of the lean watchful animals? Surely the person who lived there could not refuse her hospitality for the night? thought Joanna, accustomed to the ways of her own world, where men might perhaps be a bit unimaginative, but where there had existed, ever since Devastation, a strong comradeship, and an obligation to help one another. It did not occur to Joanna that the owner of this awe-inspiring place might refuse to give her shelter.

She moved forward and the wolves moved with her, as if, she thought afterwards, they were forming some kind of guard. She could feel the warmth of their bodies, and she thought they were curious and wary of her, but she still had to remind herself that she was not frightened.

The bridge was longer than she had imagined, and it was very much narrower. Joanna stopped once and peered down into the ravine. It was a terribly long way down. It was so long that you could not see the bottom. Some kind of moss grew up the steep sides of the ravine, and here and there, there was movement, as if tiny unseen creatures scuttled in and out of the crevices. Joanna shuddered and looked up.

The castle was very much bigger than it had seemed from the comforting depths of the forest. It reared up out of the rock, a massive, towering edifice of grey and black. Once, she hesitated and almost turned to run, because it seemed as if the turrets were toppling over on to her. Once, the flickering light from the wall sconces, burning on each side of the great door, flared wildly into life so that you imagined a huge breath had blown on them. Once, she had the feeling that the slitted windows were eyes, watching unblinking, and that nameless things moved behind them. Joanna took a deep breath; she reminded herself that she had never seen anything like the castle before (or had she seen it in her dreams?) and that anything unfamiliar was always a bit frightening. Not that she was frightened. Well, not very much.

There was a ring handle on the great door. Well, she thought, I cannot go back. I cannot go back into the forest, not now it is night. I may as well go forward. She reached out and grasped the handle.

The handle turned and the door swung open quickly and easily. As if, thought Joanna, it had been waiting for her.

She was standing at the top of a flight of steps, looking down on to a huge stone-flagged floor, lit by firelight and by the glow of the torches in the wall brackets high up. There was a scent of woodsmoke and warmth, and Joanna thought it was like going down into a warm dark cave.

The fire burned at the centre of the hall, and glancing up, Joanna saw, far above her, some kind of chimney hole in the dim vaults of the roof. There were fur rugs on the floor, and there was a long table set with dishes, as if for supper. She remembered that she was hungry.

At the far end was a dais, with a massive carved chair on it, and more of the thick skin rugs. He was sitting quietly in the chair, watching her, and the wolves were lying at his feet, their eyes calm, their fur sleek. Joanna paused, unsure of what to do next, certainly unsure of what to say.

“Come inside, Human Child.”

To a child of the age called Lethean, the words would have struck instant terror; but Joanna, child of the New World, heard nothing threatening. She only thought: well, at least I have not been turned away, and stepped farther in.

The young man on the dais was like no one she had ever seen before. He sat, quite calmly, watching her approach, and after a moment, he smiled. Joanna caught her breath, for surely no one had ever conveyed so much by a smile. Strength and arrogance and ruthlessness and a queer inverted beauty. I am very much afraid, she thought, but I am also very much excited.

The man got up and moved from the dais to where she stood, and she saw that he was not quite as tall as she had guessed. He was dark and very slim, but despite the slimness, there was no suggestion of weakness. There was a whipcord strength about him that suggested it would be dangerous to make an enemy of him. Joanna thought: oh my! wouldn’t he be at your throat in an instant! and then was rather shocked at the thought. Even so, she received the impression of a tightly coiled spring, and she eyed him warily. His features slanted in his face, and his skull was high and rather pointed, covered with thick glossy hair that resembled an animal’s pelt. His lips were thin and exquisitely modelled, but they looked as if they could be cruel. Even so, thought Joanna staring, even so, I believe he is looking at me with gentleness.

The man smiled again; he said, “I can be gentle, Human Child. That was perceptive of you,” and Joanna jumped, because he had seemed to pluck the thought from her head.

I can hear your thoughts, Human Child. To do so is the blessing and the curse of Tara.

“So,” he said aloud, “you have found your way here, have you?”

Found? Or been brought?

He caught that as well, for he said, “The sidh are not my people, but they owe some allegiance to me. They wait at the doorways that sometimes open between your world and this one and they lure with their music the souls of Men.”

“A doorway?”

“Yes. There are such things.” And said in such a normal, not-to-be-questioned tone, that Joanna thought: well, yes. Of course there are doorways.

“Do I frighten you, Human Child?”

“No,” said Joanna much too loudly, and then, more quietly, “No. But I should like to know where I am.”

The man regarded her again. At length, “You are inside Scáthach,” he said. “That is, the Castle of Shadow.”

“I see,” said Joanna carefully, not seeing at all. “And — if it is not impolite to ask — who are you?”

Again the pause. At last, “I am Cormac mac Airt,” said the man. “Whom some call Cormac Starrog.” He moved nearer, and Joanna saw how his features slanted. Like a wolf’s.

Cormac Starrog … Cormac of the Wolves … so, Flynn told the truth …

“Yes,” said the man softly, “yes, I have another name, Joanna. It is Cormac of the Wolves.

“I am the exiled High King of Tara, and the last of my line.”

*

Joanna sat in the firelit hall, at the long oak table opposite to Cormac mac Airt. She was wearing a fur-trimmed robe over her clothes. “For,” said her companion, “it will have been cold in the Forest of Darkness, and perhaps the sidh will have touched you with their icy breath.”

“What are they?”

“They are the most purely magical beings in Ireland. They live beneath the seas and in the rocks, and they are the scavengers of the world, for they are greedy for human souls. But they are also constrained to serve the High Kings at times, and their music is the strongest enchantment that has ever been known. For that reason they are tolerated, and for that reason, our sorcerers have never tried to drive them out.”

“What do they look like?” For there had been the briefest glimpses of strange blue and green creatures, slipping from one shape to another, never quite materialising. And there had been a rippling light that soothed your eyes and hurt your mind with beauty.

“That I cannot tell you. But our scholars say that to look on the sidh, to look on their cold inhuman faces, would ruin your mind. You would never speak or see again.” He drank from the wine goblet at his side. “They are insatiable for the seed of Men, but once a man has been drained of his seed by them; once he has known their cold fingers and their icy lips caressing his phallus, and felt himself empty into their wombs, he is no longer able to love his own kind.” He studied her. “Your cheeks colour when I say these things.”

“It is only that —”

“It is that our worlds are different. I had forgotten.”

“You know my world?”

“A very little,” said Cormac. “There have been wayfarers from time to time. Men and women who have travelled through the Time Curtain. Eat your supper.”

The food was hot and had been served to them, silently and very efficiently, by small, dark-featured people who came and went in the fireglow; who placed dishes on the table and bowed to their master as they retreated. Joanna had been fascinated, but Cormac smiled, and said gently, “Our ways are different to yours.”

“Better?”

“Different.”

The food was very good. There were peculiar, unfamiliar things cooked in rich spices, served with fruit and nuts; huge platters of meat cut into cubes and bowls of some kind of grain that she could not identify. There were no forks, but there were small sharp knives, made of what looked like bone. She noticed, that Cormac ate with great fastidiousness, cutting the meat into small portions before conveying it to his mouth.

Once he spoke, “This is bear meat. Prepared with the juices of autumn apples and with wild honey. It is very good.”

A little later, he said, “On feast occasions, such as Samain or the Great Feast of Dagda, the father-god, we would eat the flesh of the white stag which we had hunted by night, or of the great king-bulls who had been brought out to fight for our entertainment.”

“Fighting for entertainment?” said Joanna, child of a world that looked askance on all forms of violence.

Cormac smiled. “It is sexually arousing to the men, and usually to the women as well.”

There were dishes of wild mushrooms: “Agaric and Amethyst,” said Cormac; and bowls of the tiny, sweet, wood strawberries she had gathered with Flynn in another life.

Joanna drank the wine and began to feel warm and content and unlike herself, and began, as well, to feel entirely unafraid.

“Why do you call me ‘Human Child’?”

“It is what you are.”

“And you?”

As always, there was the pause, as if he was considering his reply. Then he said very gently, “My dear, you must have seen that I am not entirely human.” The dark eyes flickered over her, and flared into golden life, and Joanna felt a strange secret delight stir. “Do not trust me,” said her companion softly, “for I am of wolf blood, Joanna.”

“Is that — possible?”

“Oh yes. You see?” He touched his eyes, and Joanna had the impression that his face was sharpening, becoming crueller. “How do you know I will not leap on you and do to you what men in your world call rape, Joanna? How do you know I will not devour your soul, Human Child?”

Come into the music, Joanna, for we are fishers of souls, and we would gather up your soul for our master …

Yes, but supposing a man were to enter Paradise, and there pluck a rose …?

Joanna said loudly, “I don’t know it,” and her companion smiled.

“If I had not been of wolf blood, I could not have ascended to the Ancient Throne of Tara,” he said, and setting down his wine, reached across the table for her hand. “Tara can never belong to the humans, Joanna. For a purebred human to ever occupy the High Throne would mean that Tara would crumble.” A frown touched his brow and anger glittered in his eyes for a moment. “And I shall never allow that to happen,” said Cormac.

Joanna, utterly and completely fascinated now, said, “Will you tell me?” and Cormac smiled at her and turned her hand over in his, so that it lay palm uppermost.

“Tara is cursed,” he said. “It was cursed many hundreds of years ago by a very powerful and very evil sorceress who had been defeated in battle by the first High Queen of all — Dierdriu.” He released her hand gently and reached for the wine again, lifting it to his lips, so that the red glow cast a shadow over his eyes. “In the ages to come,” he said quietly, “I believe it is the one thing that will be remembered about Tara. That it was forever cursed.” For a moment, his eyes took on the inward-looking expression again, and then he looked back at her. “Curses can never be destroyed, you see. They can never be killed. They can only be set aside.”

“Deflected,” said Joanna, and Cormac smiled.

“Yes. And because the curse was directed at a human, our own sorcerers wove a very strong and very subtle enchantment so that humans could lie with Beasts.” He smiled the slanting smile again and reached for her hand.

“My ancestors lay with the wolves, Joanna, and so I am part wolf. I have the best and the worst of both sides in me.”

And do not trust me, my dear, do not trust me …

Joanna said cautiously, “It is a — rather a difficult idea for me to believe in.” And looked at him again, and thought: but of course, I do believe in it. He is partly wolf …

“By lying with the Beasts, we were able to produce what is called the Bloodline,” said Cormac. “The Ancient Royal Houses of Tara. The six families upon whom was bestowed the Enchantment of the Bloodline. It is a very great honour and a very rare and precious thing to belong to one of those families.” Again the smile. “And so because the Royal Houses of Ireland are no longer purebred Human, the curse cannot work against them. It can only work against a Human. That is why a Human must never occupy Tara’s High Throne.”

Joanna said, “Tell me about the six.”

“They are my people,” said Cormac, and again there was the fierce possessiveness in his voice. “The Six Ancient Houses of the Bloodline. The Wild Panther People of Gallan. The Eagles. The White Swans and the Deer. The Chariot Horses.” A pause. “And the Lions,” he said, and Joanna looked up, because there had suddenly been a great bitterness in his voice. But he only said, “And there are lesser Houses now; families who have been admitted into the Enchantment as a reward for some special service usually. The Beavers and the Hares and the Red Foxes of the forest.” Again the pause and the flicker of anger. “But it was the Lions who betrayed me,” he said, and his fingers curled involuntarily, and Joanna flinched, and thought that he would be a very dangerous enemy indeed, but thought as well that he could be hurt.

“Of course I can be hurt,” said Cormac at once. “It is three generations since my ancestors lay with the wolves, and so the Human side of me is strong. It will probably be my grandchildren who will invoke the Enchantment and lie with the wolves, but that will be a matter for the sorcerers and the appointed judges to decides.” He looked at her. “There is a very exact balance to be maintained, you see.”

“Yes. Yes of course,” said Joanna, and Cormac smiled, and caressed the hand that lay in his, turning it over. Joanna thought: if I do not speak, perhaps he will go on talking. He has the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. Warm honey and firelight and deep soft velvet. What would it be like to lie beside him, to feel his hands on my bare skin … An exiled High King. I wonder how long he has been in exile? I wonder if I can ask him about Tara?

He caught that at once, of course, and rose from his seat, taking her with him. “Let me show you what I have lost,” he said. “Come.” He drew her to the narrow windows and stood looking down. “Do you see it? Over there, across the Forest of Darkness where the sidh sometimes dwell, and beyond the Plain of Fál. Do you see it, Human Child? The lights and the splendour of Tara?”

Tara, the Bright Palace …

Almost directly in line with the window, across a great valley, was a blaze of light and colour, and as Joanna blinked and stared, the lights seemed to shift and merge, prisms of hard brilliance, blending and blurring, pinks and blues and lilacs. There were pinnacles and spires and steep slender towers, and she was not at all sure that what she was seeing actually existed.

“It does exist,” said Cormac softly. “The Ancient Court of the Manor of Tara. Beautiful beyond bearing. Where every man and woman must have an art, for it is written that without an art, no one may enter Tara.” He looked down at her, and Joanna blinked, because it was a wolf smile, it was tremendously frightening, and it was also dreadfully exciting.

“I could show you it all, Human Child,” said Cormac, his lips close to her. “I could show you the wonders of my Court, Joanna.” He was standing very near to her, and he reached out and traced a line across her cheek and over her neck and shoulders. Joanna closed her eyes and thought: I am shivering. Is it from delight or from fear? I want him to stop and I wish he would go on.

He drew her back to the table and seated himself again, pouring more wine, leaning an arm on the table and watching her. The light threw shadows across his face, so that his eyes gleamed, and Joanna lowered her gaze.

“Tell me about Tara.”

“There are no words,” said Cormac, and again there was the aching sadness.

“You cannot bear to have lost it,” said Joanna softly, and was at once conscious of the inadequacy of her words.

His hand came out to her again. “Not inadequate, Human Child. Your mind conveys to me what your words cannot.” He sipped his wine. “Your ancestors lost much when they lost the art of the Mindsong. Words are restricting, language is finite. True emotions and true meanings cannot always be conveyed. That is why we have developed the Mindsong. The Samhailt.”

The Mindsong … the art of reaching the thoughts of others … The art of hearing the feelings of those to whom you are close.

“There is not a day, nor yet an hour when I do not miss Tara,” said Cormac. “There is not a day when I do not stand at the window and look out across the valley, for it was a part of the Council’s punishment that I should still be in sight of that which I had lost.” He drank wine. “In every age and at every Court there are plotters, you see. There are those who wish to replace the rightful ruler with their puppets, their straw kings. I was the High King by right of blood and by right of battle and by right of conquest. I ruled by power and intrigue and by sorcery.”

“Sorcery …”

“Child of a cold and barren future, there is much magic in the world. Even in your world it is still there, it is only that men have lost the knowledge. To serve the High King by sorcery is a coveted honour. I used sorcery, but I did not use the dark magic. I ruled my people well and I fought their battles and made safe the ramparts of the cities, and I drove back every enemy who tried to take Tara. But there were plotters at my Court; there were people who bore me a grudge and who harboured vengeance.” The thin beautiful lips took on a cruel line. “They replaced me with another of the Bloodline,” said Cormac. “Eochaid Bres — that is Eochaid the Handsome. He is of lion blood, and it is thought that fits him to occupy the High Throne. But he is ruled by his clever, sly Councillors, and by his mother who is ambitious, and also what your world once called a whore.”

He paused, and again there was the sudden inward slant of his eyes. “Yes, she is a whore, the Queen Mother,” said Cormac softly.

“And so for the moment it is Eochaid Bres who rules from the Seat of the High Kings, and I was brought across the Plain and through the Forest of Darkness, and I have been here for five years, Joanna, and I shall not bear it any longer.” He looked at her, and his eyes glowed. “I am caged here by the enchantment woven by my own sorcerers,” he said softly “and I cannot break out by myself.”

But with your help, Human Child, I could …

Joanna, hanging on to the remnants of sanity, said, “But you are — quite comfortable here.”

“Yes. I was allowed to bring my servants.”

“The people who brought our supper?”

“Yes, the Cruithin. They are human, the oldest of all the Irish races. They have served the High Kings faithfully since Tara first sprang from the rocks, and since Dierdriu ruled. When I was exiled, I was permitted to take with me those who would come.” Again the sardonic smile. “A small following for one accustomed to riding at the head of vast and powerful armies. But they came with me, and they serve me, and they are loyal, and so I am grateful.” He studied her. “You bear traces of their blood, Joanna: small, elfin, dark. Eyes that see more than most people. A mixture of fragility and great strength. Have you come from the future to break my exile, or have you only come to rejoin your people?” He smiled. “You could rejoin them, Joanna. They would accept you without questioning you, for the old race, the true Irish race, have the great gift of hospitality.” He moved in his chair. He is restless, Joanna thought. He cannot bear to be confined and caged out here. I wish he would touch me again.

Cormac had risen and begun to pace the hall, so silently and so gracefully that Joanna glanced involuntarily at the wolves, silent and watchful before the fire.

“Eochaid Bres will bring about the ruin of Tara,” said Cormac. “He is handsome, and for the moment he rules. But he is stupid and he is only kept at Tara by the strength of his Councillors and by his mother, and already they are plotting to topple him and bring in those enemies from the north that I fought so hard to keep out. Soon I shall have to raise an army and join with Eochaid’s people in battle.”

Joanna said, “Shall you? I mean do you have to?” and Cormac turned on her, his eyes glittering so that she shrank. “I only meant … you are very comfortable here. You have your own Kingdom. Everything you could wish —”

“Everything I could wish!” He came to sit close beside her, and Joanna thought — his face, his voice, his sheer presence is like no one else’s I ever knew in my life.

“Listen,” said her companion. “I am the last true Prince of an old old line, and Tara is my inheritance. The sidh sang on the night I was born, and the wolves of Tara awoke and banded together and swore to be my liegemen. The Great Stone of Fál, which cries aloud under the hand of the destined King shrieked in pain and ecstasy for nine days and nights when I touched it. Until I return, Tara can never be again the great and powerful Court it was in my father’s day. Eochaid is not strong enough to bind the people to him. His Councillors and his mother, the Queen, rule him.”

He paused, and Joanna thought; there is something in his voice when he mentions her. Hatred? Or something equally powerful but softer?

Cormac said, “Eochaid does not know it, but I know that his Councillors are sending out secret messengers to Tara’s enemies in the north. To the powerful, evil sorcerers who would gobble up Tara and rule the land by bloodshed and terror and the darkest magics known to Ireland. My family stamped them out and sent them back into the mountains and into the caves, but they are still there. Eochaid will not be strong enough. But I can do it, Joanna. I can lead the armies again; I can ride out at the head of the great legions once more and I can defeat the evil that Eochaid’s Councillors and his mother are inviting back.” His eyes were glowing, and Joanna thought that in anyone else the words would have been arrogant. In him, they seemed statements of truth.

“Tell me,” she said, only half understanding, but swept along by his enthusiasm.

“There are those among the Council who wish to trade with the Old Ireland. The Dark Ireland.”

“Why?”

“For power. For the dark magic that lives in the caves and the mountains. Eochaid’s mother, the Queen, will do so for the power it will give her over men. The Councillors will do it for power over men’s minds.

“I must stop them, Joanna. Eochaid is weak and vain, but he is my cousin and he is not evil. He is being betrayed.

“They are waking the terrible sorceresses of the north; The Morrigna, a trio of hell sisters who feed on the corpses that rot in battlefields, and who lure victims into their house and cage them.

“They are waking the most terrible figure of all the old stories. The Erl-King.”

Cormac paused, and Joanna felt a great listening silence descend on them. Had it been when he had said that last name? A cold stillness touched her heart, and she thought: now I am really afraid.

At length, she said, very softly, “How do you know all this? What is going to happen?”

“I know it because the wolves go into the forest and listen to the other creatures. The Councillors are using the hares as their messengers.”

“And you can — the wolves can …”

Cormac smiled. “Yes, Human Child, we can understand each other. Did I not tell you of the Mindsong? I can talk with the Beasts, with the creatures who listen and wait and know what happens at Tara, the Foxes and the Deer and the Wild Panthers of Gallan.

“As for the Erl-King …” He paused, and a tremor went through him, so that Joanna thought — in purest astonishment — he is afraid.

“Yes, I am afraid,” said Cormac, taking her hand once more. “I am very much afraid of the Erl-King.”

“What does he do?”

Cormac looked back at her, the firelight reflected in his eyes.

“He eats the children,” he said.

CHAPTER FOUR

Flynn was in an agony of despair. He knew that Joanna was in some terrible danger; he could feel her thoughts and her emotions soaking in through his skin and searing his soul, and he felt as weak and as impotent as a kitten.

He had sat at the centre of the Glowing Lands until his limbs were cramped and aching, and his eyes dry and sore from trying to pierce the shifting mists of the Time Curtain.

To no avail. The Curtain had closed and Joanna was sealed in some fragment of the past, and she was as far from him as she could be. He stumbled home as the night sky was beginning to streak with the rose and grey of a new day; uncaring of his appearance, heedless of anyone who might see him.

The old farmhouse closed about him like a blessing; he thought: there is a great sanity here. My ancestors lived here for hundreds of years; they weathered the terrors of Devastation here, and the appearance of the Apocalypse, and they survived. If I can find a way to reach Joanna, then I shall do so.

He thought he was drawing a strength from the old walls of his home, and he was obscurely comforted. Joanna would be reached. There would be a way. And she is not dead, he thought. I know she is not.

He poured milk into the jug, added a spoonful of honey, and laid twigs beneath the stove for the eggs and potato cakes that would constitute his and his father’s breakfast.

“For,” said Flynn, to Michael in the sun-filled room that his ancestors had called a morning room, “for, if we are to penetrate the Time Curtain, we must be well fed. Strong.”

Michael looked up. He said, “Flynn, we cannot. We are not permitted. It is the unbreakable law of the Keepers.”

“Pain of death? I should not care,” said Flynn. “I should not mind dying if by doing so I saved Joanna.”

“Lethe emotions, Flynn. You will incur the Elders’ displeasure.”

“Fuck the Elders,” said Flynn, and grinned at his father. “A Lethe word.” He helped himself to more of the potato cakes and drank some milk.

At length Michael said, “The Glowing Lands failed you?”

“Yes.”

“Have you tried any of the others?”

“No.” Flynn was heartened by his father’s words, and by Michael’s frown of concentration. He thought: the old man is not dismissing it. He is going to help.

Aloud, he said, “To try the other Lands would be difficult, I thought. It would mean venturing on to other people’s property. A journey. And I should probably be seen and caught.”

“Yes, there is the risk, and the Secret must be kept.”

“Also,” said Flynn, eating and discovering that he was hungry, “also, is it not true that each Land is its own Gateway? Our own Lands lead us to the Ancient Court of Tara — that is the legend. But others might lead to other places. To find Joanna, I must take the path she took.”

“Yes, of course. Forgive me,” said Michael, “I am not thinking properly. But, Flynn, the Secret must be kept. For another two or three generations anyway.”

For the Time Curtain is healing and the Lands are dimming …

Neither man said it; both were aware of it. Flynn thought: I dare not believe that the gap has closed for ever. I dare not.

Michael was eating his breakfast abstractedly. Flynn waited.

“There is only one thing to do.”

“Yes?”

“We must summon the Keepers.”

*

The mysterious alchemy that works in times of trouble, the unseen network of communication that all races and all ages have developed, regardless of time or technology, worked for Flynn now. He did not know and he did not ask how his father had reached the Keepers so quickly; he was only thankful that he had reached them. Twenty-four hours — two hours even — might make all the difference.

The Keepers in their hooded robes were solemn and silent. But they listened; they stood on the dark hillside, their heads bent courteously, their whole attitude that of people listening and thinking. Flynn thought: they cannot refuse to let me go back! They cannot! And then — Even if they do, I shall do it, he thought. The Lands are on my father’s property.

The leader spoke, and Flynn remembered his voice. Authority: absolute and unblurred, as impossible to mistake as it was to question.

“Our laws do not allow us to go back through the Time Curtain,” said the leader. “But, as with all laws, there are contingency arrangements.”

“Yes?”

The leader stood deep in thought, his hands clasped, and Flynn noticed the dull gleam of the heavy, rather ornate ring he wore. Was it some kind of precious stone? He remembered the stories of the Letheans’ priceless stones, all of them with fascinating names: sapphires, emeralds, topazes and amethysts.

At length, the man said, “There is a way.” He looked at Flynn with the direct stare Flynn remembered. “But it will be unpleasant and it may be dangerous.”

“That would not weigh with me.”

“No, the girl must certainly be rescued.” He studied Flynn, and Flynn knew what was coming.

“You have kept the Secret?” said the Leader.

“Yes.”

“The girl is not there by her own wish or will?”

“No.”

The man looked at Flynn for a moment longer. Then, “Very well,” he said, “in these conditions we are permitted to break our laws. Perhaps we are constrained to do so. Are you willing to go through the Time Curtain, Flynn?”

“Yes.”

“And to risk not being able to return?”

The old nightmare … But Flynn said, “Yes. Yes I will risk that.” For I would be with Joanna, no matter what world we lived in. “Yes,” he said again, more firmly.

“Good.” A pause. “You should not go alone,” said the leader, and Michael moved forward at once. “No,” said the man. “We dare not allow you to go, Michael. Two from the same family — you know our laws.”

“The Secret must be handed on.”

“Yes. To occupy a place on the Council of the Keepers is hereditary.” He turned back to Flynn. “The first Keepers decreed it, and it is a good law, Flynn. Secrets within families are always safer. And so we cannot permit your father to go into danger. But his willingness to do so is praiseworthy.” He smiled and touched Michael’s arm, and the heavy carved ring caught the thin light again. Flynn waited, and the man turned back. “Flynn, would you accept me as your travelling companion?”

Flynn was surprised, but he thought: I believe there is no one I would rather have. How extraordinary. I barely know him and yet I am trusting him with my life. “I should accept with gratitude, sir.”

“My name is Amairgen,”

“That is an unusual name.”

“Not really. After the Great Devastation, many of the survivors found that they had lost not only their homes and their possessions, but also their names. The Apocalypse had wiped clean their memories. That is one reason why we have so little knowledge of the Letheans. When the truth was discovered about the Glowing Lands, my ancestors were appointed as Leaders of the Council of Keepers. As with the Council itself, the office of Leader is hereditary. Father to son. They took their names from a great leader and traveller and scholar of Ancient Ireland: Amairgen, son of Mil, who journeyed from a distant land with companions into ‘the blue and green mists to bring peace to Tara.’ You see?” In the darkness, Flynn felt the man smile. “In view of what we are about to undertake, my name would seem appropriate. And your own name is probably a derivation of Finn, from the young warrior who was the High King Cormac’s champion and who formed the ancient and honourable and most formidable brotherhood of the Fiana. That also is appropriate.”

“Yes, I see.”

Amairgen said softly. “You know that we are constrained to return?”

“I don’t —”

“And that in no circumstances other than death or mutilation are we permitted to remain in whatever world we may find beyond the Time Curtain?”

Flynn said, “I know it.” And thought: damn! Why is my voice sounding too loud? He said again, “Yes, I do know. I understand.” But he thought that Amairgen looked at him rather searchingly, as if he knew very well that Flynn’s whole mind and soul and body had often yearned to go back, to find the blue and green mists. Had someone truly written that of Tara? But it is so familiar, thought Flynn, and was not surprised to find it so.

Amairgen lifted the hand that bore the great carved ring. “The symbol of the Leader,” he said. “To be given to my son if I should have one, or to whomever I may appoint if I do not.” Again there was that disconcerting study, and Flynn thought: I believe I know what he is thinking. And at once knew a shaft of panic. Oh, no, I don’t want that … Or do I? And he looked afresh at the silent watchers with their shadowed faces, and he felt again the faint, far-off stir of music that he had always felt lay hidden just beyond hearing on this hill. To control such a Secret; said his mind … To lead these men who guard what is surely the greatest and most awful Secret that ever man had to guard …

Amairgen spoke in a brisker tone, “Well, we must leave at daybreak, I think. You should dress warmly but plainly, for we dare not call attention to ourselves on this side of the Time Curtain, or beyond it. And you should bring a weapon of some kind — something easy to carry but capable of defending you.”

Weapons were almost totally unknown in Tugaim, or anywhere else, for that matter, for the Letheans had bequeathed a strong and deeply rooted aversion to violence. But Flynn thought that of course Amairgen was right. A knife of some kind perhaps? A wood axe? And felt amusement, for was he to undertake the most perilous journey imaginable armed with a bread knife? But, “Yes,” he said again. “Yes, I understand.” And paused, and waited.

In the dim light, Amairgen watched him. “Tell me,” said Flynn at length, “where is it we go; to break through the Time Curtain?”

Amairgen paused, as if reluctant to speak. “It is not far,” he said. “The boundaries of Tugaim.

“To the House of Mutants. To the Gealtacht.”

*

In the cold dawn light, Amairgen was very much younger than Flynn had thought. He was of medium height, fair, grey-eyed and slender. Even so, Flynn thought he would be a worthy ally and a dangerous opponent.

Amairgen smiled. He said, “You are right, Flynn. I can fight if I have to.”

Flynn turned to look. “You knew my thoughts?” This was so interesting as to be compelling. It was almost as compelling as what lay ahead.

“Yes. I have a little — a very little — of what is called the Samhailt. The gift — or the curse — of Tara.” He glanced at Flynn. “That is how I knew you spoke the truth. I knew you had kept faith and not betrayed the Secret. The Leaders of the Council of Keepers must always possess the Samhailt. I think you possess it yourself, a little.” And then, as Flynn did not answer, Amairgen said gently, “Flynn. Don’t be surprised or frightened by what is ahead, you and I are entering other worlds: ancient worlds. Tell me, do you think your Joanna is still alive?”

“Yes,” said Flynn.

“Ah,” said Amairgen, and Flynn thought: well at least he understands.

“Of course I understand,” said Amairgen, and grinned.

Flynn recovered himself enough to say, “It’s a difficult thing to possess at times.”

“It is.” Amairgen pointed to the hill in front of them. “The Gealtacht.”

“Why do we have to come here?”

Amairgen stood for a moment, surveying the great grim building far above them. “Because,” he said, “the Gealtacht is a place of asylum for the Mutants. But you know that, of course. Mutants are able to control the Lands. They have within them the same taint and the same damage that the Glowing Lands have: the paw mark of the Apocalypse who tore the Time Curtain. They are able to strengthen the doorway that will lead us back to the Court of Tara. You could not go through it, Flynn, not by yourself, because you had not sufficient power. Perhaps your Joanna possesses some strange power we do not know. Perhaps …”

He stopped and Flynn said, “Yes?”

“Nothing. Only a legend I once heard …”

“Tell me.”

“The return of the High Queen,” said Amairgen in a whisper. “She would come from the future. But, no, it cannot be so. Joanna simply stumbled across the Time Curtain. In some way she parted it.

“The Mutants have a great power, you see. They also can part the Time Curtain and allow us to go through.

“And so we shall have to chain one of them and take him to Tara’s Hill and force him to draw aside the Time Curtain.”

*

The climb to the Gealtacht was longer and more arduous than Flynn had expected. The hill was more barren than anything he had ever seen in Tugaim. The effects of Devastation? Or simply that this was a place so utterly abandoned by men that the land had lost heart. Ridiculous! said Flynn to himself, but the feeling of a desolation so total, a loneliness so dreadful, persisted.

The track was narrow and difficult, here and there it was rutted by some great upheaval.

“It is hardly ever used,” said Amairgen. “Once you are inside the Gealtacht, you are not expected ever to come out. There are no recorded instances of anyone ever having done so.”

Several times on the upward climb, Flynn stumbled and each time Amairgen was there with a hand outstretched to catch him. As they climbed higher, and the air became colder, Flynn found himself doing the same, anticipating Amairgen’s missteps.

“The Samhailt?” he said, grinning.

“Of course. A difficult possession, but useful at a time like this. Without it, I should have been at the foot of that ravine.”

But even with such good company, Flynn, found the hill rather menacing. It was a long way from the warmth and the security of Tugaim, of course; there was a brooding air that chilled his inmost thoughts. To be brought up here, to know from the beginning that you were deformed, maimed, that you were not like others, and must be shut away in this terrible prison. Had they intelligence, these Mutants? Were they able to feel pain at their outcast state?

“Oh yes,” said Amairgen. “That is the pity of it. But it is thought that they are made quite comfortable up here.”

As they climbed even higher, Flynn found himself remembering that even today there were bands of fierce greedy men who would not work their own lands, but preferred to roam the hillsides and the forests, preying on solitary travellers, occasionally making raids on the more isolated farmhouses. To Flynn, violence was a totally abhorrent concept, and he thought it was to most of Tugaim. Even so, he recognised that it was not so for everyone. Violence had survived in the world. “The old order changeth not …” Where had he heard of, read, or dreamed that?

They stopped to break their fast when the sun was high. “For,” said Amairgen, “it won’t help if we arrive fainting from hunger and speechless from fatigue. Did you bring food? Oh good. Shall we share what we have?”

It was a curious meal they ate together, sheltering from the cold, thin wind in the lee of some boulders, the bulk of the Gealtacht still far above them. Flynn looked up at it, and thought there was an air of patience about it, and an air of watchfulness. He thought it was looking down on Tugaim, waiting until its next victims were brought to it. He shook his head to clear the thoughts, and turned to unpack the food made up in the farmhouse early that morning.

“Cold chicken is it?” said Amairgen. “Excellent. And I have pigeon pie and potted mushrooms.”

Flynn had brought fruit as well; crisp apples and velvet-skinned plums from the orchard. There were honey cakes and a small flask of the rich damson wine which Flynn’s mother had always brewed, and which Flynn, remembering only a shadowy, rather beautiful lady, always thought tasted of happiness and sadness in equal portions.

“Life is happiness and sadness both,” said Amairgen. “But not always in equal portions.” And then he brushed the crumbs from his cloak and set about packing away the remains of their food and corking the wine flask, so that Flynn thought Amairgen himself was compounded of curiously unequal portions.

The sun had reached its zenith and was moving downwards over the Mountains of the Morning as they neared the Gealtacht. Flynn shivered in the cold, raw air, thinking that few living things would ever come here. But no, here were tracks of some kind of animal; there against the hill face was the nest of some flying creature, too large for a hawk, too small for an eagle. He turned up his collar against the cold, and thought: even like this, even with the afternoon sun on it, the Gealtacht is a terrible place. How must it be to be up here at night, perhaps without even the light from the moon; to be close to the creatures inside the House, as cut off from the light as they were from the rest of humanity?

There was a scent of hawthorn and moss now, and the walls of the Gealtacht were rearing up against the sky. High walls. “Oh yes, they have to be high,” said Amairgen.

“Are they — the Mutants — dangerous?”

“Some of them.”

Even so, there were splashes of life and colour against the walls; gentians and star flowers and rowan. Rowan, the age-old protection against witches … But how near to the house itself did it grow?

Before them were the iron gates that shut away the Gealtacht, the House of Mutants, from the rest of the world. The gates were locked, secured with immense iron padlocks, and lined with sheets of steel, so that no one could look in. And no one could look out …

“Over the wall,” said Amairgen. “You first. I’ll follow.”

*

The Brave New World created by the Great Devastation did not admit (or not often) to flaws or taints. Devastation had been a purging, said the survivors determinedly; it had been tragic and terrible, but it had swept away all of the old imperfections and all of the old weaknesses; only the strong had come through, and it was the strong who would rebuild the world.

But not even those remarkable men and women who had lived through the Apocalypse’s reign of terror and pain could hide the dreadful and pitiable creatures who had been directly touched by the Apocalypse’s fire.

To begin with, they did not want to hide them. When the world settled, and the fires cooled, there had been a wave of love and friendship so tremendous that the scarred and the deformed had not mattered. The world was scarred and deformed, said the survivors staunchly; people must live and work side by side, never mind that some were hurt and mutilated. No one must hide, or shudder away from the poor maimed creatures who had borne the brunt.

But the Mutants did not conform. They did not slot into this splendid new world that was so carefully and so eagerly being rebuilt. They were bitter and withdrawn: “Understandably so,” said the survivors, still buoyed up by the marvellous new feeling that was sweeping mankind, stimulated by the great task ahead.

But the Mutants suffered; they were prone to sickness, vomiting and purging. They sometimes rolled in agony on the floor from the pains in their bones and organs. They could not be expected to work, and they could not really be left alone. No one had any palliatives to give, but everyone agreed that they must be gently treated, made as comfortable as possible. However much pity there might be for the damaged, the world must somehow struggle back into the light; this new wonderful sense of love and friendship must not be lost. It must be cherished and let to grow. It was not that they had not time to spare on the Mutants, said the survivors firmly, or that they had not pity for them, it was simply a question of practicalities. It was, in fact, a little irritating to have to break off to tend the Mutants when there was so much else to be done. Nobody came out and said so, but the Mutants were rather a problem. They were certainly a distraction.

The Houses were opened. People who had medical knowledge left from the old days ventured their services. It was exactly like the old wars, the really old ones. The Crimea had it been? And the First World War? Distant memories, ancient history, and really rather milk-and-water battles to people who had come through days and nights and weeks of terror. Even so, the Houses, the volunteers, provided a solution to the problem of the Mutants. They could be put together; there were enough old infirmaries still standing, enough old asylums. Built for exactly these purposes, said the survivors, pleased. The Mutants would be cared for. It need not be a problem.

The problem had not been the original Mutants.

It had been the Mutants’ descendants.

*

“They ought not have been allowed to breed,” said Amairgen, jumping down beside Flynn into the gardens of the House. “But no one guessed … And it seemed kindly to give them the comfort of sexual release if they wanted it.”

The comfort of sexual release, so tolerantly bestowed, had very nearly destroyed the splendid new sense of love in the world.

“They bred from one another,” said Amairgen, pausing in the still afternoon, his eyes surveying the great House ahead of the trees. “And they bred the most dreadful travesties of humanity.”

The first Mutants, pitiable and maimed, had been possible to cope with; the survivors had been able to feel kindly towards them, and the people who tended them had been able to bring genuine compassion to their task. Wasn’t everyone struggling to live again, and wasn’t it only the luck of the draw that some were forever tainted and some left whole? They dug deeply into the old knowledge for remedies: draughts to halt the terrible vomiting and purging; painkilling potions to dilute the bone agony of their charges; cooling lotions to help the dreadful weeping abscesses that broke out on the scorched skins. And there were what were called remissions; times when the Mutants could enjoy life a little, eat normal foods, carry on conversations … feel sexual arousal.

They were tended and allowed to do whatever they wished. Poor creatures, said those who had the care of them. Surely one could spare time and compassion on them. It would only be for a few years anyway.

It was not for a few years at all. The Mutants could somehow still breed. “Mankind fighting for re-birth,” said the survivors sagely. But the women brought forth creatures such as no one could have imagined.

“Many were near-monsters,” said Amairgen, one hand on Flynn’s arm; so alert and so watchful that Flynn thought he might almost be sniffing the air.

“And so the Mutant strain was strengthened. Just as close cousins have never been supposed to breed from one another if there is any weakness that may be doubled, so the Mutant strain was made far worse than anyone could have foreseen. Since those days, we have had the Kin Book which must be strictly kept, and in which all Mutants born must be registered. Not,” said Amairgen, “that so many are born now, but it still occurs occasionally.”

“But people do not always admit to having produced a Mutant. They conceal, they send the child away to where the laws are not so strictly upheld.”

Amairgen replied “Of course they do. Human nature has not changed so very much despite Devastation, Flynn.”

The grounds of the Gealtacht were overgrown, but there were attempts at grassy banks and a few flower beds. There were dark shrubberies and laurel bushes, and towering oak and beech trees.

“Sheltered,” said Amairgen. “Yes, I believe these are from the days before Devastation. Yes, for that tree must be at least two hundred years old, if not more. And the house itself escaped the worst of the fires.”

It was curious and slightly eerie to see growing things which were largely unknown in Ireland now. Flynn stared at the immense trees, their branches interlacing overhead, making patterns against the sky, and thought: what did they do, our ancestors, to unleash on the world so great a power that it could destroy things like this? In a way, it was like entering a part of the past; Flynn thought that here was a world within a world; the Gealtacht did not need Tugaim, it did not need any of the outside world. It was complete in itself, and once the iron doors had clanged shut, escape from the House would be impossible.

They approached the building through a thick shrubbery, avoiding the gravel paths. Flynn thought that despite the bleak air, despite the deserted grounds, someone did tend the gardens a little. The lawns were roughly cut, the gravel paths had at some time been raked. The bushes were clipped into a kind of order.

Seen at closer range, the house looked as if it might be deserted. Windows were barred, and there was no sign of life anywhere. But …

“Look,” said Amairgen softly. “Smoke from the chimneys.”

“Yes. And a smell of cooking. That would be the kitchen section.”

It was difficult to escape the feeling of hidden watchers, of unseen eyes peering from the topmost windows, and of calculations being made. Another two? Oh, for sure we can house them. There are cells, there are windowless prisons with chains and locked doors. Once inside the Gealtacht they will never get out. Terrible thoughts. How many poor maimed creatures, damaged from the scorching fires, had been brought here and had those thoughts?

Amairgen found a side door, nearly covered by a thick mat of ivy, but unlocked. He turned to Flynn and placed a finger on his lips. Flynn nodded. They did not dare to be caught by those who had the care of the Mutants; they could not possibly explain their mission.

Capture and chain one of them …

It was a cold thought to have to contemplate chaining and binding another human creature. But, “Many are near-monsters,” Amairgen had said. Flynn thought: I must bear it. If I can think of these creatures as simply sick human beings, perhaps I can manage. He remembered an old Lethe belief that the sins of people could be visited on their descendants, perhaps that was the explanation. The sins of those greedy, foolhardy beings who burned the world and called up the Apocalypse were still punishing their descendants. It would explain a good deal; it might even explain why some had been left whole and others had not.

Inside the Gealtacht it was rather dark and there was a dank smell. Rats! thought Flynn, and repressed a shudder, for everyone knew the tales of how rats had run unchecked amidst the rubble of the burning cities, bringing plague and sickness with them. Everyone knew how the rats had eaten the dead bodies, and even of how, in desperate cases, survivors had eaten the rats. Not to be thought of, any of it.

They moved cautiously along a narrow corridor to their left, the clatter of crockery and pots and the hum of conversation coming faintly to them. Amairgen threw out a thought and Flynn picked it up at once. At least they do not trouble to keep any kind of silence, these tenders of monsters. At least we should hear them coming, and have time to hide.

Amairgen moved forward, his head tilted to catch the slightest sound, his eyes searching the shadows. Flynn thought: he is using the Samhailt to its utmost limits; he is trying to pick up the thoughts and the emotions of the people in here.

“But of course I shall not be able to,” said Amairgen, and Flynn grinned despite himself.

“No?”

“The Samhailt can only really exist between people who are in sympathy one with the other,” said Amairgen. “And even then, it is possible to close your thoughts to the other.” He stopped and put out his hand to Flynn, and Flynn stopped as well, because he had felt, just for a brief moment, a ripple of something on the air. Desperation, was it? Certainly a cry for help. He looked at Amairgen, and Amairgen said, “It could not be. Surely no creature in here could possess the Ancient Gift.” But his voice was uncertain.

And then from somewhere at the very top of the house there was a muffled clang; iron against iron — a heavy door closing to. There was a squeal of rage or pain, or both, which died on the air, leaving only the brooding silence once again.

The thread of thought that had seemed, so fleetingly, to come from somewhere inside the Gealtacht, vanished, and Flynn thought that perhaps after all they had imagined it.

They saw the first Mutant as they rounded a corner where two corridors converged. At first, Flynn thought it was just another echoing empty passage; he saw the twists of cable dangling from the ceilings that he had seen in Lethe-built buildings elsewhere, the bloom of condensation on the walls and the puddles of damp on the stone floor — or was it simply damp? There was a pile of clothes at the far end …

But the pile of clothes was moving. Both men stopped; be careful!

Amairgen moved forward, and Flynn thought: he does not hesitate, ever. He does not even have to think about being brave, or summoning courage. He has instinctive courage. He moved to Amairgen’s side.

You do not need to prove anything, Flynn. You will have courage and to spare before we are done, and perhaps at a time when I shall not.

The creature ahead of them made a quick scuttling movement that reminded Flynn of an insect. And then it moved from the shadows, and dismay held both men motionless.

The creature was certainly a girl, for there were breasts and a certain softness of feature. There was an oval body with the head set at one side. But instead of two arms and two legs, three pairs of limbs protruded at regular intervals, jointed and gristly with sinew, neither quite arms nor legs, but a mixture of the two. The fingers at each end were thick and splayed so that the creature could grip and walk.

Flynn and Amairgen froze, and the girl looked at them. Flynn saw comprehension in her eyes and intelligence as well, and the pity of it burst like a fire inside his chest.

“Intruders?” said the girl, moving back and forth, and the two men saw that she used all six limbs to support herself, exactly as a spider, or a beetle, scurrying to and fro does. “Intruders,” she said again, rearing up slightly, her upper limbs waving at them uncertainly.

“We intend you no harm,” said Flynn softly.

“You have come to view us?”

“No. To ask for your help.”

“Are you some kind of lookout?” said Amairgen warily.

“No. But they do not chain me as they chain the others. I am free to come and go as I please. But I keep to the shadows,” said the girl. “You will understand why.”

Flynn said, very gently, “But you have a gentle face —”

“And a repulsive body. The men make use of me when they wish to. I do not really mind.” I do not really mind anything, said her tone, and Flynn felt the pity well up again, like sickness inside him.

“Forgive us, but we must search the house. There will be — one of your kind who will help us.”

Again there was understanding. “Through there,” she said, and moved away from them, dropping back on to her six legs, watching them wordlessly from the dark corner where she had been crouching. As the men moved away, they heard her say softly, “The strongest are chained. But it will be the strongest who will give you most help.”

They moved away towards the intersection of the passages.

Down here?

Yes.

To begin with, it was some kind of instinct that drew them in that direction, but after a few moments, they both became aware of a noise, and as they drew nearer, both wanted to turn and run. Flynn thought it was like the cries of souls in hell, and then he thought that it was souls shut out of hell. His skin prickled and sweat started out on his brow.

Courage, said Amairgen silently. Do not lose your sense of proportion, Flynn. These poor creatures are a very tiny section of mankind.

Is that a consolation to them?

Amairgen sent him a quick look of understanding. “But you have a skin short, Flynn,” he said, and took his arm as they saw, ahead of them, a great iron door.

The noise was deafening now. It echoed and reverberated around the old stone mansion, and as they stood before the door, Flynn saw in the dim light, a printed notice fixed to the wall, its surface pitted by fire and time, but readable still.

… and no attempts should be made to touch the Lunaticks, for although the Diet is extraordinary Good and Proper, yet they may be subject to Scurvy and Other Disease … the Lunaticks may not be viewed on Sundays …

Viewed, thought Flynn. Viewed. “You have come to view us,” she had said. What long-ago Lethe put up that notice, beautifully printed by one of their machines, as cold and unfeeling in its wording as the machine that made it. The babble of cries on the other side of the door grew momentarily louder.

Amairgen took a deep breath and reached down to turn the iron handle. The door slid soundlessly open and Flynn and Amairgen stepped inside.

The Mutants were kept in a long windowless chamber, divided into sections by iron bars — like cages! thought Flynn. The walls and floors ran with damp, and there was some kind of fungus on the underside of the far-away roof. Straw was thrown down on the floor and there were troughs of water, and metal buckets containing some kind of coarse-looking meal. The walls had brackets with burning torches thrust roughly into them, so that the light burned continuously, lending an eerie glow to the scene before their eyes.

The Mutants were chained; every one of them had leg manacles attached to long chains embedded deeply in the old walls, which slithered and clanked every time they moved, with a cold, steel-on-wet-stone sound that made Flynn’s nerve endings shudder. The chains were long; the Mutants could move about freely; they could reach the water trough and the meal buckets.

The Mutants were not all as physically deformed as the spider girl in the corridor. Some were only twisted or hunched, or were lacking a leg or an arm. Nothing so very terrible. But as Flynn looked, they seemed to become more terrible: nightmarish. There were men with one eye or with three; women with no necks, but heads growing from a shoulder; creatures covered with hair, with warts, with scaly growths. One man had neither neck nor shoulders, but a huge, completely smooth, egg-shaped torso with the facial features crammed into one end of the egg, and tiny useless-looking arms growing halfway down.

In one corner were beings so hideously deformed, that it was impossible to tell if they were one person or several; there were creatures with extra arms growing from their shoulders; creatures with two sets of shoulders and two heads on one trunk; single faces with two separate sets of features squashed into them; bodies that began normally but divided at the waist into two sets of legs, each with perfectly formed genitals between them, one male and one female. There were feet growing from shoulders and from thighs. In another corner was a Mutant with no head at all, just a body with a thick stump-like neck that had a gash for its mouth and great bulbous eyes at the top of the stump that twitched and protruded.

In every terrible face, there was a cunning, an evil, and such a complete absence of humanity, that Flynn was sickened. He thought he could have coped with monsters; he certainly thought he could have coped with ordinary malformed human beings.

But such travesties as these were not people, they were barely human. Both men thought as one: we could not possibly take any of these.

“Dear God,” groaned Amairgen, and at the soft words, the nearest Mutant, a male covered in thick scaly skin and with massive ears, turned and saw them, and let out an animal screech of glee. In a moment, the Mutants had turned and were hurling themselves at Flynn and Amairgen, tearing frantically at their chains, reaching with hands for the two strangers.

Flynn and Amairgen backed away until they found themselves backed up against the great door.

“We cannot possibly — none of these poor things could be taken — they would never understand …” Flynn gasped.

“Nevertheless, we must try,” Amairgen took a step forward. He held up a hand for silence, and the Mutants’ tumult subsided a little, they were watching him slyly, chattering to themselves like animals.

Amairgen said, “Please — we mean you no harm. We want your help.”

There was a silence and Flynn felt the puzzlement in the room. The word itself was alien to them.

“We would ask one of you to come with us,” said Amairgen. “To the Glowing Lands. To help someone in danger.”

Again the silence. The Mutants watched and considered the strangers and then began to move back to their corners.

Flynn said despairingly, “It’s no use. I don’t think they understand.”

“They must … Look at me, damn you!” cried Amairgen. “Look at me, you poor deserted things!” He strode into their midst. “Listen to me.”

The Mutants were on him in an instant, tearing at his clothes, thrusting themselves up against him.

Flynn did not hesitate — “You will have courage and to spare before we are done,” Amairgen had said — he snatched up on iron bar from the floor and laid about the Mutants until he had cleared a path to where Amairgen half sat, half lay, dazed and bruised, one arm raised to shield his face.

“Come on!” shouted Flynn furiously, and dragged his companion back to the door.

They fell through it together, gasping and choking, and pushed it to, breathing heavily, neither able to speak. Behind the iron barrier the Mutants had set up a terrible wailing, dragging their chains backwards and forwards across the stone floor in a frenzy.

At length, Amairgen straightened up and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. “We dare not stay here,” he said. “The attendants will come running at any minute. The noise those creatures are making — ”

“I’m going to be sick.”

“Then go and do it in that corner as quietly as you can manage.”

Flynn moved blindly and leaned over, retching for several minutes, feeling his insides scoured by the cold sourness of the place, his eyes streaming with sickness and pity.

Amairgen silently handed him the flask of damson wine and Flynn gulped several mouthfuls gratefully.

“I didn’t know you had a squeamish stomach,” said Amairgen.

“I haven’t,” said Flynn, and dredged up a smile. “Where now?”

“I think the upper floors.”

“Are there other floors?” But of course there must be, the Gealtacht could not rear up against the night sky unless there were higher floors than this. And the Letheans had built high towering places, everyone knew that.

“There are several,” said Amairgen. “The Letheans’ class system operates here. What we saw in there were the poor creatures whose families have entirely abandoned them. The paupers,” said Amairgen, using a word unfamiliar to Flynn.

“And the upper floors?”

“Will house the elite. The Mutants whose families do not mind paying for extra comforts, and for a degree of privacy.”

Even so, there was little in the way of comfort to be found in the dank narrow cells under the Gealtacht’s roof.

“Of course there is not,” said Amairgen sadly. “The attendants pocket the money and feed these Mutants exactly as they feed the wretches downstairs.”

“Can they? I mean can they do so without being discovered?”

“It’s an old custom,” said Amairgen. “And who comes here to check?”

The upper floor was bisected by yet another soulless passage, which they reached by means of a wide shallow-treaded staircase. Flynn touched the wooden balustrades: when the Letheans built, they built well. The balustrade was a strong solid oak; it was dull and scarred by neglect, but the grain was still beautiful; the delicately carved fir cones and oak leaves that decorated the hand rail were still lovely.

These cells opened off the corridor; each had a tiny grille and a name written on a card outside it. Each cell was firmly locked.

The cries were louder up here; they were of the same quality as those in the paupers’ chamber, they conveyed the same unmistakable madness. But Flynn thought there was a terrible desolation about them now; an immense and aching loneliness. At least the Mutants downstairs had company. The Mutants up here had nothing.

Locked away in tiny windowless cells, without light, without warmth, barely knowing the comfort of another human being’s presence … These were indeed the damned, the ones shut out of hell, thought Flynn. I don’t think I can bear this. But they have to bear it, said his mind. There is no running away for them. This is all their life consists of, and this is all it will ever consist of. What did they do, our ancestors, when they unleashed the beast Apocalypse on the world? He wanted to fling wide the doors of this great gloomy Lethe mansion, and see sunlight pour in and hear voices raised cheerfully, and feel warmth and friendship soak through the stone walls. He could do none of it. He could not even unlock the cell doors.

Apprehensive and fearful Flynn and Amairgen peered into the cells. “We have glimpsed worlds we did not suspect existed,” said Flynn afterwards.

“I suspected,” Amairgen replied sadly. “But I hoped I was wrong.”

In the cell at the far end of the corridor a girl crouched in one corner, her knees drawn up, her feet wide apart. Between her thighs, lay the almost unrecognisable remains of a baby. Flynn looked and then turned away at once, but not before he had seen the girl reach down with absorption into the bloodied mess and lift up a portion of skin and flesh. In the jellied lump, he thought he saw a tiny hand, five fingered but webbed.

Flynn snapped the grille shut and leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed.

“What was it?”

Flynn said, “She was eating — a dead child. I think she had just given birth …”

“How do you know?”

“I saw the afterbirth,” said Flynn, who had helped deliver calves and foals ever since he could remember, and who thought he had seen some odd things, but had never seen anything quite like this. He opened his eyes and looked at Amairgen. “Animals sometimes do it,” he said. “If the offspring is deformed. They eat it …”

Amairgen said slowly “Eating the children,” and frowned.

“Inhuman.”

“No,” said Amairgen, “it was not that. Just for a moment, I thought there was something familiar …” He shook himself. “It does not matter. We must go back, Flynn. There is nothing here that can help us.”

They returned cautiously to the lower floors, both of them conscious of having failed, each conscious of a great anger and an aching grief.

The spider girl was still sitting in her corner, staring at nothing with the patience of a sick animal.

Flynn stopped; his hand came out to Amairgen’s, and again a thought was shared.

Why not this one? She is not the strongest, and it is the strongest who will most easily draw aside the Time Curtain. But she is a Mutant; she may have some power. And she is not mad like the others; they have not chained her or locked her away.

They started forward.

*

“You would take me out of here?” she said.

“Yes.”

“You would do that?”

“Yes. But you must come quietly and you must come now.”

“I would do anything …” The girl touched Flynn’s hand. “I would serve you both, anything you asked, I would do. To be out of here …” She looked from one to the other. “And I am agile. I can climb to places you could not reach. I could be of help in all kinds of ways. Oh, take me with you.”

Flynn and Amairgen straightened up; they looked at each other, and Amairgen gave a tiny nod.

“Come then. Have you things you wish to bring?”

“My cloak. It is here. I have nothing more.”

“Quickly then. They will be searching for us now. They must have heard the Mutants screech.”

“The Mutants always screech,” said the girl. “But it is true; they will be serving supper soon.”

“Tell us your name,” said Flynn kindly.

“It is Portan.”

Ah,” said Amairgen. “And your real name, my dear?”

A smile touched her lips. “In my family, I was called Maura. But names change inside the Gealtacht. I am always called Portan. It is an old Gael word, meaning —”

“The spider-crab,” said Amairgen, gently. “This way, and let us be as quiet as we can.”

*

It was rather like having an obedient child, having Portan with them. She did not speak very much, but both men were strongly conscious of an unquestioning fidelity. Once she halted and sniffed the dusk; once she said, “I had forgotten how large the world was,” but for most of the journey back down the hill, she said nothing, padding easily and silently at their side, usually on all six limbs, but occasionally raising up a little.

When they stopped, halfway down, she curled at Flynn’s feet and accepted the food they shared out; watching them eat, copying how they did so with a faithfulness that Flynn found moving. He gave her the remains of the chicken, and peeled and sectioned an apple for her.

“This is a feast,” said Portan. “I had forgotten there were such things.”

“How long have you been in the Gealtacht?”

“Many years. I am not sure.”

She appeared to possess the unusual gift of being able to live for the moment, and to be only too able to forget the years in the House of Mutants.

“But my family I do not forget,” she said, and there was an ache of longing in her voice now. “I do not forget how I was taken to the House by nightfall and left there on the doorstep to be found or to die, as the gods chose. I do not forget that I cried and clung to my father and begged not to be left there.” A tiny pause. “It was a terrible time,” said Portan.

“Your family abandoned you?”

“It is how it should be,” said Portan. “But it was hard, sometimes. And I should have liked to see my mother again.”

Flynn said carefully, “But there is surely nothing shameful about having a Mutant born into the family —”

“Oh yes, it is a very shameful thing,” said Portan, and there was no trace of bitterness in her voice. “People do not wish to admit that we still exist, you see. They do not like it known that they cannot breed normal healthy children. And my father was an important man. It would not have done. But I missed my mother,” she said, and now there was such wistfulness in her voice, that Flynn felt his eyes burn with unshed tears.

Portan smiled up at him. “But I was luckier than most,” she said. “I was not disabled by my deformities, and they learned that I was not insane like so many were.”

She had been entrusted with small tasks; carrying food, cleaning. “There were several of us who could do such things. They did not lock us in. And it made for a friendship between us.” She laid down the remains of the chicken. “We had to wait on those who had us in their care,” she said. “And in the summer we were made to attend to the gardens. That I enjoyed — to see the food growing — there is a satisfaction in that. But mainly I was alone.”

“What did you do?”

“I waited,” she said. “And I hoped,” and Flynn, liking her and admiring her, was suddenly reminded of a trustful animal, abandoned by its master, but still watching the door for that master’s return.

He smiled and reached out to take her hand. “I am glad you came with us, Portan,” he told her.

“I hope I will be able to do what you want,” said Portan.

Flynn hoped so as well.

CHAPTER FIVE

Joanna awoke to bright sunlight pouring in through the half-curtained windows of her bedchamber, and was hazily aware of a warm contented drowsiness.

And then, quite suddenly, of something else.

I am not alone.

Delight tinged with apprehension washed over her, and she turned her head across the deep soft bed and saw him.

He was still asleep, sprawled across the bed in unconscious grace — animal grace, thought Joanna, fascinated and terrified: I have lain with a wolf. And she knew only an immense, heart-stopping joy.

She lay quietly, watching him, the bed soft and warm, memories of the previous night flooding back.

They had sat before the fire talking, drinking wine; Cormac’s eyes had been hard and slanting, golden in the firelight, and Joanna had thought: I believe he is in some way casting an enchantment on me, frowning, because the concept of such a thing was alien. Even so — I believe he is she thought, and discovered a wish to be enchanted wholly and forever. All about them, the great Castle of Shadow settled into silence, and through the deep slit-like windows the winking lights of the forest dwellers went out one by one. They might have been the only people left in the world …

*

“We are the only people,” said her companion softly, and Joanna jumped, because for a moment she had forgotten his trick of picking up a thought. Would he then know everything she thought?

“Not your deepest thoughts,” he said, and smiled.

“Those of us who possess the Samhailt are charged to use it honourably.” He took her hand. “I possess it, because I could not be a Prince of Tara unless I did. But I must never probe too deeply.” He held her hand a little more firmly. “Are you thinking, Human Child, that I have drawn you into my lair and kept you there for my own purposes?” The cool, sharp wolf nails of his hand dug into her skin. He moved so that he was seated on the floor, in front of the great hearth, and his face and his limbs were bathed in the red light from the fire.

“Joanna, I am aching with desire for you,” he said, and Joanna felt the delight and the fear run all over her. For an instant, the memory of Muldooney’s fat soft body against hers swam into her mind, and for a truly terrible moment, the memory of Flynn’s grey eyes and wide mobile mouth was there as well. But, “I am aching with desire,” he said, and his face and his voice were like no one’s Joanna had ever met in her life, and the reality of Flynn and Muldooney and that other world that she might never see again, was slipping away.

Cormac said softly, “There has been one who misused you, Human Child. You may forget him. And there has been one who loved you. You may forget him, also.” He pulled her down to the floor beside him, and his face was close to hers, and she could smell the warm golden wolf scent of him, and desire cut through her from breast to womb, so fiercely and so sweetly that the room tilted and spun.

“I have the strength of Men to love you, Joanna, and I have the strength of Beasts, as well. I can love you like a human, Joanna, but I can love you like a wolf too. Your purebred humans could never love you like I can, Joanna.”

He had risen and was looking down at her, and so beautiful and so strange was he that Joanna felt dizzy and sick, and was filled with delight and fear, and wished to wake up and find it all a dream, and wanted it to go on for ever.

“Contrary child,” said Cormac gently, and pulled her to her feet, and drawing her close, kissed her slowly and lingeringly, his lips open and warm and tasting of wine and love. Joanna leaned against him, she thought she could not have stood by herself anyway by this time, and she felt the strong thighs and hips, and the powerful shoulders, and felt as well, the hard hot masculine arousal between his legs.

“You see?” said Cormac softly. “You feel?” He slid the fur-trimmed robe from his shoulders, and stood naked before the flickering fire, and Joanna drew in a breath, and thought: beautiful! Animal and frightening, but so beautiful a creature that no one could resist him. Is he going to do to me what Muldooney tried to do and failed?

“I shall hurt you,” said Cormac softly, and Joanna knew he had sensed her fear. “But you will not mind.”

He reached for the robe she wore and slid it from her shoulders, his sharp nails brushing her skin, leaving rivulets of pleasure wherever they touched.

“Ever since you walked into my castle I have wanted you,” he said.

Come inside, my dear … all the better to seduce you … Joanna had never heard the old nursery stories; she had never absorbed, as children of an earlier age had, the primeval fear of wolves; of soft caressing voices that soothed and excited all in one; of slender and beautiful young men who were not quite what they appeared to be. To a child from the age known as Lethe, Cormac’s behaviour and his words would have been sinister indeed; a Lethe child would have remembered that creatures with wolf blood in them had a way of suddenly changing, so that evil, hungry beings looked out of their eyes; that creatures with wolf blood in them had a taste for human flesh and human skin. All the better to eat you with, my dear … But a child of the Lethe age would never have found itself in this situation either, and even then, would not have believed in it, for the Letheans, whatever else they may have done, had found a way to solve the world’s problems. They knew, or thought they knew, the solution to all the mysteries and they thought that their science had drawn aside all the veils, so that their knowledge had penetrated the dark secrets of the world. But perhaps, as well as all of this, they had lost something. Perhaps they had lost the sense of wonder. They had certainly lost the belief in magic and in other worlds.

And so, Joanna, child of an austere, destroyed world but child also of an age who had known the Apocalypse and who therefore knew that anything in the world was possible, believed in this remarkable enchanted world and fell a little deeper into Cormac’s bewitchment. She sat and listened and looked, and allowed herself to be seduced very fully, very completely.

Once lost, she was lost indeed. There was no thought of Flynn left in her mind, for Cormac was already spinning about her an old, old enchantment. There was absolutely no thought of Muldooney with his soft fat body and the obscene things he had done to her.

Cormac’s hands on her body felt like nothing she had ever imagined; when he drew her hands down between his thighs so that she felt the strong dark tangle of hair and the warm hard arousal of his body, she did not think — I am betraying Flynn — for she had no memory of Flynn left. She pulled Cormac closer, exploring him, cupping him between her hands, trembling with pleasure when the warm silky seed began to spill on to her hands. There was nothing left in the world but this warm, fire-lit room and this lithe lean being who was sending her body spinning into such delight that she thought she would surely faint.

He laid her on the floor, the soft skin rugs beneath her, and lowered himself on to her so that she felt his gentle weight, and smelt again the dark golden wolf scent. As he entered her, smoothly and strongly and yet somehow gently, she cried out, and there was a dark sweet flood of joy that came spinning outwards until it engulfed her entire body. She did not see Cormac’s sideways glance at her, and she did not feel the satisfaction that coursed through his mind. She thought only: I am being loved by a wolf! And the pleasure soared.

Dawn was streaking the skies when he at last carried her up to his bedchamber and laid her on the great soft bed. He sent for warm wine and poured it for her, and drank with her, sharing the wine chalice, smiling at her, his eyes unfathomable, his mouth tender.

And I loved it all, she thought, stretching now, watching the sun travel slowly across the floor. At her side, Cormac slept still, sprawled with that peculiar grace, dark hair falling across his eyes. Joanna turned in the bed and watched him, and there was no memory left of another young man who had lain at her side, and who had dark hair that fell untidily across his brow, and who had loved her certainly as strongly and as passionately as Cormac.

*

A thought, once voiced aloud, sometimes makes you realise with a shock that the thought has been there for a long time.

When Cormac said, “Come with me to Tara,” Joanna stopped short in the middle of eating her breakfast, and thought: he has planned this. He has intended all along to wage war on the usurper, Eochaid Bres and on Eochaid’s mother. He has known all along he will do it, and he has known since last night that he will take me with him.

“I have known for longer than that, Human Child,” said Cormac. “I have known ever since I was cast out of Tara, that I could only be released from Scáthach by a human. I have been waiting for you.”

Joanna stared at him, round-eyed, and he smiled and reached for her hand in the gesture that was becoming familiar.

“Scáthach is not a prison with bars and locks,” said Cormac. “For were you not able to turn the handle and walk in?

“It is a prison of enchantment. For when I was driven from Tara, the sorcerers wove the spell that would keep me here.” He smiled at her. “But my people believe in the strength of purebred humans,” he said, “and I have always known that it would be a human who would release me.”

He made a quick gesture with one hand. “Legend says it was a purebred human — Dierdriu of the Nightcloak — who was Tara’s first High Queen. And although the High Throne must never be occupied by a human, we know that it is the humans who are the Kingmakers.” He leaned closer. “It is only with your help that I shall break out of Scáthach, and it is only with your help that I shall regain Tara, Joanna.”

A Kingmaker. A purebred human. Joanna thought: it all sounds too far-fetched. But she could not but be stirred by it all.

She could not but respond to him.

“Help me,” said Cormac softly, his skin warm against hers. “Come to Tara with me.”

“To — wage war?”

“Yes. On Eochaid Bres and his Councillors. On Bricriu of the Poison Tongue, and on Eochaid’s mother. I cannot let them give Tara into the power of the Erl-King, Joanna. I dare not. Ireland would run with blood, and the skies would be forever dark.” His eyes were glowing with unnatural life now, and Joanna could not look away. “Come with me, Joanna. Ride at my side, at the head of my armies. Be with me when we turn back the Dark Magic. Help me to defeat them all.” His eyes held hers. “Well?”

Joanna thought, confusedly, I do not trust him. Do I? But I do not think I can deny him. She said, a little breathlessly, “Would it work? Could you walk from here?”

“If you were with me I could.”

“Your exile would be ended?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” said Joanna, “then I will do it.”

“You will come with me?”

“Yes.”

“It will be dangerous.”

“Yes.”

“You will not mind?”

“Yes,” said Joanna. “Yes, I shall mind.”

“Remarkable child.” He released her hand. “Very well, then. But you must leave me now. You must leave me, for I am going down into the depths of Scáthach to send out the Mindsong.”

“To your — your supporters?”

“To the Wolves,” said Cormac, and smiled. “And if the Wolves answer my call, then I shall know that my exile is over. I shall know that you have broken the enchantment that held me here, Joanna.”

*

In the bright morning, the forest was a very different place indeed. Joanna walked delightedly across the narrow bridge and skirted the trees.

There was delight everywhere.

Because I am happy? Because of what happened last night? I don’t love him, thought Joanna, seating herself against a massive oak and leaning her head back. At least, I don’t think I do. But I think I must follow him. I think I must ride at his side, as he has asked me to, and release him from the years of exile. And I think I must stay with him until he regains his kingdom. I suppose I ought to be afraid, thought Joanna, not in the least afraid at all. I certainly ought to worry about returning to Tugaim.

But if, when he awakes, he finds himself still in possession of that rose …? I believe I should be forever homesick for this place, she thought. Have I then truly fallen asleep and dreamed I have gone to Paradise? And if so, how shall I bear it when I do wake up?

I have fallen through a chink in Time, a half-open door, but I feel as if I was never meant to be anywhere else.

She leaned back lazily, watching the branches high above her. I could stay here forever, thought Joanna sleepily, and frowned, because there was some very good reason why she should not stay here, and there was some very good reason why she should not want to stay here. Something she had left behind? Someone she had left behind? Her family? But they would not miss her. They would make a grand show of being grief-stricken at her disappearance; her father would certainly turn all of Tugaim upside-down to find her, but he would not really mind.

Muldooney would not mind either, although he would be annoyed because he would be made to appear silly. Joanna smiled, because the thought of Muldooney, flabby obscene person, being made to look silly was rather pleasant. But he would not miss her.

Wasn’t there someone else … Joanna frowned, because there was certainly someone on the edges of her vision, someone she ought to remember more strongly than the rest of them. Someone who ought to mean rather a lot to her.

It was no use. The face, the person, the memory had slithered from her grasp.

And probably I dreamt it, thought Joanna, blinking sleepily in the warm sunlight, falling a little deeper into enchantment. Yes, for sure it had been a dream.

She did not know that she was indeed more than halfway to being bewitched, or that she was caught in a gentle strong magic spun by her wolf-lover from the moment she had entered Scáthach.

But Cormac, with the inherited power of the Samhailt running through his veins, had been able to reach into Joanna’s mind, far beyond the ancient code that bound those who possessed the Mindsong. It was utterly and absolutely forbidden, of course, for it was decreed that those who had the art must never overlook the deepest thoughts of another without their consent, and until now, Cormac had used the Samhailt honourably and carefully.

But the years inside Scáthach had wearied him; he ached for Tara, and he knew a great sense of fear when he thought of Eochaid Bres being manipulated by the greedy unscrupulous men of the Court. The human child, Joanna, must be bound to him utterly and for as long as it took him to regain Tara, and for that time there could be no divided loyalties. And so he had taken her hand and he had reached into her mind, and he had seen the image of Flynn that Joanna carried with her. There had been a surprising twinge of jealousy as well: she is mine! he had thought fiercely, and then he had summoned an old, old enchantment that would blur Joanna’s memories of Flynn. Joanna must belong to him completely. The belief that the humans were the Kingmakers was bred in him, and the sidh with their unearthly chill music had long lain in wait on the edges of the Time Curtain. They had brought him Joanna, and she would ride at the head of the Wolves with him.

*

It seemed to Joanna, forgetful of her own world, certainly forgetful now of Flynn, that the forest was coming alive. There was an alertness in the air, a listening. A sense of something powerful and commanding and seductive. A beckoning.

Joanna thought: of course, it is the Mindsong, the Samhailt. He is sending out the summons to his half-brothers. He is calling up the Wolves of Tara.

And if the Wolves obey, then he will know that the years of his exile are nearing an end.

The forest thickened and thrummed with the feeling, and Joanna felt herself being borne forwards. “For,” she said afterwards, “although it did not call to me, although I was Cormac’s, body and soul, by then, and he did not need to use his sorcery on me, still I was drawn along by it.”

It was like being swept into a whirlpool, only that you were not afraid, and it was like being blown forward by a huge wind, only that the wind was warm and infinitely sweet, and there was a tingling excitement and an anticipation in it.

A beckoning. The Mindsong. Cormac Starrog’s Wolf-song.

She paused at the edge of the forest, unsure of whether she should go back across the ravine, not wanting to intrude. For, said Joanna to herself, I must not be a nuisance to him.

As she came into the open, she saw the Wolves, Cormac’s creatures, streaming down the hillside and across the valley. He has done it, thought Joanna, and knew a swift exultant pride. He has summoned the Wolves, and he has broken the enchantment, and he will ride upon Tara. And mingled in with all of this, was the singular feeling of vicarious triumph. She wanted to say: See? See how powerful and remarkable is the man who owns me? She did not say it, because there was no one to say it to, and because a tiny part of her was still not quite under the enchantment. Nobody owns me, the old Joanna would have said. I am no one’s.

She stayed where she was, watching the Wolves pouring down into Scáthach, thinking they were swift and cruel and wild, but thinking they were darkly beautiful as well.

And then, because there was no point in daydreaming, she brushed her skirt free of bracken, and moved forward. I suppose I am rather unsuitably dressed for a war, thought Joanna, half amused, half serious. What ought one to wear?

*

“The cloak of the first High Queen,” said Cormac, throwing it about Joanna’s shoulders. “Dierdriu’s Cloak of Nightmares.”

He stood back and looked at her, and Joanna said, “Oh!” and felt the soft light folds fall about her. “Should I? I mean — is it allowed?” The cloak was rich and full; it ought to have felt heavy and cumbersome and stifling, but it was like a cobweb, like a spider’s gauze. Joanna felt it brush her skin, silk and satin smooth. “Is it allowed?” she said, huge-eyed with apprehension and delight.

“It is for humans,” said Cormac. “I cannot wear it. I cannot even touch it for very long.”

But the cloak was velvet-soft and Joanna stroked it with pleasure. “Is it magical?”

“It is thought to be. It was woven by the sidh from the dreams of Dierdriu, and it is believed to possess immense power. In case of extreme danger it will summon up the creatures of Dierdriu’s nightmares.”

“Oh,” said Joanna, and then in quite a different voice, “Oh!”

“It is a fearsome weapon,” said Cormac, watching her. “It has only ever been used twice in the history of Tara. And there is a rule which must not be broken: the cloak can only ever be used once against an enemy; it may not be used more than once against the same person. But it is my right to give it and your right to wear it. It is a heavy responsibility and a woman’s weapon.”

The dreams of the first Queen of Tara … Joanna wondered whether she would ever dare to use it.

But the cloak gave her a feeling of confidence. It was a shield, a charm against what might lie ahead. Joanna stood before the gilded looking glass in Cormac’s bedchamber and thought it was not entirely vanity to think that the cloak became her, that it made her look different. She was taller, stronger-looking. She was certainly not the waif-like creature who had fled from Muldooney and tumbled through a doorway into the Dark Forest, and crossed the narrow bridge to Scáthach. She thought that Dierdriu’s cloak gave her dignity and grace; her cheekbones slanted upwards intriguingly, and her mouth was wider and redder, her hair swung about her face and shone like ebony.

“You are becoming Cruithin again,” said Cormac. “Your body is remembering, even if your mind does not.”

It was a curious feeling to know herself sprung from the same root as the small, finely-boned Cruithin who came and went silently about the castle, and who were now busy in the kitchens, preparing food for the journey ahead. From the courtyard, Joanna could hear the whinnying of horses, and the jingle of spurs. The Wolves roamed everywhere.

“But they will not harm you,” said Cormac.

The Cruithin were to accompany them on the journey, “although we shall travel quietly,” said Cormac, and Joanna caught the longing in his voice. She thought that he must be remembering how he had once ridden out with all the trappings and all the ceremony of a High King, and felt a pity for him.

“Do we go straight to Tara?” For surely Tara, the Bright Palace, the Shining Fortress must be their destination.

“No. When I ride into Tara, I must do so as the acknowledged King. I must enter with the pennants of my family fluttering in the breeze, and with the Wolves of Tara preceding me. There must be cheering and dancing, triumphant music.” He turned away. “Before that happens, I must depose Eochaid Bres and Bricriu, and before that I must raise an army greater than has ever been known.”

“The Wolves —”

“Yes, they will be my lieutenants. But I must have far more. I must have the people of the Mountain sorcerers from the north; I must have the Wild Panther people of Gallan who are ruled by my cousin, Cait Fian.” He sent her a glance. “He is dark and strong and beautiful, but he is subtle and unprincipled, and you should trust him even less than you should trust me, Joanna. I must wake the sorcerers of the Morne Mountains who served my ancestors, for Eochaid will have his own magic, and we must be ready for him. Shall you be afraid?”

“A little,” said Joanna. She pulled Dierdriu’s cloak more tightly about her.

“First we shall go through the Land of Sleeping Trees,” said Cormac, “where we can gather the berries which yield the slumber-inducing juice. That will be useful. And if the trees awake, some of them may join us. But the trees have slept the Enchanted Sleep for centuries now, and no one knows how to wake them. We shall leave the army camped on the edges of Muileann, for I must cross the land of the Giant Miller to get to Cait Fian and the crossing must be as inconspicuous as possible.”

“The Giant Miller …” Joanna said. “Is he one of Bricriu’s people?”

“No,” said Cormac. “He is the Erl-King’s servant. He has giant mill wheels and millstones and his people fear him greatly.”

“He makes bread?” said Joanna uncertainly.

“No. His mill is for men,” said Cormac and looked down at her. “And the men are for the Erl-King’s banqueting table.”

*

Dierdriu’s cloak was Joanna’s protection and her comfort in the days that followed. She was not exactly frightened — or not very much — because Cormac seemed to her so strong and so invincible. But the cloak still felt like a shield; it was warm and light and strong. She thought: I have the dreams of the High Queen all around me. I am wrapped in magic and enchantment, and I can summon up the most terrible beings. I have only to concentrate, and the creatures of Dierdriu’s nightmares will come tumbling out.

What would they be? Did people have the same kind of dreams? Joanna, child of an age that had never known monsters and giants, had dreamed of practical, tangible horrors; even so, there was a vein of atavism. She could just about visualise the sort of things a High Queen from the ancient past might have dreamed of, and she found the visions very terrible.

Now and again, she felt the warm sweet breath of Dierdriu all about her, and at those times she glimpsed visions that were wild and beautiful: courtiers with hawk-like faces and cat-like eyes, little, finely-boned, dark people who prepared scented baths and sewed satin and brocade gowns, hunting parties and feasts and the music of the sidh. The deep past, thought Joanna, entranced, and clutched at the visions even as they shimmered and dissolved.

The exodus from Scáthach was impressive. “But we must travel more quietly later on,” said Cormac.

He rode a coal-black horse, and Joanna a white one, and the Wolves padded silently behind them, with the Cruithin bringing up the rear, laden with the packs, weapons and other trappings of their journey. Some of them carried poles in horizontal bearer-fashion, with provisions slung from them. A few rode or drove carts pulled by sturdy shaggy ponies. Some carried the braziers, fringed canopies and pointed tents which would make their camp. “Although we shall find caves where we can,” said Cormac. “And when we reach Muileann we must leave the wolves and the Cruithin behind for a time.”

The days were golden and green and the nights were blue and misty. They lit fires, and the Cruithin prepared meals, and sometimes sang in their soft Irish voices, which were unlike any Joanna had ever heard.

“Of course they are not,” said Cormac. “The Cruithin speak the Old Irish, the true Irish, and everything else is a travesty.” And he pulled her against him in the fireglow of the supper fires, and told her how the Cruithin had come to Ireland after the great ice sheets had melted, and how they brought wonderful and hitherto unknown implements into the barren land Ireland had then been; items of jewellery and tools for the hunters and fishermen. There had been torques of twisted gold; gorgets of sheet gold; swords and vessels and cups.

“It is the age known to men as the Bronze Age,” said Cormac, “but to Ireland, it was the Golden Age.”

He slid an arm about her and leaned back against the rocky hillside, and spoke of the ancient trade routes, of Tarshish and Tyre, who had traded with Ireland, and he recounted, in his soft caressing voice, the words of an ancient seer, which were believed by the first High Kings to have been written of Tara.

“Thou that art situate at the entry to the sea and carry on merchandise with many lands. Thou who has said ‘I am of perfect beauty; thy borders are in the midst of the seas, thy builders have perfected thy beauty.’” He paused, and Joanna recalled that first night — “Nothing that is not beautifully perfect or perfectly beautiful can enter into Tara.”

All about them the night was silent and still. A little below, the Cruithin slept by the fires they made, small dark shapes. Joanna was comforted by them.

Cormac said, “They are a remarkable race, Joanna.”

“Yes.” Joanna moved away from him, into the cave where they would sleep that night. It was dark and the roof was low. A wolves’ lair. Someone — the Cruithin? — had arranged animal skins into a bed.

Cormac had followed her. He stood at the cave’s entrance, watching as she moved about, his features slanting, his teeth gleaming.

“Tell me, Human Child —”

“Yes?” Joanna turned, because there was something in his voice she had never heard before. The slightest hint of a snarl? “Yes?” said Joanna, and felt the warmth of Dierdriu’s cloak brush her skin.

Be careful Joanna …

“Yes?” said Joanna, rather loudly.

Cormac came closer and there was a warm musk scent rising from his skin. “Do I frighten you?” he said, and this time the snarl was a little more defined.

Joanna stood quite still. She thought: yes, you do frighten me. You frighten me and you excite me and I think I have no choice but to follow you … throughout the world, my lord …

But it is not the man who frightens me, because for most of the time I can think of you as a man, a human. Only then something happens, like it has happened now, and I remember you are not entirely human. I am not afraid of the man, but I think I am afraid of the wolf.

You do well to be afraid, Joanna, child of my blood … The cloak stirred a little, as if there had been a breath of wind from outside the cave.

Cormac came a little closer. “For most of the time I am human,” he said. “But ahead is danger, and ahead is certainly a battle, and that excites me. It wakes the wolf —” He stood for a moment longer. Then, “Go to sleep, Joanna,” he said abruptly.

“Are you — are you going out?”

He turned his head, and Joanna saw that his lips were drawn back in a snarl.

“Are you — not coming to bed?”

“No. There is another hunger I must satisfy tonight.”

*

He returned at dawn, moving stealthily but waking her despite it and stood watching her from the cave entrance, his eyes glittering, the wolf-look sharpening the planes of his face.

Joanna was still half asleep. She raised herself on the bed of animal skins and stared at him.

Another hunger I must satisfy …

He was naked and the curling pelt between his thighs and on his stomach was wet and matted with blood. His shoulders and chest were splashed with gore and there was a sleek satiated look about him … Another hunger …

He walked lazily to the cave opening and stood, quite unselfconsciously, urinating. From inside the cave, Joanna could smell the acrid tang of it, mingled with the barely dry blood on him. More wolf than man. He is more wolf than man. He has killed something — oh God, let it only have been a sheep — and he has devoured whatever he has killed.

Cormac turned then, as if he had picked up her thought, and his eyes glinted in the dawn light. The animal scent rose from him in the confined space of the cave, and he gave a low growl and moved forward.

He was on her before she realised his intention, biting and clawing, the victim’s blood still wet on his skin so that it smeared Joanna’s arms and shoulders. He forced her legs apart, thrusting himself between them, and Joanna cried out in pain and fear. Cormac pinned her to the floor of the cave, and the stench of the blood was like tin in her nostrils, so that she felt her stomach lift with nausea. She pushed at him, but he seemed not to notice. His head was thrown back and as his climax approached, his thrusts became harder and more uncontrolled, and he gave a long drawn-out groan that almost, but not quite, turned into a howl.

Joanna’s arm was outstretched; she felt the back of her hand brush Dierdriu’s cloak, and there was the faintest crackle of something from the silky folds.

Help me … cried Joanna silently, and felt at once the invisible presence of someone — something? — in the cave with them. Cormac hesitated for the fraction of a second, and Joanna grasped a fold of Dierdriu’s cloak more firmly.

Help me …

There was no question about the response now. Forks of icy light shot from the cloak, illuminating the cave, sending tingling sparks along Joanna’s hand. For a moment she saw, quite clearly, the underside of the cave roof with its centuries of accreted dirt. Beneath their feet …

Beneath their feet, the cave floor heaved and pulsated, throwing them both off balance. There was a dreadful wet squelching, a sucking sound, and the ghost of a bubbling chuckle. The cave floor tilted, and Joanna screamed.

Thin morning light filtered in through the entrance to the cave, showing up the floor quite clearly. And where there had been a solid dry, rather warm floor, there were dozens upon dozens of huge lidless eyes, swivelling in invisible sockets, jellylike and viscous against Joanna’s bare feet. She screamed again and backed into a corner shuddering uncontrollably. Her foot slipped in the wet mess breaking open one of the eyes, and at once a dreadful glutinous substance oozed out, splashing her leg. She sank ankle deep into the ruptured eye, and felt the slimy fluid on her skin.

Cormac had fallen in a huddle in the opposite corner, and through her panic, Joanna heard him snarl and whip round, one hand reaching across to her.

The broken eye sucked her a little more deeply in, and there was a throaty evil laughter again, echoing round the cave, bouncing off the walls.

All the better to see you with, my dear …

Joanna thought: I think I am going to die. Oh somebody help me …

Cormac was inching his way to her, his hands stretched out — “Hold on, my love,” and Joanna, through her terror, thought: he called me “my love.” He is trying to save me. The man is in the ascendant again.

The eyes were like dead fish, they were like raw liver. She tried to crawl across them, to where Cormac stood unflinching, but the eyes held her, they swivelled and turned, clammy and mucous, pulling her into their depths.

All the better to see you with, my dear …

Someone very close by was screaming, or was it someone inside her head … oh God let me get free, oh God, make it go away … help me somebody …

Cormac had reached her now, and Joanna thought he said, “The cloak — Dierdriu’s cloak —” but she could not hear properly because of the person so close to them who was screaming, and she could not think properly because of the wet sucking eyes … In another few minutes, I shall have been swallowed by them … oh God, let me wake up …

And at once, two quite separate things happened.

The wet fishlike eyes vanished, leaving the warm dry earth floor. And there was a sudden, achingly beautiful picture of herself — or was it herself? — waking in a blue and silver room with sunlight pouring in. And then the room also vanished, and Joanna gasped and sat up in the dawn-lit cave.

Cormac wiped the blood of a bitten lip from his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at Joanna without speaking.

“Has it — has it gone?” said Joanna, thinking how strange her voice sounded. But the cave was empty — yes, there were only the two of them in it now. “What was it?” said Joanna at length.

“One of the nightmares. You invoked the power of the cloak against me.” A rueful smile. “I do not blame you. Forgive me, Human Child, for being what I cannot always help.”

“One of Dierdriu’s dreams?”

“A nightmare.”

“Is that what will happen if I use the cloak again? Will that — that thing, those eyes — will they come back?’

“I don’t know,” said Cormac. “Dierdriu must have dreamed many dreams and many nightmares. Some of the creatures of the cloak may be twice as terrible.”

“Oh,” said Joanna in rather a small voice, but she thought: well, after all, it is only a nightmare. Not real. Even if it comes again, I could banish it. All I had to do was ask to wake up … nothing so very terrible about it at all when you think.

“It was more than just a nightmare, Joanna,” Cormac said. “I do not know a very great deal about the Ancient Ireland — our bards, the filid, would tell you more eloquently than I ever could, but I know a little for it is every High King’s birthright. I know, as my ancestors knew, of the dread sorcerers of the North.”

“The Erl-King.”

“And his servants. Dierdriu would have known them, for at the very beginning, the Erl-King and his minions were forever waging battle on Tara. There were many wars — oh, the filid could tell you tales for a year and still not have told the whole. The battles of Mag Tuired; the magical Fomoire led by the Son of Goll the One-Eyed and by the Son of Garb. The Crusade Wars of the followers of Crom Croich — the god-idol who is a being of pure gold, and who eats the living hearts of his victims and must have a hundred sacrifices on the night of Samain. And of course, the famous Battle for the Trees, which was won by neither side, but where the sorcery was so powerful that it sent the Trees into a slumber from which they will probably never awake. Dreadful battles, Joanna.

“Dierdriu would have known many of them, for the Erl-King sent out his dark servants to Tara for countless years, and it fell to Dierdriu to turn them back …” He paused, and his eyes were far away. “They tell, our poets and our music makers, of how she rode out at the head of her armies, her hair so long it was like a black curtain falling to her knees. She rode a black stallion, a Barbary brought from the East by the people of Tarshish, and she never went into battle without wearing the sidh’s Nightcloak about her shoulders.”

And the man with black-fringed, blue eyes was at her side …

“She defeated the Erl-King and his minions,” said Cormac, “and they were banished to their mountain halls. But the sight of them must have been a terrible one, for it is said that the Erl-King himself rode at the head of his armies in the final battle, and it is certain that Dierdriu saw him face to face.

“She saw his servants as well. The Giant Miller of Muileann who grinds human bones in his mill to make bread for the Erl-King’s banqueting table. And the Morrigna, the sinister and destructive trio of women who have always served the Erl-King, and who haunt battlefields. She defeated them all, but she would not have been able to forget them, Joanna. They would have lived on in her dreams. They would have become part of the Nightcloak.”

It brought Dierdriu suddenly and startlingly close to think that she had been haunted by the faces of her vanquished enemies. It softened the image of the strong and mighty Queen, so that for the first time, Joanna saw Dierdriu as a real person. Someone who could be victorious, but who could suffer nightmares afterwards.

“The thing we saw tonight … the eyes …”

Cormac hesitated. “She was one of the Morrigna. The dread trio who scavenge the earth for their master. Their leader is Morrigan — that is Queen of Phantoms. She is the strongest, and she is one of the most powerful sorceresses to come out of the Dark Ireland. She is the seductress of the three; she lures her victims into a web, by presenting herself to them in the light best calculated to soothe and lull. They say she is possessed of a voracious and perverted sexual appetite and that she will have women, as well as men, in her bed. Like the Erl-King, she eats human flesh and bathes in human blood, and it is said that the two of them dine in his Citadel by firelight in an immense stone banqueting hall, and that their banquet is human meat and their entertainment is to bring up from the dungeons the poor wretches they have imprisoned. They have cages and pincers and red-hot needles, and there is no torture too cruel for them, and no perversion too warped for them.

“The middle one of the trio is Macha, who is bald and ugly and who is called the Mother of Monsters. She has a great army of misshapen creatures at her command, and they will tear a man to shreds. She can call up the hags and the harpies and the crones and the banshees and she is formidable in battle for that reason.

“But it is the third one that we saw tonight, Badb, which translates as Scald-Crow. She is a shape-changer, and she is a being of many forms, which she can don at an instant, each one more terrible than the last … She can swallow up whole armies with her Eyes or her Mouths.” He looked at Joanna. “What we saw, was Dierdriu’s last memory of Scald-Crow,” he said. “Dreadful.

“But pray to whatever gods you hold dear that we never have to face the Morrigna in the flesh, Joanna.”

*

“Who are your gods?” said Cormac, as they rode through the waking day, the Cruithin and the Wolves padding behind them.

“There were very few,” said Joanna, relaxing a little now, enjoying the warm sun on her face, liking the scents of the countryside all around them. Ahead lay the Forest of Sleeping Trees. Cormac had said she would like that. “It is very beautiful,” he had said. “And it is a place for renewal.”

“There was never much time for gods,” said Joanna who was finding, truth to tell, the preoccupation of Cormac’s people with gods a bit unusual. In Tugaim you did not think very much about gods. As her father had always said, gods did not help you a great deal when the harvest had to be gathered or the well ran dry in the drought. Gods were all very well in their place, said John Grady, but their place was in the fairytale nonsense of the Letheans. In real life you concentrated on the tasks you had to do, and there was not very much time to spare for gods. Whatever gods might be anyway.

“You see,” said Joanna carefully, “there was always so much to do.” And then, because this might have sounded a bit disrespectful, “For quite a long time there was so much to do,” she said, and looked at Cormac to make sure he understood about this.

But he only smiled at her rather thoughtfully, and said, “Tell me,” and Joanna was heartened.

“Our world was nearly destroyed,” she said. “Although a great deal of our history was lost to us, we have the accounts of Devastation from those who survived it. And we know that whole cities were burned; we know that people lay dead for years beneath the ruins, rotting and breeding disease. Stories are told of lone survivors eking out existences in tunnels and in cellars. Eating the rats before the rats ate them. Surviving the Apocalypse, but living in total solitude until hunger or thirst or disease killed them anyway. There were people who left diaries,” said Joanna, her face solemn, her eyes far away. “We have them preserved in the People’s Museum in one of our towns. And they tell a truly terrible tale, Cormac. It is something that we have never been able to forget. So much suffering.”

“But the people who survived the Devastation,” said Cormac, “were they not strong? Warriors?”

“I don’t think,” said Joanna “that they were, really. I think they were just people who survived, because they were lucky or because they fought a little harder to stay alive. I don’t think it was anything more than that.” And she smiled at Cormac, who was probably visualising great heroes and warriors.

Cormac said softly, “And even if the people who lived in your world before Devastation had gods, those gods did not help them so very much.”

But Joanna did not think that the Letheans had had any sort of god. “Theirs was rather a — a greedy world, I think,” she said. “They did not have very much religion. And even if they did, even if they had a god or gods, those gods were not able to hold back the Apocalypse.” She frowned, “Perhaps that is unfair.” And thought that perhaps it was. “There is a belief that our ancestors summoned the Apocalypse and then failed to control it. Perhaps God — their God — allowed Devastation as a punishment.”

“Gods frequently punish,” said Cormac. “And never quite as one would expect. Had those ancestors — the ones who burned the world — had they forms of worship at all?”

Joanna hesitated, not because she did not know how to answer, but because just for a moment she had been back in Tugaim, back in the rather small, rather badly lit People’s Museum, turning over the brittle mildewed pages of the famous diaries, left by the survivors, jealously and rigorously guarded. “For posterity,” had said the men and women who ran the Museum. “So that we shall not ever forget,” but Joanna thought that people would never forget Devastation.

“The stories vary so much,” she said to Cormac. “We know that the Letheans had gods, for the legends tell of them. The diaries mention them. We know that there was a book which was called the Bible, and portions of that have survived. It is quite strange that that survived when so much else was lost. But the parts that we had, did not tell us a great deal, because it was all a jumble of stories and people, and is, was, all so — so unconnected, that no one ever made any sense of it. I think it was old before the Letheans’ time anyway.”

“Tell me about the Letheans,” said Cormac, and Joanna looked quickly at him, in case he was only being polite. But he laughed, and said, “I am never polite and rarely diplomatic.”

He took her hand. “I want to know about you,” he said. “I want to know about your world, Joanna,” and Joanna smiled rather warily, because when he said her name like that, when he turned his voice into a caress — and really, it was truly remarkable the caress that Cormac could get into his voice when he wanted to — the delight ran all over her, and she had to look away in case her expression gave her away.

“Their worship — if that is what it was — was not at all selfless,” said Joanna. “The fragments of their Bible warn against the adoration of graven images — that is, carved reproductions. But the legends all suggest that the Letheans did worship those things. There were objects, possessions, they must all have. It is there, in the diaries. How they must always own better machines than their neighbours; how they must never be seen to own inferior ones. They travelled about in machines, you see,” explained Joanna. “The secret has been lost, but we know that they never walked, or not very often.

“And there are descriptions of the houses that were destroyed by the Apocalypse. Rich furnishings and complicated machinery for cooking. The diaries sometimes refer to them, and describe what was lost. They liked their comfort, the Letheans,” said Joanna, and then hoped she had not sounded bitter.

“Had they festivals?” asked Cormac. “Feastings?” and Joanna remembered the rather scrappy drawings preserved with the diaries.

“There were huge halls,” she said, “vast high-ceilinged buildings with rows of seats and a raised platform at one end. But I do not know the purpose of the halls, although they could seat hundreds of people.

“And there are references to centres where food could be bought. They flocked there, the entire family, and bought the food, in greater quantities than you or I could imagine. After I read about those centres in the diaries,” said Joanna, “I used to dream about it. And it was a — rather a disturbing dream. Great brightly lit places with rows upon rows of food; meat and fruit — oh, everything! Bread already baked — think of it. You just picked it up and carried it away. In the dream it is always very noisy — the Letheans were a noisy people I think. And the light so glaring. In the dream, the Letheans are running up and down, rather like squirrels, gathering up all they want-gathering up more than they need — and then taking it to their homes. It’s rather an unpleasant dream,” said Joanna. “There is always such a greed and such a complacency in the faces. And there is surely laziness as well, for all they have to do to be fed is stretch out a hand and take what they want.”

“Greed and complacency are the most self-destructive of all the faults,” said Cormac. He smiled at her. “Perhaps their god allowed the Apocalypse to teach them to be less selfish.”

“It was a hard lesson,” said Joanna.

*

The Forest of Sleeping Trees was as beautiful as Cormac had said. Joanna, rested now, refreshed by a breakfast of lake fish and wild honey prepared and served by the Cruithin, thought she had never seen anywhere so perfect in her life.

“Yes, it is one of our hallowed places,” said Cormac.

The Sleeping Trees grew close together — “for company,” said Cormac quite seriously — and the great velvet-skinned berries hung down in clusters.

“Shall we be able to ride in between the trees?” asked Joanna, lowering her voice to a whisper.

“Yes. There is a path. But we must not stray far from it. To be lost here would be to be lost forever. You would sink deeper and deeper into slumber until you could not be roused.”

There was a soft golden light among the trees, and Joanna could not decide where it came from. She thought it came from the sky, but that did not seem quite right, and then she thought it came from the trees themselves. “But I never really discovered,” she said afterwards.

The light moved with them, like reflected water-light rippling against old stone walls. There was a rich warm scent, and a faint drowsy hum.

They gathered the berries cautiously, reaching up to the laden branches, bringing down armfuls. “Be careful not to break open any of the berries,” said Cormac, “for we should be overcome at once.”

But Joanna could not resist burying her head in the velvet-skinned fruit, feeling the warm dark folds of sleep reach out for her, so that she backed away at once, and shook her head to clear it.

None of them wanted to leave the calm forest. “Although we shall come back,” said Cormac.

“Shall we?”

“When the battle is won,” he said. “This is a place for renewal. My people have always come here after a war has been fought. It cleanses the mind of horrors, and sometimes it eases the pain of wounds. But its air is strong, and one has to take only small draughts of it. But we will come back, Joanna; we will lie beneath the trees, and sleep and wake, and be whole again.

“‘Unknown is wailing and treachery

In the familiar cultivated land:

There is nothing rough or harsh

But sweet music striking in the ear.

Without grief, without sorrow, without death.

Without sickness, without debility.’”

He stood looking down at her, his eyes gentle, and Joanna thought: how could I ever have been afraid of him?

“You could and you will again, Human Child, for I cannot be other than I am. It is only here, where the air is filled with peace and with enchanted slumber that you trust me completely. But we are beginning to understand one another, I think.” He gave himself a shake and turned to the waiting Cruithin. “Have we the berries?”

“Yes Sire,” said one of them. “Purple berries for the Deep Slumber, red berries for the Slumber of Life, and golden berries for the Slumber of Love.”

Cormac said, “I see black berries.”

“Yes Sire. The berries of Death.”

“Then gather them also.”

The man regarded him. “That would be against the ancient code of Your Majesty’s ancestors,” he said, and Joanna noticed that although he spoke quite politely, there was no trace of subservience in his voice.

“Do it,” said Cormac rather sharply.

“No,” said the man, still quite respectfully. “For if you use the Death Berries without the permission or knowledge of the Sleeping Trees, you violate the code of all the High Kings, ever since Dierdriu … Sire,” he added as an apparent afterthought. “Your Majesty knows that, of course.” Joanna thought he did not say any of this as if he was threatening Cormac, or even as if he was annoyed with him, or worried; he said it as one stating a plain fact. “Your Majesty has surely not forgotten the Law,” said the man, whose name was Gormgall.

Cormac frowned and his eyes glinted. “Remind me of it,” he said, the hint of a growl in his tone.

“Certainly Sire,” said Gormgall, who had served Cormac and Cormac’s father, and who was not in the least bit intimidated by black frowns and growls. “But Your Majesty knows it well enough.” He paused, and then said, in a singsong voice, “No enchantment, magic, sorcery, spell or beguilement of any kind whatsoever, may be used in times of war, battle or peace, in any manner whatsoever without the full knowledge and consent of the one who created the enchantment, magic, sorcery, spell, or beguilement.” He eyed Cormac. “But Your Majesty remembers very well the oath he took when ascending to the High Throne.” He put his head on one side and waited, and Joanna thought he was treating Cormac a bit like a wayward child.

Cormac said, “You are right, of course,” and frowned again, because no one, and certainly no one who has once occupied a throne, likes to be corrected.

“We may take the berries of Sleep,” said Gormgall. “They will not keep for very long, of course, but we can take them because they are not really magical. They will put guards and sentries to sleep, but they are no more than a kind of herb. But the berries of Death are a powerful magic, and unless Your Majesty likes to consider waking one of the Sleeping Trees to ask permission —”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Cormac crossly. “The Trees have not been woken for centuries. Nobody knows how to.”

“No,” said Gormgall gravely. “And I cannot think of anything more annoying than to be woken up to ask if an enchantment could be borrowed for a week or so. The tree you chose would very likely not be best pleased, Sire, even if you were to choose a holly, who are reputed to be particularly good natured.”

There was a short silence. “Gormgall,” said Cormac ominously, “are you being impudent?”

“Your Majesty!” said Gormgall, shocked. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Yes, of course you would,” said Cormac. “Go away before I lose patience with you.” But he grinned as he said it, and Joanna thought that he and Gormgall understood each other very well, and in fact rather liked one another.

“He’s an impudent old devil,” said Cormac, as they rode on through the trees. “He’s served my family for a long time, and so he thinks it gives him special privileges. I don’t pay him any attention of course, although he likes to think I do.”

“The King pays a great deal of attention to me really,” said Gormgall to Joanna that night as they made camp. “Only it doesn’t do for him to admit to it, of course.” Joanna was helping to ladle stew into the wooden pannikins. “That’s not for you to do,” Gormgall said, shocked. “You’re the King’s Lady. His Majesty won’t be best pleased if he comes back and finds you helping with the work.”

But Joanna had not been used to being waited on, “And anyway,” she said, “His Majesty is helping.”

“Hunting,” said one of them. “Night hunting.”

“Which he enjoys,” said another.

“But it’s contributing,” said Joanna. “It’s providing food for us all. And anyway, I’m enjoying helping to cook supper. What is this, Gormgall?”

“Venison,” said Gormgall, in the sort of tone that might just as easily have said poison. “Shot by His Majesty earlier today.”

“And none the worse for it,” put in somebody. “I said we’d be glad we’d carried the carcass with us.”

Several people said rather crossly that it was all very well to say so if you hadn’t had the carrying.

“And it ought to have been, hung for at least a week,” said Gormgall.

But the simmering cauldron of stew smelt and tasted very good. Joanna had never eaten venison before. “There are no such animals in my world,” she explained.

“And won’t be in this one if we hunt them in the wrong season,” said Gormgall, and several people nodded agreement.

“When His Majesty deposes Eochaid Bres,” said Gormgall, “he’ll have to restrict the hunting a bit. Not but what this isn’t a very good stew, but it’s not the season to be shooting deer. Deer should be let to breed for at least three Beltanes. Anyone knows that.”

“I suppose,” said Joanna, eating her portion with enjoyment and rather liking talking to Gormgall and his people, “that His Majesty does know it really. But I suppose he thought we ought to eat fresh meat where we could. Until he gets us some more.” And glanced over her shoulder into the darkening forest, and hoped that Cormac would get them some more, and hoped as well that he would return before dawn.

“There’s the thing,” said Gormgall. “Although you won’t tell him that it isn’t the season to kill deer. You can’t tell him anything, any more than you could tell his father. They’re all the same, the Wolfline. They can be led but not driven. It comes of not being quite human and not quite beast. That isn’t to say we aren’t all the King’s men, body and soul, my lady.”

“Of course not,” said Joanna.

“We’d follow him anywhere,” said Gormgall, and several heads nodded firmly. “Well, we followed him into exile, as you know, and my word, that hasn’t been all bull-feasts and Beltane revelries.”

“More like cattle-raids and ceilidh.”

“But,” said Gormgall, “he’s the High King, and we’re his people. We’ll follow wherever he takes us.”

“We wouldn’t follow Eochaid Bres,” said one of them — Joanna thought he was called Dubhgall. “Not in a pig’s eye we wouldn’t.”

“I should think not indeed. As for the Queen Mother, well, if she’s any more morals than the sidh I’ve never heard tell of them,” said Gormgall, and the heads wagged in agreement. Someone lit a clay pipe and the woodsy scent of it drifted pleasantly across the clearing.

“Eochaid Bres is stupid,” said Dubhgall. “He’s not wicked, but he’s very stupid.”

“Conceited,” said another.

“Obstinate,” said a third.

“He’d lead us straight into the clutches of the Giant Miller and the Erl-King,” said Dubhgall and was promptly shushed.

“It’s bad luck to even speak the name,” said the one who had said Eochaid Bres was obstinate.

“It’s very nearly death to speak it after dark,” said the one who had called him conceited.

Dubhgall begged pardon.

Joanna said, “You are all very loyal to — to the King.”

“Of course,” said Gormgall. “We’ve served the High Kings down the ages. Our ancestors swore allegiance to the first Lady of Tara — Dierdriu of the Nightcloak — and vowed to serve her descendants. A little more stew, my lady?”

“Thank you,” said Joanna, passing her dish. “This is very good, Gormgall.”

“It would have been even better if the deer had been hung for a week,” said Dubhgall, but was not paid any attention.

“Ever since the Oath of Allegiance was taken to Dierdriu, we have always served the High Kings,” said Gormgall.

“The true line, of course,” put in another.

“Well yes,” said Gormgall. “That’s what I meant. Her ladyship knows that. You knew that, my lady, didn’t you? Traitors and usurpers find no support here. Not if Dierdriu herself were to come back, as our people believe she will one day and command us, not even then would you find us bending the knee to Eochaid Bres or Bricriu the Fox.”

“Especially not to Bricriu the Fox,” said Dubhgall.

“There’s a belief —” began Gormgall, and stopped, and Joanna leaned forward, and said, “Yes?” and Gormgall continued, “Well, I daresay you won’t wish to hear of it,” and Joanna said, “But I love legends and stories.” And then, as Gormgall still looked doubtful, she said, “So much was lost when my ancestors fought the Apocalypse, my own world is very short of folklore.”

Dubhgall, who liked battles, particularly if somebody else had the fighting of them, wanted to hear about the Apocalypse, but Joanna said it would keep.

“For another night,” she said. “For now, won’t you tell me about Dierdriu?”

“It is part of our folklore,” explained Gormgall, almost as if he thought he ought to apologise. “Our ballad-makers and our storytellers, the filid, sing about it, well, I daresay your ladyship has heard them while we’ve been travelling.”

“A little,” said Joanna. “They were singing only the other night, I think.”

“Ah, that’s the younger ones,” said Gormgall tolerantly. “They don’t think, you see. They’re a bit rowdy. They see all of this as a grand adventure more than anything, well it is an adventure of course,” he added. “To be sure it is. But they see the glory and the excitement and forget the dangers and the discomforts. Also, of course, they’re perhaps in the habit of taking a drop too much of His Majesty’s wine now and again, well aren’t we all —”

“I’m not,” said Dubhgall rather crossly. “Not when I’m in the train of His High Majesty, I’m not. But even if I was, I wouldn’t make such a noise. I know what’s right and it’s not right to hold a ceilidh in the middle of a battle march. Anyone at all might have heard us, and then where should we be, I wonder. This is a serious undertaking,” he said looking very serious indeed. “And there’s a great deal too much flightiness about some of the younger ones. I wonder His Majesty allows it.”

“I think he enjoyed the singing,” said Joanna, who had enjoyed it herself, but was trying to be polite. “He was telling me about some of your legends, and about the first Cruithin.”

“Well,” said Dubhgall, “I take that very kindly of him, for we’ve served the High Kings long and well. But there’s no call for the younger element to go drawing attention to themselves. Time and to spare for singing. Gormgall, if you’re going to tell the story of Dierdriu, I wish you’d get on with it. That’s always supposing her ladyship really wants to hear it, and isn’t just being polite.”

“I do want to hear it,” said Joanna. “I’m not just being polite. Gormgall, do tell me.”

Gormgall leaned forward, his rather lined face lit up by the camp fire. “My people tell of it,” he said, and quite suddenly, as if some kind of signal had been given, everyone fell silent. Dubhgall clamped his teeth down on his pipe, and sat cross-legged.

“It was when the Great Queen lay dying,” said Gormgall, “with the Court all about her and the countryside hushed. Everyone was weeping, for she had been greatly loved and greatly respected, and she had led her people through many wars and turned back many enemies.

“She is said to have spoken to them before they took her to the Plain of Delight, which is where all the High Kings and Queens must go to die. She told them not to weep for her, but to turn their minds to the future and the one who should succeed her. ‘For,’ she said, ‘I am on the edge of the greatest journey anyone ever makes, and to enter eternity is surely the finest adventure we can have.’

“And the courtiers wept afresh, but they tried to hide it from her.

“But Dierdriu knew her people and she sought to comfort them.

“‘I shall be with you again,’ she said. ‘You must look for me in the good things of life. In the things you love. I shall be there. In the woodsmoke of a twilight fire, and in the moonlight over the Morne Mountains, and in the golden sunrise over Tara. You will hear me laughing in the Purple Hour, for that is the most magical time of all. I shall be in the wine you drink, and when you hold feasts, I shall be among you still. You will never quite lose me.’

“They say she fell into a great weakness then, for she was sinking deeper into death.

“But at the end, as her litter was carried to the Plain of Delight, she opened her eyes and spoke again, and her voice was young and strong once more, so that the older courtiers heard the voice of the warrior queen who had led them through so many battles and emerged victorious. They saw her again as the beautiful, rather wild Dierdriu who had ridden out at the head of Tara’s armies.

“Her words are with us still, for the ballad-makers wove them into their songs, and the Lay of Dierdriu has ever been sung at our feasts.

“‘If the Darkness of the Necromancers should ever dim the Bright Palace again,’ she said, ‘you may be sure I shall return in reality, for eternity is a place from which one may sometimes return.

“‘I have many lives yet to live, but Tara will always be the place to which I shall return, and I shall be forever homesick.

“‘Farewell. Do not mourn me, but remember me.’

“They did mourn,” said Gormgall, staring ahead of himself thoughtfully, “it is written that they mourned for a year and a day, and even then, they would gather round their fires and tell tales of her bravery and her beauty. And they never ceased to hope for her return, just as my people today hope for it.” He fell silent, and all about them the Cruithin were silent also. At length, Joanna summoned up her courage to speak, for although she did not want to break the silence, she knew they were waiting for her to do so.

She said, very softly, “It is a very moving story, Gormgall. And is it still the belief among your people that the Queen will return?”

“It is something of a sacred belief, my lady,” said Gormgall. “We have kept her memory alive for centuries, and we have always obeyed the laws she made when she ruled us. It is told that she will return in Tara’s time of greatest need, and it is told, as well, that she will not come as a great and mighty Queen, but that she will be recognised by her own people.”

I shall return … I shall be forever homesick until I come back …

“I daresay,” said Gormgall knocking out his pipe against the side of the iron stew pot, “I daresay there are similar beliefs amongst your own people?”

Joanna said slowly, “My ancestors once revered a man who lived among them for a time, and who taught a way of life which was to be followed by thousands. And yes, his return was always promised.”

“Did he come back?” one of them, not Gormgall, asked.

“Well,” said Joanna “I don’t think he did. Or if he did, the story of his return was lost, along with so much else. My ancestors burned the world and called up the beast Apocalypse, and so much was lost to us.”

“Perhaps he did return,” said Gormgall “but perhaps it was too late.”

“Yes. Or perhaps,” said Joanna, “my ancestors had to be given a punishment for their greed and their selfishness.” She looked up and smiled. “But it was a harsh punishment!”

“Even worlds must sometimes die,” said Gormgall. “Your own world will do one day. Do you not miss it, my lady?”

“No,” said Joanna and smiled. “No, for I never felt I had a place there.”

This is my place …

“Do you not miss your people?” asked another.

“No,” said Joanna. “No, I cannot think of anyone I miss.” She smiled again. “And for sure there is no one who is missing me.”

CHAPTER SIX

Flynn thought that without Amairgen and Portan he would have been very nearly out of his mind with worry for Joanna. He thought he would certainly have despaired.

“Never despair,” said Amairgen sharply. “To do so is a very old and very serious sin.”

Flynn had stared, for “sin” was not a word often heard. He thought it was a Lethe word, although he could not be sure.

“It was a word old before the Letheans,” said Amairgen. “The Letheans were not very aware of the severity of sinning, Flynn; they knew about the great teacher and leader who had lived among them — oh, centuries earlier, perhaps more than two thousand years — but they had grown arrogant. They knew about the laws that leader had left them, but save for a few isolated people, they did not pay them any attention. They had their own laws, and they were far more comfortable than any left by a half-forgotten foreigner.”

Flynn said, “You know so much. You have so many memories of the past.”

“My people were preservers,” said Amairgen. “They revered the past and they were afraid for the future. They kept what they could.” He regarded Flynn. “Even so, what they did keep was little enough, although I am grateful for what there is. But I do know that in the days when religious sects still existed — when men and women voluntarily forswore the world and its comforts to follow the ruling of that long-ago leader, then to despair was considered the gravest sin there was. They called it accidie, and they taught that it was the ultimate giving up of hope; the rejection of a higher power. Once you have despaired, Flynn, truly despaired, you are lost indeed.” He paused, and Flynn had a sudden, startlingly clear image of a great aching void; a nothingness so complete that his mind reeled. That, then, was true despair, the real thing. A belief that there was nothing, ever again, anywhere.

“Yes,” said Amairgen softly, “yes, you understand. Never give up, Flynn, for there will always be something.” He glanced to where Portan was curled up, listening intently. “I think Portan understands me very well,” he said.

“Yes. I might have despaired when I was in that place. I think I nearly did despair when my father took me there and left me, and when I thought I should never see the outside world again. But there was something — I do not know what it was, but something that said: there is more. There will be more. You will see. And so there was,” said Portan simply. “You came.”

They had descended the hill of the Gealtacht easily enough, and a cold dawn was glistening the sky as they saw the scattered farm buildings of Tugaim ahead of them.

Flynn had wanted to go straight to the Glowing Lands, but Amairgen had said it would be better to wait until nightfall. “We should be seen,” he said. “And the task of breaking through the Time Curtain may require all our concentration, Flynn. Also, there is Portan to be considered.”

Standing in the thin light, both men felt the shiver that went through Portan, but when they looked at her, she smiled, and said, “Yes, I am afraid, but also I am so very happy. To see the world again …” And then was silent, but Flynn thought it was the silence of deep contentment, and he thought that she was absorbing the scents and the sights and the sounds of the countryside. He thought that she was so intensely happy that she could hardly bear to speak.

Amairgen said, “As well as that, we are both tired and dispirited. The things we saw inside the Gealtacht … We should all rest before any attempt is made to go through the Time Curtain.”

“Yes.” Flynn tried not to sound ungracious, and knew that Amairgen was right. “Yes, of course. Will you both come to the farmhouse?” he said, and felt again the shiver of apprehension go through Portan. He smiled at her and said, “You may trust my father with your life and more, my dear,” and Portan looked at him gratefully.

“But even so,” she said, “it would be better for no one to know that you have taken a Mutant from the Gealtacht.”

“People are not always kind,” said Amairgen rather brusquely, “and you are right. But there is no reason why we could not shelter in an outbuilding of some kind. Flynn?”

“The Dutch barn?” said Flynn. “One of the original buildings, watertight and snug.” He grinned. “We are rather proud of the Dutch barn, my father and I. Lethe arrogance. But you would be quite comfortable there, and I could bring out food and blankets.”

“Admirable,” said Amairgen when Flynn showed him the barn. “We will stay here, Portan and I. Will you come back at the Purple Hour?”

Flynn smiled at the words. “My father’s own expression,” he said. “I had not thought to hear anyone else ever use it.”

“It is a very old term,” said Amairgen. “Another of the things my family salvaged, perhaps. But it was always thought to be a very magical time of day. If we are to break through the Time Curtain, then we may as well use all the magic we can.” He said this in a matter-of-fact way, and Flynn and Portan both stared.

At length, Flynn said, “Do you — I beg your pardon — but do you believe in such things?”

Amairgen had been surveying the inside of the Dutch barn. “This will do excellently,” he said. “How very fortunate you are to still possess such things, Flynn. And the farmhouse itself is pre-Apocalypse, I think? Yes, of course it is. No one today builds half so well. As for magic …” He broke off and the thin, sweet, rather austere smile lifted the corners of his lips. “People did once believe,” he said. And then, looking to where Portan was quietly listening, “Portan believes,” he said.

“Do you?” Flynn was at once interested, because no one — or no one he had ever met — really did believe. And then he remembered that Joanna had believed; Joanna had listened to the legends and drunk in the enchanted creatures of myths, and she had believed, wholly and forever. He put the thought from him, because he did not think he dared remember Joanna, at least not until they were setting out to bring her back.

Portan said cautiously, “Inside the Gealtacht there were a few of us —”

“Yes?”

“We had brought with us some of the old stories,” said Portan. “I think that not all of us had been taken to the Gealtacht at birth, and so we could share memories of early childhood.” She smiled at them. “The best time of all, early childhood,” said Portan. “Fairytales and legends. And you believe in it all then, quite unquestioningly.”

Flynn said, “But surely the law says —”

“That Mutants must be taken to the Gealtacht at birth? Oh yes,” said Portan, “but people do not always obey laws. And there were several of us whose mothers tried to cheat the law. We had been hidden away until the Elders discovered us.”

“Did that happen to you?”

“Yes,” said Portan softly. “Yes, that happened to me, and then my father, who was not brave, took me to the Gealtacht by night — perhaps because he could not bear to perform such an act by daylight — and I was left there. But you have brought me out now,” she said, “and although I do not quite believe in magic any longer, I think I do not quite disbelieve.” She looked at Amairgen. “I should like to know those old legends to be true.”

Amairgen said, “You see, Flynn? People do still believe, if only a very little.” He dropped a hand lightly on Flynn’s shoulder. “If you could sleep for a few hours it would help you,” he said. “Portan and I will be here. And a few hours could not make very much difference now.”

But Flynn could not sleep. He was achingly tired, but he was also restless and strung up.

“Try to work,” said Michael, who had been anxiously watching for their return, and who was secretly horrified at the sight of Flynn, white-faced, dark-eyed with fatigue, but also with a kind of wild determination about him. “You could gather up some of the apples,” said Michael. “Flynn, you have to be strong for what is ahead of you.” He said no more, but prepared a huge platter of eggs and ham and newly baked bread, which he persuaded Flynn to eat before taking a second platter out to the Dutch barn.

“I will not intrude,” he said before he went, “for I can imagine — just a very little — of how it must be for that poor creature you have brought out. This is a terrible world, Flynn.”

“She will be very wary of you,” said Flynn, but Michael only smiled and balanced the tray carefully as he crossed the yard to the Dutch barn.

“But I was shocked,” he said afterwards to Flynn. “Truly we live in a dreadful world. Dear God, what did our ancestors do to mankind?”

But Portan, still cautious and certainly unsure of the world, had been able to meet Flynn’s father calmly, and to thank him for the food. Michael had stayed with them for a little while, discussing what might lie ahead of them, wondering could they make any kind of contingency plans.

“But I do not think you can,” he said. “For there is no knowing what you will meet.” And he picked up the tray and the plates, and stood looking at them for a long moment. “I wish I could come with you, Amairgen. You know that I would do so if you had not forbidden it.”

“Not forbidden,” said Amairgen. “It is only that I do not think it would be prudent.”

“Well,” said Michael, “I expect you are right. And I shall be here waiting when you return. You will be constantly in my thoughts.” He went quietly out and Portan, who was curled into a corner, said, “He is very like Flynn.”

“Yes.” Amairgen thought that there was a strange affinity and a strong similarity among all of the Keepers in fact. He had noticed it more than once. It was not always there to begin with, but it developed over the years. He wondered whether it was strength, and then he wondered whether it was courage. Or was it just that the sharing of a Secret so immense and so awful brought out the qualities necessary?

Portan said, “He is strong, Flynn’s father,” and Amairgen looked up, startled, because although he had had no indication that Portan might possess the Samhailt, she had caught his thoughts exactly.

“Yes, I believe he is.”

“But he has not Flynn’s — I am not sure of the word. Recklessness?”

“Flynn would take on the world,” said Amairgen, and Portan smiled.

“I am so grateful to him,” she said. “And to you. Inside that place — I do not think I should have stayed for very much longer.”

“What would you have done?” Pity twisted Amairgen’s throat as he remembered her life inside the Gealtacht, and a deep and bitter anger rose up in him at the people who had incarcerated her there.

“Perhaps I should have run away,” said Portan, sitting up now, her eyes bright. “We talked of it sometimes — those of us who were only deformed in body and not in mind.”

“You were able to do so?” said Amairgen, and was glad to think that at least she had been able to find a friend or two, kindred spirits in the Gealtacht.

“We talked of it often, at night, after we had been locked in,” said Portan, and the shiver Amairgen had noticed earlier went through her again. “They locked us in every night, you see. And the sleeping chambers were terrible places. We slept on the floor — there were blankets, but they were old blankets. Not always very clean. And it was often cold, so that we would huddle together for warmth. And perhaps for comfort as well, for we were directly above the Paupers’ Chamber — which you saw, I think — and the Mutants there would howl after dark.” Again the shiver racked her. “It was terrible to hear, but for me more terrible was the sound of the door closing on us, and the key turning in the lock. It was every night, but I never got used to it.” She looked at him. “We would not have harmed anyone.”

“No. Go on.”

“We would talk then, of how we would run away. How we would somehow steal out after nightfall. That was important, somehow. To leave as most of us had arrived, under cover of darkness. We pretended that we would be able to make our way to a place in the world where Mutants were not outlawed. We thought that there might be such a place somewhere. We needed to think that, perhaps,” said Portan, and Amairgen, understanding this, nodded.

“We thought there would be somewhere where we could be accepted. Where we could work and be a part of the community. Share things.” A half grin. “We knew, deep down, that it was only a pretence, but it was an escape for us. For a while we could imagine ourselves outside, in the real world. We had memories of the world, all of us, and we shared our memories. We built our own world out of the memories we had brought and cherished,” said Portan, her eyes faraway now. “And it became very real, that world we built. Houses we would live in. Tasks we would perform. Farming and cooking and gardening. Growing fruit.” She looked at him. “I do not know if it exists, such a world,” said Portan. “Where Mutants could be equal.”

She looked at him again, and Amairgen heard the note of query in her voice, and said gently, “I do not know either, my dear,” and wished he could have lied and said: yes it exists, and yes you will find it, you and those other pitiable creatures.

Portan said softly, “Thank you for not pretending, Amairgen,” and Amairgen felt again the faint ripple on the air that was so like the Samhailt, but was not the Samhailt. “I wish,” said Portan, “that it had been possible to bring the others out. I wish I could have done that.”

She looked at him, and again he understood and said at once, “It was not possible.”

“I know it was not.”

Amairgen reached for her hand. “To have done so would have drawn attention to us all. We were in very great danger as it was. If you had brought your friends out, we would certainly have been caught and you would have been captured. Perhaps they would have chained you this time. And in the end, no one would have been free.”

“Shall I ever go back?” said Portan, her eyes wide with fear, and Amairgen’s hand tightened on hers.

“No,” he said quietly, and Portan looked at him with deep gratitude.

“I promise,” said Amairgen, “whatever else happens to us, Portan, we will never let them take you back to the Gealtacht.”

*

Flynn worked doggedly in the orchard, sick with fatigue, his mind tortured by images of Joanna alone and helpless in some long-dead world; at the mercy of the half-human, half-bestial creatures who had inhabited Ancient Ireland. He had always been interested in the legends and the folklore of his country and now his vivid imagination betrayed him; it turned about and presented him with terrible hurting pictures of Joanna in pain and frightened; thrown into some deep dungeon, raped and bleeding and starving.

Even so, in the warm afternoon sun, the orchard was a restful place, and Flynn, gathering the ripe apples and tipping them into baskets, found an unexpected comfort in the place where his ancestors had once worked. There was a drowsiness about the scent of the fruit, and there was a sleepiness in the very warmth of the trees. Once or twice, he found himself almost thinking that the trees were sleeping, dozing in the afternoon sun, and he thought he would just sit down for a moment. He thought he would certainly not be able to sleep, but he closed his eyes — just for a moment he thought — and leaned his head back against the bark of the tree. The sunlight was heavy on his eyelids — but I won’t be able to sleep, thought Flynn. I shall be more or less awake really. I shall certainly be able to hear if anything happens.

But the sunlight lulled him and the apple-scent calmed him, and the sun was already sinking over the Mountains of the Morning when he awoke.

He sat there for a while longer, feeling himself rested and refreshed, thinking that his father — wily old devil! — had known what he was doing when he sent him out here.

“It’s an old, old, orchard,” Michael had said gravely. “And there has always been something about the scent of the fruit. Our family has always found it a peaceful place, Flynn.”

Now, leaning back, watching the light turn to pink and then to lilac, knowing he must soon stir himself to go along to the Dutch barn, Flynn thought: something magical? Of course not! Even so, I feel stronger. I think I could tear the Time Curtain aside with one hand and bring Joanna out by myself.

In a moment, he would get up and get together some provisions for them to take, and then it would be time.

As he stood up, he saw the two figures making their way across the orchard towards him.

*

John Grady and Brian Muldooney had formed a rather unlikely alliance. Neither man particularly liked the other; John thought Muldooney coarse and rough; Muldooney was finding John overfussy and pompous. What could it matter how many people got to hear of Joanna’s disappearance, or how many of the villagers were called in to help with the search?

But John Grady, who knew his world, was adamant. No one, he said frowning, should know that Joanna had gone. Did Muldooney want the whole of Tugaim to know that a girl, a little bit of a thing with more hair than muscle, had run away rather than be conjoined with Muldooney himself? Did he think that he, John Grady, one of the Elders of Tugaim, wanted everyone to know how a mere daughter had flouted his wishes and shown herself capable of disobedience such as no one in Tugaim had ever heard of? The story would spread; it would be exaggerated. Before they knew it, the pair of them would be held up to ridicule and contempt, and if Muldooney wanted that to happen, John certainly did not!

This was unanswerable. Muldooney scratched his head and could not think why he had not seen it for himself. But there, Grady had ever been a man for the intelligence; wasn’t he an Elder, and it a terrible responsibility. Muldooney would not have taken on such a thing, even if he had been asked to, which he had not, but he did know you were not elected an Elder without you had some wits about you. He looked at the other man with respect, and said wouldn’t they keep it as quiet as a midnight fog to be sure, and not a soul should hear tell of the girl’s disappearance. To himself he thought: just as well to hush it up, for a different reason altogether. He had not forgotten how he had given a less than excellent performance with Joanna that night, well, afternoon it had been really if you wanted to be exact. It had not been his usual form, of course, good lord of course it had not! Many a one could have testified to that. Even so, it was not the sort of story a man wanted spreading all over Tugaim. He would say nothing about it.

He listened to Grady outlining their plan, and nodded in agreement at the idea of going to the O’Connor farmhouse. There could not be any harm in just going along there.

John Grady said, rather portentously, that Joanna and Flynn had been close friends. He had never really trusted Flynn of course, he said, and now that Muldooney came to think about it, neither did he. There was something a bit wild about the boy; something too smooth and too satisfied. Condescending. Yes, that was the word for it. Flynn O’Connor was condescending to his neighbours, and as far as Muldooney could see, had no cause to be any such thing. He trod heavily along at Grady’s side, listening while the man told how females had occasionally to be suitably chastised. They would find Joanna of course, said John, to whom any other notion was incomprehensible. They would find her, and Muldooney must do as he thought best. Doubtless, the silly child had been homesick for the familiar surroundings of her home. Certainly she had panicked. You could not blame her, said John Grady, that cold unsexed man, who had only conjoined because it was expected of him, and not very enthusiastically then. Even so, he hoped that Muldooney would not be too severe on Joanna; pig farmers could sometimes be rough, and it would be very uncomfortable for an Elder of Tugaim to be pointed out as the man who handed his only daughter over to a man who had treated her harshly.

In this rather divided frame of mind, the two of them approached the O’Connor farmhouse, both hoping, neither admitting, that Flynn would be found to be at the back of Joanna’s disappearance. That insolent boy! I should like to have him before the Council one day! Grady thought. Muldooney, still smarting from Joanna’s rejection of him, remembered Flynn’s air of casual confident virility and experienced an impotent man’s jealousy.

But Flynn, rested and refreshed from his long sleep in the apple orchard, filled with confidence about what lay ahead, treated the visitors in a cavalier fashion. He was politely welcoming; he asked would they step inside the house and take a glass of wine; but he said, “Missing is she?” and seemed more interested in transporting baskets of apples to the apple store than in anything else.

John Grady was stung by Flynn’s attitude. “We have a very good idea of where she is, Mr. O’Connor,” and Flynn turned, studying Grady with narrowed eyes.

“Do you indeed?” he said, and John heard, or thought he heard, the amused arrogance again. He remembered that he was an Elder — it was something he did not often forget — and he remembered as well that he could invoke all kinds of useful powers. Search the house? Make a tour of the outbuildings? And what about that useful law, not often invoked, but allowing that a man accused of a crime must, if found guilty, forfeit his lands and his goods to the one making the accusation? John hoped he was above such acquisitive ways — look where being acquisitive had got the Letheans! — but he could not forbear to just look about him and see the good prosperous lands that Michael O’Connor and his son owned. He could not help casting rather covetous eyes on the long white farmhouse, bathed in a rosy glow from the rays of the setting sun, solid and comfortable, and surprisingly spacious once you got inside. He noticed that the windows had very good quality glass in them; that they were what was called latticed — Lethean nonsense of course, but it looked very nice. The floors were of old oak planks, polished and buffed to a soft mellow shine, and the furniture had quite certainly seen the light of day well before the Apocalypse. Comfortable, as well, thought John Grady, seating himself on a deep sofa covered with some kind of elaborate floral-patterned cover. Of course, Michael O’Connor’s wife had brought a deal of fine things with her from the West Coast, and didn’t everyone know that Galway had missed most of the Apocalypse’s blast. Yes, a very nice little farmhouse, this, and one that John Grady would be pleased to add to his property. A pity about that belt of Glowing Lands on the south-east boundary, but you could not have everything. He could easily overlook the Glowing Lands.

Muldooney was not thinking about Glowing Lands, or about acquiring other men’s properties, but he did think that a man who had such unnecessary frivolities as geraniums growing in stone tubs at his front door and beaten brass jugs on oak chests in his hall might be capable of anything at all. O’Connor had also, for some reason, thought it necessary to whitewash the entire outside of the farmhouse, and Muldooney had clucked his tongue at the wanton extravagance, for didn’t everyone know the price of good whitewash these days! He found himself disliking Michael and Flynn afresh, and he thought it would be very gratifying indeed if they could be found guilty of Joanna’s disappearance.

Flynn’s tiredness had fallen from him like a sloughed skin. He felt more alive than he had ever felt in his life, and he thought that he could outwit these two without any difficulty at all. Of course they thought he had hidden Joanna away somewhere, and of course they would be waiting their chance to search the entire place.

He listened, outwardly courteous, to the tale of how Joanna could not be found anywhere, and he smiled inwardly when John Grady asked could they search the O’Connor lands.

“Certainly,” said Flynn, standing up. “Will I fetch my father?” Michael might be anywhere at this time of day, but Flynn was fairly sure he had seen the men arrive and gone straight to the Dutch barn to warn Amairgen and Portan. Aloud, he said, “Joanna is not here, you know.”

Again there was the cool note of arrogance in his voice, so that both men instantly thought: I was right! This boy has had her! This boy knows where she is! John Grady thought it was only what he would have expected; Muldooney thought you could never trust a Landgrabber not to sell you damaged goods. “We’ll take a look,” he said, standing up and glaring at Flynn, and Flynn smiled back. This is the most repulsive creature I have ever seen. He smells, and his skin is greasy and spotty. Oh Joanna, my dear love, is this the one your father would have given you to? And Flynn thought too that even had he not loved Joanna himself, he would have been sickened at the idea of her in Muldooney’s bed. But he remained polite, and when Muldooney said, “We’ll take a look,” and John Grady added, “We will indeed,” he said, “For sure, gentlemen. Will you come out now?”

John and Muldooney were puzzled. John thought that perhaps after all they’d made a mistake, young O’Connor had not the manner of one with anything to hide. Muldooney, less nimble-witted, thought wasn’t the boy walking straight into their trap, lamb to the slaughter. Not that Muldooney had ever slaughtered a lamb, nor yet a sheep of course, for properly speaking it was not a pig farmer’s job. Still, they’d set out to catch Flynn O’Connor, and it seemed as if they were going to do just that. Here was the boy leading them amiably through the square stone-flagged kitchen — Muldooney spared a look about him, and thought it was just as he had suspected, all manner of Lethe nonsense here, there was! Bunches of herbs set to dry, and dishes of brown eggs in a basket — a basket would you believe it! — and a smoke hole for hams and a side of bacon. There was nothing wrong with having a smoke hole, of course; in fact there were a good many people who argued that it was a prudent thing to possess, for how else would you keep a bit of bacon or a side of nice loin pork by you? But there were other things about this large sunny kitchen which would surely make a man contemptuous; there were gleaming brass pans neatly arranged along the length of a piece of furniture which Muldooney believed was called a Welsh dresser, but which he himself would not have given house-room to, for didn’t everyone know the Welsh for no better than watered-down Irishmen, and didn’t any decent Irishman properly despise anything that smacked of Wales!

At the centre of the room stood a long polished oak table, and who in the name of all the gods at once had time to set to and polish a table only for the look of the thing! The table was all set out with plates and cutlery and with a flagon of wine as well. Muldooney had seldom seen the likes, for if the two of them, father and son, hadn’t been intending to sit down at the table and eat their meal in what was a very Lethe fashion indeed, Muldooney did not know anything any more! A plain wooden platter with everything mixed up in it ought to be good enough for any man. But here was a separate plate for the bread, and a crock for the butter; there was a plate of baked potatoes decorated with parsley sprigs; there was another dish of broad beans, lying in some nonsensical sauce; there were glasses set out to pour the wine into! All to go with some slices of ham! Muldooney had never witnessed such sights before and hoped not to again!

John was not particularly concerned with the way in which Michael O’Connor and his son took their evening meal, although he had marked the flagon of wine, and thought it all of a piece with the latticed windows and the chintz covers and the copper jugs in the hall.

He was becoming very concerned about Flynn, however, for the boy was positively purring with affability and with what John supposed must be Lethe hospitality. The suspicion that they had, after all, made a mistake, solidified, and he was framing a careful explanation in his mind (not an apology certainly) when Flynn said, “And now for the search, gentlemen,” and he found himself swept along outside. But he thought he could be fully as polite as Flynn, because he knew the rules, and one of them was that you did not insult a man under the man’s own roof. But he thought he would wait his chance.

Muldooney was not watching his chance; he was suspecting Flynn of making game of them now, for nobody called you “gentlemen” in quite that way these days, and he was stung in his dignity, which is a place where no man — and certainly not a pig-farmer — cares to be stung. He thought that it was all John Grady’s fault that they were being insulted like this, and he thought that John Grady could certainly forget about having cheap bacon in the future.

Flynn, a little aware of his companions’ thoughts, and rather amused, was as bland as buttermilk. “Come through this way, gentlemen … No indeed, it is not the smallest trouble … And there is no saying that she mightn’t be here. People who are injured have been known to crawl for miles. And of course, our lands stretch rather far.” He smiled guilelessly at John Grady as he said this, and thought: start measuring up the acres, Mister Landgrabbing Grady! But you shall not have an inch of my family’s land!

He led them through the cluster of outbuildings, throwing out a warning to Amairgen in the Dutch barn as he did so, listening hard for Amairgen’s response. It came, just as they turned into the square courtyard where the milk churns stood. Yes Flynn, we hear! We understand. Do not worry. Flynn relaxed. All would be well. They had heard him. They knew that Grady and Muldooney were on a tour of the outbuildings, and Amairgen would go straight to the Glowing Lands, Portan with him. All Flynn had to do was to get rid of the two half-wits who were dogging his footsteps, and join them.

But he gave no sign of any of this. He opened doors into hen coops and fruit stores; he picked out an apple to munch as they walked across the yard, and offered one to each of his guests.

“Or there are some very good pears if you prefer. The crop was especially good this year. Did you ever try the wine the Letheans made from apples over in England? Cider, they call it, and there’s a grand powerful brew. You’ve never tasted the like in your life!” He grinned at Grady who looked prim and at Muldooney who could not be doing with all this frivolity and preoccupation with food and drink and the way you took meals, and so led the way to the Dutch barn.

John Grady, led hither and thither, scarcely given time to catch his breath, wondered after a time whether it mightn’t in the end have been a good thing to let Joanna go to the O’Connors. Seen on the map, the O’Connor farm had been just a jumble of miscellaneous outbuildings; a farmhouse and several acres mainly laid down to fruit. And there was that sinister belt of Glowing Lands to the southeast. He’d always been wary of that. But seen properly, seen at the hands of Flynn O’Connor, the place told a very different tale indeed. There were orderly rows of apples and pears and damsons; preserving sheds where the women of the village — and occasionally the men — worked to bottle the fruit to be later sold in Tugaim market. And sheep too! Everyone knew that you got a two-fold yield from sheep; there were the fleeces and the skins which could be sold for wool and for rugs and warm winter jackets. And everyone enjoyed roast spring lamb. Walking in Flynn’s wake, nudging Muldooney to keep up with them, John Grady, that cautious careful farmer, saw that this was a prosperous concern.

He still did not trust Flynn; he still thought the boy had Joanna secreted somewhere. Why else was he being so open? Why else was he letting them search where they chose? Oh, Flynn O’Connor was a wily one, but John was wilier still! You had to be up very early to catch Grady.

But he kept silent, he was polite and courteous; he took Flynn’s hand when the boy offered it, and he permitted himself to be escorted to the gates.

As they reached the curve in the roadway that took them just out of sight of the farmhouse, Grady closed his hand about Muldooney’s fat forearm, and said, “Now for it! Back the way we came, and follow the boy wherever he goes!” He thought he had managed it rather well.

*

Flynn thought he had managed it rather well, even so, he thought they had precious little time left to them. Amairgen and Portan would be at the Glowing Lands waiting for him, for if ever dusk had fallen, it had fallen now. There was time to bid Michael farewell — “And there is an old Lethe blessing that says ‘God be with you,’” said Michael. “I daresay it means little nowadays, but I will say it anyway.”

“God be with you also,” said Flynn, and embraced his father quickly and roughly.

There was time to snatch up the small shoulder packs prepared earlier. “All the things I could think of that will not quickly spoil,” said Michael. “The best I could do.”

Flynn thought it would do very well. There were two small, corked flagons of wine, tucked in, and a finely honed knife. “For,” said Michael, “you do not know what you may meet with.”

There was a final look round the farmhouse for, thought Flynn, it is anyone’s guess when I shall see it again, or if I shall see it again, and it is the only home I have known. And then he was through the door, not allowing himself time to think too much about anything, not bearing to look again at the bright welcoming sitting room with its time-worn beams and the deep warm hearth.

He stepped across the yard and was at once swallowed up by the shadows.

*

John and Muldooney had crept back through the farm gates, and had lain in wait for Flynn in the shadow of the dairy. Muldooney had been querulous, saying he couldn’t see the point, and saying he was not used to skulking about in other people’s farmyards. John was not used to it either, but he thought they were doing quite well. He explained to Muldooney — who was sulking — that the boy, Flynn, had been misleading them all along, and Muldooney, who had not realised this, rubbed his hands together, and said, “Oh-hoo. So the boy will lead us to the pretty little dear, will he?” in rather a nasty gloating voice which John did not altogether care for.

But Muldooney was docile enough as they waited for Flynn, although he began to fidget after a while, standing on first one foot and then the other. John nudged him sharply — they dare not be heard — and after a moment, Muldooney unbuttoned his breeches and relieved himself, copiously and rather noisily, against the dairy wall.

“Hasn’t a man the need in this cold weather?” he said when John looked at him in disgust. “An’ it does no good to hold it in for hours like some people. I’m not standing here bursting my breeches for you or anyone. Be thankful I missed your boots, for it’s as dark as a bag out here.”

He stumbled after John as they followed Flynn, both of them keeping their distance. “Although,” said John softly, “I daresay he’ll never see us in this light.”

Flynn walked ahead of them purposefully and quickly, and John Grady’s hopes rose. Hadn’t the boy the very air of one going to meet a lover. Wouldn’t they have him on a charge of abducting another man’s conjoined property, and mightn’t they also have him on a charge of holding back pre-Devastation goods? The copper pans and the chintz-covered furniture of the farmhouse had made their impression. Yes, John would have Flynn O’Connor and his father on both charges before the week was out, and then wouldn’t the fine O’Connor lands and the fine O’Connor farmhouse fall into the Gradys’ lap as sweet as sweet.

Ahead of them were the Glowing Lands, and John stopped, Muldooney beside him, because both of them knew all of the stories, and now, faced with the reality of the Lands by night, faced with the gentle powerful spell of the Purple Hour, they hesitated. You could not, of course, quite believe in the old tales (monsters and half-men, all rubbish, thought John) but out here you could not quite disbelieve them either. John Grady, who had never been out alone in the dark before, because you could not count Flynn and you could not really count Muldooney either, began to feel unsure of himself.

The Lands seemed to him to become dreadfully alive. They shimmered and hummed and the light strengthened and deepened, so that at times it seemed to breathe with a life of its own. Standing there, the night sky behind them, John Grady, a man of scant imagination, thought, and was not the first to think, that the light almost seemed to both contain and conceal all those creatures of the myths.

He gave himself a shake, because it would not do to lose Flynn now. Beside him, Muldooney said in a whisper, “Did you see that? He’s going straight to the centre of the light.” And then, as both men stood watching, “There’s somebody in there waiting for him.”

“I see it,” said John. And then, in a much louder voice, “After them!”

*

Flynn had not been aware that he had been followed; there was no reason for him to think it, and Grady and Muldooney had been quiet. In any case, Flynn’s mind had been moving ahead, to where Amairgen and Portan waited, and to where the light had become alive again.

He felt as if it was a tangible thing, Amairgen’s welcome come out to meet him, and he felt as well the gentle shy presence of Portan. He thought: these people care about me! and he knew a great wave of affection and strength. They would do it; between them they would tear down the Time Curtain. They would go through the barrier erected by the gods at the dawn of the world, and they would find Joanna and bring her back.

Buoyed up by this immense determination, Flynn began to run across the last patch of ground, and as he did so, he heard John Grady’s voice. He hesitated for the barest fraction of a second, and then his mind had taken in and swallowed whole what had happened. They thought he was going to Joanna — well, so he was — and they must have lain in wait and crept after him. He heard them start after him, and he flung himself over the terrain, his lungs rasping, bright streaks of red and gold and silver before his eyes. The muscles of his legs were protesting and he thought he would surely fall if he could not snatch just one breath before they caught him. But he must not, and he dare not, and he must go on until he reached the others.

Amairgen was running forward to catch him, a dark silhouette against the bright light of the Lands, and Portan was with him, galloping along, anxious and eager.

Flynn thought: I can do it … only a little farther … I can do it, I can … And then for one terrible moment thought he could not.

Amairgen caught him as he fell, and half carried, half dragged him the rest of the way.

“Quickly Flynn, quickly! Are they pursuing you?”

Flynn, gasping, said “Joanna’s father … and her …”

“Ah,” said Amairgen. “Come then.” And drew Flynn towards the warm, scented, heart of the light.

“We should join hands,” said Portan, and Flynn, feeling hands take his, knew again the rush of strength and the certainty that they would succeed. These two will not fail me, he thought, and at once came the response.

Never!

They were at the very centre of the light now, and the rich warm scent grew stronger. Flynn was blindingly aware of an endless sheet of silver blue light, beaded with brightness as if it had been trailed through dew; he thought there were figures in the light, but could not be sure.

And then Amairgen was saying, “It is yielding! Do not lose hold,” and Flynn felt a shiver of pure power go through Portan. He tightened his grasp — they dare not become separated now — and as he did so, he felt sucked nearer to the light, and heard again the achingly beautiful music.

The horizon expanded in the pure clear light for as far as he could see, and there was a humming in his ears, so that he thought: I am going to faint.

And then the bright light seemed to part and yield and they caught sight of the dark misty forests of legend and felt themselves drawn nearer.

There was a shout from behind and a rush of movement, and as the Time Curtain opened more fully, John Grady, Muldooney at his heels, fell into the circle, and the Time Curtain drew back, and all five of them tumbled through into the deep past of Ireland.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Joanna and Cormac stood at the edge of the forest and looked down into the valley. The sun was high and the hillside was lush and green. Behind them, a little deeper into the forest, they could just make out the camp; the to-ing and fro-ing of the Cruithin and of the Wolves; the cooking fires and the tents that someone had put up in a clearing. There was the cheerful clatter of pots and there was a splash of colour from the banners of the Wolf that someone had raised. Beneath them, the township of Muileann sprawled across the valley floor; the houses and the tall chimneys huddling together, a glint of light from a window pane somewhere at the centre. Joanna caught the rather comfortable sound of carts rumbling across cobblestones.

“Muileann,” said Cormac softly, and Joanna shivered and looked across the valley to the great rearing outline of the Giant Mill.

The people of the Miller …

“Must we go through the streets?” said Joanna.

“Yes. To reach Gallan and Cait Fian we have to cross the valley. From there we shall go through the Mountains of Morne.” He looked down at her. “I must raise as great an army as I can.”

“You have the Wolves.”

“Eochaid will have the Lions.” He smiled. “Would you trust a wolf against a lion’s strength, Joanna? I dare not take any chances. If I am to regain my throne, I must ride against Eochaid Bres and Bricriu with the greatest army that has ever been seen since the days of Dierdriu.”

The greatest army … the Cruithin and the Wolves of Cormac Starrog and the Wild Panthers of Cait Fian. Joanna frowned, because just for a moment, the image of Cormac, armies streaming out behind him, the pennants of the Wolf and the Panther fluttering in the breeze, was startlingly clear. She could hear the cheering and see the flowers thrown from the windows of the houses. She could hear the triumphant music. The horses wore brilliantly coloured caparisons, and the emblem of the Wolf rode higher than the rest.

“The Cruithin and the Wolves will remain in the forest,” said Cormac, looking about him. “It may be several weeks before we rejoin them, but that will not matter. The camp is well hidden, and they will spend the time gathering information about the Court, which may be of use to us. They know we’ll come back as soon as we can.” He frowned. “But we must go quietly, and as inconspicuously as possible. Even so, I believe we should take Gormgall and Dubhgall with us.”

The High King, exiled and outcast, but still traveling with a retinue … Joanna smiled. “Do we go right away?”

“At the Purple Hour,” said Cormac, and Joanna thought how suddenly familiar that sounded, and tried to remember why it should be familiar, and could not.

“Will the journey be dangerous?” she said, and Cormac looked at her for a long moment.

“Yes,” he said. “But we shall go cautiously, and we ought to be able to mingle with the townsfolk of Muileann.”

Joanna thought this sounded a good idea. “Because you can pass unnoticed much more easily in a crowd of people,” she said, and Cormac smiled at her.

“So we can, Human Child. And if we are very careful, and if the gods are kind, we shall not be caught.

“But if the Miller or one of his jackals sees us, the alarm will be raised, and if we are captured, we shall be thrown into the Miller’s cages.

“And then he will send word to the Erl-King.”

*

They wore dark cloaks with hoods: “To appear as much like the people of Muileann as possible,” said Cormac. And they each carried a wide flat basket. The men’s held food and provisions, because Gormgall said they had to eat, hadn’t they? But Joanna’s carried Dierdriu’s cloak, carefully folded. “We dare not leave it behind,” said Cormac, “and we don’t know when it may be of help to us,” but Joanna would not have left it anyway.

“I should think not,” said Gormgall, shocked.

“The very idea,” said Dubhgall, and was moved to recount the cloak’s history insofar as he knew it.

“Which,” Gormgall said in an aside to Joanna, “is not so very much, my lady. But he likes to spin a tale or two.”

“No I do not,” said Dubhgall who had been listening.

Gormgall had been efficient and philosophical about the journey — “I expect His Majesty knows best,” — and Dubhgall had been efficient and lugubrious: “We’ll be lucky if we’re not caught and put between the Millstones,” he said. “But there, it isn’t my place to question the High King. But if we aren’t all bread on the Erl-King’s supper table by tomorrow night, it’ll be a remarkable thing. And if we do escape, there’ll be the sorcerers of the Morne Mountains to contend with.

“Now there’s a thing I don’t like to think about.” Though he actually rather enjoyed thinking about gloomy things, and enjoyed even more sharing the gloom.

“It’s all very well to say they’ll be on our side,” he added solemnly, “but what I say is, will they? You never know which way a sorcerer’s going to jump.”

“Let’s not think about that,” said Joanna, who was trying very hard not to think about the Miller or the Erl-King, and who was trying even harder not to think about the sorcerers. “Let’s look forward to reaching Gallan instead. At least we can be sure of a warm welcome there, can’t we? Can’t we?”

“Well,” said Gormgall, “if your ladyship will excuse me for saying it, it won’t be a very peaceful time at Gallan.”

“Always supposing we ever get there,” said Dubhgall, never one to miss an opportunity.

“Because,” said Gormgall, raising his voice, “we never do have a peaceful time at Gallan. Dear me, in all the years I’ve been in attendance on His Majesty I don’t remember ever having a peaceful time at Gallan … It’s lively, of course.”

Dubhgall said it depended on what you called liveliness, “Some people would say it was mayhem.”

“It’s Cait Fian, you see,” explained Gormgall. “He and the High King don’t get on at all well. Not at all. Well, not to put too fine a point on it, your ladyship, they fight.” “But isn’t Cait Fian the King’s liegeman?” said Joanna, who had picked this expression up from Cormac, and rather liked it. “Isn’t he sworn to aid the King at all times?”

“Oh yes,” said Gormgall, “oh for sure, he’ll do that, well, won’t we all? But they’ll fight, my lady, oh dear me, I can see it coming already. Cat and dog, my lady, if that isn’t an irreverent way to speak of the High King and one of the Bloodline. He’s very high nobility, Cait Fian, of course, well, he’s a Prince of Ireland really.”

“And,” said Dubhgall, “he’s the King’s second cousin. If you recall, it was the King’s grandfather’s brother who married one of the Pantherline. Of course, I said at the time no good would come of it, and now we see. I daresay Cait Fian would lay down his life for the King, but they still can’t meet without fighting.”

“What’s worse,” said Gormgall, “is that their followers can’t meet without fighting either.” And then, as Joanna looked startled, “Wolf and Panther, my lady,” said Gormgall, and jerked his thumb in the direction of the camp, where the Wolves lay. “Cat and dog. They’ll band together all right when we meet Eochaid Bres’s armies, but we shall see the fur flying before that happens, my word we will. There’ll be some rare old fights when we reach Gallan.”

“If we reach Gallan,” said Dubhgall. “Because if we don’t set off soon, we shan’t reach Muileann before midnight anyway. Is it today’s Purple Hour or tomorrow’s His Majesty means, do you suppose? Oh there you are, Sire. I was only saying we ought to —”

“Set off at once. Are we all ready? Very well then. On with it!”

Joanna thought, as they descended the hillside, using a rough narrow track, that it was a pity they could not have uttered some kind of battle cry. Wasn’t this, after all, the first real battle? There ought to be something to mark it. Something to rouse them up a bit. And then, because she found she was rather frightened of what lay ahead, she searched her mind for a suitable cheer they might have used. It was extraordinary how battle cries echoed down the ages, when so much else had been lost, but there it was, they did echo, and she could think of several from the ancient wars.

“Up Guards and at’em!” had been a very famous one. And “God for Harry, England and St. George!” whoever Harry and St. George had been. She went on thinking about it, because it was a calming thing to do, and because it concentrated your mind which was helpful if you were going into something nasty, and also because it stopped her from speculating on what was ahead.

“To the lanterns with the aristos” was another one which was very mysterious, and then there was “Death or Glory” which was much less mysterious, but not very appropriate to their present circumstances. You could not very well race down the hillside shouting “The Millstones or Glory.” Well, you could, but it wouldn’t have the right ring to it, and anyway, it would attract attention which they did not want.

I wonder, am I becoming feverish? thought Joanna, feeling cool and reasonably calm. They were almost on the valley floor now, and ahead of them were the great city walls of Muileann.

“Put there to keep people out?” wondered Gormgall.

“Put there to keep prisoners m,” said Dubhgall.

As they went deeper down into the valley with the houses of Muileann looming ahead of them, Joanna began to remember an old old poem. Something that glorified and yet vilified war. One particular war it had been, she thought; not the Letheans’ last Great War, but one that had been fought a long time before that. How did it go? Something about riding into the Valley of Death was it? And then something else about going knowingly into the jaws of Death, and into the mouth of Hell. Rather dreadfully evocative, thought Joanna, following the others up to the great brick wall of Muileann.

They stopped and looked at each other, and Joanna sensed for the first time the true depth of the immense loyalty that bound Gormgall and Dubhgall to Cormac. They quarrel with each other, she thought, and they reprove Cormac in a half-affectionate, half-servantish way, but they would follow him anywhere.

Into the Valley of Death …?

Oh yes, thought Joanna, standing a little apart, watching them. Oh yes, they would follow him into the Valley of Death and into the mouth of Hell. I had better stop remembering those old expressions, thought Joanna, and gave herself a shake.

The scaling of the city wall had bothered them all a good deal for, as Cormac said, it was fully forty feet high, and as smooth as eggshell. Joanna had heard Gormgall and Dubhgall discussing grappling irons, and she hoped there would be another way found to get over the wall.

They did not need ladders or grappling irons. They did not even need to be especially agile. The city gates swung open when Cormac touched them, and they walked into the Miller’s township of Muileann unchallenged.

“I don’t like this,” Cormac said. “It could be a trap,” but Gormgall, ever practical, said that you could not expect them to have sentries posted all the time.

“And they are accustomed to innocent travellers, Sire. People have to pass through Muileann to reach the Mountains of Morne.”

“True enough.” But Cormac’s brows were drawn down in a frown and when he walked forward, he did so as if he was walking on glass.

But no one came running out and no one called out to ask their business, and they moved at first warily and then a little more easily towards the first straggling houses. Joanna thought: I think it will be all right. We’ll walk like this, slowly and quietly, and perhaps it will be all right.

Even so, the sight of the Giant Mill on the far side, a little apart from the town, gave her a cold sick feeling. She began to wish she had not come.

There was a heavy darkness in the air, and there was a perpetual noise in their ears; a dull grinding sound that made Joanna feel small and vulnerable.

“The Millwheels are turning,” said Cormac, his eyes unreadable, his hair whipped into disarray by the wind. “Someone will be devoured tomorrow.”

Joanna’s sick feeling grew worse. “Inside the Mill?”

“Inside the Citadel of the Erl-King,” said Cormac. He glanced at her. “It means the Miller has caught some poor wretched enemy or spy, and the Erl-King will hold a feast tomorrow night.”

“‘Silver platters for human bones,’” muttered Gormgall softly.

“‘And golden goblets for human blood,’” said Dubhgall.

And someone will be devoured tomorrow …

Joanna reached furtively into the basket, and brushed the soft folds of the Nightcloak with the tips of her fingers. A charge of something — courage? strength? — passed from the silk through her skin.

Courage, Joanna. You have faced the Miller before … There was a brief feeling of strong sweet light, an upsurge of power, and then darkness closed about her again.

“Do we go through the streets?” said Joanna.

“Yes. Yes, for if you look straight ahead, you can see that to do so brings us out on the other side of the valley, a little way up the hill. Gallan is over the hill and — oh, several leagues west. You cannot see it for the Morne Mountains, but it is there.”

But it is over the hill and far away, and it is over hill and over dale, and before we reach it we must pass through Muileann and we must pass into the shadow of the Giant Mill …

“Must it be the town, Sire?” That was Gormgall, of course, deferential as always, but not hesitating to question Cormac.

“It must,” said Cormac. “It is safer. If we take the open road across the plain, we should be very noticeable. And the Miller will have his spies out. We should be man-pies on the Erl-King’s banqueting table within a day.”

Silver platters for human bones …

“By going through the streets on foot,” said Cormac, “by appearing to be nothing more than ordinary travellers, we may melt into the crowds of Muileann.”

“Is it safe, Sire?” Dubhgall wanted to know.

“No,” said Cormac. “But we must do it.” He looked at them all. “Before we go any farther,” he said, “I must have you remember that for my true identity to be learned here would mean instant death at the hands of the Miller, and immediate sacrifice to the Erl-King.”

Golden goblets for human blood …

“Do not,” said Cormac, “under any circumstances at all, use my name or my title.” But he knew they would not always remember his warning.

“Oh dear me, I don’t like that,” said Gormgall frowning, and Cormac said sharply, “I would rather be a live serf than a dead High King,” and Gormgall begged pardon at once.

It seemed to Joanna as they walked towards the lights of Muileann — “Cautiously but not furtively,” Gormgall said — that the silhouette of the Mill leaned nearer to them. It is watching us, thought Joanna. It is brooding over the countryside and it is picking its victims. The ones it will put between its grindstones.

Someone will be devoured tomorrow …

It has seen us, thought Joanna. It has seen us approach, and it is considering what we are and whether we would be grist for its stones. What a nasty word grist was. It made you think of gristle and bone and fat frying in a pan: all to be ground up for the Erl-King’s table.

Silver platters for human bones …

Stop it! said Joanna to Joanna. There is absolutely no need to be afraid!

And you have faced the Miller before …

Oh yes, I had forgotten that, she thought, and fell into line between Gormgall and Dubhgall, with Cormac a little ahead of them.

“Just as it should be,” said Gormgall.

“Oh hush!” said Joanna worriedly.

“I know what’s due to a High King,” said Gormgall, but he said it quite quietly.

The houses on the outskirts of the town were dark, rather gloomy buildings, surrounded by trees that made a sh-sh-shushing noise in the wind. No lights burned at any of the windows.

“But there will be look-out posts,” said Cormac, and Joanna suddenly had the feeling of being watched by dozens of unseen eyes.

“Remember that we are ordinary travellers,” said Gormgall.

“Going to visit our kin on the foothills of the Morne Mountains,” added Dubhgall. “Not that anyone of any sense would live there, of course. It’s as damp as a swamp.”

“Oh do hush,” said Joanna, who had caught a movement at one of the windows that might have been someone darting out of sight.

“Well, my lady, I believe Dubhgall’s in the right of it for talking,” said Gormgall. “For we wouldn’t look natural if we were to plod along these streets in complete silence. A nice bit of conversation’s needed,” he added, and began to talk to Dubhgall about the houses they were passing, and how long their journey might be expected to take them, and what they would be finding at the end of it.

Dubhgall entered into the spirit of this with mournful glee, discussing the various ages and degrees of ill health of his kin, speculating on which of them might have died, or recovered, and inventing several great aunts and uncles with improbable names and astonishing life histories.

Joanna listened, and smiled occasionally, and tried to shut out the sight of the Mill and the dreadful sounds of the wheels grinding together. It was a truly terrible sound; it set your teeth wincing and made you think all over again about gristle and fat and blobs of bone in a mincing machine.

The houses were built closer together in the heart of the town, as if they had been planned that way, or perhaps as if they had clustered together since for comfort or safety. They passed down a narrow cobbled alleyway with a high brick wall on each side, and came out into a square with shops that had timber-framed frontages and jutting bow windows, and where the upper floors overhung the street, so that you felt as if they were toppling forward on to you.

Their footsteps rang out on the cobblestones loudly, and Joanna began to play games in her mind. If we can reach that warehouse on the corner without being seen, we shall be all right. And then, as they did reach the warehouse — one more hurdle behind us, she would think. Now, if we can get past the fourth house on the left, we shall be safe.

They had come through the square, and had turned into a side street, and Joanna was just saying, “If we can get to the house with the high wall and the iron gates —” when Cormac stopped, and said, “Listen,” and Dubhgall, who had been looking back over his shoulder, walked into him, and for a moment there was confusion and Gormgall dropped his basket and had to be helped to find the apples that had rolled all over the street.

“Hush,” said Cormac. “What do you hear?”

“Nothing,” said Joanna. “What’s the —” And then stared, because that was the exact truth. They could hear nothing.

Cormac looked at her, his eyes slanting upwards.

“The Millwheels have stopped,” he said. “Be ready to run.”

“It may mean nothing at all,” said Gormgall, as they began to walk cautiously on again.

“On the other hand, it may mean that the Miller’s servants are coming down from the Mill to catch us,” said Dubhgall. “It may mean that they are watching us now, this very moment. Well, there’s one thing to be said, Your Majesty, if we’re caught by the Miller, we shan’t have to worry about the sorcerers any more.”

Gormgall said that Dubhgall was showing the wrong spirit entirely, but Dubhgall said he was trying to find a bright side. “And I’m a practical fellow, for all you others laugh at me. If you had to say anything about me, you’d say I was practical, wouldn’t you now?”

“Practical’s all very well in its way,” began Gormgall, but Joanna broke in impatiently, and said, “Do stop it, you two. Look, there’s a light. Isn’t it? Behind those houses, a little to the left.”

“There is a light of a sort,” said Gormgall after a pause. “Is it coming towards us, would Your Majesty say?”

“It’s certainly moving,” said Cormac, frowning in an effort to see, and Joanna, standing on tiptoe and peering over his shoulder, saw that the light was bobbing up and down, as if it was being carried by someone.

“I daresay it will be someone off to his home,” said Gormgall hopefully. “Perfectly in order.”

“It’s no more in order than anything else in this unnatural place,” said Dubhgall crossly. “This place reeks of evil, if Your Majesty will pardon me for saying so. The sooner we all get out of here, the happier I shall be. As for bobbing lights, when everything else’s been pitch black for the last two hours — well, I wouldn’t trust them, Your Majesty. Not by the breadth of a mouse’s whisker, would I trust them.” “Dubhgall’s right,” said Cormac. “Although I should feel happier if I knew who was carrying that light and coming towards us.”

In the dark, his hand went to his sword, and Joanna said, “Oh please let’s get on. The houses are thinning out here — we must be quite near to the other city wall. If we can just reach that alleyway —”

“There’s a light up in the Mill,” said Gormgall in rather a strangled voice. “And look! There’s another behind those houses. I don’t like this, Sire.”

“And there’s another at the end of the alley,” said Dubhgall. “Gormgall’s right, Your Majesty. This bodes ill.”

“We must keep walking quite naturally,” said Cormac. “As if we have nothing to hide. If we begin to behave suspiciously, we shall be lost.”

It was harder than any of them would have believed possible to walk casually through the cobbled streets, keeping up a light conversation. Dubhgall resurrected the story of his fifth cousin, to whose house they were supposedly going, and related the tale of some mythical great uncle’s gout. Gormgall contributed his mite by saying “Oh really?” and “Is that so?” at intervals. Joanna clung to Cormac’s hand, and tried not to see the lights that flared and then died all around them, as if they were signals of some kind. Had that blaze of light from the Mill been the sign? A single sudden flare, and everyone down in Muileann had seen it and known what it meant, and said: aha! and oh ho! so there are enemies amongst us! Out and after them!

The lights were not the solid comforting yellow squares of candlelight that Joanna had known in Tugaim. They were not, either, the warm, faintly scented flares used by Cormac and the Cruithin. Joanna liked those; they had a red glow and made you think of log fires and applewood burning, and of safely-bolted doors, and mulled wine, and tales told round the hearth.

The lights of Muileann were dull and rather smeary looking. They burned up and then died quickly, but they showed you brief glimpses of narrow cul-de-sacs and dark corners, and Joanna began to have the impression that every time a light flared, it just missed showing you a something that had been lying hidden. It was particularly horrid to think of all those unseen somethings. But perhaps I am only imagining it, thought Joanna. Then she saw the gleam of red eyes from the shadows: she heard claws pattering across the cobblestones. Once there was the slither of a long tail across the stones, and once there was a sound that was like something scaly and damp creeping away to their right.

And then the whispering began.

Gormgall clapped his hands to his ears and said, “This is dreadful,” and Dubhgall turned white. Cormac set his jaw, and took Joanna’s hand and Joanna thought that even in the dull light, even dressed in a borrowed cloak and carrying a rush basket, he looked exactly what he was. The Wolfking of Tara … Oh God, don’t let him be recognised. Oh God, let us escape. Just as far as the next row of houses.

The voices seemed to come from out of the shadows; they were on all sides of the travellers, first coming from the left, and then the right. Several times, the company turned sharply, expecting to see the Miller’s men rushing down on them, but each time the street behind was empty.

The whispers had horrid hissing voices, they were malevolent and greedy and cold. You could easily imagine that the owners of such voices would be thin bony people with hard soulless faces and cold flat eyes. They would put you in a cage and prod you with their hard bony fingers to see if you had fattened up enough for the banquet … Someone will be devoured tomorrow night … No, no! I won’t listen! cried Joanna to herself and gripped Cormac’s hand harder.

But it was impossible to shut the voices out, they echoed about the four travellers’ heads and ran slyly in and out of the tall warehouses on each side of the street.

This-s-s one — this-s-s one for the Master’s table — A fine fat feas-s-st — that one we’ll mince and that one we’ll stew and that one we’ll cut into cold collops-ss — oh, a fine fat feast — set the Millwheels up my dears — turn the handles and open the gates — grind the bones and there’ll be silver platters for human bodies and there’ll be golden goblets for human blood — stew and mince and roast, my dears-s-s — that one first and that one next — fetch the cages, my dears, and lay the table …

Joanna said, “Oh God, this is unbearable.”

“With respect, Sire, shouldn’t we make a run for it now —”

“We’re within sight and sound of the dark lands on the other side of Muileann, Sire.”

Cormac said, “Yes. Yes, you’re right. All hold hands. On no account become separated.” And Joanna drew a great lungful of breath for the run and searched for Gormgall’s hand.

“… and sharpen the knives-s-s,” said the voices. “Grease the pans and heat the fat — that’s the way, my dears …”

“Ready?” said Cormac.

“‘Light the fires and heat the pots

Sizzle the fat in the waiting vats.

Mince and stew and roast and batter,

Pour the juice in the Erl-King’s platter.’”

Cormac shouted “Run!” and Joanna felt Gormgall start forward. And then two things happened at once. The bobbing light they had spotted earlier came round a curve in the road; a dark shape barred their way. And the whispers shut off as abruptly as if a door had been slammed on them.

The four travellers stopped and Joanna felt Cormac’s thoughts flow outwards to them.

Steady. Behave as if we have nothing to hide. On no account make a run for it now. Courage.

The blessed darkness that lay beyond the city wall was suddenly as remote as the stars. Joanna felt a great wave of despair. Had they then come this far only to be caught on the very edge of the Miller’s territory?

They moved forward, walking quite normally, and the figure with the lantern came nearer.

Cormac laid a restraining hand on Joanna; he called out, “Trathnona maith agat,” and Joanna whispered to Gormgall, “What is he saying?”

“He’s bidding the person good evening.”

“There’s precious little that’s good about it,” said Dubhgall, but he said it in a mutter, so that the stranger would not hear.

Cormac said, “You are as late abroad as we are.” And there was the smallest pause. Joanna thought: we are being inspected. To see if we are of interest? And waited, hardly daring to breathe.

Quite suddenly there was a low feminine chuckle, and a soft voice said mischievously, “Oh, I am up to no good, or so the people of Muileann would tell you,” and Joanna thought: a woman! and heard Gormgall draw in his breath sharply.

Cormac said, quite smoothly, “We are on our way to our kin in the Morne Mountains, and must pass through the valley. But for sure, this is strange countryside. Tell me, Lady, what do they call this place?” and Dubhgall, who was bringing up the rear of the party, muttered to Joanna, “Oh ho, so he’s using that trick, is he? Making her tell us what she’s up to, instead of waiting for it to be the other way about. My word, he’s his father’s son and no mistake.” He rubbed his hands gleefully, and Joanna, who wanted to hear the conversation properly, snapped, “Be quiet.”

The lady had lowered the lantern so that the light fell across her face, and they saw that she was tall and slender and rather pale. But her mouth is greedy, thought Joanna, and felt a prickle of wariness.

There was the pause again, as if the lady was considering how best to answer Cormac. Then, “This is Muileann,” she said. “They call it the town of the Giant Miller, but of course, that is just an old legend.”

“Is it?” said Gormgall.

“Well,” said the lady, drawing closer. “I’ve never seen any Miller.” She smiled, and Joanna found herself thinking that after all she was rather attractive. It was only that her lips were too full and too red.

All the better to eat you with …? No, of course not!

“You have a long journey ahead of you,” said their new companion. “And you will surely not reach the Morne Mountains before the morning.”

“It is a long journey,” said Cormac equably.

“And that being so, we’d best get on with it,” put in Gormgall.

“Of course. But you are surely going in the wrong direction for the mountain path?”

“This looked to be the best way,” said Cormac, and the lady smiled rather engagingly.

“It will get you there, of course. And you cannot miss the mountains. But you could take a quicker route. Would you allow me to be your guide? As far as the city gates? I am not of Muileann, but I know its highways.”

“Thank you, but I believe we must not trouble you,” said Cormac with exquisite courtesy, and Joanna breathed a sigh of relief.

“Then I will walk with you if I may,” said the lady, “for my house is on the edges of Muileann and I should be glad of some company.” She drew a little nearer, and said in an amused voice, “Truth to tell, I have been visiting a gentleman, and it would not do for it to be known.” A grin and a shrug. “People are so narrow, you understand. And I believe our ways lie together.”

It was, of course, impossible to refuse. In Joanna’s world, as well as in this one, there was a kind of unwritten law of chivalry amongst travellers. Company could be sought and offered; a person travelling alone could be given the protection of a larger party. A lady travelling alone could expect such protection almost as a right. Joanna wished she could rid herself of the feeling that their companion neither sought nor needed protection.

The lady was watching them, waiting, an amused look on her face. Cormac said the only thing he could say: “We should be glad of your company,” and she smiled, her eyes crinkling up at the corners.

“I am rather unprincipled,” she said. “But I promise you I am not an enemy.”

At the back of the party, Dubhgall murmured, “I wonder is that meant to make us feel better?” but nobody heard him.

“This is an odd township,” said Cormac, as they walked through the now silent streets, their footsteps ringing out on the cobblestones. Joanna noticed that he was keeping the lady a little apart from them. In case there was some kind of attack from her? So that three of them at least should escape? No, surely that was ridiculous. Even so, Joanna wished that their companion had not that greedy red mouth.

“Muileann is rather odd,” agreed the lady. “It has a gruesome history, of course. You have heard of the Miller? Yes, I can see you have. He must have been a terrible figure.”

“Does he no longer exist?” queried Gormgall.

“I don’t think he has existed for many years,” she said. “Although I believe his people preserve his memory. To keep unwanted strangers out, you understand. No more than that.” She hesitated. “Tell me,” she said, drawing a little closer to them, “did you have the misfortune to stray into the Street of the Whisperers?”

For a moment no one answered, then Cormac said, “We heard something we could not entirely explain. But it may have been a trick of the night. The wind, perhaps …”

“It is no trick,” said the woman and looked about her. “Men say it is the echo of a dark and evil race who once lived here and served the Miller. Many have heard the Whisperers. I too, once —” Her voice broke off. “It is a frightening experience,” she said. “I beg you, do not let us speak of it any more, for it is said that the echo can sometimes hear … But I daresay it is all only fancy.” She smiled at them.

Presently Gormgall said, “I see the city wall directly ahead of us,” and Joanna saw it as well, and felt a rush of thankfulness. The city wall. Nearly there. Nearly through this strange sinister place. If we can once reach the wall and be through the gates.

“Yes, that is the wall that girdles Muileann,” said their companion. “A little beyond it lies my house.” She hesitated and looked at them all one by one. “I wonder — would you step inside and rest for a while? You have been kind enough to bear me company —”

“I think we should continue our journey,” said Cormac, and Joanna felt Gormgall and Dubhgall each give a sigh of relief.

“Of course,” said the lady. “You are making for the house of your kin. No doubt you are expected. Forgive me.” She appeared to lose interest, turning to point out to Cormac some ancient tower or other that could be seen against the sky, and Joanna thought: perhaps after all she is only a chance-met traveller. Perhaps she is no more and no less than she appears.

They walked through the great north gate of Muileann unchallenged, as they had been when they came into the town. “Oh, there are no sentries or guards now,” cried the lady, amused. “People come and go all the time. Travellers and pilgrims …” She smiled in the flickering light of the lantern. “I have given many of them hospitality,” she said. “For I like to talk with people from other lands. One should always listen and learn, do you not agree? It keeps the mind alert and young, and it is my belief that where the mind is young, so is the body.” She grinned, gamine fashion. “I freely confess that there have been one or two gentlemen kind enough to tell me that my philosophy has worked for me.”

Cormac said with instinctive gallantry, “I am sure it is not kindness that prompted them, madam,” and in the rear Dubhgall sneezed disgustedly.

They walked on down the road, and Joanna wondered whether it was only her fancy that it was a much darker road than any they had travelled. There was a rather disturbing feeling of hidden watchers again, of shapeless, nameless things that waited.

Presently their companion lifted her lantern and pointed, the wide cloak falling back a little to reveal a slender white arm. “My house. You see? Behind the trees. Lights are always burning at my windows for weary travellers, and inside there is always a good meal prepared, roaring fires in the rooms and comfortable beds.” She stopped and looked at them, and for a moment it seemed as if the narrow green eyes slanted and grew larger, and as they did so, the four travellers, who had all been feeling quite reasonably fresh and well, became abruptly aware of extreme fatigue.

Joanna, who was nearest to the lady, thought: a comfortable bed! and tried to remember when she had last slept in one. It did not matter, of course, not really, because she had become quite at home with Cormac’s people and with the rigours of marching and camping. She had rather enjoyed it. But now, quite unexpectedly, the idea of a comfortable bed that you sank into and that welcomed you with a feather-stuffed base and perhaps feather-lined pillows as well, was overpoweringly seductive. She could almost feel the thin cool sheets brushing her skin … she could certainly feel how the fatigue would smooth out from her aching limbs. But she thought they ought not to enter anyone’s house without seriously considering what they were doing, and she thought they definitely ought not to enter anyone’s house in Muileann, because Muileann was where all the dangers were … For a moment, she thought that the Nightcloak stirred and then she thought it had only been a breath of wind. For another second, she thought there was something familiar about the lady — or had that been in another life somewhere? — and then the feeling vanished, and the fatigue was back, and really, it would be so wonderful to surrender to sleep, to sink into that deep soft bed …

Gormgall and Dubhgall, were aware of fatigue as well, although Gormgall was also aware of hunger, and was thinking, rather guiltily, how very good it would be to sit down to a meal, properly cooked, piping hot, where you did not have to remember that you were on the march, and that rations had to be shared. Dubhgall, who felt the cold, even with an extra jerkin, and whose chilblains had been troublesome at nights, dwelled hopefully on the idea of roaring fires so fiercely hot that you had to back away from them. And surely, surely, it could not matter to accept an hour or two’s hospitality from this really very ordinary, chance-met traveller, and even though they were inside Muileann where the dangers might be, even then, surely it could not matter …

Cormac was the last to surrender to the drowsiness that had overcome the others. He had been the most alert since they entered Muileann, because he, of them all, knew the tales and the dreadful legends that surrounded Muileann and the Miller. He had known that they would almost certainly be the victims of some kind of attack, and when the lady had appeared, friendly and welcoming, every sense had responded, and he had thought: is this it? Is she a friend, or is she something quite different? And thought that for sure it would be a strange thing indeed to meet a truly friendly soul in Muileann.

He had opened his mind to its utmost, and he had used the Samhailt to its greatest limits, and he had been able to read nothing at all from the lady’s mind. There had been a brief blur of greyness and coldness, and then there had been nothing at all. He thought she had deliberately set up a barrier so that he should not see her thoughts, and he thought that after all that in itself was not sinister, because people who did not possess the Samhailt themselves, were often aware of it. A ripple on the air. A feeling that their minds were being pierced. But there was that coldness and there was certainly the blurred greyness, and Cormac, summoning up every drop of wolfblood, thought: I do not know she is evil, not logically or sensibly. But I smell that she is.

The lady smiled, and appeared to concentrate all her attention on him, and Cormac, looking at the narrow green eyes, thought that after all she was not so very frightening. She was only one woman on her own. And they were all of them tired … He shook his head to clear it of the sleepiness, and he thought: but she is walking round us in a circle, and fought against the heavy drowsiness, because every enchantment ever woven by the sorcerers called for a circle in some form or another. The circle was the most powerful of all the spells … I do not trust her, thought Cormac, feeling his eyelids become heavy, we must be very careful indeed … we must not fall into any traps … It is only that I am so tired, and the others as well …

Joanna said, as if she was fighting something very strong, “We should be continuing our journey …”

Cormac said, “Yes, so we should.” And neither of them moved.

Joanna remembered again about being aware of danger, and frowned and tried to identify the tug of memory. Cormac, struggling against the suffocating fatigue, found himself remembering only that they were all cold and tired, and that after all, this was only a lady on her own. He found that he was looking to where the house stood, half hidden by trees, and he caught a glimpse of warm lights in the windows and the leaping flare of firelight in one of the downstairs rooms, and he almost fancied he could smell the savoury aroma of cooking meat. He remembered that it was a long while since any of them had had a proper night’s rest in a proper bed; he remembered that Joanna, unquestionably the frailest of their company, had often looked tired and pinched, but that she had never once complained, that she had always been cheerful, amusing them with tales of her own world, teaching them songs to sing as they marched, learning some of their own songs. Joanna deserved a good meal and a warm fireside and a deep soft bed for a few hours.

The lady said, as if the outcome did not matter to her either way, “You are most welcome to a bite of supper and a glass or two of wine. My house is always kept ready for travellers. And if you should care to sleep here tonight and set out for the Mountains by first light …”

It was the “set out by first light” that succeeded in dissolving the last of Cormac’s fears. He thought: of course I am not the victim of any spell, and of course she did not walk round us in that circle earlier on. She is offering us no more than a night’s lodging, and we shall be on our way in the morning. By first light we shall be on our way.

He said, “If it would in truth be no trouble to you?” and she smiled and said warmly, “No trouble at all, I promise. Will you come through the gates? That’s right. Close them to and drop the latch.”

They followed her along a tree-lined path to the white house, and although Joanna thought briefly that it was much farther from the road than it had seemed, and rather larger than it had looked, she was too tired to worry. There was an air of unreality about everything now, thought Joanna. It would be because they were all so tired. That was all. There was nothing to worry about.

“There is nothing to worry about,” said the lady, and the four travellers nodded and said, “There is nothing to worry about.”

“You will come willingly into my house,” said the lady softly, and again they nodded and said yes, they would come willingly into her house.

Joanna hesitated at the last minute, and turned on the threshold, thinking she had heard something — a voice? — in the trees that clustered thickly about the house. But then the wind made a faint shushing sound in the leaves, and a small hooting night creature flew out of a branch, and Joanna thought: well, perhaps it was only an owl, and turned back again.

The house had a massive studded oak front door with a huge brass handle; their companion stepped forward to turn it.

“And now come inside,” she said, standing outlined against the warmly lit hall for a moment, and there was something subtly different about her voice. A gloating? A satisfied purring? But there was no time to identify it, for they were all over the threshold and into the house before they quite knew how it had happened.

“That’s right,” said the lady. “All of you. All of you safely inside my house at last. Close the door and shut us all in together.

“My two sisters will be so pleased to see you.”

*

As the light from the wall sconces flared, the heavy enchantment fell from the minds of the four travellers, and Joanna saw that Cormac had turned very white. Then he moved to the door, and the lady let out a peal of laughter. “Locked and barred, traveller, locked and barred. Or should I perhaps say ‘Your Majesty’?” She moved round, so that the light fell fully across her face, and Joanna shivered, and felt again something stir within the depths of her mind.

“Dimbrim an t-aibhirseoir …” Begone, banish, adversary …

An old old language, once learned, once known so well, never truly forgotten …

She looked again at the creature before them, and saw that the lady was smiling, a forked tongue licking and darting between her lips. A sense of familiarity, the feeling that this was all an old, old battle that had been fought and won, and fought again, began to grow within her.

“Dimbrim, an t-aibhirseoir …”

The lady was not looking at Joanna. She was watching Cormac, and a sly, satisfied smile was on her lips. “So easily lured,” she said. “So easily enchanted by the Draiocht Suan,” and Cormac, whose eyes had never left the lady, said softly, “The Enchanted Slumber. Of course,” and the Lady laughed again.

“The Enchanted Slumber, indeed, Cormac. The very spell that your ancestress Dierdriu summoned to send the Trees into their Great Sleep. And still you did not suspect!” She studied him. “Cormac of the Wolves,” she said. “And the exiled High King of All Ireland. I salute you, Sire, and I am very glad to have you in my house. But then, you knew that one day I should do?”

Cormac was standing very still, his eyes never leaving her. “Yes, I knew it, for it is bred in to all the High Kings, madam. You are Ireland’s enemy and you are the adversary of all who rule from Tara.”

Adversary … Banish adversary … Joanna frowned, and then turned her attention back to the others.

“I know you very well indeed,” said Cormac, and the lady laughed again, and Joanna shivered and thought: yes, she is very beautiful and yes, she is quite dreadfully evil.

“I and my sisters live in your folklore and your legends. Am I not the hag your old men whisper of, and the sorceress your mothers protect their children from?” the lady said. She moved closer and looked into his face. “I fought your ancestress, the High Queen Dierdriu, and I vowed to be avenged on her line for ever.” She paused. “But truly, Sire, am I so ill-favoured? Could your loins not harden for me, and could you not spill your seed for me?” She pressed against him, her hips writhing, and a look of the purest revulsion flickered across Cormac’s face.

He did not move, but screamed, in a voice Joanna had never heard him use, “Get from me, filth!” The lady laughed again, a cascade of delight that sent icy trickles of terror down Joanna’s spine.

“Oh, you will be in my bed soon enough, Wolfking. You will obey my bidding.” She leaned closer, the forked tongue flickering in and out. “And then I shall cut out your heart and your kidneys and cook them. I shall ladle your blood into a golden goblet and drink it. I shall quaff you and devour you, Wolfking, and your puny kingdom will be my Master’s forever!”

As she moved away, a red glint showed in Cormac’s eyes. His teeth gleamed white, and a snarl broke from him. He leapt for her, claws curved, eyes slitted and blazing, and for a moment, Joanna thought he would reach her, that he would rake those cruel nails across her flesh, and sink his teeth into her white skin.

And he is capable of doing that, thought Joanna, caught between horror and a wish to see Cormac succeed. He is capable of it …

But the lady was gone before he reached her. There was a hiss, as if cold water had been dashed into a blazing fire, and there was a wisp of thick, sour smoke, and all that was left were peals of mocking laughter echoing round the room.

Cormac remained motionless for a moment, as if unable to believe what had happened. Then he turned. “I have led you into the most dreadful danger,” he said, and there was such a humility and such a defeat in his voice, that a knife twisted in Joanna’s heart. She went to stand beside him, not liking to show emotion before Gormgall and Dubhgall, but wanting to reach out and take him in her arms and somehow take away the hurt look from his eyes.

“You could not know. None of us could know.” And she thought: oh damn! Why can I not be more articulate. Will he know what I am thinking? Yes, of course he will.

Gormgall and Dubhgall were nodding their agreement. “It was the enchantment, Sire,” said Gormgall. “The Draiocht Suan. Dear me, I never thought I’d succumb to that one.”

Dubhgall said it just went to show you should never trust strangers. “I knew how it would be,” he said. “The minute we set foot in Muileann, I knew how it would be.”

Joanna said, “But surely we couldn’t know, not really, what would happen?” And struggled to come to terms with a place where enchantments were there for the weaving, and people could be sent into drowsiness so profound, that they followed enemies and were lured into traps.

“I did know,” said Cormac. “I knew with my heart and my guts that it was wrong to follow her.”

“But you were the victim of a spell, Sire,” said Gormgall, as if that excused everything. “We were all of us victims of a spell.”

Dubhgall said he had never trusted spells — nasty unpredictable things. “Mark my words, Sire, we won’t get out of this in the flicker of a gnat’s eyebrow,” he said, and stumped over to the window to see could they get out that way.

“It’s bolted and barred,” said Gormgall, who had tried it himself not ten minutes before.

“I know it is,” said Dubhgall crossly. “I’m only making sure.”

Cormac sat down and looked at them all. “I did succumb,” he said, “I ought to have known what she was doing. I did know, really, deep down. It was only that —”

“It was the mention of the fireside and the comfortable beds,” said Gormgall.

“And the supper and being able to set off early tomorrow morning,” said Dubhgall. “That was clever of her.”

“It was the Draiocht Suan,” said Gormgall firmly. “We all know what it was.”

“I wanted Joanna to have a night’s rest. I wanted us all to have a good supper.” Cormac looked at Joanna as he said this, and Joanna wanted to cry.

“The thing is,” said Gormgall, “if the Draiocht Suan had failed, she’d have tried something else. She’d have got us all in here by some means or other. Your Majesty knows that. She’s been the enemy of all the High Kings and Queens, ever since Dierdriu. She swore revenge all those centuries ago, and she has never stopped trying to find a way back to Tara.”

“She will never rest until she has brought down the Royal House, Sire,” Dubhgall said.

“Yes.” Cormac looked at them all. “And so I am face to face with her at last,” he said, and Joanna drew in her breath sharply.

“You always knew that you would one day be confronted with her, Sire,” said Gormgall.

“Yes.” Amusement lifted Cormac’s lips briefly. “At least she has not sought out the usurper. At least she recognises me as the true King.”

“Begging your pardon, Sire, but I shouldn’t think that’s going to be much comfort to us before the night’s out,” said Dubhgall.

Joanna, looking at them bewildered, said, “But what does any of it mean?”

Cormac moved from the hearth and seated himself on a deep window seat. “She is the leader of the dread Morrigna,” he said. “The Three Sisters. And she is one of the most feared of all my family’s enemies. My ancestors have fought her down the generations, and although they have kept her at bay, they have never quite managed to destroy her.”

Gormgall said, “Your own father, Sire, believed her to be indestructible.”

“Yes.” Cormac frowned, and the firelight fell across his face, so that pinpoints of red light danced in his eyes. “I never agreed with him. I believe that one day she will be destroyed.” The grin lifted his face again. “I would very much like to go down in our history as the King who made an end to her, but she is the Queen of Phantoms, and she is very powerful and very clever.”

“Tell me about her,” said Joanna, who was extremely frightened, but trying hard not to be. She thought it might be worse, rather than better, to know more about Morrigan, but she thought that at least it might give them an insight into the creature’s nature. Insights into your enemy were useful things to have.

Cormac rearranged himself on the window seat, and Joanna thought that everything he did, every movement he made was just very slightly wolfish. Surely if anyone could get them out of here, he could.

“At the beginning of Tara’s history, Morrigan and her two sisters, Macha and Scald-Crow, came out of the wild desolate northern isles,” Cormac began.

“The people of those isles always coveted Tara,” explained Gormgall in an aside to Joanna, “and it is countless centuries since they gave allegiance to the Erl-King who promised them that he would one day rule from the Sun Chamber.”

“Oh,” said Joanna, “I see. Thank you.”

“There were many battles in those days,” said Cormac, “for Tara was not then the invincible palace it is now, and the first High Queen Dierdriu had to repel many invaders.

“The Morrigna were the most powerful of all the invaders, for they had at their beck and call a truly fearsome army. The Dark Ireland,” said Cormac, his lips thinning in fastidious disgust. “Hags and crones and harpies: Macha’s family of monsters — numberless and endless, nourished on the filth of graveyards and suckled on the rotting flesh of battlefield corpses. Scald-Crow’s ability to become anything she chose, to suck whole armies into her eyes, and to swallow entire battalions with her maw. And Morrigan’s strong evil sorcery. Among them the Sisters summoned every dark enchantment ever known, so that their Master, the Erl-King, could possess Tara and crush Ireland.

“But Dierdriu’s people beat them back. They fought long and dreadful wars — for Morrigan had no scruples about using her dread powers, and a war where sorcery is used is a terrible thing. But she was beaten back, and although she was not destroyed, in the end she retreated.

“But before she did so, she cursed Dierdriu,” said Cormac. “Vilely and venomously she cursed her. It is from that curse that the founding of the Bloodline — the half-human, half-beast rulers — springs.”

He stopped, and Joanna, scarcely daring to breathe, said, “Tell me.”

“Morrigan could not injure Dierdriu,” said Cormac, “for Dierdriu was protected by the wisest and most scholarly sorcerers of Ireland. She had, as well, the Druids on her side, and although it is many centuries since the Druids swore allegiance to anyone other than themselves, they did swear allegiance to Dierdriu at the beginning.

“Between them all, they created for the Queen the enchantment known as the Girdle of Gold — the strongest and most potent protection that has ever been known. It can encircle an entire City and render that City safe from any form of attack, and although it has long since been lost to my family, in those days Dierdriu possessed it and because of that, Morrigan could not harm her. They say she hovered over the battlefield in the last and most famous battle — the Battle for the Trees — and that the skies darkened and the air was filled with the screeching of her dark armies and with the beating of wings. But Dierdriu rode through them and they could not touch her.

“Morrigan towered above the Queen herself then, her hair a mass of writhing snakes, her eyes molten, and sent out a curse that splintered the skies and brought drops of blood raining from the heavens. She cursed Dierdriu’s line for a hundred generations; she said, “Your line shall end with you, madam, and your children will die in the womb. Your seed shall never occupy Tara’s Throne, for it is destined for my Master.’

“But Dierdriu bargained with the sorcerers, until at length a new enchantment was written into the Book of the Academy of Necromancers — and that,” said Cormac, “is something which can only be done when the Bright Palace itself is in the utmost peril.

“The enchantment allowed the Royal Line of Ireland to lie with the animals, and to produce half-human, half-beast people who would rule from Tara and be immune to Morrigan’s curse. For,” said Cormac, “Morrigan’s curse was that of a sorceress cursing a pure human, and Dierdriu knew that if her descendants could become other than purely human, the curse would not touch them.”

“That is why,” said Gormgall, as Cormac fell silent, “no purebred human can ever occupy Tara’s Throne. That is why the Enchantment of the Bloodline is kept alive by our sorcerers, so that every third or fourth generation —”

“Or when the Judges decide it is necessary,” put in Dubhgall.

“Yes, or when the Judges decide it is necessary, the Great Ritual is celebrated, and the Enchantment invoked.”

Joanna, listening, fascinated and absorbed, received a sudden fleeting impression of a forest at night, and a solemn procession, torch-lit and formal, converging on the forest’s heart, the Wolves waiting there, their eyes bright, their fur sleek.

The Draiocht Prionsa den Fhiorfhuil … The Enchantment for the Princes of the Blood … And once I knew it so well … Once I stood at the forest’s heart and welcomed that torch-lit procession, and once I stood and watched as the first Bloodline of all was created. Strength welled up inside her, and with it the beginnings of a very great anger.

Begone Morrigan … banish, adversary …

Dubhgall was explaining about the curse placed on Tara by Morrigan. “And once a curse is uttered,” he said, “properly uttered, with full knowledge and full understanding, it’s very nearly impossible to kill it. You can turn it aside if you are very clever — as Dierdriu did — but you can’t unmake it. Nasty soulless things, curses. Personally, I wouldn’t touch one.”

“Morrigan has never ceased to hate Dierdriu’s line,” said Cormac. “She vowed to seek out every descendant of Dierdriu who occupied the Ancient Throne and kill them, by trickery or sorcery, or ordinary human violence.” He looked at Joanna as he said this, and Joanna felt again the implacable anger against Morrigan.

Cormac said softly, “My friends, we are in the hands of one of Ireland’s greatest enemies, and if we do not outwit her, then Tara will fall into the hands of Morrigan’s master.”

“Her master?” said Joanna.

“The Erl-King,” said Cormac, and for a moment a terrible silence fell.

Then Dubhgall, who believed in being as practical as you could, no matter the difficulties, and who was, in fact, usually at his best in dangerous situations, said, “Well, Sire, I’m a plain man, and I don’t know much about magic, pure or the other sort. I always left that to the people whose business it was. But can’t we just outwit the Morrigna, Sire? By ordinary human cleverness?”

“Would the cloak not help us?” asked Joanna hesitantly, who did not want to put forward any suggestion that might be thought silly, but thought they ought to consider every possibility.

Cormac said slowly, “The cloak can only be used once against an enemy. I believe we should wait until we are in the severest danger before we use it against Morrigan and her sisters.”

“Could there be a severer danger than this?” asked Gormgall, and Cormac replied at once. “Oh yes. Oh yes, Gormgall, there could.” Gormgall looked a bit white around the mouth, and relapsed into silence.

“Remember that we must not be separated,” Cormac said, pacing the room restlessly. “Not for an instant. To lose each other now would be unthinkable.”

“I suppose,” said Gormgall, “that the door is locked?”

“Locked and bolted from the other side,” said Dubhgall, who had been trying it at intervals, alternately checking on the window.

“What about the chimney?”

“What about it?”

“Couldn’t we climb out that way?” said Gormgall, and Cormac smiled for the first time.

“My poor friends, did you truly suppose I would let you go up the chimney?” He pointed to the fire that blazed in the hearth.

“We could damp down the fire,” said Dubhgall.

“What with?”

“If we hadn’t a lady present I could tell you,” said Dubhgall primly, and Joanna laughed, despite her fear of the Morrigna, because it was so like Dubhgall to remember the courtesies at such a moment.

She said, “If you think it will do any good, please don’t worry about me. I’ve been travelling with the army for a number of days now.”

“Ah, that’ll be the younger ones,” said Dubhgall with disapproval. “Weak bladders and no manners.”

Cormac said, “Hush, I believe … yes, someone is coming.” He urged them: “Remember that under no circumstances must we separate.”

He took Joanna’s hand firmly, and Joanna, who was still trying to pretend that she was not afraid, said, “Have we a chance of escaping?”

“There is bound to be one,” said Cormac. “But we must watch carefully for it.”

The door opened and Morrigan and her two sisters stood on the threshold.

*

The small amount of folklore that had survived Devastation told of many strange things. Joanna believed there were a number of tales — all of them horrid — about trios of evil women. But she thought there could never have been a stranger tale, or three more evil women, than the three in the room with them now.

There was a dreadful white stringy substance flowing between the sisters — “The Bonds of the Hag,” said Cormac, softly. “Do not touch it if you value your sanity.”

The Bonds had a life of their own; they flowed and pulsated, snakelike, and strands of them curled about Morrigan’s head as she stood watching, a smile on her full wet lips. The other two stood a little behind. They are subordinates, thought Joanna; they are pawns to her. Even so, they are very terrible.

Macha, whom Cormac had called the Mother of Monsters, was a white sluglike creature, with fishlike eyes and tapering arms and legs that were webbed. But she was perceptibly female, and Joanna shuddered at the sight of the dozen or so breasts that protruded from Macha’s body. Then she remembered that Macha’s family was suckled by battlefield corpses. Macha caught Joanna’s eye, and gave a sly calculating look, as if she was sizing her up, and saying: oh yes, this one will do very nicely.

Badb, whom Cormac had called Scald-Crow, was by far the ugliest of the three. She was bald and her skin was withered and puckered like an old apple. She looked at Joanna very directly, and Joanna said aloud, without realising it, “The wet eyes in the cave.”

At once Badb grinned, “Like this, you mean, madam?” and became a huge single eye on scaly legs, waddling towards Joanna. She backed away, thinking: this is truly terrible. It is laughing at me. Can eyes laugh? Can one single eye laugh like that and look as if it might eat you …

“Sister behave,” Macha said, in a low wet bubbling voice that made them all want to clear their throats and swallow, and Scald-Crow resumed her normal shape and scowled.

“Only a little fun, Sister.”

“A waste of valuable energy,” said Macha.

“Spoilsport!”

“Show-off!”

Scald-Crow sucked in a huge breath, and drew one eye back into her head, while the other stood out huge and red, dangling on to her cheek. Her mouth twisted, distorted into an impossibly wide grin, until it reached her ears, and they could see down inside her throat. A thick column of dark, solid blood rose from the centre of her head like the mast of a ship.

Joanna gasped and Cormac’s hand tightened over hers, and Scald-Crow changed back again.

“A little amusement,” said Morrigan, her voice a purr. “They are excited at what lies ahead.” She studied Cormac. “I hope, Your Majesty, that you do not intend to try to savage me again? It would avail you nothing. My powers are far greater than any puny sorcerer you may have at Tara.” But for all her scorn her voice licked the name greedily, and Joanna knew that Cormac had been right: Morrigan had never ceased to want his kingdom.

Morrigan said, “You know what will happen to you all?”

“I know what you will try to achieve,” said Cormac, and Morrigan smiled.

“You will be taken down to the Miller’s cages that lie below this house —”

“Down below below,” said Scald-Crow.

“And then I shall summon the Miller,” said Morrigan, and at once Cormac seemed more alert.

“Summon? Does he not then wait for us?”

“He has to be summoned,” said Morrigan, and Joanna, whose thoughts were already racing ahead, thought: summoned! So he is not yet here! Is there a chance somewhere that we might escape?

“You will be chopped and skinned and minced,” said Macha leaning forward, the Bonds wreathing her head.

“Your blood will bathe us,” said Scald-Crow, and at once became a gaping mouth.

“And then you will be eaten,” said Morrigan with satisfaction. “A fitting end, Wolfking.” She stood before him, her eyes raking him. “But first, a little pleasure, Your Majesty?

“Come now, am I so ill-favoured? Is not your reputation such that it is said you can have any woman? You can have me, Sire. Your final act before going to the Miller. But …” a shrug, “if you are unwilling, I have sufficient spells to harden you, Sire.” Her eyes narrowed. “And I will harden you, Cormac. I will have you in my bed.” She laughed, and Cormac snarled and reached for her. Morrigan moved deftly away and the snake-tongue flickered, and as it did so, something began to uncoil in Joanna’s mind, and something that had been long asleep and deeply asleep, began to wake.

Banish, adversary … begone, Morrigan … The anger that she had experienced earlier began to rise up, and she thought: how dare this wicked greedy repulsive creature speak to Cormac like that! How dare she!

Morrigan was still regarding Cormac, hands on hips, his eyes slitted. “Snarl away, Wolfking. It will do you not the smallest good. I have you at last, and you will go to the cages, and then to my Master’s table. Silver platters and golden goblets … we are going to eat you, Cormac, and your precious kingdom will be ours at last!”

Morrigan laughed again and so contemptuous was her laughter, that Joanna forgot about feeling sick now, and stood very still and allowed the overwhelming anger, and the sudden and immense strength to pour into her, as easily as pouring water from one jug to another. She thought: it is filling me up, this anger that is not mine and this strength that is someone else’s. And she broke from the others, and walked to stand before Morrigan, her eyes blazing.

Morrigan did not exactly flinch, but looked startled, and Joanna felt a tremendous surge of power. She looked straight into Morrigan’s eyes — after all, I am easily as tall as she is, thought Joanna, surprised — and saw that Morrigan’s eyes were cold and old and colourless.

And after all, filth, I have defeated you once before …

The thought brought no surprise with it. The heat of the battlefield, the air dark with Morrigan’s sorcery, the stench of the Army of Corpses summoned by Macha … oh yes, I was there, thought Joanna, and knew a swift exultation.

I have defeated you once before, Morrigan … I shall do so again …

Morrigan was watching Joanna, and there was something behind her eyes now that was not quite fear, but that was certainly not triumph.

Joanna felt the scalding power again, and heard her own voice speaking.

“Tóg ort! Bi a shiúl! Gread leat!”

For a moment there was a silence so profound that no one seemed even to breathe.

Then Morrigan said, very softly, “Cé hé thusa? Who are you?”

“Is me Dierdriu de shiul oiche,” said Joanna, and a flame of the purest terror flared in Morrigan’s eyes. She backed away, and behind her, Macha whimpered and cowered, and Scald-Crow hissed and undulated, wisps of smoke curling from her nostrils.

Standing a little apart, Cormac said in a low voice, “Gormgall … Dubhgall … Is not that a very old form of Gael?”

Gormgall, whose eyes had never left Joanna, replied, “The oldest, Sire, and the purest. Her … your lady, has bidden the Morrigna begone, and when Morrigan asked who she was, said, ‘I am Dierdriu of the Nightcloak.’ At least, Sire, that’s as near as I can get.”

The Morrigna quickly recovered from their horrified surprise. Macha was standing by the door, her arms folded across her repulsive breasts, and Scald-Crow had taken on the form of a great leprous worm, and was squirming and hissing and chuckling evilly.

Morrigan said slowly to Joanna, “So it is true. All of the old prophecies … the High Queen returned … Madam, you travel more inconspicuously than once you did. And in strange company.”

“I travel with my own. Get thee gone, Morrigan!”

“But we have an old, old score to settle first, Your Majesty,” said Morrigan, and walked thoughtfully round Joanna. Cormac, watching, saw that Morrigan was walking in a circle again, and knew a pang of fear. But he knew that to interrupt now would break the tenuous strength that Joanna was drawing on, and he knew that if this was, indeed, the High Queen returned, then Joanna would be struggling to keep Dierdriu’s presence within her. And despite his fear of Morrigan and the sisters, he felt a great exultation: Dierdriu returned to Ireland!

Morrigan was still studying Joanna. “A pretty bird for the plucking,” she said, and reached out to stroke Joanna’s cheek. “Oh, yes, a very pretty bird. So you lie with the wolves, do you my lady, just as you did all those years ago, just as you did when you commanded the sorcerers to weave the Enchantment of the Bloodline.” She moved closer, her face level with Joanna’s. “Do you enjoy them, Dierdriu, those wolves, with their cruel natures and their sharp pricks? Do they spear you, Dierdriu? And did you really create the Enchantment to save Tara, or to pleasure your own lusts?” She smiled, and Joanna looked coldly at her.

“The Enchantment was woven to cheat your curse, Morrigan. To save my people.”

“Curses can never be cheated,” said Morrigan, “because curses can never be unmade, Dierdriu. We both know it. I shall be revenged on you at last, as I always promised you.” A pause, then, “I wonder how your wolf lover will feel towards you after I have had my fill of you?” And then, nodding to her sisters, “Take the Wolfking and his servants to the cages, and make ready to call up the Miller. But the High Queen take to my bedchamber.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Flynn and Amairgen sat up and looked about them. It was not quite dark, but it was very nearly so. There were thickening shadows everywhere, and the heavy unmistakable scent of twilight.

Twilight. The Purple Hour.

Amairgen called, “Portan?” and at once there was a response.

Flynn, still dazzled and dazed by the Time Curtain, thought: we are truly here. We have travelled through many hundreds of years. We are in the ancient past. And felt his blood stir and his emotions fire.

Amairgen stood up and brushed his cloak clean. “There is no time for being emotional, Flynn. We are here, where we wanted to be, but I am afraid we have been followed. Do either of you know what happened to the two men who were chasing us?”

Flynn said slowly, “Yes. They are here. I can feel it… A kind of dark muddy anger. They are annoyed at us, but they are not quite sure what has happened.”

Amairgen said, “Oh they of little imagination.” And then, quite lightly, “Your powers are heightened, Flynn.” Flynn realised with surprise that Amairgen was right. He could feel and he could sense in far greater strength than ever before. He could feel Portan’s fear of this unknown world, but he could also sense her devotion and her gratitude flowing like a great golden river. He could feel as well Amairgen’s concern and the man’s determination.

Amairgen sent Flynn one of his rare sweet smiles, and Flynn said at once, “Should we try to find them? Joanna’s father and Brian Muldooney?”

“They will find us soon enough. And is it not those two whom Joanna was fleeing?”

Flynn had very nearly forgotten this. He was horrified to realise it: “How could I? Amairgen, those were the men —”

“I do wish, Flynn, you were not so volatile.” Amairgen was standing up looking about them. Flynn thought: as if he is sniffing the air, and then discovered that he, too, was sniffing the air. And he thought that there were things here that he had never encountered in his life, and he was both frightened and exhilarated.

Amairgen moved from the shelter of the trees on to a kind of highroad that unravelled before them, and Flynn and Portan followed. Flynn thought: “the blue and green misty island.” At last. And looked about him and saw that the forest fringing the road was indeed mist-shrouded, and that the forest colours were so soft-hued as to be almost turquoise, and the shadows were purple tinged.

“The island of mist and mystery, where men lay with beasts and Magic was alive …” Flynn did not know where the words came from, and he did not very much care. And it was twilight, it was the Purple Hour, but it was like no Purple Hour he had ever known before. Heady and heavy and laden with enchantment.

The Deep Past. The Old Ireland. We are here.

A great and painful longing swept over him, an only-now-recognised homesickness. This is where I belong. This is where I was meant to be. I feel it and I sense it. Not a part of the bleak struggling world that was left to the survivors of Devastation; not an Irish farmer, tilling the land and gathering the fruit harvest and shearing the sheep. Here. Here is my rightful place. In this strange misty land of dark forests and tall mountains and beckoning woodland paths. Here, where humans lie with beasts and give birth to strange halfhumans who rule the land by powerful magic. This is what I have always yearned for, what I have ached for. I was born homesick, thought Flynn, but now I have come home, and a great joy unfolded in his breast. I was born in the wrong time and in the wrong world, but this is my time and this is my world, and I have come home.

And never once, in all the days and weeks and nights that followed, did he ever feel the loss of Tugaim, or miss its people. Never once did he lose the almost unbearable feeling of belonging.

They did not know it, but Flynn and Amairgen had broken through the Time Curtain in a slightly different place from Joanna. The great dark outline of Scáthach, the Fortress of Shadow where the Wolfking had sat out the days of his exile, lay across the valley from them, a distant shape. Before it was the hillside down which the Wolves of Tara had streamed in answer to the High King’s call. Sprawled across the valley was the silent sinister Forest of Darkness, the dwelling place of the sidh with their eerie temptings. Directly ahead of them …

“Oh!” said Flynn softly, and for a brief space almost forgot about finding Joanna.

Ahead of them was the great, legendary Palace of Tara; the Shining Palace itself, brightly lit and blazing against the night sky; the Glittering Fortress, the Ancient and Magical Seat of the High Kings of Ireland; the Bright Castle, the shimmering City. Tara, with its soaring spires and its sparkling pinnacles, bastioned in colour and turreted in gilt and bathed in its own iridescence. Invulnerable and impregnable and beautiful beyond imagining and beyond bearing. Gramarye and the Gates of Paradise and the Isle of Avalon all bound up in one great radiant mansion.

And in my Father’s House there are many such mansions …

Flynn thought: where did those words come from? The past? Or the future? How lovely it is. Dare we approach it?

For a long time, no one spoke, and they were to think afterwards that it was as if they had been feasting on the splendour of Tara and drawing renewed strength from it. And then, Amairgen, who of the three had perhaps been a little more prepared, said as if repeating an incantation, “Nothing that is not beautifully perfect or perfectly beautiful could ever enter into Tara.”

“Can we enter? Dare we?” said Flynn, but his whole body ached to go up to the great portcullis and gain entry.

“Joanna is days ahead of us,” said Amairgen thoughtfully. “If she came this way, she would surely have gone to Tara.”

Or been taken there? thought Flynn, but he did not say it, because to say it aloud might give substance to the thought.

Portan said hesitantly, “If we travel on this road, we may meet other wayfarers. People who could give us news.”

“Yes, we need all the knowledge we can acquire,” said Amairgen. “And not only of Joanna. We need to know about the people of this world. Most of all, we need to know about the people of Tara itself.” He glanced at Flynn. “It is drawing you, Flynn. It is stretching out its enchantment to lure you inside. Well, that may be no bad thing. But were you imagining the people of Tara to be benevolent and kindly? Were you thinking that our ancestors were gentle and benign? I promise you they will be no such thing, Flynn. They will be beautiful and cruel and wild and totally unlike anything you have ever encountered.” He smiled. “The world before Devastation was very different, Flynn. Even then, people were greedy and selfish. How much more so will these people be?” He looked at them both. “But we can be cruel and wild if we have to,” said Amairgen. “Certainly we can be cunning.” He touched Flynn’s arm and laid a hand on Portan’s head. “The Letheans had a saying, ‘When in Rome, behave as a Roman.’ I think we must do that now. I think we must walk up to the gates of Tara and request admittance, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. As if we have no thought of a refusal. That way we may get inside.” “And once inside?”

“Once inside it is up to us,” said Amairgen.

“What explanation do we give?” asked Flynn. “Who do we say we are?”

“Travellers seeking shelter. No more and no less.” Again there was the brief sweet smile. “Somewhere in Lethe history was a famous man who said one should never explain or apologise. His name is lost, but his words have survived and they are good words. So whoever he was, let us follow his philosophy.”

“All right. Yes.”

“Come then. If we are to find Joanna, we must not lose any time.”

*

The road they now travelled was like no road any of them had ever seen. “And yet,” said Flynn once, “I believe I could almost identify parts of the countryside. Perhaps after all we have not come so very far.”

“Ten thousand years, or half a league,” said Amairgen.

The landscape was strange and wild. “But it is the blues and the greens of the true Ireland,” said Amairgen in deep content. “The Old Ireland.”

They walked on, neither tired nor hungry, “Although,” said Flynn, “we should stop to eat and rest from time to time, don’t you think?”

They met no one, although several times both Flynn and Amairgen had whisked round, hands on the knives thrust into their belts, only to be confronted with the long empty road. Once, Portan scuttled into the undergrowth at the side of the road as if to take cover.

“A feeling,” she said. “Nothing more. I am sorry. Imagination.” But the two men knew that Portan had not imagined it, and they became warier.

Even so, the road was smooth and easy to travel, and the brief stops they made were refreshing. Flynn was glad he had been able to bring all the food so carefully packed by Michael. Amairgen and Portan had gathered fruit from the orchard at the farm while they waited for him, and there was plenty for all.

“I climbed to the topmost branches,” said Portan. “The sweetest fruit is always at the top. I remember that from — oh from somewhere in the world. I do not know. And I saw the countryside spread out below me. A marvellous thing for me. You cannot imagine how marvellous.”

But both men thought they could realise a little what it must have been like for her. “And it was worth it for these pears,” said Flynn, grinning.

They washed in the streams that ran alongside the path and then disappeared, silver, snakelike and silent into the great forest that fringed the road. They rested beneath the trees and talked, or were silent, and Flynn felt tireless and so charged with energy that he could have torn down the trees and marched up to Tara and battered down the doors single-handed. He felt that he was riding out at the head of a fearsome army and that he was invincible.

At his side, Amairgen spoke softly, “Finn of the Fiana. It is returning to you, my friend.”

Flynn said, “What?” rather sharply, because he was not always entirely sure that he liked his thoughts being plucked wholesale from his head.

“Finn mac Airmail, the great warrior who served the High Kings and founded the ancient and honourable Order of the Fiana, the fighting young men of the old families who swore to defend the High King, and who must undergo stringent tests before they could be admitted to the brotherhood.” He smiled. “They were strong and fearless, but they had also to be educated and cultured. They had to forswear their families and go wherever their leader took them.”

“Harsh,” said Flynn.

“Perhaps. But they were young men of adventure and imagination. They fought battles and routed the High King’s enemies and there was a tradition that no girl of good family could be given in marriage until she had first been offered to the Fiana. I daresay it was not so bad a life,” said Amairgen blandly, and Flynn laughed and was sorry he had been brusque. He took Amairgen’s arm, and began to sing a song he could not remember ever having been taught.

The sun was sinking as they rounded the last curve in the road, and there, against the sky, was Tara, blood red in the glow of the dying sun, every window afire with light … Waiting for them.

Flynn drew in a great breath. “Well?” he said, looking at Amairgen. “Do we in truth go up and request admittance?”

“We do.”

“And if they refuse?”

Amairgen said slowly, “They will not refuse. I cannot tell why that will be or how I know. But I do know. It is preordained this, Flynn, and we must go on and play our parts.”

“Very well then,” said Flynn. “Here we go.”

*

Eochaid Bres had not really wanted to be King. He had much preferred to leave all that kind of thing to Cormac who, after all, had been brought up to it, and he had not really understood why Mother and Bricriu had thought it necessary to depose Cormac in the first place. He had not, truth to tell, been entirely comfortable about deposing Cormac, because wasn’t Cormac the true King? Wasn’t he a direct descendant of the first rulers of Ireland? Eochaid knew how it worked, because Mother and Bricriu had explained it to him. It was father to son and so on, all down the generations. Well, down the centuries really, because it was certainly hundreds of years since Dierdriu of the Nightcloak had ruled Ireland with her special blend of charm, strength and sorcery. They had never had a High Queen to match her since, although it did not do to say so in Mother’s hearing, of course. Mother called herself the Queen Mother now — “Quite correct,” Bricriu said with one of his sly smiles — and liked to think that she would make as strong a mark on history as Dierdriu had. Eochaid thought glumly that she probably would, but for different reasons, and wished that he could close his ears to the sniggers of his courtiers. The Queen Mother would send for, and tire out a dozen men in a night, they said. Absolutely insatiable. Bricriu the Fox was thinking of setting up a detachment of the army especially for her, they said. Six months’ secondment to the Queen Mother. Six months’ service to the Queen Mother, added the younger ones, and grinned, and told how you’d be reduced to half an inch within the week. She’d devour you, they said, and spit out your bones in the morning.

Eochaid tried not to hear the talk, because it made you feel a bit of a fool, well, more than a bit, to know such things about your own mother. It lessened your dignity, and dignity was important if you were a High King. Cormac had never bothered of course, but Cormac had been brought up to it all, and in some mysterious way did not need to bother. Eochaid wondered whether it was perhaps because Cormac had not bothered about dignity that people had obeyed him. You could call Cormac a lot of things, but dignified was not one of them.

Eochaid had not been very happy about the revolution which Mother and Bricriu had mounted. Well, he had been very unhappy about it indeed, if he was to be truthful. And it had all been a bit tedious in the beginning, because there had been meetings, at which he usually fell asleep, and there had been Strategy and Tactics, and it had all been a touch boring.

But Mother had been insistent; the Wolfline must be deposed, she had said, and Bricriu, called up from Tara to be their guest, had nodded and smiled in his foxy way, and said: yes, to be sure they must, and wasn’t this to be the Grand Revolution that would free the people of Ireland from tyranny. Eochaid had not previously considered Cormac in the light of a tyrant, and found it difficult to do so now, but he did not say this, in case he was wrong. It would not have done, especially not when they were going to make him High King. He would quite like to be High King — well he would like it a lot, really.

And so they had raised an army — several people had said with a smirk that Mab had enjoyed doing that, but Eochaid had pretended not to hear — and they had ridden down to Tara from the north which was where they lived. “In squalor,” Mother had said, and made one of her grand gestures, but Eochaid had quite liked living in the north, where life was quite peaceful and where he knew everybody. He would not know everybody at Tara, and he would probably forget people’s names and it would all be very worrying.

He had asked why they had to depose Cormac, and Mother had said impatiently, “Because he is a tyrant and because the Wolfline has ruled for too long,” and Eochaid had said, “Oh. I see.” And gone away more puzzled than before.

He had quite enjoyed riding out at the head of the army, with the lion pennants fluttering in the breeze (Bricriu’s idea), although he had not really enjoyed beating Cormac’s men because he had had the dreadful suspicion that Cormac had only been beaten because Tara and the soldiers had been taken by surprise.

“Unprepared?” Bricriu had said, suave and smooth as butter from the churn. “Why, Your Majesty knows I sent two Marshals of the Lists to issue the challenge.”

They all knew, of course, that Bricriu had done no such thing, and Eochaid had mulled this over and had wondered whether it might not have been outright treachery, although he had not liked to say so.

He had been allowed to appear at the battles, “But not to fight,” said Bricriu firmly. “We dare not risk Your Majesty being wounded.”

This had been a pity, because he would have enjoyed a good fight, although he had not really wanted to fight Cormac particularly, and he had been secretly relieved when they told him to stay behind the lines. And of course, it had been grand to come riding triumphantly into Tara after Cormac had been taken to Scáthach; Eochaid had had a new white palfrey for the occasion, and worn his best robes.

There were endless Council Meetings which he had to attend, with rambling discourses which he did not understand, all about taxes and levies and the paying of Senboth’s Pence and Partholon’s-geld, and feu and scutages and bondages, and other unpronounceable things, which all seemed to relate to money. “So sordid,” Mother said with one of her grimaces and one of her wonderful airy waves of the hand. But, “Necessary,” said Bricriu firmly, and tried to drill Eochaid into understanding about venery rights and the proper maintenance of the northern borders, and the bestowing of lands to people who had done the High King a service.

There were delegations, as well; visits from people who wanted tasks performing, towns rebuilding, or City Gates manning.

Eochaid went along with it, and was gracious to visiting chieftains, and tried hard to distinguish between people who ought genuinely to be helped and those who were out for a few cheap acres, but he thought it all a great waste of time. But Bricriu said no, they must do it; the chieftains in particular had to be kept happy because they would ride out to defend the King, they could whip up an army in no time at all, a massive and truly terrifying force which, added to Eochaid’s own Royal Guard, could repel all invaders. Tara was invincible, of course, everyone knew that, but Eochaid must never forget that this would not deter enterprising enemies from launching attacks now and again. Far better, said Bricriu, far safer to be able to call on the chieftains to ride out. All they had to do was to get Conaire, who had a good-ish vein of eagle blood in him, to send out a call to the birds, and the message would be with the chieftains inside an hour.

Eochaid had seen the force of this, of course; even so, it all got a bit tiresome. Nor did he altogether trust Conaire, who had been a drinking crony of Cormac’s.

There was so much to remember. The chieftains from the north liked a bit of life: bull-feasts and jousts and hunting the white stag. They usually visited Tara on the feast of Dagda the Father-God, when flares were lit the length and breadth of Ireland, and of course, on Beltane and Samain, which meant bonfires, which was all very well if you did not have to consider the restrictions on tree felling.

The chieftains from the south were not nearly as wild as their northern counterparts. They were smooth and courteous; they considered themselves men of culture. They considered themselves widely read, which meant that Sean the Storyteller, Eochaid’s official ollam, had to ransack the great library for something they would not have heard. It was all very well to tell the northern chieftains the tried and trusted tales about Amairgen the Traveller, and Bran the Voyager; or to recite the famous and magical Táin Bó Cualinge which was so hedged about with rule and ritual that no one dared to speak during the recital for fear of saying the wrong thing and spoiling the spell, and during which Eochaid nearly always fell asleep. The southern chieftains knew all about Amairgen and Bran; they knew about the Táin as well, and they knew all of the side rituals to it, and they had to be given something a bit more up-to-date. They liked the company of young girls, and Sean the Storyteller was usually despatched to round up as many of the village girls as could be persuaded to yield their virtue which was not, properly speaking, Sean’s job, but which he usually volunteered for, because he could sample the wares for himself on the way.

And so what with one thing, and what with another, the visits were apt to be bothersome. They were certainly expensive, because you could not give a bull-feast without a pretty generous supply of bulls, which did not come cheap these days, and village girls nearly always had venal fathers who would not be letting Kate or Ethne or Niamne come along up to the feasting without an earnest of payment, which generally meant a field or two, if it did not mean a fully built house.

Eochaid found it all very tedious, although he did not say so to Mother who had worked so hard to put him here — “With my life’s blood, Eochaid Bres,” — or to Bricriu, who would look shocked and fix Eochaid with his queer colourless eyes, and say, “But Your Majesty knows that to be a High King of Ireland is the greatest honour that can befall a man.”

Eochaid knew it was an honour, but it did not stop him from wondering how to pay for bull-feasts, or trying to find out whether the trees were truly dead or only snoozing to fool everyone, or falling asleep during the recital of the Táin and nodding off in Council Meetings.

“His Majesty’s dozed off again,” they said when he did that. “Oh well, let him be, for he contributes little enough to the discussions anyway.”

He knew he did not contribute very much, but he thought they might at least have pretended.

He was going to assert himself tonight.

Eochaid was going to let them all see he was the King. It was all very well for Bricriu and Mother to plot their plots and manipulate their pawns; Eochaid was not a pawn and he was not going to be manipulated and plotted with, and that was that.

He dressed carefully in the tawny velvet that he always fancied became him best. It was not that he precisely emphasised his antecedents, although he did not see why he should not, because lions were as good as and better than wolves any day. No, it was simply that he liked wearing golds and bronzes and rich ambers.

He trimmed his beard because he did not want to appear unkempt and he combed his thick springy golden hair, and dabbed a touch of scented oil behind his ears and then he was ready.

*

Tara was en fete tonight, eager to entertain a minor chieftain — who was not so minor that he could not command a degree of respect and a not inconsiderable army — and to pay compliments to his lady, who was not so aloof that she could not be judiciously wooed by the younger men. The vast Sun Chamber, built for Dierdriu of the Nightcloak, and angled so precisely that it caught the first dawn light every morning and the last starlight every night, glittered and sparkled with life. It gave Eochaid a headache even to look at it. What gave him a worse headache (and had, in fact, even kept him awake at nights) was the way in which the people of the ancient Bloodlines had taken to clustering together every evening. There they were now, all seated around a table at the far end, apparently talking and laughing quite openly; some of them ostensibly eyeing the women. They made Eochaid vaguely uneasy. He could not forget that they had all been Cormac’s friends and extremely loyal to Cormac; he could not rid himself of the idea that they might be plotting in secret to bring Cormac back from Scáthach.

He had, greatly daring, put this notion to Bricriu, and Bricriu had looked startled, and said, “Oh no, Sire, I don’t think they’re planning a Restoration. We’d surely know if they were.” He smiled the fox-smile. “We have our own spies, remember.”

Eochaid knew all about Bricriu’s spies, who were rather unpleasant, slightly rat-faced people, given to scuttling out of the way when you approached them.

“Ratblood,” said Mother, with the shrug of one to whom such things are beneath notice. “Bricriu makes use of some nasty little tools at times.” But even she had added, “Although, if they are loyal, I do not think it matters what they are.”

Loyalty was very important in a spy, Eochaid quite saw that. You could not have spies turning about and selling secrets to the other side, especially when the other side might consist of Cormac and of people who wanted him back at Tara.

“Oh, the Bloodline are not plotting Cormac’s restoration,” said Bricriu. “Dear me, Sire, we know all about the Bloodline and their little plans.”

Eochaid asked how did they know.

“Because,” said Bricriu, surprised, “the spies listen to everything they say.” And then, as Eochaid frowned, “That is what spies are for, Sire.”

Eochaid had not liked to point out that the problem was not what the Bloodline were saying that they could all hear, but what was being said that could not be heard. Speech without words. The Samhailt. That was the real problem.

“But,” said his mother, when Eochaid carried this weighty problem to her, “the Samhailt has been outlawed.”

Eochaid had pretended to have forgotten about this, but to himself he thought that to outlaw a thing did not necessarily banish it entirely. He thought there were probably a good many people at Court who possessed the Samhailt quite strongly, and he felt a bit wistful about this, because it was something he would very much have liked to have had himself.

“And there is the difficulty,” Bricriu had said, wrestling with creating a whole new set of laws which could be made to fit Eochaid’s accession. “Traditionally, Sire, the Samhailt is the privileged gift of the High Kings and the Bloodline.”

“I know that,” said Eochaid Bres, in what was very nearly a growl.

“But you do not possess it,” said Bricriu, and Eochaid wished that Bricriu would not be quite so blunt. But because he could not think of anything to say, he relapsed into silence and waited. Bricriu went on, “We dare not have a High King who does not have the Samhailt, not while there are others who do have it, you see? To do so, might argue that there are others at Court with a claim to the throne that is as strong as — nearly as strong as yours. It had better be outlawed,” he had decided. “Made punishable by death. That will solve it, Sire, you will see.” And he had gone away and written the new law that banished the Samhailt, although as Mother had pointed out, rather caustically, it was going to be extremely difficult to prove or disprove it either way. You could not actually see the Samhailt unless you had it yourself, and if you had it yourself, you were not going to admit to it if it was outlawed.

All of which had been so complicated, that Eochaid developed another headache and had to lie down and have a soothing draught brought to him.

But there had been a few cases of discovery, and the culprits had been dealt with smartly, because you could not risk having people communicating without speaking. You did not know what they might be plotting. You certainly had to suspect that anyone with the Samhailt might well be a supporter of Cormac.

“To the Miller with them!” cried Bricriu, and managed to make it sound almost gay, as if he were sending the victims on some kind of pleasant holiday. Eochaid spent quite a long time trying to forget what the Giant Miller of Muileann did to his prisoners.

Silver platters and golden goblets … He’d had a nurse, a half-human, who had chanted that to him in his nursery, until Mother found out and dismissed her. He had only Cruithin nurses after that; the Cruithin were apt to be annoyingly stubborn in their allegiance to the Wolfkings, said Mother crossly, but at least they did not chant frightening verses to babies.

But he would not think about any of it tonight. He would remember about being assertive, and he would certainly remember about showing them all that he was the King.

He sat down at table, and felt profoundly depressed. He refused a dish of fresh wood gazelle — “Your Majesty’s favourite!” cried the head cook, almost in tears — and he asked had they not plain honest roast boar in their sculleries. He wrinkled his nose at the wine and called for a flagon of best mead, wondering audibly whether there was a deliberate attempt at discourtesy to his guests that night.

He listened to the music being played and danced in a rather ponderous fashion with the visiting chieftain’s lady, indulging himself in a little portly flirtation, causing the lady, no slouch, to preen herself afterwards and inform her particular crony that she had found the King quite charming.

“They say he’s rather stupid and slow,” said the crony, who had not been sought to dance and did not see why dearest Mugain should give herself airs.

“Oh not in the least!” cried Mugain. “I found him delightful. I fancy I made no small impression, my dear,” and the crony thought it was as she had always suspected; poorest Mugain was a dear soul, but there was no breeding.

Bricriu and Mab watched the stately intimacy with disquiet. “For,” said Mab to Bricriu, “Eochaid simply is not interested in that sort of thing as a rule.”

“No. He’s his father’s son,” said Bricriu rather daringly, but recalling that he had once shared Mab’s bed for a night or two; an experience which Mab had long since forgotten, but which Bricriu had not.

“Oh, his father was never interested either,” said Mab and sent Bricriu one of her brief blinding smiles, which made him wriggle inside his robes, and recall the young Mab who twenty years earlier had been called the Intoxicating One. He quelled an incipient heartburn, along with an incipient rush of heat between his legs, and thought he would have to partake sparingly of the feast tonight. He would have to summon one of the chambermaids to his bed later to relieve his body, and he never performed well when he had indigestion. It would not do to have it blabbed all over the Court that he could not get it up any more, which might very well prove the case if he ate too much roast boar …

Eochaid had returned Mugain to her lord’s side, and was eyeing the Court impatiently. Well come on, you clever ones, where is my entertainment tonight? What is the good of being the High King at the most dazzling Court in the western world if I am to be bored and be jaded after my dinner every night? Several of the more impressionable courtiers remembered the King’s ancestry, and told each other that he resembled an angry lion at the mouth of a cave, and several more found themselves regretting Cormac’s exile rather more strongly than usual. Wolves might be a bit unpredictable; they might certainly be erratic, but no one had ever been bored when the Wolfkings reigned, and, rather curiously, no one had ever been frightened either. A number of the Court remembered that Cormac had had a sense of humour, and if Eochaid Bres possessed such a thing, he was keeping it very well hidden. He’s a tricky one, thought the courtiers; yes, he’s very tricky. A weak man’s obstinancy. And certainly a stupid one’s vanity.

Cormac had laughed and quarrelled, seduced the women and got drunk with the men, and made up the rules as he went along, and then broken them if he had felt like it. But he had been a King, thought Eochaid’s Court rather dismally. He had been arrogant and brilliant and impatient, but he had been a King. Eochaid was handsome and strong, but he was dull, thought those who could remember the dazzling years of Cormac’s rule. Oh dear yes, he was as dull as he could be. Just a heavy handsome animal, thought the courtiers, horrified at their own disloyalty, and those who possessed a streak of the Mindsong quenched it at once, lest it should be picked up and orders given for their immediate despatch to the Miller. Silver platters and golden goblets … Everyone knew the old rhyme and no one wanted to test its veracity.

The Sun Chamber turned with relief to the message sent up from Phineas on the West Gate that two travellers had requested admittance, and shelter, and waited resignedly for, it went without saying, the usual dismissal. It would come, of course, as it always did, and Phineas on the West Gate knew it as well as everyone else. But he would not have dared suppress the travellers’ visit, because Bricriu the Fox had to know everything that happened at Tara.

Cormac had been famous for his hospitality; he had delighted in gathering to the Court the travellers and the scholars, the musicians and the poets, and in the days of the Wolfking, Tara had become the great and glittering Court that would live on in Ireland’s legends. In Cormac’s time you went down into the Sun Chamber every evening in the knowledge that gathered there would be a glorious cornucopia of rich talent and beauty and life, sometimes oddly matched but somehow never jarring, because Cormac had had the rare gift of being able to blend together any assortment of people. No one had ever been turned away; everyone had been brought in, welcomed, given food and drink and a bed for the night. Tara was big enough for them all, Cormac had said, with regal disdain for the problems it had sometimes created for his household who often had to play put and take with the sleeping arrangements. Although to be fair, that had frequently been rather enjoyable as well.

Eochaid, ruled by the Fox, permitted no one to enter Tara’s portals without an exhaustive inquiry into that person’s antecedents, probable loyalties, and likely degree of treachery. You could not entirely blame him, said the courtiers, trying to be fair. Any usurper was prone to attacks from the former occupant of his throne and it was not to be expected that Cormac would stay quiescent for long out at Scáthach. Eochaid was surely entitled to his insecurity. Several people remembered the really shocking story of an entire army being sneaked inside an enemy’s city hidden inside a huge wooden horse. Somewhere in the East had it been? Anyway, Eochaid Bres must be allowed his caution, but it was a great pity that the Court could not, as a result, enjoy the company of travellers, who usually had a few interesting tales to tell, and of pilgrims and men of other cultures. They turned to wait for the King’s usual dismissal of the travellers who were at the West Gate.

Eochaid Bres said loudly and defiantly, “Bring the travellers in.” And, as the gasp went round the Sun Chamber, “Lay places at the table for them.”

*

Flynn and Amairgen had not wanted to leave Portan behind, but she had been immovable.

“No,” she had said, her eyes never leaving Flynn’s face. “It is better I do not come.”

“But we cannot leave you here,” Flynn said.

“Why not? It is a mild night. I have warmth and food.” She hugged about her the thick woven cloak Flynn had brought from the farmhouse, and touched their food sack.

Amairgen said gently, “But my dear, it is not to be thought of that you should remain out here in the forest by yourself,” and in the dim light they saw her smile.

“I think I am safer here than inside the House of Mutants,” said Portan. “I think I am certainly more comfortable. Freedom. And to listen to the trees and to the wind in the trees … You could not know the joy that is for me.” She looked at Flynn again. “And here there is a — I have not the words, but there is a sense of homecoming for me.” She paused. “We all feel that.”

“Yes,” said Flynn slowly. “Yes, we are all of us at home here.” And this is my rightful place in the world. Aloud he said, “My dear, if you are quite sure —”

“I am quite sure, Flynn. Inside there,” she nodded in the direction of the glittering shape of Tara, “I should be an object of curiosity. I should be stared at and pointed at. It is a beautiful place and there will be beautiful men and women inside it. There would be the comparison … Out here with you I do not mind, but there I should. And it is safer for you. There should be nothing about you to cause comment.” She said this entirely without bitterness, and Flynn felt pity twist his guts again.

“We will leave you the large knife and the food. And — yes, look, there is a place over here. At the base of these trees, half cut into the bank, almost a cave. You would be quite warm and snug. And if you light a fire —”

“I shall not need a fire. The trees will not harm me. And I have your cloak. That is warmth and safety enough. I will be here waiting for you. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow or the next day,” say Amairgen. “No longer, I promise. But if we are not back then —”

“Then I will find a way to come into Tara,” said Portan, “I will come in and get you out.”

*

Flynn was dazzled and bewitched by Tara. From the moment they approached the great West Gate and sent in their request — “Food and a night’s rest for two weary travellers” — to the moment when the doors of the Sun Chamber swung wide to admit them, he was intoxicated and charmed and held in thrall. How beautiful. How right. Oh yes, this is where I was meant to be.

Their welcome was cautious, for the Gatekeeper, used to the Wolfkings and only paying the most cursory of respect to Eochaid Bres, was voluble in his explanations.

No travellers to be admitted under any pretext at all, said Phineas, and wouldn’t that give a man a dismal face from here to next Beltane’s Eve? Not that he wasn’t the King’s man, of course, well weren’t they all of them the King’s men? But a fine dismal time Eochaid Bres was giving them, and didn’t all Ireland know how he was under the thumb of Bricriu the Fox, and didn’t all Ireland know that Bricriu was under the thumb of the Queen Mother, always supposing that she wasn’t under his, and the Gatekeeper didn’t exactly mean thumb neither, although it wouldn’t do to be more specific.

“You can’t be sure who might be listening,” he said. “And you can’t be sure the sidh aren’t in Bricriu’s pay, neither. Well, I put it to you, what creature makes a better spy than an invisible one? And Bricriu isn’t the one to be choosy; he’d have half a dozen sidh inside Tara before you could say Dagda, for all some people believe they’ve sworn allegiance to the Erl-King. But that’s another story again. And as for allegiances — well,” said the gatekeeper, “we all know how binding that sort of thing is nowadays. Look at the sorcerers — well you can’t look at them, of course, because they hardly ever come out into the light of day — immersed in the Sorcery Chambers from dawn to dusk, and if they’re any more loyal to His Majesty than the stable cat, it’ll be a matter for comment. I wouldn’t trust a sorcerer from here to that door. Greedy. They’ll spin an enchantment for anyone who’ll pay them enough.

“You’ll take a drop of wine while we wait, I daresay, although I can tell you now that you’ll be sent on your way. Quite politely it’ll be done, of course.

“Here you are, sirs, you’ll forgive the discourtesy of poking the mugs through the grille to you as if you were no better than common tinkers, which any man can see you’re not.

“Ah, that’s the stuff, isn’t it? Yes, it does make you cough just a touch, doesn’t it? I don’t notice it myself, but they tell me it’s a mite strong. That’s the King, ordering in the young wine because it’s cheaper. No breeding. Well, did you ever hear of a High King who inspected the household accounts? No, and no more did anyone else. Give me the Wolfkings any day. Cormac now, there was a King. Snarl and snap at you he would, but it was all over in a minute, and everyone the best of friends after it. Now this one’s prone to sulks, and if there’s one thing you can’t be having in a High King, it’s —

“Ah, there you are Sean, and is it the dismissal you’ve brought us?”

But the man called Sean, who was bright-eyed and bow-legged, and had a face like seamed oak, had not brought any such thing.

They were to go along with him that very minute, he said, right up to the Sun Chamber and the High King, and the Gatekeeper, who had rearranged himself into a more comfortable position and refilled the mugs, was caught in mid-sup and swallowed several draughts down the wrong way. He had to be thumped on the back by Sean, who said it was a terrible waste to see all that grand wine being spat out on the floor, and hadn’t Phineas any better respect for his drink? To which Phineas wiped his mouth, sneezed a couple of times, and retorted that it was all very well for those up in the fine Sun Chamber, drinking the King’s best mead and it a proper strong brew such as a man would never dream of choking on, but down here they had thin sour stuff you wouldn’t call fit for the cat.

“You’ll be forgiving Phineas for any irreverencies, I expect,” said Sean, as they were led through echoing corridors and a great high-ceilinged chamber with inverted windows and doors. There was a rich unfamiliar scent — or have I tasted it before? wondered Flynn. That night on Tara’s Hill? When I learned of the Time Curtain? When I became forever homesick for this place? Perhaps …

“We pay Phineas no attention at all,” said Sean, scurrying along ahead of them with surprising agility. “He’ll have talked a lot of treason, no doubt, it’ll be better if you don’t tell me. Well, it’ll be better if you don’t think about it either, for the King’s very strict about the Samhailt, he won’t have the smallest whiff of it within an archer’s range of Tara, and I shouldn’t be surprised to learn you both possess it. I wonder are you of royal blood at all? No, I’d rather not know, because if I did know I’d have to tell the King. I’m his ollam, you see, and I took the Vow to serve him, not that there was much option at the time, because who’d want to go out to Scáthach with Cormac? Nasty gloomy place, Scáthach. It’s kept for traitors and pretenders, of course, not that there’ve been many pretenders, although some people still look on Eochaid Bres as a pretender really. You won’t repeat that I daresay? Or that I’ve mentioned the Wolfking? They don’t like his name mentioned here any more.

“Anyway, I took the Vow,” said Sean, preceding them down a flight of steps, “and that means I’m constrained to report any treason. You never know who might be listening these days either, so it doesn’t do to let the smallest morsel of treason go unreported. Well, Eochaid Bres hasn’t the strongest of rights to the Ancient Throne, you see, and they have to be very careful. You didn’t hear me say that though.”

“No,” said Flynn and Amairgen, half mesmerised by the rapid flow of information.

“And when you remember that they send all traitors straight to the Miller — well it’s a nasty end,” said Sean. “It’s one I don’t care to think about. I ignore anything unpleasant,” he said seriously. “And of course, we all know what being sent to the Miller means.”

“Yes,” said Flynn and Amairgen, who did not.

“You’d think they’d want to put it out of their minds,” said Sean, leading them across a deserted hall with mosaic floors and symbols etched in gold on the walls. “You’d think they’d be glad to ignore the Miller. But no! Every Beltane Eve and every Samain there they are, wanting plays and masques and all manner of things about him. It’s my belief,” said Sean severely, “that they like being frightened. But if you’ve ever tried to make entertainment out of a subject like the Miller, you’ll know it’s no bed of roses. Well, it’s an impossibility really, but there it is, Bricriu commands and we all have to obey.” He bent to unlock a door. “Bricriu says it’s the King’s wishes,” said Sean, “but of course, we all know it isn’t.”

Flynn said, “Isn’t it?”

“Oh dear me no,” said Sean. “Oh, rentless land to us all, no!” He pushed the doors open and led them into a kind of antechamber, silk-hung and studded with low couches. Skin rugs lay on the floors. “Wolfskin,” said Sean with a gesture of disassociating himself. “Eochaid’s idea of supremacy over the Wolfking. Myself I think it’s petty.

“Anyway,” said Sean briskly, “here we are. The Sun Chamber. You’ll remember to keep the Mindsong quenched, won’t you? I know you’re not traitors — at least you don’t look like traitors and you don’t smell like traitors either. But the King’s very acute now and again. Remarkable really. But I mustn’t say that. People do gossip and I wouldn’t put it past Bricriu to have the sidh in his pay. It would be easy to secrete them into the palace wouldn’t it? And you know what sidh are; they’ll do anything to get into a man’s bed for a night. We all know where that leads! Not that there aren’t some who’d argue that it’s a preferable end to the Miller’s cages and the Erl-King’s banqueting table.

“Well, here it is, my friends. The Sun Chamber of the High Kings of Ireland. Medchuarta. The heart of the Manor of Tara.” He swung the doors wide and a blaze of light streamed before their eyes.

*

To Flynn and Amairgen, coming from the darkness of the Forest and the comparative dimness of the gatekeeper’s room, that first glimpse of the great Sun Chamber was a massive assault on their senses. Blinded and made breathless, they were sent gasping and helpless into a whirling maelstrom of living colour, breathing light, and pulsating beauty. Flynn thought: I am drowning in a sea of brilliance. I am smothering in light.

He took a deep breath and the world steadied, and although his eyes were still dazzled and sunspots and starbursts danced against black velvet in his mind; although his senses were still intoxicated and reeling, he managed to square his shoulders and look about him.

The Great Sun Chamber of Tara had been built when Tara was raised out of the rock by the sorcerers. It was told how Dierdriu of the Nightcloak had somehow bargained with them to create for her a Hall of Light, a marvellous glittering banqueting hall, a Grianan which would dazzle and bewitch everyone who ever entered it, and which would make Tara into a palace so brilliant that its fame would spread half across the world.

The sorcerers had been loyal and earnest in those days; Ireland’s magic had still been young, and Dierdriu’s sorcerers had willingly bent their minds to the task and had woven the spell that had finally and marvellously given birth to the Bright Palace.

“And,” Dierdriu had said, knowing that the sorcerers served her loyally, “Tara must be the most perfectly beautiful and the most beautifully perfect seat in the world, and travellers in far-off lands must tell stories of it, so that people of all the creeds and all the cultures will come to it.”

And at the end, when the sorcerers had taken the Queen by the hand and led her to the shimmering radiance that was Tara, Dierdriu had stood motionless and speechless, her eyes drinking in the beauty and her mind soaking in the brilliance.

“At the heart, is Medchuarta,” said the sorcerers. “The living breathing core.”

“A Grianan,” said Dierdriu, her eyes glowing. “The Sun Chamber.”

The Sun Chamber was strong magic now; the Court sometimes said that it was impossible to spend more than a few hours a day in it, for the light could hurt your eyes and the beauty could sear your soul. But they told, with pride, how Dierdriu had been able to stand it for days and nights together, and how she would stand at the crystal windows, looking down on the countryside. The Sun Chamber drew down the sunlight and the starlight; it absorbed it and reflected every sliver of sunlight and every flicker of candlelight. The old men of the Court told how it had looked in Cormac’s day when the Samhailt had been unchecked. Marvellous days. And now they had Eochaid Bres, the usurper, who was frightened of the Samhailt and who could not be inside the Sun Chamber for more than a couple of hours without getting a headache. Oh dear.

Flynn and Amairgen, knowing none of this, stood helplessly in the doorway, their eyes adjusting, their senses ravished. At length, Flynn became aware of Sean still at their side, prodding them forward.

“To the High King,” he said. “And don’t let him see that you are dazzled by anything. That would never do.”

Flynn, recovering a little, murmured, “But how could we not be dazzled?”

Sean shushed him and said crossly, “That’s the trouble. People won’t be told. They all think they know best. Well I can’t do anything about it,” and took himself off.

It seemed a very long journey across the shining silver floor to where the High King sat, half sprawled at the head of the banqueting table, watching them with unblinking tawny eyes. Flynn looked at him and felt a stab of the purest disappointment. This was to be the master of such glory! This handsome stupid beast to be overlord of such magnificence! He looked away quickly — “Quench the Mindsong,” Sean had said — and began to study the people who lined the long oak banqueting table. They had all stopped eating and talking, were all seated motionless in their chairs, every eye on the two travellers. Flynn, whose every sense was alert and alive and whose every nerve ending was stripped and exposed, thought: they are beautiful. They are the most beautiful creatures I have ever seen. And they are the wildest and the most unscrupulous and the strangest as well. I wouldn’t trust any one of them.

The people of Tara, gathered in the Grianan of Dierdriu, feasting and paying court to their High King, were wild and beautiful and just very faintly sinister. There were faces that had a three-cornered, pointed-eared look, and some that had slender, hawklike profiles, and others that were rounded and soft, but a bit sly. There were creatures with tawny eyes and russet hair, with sleek black pelts and sensuous limbs; there were others with eagle faces and jutting aquiline noses. They wore silks and velvets and fur-trimmed robes, and they had been daintily eating the feast set out for them. They had a thin veneer of civilisation, but Flynn and Amairgen, staying very close to each other, thought they were not civilised in the least. There was something in the slant of their eyes, in the curve of their fingernails, in the thin smiles they wore. Velvet gloves concealing iron fists; silk gowns covering greedy talons; velvet cloaks over cruel claws and teeth. Flynn caught the tail end of a thought from Amairgen: don’t trust a one of them, Flynn! We are in very great danger! And then they were approaching the head of the table.

Eochaid Bres watched them without once moving, and Flynn thought: I was right, he is stupid. He is certainly no ruler for these untamed lovely creatures — I wonder are they entirely human? And remembered in the same moment the old old legend, never quite believed, of how humans could never own Tara.

He had time to notice that the High King was richly dressed and time too to notice that the figure at the King’s side was reddish of hair and beard, and clever-looking and a bit cunning.

And then he looked at the lady on the King’s right. Mab the Queen Mother, Medb, who twenty years earlier, at the Court of Cormac Starrog’s father, had been named the Intoxicating One, and who was said to have had every single man at Court in her bed.

Mab was looking at Flynn with the sudden alertness of a predator scenting a new and interesting victim.

CHAPTER NINE

Joanna had passed from being frightened into a kind of mesmerised dream where nothing seemed quite real.

She had stood, white-faced and motionless, as Macha and Scald-Crow summoned servants to bind and make helpless Cormac and the two Cruithin, and she had shuddered at the sight of those servants, who were little goblin men, no more than two feet high, but with dark hungry faces and slitted red eyes, and bald pointed skulls. They overcame their three captives easily, chanting and hissing and prodding at them with long bony fingers.

“Oho,” they said. “Oho, here’s a fine fat feast for our Master. A grand sizzling dish to set before the Erl-King. Light the fires, my dears, and heat the pots.” They linked hands and danced round Cormac who snarled and lashed out at them.

“Oho, a fine strong dish,” said the goblins, dodging out of the way. “A rare good feast. This one for the ovens, my dears. Oh there’s nothing so fine as the sound of human fat sizzling. To the cages, my dears, and then to the ovens, and to the millwheels with the bones.” And they grinned at Joanna who was trying very hard not to shudder. “There’s nothing so fine as flour made with the bones of humans,” they said. “Light the fires, my dears.”

Cormac was growling and clawing, and Gormgall and Dubhgall were laying about the goblin men with their bare fists.

“Catch us if you can,” cried the goblins, leaping and darting out of reach. “Catch us if you can. Spin the Bonds, Mistress, spin the Bonds.” And they surrounded Morrigan, and stood watching eagerly as strings of saliva issued from her mouth, solidifying in the air. The goblins seized on the strings and ran about with them, pulling and twisting and braiding until they had long sticky ropes which they bound about their three captives.

“Bind them tight and string them strong,” cried the goblins, running this way and that, spinning three cocoons. “That’s the way, my dears. No escape for these. Oho, there’ll be rich pickings from the Erl-King’s table tomorrow, my dears. There’ll be bones to suck and ribs to gnaw. To the cages, my dears, and then to the ovens, and then to the millwheel. Human bones to human flour, my dears.”

Cormac and the two Cruithin were bound so tightly now that they could not move, although Joanna believed that Cormac had clawed one of the goblins rather severely, and Dubhgall had certainly winded another. But the goblin men were too strong and too many; they danced and cavorted, never quite close enough to be caught, and they made obscene gestures and several times they turned their backs and bent their knees and broke wind loudly and horridly in their captives’ faces.

“That’s our opinion of High Kings,” they said. “That’s what we think of High Kings,” and Joanna shuddered.

“Squeamish, my little bird?” said Morrigan, smiling. “Do you not care for my servants? Perhaps I should give you the opportunity to know them a little better.”

At once the goblin men ran up to Joanna and unfastened their breeches, thrusting their little jutting penises at her, and Morrigan laughed again.

“You see, my pigeon? They are eager to get to know you.

“Well, my little men?”

“She’s a pretty one, this,” said the goblin men. “Oho, we’ll have fun with this one. Prick up your appetites, my dears, and rub up your pricks. A plump pigeon for the plucking. A fat fantail for the fucking. Rub up your pricks, my dears, and prick up your appetites.”

“You see how friendly they are?” said Morrigan in a slimy purr. “Well, when I have done with you we shall see.” She parted her lips and the snake-tongue flickered. “They deserve a reward for bringing you to me. They live in the Street of the Whisperers, you know, and they are ever on the lookout for victims. But they have brought me a rare prize this time. They are loyal servants,” said Morrigan, “and they have voracious appetites. As you see.” The goblin men laughed and one or two rubbed themselves suggestively, and several more turned round and farted again.

From the other side of the room, Cormac snarled and tore at the white cocoon.

“Once I am free of this filth, Morrigan, you and I will settle all our scores!”

“Dear me,” said Morrigan in a light amused voice. “I have scarcely begun yet, Wolfking. Sister, show him a little taste of real filth.”

At once Scald-Crow drew in one of her immense breaths and began to dissolve, until a column of thick white slime stood before them. There was a low bubbling chuckle, and the column slid to the floor and oozed towards Dubhgall who was nearest.

Joanna screamed and thrust a fist into her mouth, because she would not give these creatures the satisfaction of seeing how repulsive she found all this. Dubhgall stood, unable to break free of his bonds, and the thick white liquid that was Scald-Crow slithered across the floor with a soft wet squelching sound and covered his feet.

Cormac said through his teeth, “Madam, if you have any shred of decency —”

“Not the merest rag, Wolfking. Watch.”

The glutinous fluid flowed silently upwards, over Dubhgall’s knees and between his legs, and Joanna thought it was not just her imagination that made her fancy that white stringlike fingers caressed his thighs and what lay between them.

Gormgall said urgently, “Morrigan — direct your filth to me!” Morrigan laughed and said, “Chivalry! And I had thought it long since dead! No, son of servants, you shall watch your companion suffer! Onwards, Sister!”

The stuff oozed higher, surrounding Dubhgall’s waist, and Joanna saw him become so pale that his skin took on a greenish tinge. “Oh dear God, this is unbearable — Morrigan —” and at once Morrigan smiled, and said, “Sister, leave him be.”

Scald-Crow slid away and stood grinning at the prisoners. “You favour her above me always,” said Macha sullenly.

“Because I am more powerful,” said Scald-Crow.

“All outside show,” said Macha. And then, to Morrigan, “Let me call up the Hags and the Harpies, Sister. Let them fasten their claws into the flesh of our prisoners and scoop out their living eyes to devour, and nibble away their faces.”

“All in good time, Sister,” said Morrigan. “There is sufficient for us all to feast on.”

Dubhgall, whose colour had gone from green to grey moaned, “I’m going to be sick,” and leaning forward, he vomited into the fireplace. “Forgive me, Your Majesty —” Another bout of retching seized him.

“Oh poor Dubhgall,” said Joanna. “Can’t we do something —”

“He will recover himself,” said Morrigan. “And my sister Macha will care for him.”

Macha moved to Dubhgall and reached out her long plump white arms and Dubhgall said, “If you come near me, madam, I shall be sick all over you. My aim is very good.”

“Shall I not wipe your fevered brow, poor human, and give you suck from my breasts?”

“Begging your pardon,” said Dubhgall, faintly but determinedly, “and if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather be comforted by a giant slug.”

Joanna said, “Oh Dubhgall, don’t give her the idea —”

“Easy!” said Scald-Crow, and there, as they looked, was a great black glistening slug, six feet in length, and with great sinews of iron in its haunches.

“How childish and effete,” scoffed Macha. “Wars are not won by such cheap tricks.”

“Kingdoms are not taken by armies of crones,” retorted Scald-Crow, turning back into herself. “We shall see who is the better by and by.”

“I recall that it was your peacocking ways that lost us the Battle for the Trees.”

“And I recall that it was your harpies who were so concerned with the corpses left by Dierdriu’s armies, that they failed to hold the Plain of the Fál against the Fiana.”

“Enough!” said Morrigan. “Do you not see — we are boring our guests.”

“I’m not bored,” said Gormgall. “Are you bored, Dubhgall?”

“No. I feel sick, but I’m not bored.”

“Nevertheless,” said Morrigan in a soft slimy purr, “nevertheless, I believe we are guilty of discourtesy. And my little men are very eager.” She moved closer to Joanna, and ran a finger across her cheek and down into the bodice of her jerkin.

Joanna stood very still and touched in her mind the golden core of anger she had felt earlier: still there. While I have this I am safe. She said, icily, “Do not touch me, Morrigan,” and Morrigan smiled the snake smile.

“I will touch you, my little bird, my pigeon for the plucking; I will touch you in places you never dreamed anyone would touch you. There are nine openings to a human’s body, Dierdriu, and I shall enter into every one. I shall spin the Bonds of the Hag, and they will fill you until you are bloated and begging for mercy. Until you are spilling and leaking with the fluid of my Bonds.

“We have an old, old debt to settle, Dierdriu, and this time I shall be victor. I shall humiliate you, madam, and I shall explore you, and I shall sate myself on you. And when I have done, I shall give you to the goblin men for their entertainment — and heed me, Dierdriu, they have an insatiable desire for the bodies of humans.

“And then when they have had their fill, I shall take you down below to the cages and my sisters and I will call up the Giant Miller of Muileann, and no one looks upon that terrible creature and lives, Dierdriu.

“You will share your wolf lover’s fate, madam, and you will end up on silver platters and in golden goblets on my Master’s table.

“This way, Your Majesty.”

*

The not-to-be-quenched fury that had filled Joanna earlier — “Is me Dierdriu de shiúl oiche” — “I am Dierdriu of the Nightcloak” — she had said, was still with her. She thought it came from somewhere outside of herself, and then she thought it came after all from within. But it is someone else’s fury, she thought, and it is someone else’s courage. No matter, she would make use of it.

It sustained her throughout the dreadful hour when Morrigan and her sisters taunted their prisoners; Scald-Crow hissing and undulating and changing shape every few minutes; Macha quieter and more watchful.

The goblin men seized Joanna last, and with many sly pinches and nips drove her to Morrigan’s bedchamber at the heart of the house. The anger flooded her again. How dare these loathsome creatures try to humiliate her! And within the anger was a glowing centre of immense courage. A world within a world. Courage inside anger. Strip away the anger and there is the courage. Strip away the courage and there is a heart, a core, a centre, and within that centre I am hiding, thought Joanna. I am at the centre and I am surrounded by courage and anger. I am distanced from this creature and her servants, thought Joanna; I am protected and armoured. She touched the courage in her mind as a soldier going into battle will touch his armour. A carapace?

She was able to stare coldly at Morrigan who was watching the goblin men. “Spread her legs, chaps, that’s the way. Let the Mistress in. A plump pigeon, this one” — and she was able to look haughtily at the goblin men as they finished their work.

Even so, thought Joanna, looking back to Morrigan, even so, she is very terrible. I wonder if I shall be able to outwit her.

In the dim light, Morrigan might easily have been eight feet tall. She might certainly have possessed giant blood.

But the real Joanna was safely at the centre of the courage, and the real Joanna could not possibly be touched or harmed by anything that Morrigan might do. I am quite safe, said Joanna to Joanna firmly. I have a carapace. Presently, Joanna’s voice said calmly, “Do to me what you must, Morrigan. I see you have still not learned to control your own body. How weak you are, my dear.”

Morrigan hissed and the snake-tongue darted out, but Joanna saw that the taunt had hit home.

The voice that was Joanna’s but did not use Joanna’s words, said amusedly, “So you still give way to tantrums, as well, do you Morrigan? Do you recall how you truly lost the Battle for the Trees? Childish rage, Morrigan, that is all.”

Morrigan reared up to her full height — ten feet, thought Joanna, horrified. “It was not lost,” said Morrigan. “The Trees still sleep.”

“But you did not gain control of them. Well, you poor ineffectual creature, your rages and your sick passions have lost you a throne more than once, they will do so again. You will not have Tara, you know. Not for your evil master, and not for yourself.”

Morrigan said, “For that, High Queen, I will skin you alive with my own hands and cut your flesh into cold collops for the Erl-King’s table.”

“And I will summon the mighty armies of Finn mac Airmail and his Fiana, and the bewitchments of the Sorcerers of Tara,” said Joanna’s voice, in the sort of voice one might use when saying, “You silly child, I am a grown-up with a grown-up’s strength.” There was a low blurred laugh. “You will never vanquish me, Morrigan.”

For a moment Morrigan did not speak. Then, “Dierdriu,” she said in a voice filled with loathing. “I promise you that this is the final battle. You will not escape.”

“But I have escaped before, Morrigan. I escaped you before and I shall do so again. I promise you that.” The voice that was Joanna’s and yet not Joanna’s became yet more menacing. “I also promised that if ever the Darkness should again threaten Tara, I would return. Did you ever know me to break a promise or forget a vow?”

“Human chivalries!” said Morrigan contemptuously. “And where have they brought you, Your Majesty? Into my house and into my power, and into the Miller’s cages! Your wolf lover is bound and chained and your followers have deserted you!” Confidence was coming back into her voice. “Where are your armies and your famous Fiana now?” said Morrigan jeeringly. “Where is your beloved Finn mac Airmail? Where are the sorcerers you once ruled with your wonderful powers?” She leaned forward and hissed into Joanna’s face, her breath sour and dry. “You are alone, Dierdriu, you are abandoned, and this will be the last battle of them all!”

Joanna’s voice said, “We shall see!” And then, with a touch of irritation, “Oh let us get this over with. Do to me what you must. Relieve your itch on me if that is your pleasure, Morrigan.” Joanna felt the impatience course through her. “Well?” she said. “What you waiting for?” and Morrigan turned to light the candles.

*

Dierdriu’s anger and Dierdriu’s unfailing courage stayed with Joanna in the hours that followed. She could not move from the bed however much she struggled; Morrigan had her firmly pinned down.

Joanna thought: I shall bear it. It will come to an end. I shall free Cormac and the others. I shall find the Nightcloak, and then I shall be able to rout this filth. The thought of the cloak, still somewhere inside the house, was immensely comforting, and Joanna felt at once better. She raised her head to look about her.

Morrigan’s bedchamber was dark and smelt of evil magic and of old dark enchantments. There were no windows, and the only light was from the black stumplike candles. There was a stale sour smell and Joanna thought it was like being in a worm’s earthhole. This was how it would feel if you had been captured by a giant worm who had brought you back to its lair, and this was how you would feel as you lay waiting for the worm to come slithering in, blind and boneless, to crush you and eat you with its wet, toothless mouth.

There was a smeary kind of light in the room, and there were dull red bed hangings, and it was chokingly hot. Joanna’s throat began to close and she had to fight very hard to be calm and she had to cling very tightly to the courage that did not belong to her.

The floor of the bedchamber was strewn with rugs made from some kind of skin. Joanna had had to walk across them with bare feet and they had felt rather nasty. They were not the thick luxurious pelts of animals Cormac had had at Scáthach, nor were they the strong furry hides that they had taken with them for sleeping during the march to Muileann. And I could not have borne it if they had been wolfskins, thought Joanna. But these were thinnish, rather smooth and very pale skins, and they felt cool and leathery to the touch. The soles of Joanna’s feet had contracted in an instinctive horror.

“Silver platters and golden goblets,” Morrigan had hissed, grinning. “But what do we do with the hides, my dear?”

The bed was hung with silk and brocade, but it felt cold to the touch, and a bit slimy. There was an overripe scent on the air, so that Joanna was reminded of rotten fruit-luscious and juicy on the outside, but with a decayed stench to it, so that you knew the minute you bit into it, it would be soft and squelchy and liquid, so that your teeth would sting and the water would rise in your mouth.

Morrigan was removing Joanna’s clothes now, and Joanna thrashed and felt again the anger and the contempt surge up, so that she turned a look of such fury on her, that Morrigan hissed, and hatred glittered in her eyes.

“Still as haughty as ever, Your Majesty? Well, let us see how you react to this!” She ripped the jerkin from Joanna’s breasts, and tore off the wide warm leggings that had been donned in Scáthach for the journey.

A hundred days ago had it been? Or a hundred years? And hadn’t it been another person who had put on leggings and a jerkin and ridden from Scáthach with Cormac? Dierdriu is very close to me now, thought Joanna. Is she sharing this unspeakably dreadful experience? Joanna waited, and began to feel the ruffle of sweet strength.

Of course I am sharing it, my dear, and we shall defeat the filth, we shall banish the Adversary together …

Then I can bear it, thought Joanna. I believe I can bear it.

But it felt unbearably vulnerable to have to lie there flat on her back, entirely naked now, her legs stretched apart. And there was something so unclean about the room that Joanna felt as if its decay and its stench might soak into her skin: I shall never be clean again; if I take a thousand hot baths, I shall never again feel clean.

For she is filth and she is decay and all things loathsome …

Yes! thought Joanna gratefully. Yes, she is!

And always was, my dear …

Joanna thought that without Dierdriu’s strength and without Dierdriu’s steadfast anger against Morrigan, she could not have endured any of it. She had thought she would certainly break down and weep, and beg for mercy, and cry to be set free. But now she knew she would not give Morrigan the satisfaction of seeing her beaten and defeated; she certainly would not let Morrigan see how frightened she was. If she did not think about what might be ahead, she would probably be able to bear this. If she did not think about them all being flung into the cages and cut into collops and served up to the Erl-King, it might be possible to appear quite brave.

And Dierdriu was still with her. That was the thing that weighed most of all. Even so, thought Joanna, even so, I believe it is up to me. I believe I must watch my every chance for escape. And at least this cannot be much worse than the things that Muldooney did … can it?

With the memory of Muldooney the horrid pigman, his fat greedy face and his prodding sausage-fingers, there came another faint, far-off memory. Not Muldooney, but someone connected with that world. Someone with black-fringed, blue eyes, who would sack cities and topple empires to save her … Someone infinitely sweet and entirely strong and wholly precious … And — I am coming to you, Joanna, said a distant, barely heard voice, so that Joanna frowned and half sat up and tried to hear more.

For the splinter of a second there was another memory — eating wild strawberries on a windy hillside, and then an even older vision, herself riding out at the head of an army with someone at her side, and an enveloping security and an all-enduring love … What had Morrigan said? “Where is your beloved Finn mac Airmail now?”

The moment passed, for Cormac’s spell still held Flynn’s memory at bay, and Joanna looked at Morrigan.

Morrigan pushed her back on to the bed and climbed on top of her.

*

There are a good many things which men and women can do to one another with their bodies in the name of love, or even only in the name of lust. Most of them are exciting and some of them are unexpected; nearly all of them are pleasant. But there are only a few things that women can do to other women with their bodies alone, and unless a woman is so made that she enjoys that, none of them are in the least bit pleasant.

Joanna was not so made. She found Morrigan’s touch and Morrigan’s cold, now naked body utterly repulsive. She found even more repulsive the array of artefacts and accessories ranged before them at the side of the bed.

Joanna had thought herself prepared for anything and everything Morrigan might do to her, she had thought herself braced for all manner of twisted practices. The nights with Cormac had opened her eyes, she thought hopefully; he had taught her all there was to know, and he had done to her all there was to do, and surely nothing this creature could do would be so very terrible.

But Cormac, wild and wolvish, had been, in part at least, human. Morrigan, daughter of an old and corrupt line, was not human at all. Some stories told how she was the result of a union between giants and snakes, others said she came from a curious little-known breed of sea creatures, that she was part sidh with their merciless sexual appetites, and part fish with cold, colourless fish blood in her. Still others whispered that she was directly descended from the evil Hags of the North, and this, perhaps, came closest to the truth.

Her skin, once she had shed her clothes (like a snake shedding its skin? No! Don’t think of it!) was cold and dry and rough. There were scales between her legs, gray and faintly luminous. The hands that caressed Joanna were boneless, the fingers that slid between Joanna’s legs had no knuckles.

Cormac had laughed and teased and been strong and gentle and exciting. He had poured wine over Joanna’s bare skin for the pleasure of licking it off again; he had been warm and alive, and he had sometimes hurt her and he had sometimes made her do things that she had never dreamed humans could do. But there had been a warm masculine scent about him; there had been bones and eyes and skin and hair, and there had been a soaring delight and a sharing. When he woke in the mornings he had been drowsily passionate, and lying in bed with him had been secret and safe and exciting.

Lying in Morrigan’s bed, with Morrigan naked beside her was like lying in a snake’s nest, and feeling the snake crawl over your bare flesh. Joanna’s skin shivered and she struggled uselessly against Morrigan’s relentless hold.

Then she felt the snake-tongue, and a wave of such disgust engulfed her, that despite her vow of fortitude, she cried out and shuddered uncontrollably, and strained back in the bed, away from the sorceress. No! Not this! This is too terrible for anything. I cannot possibly endure this and still live! But she did endure it and she did live, and Morrigan raised her head to look at Joanna, eyes glittering, face filmed with sweat, lips stretched in a smile that held a real intimacy, and Joanna felt sick all over again.

“Not enjoying it, my pigeon?” said Morrigan.

Joanna knew that surely now was the time to act, now, when the creature was made vulnerable by her own disgusting passions. She turned her head on the pillow, seeking a weapon. What? Joanna snatched up a two-pronged phallus object that lay near the bed and brought it smashing down across Morrigan’s face. Bone splintered and tore, and flecks of blood and matter spattered Joanna’s bare skin. (Dreadful. Don’t think about it. You can wash away somebody else’s blood quite easily.) Morrigan screamed and put up a hand to ward off further blows, and Joanna thought: at any minute, oh dear God, at any instant, she will summon her sisters and they will work some dreadful enchantment and then I shall be lost and Cormac will be lost, and we shall all be in golden goblets and on silver platters …

But there was no sound of running footsteps, there was no dark gathering in the air which might indicate the presence of evil magic. Morrigan was cowering in a corner, her hands covering her face, and Joanna felt a tremendous surge of power.

I have you in my power, filth! I have you at my mercy at last! THAT for Cormac and THAT for all the evil you have wrought, and THAT for your reign of terror and all your merciless killings!

She hit Morrigan again and again, and all the time she could feel the enchantress’s strength ebbing and all the time she could feel her own power flowing. I am invincible, I am unstoppable. I can do anything and I need fear no one. But the tears were streaming down her face, and somewhere deep inside her was a tiny appalled core of feeling. I cannot really be doing this; I cannot really be inflicting these wounds and I cannot possibly be enjoying it.

Morrigan fell back on the floor, barely conscious, and Joanna saw with revulsion that the blood oozing from her wounds was a thick whitish fluid. Fish blood!

*

There was not very much time to spare. Morrigan was rendered incapable, but it would only be a temporary thing. She would recover, she would summon her sisters, and she would invoke her terrible enchantments, and Joanna would die more horribly and painfully than bore thinking of. At any minute, Morrigna might burst in, and at any minute the goblin men might come running. I must get out quickly, thought Joanna, scrambling into her jerkin and leggings, for she would not go running naked through the house, not even if all the spells in the world and all the goblin men in Ireland were chasing her. And I must find the cloak.

The house was in darkness and there was a brooding quiet about it. Quickly! cried Joanna silently, oh quickly! Let me find the Nightcloak, and then I may save Cormac and the others! And then we shall be out of here, over the hills and far away, into the safety of the Morne Mountains, into the realm of Cait Fian of Gallan. She sped from room to room, throwing open doors, heedless now who heard, expecting every minute to see Morrigan barring her way, certainly expecting to be confronted by the jeering goblin men.

She could feel a “something” stirring somewhere in the house now, a kind of clotting coalescing malevolence. Morrigan recovering from her wounds? Yes, certainly. She is not human, thought Joanna, and shuddered at the memory of the cold, whitish fish blood; she is not human, but she is sufficiently human to feel pain. This comforted her rather more than she had expected, because it showed a chink in Morrigan’s armour.

I hurt her, thought Joanna, fascinated and appalled. Did I really smash that — that object — into her face? It hurt her, thought Joanna, and managed a rather sickly grin, just for reassurance. If you could smile at something, even when you were on your own, things were never quite so bad. She dredged up another smile, just to be sure of this.

The Nightcloak was lying discarded and dismissed on a chair in the room where they had been taken earlier on. Joanna snatched it up and swung it about her shoulders, fastening the clasp firmly. The thick soft folds settled about her, and there was a soft sigh of relief. Now I am safe. Dierdriu, is your courage still with me? Yes, and the strength, my dear, onwards now. All right, thought Joanna, taking a deep breath, here we go. Now for Cormac and the others.

She descended into the bowels of the house, opening a door into a scullery, pausing in the doorway to look about her. Morrigan’s scullery smelt horrid — silver platters and golden goblets? oh please no! — and Joanna wasted precious seconds in being truly horrified at the sluttish mess. But in an odd way, the greasy pans and crusted plates and discoloured ovens strengthened her thin flow of confidence. You could not be frightened of a person who left burnt soup splashes on the top of a stove. You certainly could not be frightened of somebody who did not put a good pinch of wood ash into the washing up water to remove egg stains from plates. Somebody had breakfasted off cooked eggs, and somebody had lunched off soup, and the stains were still all there. I hope they are only soup splashes, and I hope they are only egg stains, thought Joanna. Oh Cormac, Cormac, please be somewhat nearby!

She snatched up the half of a candle that someone had stuck into a pewter stick — the wick needed trimming of course; were Morrigan’s servants truly so slovenly! — and turned to confront the two doors that led from the scullery.

And now it was very important indeed to remember that she was not afraid, and it was very important indeed to remember that Dierdriu’s courage and strength were still with her.

Two doors … Joanna looked upwards, and felt sick all over again … Huge, a huge wide door, the iron handle so far up that she would only reach it if she stood on the tips of her toes. A giant’s door, a door so massive that surely there could not be anyone in the world who would ever need to use it.

But the Giant Miller of Muileann is not just a legend, Joanna … He is fifteen feet high, and he wears seven league boots that can stride across the land … Be more careful of him than you have been of anything yet, Joanna …

Set deep into the wall, very nearly unnoticeable, was a low door, and Joanna looked at it and paused, because there was a vein of ancestral memory here; there was something comforting and quite magical about it. Joanna’s ancestors, before they blew up the world, had known about symbolism and about imagery. “The low door in the wall” had been a key and a symbol, and Joanna, suddenly feeling very much better, thought: of course they will be down here, they will be through this door. Of course they will. I am going to find them. It is going to be all right.

She stepped through the door, and felt her way cautiously along a dark rather narrow passage. Not a giant’s passage at all. A human-sized passage. And a dim light ahead of her. Nothing has happened to me yet, thought Joanna, and because this was a good thought to have, she fixed it firmly in the forefront of her mind.

The passageway widened abruptly, and the uncertain light brightened just the smallest bit. Joanna stepped on to cold stone flags that ran downwards and curved, and reached out a hand to steady herself, because the stone was uneven and it was damp and looked as if it might be slippery. The walls were rough and felt old and pitted. Joanna withdrew her hand and shuddered, because the walls felt dry and crumbly, and you could easily imagine that they might fall down all around you at any minute.

Ahead of her were steps, winding down and down, as far as she could see, away into some dreadful subterranean darkness.

Joanna gasped, and the sound echoed rather horridly in the enclosed atmosphere. The steps were more huge than any she had ever seen, they were giant steps, cut for giant feet — she had come out into the Miller’s stairs (seven league boots? oh dear God, yes!). But I won’t notice it, she said to herself, I’ll just climb down them as well as I can, and I won’t notice that each step is at least two feet deep. I’ll go down on my bottom and I won’t even notice.

She steadied herself against the cold wall again, and the light from the candle flared up in the raw air, making her shadow a massive, fantastic thing that danced and flickered as she descended.

It was a very long way down. “Down, down to hell and say I sent thee thither” … Yes, and “Come, my dear, let us away and down and away below” … “I am going into the soft underbelly of the Axis and I am going into the underground of the world” … Yes, but beneath it all are the Everlasting Arms …

And Cormac will be there, thought Joanna, and moved on even farther down.

CHAPTER TEN

Cormac came up out of a leaden cold sleep, and for the briefest second did not remember where he was. And then sleep receded, and memory came flooding back, and he knew a terrible loneliness.

I am in the Miller’s cages, and I am entirely alone, and Joanna is in the hands of Morrigan.

He grasped at the shreds of sleep, willing himself back into the unaware darkness a little longer. Perhaps none of it really happened. Perhaps when I open my eyes, I shall still be in the cave on the outskirts of Muileann with Joanna at my side and the Cruithin and the Wolves within call.

Or shall I be still inside Scáthach, grim comfortless Scáthach, which I hated and which represented my defeat, but which I would now gladly trade my kingdom for?

Or shall I open my eyes and find I am back at Tara, beautiful incomparable Tara, with Eochaid Bres and Mab nothing more than irritants on the western boundaries? Mab an irritant? said his mind, and he smiled in the darkness. You did not regard Mab as something so minor as an irritant. You loved her or you hated her — and Cormac had done both — but you did not regard her as merely an irritant.

He allowed himself to pretend for a few moments longer, but the memory of Tara, his beautiful Bright Palace, his family’s legacy, was like a deep and unhealed wound, and he dragged his mind from it. Useless to remember and pointless to ache. He would never be whole until he had regained Tara and he would never cease to long for it, but he no longer believed he would ever see it again. I shall die here, in the dark, and I shall die alone, and if I am remembered at all, it will be as the last Wolfking. The defeated and exiled King. A failure. The thought was wormwood and gall to one who had ridden out triumphantly at the head of vast armies, who had beaten back the marauding Fomoire, the tainted line of the north. It was bitter to one who had held Court in the Sun Chamber and gathered about him the brilliant minds and the gifted artists and the musicians and ballad-makers of half the world.

He opened his eyes to the cold dark cage, and his vision of Tara vanished instantly. He was lying on the stone floor, and he was cramped and curled into a tight huddle, every bone of his body ached with cold and every muscle hurt with the enforced inactivity of his prison. At his head was a wooden pannikin of water, and at his feet a handful of straw. He remembered how the goblin men had jeered when they thrust his head in the water: “The Erl-King does not like his meat dried out, Wolfking. Drink your fill.” He supposed the straw was for the relieving of bladder and bowels, and the fastidious, unwolfish part of him was disgusted. He thought: a High King to lie in his own ordure! Whatever it cost him, he would try to avoid that, at any rate. And then he remembered that he would probably die quite soon and it ceased to matter.

The cage was unlit, for the Miller did not need light to go about his gruesome work, and a man — even a High King-may as easily die by rushlight as by a hundred bright candles. But — I could wish there was some light, thought Cormac, and the memory of the Sun Chamber rose up to torment him again.

He rolled on to his side, wrapping his arms around his body in an effort to keep warm, feeling his limbs knotting with cramp, for it was one of the cage’s subtler forms of torture that no man could quite stand upright inside it, nor quite sit, nor lie. Cormac, who had been used to riding and marching for hours on end, and who had hunted and jousted and been tireless, was beginning to find it unbearable. And then he remembered that it must be borne, for there was no other choice.

He wished he could have seen Joanna again. Just for a moment. Just to see her little pointed face with the too-wide mouth, and just to hold the fragile little body, and just to smell the sweet clean Joanna-scent. He thought it was something that purebred humans missed; that indefinable scent of another. He could smell enemies at twenty paces, just as he could smell friendship or lust.

He would not see Joanna again. Morrigan would have done her worst and Joanna would soon be dead, if she was not dead already. Cormac would not shed tears, but a grief and a loneliness so immense gripped him that he nearly cried out with pain.

She would have fought to the last, indomitable child, but she could never have overcome Morrigan and the hag-sisters, and she could never have overcome the goblin men. But she would have fought, and that was a good thought. It was a thought to hold on to.

Gormgall and Dubhgall would have fought as well; they would have considered anything else unthinkable.

“Give in, Your Majesty?” Gormgall would have said, shocked. “Not by a long way, Sire!”

Dubhgall would have said at least they would go down fighting — it wouldn’t do any good, Your Majesty — but they would fight to the end.

Cormac would fight to the end as well, because anything else was as unthinkable to him as it would be to Gormgall and Dubhgall. He would fight for Tara and he would fight for his people and for Joanna. Yes, he would fight for Joanna. If only he could have seen her again. Just once. If only he could stand up and shake off this creeping cold there might be a chance of overcoming the Miller. If only they had not come to Muileann.

So many “if onlys.” In his mind he saw them all, neatly stacked, each one holding up its neighbours, so that if you could have pulled out just one of them, the entire pile would fall down.

If only I had not left Scáthach. If only Eochaid Bres had stayed in the west. And …

If only I had never loved Mab.

He turned on to his side, staring into the impenetrable dark. Yes, and if only I had never loved Mab, if only I had never afterwards lost control and let the wolfish part take me over … If I had not loved Mab, she would not have sworn to be avenged on me for betraying her. She would not have intrigued to put Eochaid Bres on the throne, and I should not be here now.

*

He had been eighteen; “helplessly romantic,” he had said afterwards, but “incurably lascivious” said his courtiers, half shocked, half proud. Wasn’t it a great thing to have this wild, headstrong, heartstrong boy as their King, instead of the ailing old man that Cormac’s father had become? There was not a one of them who had not loved Cormac’s father, and there was not a one who would not have laid down his life for Cormac’s father, but say what you would, life at Court towards the end had been dull. When the period of grief was officially over, and all the proper sacrifices had been rendered up to Dagda, and the dead King’s soul duly sent to the place beneath the Roof of the Ocean, the Court had turned delightedly to Cormac. They loved him for what he was, as much as for what he was not; they flattered him and wooed him and would not hear a word said against him.

And therein lay my downfall, thought Cormac, moving restlessly on the cold straw. I was given everything I asked for, and quite often I was given things before I even knew I wanted them. I was spoilt and overindulged, my every wish was anticipated, and I was arrogant and frequently selfish.

And there at the centre of it all had been Mab. The Intoxicating One. The Wanton. Nearly twice his age, certainly fifteen years his senior, forbidden to him by the rules of society that frowned on a very young man lusting after a much older woman, but still the most fascinating woman he had ever seen.

Even then, her reputation had been legendary. Even then, the men sat up and eyed one another when she entered a room, preening a little, more alert, vying for her attention. The gossips said she broke the rules and blatantly, but the wise said that she bedded where she chose and was outside of the rules.

Cormac had known at once that both had been wrong. He had not known how he knew, but he did know. Mab was not any man’s for the asking, not by a long way, nor was she altogether outside the rules. Was it that she had her own set of rules? Perhaps.

She had come to Court for his coronation, bringing with her a train of maidservants and menservants and cupbearers, and ollam and filid, bringing as well the young Eochaid Bres, pugnacious and shy, determined not to be overawed by the grandeur of Tara, but overawed by it anyway. Cormac, welcoming them with the ceremony that their high rank within the Bloodline demanded, had thought that he would have liked Eochaid the better if the boy had admitted to his shyness, if he had allowed himself to be dazzled and bewitched. He would have respected Eochaid’s dazzlement and he would have helped him. He would have remembered that the Lionline was an ancient and honourable Bloodline, that it was nearly as old as the Wolfline, and he would have taught Eochaid Bres all the things he had himself been taught at Eochaid’s age. He would certainly have preferred shyness to the self-opinionated obstinacy the boy displayed.

Mab had swept into the Sun Chamber that first night, clothed in vivid green from head to foot, a huge billowing black velvet cloak about her shoulders, her long slanting eyes drinking everything in. And Cormac had sat very still and thought: oh yes, that is what I want. And then, with more assurance: that is what I intend to have.

Mab the Wanton, her eyes brilliant with desire, her skin luminescent with allure. Irresistible.

It had been as inevitable as the phases of the moon, as unstoppable as the tide, that Cormac and Mab should come together. Hadn’t it? The wayward, uncontrollable Wolfprince and the reckless aristocratic harlot, who had once boasted that she would lie with all the High Kings, and that no King of Ireland should ever wear his crown until he had worn it in her bed.

And yet — could I have resisted? thought Cormac. Just a little? Could I have turned back, held off desire, not allowed my eyes to catch and hold those narrow brilliant green eyes? And if I had done so, would Mab have shrugged her lovely shoulders and turned away also, and let her roving eye fall on the next man? And would desire have then subsided and life gone quietly on as before? And would I still be in Tara, the Bright Palace, and would the Miller’s cages have remained empty?

And would I then not have met Joanna?

He thought it would not have happened; Mab had vowed to have him, she would not have considered her reputation complete unless she had lain with the arrogant unruly Wolfking, and she would have had him by human trickery or by sorcery. Cormac grinned. Yes, she knew about the sorcerers’ arts, Mab. But so did I, my dear, so did I.

He could remember vividly the day they had finally set aside pretence. It had been the culmination of weeks (or had it only been days?) of the forest-fire blaze that had ignited between them. There had been looks, smiles, backs of hands brushing. There had been the knowledge of wanting between them. He had hung about in the corridors near her room, hoping for a glimpse of her; he had contrived to place her next to him at banquets.

“Sire, you do me too much honour.” “Your Majesty, you put me in a position of such proximity to you.” And all the while, her eyes said: Go ahead, Cormac, do me too much honour. Do me as much honour as you like until we are both exhausted. Put me in a position of proximity to you. Put me in any position you care to. And Cormac had sat out innumerable banquets, struggling with a lust that was as hard and as high as the beech trees that stood sentinel on the drive to Tara’s West Gate.

There had been a ceremony at Court, a huge and vast and colourful ceremony, such as only Tara could mount, and such as only the Irish could enjoy. Cormac had been invested with the Orders and the Vows that had finally pledged him as a Prince of Tara, a High King; there had been speeches and presentations and jousts and pageants; he had been full with and spilling over with energy and he had been as wild and as riggish as the wolves his ancestresses had lain with. Yes, the Wolfblood had been in the ascendant on that day.

A group of them had gone riding into the forest to hunt the white stag, and then had swaggered back to Tara in time for supper in the Sun Chamber, hungry and thirsty and furiously randy from the hunt. Skirts would be lifted tonight, breeches unfastened; hands would stray and breasts and beds would bounce. The gilt corridors of the Bright Palace would be filled with night-garbed figures going from their own bedchambers to the bedchambers of their lady loves, and Tara would echo with the creaking of furtively unlatched doors and with muffled giggles. There had once been a hoary old joke that on the night following a hunt, you might stand in the upper corridors of the Bright Palace and meet everyone you knew between midnight and dawn. Sean the Storyteller, who had been Cormac’s official ollam, but was now Eochaid Bres’s, had written a wildly funny, blatantly bawdy ballad about the corridors of Tara on the night after a hunt. He had sung it to a roomful of men after the ladies had retired to bed, and Cormac could still remember the shouts of laughter that had greeted it. How had it gone? It had started with the riding home of the huntsmen — something about the Uprighting of the Pricks as they passed the High Hayricks. And then it had gone on to relate the events of the afternoon and the evening, each verse saucier than the last. There had been the Lifting of the Supper Table by the Pricks that were Strong and Able, and then there had been Gambling on the Chance that your Partner might prefer the Bugger-Dance.

“And the dangling of the balls

All in Tara’s marble halls;

The furtive to and fro and the mighty cries of woe

When the stubbing of a toe

Means the rapier’s shrivelled small.

The Councillors’ cautious tread

As they go to someone’s bed

With their nightcaps all awry

And their weapons t’wards the sky;

Shoulder-glancing, goatlike prancing,

Masked and muffled, tiptoe shuffled,

Joints a-creaking, softly sneaking,

Pussyfooting, hypocriting.

The squeaking of the doors and the laying of the whores;

The groaning of the groins and the languishing of loins.

When the day’s at last a-breaking

Not a prick’s around but’s aching.”

He smiled in the darkness. Remarkable Sean. And remarkable years. Golden, exciting, bawdy years. I was flown with the ceremonies that day and I was bursting with sheer rampant lust, and rather than being bowed down with the weight of my new powers, I was buoyed up with them. I had met with the sorcerers earlier, and I was charged with all the magic and all the force of every enchantment ever spun. I was overflowing with being a Prince of Tara, and I was any woman’s for the asking.

He had been Mab’s that night, and there had been no asking and no answering. There had been the long banqueting table, laden with food and flagons of wine; there had been the warm rich scent that was the heart and the centre of

Tara — the place Cormac’s ancestors had called Medchuarta — and there had been that immense feeling of power. He had looked down the table to where the sorcerers sat, for once present in the Sun Chamber, for they had formed an integral part of the ceremony of Cormac’s Investiture. They were shadowy, rather remote creatures in the main, but tonight they were eating and feasting with the Court. Cormac thought: if I asked them, asked them properly and approached them seriously, would they weave an enchantment that would bind Mab to me? And then he looked to where Mab sat, and thought, with a blend of mischief and white-hot desire: but is any sorcerer’s enchantment really needed? Doesn’t she want me as much as I want her? And then — I am the High King, he thought, I can do anything I want.

Mab was sitting quite close to him; as a Princess of the Bloodline, she was permitted a high place at table. Cormac’s eyes narrowed as he considered her, and dwelled on her ancestry. Lionblood. It would be several generations now since Mab’s ancestor’s had lain with the lionesses of Tara, and Cormac thought it was probably nearly time for them to strengthen the Lionline. The Judges would be convened and it was almost certain that the Enchantment would be invoked. He thought: so Mab is nearly human, but she is not quite human. And watching, saw the way she arched her back and smiled, and saw, as well, the sudden slitting of the narrow eyes and the curve of her hands. Lionblood … She would purr like a cat under my hands … And then she looked up at him without warning, and their eyes met, and in that moment, all of the power and all of the energy rushed to Cormac’s loins, so that, like many another eighteen-year-old, he was instantly charged and stiff. (“The Lifting of the Supper Table …” Oh yes, Sean, how right you were!)

They had all sensed it, of course. The Mindsong had shivered and thrummed on the air all round the feasting Court, for Cormac, in his wildly aroused, frantically sexual state, had been as unable to control the Samhailt as he was unable to control his lust. Word had gone round the Sun Chamber: the King will lie with Mab tonight.

The Court had dispersed, going quietly away in twos and threes, going to their beds — quite often to other people’s beds — and the sorcerers had taken their leave of Cormac, bowing gravely, and returning to the great Sorcery Chambers below the Bright Palace. Cormac had thought: an enchantment to bring her to my bed? And laughed inwardly, for no such enchantment would be necessary. Mab would be his tonight, as surely as the dawn would touch the Sun Chamber to rose and gold life tomorrow morning. And shall I be hers in turn? I do not think I shall ever want another woman quite as much as I want this one.

They were alone now, seated at the vast banqueting table, the Sun Chamber dimming into its own purple and lilac twilight. It had been the curious half time between daylight and the Purple Hour, and Cormac, his mind still alight and alive had felt the air heavy with twilight magic. He had studied Mab, and thought: she is not in the least beautiful. I am not sure if she is not ugly, but I have never known anyone like her. She will spoil me for any other woman.

She had caught that, of course, for the Samhailt was strong between them now, and Cormac’s desire was white-hot.

Mab had laughed. She said, “A pity to waste so much energy on the Mindsong, Sire. Should we not put it to better use?” And then she had stood up and held out her hands.

And I nearly took her there, he thought, stirring restlessly in the dark cave. I nearly swept aside the remains of the banquet and forced her back on to the table and pushed aside her gown and did it to her there.

Somehow he had contained himself, and somehow he had walked with her to her bedchamber, hands interlocked, her skin cool and soft and intimate against his.

He smiled. So cool we were, so in command. But when we reached her bedchamber …

It had been like the bursting of a dam. His desire had reached scalding point and she had caught his mood at once, and they had flown at one another, like animals, tearing aside clothes, biting and clawing. Her teeth, her hands, her lips had been everywhere; his nails had torn her skin and she had arched her back like a cat and cried out, pulling him closer. A lioness aroused and hungry …

He had taken her again and again, quite unable to help himself, slaking his hunger over and over. Neither of them had slept until daylight, when the servants, who always knew what went on, had tactfully left trays of breakfast outside the door. There had been fresh warm bread and honey and fruit, and they had fallen on the food ravenously, and then Cormac had pulled her back into bed.

“Again, Sire?” And there had been the amusement, the intimacy, the look that said of course you are going to do it again, and of course I am going to enjoy it.

I was very nearly exhausted, I was rubbed and raw, but still I took her that last time.

And there had been a tired triumph, for just for a fleeting second, Mab’s eyes had widened in surprise, and Cormac had thought: she believed I was spent. The knowledge sent the heat between his legs again, and the respect in Mab’s eyes had lent him one final surge of energy.

He had slipped from her bed at last, and stood looking down at her, seeing her body as slender and as unmarked as a young girl’s. Impossible to think she was twenty years his senior, and that those twenty years had been strongly lived. But — I could tame her, thought Cormac. I could subdue her and master her and together we could make Tara into something so truly great that its splendour will echo down the years. Every other empire and every other kingdom ever planned, ever conquered, ever dreamed about, would pale in comparison.

For a while he had believed it could be; he had been prepared to outface the Councillors and the Court; he had been ready to defy convention and set her beside him. And if there should be a child … His own blood stirred at the thought. Yes, we could make something exceptional, Mab and I. Children of light and fire and strength. Little elfinfaced girls with Mab’s dark hair and wayward eyes and curving smile. Boys with the Wolf strain in them, tempered with the human part of me. And Ireland would be always and forever great.

His mind filled with brilliant images, his body drugged and replete, the morning sun streaming into his own bedchamber, Cormac had slept.

*

When he awoke, the bright warm bedchamber of Tara had vanished and he was again in the Miller’s cage, cold and numb, thirsty and hungry, and the despair that engulfed him was like a huge black, iron band. See how I can douse your dreams, Wolfking. You may slip in and out of reality, and you may dream of your triumphs and your splendours and your lost kingdom, but I am here waiting for you. I am Despair and Anguish and Loss of Hope. I am going to triumph and you have no escape.

He thought that some sound from above had pulled him back to his surroundings, and he lay listening. Yes, there was a faint noise from somewhere over his head, a rather hesitant, rather cautious sound. Footsteps coming nearer.

Cormac was not the least bit afraid; the footsteps were too light and too wary for them to belong to Morrigan and her sisters, and in any case, Morrigan did not need footsteps. She could vanish and reappear wherever she chose. And the footsteps certainly did not belong to the Miller, for the Miller, when he finally came, would come stamping out to the cages, sniffing the air for the smell of human blood, and tying his leather apron. They said he wore boots which could stride seven leagues in one pace, and that he could smell the blood of humans at fifty paces …

Cormac, his every sense alert, knew that the footsteps, soft and gentle, did not belong to the Miller, and a great hope welled up inside him. He half sat up, leaning against the far wall, his eyes fixed on the direction of the stairs.

There was a flicker of candlelight, a whisper of silk, and Joanna, clad in Dierdriu’s cloak, came into the cellars.

*

He cried then, as he had not done earlier, tears streaming down his face, unable to speak, his hands gripping Joanna’s through the bars of the cage, knowing he must be hurting her, unable to help himself.

She was quite dreadfully pale and her hair was tousled and there was a terrible knowledge in her eyes, so that he thought: oh yes, Morrigan has used her. And he wanted to fold her in his arms and ensure that nothing would ever hurt her again, and at the same time wanted to tear down the bars of his cage and go bounding up the stairs to Morrigan, to claw and rip and lacerate the creature.

At length, Joanna said softly, “You must let me go. At any minute they will be here — and I have not the keys to release you —”

“I thought you were dead!” Damn! he thought: cannot I even trust my own voice now?

Joanna smiled, and said, “Nearly. But I am here. And I have the cloak.” As she spoke, there was a whisper of silk and Cormac and Joanna both felt their senses stir and a tremendous sense of adventure began to fill them. Cormac thought: to come face to face with the Miller is surely the greatest adventure of them all. And why should we not somehow defeat him? The power and the confidence that had filled him on the day of his coronation poured into him, and he stood for a moment, unmoving, feeling it flow into his veins.

And Joanna thought: why should we not defeat the Miller? We have got this far without being killed. I have injured Morrigan and disabled her. And I have the Night-cloak. Aloud, she said, “What of Gormgall and Dubhgall?”

“Somewhere here. We were separated. But I am sure they are still alive. I can feel them still alive. And we can —” He stopped and lifted his head, looking towards the stair, and in the uncertain light, Joanna saw him tilt his head, listening.

“What is it?”

Cormac said, “Someone’s coming.”

“Morrigan?”

“No. Listen. Cannot you feel?”

And then Joanna did feel. Footsteps. Great hungry heavy footsteps somewhere above them. A pounding and a thundering that made your bones shiver and froze your marrow. Seven league boots and a voracious bloodlust. Something evil this way comes …

Cormac, his eyes on her, said softly, “If you go now, you can escape. Up the stairs and out into the night. You would be a little dark shadow slipping out of the house, and no one would see you. You could be over the hills and far away. Cait Fian would help you.”

And Joanna smiled, and said, “Don’t be absurd,” and Cormac smiled back, and the golden glow of power surged even higher.

“Then you must hide. You must snuff the candle and conceal yourself and watch your every opportunity. Use the cloak. Quickly now. He is coming nearer.”

There was not really a proper hiding place in the dungeons, but Joanna scurried into a corner where the shadows were thickest, and where a jutting stone half-wall gave a little concealment. The cloak fell silently about her, and settled into close dark folds. There was nothing to do now but wait and seize whatever opportunity presented itself.

She could see the dungeons quite clearly from here. She could see the faint shape that was Cormac, and now she could hear the Miller’s approach. Great heavy footsteps coming nearer. And then, without warning, a great booming voice, a terrible deep-chested roar that made Joanna want to clap her hands over her ears, and certainly made her want to turn and run.

“Where is the human child who injured my mistress, and where is the Wolfking who snapped at my servants? Mince and stew and roast, and someone will be devoured tomorrow night — oh yes, my poor scuttling humans, someone will be devoured.

“Hoho and aha, where are you? We’ll polish the platters and we’ll shine the goblets. We’ll hone the knives and set the millwheels grinding, for there’s nothing my master likes so well as his bread made with the flour of human bones. And I shall find you out, my little ones, I shall scoop you up and you will be devoured and you will be quaffed.”

Joanna was both burning hot and icy cold now, with fear and excitement and anticipation.

To confront the Miller is surely the greatest adventure yet …

Yes, and to die will be the greatest adventure of all …

Where had that thought come from? Something written long ago, or something not yet written? A faint dying echo of some thought not yet born? Or — and this was very sinister indeed — or something inside the house with them? Was it Morrigan stirring in the darkness, unable yet to use her full strength to damage them, but working on their minds? I won’t listen, said Joanna firmly.

She pressed her burning cheek against the cold stone. I don’t want to die. Don’t let these creatures harm us. Don’t let them kill us. Let us outwit them. Don’t let us have come this far only to die. Let us escape to Gallan. Gallan! She thought, and delight unfolded at once. Yes, they would get to Gallan, somehow they would. Don’t let us end up on silver platters and in golden goblets.

Yes but, to die will be the greatest adventure of them all … “I won’t listen!” said Joanna and closed her mind to everything except the Miller’s approach and how they might outwit him.

The footsteps were shaking the dungeons now, and the floor was vibrating beneath their feet. There was a booming voice from above, and from her stone alcove, Joanna saw a thick smeary light spill down the stairs. The Miller was coming; he was nearly here. She hugged the cloak about her —

Oh Dierdriu if you would help me, then help me now! — and the light came nearer. Joanna saw Cormac tense and saw his muscles bunch and ripple, a wolf ready to spring. She thought: he will leap straight for the Miller’s throat, and felt a great rush of exhilaration. The greatest adventure would not be dying, but living: triumphing over the Miller. She straightened up and caught the flash of a thought from Cormac, and for the first time she saw the Samhailt form: a thin pure shaft of light, so brilliant that it sliced across the darkness, so dazzling that it stayed on the edges of Joanna’s vision long after it had died. With the seeing came the receiving-courage, Joanna! This is the greatest adventure so far! She drew a deep breath, and fixed her eyes on the descending light.

Round the curve in the stairway, into the cold dank dungeons, there came a figure so terrible, so nightmarish, and yet so dreadfully familiar, that Joanna nearly cried out, and had to thrust a fist into her mouth to stifle the sound. She thought: I have never seen him. I have never imagined him. But I know him and I recognise him, and he is the embodiment of all the fears I knew as a child, and he is the nightmares I fled from through countless slumbers.

Her many-times ancestors, who had lived through the age called Victorian, would have known the Miller instantly; the Edwardians and the early second-Elizabethans would have recognised him as well, for it was the children of those eras who had been given to read the quite staggeringly unsuitable fairy tales of Austrian and German and Middle-European origin, and it was in those dark and frightening stories that the Giant Miller of Muileann had his place.

Race-memory awoke in Joanna again, as it had awoken on the night she approached Scáthach, and a primitive fear filled her. She knew nothing of Gargantua or Goliath; she had certainly never heard of Brobdingnag nor Blunderbore, nor of Pantagruel the ever-thirsty, nor Cyclops the angry-eyed. And yet she did know these creatures, not with her eyes or with her mind, but with her heart and with her blood. Huddled into her corner, ancestral memory reared up to torment her; it raced through her veins, until the fearsome tales gathered by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm and Hans Andersen, illustrated with the brilliant grisly perception of Arthur Rackham, tumbled into her mind. She was a child in a clean white pinafore, her hair plaited, seated before the nursery fire, and she was turning the pages of her storybook slowly and fearfully, because at any moment would come the picture of him, and she could feel the thick linen feel of the paper, and she could smell the slightly musty, slightly foxed smell of the book … it had been grandmamma’s and grandmamma had said you must treat it carefully because it was quite old and you were only let to look at it on Sundays as a special treat, and you had to say thank you to grandmamma and pretend you were pleased, and not let grandmamma know how much you were frightened of the terrible figure of the Giant …

Joanna blinked and swayed and the dungeon closed about her again.

Standing in the cold greasy light from his lantern was the Miller of Muileann. Fifteen feet high and massive, with a huge brute-like shape. He wore a leather apron and a jerkin and leather boots rolled down at the tops. He carried a cleaver and a great wooden club, and his hands were huge meaty hams hanging from his sides. His face was brutish and possessed of a sly greedy cunning. His eyes were small and piglike, and evil, and his nose was bulbous. There was a thatch of hair and a coarse redness about him, and Joanna felt again the unfamiliar pinafore and plaits and the thick dampsmelling storybook that grandmamma always brought out as a treat on Sunday afternoons …

There was a rumbling laugh, a sound fetched up from the bowels of hell, and Joanna shuddered and pressed back into her corner. Light streamed into Cormac’s cell and the shadow of the Miller fell across the stonework.

Cormac did not waver; “So, Miller, you have come.”

“To prepare you for my Master’s table, Wolfking. My Master is partial to a morsel of wolfmeat.” The dark bulk bent over. “And so am I, Wolfking. A choice bone to gnaw on. A little well-flavoured broth spiced with wolfblood. Are you ready to feel your bones ground to pulp between my millwheels? Shall we begin?”

Cormac did not flinch. He said steadily, “Quite ready, Miller,” and in that moment Joanna acted.

*

She had stood motionless, her senses shaken and her mind reeling at the sight of the Miller, but on his first words, she had thought: after all he is only ordinary flesh and blood. Giant flesh and giant blood, but there is no magic in him. There are no vile ancient arts in his veins. He can be defeated, thought Joanna. He can be defeated by ordinary human trickery and by the ancient enchantment of the High Queen Dierdriu. She felt the cloak tremble with eagerness, like an animal will quiver to be let off a leash.

All right, said Joanna silently, and taking a tight hold of the Nightcloak’s soft folds, she closed her eyes and dredged up every ounce and shred of concentration.

Dierdriu … Help us … Send down your nightmares … call up your dreams … Help us …

For a moment there was the most profound silence that Joanna had ever known, and a terrible doubt assailed her. Was the cloak useless? A burnt-out shell? And — fearful notion! — did I burn out its powers when I called upon it that night in the cave with Cormac? Was that the last flicker of a dying magic?

And then, in the uncertain light, Joanna saw the Miller turn his head as if he had caught a sound, and strength and hope returned to her. There is something, an immense fear, in him. Something he knows about, and something that he only acknowledges in his dreams. And she was at once afraid, for what kind of monster, what dread being summoned from the fast keep of the world of dreams could strike fear in the terrible Miller of Muileann? Had they called up the Miller’s adversary only to find it their adversary as well?

And then into the dungeons, appearing from nowhere at all, came the slight figure of a young man, curiously and unfamiliarly dressed. His face was both beautiful and cruel, and his eyes were hard and golden like a cat’s. In his hand he held a set of reed pipes, and as Joanna and Cormac stared, he seated himself cross-legged on a stone bench, and lifting the pipes to his lips, began to play.

Rats streamed into the dungeons …

The effect on the Miller was instantaneous and absolute. He fell back from the cage and threw up a hand to shield his eyes. There was fear and horror and disbelief on his face, and Joanna, not understanding, still concentrating on the cloak’s power for all she was worth, moved out of her corner to see better.

The music was filling the dungeon now, and the young man was still seated, very straight-backed, the pipes still held to his lips. His eyes watched the scene before him emotionlessly, and there was a flicker of contemptuous amusement as if he might be thinking: Lord what fools these mortals be! His hair curled tightly to his head, and his skin had the pale faintly translucent quality of one who is unwell or unreal, or not quite human. His music was soft and cool, but beneath it all, ran an insidious command: Follow me!

The rats were still coming, squeaking in their eagerness, tumbling over one another, their hard little claws ringing out on the bare stone floor, their eyes red and greedy. Their long tails twitched and slithered after them, and they made darting, scuttling, little movements across the floor.

The Miller gave a great bellowing cry, and sagged at the knees, and at once the rats were upon him, swarming up his body, clinging to him with bared teeth, clawing and scratching. Joanna stood transfixed with astonishment, because although she did not like rats — nobody could like them — she was not especially afraid.

Cormac was not afraid of the rats either, although he glanced uneasily at the young man with the reed pipes, and memories of the old gods of the Greeks stirred in his mind. He reached through the bars of the cage to where the keys lay, dropped in fright by the Miller, and he unlocked the cage and stood for a moment, flexing his entire body, exulting in the freedom after confinement. He made no attempt to touch Joanna or to speak to her, and Joanna knew that Cormac understood about the cloak. The creatures before them had been summoned by the cloak’s magic; only by the strongest of concentration could Joanna keep that magic alive, and only by sheer force of will could she keep the young man and the music and the rats there with them.

The Miller had backed into a corner now; he was blubbering with fear and he was disgusting and revolting and not the least bit pitiable. The rats made a concerted lunge for him, and the Miller fell again to his knees, and then curled himself into a tight ball, covering his head with his hands. Joanna thought: I don’t understand this. Why does he not simply use his great strength to throw them off? He could pick them up one by one between his fingers and hurl them against the wall. And although her stomach lifted at the thought, and although she could imagine with a shudder how the plump furry bodies would feel and the dreadful soft squelch they would make when they hit the wall, still she thought she could have done it. Anything other than be clawed and bitten and chewed in a hundred different places. Disgusting! thought Joanna, and then, through the wall of concentration she was still maintaining, she caught the tail end of a thought from Cormac: the Giant Miller is too afraid of them to do anything. They — and the Piper — mean something unendurable to him.

The Miller’s great bulk was twitching and jerking, and blood was seeping through his clothes. But the rats were avid. They jostled for places and they scuttled about their victim and bared their teeth at one another, and all the time there was the gnawing, nibbling, sucking sound.

And then, at length, there was a choking cough, like dead dry twigs being rattled in a dark place, and the Miller drew a long bubbling breath and lay still. As the rats became quiescent, Joanna glimpsed what she had been trying hard not to see: the crater-like wounds, the gaping jagged hole that had been the Miller’s throat, the deep dark bloodied sockets that had been his eyes, and the gleam of white bone … liver and kidneys … raw stringlike muscles … She shuddered and gulped, and looked away, and as she did so, the young man with the pipes ceased playing.

Cormac moved forward very cautiously, and Joanna thought that he was trying to absorb the young man’s scent, and that he was puzzled by it. Why? Because it was an alien scent? Or — and this was rather worrying — because there was no scent there?

At length, Cormac said, “Who and what are you?”

The young man smiled and his face changed. Joanna and Cormac relaxed for the first time in many hours.

“I am a being from the Giant’s nightmares,” he said, and his voice was low and blurred with amusement, so that the other two thought he might be rather fun to know.

“Is that why he was so afraid?”

“Yes. I am the god of fear, but I am the god of many other things as well,” said the young man, and Joanna, her mind reaching into the almost-lost lore of her own world, said, half disbelieving, “Pan?”

“I have answered to that name,” said the young man gravely and then laughed and slipped from his bench seat and held out a hand to each of them. “My name has been given to your word for great fear, but I am known for many other things. I answer to many names and I have lived many lives, and I have my place in all the creeds and all the legends of the world.”

“Are you from the past?” said Cormac cautiously, for his own sorcerers had occasionally been able to summon shadowy figures from the long-ago.

“I am from both the past and the future,” said the young man, “for I can travel through the Time Curtain at will, and I have appeared in many different centuries. I am ageless and timeless, and I am possessed of all the virtues and most of the sins.” He leaned closer and his eyes slanted. “Fear I am, and Lust. Anger I am and Despair.” He smiled, and the sly glint vanished. “But I am also Love and Gaiety and Wine, and I am also Laughter and Revelry. I am sometimes known as the god of music, but also I am the shepherd boy who dwells in the forests and the fields, and lures victims with music so sweet it would melt your soul to hear it.” He looked at them, and Joanna thought: it is impossible the number of times his face changes. “Once,” said the young man, “I was a Thracian poet called Orpheus, and in that incarnation, I made music so beautiful and so precious that I came within a batswing brush of charming the keepers of the underworld to give me back my lady. For I am jealous of those I own.

“But I am also the Piper, the sinister musician who lives in the Mountains, and who lures into his lair the children of the world.

“In another time — long after your time, Wolfking, and long before yours, Human Child — I shall be a Ratcatcher.

“I shall live in a place called Hamelin, and I shall draw from the city the rats.

“And it is that incarnation that was the Miller’s nightmare. It is as the Piper of Hamelin I have haunted his sleep, and it was as the Piper of Hamelin I appeared to him tonight.”

They were all seated together now, the Miller’s body stiffening and congealing where it lay, the rats drowsy and replete. Joanna relaxed her hold slightly on the cloak’s power, and the young man said sharply, “Do not let me go, Human Child. If you wish to talk a little longer,” and Joanna frowned and summoned up her willpower again.

Cormac said, “Are you then bound to obey the cloak’s command?”

“I am compelled. While its enchantment calls to me, I am constrained to answer.”

“Will you stay and talk with us? Just for a short while?”

“I must do so if you wish it. Whoever wears the Nightcloak of Dierdriu may summon the creatures of nightmares.” He leaned forward and there was a light and a gleam in his eyes that made Joanna jump and think: he is very beautiful, but I believe he is quite soulless. The young man said softly and slyly, “Perhaps you also may one day find yourself bound to answer the Nightcloak’s summoning, Wolfking.”

“I?”

“But yes,” said the young man, sitting back and regarding Cormac with malicious amusement. “You are part man, part wolf. There may be a time when such a creature will play a part in the folklore and the legend of the day.” He smiled, and again it was the “what fools these mortals be” smile. “You will see,” said Pan.

Cormac frowned, but said, “Why was the Miller so afraid? Why did he allow the rats to overpower him so easily?”

“He knew what had happened,” said Pan. “He knew of the Piper, for the legend has echoed back in time as well as forward. He knew that one day I would walk through the streets of Hamelin, calling to the rats.” Again he leaned forward, so that the flickering candlelight illuminated his features. “All Millers are afraid of rats, for rats are the greatest of all threats to them. Have you never seen oats houses built on stilts so that the rats cannot get in and infest the flour bins? And the Miller of Muileann knew that once the rats had answered my music, once they had fallen into line behind me as I walked through Hamelin, I must bring them somewhere.” The smile was gentler this time, but still Joanna shivered. “He has dreamt of this night for longer than you can imagine,” said Pan. “He has dreamt that I would lead the rats of Hamelin through the Time Curtain, and that between us we would destroy him. He has woken afraid and trembling that I will appear and ruin his Mill, and once his Mill is ruined, he is at the Erl-King’s mercy. And even I,” said Pan thoughtfully, “would hesitate to provoke the Erl-King. But you see? That is why he was so easily overpowered. It was not the rats who killed him but his own frenzied fear.”

“Pan-ic,” said Joanna, suddenly understanding, and the young man smiled approvingly.

“Of course,” he stood up and looked down on them. “You have a journey.”

“Yes.”

He turned to Joanna. “Will you let me go now, Human Child?”

“Yes.”

“You may see me again,” said Pan. “Perhaps not in these lives, but in others. I am to be found in all the centuries. Sometimes you will have to look hard, in order to recognise me, but be assured I will be there.”

“Lust and Fear and Greed,” said Joanna, and Pan touched her face lightly.

“Yes.”

“Did you — forgive me — but did you walk abroad in the days when the Apocalypse burned the world?” She thought she ought not really to have asked, and she could not imagine what the answer might be.

But Pan declined to answer the question. He smiled and touched her face again and said, “I am also the god of Laughter and Music and Wine. And there has always been room for both sides of me, only that in some centuries men allow Lust and Greed to cloud their minds and their judgements. Remember that I am also the god of Love.”

And then Joanna let go of the cloak’s power, and she and Cormac were alone in the dungeon.

*

Nothing had ever tasted so good as the cold night air outside Morrigan’s house.

“Night again,” observed Dubhgall lugubriously, and Gormgall laughed.

“Your temper is not spoilt by your incarceration, friend.”

“It doesn’t do to take too optimistic a view of anything,” said Dubhgall stubbornly, and Cormac said, “Oh dear,” and winked at Joanna. Dubhgall said it was all very well to be cheerful and cut capers and cock snooks, and thumb noses at the Miller and the Morrigna. “But what I say, Your Majesty, is that we aren’t out of the woods yet. Not in a pig’s eye, we aren’t!”

“But Gallan —” started Joanna, and Dubhgall said, “Always supposing we reach it,” and Gormgall said, “Why shouldn’t we reach it?”

“There’s no knowing,” said Dubhgall darkly. “But there’s mountains to cross yet, and we all know what kind of creatures live in mountains.”

“I don’t,” said Joanna and Gormgall said soothingly, “Nothing so very terrible, my lady.”

“And then there’s the forest,” went on Dubhgall. “Mark my words, Sire, we’ve got a fair way to go yet.”

Cormac laughed and clapped Dubhgall on the back. “For the time being,” he said, “we are free and we have come safely through Muileann, and that in itself is something to be thankful for. Onwards to Gallan now, to Cait Fian’s house.”

“At least it’ll be warm there,” put in Gormgall.

“And there’ll be decent food to eat,” said Joanna.

“If we don’t get eaten first,” muttered Dubhgall, but he said it quietly so that no one heard.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Flynn and Amairgen had been wined and dined and fêted. They had been talked to, and they had been sung to — “And sung at” said Flynn — and now their minds were filled to dizzying point with the beauty and the colour and the brilliance of the Sun Chamber.

They were both very tired. Even so, thought Flynn, I am at home here. I am in my rightful place. And he looked with renewed interest at these people who should have been alien but were not, and at these sights which should have been unfamiliar, but which were very familiar and very comfortable. I belong here. And then he thought — if Joanna was here with me I believe I should know a truly perfect contentment. And despite the tiredness, despite the aching fatigue, he whipped up his mind to remain alert, for it was not to be thought of that he should miss any opportunity to find out if Joanna had found her way to Tara. I dare not relax for the briefest instant, thought Flynn.

Eochaid Bres had been regally welcoming, and Bricriu, whom Amairgen thought must be some kind of chamberlain, had been cautiously welcoming. The woman had eyed Flynn and the scholars had been drawn to Amairgen, and Sean the Storyteller had staged an impromptu entertainment about two travellers passing through strange and exotic lands to reach the Plain of Delight. “Merely a little thing that came to me as we sat at supper, Your Majesty,” he said with a self-deprecatory air, but later on, when Flynn asked if that had been true, Sean had said at once, “No, of course not. You didn’t truly think it was, did you? Did you? Well, I put it to you, could anyone have staged all that on the inspiration of the moment? I keep a half a dozen or so things all ready and rehearsed, you never know what might be needed. I’m supposed to provide the King’s entertainment; well, that’s throwing roses at it, because the King isn’t at all easy to entertain, he’s a terrible old way of missing all the humour, although it’d be the Miller’s cages for me if anyone heard me say it. Still, he’ll never know it wasn’t spur of the moment stuff, and I shan’t tell him. I certainly shan’t tell Bricriu the Fox.”

Bricriu, the King’s chamberlain, had been as smooth as oil to them; he had led them to seats at the High Table, and called for fresh food and flagons of wine to be brought. “I shall be incapable if I drink all that,” thought Flynn, half horrified, half delighted, but he drank it all the same, and was not in the least incapable.

Bricriu had engaged them in conversation, while Eochaid Bres looked on and nodded from time to time. As if, thought Flynn, he does so to show he understands what we are talking about.

“And,” said Bricriu, “when you are rested, you must tell us of your travels, for we shall be very interested,” and Eochaid Bres nodded solemnly. Flynn and Amairgen shared a sudden thought: if we told them the truth they would certainly not believe us!

They partook cautiously of the food, which was like nothing either of them had ever tasted before. “But it is all very good,” said Flynn hungrily, reaching out his hand, and Sean the Storyteller said, awed, “You’re not having another helping, are you?” and was frowned at by the King, who knew that it was ill-bred to comment on a guest’s appetite, but who was rather pleased to see Flynn eating so heartily, because it meant that Eochaid Bres could help himself to another plateful of pork pudding without anyone really noticing. He was very fond of pork pudding, for all that Bricriu said it made you liverish. Eochaid was not liverish in the least, or not very much anyway.

After they had eaten, it seemed to be expected that they should move from the table and mingle with the Court. Flynn looked about him and thought: if I am careful, I may be able to fall into conversation with some of the younger ones. They will surely know if Joanna has been here. Won’t they? And he remembered Joanna’s curious blend of great fragility and immense strength, and thought that even here, even surrounded by these strange and exotic creatures, Joanna would stand out. Yes, certainly if she had been here they would remember her. He looked warily to where some of the younger ones were foregathering and smiling at him in a welcoming way, and then moved to accept the chair that was being indicated, and to take the wine that was being offered.

At the back of his mind, a spurt of humour arose, so that he wondered whether, if he did find out about Joanna, he would be sufficiently sober to make any sense of the information. He wondered how Amairgen was faring, and saw that he had fallen quite naturally into discourse with the Councillors. How strange, thought Flynn, that he gravitates so easily into the company of leaders. Or is it?

Amairgen was talking to the Councillors quite naturally and relaxedly, finding them courteous and interesting, and rather scholarly. He chose his words with care, because he wanted to find out more about this place, and he listened with genuine interest to what they had to say. Once or twice he wondered how Flynn was getting on, and smiled inwardly to see that several of the ladies were already grouped about him. The boy had caused a strong ripple in this rather rarefied atmosphere; Amairgen had seen the females sit up and eye one another, and the lady they called Mab had been watching Flynn ever since they had arrived. Amairgen wondered if Flynn was aware of his attractiveness, and then thought he was not. He thought that it was probably part of Flynn’s charm, and he began to be very curious indeed about Joanna. Flynn would obviously brave all of the dangers in the world for Joanna, and so Amairgen thought that she must surely be something very exceptional. He was pleased for Flynn, because he was beginning to think that Flynn, also, might be something very exceptional. Because he is Finn of the Fiana returned? said the depths of his mind. And then, no — because he is himself! Amairgen smiled and turned back to his own table.

The Councillors were informative; they were charmed to tell this polite, rather grave, stranger about Tara and about their customs. Wasn’t it the grandest thing in the world to be able to talk for a while without watching every word you said, and wasn’t it altogether great to indulge in a bit of harmless nostalgia. It crossed the minds of a couple of them that Amairgen might be one of Eochaid Bres’s spies; it certainly crossed the minds of several more that he might be one of Bricriu’s, for there was no knowing what complexities of intrigue the Fox might stoop to. But they dismissed these suspicions fairly quickly. Some of them possessed a smattering of the Samhailt, although naturally no one would have admitted to it under Eochaid Bres’s rule, and they all, within the first five minutes of meeting him, knew that Amairgen was no spy.

They told him about Tara, how it had been raised from the rock, and how it had been the finest Court ever to come into the western world. They told him about Dierdriu of the Nightcloak, and how she had bargained with the sorcerers and the magicians to make the Sun Chamber.

“And the sorcerers,” they said, sadly, “although they always swear allegiance to whoever occupies the High Throne, have their own loyalties.”

“The Wolfking could hold their loyalty,” said one of the younger ones, and was instantly shushed.

They told, as well, about Ireland’s great heroes, of Niall of the Nine Hostages, and they talked, in hushed voices, about the terrible Prison of Hostages, and the Star of the Poets. They related the marvellous legend of Nuadu Airgetlam of the Silver Arm, who had fought the great Battle of Mag Tuired; and they told about the cauldron of the god Dagda, which, if you could find it, ensured that no company, however large, would go unsatisfied. They talked about the Battle for the Trees between Dierdriu and the Morrigna, and about the Beltane revels, which would begin in a few days, and which Amairgen and his companion must surely stay for.

They told, as well, about the Fál, the great stone penis on the Hill of Tara, which cried aloud under the hand of Ireland’s true destined King.

“Ah, a fine sight it is to see the Ceremony of the Fál,” said the eldest Councillor, rather wistfully.

“You have seen it for yourself?” inquired Amairgen, fascinated.

“Indeed I have, and a grand sight it was,” said the Councillor, whose name was Bolg. “The High King Cormac it was; the great Wolfking, although of course,” said Bolg rather uneasily, “of course, he was not the rightful King, as we all know now.” He sent a wary look to where Eochaid Bres was seated, and several of the others glanced over their shoulders and murmured their agreement.

“Even so,” said Bolg reminiscently, “that was a fine old ceremony, the day he was made King.” He nodded to himself, and Amairgen waited. “All gathered on the Hill of Tara we were,” said Bolg, his eyes faraway. “All waiting. Someone had persuaded the sidh to come —”

“Someone had paid them to come, more like,” put in one of the younger Councillors.

“They’re as greedy as goblins, the sidh” explained another.

“Well, however it was,” said Bolg, “the sidh were there, just out of sight of course, as they always are, and as we know, it is virtual death and certain madness to look on them anyway, so no one ever does. But they were there all the same, melting in and out of the hillside, just a smudge of cold blue and ice green, but their music was all about us.”

“You’d forgive the sidh a lot for their music,” said the youngest Councillor.

“You’d almost forgive them their wantonness,” put in another.

“Not entirely,” said the first, rather disapprovingly.

“Anyway, their music was there,” said Bolg firmly, “and all the Court was there.”

“And the Wolves, don’t forget the wolves,” said the Councillor who had disapproved of the sidh.

“I’m not forgetting them,” said Bolg crossly. “Of course I’m not.” He turned back to Amairgen. “The Wolves were there, ranged on the far side of the hill. Quiet they were, but very watchful. We were all a bit wary to tell you the truth, for there’s never any knowing which way a wolf will jump, and there was only His Majesty had any control over them.”

“Do lower your voice, Bolg,” said the youngest Councillor. “Unless of course you want Eochaid Bres or Bricriu to hear.”

“I’m telling a history,” said Bolg with dignity. “I’m telling a history, and this gentleman is our honoured guest, and if he’s polite enough to listen, I’m polite enough to tell him. And if that’s treason,” said Bolg with sudden spirit, “then it’s time and more that I left Tara and His Majesty found himself a new Chief Councillor. I am Chief Councillor,” he explained to Amairgen anxiously. “It’s quite a responsibility.”

“I’m sure it is. Do please go on.”

“Well, we all stood waiting — it was a windy day I recall and I was glad I’d put my woollen underwear on. These younger ones don’t understand the things a cold wind does to a man,” he added confidentially, “but I’d put it on and I was glad of it.

“So, we all stood waiting, and there was the music, cold and somehow passionate —”

“Like the sidh themselves,” said the youngest Councillor. “Yes, isn’t there a saying they’d freeze a man’s balls off before he’d time to —”

“We were all waiting,” said Bolg rather loudly. “The music was all around us, for of course the sidh were ever true servants of the Wolfline. There’s a legend that when Cormac was born they sang him into the world.

“And so there was the music, and there was the Court, and the Wolves, all waiting, and there was the anticipation. So tremendous it was, that you could very nearly see it. You could have reached out and sliced through it and seen it part before you. And at the centre was the Fál, rearing up out of the ground like a — well, we all know what it’s like and no call for vulgarity.” He glared at the Councillor who had said the sidh would freeze a man’s balls off, and the Councillor squirmed and looked discomfited.

“The Fál was glowing,” said Bolt. “It glowed and it gave off a kind of strength. We could all feel the magic radiating from it. We could all feel that it was waiting as well.

“And then, just as we were all thinking we couldn’t bear it a moment longer, that if the King didn’t come soon something would snap and break and we should all die, over the horizon he came. Cormac of the Wolves. The Prince of Tara. Plainly dressed he was — well, he never cared overmuch what he wore, and time and again he’d come into Council looking more like a tinker than a Prince of the Bloodline — but even so, every person present fell to his knees, and the Wolves bowed their heads. Authority, you see. He had it in fullest measure; you obeyed him unquestioningly.

“Cormac stood watching us, outlined against the sky, his cloak billowing out behind him, his hair ruffled by the wind, and colour whipped across his cheekbones. For a moment there was silence, and then Cormac said, ‘Well gentlemen, shall we begin?’ Because,” said Bolg seriously, “of course it’s a purely masculine affair when a King touches the Fál. They don’t let the women go. It upsets the magic.”

“What about Dierdriu?” said the Councillor who had liked the sidh’s music. “Dierdriu went to a Ceremony.”

“And touched the Fál,” said another, and several people hooted rather derisively.

“Dierdriu hid herself to watch the Ceremony of the Fál when her father was presented to the Stone,” said the first one. “And the legend is that the Fál wouldn’t answer to her father, and there was great consternation, nobody knew what to do.”

“It had never happened before,” put in another.

“Or since,” said a third.

“No, we’ve never had a High Queen since Dierdriu,” said the first Councillor, who was rather finding himself the centre of attention. “But they say that as everyone stood around, trying to think what should be done, Dierdriu came out of hiding, and said that the Fál would accept her, and they must present her to it, and if it didn’t answer her, she’d go into exile at Scáthach forever.”

“Did it answer to her?” said Amairgen.

“What? Oh yes,” said Bolg. “Oh yes, they say it cried aloud for nine days and nine nights. They counted. Dear me, they all talked about it for years afterwards, it’s one of our finest legends, you know, although it was a very long time ago. Probably it was a couple of centuries. My word, it’s a good story, though.” He leaned forward confidentially. “And they do say,” he said in a whisper, “they do say it was a remarkable sight to see her kneeling down clasping the Fál. Of course, she would only be quite young at the same time, and I expect she wouldn’t understand the significance of the Fál, that is … hum … its shape.”

He looked worried, and a few people sniggered, and one said that if half the tales told about Dierdriu were true the chances were she’d have understood it all too well, and somebody else said that if a quarter of the tales were true, she’d have enjoyed it, never mind understanding it, and Bolg frowned.

“It’s a serious and solemn ritual,” he said repressively. “And whatever else you may say about Cormac, you couldn’t say he didn’t perform the ritual properly and with full respect.” He turned back to Amairgen.

“Cormac made no ceremony,” the Councillor said, “he never did, not of anything, but his presence was ceremony in itself if you know what I mean. He walked to the Stone and lifted his hands above his head. And the music grew stronger and the Wolves growled low in their throats in that restless way they have, and the fur on their necks lifted.

“And then Cormac grasped the Stone.”

Bolg stopped and Amairgen leaned forward.

“And? What happened?”

“It was the most marvellous sound I ever heard,” whispered Bolg. “The Stone cried, it actually shrieked aloud, so that the sound echoed and spun all about us. On and on it went until you felt it had entered into your head. And then there was a humming sound, and a noise like wings beating on the air, thousands upon thousands of wings, and Cormac just stood there, his expression so serious that for a moment I hardly recognised him, for he’d been a wild boy, and it was rare to see him so grave-faced. And the noise went on and on and no one could hear or think or speak, and no one really wanted to hear or think or speak. We all wanted to drown in the sounds and we all wanted to lay our lives down for Cormac to show how much we loved him.

“On and on it went, until you thought you’d die of pure delight, for it was a sound so — so comforting. So safe. It said: all is well for I am with you, and it said: you are in my hands and I will never fail you. Several people cried openly, well I did myself, for it was an emotional moment,” said Bolg. “And at last, when Cormac finally let go of the Stone, there was a great sighing and a sense of loss so keen you felt that something had died.

“And then,” said Bolg matter of factly, lifting his goblet of wine, “and then, you know we all went back to Tara and held a great feast, and I believe the King got drunker than anyone had ever seen him, and the stories they tell about that night — well I wouldn’t repeat them even if I knew any of them which I don’t. But they say there’s never been a night so wild inside these walls. Oh, he was a reckless one.”

Amairgen said, “And the — the present King? Eochaid Bres? What of his ritual with the Fál? Was that as awe-inspiring?”

“Well there it is,” said Bolg, his eyes sliding away, and the other Councillors muttered and shuffled their feet. “There’s been no ceremony of the Stone at all since Eochaid came to the throne.”

“Not the merest whisper of one,” said another.

“They say the King doesn’t like the old traditions,” said a third.

“He certainly doesn’t like the Stone of Fál,” put in a fourth, and then looked terrified.

“It’s not for us to judge,” said Bolg firmly. “If Eochaid Bres wants to change the old ways, then it’s his right and his privilege as High King. We mustn’t question him.” And he reached for his wine again.

Amairgen, sensing their withdrawal, said quickly, “You are being very courteous to the stranger in your midst, gentlemen, and I find your customs fascinating. I hope we may talk some more.” And then, encouraged by their evident pleasure at his words, said carefully, “It is clear that you are accustomed to travellers and that you always give them hospitality.”

“As it happens,” said Bolg slowly, “we have few travellers to Tara.”

“Ah. But those you have are clearly welcome,” said Amairgen. “For is not this a great place of pilgrimage?”

“Once,” said one of the older Councillors wistfully, “once it was.”

“Once, all the poets and the musicians and the ballad-makers flocked to Tara.”

“Once, it was known as the most brilliant Court in the western world.”

“Men would travel the high seas to come here.”

“In the days of —”

“Oh hush,” said Bolg worriedly, and once more glanced furtively over his shoulder.

“In the days of …?” said Amairgen, lifting his brows, but Bolg said firmly, “We have talked of Cormac quite enough. It is a long time ago. Old men’s gossip, I fear. Tell me, sir, do you play chess at all?”

*

Flynn fascinated and repelled by the lady who had sought him out after supper was over. He thought, incredulously: I believe she is attempting to seduce me, and was rather astonished to feel warmth between his legs at the idea. But she is more than twice my age! cried his horrified mind. Was she forty? Forty-two? More? Oh yes. Never mind, said his body, and he found himself leaning nearer to her to hear her speak, for her voice was low and musical, and Flynn wondered, not for the first time, why people were not more aware of the voice as a sexual attraction.

Mab was watching him, and Flynn thought that he had not been mistaken, she was luring him, and he was at once plunged into hideous doubt, for he had thought himself bound to Joanna, and he had thought himself immune to all others as a result. Yes, Mab was easily twice his age, he could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, he could see that her neck — traitorous area! — was dry and crepe-y looking.

Mab laughed. She said, “Yes, I am quite twice your age, and probably more. Does it matter?”

“You heard my thoughts? But is that not forbidden?” said Flynn, alarmed all over again, and remembering that in this odd new world there might exist spies and traps and treasons of all kinds. “I was told it was quite forbidden,” he said firmly, because if you had to declare for one side or the other, you might as well declare for the reigning King. However stupid and ill-fitted for the job he was. And there went another treasonable thought!

She caught it at once, of course. She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully and said, “The Samhailt is forbidden, for my son the King does not possess it. A question of good manners, you understand? What the King does not have, no other should have either. It makes for awkwardness sometimes. But,” a shrug, a spreading of the slender hands, “to forbid a thing does not necessarily kill it. We both possess the Samhailt, you and I.” And there again was the intimacy, the suggestion that they shared — that they might in the future share — something exciting and unusual and pleasurable. “In any case,” said Mab, “I am not bound by any law my son may choose to make.”

“But — forgive me, madam,” said Flynn, who had never in his life addressed a lady as madam, but who, chameleonlike, had caught the modes and the manners of these people, “forgive me, but he is the High King.”

Mab laughed, and Flynn, fascinated and just very slightly enchanted, thought that her laugh was like no one else’s he had ever heard. And with the detached, humorous side of his mind, thought: I believe she is trying to seduce me. Shall I let her? And grinned inwardly, because he was rather intrigued by Mab, and he was certainly attracted by her. And forgive me, Joanna, my darling lovely girl, but never forget that anything I might do in this lady’s bed tonight or tomorrow, or any tomorrow after that, can ever touch my feelings for you.

“Eochaid Bres is the King because I put him there, Flynn,” Mab said. “He stays the High King because I keep him there.” Amusement lit her eyes, and Flynn smiled into them, and thought: yes, I was not wrong. Well, madam, if that is what you want, I find I am not at all averse. And saw by the blaze in her eyes that she had heard his thought. But he only said, “You were ambitious for your son? That is very admirable.”

“Not at all,” said Mab and although her voice was cool, her eyes were afire with excitement. “Oh, not at all, Flynn.” She reached for his hand and held it between her own for a moment. “I was ambitious for myself,” said Mab. “And also I was filled with a great desire for vengeance against the man who occupied the High Throne.” She leaned forward, and Flynn caught the warm sandalwood scent of her body. “I was dealt a very great insult,” said Mab, and her eyes were distant now. “He was eighteen, Flynn, and I was —” the smile was mischievous suddenly, “let us say I was considerably older than eighteen.” And Flynn smiled, because it had not mattered how old Mab had been then, and it did not matter how old she was now.

Mab smiled, and said, “It is quite impossible to describe the man who was High King, Flynn. You would have to know him for yourself. But in those days he was wild and wolvish and arrogant. He may have altered now, although it is only seven years, and I do not know. But then, he was … so remarkable.” She fell silent, and Flynn thought: Cormac! Of course she is talking about Cormac.

“Of course I am,” said Mab. “But he paid me a supreme discourtesy, you see. I discovered that he had — flouted one of our most Sacred Laws — that of the Bloodline Enchantment.” And, as Flynn looked up questioningly, she said, “No, I cannot say any more. Only that the Bloodline — the Six Ancient Families — are bound by stringent laws if the Lines are to continue. The creation of a Bloodline is so bound about by enchantment and by careful and reasoned decisions, that it is dangerous to step outside those laws.

“Cormac stepped outside them, Flynn. I was the only one who knew, and I have never told anyone of it. But I exiled him. I led the revolution that sent him to Scáthach all those years ago. I deprived him of the one thing I knew mattered to him more than anything else, Flynn …

“I deprived him of Tara.”

*

Eochaid Bres had enjoyed his evening. He had danced with the wife of the lesser chieftain once or twice — well all right, four times if you wanted to keep tally like a money-lender — and everyone had nodded and smiled and several of the sterner Councillors had looked disapproving, and Eochaid Bres had felt he had acquitted himself rather well. People liked a King they could disapprove of a bit. Of course, everyone remembered Eochaid’s cousin Cormac on these occasions, because Cormac had been quite incorrigible where the ladies of the Court had been concerned. Eochaid dared say that Cormac would have taken the chieftain’s wife to bed with him which was rather shocking. The chieftain would probably not have minded either, which was even more shocking. Wives were not things, pawns to be loaned here and there on a whim. For a moment Eochaid dwelled rather glumly on the thought of wives, because High Kings were expected to marry and beget children to carry on the line. He knew that. He knew how it was done as well; in fact, he had tried it once or twice, although he had not really cared for it very much. Still, if custom had dictated that Eochaid Bres should have taken the chieftain’s wife off to bed that night, he would probably have done it. Custom had not dictated, not unless you counted Cormac’s customs, which Eochaid naturally did not, and Eochaid and the lady had parted circumspectly after four dances. It was probably as well that they had, because Eochaid, after an evening spent in the Sun Chamber’s glare, always felt a bit queasy, and it would not have done to have been sick with a lady present. The story would have flown round the Court, these things always did, and before he knew where he was, Sean the Storyteller would have written a ballad and everyone would have sung it just out of Eochaid’s hearing, and there would have been sneery jokes being bandied back and forth. It would have been altogether mortifying, and Mother would have wrung her hands and indulged in a tantrum and talked about donating her life’s blood. Bricriu would have said, Oh dear, Your Majesty, how very unfortunate, and talked about royal dignity.

“Bother royal dignity and bother being High King,” said Eochaid crossly, donning his nightcap and clambering into his bed.

Cormac had not given a tinker’s curse for dignity. He had held competitions with his courtiers to see how many women they could each bed in the course of a night, and had set up Sean the Storyteller to keep a tally. Eochaid had heard the final count, and he had not believed it, although he had not said so, because it might have given people an erroneous idea about him. And then you had to allow for exaggeration as well.

Cormac had been wilder than anyone Eochaid had ever known. Eochaid had never forgotten the night of Cormac’s Ritual of Fál; the ceremonious embracing of the great Stone which was supposed to shriek aloud for the destined King. A lot of nonsense, of course, and Eochaid was not going to resurrect such an archaic custom.

“I shouldn’t if I were you,” Bricriu had said, a knowing glint in his eyes. “You never quite know how these things may turn out, Sire.”

Cormac had gone through with it, of course, and people had become very wrought up and wept on each other’s shoulders, and talked about honour and the One True Line and dying for the King, and it had all been very emotional and sloppy.

But Eochaid had crept downstairs and hidden behind a rood screen later that night; he had been twelve at the time and curious. Cormac and the young men of the Court had been wildly gloriously drunk; they had been bawdy and boisterous and flown with the wine they had drunk. After the ladies had retired, Sean the Storyteller had sung quite the rudest song Eochaid had ever heard. Even now, it made his ears turn bright red to think about it. But Cormac and the young men had laughed and cheered and joined in the chorus, and Cait Fian of Gallan had written two more verses, and everyone had cheered all over again and several people had got up to demonstrate the more explicit parts of Sean’s song.

Before they retired, Cormac had challenged them to a new kind of contest.

“Who can fill the pots at twenty paces!” he had shouted, jumping on to the long banqueting table and unbuttoning his breeches. “Come now, gentlemen, for you’ve all taken enough wine to have overflowing bladders by now! A contest! Twenty paces, and a gold piece for each pace for the winner!”

As Eochaid had watched, there had been a laughing stampede and they’d all leapt into line, disgusting, obscene, all eager for the prize. There’d been ribaldry and teasing for one of them who had been suffering the concentrated attentions of a lady for most of the evening, and was in a state of natural arousal or as near as made no difference.

“An upright courtier!” cried Cormac gleefully. “Conaire, you’re out of the race, for you’ll never manage more than two drops in that condition!”

And the curious thing, to Eochaid the incomprehensible thing, was that on the very next day, those young men who had stood with the King, pissing into pots placed in a row, had fallen into respectful silence when he entered the Council Chamber, and later had ridden submissively behind him as he rode out at the head of his armies to some ceremony or other. What of royal dignity there!

It was all too much for Eochaid to grapple with, especially at this hour, especially after an entire evening in the Sun Chamber. He would have to send for a marigold draught or a glass of cold wine to settle his stomach.

“Be bothered to being High King!” said Eochaid Bres crossly and went in search of medicament.

*

Bricriu was composing himself for sleep as well, but unlike the King (if you could think of Mab’s boy as King which Bricriu found difficult), had not been so easily able to banish his worries. It was all very well for Mab to smile and shrug and say Eochaid was young, he could be moulded — yes, and then go off to eye with greedy delight the dark-haired young traveller! Eochaid was not so young as all that; in fact, Bricriu thought he had been born middle-aged, and he was certainly not as mouldable as Mab seemed to think. Mab said Eochaid was a puppet King, a figurehead; that it was she and Bricriu who ruled, but Bricriu was becoming uneasy. Eochaid was rather more than a puppet of late; he was developing a will of his own. You had only to look at the way he had growled at them all tonight, and at how he had gone off dancing and carousing with the chieftain’s lady. Quite out of character that had been, and if Eochaid could do one thing out of character he could do others. Only look, as well, at how he had broken Bricriu’s careful policy of refusing entrance to strangers and invited in the two young men who had come to the West Gate. Bricriu looked at this very carefully indeed, and did not like it. Eochaid seemed to be developing a streak of independence, if not of downright rebelliousness, and the one was as bad as the other. It would not do for Eochaid to start making his own laws; Bricriu did not know what matters were coming to when Kings thought they could do that. No, Eochaid must be got firmly back on the path that Bricriu intended him to tread, and they could all relax again. He had not spent those weeks and months consulting with the sorcerers for nothing. He had certainly not taken part in those long and incomprehensible rituals — and some of them had been disgusting! — just to see Ireland snatched from his grasp by a stupid obstinate puppet. Bricriu was going to make Ireland the most powerful country in the world; he was going to send out armies to conquer all the other civilised nations, and once they had been conquered, Ireland would rule the world. And Bricriu would rule Ireland. It was a heady thought.

It would happen as well, Bricriu had determined on that, and he had sought out the most powerful of the sorcerers to make sure of it. The armies that he would send out from Tara would be victorious because they would have the sorcerers at their beck and call, and wars waged using sorcery were nearly always successful.

He had had to make use of the Dark Sorcerers, of course, but he thought you could not have everything. The battles would, as a result, be really rather gruesome at times, but since the battles would not be in Ireland, Bricriu was not disposed to worry over-much.

He sighed contentedly, and was glad, rather than otherwise, that he had not summoned any of the Court ladies to his bed tonight. Really, when you came down to it, there was nothing as satisfying as the thrill of power. And Bricriu was going to be very powerful indeed.

Mab should not stand in his way; Mab had an unexpected habit of showing squeamishness at times, Bricriu had noticed it more than once. She thought that captives ought to be treated with respect, and she had wanted him to post sentries at all the borders between here and Muileann; “In case of attack from the Miller’s people,” she had said. Bricriu had not cared if the Miller’s people had attacked and taken off the entire Court, just so long as he himself was left safe. You could replace courtiers. You could not replace Bricriu.

Eochaid Bres should not stand in his way either. He could not be removed, of course, for they needed someone with a vein of royal blood in him, even if it was only a thin trickle. But he would certainly have to be distracted. Perhaps the boy should be married. It would occupy his mind if nothing else. Kings so easily became bored, and everyone knew what happened when Kings were bored; they squabbled and had petty disputes with their chieftains — which was apt to be expensive — or they took to womanising or drinking — which was apt to be injurious to their health. Bricriu did not want Eochaid either bankrupt or poxed, or not until he had found an acceptable replacement for him at any rate. And of course, a High King ought to be married. Bricriu ran his mind over several likely candidates for Eochaid’s consideration, but this one was too old, and that one too ill-favoured, and a third too nearly related to the Wolfline. They could not have a Princess of Tara who could not bear children, and they did not want one who was so ugly she would have to wear a bag over her head on State occasions, and they certainly dare not risk one who might owe allegiance to the exiled Cormac. There were enough spies at Tara as it was.

Spies.

The little niggling worry about the two strangers slid into the forefront of Bricriu’s mind and he gave it at last his full attention. Just supposing that the two young men, the one fair, the other dark, had come from an enemy? Supposing they had come from Cormac himself? Bricriu had known Cormac as a boy; he had known Cormac’s father as well, and he knew that Scáthach, grim ugly fortress, would not keep Cormac imprisoned for long. He would break out and muster an army, and it was no comfort to ask what kind of an army the exiled King could gather, because Bricriu knew very well that Cait Fian and the people of the Morne Mountains would ride out under Cormac’s standard. And Cait Fian was not an enemy to be regarded lightly. With Cait Fian on his side, Cormac would put up a very good fight to regain his lost Kingdom, and there was always the chance he might win. Bricriu had done all he could to guard Tara against such assault; he had bound the Bright Palace with as many enchantments as he had been able to buy — although his thrifty soul had been very much shocked at the greediness of the sorcerers — and Tara was very nearly impregnable.

But it was not absolutely impregnable …

The Girdle of Gold had long since been lost to the High Kings of course; he knew that. And Tara’s sorcerers had never ceased to search for it — or so they would have you believe. “Ever since the Lady Dierdriu’s day,” they always said, their faces bland.

Bricriu did not entirely trust the sorcerers, although he did not say so directly. They were automatically bound to the one who ruled from Tara, of course; they always swore an Oath at a coronation, and it was all very impressive. But in reality they were as venal as the next man; they knew how to swear an Oath and avoid looking you in the eye, and they certainly knew how to find out loopholes in an Oath as well.

And so when the sorcerers told him they continually searched for the Girdle of Gold so that it might be restored to Tara, Bricriu was inclined to be very sceptical indeed. He thought the sorcerers knew very well where the Girdle of Gold was. With the Erl-King?

“We did not say that,” said the wily sorcerers. “But your honour knows that no enchantment can be used simultaneously by two different people.” And they avoided Bricriu’s eyes again, so that Bricriu thought: aha! So the Erl-King has commandeered the Girdle for his Citadal, has he? It was not so very surprising if you thought about it. It was not surprising at all if you took into account that the sorcerers — some of them anyway — were probably in the pay of the Erl-King, never mind if they had sworn a thousand Oaths and a million Allegiances.

But Bricriu was annoyed. Without the Girdle of Gold, Tara was vulnerable. Enemies could get in, spies could slip through.

Spies.

Bricriu thought: what would I do if I were Cormac? And back came the answer: send spies into Tara! He considered the idea, and thought it was very likely indeed that Cormac would do just that. It was what anyone would do, thought Bricriu, whose mind worked crablike, and who could not have conceived in a hundred years of Cormac’s forthright swashbuckling methods. Cormac, in fact, had never once thought about spies, about the backstairs way of regaining his kingdom, but still — he’ll send in spies, thought Bricriu. He’ll do that before he does anything else. Spies to find out the number of guards and sentinels; to count the hours of the nightwatches and learn the times of sentry changes. Spies carefully disguised!

Cormac would not know that travellers were no longer welcome at Tara. He would assume that all travellers were made as welcome as he himself had made them, and he would think that a pair of pilgrims would blend easily into any one of the evenings in the Sun Chamber.

The two young travellers who had arrived tonight were exactly the sort of people Cormac would consort with. They bore his stamp, Bricriu had seen that at once. The dark-haired one had a good deal of Cormac’s recklessness about him, you had only to look at him to see it.

Bricriu pondered the matter, and thought that no mistakes must be made. The only thing to do with spies was to kill them as quickly and efficiently as possible before they could get back to their master. The travellers must be dispatched as soon as he could manage it; they must certainly not be allowed to find out anything about the Palace’s fortifications.

A public execution? Make an example of them? No, it was not to be thought of. To do that would make public the fact that the spies had managed to gain entry in the first place. It would make Tara sound an easy target for the raff and skaff of the world, any one of whose rulers would be very pleased to possess the Bright Palace. It would certainly make it sound a cheap conquest for Cormac and the armies he would be trying to raise. People could not be allowed to know that Cormac’s spies had penetrated so far. What was to be done?

They would have to be killed of course, but in such a way that no one would guess the truth. Bricriu considered the matter and thought he would ask the sidh for help. It would mean going down into the Sorcery Chambers which he did not much care for — well, nobody did if the truth was told — but the sidh would have to be properly summoned. They would not be far away in any case, for they were never far from Tara. They served the High Kings in their fashion, but they served Bricriu as well. A very neat little bargain had been struck when Eochaid Bres had been put on the throne; the sidh had helped Bricriu quite considerably then, and perhaps it was time to send them a little offering. These bargains were a two-sided arrangement in any case, and Bricriu was really quite pleased to think he could reciprocate. The fact that the disposal of one of the young men would be to his advantage did not come into the thing. He would call up the sidh and they would certainly take one of the spies.

What about the other one? The sidh would only ever take one human at a time; they were greedy but they only concentrated on one victim at a time. What, then, of the one they did not take? Bricriu tiptoed through the halls, holding his night candle aloft, and as he turned the curve in the stair, the candle throwing huge fantastic shapes on the walls, a plan so simple and so satisfactory slid into his mind that he stood stockstill for a moment and the candle flickered wildly and almost went out. Bricriu shielded it at once with his hand, for he had no mind to be left down here in the dark. He would much prefer not to have gone down to the Sorcery Chambers in the dark to begin with, but it could not be helped, he could not risk being seen, and anyway, enchantments always worked better at night.

But the plan — oh yes, it was beautifully simple, and it would work, because the simplest plans were always the best. He smiled to himself as he made his way down the gilt stairway.

Beltane. In just over a week it would be Beltane. Bonfires and revels and all means of feastings. Rituals, for Tara with its links with the ancient lore, held closely to most of the old rituals. It held very closely to one ritual in particular.

The Beltane Fire. The great mound of wood on the Plain of the Fál, lit with great ceremony by the High King at the Purple Hour, danced round by the Court. And on the summit of the fire …

The Druids had continued the custom when everyone else had long since abandoned it. They kept their secrets and ceremonies, and even the wiliest of the sorcerers had never found out their rituals. The Druids were wise, rather eccentric, but entirely harmless. But on the night of Beltane they worshipped very old gods indeed; some of them so old that their names were lost to the rest of the world, and their powers old before men could communicate with one another.

Every Beltane night, the Druids brought to the Plain of the Fál a rather awesome and slightly grisly practice. The wooden giant. The great rearing Wicker Man, frequently thirty or forty feet in height, cunningly constructed from thin wood and grass, so perfect, so nearly human, that if you had not known it to be a dead thing, a soulless creature of bracken and tree and twig, you might have thought a nightmare had come alive.

The Druids brought it every year, trundling it in silent procession to the Plain, pulling it right up to the fire where it would be burned. It was divided into sections, little hinged compartments that opened and latched shut, and which, once closed, were remarkably difficult to open again. “One of our secrets,” said the Druids courteously, but Bricriu had always believed that some minor sorcery was used in the sealing of the compartments. The Druids had their secrets. In each compartment were live things; pigs, geese, lambs; frequently pigeons and doves. The Wicker Man’s legs would hold the smaller creatures; the stomach and ribcage housed the larger ones. Inside the head, where the brain would have been in a live man, were traditionally put crabs and lobster to represent the sea creatures.

And at the height of the Purple Hour, when the revelries were at their wildest, the Wicker Man with all his prisoners was consigned to the great Beltane Fire, and every single creature inside the wicker cages was burned alive.

The higher the fire the greater the rewards … the more numerous the sacrifice, the better the fertility of the land …

It was many years since the Druids had penned a human sacrifice in the wicker man’s trunk, although Bricriu knew it had once been regarded as a punishment for those convicted of serious crimes. But neither Cormac nor his father had cared for the custom; Cormac had said that burning to death was unnecessarily brutal no matter the crime, and Bricriu believed he had even ordered some kind of draught to be prepared for the condemned animals and birds. The Druids had protested; they had said that blood and flesh and bone must shriek aloud for the sacrifice to be effective; deep and abiding agonies must be endured by the victims to ensure fertility to the land in the coming year. But Cormac had overruled them, for Cormac had always been able to handle the Druids.

The Druids would be very pleased to be given a human sacrifice this year; they would probably swear a strong Allegiance to Eochaid Bres, which meant to Bricriu. They would be extremely discreet about it all as well, for whatever else they might be, they were people of the highest integrity.

Bricriu smiled as he made his way down to the Sorcery Chambers. Yes, it would work.

One to the sidh to be dealt with in the dreadful fashion the sidh dealt with all their victims. The other to the Druids for burning on the Beltane Fire.

It was a very good plan.

*

Sean the Storyteller thought the evening had gone very well. And hadn’t it proved that you had always to be on the alert, always prepared for all kinds of occurrences? It did not do to be caught napping, and Sean had not been caught napping when the travellers had arrived. A nice little entertainment all ready and waiting, and very appropriate too. It had been a surprise to them all when the King had given permission for the travellers to be brought up, for he was as inhospitable as a hedgehog as a rule. But of course, he was King only in name, they all knew that. It was Bricriu the Fox who ruled.

But there the travellers had been, and there the King had been, and there the entertainment had been. The King had certainly not suspected that Sean had not made it up on the spot. It was not so very difficult to fool the lions a little.

It was very nearly impossible to fool Bricriu, of course. The Fox had looked at Sean rather sardonically when the announcement had been made, and Mab of course would have known straight off that the ballad and its staging bore the marks of a carefully rehearsed piece. Didn’t Mab know all about playacting anyway, for didn’t she spend half her time doing just that, only that no one except Sean had ever realised it. Sean grinned and made himself more comfortable in the large old bed. He could tell a tale or two about Mab if he cared to! More than a tale or two!

Still, who couldn’t?

*

In her silk hung bedchamber, Mab was not thinking about the evening or about Sean’s entertainment, or about Bricriu or Eochaid Bres. She was drowsy and warm, and she was thinking about how soon she would have Flynn in her bed.

Tonight would have been much too soon, although the boy would almost certainly have come if she had beckoned. But it would put an edge on both their appetites to linger a little, to eye one another, to brush hands and thighs, to exchange smiles. Just as she had done with the young Cormac all those years ago.

Remarkable how she still thought about him, even after he had hurt and humiliated her.

Flynn would not humiliate her as Cormac had. He would not be allowed to. Yes, it would be amusing to plan Flynn’s seduction. He was slender and he was very nearly slight in build, but there was a steely strength to him for all that. Like Cormac. Cormac had been slim and narrow-hipped, but no one had ever thought for a moment that Cormac could not best any man in any fight. For a moment, when Flynn had walked into the Sun Chamber tonight, Mab had thought it was Cormac who stood there. The Wolfking returned …

She frowned and pulled the bedcovers about her. Cormac was at Scáthach, Cormac deserved to be at Scáthach. He had been vanquished and banished, and there was an end to it.

Beltane would be the right time to seduce Flynn. Beltane was the night when passions ran high and blood ran hot, and people were aroused by the fires and the giant Wicker Man. The heat and the firelight and the screaming of the burning animals let loose frantic passions in people; Mab had seen it so many times. It was a remarkable sight to watch the wooden giant ablaze against the night sky, to hear the screams of the dying animals. It aroused some curious passions in the watchers. Mab had stood back sometimes and watched them all roused to frenzy, so that they fell on those who stood nearest to them, tearing off clothing, unable to wait for privacy, doing it there on the grass in full view of everyone.

Fornication and sodomy were commonplace at Beltane. Bestiality as well, for if the men could not get a woman, a sheep or a pig would do. When you were desperate, they said, you never noticed the difference. If it came to that, where was the difference anyway?

In the dark, Mab’s lips curved in a smile.

Beltane.

CHAPTER TWELVE

John Grady and Brian Muldooney, estimable and respectable gentlemen of stout hearts if scant imagination, were cold and tired and hungry. They were also befuddled by their surroundings, although Grady said that wasn’t it simply that they’d taken a wrong turning in the dark, and Muldooney thought for sure they’d fallen down a well into an underground maze and come out the other side.

“But,” said Grady pointing, “we are not so very far from Tugaim. See, there, surely is the Gealtacht. The House of Mutants.”

Muldooney shivered and wished they had thought to bring warm coats with them, and was inclined to be disinterested in the Gealtacht.

“But it is a landmark,” said Grady rather irritably. “We may see from it where we are, for there is certainly not another such building in Tugaim.”

Muldooney said he’d never known the Gealtacht had a bridge crossing over to it.

“Nor did I. Or that it was so big.” The two men, accustomed all their lives to the smallish, sparsish dwellings which had been built since Devastation, stared in awe at the crouching lowering shape ahead of them. At length, John Grady, who knew that all parties should have a leader, and who did not forget that he was an Elder of Tugaim, said, “Well it cannot be anywhere other than the Gealtacht. And I believe the landscape to be familiar now I look.” Now that he did look, he could see the wasteful frivolous orchard that Michael O’Connor was so proud of, a shocking sight it was as well, and it stretching half across the countryside, taking up land that would have been better given over to hay and wheat and good sturdy root vegetables. John Grady had not realised quite how far the O’Connor orchards did stretch in fact, and he was very surprised to see that they seemed to stretch a very long way indeed. Of course, everything looked different at night.

“Of course everything looks different at night,” he said, and Muldooney, who seldom, if ever, went out after dark, but liked to tell what you could do of an afternoon, grunted. Exactly like one of his pigs! thought Grady disgustedly, and stalked off ahead, so that Muldooney thought wasn’t Grady the Landgrabber an intolerant one, and him with a walk like one of his own chickens.

“Will we make for the Gealtacht?” he asked, puffing a bit as he struggled to keep pace with Grady. “Will we be going right up to the house?” he said, and quelled a shudder, for he knew as well as anyone the grisly tales told about the Gealtacht, and he thought that the poor creatures inside it were better off alone. No sight for a pig farmer to witness. No sight for anyone to witness, really.

“I think we should,” said Grady, who liked as little as Muldooney the thought of the inhabitants of the House of Mutants, but who was not going to leave any corner unsearched in his quest for his erring daughter.

“We’ll go on up,” he said, pleased to have a definite plan, and Muldooney, relieved to be told what to do, wanted to know had Grady ever been this way before. To himself he thought the man had a very familiar way about the handling of all this. If Muldooney had not known better than to even think it, he might even have said that Grady knew the path to the Gealtacht very well indeed.

John said, “I have been here, but not for a very long time.” And pulled down his brows because when you were an Elder, you had sometimes to perform disagreeable tasks, and one of those was the incarcerating of children inside the Gealtacht. People were inclined to be ridiculously sentimental when it came to children, and John had sometimes had to be quite firm. You could not possibly have Mutants running wild all over Tugaim (or anywhere else of course), mingling with normal folk and breeding. He was glad to think he had never been guilty of neglect in his duties.

And so although he thought he knew the road to the Gealtacht quite well, he found, rather to his surprise, that it was not quite as he remembered it. Of course, it had been a good many years since he had been called in to arbitrate over the question of putting away a Mutant child. Truth to tell, he was feeling the smallest bit uneasy out here in the dark with orchards that had doubled, if not trebled in size overnight, and paths and roads that were familiar and yet not familiar at all. He had begun to have the feeling that something very peculiar indeed had happened — something to do with those lights earlier on, was it? — and he was very glad to think he was not possessed of a ridiculous imagination, or he might start thinking all kinds of things. They would go up to the Gealtacht, he was an Elder of Tugaim and it was not the first time he had been here. The chances were that they would find Joanna, because it was just the sort of place that Flynn O’Connor would bring her to. John had even heard them once discussing the Mutants as if the creatures were no different to everyone else. Absolutely ridiculous! Still, walking cautiously through the darkness now, John was aware of uneasiness, because the place seemed so very different by night, and he was glad all over again that he did not possess anything so frivolous as imagination.

Muldooney did not possess any imagination either; he was not thinking anything other than how grand it would be just to sit down and eat a hearty meal. A plateful of roast chicken would be very nice. He was very partial to roast chicken, the skin nicely crisped and served up with well mashed potatoes and a few early peas. It seemed a long time since they’d eaten.

Neither of the men paid any attention to the small, curiously shaped shadow that detached itself from the trees and fell in behind them.

Portan, keeping far enough behind the two men to remain hidden, spared a thought for Flynn and Amairgen when they returned in the morning. Would she be able to get back to the dry snug little cave she had made for herself? She thought she would. It was unthinkable that she should not be there waiting for them. But it was important to keep track of these two, it was important to see where they went and what they did, and overhear what they said if that was possible. They were enemies, both of them, Portan knew that. She had smelled them for enemies back in Tugaim, and she smelled them for enemies now. They would harm Amairgen and her beloved Flynn, and if there was any way of preventing that, Portan would prevent it. She thought she would follow them for a while and see where they went, and then she would go back to the dry snug cave and wait for morning.

She pulled Flynn’s cloak about her, and padded silently on down the dark tree-lined road.

Muldooney said, “There’s something following us.”

Something? John Grady frowned.

“I tell you I hear it!” And so would you, thought Muldooney, if you were not so puffed up with your own pomposity.

“I think you are imagining it, my friend.”

Muldooney was rather affronted by such an accusation, for didn’t a man leave all that kind of nonsense behind him when he farmed pigs. Pigs left no time for imagination, not that he’d had any to begin with he was glad to say. They told how the Letheans had had imagination, and look where the Letheans had ended. No thank you. Muldooney would stick to his pigs, and be thankful that he had not such a handicap as an imagination. Even so …

“There is something,” he said, and slowed his pace a little nodding to the other man to do the same.

And then Grady heard it as well. Soft padding footsteps. Furtive footsteps. Someone — something? — coming up quietly behind them in the dark. He hesitated, seeing the looming bulk of the darkened fortress ahead, and he shivered a little, for even if you had no imagination, you could not but be aware of the tales that hung about that place. Supposing …

Common-sense reasserted itself. He said, very softly, “Keep on walking. And then when we get round that curve in the road, hide in the trees. We can pounce on it then. But be prepared. For it may bite and it may be very strong. They are, I believe.” Some long-buried streak of cruelty made him add, “If it is a Mutant it may have claws.” And he felt a rather surprising spurt of satisfaction as Muldooney’s face paled. “You know what they say about that place,” said John Grady, nodding in the direction of the dark castle. “Ready?”

Muldooney was not really ready, and he was not really interested in capturing whatever it was that had been following them, Mutant or otherwise. He thought they could have just gone quietly on and he thought they could very well have ignored whatever had been following them. No sense in courting trouble! But Grady the Landgrabber was out for a fight and Muldooney was not the man to be found wanting. It never did to run away from a fight, people talked about you if you did. He could see it already, the way they’d talk. Brian Muldooney? they’d say with a smirk. Oh, he’s no use in a fight. Runs away. Yellow as a dead fish. Couldn’t even keep the Grady girl after he’d been conjoined to her. And the next thing would be that people would be buying their pigs from Fingal O’Dulihan. So Muldooney set his jaw pugnaciously and stumbled after Grady into the shelter of the forest fringe, and hoped that the creature, whatever it was, did not bite very hard.

Portan did not bite; she did not even struggle very much. She was totally unprepared for the attack, and in any case, she had no defences against this kind of violence. Sexual abuse she knew about and could endure; neglect and loneliness she also understood. But the sudden swoop on a darkened road, the coat over her head, the blow that sent her reeling and dizzy, were so alien to her that she was easily overcome.

John Grady straightened up from tying his coat about Portan and found that the encounter had excited him. Remarkable. A Lethean emotion he dared say, and not something to be admitted to. He looked at Portan, helpless at their feet, and felt a warm arousal.

“A Mutant,” he said, his voice carefully colourless. “An escaped Mutant. My friend, this is a very great piece of luck for us.”

“What do we do with it?” Muldooney had not caught the rippling excitement that had coursed through John Grady’s body, but he had caught something, and he was rather disgusted. There flickered in his mind the suspicion that Grady the Landgrabber had actually enjoyed the encounter, and he was genuinely appalled. Muldooney could not kill one of his own pigs, and had to send for Fingal O’Dulihan to do it for him, and even then had to retire to the scullery while it was being done. He sent Grady a sideways glance and saw that the man was flushed and that there was a hard glitter in his eyes. “What do we do now?” he said, and hoped the answer would be one he could comfortably cope with.

“Why,” said John Grady slowly and with a lick of pleasure, “why, we take it back to where it came from.”

“Up there?”

“Of course,” said Grady smiling. “They’ll be so pleased with us to have it back, that they’ll soon tell us if Joanna and the O’Connor boy are hiding up there.”

*

Flynn and Amairgen stepped out through the door of the bedchamber they had been allotted and moved cautiously and stealthily down the starlit halls.

Flynn said wonderingly, “Even like this, in the deepest hours of the night, it is not entirely dark.” And then, with a sudden note of firmness, “Where shall we search first?”

“I think it will be a fruitless search,” said Amairgen slowly. “I do not think Joanna is here.”

Flynn did not think it either. He thought that if she had been he would surely have known. He would have sensed it.

You could not be near to me, my love, and I not know it. But he thought that he would tear the walls down and take Tara apart section by section if there was any chance of it providing the tiniest clue to Joanna’s whereabouts. He had not calculated how long she had been in the Deep Past now, and he thought that if he did he might very well begin to lose his hold on sanity. Joanna was somewhere in this beautiful, cruel, faintly sinister Ireland, and they must find her.

“We must search,” he said and Amairgen nodded at once and, not for the first time, Flynn blessed all the gods he had ever heard of that Amairgen had accompanied him through the Time Curtain. Without Amairgen, this would have been intolerable.

Amairgen was uneasy. He had sensed that travellers were not welcome at Tara any longer, and he had found it disturbing that they had been admitted at all. The High King had not worried him, for he had seen at once that Eochaid Bres was a straw man, a puppet figurehead, and he thought the strings were probably pulled by Bricriu. He had enjoyed his discussion with Bolg and the Councillors, but he had felt very strongly the dislike and distrust of Bricriu as they sat at supper. That one is suspicious of us, thought Amairgen, and I believe he would not hesitate to harm us. As they walked slowly through the deserted corridors and peered into dimly lit chambers, he began to be aware of something dark and ancient and powerful uncoiling itself far below them.

Flynn said softly, “It is natural you should feel that,” and Amairgen jumped, because he had forgotten the Samhailt’s power, and he had forgotten Flynn’s remarkable possession of it. A faint far-off warmth touched him; he thought that however often he had yearned to make this journey by himself, he had been fortunate indeed to finally make it with Flynn.

Aloud, he said, “You feel it also? The — the darkness?”

“Yes. I think it is that we are directly over the Sorcery Chambers now.”

“You cannot know that.”

“I do know it. The Sorcery Chambers go deep into the earth. They are a labyrinth, stretching for miles, each one deeper than the last. The deeper you go the stronger the magic.” He looked at Amairgen very steadily, and something gleamed in his eyes, so that Amairgen knew that it could no longer be Flynn O’Connor who stood with him, but must be the mighty warrior, Finn of the Fiana, from the far-off days of the High Queen Dierdriu.

“This way,” said Flynn, turning at an intersection without hesitating, and Amairgen, following, thought: yes, he does know. Because he has been here before. When he was Finn, and when he was Dierdriu’s lover.

Flynn said very quietly, “I should like to see her again, Amairgen,” and Amairgen jumped and felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, because it was no longer Flynn’s voice, it was a softer deeper voice now, the cadences different, slower. Delight laced with fear touched him, and he thought he must be very careful not to say anything that would upset the fragile thread that bound Finn to Flynn. He must certainly not do anything to dispel the brief fusing of the two men. And then he thought: but how do I know that it is only a brief fusing, and the horror ran all over him.

Flynn’s voice said with amusement, “It is entirely safe, my friend,” and Amairgen looked up, startled, and thought: yes, but which of them is speaking to me? and remembered that in all of the old stories, Finn of the Fiana had been powerful and sometimes merciless, and also that he had sometimes resorted to sorcery to gain his own way.

But Flynn smiled, and it was the old, familiar smile, and Amairgen relaxed. When Flynn said, “Through here now,” Amairgen followed without the slightest pause.

Flynn had no consciousness of leading them. He was distantly aware of that other presence and of Finn’s strength and his memories, but he was moving without thought and he was certainly acting without quite knowing why. When Amairgen asked, “Where are we going?” Flynn said at once, “To the Rock. To the very core of Tara,” and led them onwards, down stairs and through dimly lit corridors, until the rich marble galleries and the crystal windows began to be left behind, and the floor beneath their feet became rough hewn rock, and the stairs were hacked from granite.

Down, down to the Rock on which Tara was built … Yes, and back, back to the days when Dierdriu charmed the sorcerers into raising the Bright Palace from the Wilderness, and when her constant companion was the great head of the Fiana …

There was no sense of separateness between himself and Finn now; there was a single effortless fusing … I believe Amairgen is right, he thought; I believe that I truly was once Finn, and that he is now within me …

They were within the massive foundations now, and all about them were great rocks, rearing and towering above them, faintly luminous with their own light. “And it is the light that permeates the whole of Tara,” said Flynn, and again Amairgen caught the unfamiliar cadences in his voice, and thought: yes, he speaks with sureness. He was there when it happened. And he shivered, for there was a sense of incalculable age about this place, and there was an oppressive weight of centuries all about them. Their footsteps echoed on the hard rock floor, and from somewhere close by came the faint steady dripping of water.

Flynn’s eyes were shining with a hard clear light now, and Amairgen had to move faster to keep pace with him, for it would be beyond bearing to become lost down here. He was beginning to hope very strenuously that Flynn knew where they were going, but the thought had barely formed as they turned an intersection, and saw ahead a dark, still, underground lake.

Directly in front of them, catching the uncertain light, gleaming gently with the unearthly phosphorescence down here, was the gold-on-rock tracery that had been created by Tara’s sorcerers in the first days.

Amairgen stood very still and felt his skin prickle with fear and delight, for he knew they were seeing something rare and precious and so entirely beautiful that it was almost painful. He said, very softly, “Dierdriu?” and Flynn, his eyes fixed on the carved rock, said at once, “Dierdriu? No. That is Joanna.”

*

“No portrait ever did Dierdriu justice,” said Flynn, as they walked slowly from the underground cavern. “Artists came from every corner of the world, but not one of them ever managed to capture her. The strength and the fragility. The eyes that saw things others did not see. Mischief and authority and integrity all rolled up together. The delight she took in everything and anything. Nothing was ever too trivial for her, and nothing was too great for her to shoulder either. When she lived, Ireland was great, and when she died, a part of Ireland died with her. Forgive me, but I cannot look on that carving without remembering it all.”

Amairgen, choosing his every word now, terrified lest he disturb the delicate balance that existed between Flynn and the long-ago Finn, said, “The etching we saw? The gold carving on the rock —”

“That is Dierdriu,” said Flynn. “It was created by her own sorcerers who loved her and who served her and who would have died for her. But also it is Joanna, Amairgen. When you meet her, you will understand.”

For Joanna is the High Queen returned …

The thought formed in both men’s minds, and Flynn spoke, “It is an ancient belief.”

“That Dierdriu will return?”

“Oh yes. Dierdriu never really died,” and for a moment, an expression of infinite happiness passed over his face. “Dierdriu never died,” said Flynn again, and this time there was complete conviction in his tone. “That was the legend and that is the belief.”

“You are sure of it?”

“I remember it,” said Flynn. “And I believe it is why Joanna has been brought back to her people, Amairgen. The High Queen has awakened. Until I stood here again,” said Flynn, “until I remembered, properly remembered, I did not realise it. But it is what has happened. It was no accident that Joanna came through the Time Curtain. She was taken. Something was waiting for her, and that something has her now.” He frowned. “It was always prophesied,” said Flynn, “that in times of great trouble, Dierdriu would return.” He looked at Amairgen. “I remember it all so well,” said Flynn, and again there was the other presence looking out of his eyes. “Dierdriu has awakened in Joanna, and so Joanna has been brought back.”

Amairgen said, “But Dierdriu would not harm Joanna?”

“Oh no,” said Flynn, but there was suddenly a note of doubt in his voice.

“And if someone is using Joanna, then for the moment she must be safe.” Amairgen touched Flynn’s arm. “Flynn, you must believe that.”

“Yes,” said Flynn. “Yes, for otherwise, it will be unbearable.” He looked at Amairgen. “If Joanna is lost to me, I shall stay here. I shall never go back to Tugaim.”

They looked at one another. Amairgen said slowly, “But you promised.”

“I don’t care. If Joanna is dead, then my place is here.”

“And mine also,” said Amairgen, and felt for the first time, the strong pull of this strange place that ought to have been unfamiliar, and yet was not unfamiliar in the least. He thought he, also, had race-memory, and he thought he, also, was beginning to recognise things in this ancient world. Had he, as well as Flynn, once lived here?

Of course you did, Human Traveller … of course you did …

It came as silvery as the night and as insubstantial as the faint light from the rocks that surrounded them. But both men heard it, and both of them stopped at once. Flynn’s hand came out warningly. Don’t move. Keep very still. And as you value your soul and your sanity and your life, don’t look.

From the corners of his eyes, Amairgen saw Flynn lower his head so that he was staring at the floor. Flynn said very softly, “Close your mind to them. And walk very slowly with me towards the door.”

Do not leave us, Human Travellers. Stay with us, for we are the most desirable of all companions, and we can give you your hearts’ desires …

Hearts’ desires … Flynn’s mind leapt, and he thought: Joanna! And heard with mingled horror and delight the strange cold music he had heard on Tara’s Hill with his father. He thought: the sidh! And even while his heart rejoiced in the beauty of the music, his mind was sending out warnings. Do not look! Do not listen! For they are the coldest, most inhuman creatures in the world!

But we are so beautiful, Flynn … To see us would melt your soul and bum out your eyes, but you would count your soul’s loss as a small price, and you would never want to use your eyes to look on anything ever again …

Don’t listen! cried Flynn’s mind. To look on the sidh is madness and death.

At his side, Amairgen said softly, “But it would be almost worth it, just once, just to see —”

Flynn felt as if an icy dash of water had been thrown into his face. He thought: Amairgen is falling into their enchantment! And so strong, so frantic was the thought, so urgent the wish to protect Amairgen, that he almost fancied the thought took physical shape as it formed.

Amairgen said rather unsteadily, “We should not linger,” and Flynn heard the cry that Amairgen’s mind sent out. Help me! Pull me to safety for I am drowning in their music and I cannot hold out against them much longer. He grasped Amairgen’s hand and began to edge them both nearer to the half-open door.

Creep away, Human Travellers, but we will follow you, we will find you … We will feed on your bodies and on your souls, and you will never again wish to walk in the world of men …

Flynn said, “This door leads down to the Sun Chamber.”

Amairgen, struggling to hold on to something real and ordinary and tangible said, “You are sure?”

“I know it.” Again the certainty, the familiarity with the unfamiliar. I know it because I have lived here and I have died here, and I have walked these halls many times.

But you know it as well, Human Traveller … you are Amairgen the Great Voyager, the one the Cruithin once called the Seafarer, and you once knew Tara so well … Come to us now, Seafarer, for we have sung to you on countless nights as you journeyed across the dark seas of the world … you have heard our music and you have glimpsed our reflections in the oceans’ mirror, and you have longed to follow us …

Amairgen said in a low angry voice, “No. I won’t. You must let me go —”

There was a ripple of amusement and both men saw, on the outer rim of their vision, the blur of blue and green.

The sidh were forming …

Follow us, Seafarer, follow us, for we are more beautiful than any human woman could ever be, and we are more loving and more passionate and once inside our caves you will cease to long for the world of Men, and once you have spilled your seed into us you will cease to desire human women …

Flynn said loudly, “We are not listening,” but he did not move. At his side, Amairgen thought: to succumb to the sidh would be the greatest experience a man could ever have.

Yes, yes, Seafarer, the greatest, the most exquisite pleasure in the Seven Worlds of Men … once you have seen us and tasted us … once you have lain with us in the caves beneath the sea and flown with us in the cities beyond the sky, the world of Men will be forever colourless and drab …

The blue and green smoke was all about them, and Flynn kept his eyes resolutely closed. He could feel the cold silky arms all about him, and he could feel his own body responding, despite all his resolve. Even so, he knew it was Amairgen they wanted, and he thought that the pull on Amairgen must be very great indeed. Amairgen could surely not resist. The sidh were clustering about them now, their arms felt like thin spring water, straight from a mountain glade, silky and sinless, and so soft it would be the most exquisite pleasure to surrender to them …

Come with us to the caves beneath the seas and the cities beyond the skies … dance with us across the clouds and drown with us in the waterlight … swim with us in the music, for music is a living breathing thing in our world … we are the creatures of Pan and it is our task to pour the music into the streams and the rivers of the world, and to lure the dying souls of Men to their Heaven, and to make easy the passing of the Dead …

Flynn’s eyes were tightly shut, but the smoky blue and green shapes still impinged on his vision. He thought he would have given all he possessed to know that Amairgen was not staring into the light, but he sensed that Amairgen was lost to him. He knew the exact moment when the sidh had withdrawn their attention from him and directed their persuasion at Amairgen alone.

Amairgen was indeed lost. The warm languorous scent of the sidh was all about him, and his heartbeat had slowed. He thought he was dying, and he thought that perhaps he was already dead.

Not dead, Human Traveller, only at the beginning …

He felt the cold silky kiss of the sidh and he felt his body so ablaze with longing, and stiff and charged with desire and he thought he knew himself to be lost for all time. His mind was spinning and the queer tuneless music was wrapping itself about him. The longing to look directly at these beautiful inhuman beings was nearly unbearable.

Just for a second … if I could just see them for a second … if I could just be with them for an hour …

For all of your life, Seafarer … for once you have given yourself to us, you will be ours for all time … let us lead you to our world, let us show you the pleasures of that world, and nothing will matter to you ever again …

Amairgen was on fire, he was burning with longing and he began to move into the very centre of the blue and green mists. At his side, Flynn felt icy fear clutch his vitals and he reached out his hand.

“Amairgen?” As he spoke, he heard Amairgen give a low moan, and he felt the last triumphant notes of the sidh’s music, and he felt the sidh’s withdrawal.

He opened his eyes. The room was empty. The sidh had vanished, and Amairgen had vanished with them.

*

Amairgen had not been aware of the moment when he passed through the finite barriers that bounded Tara and entered into the infinite world of the sidh. He had fought the music and he had fought the sensuous pull of the singing and the sweet strong allure of the blue and green mists, but he had known that the moment when he would surrender was fast approaching. He knew he would go into the bewitchment, and he knew he would go willingly — to save Flynn? said a tiny cynical part of his mind. But he knew that it was not to save Flynn, even though Flynn would escape unscathed. If he surrendered now, it would be because he wanted to, because his body was lulled and fired, and aroused beyond all endurance.

There was a low blurred laugh at his side, and then the sidh were pulling him through the boundaries, and all he could see were star-spattered skies — hundreds of them, one for every world that ever lived and ever died, he thought — and there was a whirling impression of silver and of blue and green — the Gates of Paradise, studded with jasper and chalcedony and pearl — where had he read or remembered that? and for a moment he thought the Time Curtain glittered ahead of them, so that he thought: home! I am going home! And felt a wholly unexpected surge of pleasure.

And then lightning cracked and hurt his eyes, and the darkness parted and he was lying on a couch so velvet soft that it was like spring water on his skin, and there was soft green light rippling over the walls, and the floors, and there was such triumph in the sidh’s voices now that a tiny pulse of fear sprang up. I am in their world and I am at their mercy, and it is said that no man looks upon the sidh and lives, that no man experiences their embraces and keeps his sanity.

But it will be worth the loss of your sanity, Amairgen, and it will be worth the loss of your life … Let us take your body and let us take your mind, and let us teach you to forget the world and forswear the love of humans for ever …

Amairgen was beyond all control; his desires had been stirred and his body had been caressed. He lay back and looked at the sidh and saw them in their terrible beauty, and his eyes burned at the sight.

“Love me,” he said in a whisper, and held out his arms.

“Love me.”

Triumphant blue and green music filled the caves as the sidh swarmed over him.

*

In the deepest level of the Sorcery Chambers, Bricriu raised his head and listened. After a moment he smiled. The sidh had not let him down. They had taken the one called Amairgen, and Bricriu knew, as all knew, that no man may dwell in the distant land of the sidh and keep his soul or his sanity. Amairgen might return, for the sidh would cast him out when they had no further use for him, but he would no longer be a threat to Tara or to Bricriu’s plans.

That only left Flynn to deal with.

Flynn would die on the Beltane Fire.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

If Amairgen had been with him, Flynn could have set aside the aching worry for Joanna, and enjoyed, for a little time, the preparations for Beltane. He would have been interested in the traditions and the rituals; in the careful selection of rowan and agaric and woodbine for the fire; in the rule that every fire in the land must be extinguished on the eve of the ceremony.

“For,” explained Bolg, who was rather sorry for the young companion of the captured Amairgen, “the only fire that can burn on Beltane is the Sacred Fire. From midnight all other flames will be quenched.”

But Flynn was encased in misery and numb with grief, and more alone than he had ever been in his life. He would have liked to be part of it, for the excitement running through the palace was so intense as to be almost tangible.

The people of the Court were friendly and sympathetic; they made him one of them, and included him in their plans for Beltane. Sean the Storyteller kept him a place at his side at mealtimes.

“It’s a terrible thing to lose a friend to the sidh,” he said to Flynn. “Terrible. But there was nothing you could have done to save him. The sidh take what they want. Not that that’ll make you feel better, I know. Dear me, it’ll be a grievous loss, I daresay.”

Flynn liked Sean, and tried to question him about other travellers who came to Tara. Did women ever come? And what happened to them? But Sean was vague. It had been different in Cormac’s time, he said. Everyone was made welcome then. But Eochaid Bres and Bricriu the Fox did not care for strangers at Court. It was all very depressing. And what about a flagon of mead while they sat talking?

Flynn drank the mead and talked to the others, but no one seemed to know anything about lone travellers, and when Flynn pressed them for the story of Dierdriu, and the legend that she would one day return, they avoided his eyes and glanced uneasily to where Bricriu sat at the head of the table. Better not to say too much about the old ways, they said. Safer.

“Bricriu doesn’t care to hear such talk,” said Sean and reached for the mead again. “I make it a rule to keep such things out of anything I write,” he added. “You don’t have to go looking for trouble.”

Flynn found the storyteller’s friendship comforting, but the very next night, Sean had entertained the assembled company with a newly written lament, all about a young man who had strayed into the forbidden territories of the sidh and been carried off by them, leaving his friends and his loved ones weeping on the shores of the world. It was a sad moving tale but it was very effective, and Sean told it well, half chanting, half singing. At the end of each stanza was a general lament, in which everyone joined.

“When the Golden Bough bends

You will hear his lament;

Cold and lonely and bereft of content.

He has taken his soul to the Lands of the Sea

And his life is in pawn to the powers of the sidh.

And his love weeps anon

And his soul is in bond;

From the shores of the world he is vanished and gone.

For they hunted him down through the nights of the World

And he’ll never return to the daylight of Men.”

Flynn thought Sean was very talented, but he experienced an angry grief that Sean, whom he had thought a friend, should have seized so carelessly and so greedily on Amairgen’s tragedy, and turned it into an hour’s pleasure for the Court. He looked at the listening faces, and knew a sudden desire for Tugaim and Joanna. He thought: what am I doing here with these cruel, charming, entirely heartless people? I have lost Amairgen, and I am no nearer to finding Joanna.

And there was something else, something so potentially sinister that he had not dared examine it in any further detail.

He had gone, on the morning following Amairgen’s capture, to the West Gate, knowing that Portan would be eagerly waiting for him, finding a great comfort in the knowledge. I have lost Amairgen — perhaps for good — but at least there is Portan, dear loyal Portan. At least there is another with me in this world, that I can trust. I am not quite alone, thought Flynn, walking purposefully through the sunlit halls, thinking how different they looked last night.

He had not thought very much about actually getting out of Tara; he had supposed vaguely that there would be guards of some kind who would unlock the gates and let him through.

He had certainly not expected that he would be barred from leaving.

“Only until Beltane,” explained the sentry of the guard, who felt rather sorry for Flynn, but whose present affluence was all due to Bricriu. “The King doesn’t like anyone to leave until after the ceremonies.”

“But I’m not involved in the ceremonies,” said Flynn, and the sentry, who knew Bricriu’s little ways, thought: oho, and that’s what you think, poor doomed-to-die spy! Aloud, he said soothingly, “Very likely you’re not, but there’s a terrible old danger about on Beltane.”

Flynn said, “But Beltane isn’t until tomorrow.”

“Not it is, nor it is,” said the sentry, who knew what the Fox wanted of him. He leaned forward. “Surely you know,” he said, “that the Eve of Beltane is one of the four nights when the world of men is considered to be loaned to the Dark Powers.” He propped himself up against his box and elaborated. “In safe keeping for most of the year we are,” said the sentry, “but there’s the four nights when the light dims a little, and the Dark Ones find their way through the chinks in the world’s armour.”

Chinks? Armour?

“There’s some say that it’s the sorcerers’ task to throw an armour about the world,” said the sentry. “So it is, of course. But no armour’s entirely impenetrable, only the Girdle of Gold, and, of course, that got lost centuries ago. We all know where it went,” said the sentry, “and we all know that we’ll never get it back, more’s the pity. But there, sorcerers are venal same as the rest of us. They’re open to all kinds of bribery, and everyone knows that the Girdle of Gold is the most powerful defence anyone can have. It ought to be around Tara — so it was once — well, it ought to be around the world,” said the sentry. “But we all know it’s not. And so the armour we’ve got isn’t as strong as it might be. Anything can slip through. And on the four Dark nights, the Evil Ones find it very easy to do just that.” He smiled pityingly at Flynn. “The Eve of Beltane is very vulnerable. His Majesty won’t hear of anyone setting foot outside the Palace,” said the sentry, who knew very well that His Majesty would not have given a tinker’s toss if his entire Court had upped and walked through the West Gate that very minute. “Very particular he is,” said the sentry. “Why you might be seized by a demon the minute you went through that door, and a fine thing that would be!”

“Demons?” said Flynn, child of a world where the word had long since ceased to hold any meaning.

“Dancing on the Plain of the Fál,” said the sentry without so much as the flicker of an eyelid. “Spreading their net to catch souls for their master.”

“Their master?”

“The Erl-King,” said the sentry, and quite suddenly felt afraid, because it was one thing to feed a doomed-to-die spy with a nice little tale that would keep him safely under lock and key for the Fox; it was another thing altogether to speak aloud the name of the ancient evil enemy of them all. Still, it had done the trick; the poor young man looked quite pale, well the sentry probably looked fairly pale himself, because it was a nasty old feeling it gave a man to even think about the Erl-King. The sentry would rather have Bricriu as master any day, even if he did have a terrible old habit of sending people to the Miller’s cages for the smallest of misdemeanours, and summoning up the sidh to snatch a man’s virility right from between his legs! But: better the Miller or the sidh any day than the Erl-King! thought the sentry, and shuddered.

Flynn had not been particularly frightened by the mention of demons — superstitious nonsense, he thought it — but he had listened politely enough.

And then the sentry had spoken that name — the Erl-King — and such a cold fear had sliced through Flynn that for a moment he had been unable to speak. He felt rather sick and rather weak; he experienced the sudden nauseating pain of wrenching an ankle whilst running, or the wincing of a nerve when a fingernail is scratched slowly across a slate surface.

When the sentry said solicitously, “The King doesn’t like any of us to go wandering abroad today,” Flynn nodded. And when the man said with genuine apology: “And I daren’t open the Gate for you,” Flynn said, “No, of course not. It doesn’t matter in the very least,” and turned away.

Portan would surely wait, he thought, after all, it would only be for another day. This time tomorrow he would walk out freely. Surely she would wait another day, thought Flynn, but his mind was still feeling rather sick at hearing the Erl-King’s name, and he was not reasoning as clearly as he might have done. He felt a fresh wave of desolation at Amairgen’s loss, for Amairgen would have given him the courage and the strength to see what ought to be done next.

He managed to persuade himself that it was only what Amairgen had called race-memory. I suppose I once faced the Erl-King in battle, he thought. And with the thought came a glimpse of a terrible menace: a dark citadel in a walled city; a great stone banqueting hall and a stone table. Seated in the stone hall was a creature so uncanny, so soulless that it could scarcely be borne. The Erl-King! Again he felt the cold sickness.

Well, he would wait until tomorrow — Beltane — and he would help with their feastings and their revelries, because it would be something to do, but at the height of it all he would simply walk away.

He became one of them, joining in the party at the central open courtyard, helping to gather the wood for the Sacred Fire, even finding a rather pleasant camaraderie there. When Sean the Storyteller said, “We’ll have to carry this up to the Plain tomorrow,” Flynn at once volunteered to help, thinking that once outside he might seize his chance to get away.

“I’ll help,” he said eagerly, and Sean replied doubtfully, “Well, it’ll be heavy, all this wood. Still, there’ll be several of us.”

“I’ll carry my share,” said Flynn. And thought that he could sling it across his shoulders. It would be easier.

He did not know that in so doing he was setting the most pitiable, most exquisite of all execution traditions. He would walk to the place of his execution, and he would be carrying across his back the instrument of his own terrible death.

*

Portan was very frightened indeed. When the thin-lipped man and the fat, red-faced one had pounced on her, she had been utterly helpless. They had overcome her easily and swiftly, and the thin-lipped one had tied her up quite tightly, so that it was difficult to walk.

She had recognised John Grady almost at once, and there had been a terrible coldness about the recognition. As she half walked and was half dragged along at his side through the dark forest surrounding Tara, she felt herself back in those far-off years when the Elders had searched her family’s house, and dragged her out from the tiny cramped cupboard so cunningly built for just that eventuality.

It had been John Grady, the youngest and the most diligent of the Elders who had found her. Portan could still remember how it had felt to be pulled bodily from the dark suffocating place that she had always believed would represent safety for her. She could remember the expression on John Grady’s face when he held her out before the others and the gloating note in his voice when he said, “A Mutant! An accursed deformity! Throw it into the Gealtacht!” And so her father had gone, by night, and left her crying on the threshold of that terrible place. She had forgiven her father, because she had understood, but she had never forgiven John Grady.

She thought that he had enjoyed wielding his power then, and she thought he was enjoying doing so now. He had fashioned a rope from his belt, had tied it about her neck, and there had been the gloating note in his voice that she had never forgotten.

“You won’t escape me,” he had said. “Do not think you will.”

The other one — Muldooney was it? — had stammered and mumbled; he had said, “Steady on now, Grady,” and John Grady had said at once, “My dear Muldooney, you must not think I am using violence. Violence is a word which has no place in my vocabulary. I am simply being firm. And I daresay the creature is accustomed to being restrained.” He looked down at Portan, who was still crouched on the ground, and a smile touched his lips, and Portan knew, without shadow of a doubt, that he was enjoying his power and his superior strength.

She did not speak. She thought that Grady would not remember her, because he would certainly have dealt with other Mutants since. To him, they would all appear much the same. This was a dreadful thought but it was one that Portan was familiar with. John Grady would not remember the shivering, crying creature he had sentenced to incarceration all those years ago.

She had not spoken yet, other than to cry out in a startled voice, and now, her mind working furiously, she thought that if she stayed absolutely quiet, there would be a better chance of escape. If both these men believed her to be witless, they might relax their guard.

Grady said, “You see? It is quite accustomed to being tied.” And smiled with a dreadful gentleness again.

Portan was by now very frightened. She thought she was not showing it, and she thought she would be able to continue not to show it. It was very important to fool these two men, and it was particularly important to fool John Grady. Grady was searching for Joanna, Flynn’s Joanna, and therefore he would inevitably be searching for Flynn as well. And Portan would have died before she would have divulged the whereabouts of either Flynn or Amairgen to these two men. Padding along quietly at Grady’s side, her mind was working furiously, trying to see a way of escape, trying, as well, to see how she might outwit these two and make her way back to where Flynn and Amairgen would be waiting for her. And even like this, even in the dark forest, dragged along by John Grady, the thought of Flynn and Amairgen brought its own comfort and its own strength. They would expect her to be brave and to use her wits and so she would be. She thought she would probably have died for both of them.

When Flynn had smiled at her in the Gealtacht and told her that she had a gentle face, she had known a rush of immense love for him; when Amairgen had taken her hand in the Dutch barn and promised that he would never allow her to be sent back to the Gealtacht, she had known herself bound to both of them. Forever? Yes, of course. Probably she would never be able to do anything to repay either of them for what they had done for her, but she would watch her every chance. To begin with, she would not let these two men know that she could have told them where Flynn and Amairgen were had they asked.

And so she padded quietly along, and she was humble and obedient, and even a little cowed. In fact, she did not need to pretend about this, for the sight of John Grady, the man who had caused her to be flung into the House of Mutants, had struck such fear in her, that she flinched from him.

John Grady smiled and nodded to himself, and thought that after all it was easy to quench these creatures. You had only to be firm, to show a little strength. Perhaps the Letheans had been in the right of it after all. All men equal, but some more equal than others …

Brian Muldooney would not have thought it of Grady the Landgrabber. No sensitive he, but he had now realised that the other was enjoying the subduing of the poor deformed soul they’d found wandering in the forest. Grady was finding a queer dark pleasure in cowing the creature. Muldooney hoped that once they reached the Gealtacht the poor thing could be handed over, and Grady would revert to normality. To be sure, it was a terrible idea for them to be going up to the Gealtacht in the first place; Muldooney had never thought to see such an event in his life. It was to be hoped, as well, that the journey would not last very much longer, because hadn’t they all been tramping about in this forest for what seemed like hours, and didn’t the grim dark building seem as far away as ever? Muldooney began to doubt that it was the Gealtacht at all, after a while. And now and then there was a curious sound all about them; a kind of mocking laughter, a soft, nearly-out-of-hearing music. Muldooney did not hold with music — nasty frivolous time-wasting stuff — but he found himself pausing to listen, straining to catch the voices inside the music.

You will never reach Scáthach, Men of the Desolate Land …

Be blowed to that! thought Muldooney, who was cold and tired, and who had had quite enough of wandering about in dark forests. Be blowed to that!

You will see, said the silvery music. You will see …

*

The feast of Beltane Eve was nearly at an end. The Court was replete, satisfied. In some cases, it was satiated, and in some cases, it was surfeited.

Sean the Storyteller sighed and leaned back and hoped in the name of all the gods together that no one would call for entertainment. To be sure, couldn’t a man have a bit of a rest now and again. He belched delicately, and reached for the wine.

Eochaid Bres had eaten nearly as much as he could, which was not quite as much as he would have liked, but was certainly more than anyone else had eaten. He drank his wine and eyed his Court, and wished that he could have given them some kind of brilliant witty speech, told them to raise their glasses to something or other — oh yes, of course, to Beltane on the morrow — and that they would all have cheered him. But —

“A speech, Your Majesty?” Bricriu had said, lifting his brows. “Dear me, how enterprising of you. Well, Sire, I can certainly get one of the lesser ollam to pen something; Sean has been at the wine tonight, although of course if you have a preference for his work …?”

Eochaid Bres had grunted and waved Bricriu into dismissal, because he had not wanted any of the ollam to write his speech for him, and he had certainly not wanted Sean to do so. Not that Sean would be very much affected by the wine, of course. He never was. Only look at the really shocking exhibition he made of himself on High Feast Days when the young girls were brought up to Tara to pleasure the visiting chieftains! Eochaid wondered that Sean was not more careful of his dignity and he the chief ollam, and no chicken either! Sean would in fact have written a very good speech for Eochaid to deliver; the only thing wrong with it would have been that every person present would have known it was Sean’s. Eochaid glowered into his stewed hare, and said that Bricriu need not bother, it had only been a passing idea.

Bricriu had enjoyed the feast. A little indigestion afterwards perhaps, but nothing he could not cope with. He thought he might very well send for one of the ladies of the Court tonight; there was no denying that a bit of lovemaking put a grand edge on a man’s appetite, and he was looking forward to ridding the Court of Flynn next day.

The Druids had been calmly pleased at his offer; human sacrifice, they had said seriously, could not be matched and Ireland would have a richer year for it. And of course the poor young man would acquire instant merit with Dagda and the other gods, and be taken at once to the place beneath the Roof of the Ocean, which was all any of them ever aspired to anyway. They had gone away, mentally rubbing their hands, yet physically unmoved.

Bricriu thought he was managing things rather well. Yes, he would certainly send for one of the ladies tonight. Which one should it be? He stretched back in his chair and curled the fingers of one hand about the stem of his wine glass, studying the females.

The rest of the Court, in their varying ways, were relaxing, fighting off a slight sleepiness — weighing up the merits of taking a couple of partners to bed against the benefits of an uninterrupted night’s sleep. The morrow would bring Beltane, the Sacred Fire and the Wicker Man of the Druids. Beltane Night was always a lively one, and it would not do to be found wanting. The older gentlemen thought that a quiet night’s repose would the better armour them for the exigencies of Beltane, while the younger ones thought after all didn’t you need to keep your muscles in good working order? It didn’t do to let a muscle — any muscle — fall into disuse. Everyone knew the terrible stories of people who’d not exercised themselves in anyone’s bed for positively weeks, and then been quite incapable on Beltane Night! It was not exactly obligatory, but it was expected. A matter of honour, you might say.

It was certainly a matter of honour for the Queen to take a lover on Beltane, of course, and speculation as to the identity of this year’s victim ran high. Although, as Sean pointed out, to use the term “victim” was to be rather unkind.

“Sacrifice?” said someone, not altogether jokingly, and Sean scowled and took himself to a corner of the room, there to plot an entirely new kind of entertainment, in which all of the insolent young men of the Court received their just deserts.

At one end of the great banqueting table, Conaire of the Eagles was surreptitiously taking bets as to who was going to be sharing Mab’s bed that night; watched — beknownst to him — by Bricriu, who knew very well that Conaire’s true allegiance lay with Cormac, and knew, as well, that Conaire was astute enough to hide this. Bricriu was not so occupied with the thought of a bed partner for his own bed that he could not be fully alert to a spot of intrigue. He would not have objected to swapping the bedding for the intrigue if he had to. He would, in fact, prefer the intrigue, because the bed thing, though pleasant enough, aggravated his indigestion.

Conaire’s party was generating a good deal of noise over some of the bets that were being placed. Several people had made quite sensible, quite possible nominations for Mab’s choice, but in the main the young men, by now flown with wine and with the anticipation of tomorrow’s feastings, were egging each other on, each bet more outrageous than the last.

Finally, one of them announced that is was an impossible task Conaire had set them, for didn’t they all know that the only qualification needed to get into the Queen’s bed was the ability to keep it up all night, and at that rate, surely any one of them here present might be a candidate.

There was a sudden silence.

Well, mightn’t they? demanded the speaker, suddenly horribly conscious that he had gone out on a limb.

Well as to that, said the young men, of course anyone could keep it up all night, but there were those among them who happened to know, rather particularly, that Mab actually required a few other qualities in her lovers.

Really? said several people, leaning forward and preparing to do battle. What sort of qualities?

Wit. Physical beauty, of course.

Oh, of course, said a number of scoffing voices.

Well, said the first speaker, determined now to brazen it out, the Queen would not want a positive monster on her pillow, that might be quite safely assumed. To which several dissidents said: rubbish! the Queen would sleep with a gargoyle if she wanted to. As long as he could keep it up all night, of course.

Conaire, who had a good deal in common with the exiled Cormac (and was, in fact, some kind of fifth cousin once removed) now entered into the spirit of the thing, and, eyes alight, said with mischief that sure now anyone who had access to the Sorcery Chambers knew how to keep it up all night — how else did old Bolg and the Fox manage? and a shout of laughter went up, causing several of the older courtiers to turn round in their chairs and survey Conaire’s party with a blend of annoyance and envy.

“The Queen’s eye is on our newcomer,” said Conaire with finality, and threw his coins on to the table. “You’ll see. He’s the type Mab has always had a yen for. Don’t any of you see a resemblance?” Conaire was suddenly serious, and the young men, who did see a resemblance, who had seen it the minute Flynn walked in, lowered their eyes and looked furtively to where Eochaid Bres sat, and hoped he was not listening.

But when Mab stood up and held out an imperious hand to Flynn, they grinned and nudged one another, and pushed the pile of coins to Conaire’s place.

“Wit,” said Conaire solemnly. “And physical beauty. Didn’t I tell you?”

“I hope he can keep it up all night,” was the rejoinder.

*

Mab’s bedchamber was like the centre of a rose, soft pink and gold and sweetly perfumed, and Flynn, unused to such splendour, and bewitched by Tara anyway, paused on the threshold and drew in his breath.

Mab, watching, said softly, “Well, Flynn?”

“It is quite the most beautiful room I have ever seen,” said Flynn, and turning to her, took her hands, “Forgive me, but I am unused — in my home we have not these splendours.” And he smiled into her eyes, so that Mab remembered a long-ago night when a young man of Flynn’s age had smiled in just that way. And then had hurt her more than any man, and betrayed her and violated everything she believed in. Anger rose in her, but with it a long-buried desire. He is so like Cormac …

“Come to bed,” she said.

*

In Flynn’s world, the world that followed Devastation, the men and women who had survived had made a set of rules and a set of morals that was as different as it was possible to be from the lusty greedy sleep-anywhere ways of the Letheans. They could not perhaps be blamed for it; they had seen their world burn almost to nothing, and stunned and homeless, they had had to set about the rebuilding of a civilization whose values had succeeded in destroying it.

There should be no more immorality, said those dauntless men and women who crawled up out of the ruins; there should be no more preoccupation with the gratifying of the senses, and there certainly should be no bedding together without some kind of indissoluble commitment. They searched their memories, and came up with the old Bible word fornication. There should be no fornication, said the survivors grimly, and, to give them credit, there was not. Bedding together was a necessary duty, it was not something to be deliberately sought. It was certainly not something to be enjoyed, particularly by ladies, who would find it repulsive. It was something that had to be done, because this sparse new world must have all the brave new inhabitants it could get, and even the Letheans had not found a way of producing children by any other method. But just as the long-dead Victorian age had had its nonconformists, so did this new post-Devastation world.

Flynn was a nonconformist. He knew the rules, and on the surface he kept them. But in the world of post-Devastation, as in the world of the Victorians, it was not difficult to find out places where pleasure might be taken. And Flynn, in company with other kindred spirits, had not infrequently visited the houses once called brothels or seraglios. He had enjoyed his share of drinking in the wine shops, and then of indulging other senses with the ladies who ran the wine shops, and who were not averse to pleasuring blue-eyed, black-haired young gentlemen who had the charm of the devil …

Even faced with a lady who had slept with more lovers than she could remember, Flynn grinned and knew himself perfectly capable of meeting her demands.

And if, at some deeply buried and most secret part of his mind, it occurred to him that in this way he might find out more about Joanna, he managed to keep that thought hidden, and he managed, as well, to quench the memory of Joanna lying alongside him on that last night in Tugaim … He did not precisely think: by doing this, I may learn more about this place and these people, but it occurred to him that it was a way of becoming closer to Tara’s inhabitants. Much closer.

And so he folded away the sweet precious thoughts of Joanna, whom nothing and no one could ever replace for him, and smiled at Mab, and bent forward to trace the delicate line of her jaw, and saw that she was smiling back at him. He moved his hand lower and slid the silk gown from her shoulders.

When Mab said softly, “Come to bed, Flynn,” Flynn said at once, “With every pleasure in the world.”

And went.

*

Conaire and his coterie would have given a good deal to know how the newcomer fared in the Queen’s bed. “Even though,” said Conaire firmly, “we are none of us given to prurience, I trust.” He looked rather hard at Sean the Storyteller when he said this, and Sean instantly said he was not, to be sure he was not, and retired to chew over the idea of a poem based on a rejected suitor spying through the keyhole of his lady’s bedchamber as she disported with her new lover.

But Conaire and the young men would not have been normal if they had not briefly wondered how matters went between Mab and Flynn. They were certainly sufficiently human to remember the suggestion made earlier, that the only qualification needed to enter Mab’s bed was the ability to keep it up all night.

In that, at least, Flynn’s abilities would not have disappointed them.

*

Flynn and Mab breakfasted together in her bedchamber, with the morning sun streaming in to turn the honey transparent and make the warm, fresh bread glisten.

Flynn looked at his companion as she sat carelessly dressed, her hair tousled, her hands cupped about the huge breakfast bowl of mead, as she drank from it hungrily. He recalled the uses those hands had been put to during the night, and involuntarily grinned.

Without looking up, Mab said, “You did not object to any one of them,” and Flynn jumped, and thought it was rather disconcerting to have all your thoughts read.

“Not all,” said Mab and reached for the honey.

“You can read some but not others?” This was interesting, because Flynn had never entirely understood about the Samhailt. He had never understood how it was that some thoughts could be heard or sensed or felt, and some could not.

Mab said, “Those of us who possess the Samhailt also possess the Ancient Code of Honour which charges us to use it without discourtesy.” She looked at him very straightly. “I could hear your innermost thoughts if I wished it, but it is forbidden for me to do that.”

Flynn said cautiously, “But is it not sometimes tempting —” and at once Mab silenced him with a shake of her head.

“No, for that would be to entirely dishonour the Ancient Code.” She regarded him, her head slightly on one side. “No one who has been given the Samhailt would be guilty of misusing it, Flynn.”

“Forgive me, but — you cannot be sure of that —”

“I am sure,” said Mab. “The Samhailt is never bestowed on one who would treat it so wantonly.” The smile deepened and became mischievous. “I have been called a wanton sometimes,” said Mab, “but I would never use the Samhailt so.” She reached out and took his hand. “None of us would,” she said. And then, looking at him again with that unblinking slant-eyed stare, “Would you?” said Mab, and without thinking, Flynn said, “No of course not,” and Mab smiled and withdrew her hand, and reached for the honey again.

Flynn studied her thoughtfully. “You are a very strong lady,” he said.

“Here at Court? Yes, for the King is my son.”

“But even if he were not,” said Flynn, “you would still be so. You have authority. You would always stand out in a crowd.”

“Yes,” said Mab, and Flynn noticed that she did not protest or try to have the compliment embroidered. She would stand out in a crowd, he knew it and so did she, and she did not see any reason to be shy or modest or coy. On an impulse, he asked, “Why have you never stayed with one man?” and thought that in any case what kind of man could possibly keep this remarkable beautiful strong woman for longer than a few nights.

Mab said, “They would tell you — in the Sun Chamber, or on my own estates in the north — that I am any man’s for the asking.”

“That,” said Flynn, “is not entirely true.”

“No. And that is perceptive of you.” They looked at one another, and after a moment, Mab said slowly, “You are rather a remarkable young man, Flynn. I think I only met your like once before in my life.” She took his hand again, and Flynn held his breath, for he sensed she was about to talk to him in a way she did not often do. And despite his impatience to find out about Joanna, and despite the nagging worry, he was fascinated by Mab. She is no longer a young woman, he thought, she is certainly more than twice my age — yes, easily — but she still outshines everyone here at Tara.

Mab said slowly, “There was once someone …”

“Your — the King’s father?”

“Oh no,” said Mab. “Oh no, for that was a union of political advantage, nothing more. I was given to him so that my father could increase his lands. He accepted me so that I might bring to his line the coveted Lionblood. He was a purebred human, you see.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Flynn wondered why he had not realised that it was from Mab that Eochaid Bres had inherited the lion strain. It was there, quite plainly. The unblinking green eyes, the sinuous strength. The grace and the curve of her hands. And last night, she was almost purring beneath my hands, he thought, and smiled inwardly, and wondered was it overly vain to be pleased at having made a woman purr. At an even deeper level, he wondered had it been entirely from a wish to know more about Tara that he had gone to Mab’s bed … Perhaps not, thought Flynn, incurably honest. No, perhaps not. Let us admit that I was a little bit bewitched, and let us certainly admit that I was fascinated … Yes, for sure lady, you bewitched me and you fascinated me. But you did not have it all your own way, thought Flynn, watching Mab over the breakfast table. And he smiled, and thought that whatever might happen to them in the future, and however much he was Joanna’s, and would always be Joanna’s, he would never quite forget Mab.

He thought that the last thought had surfaced, for Mab picked it up, and took his hand and smiled back at him, and said, “But I should not want you to forget, Flynn. That is how it should be. No regrets and no bitternesses. Good memories. In loving you should always give a little of yourself away, and you should always take a little part of the one you have loved.” And then, with sudden vulnerability, “Did you love me last night, Flynn?”

“Yes.”

Mab smiled and leaned back, and the feline look touched her face briefly. “And I you,” she said softly, and the hand that held his flexed a little, as if to show its strength. “You will have a good place in my memories, Flynn.”

“And you in mine, Mab,” and he smiled again, and began to wonder whether he ought not to take her again, like this, across the breakfast table with the honey sticky on the platters and the butter melting, and the breadcrumbs everywhere …

And then Mab said, “It is strange you should ask about Eochaid’s father, for I have not thought of him for years,” and Flynn felt her mood shift, and knew that he would not, after all, reach for her, and that what had been between them would remain sweet and precious, but would never happen again. He thought: she is about to tell me something about this place, and at once his mind came sharply into focus, and the longing to find Joanna became a physical pain. He leaned forward and looked at Mab very intently, and thought that if he could somehow draw the thoughts from her mind and use them to help him rescue Joanna, he would do so without the least heed to the Code that charged possessors of the Samhailt to use it honourably. Be damned to that if it would find Joanna! thought Flynn, and studied Mab and waited. But although he opened his mind to its fullest extent, and although he could almost feel the Samhailt spinning and quivering between them, he could get nothing from her other than a velvety blackness. Because she had veiled her thoughts from him? Yes, probably.

Mab said in a distant voice, “Eochaid’s father was a cypher, no more. I did not love him, and he did not love me. But I was the youngest of my line; I was a princess of the Beastline, and I must be given in marriage where it was expedient.” She paused, and the three-cornered smile lifted her lips. “I did not love him,” she said softly, “but I think I have compensated for that since.” Mab smiled, and Flynn smiled with her, and concentrated every shred of his strength on drawing from her whatever she would tell him.

“It was not time for my House to mate with the Beasts, for the rules governing that are very strict indeed. And it is rarely more often than every fourth or fifth generation that the Ritual is invoked.” She looked at Flynn, seated opposite to her with the morning sun streaming in, and remembered another young man who had also loved her gently and strongly and excitingly, and who had sat with her like this, drinking mead and spreading butter and honey on bread, and touching her hand. Not Flynn, but someone who had been wild and wolfish; someone whose coronation she had come to Court to attend all those years ago … And if I half close my eyes, I can still see him — the Prince of Tara — arrogant and unruly, but so precious to me … Something hot and hurting rose up in her throat, and for the first time for many years she allowed memory its head.

She had no longer been a young woman when she came to Court for the coronation of the wild young Prince. She had been — thirty-five? Perhaps a little more. No longer very young. Certainly beyond the age for dazzlement by a callow youth.

Except that Cormac had never been callow.

The minute she saw him, she had known. That one for me. There had been too many years between them of course — and those years have been strongly lived, she had thought — but even so, she had wanted him.

The difference in their ages had not mattered. It had never mattered. It had certainly not counted with them on those nights — endless, exciting, frustrating — when they had circled one another, warily sizing each other up. All through the coronation ceremonies and the revels and the long, noisy, colourful feastings, they had watched one another, and the

Samhailt had quivered almost continuously between them, and they had both known how it would end.

“I knew I should have him. I knew I must have him. It was like a sickness, an enchantment.” She leaned forward, her face intent. “And for the first time in my life, I was jealous of the pretty pink and white children who came to Court looking for a husband. I was envious to the point of insanity of the girls who were paraded as suitable wives for him. I!” She made a fist of one hand and struck her breast angrily. “I, who had been called the Intoxicating One! Who had once boasted that while I lived there should never be a King crowned in Ireland but he had lain with me.” A pause. “They thought that a good joke, the young men. They said it would become part of the coronation ritual. I did not care. I was imperious and selfish and I did not care what anyone said of me.” Her voice changed. “But I wanted Cormac,” she said softly. “I wanted him more than any man ever before or ever since.” She leaned back and reached for the mead again. “And of course, I got him.”

“Of course,” said Flynn, and smiled, and Mab smiled as well.

“Yes, you understand, don’t you? He could not help himself. He was wild for me; he was beyond reason and beyond logic and I believe he would have done anything in the world to have me. I was — well, let us say fifteen years — his senior but he did not care. He would have sacked cities and toppled empires to have me. And when we finally faced each other with all the barriers down …” Again the shrug. “Oh, it was like a star exploding. Like a forest fire. Like a whirlpool.” She fell silent, and Flynn waited.

“We stayed together in my rooms,” said Mab. “Time had ceased to exist for us, and the rest of the world had become meaningless. There was nothing for either of us but each other, and there was no world except the world we had found. Food was brought to us, and wine, but in truth we ate little and we drank even less. We were drunk on each other, and we needed no false intoxicants. We were helpless and mindless, and we had forgotten that any other world existed.” She paused again, and Flynn lost in her story thought: when she talks like this I can almost see him. Cormac of the Wolves. The High King.

“He was one of the most remarkable looking people you might ever see,” said Mab softly, and Flynn knew she had heard his thoughts again. “Dark and slender, but with such strength and with such authority. Patrician and elegant, also, for he came of an old and honourable line, but wild and arrogant and just a little dangerous.” She smiled. “Yes, he was always just a little dangerous. There was always something there — an aura, a flavour — that made you remember he had Wolfblood in his veins. Teeth and claws where other men were soft. But he could be gentle when you least expected it. That was one of his strengths, of course. Weak men do not dare to be gentle.

“When Cormac entered a room, everyone else appeared colourless. He was alive, he was sizzling with vitality. He was more alive than anyone I have ever known. His Court adored him; they would do anything for him, and they obeyed him unquestioningly. Once I accused him of employing the sorcerers’ arts, but he only laughed at me and said, “There is no sorcery but that which is in the mind, and there is no enchantment but the enchantment of the senses.’” Again there was the pause, the inward-looking expression, and Flynn sat motionless, fascinated and admiring, but just a little jealous as well.

She caught that at once, of course. Stretching out a hand to him Mab said, “You do not need to be jealous, Flynn. It is only that you have stirred up memories for me. You are so like him … I had thought the memories all safely dead you see. I had certainly thought them firmly buried. But here they are, tumbling out into the light. If you had not so reminded me … You have many of his qualities; strength and gentleness all rolled up together. And arrogance.” She studied him. “Yes, the arrogance is there,” said Mab. “You are of the same mould, you and Cormac.”

Flynn did not speak, but he had heard the thoughts behind Mab’s carefully selected words, and he had heard the sudden fear of a woman no longer young, seeing old age approach, alarmed by it. He thought: she knows that to relive the loves of youth is an old woman’s pastime. To see the features of a loved one in the face of another is surely the failing of the aged.

Pity stirred in him for this beautiful aging woman, and he clamped down the emotion at once, for it was not to be thought of that Mab should know of this feeling.

He believed she had not sensed it; he thought she was still lost in the past, living again the days of the Wolfking’s reign.

“Go on,” he said at length. “Tell me.” And remembering how she had earlier seemed to convey her own feelings through her skin, he took her hand between his and felt the skin velvet-smooth.

“The world at last intruded,” said Mab, speaking in a low faraway voice. “We had thought we had escaped it, but of course we had not. No one ever does. And he was the King; there were responsibilities and duties. There were Council Chambers to attend and delegations to receive. There were ceremonies and courtesies and processions, and the King must be at the centre of them all.

“He did not mind, you understand. He had been bred to be King and these things were a part of his life. He did not question them and I never once saw him impatient with them.”

She fell silent, and Flynn said tentatively, “You said he dealt you a — a discourtesy. An insult. A blow of some kind.”

“Yes,” said Mab and smiled again, but this time it was a cat smile, a lion smile, and Flynn felt as if delicately sharpened claws had been drawn down along his spine. He shivered.

“Oh yes, he dealt me an insult,” said Mab softly, and now there was a lick of pleasure in her voice, so that Flynn thought for all her apparent vulnerability and for all her charm, here was a very formidable opponent: I must be careful not to make an enemy of this one …

“But I dealt him a greater blow,” said Mab leaning forward, her eyes flaring with triumph. “I dealt him the greatest blow he could ever suffer, Flynn. I deposed him and exiled him and set up my son in his place. For that he will never forgive me.” She sat back and nodded, and there again, startlingly, was the ageing, memory-ridden, rather pitiable creature Flynn had glimpsed earlier.

He said gently, “Tell me what Cormac did. Will you?”

Mab said, “I have never told anyone,” and looked suddenly uncertain.

“It would not matter. I am not of Tara. I am a traveller, a wayfarer. And I shall soon be gone.” Her hand moved uncertainly in his.

“Yes,” said Mab softly, “yes, you will soon be gone, Flynn. They come and they go, the young men. It is so long …

“Tell me,” said Flynn, softly, insistently, and at length, Mab lifted her head and looked at him.

She said slowly, “He violated the most sacred, most ancient of all our laws. The intermingling of the blood of the humans and the beasts.

“He lay with the she-wolves one night in the forest, and for that I can never forgive him.”

*

It was as real to her as if it had only just happened. Another sign of encroaching age? Yes, of course, but she would disregard it. She could ignore it a little longer. She was still the Intoxicating One; she could still get any man she wanted, and the Court still took and made bets over her lovers. While I can still maintain the legend I am safe. I can cheat age a little longer yet.

But none of the young men she had slept with since had stirred her in the way that Cormac had done; none of them had touched her heart and her soul, though many of them had possessed her body.

None of them had ever dispelled Cormac’s memory. Could Flynn have done? She looked at him and thought: oh yes, I believe Flynn might just have done. He has the recklessness and the dark arrogance, and oh yes, thought Mab, Flynn might just have done. If only it had not been too late, if only I had never loved Cormac … She had loved Cormac fiercely and wildly, and of course it had been wholly wrong. She had been born too early, or he had been born too late. But she had thought, all those years ago, that it did not matter; they could have toppled the conventions and ruled Ireland together.

And Ireland would have become truly great.

She had even thought of the children she would give him; she had seen them all so clearly in her mind, then and since, and there had been nights — many of them — when she had wept for those lost, never-to-be, little ones.

In the end, she had hated him as violently as she had loved him, and her hatred had kept her alive. For at least I have lived and at least I have loved! she had thought.

Coming out of the warm, silk-hung, rose bedchamber into the world had been like coming out of a warm drowsy scented bath. She had been a little confused by the harsh noisy world, a little dizzy, like a man faced with strong sunlight after many hours in a dim quiet cell.

The real world, the world of the Court, had broken through at last; Cormac had torn himself from her side with promises and vows to return.

“A night — two at the most — and then I will be back.” A swift grin. “Hone your appetite my lady.” And then he was gone with the casualness and the absence of ceremony that characterised him. She had stood at the narrow curtained window of her rooms, watching him ride out of Tara to some minor ceremony or other, attendants in line behind him, the small covey of Wolves, without which he never travelled, bringing up the rear. She had never seen him without at least two Wolves at his heels.

He had lifted his hand to her window in a salute, and she had smiled, and pride had swept through her, nearly overwhelming her with its intensity. He is mine. And in two nights he will return.

But the silk-hung bedchamber had become stifling in its emptiness; the fire still burned in the hearth, but it burned for no one, and she remembered how it had danced across the ceiling for them, only the night before, enclosing them in a firelit cave. Outside the window, the Purple Hour was at its deepest now; unbearable for her because she was alone: “For I had sat on the window seat of my room with the night scents drifting in, and I had heard the nightbirds sing the Evening Song, and I had loved it because he was there with me.”

Towards the evening of the second day, she had gone walking in the forest, uncaring of the dangers that lurked there, knowing herself equal to most forms of attack.

“The Lionblood was not as pronounced in me as in the men of my family, but it was there. I could have given a good account of myself. Physical attack did not bother me. And sorcery could be fought with more sorcery.

“I had my own sorcerers, and I knew enough to protect myself from the spells of my enemies.”

The Purple Hour was creeping over the land, and the forest was an enchanted place at that time of day. She had moved silently among the trees, now and again fancying she could hear them waking — “Although that is something we all fancy at the Purple Hour, and of course they never do wake” — enjoying the deepening shadows. All about her, the forest was coming alive; there were stealthy patterings of feet, and the soft beating of wings on the air. There were glimpses of small woodland creatures that did not venture out by day.

And then she had come out on to the edge of a clearing and there he had been. “As if I had after all captured a wandering spell and conjured him up for my eyes to feast on.”

She had felt a huge and surprised joy invade her body and she had made as if to run towards him. And then she had stopped.

For Cormac was not alone.

*

“The rules governing the joining of animals with humans are very strict,” said Mab. “For the balance that must be maintained is a very delicate one. To allow human blood and animal blood to mingle at the wrong generation is not only disastrous, but dangerous. A generation too soon and monsters are brought forth; a generation too late, and the strain can be lost altogether. Both of these have happened, Flynn. Families have been reduced to the plain unalloyed human blood by misjudging the time for the Ritual of the Bloodline; also, dreadful deformities have been created by invoking the Ritual too soon. Hideous creatures who must be incarcerated for their own safety and for the sake of common pity. You look surprised, Flynn. We are a cruel race, but we are not entirely merciless.”

“No. It was not that. Please go on.” But Flynn was surprised; he was shocked and rather sickened, but he thought: so after all nothing changes so very much.

Mab said, “Despite the risks, every High King must possess a vein of beastblood within him, for Tara can never be ruled by the humans, otherwise it will die.”

“How do you know that?”

“We all know it. A terrible and powerful sorceress once placed a curse on the Royal line, and the curse can only be kept at bay by never having a purebred human on the throne. Always there must be a vein of beastblood. That is the bedrock of all our religions and all our beliefs, and the first High Queen, Dierdriu, appointed the Twelve Judges of the Bloodline. Dierdriu was a pure human, but she knew that the only way to protect Tara from the sorceress’s curse was to ensure that a human never occupied the Sun Chamber.

“The Sorcerers of Tara created the Enchantment of the Bloodline — the Six Ancient Royal Houses — so that the curse should be kept forever at bay,” said Mab. “They say it was the night that Tara’s history really began, the night of that first Ritual of the Bloodline. They say that the land was so filled with enchantment and strong magic, that if you had by some means been able to look down on Ireland from the skies, you would have seen it thrumming and shimmering wrapped about in its own mysticism, wreathed in spells and alive and alight with bewitchment.”

She paused, and Flynn said, “Go on.”

“The sorcerers brought the Enchantment straight from their Looms by torchlit procession across Tara’s Hill,” said Mab. “Past the Fál on the Hill’s summit; through the forests and into the clearing where, so it is said, Ireland’s heart lies.

“It would have been the Purple Hour, for that is the time of the day when magic is abroad, and they would have wanted to harness the Purple Hour’s own natural forces. They met in the clearing, and the Six Families were there, probably wearing ceremonial robes, although we cannot be sure — the legends vary. But it would have been a solemn and an awesome sight, I think.”

She fell silent again, and Flynn waited.

“There has never been a night in Ireland’s history to equal that, I think,” said Mab, “although when the Ritual is invoked now, it is very impressive indeed.”

“You have seen it?”

“Once. Yes, once, when it was decreed that the Eagleline should be strengthened.” Mab looked at Flynn. “Dierdriu created the Panel of Judges, so that the weakness or strength of the Bloodline could be properly controlled. The Judges are taken from the wisest and the most honourable of our people; to be one of the Twelve is a hereditary appointment, and the line has been unbroken since Dierdriu’s time. Every family who possesses the Bloodline of the Beasts must appear before the Judges each time a child is born, so that the Bloodline can be constantly measured. If the Judges decide that the Blood is weakening, they may order the Ritual.

“Or sometimes,” said Mab, “a new Bloodline is created. Perhaps the family’s head has rendered the High King a service, or perhaps a son has distinguished himself in battle. Then the High King may confer the Bloodline. That is the highest honour we have, and it is greatly prized, though seldom bestowed. That is why we have several Houses that we term a lesser nobility. And when the Bloodline is bestowed, the family is permitted to choose its own emblem — that is the Beastline with which it will be joined. The Ritual is performed then, always in the same place. For magic lingers,” said Mab seriously. “Once an enchantment has been performed in a particular place, then the enchantment never quite fades. That is why it is always the clearing which is called Ireland’s heart. It is a place so permeated with magic that it is forbidden to pure humans. But you will know this,” said Mab looking at Flynn.

And Flynn, remembering nearly too late that he was supposed to be a part of this world, said, “Yes, of course I know it. Go on.”

“Only the immediate family may attend, although it is also permitted that the Six Ancient Houses can send a representative. There is a procession by torchlight, and the air is heavy and scented. We do not see the Enchantment, for the sorcerers are jealous of their secrets, and rightly so. It would not do for such things to be abused. And so the Enchantment is woven in secret, and brought to the clearing, and the Ritual takes place. But only the Judges may decide. And only the Judges may decide whether it is a girl who will receive the beast seed and give birth, or whether it is a man who will give his seed to the beast. Unplanned lying with the beasts is forbidden, for to do so might result in the birth of those pitiable mutilations which we know of from our historians and our scholars. It is one of our strictest laws, and to flout it is punishable by mutilation and exile.”

Flynn said, “And that night in the forest —”

“Yes,” said Mab, and her hand came out to his. “Yes, Cormac violated the law and flouted the most sacred of all our beliefs.” She stared at the past again, and then after a moment began to speak, unwillingly at first, and then faster, the words pouring from her as if she was at last able to purge her mind of the bitter memories.

*

The light had almost gone when she reached the clearing, but it had not entirely gone. It was possible to recognise the features of a loved one. It was certainly possible to see the clearing for the hallowed place of Ritual: the place that in Dierdriu’s time had been called Ireland’s heart.

It was also possible to identify the low lean outlines of the creatures there with him. And he had rarely been without at least two in attendance at any given time …

Cormac was standing in the clearing, clad only in a pair of breeches. His arms and shoulders and his feet were bare, and there was a look on his face that Mab had never seen before.

“Hungry. Inhuman. Bestial. He looked as if he might rip open an enemy with his bare hands and exult in the blood. He was more wolfish than I have ever seen him before or since. He was so alien; it was as if another being was possessing him. And to see him there like that, in that place …”

She had been afraid, but she had stayed where she was, hidden by the trees and by the approaching night, unable to leave.

“I could feel the magic stirring all about us, and I did not know what forces might be abroad. But I had to see. I had to see if I could understand.”

The Wolves had sensed the change in him, of course. Mab had only before seen them obedient and docile with him. Now they treated him as one of themselves, rolling in the grass at his feet, jumping up to lick his face. As Mab watched, Cormac had knelt and pulled one of the she-wolves close and licked her face in return, and a shiver of pure delight had gone through the animal.

They leapt at him and pushed him on to the ground, rolling over with him on the forest floor, fur and teeth and skin all blurred together, so that it was impossible to tell which was the human and which the wolves.

The male wolves were panting, their tongues hanging out of their muzzles, their bodies sexually aroused. Fear and horror had gripped her, for she had known what was about to happen.

“I could not have prevented it. He was more wolf than man by now; perhaps he was all wolf. He would have torn out my throat and the wolves would have finished off what he left.”

She had stayed where she was, unable to move, and unable to look away, and she had seen everything.

Cormac had raised himself to a kneeling position, thighs apart on the ground. He had pulled the nearer of the she-wolves to him with one hand, while the other hand had gone to the fastenings of his breeches. At length, he knelt naked and aroused on the forest floor, his hair black and curling, damp with sweat, his eyes slanting, and a faint mist of perspiration on his skin.

“And he was so beautiful. I cannot begin to tell you how strange and strong and beautiful he looked. I could only stare. I had never seen him like this. My people are of lion blood, and the men of my family — occasionally the women — are strong and handsome and noble. And I have stayed at Gallan with Cait Fian who is of the Wild Panther line, and I have dined with the gentle shy Gazelle people of the west coast, and with the shaggy friendly White Bear clan of the northern islands. And I was at the Ritual of the Bloodline when the Eagleline was strengthened and the clearing shivered and spun with the immense power of the sorcerers’ Enchantment.

“But I have never seen anything so beautiful and so out of the world as that sight in the forest.”

Cormac mounted the she-wolf easily and naturally, and as Mab watched, he drove into her again and again, the muscles of this thighs rippling, his eyes bright and dark with passion. She had seen the momentum of his desire approach; she had heard him groan and she had seen the she-wolf shiver in ecstasy.

Cormac laughed and pushed the creature from him playfully and affectionately, and the wolf turned and licked his face. He ruffled the fur on her neck and lay back on the forest floor, as relaxed and as casual as he was in his great Palace of Tara.

The wolves were lying watching him, forming a halfcircle about him, their eyes bright and hopeful, their ears pricked. Cormac had laughed again, and emitted a mock groan, and Mab had known that the wolves were waiting for him to take another of their females. He would take them all, one after the other, and then he would come to the rose silk bedchamber, flushed and exhilarated from his encounter with the wolves, excited and buoyed up. I have lain with the wolves and now I will lie with a human.

“I could not do it,” said Mab. “I could not allow him in my bed then, or ever again. I could understand why he had done what he had — he was part wolf — but I could not forgive him for breaking the most sacred of all Tara’s laws. He, the High King! I knew I could never forgive him.”

“And so you drove him out?” said Flynn, very softly.

“I deposed him,” she said, staring straight ahead as if Flynn was no longer there. “I turned him from my bed — he thought I was simply tired of him — and then I gathered about me the plotters of the Court and the intriguers, and the men and women who would do anything, and serve any master, for power. I led the Great Rebellion against the Wolfline, and I exiled Cormac to the terrible Fortress of Shadow, and I saw my son crowned as High King. I did not tell anyone what I had seen; I allowed Cormac to believe that I had used my knowledge of him to launch the Rebellion and lead the people against him. I never told Cormac’s people that their beloved Wolfking had violated the ancient law of the Bloodline.

“But I saw to it that he was punished in the way the Twelve Judges would have punished him. I saw him taken from Tara by his own armies and flung into the wilderness to live or die as he chose.

“But,” said Mab, “I have never been happy since that day.”

*

A remarkable lady. Flynn wandered through the Palace, his mind half on Mab’s story, half on his own. Shall I escape today? And thought how absurd it was to use such a word. As if I was a prisoner! he thought, and immediately wished he had not used the word prisoner either.

The Court was seething with activity and excitement, and anticipation ran through the great high-ceilinged halls like a white hot flame. Flynn was made one with it all, he was welcomed into the various groups and hailed as a friend. “As if,” he thought, “I have been here for years.”

He was helping Sean the Storyteller and Conaire to stack the woodbine and the rowan for the journey to the Plain of the Fál later that afternoon, when Bricriu, his lips smiling thinly, his eyes expressionless, approached him.

“I wonder now, would you join my party later tonight for the journey to the Plain, Flynn?”

Flynn was rather flattered; “I should be honoured, Sir.”

“Only a few of us, you understand. But we like to make Beltane something of an occasion. It is all superstition of course; everyone knows that. But the ceremonies are impressive, and I should enjoy explaining them to you. These things are always so much more interesting if viewed with the proper knowledge, do you think?”

“Oh yes,” said Flynn.

“Then I will look for you later,” said Bricriu. And then, as if struck by a thought: “You will not forget to carry the woodbine, will you?”

“No,” said Flynn. “I shall bring it to the Plain.”

“Yes,” said Bricriu. “I think you had better.”

*

Portan knew that they were never going to reach the dark stone fortress that swam in and out of the mists, always near, never quite within striking distance.

The place was not, of course, the Gealtacht as Grady and Muldooney seemed to imagine. Portan did not know what it was, although she felt it was a place of suffering of some kind. But it did not matter, for they would not be permitted to reach it.

They were lost in the forest, and they were blundering in circles. Portan knew this quite definitely, and she could not understand why her captors did not know it. It was something to do with the cold, rather beautiful music, and with the voices that sang from inside the music.

You will never reach Scáthach, Men of the Desolate World …

They would never reach Scáthach; they would roam forever in the dark forest.

Until we possess your bodies, until we eat your souls, Men of the Black Desolation …

The voices wanted these two men, and Portan shivered in sudden fear, for there was such cold mercilessness in the voices. But she could spare no pity for her captors, for her mind was wholly on Flynn. Flynn was in some terrible danger; he was with enemies, men who wished him great harm. Portan knew this quite certainly now. She did not possess the Samhailt, although she understood about it, but she possessed something, and it was the something that made her lift her head and listen to the night and think: I must reach Flynn.

And then John Grady spoke: “Hush. There is someone quite close by.”

“Following us?”

That was the other man, the one who had a large coarse face with the features crammed into the centre of it, and clumsy stupid hands and a slow mind. Even so, Portan preferred him to John Grady.

Grady said, “No. Not following us. But quite near. It may be someone who knows the forest. Someone who can lead us out.”

Out of the Forest of Bondage … But this is the way Travellers, this is the way … over hill, over daley through bush, through briar … this is the way …

John Grady said very loudly, “It would be a grand thing to find someone who knew the way out of this place.”

And Muldooney, equally loudly, said, “To be sure it would.”

John Grady knew, as all sensible men knew, that it was madness to go wandering about in a forest after dark; even so, they had somehow got themselves into this situation — he blamed Muldooney most severely for that — and must perforce get themselves out again. It would do no harm to ask for help. To himself, he thought that wasn’t it the worst possible luck to be landed with an idiot like Brian Muldooney who couldn’t find his way across lands that should have been as familiar to him as his own pig farm! He began to wish they had never embarked on this ridiculous chase.

Muldooney thought that wasn’t it the worst luck in the world to have trusted Grady the Landgrabber, and then find the man had no more sense of direction than a chicken with its head chopped off. They’d been tramping about in this horrible dark forest for hours now; and where the forest had come from, Muldooney had no more idea than he had of how to fly in the air! It was a place the like of which he’d never seen before, not in all the years he’d lived in Tugaim. Of course it was all Grady’s fault, and him an Elder and not allowing a soul to forget it. Muldooney would have a thing or two to say about John Grady when they got back to Tugaim. If they got back. As for the sounds they could hear a little to their left, well, all Muldooney hoped was that it was not going to turn out to be some desperado or other set to slit their throats and make off with their goods. A fine old thing that would be for them both!

And then the trees thinned and the mists swirled, and ahead of them stood Amairgen, his clothes muddied and torn, his face chalk white.

And two dark gaping wounds where his eyes had been.

With a low animal moan, Portan tore herself away from John Grady’s surprised and suddenly loosened grip, and bounded to his side.

Behind her, the mists closed in again, and the laughter of the sidh echoed triumphantly through the forest.

*

Strength swept through Portan now, and with it an immense confidence. At least I can be of help. At last there is something I can do to help one of the beloved friends who brought me out of the Gealtacht. She did not stop to think. “And if I had stopped,” she said afterwards, “I should never have been able to do what I did.” She did not think: I am here in the middle of a dark forest with a sightless man and two enemies nearby; she thought: I will lead Amairgen to safety.

She took his arms firmly, saying as she did so, “Amairgen. Hold on to me.”

“Portan?” His voice was the voice of a man who has looked on despair, and thought never to hear a friend again, and Portan nearly broke down.

But she said calmly, “I am here. I will lead us to safety.”

“I am blind …!”

The cry tore at her vitals, but for the moment she must bear that. They must escape Grady and Muldooney; they must certainly get away from the beckoning, evil music, and they must find some kind of hiding place.

“Listen Amairgen. Do exactly as I tell you. And trust me.

What hurt so much was his utter dependence on her, and his trust. He waited obediently as she fashioned the makeshift leash Grady had used into a kind of harness, slipping one arm through the loop so that it no longer threatened to strangle her, making him take the other end.

“Now I can lead us out,” said Portan, and she turned unhesitatingly in the direction of Tara. She did not know, not for certain, that she was going in the right direction, but once more the something that was guiding her was at work. She knew her choice of path to be right.

Behind them, the sounds of Grady and Muldooney were fading; once she caught the mocking laughter of the sidh, and once she heard the two men still blundering about in the undergrowth, but then there was nothing. She thought that the creatures of the music were surely luring the two men to some kind of terrible fate, and she felt a deep shudder go through Amairgen.

But he stumbled wherever she led, his face grazed by the low branches that he could not see, and that Portan could not reach to brush aside for him, but following her unquestioningly and blindly. Blindly. The knife turned in her stomach again, but she dared not pay it attention; there was no time yet for pity or explanations, there was no time for anything at all, other than flight from Grady and Muldooney … and the music.

At length, Portan stopped and looked about. “I think we have lost them, Amairgen. I think we are safe for a while. And we should rest.”

“Yes. Thank you.” The words were no more than an exhausted breath of sound, and Portan saw that he was at the end of his reserves of strength. She caught him as he fell, half-fainting, on to the ground.

Portan was frightened, but she thought: I must not panic. I am frightened, but I must not panic. Whatever there is to do I must try to do it. and one thing at a time. Make him more comfortable. Yes, and warm. Flynn’s cloak. Holding on to coping with one thing at a time, she wrapped Flynn’s cloak about the unconscious Amairgen, and then scooped a kind of half-hollow in the soft forest floor. Didn’t animals sleep that way in the winter? Very well, so would they. And yes, he was a little warmer now, his face no longer had the white waxen look. He would not die, because Portan would not let him. She uncorked the flask of wine that Flynn had left in one of the cloak’s deep pockets, and used the strong sweet stuff to moisten one of his handkerchiefs. Gently and carefully, she sponged Amairgen’s face clean of blood and dirt, trying not to shudder away from the dark crusted wounds where his eyes had been, and then she was able to sponge there as well with infinite tenderness. For, thought Portan humbly, who am I to flinch from physical mutilation in another? She remembered how Amairgen had never once failed to meet her eyes kindly — often affectionately — and how he and Flynn had always, always, treated her as an equal. Portan knew she was not their equal, the years in the Gealtacht had taught her that her kind were no one’s equal; but Flynn and Amairgen had never seemed to think about it. She loved them both fiercely for it.

Amairgen moved restlessly under her careful hands, and groaned once or twice. But he did not wake, and Portan, still determined not to be frightened, thought that after all, sleep was healing. He was warmer now, and his breathing was deep and normal. As night drew on, Portan tucked the cloak around the two of them, and curled into a little ball against Amairgen.

She had not thought she would sleep, but she did, deeply and dreamlessly, and when she woke, a faint pink-tinted dawn was beginning.

Portan’s spirits lifted a little; after all they had survived the night in the forest; after all they were still alive. And they would find Flynn — they must find Flynn, for it was not to be thought of that Flynn should be lost to them. She would not think it, even for a moment. Flynn would be somewhere near, quite safe. Amairgen would tell her what had happened. Pain sliced through her at the memory of Amairgen’s terrible mutilation, and with it a great tenderness. And — let me help him, she thought. Oh please, please, let me be able to help him.

At her side, Amairgen stirred, and Portan was at once fully awake, holding his hands in hers, reassuring him, because it would be the most terrible, most pitiable circumstance to wake to the knowledge of blindness, to know, afresh, that you were forever in the dark …

“You are here with me,” said Portan, willing her voice to be calm and confident. “You are quite safe, Amairgen.”

And I shall not let anything harm you …

He turned his head, as if seeking the light, and Portan saw the knowledge of his blindness return to him, as she had known it would. He flinched from it, like a man who has lifted his face for a caress and received instead a harsh blow. The weight of his sightlessness descended on him, and Portan, aching with the pity of it, wanted to reach out and take him in her arms.

But she did not dare, and she thought that anyway she must not overwhelm him, and so she said, in a gentle, conversational voice, “It is early morning. Only a little past dawn, I think. Do you hear the birds? Beautiful. And I should think we are quite near to Tara.”

Amairgen said, in a voice of agony, “Portan, I am blind. I am eyeless. I tore out my eyes in the Caves of the sidh so that I should no longer have to look at those creatures. I saved my soul and I saved my sanity, but I am blind. I shall never see again!” Portan, hardly knowing what she did, knelt at his side and wrapped her arms about him, so that his poor mutilated face was against her breast, and then murmured words she had once heard, long ago, before John Grady caused her to be thrown into the Gealtacht. She thought she would die from the sheer strength of love and pity. She had been in an agony of worry about Flynn, but for the moment Flynn had ceased to exist for her.

Amairgen had no defences. He clung to Portan, his body wracked with great dry sobs, for a man with no eyes cannot weep, and he felt every one of her thoughts as vividly as if they had been laid out for him, and he was humbled at the strength of her devotion. But his agony was still too raw and his despair was still too complete; he could take little comfort from Portan’s love.

The darkness frightened him, for he had never imagined such an utter lack of light. Blackness, impenetrable, had descended about him like a thick stifling curtain. A towering wall had risen up between him and the entire world, and he was suffocating and terrified. He felt as if great chasms were opening at his feet, so that he could never take a step forward again, and he felt as if huge threatening creatures were rearing up before him. He clung to Portan, unable to speak, barely able to think, afraid and lost and in the grip of black and bitter despair.

I have saved my soul and my sanity, but at what price?

The price had been too high and he would never again take his place in the world. He thought: better if I were to die now, here. But even as he thought it, a spark of rebellion lit within him. Half to himself, he said, “I am so afraid …” and he felt the strong reassuring hands hold him more firmly. When he said, “Please — don’t leave me,” there was at once a strong sweet sense of loving and of concern, and at once the response — “Never!” For the first time since the sidh had flung him from their caves, sightless and useless and impotent, he felt a faint, far-off comfort. At least I am safe. At least I am with one I can trust. I am forever in the dark and I shall never, from now on, see anything again other than the black wall, but after all I am safe. I am sane and my soul is still my own.

A tiny cruel voice that he did not recognise, said: ah, but what does it profit a man if he gains his soul but suffers the loss of his sight? and he gave it scant attention, frowning as he did so. But he was already calmer; he lay back, with Portan still holding him against her, and he felt again the clarity of her thoughts. I am here with you, Amairgen. I will never leave you. You are not alone.

Not alone. He had the blessing of human companionship. He had the knowledge of her strength and he could hear her thoughts flowing gently to him and back again. He knew it was the Samhailt working within him, but he found himself wondering a little at the intensity and the purity of it.

What does it profit a man to gain his soul but suffer the loss of his sight?

A great profit if he also gains the ancient and Mystical Samhailt of the One True Bloodline of Ireland.

He had always known himself to possess a thin vein of the Samhailt, but he had known it to be a frail, tenuous thing, diluted by countless centuries of out-breeding, frayed by use and by misuse, for his ancestors had doubted its powers and distrusted its meaning. The Letheans had not understood something that could not be seen or measured or analysed, and the Samhailt, possessed by Amairgen’s distant ancestors, had been worn to the thinnest of thin slivers by the time it came down to him.

Now it had doubled and re-doubled and grown until it was alive and joyful, flooding his entire body with its strength and its purity, so clear and vivid that for a time he forgot he could no longer see.

For I can hear and I can feel and I can taste. I can hear the forest sounds and I can taste the light — yes, just past dawn, pink and lavender and so utterly beautiful a man could cry for it. I can hear the thoughts of all the living creatures soaking in through my skin. Remarkable. He lay for a long time, Portan’s cheek against his, their hands still firmly clasped, and he began to savour and explore this new strength. He felt that he was at the centre of a great rainbow, where the colours and the senses and the feelings of the entire world were his for the asking and there for the taking.

And I can drink the colours and I can taste the senses and I can hear the feelings. There is another world that I never once guessed existed, and I am about to enter into it. The door is opening, and it is a door I never knew was there.

Beyond it is a world so full of light and beauty that it can hardly be borne. I do not see it, but I am made free of it. I am entering into a secret and most wonderful place.

So this was the price he had to pay for saving his soul and his sanity. This was the wonderful price he had paid for dwelling in the Caves of the sidh, for looking on their awesome beauty and for knowing their slender silky bodies, and for feeling his seed drain into them, over and over, until he was fainting and unconscious. He had felt them pull at his soul, he had felt his soul’s response, and he had sprung away from them, clawing at his eyes, feeling blood pour out over his fingers, seeing the world begin to whirl and spin in dizzying iridescent colours before the curtain fell and the wall rose up.

But I have pushed aside the curtain, and I have climbed the wall, thought Amairgen, and I believe I shall eventually find some kind of place in the world again. I shall certainly find peace again.

Deep within him, although he only partly knew it, was the spark that had lit Flynn, and deep within him was his own race-memory, that of the shadowy figure of the first Amairgen the Traveller. If the spirit of the great warrior Finn of the Fiana had woken in Flynn, so now did that of the courageous Explorer wake in his namesake. As Amairgen lay quietly in the forest, wrapped in Portan’s arms, he felt the soul of his dauntless ancestor stir strongly, and he thought: am I to allow this to quench me?

He would not allow it, and he knew that he would one day overcome it. He would tear down the curtain and he would climb the wall, and he would enter fully into this rich new world where sight did not count, but where colours were something to drink and light was something to soak through your skin, and where sounds and feelings could be scooped up and allowed to run through your hands like thin sand.

Amairgen the Traveller would not have allowed blindness to daunt him, and neither would his descendant.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Excitement was running through the Palace like a forest fire. Tara thrummed with anticipation and hummed with preparation for the evening’s ritual, and was so vividly alive that it seemed almost to possess its own heartbeats. It seemed to the younger members of the Court that if you stood still and were very quiet, you might hear it, beat-beating away quietly at the very centre. Several of the more fanciful members of the Court thought that if you could somehow fly over the Palace, from east to west and then from north to south, you would see Tara as a glowing living breathing thing; a golden heart, the gently pulsating soul of all Ireland. Several more, rather taken with this imaginative vision, wanted to ask Conaire to call up the Eagles and ask them to fly a few chosen observers over the turrets, but when it came to it, nobody quite had the courage. It sounded rather too much like making vulgar use of Conaire’s relatives. Also, as Sean the Storyteller pointed out, you could never altogether trust an eagle. They were apt to be bad-tempered, said Sean. They’d gobble you up in two bites if the mood took them — snap! with their beaks, and there you’d be, dead as last week’s dinner. And while flying over Tara on an eagle’s back might sound very poetic and very exciting (and would make a grand base for a new poem as well), it would not be very comfortable, leave aside safe. Well, it would not be at all safe, really. There’d be nothing to cling on to for one thing, only feathers, because you could hardly expect an eagle to submit itself to the indignity of a saddle and harness, as if it was of no more account than a plain horse. Anyone who believed that hadn’t the wits he’d been born with! Had they all of them forgotten the terrible time they’d had when Conaire’s family had had the Bloodline conferred on them, and chosen the eagles (eagles! of all creatures) as their emblem? Had they indeed? Well, to be sure, Sean had not, and it hadn’t been so very long ago, either, there was no call for the younger ones to grin and poke each other and furtively count up the years. Conaire’s Great Uncle Ailill it had been, and nobody had been quite sure why the honour had been conferred, although several people had pointed out at the time that Ailill had been extremely friendly with Mab. But, of course, who hadn’t been extremely friendly with Mab at one time or another? Sean himself could tell a tale or two if anyone cared to ask.

Anyway, there’d been the greatest old tussle anyone had ever seen, said Sean, well away by now, with the sorcerers at it all night trying to strengthen the original Enchantment and bring the eagles to a properly docile state, because nobody had ever envisaged a ritual conjoining with eagles, and a good many people thought that Ailill had done it just to be mischievous. But the sorcerers had done their best, although they’d had to go down into the very deepest of the Sorcery Chambers — and they all knew what that meant! — and Sean and Phineas the Gatekeeper had suffered two bitten fingers and a bruised kneecap apiece from the Ritual, not that either of them had especially wanted to play such an intimate part in the ceremony, only that somebody had to hold the eagle down. It had all been very harrowing, said Sean, and if anyone cared to call up an eagle and politely ask could they take a ride on its back, Sean for one was going to be conveniently not there!

So the project was reluctantly abandoned, although it was felt to have been a good idea. But it would be too discourteous to the Eagles, said the Court sententiously, although Conaire, who never missed much of what went on, grinned and said it was more likely they were all of them afraid of falling off. “No guts,” said Conaire, who would have called up the entire winged population of Ireland if it would have created some frivolity at Eochaid Bres’s ponderous Court.

And so the eagles were left to their solitary splendour, although three of the livelier spirits of the Court — Conaire among them — climbed to the top of the trees on Tara’s western boundaries, to see how the Palace was looking. They returned flushed and excited, reporting that it had been nearly as good as flying over on an eagle’s back, and they told anyone who would listen that Tara was as bright from above as it was from below, and it was going to be a great shame later on when all the lights were doused and the final Ritual of the Scared Fire on the Plain of Fál commenced. Tara was brighter than a thousand Sacred Fires, they said rather daringly, and it was never seen to better advantage than when seen from the very topmost branches of the trees.

“But they received a reprimand from the King later on,” said Sean. “Silly young cubs, didn’t they realise that until the trees are woken, they’re forbidden to all of us? I’d have thought Conaire at least would have known,” said Sean. “I heard the King was extremely displeased with them, and on the whole the eagles would have been safer.”

None of these comparatively minor setbacks deterred anyone from enjoying the day, for wasn’t Beltane the greatest night of the year, and didn’t they all, every one of them, look forward to it for weeks? A grand feast it was, and plenty of fun for everyone.

Bolg pointed out, in Eochaid Bres’s favour, that you had to say he did keep up the good old traditions. He was keeping to them for Beltane, and Bolg was pleased, because once you lost touch with a tradition all kinds of slipshod slapdash behaviour crept in. But the Sacred Fire was to be lit with proper attention to ritual, and the Druids would burn the Wicker Giant — Bolg did not care overmuch for that part of the proceedings because of the poor trapped animals — and a little later today they would all of them go in procession through the Palace to ensure that every light was quenched. You could not have any form of light burning that might quarrel with the Sacred Fire on the Plain. Everyone knew that.

They’d all gather about the Beltane Fire, and the virgins would leap through it, always supposing an adequate number of virgins could be found, because say what you liked, you needed at least a dozen to make a proper ceremony. It was to be hoped a dozen could be found. It was getting more and more difficult. Still, it had been very nearly impossible in Cormac’s day, at least you could not say that for Eochaid Bres. Sean the Storyteller had probably rounded up a dozen. And the Druids would make their procession across the Plain, just as they did every year, chanting their strange song which was not quite a song but not quite a chant either, and which was in the forgotten tongue of the Ancient Ireland, and so old that not even the Cruithin who still spoke pure Gael sometimes, could understand it. Bolg thought it was a tongue that men had used before they came to be civilised, but the Druids kept their secrets, and no one had ever been able to decipher the Beltane Chant, although many had tried. Cormac’s father, who had been rather scholarly (when he was not chasing women) had said it was in a tongue so ancient that it had never been written down, and that it had been old when men were still walking on all fours and living in caves, but Bricriu, who had friends among the sorcerers, had once said it was one of the sorcerers’ tongues.

And then, partway through the day, a rumour began — no one knew quite where or how — that the Wicker Giant would hold a human sacrifice this year. There was consternation in the Palace, and people began to whisper together in little groups. It was years since a human sacrifice had been offered at Beltane, or at any other feast, and no one cared for the idea. Certainly the Wolfkings had outlawed the practice; Cormac’s great grandfather had banned it. Several people thought it had been even earlier than that. Nobody quite knew whether to believe the rumour, and everyone began to exchange views.

Bolg and the Councillors were inclined to disbelieve the rumour. “For,” said Bolg, “we don’t have that sort of thing any longer.”

“Sheer superstition,” put in another.

“And messy,” added a third.

“I wonder at His Majesty even considering it, I do really,” said Bolg, worried.

“You don’t need to watch if you’re squeamish,” said the Councillor who had called human sacrifice superstitious.

“You don’t even need to come out to the Plain,” said the one who had called it messy.

But Bolg thought he had better be present; the King might need his guidance, he said. After all, he was His Majesty’s senior Councillor he said, rather grandly, and the other Councillors at once said of course, and to be sure he was, no one had intended to suggest otherwise. To themselves they thought that the old boy was beginning to show signs of age; hadn’t he appeared in Council only the other day with his breeches unfastened, and didn’t he take hours to nibble over a problem, when the rest of them had reached a solution long since? They remembered that he came of the Beaverline, and beavers, of course, were staunch and loyal and tenacious, but they were a bit slow. Bolg was getting a bit slow, said the Councillors, and took themselves off to hold an unofficial conference as to who might be groomed to be successor.

Bolg went off to unpack his winter underwear which he had lain away with a few sprigs of lavender. It might be cold up on the Plain tonight; you could never tell what the weather might decide to do.

He was very upset at the suggestion of human sacrifice on the Beltane Fire, and after he had dressed he went about the Court trying to find out as much as he could, which was not very much because nobody else seemed to know very much either.

But he persevered, because he thought it was his duty to do so, and he listened in to other people’s conversations so that he was told, quite politely, to go away, and he joined groups of gossipers, and was told, not quite so politely, to stop eavesdropping. Conaire became very cross when Bolg skulked outside his room, and asked hadn’t he anything better to do than disrupt them all, just as they were preparing for a bit of a feast; spreading gloomy rumours and upsetting people. Bolg, upset himself, replied rather more sharply than perhaps he meant. One thing led to another rather speedily, because although Conaire was not in the least bad-tempered as the eagles were reputed to be, he was certainly quicktempered and he fired up at once. Tempers became frayed and old feuds were disinterred. Bolg remembered that he had never cared much for Conaire’s Great Uncle Ailill who had beaten him to the bedpost with Mab twenty years earlier, and he recalled that he had always considered the Eagleline jumped-up second-generation aristocracy anyway. They all of them knew, said Bolg rather tartly, where the family had got its honours.

“And where would that be?” said Conaire angrily, snapping his brows together.

“In the Queen Mother’s bed!” said Bolg and turned away crossly.

Conaire then had to be restrained by Sean the Storyteller from issuing a challenge to Bolg there and then, and was with difficulty persuaded to apologise to Bolg, who at once shook hands and said that to be sure words had been spoken hastily, and he hadn’t meant any disrespect, not a bit of it, it was only that he was worried and upset by this talk of human sacrifice, and he did not want it to get to the King’s ears. And Conaire, who was hot-tempered, but basically kindly, said at once that the entire thing had been his fault, and he hadn’t meant to say that Bolg’s Bloodline was diluted out of all use and that the Beavers were of no help to anyone in a battle.

“Roaring snobs the pair of them,” said Sean crossly, and stumped away to his own room, to remind himself that a man was better by far to have plain honest human blood in his veins without any of that Ritual Conjoining nonsense.

Sean would by far rather deal with plain untampered-with humans and would not have thanked you for being offered a Bloodline. The fact that it had never been offered did not weigh; he would not have accepted it, or not without careful consideration anyway.

He set himself to pen a few suitable lines about the feuding of the humans and the Bloodline clans, which he thought might go down rather well in the village, although he would not be able to recite it at Court where a good half of the people were of the Bloodline.

Once or twice it occurred to him to wonder where the young traveller he had found so companionable had disappeared to …

*

The procession to quench all the lights in Tara began exactly one hour before the Purple Time. It was tradition to do it that way, said the Court; there was a grand sense of comfort about tradition. No one wanted it any different.

The procession was to be led by Phineas the Gatekeeper, whose duty it was, properly speaking, to safeguard the Palace, and who had therefore long been appointed to lead the procession. Every light in Tara must be quenched, no single flame or candle must be left burning in case it interfered with the Sacred Fire on the Plain of Fál. Everyone remembered the shocking year when the King’s own bedchamber had been missed and the Sacred Fire would not properly ignite, and the Druids insisted on combing the entire Palace until they found the renegade light. Phineas did not very much like being put in charge of the proceedings as a result, but Bolg had told him they had all occasionally to do things they did not care for, and anyway if Phineas refused, there were plenty to take his place. Phineas, who rather enjoyed his position as Gatekeeper, and who had built up a very cosy little nest for himself over the years, acquiesced glumly.

The procession would end with the High King, and Eochaid Bres was no more enthusiastic about this than was Phineas about leading it. He thought that to bring up the rear of such an important cavalcade was not very dignified, and anyway he had not lived in Tara for nearly long enough to know all its rooms. Supposing they missed one or two again?

“Oh that won’t matter, Sire,” said Bricriu smoothly. “We always do, and nobody really minds except the Druids, and what the Druids don’t know can’t hurt them. The whole thing is purely symbolic in any case.”

Eochaid thought that if it had not been for everything to do with Beltane being so inflexibly rooted in tradition, he would have cancelled the entire ceremony. He did not say this, because it might have given people odd ideas about him, but he thought that it was not going to be particularly entertaining to traipse through Tara singing the Beltane Chant, which nobody ever knew properly anyway and which people always spoiled by singing the wrong notes in the solemn parts and succumbing to unseemly mirth. It was going to be even less entertaining to have to stand around on the draughty Plain while the Druids conferred about the proper arrangement of the agaric and woodbine and rowan, and the imprisoned sacrifices set up an ear-splitting wailing. Still, it would look bad to say any of this, and so Eochaid donned his warmest robes and assumed an air of benevolent tolerance (he practised this in his looking glass until he got it just right) and then he went down to the central marble hall where the Court awaited him.

They were all there, of course. All the servants, dressed in their best and looking excited; all the footmen and the chambermaids and the cooks and the scullions. The ollam in their bird-feather cloaks, carefully assembled into order by Sean; and the filid, bright-eyed and gregarious. Eochaid thought suspiciously that several of the filid were a little too bright-eyed and a little too gregarious, and supposed they had been drinking poteen down in the village. Standing smartly correct were the King’s Own Guard and the Captains and the sentinels, and close by were the ladies of the Court, cloaked and hooded, but doubtless silk-clad underneath, because everyone knew how Beltane would end. Mab stood a little apart, and Eochaid thought crossly that she was eyeing the King’s Guard, and then thought that it was probably a bit unfair of him, because it would have been truer to say that the Guard were eyeing Mab.

The families of the Bloodline stood together, as tradition required, a little apart from the rest, and Eochaid paused and looked at them, because grouped like that, ceremoniously clad, there was a strength and an inhuman beauty about them. Conaire of the Eagles. Bolg of the Beavers. Bricriu of the Foxes, looking just the smallest bit out of breath as if he had only just arrived. And the others: a cousin of Cait Fian of the Wild Panthers, there to represent the people of Gallan; CuChulainn of the Chariot Horses; Oscar of the Deer. The twins, Midir and Etain of the White Swans. A tiny voice in Eochaid’s head said, “And Cormac of the Wolves?” He frowned, remembered about looking benevolently tolerant, and then descended the stair.

There was the usual friendly scuffle for places, and the usual argument about the correct sequence of the procession, and which rooms should be visited in which order. The Councillors wanted to begin at the top and work down, but the servants — whom Eochaid considered were forgetting their place today — were all for starting in the sculleries and moving up to the grand bedchambers.

Conaire, who had spent the afternoon in company with a few friends and a puncheon or two of wine, was in favour of dealing with the bedchamers before anywhere else. “Naturally,” said Bricriu sarcastically, but Sean the Storyteller, who had been so busy calming down Conaire and Bolg earlier that he had missed the midday meal, wanted to visit the sculleries before anywhere else. They might find any number of lights left irreligiously burning there, he said cunningly. To which Conaire, no respecter of a man’s stomach, retorted: rubbish, didn’t they all of them know it was the leftover venison Sean was interested in, and him as fat as seven pigs. Sean, who was not in the least fat, but who was regretting having missed the venison, scowled and said: well of course, when it came to it, it was His Majesty’s decision anyway.

Several of the older Councillors shuffled uncomfortably and hoped that the stool rooms could be visited before they set out for the Plain because they’d been standing about for an hour as it was.

Eventually, Eochaid, who wished people would not continually look to him to make decisions, said that he could not see that the order mattered, but they would start at the top and work downwards. To himself he thought the sooner they got it all over with the better, but the Councillors nodded and looked pleased, and told each other how good it was to see the King keeping to the old ways. To start at the top and work downwards, dousing lights as you went, was how it was always done. Nobody mentioned the never-to-be-forgotten Beltane when Cormac, Conaire and Cait Fian had paid a number of the village girls to hide in the main bedchambers, one to each room, and lie invitingly on the bed, quite naked, with lighted candles stuck in the most extraordinary parts of their anatomy for the Court to ceremonially quench. At least they might be sure that nothing like that would greet them any longer, said the older members of the Court, and did not listen when the younger ones said it was a shame.

And so the Court walked in solemn procession through the great Palace, dousing every light that was found, chanting one of the old traditional songs. Eochaid Bres sang as well, in his deep rumbling baritone, forgetting the second verse and coming in with the chorus at the wrong time, and being shushed by people at the front who did not realise that it was the King.

“His Majesty’s got it wrong again,” said Bolg sighing, and then turned to frown at Conaire who had started up a rival and rather rude version of the Chant, written by Sean many years ago under the influence of wine and the Wolfking. Eochaid continued quite happily with singing the wrong verse, but as he was at the back, it did not matter too much, and anyway it covered up Conaire’s rude version.

As the last light was quenched (the little back scullery it had been, where vegetables were prepared) and Phineas closed the great West Gate with a flourish and a clanking of keys, Eochaid Bres thought that really it had all gone off quite well. Everyone had turned up, which was something to be thankful for, because you got years when people skulked off to the village to drink poteen, which was insulting, or went off to join the Druids’ procession, which was confusing for everyone else. Say what you liked, it was a bit of an insult to the High King when people did either of those things.

But everyone was here tonight, thought Eochaid, pleased with his Court, grateful to his mother who was demurely garbed and appeared to be behaving quite well. Of course she had lured the young traveller to her bed last night. Eochaid would rather not have known about it, but it was not the sort of thing that could be kept secret at Tara, and in any case, he had heard two of the sentries talking about it earlier on. Probably she was tired after such a night; she was getting on a bit after all. And probably he was tired as well. Eochaid knew the tales they told about his mother; he did not altogether believe them, but he thought that if even half of them were true, the young man ought to be good only for lying down quietly in a darkened room somewhere. It was all that Eochaid Bres would have been good for after that sort of a night. Anyway, the traveller Flynn did not seem to be anywhere in the procession. Doubtless he was not far away.

*

Flynn was not precisely frightened, but he was becoming worried. Bricriu had been perfectly courteous, he had even been a little obsequious, which Flynn did not care for, but the invitation had been framed in a flattering way.

“Some of the pre-rituals,” said Bricriu. “You will not have witnessed them before, for they are unique to Tara. But for a man of perception, they are extremely interesting. It would be a pity for you to miss them. And the Druids are a fascinating people. I have particularly requested permission to take you to their settlement before the procession sets out from Tara.” He smiled, and for a second, the unmistakable fox’s mask showed on his face. “Once penetrated,” said Bricriu, “the Druidic settlement often yields up many things.”

Flynn’s interest was at once caught; he thought it would be churlish to refuse such a polite and pleasant invitation, and he was rather curious about the Druids and the Beltane rituals. He thought as well that once outside the Palace he might be able to find Portan; perhaps the Druids might even be able to tell him a little more about the sidh. Flynn could not believe and refused to believe that there was no escape from them. He thought that if he once accepted that Amairgen was lost for good, he would surely be in despair. It occurred to him to wonder whether he was being foolish, whether he was clinging to false hope, but he thought he could not bear to count Amairgen as lost.

And so he went with Bricriu, just the two of them walking sedately out of Tara. Flynn was reassured; he thought, outside at last! and was ashamed of his earlier suspicions. Of course he had not been kept prisoner by these charming clever people. Of course he had been free to go at any time he chose. The guards had not turned a hair as they walked through the West Gate; the one who had explained to Flynn about it being dangerous to leave the Palace on Beltane Even, even gave them some kind of salute, which Bricriu returned.

They made not directly for the Plain, but for some kind of village set a little apart from everything else, surrounded by a fold of hillside. “For,” said Bricriu, “the Druids greatly value their privacy.”

It was a longer walk than Flynn had expected. “It will take perhaps half an hour,” said Bricriu. “That will not concern you?”

“Not in the least,” said Flynn, and Bricriu sighed and remembered that the boy had spent the night in Mab’s bed, and wished he also could contemplate the walk to the Druids’ settlement without blanching.

It felt strange to Flynn and somehow lonely to be crossing terrain which was both familiar and alien. He knew a great feeling of recognition as they skirted the hill which led to the Plain of the Fál; he wondered whether it could really be possible that this was the place he had known as Tara’s Hill. Would the land not have altered beyond recognition? But he thought that it was in truth the Tara’s Hill he had known, and he felt a twinge of fear, for surely it was against nature to be straddling two worlds in this way? He knew an ache for the much-loved farmhouse with the latticed windows and the low ceilings and the scent of old seasoned beams and polished oak floors, and he thought with anguish that he had lost Amairgen and he had lost Portan, and he was no nearer to finding Joanna. A wave of helplessness washed over him, and he thought: what am I doing here, waiting for the commencement of some pagan ritual that was long forgotten before I was born? What am I doing on a long-dead hillside with this sly half-human creature who is looking at me from the corners of his eyes in a way that I do not trust. He remembered again Bricriu’s ancestry — Bricriu the Fox — and he remembered that foxes were artful, cunning, out for themselves. Should he brush off Bricriu’s hand, which had been laid across his arm earlier as if Bricriu needed assistance across the hillside? Assistance my boots! thought Flynn. He’s making sure I don’t run away! Shall I make a run for it? I could be free, out of his sight into the forest.

Yes, and then what? And then nothing. It would be much better to stay, thought Flynn, although he was not entirely sure of this. But the Druids were ahead of them, and the Druids were learned men who knew the world’s secrets. They might be able to help him.

I shall stay long enough to meet them, thought Flynn, but on another level, his mind was furiously working out plans for an escape.

And then they crested the fold of the hillside which protected the Druids’ settlement, and at the sight that met his eyes Flynn forgot all other considerations.

*

It was told by later ages, that the ancient and learned Druids of Ireland were no better than eccentric poets, dilettante sorcerers, bands of men who eschewed the world for varying reasons, or elected to live apart from the rest of the community. Certainly, their activities were surrounded by a cloak of the utmost secrecy, and equally certainly, no one had ever dared offend them, although it is possible, and even probable, that they themselves offended many.

Flynn did not know anything about them, other than odd snippets and tag-ends of conversation he had picked up during his brief sojourn inside the Bright Palace. But he had received the vague impression that they were rather scholarly, rather absent-minded people; unsocial rather than antisocial, given to studying ancient, slightly ephemeral matters. He had thought of them as visionaries of some kind, concerned with incorporeal things. This, of course, was precisely what Bricriu, his plans laid, had wished him to think.

The Druids of Tara, under the Wolfkings and later under the first Lionking, were, in fact, very much concerned with corporeal things. They were very much concerned with Flynn.

It was not immediately apparent. As Flynn and Bricriu crested the little ridge of hill and walked slowly down to the huddle of stone buildings, they were accorded a quiet, courteous welcome. There was no reason for Flynn to suddenly remember Phineas the Gatekeeper’s warning when he and Amairgen had first entered Tara: “Quite polite he’ll be,” Phineas had said. “The Lions are always polite before they eat you.”

Were the Druids also polite before they ate you? This is absolutely ridiculous said Flynn to himself, but still that little core of unease persisted, and he looked about him for some means of escape.

It was difficult to see where escape might lie. The settlement consisted of low, rather austere houses, four-square and small-windowed; entirely undecorated and unadorned, as if the Druids sought only to shelter themselves from the worst of the elements, and had no time for and no interest in making their abodes attractive. There was a central area which was clearly used for communal fire, and there was some kind of temple set a little way up the hillside, with stone pillars and archways and a great marble altar. I won’t look at the altar, thought Flynn, but he did look at it.

With a feeling of déjà vu he remembered another night in another world, when he had been welcomed into the centre of a group of hooded and cloaked men on a dark hillside. But the Keepers of the Secret had been friendly; the Druids of Tara seemed friendly enough, but their eyes were calculating, watchful, as if they might be thinking: oh yes, this one will suit our purpose very nicely.

Behind them, dominating the settlement, was the immense figure of the Wicker Giant. “A particularly good creation this year,” said one of them, and Flynn, his senses by now abnormally alert, fastened upon the word creation, and remembered all the stories of all the brilliant insane people down the ages who believed themselves to have created human life. Just supposing …

And then the Druid said, rather dismissively, “Of course, the imprisoned animals give it a spurious air of life,” and Flynn relaxed. He stood for a moment, looking at the Wicker Giant, thinking that he had known what to expect — everyone at the Court had described it to him — but thinking as well that none of the descriptions had conveyed the sheer size or the menace of the Wicker Man. It had been fashioned in exquisite and loving detail; eyes, lips, nipples, fingernails, genitals. It was at least forty feet in height and Flynn, disturbed and disoriented, found it easy to think that it might at any moment lift its great feet, open its blank eyes and begin striding across the dark hillside to the Plain of the Fál, crushing the woodland creatures beneath as it went. The animals imprisoned inside it were trying to escape; Flynn could hear the scrabbling of claws and the beating of wings; there was a continual bleating and whining and fluttering. He was sickened; to humanely kill another living creature so that you might survive, was to Flynn understandable, even desirable. His world had survived by doing that. But to throw at least a dozen living, breathing creatures into the centre of a roaring fire was a thing that left him feeling nauseated. Did these people, these apparently cultivated and learned men, truly believe that burning alive animals and birds would ensure a good harvest? They are savages, thought Flynn in horror. I am alone on a dark hillside with a group of murderous savages!

There was a movement behind him and he turned sharply. But — “It is our good friend Bricriu,” said the Druid, who had spoken earlier. “He is returning to the Palace to play his part in the procession.”

“Then perhaps I should return with him,” said Flynn, his heart beginning to beat uncomfortably fast.

“Oh no,” said the Druid softly. “You will play your part in your own procession, Flynn.”

Although Flynn possessed the ancient and magical Samhailt, and although it had strengthened and grown in him since he had broken through the Time Curtain, now it was another, far older instinct that awoke in him. That extra sense that the first men of all had possessed, the sense that warns when danger is near, became fiercely alive in Flynn now: these people are going to kill me!

“Yes,” said the Druid calmly, “Yes, we are going to kill you. You are surprised that I know your thoughts? You should not be – you have the Samhailt yourself. And it is one of the tenets of our faith. The present High King in his wisdom has outlawed it, but to forbid a thing does not unmake it. Out here we have polished and honed the Samhailt to a very fine degree indeed. You cannot conceal your thoughts from us, Flynn.” He looked at Flynn searchingly, and rather kindly, and Flynn, transfixed, thought: he quite likes me. He is going to kill me, but even so, he rather likes me. He is quite sorry about it.

“I am afraid it is necessary,” said the Druid. “The Wicker Man must have a human sacrifice. If it can be contrived, that is. And you have been —”

“Sold to you?”

“Let us say passed into our keeping as a suitable sacrifice,” said the Druid. “You should not mind. It is an honorable death. And I would be glad of your forgiveness first.” Flynn nearly laughed out loud and then was horrified. But he had heard the old stories of the rulers who existed long before the Letheans, who had not scrupled to execute their enemies, summarily and very publicly. And always, the executioner had asked the victim’s pardon first. Will you forgive me for cutting off your head, for strangling you on a gibbet, for tearing out your entrails? They had devised some grisly deaths, those people. Were they any worse than the one I am about to face? To be cast, alive and well, into the heart of a huge bonfire. To feel skin scorch, bones crack. To hear the sizzling of your own hair and eyes, and to smell your flesh roasting … Oh please don’t let me be sick, not in front of them all.

He was not sick but he was unable to speak. He was certainly unable to turn and run. And even if he had, there were thirty — forty — of them to overtake him.

There was no escape as the Druids closed in and bound him neatly and efficiently. They kept him firmly in their grasp, this stranger, this traveller, this credible fool who had walked trustingly and unsuspectingly at the Fox’s side, and who had entered, of his own volition, into their hands. A fragment of an old song which Sean had been singing at the Palace a night or two back slid into Flynn’s mind.

“O never go walking at Beltane at dusk

In company of one whom you think not to trust.

For the Druids are out and they’re looking for souls,

They’ll cut out your heart and they’ll roast it.

O never go walking on the Plain after dark

On Beltane when the Fires are a-burning;

For the Druids will find you and bind you up tight”

And feed you to the Wicker Man to keep the Fire
burning.”

But I went walking! cried Flynn, in silent anguish. I went walking on Beltane, and now the Druids have bound me! God help me, they will feed me into the Wicker Man and I shall burn alive.

He was hoisted shoulder high by four of the Druids and carried quite gently to where the Wicker Man waited.

*

It was dark inside the Wicker Man and very cramped. Flynn could smell the frightened animals above and below him. He thought that they knew what was going to happen; they sensed it, poor creatures.

He was about halfway up the framework, in its ribcage. “In its heart,” said the Druids, nodding with satisfaction. He was at least twenty feet from the ground, and it was a dizzying, disembodied feeling; Flynn had the impression that his compartment was suspended in mid-air.

The wicker cage was tightly shut. “And there is a minor spell,” said the Druid who had talked to Flynn. “You will not be able to escape.”

Even so, Flynn had torn his hands to ribbons and broken his nails trying to get out.

And then, far below him, the Druids formed into single file, and took up small burning torches, so that Flynn could see them quite clearly. There was a sudden jolt as the ropes of the cart that held the Wicker Man were pulled tight, and then, without warning, the Druids’ procession began, the Wicker Man lurching across the dark countryside on the little wheeled cart, the torches casting huge fantastic shadows on the quiet hillside. The outline of the Wicker Giant stretched out ahead of the procession, and ahead of them, Flynn could see Tara’s Hill with the Palace procession moving at the same speed. They were converging on the Plain. The dark bulk of the Beltane Fire was clearly visible, and Flynn clutched helplessly at the wicker framework that imprisoned him. He stared at the unlit Beltane Fire. I helped to build that. I carried woodbine, sweet scented and warm, and rich red rowan and agaric. I built up my own funeral pyre. He closed his eyes against the sickening lurching of the Wicker Man, and tried to will himself back through the Time Curtain, back to the safe rather dull world of Tugaim and the comfortable familiar farmhouse.

But I cannot leave without Joanna! he thought, and then remembered that he would soon be beyond helping Joanna anyway. He thought he was certainly going to die, and he thought as well that he would have given anything in the world — his five senses, anything — for a last sight of her. If he could be sure that she was safe somewhere … if he could be sure that she had not been killed in some grisly pagan sacrifice as he was shortly going to be killed … He could not be sure. He could indeed believe with ease that Joanna was already dead, that she had been a helpless victim of Druids, of half-humans or wild forest creatures. Then I might as well die also, thought Flynn.

The Druids had begun a strange monotonous chant, neither quite singing nor quite chanting, and from the Plain came an answering chant. From the depths of his despair, Flynn heard it, and in hearing, felt something lift within him. He was transfixed by the dreadful inevitability of his death, but a part of him was beginning to be mesmerised by the chant now. He remembered Amairgen’s words about despair: accidie he had called it, and how it had once been known as the ultimate sin; the total and complete abandonment of all hope. At least, thought Flynn, I am not counted dead until I am in the heart of the flames, and managed to repress a sick shudder. A tiny green shoot of hope sprang up. Was it at all possible that he could escape? Even now, even so close to the Plain that he could make out the moving figures below him. Was there some hope of escape there? Would Sean or Conaire or Mab help him? He thought they would not; he thought they were probably accustomed to the idea of human sacrifice, and he thought that salvation, if salvation existed, would not come from the Plain … It would come from Flynn himself.

The strange, strong chant was reaching corners of his mind he had not known existed; it was casting light on the shadowed areas of his soul. He listened and opened his mind to it, and thought it sounded like a form of question and answer. Interrogation and response. From the depths of his memory — his or someone else’s — he sought and found the word catechism. This was some kind of catechism. If he could understand the language they were using, he would understand what was going on. In his by-now wildly abnormal state, it began to seem to Flynn that if he could decipher this ancient, strangely pure speech, he would also decipher the shackles of the spell that sealed him within the wicker cage. He closed his eyes and his hands curled about the wooden bars, and he listened with every fibre of his body, with every nerve-ending raw as the Druids’ procession approached the Plain of the Fál.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

If it had not been for Portan, Amairgen would not have survived. It was nothing to do with despair or pain, although he had travelled both these emotions since the sidh cast him out.

It was simply a matter of practicality. He could not have found his way through the forest. Although one day very soon, I might, he thought. For the moment, however, even with his hearing becoming more finely tuned with every hour, even with the Samhailt flooding his body in great rainbow waves, he could not have kept to the woodland paths. He certainly could not have found food or water.

But Portan was untiring and sure-footed and watchful. She held his arm and guided him; she kept to the path, even when it was overgrown and very nearly impossible to find, and she talked as they went along, telling him about the wildlife and the forest greenery, trying to make him see it with her, certainly helping him to hear it.

“So beautiful, Amairgen. I had never thought to see such things. The sunlight pouring in from overhead, making patterns on the forest floor. Great clumps of wild flowers. And the greens. So many different shades of green.”

Amairgen said softly, “Forty shades of green. A very old song, Portan. How lovely to know it did not lie.”

“Many more than forty,” said Portan.

They stopped from time to time. “For,” said Portan, “we shall do no good to anyone if we reach Tara exhausted and fainting from hunger.” At midday, with the sun high above the trees, dappling the leaves, and the wild dog rose scenting the entire forest, they found a small clear stream.

“Water, Amairgen. That is very good. And I think there are fish of some kind. Yes, several of them. If I am very nimble …”

She was very nimble indeed, and within ten minutes four smallish but plump fish lay on a large dry dockleaf.

“And I believe we can make a fire,” said Portan. “For Flynn left some tinders in his cloak — yes, here! Do I just move the tinder across the dull strip, Amairgen?”

“You do, my dear.” Amairgen knew another wave of gratitude. He thought: she is endeavouring to make me feel necessary, she is seeking my help. But he thought that perhaps Portan did need his help, perhaps she had truly never used a tinder box before, and he was glad to be able to explain. Portan listened carefully, and presently managed to get a small fire burning, a cautious arrangement of twigs and leaves. The fish grilled gently at the ends of pointed sticks.

“And they smell good, don’t they, Amairgen? They are rather small, but they are quite plump. I do not know what you would call them.”

“Trout?” said Amairgen, and at once Portan was overwhelmed with the memories of a life that had existed before the Gealtacht. Long drowsy afternoons, herself as a small child, safe and protected. Father returning from a fishing trip, smiling and triumphant. The unmistakable scent of freshly caught trout being toasted before the fire. Mother had always plucked fresh parsley and chopped it, and Portan had been allowed to help. It was like looking back through a long dark tunnel and remembering that once, at the very beginning, there had been sunlight.

When Amairgen said in a practical tone, “Portan, if we had any parsley we would have a feast indeed,” Portan jumped, because quite suddenly he was there with her, he was in the memory with her, and the sunlight, after all, was still here.

The parsley was there, growing quite near, in thick feathery clumps. Portan gathered it and cut it into tiny sprigs with Amairgen’s knife, and touched Amairgen’s hand and said, “A feast indeed,” and thought that it was surely strange to feel so very happy in such a very unhappy situation, but felt happy all the same. And: I am bringing him back, she thought. He is returning to the real world. She leaned back and watched Amairgen, and ate the fish, and felt delight stir within her. Yes, I shall bring him back.

But there was still the agony of not knowing about Flynn, and when Portan said, “Amairgen, what of Flynn?” unease stirred the quiet content of the forest.

Amairgen leaned back against the bole of a tree, and thought: she is one of the most remarkable people I have ever known. I must let her know she can still depend on me, he thought; we must rescue Flynn, and Portan cannot do it alone. She must know that I can still guide her. For the first time for several hours, he felt his mind focus on something other than his own loss. When he said, “I left Flynn inside the Bright Palace,” it was the voice of the Amairgen who had brought them through the Time Curtain, and Portan heard it and rejoiced.

“I feel that he is in danger,’ said Amairgen, and Portan said slowly, “Yes,” for she, also, felt that Flynn was in some way threatened.

“You do not possess the Samhailt, my dear,” said Amairgen’s voice, suddenly, “but I think you possess something very like it.”

“He is in danger,” said Portan in a low voice. “Amairgen, is he still inside the Bright Palace?”

“I don’t know. But that is where we must start.” And then — “Can you lead the way?”

“Of course.”

And Tara, the Shining Citadel, with its own iridescence, was easy enough to see even by night when it was safe to travel. Portan thought it was a beacon, a lodestar, drawing all who saw it into its glowing depths. Perhaps one day I shall be able to see it properly, she thought. But she only said, “It is getting dark now. Almost twilight. I think we shall not be seen by anyone.”

The trees had thinned out now, and they were looking across the plain. Amairgen had known for some time that the Purple Hour had fallen, he could smell it and he could feel the velvet chill of the night air. He could taste the new scents of the night forest waking all about them.

And colours are something to drink, and light is something that soaks through your skin, and sounds and feelings can be scooped up and allowed to run through your hands like thin sand …

At his side, Portan gasped, and her hand came out to his, and Amairgen said at once, “What is it? What has happened?’’ And waited and felt puzzlement and unease from her.

“I am not sure.” Tara was a blaze of colour. Beautiful. “I have never seen anything so truly lovely, ever, Amairgen. And then —” Portan hesitated, and then went on. “It is beginning to dim. Little by little, the light draining from it. As if a great hand came out from the sky and doused it. As if something quenched its light.”

At her side, Amairgen said softly, “Light Ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure.”

“What is that?”

“I am not sure. Something once written or forgotten or dreamed.”

“By someone dead?”

“Or someone not yet born. It does not matter.” But with the vagrant memory, had come another: I feel and seek the light I cannot see. Anguish threatened to overwhelm him again, but Amairgen put it from him angrily, because there was no time now to think of what had happened. Flynn was somewhere inside the darkening Tara, and Flynn was threatened, and they must somehow save him.

At length, Portan said softly, “It is entirely in darkness now. I can barely see Tara, only I know it is there.”

And I shall never see it again, but I also know it is there, thought Amairgen. And then another memory stirred, and he said, “Of course. It is Beltane. Portan, they have put out the lights for Beltane. They are lighting the Sacred Fire, and every light in Ireland must be doused, so that the Sacred Fire of the Druids is the only one to burn.”

“Oh I did not know about that.” Portan stayed where she was, watching the dark countryside.

Presently she said, “I can see a row of lights. On the — I think you would say the western side of the Palace. To the left. Bobbing pinpoints of light. A procession of some kind would it be?”

“The Beltane revelries,” said Amairgen softly. “So the Fires did, after all, burn at Tara. Do you know, that is something that scholars down the ages have argued over? How extraordinary. Can you see anything that looks like a bonfire, my dear?”

Portan’s heart sang within her at the “my dear,” but she only said, “There is something. It is difficult to make out, but I think it is a fire. Not yet lit. And there are two separate processions now, both making their way towards the fire. They have torches — yes, I can see the figures now in the firelight. There are a great many people, Amairgen.”

“Converging on the Plain of the Fál,” said Amairgen in a whisper. “Remarkable.” And then, tilting his head, “Portan, listen. Do you hear?”

“Something. But so faintly. I am sorry,” said Portan, apologetically. “What is it?”

“The Sacred Chant of the Druids,” said Amairgen. “It must be. The Lost Tongue of the Cruithin. Question and answer. Interrogation and response.

“‘We have the Wicker Man.’

“‘Do you have the Human?’

“‘We have the Human.’

“‘Is he ready for the Sacred Fire?’

“‘He is ready.’”

In the silence that followed, Portan grasped Amairgen’s hand. Both knew in that moment that it was Flynn who was the human sacrifice. It was Flynn who was going to be offered up on the Beltane Fire.

*

Question and answer. Demand and acquiescence. Flynn began to hear the pattern of the Druids’ Chant, he began to feel the unfamiliar cadences soak in through his skin and he began to see a shape, a form, a logic.

And I have heard this one before …

There was no time to give any attention to the brief tug of memory; nevertheless, Flynn was strongly aware of it and it heartened him. Finn of the Fiana, if ever you existed, and if ever I existed in you, then help me now.

There was no response, but in the dark places of Flynn’s mind something stirred, and for the briefest of instants there was a tumble of images; a bright hillside with a clear blue sky and a young dark-haired man seated astride a great black stallion, leading a battle charge … the scent and the heat of half a dozen victories … crusades to the wild and desolate northern islands in a great carved ship with a wolf’s head at the prow and the water beneath like glass … riding through the trees with the evening sun dappling the forest floor … And then the last, the most vivid image of all: a gathering like this one, the Plain of the Fál, with the Court and the Druids and the shape of the Wicker Man rearing against the night sky, packed tight with mewling victims …

Mental strength swept through Flynn and with it a huge unstoppable confidence. I know the Ancient Druidic Chant. I have heard it before and I have played a part in the ceremony. Once I could understand it, and now I shall understand it again.

He bent his mind to a concentration so absolute, that everything else was blotted out, so that he no longer saw the measured procession far below him, or the bobbing lights, or the threatening phallic shape of the unlit fire. He no longer felt the jolting of the journey as the Wicker Man was towed across the last stretch of terrain. He was Finn of the Fiana once more, and he was invoking all of the race memories and all of the knowledge of that warrior.

The chant was becoming a tangible thing to Flynn now; through his half-closed eyes he could see it forming on the night air; a thin glittering silver cord, reaching out from the Druids to the High King’s party and back again, not quite real, but not quite a vision. He thought: I have it. I have the Chant. All I must do is take hold of it with my mind. I must wrap my mind about that silver cord.

A silver cord. A silver chain that binds … a girdle to encircle the earth … I will put a girdle about the world … shackles of darkness and death …

Flynn shook his head impatiently. The images were wrong, they were too new, too closely aligned to a transient world. The Chant was older by far, it belonged to the far past, when men had talked with gods, and when gods had walked the earth. If he was to wrap his mind about it and hold it and fathom it, he must go farther back, farther back to the dawn of the world, when the land was dew-spattered and wreathed in mist, and then back even farther, into the great darkness that had existed before the dawn …

I am Dagda, the god of fire and life and I am a jealous god …

Flynn’s eyes flew open and knowledge and understanding flooded him in brilliant painful waves.

I brought you out of the darkness of ignorance and out of the time of famine …

Great lights were exploding in Flynn’s brain, and silently he formed the words that came next.

You shall have no other gods but me. I shall send my curses and vengeance upon the seed of those that do not serve me.

And then a pause, a break in the harshness.

But I shall give my bounty to those that love me, and to those that render me sacrifice.

Excitement was beating against Flynn’s consciousness. Nearly there, I am nearly there. The silver cord thickened and took on substance.

Great and powerful Dagda, father god of all the gods, look on these your servants. Grant to them your bounty that they may live in plenty and in fruitfulness. Show unto them your mercy that they may be free from all want.

And again the change of pace, the feeling of indrawn breath, of strengths being mustered. And hard on the heels of that, the command, ringing out across the Plain.

Fall down and worship your god!

Again the silence, again the thrumming of the cord. Sweat was dripping into Flynn’s eyes; he must keep hold of this tenuous thing, he must understand not just the commands but their responses.

Again it came. Fall down and worship your god!

Nothing. A silence. Flynn was beyond movement, beyond thought now. The moment lengthened. He thought in terror: I am losing it.

A third time came the command. FALL DOWN AND WORSHIP YOUR GOD!

And at last, blessedly, from the Plain, the response.

We worship our god. Flynn thought: of course, the magical three. Of course the question must be put three times. How could I have forgotten.

The dialogue came swiftly now, tumbling out, but Flynn had reached down into race memory, until he was Finn of the Fiana again, participating in the Druids’ ceremonies. He whispered the responses with the High King and the Court now.

Let us render up the Sacrifice

And let it be done as it was at the beginning of Time.

Dagda, look mercifully upon thy servants.

That render to thee homage.

Send to us the fruits of the earth.

And for ever make us free of want.

Dagda hear our prayer.

And let our offering rise up to thee.

As they ascended the hillside, Flynn’s thoughts were racing ahead. There would be a moment in the ceremony — he knew it quite surely now — when the Druids would be asked:

Do you have the Sacrifice? And the Druids must make the prescribed answer: We have the Sacrifice.

Understanding opened up. Flynn knew with an absolute and unshakeable certainty that the question and that answer was the heart and the core and the pivot of the Beltane Ceremony. Once the Druids had admitted to having ready the sacrifice — no matter whether it was human or animal or both — then the enchantment would leap forward and the Sacred Flame would kindle and Flynn would be lost.

Do you have the Sacrifice?

If a denial was given, the spells would splinter and Flynn would be safe.

*

Portan moved stealthily up the hillside, hidden from the circle of people, more frightened than she had ever been in her life.

Amairgen had taken her face between his hands before she left him in the cover of the trees; he had said, “Portan, you must send me your thoughts. All the time. You must not for an instant lose me.”

Portan said, “But I do not possess —”

“It does not matter. I have it in sufficient strength for us both now. Listen. Close your eyes and listen.” And he had stood very still, a faraway look on his face, and Portan had obediently closed her eyes; after a moment she had felt his thoughts flowing effortlessly into her mind. Clear, undiluted. Encouragement. Love. And strength. You can do it, my dear. And then: I cannot go with you for I should hinder you, but you can rescue Flynn.

“I will be with you all of the way,” said Amairgen, and then hesitated. “My dear, if there was any other way —”

But there was no other way, and Amairgen cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

The kiss helped, but what helped more was the measure of Amairgen’s confidence. He trusts me to rescue Flynn, thought Portan, her heart beating fast. We both know there is nothing else to be done, but still he trusts me. Can I do it? Oh, but I must. Amairgen, are you there? She waited and at once came the response. I am with you, my dear.

Even so, it was the most difficult thing she had ever done to go up the dark hillside, keeping low and close to the ground to where the Court stood assembled, a waiting circle about the unlit fire, single flaring torches giving life, unnatural and weird, to the shadowy figures.

Portan paused once and looked at them, seeing as Flynn and Amairgen had both seen, the faint but unmistakable signs of the Bloodline. Not quite animal, but not entirely human. I suppose I should find them frightening, thought Portan, but I do not … I feel a kinship with them.

That is why you do not find them frightening, Portan.

Of course. I never thought of that. Portan glanced across to the people of the Court again.

The Druids were coming over the brow of the hill now, their hooded figures outlined against the sky, and with them came the immense figure of the Wicker Giant. Portan’s heart almost misgave her; she crouched in the bracken looking up at the figure, and saw in the flickering twilight the scurrying frightened animals behind the cages. Flynn was somewhere there.

The Druids had come to a stop now; they stood motionless, their heads bowed, facing the Court across the fire. The priests and the supplicants.

Oh yes, came Amairgen’s thoughts. Oh yes, that is how all ceremonies were carried out. One to command and one to obey.

In another minute, Portan would have to move from the friendly darkness and skirt the edges of the circle of light. She would have to swarm up the outside of the Wicker Man and find Flynn and let him out.

But not yet, my dear. Wait until the fire is lit.

I think that will be too late.

Then wait until the Chant begins again.

Amairgen I cannot do it —

You must!

She must do it, of course she must. She gulped and took a few breaths of air.

Two of the Druids had stepped forward now, they were making ready to fire the bonfire in four separate places. Orange and red flames leapt into the air, and a movement went through the watchers. Portan moved, a silent shadow, darting round to where the Druids stood, and waited in the deep shadow cast by the Wicker Man’s legs. In another minute they would begin the Chant again — Amairgen had said so — and the sounds would muffle any sounds she might make.

There was a moment of the deepest silence and then the Chief Druid stepped forward and held out both his hands, palms upwards.

“Dagda hear our pleas,

“And let our sacrifice rise unto thee.”

In Portan’s mind exploded a single command: Now! and she reached up to grasp the lower rungs that formed the Wicker Man’s legs, pulling herself upwards, thinking she must not look down, trying to concentrate on sending out her thoughts to Amairgen.

I am climbing, Amairgen … I am swarming up the outside of the frame and it is a strange and sinister experience … but I am going up and up, one hand over the next, and I am reaching the knees …

The knees were jointed, incredibly lifelike, and Portan repressed a shudder, because it was very easy indeed to think that the knees would suddenly shiver with life, that the legs would lift and stride forward. She thought: I am climbing the body of a giant, and if he looks down on me from his great height with his carved wooden implacable face, he will brush me off as if I was a fly.

An effigy, Portan. A man of wood and straw. No more.

Below her, the Court and the Druids were taking their places as if for the climax of the ceremonies; there was a tremendous sense of excitement rising up from the Plain, an immense feeling of anticipation. Something is going to happen, thought Portan, grimly clinging on, hauling herself up farther; something is going to happen. Oh please let me reach Flynn before they begin their ceremonies again.

Every muscle was protesting now; even so, thought Portan, determined not to give in, even so, I am better equipped for this than an ordinary person. The extra arms which were not quite arms, but not quite legs, helped her to pull herself upwards; the jointed half-hands half-feet enabled her to cling to the wicker bars. I am aching all over and the pain is becoming intolerable, but there is not so very much farther to go.

She caught a thought from Amairgen — Can you see Flynn? and she paused, her eyes searching the interior of the giant, trying not to wince from the sight of the caged creatures.

Not yet. There are all kinds of birds and animals, but I cannot see Flynn. And yet I know he is here. The Samhailt was flooding her mind now, and she through Amairgen’s perception could feel Flynn’s closeness as strongly as she had ever felt anything in her life. Flynn was here, he was imprisoned inside this great and terrible effigy and Portan would soon reach him. The knowledge lent her fresh strength, and she went up and up, hand over hand, finding footholds in the hinged doors, clinging to the rough wickerwork, barely feeling and certainly not caring about the myriad of splinters that were penetrating her hands and arms and feet, ignoring the rough dry wood that was scraping her body in a dozen different places.

Go on my dear, go on Portan.

She was beginning to feel dizzy with being so high up, and she knew she must not look down, not for an instant. But with that thought: I must not look down — came the overwhelming urge to do so. The world swung and far below she glimpsed the fire and she saw that the congregation had formed a circle about the fire, and that two of the Druids had stepped forward and were holding aloft two flaming torches. At any moment they would begin the terrible culmination of the ceremony … A low murmur was stirring the watchers and Portan gulped and shivered and pressed her face into the sharp rough wood, sick and dizzy. Night wind cooled the sweat on her face and on her limbs, and she felt the intense excitement of the congregation as if it was a tangible thing.

But I am surely not far from Flynn now. Amairgen, I am surely nearly there.

He will be in the heart. Go for the heart.

Portan was about a third of the way up; she thought she was just clear of the thighs and just over the jutting hip bone. It was fairly important to keep on this side, to keep in the deep shadow away from the firelight, but she thought she would probably not really be seen from the ground. Inside the giant, the captured animals were a seething mass of frightened life; the Wicker Man’s entire frame was moving and pulsating, and Portan thought they would not be able to tell that she was outside of the giant instead of inside it.

As she inched her way under the ribcage and on up to the heart cavity, all noise from the Plain ceased quite suddenly, and Portan froze.

The Druids circled the fire and the flames seemed to respond, flaring into the dark night sky, orange and red and yellow. The scent of smoke filled Portan’s nostrils. On the ground, the Druids moved towards the Wicker Man, and Portan grasped the jutting ribcage and began to haul, hand over hand, the last few feet towards the heart.

And then the Druids began to chant again.

*

It was what Flynn, motionless inside the heart, had been waiting for. The renewal of the Chant. The final imperious question.

Do you have the Sacrifice?

It rang out clearly and terribly across the Plain, and a tidal wave of emotion washed over the congregation. Wait, thought Flynn, wait for the second and then the third. Remember the mystical three, remember that they will send out the question three times.

The second cry rang out, and the crowd surged closer to the fire. Do you have the Sacrifice? Flynn tensed, waiting, feeling his muscles cramp and leap. He must answer the third demand, he must break the enchantment before the crowd gave the answer, his timing of the ancient reply must be absolute …

The third time the question rang out. Do you have the Sacrifice?

There was another of those moments of such utter and profound silence that Flynn thought the world had stopped.

And then — “No!’’ cried Flynn in the secret Lost Language that once he had known as well as he knew his name. “No! We have not your Sacrifice!”

The compartment fell open of its own accord, and Flynn saw Portan clinging to the wicker frame immediately below, her eyes huge and smudged with fear and exhaustion.

They half fell, half climbed down the Wicker Man, sliding and tumbling and skidding, their hands scorched and raw, their minds racing with the need to escape quickly, quickly.

Both of them were strongly aware of Amairgen urging them on; hurry, oh hurry, you are in such danger, you are surrounded by such anger, the Druids are furious with you and they will be merciless … They will fling you wholesale into the heart of the fire if they catch you …

Flynn and Portan knew it, for both could feel the immense dull red waves of fury from the Druids and the thin waves of puzzlement from the people of the Court. Even so, in the midst of the shouts and upheaval, delight burst in Flynn to hear Amairgen again and to know him somehow safe.

This is no time for sentiment, Flynn. Reserve your energies for escape.

Flynn thought that if he could spare the time for amusement, he would be very amused indeed, for the thought was so characteristic of Amairgen.

They had reached the ground now, and Flynn drew Portan into the lee of the giant’s feet. The congregation was in tumult; the Druids were searching the undergrowth, swishing angrily at the grass and the low bushes with lighted torches, here and there setting up small fires that burned up into the dry night with a sharp acrid tang. Flynn thought that the Court was bewildered rather than anything else; they had been engrossed in the ceremony and in the ancient ritual of question and answer, and they had thought, if they thought about it at all, that the sacrifices were only those of animals. Unpleasant but bearable. Despite his panic and the urgency to get himself and Portan away, Flynn felt a rush of gratitude. He had thought some of the Court his friends; he had certainly thought them kindly disposed towards him, and he was glad to see that most of them had not been aware of the fact that the Wicker Man had held a human sacrifice. He caught sight of Mab standing a little apart, and for a moment something deep within him stirred, so that he wanted to go to her and take her hand and say: come with us. Come into the forest and the darkness away from these strange half-human people who think little of live sacrifice and who deal in death and treachery. And then he remembered that Mab herself was not entirely human — Lionblood! said his mind warningly — and the moment passed, and he took Portan’s hand and smiled down at her encouragingly and saw with anguish how white and frightened she was, and how her hands were streaked with blood and how the skin was torn and blistered.

Portan looked back and an infinitely sweet smile spread over her face. “Flynn,” she said. “Oh Flynn.”

Flynn grinned and tightened his hold. “Now,” he said. “Are you ready to run? Then to the forest, my dear!”

*

Safely in the depths of the forest, sufficiently far from the enraged Druids to begin to feel out of their reach, and concealed by the closely growing trees, Flynn looked at his two companions. His composure broke at last. Tears poured down his face as he embraced Amairgen and for a moment he was unable to speak.

Amairgen, very much moved, but as always more in control than the volatile Flynn, said, “You thought never to see me again, Flynn. I am quite aware of your thoughts. I do beg you to be less emotional.” But he smiled as he said this, and his hands held Flynn’s tightly.

Flynn said in a whisper, “What did they do to you?”

“It is a good tale,” said Amairgen levelly. “And one day I will tell you the whole. But not now.” He laid his hand on Flynn’s shoulder, and Flynn, only partly understanding, clasped the hand. One day Amairgen would tell of what happened in the dim Caves of the sidh, but it would not be until the memory had dimmed, and it would certainly not be until he had accepted his sightlessness a little more fully.

Flynn bent to where Portan sat curled up, watching them both, her eye shining with happiness.

“Oh my dear,” he said gently, and with such love that Portan thought her heart would surely burst with sheer joy. She had saved Flynn, just as she had saved Amairgen, and surely, surely, there could be no greater happiness than this. If she could just keep this moment as it was now; if she could cup it in her hands and keep it forever, so that one day, in some future that might not hold Flynn or Amairgen, she could unfold the memory and re-live it and think: oh yes, that was the day I knew pure happiness.

Flynn took her hands and kissed them. “Poor grazed hands,” he said. “All for my sake. Portan, I do not deserve what you did, but I shall never forget it.”

Portan said, rather unsteadily, “I have only repaid what you and Amairgen did for me when you rescued me from the Gealtacht. I am glad to do it, Flynn.” And thought that after all the danger and the anguish had been almost worthwhile. For they are both here safe, they are both with me, and we shall go on together now, and find Flynn’s Joanna. And although once there would have been a tiny secret pain at the knowledge of Flynn’s devotion to Joanna, Portan could accept this now.

Because there is Amairgen? said a tiny part of her mind. Because Amairgen needs you and called you “my dear” and kissed you before you went out on to the Plain? Well, perhaps. Perhaps it is that he needs me, and perhaps it is a little more than that. She smiled, and thought how truly wonderful it was to be able to do so again, and curled back into her position against the tree, and listened to their plans.

Flynn was saying, “Truly, Amairgen, I do not believe that Joanna was ever inside Tara. Certainly she was never anywhere near to the Druids’ settlement, for they would have —” He stopped.

Amairgen said gently, “They would have saved her for the sacrifice tonight, as well as you. Yes, of course they would, Flynn.”

“Therefore,” said Flynn, “it is possible that she is safe somewhere.” And looked at them both, so that in the dim light Portan saw the pleading in his eyes, and searched for the words to reassure him.

“It is possible,” she said at length, “that she has fallen in with some — some quite ordinary people, and is being looked after.”

“That is true,” said Amairgen, listening. “For there are surely many perfectly ordinary people here. Cruithin and others.”

“Yes.” Flynn found this was easily believable; he thought that Portan and Amairgen were both sensible, logical people, and their reasoning was probably sound. He rather hoped that he was not believing them only because he wanted to believe it, and put this thought from him. Of course Joanna was safe somewhere. Of course they were going to find her. Anything else was intolerable. And although he knew they were all tired and battered, he was aching to be on the move again, and his mind was racing on ahead, planning where their search should be next, watching the sky for signs of dawn, and knowing that there were hours yet before the first streaks of light would appear.

But when Amairgen tentatively suggested that they might travel by night quite safely, Flynn said at once, “No, it is more important that we rest tonight and conserve our strength.” And put his hand on Amairgen’s, to thank him for his suggestion.

Amairgen said, “Even so, Flynn, the Druids will continue to search for you. They will be angry at being made fools of, and they will certainly be angry at having their Sacred Ritual ruined.”

Flynn glanced to where the light of the Beltane Fire still glowed, and Amairgen, sensing the movement, said, “Are we sufficiently far from the Plain to be safe for a time?”

Flynn hesitated, for he did not really think they were far enough to be safe, but Portan said, “Oh yes, we will be safe here.” And pointed to the thick undergrowth surrounding them. “We should surely hear anyone coming through the forest, you see.” And then, to Amairgen, “We are entirely safe,” she said, and Amairgen nodded, satisfied, and leaned back as if to sleep.

For Flynn, sleep was very nearly impossible. He could not close his mind to what might be ahead of them, and he could not shut out the images of Joanna, lost and frightened, alone somewhere. They were entirely at the mercy of this alien land, and although he had not looked at their food supplies, he knew they must be dwindling. What would happen when their stores ran out? Could they hunt the forest creatures? An involuntary smile touched Flynn’s lips, for he had a fleeting image of himself riding out at the head of the Fiana, spearing the wild creatures, stringing them over a spit, directing his men on hunts for the famous white boar of Tara … I could do it, thought Flynn, lying wakeful in the dark forest. I could certainly do it. But I could not do it alone. And he glanced to Amairgen and Portan, and his throat was harsh with unshed tears for Amairgen. And Portan, although she would do anything and go anywhere — although she was quite tremendously courageous — had not the strength they needed. Mentally she was stronger than anyone Flynn had ever known — I believe she is stronger than I am, he thought — but physically she was the frailest. He could not depend on her in a hunt or a fight. But the spirit of the great Finn was more awake in him than it had ever been, and despite it all, he knew a sense of hope and a confidence. They would survive and they would find Joanna. He turned over and tried to calm his mind for sleep.

Close by, Amairgen was as much awake as Flynn, and more concerned for their plight than he had allowed his companions to see. He thought their chances of surviving were slim, but then he thought that their chances of surviving this far had been slim anyway, and yet here they were. He tried to take heart from this, but he found that his heart was heavy within him; he knew he would hinder them on their journey, id the black depression hovered again. But like Flynn, he tried to compose his mind for rest, because if they were to embark on a journey in the morning, they had to be properly rested. And so he tried to shut out the doubts, and he fell to listening to the night rustlings of the forest, able by now to identify the different levels of sound, fascinated by the vividness and the clarity of his perceptions.

And then he heard a different sound.

Human sounds.

People coming stealthily through the forest towards them.

*

The three travellers were at once wide awake; Flynn and Portan both reached for Amairgen’s hands. Between them flashed the thought that if they should have to run, if the people coming through the forest should prove to be hostile, at least they could pull Amairgen between them and guide him.

I do not need guiding, nor do I need my hands held. I may have lost my sight, but my wits are still there, and my other senses are becoming more acute than you can imagine.

Flynn and Portan both heard his thoughts; Flynn because of the Samhailt (and how incredibly potent that was becoming, he thought!); Portan because she possessed that something that was not quite the Samhailt, and also because she was coming to understand Amairgen and to know his thoughts and feelings. Now, as they crouched together in the clearing, she felt Amairgen’s courage and strength again, as she had felt it before going out on to the Plain of the Fál to rescue Flynn.

Flynn was a little ahead of them. He said softly, “Do not move. Let us wait and see who this is.”

“Enemies?” said Portan, shivering.

“No,” said Flynn, his head tilted to one side, listening. “No, I do not think they have the approach of enemies.”

“Nor,” said Amairgen quietly, “do they have the scent of enemies.”

The footsteps were nearer now, and Flynn thought there were four or five sets of people — perhaps even six. Despite his words to the others, and despite Amairgen’s agreement, he felt a trickle of fear.

Through the trees, came Conaire of the Eagles. He stopped when he saw the three travellers, and held up his hand as if to halt others who followed him. Just behind Conaire was Sean the Storyteller, and behind him were several people that Flynn recognised as belonging to the Ancient Houses of the Bloodline. CuChulainn of the Chariot Horses, tall and strongly muscled and with flashing eyes. Oscar of the Deer, quiet and slender and gentle, with large velvety eyes and a thoughtful, rather scholarly air. And the twins, Midir and Etain of the White Swans; Etain so like her brother and nearly always being dressed like him that it was frequently difficult to tell them apart.

Flynn stood up and waited, because they certainly could not run from this group; they would be caught and captured with ease. CuChulainn’s great strength would fell them at a blow, and Oscar’s fleetfooted speed would outpace them.

No need to run, came Amairgen’s thought. They mean us no harm.

“Indeed we do not,” said Conaire, stepping forward. “We mean you no harm at all.” He looked at them very intently. “And if you are Eochaid Bres’s enemies, then you are our friends.” He stayed where he was, but his eyes went from one to another of them, and Flynn, understanding, waited and met Conaire’s golden stare calmly.

At length, Amairgen said, “You see? We are harmless.”

“Yes,” said Conaire, “so you are.” And the three travellers felt the golden eyes withdraw from their minds.

“Will you tell us why you thought we might be Eochaid Bres’s enemies?” Flynn said and Amairgen and Portan both knew he had deliberately not referred to Eochaid as the King. Amairgen, a little removed from them all, felt the shadowy figure of Finn hover over them, and remembered that for all his skill and tactics in battle, Finn had also been known as a great diplomat and a mediator.

Conaire seemed to feel it as well, for he was watching Flynn with a rather unexpected expression. When he said, “May we sit down? We have been walking for many miles …” the three friends caught the note of deference in his voice.

Flynn said, “Please do sit … all of you.” And took up a stance against a tree, arms folded, looking at them all.

Conaire said, “Flynn — Bricriu the Fox sold you to the Druids.”

“Yes.”

“To be imprisoned inside the Wicker Man and given to the Sacred Fire is the traditional fate for traitors,” said Oscar softly.

“The Fox believed you a traitor,” said Conaire. “An enemy of Eochaid’s. Are you?”

Flynn said, “How did you know I was inside the Wicker Man?”

“We didn’t, not to begin with. But we saw you escape.”

“Ah,” Flynn grinned ruefully. “And I thought we had been so stealthy.”

Conaire said, “Oh you were. But some of us have the eyesight of our Bloodline.”

“Oh yes, of course,” said Flynn, and remembered about eagles, and looked at Conaire with renewed interest.

Conaire said, “If you are a traitor to Eochaid Bres, then it is quite probable that you are a friend to the True King.” The True King … For a moment something shivered in the quiet dark forest. Of course, thought Amairgen. Cormac of the Wolves. And so they are a rebellion, they are renegades from Eochaid’s Court. Well, I suppose it is all right … And waited to see how Flynn would handle this, and felt a great surge of confidence that Flynn would handle it with consummate ease.

Oscar of the Deer began, “Flynn, you know the Ancient Tongue.”

“A very little.”

“Better than any of us,” said Oscar.

“We know enough to reply to the ceremony,” explained Conaire. “But none of us would know how to break the Druids’ spell. Are you a spy, Flynn?”

“No,” said Flynn. “Well, not the sort you mean.”

“Oh. That’s a pity. We had thought … but you have no allegiance to Eochaid Bres? You have not taken the Oath?”

“No,” said Flynn with perfect truth. “And indeed, my friends and I know little of your — politics.”

There was a puzzled silence, and Flynn realised that the word was strange to them. He realised, with surprise, that it was quite strange to him as well. A Lethe word, of course. Aloud, he said, “I mean your — your struggles for power. Your wars and quarrels. The — structure of your governing.” Amairgen leaned forward. “My friends and I would always support true justice,” he said. “And Eochaid Bres is a usurper, I think?”

“He is,” said Conaire grimly. He looked at Flynn. “And after tonight — after we saw for ourselves how he and his — his jackal Bricriu were hand in glove with the Druids —”

CuChulainn broke in. “Excuse me, Conaire, but that’s not very complimentary to the jackals. I have a cousin —”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Conaire coldly.

“An unfortunate marriage,” said CuChulainn. “Of course, we don’t admit to the connection. And we never have anything to do with that side of the family.”

“Well we all have relations we don’t like admitting to,” said one of the twins kindly.

“But,” said the other, “you can hardly compare Bricriu’s emblem with the jackals.”

“Yes you can,” said the first one. “We don’t want the jackals on our side — saving your presence, CuChulainn.”

Oscar said that every family had its black sheep.

“Well we don’t want those either,” said someone else. “Useless in a fight, sheep — black, white or piebald.”

Flynn felt that the conversation was getting out of hand.

Conaire said rather crossly, “The jackals don’t owe allegiance to anyone. They’re for themselves, we all know that. Don’t any of you remember what happened in the Battle for the Trees?” He turned back to Flynn. “People forget,” he said.

“Well, yes.”

“The thing is,” said Conaire, “the thing is, that Cormac would never have sanctioned human sacrifice on the Beltane Fire.”

“Or anywhere else for that matter,” said Oscar.

“He enjoyed a fight, of course,” said CuChulainn.

“Oh yes, I didn’t mean to imply —”

“But they were fair fights,” said one of the twins — Flynn thought it was Midir.

“And so,” said Conaire, “when we realised that Eochaid Bres had permitted human sacrifice —”

“Appeared to permit it, that is,” put in Oscar. “We shouldn’t judge. He may have known nothing about it.”

“He doesn’t know very much about anything,” said Etain scornfully. “And Bricriu is a wily old Fox.”

“When we realised what had happened,” said Conaire, raising his voice, “we were all extremely angry.”

“We were fighting mad,” said CuChulainn, his eyes flashing.

“We saw that the Pretender couldn’t be tolerated any longer,” said Conaire. “And so we got together — that is, those of us that belong to the Ancient Bloodline — and we decided that he must be got rid of.”

Flynn said, “Yes, I see. Can it be done?”

“Eochaid Bres got rid of the Wolfking,” said Etain. “No, that’s not quite right,” said Oscar. “Eochaid Bres’s supporters got rid of him.”

“It amounts to the same thing,” said Etain.

“So,” said Flynn, surveying them, “you six form a — what? A splinter group?”

“A rebellion,” said Conaire, and grinned.

“A small band of warriors,” said Midir.

“Not so very small,” put in his sister firmly.

“You see, we can all call up our Blood Creatures if we have to,” explained Oscar.

“And a very formidable army that would give us,” said CuChulainn in his rich strong voice. “More than sufficient to crush the usurper and his —”

“Jackals,” said Etain.

“Of course, I’m not really part of all this,” said Sean the Storyteller, who had not spoken until now. He leaned forward anxiously. “I’m only here to report what happens. That’s my job. I’m the Court’s official ollam. I shall be quite impartial about everything, you know. If there’s a battle, I shan’t say that one side was better than the other. I shall only say what happens.

“You can’t have a battle without a proper record,” he added to Flynn in an aside, and Flynn nodded.

“We have a duty to our descendants,” explained Sean seriously. “So I can’t be for one side or the other. I shan’t do any fighting either. You do know that?” he said, turning to Conaire. “I did make it clear?”

“You’ve been making it clear ever since we left Tara,” groaned Conaire.

“We’ll station you safely out of the way,” said Oscar.

“Only you’ll have to make sure you don’t get in the way,” said the warlike CuChulainn firmly.

“Well, so long as you know,” said Sean.

“So you see,” said Conaire, “we thought we should search you all out, because we thought that if you were spying on Eochaid Bres, you must be for the Wolfking. We even thought,” said Conaire, with a rather wistful note in his voice, “that he might have sent you.”

“Oh no,” said Flynn. “No, he didn’t send me.”

“Ah.” A ripple of something that Flynn guessed to be disappointment stirred in the clearing.

And the CuChulainn said, rather ominously, “Are we to understand that you are not for the Wolfking?” and at once Amairgen cut in.

“My friends,” he said, “none of us know very much about the — the rebellion when Eochaid Bres was put on the throne. Although we are of Ireland, we live many days’ journey from its centre. But as Flynn says, we would ever be on the side of true justice.”

“A diplomat’s answer,” murmured Oscar.

“But quite fair,” said Midir.

“We thought you would join us,” said Conaire, and now he was looking at Flynn, and Flynn knew that it was not Flynn O’Connor that Conaire and the others wanted, but the mighty and powerful Finn of the Fiana. And he felt a sudden surge of excitement at the idea of riding out to a battle, of liberating the exiled Wolfking. He thought that it was the shadow of Finn again, his other self, but even so, it was there and he had to give it momentary attention. He thought, as well, that before they threw in their lot with these people, they must be sure that they were doing what was right. And then he thought that above all, beyond everything, he must be sure that it would help them to find Joanna.

Conaire was watching Flynn as though trying to fathom him. “We hoped you would come with us to Scáthach,” he said. “To free the Wolfking and then to ride to Gallan to seek Cait Fian’s aid.”

“Cait Fian will be with us at once,” said Etain.

“Yes, of course, you’ve always had a soft spot for Cait Fian,” said Midir, grinning.

“Who hasn’t?” said Etain, and winked at Portan.

Conaire said to Flynn, “Will you come? We need all the help we can get.” And again Flynn had the impression that Conaire was not seeing only Flynn O’Connor, but someone who had once ridden at the head of victorious armies, and someone who had never been defeated, and who had been the finest and the most dazzling warrior in all Ireland’s history.

He said slowly, “I believe we will come,” and at once felt an approval and a confidence from Amairgen. Better by far to be with these people who know the roads, and who know how to hunt and provide food, than to struggle by ourselves.

Flynn thought: at least we shall be going somewhere. At least we shall be meeting people who may have seen Joanna.

“Yes. We will be glad to join you,” he said and Conaire smiled and took Flynn’s hand and then Amairgen’s.

“I knew you were not the Fox’s supporters,” he said.

“And if you are” said CuChulainn sternly, “you will be dealt with as all traitors are dealt with.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Oscar. “Flynn’s been inside the Wicker Man once already on the Fox’s account. He won’t risk going there again on somebody else’s.”

“No!” said Flynn.

“In any case,” said Conaire, “why wouldn’t they be with us?”

“Flynn spent a night with Mab,” remarked Midir uncertainly.

“Who hasn’t spent a night with Mab?” said Etain, and grinned at Flynn who looked startled. “Oh, it was all over the Bright Palace the next morning,” she said.

“It always is,” said Sean gloomily.

“Nothing you would need to feel ashamed about,” said Etain with another of her rather saucy, rather attractive winks at Flynn.

“My sister has no idea of the behaviour expected of ladies,” Midir said. He looked at Flynn, as though he, too, was weighing him up. “But she’s very useful in battle,” as if anxious to establish Etain’s credentials.

“I’m extremely useful,” said Etain, who was wearing breeches and a leather jerkin, and had pale shaggy cap-like hair, exactly the same length as her brother’s.

Flynn came to sit on the forest floor, at the centre of the little group, and saw at once how they all turned to him.

“Tell me your plans,” he said. “Is it to Scáthach you go?”

“Yes,” said CuChulainn firmly. “To liberate the Wolfking!” And looked round rather truculently, as if daring anyone to disagree with this.

“But that,” said Midir, “is always supposing the Wolfking hasn’t already liberated himself.”

“None of us have ever really believed that Scáthach would hold him for long,” said Etain. “You don’t put a wolf in a mousetrap like Scáthach.”

“I suppose you’d have broken the enchantments and been bounding out in the first week,” said Midir.

“Yes,” said Etain. “I would. Easily.”

“He’d have had to find a purebred human to do so,” put in Oscar, and at once something sprang to attention inside Flynn. But then Oscar said thoughtfully, “Although of course, there are any number of those.”

“And we all know Cormac’s way with people,” added Conaire.

“Oh, he’ll be out of Scáthach long since,” said Etain. “You see if I’m not right.”

“I always said it was a mistake to put him there in the first place,” remarked Sean. “I told Eochaid Bres at the time; you’ll regret this, I said. Cormac’s clever; he’ll find a way to dissolve the enchantment, because it never was a very strong one, you know. Or so I was told. You’re making a mistake, Sire, I said to Eochaid. But of course he didn’t listen to me.”

“No one ever does,” said the twins in unison, and went off into peals of giggles, so that Sean glared.

“You’ll pardon the riff-raff we’ve brought,” said Conaire to the three travellers.

“Brought us!” squealed the twins indignantly. “Didn’t we come of our own accord! And you’ll be very glad of the swans when the battle begins!”

“Behave yourselves,” said Conaire, and the twins grinned, and relapsed into silence.

“We ought to go first to Scáthach in any case,” said Conaire, “Flynn, don’t you agree? Because even if Cormac has broken the enchantment that the sorcerers wove to keep him in exile, we might pick up some clues as to where he is.”

Sean said solemnly that you could not, anyway, liberate someone without first finding them. “Of course, he might be halfway to anywhere by now,” he observed, which, as Oscar pointed out, was not being very helpful.

Conaire said loudly, “We’ll go to Scáthach, providing no one has any sensible objections?” And looked very hard at Sean, who said hastily, “Oh, not the merest smidgeon of one,” and fell to contemplating the forest floor.

“And then we’ll go to Gallan,” said Conaire. “And if you two gentlemen and the lady — forgive me, but we’ve not been properly introduced —”

“Forgive me” said Flynn, horrified that he had not included Portan in any of this. “This is Portan.” And he carefully named each of the Bloodline, and saw that Portan had blushed, but that she was taking the hands that were held out to her, and he noticed that the newcomers were greeting her politely and interestedly, and was thankful, but not surprised.

Portan, smiling and trying to remember the names of all these strange, friendly people, saw, and was astonished to see, that not one of the Bloodline seemed to find her odd or deformed. And then, with a burst of joy, she realised that to them she was neither. In fact, Oscar, with his gentle, clever smile, came to sit beside her, and asked about her emblem, and how long it had been since it was conferred, and how far back the Ritual had been.

Portan had only the dimmest idea of what he meant, but she had listened to Amairgen and Flynn last night, talking of Tara, and she had grasped a little of the concept of the Bloodline families. She said cautiously, “I am not sure. My — my family and I have never been close.”

And Oscar, who understood about quarrels and divided dynasties, said at once, “Ah. It is always a great pity when that happens. But clearly you are a member of a distinctive family, and that is always something to be proud of.”

“Yes,” said Portan, and Oscar, who liked history and legends and ancestries, and who found nearly everybody interesting, stayed where he was, talking to Portan of the Six Ancient Houses of Ireland, and of the Families of the Lesser Nobility.

Conaire and CuChulainn were explaining to Flynn and Amairgen about the journey.

“First to Scáthach to free the Wolfking,” said Cormac. “A night’s journey,” said CuChulainn.

“More like two,” put in Sean, who was listening.

“Well it depends how fast you go.”

“And once we have Cormac with us, we shall invoke the Mindsong and the creatures of the Bloodlines will answer.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Flynn, “but will they? I mean, do they have to?”

They stared at him.

“Yes, of course,” said Conaire at length.

“They cannot help it,” said Midir.

“They are bound by the Ritual,” said CuChulainn. “And it is an extremely strong enchantment.”

“It had to be,” said Conaire, and the others nodded.

“I see,” said Flynn.

“They will all obey,” said CuChulainn. “Conaire’s Eagles, and my Chariot Horses, and Oscar’s Deer —”

“The twins’ White Swans,” said Oscar.

“And Cormac’s Wolves,” said Conaire. “Don’t forget them.”

“Oh yes, the Wolves will come. I thought that went without saying,” said CuChulainn.

“They’re probably with him in any case,” said Conaire. “Cormac never moves without at least a dozen or so of the creatures,” he added, and Flynn thought: oh dear.

“But they’ll be more or less tame,” said Conaire, picking this up without any difficulty, “Cormac knows how to control them.” I hope he does, Flynn thought.

“And then we’ll be off to Gallan and Cait Fian’s people,” said Conaire.

“And then we shall join battle with the usurper,” added CuChulainn contentedly.

“The Wolfking will reign again.”

“And won’t the fur fly,” said Sean.

“It’s a long journey of course,” said Conaire.

“But we know the roads,” said Etain.

“We’ve brought food,” said Oscar.

“But not very much,” said Sean.

“No, but we can shoot things as we go.”

“And build fires to cook.”

“Find streams.”

“Scáthach and then Gallan!” cried CuChulainn.

“Scáthach and then Gallan!” cried the others, and Flynn and Amairgen both felt as if it was a living thing, the delight and the excitement that surged through the forest.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Eochaid Bres was in the nearest thing to a bad temper he ever got. He was quite well known for his placidity; he thought that if you had to say anything about him, you would say he was placid. Even-tempered. Tranquil. Yes, that was a good word. He was tranquil. He dared say it was a restful change for the Court to have a placid and even-tempered and tranquil High King … particularly after Cormac. The last thing Cormac had been was placid, but Eochaid Bres thought it was a useful thing to be if you were a High King.

He was not at all placid now. He was angry, and he thought he might deal out a few punishments — not the Miller’s cages, of course, he did not want to be thought barbaric, and anyway, it would give him nightmares or indigestion or both — but punishments of a kind.

He was certainly not going to be made to look silly by those wicked sly Druids who had quite obviously tried to smuggle in a human sacrifice for the Beltane Fire. The smuggling had been quite skilfully done as well, you had to admit that. Eochaid Bres did admit it. What he did not admit was that it had been the right thing to do, because human sacrifice had been forbidden at Tara for as long as anyone could remember. It was archaic and messy. It was also unnecessary, not that that came into it, but everyone knew these days that human sacrifice made absolutely no difference at all to the yield of the land. Animal sacrifice did not make any difference either, but you could not abolish all of the old traditions in one go, and anyway, everyone knew that the animals did not suffer very much. Also, they provided a rather appetising scent as they burned, and if you were watchful, you could sometimes extricate a nice leg bone of lamb, or those thin, rather juicy rib chops of young pigs. Eochaid Bres was very fond of roast pig, although it did not do to admit to the raff and skaff of the Court that the High King went about prodding the embers of the Beltane Fire, just to gorge himself on the remains of the Druids’ sacrifices! He could imagine the comments! But, still, there was no denying that meat roasted at the heart of a Sacred Fire on a crisp early spring night tasted very good indeed. Eochaid had not, naturally, dwelled very long on the kind of pickings that might have been gleaned had Flynn not escaped so timely from the Wicker Man, because he did not believe in dwelling on unpleasantness. But he was very glad indeed that he had not been faced with the ignominy of discovering that he had not eaten roast pig or roast lamb at all, but rather roast human. It would have given him a few sleepless nights. It would most certainly have given him indigestion.

He had not, in the beginning, quite understood what had happened when the ritual question about the sacrifice had been put.

Do you have the Sacrifice? They had all chanted, just as they had done every year, and the Druids had to say, Yes, we have the Sacrifice. It was what always happened. Eochaid did not properly understand the words, of course — well he dared say that nobody understood them any longer — but he knew that was what was being said.

Do you have the Sacrifice?

Yes, we have the Sacrifice.

Three times it had to be said, because the Druids said that to say a thing three times gave it immense power. The Chief Druid had explained this to Eochaid very solemnly on the day of his coronation, and Eochaid, just jokingly, had said he hoped that if he asked for his dinner three times it would give him a powerful good dinner, but the Chief Druid had not seen the joke, and nobody had laughed, and Eochaid had felt silly. Of course, Druids never had any sense of humour, everybody knew that.

Do you have the Sacrifice? There it had been, the third time, and everyone, Eochaid Bres as well, had drawn breath to give the reply.

Only the reply had never been given. They had been forestalled. Before anyone could speak, a voice had come ringing from within the Wicker Man, speaking in the Ancient Tongue, and the next minute, the Plain of the Fál had been thrown into utter chaos, as the Wicker Man seemed to fall apart where he stood, and all of the caged animals came tumbling and scurrying out and down, and ran into the forest, tripping people up, barking and bleating and clucking and flapping their wings, and making the night quite hideous.

Eochaid had not, at first, known where the voice had come from. He had been, truth to tell, rather overawed, because he had thought it might have been the voice of Dagda himself, the father-god of all the gods, and he had wondered how he ought best to reply, because as far as he knew, there was no recorded instance of Dagda having spoken to a High King for centuries upon centuries. He had been very much flattered and had thought he would go down in Tara’s history as the King who had called to earth the mighty father-god.

But then Mother and Bricriu had explained that it was not Dagda who had spoken, only a wicked spy who had somehow been concealed inside the Wicker Man, and who had known the Druids’ Ancient Tongue, and had known how to break the spell of the Wicker Man.

Of course, Eochaid had said at once that he had seen through the trick; he had not really believed the voice to come from Dagda at all. He had asked how the spy could have got into the Wicker Man, and Bricriu had said sadly, “Well, Your Majesty, I am afraid he must have been put there,” and Eochaid had said, “As a sacrifice?” rather sharply, and Bricriu had said that after all, Sire, it was the punishment for spies.

This was extremely worrying, because Eochaid had not known they had had a spy in their midst. He hoped he had not said anything amiss in the spy’s presence.

“I am sure you could not have done, Sire,” said Bricriu soothingly.

Even so, it was disconcerting to find that spies were being uncovered at Court and sent to justice willy nilly without the King being aware of it. Eochaid thought it ill became his dignity to be treated in such a way; he thought he should have been consulted. He certainly thought he should have been told.

He sent Bricriu off to summon the Councillors to an Extraordinary Meeting in the Star of the Poets, and once assembled, demanded a full explanation of them.

“But Your Majesty, none of us knew anything about it,” said Bolg, huffing and puffing a bit, because he had just been coming from the stool room on the upper floors when the King issued the summons, and he had arrived at a fast trot, a bit out of breath, a bit dishevelled, his thoughts as disordered as his dress.

Several heads nodded in agreement; nobody, it seemed, had known anything about the spy.

“And if we had known,” said Bolg, beginning to recover his wind, “we would have put a stop to it. We certainly don’t want human sacrifice at Tara again.” He shuddered, and the Councillors all shuddered with him and looked shocked, and said indeed they did not, to be sure it was the very last thing they wanted. Eochaid Bres stormed out of the Star of the Poets, which was an insult to the Ancestral Chamber of all the High Kings, but which was comforting to Eochaid Bres’s injured dignity, and told Bricriu that if there was one thing he could not bear, it was a pack of sybarites telling him lies.

“I think Your Majesty means sycophants,” said Bricriu, and Eochaid lost his temper in earnest then, and stamped his foot and threw his best official gold chain on to the floor, and said they none of them treated him with the respect he deserved, and things would have to change.

The Court seemed somewhat depleted when they gathered in the Sun Chamber that evening — “Sleeping off the excesses of Beltane, Your Majesty,” said Bricriu soothingly.

It was a fairly safe guess that one or two of the Court had found excesses somewhere. Conaire of the Eagles would be sure to; Eochaid was not surprised to see Conaire’s chair empty tonight. He was not particularly surprised to see that CuChulainn was not here either, because CuChulainn was inclined to be a bit wild as well. Eochaid had never quite trusted that family. Too fond of making war, Bricriu had once said, but Eochaid thought that CuChulainn’s family were quite fond of winning wars as well, and they had a disconcerting habit of throwing in their lot with the side most likely to ride to victory. He hoped that Conaire and CuChulainn had not gone off to start up a silly rebellion somewhere.

The twins, Midir and Etain were missing tonight as well, which was probably the gods’ mercy, because they were apt to get a bit out of hand. Etain was fond of teasing the young men (well, the old men as well — there had once been a most unpleasant incident with Bricriu) and it sometimes caused unpleasantness with Mother.

“Jealousy,” said the Court, and told each other how Etain’s mother, Fuamnach, had once challenged Mab as the greatest beauty at Tara. “Plain jealousy,” they said, but Eochaid thought that Mother had no need to be jealous of anyone, and certainly had no need to be jealous of a pale pointy-faced creature like Etain. A few of the men held that Etain was unusually beautiful and possessed of a certain, rather wayward charm — Cait Fian was believed to have had his eye on her for a year or more — but Eochaid had never been able to see anything in her.

He was not especially unhappy to see the twins absent tonight, but he was very sorry not to see Oscar of the Wild Deer. Oscar would certainly not be sleeping off any excesses, because so far as anyone knew, Oscar never indulged in any. Also, he could be relied upon to soothe over any awkwardnesses that might occur in the course of an evening, not that Eochaid classed this business of sacrificing a spy on the Beltane Fire as awkward precisely, but there would be bound to be talk, and Oscar would have been tactful and discreet. Eochaid was very sorry not to see him in his usual place; he was even sorrier not to see Sean the Storyteller.

“Overeaten himself again no doubt.” said Bricriu when Eochaid asked where Sean might be. “Disgraceful in a man of his standing,” said Bricriu. “And at his time of life.” Eochaid, who had also overeaten himself, but did not see what age or standing had to do with it, grunted and reached for a dish of spiced woodcock, and felt abandoned by his friends, and beleaguered by his enemies, and wondered, not for the first time, whether the game was worth the candle.

*

Bricriu wondered so as well. It was all very well when the King did as he was told, but of late, he had not done at all as he was told; he had developed a habit of asking the wrong questions, and it would not do. You could not have Kings thinking they could rule, otherwise you ended up with a despot which was bad for the people. You could not have the people ruling either, because then you ended up with chaos which was bad for everybody. Ideally the Councillors ruled, but absolutely ideally Bricriu ruled the Councillors. With a little — a very little — help from Mab. She thought she ruled completely, of course, and Bricriu was not going to disillusion her. She knew too much about Bricriu himself for any chances to be taken.

Bricriu had known at once that it had been Flynn who had broken the Druids’ enchantment, and he had been stunned, because nobody, not even the High King, knew the Druids’ Ancient Tongue these days. Everyone knew the words of the Ritual, of course; the question and answer part of the ceremonies, but nobody really knew what the words meant any more, because the Druids were extremely jealous of their traditions.

But Flynn had known. Flynn had known the Ancient Tongue sufficiently well to use the Ritual Denial, and that was something whose origin was so old, that Bricriu thought even the Druids did not fully understand it. Flynn had understood it though. He had broken the Wicker Man’s spell and set himself free. The Druids had been angry, but Bricriu had been angrier still. He had been very nearly beside himself when he had realised that not only had Flynn slipped from his grasp, he had taken half the Bloodline with him.

A rebellion! A new assault on Tara, only this time it would be Bricriu who was under attack. It was one thing to ride against the Bright Palace from outside, with the armies streaming out behind you and the Lion pennants fluttering in the breeze; it was quite another to be the one who was within besieged Tara. Bricriu had a sudden, highly disturbing vision of himself (and the others, of course) trapped inside Tara, fighting off Eochaid Bres’s ill-wishers, besieged and starving and beaten. It was something that could not be allowed to happen on any count. He took another look at the vision, and thought he saw, very clearly, the Wolf emblem on those pennants.

He dare not risk it. Was there any likelihood that it might happen? Although it was not pleasant to examine distressing things closely, Bricriu now examined the very unpleasant possibility of a new rebellion, and was forced to admit that it was more than a possibility; it was a probability. And given that particular group of people, it was very nearly a certainty.

Flynn was the lodestar, of course; he was the leader, and they would all follow. Bricriu admitted, albeit unwillingly, that the boy had that singular blend of recklessness and charm and intelligence that made for leaders. Odd how you never mistook it. Cormac had possessed it as well, of course, which was one of the reasons why Cormac had been removed; the Court never paid any attention to anyone else when Cormac was at Tara.

Conaire of the Eagles possessed it as well; not in quite such strength, but still he possessed it and it had to be reckoned with. He would be a good person to have in a rebellion, and his eagles would be remarkably good creatures to have as allies. Bricriu shuddered as he thought of those cruel merciless talons and beaks, and those massive wings swooping down on an enemy. Yes, it was quite easy to see Flynn and Conaire together; Bricriu could well visualise them throwing in their lot with someone like Cait Fian of Gallan, attempting to set Cormac on the High Throne again, even, perhaps, succeeding. They were insolent reckless young men who would fight for any cause they considered worthy, and it was really a very great pity they were on Cormac’s side. They were arrogant swaggering cubs who made far too much of their youth and their virility, thought Bricriu, steaming himself into a high rage. It would be very pleasant indeed to see those three young men — four if you counted Cormac himself — with their thick glossy hair thinning and dry, and their clear bright eyes watery and dim, and their strong firm bodies withered and feeble. Well, there were such spells. He touched the knowledge in his mind with satisfaction. More ways than one of defeating an enemy.

The others who had gone to Flynn would be useful to him as well. CuChulainn was a great brutish creature, of course, all muscle and flashing eyes, but he had at his back the great and fearsome Chariot Horses, and anyone who had ever seen the Chariot Horses galloping across the plains and the fields of Ireland would know they were creatures to be reckoned with. CuChulainn’s family had always liked to style themselves the champions of the High Kings, which Bricriu thought presumptuous. He remembered about the spell again — loss of hair and teeth was it? And softening of the wits. CuChulainn should be taught a lesson.

Midir and Etain should be taught lessons as well. Bricriu had never cared for the twins overmuch, not since he had made a certain behind-the-hand suggestion to Etain, which she had rejected with such coarseness that Bricriu had been deeply offended. He had not minded the rejection itself — goodness, of course he had not! — but he had thought Etain’s exact wording of it quite unnecessarily vulgar. Also, if Etain did not want to receive such propositions, she should not flaunt herself so blatantly. Of course the family had no real breeding; they were only fourth generation aristocracy, if they were not third. A very new Bloodline indeed. In fact, Bricriu could remember the twins’ mother, twenty-five years earlier, giving herself airs and trying to rival Mab. Now that he thought about it, Etain’s mother had rejected a very similar proposition from Bricriu in very nearly the same words as Etain. What was in the meat came out in the gravy, and the twins were no particular loss.

Oscar of the Wild Deer might, at first look, seem not to be a particular loss either, but Oscar was clever. He was so clever that he had by now probably mapped out an entire plan of campaign for the rebellion, and he was so shrewd that he would have persuaded them all to adopt it. Yes, the rebellion needed planners as well as leaders and fighters.

It was really a very alarming combination. Individually, those five — six if you counted Flynn which Bricriu would certainly do — were not especially dangerous. But together with the might of their respective Bloodlines behind them, they posed a very grave threat. It could not be risked, and Bricriu would not risk it. The army that those six could summon would be formidable, but Bricriu could summon another army that would be more formidable still.

You did not meet force with force; you met it with sorcery.

Descending to the Sorcery Chambers of Tara was like passing through many layers of its life. It was like cutting down and down, through each level of the Palace’s history, so that you could see all of the different ages, and you could sense all of the different levels of the High Kings and Queens, all the way from Dierdriu of the Nightcloak to the present day.

Down and down you went. Through the low roofed passages with the flaring wall sconces placed at intersections; down the narrow twisting stairways with huge walls all about you; with low arched doors leading off them. Bricriu had once heard it said that the doors were gateways to Tara’s past, and if you could find the key you could open the doors and step back into those lost Golden Ages — of Dierdriu, and Niall of the Nine Hostages, and Nuadu Airgetlam of the Silver Arm: magical times. And now they had Eochaid Bres who could not spend above an hour in the Sun Chamber without getting a headache from its glare.

The awesome thing about descending to the Sorcery Chambers was the way in which the past crowded in. You hardly needed keys to unlock the doors; all you had to do was to stand very still and shut your eyes, and let the entire history of the Bright Palace soak in through your skin. Bricriu was not especially fanciful, but he never failed to be aware of the sheer weight of age that permeated these walls; these underground chambers were Tara’s soul and its memory and its heartbeat. It was not fanciful to think you could feel the emotions and the fears and the hopes that had been captured and held by the sorcerers.

You caught fleeting images as well if you watched for them; nothing very clear, and sometimes things that were meaningless to you. But Bricriu had twice seen the dazzling weave of the protective spell that had been sent out with what were known as the Crusade Wars, fought by the followers of the god-idol Crom Croich whose mortal body was of pure living gold, and who ate the warm, still-beating hearts of his victims. He had seen the great armies of the Fomoire and their leader, the son of Goll the One-Eyed. Once he had glimpsed the spell that had driven out the marauding Mag Tuired — a heavy dark enchantment that had been, laced with crimson and gold, not ugly, in fact rather beautiful, but menacing and smothering so that you felt as if the light had all been blotted out, and a great weight descended on to you making it difficult to breathe.

Once he had glimpsed something that was made of pure light; rose and gold and the colour of a summer dawn; glistening with cobwebs and warm with a strong heady perfume.

He had put up his hand to shield his eyes at once, for he had known it to be the Final Great Enchantment, the spell that carries men to the Place beneath the Roof of the Ocean; the Lure of the Old Gods, more beautiful and more complete than anything the sidh could spin. He had backed from it at once, but the vision had sobered him, for he had not realised that Death walked these corridors.

Death is Life, and Life is Death, Inquirer, and all must meet the Old Gods and their Lure eventually.

You did not see the sorcerers until they were ready for you to see them. They did not much like being seen — Bricriu thought it was probably because they thought it preserved their sense of mystery, while in fact the only thing that remained a mystery about the sorcerers was who they truly served.

“They serve the High King of course,” Eochaid Bres had said firmly when Bricriu had once voiced this doubt.

Bricriu knew perfectly well that the sorcerers these days would serve anyone who would pay them well enough. Eochaid, very much shocked, had said no, this was entirely wrong, and Bricriu must not think like that. “They have all taken the Oath,” he had said, as if that settled the matter, but Bricriu knew perfectly well that a few words spoken on the Plain of the Fál did not automatically ensure allegiance to the High King, and any words spoken by the sorcerers did not automatically ensure anything at all.

It had been different in Dierdriu’s day, of course. People had known where they were then. The sorcerers had served Dierdriu faithfully and well. Bricriu quite accepted that. They had sworn allegiance to her in the days when oaths meant loyalty and not something quite different. They had done everything she had ever asked. They still took the Oath, of course — and made quite a performance of it as well! — but if they were any more loyal than Bricriu was, it would be a matter for comment. Bricriu was not loyal, of course, because sensible people were not any longer; you knew which side your bread was buttered and that was all there was to it. Bricriu would swear oaths to any manner of people if it would help him rule Ireland on his own account. By the same token, the sorcerers would swear allegiance to anyone as well, if it would pay them sufficiently. They were as greedy as goblins, sorcerers. They were wily as well, but Bricriu could be wilier still. He would be very wily now.

He made his way through the passages, holding his single candle aloft, knowing that eventually he would come to the high ceilinged Supplicants’ Chamber — the place that lay at the centre of these subterranean passages, where the sorcerers came out to meet those who asked their help.

Bricriu hated to ask anyone for help, but still, the sorcerers were there, they lived and worked and had their great Looms where they weaved their spells beneath the Bright Palace, and you might as well make use of the means to hand. In any case, the sorcerers lived well enough off the High King.

The Supplicants’ Chamber was hewn from the rock — Dierdriu’s Rock, some called it, and told how the Queen had sat on the Rock and thrown back her head to the sky, and let the wind lift her rippling black hair, and how it was here she had bargained with the sorcerers to raise the Bright Palace for her, and build the great Sun Chamber.

Superstition, of course. Bricriu did not believe a word of it. And yet, and yet …

And yet, there was the remarkable portrait of the woman they said had been Dierdriu, etched in gold into the rockface; the one they said would one day return. “If the Darkness of the Necromancers should ever dim the Bright Palace … I shall return.”

For some reason, it always made Bricriu feel uncomfortable to remember that legend. The High Queen returning …

Still, even for an unfanciful man, there was something uncomfortable about the Sorcerers’ Chamber. It was steeped in magic and soaked in history, and whether you believed the legend of Dierdriu or whether you did not, it was easy to imagine that Dierdriu’s shade might walk these halls now and then.

The Central Chamber was lined with marble and porphyry; there were great soaring pillars of alabaster which reared up into the dim vaults far above. The floor was patterned with the symbols of all the gods, with Dagda the father-god at the centre.

Bricriu approached the great oval table, thus shaped so that no one sorcerer would ever sit at its head, and no one at its foot, and snuffed his candle. The sorcerers were believed not to like direct light very much, and in any case, all light that was necessary came from the Rock; a faint bluish glow that lit Dierdriu’s gold-etched image to eerie life. Bricriu felt uncomfortable all over again. He did not believe in the legend of the High Queen returning, because no sensible person did believe it, but it still made him feel a bit odd to be down here and see it like this.

The sorcerers would make him wait, they always did. But in the end they would come. Not all of them, but enough, and the bargaining would commence. They were greedy, but they would do what Bricriu wanted, because Bricriu would pay. They would not necessarily do it for Eochaid Bres, or even for Mab, but they would do it for Bricriu for the money.

And so Bricriu settled himself to wait, and presently the sorcerers appeared, almost seeming to materialise in the shadows, not there one moment and then suddenly there the next, so that you could not see how they arrived. It was a trick, of course, and if Bricriu had known how it was done he would not have been so impressed. He did not know how it was done.

The sorcerers wore plain dark cloaks with deep hoods that shadowed their faces. Bricriu knew that these were their Outer World garments; the clothes they wore when they had to meet with people of the Court, or when they went out into what they called the Outer World on some quest or other. Once there, they liked to mingle with ordinary people — but of course you could always tell a sorcerer by looking at his eyes. Deep. Dark. Brooding. It was said that every sorcerer possessed a wardrobe of dazzling robes, some of them woven of spells, others of light, yet others of living breathing colours, but they never appeared in these robes other than to one another.

Their manners were exquisite. They were exquisite now, to Bricriu, as they seated themselves at the table, and indicated to Bricriu that he should take the Supplicants’ Chair which faced the table.

That was the part he disliked. To stand before these clever unfathomable men, and ask for their help. To know himself inferior to those who had spent numberless years immersed in study and the pursuit of the forces hidden from the rest of the world. To feel himself a lesser creature than these dark hooded beings who lived in scholarly seclusion, but who knew the secret longings in men’s souls, and who understood the ancient laws of the necromancers and the wizards and the Druids. But he took the chair and waited, hands folded, and presently, one of the sorcerers spoke.

“You disturb our work once more, Creature of the Fox and Vixen. What do you want?”

“Your help,” said Bricriu. “Tara is threatened by enemies.” He waited, and saw the tiniest flicker of consternation go round the table.

“That is distressing.” A pause. “Tell us how you believe we may help you.”

Bricriu said, “Tara should be rendered safe from attack. The Girdle of Gold —”

“Unobtainable,” said the sorcerer, his eyes at once frosty. “As you know.”

“The Erl-King has it?”

“I did not say that,” said the sorcerer, and Bricriu thought: so the Erl-King does have it! And they know it, of course. I wonder did they get it for him?

“We are sworn to serve the High King,” said the sorcerer blandly, and Bricriu knew that his thought had been heard. He remembered that although the Samhailt had been outlawed at Court, down here the sorcerers had their own laws. He remembered, too, that the Oath of Allegiance was not what it had once been, and that sorcerers were not what they had once been either. He thought that the sorcerers of Tara were perfectly capable of dealing with the Erl-King if it suited their pockets, but he clamped this thought down at once, because it would not have done for it to have been picked up.

The sorcerer said, rather coldly, “You may request another enchantment, and if it is in our power, we will agree to weave it.”

At a price, of course. There was always a price.

“I wish you to weave a spell that will render Tara invincible,” Bricriu said and hoped that they would not know that it was Cormac he wanted to render Tara invincible from.

The sorcerer regarded him thoughtfully, and it struck Bricriu that the sorcerer’s eyes were exactly the colour of cold, still lake-water.

“You know the rules,” said the sorcerer. “You must name the enchantment you require.”

Bricriu, hedging, said, “I am not well versed in sorcery.”

“The Book of the Academy of Necromancers is available to all. The enchantments of the world are written on its pages. Our Looms are able to spin everything in the Book.”

Bricriu knew, and the sorcerers knew, that to read in the Book of the Academy required immense understanding and also great purity of purpose. He knew, as well, that those who turn the pages of that ancient vellum book with the live illustrations and the coloured incantations and do so without a pure heart and a clean conscience risk being cast into the Prison of Hostages, from which no man ever emerges. He did not say this, of course, but he knew that the sorcerers knew he had never dared to go near the Book of the Academy. Even so, he did not waver; he looked directly at the sorcerer and said, “A great army is being mustered against Tara.”

“Yes?” The faintest question.

“A strong army,” said Bricriu firmly. “We shall not be able to defeat it with our own Guard.”

“Well?”

“If we had on our side those who do not rely on strength alone, those who have at their fingertips the old magics of the Dark Ireland —”

“War by sorcery is a nasty business,” said the sorcerer, and an uneasy ripple went round the oval table. Bricriu thought: they are a little afraid, but I think they are more afraid of losing the Sorcery Chambers of Tara. And remembered that the Silver Looms, on which the enchantments were spun were said to be at their most powerful when they were housed beneath the Bright Palace. No, for sure, the sorcerers would not want to find themselves cast out of Tara. Emboldened by this thought, he leaned forward and said, “We dare not permit this invasion.”

“It would be — inopportune,” said the sorcerer, and Bricriu caught the faintest of nods from several of the other shadowy figures.

“If we had the Dark Powers on our side — on the side of Tara — perhaps even inside the Palace walls …”

A sudden and rather terrible silence descended on the sorcerers, and a great stillness fell about them. Bricriu thought: of course they know what I am going to say. But he said it all the same.

He moved closer to the oval table so that the light fell across him, and although he did not realise it, in that moment, the fox’s mask of his forebears, cruel and sly and calculating, fell across his face.

“We must summon the Morrigna.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The journey to Gallan, through the Morne Mountains, was not nearly as arduous as Joanna had feared.

“You’re getting your second wind, my lady,” said Gormgall approvingly.

“Or you’re beyond caring,” muttered Dubhgall, but Joanna laughed and thought that this new strength and this feeling of being more alive than ever before, came as much from the cold clean mountain air and from the majestic tranquillity of the mountains themselves, as from anything else.

“Yes, they’re very tranquil, these mountains,” said Dubhgall in the manner of one humouring a child.

“Calming,” said Joanna firmly.

“Very likely,” agreed Dubhgall. “Of course, it’s as likely to be the magic up here as anything else.”

Cormac, who had been rather quiet since their escape from the Morrigna, said, “But the magic of the Morne Mountains is the purest of all the magics.”

“Well that’s what they say,” said Dubhgall.

“Of course it is.”

“We’ll hope so,” said Dubhgall. “But we all know that there’re sorcerers in these mountains, and they’re a greedy breed, sorcerers. There’s no knowing whose pay they might be in,” said Dubhgall. “Nor there’s no knowing if someone’s got here before us.”

“Who?”

“The Erl-King,” said Dubhgall, and a rather terrible silence fell. Joanna, who was a little ahead of the others, caught sight of three large-winged, very black birds sitting on a jutting rock, and just for a moment, the sun seemed to slip behind a cloud.

Gormgall looked round and said in a whisper, “But that can’t be so.”

Cormac gave himself a little shake and said, “Of course it isn’t so. The Erl-King’s powers have never stretched this far.”

“So they say, Your Majesty. How do we know that isn’t just a rumour put about by the Erl-King himself, just to lull us all into a false sense of security?”

“Well,” said Cormac, “I never heard that the Sorcerers of the Morne Mountains were other than extremely loyal to my family. In fact, it was those very sorcerers who worked harder than any to try to regain the Girdle of Gold for us.”

“Yes, you never heard they were other than loyal, Sire, but that isn’t to say they were,” said Dubhgall, and having thus unburdened himself of this opinion now assumed a more cheerful mien. “It’s my belief,” he said confidingly, “that it’ll be as well for us not to trust anyone we meet in these mountains, human or otherwise. And I never trust sorcerers of any description,” said Dubhgall, chewing reflectively on his portion of stew which Joanna had cooked from the rabbits that Gormgall had snared earlier.

“And anyway, we aren’t going into the mountains yet. We’re going on to Gallan. Goodness gracious me,” said Gormgall rather crossly, “I should hope that His Majesty knows better than to venture into the mountain halls with only the four of us! We need at least half an army before we even think of it,” said Gormgall.

“Armies don’t worry sorcerers,” said Dubhgall.

“No, but Cait Fian can muster a remarkably strong force,” said Gormgall. “And what’s more, he’ll know the gossip. If anyone knows what goes on in this part of the country, it’s Cait Fian. That’s begging Your Majesty’s pardon for seeming to speak ill of his cousin,” added Gormgall, who never, no matter what the occasion, forgot what was due to the High King and his near family. “But Cait Fian always does know what’s afoot,” he added in an aside to Joanna, and Joanna, who had been rather dreading meeting the Mountain sorcerers (meeting any sorcerers) heaved a sigh of relief to think that they were going directly to Gallan.

“Of course,” said Dubhgall, just as everyone was beginning to relax, and Joanna was thinking they might after all reach Gallan, “of course, you don’t need to go into the Mountain Halls to meet the sorcerers. I dare say they’re prowling about all over the mountainside. We shall very likely meet one tomorrow,” he added, and, rather pleased at having imparted this sober note to the party, composed himself for a night’s slumber, and then kept everyone awake by snoring enthusiastically, until Cormac kicked him out of his fur rug.

But in fact nothing occurred to cause any disquiet to the four travellers as they went deeper into the mountains. At times Joanna thought the Nightcloak stirred and whispered, and once or twice they saw the black carrion crows — “Are they following us?” asked Gormgall once.

“Are we following them?” said Dubhgall.

Joanna shivered and said, “Oh don’t.”

“I only meant it could be a trap,” said Dubhgall, but he looked chastened.

“Even so,” said Joanna to Cormac later that night, “I believe the cloak is protecting us.”

“From traps and sorcerers?”

“From something,” said Joanna, and Cormac looked at her.

“One day, Human Child,” he said softly, “one day, I shall take you down to the Sorcery Chambers of Tara; to the great central chamber which is called the Supplicants’ Chamber and I shall show you the rock that Tara stands on. It is called Dierdriu’s Rock, and on it is the great Queen’s likeness, etched in gold by the people who served her who loved her, and who wept for a year and a day when she died.

It has never faded, and it has never weathered.” He paused. “We will see it together, you and I, Joanna, but for you it will be like looking in a mirror.”

Joanna was frightened and delighted. She said, “Am I then so like her?”

“Not to start with,” said Cormac, studying her. “Not when you came into Scáthach, when the Wolves escorted you across the great Bridge to my place of exile. But you are a little more like her each day. You know her thoughts and you speak with her tongue.” He smiled. “Even I have not the old pure Gael that she had,” said Cormac. “But you have it. You challenged Morrigan with it in Muileann. Dierdriu is you and you are her,” and a shiver of the purest excitement spiralled under Joanna’s ribs as he spoke.

But — Yes, of course she is part of me, she thought. The High Queen returned … How else did I know how to challenge Morrigan? And how else did I have the strength to endure the things Morrigan did to me? I shall never be able to forget it, thought Joanna shuddering, but I did endure it. And a cold sickness twisted her stomach at the memory of that night in Morrigan’s chamber, and Cormac took her hand. Joanna thought: he knows what happened up there in that dark evil-smelling room. He will never ask me and I will never tell him, but all the same, he knows.

“Of course I know,” said Cormac. “It is in your eyes and in your heart. I hear the echoes.” He looked at her, suddenly and disconcertingly more wolf than human, certainly more mystical than she had ever seen him. “You will forget it,” said Cormac, his eyes hard and slanting and golden. “Memory is arranged in layers. The topmost layer is vulnerable. It is open to the air. But it is quickly laid over with other memories. You are overlaying it now, Joanna. You are burying the memories of Morrigan and Muileann with new layers. Your pleasure in these mountains. Your anticipation of Gallan.” He smiled suddenly. “Cait Fian will fight me for you,” he said, “but he shall not have you, Joanna.”

Walking on through the purple-misted Morne Mountains, listening to Gormgall and Dubhgall reminiscing about their last visit to Gallan — “The year before the usurper’s rebellion it was.” — “Two years before,” said Dubhgall — Joanna did indeed begin to forget.

“Of course you do,” said Cormac, his eyes golden and slanting, but soft this time, making love to her on the grassy mountainside in the shelter of a half-cave. Joanna had protested; she had said, “Gormgall and Dubhgall are within hearing,” but it only excited Cormac more. Joanna lay back and saw, outside the cave, the sky and the mountain peaks, and vivid splashes of colour from the mountain ash and the gentians. She thought: he is right. I am forgetting.

“Of course you are,” said Cormac and bent over her.

“It’s all very well,” said Joanna at length, “but how am I to face Gormgall and Dubhgall when we rejoin them? They will know what we’ve been doing.”

For answer, Cormac laughed and pushed her back on the grass.

“Again?” said Joanna, half joking, half not. And, “So soon?” she said.

“Girl dear, did you think me a weakling? A rabbit? A beaver? A —”

“Rabbits are extremely virile.”

“So they are. And one of the Beaver line was once my staunchest and truest Councillor,” said Cormac, and Joanna thought: damn! Now I have reminded him of his lost kingdom.

“I do not need reminding,” said Cormac softly. “It is always with me.” He touched her face. “But one day soon, I shall regain it, and then we will look upon Dierdriu’s likeness, you and I.”

It was embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as Joanna had thought, to rejoin Gormgall and Dubhgall after these interludes.

It is true that once Dubhgall said, “I expect you’ll be hungry for your supper now, Sire” and it is true that Gormgall every night paced out a discreet distance between his and Cormac and Joanna’s makeshift beds, but these things could be accepted with a small degree of equanimity.

She thought of the journey — later when she was able to look back on it — as a kind of intermission. She certainly thought of it as a lime of renewal and refreshment.

“My feet often blistered from walking so far each day,” she would say, “for of course, we had had to leave the horses with the Cruithin and the Wolves far beyond Muileann. And I used to worry every day about whether we would hunt down that night’s supper. But I do not recall being other than deeply happy on that journey.”

And blisters could be soothed with Gormgall’s pots of ointments — “All brought along specially, my lady, for I knew how it would be” — and if there was ever a night when they had no supper, Joanna did not remember it.

There was food a-plenty in the mountains; rabbits and hares which they snared and made into savoury stews with handfuls of herbs: wild thyme and sorrel and lemon balm, and the pungent wild garlic that grew on the roadside. And there were leaping fish in the mountain streams that could be caught and grilled over their camp fires and eaten hot and fresh. There were berries of a kind Joanna had never seen.

“Delicious raw,” said Gormgall, picking them, “but even more delicious if we just cook them gently for a few minutes with honey and a drop of His Majesty’s mead. I knew we’d be glad of all these provisions, Sire. I said so at the time.”

“They’re a bit cumbersome to carry,” said Dubhgall, but he had two helpings of the berry and mead concoction which, as Gormgall had promised, was very good indeed.

“It’s a pity we didn’t bring the berries from the Sleeping Trees,” said Gormgall as they sat back replete and rested.

“It’s a pity you threw them away on the Muileann borders,” remembered Dubhgall.

“They went rotten,” said Gormgall.

“Waste of time gathering them then,” said Dubhgall.

Once they managed to kill a wild pig, and Cormac made Joanna retire while he and the others skinned and gutted it.

“For,” said Gormgall, sharpening his knife, “you don’t want to see what it is you’re eating, my lady. Not but what we shan’t all enjoy it, and I’ll gather a few apples and slice them up in the pot. There’s nothing so grand as a touch of apple in with roast pig.”

On the fourth day, as they began to descend the mountain path and Cormac was shading his eyes and peering into the distance, Dubhgall shot with his longbow two pigeons, which he said he would make into a pie.

“Pigeon pie,” he said. “Although I’m bound to say that there isn’t much meat on a pigeon, Your Majesty. You need at least six to make it anything like enough.”

“Enough for a good supper tonight, though,” said Cormac.

Dubhgall said, “Ah, but what about tomorrow, Sire?” and Cormac laughed and pointed.

“Look my friends! The Mountain Palace of Cait Fian! Gallan! Tomorrow night we shall dine in the company of the Wild Panther people!”

And there, towards the east, wreathed in clouds of mist was Gallan and the ice-blue Mountain Palace.

As they started down the mountain path, three carrion crows circled above them …

*

In the darkest, deepest Sorcery Chamber, Bricriu sat again in the Supplicants’ Chair and looked at the sorcerers ranged about the oval table.

“You have done what I asked?”

“We have. The Three Sisters are following the Wolfking and his servants. They are keeping watch on them.”

“Ah.” An expression of the utmost satisfaction passed over Bricriu’s face. Then — “Have they killed them yet?” he asked.

“No.” The sorcerer regarded Bricriu. “That is their price, Son of the Vixen. They will fight on your side against the armies of Cormac, and of Conaire of the Eagles, and Cait Fian of the Wild Panthers. They will use sorcery and necromancy to win … But the Wolfking and his Lady they will keep for their own purposes.”

Bricriu said, “The Morrigna want Cormac?”

“Not for themselves,” said the sorcerer. “For their master.

“They will feed the Wolfking and his Lady to the Erl-King. There is no escape for them.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Brian Muldooney, respectable pig farmer and a person of some standing in Tugaim, was very nearly at a loss. He thought wasn’t it all too bad of John Grady to lead them on this ridiculous wild chase through the night, and he wished, and had been wishing for some time, that he had not come. The girl, Joanna, pretty little dear, was certainly a loss to Muldooney’s farm, but not so much that she could not be replaced. As good fish in the sea as ever came out of it!

And now here they were in the middle of a dark old forest, which might be anywhere at all, but which seemed to lead absolutely nowhere, and there was nothing to help them get out but the cold, eerie music.

Muldooney did not trust the music. He did not, in fact, trust music at all — senseless frivolous stuff. He certainly did not trust this odd tuneless singing that crept nearer and nearer and then backed away. It was all very well for John Grady to put his head up and listen, and say wouldn’t they follow it; Brian Muldooney knew that the music was in some way wrong. He sought for words to explain this to Grady, but he had never been a great one for the explaining, and he failed to find the words. Well, looked at sensibly, there were no words. It was just wrong. It made you think of upsetting things. It made you think of pain … misery … hunger and thirst and dark and loneliness.

Yes, Men of the Desolation, we are hunger and we are thirst …

It made you think of endless dark seas and yawning chasms and bottomless wells where water drip-dripped echoingly for ever …

Oh yes, we are endless, Men of the Desolation, and we are timeless … we are at home in the dark oceans of the world, and in the underground caverns, and in the water caves of our ancestors …

And it was cold. It was so cold that you felt icy lumps form at the pit of your stomach, and you felt your bones ache, and a great solid knot of coldness form behind your breastbone.

Cold we are, Men of the Desolate World … for we have no human blood in us … but once you have seen us, once you have descended to our caves, you will never want human warmth again …

It had seemed very sensible to just stop and take a bit of a rest in the tavern they finally came to. John Grady said, “Ah! A road at last!” and bounded forward, but Muldooney followed more slowly, because he did not trust roads and taverns that appeared so conveniently out of nowhere; very likely it would be a trap of some kind, he said knowledgeably, and John Grady, who was tired of wandering about in the dark with this idiot, and who wanted to get closer to the music, said sharply, “Don’t be absurd, man.” And then, “What sort of a trap?”

Well, as to that, Muldooney would not like to say. He had heard tell of such places, he said darkly; wicked, sinful houses set on lonely roads to trap weary travellers, luring them inside where all manner of decadent practices went on.

John Grady said, “But it’s just a tavern. Look at it!”

Muldooney did look at it, and a poorish sort of place it looked, half set into a rock as it was, and with a kind of greenish growth half obscuring it. He thought that anything might lurk in there, although he did not say this, because of being called absurd again. Muldooney was not a man to invite insults. He said, rather loudly, that the place did appear to be a tavern, to be sure it did, not that he had ever actually been inside such a place. He had too much consideration for the teachings of the Survivors, he said rather piously; hadn’t they taught how the Letheans’ taverns had been wicked places, full of laxity and greed, and very likely even — fornication. He said this last word in a whisper, because it was not the sort of word a man liked to use, not even to Grady the Landgrabber. Especially not to Grady the Land-grabber. Anyway, he said, if you believed only a quarter of the stories about the Letheans’ drinking places, your toes would curl in your boots. To himself, he thought that the place had the same sort of wrongness about it that the music had. Also, he’d heard tell that you had to spend good money in such places, and that, although he was not of course a mean man, was a great old consideration.

Still, there was Grady, dead set on going in after the music, and Muldooney was not going to be left standing out here at the mercy of the cold dark night. Very likely it would do no harm to just go inside for a rest and a bit of a warm. He was also just the smallest bit curious to see what such a place might look like. And so he agreed that after all they’d just take a look inside, and then they’d be on their way again. He thought privately, that if there was any paying out to do, Grady could do it for the both of them, for wasn’t he known as a well-heeled man in Tugaim, and him an Elder to boot! Plain pig farmers had not the means to be flinging good coins about in taverns. He would tell Grady so if he had to. Muldooney was not the man to jib at speaking his mind.

John Grady, staring at the half-covered, half-cave place, said in an odd, vague voice: “We might meet someone inside who would direct us on our way again,” and Muldooney at once saw the sense of this. What way, he did not quite know, but he had heard that people were apt to be very friendly in taverns. Even so, John Grady hesitated.

The lighted windows of the low dwelling were rather inviting, and the place itself was intriguingly and attractively set into the rock face. There were warm savoury scents and there was an air of welcome. Every fibre of him wanted to step inside and follow the music to its source.

But he hesitated, because it accorded ill with his position as an Elder of Tugaim to go inside such a place, but even so …

Even so, surely his credit was sufficient for just this one visit? And there was the point that a man had a duty to know what went on in the world; how else should he guide sinners away from sin? Unaware that this worthy-sounding but possibly specious reasoning had been used by generations of gentlemen (and one or two ladies) who knew it their duty to guide fellow creatures away from sin but had sometimes been found doing so in some very questionable places, John Grady now moved forward.

The doorway — they were surprised not to see a proper wooden door — was low and curved and quite narrow. Both men had to duck their heads to go through, and Muldooney, who was a bit bulky (all of it good solid muscle, of course) had to turn sideways. He beat down the sudden impression that he was descending beneath the ocean, and thought had you ever seen the likes of that Grady, as keen to get inside as a bull to a cow! And him an Elder! Muldooney might be a good many things, but one of the things he was not was a hypocrite.

Once inside it was not quite as they had expected. It was also very quiet. It was ominously quiet, in fact. There was a waiting, a sense of unseen eyes, unseen minds, unseen hands ready to reach out and draw the humans farther inside.

Yes, yes, farther in, Human Travellers, come farther in … farther in and farther down … down into the caves beneath the sea …

Muldooney and Grady stopped and looked about them.

“This is extremely odd,” said John Grady, and Muldooney agreed at once, because it was odd, it was surely the oddest thing out of the many odd things that had been happening of late. Where was the music? Where were the people? John Grady looked for the people and listened for the music, because he knew that taverns were heavily frequented. Muldooney looked for ladies of a certain reputation, because he knew that they were always to be found in taverns. He had never, of course, seen a whore, but he dared say he would recognise one if he did. To a person of perception these things were always apparent.

They were standing in a low cavernlike place, with watertight rippling on the walls, and a faint bluish greenish light seeping in from somewhere. There was the muffled sound of water somewhere — the ocean! thought Muldooney, and was startled into fear, because wouldn’t it be a terrible thing altogether to be trapped down here if the ocean came rushing in.

The oceans are our friends, Human Travellers … come inside and you will see … And then, as if in completion of a formula: You are expected.

Neither man recognised the words which had once been almost ritualistic in the telling of fairy stories in the Lethe world. Neither man recognised the words, but both men recognised something … a threat? a menace? A whole unsuspected dark world yawned, a world where shadowy caves housed nameless evil, where silky voices invited the traveller to come inside, even where a place was laid ready at the table and a bed prepared … where the Lost Traveller was “expected” …

There had been no door, but both men had the impression of a huge door, iron-clad, steel-studded, clanging to behind them.

And now we are locked in with whatever inhabits these caves, and the ocean is above us, and the waterlight is all about us, and it is cold and dank and we are being drawn towards a forgotten world … Muldooney felt horror prickle his skin; he knew they were shut in with a something. John Grady, by now more deeply under the sidh’s spell than his companion, thought: I am getting closer to it.

Both of them moved forward, Muldooney warily, though he did not see what else was to be done, for they could not go back — could they? — and it would not do to stand stockstill like a brace of idiots. And so they moved a little nearer to the soft light, a little nearer to the music’s heart.

Come farther in, Human Travellers …

The watertight rippled and stirred all about them, and there was a gentle lapping sound. The floor beneath their feet was damp and cold, and as they moved, a scattering of objects crunched and snapped with a brittle splintering twiglike sound.

The Bones of Men, Human Travellers … cast up by the seas … but not until we have sucked them dry of their marrow, and not until we have taken their senses and their souls and woven them into our music … The music you hear is the music made from Men’s souls, Travellers, and from their eyes and their hearing and their speech … What shall we take from you, Human Travellers …?

A cascade of cold, triumphant laughter echoed round the cave …

Brian Muldooney, honest, practical pig farmer, knew by this time that there was something quite dreadfully wrong with the cave. Wouldn’t it be as plain as a cowpat to anyone other than Grady the Landgrabber? But Grady was plunging off ahead, and so Muldooney followed, because you could not let a fellow man go off alone into a dark cave with queer lights and the strangest old feel to it. And anyway, Muldooney did not want to be left out here by himself.

John Grady said, in a rather odd voice, “It has a strange atmosphere to it, this place,” and Muldooney thought that if he never heard another understatement in his life, at least he’d heard one now, because couldn’t you feel the evil of the cave soaking into your bones, and couldn’t you smell the danger as strongly as if it was an uncleaned pigsty. This was odd, because he had always prided himself on being down-to-earth, a great one for the practicalities of life. Wasn’t he known in Tugaim — yes, and a bit farther afield as well! — as the most practical pigman between Galway and the Boyne!

But he knew that the caves, like the music, were wrong. They were very wrong indeed. Even so, when Grady said, “I suppose it won’t hurt to just see what lies ahead,” Muldooney said it would not hurt a bit, to be sure it would not, and thought that Grady looked as if he was a man in a trance. He ventured the suggestion that they were not, after all, in a tavern, and John Grady said quite sharply, “Of course we are not in a tavern! Don’t be a fool, man.” Muldooney thought this unnecessarily harsh. Any person of sense could see it was not a tavern, it was no more a tavern than Muldooney was a tinker’s donkey. It was a nasty dark cold tunnel they were walking along, full of echoing whispered laughter and billowing shadows; full of an odd tuneless music that froze a man’s blood in his veins, and set him thinking of those dark oceans again, and those endless chasms into which a man might tumble, down and down, until he came to the centre of the ocean and was trapped there forever.

“But,” said Grady, in a whisper, “think of what you would see if that should happen,” and Muldooney jumped and stared, because it had seemed, just for a second or two, as if Grady, actually John Grady the Landgrabber, had known what he, Muldooney, had been thinking.

John said softly, “I do know. I can hear and I can sense everything down here.” And then, “Listen,” he said, and put out a hand to grab Muldooney’s arm, so sharply that Muldooney thought he would very likely display a bruise for days.

The whispers seemed closer now. They echoed and reverberated about the cave roof.

Closer now, Human Travellers … and your senses are sharpening … you can hear and you can see and you can feel with heightened perception., with greater clarity than ever you thought possible in your bleak, far-away world … we are honing your senses, Travellers, for we do not take what is not of the best … we shall take your souls and your senses for our music … so come nearer and see us for we are lovelier than anything you have ever dreamed of …

“Down here,” said Grady with a purposeful air, and Muldooney thought would you just look at the cheek of the man, taking them into something that would probably turn out to be very nasty indeed. And a terrible thing it would be to get lost down here. A man might easily wander about for longer than bore thinking of. A man might certainly lose his wits down here.

Yes, yes, you will lose your wits and you will lose your soul for we are fishers of souls, we are greedy for your bodies and your souls, Men of the Desolate World … we send many a Human from these caves into a dark, hopeless world … we can take your sight, your speech, your hearing … it is all one to us which we have, but it is what makes the music, and it is what makes our beauty, for beauty feeds on pain …

Grady said, still in the same soft, wondering tone, “I have never heard anything so truly lovely in my life,” and paused and then moved forward again, Muldooney panting along after him, for wasn’t the man all but running now. When John said impatiently, “Do keep up, Muldooney,” Muldooney opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it again, because you had to keep all your energies reserved for the chase, in a situation of this kind. It would not do to get lost down here.

Lost without a soul, Human Travellers … without sanity … for what is the difference between soul and sanity …

“No difference,” whispered John Grady, his eyes fixed to the pinpoints of light ahead of them. “Oh, no difference at all.” The laughter echoed all about them again, and Muldooney received the eerie impression of snake-like blue and green arms reaching out to them. Like writhing smoke, like ice-cold fire. Really, this was a very strange place, and if this should turn out to be a tavern after all, then all that Brian Muldooney would say was that taverns were not what he had been led to believe.

They were walking along some kind of low-ceilinged passage now, with Grady always leading. Muldooney thought they were winding even farther downwards, and the lapping of the ocean was all about them. It was to be hoped that there would be no fissures anywhere in the rocky walls of the passage. It was to be hoped, as well, that neither of them slipped on the wet, slippery rock floor. A turned ankle would be a very awkward thing to have down here. You had to be practical. Probably, of course, there would be a great old letdown at the end of all this.

“Oh no,” said Grady. “Oh no, Brian, you will see,” and Muldooney felt the hairs stand on end on the back of his neck, because no one, no one, and especially not John Grady the Landgrabber, ever called him Brian. Something very peculiar was happening to both of them and it was especially happening to John Grady. Still, thought Muldooney — who was not fanciful but who was beginning to be frightened — still, I’d better stay with him.

The tunnel widened into a stone chamber, and Muldooney thought they must be near to some kind of river, because a soft waterlight rippled on the walls. There was the faint far-off sound of water lapping gently on a shore.

You are beneath the oceans, Human Travellers … you are in the water caves of the sidh …

It would be better for Muldooney not to be seen. Muldooney was not the man to run away, of course, but even so, it would be better not to be seen. He would just conceal himself somewhere and wait for Grady to come to his senses again, when they could go peacefully home (couldn’t they?) and all would be normal again.

And so he crouched down into a shadowy corner and began to feel chilled and afraid, and hoped there was not going to be any violence, and watched John Grady walk into the centre of the light. And although the light made your eyes ache, after a while it began to seem to Muldooney that there were shapes inside the light … figures … thin sensuous creatures with round, hard, sleek heads like seals, and slender silky bodies, and arms and hands that curled and beckoned like blue-green flames on the hearth fire on a frost-ridden night.

They were not quite human, those shapes, but nor were they quite inhuman either, and Muldooney could not decide if that made it better or worse.

We are not human at all, Men of the Desolate World … we have no human blood in us, only the music of the Old Gods and only the hunger of our lusts …

Grady was at the very centre of the light now, and the sidh were all about him, tying him with thin silver cords, spreading his body out, the arms and legs outflung. The cords were tight; Muldooney could see them cutting into the man’s flesh.

We must have you safe, Human Traveller, we must not allow you to escape us … None do escape us …

Sanity was returning to John Grady’s eyes now, and with it, fear.

“Let me go.”

Laughter filled the cavern, and the waterlight rippled and danced on the ancient stone walls.

There is no escape, Traveller, you are ours for all time … You are ours until we tire of you, until we have sucked you dry …

Grady struggled and the cords bit tighter. Beads of blood flecked his skin. Muldooney thought: should I try to free him? But what about those blue and green creatures?

The sidh were clustered about Grady, peeling off his clothes, their tendril hands and fingers caressing his skin. Muldooney saw that despite his fear, Grady was reacting to the caressing hands; the man was becoming aroused. Really, wasn’t it a terrible shocking thing to crouch here and witness a fellow man be given a stalk like an autumn crocus, even if it was only John Grady?

The sidh were swarming all over Grady now, liquid and formless at one moment, nearly but not quite human the next. Muldooney thought it must be like feeling thin water pour over your body. Beautiful. But he thanked all the gods he believed in that it was Grady out there and not him.

The sidh were lying across Grady now, four and five and six of them all together, and Grady was beginning to breathe a bit faster.

You cannot escape us, you must stay here and love us until your loins are empty and aching, and until your mind is spinning … you cannot leave us without bequeathing to us one of your five senses …

Muldooney was genuinely sickened at what happened next, and honestly horrified to find himself powerless to help. He had been really rather fascinated by the sight of the sidh pouring over Grady’s naked body; he had watched, unable to look away, while the blue and green fire licked the man’s body from head to heels, until Grady was all but enveloped by the icy flames.

Give us your seed, Human, for there is nothing we like so well as the warm seed of a human spilling over us …

As Muldooney watched, Grady’s body arched and jerked, and semen spurted between his legs, so that the sidh moaned in triumph and writhed.

More, Human, we want more …

They closed in on him again, reaching their smoky hands for him, insinuating their slender boneless bodies against him.

In the hours that followed, the sidh worked most cruelly and most pitilessly on John Grady, and Muldooney, cramped and cold in his corner, saw everything.

To begin with, it was rather beautiful in a cold sinister way; the sight of the cave creatures, ever changing, never constant, was something he thought he could watch forever.

But the sidh allowed their victim no mercy, and Muldooney began to feel rather sick after a while. Grady was brought again and again to abrupt and painful orgasm.

John Grady let out a dreadful cry — “No more! Please … I am dry.” And Muldooney’s own thighs tightened in involuntary sympathy. Once Grady broke a hand free of the thin silver cords and clutched his groin protectively, but the sidh’s hands whipped out, and pinned his arm down again.

More, Human, more … we will have your blood and your marrow and your juices, and when we have done, you will leave us your soul …

Grady was moaning and sobbing. “I am empty. I am dry. Leave me be …” But the sidh were darting all over him, icy tongues of blue flame; they were bathing him in an eerie blue fire, and if it had not been so terrible, it would have been breathtaking.

And then: Turn him over … we will wring you dry, Human, we will take every drop you have …

They turned him on to his face, spreading his thighs apart. Wider … wider … we shall pleasure you in the ways of men with men …

Muldooney choked, “Oh God,” and saw the snaking boneless hands reach between Grady’s buttocks.

And, incredibly, Grady hardened again.

There was a great exultant cry: Not dry! Not empty! Give us more, Human …

But Grady was barely conscious now; as the sidh turned him on to his back again.

We will have one last thing from you … we will take one last offering … we are fishers of souls and we are fishers of senses, and if we do not capture your soul, we will take one of your senses … to feed our music and to feed our beauty, Human Traveller … One of the senses … we will take one of the senses … which shall it be? … sight, speech, hearing, taste, touch … Which? Which? … eyes, ears, nose, fingers, tongue …

A pause. Then:

TONGUE! Speech! We will take your speech, Human, and we will pour it into our music and the world’s music will be the richer for it … you will never speak again, Human … you will never be able to tell of what happened to you in the caves beneath the sea … you will never speak again …

The blue and green fire reached up to his face and smokelike, ethereal fingers that felt like steel clamped about his jaw. He felt his mouth forced wider and wider, and he strained back, feeling his eyes bolting from his head.

What were they going to do to him?

And then the hands were reaching down into his mouth, down and down into his throat, so that he choked and retched and jerked away. But the fingers held his jaws wide apart, and he could not resist.

He felt something in his throat tighten and strain, and then pain exploded inside his mouth, and agony tore apart his throat, a dreadful, raw, open agony that sent his mind spinning.

His mouth was a huge wound, filling up with thick blood that ran down his throat and spilled from his lips, making him gag and vomit.

The sidh released him at last, and he sagged on to the floor, vomiting blood and saliva, pain throbbing inside his mouth, his control stretched to its ultimate.

Blood dribbled in great clotted strings from his mouth, and he thought: they have torn out my tongue.

The thin thread of his control snapped, and a merciful darkness descended on the tortured plains of his mind.

*

Muldooney flattered himself that he was not often found at a loss — ah, you had to look a long way before you could match Muldooney — but he was completely at a loss now.

They were standing on the road again, and he was clutching John Grady’s arm, poor mutilated soul, and trying to think what they had better do next.

The dreadful thing was that he had seen it all so clearly, in fact he had seen it a great deal more clearly than he had cared for. But there had been no help for it; crouched in his corner, he had seen the sidh hold open Grady’s mouth wide, so wide it must have hurt his jaw intolerably; he had seen the blue and green sinuous arms dart into Grady’s mouth, and he had seen and, more terrible, heard tendons tear and skin rip. There had been a truly sickening glutinous sound as Grady’s tongue had been torn from his head, and there had been a kind of unwilling sucking sound.

For a moment he had thought that the cave creatures were now going to turn their attentions to him, and he had crouched motionless in his corner, unable to turn and run, quite unable to think of how he might defend himself. And there had been John Grady, lying in his own blood and vomit, a nasty sight if ever there was one, but Muldooney was not the man to leave a fellow creature alone in a place like this. It was not something you did.

But the sidh had faded, dim blue and green forms, dissolving into early morning mist, dissolving into the rocks, so that you wondered if you had in truth seen them.

Oh, you have seen us … you may see us again, for we are in the oceans of all the worlds, and we are in the music of all the ages, and in every century we fish for souls for our music …

And now here they were, on a dark road that might go anywhere or nowhere, and Muldooney had not the remotest idea of what had happened. He admitted, if only to himself, that they were quite hopelessly lost, and he certainly admitted that they had quite clearly strayed rather a long way from Tugaim. If it would not be fanciful, he would almost have begun to think they had somehow got themselves into one of those ancient legends that people sometimes told of. Muldooney knew that people spoke well of legend-telling, but when you were a pig farmer you did not have very much time for that.

He considered the matter carefully, because it was as plain as a pig’s bottom that John Grady was not going to be of any help, and he rather thought that he would do well to concentrate on practicalities. This made him feel better than he had expected, because hadn’t he always been the great one for the practicalities? People often said so. Ah, Muldooney the pig farmer’s the man for the practicalities, they said. It was entirely true.

The first thing to do was to decide about Grady, poor tormented soul. There he was, as witless as a chicken, and it the middle of the night! Muldooney knew that a number of people might call pigs witless, but pigs were solid, sensible creatures. They were predictable. Whoever heard of a pig that went running about the yard like a banshee after its head had been cut off! There was never a pig yet born who would be so ridiculous, but anyone who had seen a newly decapitated chicken knew precisely what to expect! Witless!

John Grady, who had kept chickens, was witless now. He was wild-eyed and empty-eyed, and he was floundering all over the road, not seeming to recognise Muldooney or their whereabouts, although to be fair, Muldooney did not recognise their whereabouts either, only he knew it was certainly not Tugaim any longer. But there were the practicalities to be thought of before anything else, and there was Grady reeling and grunting. If anyone came along and saw him, it was sure that there would be a vacant seat on the Council of Tugaim’s Elders! Of course, Muldooney himself would not be at all averse to just stepping into place. Not if he was asked in the proper manner, he would not be. And then he remembered that no one could come along from Tugaim, because Tugaim had somehow inexplicably vanished.

Blood and spittle dribbled from Grady’s mouth, and he kept emitting animal grunts of pain. Every now and then, he spat, rather sickeningly, and Muldooney, who was inclined to be a bit squeamish, tried very hard to repress a twist of nausea, because to be sure, the poor man could not help it. The pity was that there was nothing at all that Muldooney could do. It was not even possible to give the tormented soul a cup of water to rinse his poor wounded mouth. Muldooney felt helpless, and began to feel angry with himself for feeling like that, because surely there was something he could think of. Wasn’t there?

If only someone would come along …

And then, entirely without warning, someone did come along. Just as Muldooney was thinking that perhaps after all they were in the middle of some kind of nightmare, and trying to calculate what ought to be done, a light appeared, a little way off, and Muldooney felt the most enormous relief he had ever known in his life. It would be altogether grand if it was someone they knew, but anyone would be welcome really. At least the burden could be shared. Muldooney, who had rather thought he liked a bit of solitude — because say what you would, most people were empty-headed chatterers — thought it would be altogether grand to share this problem with another human being.

He sat down and took John Grady’s hand in his because you had to give the man some bit of comfort, and watched the bobbing light draw nearer. He thought it was probably a lantern, being carried by someone, and he was certainly more thankful to see it than he had ever been to see anything in his life.

The lantern was held by a lady, rather tall and pale, cloaked and hooded, and apparently prepared to be extremely helpful.

Muldooney, remembering his manners, got to his feet, and made haste to explain. A shocking accident, he said … His poor friend hurt and bewildered … And the both of them hopelessly lost.

At the back of his mind, there flickered the vague hope that the lady might be able to point them in the direction of Tugaim, but when he suggested this, she only said, in rather an odd voice, “Tugaim? Dear me, I have never heard of it. I fear you are quite hopelessly lost, my friend.”

And then she lifted the lantern aloft and studied the two of them for a moment. A rather satisfied smile curved her lips. “But if you will allow it, I will help you,” she said. “I am abroad very late, and should be glad of some company. My house is not very far distant. If you will come there, you will see that a welcome is always kept for travellers.

“And my two sisters will be so pleased to see you.”

*

It seemed to Joanna that the carrion crows got nearer all the time.

“That’s nonsense,” said Gormgall, but Dubhgall said it was not nonsense at all.

“Her Ladyship knows,” he said.

“Yes I think she does,” said Cormac.

Joanna did know. She knew that every time they saw the birds the sun slipped behind a cloud and a chill settled on the mountain. She could feel the Nightcloak stirring uneasily.

“Spies?” said Cormac.

“Something much worse,” said Joanna and shivered.

Cormac took her hand. “We are nearly at Gallan,” he said. “Cait Fian’s Mountain Palace —”

“I don’t think we’re going to reach it,” broke in Joanna, her face white and strained. “I don’t think we’re going to be allowed to reach it.”

As they rounded a curve in the path, there was the sound of laughter, and a dreadful, dry, rattling-bone noise.

“Indeed you will not reach it, my dears,” said a voice, and there, barring the way, was Morrigan, with Scald-Crow and Macha behind her.

There was no point running — “Even if there was anywhere to run to,” thought Joanna wildly. The Morrigna would catch them, they would easily outpace them; Macha’s army of monsters would fall on them and claw them back; Scald-Crow would turn into some loathsome thing that would pull them into Morrigan’s waiting arms.

At her side, Gormgall said, “The cloak — use the cloak!”

Joanna gave an angry sob: “I cannot! ‘Never twice against the same enemy!’ And the Nightcloak was used in Morrigan’s house in Muileann!”

“Against the Miller!” said Dubhgall. “Try it!”

But the cloak was dead, as Joanna had known it would be.

“Of course it is,” said Morrigan, coming forward — Joanna saw the white Bonds of the Hag form and reach out to trap them. “The High Queen knows that her cloak may not be used twice against the same enemy. You destroyed that oafish fool the Miller with it, and since he acted under my direction, it was as if you had used it against me, Your Majesty.” She reached out and snatched the Nightcloak from Joanna’s shoulders.

“You cannot wear it!” yelled Cormac.

“Watch me,” said Morrigan, swirling the cloak over her shoulders.

Behind her, Scald-Crow let out a wail and jumped up and down. “I wanted it! You promised! Let me have it!”

“Silence, Sister, or I will allow Macha to send the Hags to devour you!”

Macha grinned and lifted her arms as if to summon them at once, making Scald-Crow droop her lip … and droop it and droop it, until she became one enormous drooling lip, slimy and glistening with saliva.

The four travellers were bound tightly now, and Joanna wondered how she could have forgotten the horrid stickiness of the Bonds.

“You will have plenty of time to reacquaint yourself with them,” said Morrigan, standing close to her, and Joanna thought that her saurian look was more pronounced than she had remembered it. Morrigan seemed to tower over them, easily eight feet high, and Scald-Crow spiralled up from her lip shape and became an overripe corpse, with juices bursting through the skin. Joanna shivered and looked away.

Morrigan walked round the group, in a slow thoughtful circle. At length, she said softly, “And so we face each other again, my friends.” She looked at Cormac. “A pleasure to see you all once more.”

“Where are you taking us?” asked Cormac.

“You will join my other prisoners,” said Morrigan. “A little something I gathered up for my Master. He will enjoy them, but not half as much as he will enjoy you, Wolfking … the choicest morsel of all. I shall serve you to the Erl-King on a jewelled platter, and we will sup your blood and dine off your flesh.”

Silver platters and golden goblets … of course there was never any escape, not really. How foolish of us to imagine otherwise, Joanna thought.

“Foolish indeed,” said Morrigan, and the snake-tongue flickered. “You are all my prisoners once more; you are bound by the Bonds of the Hag, and you are going to the Erl-King’s Citadel.

“And this time there will be no escape!”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

An air of dark menace hung over the Erl-King’s Citadel and over the little straggling township that had grown up around it. We do not choose to live here, the people of the walled city seemed to say, but we know no other life. We have to live. Our families have to eat.

They all knew the tales, and all of the legends about the Erl-King. They knew about the silver platters and the golden goblets — were not their silversmiths and their craftsmen kept busy by the fashioning of them? They knew about the great vaulted sculleries below the Citadel where the ovens were set with massive brick buttresses, and where the fires were kept burning for days sometimes, and the pots were left simmering for nights on end.

For human fat takes a long time to burn down, and human bones take a long time to dissolve …

“Light the fires and heat the pots …”

They knew better than anyone the truth of all the stories whispered about the Gentleman; they preferred to call him that, they said, their eyes sliding away. They knew about the windowless cells cut into the rock, and the cages in the bowels of the Citadel, cold dank dungeons where prisoners might languish for years. Except that prisoners did not live very long at all in the Gentleman’s cages. They were brought up to the Banqueting Chamber each evening for the Gentleman’s pleasure. The Hall was always lit by wall sconces — human fat slowly boiled down on the brick ovens made the Gentleman’s candles — and there would be knives, pincers, needles. It was whispered how the Gentleman sometimes gouged out his victims’ eyes and ate them; how he ordered thin slices of flesh to be cut from their arms and then forced that flesh down the poor creatures’ throats; how he slit their throats and drank the fresh warm blood direct from their veins as they died.

It made them feel less than men to know themselves powerless to help the poor wretched victims. But we have to live! they cried despairingly. Our families have to eat!

And it was rare for the Gentleman to seek his prey in the Walled City itself. He went farther afield, sending his hunchback servant to scour the countryside on the black sledge pulled by jackals; or he extended hospitality to the Three Sisters of Muileann.

The Master needed them, said the townspeople. He needed their craftsmen and their artisans. Boys and young men — never young girls — were sent to the Citadel to work, and good honest work it was as well. The Citadel needed constant maintenance; it needed carpenters and stonemasons and scullions. The Gentleman kept his own sentinels and guards and chariot horses. Chariot horses had to be cared for and cleaned and fed; sentinels and guards had to be fed as well. They had their own kitchens, a little apart from the Citadel; it was no shame to cook for the Gentleman’s guards, and it could be rather useful as well, because there was frequently a surplus of food, which could be taken down into the town. You could feed a family very well indeed on the leftovers of the guards; sides of ham, barely cut into, a dish of brawn, roasted meats of all kinds. A family could live very comfortably in the shadow of the Citadel. And on the nights when the Gentleman drove out of the Walled City, his hunchback whipping up the team of jackals, a sense of freedom so great gripped the entire town that all manner of revelries went on.

And so it was not so difficult to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear on the nights when frightened screams pierced the quiet, or when running footsteps rang out in the cobbled streets. They were used to it, said the townspeople, huddling together in their little houses. None of our concern, they said when the handcarts came rumbling through the streets under cover of darkness. None of our concern; lock the doors and shutter the windows and do not, on any account, hear if the knock falls on the door …

For although the Gentleman did not as a rule take his prey from the Walled City, there were nights when the countryside was in the grip of winter; when the jackal sled could not get through the city gates, and when the frozen highways and the moonless nights permitted of no journeying in or out.

On those nights, the hunchback would come loping down into the town, just as dusk was creeping through the streets, dragging the handcart, his lumpish swart face avid and searching, and full of ugly mirth.

My Master has the hunger upon him tonight!

And someone will be devoured …

It was whispered that the hunchback also had hungers; that he rutted with young boys and forced young girls to pleasure him in unnatural ways; that his Master turned over to him the drained corpses of the victims, so that he might relieve his lusts on the lifeless mutilations.

It was better not to know. It was better not to listen for the hunchback’s shuffling gait.

And if the next morning, the town’s ditches ran with reddened water, it was nobody’s concern — even if somebody’s child, somebody’s sister, or wife, or love, was missing. It was no one’s concern but their own; griefs skinned over in time, ditches could be cleared.

Silver platters could be polished and golden goblets could be cleaned.

Flight was impossible; rebellion was not to be considered. There was not a one of them who had not, at times, dreamed of marching in torchlit procession up the hill, and razing to the ground the towering evil fortress; there was not a one who would not have liked to drive the Gentleman’s own torture weapons into his black heart, but there was not a one who did not know it to be impossible. You did not need particularly good eyesight to catch daily glimpses, daily reminders of the tremendous Girdle of Gold that circled the Walled City; you did not have to be possessed of especially quick wits to know that the Girdle of Gold, the most marvellous enchantment ever created, rendered the Gentleman forever safe from enemies. It circles the Gentleman’s fortress and his town — and it circles us as well, thought the townspeople. We are shut in with him. And while he has the Girdle, no one can get into the Walled City without him knowing. Nor could anyone get out of the Walled City without having the jackals on his trail. You would not get ten leagues, said the people. The hunchback would whip up his sled and you would be caught and taken to the Gentleman’s stone Banqueting Chamber.

And then?

Better not to think about it, said the townspeople, and went diligently and unseeingly about their daily business.

They were accustomed to the Gentleman’s prisoners being brought into the Walled City by the handcarts, and at such times they knew what was expected of them. And although it was not in their natures to cheer the miserable captives, they knew that the hunchback would be on the watch with his sly darting eyes, that he would mark — and mark out — anyone not seen to cheer. To displease the hunchback was almost as dangerous as to displease the Gentleman himself, for it was the hunchback — and sometimes the Three Sisters — who kept the Gentleman’s dungeons filled, kept his ovens stocked.

And so it was prudent to line the streets when the handcarts came rumbling through the Walled City on their way to the Citadel. It was sensible and wise to jeer and poke fun at the poor wretched creatures who lay bound and terrified in the carts. Not to do so might earn you a place in the cart yourself, and then who would look after your wife and your children? And so the townspeople learned how to jeer and mock, and how to humiliate the already humiliated prisoners. They learned to sing the Goblin Song of Muileann.

Light the fires and heat the pots,

Sizzle the fat in the waiting vats.

Mince and stew and roast and batter,

Pour the juice in the Erl-King’s platter.

They learned to exult in the Gentleman’s powers.

*

The four prisoners brought in by the Sisters reached the Walled City midway through a bright afternoon, the Girdle of Gold strong and iridescent above the City walls, sunlight sending diamond sparks from the windows of the houses — too beautiful a day to go to your death. Far too beautiful a day on which to know yourself bound for the silver platters and the golden goblets.

A second cart followed, containing two men roped and bound, but the townspeople did not spare them a second glance once they had seen the figure in the first cart.

Proud. Defiant. Pale and ragged and travel-stained, but with his head held high and his golden eyes inspecting his tormentors insolently. Mock me only at your peril!

The crowd fell silent, briefly puzzled, for although the prisoner was familiar, no one quite recognised him.

And then quite suddenly, everyone recognised him and everyone knew him.

The Wolfking. Cormac mac Airt. Cormac Starrog, the great High King of all Ireland, who had ruled from the Bright Palace of Tara, and who had been exiled by his cousin. The One True High King.

And in the power of the Gentleman!

They would have liked to show him their loyalty, and they would certainly have liked to show him their sympathy. They did not dare do either. The hunchback was scanning the crowds gleefully, the leather whip laid beside him. A fine prize for my Master! Exult with me!

In the second cart which held the two no-account prisoners — one plump and rather pig-faced, the other a bit witless-looking — also rode the Morrigna, all three of them, triumphant and evil. Morrigan’s reptilian eyes darted hither and thither. See what I have snared for my Master! See the choice morsel I have brought him!

The lady at the Wolfking’s side was slender and pale, and extremely composed. She was not Cormac’s queen, for they all knew that he had no queen. But she was regal, she was dignified. The people of the Walled City were not accustomed to seeing the Gentleman’s prisoners so composed and so arrogant seeming. Even the two servants — Cruithin by the look of them — were glaring and scowling and entirely unquenched.

But the townspeople cheered and called out insults, and chanted the Goblins’ Song, because it was death, and a bad death at that, to do otherwise. As the carts rumbled through the City and on up the hill to the Citadel, they dispersed and went to their homes, because it would be dangerous to be seen discussing the prisoners. But all knew that the ovens would be firing, and all knew that the Gentleman would be licking his lips over the prize brought to him by Morrigan and her Sisters. He would taunt and torture the Wolfking and his lady for a very long time tonight.

But in the end, there would be the silver platters and there would be the golden goblets.

The Wolfking and his lady and their two servants would be eaten by the Gentleman … they would not necessarily be dead when he started.

*

Flynn would not have believed it possible to be so instantly and so thoroughly at one with a group of people he scarcely knew, but so it was. From that first night with Conaire and the others, there had sprung up a deep sense of comradeship, the underlying feeling that these were his own people. By the time they came to the Morne Mountains, the feeling of homecoming was so strong that he thought he could have believed that he had never really lived anywhere else.

There had been one rather bad moment, on the second day of their journey, when they had crossed a part of the mountain range and seen from a distance the Walled City of the Erl-King.

“Dangerous,” said Conaire, shaking his head. “We ought not to have come so close.”

“Why did we?”

“It’s the best route to Scáthach,” said Oscar, but Flynn saw how they all looked uncertainly towards the Walled City far below them, surrounded by ridges of mountain. He followed Conaire’s pointing hand to the cluster of buildings at the foot of the dark Citadel.

“The Erl-King’s township,” said Conaire in a rather subdued voice. “Poor creatures.”

“Can they not escape?” said Flynn, and the nobles of the Bloodline looked at him in surprise.

“No one ever escapes from the Erl-King,” said Conaire.

“People are born and die in the City,” said Midir, and Flynn saw him turn pale.

“No one ever really grows old there though,” put in Sean.

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” said CuChulainn.

“It’s true though.”

“I’d break out,” said CuChulainn, planning at once. “I’d muster an army and I’d lead it against the Erl-King.”

“They haven’t the spirit any longer, poor creatures,” said Oscar sadly, his eyes on the far-off City. “They are crushed and quenched and utterly terrified. Do let’s leave here.”

But Flynn stayed where he was, looking down on the Walled City of the Erl-King, seeing how the little buildings huddled together, seeing the dark menacing shape of the Citadel, set a little apart from the township. He felt a sick dread at the sight and shuddered, because Joanna might be anywhere in this sinister world, she might even be inside the Walled City and at the Erl-King’s mercy.

“I felt,” he said to Amairgen afterwards, “as if I ought to be down there.”

“Joanna?”

“Oh dear God, I hope not,” said Flynn. And then with a little shake, “No, of course not. Out of all the places she might be, why should she be there?”

“There is no reason at all,” said Amairgen, but he had heard behind Flynn’s words the sudden fear, and he thought: I believe Flynn does think she is there. And although he stretched his mind to its utmost, and although he used the Samhailt to its outermost limits, he could feel nothing other than a nebulous darkness, and a formless evil.

And then Conaire said, “Flynn, look. Over to the east. Gallan. Cait Fian’s Mountain Palace,” and pointed. Flynn saw, in the distance, pale spires and blue turrets, wreathed in cloud.

“The most beautiful place in Ireland,” said Etain, and for the first time, there was a softness in her voice.

They turned in the direction of Scáthach at last. “It isn’t as far as it looks,” Conaire said, rather anxiously. “And we can go through the mountains.”

“It’s too close to the Erl-King for my comfort,” said Sean in a cross mutter.

“But anywhere in these mountains is close to the Erl-King,” said Oscar, with the patient air of one who has explained this a good many times already. “But so long as you go by daylight —”

“And keep a very sharp look-out,” put in Midir.

“Yes, so long as you do that, you ought to be safe,” finished Oscar.

But Flynn left the Walled City behind with reluctance. “It was irrational,” he said to Amairgen and Portan later, “but I could not help it.”

“They understand,” said Portan, nodding to the others. “I think they will help us, Flynn.”

“Oh yes,” said Flynn.

“They are our people,” said Portan, softly. “But you knew that, in any case.” She smiled. “I am glad you told them who we really are.”

Flynn had told them the truth about himself, Portan and Amairgen on the first night, as they had made camp, and sat together round the fire.

They had listened attentively and absorbedly. “And Flynn told the tale well,” Portan said later to Amairgen.

“Flynn is Irish,” said Amairgen, and smiled. “We are a nation of storytellers, my dear.”

Conaire and the others had been fascinated. They had sat for a very long while — “into the night,” said Portan, who was coming to love the gentle scented nights of this ancient land — and they had wanted to know everything about the world that Flynn and his companions had come from.

“It is so interesting,” said Oscar. “I wish so much that I could travel though a time curtain.”

CuChulainn had wanted to know about the Apocalypse. “Didn’t your people fight him?” he said, and Flynn tried to explain that the Apocalypse, when it came, had been so vast and so invincible, that it had burned the world and nearly destroyed mankind.

“There were no possible defences,” said Flynn.

“I’d have thought of one or two,” said CuChulainn. “I’d have fought.”

Sean had been so taken with the notion of people from the future, that he had taken himself off into the forest to write an account of the entire thing, “for posterity,” he said seriously, and had become so absorbed in his task, that he nearly missed the supper that Etain and Midir had cooked, and had to be searched for, and CuChulainn, who had gone to help find him, had tripped over a trailing ivy creeper and fallen headlong into a bed of nettles.

“Dock leaves,” said Midir. “Go and find some.”

“Be thankful you fell headfirst instead of the other way about,” said Sean.

“Stop making such a fuss,” said Etain. “Come and have some supper. Flynn is going to tell us some more about his world.”

But Flynn found himself curiously reticent. He sat eating the supper, which was rabbit stew, and very good indeed, and said that they would find it a rather bleak, rather barren world.

“And I never fitted there,” he said.

“None of us did,” said Portan rather wistfully, and Flynn thought: but at least Portan is at home now. And knew that of the three of them, it was Portan who must certainly never return to Tugaim.

Conaire and the others had been helpful and interested and very sympathetic about Flynn’s quest to find Joanna. “We do not pry,” Conaire said seriously, “not ever, for to do so would be to violate the Ancient Code of the Samhailt. But we understand, Flynn.”

Oscar said, “And if we can, we will help you find Joanna.”

Flynn found it odd, but unexpectedly comforting to hear Joanna’s name spoken like this, normally and naturally. These people had never met Joanna, but they would help him to find her. Quite suddenly, he felt confident; in some way, just to speak of her, to share the doubts and the plans like this, made her strongly alive. Of course they would find her. Of course she would be safe.

And then Oscar, whom Flynn had noticed appeared to possess the Samhailt more strongly than the rest, said thoughtfully, “She might be at Scáthach,” and everyone sat up startled, and CuChulainn upset his plate of stew.

“Why?” said Midir.

“Well,” said Oscar thoughtfully, “it is only an idea, you understand …” and paused, frowning, so that Flynn had to restrain himself from shouting at Oscar to continue. It was Portan, who was discovering a cautious friendship with Oscar, who said, “Would you tell us, please?”

“Well,” said Oscar again, “I am thinking of the Enchantment that binds the Wolfking to Scáthach,” and looked at them.

Conaire said slowly, “Cormac is held in Scáthach by the Enchantment woven at the time of the Great Rebellion. What did they call it? — the Enchantment of Captivity wasn’t it?”

“Scáthach was never a prison of locks and bars,” put in Etain.

“No, which is why, when anyone is sent into exile, the Enchantment of Captivity has to be woven.”

“You wouldn’t keep the Wolfking bound for very long, not even with that,” said CuChulainn, but he said it rather uncertainly.

Oscar said, “But they did keep him. They bound him with the Enchantment, and they threw him into Scáthach.” He leaned forward, eager to make them understand, his eyes bright in the fireglow. “Don’t you remember it?” he said. “The terrible spell woven by the sorcerers under Eochaid Bres’s bidding —”

“Under Bricriu the Fox’s bidding,” Etain broke in, and everyone nodded in agreement.

“That was a dreadful day,” said Conaire. “You could feel the weight of the Enchantment everywhere you went.” He looked at Flynn and the other two. “They had thrown Cor mac into the dungeons,” he said. “We all knew he was there. But until the Enchantment was woven, they dared not let him out.”

“He’d have been at their throats in an instant,” said CuChulainn. “Wouldn’t he just!”

“The Enchantment was like a — like a massive dark heaviness,” said Conaire. “We all knew what was happening, and none of us could do anything about it.”

“I didn’t look,” said Sean.

“You wrote a good enough ballad about it afterwards, though,” said Midir.

“That was for posterity,” said Sean, injured.

“I went away and got drunk,” said CuChulainn. “I don’t care who knows it.”

“And a fat lot of good that was,” said Etain scornfully.

“I talked to the sorcerers,” said Oscar, his eyes far-away now.

“Oh that wouldn’t do any good. We all know that the sorcerers only work for those who pay the highest,” said Conaire at once.

“They’re supposed to be solely in the service of whoever occupies the High Throne,” said Etain.

“Only we all know that they’re not,” added Midir.

“Well anyway,” said Oscar, “I did talk to them, and they let slip one very interesting thing about that Enchantment.” He looked round at the listening faces. “Don’t any of you remember the ancient belief?” he said. “No, I can see you don’t. Nor did I, until one of the sorcerers mentioned it, purely by accident. And he oughtn’t to have done, you could see at once that the others were very angry with him.”

“He’ll be for the Miller’s cages,” said CuChulainn with relish. And then, with an apologetic look, “I don’t like sorcerers,” he said.

“Who does? Go on, Oscar.”

“It’s the ancient belief that a purebred Human can sometimes break the Enchantment of Captivity,” said Oscar thoughtfully. “Surely you remember it? ‘Open locks, to the Human’s hand …’ It’s a very old belief,” he said. “I don’t know how true it is, of course.”

“There’s no use in a belief if it doesn’t work,” began Sean.

But Conaire interrupted, “No, but Oscar’s right. I’d forgotten that myself.”

Open locks, to the Human’s hand …

“It has to be the right kind of Human, though,” said Oscar.

“Why haven’t we remembered this before?” demanded Sean.

“I’ll bet Cormac’s remembered it,” said Etain. “You see. I said Scáthach wouldn’t hold him.”

“Of course Cormac’s remembered it,” said CuChulainn. “The first Wolfkings believed in that very strongly. Don’t you remember the old saying that only the Humans were the Kingmakers? Cormac will have been laying traps for Humans ever since he was thrown into Scáthach. And if he hasn’t,” he said severely, “then he isn’t fit to return to Tara.” And he sat back and regarded them all.

“CuChulainn’s right,” said Midir. “If you were Cormac, and held by the Enchantment of Captivity, what would you do?”

“Fight,” said CuChulainn promptly.

“Rubbish,” said Etain. “You can’t fight an enchantment with muscle.”

“Don’t be silly, CuChulainn,” said Oscar, but he smiled as he said it.

“You’d set a trap for a Human,” said Conaire thoughtfully. “Of course you would.” He looked at Flynn. “Cormac would try everything to break the Captivity Spell,” he said. “He would make sure that the Wolves — and probably the sidh — would lure every Human who ever came near to Scáthach inside.”

Midir wanted to know if Cormac would trust the sidh.

“Yes, because the sidh are actually quite loyal to the Wolfkings,” put in Sean. “They always come up to the gates of Tara and sing whenever a Prince is born. Don’t you remember?” And then, as everyone looked blank, “Well,” said Sean rather quickly, “of course, I was only a child myself when Cormac was born. But everyone knows the story of the sidh singing him into the world.”

“But surely, Cormac would not have had to wait until now to find a — a Human?” asked Amairgen.

“How long has he been at Scáthach?” asked Flynn, and the others muttered and calculated, and at length, Conaire said, “Five or six years.”

“That is a very long time,” said Amairgen gently.

“Yes, but Scáthach is dreadfully remote,” said Oscar. “And it has to be a — a particular kind of Human.”

“What kind?”

“Well,” said Oscar, “it is only a small part of the legend, and I don’t know that I would give much credence to it —”

“Don’t prevaricate,” said Etain.

“I wasn’t,” said Oscar, “it is only that it sounds rather …”

He frowned. “The legend says it has to be a direct descendant of the Royal Line.

“It has to be one with the blood of the first High Queen of all in her veins.”

*

Feeling sick from the jolting of the cart, and from the hunchback’s pinches and fingerings, Joanna thought: finally and at last, we are all inside the Erl-King’s Citadel. She watched as the drawbridge was lowered, and then, because she could not bear the feeling that they were going into a dark tunnel, she turned to look at the two prisoners in the other cart.

Muldooney had borne up rather well. He was pale and rather belligerent-looking; Joanna vaguely remembered that he had struck out quite hard at the guard. But he did not seem very frightened by any of it.

“The confidence of ignorance,” Cormac had said, and as Joanna looked inquiringly at him, “He has not the slightest idea of who the Erl-King is, or what is ahead.”

Joanna looked back at Muldooney as the carts rattled over the drawbridge, and finally, with a deep reluctance that made her feel ashamed, she looked at the other man.

“Is there nothing we can do for him?” she had asked Cormac earlier.

“We will see.”

But Joanna had known, as Cormac and the Cruithin had known, that the sidh’s victims were always beyond human help. There would be nothing at all that any of them could do for John Grady. Joanna, her throat aching with unshed tears, thought it was unlikely that the Elders of Tugaim would recognise the shattered figure in the cart. John’s hair was lank and matted, his eyes stared blankly ahead of him, and there was a low shambling look to him.

“Animal,” said Cormac after a glance. “Unintelligent animal. It is often the way with the sidh’s victims. They take away something which can never be replaced.”

“The soul?” Joanna said hesitantly.

“They are called Fishers of Souls,” said Cormac. “But he sold you to the man called Muldooney. Where is the difference?”

“There is a difference,” said Joanna. “It is different in our world.”

“Is it?” said Cormac. As they crossed to the walled courtyard inside the Citadel, his hand closed about hers.

The great iron gates clanged to behind them, and panic gripped Joanna … Lost. We are utterly lost. We are in the hands of one of the most evil beings ever known. We are in the power of the Erl-King. Tara is lost to us, and we shall die slowly and painfully.

And when we are dead, he will eat us.

I can’t bear it, thought Joanna, and in the next moment, knew that of course she must bear it. I won’t despair, she thought determinedly, I will not. We are not counted dead until all is done, and I will not believe that all is yet done. A thin, rather uncertain vein of confidence trickled into her, and she clutched at it and held it, because it was a good thing to hold on to in this terrible place, and anyway, there was nothing else. But they were not dead until all was done.

They were surrounded by guards the minute the carts jolted to a halt. “Do not let these ones escape!” cried Morrigan, her cape whipped about her like bats’ wings in the wind. She stood watching as they were pulled from the carts by the guards.

“Well, Your Majesty?” she said, smiling the snake-smile. “I bid you welcome to my Master’s house.” And then, to the guards, “Take them below.

“We shall meet at supper, Sire,” she said to Cormac. And then, looking to where Joanna stood, “And there will be a very particular welcome waiting for you, Madam.”

They were pulled and pushed by the guards into a dark narrow doorway with an iron grille in the door.

“The Gentleman’s special apartments,” said the guard with a leer, and Cormac snarled and rounded on him, lunging and clawing at his face, drawing blood. The guard jumped back and clapped a hand to his face.

The hunchback was at his side at once, his whip snaking out. “Mind that one,” he said. “Vicious. Half wolf. My Master likes wolfmeat.” He moved ahead of them with his quick lurching step, rattling a great bunch of keys, and the prisoners were forced along by the guards.

The passages were narrow and low ceilinged, and so sharply angled that at times it seemed as if they were about to walk into solid rock. The walls had the faint bloom of damp, and a constant drip of water from somewhere. Joanna shivered, because the sound conjured up vast dark caverns with great still pools of black water … there was something very sinister about large masses of stagnant water.

They were thrust into a single cell which had been hollowed into the rock, so that it had three solid stone walls and one of iron. The water sounded louder here, and there was an echo.

Cormac fought as they pushed him into the cell, and Gormgall and Dubhgall struggled; even Muldooney, who was by now frightened, but who was not going to be thought a coward by such company, managed to land a good square punch on one of the guard’s jaws. The man retreated and eyed Muldooney unpleasantly.

“You’ll regret having done that, son of the Pigline,” he said, and Muldooney, flown with his show of bravery, made a rude noise at the guard.

To be sure, this was a very strange situation they were all in, but Muldooney would not be the man to be found wanting. He had been quite surprised to see Joanna again, and he had an uncomfortable suspicion that he had not acquitted himself perhaps as well as he might have done that afternoon in the farmhouse bedroom. He thought to himself that it behoved him to appear in a good light to Joanna, and he was certainly not going to allow the other three men to find him at a loss. He had not the slightest idea of where they all were, but he supposed that someone would tell him at some point. For a moment he toyed with the idea of asking, but it would not do to admit his ignorance, and anyway, everyone else seemed to know. Muldooney would bide his time and listen very carefully, and probably he would quite soon find out what was going on. Ah, they all of them thought him dull-witted, but he was cannier than any of them realised. He sat down in a corner and waited to see what came next.

Cormac had been standing by the bars, and now he said to the hunchback in an imperious tone, “You! Come here!” and Joanna, who was nearby, thought that even like this, beaten and captured and under certain sentence of death, he was unquestionably the High King.

The hunchback regarded him, and then came lurching back.

“Well, wolf?”

“Something to sit on for the lady, if you please,” said Cormac, and stared at the hunchback unblinkingly. For a moment, Joanna’s heart leapt; she thought the hunchback flinched beneath that hard golden stare, and hope bounded up in her. Then the hunchback grinned, and beckoned to the gaolers and pointed.

“He wants something for his lady to sit on!” said the hunchback derisively, and looked closely at the guards, almost, thought Joanna, as if he was waiting for their reaction; certainly as if he was saying: well you scum? Haven’t I made a joke? Then laugh with me!

There was a split second of silence, as the gaolers seemed to search for the requisite response. Then it came.

“Something to sit on?” said one. “We’ll give her something to sit on.”

“I know what I’d like to give her to sit on,” said the other, eyeing Joanna. “And it wouldn’t be a chair, neither.”

Cormac said frostily, “She is frailer than the rest of us. A chair, of your mercy.”

“Oh, a chair!” said the gaolers. “And of our mercy! She’ll sit on the floor like the rest of you!”

They picked up their lanterns and began to move away down the passage, and Muldooney got up to frown because Joanna had been looking at him and it was always a good idea to spring to a lady’s defence. He remembered how he had punched the gaoler, and began to feel quite pleased with himself.

The hunchback lingered, staring at the prisoners, and inspecting John Grady who was slumped against the far wall.

“Him. What’s the matter with him?”

“He’s witless,” said Gormgall shortly.

“No concern of yours,” added Dubhgall.

“Witless, is he? Best thing for him in here then,” said the hunchback. “You’ll all be joining him before the night’s over.” He leered at them again, and then shuffled off, taking the remaining light with him, the lantern throwing weird fantastic shadows on to the rock face as he went.

For a long time, nobody in the narrow cell spoke. Muldooney was just summoning up the courage to ask did any of them know exactly where this place was, when Gormgall said, practically: “Has anyone any means of making a light of some kind?” and Muldooney was quite glad he had not asked, because it seemed as if nobody else was wondering where they were. He remembered that he had decided to listen and bide his time.

The silence that followed Gormgall’s question about a light was rather dreadful, because they were all suddenly aware of the dark. Dubhgall said in an aside to Joanna that it was probably not as bad for Cormac as for the rest of them, because wolves had some nightsight, but Joanna did not feel any better for knowing this.

Nobody appeared to have any method of making a light, and Joanna had just begun to wish Gormgall had not made the suggestion, when Muldooney suddenly said, “I have a tinder box,” and Cormac said crisply, “Excellent.”

Muldooney turned beet red with pleasure, and thought he was not acquitting himself so ill. He might not know just where they were, but he had stuck up for Joanna when the gaolers had been so rude (well, he had frowned at them anyway), he’d punched one of them quite hard, and now he was able to provide everyone with some kind of light. He fired the tinders carefully, and bunched together a piece of old sacking and some straw so that it made a rough but serviceable torch, and Gormgall stuck it into an ancient wall bracket. There was a bad moment when they feared the straw to be too damp to burn, but after a moment it caught and flared up, shedding a welcome light on them.

Dubhgall was just wondering could they tunnel their way out, and inspecting the floor to see how solid it was, when Cormac said, in what both the Cruithin recognised as his battle tones — “My friends! We must hold a Council of War!” Everyone sat up a little straighter, and Muldooney thought wasn’t it a grand thing to find you had a leader amongst you, and got up to make a second torch, so that they’d all see the clearer, and also so that everyone would remember his contribution with the first one.

Gormgall and Dubhgall exchanged looks, each thinking: His Majesty’s in fighting mood again, and Joanna leaned forward, clasping her hands about her bent knees, and hoped they would be able to think of something effective.

Cormac fixed each one of them with a penetrating look, and despite her fear, Joanna felt herself responding. There must be a way out. Surely they would find it.

Cormac said, “We are in the bowels of the most terrible fortress ever known,” and Muldooney nodded wisely to show that he had known this all along. “We are in the power of a creature who has at his beck some of the strongest necromancers in all Ireland, and we must consider, one by one, the ways we may use to outwit him.” He looked at them again, and Joanna suddenly understood that Cormac was deliberately and calculatedly making them think; he was making them turn their minds and their energies to forming a plan. He was rallying them.

“Well? Surely each of you can come up with a suggestion?” said Cormac. “Or am I served by creatures of no imagination! Gormgall, let us hear from you first. Speak man!”

Gormgall looked unhappy. “Well, Your Majesty,” he said and stopped, and Cormac frowned. “Well, Your Majesty,” said Gormgall a little louder, “normally I’d say create a diversion and then, just as you’ve got the other side properly confused, nip out under cover of it all.” He looked a bit doubtful. “I know it isn’t brilliant,” he said.

“No matter, it is a thing to consider. We might incorporate it into a larger plan. Dubhgall?”

“I say tunnel, Sire,” said Dubhgall, pointing to the hard-packed earth of the cell floor. “We mightn’t get out, but we’d get somewhere, and that somewhere might be a place we could hide in for a time.”

“Yes. And — Muldooney?” Cormac eyed the man with a blend of curiosity and amusement, as if he had never encountered his like before, and Joanna thought: oh my, I believe that Cormac is actually enjoying this, and at once caught the flare of a thought from him.

Enjoyment is not the right word, my dear. But I am alive again; I am face to face with the real enemy at last! I may lose my life before the night is out, but I shall at least be fighting for all I hold dear! He smiled at her, and Joanna smiled back.

“Muldooney,” said Cormac in a decisive tone. “We should have met under happier circumstances, but here we are, and we will be glad of your ideas for escape.”

Muldooney was, truth to tell, rather awed by Cormac. He had grasped by now that Cormac was some kind of King, and although he was not accustomed to such things, he was glad to know that he was not the man to be intimidated. Ideas about nobility and about titles were Lethean of course; Muldooney would certainly not be dazzled by them. Even so, Cormac was like no one he had ever encountered, and Muldooney found himself deferring. He did not exactly tug his forelock, but he spoke very respectfully indeed. To himself he thought that if he could come up with a plan that Cormac approved, it would be a very good thing. And then he remembered about impressing Joanna as well, and he began to think that it would really be a rather good thing to stand well in the sight of these two. When at length he spoke, he found himself doing so clearly and simply.

He was a man of limited imagination, he explained, tucking down his chins. And there was no good pretending he had ideas and plans, because he did not. This was not quite what he had set out to say, but he saw the look of approval in Cormac’s eyes, and he saw Joanna smiling at him, and he thought that after all, you could not beat truth. There was the thing; to tell the truth and be honest.

He did not quite say that with the provision of a light for them all, he had expended his reserves, but he implied it, and everyone present privately agreed with it. Gormgall, in fact, considered that His Majesty was wasting his time on this fat, rather stupid person, but he was too polite to say so. Dubhgall, who would not have considered politeness, thought it as well, but did not say it because it might have started a fight, which was the last thing they wanted, and anyway they hadn’t the room.

Muldooney, after losing himself in a welter of opening sentences and circumlocutions, finally said they should negotiate terms. It was what was always done, he said. Hadn’t they any of them heard of all the wars where leaders had done that? You negotiated terms, said Muldooney, beginning to think the expression had a good sound to it.

Nobody, with the exception of Joanna, knew what he was talking about. But Cormac thanked him with such exquisite courtesy that both the Cruithin instantly thought: well, at least His Majesty has this fool’s measure!

Then Cormac said, “Joanna?” and Joanna felt her heart lurch, because she knew at once that Cormac wanted her to come up with the solution.

“Nobody ever escapes from the Erl-King’s Citadel,” she began, and quite suddenly, she knew what Cormac wanted.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The plan had slid into Cormac’s mind whole and complete, its edges neatly trimmed, its surfaces planed smooth. He thought it was not the most watertight of plans, but he thought it might work. Energy coursed through his body, for he had spoken truly when he sent Joanna the thought: I am alive again!

He felt more alive than he had through the dreary years at Scáthach; he knew that the greatest battle of his reign lay ahead, for the Erl-King was Tara’s oldest and strongest adversary. He was not afraid, for he had in his veins the blood of the High Kings, and he would meet death if he must. But he would not meet it passively, and he would put up the wildest fight the Citadel had ever seen. And the fight would begin with the plan.

Joanna, the dear brave child, had seen it as well, of course, he knew that, she had picked up his thoughts easily and clearly. It was from Joanna that it must come. Only she, of them all, had the right. He fixed his eyes on her face and willed her to speak.

Joanna took a deep breath. She said, “I do not think we can beat the Erl-King and the Morrigna by human tricks, or by human strength either.” And unwittingly, used the words of Bricriu the Fox. “We must fight sorcery with more sorcery.”

“Sorcery to beat sorcery,” said Gormgall, and nodded. “Sound reasoning, my lady. Go on.”

“We cannot get help from outside,” said Joanna. Gormgall said, “Forgive me for interrupting, but Sire, the Samhailt —”

“— cannot get through the Girdle of Gold,” said Cormac.

“Ah. Forgive me, but has Your Majesty actually tried —?” “Yes,” said Cormac in what was very nearly a growl. “Forgive me,” said Gormgall again. “It’s only that it would have been grand to think of the Wolves streaming into the Citadel.”

“Forgive me,” said Cormac, and his hand briefly touched Gormgall’s shoulder. “But to see the Girdle of Gold like this — in the hands of Dierdriu’s great enemy —”

“Yes, it’s a bad thing,” said Gormgall solemnly. “And of course, her ladyship’s right; we cannot expect any help from outside.” He looked back at Joanna expectantly.

“And,” said Joanna, “since the only way to fight sorcery is with more sorcery …” She paused and looked at them all, “we must get the Nightcloak from Morrigan.”

Gormgall said slowly, “But it has already been used against Morrigan.”

“Yes. Or against her creature — the Miller, which apparently amounts to the same thing.” Joanna leaned forward, her face serious. “But if we used it against the Erl-King …” They all looked at one another, and Muldooney adopted an air of concentration. At length, Dubhgall said, “But would it work against him? Would it be strong enough?”

“And,” said Gormgall, “how would we get it away from Morrigan?”

Joanna said, “I don’t know if it would be strong enough to defeat the Erl-King. I don’t know what it would call up.”

“The nightmares of the victims,” said Gormgall slowly. “Yes. A terrible thing,” said Joanna, who was trying very hard not to think of what sort of creature might be expected to strike fear into the Erl-King.

Cormac said softly, “Pan was not terrible.”

“No,” said Joanna, looking up. “Nor he was.”

“But the cloak must first be got back,” said Gormgall. Joanna, speaking rapidly, not looking at any of them now, said, “When we are taken to the Banqueting Chamber, the Erl-King’s attention, and Morrigan’s also, will be on the Wolfking and on me … That’s not vanity,” said Joanna, anxious to explain, “it’s a statement of fact. Morrigan wants to avenge herself on me because of what I did to her in Muileann. We know that. And both of them have always wanted the King. We know that as well.

“I don’t think they will kill us straight away,” said Joanna, looking and feeling rather sick. “I think there will be — well, preliminaries. It won’t be very nice, but we shall have to — to do the best we can.

“Now — they will keep an eye on the rest of you, of course. That’s you Gormgall and you Dubhgall, and Muldooney and on — my father. But probably not such a close eye. So it will be up to one of you to create a diversion of some kind, so that while their attention is distracted, I can take the cloak.”

There was a thoughtful silence.

Gormgall said, “I don’t see how we could do it, my lady.”

“You yourself suggested a diversion of some kind, Gormgall.”

“Yes, but not —” Gormgall looked round uneasily, and then, lowering his voice, “not in the Banqueting Chamber itself!”

“But it’s the only place where we can be sure Morrigan will be present.”

“That’s true,” put in Dubhgall. “She’d never miss seeing her great enemies defeated and humiliated. If only we could be sure she’ll have the Nightcloak with her.”

“I think she will,” said Joanna. “I think she will want to use every weapon she can to taunt us.”

Gormgall said, “Can she actually use the cloak as a — well, to call anything up?”

“No,” said Cormac. “Only a purebred human can do that. And we know how strongly the cloak responds to Joanna.”

Gormgall said, “But what kind of diversion — I’m sorry Sire, but I don’t think it will work. The very minute one of us steps out of line, he’d be whipped straight back.”

“Not,” said Joanna, “if the person creating the diversion was not in possession of his sanity.”

This time the silence lasted longer. They stared at her.

Then Dubhgall said, in a low voice, “But your ladyship, begging your pardon, but — he’d never do it. He wouldn’t understand what was wanted.” He stole a glance at the blank staring eyes; John Grady had barely moved since they were put in the cell, he had grunted once or twice, but he had stayed lying slumped against the cell wall. “It wouldn’t work,” said Dubhgall.

“He’s right,” said Muldooney, unexpectedly speaking out. “The poor man couldn’t be made to understand.” Muldooney had followed the conversation carefully; he had not said very much, because he had not been able to think of anything to say, and he had been told that a still tongue meant a wise head. He had only dimly grasped the business of this cloak they all seemed to set so much store by, but he had certainly grasped Joanna’s idea about creating a diversion, and he thought it a sound one. But he agreed with Dubhgall, and although he dared say it was not his place to speak out, speak out he had. You had to have the courage of your convictions sometimes. And it was a remarkable thing, but when he had spoken out, voicing his agreement with Dubhgall, in a firm voice, they had all turned to look at him, and they had listened and nodded their agreement. Muldooney was not very used to people according him this degree of attention, and it occurred to him that it was rather pleasant. And although it would be too much to say that it lent him confidence (because there was never a Muldooney born yet who lacked confidence, of course), he found himself able to join in the discussion that followed and to feel that he was a part of it all.

Joanna said, very calmly, “But I did not mean him to do it. Of course he could not. One of you must pretend to be witless.”

“But,” said Gormgall, “that would mean there’d be two. And the guards and Morrigan and the hunchback all know that when they brought us here there was only one.”

“Yes,” said Joanna, and looked at them all very steadily. “We cannot trust him to carry out our plan, and so one of you must take his place.

“And since, as Gormgall says, we cannot have two idiots, then the real one will have to die.

“We shall have to kill him.”

*

Cormac thought that if he had never loved Joanna before, he loved her in that moment, her little face white, her eyes huge and fearless, her voice steady. But Cormac could feel, as the others could not, that she was burning up inside with horror, and he could feel that every nerve in her body was alive with pain. Even so, he thought, she understands that if we are all to live, then one must die.

If they all died, Tara would be within the Erl-King’s grasp at last …

Cormac looked at Joanna and remembered the old word kingship, and the new one statecraft. She has both, he thought, and remembered again the old stories and the old beliefs in Dierdriu: The High Queen would return when her people were in their darkest hour …

Joanna said, “It, is the only way, you know,” and there was a silence, while each of them absorbed the plan, and each of them saw that it was indeed the only way.

Gormgall said, “Who is to take his place as the — the witless one?” and they all looked at one another.

And then, quite without warning, entirely without anyone suspecting, Muldooney said, “I will.”

And Joanna leaned forward and took his hands, “Oh will you? Will you really?” and Muldooney turned beet red and patted her hands, and tried not to hear Dubhgall who had snorted disgustedly.

In fact, Brian Muldooney, respectable, unimaginative pig-farmer, was becoming genuinely appalled at the mess they were all in. He had by now grasped that they had all fallen into the hands of a very evil being, and he quite saw that Joanna’s plan was their only chance of escape. As for playing the fool a bit when the time came, well, they might all of them find it hard to believe, but Muldooney could cut a bit of a caper with the best. Ah, Muldooney might not be one of your fine handsome gentlemen (although there were those who had considered him not so dusty in his time!) but when a bit of the fool-playing was needed, Muldooney was your man! He squared his shoulders in manly fashion and cracked his knuckle joints a few times, just to show them all how formidable he was, until Dubhgall said, “That’s a terrible sick-making sound. Is it some kind of affliction you have?”

They discussed the plan from all angles, and Muldooney was careful not to miss a thing, because it was best to know what was expected of you on these occasions; and finally, Joanna said, “I cannot see any other way. I wish I could.” And her eyes went to the figure in the corner.

They had made some further attempt to bathe Grady’s poor wounded mouth, although there had not been very much they could do.

“But I have a lotion that will soothe it,” said Gormgall.

“If he’ll take it,” said Dubhgall.

Grady would not take it. He had lapsed into a kind of stupor, but when Gormgall tried to sponge his mouth and Joanna held his hands down, he backed away, glaring at them with such maniacal fury in his eyes, that they stopped. He was a pitiable sight by this time. His hair was lank and matted — “And somehow greyed,” said Joanna — and his clothes were muddied and bloodied, and really rather sordid.

“We are all muddied and bloodied, of course,” said Gormgall always sympathetic.

“There’s a difference,” said Dubhgall.

But the greatest and the worst difference was in Grady’s face. Joanna, who could hardly bear it, thought it was as if his features had collapsed in on themselves, as if his bones had all been extracted along with his power of speech. His eyes were dull and staring, except for the brief occasions when they became filled with a mindless fury. It was this that tore Joanna apart with pity and revulsion. She thought she might have coped with the pity, but to recognise the revulsion was barely endurable. Several times she tried to talk to him, searching for a flicker of recognition, but there was nothing. John Grady simply sat dribbling and staring at nothing, soiling himself where he sat, utterly beyond their reach.

“He is gone,” said Cormac when Joanna wept on his chest. “Human Child, he is for ever in the dark, and he is forever lost to the world of men. We will make an end to his suffering, and his death will help Ireland.”

Joanna said, “Yes, of course. Forgive me. And I hold by my plan.” She sat up and wiped her eyes, and everyone tried not to look, although Dubhgall blew his nose rather loudly. Gormgall and Muldooney both assumed an air of hopefulness, and Muldooney had the mien of one who carries a weighty responsibility. A feeling of optimism pervaded the cell. “Although,” murmured Gormgall to Dubhgall, “there’s the actual disposing of the poor man to be done.”

Cormac, who heard him, said at once, “That is not the least bit difficult. There is a pressure spot on the neck. A few seconds only. Quick and clean. He will never know.” He looked at them rather haughtily. “And only a High King may decide when to take a life,” he said, and Gormgall and Dubhgall both backed off.

Cormac turned to Joanna. “All right?” he said gently.

Joanna gulped and said, “Yes. All right,” and Cormac moved swiftly to where Grady sat, and reached out his hands.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Flynn and the others stood on the ridge of rock that led across the chasm and stared ahead of them. “Scáthach,” said Conaire softly. “The Fortress of Shadow.”

“Ireland’s place of exile,” said Oscar, from behind him. “And,” put in Sean, “it looks deserted.”

“It is deserted,” said Etain. “I told you.”

Scáthach was very deserted indeed. They walked warily through the echoing chambers and halls, and peered into the empty galleries, and heard their footsteps echoing rather forlornly in the huge old fortress, and tried not to remember that the Wolfking had lived here for five long years after he had been cast out of Tara.

“Unbearable,” said CuChulainn.

“He did bear it, though,” said Conaire.

“Did he?” said Etain.

But the signs of departure were there, and the signs of recent occupancy were there as well. Oscar laid his hand against the chimney breasts — “Warm,” he said. “My friends, it is not so long since fires were kindled here.”

And Sean, descending to the kitchens — “By instinct,” said Conaire — reported that the bread in the crocks was still fresh, and that honey and cheese and milk were all there. “And the side of a nice piece of pork as well,” he said, and CuChulainn looked hopeful, and said he did not see why they should not spend a night’s rest here.

But at length, they stood facing one another in the dim sunken hall that Joanna had entered, and when Conaire said softly, “He has broken the Enchantment,” a great delight flared between them.

Flynn, watching, standing between Amairgen and Portan, thought: yes, but how has he broken it? “Open locks, to the Human’s hand …”? Oh Joanna, my love, were you here? And did you in truth dissolve the Enchantment? He closed his eyes, and for a moment, Joanna was with him, so that he could hear her laughing and see her eyes narrowed against the sun, and he could smell the clean hair and the sweetness. An ache of longing rose up in him, but he listened to their plans, and agreed, quite calmly with CuChulainn that they might as well rest inside Scáthach before going on.

Conaire said, “Yes, we could certainly start for Gallan in the morning. We could be quite comfortable here,” and Sean and CuChulainn went off to see about the food and discuss could they find any apples to go with the pork.

Flynn, seeing Portan lead Amairgen to a fireside seat and then turn to mend the fire, felt suddenly and sharply lonely. He thought: I believe Joanna was here, and the wish to have her with him, to share this strange beautiful cruel world with her, was so overpowering, that for a moment he felt he could not go on. And then confidence came rushing back, and with it strength: I will find her if I have to tear Ireland apart with my bare hands! and he was able to sit with Amairgen and discuss the journey, and speculate on what might be ahead.

After supper, which CuChulainn and Sean prepared between them — “And very good it was as well,” said Oscar, who believed in praising people as often as you could — they sat together to discuss their plans.

“Gallan,” said Conaire firmly, and the twins nodded in agreement. “At daybreak,” said Conaire. “Because it’s a long journey we’ll have.”

“And,” put in Sean, “it means going through Muileann.”

A sudden silence fell. Finally, Oscar said, “We could go round Muileann.”

“Could we? How could we?”

“Where’s a map? Hadn’t the Wolfking ever a map in this forsaken place? What? Oh, a map room. Well,” said Oscar, “I’m rather surprised to find such a thing in Scáthach. I’ll wager that Eochaid Bres and Bricriu didn’t know about it when they brought the King out here.”

“Eochaid Bres and Bricriu don’t know everything,” said Midir.

“They only think they do,” put in Etain.

“Yes, but are the maps any use?” said CuChulainn.

“Let’s find out,” said Flynn, and nearly the entire party got up and tramped off through the castle, making, said Sean, a great to-do and raising a good deal of quite unnecessary noise.

“Of course, it all comes of bringing CuChulainn and those unruly twins,” he explained to Amairgen who was sitting in the sunken hall, with Portan nearby. “They’re the King’s men, you understand,” added Sean, “and they’ll be very useful in the battle, well, so will all the creatures of the Bloodline. You wouldn’t believe the havoc that the Swans can cause, and of course, as we all know, there’s not many that can hold back a stampeding team of Chariot Horses.

“But they’re so noisy,” said Sean, lifting his head complainingly, as the rest of the party stamped about overhead, punctuating their search for the map room with cries of “Who’s got the key?” and “Don’t trip over that bearskin,” and “While we’re at it, let’s raid the wine cellars.”

“They’re so loud,” said Sean. “They have to be off doing things. Finding things. It’s very tiring.”

“I’m sure it must be. Tell me, is Gallan a great journey off?”

“Well I have to say it is,” said Sean.

Amairgen said rather wistfully, “I should like to have seen it. Is it as beautiful as they say?”

“Yes,” said Sean. Portan reached out for Amairgen’s hand.

“You will see it,” she said softly. “For I shall see it for you,” and Amairgen smiled, and returned the pressure of her hand, and Sean, who was not, of course, the smallest bit sentimental, had to blow his nose rather violently, and interpose a question about the world Amairgen and Portan came from.

“Not,” he said earnestly, “that I’d pry.”

“Of course not,” said Portan politely.

“No, but I have to be always on the alert for new ideas,” said Sean seriously. “You never know what mightn’t be useful.”

Portan said, “You would not like our world, Sean. It is cruel and harsh and — rather bleak.” And she leaned back against the warm brick of the chimney breast and smiled at Sean, and Sean smiled back.

The others, in the meantime, had finally discovered the map room. “And a fine gloomy old place it is,” said CuChulainn, disgustedly surveying it. “I don’t suppose the Wolfking entered it from one year’s end to the next.”

“I don’t suppose he knew it was here,” retorted Etain.

“Well now we’re here, let’s see what we have,” said Flynn, turning his attention to the maps they had unrolled on the table, and to the quarrel that was now being happily waged.

The twins and CuChulainn were all for going openly through Muileann. “Never mind the Miller,” said Etain, “we can deal with a dozen Millers,” but Oscar was inclined to opt for a discreet journey across the plains.

“We’d be more noticeable crossing the plains,” objected CuChulainn.

“Not if we went by night,” said Oscar, and a sudden silence fell. To journey across the countryside in the bright clear day, hailing chance-met fellow travellers, taking meals in the high noon, was one thing; they were all used to that. They rather enjoyed it. But to go by night, secretly and furtively, not able to see an enemy creeping up behind you, well, that was another thing entirely. They looked at one another, and several of them remembered that the Morrigna were said to scour the countryside for victims by night, and several more remembered that in all the old stories, the Erl-King walked abroad after nightfall.

Flynn, holding on to patience, said, “But which is the quickest route?” and they all turned to look at him, and Oscar, the most perceptive of all these very perceptive creatures, said, “Flynn, we had almost forgotten —” and Etain came to sit beside Flynn and said, “But we had not really forgotten.”

Flynn said, “I suppose it does not really matter where I go, because she might be anywhere,” and hoped this did not sound as desolate as it felt.

Oscar said thoughtfully, “But, you know, I don’t think that’s entirely so,” and Flynn looked up.

“‘Open locks, to the Human’s hand,’” said Oscar softly.

“Then you do think she is with Cormac?”

Oscar said, “Cormac escaped from Scáthach somehow.”

“And,” said Conaire thoughtfully, “he escaped quite recently.”

“So he did,” said CuChulainn, and they all looked hopefully at Flynn.

“Could Joanna have broken the Enchantment?” said Flynn, but even as he said it, he was remembering the etched gold of the portrait deep beneath Tara.

Dierdriu, the High Queen who would one day return …

“Why not?” said Conaire lightly, and Flynn thought: yes, after all, why not?

“And,” said Conaire, “if Joanna is truly with Cormac, then we are almost certainly going in their footsteps at daybreak.”

“We are following them,” said Midir, and Flynn looked at them, and felt again the strange sense of comradeship, and thought: yes, I was right. They do understand. And with an effort turned his attention to the maps again.

Oscar was explaining carefully that they would not be going anywhere near to the Erl-King’s Citadel. “You see?” he said, spreading out the map and setting weights on it because it had been rolled up so tightly for so many years that it kept springing back. “Here is Gallan.” He indicated the jagged mountain range. “And here is the Erl-King’s Walled City. There’s at least two days’ journey between the two.”

“I’ve often wondered,” said Conaire, “how Cait Fian has managed to live so close to the Erl-King and escape him.”

“Cait Fian’s got nine lives,” said Midir and grinned.

“He’s got good sorcerers,” scoffed Etain.

“Well you should know.”

“Everyone knows,” said Etain. “And anyway, there’s the mountains, very nearly encircling Gallan. You hardly need sorcerers to protect you with those. They’d be nearly as good as the Girdle of Gold. All Cait Fian has to do is station the Panthers at the mountain passes to keep an eye out for intruders.”

“But supposing an intruder killed the sentry Panthers?” said CuChulainn.

Conaire said, “Have you ever tried to kill a Panther?”

CuChulainn said, “Oh. Oh yes, of course.”

“You’ve got to catch it first,” put in Midir.

“And Cait Fian would only send out the best,” added Conaire.

“Cait Fian only has the best anyway,” said Etain.

Flynn said, “Aren’t we wandering from the point?” He could see with surprising clarity that the best route to Gallan was around the Muileann Valley and through the Morne Mountains, and he thought that Cormac would certainly have taken that route. But although he wanted to throw the maps back into the cupboard and set out for Gallan there and then, he knew that without the others, he would be at the mercy of this unknown, wild land.

But once you would not have been, said his inner voice and although the longing to be up and off and find Joanna was still gnawing at him, he felt a sudden surge of excitement. Because I made this journey once before perhaps? Because I planned this route in another life and in another world and in another time? Yes, perhaps. And, Joanna, my darling girl, he thought, if I cannot find you, then for sure the great Finn can. With the thought came the confidence again. Yes, she is here, and yes I am going to find her. Finn will not let her be lost,

Finn of the Fiana and the High Queen Dierdriu… The thought sprang unbidden, and Flynn frowned, because there was something there, something he ought to remember … And then memory shifted and fell into place, and he remembered that only a direct descendant of the Royal line could break the Enchantment of Captivity, and he remembered that someone, somehow had certainly broken it, and then memory moved again, and he was standing in the chambers that ran beneath Tara, staring at the carved face on the Rock.

Dierdriu, and yet Joanna … He thought: but of course Cormac has her, and of course she is safe, and it was as if a great calming hand had laid itself on his mind. It will be all right. I shall find her.

Oscar was saying, “Well, Flynn? What do you say? Do we travel to Gallan by night?” and Flynn discovered that they were all looking at him expectantly. He started to say, “but you know this terrain far better than I do,” and he looked at the map again, and saw the clarity of the route they ought to take, and saw that after all he knew the terrain very well indeed and knew that this was the way he must lead them.

But he said only, “Shall we vote on it?” and then had to explain what he meant, because the concept was entirely new to them.

“But it’s rather a good idea,” said Conaire, fascinated, and Flynn, watching, thought they were exactly like children sometimes.

They voted. “To go sensibly and stealthily by night,” said Oscar.

“Or boldly and openly by day,” said CuChulainn, and Flynn counted hands carefully.

Oscar, of course, voted for his plan. “Of course he did,” said CuChulainn.

CuChulainn wanted to travel in the day. “Let’s let them know we are coming,” he said, striking the table with his fist, setting the maps slithering, and dislodging the weights that Conaire had set on the Gallan/Muileann map, so that one fell on Midir’s foot, and Conaire lost the road through the mountains altogether.

CuChulainn apologised to Midir at once. “Even so, I still say we march by day,” he said. “Are we warriors, or are we mice?”

“We’re pretty useless warriors with bruised toes,” said Midir crossly, nursing his foot.

Both the twins opted for going by night in the end. “Safer,” said Midir, and after some thought, Conaire agreed with them.

“I’m sorry,” said Flynn to CuChulainn. “You’re outvoted.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said CuChulainn. “I dare say you all know best. I’m a warrior, you see,” he explained to Flynn afterwards. “Nothing more. I don’t pretend to be clever like Oscar, or far-seeing like Conaire, or even amusing like the twins. But I’ll fight as well as anyone when we get to the battle,” he said anxiously, and Flynn was rather touched. He thought that CuChulainn was perhaps not overbright, but he was loyal and true and trustworthy.

“Oh, he’s as stupid as an ox,” said Sean, who received the news of their nocturnal journey with philosophical calm. “Because I’m not here to fight anyway, if you recall,” he said.

Even so, Sean was doubtful about the wisdom of night travel, although he thought it might make a rather good poem. “‘The King’s Armies by Night’ — yes, that’s got a goodish ring to it. Fetch me something to write on, somebody.”

“Fetch it yourself,” said Etain, but Flynn noticed that she got up and went in search of the thin woven sheets that were used for writing.

“He’ll be like this all the time,” said Conaire to Flynn. “Writing everything down. Still, we do want an account of the battle, of course.”

“Of course,” said Flynn, who was not, truth to tell, thinking very much about the battle at all, and who now remembered that a very fearsome battle certainly lay ahead, and that he might not find Joanna until after it was all over.

“Yes, but you cannot get out of the battle,” said Amairgen later that night. “It is something you must be a part of, I think.” He tilted his head to one side, and, not for the first time, Flynn received the eerie impression of sight where there could not be sight. “You are Finn of the Fiana again,” said Amairgen. “He has woken in you in earnest now, and he will spur you on. You will not be able to deny him, Flynn.” He took Flynn’s arm. “I think you will fight for the Wolfking again, Flynn, just as you did for Dierdriu all those centuries ago. I think you will be compelled to do so by Finn, for if Ireland is not restored to the rightful High King, a terrible and ancient evil will envelop the land.”

The Erl-King …

“You are right. I wish you were not.” Flynn knew that even while he was rent apart with anxiety for Joanna and aching with longing to see her and know her safe, still the thought of the battle that must surely be ahead of them, was exciting him.

Amairgen said, “I wish I could be there with you,” and Flynn felt as if something had fallen away inside him.

“But you will surely be with us —”

“You cannot possibly take me,” Amairgen said gently, and Flynn felt the anguish and the burden of Amairgen’s blindness descend upon his own shoulders for a moment. He saw Amairgen’s hand come out, and he saw Portan take it, and he thought: they are very close now, these two, and felt the sharp loneliness for Joanna again. Aloud, he said, “But I can’t go off with these people and leave you,” and at once saw the absurdity of this, because Conaire and the others were friends, he knew them and he trusted them entirely. He was at home with them. Even so, “I can’t leave you,” he said.

Portan leaned forward. “Flynn, there is nothing that Amairgen or I can contribute to this venture,” she said, and then, releasing her hand from Amairgen’s, stood up and took Flynn’s arm. “Come with me,” said Portan, and led him out through the massive iron doors of Scáthach, so that they were standing looking out across the valley. Flynn drew in a deep breath, and felt the sweet night air fill his lungs, and felt, as well, an immense calm.

At his side, Portan said softly, “You see it, don’t you? You feel it. No longer a place of desolation.” She stood close to him, staring out across the valley, to the blaze of lights that was Tara. “I think that for many years it was a terrible place. I think that for Cormac it was.”

“Five years,” said Flynn.

“Perhaps a little more. And there are places of immense despair,” said Portan. “I have walked through Scáthach, and I have felt them, Flynn. It is like — like falling into an icy cold blankness. There are — I do not have the words to explain — but there are patches of the most immense sadness. As if Cormac’s anguish and his loneliness has soaked into the walls, and as if some of that loneliness still lingers. I recognise it for what it is,” said Portan in a very low voice, and Flynn turned to watch her.

“Was it so very bad?” he said gently. “In that place?” And thought that of course it had been so very bad, and of course it would never be possible to understand.

“It was more terrible than ever you could imagine,” said Portan, “but always there was hope. Always there was the dream of being rescued, and of a life beyond. Sharing. Working. Being a part of a community. Accepted. Oh Flynn,” said Portan, her eyes bright with joy, “you cannot know what it has meant to me to be accepted by these people.” She smiled at him. “Here is the dream, Flynn,” said Portan softly. “Here, with these people. I am no longer repellent, or even very different.” She looked out across the valley again. “I believe we will stay here, Amairgen and I, I believe we could dissolve the sadness in this place and sweep away the desolation. Already there is a feeling of happiness here. Have you not felt that?” Flynn, who had felt something but not the whole, nodded and understood.

“What should you do?”

Portan said, “Amairgen is clever, you see. He is a scholar. A thinker. People would come, just to talk with him.”

“Yes,” said Flynn. “Oh yes, they would.”

“And I could be his sight,” said Portan, and again there was the delight in her voice and in her eyes. “I could write his thoughts and his philosophies and all his learning, so that they could be shared. I could be useful,” cried Portan, and Flynn smiled, and blinked rather hard, because there was such sheer undiluted joy in her voice, and such unshadowed gratitude in her eyes.

“But before we can think of such things, you have to find Joanna.” Flynn knew that however far behind he might have to leave Portan and Amairgen in the journey ahead, they would yet be with him in their thoughts. Strength. Yes, they would give him strength.

When he said softly, “Think of me, Portan. Through what lies ahead of me.” Portan took his hand and looked at him for a long moment.

“You will never be entirely absent from my thoughts for all of my life, Flynn,” said Portan. “And when you leave for your own world, I shall set aside a part of each day to think of you.” Again the smile, shyer this time. “You will never cease to be a part of me,” said Portan.

*

They set out at dusk the next day — “A good time for a new venture,” said Conaire.

Flynn, who had seen the dawn rise in Tugaim many times, was very nearly speechless at the sight of the pink and grey light pouring down over the Morne Mountains, etching fingers of colour across the terrain ahead of them.

“Wait until we are in the mountains themselves… said Oscar. “For there, as nowhere else in Ireland, in the world perhaps, one may wake with the dawn and feel the colours and the scents and the sights of each new day.” He glanced at Flynn. “From the Morne Mountains, you may stand in the dawn light and see nothing but pure new light reaching out to bathe the entire country. And you may know that in one direction there is nothing between you and the very top of the world, where the great travellers say are ice sheets and glaciers and snow-covered lands.”

Even so, Flynn was rather silent, for it had been very hard indeed to bid farewell to Amairgen and Portan, and go off into the unknown.

“But you went into the unknown when you went through the Time Curtain,” said Amairgen.

“You were with me,” said Flynn.

Conaire and the others understood about Flynn’s sadness, of course. CuChulainn said, “It is very hard to go into a battle leaving friends behind,” and Flynn felt again the sense of belonging. He thought that after all this was his place in the world.

They talked as they went along, telling Flynn all the grand old legends of Ireland, and all the stories of the High Kings and Queens, back to Dierdriu. Flynn was interested in it all; he was especially interested in Dierdriu, and he listened absorbedly, occasionally recognising a snippet of legend, or a fragment of folklore.

Conaire told stories of how the Court had been in the years of Cormac’s reign; “A marvellous, brilliant place,” he said. “It drew all of the gifted artists and the music makers and the ballad singers. People would travel across the Northern Seas just to come to Tara.”

“And they would always be sure of a welcome,” said Oscar, rather bitterly.

“Oh yes, for no one was ever turned away,” said Conaire.

As they left Scáthach farther behind and the Morne Mountains began to loom nearer, CuChulainn told them stories of Ireland’s most splendid battles; the Second Battle of Mag Tuired, fought between the Tuatha who were the people of the mother-god Danann, and the marauding Fomoire, led by Cichol Gricenchos, son of Goll the One-Eyed and by his monstrous mother Lot, whose bloated lips were in her breasts, and who had four eyes in her back and the strength of twenty men in her arms. He told, as well, of the famous Battle for the Trees, which had been fought between the Morrigna and the armies of Dierdriu. “And which,” said CuChulainn, “was won by neither side, for the Trees fell into a great sleep from which it is said they will never wake.”

“They would surrender to neither side you see,” said Oscar softly, “neither side could claim victory, and so the Battle for the Trees is still known as Ireland’s great unwon war.”

“And ever since,” put in Midir who had been listening, “the Morrigna have never ceased to seek out Dierdriu’s descendants and try to destroy them.”

At that, Sean launched into the Lay of Dierdriu, and everyone joined in the chorus, and CuChulainn became rather emotional when they reached the part about Dierdriu promising to return, and had to be given a drink from Conaire’s flask, retiring to the back of the procession to blow his nose and recover.

Sean became quite militant as they sighted the forest surrounding Muileann, and composed a stirring march about the Wolfking’s armies going into war, and everyone learned it that night as they ate their supper round the fire, and sang it the next morning. As CuChulainn said, it had a grand swing to it, and you could march better with a rousing song to cheer you on.

“It makes us sound a much larger army than we really are,” said Midir when they had sung it through twice, and CuChulainn had finally got the words of the last verse right.

“We won’t be small when we call up the Bloodlines,” said Etain.

They made camp each dawn and ate very well it seemed to Flynn, who was not accustomed to this way of life. But there were wild animals to be shot or trapped — “Not our own creatures, of course,” said Oscar.

And Flynn said, “Of course not.”

As they passed through the forest, there was fruit which gave Flynn a sudden sharp jolt of homesickness for Tugaim and the orchards, there were pigeons and some kind of wild pheasant. It was all very amicable, and more than once, Flynn found himself enjoying the easy camaraderie.

Ahead of them was the forest screening Muileann. “Although Muileann is on the floor of the valley,” said Oscar, “we would go through the forest to come out directly above the township, and then we would go down into the valley if we were going through Muileann itself. As it is …” he paused and they waited. “As it is,” said Oscar, “we can skirt the forest, and wait until nightfall. Then we will go across the sides of the valley. Beyond that are the Morne Mountains, and beyond them Gallan.”

Even so, they could see Muileann as they went cautiously through the trees, and Flynn felt a tightness in his chest at the sight. The township was so dark and so filled with shadows, that he found himself thinking that anything might lurk down there, and he found that he was extremely glad they had agreed to Oscar’s plan to cross the plain and avoid the town. He was just thinking that they ought to be considering making camp for the day while the trees still sheltered them, when Conaire, who was in the lead and who saw better than any of them, stopped and said sharply: “There’s something moving in those bushes,” and at once everyone froze.

Lying on the bracken between Etain and Oscar, Flynn saw for the first time the unmistakable signs that these people had indeed the blood of the beasts in their veins. It was in the way that Conaire stood looking into the forest, not narrowing his eyes at all, but looking straight into the glare of the setting sun. And it was in the alert stillness of Oscar and the twins, and in the sudden tensing of CuChulainn’s powerful muscles. Flynn felt rather useless beside them; if something threatening was lurking in the forest he would not be of very much help. But he tightened his grip on the sword he had borrowed from Conaire, and he kept very still and presently there was another scuffling, and Flynn saw Conaire spring forward and pounce, and heard a yell of indignation.

“Well!” said a cross voice from the bushes. “If that’s how you treat the Wolfking’s supporters, Conaire of the Eagles, all I can say is it’s not surprising we’re all forever fighting!”

The bushes rustled irritably and Conaire let out a shout of laughter and said, “By Dagda and all the gods, if it isn’t one of the Wolfking’s Cruithin servants!” and a great sigh of relief went through the watchers, because, as Sean said to Flynn, anything might have been hiding in the bushes.

“There’s all manner of nasty things bound to be abroad in this vicinity,” said Sean, brushing himself free of bracken. “I wonder we’ve got this far, I do really. I said it was a mistake to come this way in the first place.”

Conaire marched the Cruithin servant into the clearing grinning hugely, and beckoning to the others to come out.

“It’s Domnall,” he said, “who went with His Majesty to Scáthach.”

“Along with the other faithful servants of the Wolfking,” said Domnall with a nasty look at Conaire, and Flynn hoped they were not going to have animosity among their own people.

“Oh I shouldn’t think so,” said Sean, who had been listening. “But I daresay Domnall’s annoyed with Conaire, well, you can’t blame him; have you ever looked at Conaire’s hands? Oh they’re just like talons. Eagles, you see. He wouldn’t mean it, but I expect he’s given poor Domnall a fine set of bruises. And of course, the Cruithin have always considered themselves the High Kings’ chosen followers. Well to be fair, so they are. Only they like to remind you of it.”

Conaire seemed to be treating Domnall cautiously however; he invited him to be seated, and waited to hear more of the Wolfking.

“And we know he’s not at Scáthach any longer,” said Midir, “because we’ve been there.”

“Oh, he’s not been at Scáthach for many a night now,” said Domnall. “Didn’t you know that? Didn’t you? I thought everyone knew. Oh yes, the Enchantment’s wound up and he’s free. Well, nobody expected Scáthach to hold him for long in the first place.”

“Just as I said,” put in Sean pleased. “Didn’t I say just that?” And he retired to his hillock again, to just note a few ideas for “The Wolfking’s Escape” which would go down very nicely at the celebrations when Cormac returned to Tara. After they had routed Eochaid Bres and the Fox.

Flynn, unable to help himself, leaned forward and said, “Had he anyone with him when he left?” and waited, and thought: I cannot bear it, this is the worst yet, for if Domnall says that Cormac was alone, then I am once more without hope. And he fixed his eyes on the small, slightly gnarled figure of Domnall and waited.

Domnall said caustically, “Did you ever know the Wolfking to be without a woman?” and a murmur of rather uneasy laughter went round, but Flynn knew such a rush of thankfulness that he barely noticed.

“I didn’t actually see her,” said Domnall before Flynn could say anything. “I don’t think any of us did, because the King kept her in his own quarters.”

Flynn said carefully, “Was she the one who broke the Enchantment?”

Domnall, appearing to understand, said, “‘Open locks, to the Human’s hand,’ do you mean?” And, as Flynn nodded, “Well,” said Domnall, considering this, “I believe that the feeling was that she was the one, although of course I could no more swear to that than I could fly to the moon.”

He eyed Flynn thoughtfully, “Would it be a matter of some concern to you?” And when Flynn said, “Yes it would,” Domnall nodded, “I see.” Everyone wondered what it was that he saw.

“Whoever she was,” said Domnall, looking at Flynn rather fixedly, “Cormac was treating her extremely well.” And he regarded Flynn with his head on one side like an alert sparrow, and nodded and smiled, and Flynn nodded and smiled back, and thought that if only Cormac had kept Joanna safe and if only he had looked after her in this cruel beautiful world, then he, Flynn, would happily fight to the death for the Wolfking.

Domnall sat cross-legged in the circle of people, and began to explain what had been happening. “We all of us went to Scáthach in the beginning,” he said. “Of course we did. Aren’t we the chosen race of the High Kings?”

Sean said in an aside to Flynn, “See what I mean?” and was ordered by Conaire to be quiet or leave.

“Leave for where?” demanded Sean, for once belligerent.

“Muileann or the Walled City of the Erl-King!” said Conaire crossly, and Sean scowled and muttered into his notes that they’d never had this discourtesy under the Wolfking, and it all came of Eochaid Bres’s slipshod, slapdash Court.

“I knew how it would be the very minute that the Fox started plotting,” he said. “But nobody listened to me. Well, don’t blame me if Ireland falls into the hands of something very nasty indeed.”

Oscar said, rather loudly, “Domnall, do tell us what happened at Scáthach. Is the King with you?” and Flynn felt a ripple of delighted anticipation go through the others.

“He is not,” said Domnall, “not but what we haven’t followed him all the way from Scáthach here, and that’s been no picnic I can tell you, not in a bull’s foot it hasn’t. Although it has to be said that Scáthach was no picnic either,” he added, “not but what we didn’t all go willingly.” He glared at Conaire. “There wasn’t a one of us who’d have stood for being under Eochaid Bres’s rule,” said Domnall, “and there wasn’t a one of us who’d have stood for being under the Fox’s rule either. Anyone who knows anything knows that Eochaid Bres is ruled by Bricriu.”

“And Bricriu is ruled by the Queen Mother,” murmured Oscar.

“Is he now? Is he indeed?” said Domnall interested. “Of course, I wouldn’t be knowing about that. I left with the True King. Which,” he added, “if your honours will pardon me for saying, is more than any of you did.”

Conaire, rather red in the face, said, “But we’ve come to find the True King and restore him.”

“You’ve taken your time about it,” said Domnall.

Sean remarked to no one in particular: “He’s right you know. We have. Not that it’s any business of those Cruithin, but you’ll never tell them that.”

“I don’t think —”

“Arrogant,” said Sean, shaking his head. “Comes of having served the High Kings for so long. It’s bound to rub off a bit. I daresay it can’t be helped.”

“Sean,” said Conaire ominously, “I freely admit that you are a gifted ollam and an excellent fellow, and I wish you nothing but good, but if you do not keep quiet till we hear what Domnall has to say, I shall drop you over the cliff face.”

“Sorry I’m sure,” said Sean, hunching one shoulder. Flynn said, in a voice he had never heard himself use before, “This is quite enough of such childish nonsense. Both of you will please behave like sensible people and remember the purpose of this journey,” and Conaire and Sean and Domnall all fell over themselves to apologise.

“Well,” said Domnall with a pleased look to where Flynn sat, “there isn’t much more to tell. We all came with His Majesty from Scáthach, and we stayed here, camped out in the forest while the King and his lady went on to Gallan with Gormgall and Dubhgall.”

“Yes, of course, he’d never leave those two behind,” said Conaire, and everyone nodded.

“They were going to go through Muileann,” said Domnall. “Well, it’s the most direct route to Gallan of course, we all know that. And they were going to ask Cait Fian for his aid, and then come back here with the people of Gallan and the panthers. A grand army that would have given us,” said Domnall, “and we’d have ridden against Tara and Eochaid Bres right away.

“But,” said Domnall, jabbing a finger into midair the better to make his point, “they haven’t returned. And there’s been time and to spare for them to have reached Gallan and got back. Well, your honours, not to mince words, we’re all getting very worried. We’re all saying to ourselves — supposing something’s happened to them? And to tell you the tale with no bark on it, there’s one or two of us who’re saying — supposing the Giant Miller’s caught them? Now that,” said Domnall severely, “would be a very bad thing, indeed it would.”

There was a rather worried silence. At length, CuChulainn said, “They might have reached Gallan.”

“Then where’s Cait Fian and the Panthers?” demanded Domnall.

“They might have been delayed in Gallan,” said CuChulainn rather doubtfully, and at his side, Oscar snorted in disgust.

“Cait Fian was never delayed if there was a fight in the offing,” he said.

“And he’d ride out for Cormac at an hour’s notice,” added Etain.

“Well,” said Domnall, “we — that is all the Cruithin — think that the King must have fallen into the hands of the Miller. Or even —” he hesitated and glanced over his shoulder, and everyone else did the same. “Or even,” said Domnall drawing a little closer, “the Morrigna or the Erl-King.”

A sudden silence fell on the little group, and Flynn had the impression that the forest had grown momentarily darker.

“Well it’s what we think,” said Domnall rather defiantly, “for they say that Morrigan and her sisters have been seen in these parts, and we all know that the Erl-King’s Citadel is within two days’ march of Muileann. We’ve been holding a Council of War,” said Domnall, “that is those of us who understand about war, for it’s no use leaving it to the youngsters. They’re all for riding full pelt down into Muileann and brandishing swords and crying death to the Miller and confusion to the Morrigna. And that won’t do,” said Domnall. “Only you can’t tell them. They’re all for fighting first and thinking afterwards, and we all know that isn’t the way to win a war. You’ve got to fight sorcery with more sorcery, always supposing you can get it, and always supposing you can afford it as well, because good sorcery’s very expensive nowadays. Well, wasn’t it always. But then you’d all know more about that sort of thing than I would,” he added, “having been at Tara for so many years.”

“It isn’t —”

“With Eochaid Bres and the Fox” said Domnall pointedly.

Conaire threatened, “If I have to suffer any more jibes, son of servants —”

Flynn said, “Oh Conaire, do please stop it. If we are to make any kind of rescue attempt we’ve got to band together. And Domnall, a little more tolerance from you, if you please.” And he wondered whether this could possibly be himself, Flynn O’Connor, speaking with such authority. Lethe arrogance, thought Flynn, and then grinned to himself, because weren’t the Letheans many centuries in the future?

But the Lethe arrogance worked at once. Conaire and Domnall apologised all over again, and Conaire asked, very politely, if Domnall would continue.

“There isn’t much more to tell,” said Domnall. “We — that is the older ones — had been trying to work out a plan to get into Muileann without being seen so that we could spy out the land, when one of the sentries came running to say they’d got wind of your presence — well, of the presence of something lurking in the forest. Something that was being a bit furtive. And so —”

“We’re not furtive!” Midir put in.

“And we certainly don’t lurk,” said Etain.

“Well, we were being stealthy,” said Conaire. “Let’s say that.”

Domnall said, “Yes, let’s say that.” Everyone wondered how long this new peaceable mood was going to last. Sean shook his head and remarked to anyone who might be listening that the Cruithin and the families of the Bloodline never had got on.

“A chancy blend,” he said. “Very chancy. You won’t change the feuding of centuries in half an hour. Well, it’s nothing to do with me.” And he wondered could you stage a mock feud as part of an evening’s entertainment, with the Cruithin on one side, and the Bloodline on the other.

“Well, I came to investigate,” said Domnall. “To find out who you were. That’s meaning no disrespect, of course.”

“Of course not.”

“And here I am.”

“So you are. Tell me,” said Conaire, “how large is the camp?”

“If you don’t count the Wolves, there’s about thirty of us,” said Domnall.

“Oh I think we should count the Wolves,” said Conaire, and looked at the others. “Don’t you?”

“Useful things in a fight, Wolves,” agreed CuChulainn, and the twins and Oscar nodded. Flynn hoped he did not look as worried as he felt, and wished that he had not heard Sean muttering that wolves were all very well so long as somebody could control them.

“Of course, we’re having a bit of trouble controlling them,” said Domnall, and Sean groaned. “They get a bit unruly when the King isn’t there, and nobody else can really do anything with them.”

“Nobody ever could,” said Oscar.

“All the more reason to set out soon to find him,” put in Midir.

Domnall, who had been studying them all one by one, said suddenly, “I suppose you are going to join us, sirs?” and at once they all looked to Flynn.

“Flynn? What’s your opinion?” asked Conaire and Flynn thought: oh dear, here we go again.

Aloud he said, carefully, “I think we must join them, don’t you? That’s if Domnall is sure his people will accept us.”

“The more the merrier,” said Domnall mournfully.

“It’ll mean a greater chance of being seen when we cross the plain to Gallan,” said Oscar.

“I know that,” said Flynn. “But it’ll mean a better army when we join with Cait Fian’s people.”

From his hillock, Sean said to himself, “Wolves and Panthers together. Oh dear.”

“The greater the army, the better our chances of restoring the Wolfking,” remarked Midir.

“Not that there’s any doubts about us doing that,” said Etain.

“No, but we might as well make it as sure as we can.”

“The Wolves form a whole battalion in themselves as well,” said Conaire.

Sean said, “Yes, so long as somebody can control them.”

“Oh, we’ll have Cormac with us by then,” said Etain. “Won’t we?” And then, as nobody replied, “Won’t we?” she said again.

“I hope so,” said Oscar. “In any case, we can’t go without the Wolves.”

“No,” said CuChulainn firmly, “for when we ride triumphantly into Tara with the King, we must certainly have the Wolves of Tara with us.”

Flynn was rather glad that CuChulainn had painted that bright and optimistic picture, for without it he thought he might very well have fallen victim to despair. He had begun to be more than cautiously hopeful that the lady with Cormac was Joanna, and he had begun to think, as well, that if this was so, his only chance of finding her was to fight for Cormac’s restoration and rout the usurpers. Once or twice he found himself wondering whether he was in truth on the right side. I suppose Cormac is the rightful King, he thought. I suppose I am on the right side. But he did not let these thoughts surface, for he knew that the Cruithin, Conaire and the others would deal very sharply with a traitor. And then he remembered the delight that showed on their faces when anyone mentioned Cormac, and he remembered (and found it a thought to hold on to) that Domnall had said that whoever Cormac’s lady was, she was being treated very well. He thought, afterwards, that it was this that helped him to remain in control, and it was certainly this that enabled him to plan Cormac’s return and the defeat of Eochaid Bres and Bricriu. “Without that hope,” he said later, “I should not have cared who sat in the Sun Chamber. I certainly should not have cared whether Cormac lived or died. But if he had Joanna then I did care.” And then — “But that was before I knew Cormac,” he said, and smiled.

He found the Cruithin to be likeable, interesting and thoroughly loyal. He talked to them rather a lot in the days that followed, but in all cases the story was the same. The King had certainly had a lady with him — to be sure when had he not? — but they none of them had seen very much of her. Yes, she was thought to be young and beautiful, although wasn’t this the way of it with His Majesty? Yes, said one of them, they had all believed that she had dissolved the Enchantment of Captivity, although of course you could never be sure about these things, because enchantments were tricky things to be sure they were. And what about another little drop of mead?

Flynn liked the way the Cruithin referred to Cormac with indulgence and respect blended; he thought that every one of them would fight to the death for Cormac, and never think of showing him less than the respect that was his right.

Equally, he thought they all knew the King’s weaknesses and failings. It made this exiled High King much more real to Flynn, and the fact that Cormac had weaknesses made him very much more likeable as well. Do we love others because of their faults or in spite of them? wondered Flynn, and smiled, and thought that Cormac’s people at any rate loved Cormac for his weaknesses. He began to be curious about Cormac, and he began to hope that they would find him and restore him for his own sake.

He began to look forward to that triumphant march into Tara with the Wolves, and he began, as well, to wonder about Gallan and Cait Fian.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The walled city of the Erl-King was silent tonight.

The Citadel was ablaze with light, but down in the streets, the people double-locked their doors and shuttered their windows and huddled round their firesides. It was no night to be abroad, for already the whisper had gone round.

The Gentleman has the hunger on him tonight …

There were four new prisoners in the dungeons, but even the great Wolfking and his lady would not slake the Gentleman’s hunger and his thirst tonight. Tara, the Shining Palace, the great and wonderful heart of all Ireland was at last within the Gentleman’s reach, and his hunger would be great. He would be thirsting for the blood of humans, and the warm young flesh of boys and girls. A terrible night lay ahead of the people of the Walled City, and when the night was behind them, the cold dawn would show the town ditches running with the blood of the poor wretched creatures who had slaked the Gentleman’s hunger and quenched his thirst.

Someone will be quaffed tonight …

The hunchback had come down into the town a short while ago, the wheels of his cart clattering over the cobbled streets. They had all heard the sounds, but they had pretended not to. They had pretended, too, not to hear the frantic footsteps running across the cobblestones, followed closely by the hunchback’s dragging gait.

“My Master has the hunger on him tonight …”

Screams had pierced the quiet streets, and then had been replaced by a quiet hopeless sobbing. The sound of despair. The townspeople recognised it of course, and wished, as always, that they did not. Somebody’s son, somebody’s daughter or sister. Presently the cart had jolted its way back up the hill, the poor abandoned victims bound and gagged on the floor, destined for the Gentleman’s stone Banqueting Chamber, destined for the silver platters and the golden goblets. The townspeople knew because they had lived through it all before.

*

The moment the Erl-King entered the Citadel, Joanna and Cormac and the two Cruithin felt as if a dark cloud had descended. Cormac sprang up, his hands curling about the bars of the cell, staring upwards.

“He is here. He has come.”

“The Erl-King?”

“Yes. I can feel him,” said Cormac. “Can’t you? Be very still.”

Joanna stood very still and closed her eyes, and said in a whisper, “Yes. He is here. An immense power. A gaping chasm. A nothingness.” She shivered.

Gormgall noticing, said, “Would you take Grady’s coat, my lady?”

“After all, he’s no further use for it,” added Muldooney who liked to include himself in any act of chivalry that was going, even though, as Dubhgall had pointed out earlier, the exact meaning of the word had had to be explained to him. “Grady won’t be needing his coat any longer,” said Muldooney, and Gormgall and Dubhgall glared at him.

“Remember, son of the pigs, that Grady was my lady’s father,” said Gormgall.

“And respect her grief,” said Dubhgall.

Well, if it was grief they were to be talking of, Muldooney knew all about that. Hadn’t he tried to comfort the pretty little dear when she’d sobbed fit to break apart after Cormac had snuffed out John Grady’s life? Hadn’t she cast herself upon his body, crying pitiously as he lay lifeless and cooling in the corner of the cell? A terrible thing it was, and Muldooney had felt a lump come to his own throat. But Cormac had waved Muldooney aside in the most high-handed manner you could imagine, just when he had been going to go over and calm the poor dear creature. Muldooney did not know what things were coming to when a man could not comfort his officially conjoined partner. Nor did he care overmuch for the tone of Gormgall’s voice, for wasn’t it Muldooney who was going to be the saviour of the entire party in a while? He knew just what he was going to do, because he and Gormgall and Dubhgall had tried out a few gestures and movements suitable to a witless person, and he thought he would manage it really rather well. Dubhgall, always tart, had commented that to be sure, didn’t he take to it with a great naturalness, but Gormgall had said, “Oh hush,” and Muldooney had pretended not to hear. Still, they’d worked out a grand set of actions and little by-plays for when they got up to the Banqueting Hall. Gormgall had said to Dubhgall that it was going to be fine, and Dubhgall said sourly that he hoped it was, because their lives all depended on it being fine. There’d been a plan made and an agreement reached, and they’d all shaken hands on it, even Cormac. Joanna had kissed Muldooney on the cheek, her eyes bright, and said, “Oh I knew you would not let us down!”

The cell door was flung open and the grinning figure of the hunchback stood in the opening, with eight guards behind him.

The prisoners stood up, and Cormac said, “Is it time? Are we to meet your master, serf?” and the hunchback grinned and cracked his whip.

“You are,” he said. “Upstairs with you all. And quickly, my Master does not like to be kept waiting. And tonight he has a guest.” He loped across to where Joanna was standing, and looked her up and down. “Nice,” he said approvingly. “My Master will enjoy you, my dear.” He chuckled with a low bubbling sound. “I shall enjoy you as well,” he said, “for my Master allows me his victims when he has done with them.” His face swam nearer, pock-marked and swart.

“Something for you to look forward to when you are strapped down to the Table,” he said, and reached out his hand.

At once Cormac slammed him against the cell wall, his hands reaching for the hunchback’s throat, and for a moment Joanna truly thought he would tear the hunchback’s throat out while the guards stood helpless. But the guards suddenly moved as if pulled by a string; they dragged Cormac away, and the hunchback, fingering his throat, spat venomously, “Chain the wolf. He’s dangerous.”

Cormac backed into a corner of the cell, snarling and lashing out, and Joanna caught a glimpse of his face, and thought: he is all wolf. There is no human blood in him at all at this moment. And then caught the tail-end of a thought: all part of the plan, Human Child. If I can make them think me more dangerous than they had believed, they will keep their attention on me all the more. And all the more chance for the rest of you to get back the Nightcloak …

The guards advanced cautiously, trying to surround him, and Cormac’s eyes gleamed red. He bounded across the cell and leapt on the nearest guard, his face a wolf’s mask of bloodlust and ferocity. The guard went down, and Cormac fastened his teeth into the man’s throat, tearing and clawing.

Gormgall, who was being held by two men shouted, “Sire! No! There are too many of them!” and as he spoke, the guard gave a choking retching sound, and blood spurted out on to the cell floor. The guard sagged and his head fell back, eyes glazing. Cormac snarled again and stood back, and turned to deal with the others.

The hunchback was hopping up and down in blind rage, the leather-tipped whip cracking out across the tiny cell. “Seize him! Chain him!” he screamed. “Or are you a pack of spineless cowards that my Master keeps to serve him! Seize the wolf!” The whip snaked out, laying open one of the guards’ faces, and the man flinched.

The guards had recovered themselves now; they drew their swords and advanced, and for a moment there was confusion and struggling and the sound of blows.

Cormac fought with every ounce of energy. He clawed and bit and growled and Joanna and the others, unable to move for their captors’ firm hands and the hunchback’s whip, held their breath. But as Gormgall had known, there were too many of them — the chains clanked coldly on the stone floor, and Cormac was fastened, his hands behind his back, his feet shackled, the blood of his victim still spattering his shirt.

To Joanna it was dreadful to see him like this — chained and defeated — but Gormgall’s hand closed on hers, and she saw in the dim light, the glint that still showed in Cormac’s eyes, and she felt a tremendous uplifting of courage. We are fighting to the last ditch. We have a plan to defeat the adversary. And you are not counted dead until all is done.

They left the guard lying in his blood, and were half pushed, half dragged out into the low-ceilinged rock passage.

“Watch the wolf,” said the captain, “or he’ll have your throat and your lungs all over the floor.”

“Nothing new for this place,” said another, but the prisoners noticed he’d said it quietly.

As they were taken out, Gormgall said to the captain, “You have seen that one of our party is dead?”

“Yes.” The captain glanced round, and then said softly, “Merciful. You understand my meaning, friend?”

“Yes,” said Gormgall.

“Nothing to be done,” said the captain, and then, in a louder voice, “Go along with you. Don’t tarry. The Gentleman does not care to be kept waiting. Keep the wolf ahead. No tricks.”

They filed out, with Cormac held firmly, and the hunchback leading, carrying the lantern aloft. Muldooney was at the rear. In fact, he was beginning to feel just the smallest bit excited about what lay ahead. Gormgall had spoken truly when he had said softly that Muldooney was in the grip of a confidence born of ignorance, for Brian Muldooney, stolid solid pig-farmer of little or no imagination, could not begin to comprehend the smallest part of what lay ahead. He thought, if he thought about it at all, that they were being held captive by some minor tyrant, and he had long since settled with himself that they would all be allowed to go free, because anything else was unthinkable. Muldooney’s world did not allow for evil, and it certainly did not allow for sorcery. He thought they would all very likely be free before the night was over, and wouldn’t there be a grand tale to be told then! He had a major part to play in it all, and he was going to play it very well. Ah, they should see that Muldooney was not so no-account as they all seemed to think! On this cheering note, he loped off along the corridor in the opposite direction to the others, and assumed the idiot-stare he had practised in the cell, rolling his eyes and emitting a few grunts.

The guard caught him at once. “Ho!” said the captain. “Another escapee! Into line with you now!”

“He’s the witless one,” said one of the others. “A bit wanting up here,” and tapped his head significantly.

“Is he now? Well, see he stays with the rest.” He eyed Muldooney who grinned vacantly and blubbered his lips. “At least he doesn’t understand what’s ahead of him,” said the captain, unknowingly hitting the truth square on.

“The wolf knows,” said the other guard. “Keep your eye on it.”

The guards kept a very careful eye on all of the prisoners as they conveyed them through the narrow passages. It would not do to let a single one of the Gentleman’s prisoners escape. They all of them had wives and children down in the village. They escorted the five prisoners through the Citadel and up to the stone Banqueting Hall of the Erl-King.

*

The great iron doors of the Banqueting Hall clanged to, shutting them in, and for a moment, pure and undiluted panic threatened to overwhelm Joanna. She felt her senses swim and her vision blur, and she tried very hard not to faint. She must be alert to regain her cloak. It was their only chance. Gormgall and Dubhgall came to stand on each side of her, and Joanna was grateful for their presence. Cormac was nearby, half sitting, half kneeling on the floor, his eyes like burning coals, his hands curved dangerously. The guards were standing very close to him, but Joanna could see that he was so heavily chained that he could not break free. It was up to her. Muldooney had gone wandering off, uncaring or unnoticing of the guards, swinging his arms in vaguely simian fashion, mumbling to himself, his eyes vacant. Occasionally, he pulled at his lower lip; and when the doors were bolted and barred behind them, he seemed not to hear, but stood lost in contemplation of an apparently blank spot on the stone floor. Joanna felt a rush of gratitude, because truly, had any of them suspected that Muldooney would be able to put up such a grand show? She glanced at the guards, and saw them look at Muldooney with a kind of shrugging tolerance.

And then at last she looked about her, and her confidence ebbed away completely, and a cold and deadly fear took possession of her.

The stone Banqueting Hall and the Stone Table of the Erl-King had been written about and sung about down the ages. It had formed the base for every dark legend and every malevolent fable ever recounted, and it had figured for centuries in Ireland’s folklore as the ultimate place of fear and despair and pain, and the strongest evil ever known.

Cormac, seeing it with an unwished-for clarity, knew at once that the legends had not lied, and that the songs and the tales had told the truth. This was the place of fear and pain and despair; if he closed his eyes, he could feel the immense suffocating weight of all the suffering that had taken place here.

The two Cruithin, nearly as sensitive to atmosphere as their King, felt it as well, and both of them turned pale. Close by, Joanna, child of that brave new world where places such as this had no meaning and, indeed, no name any longer, knew a terrible sense of recognition. So this is the place of the nightmares, and this is the place that we all, in our innermost souls, fear.

Only Muldooney, blessed with that lack of imagination which had been carefully bred in the survivors of Devastation, saw and felt nothing especially sinister, other than that the candles up here smelt rancid and that it was rather dark and narrow. But Muldooney was by now well caught up in the task allotted to him, and he was by this time only concerned with telling the tale of an idiot, full of sound and vacuity, signifying nothing but a profound witlessness. Muldooney it would be who would save the day! He lumbered back over to the corner, and bent over to study the blank spot on the floor with intense concentration.

The Banqueting Hall was not as large as Joanna had expected; it was a rather narrow chamber with small windows set very high up, which admitted little light. The walls were rough and scarred and they gave the Hall the stifling appearance of a massive coffin. Here and there, crimson hangings brushed the stonework, and the floor was bare.

At the far side, stood two waist-high, oblong tables, hollowed out in the middle, and fitted with thick strong leather straps. Culverts ran down each side and out to a central drainage outlet.

For the golden goblets will be filled to overflowing tonight …

At the head of the room, directly facing them, was the Stone Table, set with highly polished cutlery and with plates and chalices … Golden goblets and silver platters … Before the Table was a small brazier with a glowing fire burning, giving off a pungent unfamiliar scent.

All the better to flavour you with, my dear …

Behind the Stone Table was a flight of stairs, framed by crimson curtains that half concealed a shadowy archway. A miasma of darkness seemed to hang in the archway, like heavy black smoke, and then, as they looked, they saw the figure that stood on the steps, as still as if it was carved from stone.

The Erl-King.

Joanna, who was nearest, felt horror flood her body, because the candles were very bright just there. She could see him quite clearly, and she could not believe that her eyes were not playing some malevolent trick on her, because she had thought that the Erl-King would at least have the semblance of a human, she had thought he would be in some way a man, but he was not, he was not …

He was not human in the least, he was the most dreadful being she had ever seen.

He was an insect, a monster with a man’s narrow-waisted body, and huge black fly’s head.

The moment lengthened and Joanna shook her head, but the figure on the steps did not change.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Erl-King wore black, some kind of soft material that might have been velvet, and that was moulded to fit him tightly. His body was frail-looking — no spine! thought Joanna, and shuddered — and his arms were thin with pale clawlike hands. He wore a great ruby ring on one finger. Even so, thought Joanna, even so, they are human hands and they are human arms, and therefore he must have human blood in him somewhere.

But his head was not human at all. It was disproportionately large for his body, and it was the head of a fly, bloated, magnified, swollen to a hundred, a thousand times the size of any ordinary fly. There were the enormous, slightly protruding, shiny black eyes taking up most of the face; there was the pointed black mandible, the fly’s jaw. An insect, thought Joanna, repelled. Oh dear god, a crawling, spiny-skulled insect. An insect that walks upright and eats men. This is far worse than anything I had imagined.

The Erl-King stood watching them for what seemed to be a very long time, the terrible head turned sideways a little, so that the unblinking eyes could survey them better.

All the better to see you, my dear …

All about them, the Citadel seemed suspended in a waiting silence, and the weight of all the years and pain and helpless torment that the chamber had witnessed, seemed to descend about them.

Morrigan sat at the head of the Stone Table, her eyes as unblinking as those of the creature on the steps, and Joanna saw with a rush of gratitude that the Nightcloak was flung over the back of Morrigan’s chair. She thought: oh thank you! Thank you! My father’s death is justified this far at any rate.

They stood helpless as the Erl-King continued to inspect them, Cormac still half sitting on the floor, a wolf crouched and ready to spring; Muldooney standing a little apart, twisting at his lower lip and making bubble-blowing sounds, every few minutes shambling back to study the same spot on the floor, and bending over to stare at it.

The burning coals in the brazier settled with a little hissing sound, and at last the Erl-King moved, walking down the steps towards them with a jerky uncoordinated gait, as if his body was gristly and ill-designed for walking upright. Joanna wished she had not had that thought about insects having no spine. Morrigan leaned forward, her eyes slitted with anticipation, a beautiful, cruel snake-smile on her lips. Joanna’s courage almost failed. Even if she got the cloak away from Morrigan, how could it possibly be strong enough to defeat these two? They would fail and they would die, and Tara would be in the power of the Erl-King, and Ireland would be forever lost.

The Erl-King said, “You are welcome to my Citadel, Your Majesties,” and the prisoners jumped, for it was not the harsh ugly voice they had all expected, but a soft caressing voice; a gentle velvet voice, belonging to a creature who understands about poetry and music, and enjoys good wine, and talks with scholars and philosophers. Cormac, of them all, knew the name given to the Erl-King by the people of the Walled City, and he understood for the first time why, in his own domain, the Erl-King was called the Gentleman.

“We meet at last, High King,” said the Erl-King, studying Cormac intently. “You have eluded me for a very long time, just as your ancestors did. But I think I am not unknown to you.”

Cormac snarled and tried to spring forward, but the chains held fast. The hunchback and two of the guards moved at once, alert to a possible attack, but the Erl-King waved them back and went on studying Cormac.

“That was unwise and useless, High King. You must know I am protected.”

“With the Girdle of Gold,” said Cormac. “My family’s gift from the sorcerers. I did not know that stolen enchantments were so potent.”

“It was not stolen,” said the Erl-King, quite calmly and seriously, as if they were discussing a minor matter. “I bought it from the sorcerers. A price was named and paid.” He regarded Cormac unblinkingly. “Did you really believe your sorcerers to be incorruptible, Cormac,” said the Erl-King. “Then you are trusting indeed. You are certainly unfitted to be High King. Enchantments are available to all, Cormac. The Solemn Oath is worthless.” Unbelievably, the fly’s jaw stretched in an approximation of a smile. “I expended many years in obtaining the Girdle of Gold,” said the Erl-King softly. “And you will never get it back.”

“We shall see. The battle is not yet won.”

The Erl-King smiled again as if he found Cormac’s threats amusing. He passed on to Gormgall and Dubhgall. “Servants,” he said dismissively. “But they will serve for an hour’s pleasure. And the High King will writhe to see the uses I shall put them to.” He ran his eyes over the two Cruithin thoughtfully. “Well enough,” he said, and then looked to where Muldooney was seated by himself, legs asprawl, engrossed in an inspection of his toes. “The mindless hold no interest for me,” said the Erl-King.

“You prefer to have your victims fully able to understand what is being done to them?” said Cormac smoothly, and the Erl-King looked at him for a long moment, his huge black eyes unreadable. At length, he spoke.

“Everything you have ever heard about me is true, Cormac. Every story, every legend, every tale told round a night fire by stupid men and women is true. Presently you shall see it all for yourself. And let us have no mistake about it, Cormac of the Wolves; you are my prisoner and you are my victim, and I shall do with you what I wish.” A glitter lit his eyes. “I have waited a very long time for tonight,” said the Erl-King, “I shall savour it.” He turned to where Morrigan sat quietly listening. “My mistress and I will savour it together,” he said, and incredibly there was a sexual flavour to his tone now.

Morrigan smiled the snake-smile and said very softly, “I have sent my Sisters away, Master.” And then, to Cormac and Joanna, “They are greedy, you see. And I do not wish to share you.” Again there was the sly reptile smile, and when she said share, Morrigan opened her lips, and the forked tongue flickered. “They will return when I call to them,” said Morrigan. “But for tonight, you are both my Master’s and mine.”

Cormac said scoffingly, “Golden goblets and silver platters?”

The Erl-King said, “Exactly, High King. And more …” He appeared to dismiss Cormac and moved on to where Joanna stood. The black eyes glittered.

“Madam,” said the Erl-King, in a tone of deep satisfaction. “We have waited a long time for this, you and I.” He looked at her closely. “When Morrigan told me, I did not at first believe her. Dierdriu of the Nightcloak, the High Queen returned. But you were always ridiculously sentimental, my dear. You were always chivalrous. So you have come back to save your people from me, have you?” Again the dreadful smile. “You are too late, Dierdriu,” said the Erl-King, “for I have Ireland within my grasp, and all your puny enchantments and all your pure magic will avail you naught.” He leaned closer, and Joanna stood very still. “The last battle, Dierdriu,” he said, “and already you are inside my Citadel, and already you are locked within my Banqueting Chamber.”

Joanna said very steadily, “It was a long time ago that we met, sir. But I do not forget any of it.”

“Nor I, my dear.” The eyes flickered again, and the lascivious note crept into the beautiful voice again. “Do you recall the vow I made, Dierdriu?”

“Let us say I have forgotten it.”

A smile lifted the bony jaw again. “I vowed that one day I should defeat you, Dierdriu, and that when I did so, you would be forced to serve me as a woman.” His eyes raked her body. “And so you shall, my dear, so you shall. After the blood of your friends has aroused me to the highest pitch of human excitement, I shall have other appetites to satisfy. I think you have already experienced the caresses of Morrigan. I think you did not much care for them. Shall we see what happens when you are in my bed, Dierdriu? Shall we see how you respond when you are lying beneath me? I am an expert in every level of torture ever thought of, or dreamed of, or hoped for, Dierdriu. Before this night is over, you will be begging me to kill you. You may yet see the dawn break, but it will be a terrible dawn.”

Joanna said very loudly, “If you touch me, I shall kill you,” and the Erl-King laughed, a low, blurred sound of mirth.

“You would not even manage to lift your hand to strike me,” he said. “For I am bound by your own Enchantment, the magical Girdle of Gold you yourself coaxed the sorcerers to weave. How ironic, how beautifully and superbly ironic, that it should now be that very Enchantment that protects me from you.” He regarded her. “While I possess that, nothing can harm me.” He moved away with graceless gait, and seated himself at the stone banqueting table.

“Commence,” he said to the hunchback, “for I grow weary with waiting. And I have waited a very long time.”

As the hunchback went to the door, Morrigan moved eagerly to the brazier and lifted a shallow copper cooking pot on to the heat.

*

To the horrified prisoners, none of whom had ever watched or even heard of a theatrical performance, the most chilling part of what followed was the organised manner of it all, the sheer systematic smoothness. Every person who played a part in the Erl-King’s terrible banquet knew exactly what he had to do; every person did what he must quickly and efficiently, and with practised ease. Joanna remembered an old Lethe word: orchestrated, and she thought that the banquet was orchestrated. A ritual often repeated. Practised until it was perfect. Terrible. To begin with she thought she would be sick, and then she thought she would faint. But she did neither; she remained quietly where she had been put by the guards, and she saw, with absolute clarity, all that took place.

The hunchback and the guards had brought in two prisoners that none of them had seen until now. Fellow captives in the narrow rock-lined cells? Yes, probably. Cormac, who knew a little more than the others about the Erl-King’s ways, thought the boys had probably been captured earlier that day by the hunchback, and brought up to the Citadel.

The boys were very young. They were white-faced and trembling, but the elder of the two was putting up a heartbreaking show of bravery, eyeing the Erl-King with defiance, pushing way the restraining hands of the guards.

The Erl-King said softly, “So you will defy us, will you, my dears? I wonder how you will behave when we have you on the tables, little defiant ones?” The boy’s head came up, and Joanna, aching with pity for them both, saw their eyes dart to the hollowed-out centres of the two high tables. She thought that the boys were a bit dazzled and bewildered by the candlelit chamber, and she thought they had the not-quite-focussed look of people who have been kept captive in a dark place. They were blinking and flinching from the candlelight, and for some reason this roused a fierce anger in Joanna. She thought: but they are children! And remembered what Cormac had said at the very beginning. The Erl-King eats the children. Anger flooded her body and with it strength, and she tensed to spring at Morrigan and wrest the Night-cloak from her. But even as she drew breath to move, Morrigan leaned back and drew the cloak about her, tying the cords beneath her chin, and Joanna leaned back, because it would clearly be impossible to get the Nightcloak while Morrigan was wearing it.

But she cannot wear it for long, Joanna … remember …? Only a purebred Human can use the Cloak, and only a purebred Human can wear it for any length of time … be watchful …

Morrigan said suddenly, “Tie the prisoners tighter. The Wolfking is known for his chivalry, and the others may make some absurd attempt at a rescue.” She smiled the snake-smile. “My Master does not care to be interrupted while he is being pleasured,” said Morrigan softly. And then, as the guards moved, “Leave the High Queen,” and her forked tongue flickered. “My Master will wish her to be left free for she will not be going to the Table yet. We may both wish her left whole.”

The other guards were dragging the boys to the two tables, and as their eyes adjusted to the light, the younger one seemed to become fully aware. He began to scream, dreadful trapped-hare screams, pleading and struggling as they dragged him across the floor. Joanna saw that his nails were scrabbling at the stones, trying to find something to hold on to, but the guards had him by his legs, and they pulled him with ease to the tables, his nails tearing from his fingers as he was taken.

The Erl-King seemed to rouse. His great black eyes glittered, and he sat up a little straighter, watching the boy. Morrigan glanced at him and then said, “That one for the knife. The other one will watch.” And, turning to the five prisoners, “You will watch also. It will prepare you for what is ahead.” She raised the knife, lying by the brazier, and honed it on a rough whetstone, smiling as she did so. “There is nothing my Master likes so well as the warm fresh meat of a young boy,” said Morrigan softly.

The guards had strapped the first boy down, and as Morrigan stood over him, seeming to tower to a great height, the boy, his eyes bolting from his head, sagged, his head rolling in unconsciousness.

“Weakling,” said Morrigan, and lifted the knife.

“A weakling indeed,” said the Erl-King, watching, his head rested on his hand. “But commence. Position the other one so that he can see what is done.”

Morrigan stood back and the guards adjusted the leather straps. “Secure?”

“Quite secure, Mistress.”

“Then,” said Morrigan, “we shall commence.” She turned her head to look at the Erl-King.

“Now!” exclaimed the Erl-King and Morrigan lifted the bright sharp knife.

To begin with there was no sound, and then little by little, they became aware that there was a sound. The gentle cutting of flesh, the parting of muscle and the ripping open of tendons and skin. A ripping fraying sound. A snipping sound. Bits of flesh and lumps of skin.

Once Morrigan said, “His skin is like a peach in full bloom. A pity I could not have had the use of him for a night or two.” A little later she said, “Tender, Master. He will serve us well. Turn up the heat, you,” and the hunchback lolloped across the room and flung more wood and strongly scented herbs into the brazier.

Morrigan was calm and unhurried, and even graceful about her gruesome work. Once the boy seemed to revive a little, his head lifting, a deep moan breaking from his lips, and Morrigan stood back and waited, and the Erl-King tilted his head. Then — “Dead,” said Morrigan contemptuously. “A weakling indeed. Shall I go on with him?”

“Go on,” said the Erl-King.

Morrigan bent over again, her long hair falling across her face. She was slicing into thicker flesh now; upper thighs and lower soft belly, fleshy arms. Blood had bubbled and spurted over and spilled into the deep channels at the sides of the tables. The hunchback moved quickly, placing golden chalices to catch it.

Golden goblets for human blood … So it is true, thought the prisoners, and the Erl-King turned his head and smiled.

“Yes, my poor victims, it is true.”

The blood was running sluggishly now, and there was the stench of it in the room, and a taste like tin on the air. Morrigan lifted the raw slices of pale flesh and transferred them to the waiting copper pan, and then placed it over the heat. She turned back to the boy, cutting again, gouging into the stomach. The inner organs began to spill out. Liver, lungs, kidneys … a layer of rich yellow fat just beneath the skin … the glimpse of raw stringy muscle and the whiteness of ribs …

The smell of the sizzling flesh cooking was filling the stone chamber now. Incredibly, the smell was barely indistinguishable from the smell of roasting pork, and to Joanna’s horror, a pang of involuntary hunger twisted her stomach, to be followed by an abrupt nausea.

The Erl-King stood up and leaned forward. “The feast!” he said in a high excited voice. “The feast! Quickly!” and Morrigan began transferring the slices of cooked flesh to the silver plates.

Silver platters for human bones …

The Erl-King fell upon the pale meat, holding up each piece and inspecting it before conveying it to his mouth. Rivulets of warm fat ran down his jaws and his body quivered. Once he looked towards Cormac and said, “Your turn before long, Wolfking,” and Cormac snarled and turned away. Joanna, who had been waiting for Morrigan to discard the Nightcloak, thought they must surely try to save the second boy, but Cormac threw out a warning at once.

You will never get the cloak while Morrigan is wearing it …

With the thought, Joanna saw Morrigan shift uneasily, and put up a hand to loosen the cloak’s fastenings. Hope welled up inside her, and she thought that of course Cormac was right, and of course Morrigan would not be able to bear wearing it for very much longer. If only the Nightcloak was strong enough …

The Erl-King was hunting amongst the litter of plates, almost sniffing at them, as if to ensure that no morsel of edible meat remained. Once he lifted the golden chalice and they saw it stain his jowls with red. A film of yellowish grease covered the silver plates now, and shreds of the pale meat lay cooling.

The Erl-King lifted his head from the feast at last, and looked at the second prisoner, and a smile widened his jaw.

“My appetites are fully aroused now,” he said softly. And then, to the guards, “Is he fast?”

“Well fast, Master.”

“I should not like him to escape,” said the Erl-King. “You know what will happen to you if he escapes.”

The man blenched, but said firmly, “He is quite secure, Master.”

The second boy was screaming again, and straining against the wide leather straps. His eyes were starting from his head in terror, and he was crying for mercy. Joanna, held tightly by the guards, found herself crying, tears streaming down her cheeks, and Gormgall’s hand came down on her arm.

“You can do nothing, my lady. And this one will be quick.”

“How do you know?” said Joanna, in an agonised whisper.

“I know what is going to happen. In all of the stories —” Gormgall stopped and said in a very low voice. “But I did not until now believe any of those old tales.”

Dubhgall was the nearest to the table where the second boy was being strapped down, and as the boy writhed and cried for mercy, and as the Erl-King stood up, he gave a sudden wrench to the men who held him, and in one swift movement, was at the table, tugging at the leather straps, his hands frantic. Joanna’s heart bounded — was this the moment? — and once again she braced herself to spring at Morrigan.

But in an instant, Morrigan was there, towering over Dubhgall, the cloak hissing into its silken folds about her ankles, her eyes glittering darkly.

“Fool!” said Morrigan contemptuously. “You must know that once on my Master’s Tables, no one ever escapes. Did you really think you could rescue him — and escape my Master’s wrath?”

“Begging your pardon, Mistress,” said Dubhgall with his own voice brimful of contempt, “but I thought at least I’d try. As for the wrath of the creature you serve — well, it seems to me that we’re all at the whim of his fancy anyway. One more or one less shred of wrath won’t make so much difference.” He glared at the Erl-King as he said this, and the Erl-King inclined his head in a gesture that was very nearly courteous.

“Will it not make any difference, servant?” He leaned closer, and Dubhgall flinched. “There are many levels of pain and there are many heights to which agony may aspire, and before this night is over, I promise you that you will all have aspired to the very greatest heights.” The black eyes moved down over Dubhgall’s body. “And now I shall ensure that you shall have special treatment.” He nodded to the guards, but Dubhgall had already been taken and held by three of them. “I think we will carve you as we did the first one,” said the Erl-King in his beautiful corrupt voice. “And we shall make it very slow, servant, so that you do not miss savouring one second of pure pain.” He considered Dubhgall, his head on one side. “And we will begin with your hands,” said the Erl-King, “for there is nothing so tasty as a little braised hand. Your friends will perhaps share the dish with me?” He looked at them and smiled. “But yes, yes you will,” said the Erl-King. “You will help me to eat your friend, even if every mouthful has to be forced into your unwilling throats.” He smiled again and then looked at the guards. Something unreadable flared in his eyes.

“Which of you let the servant go? Ah, you was it? How foolish. Take him below.” And then, as the guard was led out, “Secure the others,” he said. “You know what will happen if you let another one break free.”

The guards twisted the prisoners’ arms high up behind their backs, and Joanna’s heart sank, for there was no hope of any of them breaking free. Only Muldooney continued to roam aimlessly about the room.

The Erl-King approached the second table slowly, his head on one side, considering his victim. The boy looked up at him, and Joanna saw his lips frame yet another plea.

“Let … me … go …”

If the Erl-King heard, he gave no sign. He moved nearer and then made a sudden pouncing movement, leaping on to the table and straddling the helpless boy, so that he was crouching over him.

The hard fly’s jaw quivered and the Erl-King began to salivate copiously, the thick fluid running out of his mouth and down on to the boy. Joanna shuddered and bit her lip.

The Erl-King crouched lower, the pointed shiny mandible quivering. The thin curved claw-hands came out to fasten on to the boy’s shoulders, and Joanna saw the blood spring to the surface. The boy screamed again, a dreadful abandoned hopeless helpless sound, and then the Erl-King lowered his fly’s head and buried his maw in the boy’s stomach. A liquid sucking sound filled the chamber.

Gormgall said in a strangled voice, “He’s eating him. He’s eating through his stomach.”

Joanna said in a low voice. “This is terrible. Can’t we do something …”

But each of them was held firmly by the guards, and each of them knew that their only hope was the Nightcloak. And Morrigan was still wearing it.

Blood was seeping into the gulleys of the second table and trickling down into the drainage outlet, and the hunchback again placed the golden goblets to catch the flow.

The boy had not screamed again, but they could see that his lower lip was bitten through, and Joanna remembered — and wished she had not — the Lethe accounts of ancient religious martyrs who had taken vows of silence under torture, but who had screamed through the nose.

The Erl-King resettled on the boy’s body, and as he lifted his head, they saw that his jaws were bloodied and smeared.

“This one is soon done also,” said the Erl-King, and now the beautiful voice was thick and clotted.

“Already dead, Master?”

“Cooling,” said the Erl-King, and moved from the table. “Remove him. Sluice down the floors.” He reseated himself at the banqueting table, as the hunchback emptied buckets of water, sending the blood and the thick fluids gushing down and out through the drains.

The Erl-King was studying the five prisoners now, the blood-stained mandible seeming to smile.

“My hunger is upon me,” he said, and Joanna realised that the voice had returned to its soft caressing tone. He glanced across to Muldooney, and away again, and the four prisoners thought it was as if he had considered Muldooney and then dismissed him.

“The witless hold no interest for me,” said the Erl-King, “although my hunchback may like him to toy with for an hour or two.” The black eyes slewed round to the others. “And the High King and his Lady shall be kept whole until I have had my fill of them,” he said, and his voice held a note of immense pleasure. “But the insolent servant shall be dealt with now.” He nodded to the guards. “The Table,” he said. “Do it.”

Dubhgall was dragged to the centre of the room, and then lifted, struggling, on to the Table which had held the first victim. Morrigan moved to the brazier and placed a small copper pan on the heat, throwing in a handful of scented herbs. “For my Master likes his flesh to be spiced.”

Gormgall said defiantly, “It is strange to see you doing servants’ work, Morrigan,” and she turned to look at him as if she had only just discovered that he was there.

“This would normally be my sisters’ task, son of peasants,” she said. “But for tonight, I do not care to share anything.” She smiled. “And when you, in your turn, receive my undivided attentions, and those of my Master, you will understand a little better.” The narrow eyes smiled. “They are useful, but for tonight they will do my bidding and we shall not be troubled by their petty squabbles and their conceits.”

The hunchback was laying out a selection of knives and saws, and Joanna began to hope very strenuously that Dubhgall would faint before it began.

The Erl-King turned to look at her, as if he had caught the thought, and said, “We shall keep him conscious, Madam,” and Joanna thought wildly: he heard me! But he cannot possess the Samhailt! He cannot!

The Erl-King said softly, “Not the Samhailt, my dear. But something much more effective,” and Joanna saw Cormac become very tense.

“When I came out of the North, in the days when Tara was still only a barren rock,” the Erl-King said, “I, also, had my sorcerers and my necromancers. You were not the only one to harness the old magic, Dierdriu, I was there, also. But you know this.” He studied her. “And my sorcerers created for me not the Samhailt with its absurd restrictions and its honour,” the word was dragged out sneeringly, “but something much deeper and stronger and infinitely preferable.” He paused, and Joanna heard Cormac draw in his breath sharply, as if he knew what was coming.

“They created for me the Stróicim Inchinn,” said the Erl-King, and Cormac and the two Cruithin gasped. The Erl-King glanced at Cormac. “Yes, you know of it,” he said. “Of course you do.” And then, to Joanna, “Roughly translated, the Stróicim Inchinn means to tear into the brain,” he said. “I can do that, Dierdriu. I can tear into your thoughts, as if I were clawing apart your mind. You can hide nothing from me, for if I care to, I can see your every thought.” The smile was genuinely amused now. “A valuable gift, my dear,” said the Erl-King. “But then you always knew me to be a formidable enemy, I think? The Stróicim Inchinn is one of the darkest and most powerful enchantments of the mind ever created.”

“It is also,” said Cormac, unexpectedly austere, “totally and absolutely forbidden. By any rule and by any creed and by any academy of sorcerers or necromancers.”

“I do not concern myself with your puny rules, High King,” said the Erl-King. “I can claw my way into your thoughts, and I can know your mind’s most secret recesses.” He leaned forward. “You can hide nothing from me, Cormac,” he said. “Nothing.”

Dubhgall’s arm was bared and manacled, and between them, the hunchback and Morrigan selected knives. Then the hunchback lifted the first of the knives, and sliced down on Dubhgall’s forearm. Skin parted and blood seeped out and dripped on to the floor. Dubhgall moaned and sagged, and at once, the Erl-King turned his great black stare on to him. Straight away Dubhgall revived, and let out a deep moan, and Joanna knew that the insect-eyes had penetrated to Dubhgall’s brain, and that the Erl-King had called up the terrible Stróicim Inchinn.

The Forbidden Enchantment of the Necromancers …

Of course, Human Child … Did I not tell you? I can keep you all alive to the point of death and beyond …

Aloud, the Erl-King said, “Since I came out of the North, Dierdriu, I have used the Stróicim Inchinn — oh, many times. I can call corpses out of the earth with it. Would you like to see my army of corpses, Dierdriu? It is the work of moments to summon them, and they are the most terrible sight you could ever see. Their bones are rotting and their skins hang from their skeletons, and their flesh is putrefying, for they have all long since died.

“But I can summon them with the Stróicim Inchinn, and I can force them to do my bidding. They are my army, Dierdriu, and they have fought for me, not once, but many times.”

Joanna said, “The Battle for the Trees —”

The Erl-King said, “Of course. Do you remember that, Madam? How we fought, and how your sorcerers sent the Trees into their sleep by means of the Draiocht Suan” There was a faintly contemptuous note in the velvet voice now. “A minor sorcery,” said the Erl-King.

“And yet one which preserved the Trees from your destructive wrath,” said Joanna calmly.

“The Trees are still lost to you, Madam.”

“They will waken when I call to them.”

The Erl-King and Joanna looked at one another, then — “Do you remember, Dierdriu,” he said softly, “how I called up my Army of Corpses to fight in that battle?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the pity and the terror and the stench of death and decay they brought with them?”

“Oh yes,” said Joanna. “Oh yes, I remember that.” And you shall suffer as you never thought possible for that. You shall suffer a thousand times more than the poor wretches you keep bound to you, their minds and their souls chained to their rotting bodies.

“Wait and see,” said Joanna, and the Erl-King smiled. “Perhaps, Dierdriu,” he said, “perhaps that will be the end I shall decree for you and the Wolfking this time. A fitting end, I think.” He looked at Cormac. “Something for you to contemplate while you are eating your servant.”

The hunchback was parting the gaping cut on Dubhgall’s arm, and Dubhgall was moaning. “Slowly,” said Morrigan, “for we do not wish to miss any of the pleasure of this, Master.”

“Slow indeed,” said the Erl-King, returning to his seat at the table.

No one dared to speak, although Cormac was snarling softly, and the chains that held him slithered to and fro on the stone floor as he tried to break free. To their right, Muldooney had gone shuffling off by himself, and seemed to be inspecting the stonework of the walls with minute attention, stroking the stones with a finger and licking the finger interestedly. But Joanna thought he glanced back at Morrigan, and saw that he knew that with Morrigan still wearing the cloak, their slender plan had no chance of working. If only she would remove it …

The Erl-King had returned to the banqueting table, and was sitting watching them all. He indicated for a goblet to be placed beneath the table where Dubhgall lay, and at once Morrigan obeyed. Blood seeped through into the goblet.

The hunchback had cut all round the thick fleshy forearm now, and he reached for a smaller pointed knife. Dubhgall was struggling and crying out, but the manacles held. Strips of flesh were pared from his arm and Morrigan laid them in the small pan over the brazier. The stench of cooking flesh once again filled the chamber.

Dubhgall’s hand and lower arm were now only attached to his body by bone, gleaming white where all the flesh had been neatly cut away. Joanna and the others could see raw red muscle and shreds of skin.

The hunchback chuckled and bent to pick up the golden goblet, by now full to the brim with Dubhgall’s blood. He handed it to the creature at the banqueting table, and waited as it was tasted. Blood ran from the Erl-King’s jaw, and as he lowered the chalice he said, “A good temperature. Warm. But continue.”

The hunchback reached for the saw.

With the sawing of Dubhgall’s bone, Joanna’s control broke. She managed not to actually sob, but her face twisted, and tears streamed down her cheeks. She tried to look away, but at once the luminous eyes of the Erl-King drew her back.

“You must share in everything, Madam,” said the soft voice.

Dubhgall was screaming now, hopeless anguished cries, and the rasp of the saw filled the chamber … the hunchback took his time … There was a dreadful smell of heat as the friction of the saw built up, steel teeth on solid bone … A kind of whitish dust flew and Joanna, who had seen trees sawed, and logs cut, more times than she could remember, knew it for bone-dust.

Blood was congealing on the floor now, and the hunchback left off sawing to sluice down the floor. Water, red-streaked, ran down into the culverts and out through the drains once more.

Dubhgall’s hand was severed altogether now, and he was free. He was panting and jerking, his face the colour of pale marble. Morrigan took his raw flesh and once more peeled thin slices from it. The pan sizzled and the herbs gave out their pungent scent …

For what seemed to be a very long time, the only sound in the narrow chamber was the sizzling of Dubhgall’s pale flesh.

At last, Morrigan said, “Ready, Master.” And to the hunchback, “Bind the Cruithin’s wound. We will need him again.” She carried the pan to the banqueting table, and began to distribute the flesh on to the silver platters.

“I should not dream of eating this feast alone,” said the Erl-King. “Bring the prisoners to the table, if you please.” And then, to the prisoners themselves, “I think you would not wish me to display such discourtesy as to partake of a meal without inviting you to join me.”

Cormac said contemptuously, “The Gentleman.”

The Erl-King at once replied, “I am well named, High King. When I brought the Dark Necromancers out of the North, they were uneducated fools. They were greedy, but they were quite unable to think or to plan. They were coarse, graceless. Uncouth.” He made an unexpectedly fastidious gesture with one hand. “Distasteful to me,” he said. And then, to Morrigan, “I am so glad you forbade your oafish sisters their presence here tonight, madam.”

“Their presence would have disgusted you, Master,” said Morrigan, “their manners are repulsive.” She beckoned in peremptory fashion to the hunchback before dismissing him, and the prisoners were forced into chairs around the table. Before each of them was placed a platter which bore several strips of flesh, lightly cooked only, still oozing blood and juices, like a very lightly grilled steak. There was the scent of animal flesh, a slightly sweetish odour.

Joanna thought: but this is impossible. I can’t eat Dubhgall. And she looked imploringly at Cormac. Cormac at once lowered his head, and Joanna thought: of course, the Erl-King can hear our thoughts. He can tear into our minds with the Stróicim Inchinn. It was a dreadful thought, but to Joanna, more terrible, was the Stróicim’s close kinship to the Samhailt, the ancient and sacred Mindsong bestowed on the Bloodline of Ireland.

But the Stróicim Inchinn was ever the other side of the coin, my dear …

The thought slid into Joanna’s mind unbidden, and she glanced involuntarily to where the Erl-King sat. Had that been the Stróicim, or something else?

For every Enchantment ever woven by the sorcerers who serve the High Kings, there must always be its dark counterpart … or have you forgotten that?

Dierdriu! breathed Joanna, and at once was the ruffle of sweetness and the gentle strength that was Dierdriu. I can bear it, thought Joanna. She is still with me, and I am still with her, and I can bear it. But she kept her eyes lowered as Cormac was doing, for although it seemed almost impossible to cheat the Stróicim Inchinn, eyes could be a window and a chink into the mind. Perhaps if we are very careful and very watchful, we may blur the Stróicim, thought Joanna, and looked down at the plate again. At her side, quite deliberately, Cormac picked up the small knife set out, and after a moment, Gormgall did the same.

The Erl-King said, “Not hungry, madam? Perhaps you need a little assistance,” and Joanna remembered how he had threatened to force the flesh into their throats. She looked back at the platter, and thought: perhaps if I think of it as ordinary anonymous meat it will not be so bad. And it cannot hurt Dubhgall any more than he has been hurt already. Perhaps it will not be so bad …

But it was. It was the most terrible thing she had ever had to do in her life. To begin with she tried to take very tiny mouthfuls, but that was no good because it only prolonged the ordeal. After that, she cut great lumps and swallowed them down whole, but they stuck in her throat, so that she coughed and gagged. And even then, every shred, every sliver seemed to lodge between her teeth, so that she had to work it loose with her tongue.

Cormac ate savagely, as if he did not care, disdaining the small bone-handled knife at his place, tearing at the flesh with his hands and his teeth. The Erl-King said, “You are not so civilised as I had supposed, Your Majesty,” and Cormac growled and threw the flesh across the table at him. The guards moved, and Joanna, thought: this is the moment. Oh please let Morrigan discard the cloak. Now, when they are all looking at Cormac.

Morrigan flung the Nightcloak over the back of her chair. Cormac half rose in his seat, and at the far end of the chamber, Muldooney broke into a mad little dance, humming to himself, circling the room, looking, thought Joanna wildly, like a great lumbering bear. Cormac was tearing at his chains now, overturning the chair he had been sitting on, and Muldooney danced farther away, blubbering his lips and twitching his face rather horridly. Joanna thought: I must either move in one great leap before they realise what is happening, or I must go inch by inch, stealthily and slowly. Which should it be? What would Cormac do? At once came the answer: Cormac would never do anything by stealth in his life. Then nor will I, thought Joanna, and strength poured into her, so that she felt huge, invincible, unstoppable.

She moved then, a sudden whirl of colour and flying hair and blazing eyes, and she was across the chamber, the Night-cloak was in her grasp, and great bolts of light were sparking from it. Joanna swung it about her shoulders and lifted her arms and cried aloud: “Dierdriu! Help us! Send the nightmares! Help us!” And then felt a great tremor go through the chamber.

Joanna was frightened and exhilarated and yet still filled with immense power. We are in the greatest possible danger, but we are also engaging in the greatest battle this Ireland has ever known, she thought. We are confronting the Erl-King, Tara’s oldest and strongest enemy. We are trying to defeat an ancient and very terrible evil. She stood rooted to the spot, and felt the power of the High Queen stream through her, and as she did so, the Erl-King suddenly turned his head.

In the shadows, something was moving …

They saw it all in the same instant. Something began to take form. Something that had eight legs and a great bloated body. Something whose eyes were at the top of its body, and whose gristly jointed legs could move at an astonishing rate.

Araneida Arachnida.

A giant spider.

The five prisoners backed away at once, Gormgall dragging the injured, just conscious Dubhgall, and as they did so, the Erl-King began to scream, and they saw Morrigan stretch out a hand and fling a spear of white light at the spider.

Joanna heard herself laugh, “Oh no Morrigan, you cannot destroy this by your incantations. This is your Master’s nightmare, and all know that the nightmares of others do not respond to sorcery.”

The great spider had remained motionless in the corner, its huge body swelling. It became gross, bloated, a monstrous black crouching thing, a nightmare …

The Erl-King’s nightmare …

The spider was six feet across now, it was eight, ten … perhaps more. Joanna, speechless with horror, thought that the spider’s body must be all of twelve feet across. The legs were great sinewy protrusions, as thick as tree trunks, steely strong and bristling with the spider’s coarse black hair. A man’s neck or his spine would snap like a twig in the grasp of the creature’s legs …

The short-sighted eyes on the top of the spider’s body were swivelling towards every corner, as if they searched for something in particular. They were bulbous and almost blind, but there was a terrible intelligence in the jellylike mass. It can barely see, thought Joanna, but it can smell. It can smell that there is fear in here, and it scents that there is something in this chamber that it will savour.

Morrigan was chanting and walking in a circle about the spider, but Joanna and the others saw, with a great upsurge of hope, that the Erl-King was backing away.

He is frightened! thought Joanna, and felt a burst of confidence so great that she thought she could have slain the Erl-King with her bare hands. In the same moment, there was a blaze of Mindsong from Cormac.

Yes, he is frightened! And there is nothing to be afraid of except his own fear!

The fear of a fly for a spider.

And the Stróicim Inchinn? cried Joanna’s own mind warningly. There was a ripple of delight from Cormac.

“Look at him!” cried Cormac aloud. “He can no more summon the Stróicim at this moment than he can move.” And indeed, the Erl-King was helpless against the wall of his own Banqueting Chamber, his eyes never leaving the menacing bulk of the spider.

The spider was moving now, a sudden scuttling movement, and they knew that it had picked up the Erl-King’s terror-filled scent. It will smell its way to him, thought Joanna, horrified, and moved closer to Cormac. On the other side, Gormgall was holding the half-conscious Dubhgall, and across the room Muldooney stood irresolute, and then began to tiptoe round the perimeter of the chamber towards the others. Joanna at once held out a hand to him, because after all he had done, it was not to be thought of that Muldooney should not be with them.

In the flickering light, they saw silken threads begin to emerge from the spider’s body, and Joanna knew that it had begun spinning its sticky prey-trapping web.

The Erl-King had seen it as well. He retreated further into his corner and quite suddenly began to scream at Morrigan, a dreadful high-pitched whinnying sound that made Joanna’s teeth wince.

“Forget your spells, fool! Kill it! Kill it/”

Morrigan was chanting frantically now, pointing her long boneless fingers at the spider. Shafts of light pierced the dark stone chamber, and bounced off the spider’s fibrous skin.

“KILL IT!” screamed the Erl-King again. “Fish filth! Useless snake filth! Hack it to pieces! Let us roast it over the braziers! You! Guards! Rend the creature apart and throw the pieces on to the streets of my City! Or must I summon my Army of Corpses to make you!”

The guards moved uncertainly, and one of them made as if to draw his sword. The spider darted at him, and clamped one of its gristly legs about his waist, lifting him, and then dashing him to the ground. There was a sickening, crunching sound, and the guard lay still, his head at an unnatural angle, his spine broken.

The Erl-King was still shrieking, hurling threats, screaming to Morrigan to destroy the spider, but Morrigan was sounding frantic now, and the Erl-King was standing with his back to the wall, one hand held out before him to ward off the spider’s attack. The guards were huddled together, by now as frightened of the giant spider as they were of the Erl-King, and it was clear to Joanna and the others that the guards would not do anything. Muldooney and Gormgall rushed to bar the doors of the stone chamber, and the Erl-King, rallying briefly, screamed at them. “Fools! Locked doors will not keep my armies out! I shall call them up, the rotting corpses and the carrion. You will have the stench of graveyard filth for ever in your nostrils! You will see at close quarters the worms that feed on men’s flesh, and you will see how fat and bloated those worms are with their skins bursting with the juices of the dead flesh they feed on! They will crawl all over you, and you will be taken into the embrace of rotting arms and you will be covered in graveyard mould and smothered with the kisses of putrefying lips!”

He paused, to draw in a sobbing breath, and Cormac, his eyes never leaving the great spider, said, “Empty threats, I think. He is disabled by his own terror.” He nodded to Gormgall and Muldooney, who made haste to shoot the bolts of the door, Muldooney reaching for the topmost ones, because wasn’t a bit of height needed for such a job.

The silken threads were lengthening now, they were sliding across the floor, leaving sticky snail trails in their wake. From the corner of her eye, Joanna saw Gormgall begin to inch his way to where Morrigan stood, still chanting useless spells.

The web strands had reached the Erl-King now. Three of the strands whipped round his body, and three more took his legs. As they watched, he was lifted, a struggling squirming prisoner, and drawn nearer to the great spider.

Morrigan began to scream imprecations now, calling on the Dark Ireland to come to her aid, calling to the necromancers and the Black Enchanters; calling on the first sorcerers who had created the terrible Stróicim Inchinn.

“Useless, Morrigan!” cried Cormac, and the undiluted delight and the pure confidence in his voice was like fresh rainwater, like a spring dawn, to Joanna and the others. “You are beaten, you are bested. Dierdriu has triumphed!”

Begone adversary …

“My sisters will feed on your blood for this, Wolfking!” cried Morrigan. “They will make you suffer their hag embraces and their greedy love-making! You will see, Wolfking! You will see!”

“Look to your master!” cried Cormac. “Oh, Morrigan, look to the terrible Erl-King who has held the people of the Walled City in fear and terror ever since he came out of the North! Caught and held by a giant spider! Spitted on the end of a nightmare!”

The rudimentary lips of the spider’s food canal were gaping open now. All the better to eat you with … As the lipless mouth opened wider, there was a terrible sucking, lipsmacking sound, and a wet gobbling noise that made Joanna feel quite dreadfully sick.

The Erl-King was fighting every inch of the way, but he was being slowly and inexorably drawn closer to the gaping hole in the spider’s body.

“Kill it!” screamed the Erl-King, beside himself with fury and terror, and Joanna suddenly saw that he was no longer a dark and sinister figure, he was no longer the powerful and evil Gentleman of the Walled City; he was a struggling writhing puny creature, spineless, but made up of tiny brittle bones which were beginning to snap and crunch in the spider’s steely grip. When the Erl-King screamed again to the guards to kill the spider, to cut its web and free him, Joanna felt only a rather distant revulsion, as if none of this could really have very much to do with her.

The guards had not moved, and quite suddenly the five friends realised that the guards were waiting for the Erl-King to die. For then they, also, would be free …

Cormac reached for the bunch of keys that would unlock his chains, and the guard, meeting Cormac’s eyes steadily, handed them to him. “Is he dying, Sire?”

“He is dying,” said Cormac and began to unlock the chains.

“Praise the gods,” said the man quite quietly, but very fervently. “Then we shall be free of him at last.”

The spider’s maw was gaping wide now, and the Erl-King was being drawn against the creature’s body. There was a liquid swallowing sound, and Dubhgall turned away and vomited violently on to the floor. Joanna’s own stomach lurched, for the spider was doing to the Erl-King exactly what the Erl-King had done to the young boy earlier; it was sucking the juices from his body while he lived. They heard the small frail bones snap. In moments, the Erl-King would be flung, dried out and shrivelled and most mercifully dead at last, on to the stone floor.

As they watched, rivulets of not-quite transparent fluid spattered the stone flags beneath the spider.

Gormgall had not been sick, he had not even felt sick. He had inched his way slowly and stealthily to where Morrigan stood near to the brazier, and as he did so, Muldooney reached for the dead guard’s sword and passed it to him. Muldooney had not the stomach for killing, but he would not scruple to help someone else, not when it was a creature like this terrible woman, who was probably not a woman at all.

Gormgall grasped the sword, and moved nearer to Morrigan. He heard behind him the dreadful sucking feeding sounds of the spider, and he heard as well the fading cries of the Erl-King. Nearly dead, thought Gormgall. But there is still this one. How near are her sisters? Are they back in the house at Muileann? If so, then she may be less strong, thought Gormgall. And although he had no idea whether Morrigan needed the Morrigna to work her evil sorcery, he thought there would never be another opportunity like this again. And with that thought, came another: she could not banish the spider! Hope surged up in him, and he edged nearer.

As the Erl-King sagged and a driblet of thick smeary liquid stained the floor beneath him, Gormgall lifted the sword and brought it point-down on Morrigan’s skull.

Her head burst open as if Gormgall had halved a ripe melon, and white fishblood and grey matter spurted. Morrigan fell to her knees and Cormac, who was frantically unlocking the padlock of his chains, shouted, “Harder, Gormgall! Again!” And as Gormgall struck again, Cormac cried, “For Ireland!”

“And for you, Sire!” said Gormgall very quietly, but very fervently, and took a firmer hold upon the sword.

Morrigan had fallen in a blind boneless heap and was squirming on the floor, not quite dead. As Gormgall began to lift the sword again, Morrigan raised her hand and pointed at Gormgall. “My sisters will avenge —” And then Gormgall brought the sword flashing down again, this time severing what remained of the creature’s head from her body. As skin and flesh and muscle parted, he turned very white, but there was a determined look in his eyes, and the others did not doubt that he would strike her again if it was necessary.

“And now,” said Cormac, turning to the guards, “is there any man who will try his strength against us? Or,” he said, his eyes blazing with triumph, “have I adjudged you all correctly? Will you ride out with your King and rid Tara of the usurpers?”

“Sire,” said the captain, falling to his knees, “you must know that now we are free of that creature’s malevolence, we will follow you into hell itself.”

*

The Wolfking’s company lay spent and exhausted in the chamber, uncaring of the congealing body of Morrigan, barely noticing the shrivelled thing that had been the Erl-King.

Joanna thought: we are safe — safe! And was conscious of an immense inner peace.

They fashioned a more comfortable dressing for Dubhgall’s arm, and Gormgall produced his flask. Dubhgall, who was white about the lips and clearly in a good deal of pain, drank gratefully, and managed to say, “As well fight for Your Majesty with one hand as with two.”

Cormac smiled and gripped Dubhgall’s sound arm. “Quite as well, my friend,” and was turning to say something to the guards, when Gormgall sat up.

“Listen, Sire. Can you hear it?”

Joanna, who was more tired than she could ever remember being, was just framing the thought that she could not bear anything else to happen, when Muldooney, who had got up to open the door of the stone chamber, said, “It sounds like cheering. Some kind of celebrating.”

“It’s the people of the Walled City,” said Gormgall, his face alight. “They have heard that the creature is dead. Sire, you must come out and speak to them.”

Cormac looked very tired indeed, and Joanna thought he must be more tired than any of them. But he did not hesitate; he at once stood up and said, “Of course. Come — all of us.” He led the way down to the great stone hall with the massive iron-studded doors that opened directly on to the drawbridge. Gormgall went to the winch, and Muldooney stepped up to help, because wasn’t a bit of good solid muscle needed for a job like this? Slowly and protestingly, the great gates folded back and light poured into the Erl-King’s dark Citadel, blinding them and sending dust motes dancing in and out of the rays of blue-tinged light.

“Twilight,” said Cormac softly. “The Purple Hour.”

The others fell back, and Cormac moved forward into the soft blue light that was pouring in through the doors, and stood there, a solitary figure, silhouetted against the night. Far below him were little pinpoints of moving light, a torchlit procession, and as the cheering grew in intensity and as the shouts of gladness and wild joy floated up to the Citadel, Cormac stood, framed in the great gateway, waiting for the liberated people of the Erl-King’s city to start the ascent to the Citadel.

No one quite knew how the news of the Gentleman’s death reached the town, and no one, to begin with, believed it. Wouldn’t that be just a rumour, a malicious tale, probably put about by the Gentleman’s faithful hunchback, just to see how they’d all behave. The Gentleman had the habit of testing his people’s loyalty now and then.

But the rumour persisted, and people began to gather in little groups, furtively at first, and then more boldly. Several of the Gentleman’s guard were seen walking through the town, not on the Gentleman’s business, but so far as anyone could see, with the intention of spreading the good news.

For the Gentleman was in truth dead. He was lying in his own Banqueting Hall, destroyed for ever by the great Wolfking and his lady. Morrigan lay with him, felled by a blow from one of the Wolfking’s loyal Cruithin servants.

At first they could not take it in. They dared not take it in, for hadn’t the Gentleman been there as long as anyone knew, one of the terrible band of Dark Sorcerers who had come out of the cold Northern Wastes to feed on Ireland? Wasn’t the Gentleman immortal?

But lights were flaring from the Citadel now; not the thick dull lights that meant the Gentleman’s candles of human fat, but joyful clear yellow lights that meant good honest tallow or wax candles and wall torches of applewood and bright log fires. And there was a feeling in the dusk as well; a fresh clean scent, as if rain had fallen on a hot summer’s day, or a fresh rose-and-gold dawn had appeared over the mountains.

The townspeople gathered in small groups, and the groups joined, quite naturally and easily with other small groups, until they were no longer small groups, but quite large ones. People came running out of their houses asking, “What has happened? Is it true?” And, “Dare we believe it?” because although everyone wanted quite desperately to believe it, no one yet dared. Because the Gentleman had his ways …

And then one, bolder than the rest, spoke out and said wouldn’t they prove the story one way or the other between them? and a rather uncertain cry of assent went up.

“Lights!” cried someone. “Fetch up the lights! As many as we can manage, for it’s nearly dusk,” and in the searching for the blazing torches, nearly everyone remembered the old hopeless dream of a torchlit procession up to the Citadel to destroy the evil Lord who lived there, and nearly everyone thought wouldn’t it be a strange old thing if that procession was actually to happen now, the dream come true, only the Gentleman not being there at the end of it.

As they began to walk up the hill, someone at the back of the line began to cheer, a bit raggedly at first, and then with more assurance, and the sound was taken up by those at the centre, and then by the leaders.

The sound grew in volume, for the people of the Walled City were finding their voices again, and finding as well a rich fountain of joy, that had been almost but not entirely quenched, bubbling over into the light again.

When Cormac stepped out into the huge high open gateway of the Erl-King’s Citadel, the townspeople of the nameless city of the Erl-King surged forward, cheering and shouting, and as Cormac stood there, a light rain began to fall, blurring the brave little torches, beating down on the uncovered heads of the people of the town. He saw them through a mist, and he tasted salt mingled in with the rain on his cheeks, and he thought: if I have done nothing else for Ireland, at least I have freed these poor souls from this unbearable weight of evil.

And as he held up both his hands in a gesture that was both supplication and pledge, a great shout went through the people.

“The Erl-King is dead!”

And then, from the heart of the crowd, “Long live the Wolfking!”

Cormac stood before them, his head bowed in silent acceptance, as the cleansing rain continued to fall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Flynn was not quite sure how he came to be riding out at the head of them all when they came through the mountains and looked down on Gallan, but at the head he undoubtedly was. He thought it had happened quite simply and naturally; he certainly had not sought it. And then, because he possessed a strong streak of self-honesty, he thought with some amusement: yes, but I could not have borne to have fallen into any kind of subordinate position.

Because you are anxious to lead them forward so that you may find Joanna? said a voice within him.

Yes, certainly it was that, although he was beginning, in some curious and inexplicable fashion, to feel very much closer to Joanna now. The danger she was in has passed … There was no value in trying to explain how he knew this, but he did know it. Somewhere, somehow, Joanna was safe. They would find her.

And so, although he wanted to reach Gallan and he wanted to waste no time in finding Cormac, who might very well be with Joanna, he thought there was more to it.

I am Finn of the Fiana again, and there is a battle ahead of us, and I know how it must be fought, and I know where it must be fought and if only, IF ONLY, they will give me my head, I know we can win …

Lethe arrogance, said the old, coolly amused Flynn, but, plain fact, said the small strong voice deep inside him. Finn had not won battles by holding back or being modest, and his descendant would not either.

Descendant? Of course I am his descendant, thought Flynn, riding along at Conaire’s side. How else should I know so many things. How else should I recognise the terrain, and have this aching sense of homecoming. Why else would I be already laying out the battle plan; choosing the ground, deploying the White Swans to the east and the Chariot Horses to the fore. And if only Joanna can ride out with me, then the two worlds will have been spanned at last.

The High Queen returned, Dierdriu fighting for Tara again, with the armies of Finn at her back … The High Queen and the head of the Fiana together again …

The two worlds, past and future, converging at last, and fusing naturally and gently.

Gallan lay below them, circled by the Mountains — “A marvellous protection, of course,” murmured Sean — Cait Fian’s palace was set into the side of the mountain itself.

As Flynn sighted it, he gasped, for he had somehow not expected such cool, elegant beauty. He had certainly not expected it to rival Tara.

“Well, not quite,” said Conaire. “But it is very lovely.”

“And it’s perfectly proper for it to be nearly as good as Tara,” put in Sean. “Because Cait Fian is nearly as powerful as the High King.”

“A sort of second-in-command,” said Midir.

“Only it doesn’t do to remind Bricriu of it,” grinned Etain.

The Mountain Palace of Cait Fian was a pale, graceful edifice, turreted and delicately carved; ice-on-blue and gently glistening. Flynn thought that a light frosting of snow lay on its highest spires, and then he was not sure. Mist wreathed the towers and the pinnacles, and Flynn thought it would be easy to imagine the mist to be cloud. It was a palace of the skies, and although it did not blaze and flame as Tara blazed and flamed, still it was coldly and regally beautiful.

They saw the Panthers as they approached the pillared gates — gleaming sleek black creatures who watched their approach disdainfully. At the rear, the Wolves growled and bunched together, and Sean and Domnall both said together, “Oh dear.” The Panthers blinked their hard green eyes, but Flynn and Conaire who were at the head, saw two of them unfold and go padding off.

“To tell Cait Fian we are here,” murmured Conaire. “He has them very well trained.”

“A pity the King’s Wolves aren’t half as well trained,” said Sean in a not-quite-whisper.

Conaire said, “Oh do hush.”

Several Cruithin servants came running out to welcome them, and took the horses. “And the wolves,” said Sean with relish.

Conaire said, “You see? Efficient.”

“Our master will receive you when you have washed the dust of your journey off,” said one of the Cruithin, and Sean poked Flynn and said, “Cait Fian can’t abide dust or dirt.”

Flynn, who had just been thinking how much he would welcome a civilised wash and fresh clothes, said rather sharply, “Well, why should he? When you are in Rome, Sean, you must behave as a Roman.”

Sean, who had never heard such expression, said, “What?” and Flynn had to explain.

“Which,” he said to Oscar later, “all took time when I wanted to talk to Cait Fian’s Cruithin.”

The rooms they were shown to were furnished with velvet-covered couches and silk-cushioned beds.

“Oh for a day’s sleep!” cried Midir, stretching.

“Weakling,” said CuChulainn. “To the bath house with us both!”

“Yes, for we can’t appear before Cait Fian dusty,” reiterated Oscar seriously, and Flynn began to be rather curious about their host.

But he washed in the warm water brought to him, and donned the clean linen shirt laid out, and lay down to order his thoughts before being summoned.

*

The mountain hall of Cait Fian was large and airy, and everywhere there was the faint ice-on-blue light. Flynn wondered if it was something to do with the actual substance of the walls — weren’t they half into the mountain? — and he remembered the pale misty light of the Morne Mountains which he had often seen from Tugaim. In here it was almost as if the mountain light had been trapped and harnessed and redirected. Pure light, thought Flynn, fascinated and charmed in quite a different way to the way in which he had been fascinated and charmed by the Sun Chamber. A great hearth had been hewn into the rock, and a fire burned up, sending out a gentle musk-scented essence. Flynn thought that if a fire could possibly be described as cool, then this one could be so described. The floor beneath them was of pale solid rock, polished until it gleamed, smooth and very nearly glasslike, touched with the same ice-blue as the outer walls of the palace. Thick pale skin rugs were strewn on the floor and Flynn was just thinking that this was one of the most beautiful rooms he had ever seen, when a curtain at the far end drew back and their host appeared.

Cait Fian was far more obviously of animal blood than anyone Flynn had yet met. His hair was pure black and silky, and his eyes were a bright clear green, His ears were set very high on his skull, and they were pointed and covered with silky fur, and his mouth was wide and curving, the upper lip short like a cat’s. As he moved to greet them, Flynn saw that his feet were bare, the soles padded like an animal’s.

At Flynn’s side, Sean said out of the corner of his mouth, “Whatever you do, don’t look surprised. It’s a very ancient and very strong Bloodline. Nearly as ancient as the Wolfline.”

Flynn, trying not to stare, said, “I’ve never seen anyone quite like him.”

Sean said, “Wait until you meet Cormac himself.”

Cait Fian greeted them all with exquisite courtesy, exchanging ribald greetings with Conaire, entering into bluff discourse with CuChulainn, but inquiring of Oscar the precise route they had followed.

“All things to all men,” muttered Sean to Flynn. “He always knows what to say. It’s just a knack, of course.”

“Of course,’’ said Flynn, fascinated.

“Easily acquired if you care to bother,” said Sean.

“Oh yes.”

“I wish I had it,” said Sean wistfully.

Cait Fian was greeting the twins now, and the green eyes were surveying Etain with unconcealed interest. Flynn, waiting his turn to be presented, thought they made a striking couple.

“Yes, it’s generally thought they’ll wed,” said Sean. “Quite suitable of course, because the White Swans are very good family. A touch flighty perhaps, but Cait Fian is more than equal to that. Here we are. You don’t need to bow. He’s only a Prince, not a High King. And even then you don’t need to bow.”

Flynn found himself greeted with immaculate politeness and a shrewd green stare.

“A traveller,” said Cait Fian at length. “Dear me, this is very interesting. I do like to hear about journeys, because if you cannot always be travelling yourself — so exhausting and so time-consuming — hearing about other people’s is nearly as good, don’t you think? Of course, people say it is just living vicariously, but I never bother about what people say.” He took Flynn’s hand and smiled a cat-smile. “Flynn you must sit next to me at supper,” said Cait Fian, and then, “Ah Sean, is it you? What an age it has been. I shall want to know everything that has been happening at Court — everything, and you must omit nothing.

“Do come along into supper, my children. Etain, you are to sit beside me, with Flynn.”

The meal which was served in a small room just off the coolly beautiful main hall, was very good. “And very lavish,” said Sean, pleased.

They began with plovers’ eggs and rocs’ eggs served on a bed of dark moss, and Cait Fian leaned across the table and said to Conaire in a whisper, “Nor relatives, Conaire dear one, I should not dream of behaving so tastelessly as to serve anything that could be misconstrued. Plovers and rocs, and you would not give credence to the trouble my people go to to secure them.” He prodded the dish. “But plovers and rocs and nothing more, cousin, unless of course a pigeon’s egg has slipped in, for I would not like to actually take an oath that is has not.”

After the eggs, which Flynn had never encountered, but which he enjoyed, there was a preponderance of fish.

“Quite fresh,” said Cait Fian, taking a minute portion from several different platters. “Do allow me to guide you, Flynn. Here is a type of lake fish which I am sure you will — Yes, Sean, there are lakes in the mountains, and if you do not believe me I can convince you by dropping you in one — Well, that is the lake fish. And here is, dear me, can it be Twilight Fish? Ullgall, have we Twilight Fi — Ah, have we? Really? Ah, caught in the Candle Mountain, yes that would account for it so early in the … Well, my dears, it is apparently Twilight Fish and rather a delicacy at this time of the year, as you know. Etain, you must let me slice a portion for you. And the veriest morsel of sorrel to go with it? Now this is salmonidae — very good. And ingot fish. Flynn, you will like this …

“Will somebody please refill Conaire’s goblet for him, for we all know he cannot survive without frequent draughts of wine. CuChulainn, my precious, did you know your sleeve was trailing in the turbot? It cannot be by design …”

There were dishes of what Flynn thought might be chicken or perhaps rabbit, braised in some kind of sauce, and there were small dishes of rich sweet honey. Cait Fian ate daintily, licking his fingers after each few mouthfuls, and Flynn grinned to himself and remembered about being in Rome all over again.

“And there should be honey for each place,” said Cait Fian, “for I always finish a meal with a dish of honey. Ah yes, I see that Ullgall has not disgraced us. Oscar, there is no need whatsoever to think you have to be dainty, we are not in the Sun Chamber now. And it is impossible to eat warm honey. Drink it, my dear ones, dish to lips. Allow me to demonstrate, Etain.” He slipped a practised arm about Etain’s shoulders as he said this, and winked at Flynn, as he did so, and the wink said: do not be fooled by my apparent softness and by my sheathed claws, Flynn. And Flynn, who had not been in the least fooled, grinned and lifted his honey, which was warm and buttery and wholly delicious, to his mouth.

“Well,” said Cait Fian, returning to his own dish of honey, “so we are to re-establish my cousin Cormac at Tara, are we?”

“We hope so,” said Conaire, “will you help us?”

“Oh I should think so,” said Cait Fian lightly. “Yes, I do think I should.” He leaned over to Flynn. “I do enjoy a fight,” he said confidentially. “And of course, there is nothing I would not do for Cormac. Really, my dears, Eochaid Bres ought to have been removed long before this, but there is so much to a war, isn’t there? And of course, to begin with, Eochaid and Bricriu guarded Tara so fiercely that not even a gnat could have breached the defences.” He placed his empty honey dish down on the table, cleaned his fingers again thoughtfully, and reached for a second dish. “Do tell me,” he said, “Sean, you will be sure to know. All those years in Scáthach … I suppose they have not — ah — affected Cormac at all?”

Sean said, rather blankly, “Not so far as I know.”

Conaire chuckled and said, “No, cousin, they have not. Cormac has not lost his sanity.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” said Cait Fian seriously, “because I really could not countenance the restoration of a mad King on the throne — oh no, it would not do at all”

“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had —”

“Sean, if you bear us the smallest goodwill, not Lugalla the Fifth,” said Cait Fian plaintively. And then, to Flynn, “One of our more unfortunate High Kings, you understand.”

“Cormac,” said Conaire firmly, “has retained all his wits.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” said Cait Fian. “Even so — exile! And at Scáthach!” He shuddered, and addressed himself to his honey. “Of course, I could have told him that the very minute he tangled with Mab —” His eyes suddenly slewed round to where Flynn was trying to look noncommittal. “Of course,” said Cait Fian, “it’s always a great compliment to be one of Mab’s lovers.”

“Ah. Really?”

“Only the best of us,” said Cait Fian and sent Flynn another of his winks. “But as for Cormac — yes, there is no question but that he must be reinstated. He’s very wild, you know.” He paused and went through the same procedure of licking the honey and then cleaning his fingers afterwards. “But he’s by far the finest High King Ireland has had since Dierdriu.”

“Is he?” said Flynn, who did not really think he had thrown in his lot with the wrong side, but was glad to have his judgment approved.

“Oh without a doubt,” said Cait Fian, still sorting out his honey. “I daresay I ought to have done something about it well before this, but there never seems time. But now here you all are, beautifully organised — I do admire efficiency — and it is high time that we gave Eochaid Bres and the Fox the beating they deserve.” He stood up and they all followed suit. “And now,” said Cait Fian, “if we are to hold a Council of War — dear me, what fun, I shall enjoy it — do let us move to a more comfortable room. I like to be comfortable,” he added to Flynn. “Etain, my child, allow me to show you the way. Do you know, you are rather more beautiful than I had remembered…”?

*

The more comfortable room turned out to be a kind of library with books ranged round the walls, and deep soft chairs covered in thick fur. Skin rugs lay on the floor, and a fire burned. Someone — Ullgall? — had set out pitchers of wine and mead, and tall glasses, and there were dishes of glazed fruits and crystallized ginger.

Etain threw herself down in a chair by the blazing fire, and said, “Oh, it is so good to be here again.”

Cait Fian smiled at her, and said in a voice that was very nearly a purr, “You should perhaps consider staying for a long time.”

Etain said, “Perhaps I should,” and Sean’s ears twitched, because if this was not a Declaration, it was very close to one, and Declarations meant Betrothals, and Betrothals meant Marriages, and all three meant ceremonies with properly written entertainments. Sean thought it would not hurt to just earmark a few preliminary ideas. Swans and Panthers. Yes, you could do quite a lot with that.

Oscar had moved to the serried rows of books, and Cait Fian said with a pleased smile, “I do like people to admire my books. And I have a rather good copy of the Book of the Academy of Necromancers. Ullgall reads it to me,” he added, his expression as bland as buttermilk, “for we all know the requirements. ‘Only the purest of heart’ — I daresay the wretched thing would frizzle if I approached it. But I do believe in knowing what the sorcerers are up to.

“Now, you must all of you seat yourselves wherever you like, and CuChulainn, would you just put a few more logs on the — Ah yes, that is the way. Best mountain ash, I never have anything else on my fires, but they are not Sleeping Trees, I am very strict about the Tree Laws.” He curled himself into one of the chairs, and smiled. “And so,” said Cait Fian in his velvet voice, “you must tell me everything about your plans.”

He listened attentively to the campaign outlined by Oscar and Flynn, and at the end he was ruthlessly and charmingly efficient. He wanted to know the precise number of people in their small army. “And,” said Sean later, “he barely batted a whisker when we told him.”

“I know it doesn’t sound many,” said Conaire, rather worriedly when they had counted up three times and reached the same dismal total each time.

“I freely admit it does not,” agreed Cait Fian with the utmost politeness.

“Yes, but we shall each call up our Bloodline creatures.”

“Well I do think you will have to. Let me see. Chariot Horses and Deer and Eagles, and dearest Etain’s and Midir’s White Swans.”

“And the Wolves,” put in Sean. “Don’t forget the Wolves.”

“I wish I could forget them,” said Cait Fian with a shudder.

“My kitchens have been a battleground since they arrived. I love Cormac devotedly and I will spare no effort to help him regain his throne, but I do wish he would train those creatures. However, to our plans. The Mindsong ought really to go out tonight, children.”

“So soon?” said Conaire, rather startled, and the others looked up.

“Too exhausting for you all, I know,” said Cait Fian. “I do sympathise. But I do not think we can leave it any longer. We do not know where Cormac is, and if the Miller has him — or worse — every hour makes a difference.”

“He’s right,” put in CuChulainn.

“Precious one, I am always right,” said Cait Fian, and sent Flynn another of his conspiratorial winks. “And once we have the Bloodline creatures with us, I think we should leave for Tara at first light. After,” he said, with a thoughtful look at Etain, “after we have spent a restful night here.”

“Do we journey all together?” inquired Flynn.

“Oh I think we should,” said Cait Fian.

Conaire said, “If we are together it will be easier to repel any enemies we might encounter.”

“Enemies?” said Sean suspiciously. “What sort of enemies? I’m not here to do any repelling. You do know that, don’t you? You haven’t forgotten?

“I made it perfectly clear,” said Sean to Cait Fian, who was looking amused, “that I would not do any fighting. I’m a man of peace,” he said with an air of dignity, “and I’m an ollam, and if there’s any idea of me actually fighting —”

“Unruffle yourself, Sean, my poor unloved peacemaker. You shall brandish the pen rather than the sword — dear me, how poetic that sounds. Do you suppose that in time to come it will be quoted as a philosophy? If that should happen, I do hope that you at least will remember that I said it first.” And then, to the indignant Sean, “You see,” said Cait Fian, “we are not very far from the Walled City of the Erl-King, and Conaire, with his admirable logic, thinks we may encounter one or two of his creatures.”

“I hope not,” said Oscar, and Flynn noticed that even CuChulainn looked thoughtful.

“The Gentleman has his spies,” said Cait Fian, “well, don’t we all. But his spies are very nasty people. And then, of course, we must pass near to Muileann, and I have to tell you that the Morrigna and I are not on very good terms these days.” Fie sat back and smiled the cat-smile.

Conaire grinned, “More wars, cousin?”

“My life is one perpetual sacrifice to war,” said Cait Fian cosily. “The tales I could tell … But yes, we had a small battle last year — the merest skirmish really, but still …”

“We didn’t hear about it,” said CuChulainn interested.

“Dear one, it was a courtyard brawl and nothing more,” said Cait Fian. “Even Morrigan did not bother to attend.”

“I bet you did,” said Midir, grinning.

“Well I do not like to miss these things,” said Cait Fian. “And I had a new cloak — silver trimmed, very becoming — which reminds me of our apparel for this war for Cormac; do let us choose really bold colours, I do like a battle to be colourful …” He smiled and resettled himself in his chair. “But as for last year’s little matter, oh, it was only Macha and one or two of her nasty little followers.”

“Followers?” said Flynn.

“Hags and crones,” said Etain. “Cait Fian eats them for breakfast and spits out the bones.”

“Yes, there were some hags,” said Cait Fian. “And I recall seeing two banshees which was unusual for that time of year. But it was all very trivial and we beat them quite easily. Sean, my love, if you must compose one of your delightful ballads about it, I do ask you to do so later.”

“Quite right,” said CuChulainn looking round. “This is a Council of War.” He glowered at Sean who had been making some furtive notes, and Sean shuffled his jottings together rather huffily and said, “Oh excuse me for breathing.”

Oscar had been scanning the shelves for maps. “Beautifully catalogued,” he said afterwards, and now produced one which showed the entire Manor of Tara and the surrounding countryside. Cait Fian helped him to unroll it and spread it out on the floor at their feet, curling himself neatly at one corner. “Tara,” he said, tapping the map’s centre. “And here is the Forest of Darkness. Just fringing the Plain of the Fál.”

Flynn said, without thinking, “And of course, we must make our camp on the Plain,” and Cait Fian shot him an admiring look.

“So we should,” he said.

“It’s very near to the Druids’ Settlement,” said Conaire.

CuChulainn grinned, and said, “Flynn’s been there once. He won’t risk it again,” and Cait Fian sat back and stared at Flynn.

“No! Flynn, have you really? Oh you must tell me all about it. Everything. I have always wanted to get inside the Druids’ Settlement, and I’ve never managed it.”

Sean said, “As a matter of fact, I did just dash off a bit of a Lament —” and was instantly shouted down.

“Not during a Council of War,” said CuChulainn firmly.

“But perhaps afterwards,” said Oscar kindly. Sean retired to a corner of the room to study Cait Fian’s books, and could be heard muttering that they none of them had any romance in their souls, and he wished he had not come.

“I knew how it would be,” he said, and began ferociously to read The Conjoining of Men with Beasts: A Manual.

Flynn was studying the maps, his eyes narrowed. “Once we are on the Plain,” he said, “we shall have to divide our strengths. The Eagles and the White Swans ought to mount an attack from the air, and while they prepare to do that, we should use the Chariot Horses and the Deer as decoys.” He frowned and went on studying the map, and the others looked at him respectfully.

Cait Fian said to Oscar, “Is that all right? The Deer won’t mind being used as decoys? CuChulainn? What about the Chariot Horses?”

“It’s a good idea,” said Oscar, nodding.

“So long as we can be in on the fighting later,” said CuChulainn firmly.

“Oh any amount of it, I should think. Flynn?”

“Oh we’ll all be in it,” said Flynn, but he sounded rather absentminded now, and although he was hearing the voices of the others, and although he was vaguely aware of being in Cait Fian’s warm comfortable room and of drinking Cait Fian’s really excellent wine, his mind had flown ahead, and he was on the Plain of the Fál, preparing to sweep Cormac’s armies down to the finest victory ever known in Ireland’s history.

Cait Fian said in his soft cosy voice, “And so the splendid Horses and the beautiful Deer will come galloping down the hill to the west boundary, Flynn? Ah, yes of course the west boundary. Hoofs and teeths and all manner of noise and of course creating a very good diversion. Then what?”

“Then,” said Flynn, his eyes alight, “then the Eagles and the Swans swoop on to the battlements, and then we go in through the East Gate.”

“Oh!” said Cait Fian. “Dear me, yes, how very astute. The East Gate is never properly sentried.” He rearranged himself, curling his feet up neatly. “Do we see any flaws, any of us?”

They all thought about it carefully, and Sean, who was trying to listen, dropped The Conjoining of Men with Beasts, and made everyone jump.

At length, Conaire said cautiously, “Flynn, that’s a very good plan.”

“Simple enough to work,” said Oscar, smiling at Flynn.

“Will we trust the Wolves to be quiet?” demanded CuChulainn.

Midir said, “But we’ll have Cormac with us by then.”

Everyone said, “Oh yes, of course,” and began to study the map again, and to listen to Flynn who was by now charting the journey they would make to the Plain.

Etain said loudly, “I hope we will have Cormac with us,” and Conaire at once wanted to know what she meant.

“Has it not occurred to you,” said Etain, sitting back in her chair, quite as graceful in her own way as their host, “that we’ve decided to summon an army, and we’ve mapped out a battle plan under Flynn’s guidance, and worked out how to depose Eochaid Bres, and restore Cormac, but we haven’t actually got Cormac. We don’t even know where he is.”

“He might be safe somewhere,” said Conaire hopefully.

“But he might be a prisoner,” said Midir. “We are so close to Muileann and the Miller.”

“He might be dead,” said CuChulainn, and at once looked horrified.

“I’m sure I should have heard if he was,” said Cait Fian. “These things do get about out here, you know. People gossip so.” But he sounded just a little doubtful.

Conaire stood up and walked to the window and back. “Listen,” he said, striking his fist on the table. “If Cormac were dead, then surely it would be up to us to avenge his death. Yes?”

“Yes! Yes!” cried several voices.

“And the best way to do that, is to give the usurper his just deserts,” said Conaire.

“Quite right!” shouted CuChulainn.

“Absolutely!” said Midir.

Conaire said, “If Cormac is dead, no one will mourn him more deeply than I will. You all know that.” He looked at them with his golden eagle’s eyes sternly, and they all nodded.

CuChulainn said rather emotionally, “Oh he can’t be dead. Let’s not think about it.”

“If he is dead,” said Conaire in a hard voice, “the least we can do for his memory is to restore his throne to the rightful heir. It’s what he would want. Depose the usurper and his jackals and bring Tara back to glory! I say we remove Eochaid Bres and Bricriu no matter what!”

“Hear hear!” cried several voices excitedly, and CuChulainn thumped the table in delight: “By Dagda, he’s in the right of it!” he cried. “To war and the sooner the better! Death to all pretenders!”

“Death to all pretenders!” shouted his listeners eagerly, and Conaire grabbed his glass of wine and raised it challengingly.

“To Scáthach with them!” cried Midir.

“Remove them!” broke in Oscar.

“Send them to the Miller’s cages!” shouted the twins.

“Feed them to Morrigan!” put in CuChulainn.

“But,” said Flynn, “who are you going to put in Eochaid Bres’s place if Cormac is dead?”

There was a rather appalled silence. Then Etain said in a practical voice, “Who’s next in the succession?”

Cait Fian at once said, “Don’t anybody look at me!”

“You’re his cousin,” said Midir.

“You’re a Prince of Ireland,” added Oscar.

“And you’d make a good job of it,” suggested CuChulainn hopefully.

“But I don’t want the throne,” said Cait Fian horrified. “No, no, this won’t do at all. See now, my grandfather and Cormac’s were only second cousins. There must be a nearer heir. Who was the old man’s first cousin?”

“Ailill of the Eagles, wasn’t it?” said Oscar. “Then Conaire —”

“Oh no!” said Conaire, quite as appalled as Cait Fian. “No, you can’t bring my family into this at all. It’s the old lineage we want. Look now, if we go back to Cormac’s grandmother —”

“But you can’t go through the female line,” said CuChulainn.

“Why not?” said Etain.

“We never have,” said CuChulainn.

Etain, a martial glint in her eyes, said, “What about Dierdriu?”

CuChulainn said, “Oh. Oh yes.”

Flynn started to explain to Oscar about the Lethe Salic law he’d read about, and Sean, who was getting interested again, came over to listen.

Conaire and Cait Fian were arguing over the precise degree of relationship between their grandfathers — “First cousins,” said Conaire, but “Second,” said Cait Fian. “And very likely even third.” Midir was sketching out a genealogical tree on the back of the Muileann map, helped by CuChulainn. Neither of them heard the door swing open, but without warning, a cool, amused voice suddenly said, “Fighting over my Throne before I’m dead, gentlemen?” and they turned at once.

Conaire cried, “Your Majesty! Cormac!” and every person in the room fell to his knees; each of them placed his right hand on his heart in the symbolic ancient Oath of Allegiance which every High King of Ireland may command, but which none has never compelled.

Flynn, on his knees with the rest of them, saw the pure and undiluted joy in all their faces, and saw, as well, something he could only afterwards describe as an immense faith. It was as if they were all saying: he is with us: now everything will be all right. It was the most extraordinary demonstration of pure unswerving trust he had ever witnessed.

And then Flynn saw who stood just behind Cormac, and a tremendous happiness welled up inside him.

*

That first sight of Joanna, travel-stained and dishevelled, her eyes smudged with tiredness, affected the others remarkably. Where there had been delight and instant obedience at the sight of Cormac, now there was something that was very nearly awe at the sight of Joanna. They fell silent as she walked into the room, and from where he stood, Conaire said softly, and in a voice of extreme reverence, “Dierdriu.”

Oscar who was next to Conaire, said in a whisper, “The Portrait on the Rock. The High Queen returned.”

Flynn, staring, quite suddenly saw not Joanna, his Joanna that he knew from Tugaim, but someone quite different.

Someone whose features were indeed carved into the ancient Rock deep beneath the Bright Palace, and in whose eyes shone a light that he had never seen anywhere in anyone’s eyes before, and in whose face was such strength and beauty and humour, that for a moment his sight misted over.

The High Queen returned and the head of the Fiana with her again … the two worlds, past and future fusing at last …

He turned to look at the others, and saw such deep and unswerving love in their expressions, and such delight and gratitude, for the first time, he understood fully and completely. Joanna was in truth the High Queen of Tara returned, and her people would follow her to the ends of the world …

*

“I don’t understand any of it,” said Flynn, facing his love at last in the bedchamber he had earlier washed in.

“I don’t think any of us understand it,” said Joanna, watching him, and thinking: how could I have forgotten? How could I have forgotten the way his eyes slant up at the corners when he smiles, or the way his hair falls over his forehead when he talks, or the way his mouth curves … Seduced by a half-wolf and an ancient enchantment? Not quite. Perhaps I was not altogether to blame.

“We have not much time.”

“My dear love,” said Flynn, unable to take his eyes from her. And then, hungrily, “Oh Joanna, come here —”

His mouth tasted as she remembered it, and his body was hard and firm and right. She thought: this is what was meant. This is who I am meant for. Even so …

“Flynn, you must not. Not yet.” She traced the lines of his face with her fingers. “It would be cruel of me to desert Cormac until he is back at Tara. I cannot do it — and he would know.”

Flynn said slowly, “The Samhailt —”

“Yes, you understand,” said Joanna thankfully. “And I owe him so much. My life and my sanity — oh there is so much. I must stay until he has regained the throne.”

“The High Queen returned,” said Flynn.

“It is what they believe. And you cannot know how courageous he has been … Flynn I must ride against Eochaid Bres with him.” Her hand came out and Flynn took it. “But I think you must be there as well.”

Dierdriu, the first High Queen of all Ireland, with Finn of the Fiana at her side …

They looked at one another, and then Joanna tilted her head, listening.

“Can you hear it?” she said softly, and Flynn heard — felt — the low sensual beckoning note begin to thrum through the palace.

“What is it?”

“The Mindsong. The Samhailt. They are calling up the Beasts of the Bloodline.”

Flynn moved to the window. “Can we watch?”

“Yes I think so. I saw it at Scáthach, when Cormac called up the Wolves. It is rather awesome and a bit frightening, but it’s safe enough up here.”

They stood hand in hand at the window and watched as Conaire and Oscar and CuChulainn and the twins stood motionless, heads lifted a little, eyes half closed. Cormac stood a little way off, watching.

“He will not go any nearer,” said Joanna in a whisper. “To do so might distract them.”

The low humming strengthened, and Joanna felt again the urge she had felt at Scáthach; to run helter-skelter though the forests and the fields and the hills in pursuit of the call, to answer the command that was being sent out, to follow the beckoning until you could follow it no more. Her blood stirred and her senses tingled, and she felt Flynn’s hand tighten in hers and knew that he felt it also and understood. It suddenly seemed tremendously and achingly right that she and Flynn should stand together like this, hand-locked, listening to this ancient summoning, and wave upon wave of happiness flooded her body. She thought that it was too wonderful a feeling to be broken by words, and she hoped — and then was sure — that Flynn would know this, and would remain silent.

Flynn could not have spoken, even if he had not sensed Joanna’s deep need for silence. His entire body and mind and every sense he possessed was concentrated on the Mindsong; he thought, as he had thought that night on the Plain, inside the Wicker Man: I know this. I have heard this before. Once I stood on a high hilltop with someone close by, and heard the first ever Mindsong. I was there when the first people of the Bloodline sent out their call to the Beasts. A new enchantment, for it had only just been created. I heard it then and I am hearing it again, and it is one of the strongest and strangest enchantments ever known to the World of Men.

The Beasts were streaming down the mountainside now, the Chariot Horses and the Wild Deer, sleek and powerful, fleet of foot and beautiful to watch. The air was dark with the immense and cruelly beautiful Eagles and the White Swans, their wings beating on the night sky until the whole countryside was filled with the sound. The mountain became a blur of gold and white, feathers and fur and hoofs and wings, and Joanna and Flynn watched until night fell and they could see no more.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Of all the great battles of Ancient Ireland, none holds greater pride of place than the famous Battle of the Wolfking. It is that battle that the poets have written of down the ages, and that the ballad-makers have sung of, and the storytellers recounted over and over. It is of that battle that the great scholar, Amairgen the Blind, speaks in the beautiful stirring “Battle of the Wolf.”

It was the first battle where beasts and humans and princes and servants joined together to drive back the might of the dreadful army raised by Bricriu to defend Eochaid Bres, and by Macha and Scald-Crow to avenge their dead sister, and for that reason, it is sometimes known as the People’s Battle. Among the different tribes and different people who took part in it, each has their own tale to tell, and these have been woven into the many strands of folklore which make up Ireland’s rich heritage.

The people of Cormacston — once the nameless Walled City of the Erl-King — feel that it is especially their battle, “For,” they were to say, “had we not joined with the King after he slew the Gentleman, his armies would not have been so strong.” And they tell how it was the men of their city who rode behind the King in the famous charge on the Palace of Tara.

The Cruithin know this to be somewhat exaggerated, but they let it lie; as Gormgall, in rather garrulous old age was to say, it did no one any harm, and the poor souls of Cormacston had had little enough pleasure in their lives. And the Cruithin consoled themselves that it was their people who had really won the day; without their knowledge of the terrain and without their stolid solid fighting, the outcome might well have been different.

Conaire and the people of the Bloodline did not in the least mind the Cruithin thinking this; as Oscar pointed out, the Cruithin were loyal and staunch, and they had served Cormac’s family faithfully and well. Let them have their share of the glory. But of course, without the Beasts, without the Eagles and the Chariot Horses and the Wild Deer and the twins’ White Swans and the Panthers of Gallan, Cormac’s army would have been on the thinnish side. Anyone who had fought in the battle — and it was remarkable the people who later tried to claim that they had been here — would have seen how the Beasts had swung the tide and ensured the victory.

Brian Muldooney, respectable citizen and sometime pig farmer, would not have dreamed of contradicting one of these beliefs; you did not contradict other people because it was extremely discourteous. But people of sense knew that it was sometimes the very smallest things that could sweep an army to victory, and it was a solid fact that if Muldooney had not gone plunging across the Plain in pursuit of his horse, from which he had become temporarily parted, then the final sweeping charge might have taken a slightly different route, and the outcome would probably have been startlingly different. The human factor, there was the thing. The Muldooneys were very big on the human factor. It would not, however, do to say this aloud, or not very often anyway.

*

They had reached the Plain of the Fál as dawn was lightening the skies, and Flynn had stood a little apart, surveying the terrain, seeing how the Plain’s height gave them the advantage, seeing as well how they might encircle Tara with their armies.

The entire landscape was as familiar to him as if he had lived in it for years, and the sense of being on his own ground again was piercingly sweet.

At his side, Amairgen said gently, “But of course it is familiar. You are Finn of the Fiana again, and you are aching to lead them all against the enemies of Ireland.”

“Am I?” said Flynn, who did not really doubt this, but who found it just the smallest bit frightening now and again.

“You know it,” said Amairgen, and smiled, and Portan who was never far from Amairgen’s side, smiled as well, because it was so wonderful to see Flynn like this, wearing the Wolfking’s colours and taking command of the armies as simply and.as easily as if — “As if he has never been away,” said Amairgen afterwards, and Portan said, “Yes. Just that.” And thought that Flynn would surely win this battle, and there would be a tremendous victory and they would all of them be safely inside the Bright Palace before nightfall.

When Amairgen said, “Are you afraid of what is ahead?” Portan at once said, “Oh no, for Flynn cannot fail. Joanna cannot fail.” And looked to where Joanna was standing with Cormac, dressed in dark breeches and a cambric shirt and leather boots, with the Nightcloak slung lightly about her shoulders.

Portan had been a little shy of Joanna, because surely any lady whom Flynn loved so very much must be extraordinary. Joanna would be lovely and kind of course, Portan had always known that, but would she perhaps be unapproachable? Portan, listening round-eyed to the stories of Dierdriu, and the High Queen’s return, and of how Joanna was in some inexplicable way Dierdriu reborn, had thought that it might be difficult to meet Joanna.

“She is — very lovely,” said Oscar when Portan asked what Joanna was like.

“Strong and gentle and intelligent,” said Conaire.

“A leader,” said CuChulainn, who had been very pleased to discover Joanna, and who had in fact enjoyed a long talk with her about some of the old battles. “Well read in our history,” he added.

The twins said that she was fun: “If there is amusement to be found in a situation, she will find it,” said Etain.

Portan, putting all of this together, had tried to form some kind of image of Flynn’s Joanna, of the girl for whom they had all come so far, and for whose sake they had endured so much. And then, in the end, it had not been in the least bit difficult to meet her. Joanna had smiled and held out her hands, and said, “Oh Portan, Flynn has told me so much!” And she had taken Portan in her arms, and hugged her, and they had both cried together for happiness and a little for fear of the battle.

“And perhaps,” said Portan, “for relief. For we had both known so many dangers.”

And then it had struck them both that it was slightly absurd to be crying when there was so much to be pleased about, and they had laughed, and Joanna had produced her handkerchief to mop up with, and they had talked together and liked one another very much, and it had all been easy and warm and natural. And, “I wish there was time to know you better,” Joanna had said.

“Will there not be?”

“I do not think so,” said Joanna. “I think we will not be permitted to remain here.” And a wistfulness filled her voice, so that Portan said shyly, “Shall you mind very much?”

“I think it will break my heart,” said Joanna simply, and then smiled again. “But I do not think this is my place. After the battle …” For a moment her eyes were sad, and then she seemed to give herself a small shake, for she smiled again, and said, “No matter. Let me see if we can drive out the usurper and his jackals,” and Portan thought, but did not say, that Joanna and Flynn were both talking in the distinctive, slightly formal way of Cormac’s people.

“Yes, they are taking up the mantle of their alter egos,” said Amairgen thoughtfully, for he, also, had been feeling and sensing and hearing the change. “They are no longer Flynn O’Connor and Joanna Grady.”

“Finn of the Fiana and the High Queen Dierdriu?” said Portan hesitantly.

Amairgen said, “Oh yes. They are no longer aware of it happening, but it has happened.”

Behind Flynn and Joanna, the others were sorting themselves out. “Staking out our bits of territory,” was how Sean put it. Sean had found himself a spot three quarters of the way down the hillside. He could see very nearly everything from there he said, surveying the landscape carefully. He would not be able to see whoever it was who stole in quietly through the eastern gate, but you could not have everything.

“Cait Fian and a few of the Panthers are to do that,” said Flynn, and Sean had said, oh well, in that case, there was no difficulty at all because Cait Fian would certainly tell him about it all afterwards. “And if you make sure to keep well to the left when you gallop down the hill,” he said to CuChulainn seriously, “I shall be able to see all the battle charge.”

CuChulainn wanted to ban Sean from the field altogether at that, but Conaire said, rather impatiently, that CuChulainn would be as pleased as any of them to have a proper account of the battle when it was all over, and that Sean ought to be given every facility. At which CuChulainn took himself off to marshall his Chariot Horses, who were getting restless, and grumbled to Oscar, who was deploying the Deer, that he did not know what fighting was coming to.

Dubhgall had been put in charge of sounding the battle cry, and had been given the golden bugle with which to do so. He had been extremely pleased about this, because it was a very great honour, and he had practised assiduously all the way to the Plain.

“It upsets the Swans,” said Gormgall to Domnall and Cait Fian’s Ullgall, “but nobody liked to stop him. And a battle cry has to be right, of course. You can’t ride into battle on an off-key battle call.”

Muldooney, who admitted to not having a note of music in his head had remarked that it came to something when a man could not get his proper rest, because Dubhgall got up a half-hour early each morning to practise. In fact, Muldooney had been so pleased to be given a tiny detachment of his own to lead, that he would not really have dreamed of complaining in earnest. Muldooney was not the man to make war, of course, but it had been explained to him how usurpers sat inside Cormac’s Palace, and how it was absolutely necessary to rout them. Justice, there was the thing. Ah, the Muldooneys were strong on justice, well, they were strong on everything that was right, of course. And so Muldooney had drilled his small platoon very carefully, and had beamed when Flynn, inspecting them, said crisply, “Excellent, Muldooney. We shall look to you to play a decisive part in what is ahead.”

Which was no more than was right, because the Muldooneys were the ones when it came to victory.

“And actually,” said Flynn later, “it has to be said that he managed very nicely.”

As everyone had foreseen, the Wolves and the Panthers fought — “Several times,” said Oscar, who had been called in to part the combatants — and one Wolf had its tail bitten and had to be bandaged by Portan, and two Panthers suffered chewed ears.

But when they all assembled on the Plain of the Fál, overlooking Tara, a great hush fell on them, and a sense of friendship and of oneness seemed to bind them together.

Flynn, at Cormac’s side, felt it as if it was a huge surge of warmth, and a strength so tremendous enveloped him that for a moment he thought he would be overpowered by it. He thought that Cormac felt it as well, for just for a brief instant, Cormac seemed to hesitate, and Flynn turned to look, because it was not to be believed that Cormac should ever be at a loss. And then he saw that Cormac was looking at the assembled armies with an expression of infinite love, and that his eyes held the look of a man who has been wandering in the dark for many years and has suddenly come into Paradise. Flynn felt the pity of Cormac’s exiled years slam into the base of his throat, and in that moment he forgave Cormac everything that Cormac had ever done with Joanna, and although he knew he would never quite forget the nights that Joanna and Cormac had spent together, he knew at the same time that he might understand. He reined in his horse, and stayed where he was, motionless, waiting for Cormac to give the signal to charge.

Joanna had seen Cormac’s hesitation as well, and like Flynn, had understood. She thought: this is almost more than he can bear. It is this that kept him alive and kept him hopeful through the terrible years inside Scáthach. It was the knowledge that one day, one day he might be able to lead his armies against the creatures who drove him out. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she dashed them away, and thought: after all, I think this is how I shall remember him. Like this. Proud and reckless and with such a belief in what he is about to do. With such a burning fervour for his people and such an unshakeable courage. The Wolfking returning …

Cormac had not been fully aware of Flynn and Joanna’s thoughts, but he had been aware of a sharing and an understanding, and it had heartened him.

But he had stood alone and apart for a brief moment, so that he could savour to the full the pure happiness of it all. For him, it was the culmination of every hope and of every lonely dream of Scáthach. He wanted to take hold of the moment and cup it between his hands and keep it safe. He wanted to taste it and enjoy it, and he wanted to remember it, so that in years to come, he could return to it, and think: oh yes. That was the moment when I knew pure happiness.

Pure happiness. Now, on the Plain of the Fál, with Joanna close by, with Flynn heading the army, with the Cruithin and the creatures of the Bloodline. With faithful friends who have stayed with me, he thought, and with new friends who have trusted me. With people who have endured danger and hardship for my sake. This is the moment. Take hold of it and capture it and never ever let go of it, for there will never be another to equal it.

He turned to the waiting Flynn, and Flynn met his eyes steadily. Cormac thought: by every rule, Flynn of them all ought to hate me. For what I did to Joanna, for the enchantment I spun about her that drove him from her mind, he ought to hate me. And then Flynn smiled, and Cormac saw that Flynn did not hate him in the least, that Flynn understood.

And understanding, is surely the greatest and the most generous of all the gifts …

After all, thought Cormac, this is Flynn’s battle as much as it is mine. And quite deliberately, he drew his own horse back a little and made a gesture to Flynn, as if to say, over to you.

Delight flared in Flynn’s eyes, and he bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. As he turned to lift a hand to bring the armies to attention, Cormac saw that it was no longer the young man who had forced through the Time Curtain in search of his lost love, but the mighty warrior who had once been known and revered and honoured throughout Ireland.

Finn of the Fiana … And he will fight for me to the death, thought Cormac.

Flynn brought down his hand and a great shiver of excitement went through the waiting ranks.

*

From where she was, Joanna, could see the stealthy descent of Cait Fian and the Panthers to the East Gate. For a moment she lost them, for the sun was in her eyes, and spears of brightness were glinting on the helmets and the armour. And then she picked them out again, sleek and graceful, the Panthers’ bodies flowing gracefully down the hillside, Cait Fian at their head.

“Wait,” said Flynn, “Let him reach the Gate. Etain?”

“Almost there.”

“Conaire?”

“Approaching hard.”

Flynn turned to Oscar and CuChulainn. “Are we ready for the charge?”

“Ready!”

“And eager!”

Flynn turned back, and then Etain gave the signal which meant that Cait Fian had reached the East Gate of Tara. Flynn looked to where Dubhgall was poised and nodded, and Dubhgall lifted the golden bugle to his lips, and the stirring notes of the call to arms rang over the Plain, filling the air and echoing through the forest down to the Bright Palace.

“To arms!” cried Flynn, and at once, the Chariot Horses and the Wild Deer with CuChulainn and Oscar at their head streamed down the hillside. The bugle was still sounding, clear and rousing, and the armies were cheering from the Plain, and Flynn felt as if he was being filled up with excitement and energy. The turf was flying beneath the horses’ hooves now, and the whole Plain was shuddering with the force of the first battle charge.

Flynn turned to watch, narrowing his eyes against the light, and thought that it was a good clean charge. “As good as ever I saw or led,” he thought, and then grinned.

But it was a good charge. It was swift and sure, and Oscar and CuChulainn were at the West Gate within minutes. Through the smoke and the noise of the thudding hooves, and the cheering of Cormac’s armies from above them, they could hear now the alarm being raised inside the Palace.

“Tara is under attack!”

“Close the West Gate!”

Just what we want! thought Flynn, jubilant. The West Gate! And while their energies are directed on to that, Cait Fian will be stealing in through the East Gate. Let them deploy every single creature in the place to the West Gate, and we shall win! he thought.

They could all hear the shouts from Tara now, and they could sense the panic and the chaos that seethed within.

“The Palace is being besieged! Haul up the drawbridge!”

“To your posts everyone! Under attack!”

“To the West Gate!”

And then, quite clearly, through the heat and the thundering hooves, “Repel the invaders!”

“And kill their leaders!”

Flynn glanced involuntarily to where Cormac stood, and thought that a hardness had come into Cormac’s eyes. But Cormac did not flinch; he stayed where he was, and he looked to Flynn, waiting for Flynn’s command. Flynn saw for the first time, the greatness and the incredible strength of Cormac. Cormac would put himself under Flynn’s command for the duration of the battle, and anything that Flynn demanded, he would do. I cannot possibly fail him, thought Flynn, I cannot. And without warning there came into his mind an old Lethe saying — what was it? Something about loving those with whom you are sharing a great danger. He thought he loved Cormac in that moment, and he thought that whatever happened to them in the future, he would never quite forget how Cormac trusted him.

CuChulainn and Oscar seemed to have reached the West Gate now, and Oscar was flinging burning torches at the barred Gates. As they spurred their horses on again and again, Eochaid Bres’s guards appeared on the battlements. The sun glinted, and then there was a sizzling of arrows flying through the air; Oscar half fell, a hand clapped to his shoulder, a burning pain where the arrow had sliced into his flesh. Flynn half started forward, and then checked, for Oscar had risen and was struggling to get into the lee of the castle wall. Flynn saw CuChulainn go running to help him, and heard CuChulainn cry, “Forward! Beneath the castle walls!” and begin to drag the injured and dazed Oscar across the ground.

Flynn, watching, had just begun to frame the thought that CuChulainn was providing a sitting target for the archers on the battlements, when he saw CuChulainn cry and then stagger. As he stood, helpless on the Plain, CuChulainn fell back, and Flynn saw a trickle of dark blood come from his mouth, and then gush from his chest.

Oscar stood for a moment, as if unable to take in what had happened, and then he half ran, half dragged himself into the lee of the castle, and fell against the wall.

Close to Flynn, Joanna gasped and made as if to start forward, but Flynn held up a hand to halt her, for they could not, even to aid the wounded Oscar, depart from the plan they had so carefully mapped out. Cait Fian would be inside the Palace now, he would be making his cautious way through the great halls to the Sun Chamber. Would they have discovered him yet? Surely they would not, for surely they were all at the West Gate, fighting off the attack?

CuChulainn lay where he had fallen, and Flynn knew from the angle of his head that he was certainly dead. He felt a leaden pain at the thought, and dared not remember how CuChulainn had sung the marching song with them when they marched to Gallan, and how he had forgotten the words of the last verse, and had to be reminded. He dared not think, either, of how CuChulainn had related stories of Ireland’s greatest battles, and of how CuChulainn had always been brave and amiable and entirely loyal.

“Don’t think it,” said Cormac softly, at Flynn’s side. “Think it after the battle — we will all think it then, and we will all mourn. But for now look ahead, Flynn.”

And Flynn, knowing that Cormac was right, turned to where Oscar was still slumped against the wall, but saw, with immense relief that he was managing to rally the Chariot Horses.

Cormac said, “The Horses will not respond to Oscar so well, but they will obey. Oscar will manage.”

Oscar would manage, even though he must be within yards of CuChulainn’s dead body. He would manage because the battle could not be lost, and it certainly could not be lost for the sake of CuChulainn who had loved war, and who had died fighting for his beloved King …

Flynn turned to the hillside and lifted his hand to the twins and Conaire, and at once there was an answering signal, and almost immediately the air was filled with sweeping Eagles and Swans, and there was a great beating of wings on the air as the huge birds swooped down on to Tara’s battlements, flying into the faces of Eochaid Bres’s guards, darting for their victims’ eyes and bringing their massive wings down on their victims’ shoulders.

From his position by the Palace wall, Oscar, dizzy with loss of blood and the heat of the charge, sick at the death of CuChulainn, leaned against the old stone walls, and felt the warmth of the ancient bricks.

“Spiked, by the gods!” he whispered thankfully. “Now then Cormac!” And heard once again the bugle call sound the advance.

Flynn nodded to Cormac, and turned to face the waiting armies. The Wolf pennants fluttered in the breeze, and the horses pawed the ground. Anticipation raced through the ranks, like a wind ruffling the surface of a cornfield.

“TO ARMS!” cried Flynn again, and the last battle charge began.

*

Joanna was aware of nothing other than the wind in her face as they went down the hillside in a single concerted sweep, of her hair streaming wildly out behind her, of the heat and the smoke from the bombarded West Gate, and the furious excitement and the exhilaration of the moment. A fierce joy filled her, and she glanced back over her shoulder as they galloped down and down towards the Bright Palace. She was very nearly at the head of the charge, with Cormac to her left, and Flynn to her right.

Flynn …

There was nothing in his face but the purest concentration; there was certainly very little of the Flynn that Joanna had known in Tugaim. And yet, the man ahead of her was recognisable, and infinitely dear, and Joanna was able to think: Finn! and to remember other battles, exactly like this one, and to remember as well that of course this was how it felt to be swept along by the mighty warrior head of the Fiana, with whole armies thudding down the hillside after you. This was how it felt to ride in a great glorious victory charge, crying death and destruction to Tara’s enemies. This is what I remember! cried Joanna silently. This is what I understand!

Dierdriu and Finn, together again … fighting for Ireland once more …

And we are going to do it! thought Joanna exultantly. We shall win. Down the hillside, across the last stretch. A single clean sweep to victory. And the Wolfking will be restored.

But even as her mind was shaping the thought, she felt the ground begin to heave and shift beneath them, and the horses began to rear and whinny with fear.

Through the smoke and the heat, coming towards them, appeared Macha and Scald-Crow with the Erl-King’s ugly hunchback at their side. From where she had halted, reining in her horse, Joanna heard Macha’s bubbling throaty laugh, and saw Scald-Crow spin and blur and assume several different but equally gruesome forms. Joanna gasped and turned to Cormac, and for a moment, memory shimmered between them: Morrigan’s house, where we were so nearly slaughtered by the Giant Miller, and where we were saved by Pan and his strange beckoning music, and his ability to move in and out and through Time … And then Joanna, like Flynn had, remembered the old adage that you always love those with whom you share a danger, and she knew that she had in truth loved Cormac, and that a part of her would always love him.

Because of what we shared? Or something else? I do not think I shall ever really know, thought Joanna.

But her eyes had gone automatically to Flynn, and as they waited, they saw him galloping hard across the remaining ground, finally bringing his horse up within feet of the three creatures who stood grinning and gesturing.

Flynn was genuinely appalled at the sight of Morrigan’s two sisters. He thought he had never seen them, and then he thought that after all, he knew them very well.

Yes, my dears, we have faced one another before, very like this. And I was the victor that time, and shall be so again!

Macha was holding out her fat white arms, and the ground was cracking and shivering and a great chasm was opening up, cutting off the charging armies. The horses baulked and showed the whites of their eyes, and Flynn stood up in the saddle to urge them on.

“Onwards! Over the ravine!” he shouted. “Before it opens any more! ONWARDS!”

Cormac and Joanna were riding hard at the chasm, spurring on their mounts, but the others were struggling to hold their horses and everywhere people were being thrown to the ground, as the earth continued to shudder and as the ravine widened. Flynn saw Gormgall tumble and go spinning across the undulating earth, and Muldooney fell off his horse and went helter skelter down the hillside, landing headfirst in a muddy ditch. A quiver of amusement touched Flynn’s mind, and he thought: Muldooney going arse over breakfasttime down the hill! But he bit the amusement down, as he saw Muldooney extricate himself from the ditch, and brush himself down, and go plunging off to capture his horse again.

The Cruithin contingent were rallying, Gormgall running to remount, and through the confusion, Flynn thought he saw Domnall and Ullgall re-forming the others.

The chasm was twenty feet across now, a great gaping abyss, and it was so deep that it might very well have been bottomless.

Cormac, bringing his horse alongside Joanna, reached out and took her hand. “Use the cloak!” he cried. “Joanna, use the Nightcloak!”

Joanna cried, “But what is it? What is she doing?”

“She is summoning her monsters from the abyss,” said Cormac, his eyes never leaving the squat, repulsive figure of Macha, who was grinning at them. “And when she has done that, she will call up the Erl-King’s Army of Corpses.”

“But the Erl-King is dead!” cried Joanna.

“His Army will still walk,” said Cormac. “They will walk for Macha and Scald-Crow, for those two have a little of the necromancers’ powers. They can summon the Army of Corpses.”

Joanna shuddered, and Cormac turned to look at her. “Use the Nightcloak!” he said again, his tone peremptory, his eyes flashing.

“No!” said Joanna, and met his eyes squarely and fearlessly and at once, anger flared in Cormac’s eyes.

“Do it!”

“No,” said Joanna again, more quietly. “For if I use it now, then I cannot use it later in the battle.” And then, in anguish, “And there may be a greater need.”

“But if you think that, you may never use it! Joanna, do it!”

“No!” said Joanna, and now it was Dierdriu’s tone and Dierdriu’s imperious voice. “You cannot command me!” said Joanna, and through the smoke and the noise, saw Cormac’s face soften suddenly.

“I never could,” he said gently, and turned again to where Flynn was galloping hard along the ravine, trying to gauge its depth, trying to find a chink in Macha’s dark enchantment.

Clouds of smoke and heat were belching out from the chasm now, but Cormac’s armies had rallied. The unmounted Cruithin, with the people of Cormacston, had already gathered at the brink of the chasm, arrows on the strings of their bows, ready aimed at whatever might arise from the depths; farther along, the Wolves were tense, ready to pounce. Their eyes were showing red, and their expressions were hungry, and Joanna thought: yes, they are hungry for whatever is going to come out of that ravine. They are hungry for the blood of their Master’s enemies …

And then from out of the black abyss, pouring outwards, pouring upwards, spewed forth the ancient malevolence that Cormac’s ancestors had striven to keep out of Tara, and that Bricriu had tried to invite back. The Dark Ireland. The evil underside of the land: twisted and stunted and corrupt, greedy and unwholesome and soulless.

The hags and the banshees and the crones; the harpies with their female heads and greedy taloned bird-bodies; the wraiths who crawled up out of the slime of graveyards to feast on fresh corpses; the giants and the ogres and with them the dread Cyclops, each with a single red eye in the centre of its forehead — the misshapen beings who were the results of forbidden conjoining, half human and half beast, but so dreadfully blended that they were travesties made up out of skin and pelts and claws and teeth and eyes.

Morrigan’s goblin men were there as well, bony-fingered and sharp-featured and red-eyed, swarming across the Plain, dancing and jeering and gesturing obscenely to where Cormac’s armies stood helpless.

And then, “Look there!” cried Cormac. “The Dark Bloodline!” And a shudder of horror went through the watchers.

From Tara’s northern boundaries, from out of the shadow of Tara itself far below them, Bricriu came riding, leading the Dark Bloodline. The vermin and the parasites and the beasts of prey, ugly and warped and greedy, but with a thin trickle of human blood and with the enchanted ancestry bestowed on the beasts by Dierdriu’s sorcerers.

The people of the Weasels and the Giant Rats came; the Spider clan — created by a malevolent necromancer in the days of Niall of the Nine Hostages — tiny and venomous and possessing a sly human cunning; the Vultures and the Jackals and the scaly-skinned Lizard people.

From his commanding position at the head of the chasm, Cormac felt his blood chill. He stood, eyes narrowed, watching the dreadful beings that Bricriu was leading out of Tara, and he thought: so these are the terrible creatures who are the other side of the Ancient Bloodline. These are the creatures who make up the dark underside of my land. And he remembered again the old belief that for every enchantment ever spun, there must always be an opposite.

Bricriu led the creatures of the Dark Bloodline across the Plain to the West Gate where the Chariot Horses and the Deer were still attacking the gates of the Bright Palace. As they neared the massive West Gate, Oscar’s forces seemed to rear and shy away, and Joanna, watching, thought that the Deer and the Chariot Horses were very much afraid.

“But they will fight, nonetheless,” said Cormac softly.

“Will they?”

“Look now,” said Cormac, nodding to the scene below them.

The Deer had recovered and were charging forward, heads lowered, and the Chariot Horses were bunching together for a single concerted onslaught.

“And they cannot be beaten for speed,” said Cormac.

As they watched, a solitary figure detached itself from Bricriu’s armies, and went riding hard across the terrain, crouched low over its mount. Joanna felt Cormac tense, and from within the Cruithin ranks, a low angry murmur reached them.

“Mab.”

As Joanna shaded her eyes to see, the cloaked figure went at full gallop across the Plain, hair whipped into dark smoke by the wind, the turf flying.

“Escaping,” said someone from the Cruithin army — Joanna thought it was Domnall — and then another voice said, “Do we train our archers on her, Sire?”

Cormac turned a look of such black fury on to the speaker, that the owner of the voice trembled and shook in his boots, and began to think he might have done better to have thrown himself into Macha’s ravine.

Cormac said frostily, “It is not in keeping with a High King’s honour to fire at a defenceless woman. It is certainly not for the Ancient Nobility of Ireland to fire arrows on one another. Let her be.”

Gormgall, who never was intimidated by the King, said, “But Sire, she may escape.”

Cormac said, “She will not.” And Gormgall remarked to Muldooney, who happened to be next to him, that say what you liked, Cormac was sometimes foolishly chivalrous. Muldooney nodded sagely, and said that this was very true indeed, and wouldn’t Gormgall look at the likes of those creatures being brought up below them.

“Nasty,” said Gormgall. “I hope we don’t have to join battle with those!”

Muldooney hoped so as well.

Flynn had ridden farther down to where the ravine wound its way into the forest, and he was encouraging Conaire and the twins, who were stationed a little way off. Joanna thought that the air was thick with the Samhailt now. Once or twice, she almost fancied she could actually see it; shafts of pure white light, splitting the air.

Conaire and the twins were responding to Flynn; they were sending the Eagles and the Swans swooping on to the Vultures and the small long-tailed Lizard people, to tear and maim. The Eagles caught up the Lizard people in their talons, and carried them into the centre of the chasm, dropping them into its gaping mouth. The Swans flew at the Cyclops, pecking at the angry red eyes, sending the Cyclops blinded and screaming into chaos, driving them backwards over the edge of the ravine, so that they tottered on the brink, and then hurtled below, their screams piercing the air as they fell.

And then Flynn turned to look to where Cormac waited, and for a moment Joanna actually saw the Samhailt flash between the two of them; a dazzling spear of the purest brilliance she had ever seen, so that for a moment she was completely blinded.

And then she watched Cormac nod, and turn his horse about, and go galloping along the side of the chasm to where the Panthers waited, half crouched; couchant cats, their tails lashing furiously, their eyes slitted and as green and as hard as bits of glass. Joanna held her breath for surely Cormac could not control them …?

“It’s all right, Your Majesty,” said Dubhgall to her from where he was seated quietly nearby.

“Will he control them?”

“Yes,” said Dubhgall. “Watch …”

Cormac had ridden straight into the centre of the Panthers, and at once Cait Fian’s creatures began moving, swift and sleek and sure. Joanna could not quite see what they were doing, but she thought that some kind of rope bridge had been fashioned.

“They are going to bridge the chasm,” said Dubhgall, and now Joanna saw that this was exactly what they were doing.

Two of the Panthers had leapt across the chasm at its narrowest point, in a single fluid movement, the ends of the rope bridge held in their mouths. Several more followed them, their sleek bodies pouring across effortlessly. The first two secured the rough but serviceable rope bridge by means of winding it round and round a tree trunk, while the others fell upon the Weasels and the Jackals.

The Plain begin to ring with the screams of the victims, and blood and gore spattered the ground, and still the Panthers kept on, savaging and tearing and clawing.

Scald-Crow changed shape so fast it was impossible to identify most of the things she became. She was a giant club that bludgeoned Cormac’s creatures to death, and she was a sharp bright sword that hacked limbs and heads. She was a whirling scimitar from the East, and a two-headed axe, and an iron-tipped nine-tailed whip. Everywhere was the fighting of creatures who were neither quite human nor wholly animal, and who used both animal and human methods of attack. They used claws and teeth and talons, but they used fists and swords and clubs as well.

Joanna, knowing that very soon now she must use the Nightcloak, saw a scaly Lizard-man, who walked upright but possessed a lizard’s head and reptile eyes and a long slithery tail, smash a Panther’s head to splinters, chuckling as he did so. And at once, the goblin men were there, singing the song of Muileann, slitting the panther’s fur and skinning it, until there was only a wet, near-formless mass of red raw flesh, and stringy muscle and bone and grinning white skull.

“Skins for the floors, boys, skins for the floors. That’s the way. And into the fire with the meat, boys. Over the edge.” They rolled and pulled and dragged the skinned Panther, until they toppled it into the abyss, and Joanna saw a tongue of flame belch upwards, and smelled the odour of roasting meat.

“Burning up nicely,” said the goblin men, rubbing their hands together. “Frizzling away. Where’s another one?”

They lined up close to the rope bridge and stood waiting, grinning and beckoning. “Over you come, my dears, over you come! That’s the way. And down you’ll go, my dears, down you’ll go! Skin them and burn them and there’ll be rugs for the floors, boys, and flesh for the fire. But what do we do with the hides? There’s nothing so fine as a human skin beneath your feet of a cold winter’s night. Over you come, my dears, and we’ll have your hides!”

Flynn at once stopped the Panthers in their headlong flight, for although the Panthers were snarling and lashing their tails, and although they would certainly have leapt at the throats of the goblins, there were far too many of the goblins and other creatures for them to have had much effect. The Dark Armies were infinitely more powerful, and there were too many of them …

He stood looking at Macha and Scald-Crow and the hunchback and the goblin men, and he remembered all the things that Joanna had told him about Morrigan, and the things she had suffered. A tremendous anger surged up inside him, and he leapt from his horse, and began to run straight at the rope bridge. He would stalk these miserable, wicked, jeering creatures and smash them to pulp. He would tear their hearts from their bodies and fling them into the ravine. He bound on to the rope bridge, holding his sword aloft, and stood midway along, suspended across the chasm, the bridge swaying a little beneath him, his eyes brilliant, and his hair whipped into disarray.

“Well?” cried Flynn, brandishing his sword. “Well, my little men? Shall not a one of you try his strength against me? Which of you will fight me?” He moved closer now. “Come now, for there are so many of you and only one of me! A challenge!” He began to walk across the rope bridge, deliberately and slowly, and the goblin men hesitated, and glanced at one another from the corners of their slanting red eyes.

“Flesh for the fire?” said Flynn tauntingly, and took several steps nearer. And now the goblin men did back away, there was no doubt about it. Joanna stood very still, because at any minute they might spring, and at any minute one of the lizard creatures might easily leap on Flynn and hurl him into the depths of the chasm. And then the dreadful thick oily smoke would billow out and the flames would shoot upwards, and Flynn would be flesh for the fire and skin for the floor, and if that should happen, there would be nothing ever again anywhere …

“Joanna, the Nightcloak!” cried Cormac, but still Joanna hesitated. And yet — what could be more precious than Flynn? cried her mind in silent anguish. What could be more needful than to save Flynn?

And at once the answer: to save Ireland!

I cannot do it for Flynn alone! thought Joanna in agony. It must be to the good of all of us! But she grasped a fold of the cloak and felt its response at once, and felt a distant comfort.

Flynn was barely conscious of danger. He was filled with energy and strength; he thought he could have fought the Dark Armies single-handed and won, and he saw with exultation, the goblin men’s retreat.

“Flesh for the fire!” cried Flynn, advancing on them. “Come now, who is to prove that! Who is to stop me from taking Tara back for the rightful High King!”

“We shall,” said a soft, throaty, chuckling voice close by, and Flynn turned to see Macha, and Scald-Crow close behind her, grinning horribly and assuming the form of a great bloated worm with soft pulsating skin and blind white stalks for eyes.

“I shall spit you like so much roasting meat, madam,” said Flynn, and Scald-Crow laughed and turned at once into the semblance of a half-cooked side of meat, one side succulent and pink, the other rotten, a mass of weaving maggots.

“We shall stop you,” said Macha again, and as she spoke, the hunchback came scuttling out of the smoke and Flynn stopped dead in his tracks, for shambling in the hunchback’s wake were beings more terrible even than those he had yet seen.

Rotting skeletons; decaying corpses with flesh still clinging to their bones; eyeless skulls with grinning lipless mouths and tattered blackened skin; flesh oozing with corruption and swollen with graveyard gasses: the Erl-King’s Army of Corpses.

Flynn made to lunge forward, but the corpses were moving against him, and the stench rose up to meet him, filling his nostrils, so that nausea threatened to overpower him, and for a moment he put up his hand to shield his senses from the sight and the stench.

Macha said, “Yes, Flynn. The Erl-King’s Army of Corpses. Waiting to be called. Waiting to devour those who killed their Master.” She moved nearer. “Did you really think your puny Wolfking and his lady could slay the Erl-King and our beloved sister, and live?”

“Wait until you have felt the embrace of the corpses,” said Scald-Crow, grinning. “Wait until they have clasped you to their rotting bodies, and wait until the filth of them has oozed and run out over your skin.”

“Wait until they are swarming all over you,” said Macha. The hunchback was grinning and plying his whip, and Flynn saw, with a kind of pitying horror, the skeletons cringe and put up their fleshless hands to protect themselves. He thought that he had never seen anything so truly dreadful and so pitiable. “I could not look away,” he was to say afterwards. “I was horrified and sickened and repulsed beyond anything I had ever known. But I could not look away.”

The corpses were closing in — In another minute they will have reached me, thought Flynn. I shall have to retreat … Surely to stand in the face of these creatures is more than any one can endure …

But behind him were the High King’s armies, and behind him was Joanna. If I once submit to them, they will be over the ravine and on to Cormac’s armies, he thought. They will fasten on to the bodies of our people. Disgust filled him, but, I will not let them do it, he thought. I will stand and fight them, one by one, and they will have to defeat me. If I retreat now, thought Flynn, I shall have let in the Dark Armies, and then we are all lost and Ireland is lost and Tara is forever beyond our reach.

He took a firmer grip on his sword, and stood on the precariously swaying rope bridge watching the terrible Army of Corpses driven nearer by the hunchback. He saw that Macha and Scald-Crow were advancing. To go forward would be suicide, and to go back … To go back is defeat, thought Flynn. To go back is to betray Cormac.

He stood firm, and saw Macha throw back her head, laugh and stretch out a hand, and at once the heat began to glow again from the abyss. Heat rises, thought Flynn wildly. Heat rises, and when the heat reaches the rope bridge it will burn.

Within minutes, he might be cast into the abyss, and when that happened, the Dark Ireland would swarm and fall upon Cormac’s armies, and the true Ireland would be once and forever lost.

But at least, thought Flynn, I shall die fighting.

*

Joanna had barely been aware of the moment when Flynn leapt forward to challenge Macha, Scald-Crow and the hunchback. Her whole attention was concentrated on the Nightcloak, and on whether it could help them. Could it? Supposing she called on it and found it impotent? This was a terrifying notion, and Joanna banished it at once.

And the Nightcloak never has been impotent, my dear …

But the cloak had been used against Morrigan, and the Erl-King already; what if that counted, and what if it meant it had no power against Morrigan’s sisters and against the Erl-King’s hunchback? What if, thought Joanna, it is not strong enough?

It was the most awful thought. And the trouble is, thought Joanna, the trouble is, that once you have thought a thing, it is there with you. She knew — of course she did — that the Nightcloak would be strong and that it would call down the nightmares of her enemies. But still, “what if,” thought Joanna.

To call on the cloak and find it useless against the enemy would be the most crushing blow of all. Joanna thought she could not bear it, and she thought that if there was another escape, another way to aid Flynn, then she would use it.

And then she turned her head slightly and found that she was looking straight at the forest. Deep within her mind, something stirred …

*

Moving within the Sleeping Trees was a curious and rather unsettling experience. Joanna was no longer sure why she was here, or why she had come running from the battlefield but as she came into the dimness of the forest, she suddenly felt no sense of doubt. This was right, this was what had to be done.

She thought that Dierdriu was with her more strongly and more completely than ever before, and she had the sensation of hands pulling her deeper and deeper into the forest.

Where to? Where am I going? There was a ruffle of sweetness and amusement and courage that was Dierdriu, and Joanna stood very still and said aloud: “Of course! We are going to wake the Sleeping Trees!”

A ripple of amusement stirred the air. What else? said Dierdriu.

How?

You will see, my dear …

That is all very well, thought Joanna, that is all very well indeed, but what must I do! I don’t know what I must do! And despite the danger for Flynn — oh please let Flynn be safe! — despite all the urgency, there was amusement at what she was doing. Hadn’t there been old songs — Lethe or earlier? — about people talking to trees? Was one supposed to stand in the clearing and say politely, “Please wake up”? Well, this is quite certainly ridiculous! thought Joanna, standing beneath the trees and surveying them. Because I don’t know what to say, and I definitely don’t know what to do, and I am not at all sure that to wake an entire forest of trees is going to be very helpful or even particularly safe …

And then from the far side of the clearing, on the outer rim of her vision, she caught a blur of movement, and she turned sharply, narrowing her eyes.

A flash of scarlet, a glimpse of horns … three-cornered features … It was possible, of course, for one’s eyes to deceive one — but I believe I am seeing him truly, thought Joanna. Pan, the shepherd god, the god of music and love and wine, moving quietly in between the trees.

A great joy filled Joanna, and she cried aloud with delight and went running forward.

He was sitting cross-legged beneath a tree, the silver pipes held to his lips, and his hair clustering in tight little curls about his beautiful narrow skull. There was the faint translucency to his skin that Joanna remembered, and there was the wisdom and the knowledge and the mischief in his eyes that she had seen before.

Pan smiled, and Joanna saw that it was the “what fools these mortals be” smile, but saw as well that he was watching her with affection.

Joanna said, rather breathlessly, “The trees —”

“Waken them,” said Pan.

“How?”

Pan smiled again. “Human Child, you are very stupid.”

“But I don’t know how!” said Joanna loudly and rather crossly. “Tell me.”

“They will waken for you if you want them to strongly enough,” said Pan. “Have you not yet learned that you may have anything you want, if only you want it sufficiently.” He tilted his head to one side, regarding her, “The Trees will almost certainly turn the tide of the battle,” he said.

And then Cormac will be restored and Ireland will be safe …

“I do want it,” said Joanna. And then, as Pan continued to look at her, with his eyes full of gentleness and humour and wisdom, “Help me,” said Joanna.

Pan looked at her thoughtfully, and after a moment, he said, “Did I not tell you that I should be here when you least expected it?” And then, without pausing, he said, “And since you have sufficient faith, Human Child, I think I may help you.”

He lifted the silver pipes to his lips and began to play.

The awakening was so slow and so gradual that it was very nearly imperceptible. But the Trees were waking; there was no question about it, their branches were moving and their leaves were sighing in the wind, and Joanna thought that to stand here like this and see them and hear them and feel them waken was the most beautiful thing in the world.

And there was the music, Pan’s music. Joanna thought that even the Mindsong, the great Beckoning that Cormac had sent out at Scáthach could not equal this. It was light and elusive and faint, icicle-on-glass, frost against a window-pane.

When Pan stopped, Joanna felt as if something had died, but then he took her hand and smiled at her, and said very gently, “The Trees are with us, Joanna.”

“So they are,” she whispered.

*

The massive wave of life broke through the Forest of Darkness, and the Trees began to surge forward towards the battle that was raging.

As they moved, the Dark Armies faltered, and then fell back, and Cormac turned and stared, and felt something so intense and so tender clutch his heart that tears sprang to his eyes.

The Forest was alive; it was a huge dark seething mass, rushing over the hillside. Cormac could see Joanna amongst the Trees, her hair flying in the wind, the Nightcloak streaming out behind her. For a moment he thought there was someone with her — slender and slight and faintly alien — and then he was not sure. But he could see the half-faces of the Trees now, he could see the nearly recognisable features, and he thought that the Trees had the faces of an ancient and implacable vengeance. They are going to crush the enemy, thought Cormac. They are merciless and rather terrible, and I think I am a little afraid of them.

But he knew that Joanna had awakened them, and then he thought: No! Not Joanna! Dierdriu! And then he wondered was there really any difference?

Flynn had moved back from the rope bridge: “In retreat,” he said later, but, “No!” said Cormac. “You had held them back for long enough for the Trees to come to life again. You had won your battle, Flynn!”

Flynn stood watching the onset of life among the Trees, hearing the rushing sound as they crossed the Plain; a great susurration of leaves and branches and boughs. He caught, as Cormac had, a glimpse of the Trees’ inner spirits, and he knew that the old legends had not, after all, lied. Here were the dryads and the naiads and the tree-nymphs, beautiful and solemn and wise.

Cormac moved at last; he made a sweeping movement with one hand, and shouted, “Back! Back all of you! Out of their path! Let them go on, let them destroy the Dark Armies!” and the Cruithin and the Bloodline and the people of

Cormacston at once tumbled over each other to be out of the way of the Trees. Muldooney, who had been standing with his mouth open, fell over his feet and tumbled into a ditch again, and had to be pulled out by Dubhgall.

Flynn, who was standing with Cormac now, said softly:

“‘I will not be afraid of death and bane

Till Birnam Forest come to Dunsinane.’”

And frowned, for the words were unfamiliar — and yet I know them for a fragment of the future and of the past, he thought.

The Trees had reached the chasm, and the roots and great solid trunks bridged it with ease. As the Dark Armies fell back, the Trees were upon them, crushing and rending, the slender birchlike tree-spirits fully emerged now, pouring out on to the enemy, fastening on to the hags and the harpies and the wraiths, subduing them with ease and flinging them into the chasm.

A strong straight beech had stretched across the ravine and, for a moment, they saw its spirit hovering, red-gold and supple and strong.

“Come across, Sire!” cried the tree-spirit, in what Joanna afterwards thought of as a warm woodsy voice that made you think of pine-scented forests and burning apple logs and the clean smell of sawdust in a workshop. “Come across, Son of the Wolves, and rout the filth!”

Cormac’s armies rallied, and as Flynn moved forward, Dubhgall sounded the attack. Flynn looked at Cormac and smiled, and Cormac said, “Proceed, if you will,” and Flynn began to walk across the chasm, hideous now with the bodies of victims. Tongues of flame shot upwards from time to time.

“They have touched the earth’s core,” said the birch naiad, “and for all who are flung into the Pit, there will be no rescue.”

Flynn stood on the other side of the yawning abyss, and waited, and Cormac led the armies across. At once the Wolves and the Beasts fell upon the Dark Bloodline, biting and savaging; the Trees seized on what remained of Macha’s creatures, breaking the spines of the harpies and crushing the grey malevolent hags. The fire from the abyss roared upwards, and the Plain was lit to red and orange life, a seething mass of fighting humans and animals.

At length, the Trees turned their attention to the Erl-King’s Army of Corpses, and a sudden gentleness descended on them. A great oak, who seemed to lead the others, moved, and they saw the oak-naiad, ancient and wise and with the domed forehead of a thinker and a scholar.

The naiad spoke. “Into the Abyss with you also. But you will find release.” He moved, and several slender, rather beautiful silver birches moved with him, and the Corpses turned about and walked submissively over the edge, their hands held palms upwards in the age-old gesture of supplication and submission, their sightless eyes lifted to the skies.

A profound silence fell upon the Plain …

The Trees stood in a half-circle about Cormac, their boughs bent in obeisance, for a long time. Nobody broke the silence, for, as Sean said afterwards, what was there to say? And all knew that the High King must be the first to address the awakened Trees.

Cormac made no ceremony. “He never did,” said Sean, who would have enjoyed a bit of pomp now and again.

“He doesn’t need to,” rejoined Dubhgall.

Cormac simply looked at the Trees, and after a long while, nodded his head. “You are timely come,” he said. “Without you, the battle would have been lost,” and the formal, rather archaic words suited the occasion very well.

The oak said, “We owe you obeisance, Cormac, and we are your most loyal servants,” and Cormac smiled.

“I welcome your awakening,” he said, and again the words had the ring of ritual about them.

“Well, it is a sort of ritual,” said Sean to Gormgall. “For the Trees have their own language.”

The oak bowed again, his trunk nearly, but not quite recognisable as a face, but the ancient wise form of the naiad still just discernible. “It is the Lady Dierdriu who called to us,” said the naiad. “Only she could awaken us, for it was she who sent us into the Enchanted Slumber in order that we should not fall into the power of the Evil One of the Walled City.”

And he turned to where Joanna stood quietly watching, and made again the deep bow.

*

Cait Fian had taken the Sun Chamber and its occupants with such speed and with such ease that, as Sean later said, it was very nearly insulting to Bricriu’s army.

It was particularly insulting to Eochaid Bres, who had been told about the invasion, but had not paid very much attention to it.

“A small matter, Sire,” Bricriu had said. “Your House Guard will deal with it quite easily.”

The House Guard had not dealt with it easily, in fact they had not dealt with it at all. Cormac’s supporters rampaged through the Palace in the wake of Cait Fian and the Panthers, and from all that Eochaid Bres could hear through the closed door of the Sun Chamber, the Panthers were having a high old time. He had chosen the Sun Chamber as a refuge — “Not,” he had said to Bricriu, “to hide from the attack, you understand,” — and Bricriu had said, “Of course not,” and had gone off to issue orders to somebody somewhere. Eochaid had let him get on with it, because an invasion of Tara was not something he had been prepared for.

“We’re none of us ever prepared for anything here,” said Phineas the Gatekeeper, drawing up the West Gate as he was told. But he cast a hopeful eye to the Plain and Cormac’s armies, because wouldn’t it be altogether grand to see the Wolfking come rampaging back!

Eochaid sat in the Sun Chamber by himself, and thought rather pettishly that it was too bad of them all to leave him like this, with no word of what was going on. Anything might be happening out there. Cait Fian and his terrible Panthers might have murdered every living soul in the Palace, and be now lying in wait for Eochaid himself. He supposed he ought to just go out to take a look, but he was not so curious that he was going to risk meeting up with the Panthers. One had to be realistic. And he was the King — or so far as he knew he was, because all manner of revolutions might have taken place by this time. Still, Kings had duties, and one of those duties was to preserve themselves. Eochaid decided to preserve himself by remaining safely in the Sun Chamber until it was safe to go out.

He was just thinking that it all seemed very quiet, and wondering could be find himself a bite of supper, when Cait Fian, with half a dozen Panthers at his heels, opened the door and stood smiling in at him.

Eochaid Bres, who knew that you had to be practical when the opposing forces were stronger than you were, said simply:

“I surrender.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Tara and the restoration of the legendary Wolfline to the Bright Palace is told in loving and lyrical detail by Amairgen the Blind in his famous epic poem, “The Road to the High Throne.”

From it, scholars and historians of a later age have recreated with ease the immense pageantry and the spectacles which surrounded the exiled King’s return, and from it they have been able to understand, in part at least, the overwhelming joy that the people expressed on that day.

It was a day for singing and dancing and laughter; it was a day for exulting and for thanking the gods for Cormac’s return. It was a day to obtain, by whatever means were to hand, a place near to Tara’s West Gate, for it was there that the High King would make the ceremonious re-entry.

The excitement began at dawn, although older people said with tolerant good humour, that in some quarters it began even sooner. Certainly a great many people did not go to bed on the night before the King’s re-entry, and equally certainly a great many more did not go to bed on the night after it either, or at least not to their own beds, which amounted to nearly the same thing.

The streets were lined with people, and the music and the feasting began long before the King’s procession could be expected. None of it mattered in the least, for weren’t they all so delighted that they could keep up the celebrating all day? While there was music to be played and wine to be drunk, it would not matter if the King did not appear until the Purple Hour.

And then the first notes of the King’s musicians were heard, away to the west, and everyone craned his neck and jostled for a better position, and several people straightened the tubs of flowers, and everyone began cheering, for weren’t they going to give the Wolfking the finest old welcome that ever a High King of Ireland was given! Long reign to His Majesty and death to all usurpers!

And then, quite suddenly, he was there, riding quietly at the head of his armies and the leaders of the great Bloodlines of Ireland, and so calm and so unassuming was he, and yet so entirely and so absolutely a King, that for a moment a great hush fell on the crowds as he came into the City. And then every person present, quite without warning, surely without realising, placed his hand on his heart in the ancient symbolic Oath of Allegiance; the Oath that Eochaid Bres had tried to make compulsory but had never managed to.

The people rose in a single solid movement then, and cheering, wild and uninhibited, broke out. Cormac looked at them all and lifted his hand in a gesture that was completely lacking in ceremony, but that was a ceremony in itself, and thought: this is surely the equal of that moment I knew on the Plain of the Fál? Isn’t it? I ought to be feeling proud and strong and great, he thought, and wondered a little that he felt only rather humble and strangely empty. He thought that perhaps it was because the moment of purest happiness had already occurred, and that you could not have two moments like that, not in one lifetime, and certainly not within a few days of each other.

But he knew that the emptiness and the unaccustomed humility sprang from something much deeper and much more complex.

I have come so close to losing Ireland to the Dark Forces, that it is possible that I shall never feel safe again.

He looked at the wildly cheering people and at the bright eyes and the laughing lips and the waving hands, and thought: oh, my poor people, will you ever know how close the Ancient Evil came to us? And will you ever forgive me for so nearly losing Tara forever?

They would forgive him, of course, because they loved him — he had never understood quite why, but he knew that they did. Because he came of the old unbroken Royal line? Did they love him in spite of his faults, or because of them? A smile touched his lips at that, because for sure the people knew those faults.

They would love him and cheer him, and they would tell tales of him, long into the night; they would recount the great Wolfking’s triumphant return to the Bright Palace. Cormac smiled, because the tales would lose nothing in the telling. They would form a few more strands in the folklore of Ireland.

He glanced behind him to where Amairgen was riding quietly in the procession, with Portan at his side. Amairgen would certainly write something splendid and moving and lyrical about today, thought Cormac. He would conjure up the marvellous magical moments, and he would create songs and poems that would live long after him. They would all be created in his head, and Portan would write them all down and so they would be preserved. Cormac, who could remember the dazzling Court of his own father, and the later, lively Court he himself had presided over, thought that it was true that great scholars and poets were nearly always linked in history with the Kings they had served. He would not use the word “serve” in relation to Amairgen, for Amairgen would call no man master, but he thought that in years to come, people would remember that Amairgen had lived in the reign of the Wolfking. Would Amairgen stay at Scáthach? wondered Cormac, and although the memory of his lonely hopeless years inside Scáthach still made him flinch, he thought that Amairgen and Portan would no doubt turn the grim fortress into something warm and welcoming and sunlit.

Joanna and Flynn rode directly behind Cormac, and Joanna knew a deep happiness.

“I felt a fraud,” said Flynn afterwards, but Joanna knew that he had been very much moved.

“And you?” said Flynn.

“I had come home,” said Joanna very quietly.

The Cruithin had enjoyed the procession, although Gormgall had nearly wept at the King’s refusal to have any ceremony.

“The plainest of breeches,” he said. “And all he would wear in the way of regalia was the thin gold circlet of Niall of the Nine Hostages!”

“And even that he took off the minute he got inside the Palace,” put in Dubhgall.

The Bloodline had ridden directly behind Flynn, solemn and correct, richly garbed. At the head of them, Cait Fian led CuChulainn’s favourite black mare, caparisoned in the colours of CuChulainn’s line. Sean had written a lament, “The Riderless Horse,” and there was going to be a proper ceremony of remembrance later on, so that they could all render the proper homage to CuChulainn.

“I wish I hadn’t been so impatient with him before we went into battle,” said Conaire.

“He’d understand,” said Oscar.

“I know he would. That’s not the point,” said Conaire.

Etain had been at Cait Fian’s side, which had momentarily distracted Sean from CuChulainn’s riderless horse. “There’ll be a Declaration there before long,” he said. “And very nice too.”

Muldooney, bringing up the rear, had found it all rather overwhelming. He knew about Cormac being a king — Dubhgall had explained it to him — but he had not really visualised the homage and the delight of Cormac’s people when their King returned to them. He had certainly never envisaged anything like Tara, because nothing like Tara had ever come his way. He found it, truth to tell, a bit overpowering, and the radiance gave him something of a headache. Still, wasn’t this what they had all fought for — Muldooney had surely not been lacking in courage when it came to the battle! — and wouldn’t they all enjoy it to the full. He joined in the cheers as Cormac rode in through the West Gate, and was later very much delighted to be given an important place at table when they all sat down to a grand feast.

“But you were a part of it as much as any of us,” said Gormgall, and Muldooney said that this was very true indeed, and would there be a bite more of roast boar, since all that riding in processions and cheering gave a man a fine healthy appetite.

Seated at the great table in the marble Banqueting Hall Cormac looked across at Joanna and smiled. “Do you recognise it, lady?” he said softly, and Joanna looked about her, at the colours and the light and the dazzling brilliant Court. There was music and laughter and the rich scents of foodstuffs, and the exotic perfumes of the people of the Court. Joanna sat back and looked at it all, and for some reason, Pan’s words came back to her.

“I am Love and Gaiety and Wine and Laughter and Revelry. And although you will sometimes have to look hard to find me, remember that I am to be found in every world and in every century.”

I do not see him, thought Joanna, but I believe he is here, all the same. Just as he was there to rescue us from the Miller, and just as he woke the Trees with his beautiful eerie music.

Cormac was watching her. He said, “It is yours, you know — this place.”

Medchuarta … the heart and the soul and the centre of Tara. Did I coax this from the sorcerers? wondered Joanna. Did I once live here and did I once die here, and did I rule creatures like this, half human, and unpredictable and wild? In another life and in another world …

She said carefully, “I think it is no longer mine, Cormac. I think it is yours now.”

For my task is accomplished, and I must go home …

The thought came quick like a knife, and — surely this is my home! cried Joanna silently. But she smiled, and said, “Let us talk of other things for tonight.”

And for a few tomorrows as well, for I cannot yet bear to think of leaving.

*

Cormac walked into the Sun Chamber and drew a deep breath. Now I am home. Now I am once more in the place I was born to. Medchuarta. The heart and the soul and the core. He sat on the great gilded throne — the throne that had once belonged to Dierdriu of the Nightcloak and to the great Nuadu Airgetlam, and to Niall of the Nine Hostages. Yes, I am home.

He waited for the despair and the agonies and the shackles of the years of his exile to fall away; for, thought Cormac, surely this is the place where all will be healed and where all will have been worthwhile.

But the shackles were still there, like a faint bruise on his mind, and he thought that after all the road back to Tara had been a long and arduous one. Too many losses. Too much pain.

And I should never have succeeded if Joanna had not been with me.

He shook himself as if to clear the images, and moved to the door. The guards sprang to attention at once, and Cormac smiled inwardly. Have I missed this? This instant, unthinking obedience? But he knew that he had missed it; it was everything he had been bred to and it was everything that he had grown accustomed to. I do not demand it, neither do I compel it, but still it is there for me, no matter.

The guards were waiting, looking at him with respect and interest, and at length, Cormac said, “Tell them to bring up the prisoner.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The captain hesitated. “Alone, Sire?”

Cormac said, “Quite alone. I do not think I shall be in any danger.”

But all of his senses were alert as he resumed his seat; he thought that there was not truly any danger, but he knew, within himself, that there was danger of a sort. He had loved Mab to the edge of madness; he had been willing to outface them all and place her by his side.

And together we would have made Ireland great.

Would they? He was no longer the helplessly romantic boy; he was no longer the young man who had loved Mab and believed that he could outface the world for her sake. And you were greedy, Mab! cried his mind. Once you could have shared it all with me; once I would have given you half my kingdom.

But you wanted it all, my dear. You wanted the power and the glory, and once you had it, you would have found it empty, for the power is the power of a straw man, and the glory is only the reflection of Tara itself.

The power and the glory do not work, Mab, unless the people love you.

And then, as he heard the footsteps approach, panic seized him. He thought: it has been so long. How shall I bear it if she has aged and greyed? How shall I stand it if she is defeated and cowed? He knew that his own soldiers had captured her very quickly indeed; that mad headlong flight had availed her nothing, as Cormac had known it would. He knew that she had not resisted; only that she had submitted to them with arrogance and disdain, they had not even had to chain her.

And I could not have borne to have seen her chained and defeated.

A low laugh spilled into the room. “Oh Cormac,” said Mab softly, “how could you think I would ever be defeated or cowed?” And she stood looking at him from the door.

Cormac stayed where he was — for I am the Wolfking returned, madam, and I am the High King of all Ireland, and I will have from you the homage I can command!

He watched her and saw that she was as beautiful as he remembered, and as desirable as he remembered. And saw, as well, with infinite relief, that he no longer wanted her: because I have loved Joanna since then? Yes, perhaps. And perhaps, after all, it was never intended that Mab and I should be together.

A great gentleness filled him, but he did not yet know it for the gentleness of a still-young man towards an older woman he has ceased to desire. And she is changed, said his mind. She is not aged — impossible! — but the fires do not burn quite so fiercely as they once did.

At length, he said, “Are you older and wiser, Mab?”

The reply came promptly. “Neither, Sire.”

He smiled. “I am glad. Never change, my dear. I should wish to remember you as always young and forever headstrong.”

Fear showed in her eyes. “I am to be executed?”

“No.”

“Ah. It is the traditional punishment …”

“Yes. And Bricriu will receive it. But after what we were to one another …” This time the pause was painful. Cormac said in a low voice, “I cannot send you out to die, Mab. But I must send you away.”

This time the silence was much longer, but Cormac waited, watching her. Finally Mab said, “So. It is to be exile.”

“It will be a luxurious exile, my dear.”

“Better than the one I condemned you to?”

“Infinitely better,” said Cormac.

“You are generous, Sire,” said Mab, her tone bitter.

Cormac, feeling her pain, said, “Mab, I have no choice! You led the rebellion that deposed me and you instigated it!” He moved from the throne and began to pace the Sun Chamber restlessly. “You placed your son on my throne, and for that I should pronounce the High Execution over you!” He stopped and looked at her. “Only I cannot do it, Mab,” he said in a voice of extreme tenderness. “We missed each other in time, my dear, and now, for Ireland’s sake, you must leave Tara.”

“What of Eochaid Bres?”

“He may go with you.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “Not the High Execution?”

“No.”

She studied him. “They will say you are mad.”

“They have said it more than once in the past.”

“Am I to be placed under any restraint?”

“No. You are banished and Eochaid Bres with you. But I make no stipulations.”

A smile curved her lips. “Oh Cormac,” she said softly, “you may live to wish you had made the pronouncement of Execution after all. How do you know I shall not ride against you again? How do you know I shall not try to take your throne from you a second time?”

Cormac looked at her, and without warning, a flame kindled in his eyes. “I don’t know it,” he said softly. “Would you do it, Mab? Find some poor ambitious wretch, as you did with Bricriu, and set up a Pretender again? Plunge Ireland into intrigues and civil war again?” He studied her thoughtfully. “Admit it Mab, just between us. Admit that I am the rightful High King.”

Mab said, “Between us, Cormac, in the privacy of the Sun Chamber, I admit it. Because of what we once were to one another, I admit your right to the Ancient Throne.

“But I shall never admit it in private again, Cormac. I shall defy you in public and challenge your right to Tara.”

“And,” said Cormac, watching her, “raise an army against me again?”

The smile widened. “Wait and see, High King,” said Mab.

“Wait and see.”

*

But if Cormac had missed Mab in time — by ten years? fifteen? — by how much had he missed Joanna? By centuries and by millennia, and by whole worlds, said his mind. For Joanna did not belong in his world, nor he in hers. Losing Joanna now would be the cruellest wrench of them all, but he knew that he would summon the sorcerers to pull aside the Time Curtain, and Joanna and Flynn would go back to their strange harsh world.

And I shall be left here with nothing.

You have Tara, said his mind.

But it will be empty if Joanna is not there with me.

Or would it? Something at the back of his mind moved forward into the light — and in the light, waited for his consideration. An idea? An intuition? Or something stronger?

The wolf-smile touched his lips.

*

Joanna said, “I cannot bear to leave. Cormac, I cannot.”

“But you will do so. My dear, you must.”

Task accomplished … there it was again, an unwanted thought.

Cormac looked at her, and thought: oh my love, if only you did not have to go. If only I could keep you here with me. But aloud he said, “You will return with Flynn.”

Flynn … Delight rose in Joanna’s heart. Flynn and the old stone farmhouse … She would walk the hillsides of Tugaim with Flynn, and there would be memories everywhere. There would be the Glowing Lands, and she would look at them and know that just beyond them, on the other side of the sheet of light, lay this ancient enchanted land. Yes, she would be able to feel that Cormac was not so very far away, after all.

And so when Cormac said again, more firmly this time, “You will go back, Joanna,” she gave a deep sigh and said, “Yes.”

“It is your place, Human Child,” said Cormac, and Joanna, in sudden agony, thought: he is withdrawing from me. He no longer has use for me, for I have helped him to regain his throne.

He felt the thought at once, of course, and reached for her hand. “No,” he said. “Never that. But for you — and Flynn — to be out of your own time for too long is dangerous. I cannot explain — perhaps the sorcerers can — but it is very wrong to tamper with time, Joanna. And perhaps there are things in your own world that you must do. Things that await you. Things you are meant to complete there.” He looked at her, his head on one side, and Joanna felt all over again the strange wild beauty that had beckoned to her at Scáthach.

She said, “To leave you — after all that has been between us —” and Cormac smiled at her very gently.

“Listen,” he said, “we will roll up the memories, Human Child, and we will store away what we have had, because it can never really be lost to us. And one day, a little way in the future, we will be able to unwrap our memories and lay them out. What we have had will not die because we shall not let it. I shall unwrap the memories of you, not once, but many times in the years ahead, and every memory will be sweet-scented and wholly precious. And in time, I shall be able to enjoy the memories without pain and with deep happiness.” He took her face in his hands. “I shall never regret any of it Joanna,” said Cormac, “and you will never be truly gone from my mind.”

Joanna leaned against him and felt tears on her cheeks, but she did not think they were her tears.

“And also,” said Cormac very softly, “also, for you it will be easier. For you will have the child.”

And then, as Joanna started, and drew back, “Won’t you?” said Cormac.

Joanna said, “When did you guess?”

“Am I right?”

“Yes,” said Joanna in a whisper.

*

Flynn sat opposite to Amairgen and Portan in the firelit hall of Scáthach and saw how the leaping flames lit Amairgen’s face to gentle radiance. He thought that for Amairgen this was home now; this was his place.

But isn’t it my place also? Have I not, also, come home? With the winning of the battle and restoring of Cormac, undreamed-of memories had come alive for Flynn. When Amairgen had said to him, “You are Finn of the Fiana again,” he had not fully believed it; now he did believe it. Now he knew himself alive and charged with an energy and a confidence so great that he felt he could ransack cities and storm citadels and ride out at the head of great armies.

As I did once before in another life and in another world …

The words hovered unspoken, but Flynn saw Amairgen’s head come up and he saw the sudden awareness in the tilt of Amairgen’s whole body. He thought: something has struck a very deep chord in him, and when Amairgen spoke, he knew he had been right.

“Finn of the Fiana returned. Yes, I feel it in you more strongly now than ever before.” He leaned forward and without warning, a soft, faint, far-off wind stirred the quiet of Scáthach’s stone hall. Flynn felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, and for a moment the figure of the great warrior Finn was there with them, whipcord-strong, tall and slender and straight. Dierdriu’s champion, the High King’s paladin. Fighter and lover and scholar and leader. And how do I know all that about him? But he did know it, and he heard echoing down the centuries the cries of victory and the sounds of the immense armies of Tara riding out under Finn’s command.

Flynn blinked and the fire burned up and the figure blurred and then was gone. Flynn was shaken, but he turned to Amairgen, still seated quietly in his corner.

“Yes it was real,” said Amairgen without moving. “I saw it also, Flynn, not with my outer vision, but with an inner one. And I could not call into being that which had never had existence.”

Flynn said, “You called up —”

Amairgen leaned forward and touched Flynn’s forehead. “Finn was your ancestor, Flynn. His blood is still in you, and his memories are still in your heart. I drew on those memories.” He fell silent, and Flynn felt the strength of him and the emotions and the love flow outwards. When Amairgen spoke, Flynn already knew what he was going to say.

“Do you remember,” said Amairgen, “the night we agreed to go through the Time Curtain, you and I?”

“Yes,” said Flynn, and he thought: I remember, and nothing, not wild horses, would have stopped me going in after Joanna … And he remembered, as well, the moonlight and the mystery of the night, the aching loneliness for Joanna gone beyond their reach.

“You placed yourself under my authority then, Flynn. You are still under it.”

Flynn did not speak.

“I am still the Leader of the Great Council of the Keepers,” said Amairgen, “and as such I may expect from you obedience.” He smiled. “And that, my dear, goes uneasily with you, I think. Finn of the Fiana would not bow to the authority of another, and neither will you.” He leaned back in his chair. “We vowed to return, you and I.”

Unless death or mutilation should prevent us … The words formed themselves on to the silence, and Flynn waited. He thought: but I cannot go back. I belong here.

And with that thought, came another: you must go back. You promised.

Even though I made that promise in another world, and in another life?

Even then.

But I did not know how it would be! cried Flynn in silent anguish. I did not know what I would find here! Surely a promise made under such circumstances —

But a promise is a promise, said his mind sternly. You do not qualify a promise. You do not say, “I promise, but only if this does not happen or that.” You do not promise and then discover extenuating circumstances when the time comes to make the promise good. It is all or nothing.

Amairgen said softly, “We both promised, Flynn. To return unless death or mutilation should intervene.” Not by the smallest gesture did Amairgen draw attention to his blindness, but Flynn felt it as never before; he felt the terrible weight of Amairgen’s eternal sightlessness descend about his shoulders, and he thought: after all, it might have been me the sidh took that night. It is his burden, but it is a burden that I might so easily have had to shoulder. And then — perhaps I can shoulder a little of it, thought Flynn. If I return to Tugaim and the Keepers, I am fulfilling our promise. I am making it possible for him to remain here. Where he belongs. Amairgen the Traveller, the Voyager, come to rest …

There was something else as well. Amairgen could have no easy place in Tugaim now. He would be unable to make any contribution to the world that was the Apocalypse’s legacy to mankind and that was the Letheans’ bequest to their descendants. But perhaps I am being harsh to them, thought Flynn. Perhaps they, also, discovered extenuating circumstances.

In Tugaim, Amairgen would be useless. Perhaps he would be a burden. An intolerable thought. Flynn could not allow it to happen. As for Portan — his mind flinched away from the memory of Portan’s life inside the Gealtacht. Certainly, whatever happened to the rest of them, Portan must stay here. At Scáthach? Yes, why not? Flynn remembered the night that Portan had talked to him, and he remembered as well that Portan had talked of dissolving the sadness and the despair that Scáthach held within its walls. Seated here, like this, he could feel that it was happening already. The patches of desolation are fading, thought Flynn, and they are being replaced by peace and tranquillity, and by a calm quiet happiness. Portan’s long-ago dream of a little community where she could work and be useful and accepted, would happen. Scáthach would become a part of Cormac’s world and of Cormac’s kingdom; Amairgen and Portan would be welcomed at Tara, they would be sought out by the men and women of the Court who liked to discuss philosophy and travel and the teachings of the great scholars of the world as they had hoped. Flynn thought that Joanna had unlocked the Enchantment of Captivity that had held Cormac, but in doing so, she had also unlocked something else. She had let the sunlight into Scáthach, so that in years to come it would no longer be known as the Fortress of Shadow, but something quite different. He thought it would happen. Amairgen would make it happen, and Portan would help him.

And so I must go back. Because I promised, and the promise has to be all or nothing. And because I am whole and well, and he is not …

None of it needed to be said. Yet when Amairgen touched Flynn’s hand and said, “You understand, Flynn,” Flynn bowed his head … Amairgen said softly, “You must go back through the Time Curtain, Flynn. You and Joanna. Cormac’s sorcerers will help you.”

Because you do not qualify a promise. And after all, thought Flynn, perhaps I owe it to the Keepers as well. And he remembered the silent watchers on Tara’s Hill, cloaked and faceless, and yet genuinely friendly — a brotherhood — curiously comforting. He remembered, as well, how those unknown men had guarded the Secret of the Time Curtain for several centuries, quietly and staunchly, never once attempting to break the vow, never once attempting to go back into the Deep Past. Yes, for sure he owed it to the Keepers to return.

As if a decision had been reached, Amairgen said, “Yes, you must return to the Keepers, Flynn,” and as he spoke, Flynn felt the quality of his voice change. In the flickering light, Amairgen lifted the hand that still wore the ornate ring, the Leader’s symbol of office, and Flynn saw it catch the light.

Amairgen said, “You remember this also, Flynn? That the office of Leader is a hereditary one?”

“Yes.”

The cool heavy gold of the ring brushed Flynn’s hand, and as it did so, something as yet unidentified and certainly unidentifiable stirred deep within him.

“I have no son,” said Amairgen, and Flynn felt panic disturb the surface of his mind. He thought: No. Oh no! I don’t want this!

Or do I? He remembered again the other-world feeling of Tara’s Hill, and he remembered the faint elusive music that haunted the place. Had he not foreseen this when he stood on the Hill that night? When he made that vow to go through the Time Curtain to find Joanna and then return? And with the vow had there not been something else?

And you no more qualified a vow than you did a promise.

Amairgen’s fingers closed about his wrist, and Flynn felt the steady flow of the other man’s thoughts. For a breath-space, panic welled up in him again, and then beneath it came something much deeper and stronger. Acceptance of an old old authority? Yes, perhaps. He heard again the out-of-hearing music and he saw again the out-of-sight shapes. The sidh guarding the Gateway to the Deep Past? Probably. So after all this Ireland is not so very far away from that other one. And with that thought came another:

Imagine being a part of a Secret so immense, so magical that only a few people in the course of the entire world will ever know of it. And imagine, as well, being a Guardian of that Secret, knowing the Secret from within.

Wouldn’t that be the most exhilarating experience of all? said his mind, and despite himself, Flynn felt a thrill of anticipation.

When Amairgen said again, “I have no son,” Flynn felt excitement well up inside him.

Hereditary Leader of the Council of Keepers … Guiding the Brotherhood, ruling them, safeguarding the Secret from the rest of the world. All that, knowing more than any of them the great truth of the Time Curtain. And in time handing on the ancient symbolic gold ring to his own son …

His son and Joanna’s … Flynn would welcome the child that Joanna would bear, and he would love it for her sake and for the memory of Cormac as well. But there would be other children, and delight opened up within him at the thought.

When Amairgen said, “Well? Will you do it, Flynn? Return with Joanna and lead in my stead?” Flynn bowed his head again, and this time there was genuine submission in the gesture.

In the silence that followed, he felt Amairgen’s hand close about his.

*

So after all, there was to be no reneging on the promise he had made. After all they would return, himself and Joanna.

And the child with them.

Flynn examined the idea of the child, Cormac’s child, born out of strong magic and Cormac’s enchantment.

“He wanted me with him,” said Joanna. “He needed me to release him from Scáthach.”

Open locks, to the Human’s hand …

“I was fascinated and bewitched,” said Joanna, and then, in answer to the question Flynn would not have asked, “And a part of me did love him, Flynn. But it was the part that was once Dierdriu, I think.” She regarded him steadily. “There will always be the memory,” she said. “But you do not need to mind about it.”

For I was always yours, my love …

“You knew that I was,” said Joanna, and grinned, and said, “As much as you were mine, even on that night inside Tara with Mab.”

Flynn grinned back at her, and thought: yes, she understands, just as I do. And remembered that he, also, had been a little bewitched, and a little fascinated, and that he, in his turn, would always have the memory of a wild unprincipled lady who was not quite human, and who loved well, if not always wisely. Aloud, he said thoughtfully, “I do not think she will be in exile forever that one.”

“Cormac will not let her be forever in exile,” said Joanna.

“Because he once loved her?” said Flynn, who thought he could understand Cormac in this.

Joanna said, “No. Because he does not love her any more.”

“Of course,” Flynn said and remembered that Cormac would be left with nothing at all of Joanna, that the child would be going with them. He thought he could easily accept the idea of Cormac’s son, and he thought that Cormac would always be a little with them.

But for Cormac it would not be so easy.

*

They were together a great deal, Joanna and Cormac, in the weeks and then the months that followed, for the sorcerers consulted by Cormac and by Amairgen had been wary of allowing Joanna to journey back through the Time Curtain before her child was born.

“Not meet,” they said. “For the unborn soul to journey in such a way would be unwise.”

“Downright dangerous,” said one of them firmly. “Her Majesty should remain here until after the birth, Sire.”

It was a curious restless time; “Although,” Joanna was to say afterwards, “it was a peaceful time as well. A healing time after the battles and the dangers.”

Flynn hunted and fished and rode with Conaire and the others, and talked long and deep into the nights with Amairgen and Portan. “Acquiring a little of their wisdom,” he said. “A very little.”

They all attended the wedding ceremonies of Etain and Cait Fian at Gallan — “So beautiful,” said Joanna, gazing around her. “I should have been sorry to miss this. And it is one more memory to take back.”

The wedding was splendid, and the feasting went on for days. “Of course it did,” said Conaire.

“It was very lavish,” said Oscar, and, “I have to say,” added Conaire, “that Sean excelled himself over the entertainments.”

“He prepared for them long enough,” said Midir, which seemed to be voicing the thoughts of them all.

But in the main, they were alone together, Joanna and Cormac, walking in the forests that surrounded Tara, and over the hills and through the meadows. “Talk to me,” said Cormac. “Enough to last me for a lifetime. Leave me as much as you can, Joanna. Make me know you so well that I shall never forget you. Let me store you in my mind, so that when you are back in your own world, I can unravel the memories and spread them at my feet. I shall never see you again in this life, Joanna.” He grasped her hands. “Give me memories,” cried Cormac, his eyes hard and slanting and golden, and Joanna could feel that he was being wrenched apart with longing.

Cormac had closed his mind to her, for it was not to be thought of that she should see his agony. But he knew that she did see it, and he knew that she shared in it.

He wanted to say, “Leave me something, Joanna. I shall bear losing you if I can have something of you to remember. I shall never see you again in this life, my dear sweet brave girl, but I shall bear it because I must.”

Joanna was crying. She reached up to take his face between her hands. “Cormac, you will have other women.”

Oh yes, my dear, and often … A smile lifted his lips, and Joanna managed a smile in return. The moment lengthened, and Cormac thought: if I asked her now, truly asked her, would she stay with me?

He drew in breath to speak, and then Joanna gasped and bent over.

*

Afterwards, she was to think that it was entirely natural and somehow very right that the birth should happen there, only the two of them amongst the ancient trees.

She had staggered and almost fallen with that first tearing-apart pain, and Cormac had supported her as far as the grassy bank beneath a huge oak tree. She thought she had gasped out a plea for help; she certainly had expected him to go running towards the Palace to summon some of the women.

“But there was no time,” she said later. “And Cormac was all the help I needed.”

There had been a tremendous feeling of excitement and anticipation all about them. “As if,” Joanna said later, “the trees knew that something momentous was about to happen and as if they were helping me.”

She had felt, as never before, Cormac’s strength, and there had been a great serenity from the listening trees; “And that was all I needed.”

Cormac’s thoughts had surrounded her then: be calm. There is no pain. This is as it was meant to be, my dear. And I am here with you.

Cormac’s child, born within sight of Tara, born beneath the ancient trees that Joanna alone had woken from their long sleep …

The birthpain had suddenly become something to be beaten, something to thrust back into the shadows so that it should not interfere with the excitement and the anticipation of the moment.

“And I was tremendously excited,” said Joanna.

She remembered that the survivors of Devastation had given birth almost like this, amidst smoking ruins, in tunnels and caves, and she had drawn great comfort from the knowledge.

“And the trees were there,” she said again. “Weren’t they?”

“Yes,” said Cormac. “For you had woken them. Do you think they would not have helped you?”

There had been the warm woodsy scents of the forest and there had been the softness of the pine needles at her back like a carpet, and the pain had been easy to bear. Sunlight had filtered in through the branches above them, and at last Joanna felt a final wrenching, as if her body was being torn apart, and there had been the warm living breathing child between her thighs. And then there had been the pain again, sharper this time, deeper, and Cormac’s hands closed about her, and then Cormac had said in an odd, unfamiliar voice: “Twins!” and Joanna heard the mingled cries of two babies.

Twins. A boy and a girl.

*

Flynn stood at the very centre of the light that was pouring into the Sun Chamber.

"Dawn,” said Amairgen. “The rebirth. The renewal. A traditional time for new beginnings. And the time of day when the Leadership has always been handed on.” He smiled. “I cannot give you the full ceremony, Flynn, since for that we need the full Council. But we will do our best.”

“The trappings don’t matter,” said Flynn.

But the trappings were there all the same. They were in the watchful faces of the courtiers, all of whom had gathered to witness the ceremony. “And it was not,” said Sean afterwards, busy with an entirely new ballad, “it was not just vulgar curiosity.”

“I was curious,” said Midir. “I don’t mind who knows it.”

“It was extremely interesting,” said Oscar.

As the sun rose slowly over the horizon, the clear new light began to spill into the Sun Chamber, so that prisms of colour danced off the walls and irradiated the great Throne of Niall of the Nine Hostages. Several of the watchers saw Amairgen turn his face to feel the warmth of the new day, and watchers saw Amairgen turn his face to feel the warmth of the new day, and Sean, who would not have admitted to being the smallest bit sentimental, even under threat of extreme torture, had to wipe away a tear. “Nor,” said Conaire, “was he the only one. Amairgen could feel the light but we all of us knew he would never see it again. A terrible thing for him to bear.”

“But his loss will be Tara’s gain,” Oscar had said quietly, for already Amairgen was becoming known and revered.

Joanna stood with the others, fascinated and intrigued. “For,” she said sadly, “this is perhaps the last time we shall all be together in this way. This is the beginning of our return to Tugaim.”

“Shall you mind so much?” Conaire asked.

“Yes,” said Joanna softly, “yes I shall mind.”

Cormac stood a little apart from them, watching the ceremony, his face unreadable. Joanna thought that he was already distancing himself from them, and felt again the ache of loss. The twins lay nearby, with Portan at their side. They were warmly wrapped and lightly covered, and Joanna glanced at them. Was it only imagination that made her think that the girl — dark-haired and pointed-faced — was fascinated by the patterns of the light? And was it only imagination to think that the boy — golden-eyed and patrician-featured — was more interested in the ceremony and the people?

Ridiculous of course, for they were only a few weeks old, but — “Remember that they are not wholly Human,” Oscar had said to her. “There will be differences.” Joanna thought that already she could see those differences.

Flynn was still at the exact centre of the dawnlight, he was becoming bathed in the pure colour, and as they waited, the sun came wholly into sight, a great glistening globe of fire and light and life. Delight burst in Joanna’s heart and she saw Flynn turn slowly and reach out both his hands to Amairgen. Amairgen moved forward and Flynn took the other man’s hands in his. Something flashed between them, and those of the Court who possessed the Samhailt saw with deep contentment the slender white light.

Amairgen said very clearly, “Flynn O’Connor. Son of Michael, son of Liam, son of Patrick, son of Seamus, son of Donal, the First Keeper of the O’Connors. To you, by right of my Ancient Office and by right of the powers vested in me by my own ancestor, I vouchsafe the Ring of the Leader of the Council. You will sit at its head, and to you the Brotherhood of the Keepers will swear allegiance. To you falls the weight and honour of guarding the Secret of the Glowing Lands. Do you accept this?”

Flynn said in a low voice, “I accept it.”

“And will you promise to keep the Secret from the world at all costs?”

“I promise it.”

“Will you promise, also, never to use the knowledge of the Secret for your own purposes, and will you promise never to travel again beyond the Time Curtain into the Deep Past, unless it should be to rescue another?”

A pause. Flynn thought: well, I knew it would be said. And of course I must promise. But he took a moment to reply, and as he paused, he felt a great calm and a great strength descend on him. A stillness fell on the Sun Chamber, and to the watching Court, it was as if a great calming hand had been laid on him. Portan, never taking her eyes from his face, thought that for an instant the light of the great Finn of the Fiana shone in his eyes, but she could never afterwards be sure. Conaire, who was nearest, saw the expression in Flynn’s eyes change and thought: he is accepting this strange unknown leadership. With all of his being he is accepting it. And perhaps because his perception of the Samhailt was a little sharper and a little more finely honed than that of the others, he saw the light about Flynn’s head become momentarily tinged with a pure clear blue, and he thought: authority. And knew the light for the sorcerers’ ancient mystical symbol of leadership.

Flynn was aware only of a great peace like a thick dark cloak. He felt as if a warm sweet breath had ruffled across his mind, and then he thought that it was more as if he had come from a darkened forest into a warm bright room and been welcomed by people he loved and by people who loved him. When he finally answered Amairgen, he did so with a confidence he had not until now felt.

“I accept!”

Amairgen slid the heavy gold ring on to Flynn’s finger, and Flynn felt his mind and his heart accept. And then, as a movement from the corner of the Sun Chamber caught his eye, he glanced up to see both the twins watching him unblinkingly. Something that was mischievous and reckless stirred in Flynn, so that he shook off the solemnity of the ceremony, and found, as he was always to find, amusement in the situation, in any situation.

He regarded Joanna’s twins thoughtfully, and he thought: well, I have promised not to return to Tara, and I will keep my promise. But I would not count on what those two might do!

*

Cormac sat alone in the Sun Chamber, watching purple shadows steal across the floor. Twilight. A time for lovers. And yet I am alone.

He need not have been. There were more than sufficient young women in the Court, any one of whom would gladly have come to him. His lips curved in a smile. Quite soon, perhaps, my dears, but for the moment, for tonight, and for a few tomorrows as well, I shall be alone.

He would not feel this way forever, of course. He would soon be scanning the Court, selecting the ones that pleased him, wooing them with courtesy and mockery and mischief, taking them off to his bedchamber. And everyone would smile and say that the Wolfking had not changed so very much.

But for a little while, I prefer to be alone with my memories of Joanna …

The shadows had deepened when the door was pushed open, and he looked up, startled, for he had been thinking of her, and imagining her, and for a moment he thought the light was playing tricks. The Purple Hour, when strong magic was abroad …

But it was Joanna in truth, smiling rather hesitantly, a little unsure of her welcome, standing in the doorway, not moving.

As Cormac stood up, he saw what Joanna held in her arms and a sudden hope flared up inside him.

And then Joanna walked across the room and held out her burden to him.

It was their daughter.

Cormac could not speak. An intense and painful happiness was unfolding inside him, and he thought: of course! Not Mab’s daughter, Joanna’s. Joanna’s daughter to be here with me, to be reared in the ancient wonderful tradition of

High Queen. Joanna’s daughter to inherit the legacy of Tara. Joanna’s daughter — and mine.

Together we will make Ireland great.

It would happen. Delight was exploding inside him now, and at last he felt slide from him the despairs and the frustrations and the feeling of: is this all? He had felt his victory a hollow one, because he had known that Joanna would not be there to share it with him. Now he saw that it was not hollow, it was filled to brimming point with promise and happiness and love.

Joanna’s daughter and mine.

Joanna shed no tears, but he knew that she was crying inside. But she handed the child to him and stood back, as if, thought Cormac, she is deliberately severing the link between them. And she will have the boy … An ache rose in him for the boy also, for the son he would never know, but he quenched it at once. If she will leave me this, if she will leave me our daughter, I shall bear it. I shall bear losing her because I shall not be losing her at all. I shall see Joanna every day in the child, and she will be doubly precious to me because of it.

He was alight and alive with happiness now, and laying the child down — and yes, her eyes were watching the light, fascinated and aware — he took Joanna’s hands in his.

Joanna said, “I am hardly bearing this, Cormac, but there is no help for it. There is nothing else to do.” She looked down, and Cormac felt her whole body wracked with longing. “I shall know nothing of her!” cried Joanna in sudden anguish. “I shall share in nothing of her life!”

“Then take her with you,” said Cormac. “Go now, through the Time Curtain. With Flynn and the boy.”

Joanna said in a low voice, “No. Tara is hers as much as it is yours.” And lifted her head and looked at him.

Cormac stood, unable to speak, Joanna’s hands still in his. And then, without warning, an idea slid into his mind.

“Listen,” he said. “There may be a way.”

*

They stood together, Joanna and Flynn, hands tightly clasped, the child — Cormac’s son — held firmly between them. Ahead of them were the sorcerers, and behind the sorcerers lay the darkling forests. And somewhere within the forests …

“We will do our utmost,” the sorcerers had said. “But we cannot promise.”

Behind the sorcerers was the entire Court, all of them lined up, waiting to bid a farewell. And it is the last farewell, thought Joanna. It is scarcely to be borne. If only I can keep a tight hold on control. If only I do not cry. She thought she would not cry, and she thought she would manage if she could keep thinking about the things that were ahead; Flynn and the boy, and the life she would have with Flynn in the square white farmhouse. Oh yes, those were things to hold on to, because those things were real and solid and good and enduring.

And yet, and yet …

“But I shall do it,” said Joanna to Flynn. “I shall bid them all farewell.”

“You cannot omit a single ceremony.”

“I know.”

Certainly the people of the Court and the Cruithin were gathered before them with a look of eager expectation, and despite her resolve, Joanna very nearly panicked. I cannot do it! Can I? And then, with a sudden squaring of her shoulders: of course I can!

The Bloodline came first; Conaire and Oscar and Midir and Etain, with Cait Fian at Etain’s side. “I shall never forget any of you,” said Joanna, and now she felt the tears begin to gather, and thought that after all it was going to be as difficult as she had thought.

The Councillors were next, with Bolg nodding solemnly, because he liked a bit of ceremony, telling the others that you should always be prepared to learn about new things. The Councillors would all be very interested in the enchantment that had been specially woven for this occasion. Bolg said, and the others agreed, that new enchantments were a good thing. You could not have too many. Progress, that was the thing, declared Bolg, and the Councillors nodded and said wasn’t that the truth?

Muldooney stood with the others, waiting to say a last goodbye to Joanna. He had thought that there might be just a touch of awkwardness between them, and he had prepared a bit of a speech, nothing very much really, only a few words, wishing Joanna well and Flynn of course. He had spent quite a long time over this, and he had shown it to Sean, because Sean had the way with words, Sean had been enthusiastic about it. “Don’t change a word of it,” he had said, and Muldooney had beamed, and then had said anxiously couldn’t it be improved on at all? and Sean had said, very vehemently, that it could not be improved on in the very least bit, and Muldooney had thought that a fine thing for a person like Sean to say.

And then, in the end, there was no need for the speech, because Joanna had hugged Muldooney, genuinely and warmly, and thanked him for being such a true friend, and Flynn had shaken his hand, and Muldooney had had to mop his brow and blow his nose, and wonder after all if he shouldn’t be returning to Tugaim? But the sorcerers had been explicit about this also.

“Only Joanna and Flynn and the boy,” they had said firmly. “We can only weave the enchantment for three.”

And of course if it was a question of enchantments, Muldooney was the one to be agreeable. You could not tamper with enchantments. Anyone knew that. And when you came to think it over, this was not such a bad place to be living. Muldooney had surveyed the terrain with an experienced eye, because the Muldooneys knew about these things, and had seen that you could, if you were careful, start up a very nice little farm of your own here. Pigs and wild boar and some geese. He’d had a word with the King’s cooks, and it seemed that there would be a grand living to be made from supplying the Royal Kitchens. Ah, Muldooney was the man to be making the most of any opportunity that offered itself! They’d all of them see how prosperous he’d become, and they’d be astonished at what he would make of the bit of land that Cormac had made over to him and the nice snug house that went with it. He’d visit Amairgen and Portan from time to time, and Gormgall and Dubhgall had said they would be sure to come to stay. And so, although he would be very sorry indeed to bid farewell to Joanna and Flynn and the little one, Muldooney felt that he was not going to be acquitting himself so ill in this rather odd, but not at all unfriendly land.

Sean was there, of course, well to the fore, his eyes bright, drinking in everything. He had already composed a lengthy ballad, and they had all promised that later on that night, they would all attend a banquet in the Sun Chamber, and Sean would sing the ballad, and they would tell again the marvellous stirring tale of Cormac’s escape and the final battle, and the slaying of the Morrigna and the Erl-King and the defeat of the Dark Ireland.

“In case,” said Oscar caustically, “there is anyone left in Ireland who has not yet heard it.”

But they would all be thinking of Joanna and Flynn, said Sean earnestly, pressing a copy of the ballad into Flynn’s hands. They must be sure that they would all be thinking of them.

Joanna and Flynn had reached Amairgen and Portan now, both of them quietly waiting their turn.

Joanna thought: I believe this is the worst yet. I barely know them, and yet I feel as if I am going to lose something very precious and infinitely dear. She bent to embrace Portan. “And I wish there had been more time for us,” she said.

Portan smiled, although she, too, was crying. “Love Flynn very much for me,” she said, and Joanna, understanding, said at once, “Yes. Yes, I will.”

When Flynn moved forward, they saw that he was beyond words.

And then, he also, embraced them both, and everyone watching knew that there were no words possible, and that anything Flynn said would have been inadequate.

Portan was crying, but she was smiling too. She took Flynn’s hands and said softly, “Flynn, I am going to be so very happy here,” and Flynn managed to smile.

Then Amairgen reached for Flynn’s hands also, and said very gently, “Flynn, you will be in my thoughts for a part of every day for all of my life,” and Flynn remembered that this was what Portan had said to him at Scáthach before the battle, and he thought: after all, what could be a better parting sentiment?

You will be in my thoughts for a part of each day …

What better memory to take with them.

And now they turned at last to where Cormac stood, a little apart. Joanna thought: the Wolfking alone. Is that how I shall remember him? And then she looked across at him and saw that he carried their baby girl in his arms, and she saw that he was smiling at her. A mist clouded her vision, but she blinked it away. When she looked again, he was still there, the wind lifting his dark hair a little, his eyes glowing, and quite suddenly, Joanna knew that it would be all right. And I shall remember all of the good things about him. The way he could make love and the way he was strong and gentle and generous. And quite suddenly, the dying words of Dierdriu slid into her mind.

“I shall be with you in the good things of life. In the things you love. In the woodsmoke of a twilight fire, and in the moonlight over the Morne Mountains, and in the golden sunrise. You will hear me laughing in the Purple Hour, for that is the most magical time of all. I shall be in the wine you drink, and when you hold feasts, I shall be among you still. You will never quite lose me.”

“You will never quite lose me,” said Cormac very softly.

Joanna tightened her hold on the child in her arms, and said, as if completing some kind of ritual: “And you will be in my thoughts for a part of each day.” And to herself, thought: after all he will be with me, I shall see him in the boy. I think it will be all right.

The sorcerers were coming to meet them, drawing them into the forest now, hurrying them forward, and Joanna felt excitement and apprehension flare up, and felt Flynn’s hand tighten on hers.

Here we go …

And then the great glittering Time Curtain was stretching out ahead of them, filling the horizon, and they were being drawn towards it, and Joanna had just time to think: Cormac’s magic was always strong, and then they were in the light and they were in the scents and the sounds, and Time was closing all about them, and it was going to be all right, it was going to be all right …

EPILOGUE

The hillsides of Tugaim were calm and untroubled and in a curious way welcoming. Flynn and Joanna walked slowly up to the summit of Tara’s Hill and stood looking down.

Below them, they could trace the paths they had taken; the Dark Forest of the Sleeping Trees; the Plain of the Fál; the narrow path that had led to Gallan and the cool fires of Cait Fian’s Mountain Palace. Fragments and snippets of history; the thin sheet of the Time Curtain that separated all the worlds just out of sight now.

The Glowing Lands …

“They are still there,” said Flynn softly. “We could go back.”

“Yes.” But Joanna knew they would not. And they both knew as well that the Glowing Lands would cool and dim, and the Gateway would eventually re-seal. “We shall not return,” she had said to the sorcerers as they stood on the edge of the light. “We shall never come here again.”

“Never is a very big word, Human Child,” the oldest of the sorcerers had said. “One day you may look across a valley and hear the echoes of our world. We are still here, Human Child, in our world as you are in yours, for Time is simultaneous.”

Time is simultaneous …

Joanna stood on Tara’s Hill, Flynn by her side, and thought: I could almost believe it.

And then Flynn said, “Down here …” and moved forward.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Look. The hillside is virtually unchanged.” He smiled at her. “Not by flood or fire or Devastation. Not by the passing of the centuries.

“And Oscar’s eye for terrain was very good.”

Joanna said uncertainly, “They would not fail us —”

“No.” But Flynn’s voice held a note of uncertainty, for how could they be sure. So many centuries …

Yes, but Time is simultaneous …

But the small cave in the hillside was still as Flynn had remembered, and they burrowed their way inside.

Joanna’s throat closed with the dust and her heart was thudding erratically. She thought: of course they would not have failed us; they promised.

But that was centuries ago …

The little cave was thick with the accreted dust and dirt of decades and the light was poor. They moved cautiously forward, both of them experiencing a strong feeling of recognition, neither of them daring to hope.

Flynn said, “We may have to dig.”

“Yes. We knew that.”

But the digging did not take very long, for the spot had been chosen carefully and well. Sheltered by a jutting overhang of rock, protected by a solid wall of the hillside, time had barely touched the narrow recess. There, a few feet beneath the cave floor, was the cache chosen by them with so much care and so much searching before they came back through the Time Curtain.

“A month ago?” said Joanna.

“Or a thousand years.”

“Would they have had the box specially made?”

“Yes. It’s solid gold,” said Flynn, and grinned. “That must have cost Cormac a pretty penny.”

But gold would have been the only substance that could have withstood the centuries. Even though Time is simultaneous? Even then.

Open it! cried Joanna silently, for I cannot bear it. But Flynn was already prising open the beautifully crafted box.

He glanced at Joanna. “Airtight,” he said. “I think we can be hopeful, acushla.”

The box opened with very little persuasion, and the thin linen sheets they remembered so clearly lay carefully packed beneath, exactly as Amairgen and Portan must have placed them. A month ago? A thousand years? Joanna sat in the dim narrow cave that they had spent weeks searching for until Flynn and Oscar were both sure that they had found a cave that Flynn remembered from Tugaim and the future they were about to return to.

A cave that had survived from that world to this …

For a moment, that other world closed about them again, and Joanna felt tears sting her eyes.

And then Flynn lifted the contents of the box out, and said very gently, “Joanna. Look.” And fell silent as they stared at what lay in the casket.

A tress of hair. Pure black and even in the dark cave gleaming like a raven’s wing. A small engraving — a pure profile etched on silver. Tip-tilted cheekbones and mischievous eyes.

At the bottom of the casket were more linen sheets, thin and rather brittle, but preserved by the gold of the box. The writing — Portan’s clear firm hand — was easily readable, worlds after it had been written.

“The Chronicles of the Great Wolfking of Tara, Cormac mac Airt.”

And underneath —

“And of his only daughter, Dierdriu.”

The Lost Prince

CHAPTER ONE

The court had decided that the only thing to be done was to escape into the future.

“But not too far into the future,” said Fergus, whose idea it was. “Not so far that we encounter the Apocalypse.”

“No, we must be careful about that.”

No one wanted to meet the Apocalypse, who had stalked the world a long way in the future, burned it with his terrible scorchy breath, and left it a smoking ruin. Everyone knew about the Great Devastation that was to smite mankind, thousands of years hence, and nearly destroy humanity. They all knew, because Time Travellers came to Tara now and again, people from worlds not yet born, and these Travellers told the most remarkable stories. There was nothing particularly astonishing about Time Travellers any more; the Court had long since accepted that there were chinks in the fabric of Time; tears, or perhaps flaws, in the warp of Time’s structure. People fell through or pushed through or were enticed through them, and it was all very interesting.

Fergus’s idea was very interesting as well. Everyone was listening to it carefully, because this was a very important meeting, at which they must decide how they were going to regain Tara for the High Queen. And wasn’t it a truly terrible thing for them all to be living out here in exile, instead of inside Tara, the Bright Palace, the beautiful shining seat of the Wolfkings. But Tara was lost to them. It was in the evil hands of the dark sorcerer, Medoc, who had thrown open the Gateways of the fearsome Dark Realm, and ridden out through them, and brought his evil armies down on Ireland, and taken Tara for his own sinister purposes. They had to think of a way to destroy Medoc before he swallowed Ireland up altogether with his evil darkness, and anything that would help them to mount an attack on him and regain Tara for the High Queen had to be given extremely serious consideration.

Fergus was the head of the Fiana, the High Queen’s mighty army, and therefore a person of considerable power. People listened to him. It was whispered that a great many of the ladies did more than just listen to Fergus as well, but this was not just now the thing to be thinking of. And so everyone looked alert when Fergus strode to the centre of the ruined Stone Palace, where the Court and the Druids had gathered for their Council of War, and a ripple of delight went through the Court, and a feeling of sudden hope. Wouldn’t Fergus be sure to find a way out of exile for them, and wouldn’t he be able to think of a means to drive out Medoc and the Dark Lords, and restore the light to Tara again and the Wolfqueen to Ireland.

He was carelessly dressed — “He always is,” said Dorrainge the Druid, who liked people to be neat. But it did not matter really, and it particularly did not matter to the ladies. Fergus was black-haired and blue-eyed, and always looked at you very directly, so that you might almost imagine he possessed the ancient, almost extinct Mindsong, the Samhailt.

Fergus, standing before the assembled Court, felt the ruffle of interest and anticipation, and smiled rather sadly to himself. He did not possess the Samhailt; he did not think anyone in Ireland did any more, because this was one more ancient enchantment that had somehow been lost. But he was certainly sufficiently intuitive to sense the feelings of others, and he thought that everyone in the Stone Palace would listen to his idea, and that most of them — with the probable exception of Dorrainge — would support him.

“We’ll go forward into the Future,” he said, looking at them all intently, seeing the mixture of fear and excitement in their faces. “It’s the only way. If we can once get to the Future, we can raise the strongest army Ireland has ever seen.” He grinned. “And so we’ll go into the days when the world had machines and great cities and powerful men and women, and we’ll harness all of their power and their knowledge. Don’t we know of some of it from the Travellers already?” cried Fergus, and so enthralled were his listeners that no one moved or spoke.

“The world was a great place in the Far Future,” said Fergus. “With all of its powers, we could vanquish Medoc and slay the Dark Lords, and drive back the Dark Ireland for ever! We could reclaim Tara for Her Majesty! Well?”

There was a thoughtful silence, and then, “But,” said a slightly belligerent voice from the back, “supposing we miscalculate? Supposing that we go into the wrong bit of the Future? Supposing we find ourselves in the days after the Apocalypse burned the world?”

A rather nasty silence fell. Fintan, who was sitting near to the front, and whose family had served the High Kings as far back as the great Cormac of the Wolves, said wasn’t this only Lugh of the Longhand pouring gloom and doom on good ideas, and shouldn’t he know better, and him a general of the High Queen’s Fiana. But quite a number of people looked worried.

“The wrong bit of the Future wouldn’t be much use,” said one of the Druids. “We don’t want to be going to the days after the Apocalypse. That’s a terrible time.”

Fergus said, “But we aren’t going to that time,” and looked round at them all. “Of course we aren’t. Would we want to go into that miserable old world? Wasn’t it all wastelands and scorched ruins, and people fighting each other for a bite of bread or a mouthful of water? We’ll get it right,” said Fergus, “and we’ll go to the time just before the day the Apocalypse came riding into the world!” He moved round the circle, fixing his audience with his straight blue stare. “Won’t you think of that! The world at its height! The marvels and the inventions and the power! We’d harness it all,” said Fergus. “We’d bring it back with us, and we’d mount the greatest attack on Tara ever known. We’d regain the Palace for Her Majesty and drive out Medoc and the Twelve Dark Lords!” And Fergus, who knew what was due to a High Queen of Ireland quite as well as anyone, turned round very deliberately, and made his bow to the Queen, who was seated at their centre, listening intently to everything.

“But,” said Lugh, who was nothing if not dogged, “we need to know that the power will be enough. We know the stories of the Far Future, but we know the might of the Twelve Dark Lords as well,” he added, and several people shivered, because wasn’t it whispered how the Twelve Lords each represented one of the great wickednesses, and how they could materialise at Medoc’s whim. They had names like Decadence, Hatred, Lust, Perversion … Nobody wanted to see those sort of creatures taking form.

“The attack would be quite strong enough to rout Medoc,” said Fergus, and he grinned at them all. “It would be strong enough because we should lie in wait for the Apocalypse.”

“Yes?”

Fergus paused, and then, turning his head, looked directly at the slight, dark-haired figure at the head of the table.

“With Your Majesty’s permission,” he said, “we should chain the Apocalypse, and bring him back with us.”

*

Grainne had been High Queen for four years, and in exile for three. She had succeeded to the Ancient Throne when her grandmother died, and although it had been very sad, because Grainne’s grandmother had been strong and very much loved, everyone had been pleased and interested. They had all looked forward to the new reign, because hadn’t they all of them known the Crown Princess since she was born, they said, and wasn’t she the mirror image of her beautiful reckless grandmother?

Grainne did not really think she was Dierdriu’s image, because Dierdriu had been so dazzling that Kings and Princes had fought for her favours, and waged wars for the privilege of marrying her. She was supposed to have had rather a lot of lovers as well, although nobody had ever actually come out and said this. The ballads written about her and the stories told about her all related how she had had black hair like a silken cloak over her shoulders, and high flaring cheekbones and the slanting golden eyes of all the Wolfline.

Grainne had the black hair as well, and the golden eyes, but she was smaller and rather delicate looking and pale, so that people nearly always looked at her with a special kindly look as if they thought she might be fragile and easily hurt.

They had been preparing for her Coronation when Medoc and the Twelve Dark Lords had somehow found a way in from the Dark Ireland, that terrible other-world that existed just out of sight and just beyond hearing and just beyond consciousness. People had afterward blamed the Court sorcerers, because if you could not trust your own sorcerers to keep proper watch on the Gateways between the true Ireland and the dark underworld of Medoc’s Ireland, you might as well not bother having sorcerers in the first place. When you remembered what the sorcerers charged, it was little short of disgraceful.

The Court sorcerers had been locked away in the Sorcery Chambers at the time, and they had been trying very hard to summon the sidh, who were the most purely magical beings in all Ireland. The sidh had not been seen for some years, and it was known that you could not entirely trust them, because their King, the elven Aillen mac Midha, had always had his eye on Tara. But in their way, the sidh were loyal to the Wolfline, and it would be a very good thing indeed if the sorcerers could somehow lure them back to Tara, and so no one had dared to interrupt this important proceeding. Nobody actually believed that the sidh would answer the summons, but the sorcerers had been working quite hard to call them, because you might as well try to get all the enchanted help you could.

And so what with the sorcerers busy, and the Druids trying to find out what they were up to, and what with the preparations for the Coronation, nobody had been thinking about invasions, and nobody had been thinking at all about Medoc.

And that had been the pity of it, because right at the height of the preparations, Medoc had sent the Twelve Lords to drive them all out; they had swooped down on Tara in a fearsome flurry of ancient dark magic, and evil screeching enchantments, and the Gateway to Medoc’s Dark Realm had yawned wide, so that people had glimpsed the terrible crimson lakes and the dark fields and the Black Citadels of the necromancers.

And Medoc had ruled from the Bright Palace ever since; he had quenched the light that had once shone across Ireland’s width and breadth, and no one had been able to get within touching distance of Tara ever since. And the Court had lived in exile on Innisfree for three years.

Nobody blamed Grainne for any of it, but Grainne blamed herself. It was impossible to avoid the thought that Dierdriu would not have allowed such a thing to happen. It was one of the things they said of Dierdriu: not only had men gone mad for love of her, they had ridden into battle for her as well.

Grainne would have liked to ride into battle with her hair flowing down her back as Dierdriu had done, perhaps with the icy blue-green sidh at her back, but she knew that you had to plan these things. You had to do it with the backing of the armies and the Druids, and the support of the Fiana.

The Fiana. It was still difficult to sit in a Court Chamber and listen to Fergus and look at him as calmly as if she had never loved him.

Did I love him? Did I really feel for him the pure strong emotion that people write of and sing about and weep over?

Seven years ago she had loved him, certainly. In the mist-shrouded mornings that surrounded Tara, and in the long drowsy afternoons when nothing stirred and no one knew where anyone was. Grainne had been able to steal through the Palace and out into the forest. Seven years … An enchanted magical summer it had been. People had begun to talk about the old lost enchantments stirring; they had begun to hear, just very faintly, the sidh singing again.

Seven years. And I believe I would sell my soul and go barefoot through Eternity if it could happen again …

Grainne took a deep breath, and turned back to the Court.

*

Fintan had got up to speak, and people were listening, because Fintan had sometimes the way of speaking sound good sense.

Fintan thought that Fergus’s idea of travelling to the Far Future was fine and altogether great. He was all for new peoples, he said. But there was another idea. Something they might consider — not instead of Fergus’s plan, but as well as. He looked round the circle of faces. Had they all of them forgotten Ireland’s lost people? said Fintan. Had they forgotten the Cruithin? he demanded, and people sat up and looked alert, because while no one had forgotten the Cruithin, no one had actually remembered them either. They were the original Gael people, the first race ever to inhabit Ireland, and some people said they were the only true Irish race. It was many generations since they had been seen, but everyone knew them to be small dark people, with elfin faces and intelligent eyes. They had always been fiercely loyal to the Wolfkings, and they were full of strong gentle magic. They had disappeared without warning one night towards the end of Dierdriu’s reign, and a belief had crept into Ireland’s folklore that when the Cruithin had disappeared, Ireland’s ancient magic had disappeared as well.

Cermait Honeymouth, who was sitting next to Fintan, said, rather apologetically, that most people believed that the Cruithin had vanished into the dark and terrible Grail Castle, and wouldn’t they all remember that no one had ever returned from journeying to the Grail Castle. The Grail Castle, said Cermait Honeymouth, looking unusually solemn, was believed to be bastioned by every dark enchantment ever spun, and you had to be very brave, or extremely foolish, to try to find it.

Fintan said, very firmly, “Even so, I believe we should try to find it, if it will mean finding the Cruithin.” He glared at the Court and then said in an extremely loud voice, “And with Her Majesty’s permission, I shall journey to the Grail Castle and seek out the Cruithin and form an army!”

He sat down and scowled, and Cermait Honeymouth clapped him on the back and said wasn’t it the grandest idea ever, and if Her Majesty would permit, he himself would accompany Fintan, and they’d find the Grail Castle and seek out the Cruithin in no time, and then they’d be back to drive out Medoc.

Fergus, listening, watching, knew Fintan’s idea for a good one, even while his mind was recoiling from the thought of the journey that Fintan and Cermait would have to make along the dark and lonely road that sometimes took travellers on to the Grail Castle, and sometimes swallowed them up so that they were never heard of again. Every dark enchantment in Ireland was believed to hide the Grail Castle from the curious. Fergus thought that even he would hesitate at such an undertaking. But Fintan and Cermait were sensible and dogged, and if anyone could brave the castle’s ancient magical defences, it was surely those two.

But one thing could truly defeat Medoc, and that was the power and the might of the Far Future.

The Apocalypse.

*

Fintan and Cermait were pleased with their plan. They rounded up a bunch of friends and took them off to the Council Chambers at the rear of the Stone Palace to hold their own meeting.

“They’re being very noisy about it,” said Dorrainge, as Fintan and Cermait stamped out of the Stone Hall, saying things like “Don’t forget to bring the lights” and “While we’re about it, we’ll take the large wine flagon” and “Who knows the spell for calling up the four winds?”

“I hope they don’t call up the four winds,” said somebody, worried. But Dorrainge said that the only creature who had ever been able to call up the four winds was a sorceress called Spectre, and nobody had heard of her for ages; and everybody relaxed again.

Fintan and Cermait sat their supporters down, and Cermait went round with the wine flagon and then had to send out for another one because it gave out halfway round, and everyone drank death to Medoc and lasting destruction to the Twelve Lords. Cermait said they’d be off to find the Grail Castle at first light, to be sure they would.

One of the Druids, whose name was Cathbad and who had unaccountably thrown in his lot with Fintan, said he had heard that the road to the castle was guarded by necromancers.

“And,” said Cermait, worried, “Medoc’s a necromancer himself. I do think we should remember that.”

“Is he?” a new voice said from the back of the room.

“Well, he’s a sorcerer anyway.”

“Is he? Are you sure?” said the same voice, and several people turned round rather quickly to see who had spoken, because it was not very nice to hear a sly, slimy whisper coming from behind you in the dark.

“It was Custennid the Tusk,” Fintan said. “Wasn’t it?”

“Certainly not,” said a cross voice.

“No, really, wasn’t it you, Tusk?”

“If I’ve got something to say about Medoc,” Custennid the Tusk said with dignity, “I shan’t whisper it in the dark.”

“You know, it is dark,” Cermait said.

“Yes, it is. Who’s dowsed the lights? Dear me, if I’d known it was going to be this dark, I’d have brought up more torches,” Fintan said, and stamped around, until several people’s feet had been trodden on and Cathbad had been sat on.

“Light the torches,” Cermait said. “Light the torches ‘til we see who it is,” and as he spoke, every torch flickered wildly, and huge distorted shadows leapt and danced across the stone walls. For a moment, no one spoke or moved, and then a really terrible low bubbling chuckle rang out so that several people moved quickly away from the outer walls.

The outer wall of the Council Chamber was cracked and crumbling, and in places it did not quite meet the ceiling. There was an oblong, about eight feet up, where the stonework had fallen away altogether and where you could see out to the night sky. The low bubbling chuckle filled the room again, followed by a harsh, cawing sound, a dreadful horn-on-bone sound that made your teeth wince. Where the walls stopped being a wall, a huge pair of fishlike, lidless eyes was looking in.

Fintan said in a voice from which most of the breath had been driven, “There’s something looking over the wall at us.”

“It’s one of Medoc’s creatures,” said Cermait Honey-mouth.

“Medoc’s creature!” shouted Fintan, snatching up the nearest torch. “After it quickly! It’s heard everything we said!”

*

Fergus had stayed at the centre of the Stone Palace with the Court. If they were going into the Far Future, they must do so quickly, and they must discuss how they would go about it.

Fergus’s plan had by far the most supporters, although the Druids were only there because Grainne was there. Cathbad was not there, because Cathbad had gone off to listen to Fintan and Cermait Honeymouth, but Cathbad was always doing things he should not. The Druids did not really approve of Fergus’s idea, and they certainly did not intend to accompany Fergus into the Future, always supposing he could get there.

“I wouldn’t mind going,” said a mild voice from one of the front rows, and Dorrainge tutted, because this would be Fribble, the Chief Druid, who was getting a bit hard of hearing. It was quite likely that Fribble had not properly heard Fergus’s plan anyway.

“Yes, I did,” said Fribble. “You’re going off into the Far Future, where all the licentiousness and lewdness and greed and self-indulgence reached its height. I’d like to see all that.”

“We shan’t be —”

“Fergus would have to be sure to bring me back safely.”

“Fergus isn’t going to be taking —”

“Because we don’t want him forgetting and leaving me there,” said Fribble. “That would never do. I’m Chief Druid, you know, and it won’t do for me to be away from Tara for too long — well, it won’t do for me to be away at all, but if the Druids are going to support this scheme, somebody ought to go.”

“But —”

“Well, there it is,” said Fribble, resettling his robes and beaming. “I feel quite young at the idea. Just a very little trip, mind. I shan’t want to stay for more than a week or two. You’d better make sure Fergus knows.”

“It’s impossible,” Dorrainge said crossly.

“I don’t see why —” began Fergus, when Grainne said softly, “But how are you going to get into the Future?”

A rather anxious silence fell, and then Fergus, squaring his shoulders, said, “There is only one way.”

“Yes?”

“By summoning the Time Chariot of Fael-Inis.”

Grainne said, “But that means —” and stopped.

“Yes,” Fergus said softly. “There is only one group of people in Ireland who can summon Fael-Inis.

“We must go to the sorcerers.”

CHAPTER TWO

Custennid the Tusk considered that he was being extremely clever. When everyone had gone rushing and scurrying out into the forest to chase down Medoc’s spy, Custennid had held back, because if there were any servants of Medoc lurking out there, Custennid was not going to be meeting up with them. But it was necessary to put up some kind of show, and so he waited until everyone else had disappeared, and then walked quite firmly and calmly outside. It would be perfectly possible to just skirt the edges of the forest. He did not need to go into it very deeply at all.

But even on the forest’s edges, it was queer how a man’s footsteps echoed, even when it was soft bracken he was walking on, and it was queer how the night noises were different to the ones you heard by day. There were rustlings, the scurrying of feet; there was the feeling that the bushes were about to part and show something that crouched there waiting … Custennid began to wish that after all he had stayed with the others.

And then he heard it. And as soon as he heard it, he realised that he had been hearing it for quite a long time. The padding of footsteps …

Custennid stopped and looked about him, trying to penetrate the darkness. Of course it would only be a fox or a weasel or a stoat. It would be more frightened of him than he was of it.

The footsteps were nearer now, and there was something very menacing about them. There was a purposeful air about them, almost as if the creature that was padding through the forest had sensed him, scented him, and was saying, Aha!

Here is something of interest. Here is a very tasty morsel indeed!

Custennid wished he had not lit on that word morsel. He certainly wished he had not lit on the word tasty. It conjured up very nasty visions indeed. And although the Tusks were not people of learning, you could not live in these times without hearing a thing or two. Custennid had heard a thing or two, and he had not liked what he had heard.

Medoc’s creatures. Medoc’s servants. The Dark Ireland waking. The twilight things, the darkling beings. The Twelve Dark Lords who served Medoc, and who were said to hold sinister revelry every night in Tara. The terrible necromancers of the Dark Citadels … The merciless Lad of the Skins who scavenged for human souls, and walked abroad with a dripping sack …

There was the rasp of claws on stone now, and there was a terrible low chuckle, and a triumphant harsh cawing sound, and Custennid thought, They are right! All the stories were right! And then he remembered the most terrible story of them all.

As he turned to run, the bushes in front of him parted, and a low bubbling chuckle rang out in the quiet forest.

There was no time to think and there was no time to cry out. All the tales flooded his mind: Medoc’s Servants — the Dark Ireland waking —

And then the creature was upon him, and there was a whirling blackness, and the sound and feel of teeth and claws and a great harsh curving beak … There was time to remember that this was the creature who ripped out the living hearts of its victims and offered them, dripping and warm, to its Master.

There was a crunching, snapping, sickening sound, and Custennid knew it for the breaking of his own bones. The forest swam in a sick dizziness, and the darkness became shot with crimson, because crimson was the colour of pain, and it hurt, it hurt, and somebody must do something, because it hurt … His bones were being crushed and his flesh was being torn away … something deep inside him seemed to collapse, and he felt a warm wetness between his legs and knew that bowels and bladder had given way. The creature held him up as if to inspect him before finally tearing out his heart — and there was a stale stench, like bad fish and ancient blood and rotting meat, and it was drawing him into its embrace and there were gristly jointed arms and sinews and clutching talons, and its breath was ancient and dry and evil beyond belief … stale eggs and long-dead marrow … Custennid felt his stomach lift, and he retched and vomited and screamed for help.

The creature was tearing great gobbets of flesh from bone, and it hurt … There could not be so much pain in the world …

Lumps of his flesh were flying all around now, as the creature tore deeper. Talons slit open his chest, and his ribs burst apart, and if it would only stop, just for a minute, if somebody would help him …

And then he felt the great pointed talons reach down into his open chest, and he felt the sudden violent pulsing of his heart as it was exposed, and he felt it ripped from his body and held, dripping and steaming, triumphantly aloft.

*

Custennid’s screams had almost died away by the time Fintan and Cermait Honeymouth reached the clearing.

“We ran as fast as ever we could,” said Fintan afterwards.

They had both run as fast as they could towards the sounds, but the screams were dying away when they reached the clearing, and they both stood for a moment, their minds tumbling, unable to make sense of what they were seeing.

A massacre. A bloodbath. Some poor mutilated creature fallen victim to a predator. Fintan had known a second of relief: At least it was not human, and then Cermait said softly, “Yes, it was human,” and pointed with a shaking hand.

Hair; eyes; a hand, five-fingered and covered with pale, unmistakably human flesh. The remnants of a cloak.

They moved nearer, feeling the miasma of evil that lingered in the clearing. Fintan, a little ahead, looked down at the thing that lay on the ground and felt his stomach heave.

Ripped open. Clawed and lacerated and torn. Liver and lungs and kidneys, all spilling out, wet and faintly glistening in the silver moonlight. Here and there, the whiteness of bone gleamed where once there had been arms and thighs. A man.

Custennid the Tusk was not quite dead. Incredibly, there was still a flicker of life, his brain was still receiving images, his lips could still move. From where he stood, Fintan could see the bloodless lips trying to speak.

“Help me …”

“Yes. Lie still now. There’s help on the way,” said Fintan, and he cast a hunted look at Cermait, for what help could there be? No one else had come in answer to Custennid’s screams; there was no one but their two selves to get Custennid back to the Stone Palace.

Cermait bent down and took Custennid’s hand. “Can you tell us what happened, Tusk? What — hurt you?”

There was a short, not quite silent pause, and both Fintan and Cermait recognised the bubble of the death rattle. Blood and saliva trickled from Custennid’s lips.

Custennid said in a wet, clogged voice, “Footsteps — in the dark —”

“Something followed you? Tusk, try to tell us.”

Custennid the Tusk, blind now, deaf, and almost beyond the agony of his mutilated body, said, “The Conablaiche. The Conablaiche walking in Ireland again.”

There was a final choking rattle, and Fintan and Cermait stood up and looked at one another.

*

The Conablaiche walking again …

“We ought to have known,” said Fergus, rather sickened. “We ought to have realised that Medoc would call up the great evil creatures out of the Dark Ireland.”

“Yes, but that one —”

Cathbad the Druid, who liked to know everything that was happening, asked to be told about the Conablaiche.

“Well,” said Fribble, who was so much concerned at what had happened that he was quite wide awake, “well, that’s rather difficult. Dear me, this is all very worrying. Fergus, I’ll take a smidgeon of that mulled wine, if you please.”

Fergus, who was seated at the table, draining a large chalice of warm spiced wine which some of the younger ones had brewed, and who was looking rather white, dipped a fresh goblet into the silver bowl and passed it to Fribble.

“Isn’t it a very old Gael word, Fribble? Conablaiche?”

“It means ‘mutilate,’” said Cermait, who was whitefaced.

“‘Lacerate,’” said Fintan, who was green.

Fribble said, “The Conablaiche is a — rather a terrible creature. Perhaps the most terrible of all the beings that dwell in the Dark Ireland. He is merciless and hungry for blood. He is a creation of the dark necromancers, and he was called into being by their powers many centuries ago — so long ago, that it was before people began to record Time.”

“But what is he?” someone asked.

“He is a servant,” said Fribble. “He is believed to possess a little of the necromantic powers, and he can appear in several guises. For generations he sleeps in the darkness of the Mountain Halls, but once a sorcerer sufficiently powerful summons him, then he wakes, and then he walks. He has been glimpsed in Ireland several times over the centuries, and in some places,” said Fribble, “he is called the Conail, which, as you all know, means ‘Plague.’”

A shudder round the Stone Palace. Everyone knew of the terrible scourges that had stalked Ireland.

“The Conablaiche will serve many masters,” said Fribble, “but it is whispered that his greatest allegiance is to the monstrous god-idol Crom Croich.”

There was a rather horrified silence. Most of the Court, and certainly all of the Druids, knew about the terrible hungry god-idol Crom Croich, the being of pure gold who must suffer human birth into the world of Men before it might reign, and who had appeared in Ireland’s history at various times.

Dorrainge said slowly, “But the worship of Crom Croich is utterly and absolutely forbidden.” He looked across at Grainne. “Wasn’t it Your Majesty’s great-grandfather, Cormac of the Wolves, who stamped it out?”

“Yes. Yes, it was towards the end of his reign when Crom Croich was called into being, and the cult was revived.” Grainne looked at Fergus. “They say that the Conablaiche and the Lad of the Skins walked the land then, also.”

“The Conablaiche and the Lad are nearly always seen if Crom Croich is awakening,” Fergus said. And then, because he knew Ireland’s history as well as anyone in the Stone Palace, he said, “They say that when the Conablaiche is awakened, it prowls the countryside by night, seeking the first-born boys of every family, so that it can tear out their living hearts and offer them to the god. A barbaric and pitiless cult,” Fergus said.

“And Medoc is reviving it,” said Grainne. “Medoc has called the Conablaiche out of its sleep.” She looked at Fergus. “There can only be one reason for Medoc to call up the Conablaiche.”

“Yes,” said Fergus, his eyes never leaving her. “He has heard the legend of the Lost Prince.”

A terrible silence fell on the assembled Court.

*

The Lost Prince … Ireland’s once and future King, who would appear in Ireland and drive out her enemies and defeat the terrible Dark Ireland once and for all. The legendary Wolfprince who would lead his people to prosperity and peace and to a new Golden Age. Every person present knew the legend; every person, to greater or lesser degree, believed it.

And then Fergus said, “If Medoc has in truth heard the legend, he will want to destroy the Prince. He would have to destroy him. Medoc will never feel completely safe until he can be sure that the Prince does not pose a threat to him.”

“But,” said Fintan, “don’t they tell of how the Prince was shut away for ever inside the Prison of Hostages? Wasn’t that one of the reasons for the Crusade Wars of Cormac’s day? To find the Prince and bring him out?”

“I never heard that,” said Cermait Honeymouth.

“Well, I wouldn’t be sure about it.”

“But,” said Dorrainge, “if Medoc is to loose the Conablaiche on Ireland again, then it means that —” He stopped, appalled.

“Yes,” said Fergus. “It means that the Conablaiche will again prowl the countryside by night, and that every male child will be slaughtered and its heart torn out and its soul flung into the eternal light of the Prison of Hostages.”

“And,” said Grainne softly, “once inside the Prison of Hostages, there can be no escape.”

“To kill the children would be the only way that Medoc could be sure he had destroyed the Prince,” said Fergus. “And we dare not let it happen.” He looked at Grainne, and said very softly and very gently, “We will not let it happen, ma’am.” He turned back to the Court. “There is no time to lose,” he said. “Unless we can destroy Medoc and send the Conablaiche and the Lad of the Skins back into the darkness, before many moons have passed, Ireland will be in the grip of a new reign of terror. No male child in the land will be safe.”

*

They buried Custennid the Tusk at noon the next day. Custennid’s family were all there; his grandfather, who was called Rudraige the Tusk, and who was an enormous old gentleman with red hair and a fiery eye, told Fergus it was a terrible thing. “And although I’m sorry to see him go,” said Rudraige, “I’m even sorrier at the manner of his going. The Conablaiche walking again … Dear me, something will have to be done.”

The youngest member of the Tusks, who was called Tybion, was round-eyed at the ceremonies and awed into silence by the proximity of such legendary figures as the great Fergus of the Fiana and the High Queen. Hadn’t he only glimpsed these glittering beings from afar until now, demanded Tybion of his grandfather, to which Rudraige tartly replied that when Tybion had a few more years under his belt, and when he had a battle or two to his credit, then he might think himself fit to address such people. Until then, said Rudraige, Tybion had better keep quiet and mind his manners. A remark which was quite unnecessary, because Tybion was extremely well mannered and not a little chivalrous.

*

Fergus had attended the burial of Custennid the Tusk, along with the rest of the Court, but his thoughts had been chaotic. If Medoc was in truth preparing for the killing of all the male children of Ireland by the Conablaiche, then they must stop him. And although Fergus did not care very much for the use of spies, it occurred to him that this might be an occasion where a spy, sent into the enemy’s camp, might be able to find out a great deal about Medoc’s plans.

Medoc’s creatures were all over Innisfree. The entire Court knew it. They were for ever prowling outside the walls of the Stone Palace and slinking into the wine shop, trying to overhear people’s conversations. There was a furtive slithery look to them. Something about the eyes and the curving of the hands. Surely all that was needed was for a carefully chosen person to go into the wine shop and fall into casual discussion. Spying always worked two ways in any case …

Fergus knew that he could not do it by himself. As head of the Queen’s Fiana he was known. He would be recognised, and the entire ploy would fail. But he would not be recognised if he went heavily cloaked, perhaps with a companion.

A companion. Yes, that was a good idea. It was an idea that might work very well. Who should the companion be? Fergus let his mind run through the people of the Court, thinking that what was wanted here was a bit of a rebel. Somebody whose loyalty would be strong and safe, but somebody who was just a little at odds with the conventions. Somebody who would not mind employing slightly unconventional tactics. Fintan and Cermait Honeymouth would have done it, but Fintan and Cermait were both, in their own ways, fairly well known.

And then Fergus thought, Of course! Tybion. Tybion the Tusk, the youngest member of the clan, of the fiercely loyal, unfailingly dependable Tusks. And Tybion already, at sixteen or seventeen, wanting to be off with the Fiana, quarrelling with his family who thought him too young.

Fergus would have a discreet talk with Tybion.

*

Tybion the Tusk walked with Fergus into the little wine shop at the centre of Innisfree and stood for a moment looking about him. It was very crowded and rather smoky, and there was a thick warm scent of wine and newly baked bread on the air. Here and there, groups of people sat at tables, and the serving girls, who wore the scantiest gowns Tybion had ever seen, moved cheerfully in and out of the tables, fetching wine, evading the hands that reached out to them. It was not quite what Tybion was used to, but he summoned up his confidence, and squared his shoulders, and was glad he had put on his best green jerkin and the cambric shirt, and that he had brushed his hair until it shone, although he had not been able to straighten out the cowlick, because he never could. But it was as well to look your best if you were going on an important mission, and Fergus — actually the great Head of the Fiana himself — had impressed on Tybion that this was a very important mission indeed. Spying was a rather nasty tool, Fergus had said; it was not something they normally did. But circumstances altered cases.

Tybion had understood; he had listened carefully, and he knew what they had to do. Go into the wine shop, quite casually and ordinarily, and then fall into conversation with Medoc’s people. Ply them with wine. And then somehow find out as much as they could about Medoc’s plans.

“Wine’s a great tongue loosener,” Fergus had said, grinning.

But now, threading his way carefully to a table in the wine shop in Fergus’s wake, Tybion knew that the brief lightheartedness had fallen from Fergus, and that Fergus was feeling an immense weight, the burden of the Queen’s exile and the loss of Tara. For a brief moment, Tybion felt it as well, a terrible, dragging despair, and a deep wrenching pain.

For Tara, the Shining Citadel, is in the hands of the Dark Lords, and Medoc has quenched its light, perhaps forever …

Tybion had known — they had all known — that Fergus loved Ireland and that he would give his life for Ireland if he had to, but it was disconcerting to suddenly feel it like this. It is as if Fergus is no longer whole, thought Tybion.

He would have liked to have told Fergus that he shared the pain and the sense of loss, but it might be presumptuous. And they must be casual and very offhand with the people here, even though what was ahead might affect the whole history of Ireland. I hope I can do this, thought Tybion. I do hope I can. But the idea of affecting Ireland’s history was as stirring as it was terrifying, and Tybion managed to look round the crowded smoky wine shop quite normally.

Fergus had called for a flagon of wine and exchanged grins with one of the serving girls, and now he indicated a small table near the window and led Tybion across to it. Tybion, who had not actually drunk wine very often, sat down and sipped cautiously, looking about him.

And Medoc’s creatures were here. Tybion saw and sensed and acknowledged them, and felt his stomach lurch. It brought Medoc abruptly closer to see his creatures drinking wine, laughing, and playing dice. Ireland is becoming overrun with these terrible evil beings, thought Tybion.

Medoc’s creatures occupied three of the tables. At the distant window table at least half a dozen of them were engrossed in some kind of game with dice, and three more were leaning on the high table where the great wine casks were stored, laughing with one of the serving girls. Tybion sat quietly watching and listening, absorbing the sights and the scents and the sounds of this place and, little by little, he became aware of narrow sly eyes, and of greedy talonlike hands that were not quite claws, but that were certainly not human hands, curling and uncurling.

Medoc’s creatures were watching them. Medoc’s jackals were listening to them. And with that thought came the sudden memory, half-buried, of Ireland’s dark history; of the race of rodent creatures created by an evil sorcerer many centuries earlier by mating rats and jackals and weasels with humans, and producing creatures neither quite human nor quite rodent, but a nightmarish blend of the two.

These are descendants of those people, thought Tybion with horror. Descendants of the rodent armies of the Dark Ireland. And he remembered, in the same moment, that other sorcery; the gentle strong Enchantment of the Beastline, spun at the beginning of Ireland’s history, that had allowed the Royal Houses of Ireland to lie with the Wolves of Tara, and that had resulted in the beautiful wild Wolfkings and Queens. He remembered that the High Queen herself was a direct descendant of the first Wolfkings, and he saw these slit-eyed mean-mouthed creatures as a terrible travesty of the Royal House.

Fergus had allowed his eyes to rove in leisurely fashion around the room and then come to rest on the single creature at the adjoining table. Like Tybion he saw at once the mixed ancestry, the faint traces of rodent blood, and like Tybion, he knew of the dark evil sorcery that had created that line. There is a slithery deceitful look, thought Fergus, who disliked rats intensely, a sly vicious look. If I obeyed my instincts I should fall on this filth and tear it limb from limb, and purge Ireland of Medoc’s tainted armies for ever.

But he smiled offhandedly at the lone wine-drinker, and lifted his glass of wine in vague amity, and saw Tybion do the same, and was pleased with Tybion, who was behaving exactly as he ought; and presently, the creature nodded in return.

“The wine shop is crowded tonight,” said Fergus, to Tybion, and Tybion heard that he was slurring his words slightly. “But of course,” said Fergus, “people are probably marking the newest victim of the Master.”

There was a brief silence, and Tybion, hardly daring to look, saw the narrow eyes of the next table’s lone occupant take on a wary gleam. He does not trust us, thought Tybion, and at once felt Fergus’s response: No, not yet …

“Can’t you always tell,” said Fergus, aloud, “when the Master has notched up another victory against the enemy.” He leaned back in his chair, apparently wholly at ease, the fingers of one hand curled negligently around the stem of his wine glass, and fixed the rat creature with a rather vapid smile. Tybion saw the rat creature narrow its eyes again, as if assessing Fergus.

“Another heart for Crom Croich,” Fergus said in a cheerful, let’s-celebrate voice.

Tybion said carefully, “I suppose we can be sure of that, can we?”

“The Conablaiche would not return empty-handed,” Fergus said, and lifted his hand to the serving girl for more wine.

“And a glass for my friend there,” he said. “No man should celebrate alone.” He looked lazily across to the rat creature. “Join us, sir,” he said. And then, without waiting, “Bring him a flask of your best wine, my dear,” he said.

Medoc’s servant regarded Fergus for a moment, and although his eyes did not quite show red, Tybion thought they nearly did. But he said, “Celebrate?”

Fergus leaned forward, with the overeager mien of the wine-imbiber. “The Conablaiche,” he said, stumbling a little over the word now. “Is it not walking?” He leaned back in his chair again and raised his glass. “To Crom Croich,” he said loudly. “To the return of the great god-idol of Ireland.” Tybion held his breath and waited, and after a moment, the rat creature said, “You are generous to a stranger. I shall be glad to take wine with you.”

Fergus waited until the wine was brought and then said, “We drink to the Conablaiche, my friend!” He tilted his chair back and raised his glass yet again.

“Indeed?”

Fergus crashed the chair down to the floor and sprawled forward on the table. “Let us be frank. People who are in the service of the Master are not truly strangers. Hey?” He turned to Tybion as if for confirmation, and Tybion said, “My father believed it was a wise army that knew its own people,” and was glad to hear that his voice was quite steady.

“There are many loyalties on Innisfree and many armies,” said the rat creature, noncommittally, but he took the wine.

“To Medoc,” said Fergus, apparently not hearing this. And then, lifting his eyes in an apparent attempt to focus, “Forgive me — Have I misread? I see that I have.” He looked at Tybion, as if begging for help, and Tybion said severely, “You have allowed the wine to uncurb your tongue, sir.”

“And I have said too much,” said Fergus, shaking his head. “Sir, please to pardon me, and my companion and I will bid you farewell.” He made as if to get up and stumbled so that Tybion put out a hand. “My tongue betrays me,” said Fergus. “It is the fault of the wine, I fear.”

“Your tongue is certainly loose,” said Medoc’s servant, frowning. “And in times of war, it is as well to be careful.” Fergus sat down again and smiled ingenuously. “I am the most careful of all the Master’s servants,” he said.

“The Master?”

“Medoc,” said Fergus, in surprise, as if this ought to have been obvious. He tipped wine into all the glasses with a generous hand, and rested both elbows on the table. Enunciating with extreme care, he said, “I am Medoc’s loyallest servant. I know all about Medoc and his plans.”

“Indeed?”

“Medoc,” said Fergus, in a patronising I-know-more-than-you tone, “has woken the Conablaiche. Did you know that?”

The rat creature said, “Medoc would do well to beware of the Conablaiche,” and then glanced over his shoulder as if fearful of being heard.

“Powerful,” said Fergus, shaking his head. “A powerful being, the Conablaiche.”

“If we all said what we knew about the Conablaiche, Medoc would have terror in his ranks,” said the rat creature.

“I have often thought that,” said Fergus, and Tybion, feeling that it was time he made a contribution, said, almost at random, “I heard that the Conablaiche had escaped again.”

At once a look of pure terror came into the rat creature’s eyes. He leaned forward, and Fergus and Tybion both saw the long upper lip and the sloping chin. And I believe, thought Tybion in horrified fascination, that his ears are pointed …

“I beg you,” he said, “I beg you not to say that aloud.”

“But it is true?” said Tybion.

“Well, of course it is true,” said the rat creature crossly. “Everyone who is the least bit close to Medoc knows what happened.” He eyed them both, rather pityingly, as if he might be thinking, Well, you two are not so very high in Medoc’s service after all!

“We all knew how the Conablaiche broke away,” said Tybion.

“Oh, everyone knows it now,” said the rat creature impatiently. “And for all that Medoc has tried to keep it a secret, most people believe it rode in the Time Chariot of Fael-Inis.” He glanced at Fergus, and then leaned forward. “But how many people know what happened then?” he said, and nodded, half to himself.

“People tell so many stories,” said Tybion, half apologetically, and at his side, Fergus slumped back in his chair, as if overtaken by the wine.

“Oh, everyone has a different one,” agreed the rat creature. “But I was there when it happened, you know.”

“Were you really?”

“I was there when it came swaggering back to Medoc,” he said. “When it was summoned to Tara, and when it stood before Medoc’s Throne in the Sun Chamber and told of how it had tricked Fael-Inis.”

“Yes?”

“It rode in Fael-Inis’s Chariot,” said the rat creature, and Tybion felt the beginnings of a new horror prickle his skin. He waited, but Fergus said, half to himself, “Medoc’s Throne in the Sun Chamber,” and the rat creature looked sharply at him, and said, “The ancient Throne of the accursed Wolfkings, friend. Medoc’s Throne.”

“I had forgotten for the moment,” said Fergus, quite humbly, but Tybion had heard the flare of anger.

“Perhaps you have not been inside Tara,” said the rat creature condescendingly.

“Perhaps not. But you were saying …” Fergus tipped the wine flagon up again. “You saw the Conablaiche and Medoc.”

“It went into the Far Future,” said the rat creature, his eyes suddenly far away. Tybion stealthily tipped in the rest of the wine.

“It went into the Future,” said the rat creature. “Although whether it was truly in the Chariot, we do not know.”

“And Fael-Inis has never yet been tricked,” said Fergus softly. “Go on.”

“It walked in the world of the Future,” the rat creature said, and reached for the wine again. Fergus and Tybion received the impression that he had forgotten their presence.

“It walked amongst the creatures of the worlds yet to be born,” he said, and stopped, and raised his eyes to them, red-glinting and cruel. Tybion felt a bolt of sudden fear from Fergus, but he stayed where he was.

The rat creature lifted the wine again, and the dark red glow cast eerie shadows across his face.

“It was not as the stealer of living hearts it travelled to the Future,” he said softly, “but as something different.”

“Yes?”

“When it went into the Future, the Conablaiche went in its aspect of Plague,” said Medoc’s servant, and he smiled at them. “It set in motion the ancient and terrible prophecy.

“It unleashed the First of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse on the world.”

*

“What did he mean? Fergus, what did he mean?” Tybion stood in the thin moonlight outside the wine shop and faced Fergus, and barely noticed that he had used the Fiana Captain’s name so abruptly and so fiercely.

Fergus was staring ahead of him, and Tybion thought that Fergus was not really seeing him. And then Fergus said, very softly, “We know of the coming of the Apocalypse. We know a great deal about it, for the stories have come back to us with the Time Travellers. We believe that the people of the Future knew of the Apocalypse’s advent long before it came riding into the world, for it is in the literature and the folklore and the predictions of every century.”

He stopped, and Tybion said in a voice of extreme horror, “That — Medoc’s creature said something about a prophecy.”

“Yes. And although,” said Fergus, smiling rather bitterly, “the prophecies were ancient when the Apocalypse walked, for us they are still to be written.

“But our descendants knew the prophecies well,” said Fergus. “They knew of the harbingers that would precede the Apocalypse. They knew of the auguries and the warnings. They knew of the entities that would come into the world to prepare the way for the Apocalypse.” He stopped again, and Tybion, horrified, said in a whisper, “The Four Horsemen. That is what that creature meant.”

“Yes,” said Fergus. “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, sometimes called the Four Heralds.” And without in the least altering his voice, he quoted the words that had been ancient when the Apocalypse had entered the world, but which had not yet been written:

“And Four Heralds shall come into the world to announce the Beast Apocalypse … They shall stalk the earth and lay it waste in their several ways, and after their coming the skies shall darken and the seas shall boil and the world shall burn for fifty days and fifty nights … then shall the Apocalypse ride into the world …’”

“Four Heralds,” Fergus said. “And we know the names of those Four Heralds, for their legend also has come back to us with the Time Travellers.” He looked at Tybion, and Tybion said,

“‘There shall be Four Heralds who shall come into the worldy and each shall have a namey and these names shall be War, Plague, Famine, and Death …’” He stopped, and Fergus picked up the words.

“‘And the first of these Heralds shall be Plague …’”

“Plague,” said Fergus, his eyes dark in the moonlight. “By allowing Medoc to reign and to awake the Conablaiche, we have been responsible for allowing the creature to spill its filth into the Future.” He stared at Tybion, his eyes brilliant now. “When the Conablaiche went into the Future, it took with it the seeds of destruction and death. It set in motion the prophecy of the ages.”

War, Plague, Famine, and Death … And the first of these shall be Plague …

“We have sent the first Herald into the Future, Tybion!” Fergus said, and now the agony blazed from his eyes. “It was not our descendants who burned the world and destroyed civilization.

“It was us!”

CHAPTER THREE

Travelling to the mainland, after the quiet of Innis-free, awoke something in Fergus that he had almost forgotten he possessed. Here was life and vigour and interest. Yes, and hope. As he walked through the teeming streets, confidence poured into him, and his spirits lifted. I am coming alive again. I am regaining strength. I shall succeed.

But I shall hate the means by which I shall succeed …

The money lenders. The strange, rather secret people who had come to Ireland from the East, and who lived and worked and studied in Ireland, but who were shunned and rather feared. They possessed immense wealth, and they would bargain with the goldsmiths and the silversmiths for those who sought their help. They were said to be clever and subtle and sometimes cruel, and they were distrusted. But only with the money lenders’ help could the exiled Court pay the sorcerers to take them to the Future and turn back the Conablaiche’s malevolence.

There is no other way, thought Fergus.

The Street of Money Lenders was narrow and long. The houses were very old. Fergus thought they must have been built during the Golden Age of Cormac’s reign, and he thought that something of that Age’s prosperity lingered in the tall, rather beautiful buildings.

The houses were high and overhanging, so that you felt as if they might topple over onto you. Signs, elegantly lettered, hung outside some of the buildings, and small, dusky-skinned boys ran everywhere, taking messages, collecting gold, carrying bonds. There were warehouses and gold and silversmiths; shops that sold carved jewellery and amulets and trinkets. Fergus thought the work had an Eastern look, and remembered that the money lenders were thought to be nearly all Tyrian by origin; and he was intrigued, for little was known of the Tyrians who had come to Ireland from the East, bringing with them their secrets and their odd, barbaric religions.

He moved on, seeking one of the smaller houses — thinking he might do better with a less impersonal place, marking out one narrow, several-storied building — “More or less at random,” he said afterwards.

There was a sign outside proclaiming the owner’s trade, and there were archways over the doors. Fergus pushed open the door and, confronted by twisting stairs, went cautiously up.

*

The man seated at the wide table in the room overlooking the street was very much younger than Fergus had expected. He was dark and thin-faced and sardonic looking. But his eyes were intelligent and his mouth was fastidious and sensitive. He was working at some papers, and he was surrounded by sheaves of documents and by money scales, and what looked like chunks of raw gold, and his room was the untidiest Fergus had ever seen.

But he thought there was a tumbled charm about it; he liked the latticed windows that looked out over the street and caught the sunlight, and he liked the leaping fire in the hearth and the rows of books that studded the walls. All of this he took in, and then he turned to the young man at the table and at once thought, But this is someone I can trust.

The man at the table said, “Yes, I am a Tyrian and my rooms are very untidy, but it does not affect our dealings.” He regarded his guest. “Please be seated, Fergus, the chairs are cleaner than they appear.”

“You knew my name?” Fergus said.

“The ancient art of the Samhailt is not reserved solely for the Irish,” the young man said. “I wish you would sit down. I cannot conduct business with you if you persist in towering over me.”

Fergus sat facing the table and looked at the young man. “Do you also know why I am here?”

There was a shrug, the spreading of hands in a slightly foreign gesture. “You are from the exiled Court. And wars fought to regain kingdoms are expensive.” He stood up. “Will you drink wine with me? My colleagues will tell you that I cannot conduct business unless I am three parts drunk.”

Slightly against his will, Fergus said, “Can you?”

“You shall judge for yourself.” The Tyrian brought two brimming chalices of wine to the table, and Fergus sipped it, warily at first, and then with enjoyment.

“Yes, it is very good wine,” the young man said. “I buy it by the barrelful from sailors. How much money do you want?”

“You are very direct, sir,” said Fergus.

“My name is Taliesin. I am Tyrian by descent and a money lender by trade.” He leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine, and regarded Fergus. “I am shrewd and intelligent, and it is my business to make money from you. If you leave money with me, I will invest it and you will become richer. If you take money from me, I will make you pay and I will become richer. You have not yet told me how much you want.”

“Twenty thousand royals,” Fergus said, and Taliesin’s brows went up.

But he only said, “That is a very great sum.”

“Beyond your means?”

“No sum is beyond my means. I can find a King’s ransom if I have to. Or,” Taliesin said thoughtfully, “a Queen’s. And they tell me that the sorcerers of Tara are very expensive these days.” He grinned suddenly. “My people are outcasts and pariahs and we are reviled and looked on as thieves and robbers.” The sudden attractive smile lit his face again. “We care for no man and no man cares for us. You should not trust me, Fergus, for I may betray you.”

“I don’t think so,” said Fergus.

“I don’t think so either,” Taliesin said. “What security do you offer for this sum? What is the bond, Fergus?”

Fergus said slowly, “All of the wealth of Tara lies deep in its vaults, and once we regain Tara, we shall be able to pay you many times over.”

“Once with interest will suffice. You still have not told me of the bond.”

“I pledge the Fiana,” said Fergus, watching the other one.

“I see. And if the bond has to be called in? If you fail to regain all the wealth of Tara’s coffers?”

“Then as Head of the Fiana, my life must be forfeit,” said Fergus, and Taliesin’s brows went up again.

“Unusual.”

“Unacceptable?”

“No. If I am not paid, then I may take your life to do with what I wish, yes? Yes, I thought that was what you meant. I daresay there have been odder arrangements. Shall we write the bond in your blood, or will ordinary juice of husks suffice? I suppose that since swine root among husks, that will be appropriate.”

“Then you can lend me the money?” said Fergus, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

Taliesin said, “I can do it, certainly. But even so, I shall have to go to the Elders of the Council.”

“Because it is so large a sum?”

“Because of the bond,” said Taliesin. “More wine?”

*

Grainne and Tybion the Tusk with Fintan and Cermait Honeymouth had set out in the grey light of dawn in search of the Grail Castle. The court had not been very happy for the Queen to be off like this looking for the Cruithin, what with Fergus off to the money lenders and Lugh Longhand to sneak the army onto the mainland to spy on Medoc and Tara. Grainne had listened with her usual gentle courtesy to their various objections. Then she had quietly bade them pack and be ready to leave at dawn, and although she had spoken softly, her eyes had flashed and no one had quite dared say her nay.

And now after a long day in the saddle, they were coming through the shadows to the road that was believed to lead to the Grail Castle. They slowed, and the horses tossed their heads as they moved to the grassy verge. Nobody quite liked to say it, but each was secretly rather afraid of actually setting foot on the road.

Fintan said wasn’t it the longest darkest road you had ever seen, and Tybion the Tusk asked what a grail was exactly.

“Well,” said Fintan, “it’s — well it’s a — dear me, it’s not easy to explain. See now —”

“It’s an object of quest,” Grainne said. “Something precious and priceless and lost.” And Fintan said hadn’t that been the very description he’d been searching his mind for.

“Thank you,” said Tybion. “I see.”

Cermait said you didn’t like the look of the road one bit. “Shadowy,” he said. “And would you look how it snakes away from you,” and Fintan said it ought to be renamed, because to call it the Castle Road was not warning people properly how dark and nasty-looking it really was.

In fact, as they set off again, the road was easily as frightening as they had feared, although none of them could quite have said why.

Grainne was very apprehensive, but she was exhilarated as well. I am fighting for Tara, she was thinking; I am riding out to try to regain what is truly mine. I am out here in the wilds of my land and I am approaching an ancient sinister castle, along a road which most people believe to be haunted by evil dark magic. I am dressed in plain breeches and a leather jerkin, and I have cut off my hair, and nobody knows who I am, and anything could happen to me tonight, thought Grainne. And with the thought, something that she had until now been only dimly aware of, stirred, and then woke in her.

A surge of golden strength, a swift current of glinting courage …

The wolfblood, the ancient enchantment created long ago, by the first sorcerers of all, so that her ancestors could lie with the wolves, and so that the beautiful wild Wolfline could rule Ireland.

The power and the light and the strength of the Wolves of Tara …

She had the impression that the strength was not really hers, but that it was a loan, a gift from the forebears she had never known, who had lain with the Wolves, and that she had held it in trust. It is a loan and a pledge, and it is something I must preserve so that I may hand it on to my heirs …

Heirs. The little slant-eyed boy with dark hair and smooth skin, full of light and fire and life … He did not exist except in her imagination and in her dreams. It was certainly pointless to still feel the ache that could sometimes cut her from breast to womb. Even so — Oh, Fergus, thought Grainne. I wonder where you are now. I wonder if you will succeed. I wonder if you will return. But riding quietly along like this, it was possible to touch, in her mind, Fergus’s parting words, and derive comfort from them.

“Be sure I shall return,” he had said. “Be sure that Ireland will not be lost.” And then with the sweet secret smile she had once traced on his lips with her fingertips in the magical dawn outside Tara, “Nothing that has once been precious can ever be lost, my love,” he had said.

It would never be wholly lost to them, thought Grainne, and then, because to think of Fergus was profitless now, she turned her mind back to their quest, and to her companions.

Tybion the Tusk was happier than he had ever been in his life. He had never been so close to the High Queen before, although he had known all the stories about her; how she was lovely and gentle, and how she was like her famous grandmother, the dazzlingly beautiful Dierdriu. But he had not known that she would have eyes the colour of molten gold that you felt might see into your soul, or a skin like buttermilk, or that she would be so delicate and fragile-looking that you would want to go bounding all over Ireland and tear apart every creature who had ever hurt her. She had cut off her rippling black hair, and the court had all been very shocked — Cathbad the Druid was reported to have wept — but Tybion thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

When they stopped for a bite of supper, he gathered apples and rich wild blackberries and simmered them carefully over the fire with a drop of Fintan’s best mead, which was a recipe that had been in his family for generations.

“It is very good,” said Grainne, eating it with enjoyment, and Tybion thought he would gladly have died for her.

He was entranced to be allowed to sit beside her as they ate their supper in the gathering twilight. Fintan had caught several fish earlier in one of the streams, and they grilled these over the fire and found them wholly delicious. Tybion thought that out here, Grainne was closer to the forest creatures and to the wolves whose blood she possessed. He looked at her again and saw, for the first time, the unmistakable traces of wolfishness. This ought to have been faintly sinister but was somehow not. Grainne was beautiful and gentle, and Tybion would have died for her. As they set off again, the long dark road was very quiet.

“It’s too quiet,” said Fintan.

Even Cermait said he wished they knew what was ahead.

“Something nasty,” said Fintan, with gloomy relish.

“Something powerful,” said Cermait. “Can’t you feel it?”

They could all feel it. A heavy dark menace, as if some immense force was summoning all of its strength. Grainne, who had grown up with the sinister legend of the Grail Castle, and who knew that no creature who had ever set out to find it had ever returned, felt a cold dread. It was along this road that the prowling hungry Conablaiche was sometimes seen, and it was along this road that the Lad of the Skins, who scoured the world for human souls, walked abroad with a dripping sack …

Grainne rode quietly along, between Fintan and Cermait, and thought, But why has no one ever been able to reach the Grail Castle? Why is it surrounded with dark enchantments that unfailingly devour those who try to penetrate it?

What is inside the Grail Castle that is so terrible that no one has ever been allowed to look upon it?

And then they rounded the last curve in the road, and there it was.

The Grail Castle.

*

It was like nothing any of them had ever seen, and it was like every nightmare and every dark castle they had ever visualised.

“Black,” said Fintan, staring.

“Massive,” said Cermait.

Tybion, who was a little to the rear, shivered and tried to look away, and Grainne, who was staring at the great grim outline, felt a dreadful heavy coldness.

For inside there is something so nightmarish and so unbearable that it is beyond ordinary comprehension …

The castle was set squarely on a massive jutting rock and it was surrounded by a deep, wide ravine. A rock bridge stretched across to the immense portcullis.

“And it is the only way we can get in,” said Fintan.

“It’s very narrow,” said Cermait.

“Yes, we’ll have to go singly. Who’ll lead the way?”

Tybion said, “I should be happy to go first, ma’am —” but Grainne said, “It is for me to lead you,” and they fell back. As Cermait said in a whisper to Fintan, although you now and then forgot Her Majesty’s ancestry, she had only to tilt her head in just that way, and you remembered.

“Breeding,” said Fintan. And then, “But I don’t like the look of this place.”

None of them liked the look of it. The Grail Castle, sometimes called Scáthach, the Castle of Shadow, reared up before them, its great bulk black and menacing against the sky.

Closer to, it was silent and secretive. Grainne thought it was easy to imagine that all manner of things walked its halls and lurked in its lonely turrets; it was easy to imagine as well that its dungeons housed ancient grisly secrets.

A wind had got up as they neared the great drawbridge, and Tybion said softly, “Your Majesty — ma’am — see there? Lights burning,” and Grainne followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw that on each side of the door were flaming torches, thrust into metal sconces, flickering wildly in the moaning, keening wind, casting eerie shadows on the stone walls.

“Then at least someone is at home,” Grainne said quite calmly, and she thought, Well, at least I do not sound afraid. And she moved forward, aware of the others falling into line behind her, but not really thinking about them; thinking instead of what lay ahead, on entering the castle, and on what they would find.

The Cruithin? After all, would the Cruithin be here? Were Ireland’s lost people for some reason living in hiding in this terrible place? Was that the reason for the shrouding spells?

There was a moment — heart-stopping and fearsome — when the wind blew gently on the torches, so that they flared as if a giant’s breath had been huffed onto them. And there was another moment when the wind swooped about them, so that each had the impression of beating wings overhead.

They dismounted cautiously and tethered their horses to mounting posts in the courtyard.

“Deserted,” said Fintan, as they looked about them. “Wouldn’t it be a fine old joke if after all these years, and after all those legends, the Grail Castle was no more than an empty shell?”

Grainne said softly, “I think we are being watched. From somewhere above.” She scanned the rows of blank windows for movement, but there was nothing.

“I suppose,” said Cermait, “that we’re just going to go up to that door and ask them to let us in.”

“Yes.”

“Ah,” said Cermait, and Grainne smiled, and Tybion moved forward, in case there was anything he could do to help.

But there was no need to pull the immense bell rope, and there was no need to ask anyone to let them in. The drawbridge swung upwards of its own accord, and the doors of the great, dark Grail Castle opened up before them.

As if they were expected.

*

Fergus stood at the corner of the Street of Money Lenders and waited for Taliesin.

Dusk was creeping down the street, shrouding the tall narrow buildings, and Fergus felt, as always, the heady bewitchment of the Purple Hour. He thought that surely, if there was any magic left in Ireland, this was the hour when it would be waking and walking.

He had been listening and watching for Taliesin, but when Taliesin appeared, he jumped, for the Tyrian had come so quietly that Fergus had neither seen nor heard his approach.

“Are you ready, Fergus?” said Taliesin, and he smiled as if he knew he had disconcerted Fergus.

“Where are we going?”

“To the Elders of my people.” He regarded Fergus thoughtfully. “You may be a little surprised at what is ahead.”

“What is ahead?” said Fergus.

“I am not permitted to tell you that.” He paused in a doorway and took out a flask. “Wine?”

“Thank you.” Fergus took the flask. “Is it true that you cannot conduct business unless you are drunk?”

“There are worse things that could be said of a man,” said Taliesin. “Through here, Fergus. It is not very far. Thank you, I will take back my flask.”

They passed down side streets and courtyards, and through a low stone archway, and Taliesin stopped before a tall house with flaring torches on each side of the door.

“Discreet,” said Taliesin, surveying it. “They do not care to draw attention to themselves. I daresay they are right.”

“Do people never come here by chance?”

“No.” He was standing motionless, looking at the shuttered and darkened windows, and Fergus suddenly received the impression that he was reluctant to go inside. “I am reluctant,” Taliesin said softly. And then, with a shrug, as if it did not matter after all, he pushed open the door. “And,” he said, “we are expected, it seems. Come inside, Fergus.” Inside, the house was clean and cool and austere. Fergus, who knew little of the tastes and fashions of the Eastern lands, rather liked the low, pointed arches and the patterned mosaic floor. The floor was engraved with curious symbols, and he would have liked to inspect them more closely. There were alcoves at intervals, set with strange bronze winged creatures, and beneath each of these was a small flame.

“My people worship strange gods,” said Taliesin, and Fergus could not decide if he was being mocked now.

“And you?”

Taliesin tilted the flask to his lips again. “I worship the red river of life which runs through the veins of no man,” he said. “Through here. We are going below the city. You are entering into another world, Fergus.” The shrewd eyes regarded him. “I believe I have judged you rightly,” he said suddenly. “But if I have not, I am sorry.”

Fergus started to say, “What —” and Taliesin said, “Hush. We are nearly at the central chamber,” and returned to his former disinterested manner. “The stairs are steep. Go warily.”

“What of you?” said Fergus, for Taliesin seemed to move effortlessly downwards.

“I am lent wings by the wine. You should have taken more.” The stairs opened into a large high-ceilinged hall, and Fergus stared about him. He was not especially afraid, but he was certainly intrigued.

“To outsiders, we are very intriguing,” Taliesin said. “It is only when you come to know us — if, that is, we permit you to — that you realise we are in truth thieves and robbers.”

“You do not care very much for your own people,” said Fergus, looking at him.

“I was born into a world where the making of money is the reason for existence and the bread of life,” was the response. “That does not mean that I must care for it.”

“You dislike it so much?”

“I find it boring,” said Taliesin, and moved away, leaving Fergus at the centre of the hall.

A soft light spilled into the chamber, and Fergus, trying to pierce the dimness, received the impression of shadowy archways and passages that might lead anywhere. At the centre of the chamber was a long dark table, polished to a mirror-bright shine, and carved chairs were ranged around it. Nine, thought Fergus, his eyes going over them. Yes, of course. Always the magical nine.

There was a warm dry scent in the air — something exotic and unfamiliar — and there was a sudden feeling of being watched. Fergus felt the appraisal of the money lenders before he saw them, and he turned at once to see the hooded figures standing in the shadows at the far end.

You are meant to be impressed by their sudden noiseless appearance, Fergus, came Taliesin’s mocking thoughts. Do not be too impressed if you would retain mastery of the situation. And Fergus, who was a little impressed, but who had long since learned how to hide his feelings, stayed where he was, and looked at the hooded figures, and waited for them to speak.

The money lenders moved forward and seated themselves at the table. As the soft light touched them, Fergus saw that they were younger than he had expected. He thought that in the main they were not a great deal older than Taliesin.

“But we are venerable in ways other than years,” said the one nearest, and Fergus jumped. “You seek money, do you, Captain?” he said.

“I do seek it,” said Fergus.

“For yourself?”

“For the Court,” said Fergus. “But you know this.”

“Yes. It is a great sum you ask,” said the man. “What do you offer as security? What is the Bond?”

“Myself,” said Fergus, holding the man’s eyes unwaveringly. “As Head of the Queen’s Fiana, I pledge myself. Is that sufficient for your purpose, sir?”

“It is unusual,” said the Tyrian in his soft voice, and studied Fergus thoughtfully. “You know of the enmity between your people and mine?”

“A very little of it,” said Fergus cautiously.

“You know that your people spurned mine, spat upon us, and called us dogs and curs? And yet, despite those courtesies, you still come to us for money?”

“If I had any other choice, I should not do so,” said Fergus, rather harshly. “Had we access to the riches that still lie in Tara’s halls —”

“Ah,” said the Tyrian softly, “but you do not have access to them, Captain. The necromancer Medoc holds Tara, and your armies and your people can not regain what is theirs.” He studied Fergus thoughtfully. “I am a practical man, Captain,” he said at last. “If I have money, I make it breed. Taliesin will tell you that, although —” A brief smile lifted his lips, “— although Taliesin regards the breeding of money as tedious.”

“If studied to the exclusion of all else,” said Taliesin, “it is quite stultifyingly tedious.” He turned up the collar of his cloak and leaned carelessly back against the ancient stone wall, apparently disassociating himself from the meeting.

“Taliesin is one of the finest usurers in the Street of Money Lenders,” said the man, regarding the bored Taliesin with something between exasperation and affection. “But it comes too easily to him, and for that reason it bores him.”

Taliesin said, “Money is boring, wealth is tedious, life is an endless series of greedy grasping hands and avid eyes. I see no reason to pretend that I am not bored.”

The Tyrian turned back to Fergus. “Your race has long since been at odds with mine,” he said. “Many years ago, when my people came to Ireland, they were harshly treated. Why, we cannot tell, for the Irish are a generous and hospitable race. Perhaps it is that we were a little too wealthy and a little too successful. Your people found that uncomfortable.” He smiled, and this time it was a truer smile, and Fergus relaxed for the first time. “The Irish are a brilliant but an erratic race,” said the Tyrian. “But they are improvident children. They are wild and irresponsible and quarrelsome.” Again the smile. “They were envious of us, Fergus, and that is unusual, for the Irish do not, as a rule, possess the taint of envy. But that is how the enmity between us began.”

“I understand.”

“In the end, we asked your Queen for help,” said the Tyrian. “We sought audience with your Queen’s grandmother, the Lady Dierdriu, and told her that if she would help us and support us, then she would have our unswerving devotion, and that if ever there was a service we could render to her line, we would do it unhesitatingly.” The smile thinned a little and became faintly calculating. “She knew our worth, your High Queen,” said the man. “She knew that we have always been clever and learned, and also that we are secretive and tenacious. We look to our own,” said the Tyrian, and a murmur of assent went round the chamber. “And we cleave only to our own kind,” he said, and by the foot of the stone steps, Taliesin sighed, and produced his wine flask.

“Dierdriu helped us when no one else would,” said the Tyrian. “And for her and her descendants there is nothing we will not do.” He looked at Fergus. “That is why we will lend you the money,” he said. “Not for yourself, but for Grainne, Dierdriu’s granddaughter, who commands our allegiance.”

“Yes. I am grateful,” said Fergus, and he heard Taliesin mutter, “O gratitude, thou burden upon our imperfect souls.”

“You will ignore our brother’s mockery,” said the Tyrian, quite seriously it seemed to Fergus. “He keeps strange company and reads in strange annals.”

“Also I am wedded to the daughter of the vine,” remarked Taliesin, apparently to nobody in particular.

“Dierdriu rarely gave without ensuring that she would later receive,” said the Tyrian, who seemed to be accustomed to Taliesin’s methods of speech. “She helped us and we continue to be grateful to her.” He glanced at Taliesin as he said this, but Taliesin only smiled and said nothing.

“In return, she asked us to work in secret for her,” said the Tyrian. “She summoned us to Tara one night towards the end of her reign, and charged us with a task of such immense importance that we have never been able to lose sight of it.”

A sudden stillness fell over the other money lenders, and Fergus thought, They know what is coming, but still they feel apprehension. Why? This is something of such magnitude and such secrecy that these people have brought me to this hidden underground chamber to tell me of it.

The Tyrian appeared to be selecting his next words very carefully, but when he spoke, he only said, “Will you be seated, Fergus?” and indicated the vacant chair at the foot of the table.

Fergus sat, and the Tyrian said, “And — perhaps you will have a goblet of wine? Yes, that is better.” He sat back and sipped his own wine, and again appeared to marshal his thoughts.

“Many centuries ago, the Royal line of your country had in keeping an ancient and strong enchantment,” he said. “It was known as the Enchantment of the Beastline, and it enabled the Royal Houses of Ireland to lie with the beasts of the forest and produce the beautiful cruel strong High Kings and Queens.” He looked at Fergus, and Fergus said,

“Yes. The Enchantment was created by the sorcerers for the first High Queen of all, to deflect an ancient curse.” He narrowed his eyes and quoted the ancient curse softly. “(If ever Tara should belong to a pure-bred human, then it will fall into ruin, and the Bright Palace will be no more, and Ireland will surely die …’ It is a part of our heritage. There is a Panel of Judges who constantly measure the strength of the Beastline and pronounce when the line must be mated with the beasts. Then there is what is called the Ceremony of the Beastline, and the mating takes place. Contrary to what you would imagine,” Fergus said thoughtfully, “it is a rather solemn and ceremonious occasion.”

“You have never been present at one of these ceremonies?”

“No.”

“Has it never occurred to you that the present Queen possesses only a thin trickle of the Enchantment?”

Fergus started to speak and then stopped.

“And that being so,” said the man, “has it never occurred to you to wonder why the Judges have not ordered the ceremony? For the Queen?” He looked very intently at Fergus, and Fergus had the impression that he was seeing very clearly those warm drowsy afternoons, those mist-shrouded mornings with Grainne. And, oh, my love, my dear love, how could I ever bear it if you had to lie with the wolves, and accept their seed, and give birth to a Wolfprince … Because the Wolfprince should have been mine! cried Fergus in silent agony.

But he allowed none of this to show; he looked back at the Tyrian calmly and said, “The wolf blood is strong enough.”

“No.” The Tyrian returned Fergus’s regard rather sadly. “Your Queen has only a trace of it. For all that she can sometimes summon what is called the golden strength of the wolves, she has only a thread of the Enchantment in her.” He leaned forward, his eyes hard and shining in the candle-glow. “If the Wolfline is to be saved, she must be joined with the wolves. She must give birth to a Wolfprince.”

“The Judges have not ordered —”

“The Judges have not ordered it,” said the Tyrian, “because the Enchantment has been lost.” He looked very straightly at Fergus. “The ancient and powerful Enchantment, spun by the first sorcerers of all to protect Tara from the long-ago curse, is dead.”

*

For a long time Fergus did not speak. He was distantly aware of the Tyrians watching him, waiting to see what he would do.

The ancient Enchantment is lost …

The strong bewitchment, the spell woven by the sorcerers in the very beginning so that a pure-bred human should never occupy Tara’s High Throne, was lost.

Fergus knew the words of the ancient curse as well as and probably better than anyone else in Ireland. He knew that for the Beastline to die out, for the magical enchanted wolf blood to fade, would mean the fall of the Bright Palace.

A human on the Throne, and the final triumph of the Dark Ireland.

He turned back to the Tyrian and found the man was watching him closely. I must be wary, thought Fergus. I must be very wary indeed, for these are clever and subtle men. “Tell me what you know,” he said, and the Tyrian seemed for the first time to relax.

“You did not know of this, Captain?” he said. “Of the Lost Enchantment?” and there was faint surprise in his voice.

Fergus smiled into the Tyrian’s eyes. “Nothing is ever entirely secret at Court, sir,” he said with perfect courtesy. “But let us say that the little I know is a very little indeed. And let us say I should be glad to hear your part in it all.”

“Our part in it …” said the Tyrian. “Yes, we have played our part, Captain. We shall continue to do so.” He sipped his wine, and Fergus received the impression that he was collecting his thoughts. “Once,” he said, sipping his wine reflectively, “there were the six great Royal Houses of Ireland who served the Wolfkings. All of them possessed the enchanted blood, and all were answerable to the Panel of Judges. The Eagles and the Wild Panthers were next in line after the Wolves, and were regarded as Princes of Ireland; after them came the White Swans, who were a very old and very strong noble line, and had intermarried with the Panthers. After them, there were three lesser, but equally noble houses: the Deers and the Lions and the Chariot Horses. It was a strictly ordered, but very well balanced, hierarchy.”

“Yes,” said Fergus, and waited.

“There were minor Beastlines, as well,” said the Tyrian. “Lesser, but important, nobility who were admitted into the Enchantment because of some service rendered to the King, or bravery in battle perhaps. We know of the Beavers and Badgers; Foxes and Hawks. But the blood has thinned and grown weaker in all of these Houses, Fergus, and although you may see traces of it here and there, it has almost disappeared.” He leaned forward again, his eyes still bright. “And it must be rediscovered, Fergus. Dierdriu knew that.

“And so she asked us for help. She knew our sorcerers were amongst the finest in the world, and she knew that we could be entrusted with the secret. We have many faults,” said the Tyrian, “but we guard well those things which must be guarded. Dierdriu knew that the enchantment must be rediscovered or rewoven. The Princes of Ireland must be able to again lie with the beasts.” He paused. “Have you ever seen an enchantment being woven, Fergus?” he said. “It is a truly remarkable experience. The sorcerers use great looms, as the robemakers do, but the sorcerers’ looms are of pure soft silver, and the stuff they weave is not velvet and silk, but the dreams of men, and the living colours, and the music of the world made liquid, so that you can pour it between your hands. Beautiful and terrifying.” He stopped again, and no one moved.

“Our work has taken us down some strange paths,” said the Tyrian. “We have suffered terrible defeats. But we have gone on, because we have never forgotten how Dierdriu helped us when no one else would, and we know that if Ireland — the true Ireland — is not to die, the Enchantment must be rewoven. Even so …” again the pause, and the faraway stare, “even so,” he said, “there have been dreadful travesties. Times when we had thought the Enchantment whole and safe, but when it was neither. Pitiable beings who we believed would found a new Royal Line, but who were little better than monsters. Can you imagine, Fergus, can you visualize the results of a union between animals and humans without the protection of an enchantment? Nightmare creatures.” He stopped again, and behind them, Fergus had the impression that Taliesin made a movement of distaste. But the Tyrian at the table seemed not to notice it. After a moment he said, “But since we pledged our help to Dierdriu, then we must also help her descendant. There is no question but that the Enchantment must somehow be found again, so that Medoc can be driven out of the Bright Palace, and there is no question but that you must go into the Future to chain whatever forces you find there and bring them back.”

“Yes,” said Fergus. “Yes, I see all that.” He sat back and looked at them all. “Your loan will pay our own sorcerers,” he said. “Only with their help can we hope to travel to the Far Future.”

“And then you will return to repay the loan and its interest, will you?” said the Tyrian, rather cynically.

“You have my word,” said Fergus in frosty tone.

“And the Head of the Fiana’s word should be sufficient?”

“Amongst my own people it would be. And once we have regained Tara, there will be the riches and the wealth of the High Kings. We could repay your loan many times over.”

“Once with interest will suffice,” said the Tyrian.

“I will return,” said Fergus seriously, “and if our attack on Medoc fails, then you may claim the Bond, and I believe I should die gladly. But you may believe that I will return.”

“We do believe it,” said the Tyrian. “But we are a people who believe in bonds, Fergus.” He regarded Fergus with the same thoughtful appraisal, and Fergus caught a movement from Taliesin. “And so,” said the Tyrian, “we are going to — persuade — you to make a commitment to us before you leave for the Future. You are to pay a little of the Bond in advance.”

The silence that followed his words was so sudden and so complete that for a second, Fergus thought he had misheard. A myriad of different thoughts churned through his mind, but at length, he said, quite calmly, “Would you explain that, please?” and the money lenders seemed almost to relax.

“I have told you of how our sorcerers are pledged to help your Royal House, and to rediscover, or reweave a new Enchantment of the Beastline.”

“Yes.”

The Tyrian paused, and then said, “In order to test their work, it is necessary to — make use of humans.” He regarded Fergus. “You understand my meaning, Captain? It is necessary to mate humans with animals, within the confines of the Enchantment, and study the results of that mating.”

He waited. Fergus did not speak.

“And so,” said the Tyrian, “we require you to — assist the sorcerers, Fergus.

“Before we release you from this house, and before we agree fully and unreservedly to the loan you ask for, you must lie with a she-wolf.”

And then, as Fergus did not speak, “If you agree,” said the Tyrian, “we shall view your petition seriously.

“No human who willingly gives his seed to a wolf is other than deadly serious in purpose.” And then, the glint of amusement in his eyes, “Well, Captain?” he said.

CHAPTER FOUR

Fergus sat in the anteroom and eyed Taliesin. “You knew.”

“Yes.”

“You did not warn me.”

“You will accept,” said Taliesin, “that it was a little difficult to explain.” His expression was bland, but a glint of amusement showed in his eyes. But he said, quite seriously, “It is the only way they will lend you the money, Fergus. Our sorcerers are forever studying the Enchantment and forever making new attempts to reweave it. And although it will be strange and bizarre, they are serious about what they are trying to do.” He eyed Fergus. “The Silver Looms have been spinning ceaselessly for many nights now. The sorcerers are ready to —”

“Create another monster?” said Fergus harshly. “Bring into the world another poor mutilation born of a mating between a beast and a human without the true Enchantment?”

Taliesin regarded Fergus. “You have never seen a spell being woven, Fergus,” he said unexpectedly. “They say it is the most marvellous sight you could ever witness. The stuff that dreams are made on.” He leaned back. “But to weave the Enchantment properly, the sorcerers require a willing human …”

A willing human …

“And you are going to do it, aren’t you,” said Taliesin very softly.

“Yes,” said Fergus, staring at him. “Yes, I believe I am.”

For Grainne. He would do it for Grainne, and he would do it for Ireland, and for the loan that would enable him to travel into the Far Future. For no other reason? said his mind cynically. What of the hidden ancient bewitchments you are certainly about to witness, and what of the secret arts of the sorcerers which you will almost surely be party to? To see a spell being woven, perhaps actually to witness the re-creating of the Lost Enchantment of Tara …

And if it should succeed, then my son would be High King of Ireland …

*

“Where are we going?” said Fergus, as Taliesin led the way along a narrow stone tunnel that snaked under the ground.

“We are directly under the Street of Money Lenders now. We are going towards the place my people call the Chamber of Looms,” said Taliesin, “although I think that is the name given to all such places.”

“Yes. At Tara there are many such.”

Taliesin was leading them under the low-ceilinged tunnels, where the wall torches threw soft shadows and the walls gleamed with a gentle silver light. Fergus thought the light was some kind of phosphorescence, and then was not sure.

“Escaped spells,” said Taliesin, reaching out to touch the glistening rockface. “Fragments of raw bewitchments that have seeped through the sealed walls of the Sorcery Chambers.” He glanced at Fergus, and Fergus said, “I am not sure if you are being serious.”

“I am rarely serious and seldom sober,” said Taliesin at once. “But you have stood in the Street of Money Lenders at dusk, Fergus, and you have felt the enchantments on the air.”

As they walked on, Fergus saw that now and then a thread of brilliant colour poured itself across their path, as if a length of iridescent silk had come alive, and he glimpsed vague drifting shapes, and was aware of strong exotic perfumes.

The tunnel opened suddenly into a high-ceilinged cavern. There were more of the pointed arches that Fergus had seen on the upper floors, and he thought that tall shadowy figures, cloaked and hooded, stood waiting. The sorcerers! thought Fergus. The Tyrian sorcerers who have worked ceaselessly for Ireland’s Royal House. He looked at them, and remembered the old belief that sorcerers were not quite immortal, but not entirely temporal either. There had to be a vein of the ancient Amaranth blood in them, and it was something they preserved jealously. Were these true Amaranthine creatures?

“Certainly we are, Captain,” said the nearest of them. “Although the strain is somewhat diluted in us.”

“But then we are Tyrians, you understand,” said another. “We are Tyrians, and therefore we are little better than outcasts and vagabonds.”

They were all about him now, courteous and approachable, but in the dimness, Fergus thought their eyes glittered and their hands seemed to be reaching for him.

For a willing human is all that is needed at this stage …

But after all, I have agreed to it, thought Fergus, and he allowed them to take him across the echoing cavern through a low pointed door at the far end. He was aware of Taliesin still at his side, and there was unexpected comfort in this.

Beyond the low door was a silk-hung chamber, with gold symbols etched into the floor, and although Fergus had never penetrated to a Chamber of the Looms — he thought no one who had not the Amaranth blood could do so — he had several times been into minor Sorcery Chambers. He knew this at once for such a chamber, and in the carved symbols he thought he could make out the Cauldron of Dagda with the fire god’s horned features etched into it, and also the writhing shapes of the sidh, who were said to spin the strongest and purest magic in all Ireland. There were other shapes as well; Fergus recognised the Cup of Lyr, and the Nine Hazels of Wisdom, which the Druids used in some of their rituals.

Opposite the door through which they had entered was a second door, a massive silver door, ornate and bearing immense seals, wreathed in symbols even more ancient than those on the floor, and this time carved with what Fergus knew must be the ancient Fertility Tree of Amaranth.

Heat poured outwards from the silver door in great solid gusts, and Fergus flinched. In the same moment, he was conscious of a steady purring note and a continuous spinning palpating. He took a step nearer to the door and gasped as the heat engulfed him.

“The heat from the Looms is the fiercest heat there is,” said one of the sorcerers. “And unless you know the protective spells, you should not venture too close.” He regarded Fergus. “When the Silver Looms are spinning, the force they harness is more powerful than anything you could comprehend; you would be pulled in to its heart and consumed by it.” He paused, and in the silence Fergus could hear the thrumming of the great Looms, and the slow rhythmic pulsating …

For the Looms have been spinning ceaselessly, and now all that is required is a willing human … And I am the human, thought Fergus …

The lights were not so dim here as they had been elsewhere in the house, but there was a reddish tinge, and there was the same silvering on the walls of the chamber as there had been in the tunnel. Here and there, a thread of colour showed, as if tiny streams of enchantment were trickling down the walls. There was a warm, dry scent, and as Fergus stood waiting, the wall torches seemed to burn with a steady pulsing beat. Like a mind or a heart throbbing, thought Fergus …

He thought that the spinning of the Looms had increased — had it quickened? — and then he thought that the lights were deepening in intensity. The nearest of the sorcerers moved to the silver door and began to break the seals. Strong crimson light, shot with gold, poured into the anteroom, and with it curling tongues of flame, so that Fergus and Taliesin both fell back under the furious gust of heat and force and energy. Fergus, shielding his face with his hands, saw, in the belching flames, great shadowy edifices, rearing turrets of power that glinted and whirled in a maelstrom of light and colour. There were immense waterfalls of strong raw colour, as if living rainbows were pouring into the Chamber of the Looms, and Fergus, his eyes dry and burning, his skin prickling with the heat, thought there was a moment when the Looms became alive and reached upwards, almost like silver giants stretching their hands up to heaven to pull down primeval energy.

And then the silver door closed to and the seals snapped into place and the sorcerer was facing Fergus with something between his hands that shimmered and undulated, and Fergus knew it for a newly spun enchantment.

And then he saw the wolf.

She was a golden-eyed, satin-sleek creature, and Fergus, looking down at her, saw that there was intelligence in her eyes. It was impossible not to think, But this is how Grainne looked at me that summer! and it was impossible not to remember that Grainne and this lean silky creature were of the same root. Fergus had thought that when he was brought face to face with the reality of taking a wolf, of embedding her with his seed, he would falter, but now, with the steady resonance of the Looms all about them, and with the golden glowing eyes of the wolf, he knew he would not. The steady thrumming from the Looms was invading his brain and descending low down into his body. He thought, I am to lie with a she-wolf, and the idea was immensely arousing now.

He thought the sorcerers had moved back a little, and they had certainly begun a low, faintly musical chanting, and he thought that Taliesin was standing by the door, but he did not really notice.

He fell to his knees and held out both his hands, and the wolf approached him cautiously, her head tilted, her eyes alert. Fergus ran his hands over her flanks — Beautiful! he thought. Oh, yes, my dear, we shall surely succumb to the Enchantment, and perhaps together we will make a Wolfprince for Ireland, my lady.

She came closer to him, and as he began to caress her lean underbelly, he felt the nipples harden beneath his fingers.

Heat rushed to his loins at once, and he spread his thighs, and turned the wolf about, still stroking her, his other hand going to the fastening of his breeches.

There was no awkwardness, no fumbling … So natural, thought Fergus, his body on fire. How could I have thought I might falter?

He did not falter. He pulled the wolf to him, feeling the strong smooth flanks quiver with delight, and, as he entered her, delight exploded within him, for the creature was tight and clutching, she was soft and smooth, and it was like driving into silk … He could feel the warm sable and black fur against his thighs, sensual and arousing. And after all, he thought, after all, the Wolves of Tara were once very nearly sacred … It is not so very long since the Royal House lay with them to produce the Kings of Ireland … And perhaps I am now doing the same … Perhaps my son will be King of Ireland, thought Fergus, and the thought was so dazzling and so brilliant that delight exploded in his mind, and for a moment he could have believed that no enchantment was needed to achieve what the sorcerers wanted.

The wolf was panting now, her eyes brilliant in the red glow from the wall sconces, and Fergus could feel her muscles bunch and tense. He was moving faster now, and he could hear the Looms still pounding and spinning, and they were going faster, and he was moving against the wolf frantically, and the lights were whirling all about them, and the Enchantment was surely being reborn … The colours of the room were merging and control was beginning to spin away from his grasp, only it did not matter, because this was what they wanted of him … a new Beastline … a Wolfprince …

Fergus gave a low groan and felt the hot seed, the lifemaking fluid, gush from his body and flood the she-wolf’s womb.

*

The Street of Money Lenders was cold and fresh and there was a clean sharpness in the air. Fergus stood for a moment, drawing in great lungfuls of air and, at his side, Taliesin grinned.

“You are purging your soul of magic and the sorcerers’ manipulating?” he said, and Fergus said thoughtfully, “It feels as if it was just a dream.”

“That is all enchantments are,” said Taliesin, and then, “When do we leave?” he said.

Fergus turned round to look at him. “‘We’?”

“My dear Fergus,” said Taliesin lazily, “did you really think the Elders would permit you to go from here alone? In possession of their great secret? Dear me, how trusting of you.”

“You are coming with me to Innisfree?”

“I am coming with you to the Future,” said Taliesin, and in the thin dawnlight, there was no mistaking the brilliance of his eyes. “I am resigned to it,” he said solemnly. “As the Elders decree, so must I obey.”

“It will be extremely dangerous,” said Fergus, who thought he would very much like to have Taliesin with him.

“Will it really? Dear me, how tedious.” Taliesin was walking along the street now, his shoulders hunched against the cold, raw morning. “Even so, the idea of saving the world is a stirring one.” He sent Fergus a sideways glance.

“Is that the only reason?”

“No. I am bored,” said Taliesin. “I am bored with usury. I have too long endured the greed of the fools who seek me out, and I have too long dwelled in the dusty purlieus of money lending. I am at odds with the world that measures success and contentment by the wealth a man has amassed.” The amusement flickered in his eyes again. “Also,” he said, “I find that I have a wish to be a hero. Shall we save the world, Fergus?”

“I don’t know,” said Fergus, who did not.

“Well, even though it is a tedious world, I am still intrigued by the notion of saving it. And it will certainly be a far better thing than anything I have yet done here. Probably it will be a far better world than anything I have yet seen here as well, although that remains to be discovered.” The mockery was still in his voice, but there was something else there, as well, that made Fergus think he would be unexpectedly strong.

“I am as inconstant as the moon when it comes to bravery,” Taliesin said at once, and he grinned at Fergus again, and this time a chink of light from a nearby window made pinpoints of light dance in the depths of his eyes, giving him the look of a devil.

“Oh, I am not a devil,” said Taliesin. “If you would meet a devil, Fergus, you should wait until we have found Fael-Inis, for that is the only sure way to cross Time, and Fael-Inis is called, and truly, the rebel angel from the beginning of the world.

“But if we travel in the Time Chariot, you will find that out for yourself. Wine?”

*

They returned to a depleted Court, since Grainne had already left to find the Grail Castle, and Lugh Longhand had taken most of the army onto the mainland to spy out the land there.

Lugh had, in fact, told a great many people that they were going to be preparing the way for victory, and that a good many people would be very surprised indeed at the outcome of what was ahead.

Dorrainge had gone with them, because he said that somebody should represent the Druids, and Fribble was holding to his absurd idea of going with Fergus into the Far Future. He would take Cathbad with him, said Dorrainge, and Cathbad looked up and said, “Onto the mainland with the army? Oh, dear me, all that fighting. Couldn’t I stay here?”

But Dorrainge said no, because for one thing, Cathbad could cook, which nobody else in Lugh’s party could, and whatever else they did, they were not going to starve.

Fribble said, “Trust the fat fool Dorrainge to think of his stomach,” but Cathbad, who rather prided himself on his skill with the cookpots, brightened up, and began to enumerate the dishes he would prepare for Lugh’s men. “And they will not be too dainty, because there will be all those warlike men.”

“They’re like sheep,” said Fribble, who had been woken up by Lugh’s early departure. “I didn’t think Her Majesty had so many sheep in our Court. I’m very glad they’ve all gone.”

Fribble was pleased to see Fergus, whom he liked, and explained to him about Lugh and his idea of spying on Medoc, and creating a base for them to mount a final attack on Tara.

“Lugh’s taking that fat fool Dorrainge with him,” said Fribble. “We’re very glad about that. Cathbad’s going as well. I don’t know about him, he’s very odd. Are we leaving now? Oughtn’t we to take some wine with us? It won’t do to find ourselves utterly wineless in the Future, you know.”

Fergus, grinning, said, “Sir, there’ll be enough wine in the Far Future to drink the entire Court into oblivion,” and Fribble said, “Well, then, I think we ought to take them some as a gift, don’t you? It would be polite. Are we ready? I don’t want to be kept standing around all day. And if we’re taking the tilt cart, I’ll have a cushion to sit on.”

“We’re quite ready, sir,” said Fergus. “We’re going to the House of Calatin.” And Fribble, who had been stowing away a large leather skin of the Court’s best woodsorrel mead, turned round and said, “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I heard that Calatin and the Sons haven’t done very much in the way of decent sorcery for several seasons. And it’s quite a long way.”

“Well, we thought —”

“Of course, they’ve only got one eye and one foot each,” said Fribble. “It’s something to do with relinquishing the human side of their natures.”

“A very old ritual,” Taliesin said gravely.

“They’ve always been very loyal to all the High Kings,” Fergus said.

“Yes, but you can’t go through life on one foot,” said Fribble. “That’s very awkward. Does anybody know if the Sons of Calatin hop everywhere, or do they have a walking stick?”

Fergus said, “We none of us know, sir, because none of us has ever met any of the Sons. And we’re going to Calatin, because he’s the most faithful of Tara’s sorcerers.”

“Also,” Taliesin said in dulcet tones, “he is cheap.”

“Rubbish,” said Fribble at once. “No sorcerers are cheap. Who’s this person? Is he coming with us? We’ll probably have to go in the Chariot of Fael-Inis, always supposing Calatin can summon it, and there won’t be much room. Does he know that? Fergus, have you told him?”

Taliesin said, “Sir, I am as insubstantial as the pageantry of dreams, and I am as a wraith in the night, and I shall take up no more room than a shadow.”

“Wraiths? Wraiths? I hope we aren’t having any of those with us, nasty chilly things,” said Fribble, and he shivered and had to be given a drink from Taliesin’s flask.

“Only for warmth,” he said. “I don’t want to take cold and miss anything. It’s very good wine, this. No, I won’t have any — well, I daresay another drop won’t hurt. Did Fergus say you were a money lender? I’ve never met a money lender.”

“I am a dealer in people’s dreams and I am a merchant of souls,” said Taliesin.

“I suppose you’re a Tyrian,” said Fribble. “Yes, I thought you were. Still, you brought your own wine, I have to allow that. Are we starting now? Isn’t it a bit early?”

“We don’t want to arrive too late,” explained Fergus. “We’re not sure of our way.”

“Nor of our welcome,” murmured Taliesin.

*

Neither Fergus nor Taliesin was faint-hearted; both, indeed, possessed a strong vein of courage. Taliesin, who had said that he cared for no man and no man cared for him, had, beneath his indifference, a restlessness and a desire to know other worlds and other cultures. He had sat out the dreary years in the Street of the Money Lenders because there was nothing else that a Tyrian in Ireland could do. But for all of that, he had been bored. He had derived cynical amusement from challenging the shibboleths that bound his people, and although he had tried not to think Is this all there will ever be? he had thought it many times.

Now, riding through the dark forest with Fergus at his side and Fribble behind them in the cart, Taliesin knew that after all, it had not been all there would ever be. There was more, there would be difficulties, and there would certainly be dangers, but, I shall be alive, he thought, and felt a tremendous anticipation. I am coming alive again.

Even so, it takes an unusual degree of courage to ride up to a sorcerer’s house by night and demand admittance therein, and as they saw the trees begin to thin and glimpsed the outline of a huge grey house, both Fergus and Taliesin reined in their horses.

“Is that it?”

“I believe so.” Fergus sat very still on his horse.

“I do not admit to apprehension, you understand,” said Taliesin, “but I could wish, Fergus, that you had chosen another way for us to travel to the Future.”

“It is the only way,” said Fergus, and he grinned. “Only a sorcerer with Calatin’s power could summon Fael-Inis —”

“And only Fael-Inis can take us across Time,” said Taliesin. “Yes, of course.”

“But,” Fergus said, “Fael-Inis has not been glimpsed in Ireland for a century or more. It may be an impossible task.” But as he spoke, Fribble, who had been enjoying his ride in the tilt cart, said, “Dear me, I don’t think that’s right, you know. I believe Fael-Inis was last heard of in Dierdriu’s reign, and that’s not so very long ago. Is this the House? It isn’t as long a journey as I thought it would be, after all. I expect they’ll ask us to supper, will they? I always heard that Calatin and his Sons were extremely hospitable.”

Taliesin wanted to know how many Sons they would meet.

“Twenty-seven,” said Fribble. “The magical three times nine it is. All the sorcerers go in for that sort of thing. Myself, I can’t see that it makes any difference, although they say it strengthens an enchantment to include three times nine somewhere. This is a very bad road, isn’t it? I’d better have a drop of wine, to help me over the bumps. Only a thimbleful; I don’t want to arrive roaring drunk. It would create the wrong impression, and I might fall asleep and miss everything.”

As they drew nearer, there was the faint stirring of wind above them and, with it, a low keening note.

“The wind in the trees,” said Taliesin, and he glanced at the other two, and thought, Did they hear that other sound just beyond the sound of the wind? And he listened again and wondered after all whether he had heard anything other than the wind.

The faintest, frailest thread of sound, nothing more … Music, thought Taliesin. Did I in truth hear it? Yes, I believe I did. And so soft and so sweet and so achingly sad that it would melt your soul, and you would follow it into hell and beyond if only it would continue … He turned back to the others and saw that Fergus was standing very still, staring into the dark forest, and there was a look in his eyes that made Taliesin’s skin prickle with fear.

Fergus said, rather uncertainly, “I thought there was something …” and stopped, and Taliesin said with all the force he could muster, “Fergus, there is nothing out there.”

“Yes … music. And — a sound like a child crying —”

Taliesin thought at once, The Lad of the Skins! And at once every grisly legend and every nightmarish tale ever told about the soul-stealing Lad of the Skins flooded his mind.

For the Lad, when he comes, always comes with the chill beckoning music, and with the creeping ancient cold, and with the heart-tearing crying of a lost child in the night …

Cold horror touched him. If the evil, insidious sounds did indeed herald the Lad’s approach, and if Fergus were to fall under his terrible bewitchment, what would happen to them? And in the same moment he knew that if it was the Lad, it would certainly be Fergus he would want, for Fergus was their leader.

Fribble was listening as well, his head on one side. “I can’t hear anything," he said. “Although I’m getting a bit hard of hearing now, of course."

Taliesin’s mind was tumbling with grisly images. He was cold with dread and he thought they must try to seek safety inside Calatin’s house. He took Fergus’s arm, and began to lead him along down the path towards the House of Calatin, and despite the urgency of the moment and the need to somehow get away from the creeping, eerily beautiful music, he was conscious of a small bubble of cynical amusement. Am I to take control of this ill-assorted and surely ill-fated venture? But if the Lad of the Skins was spinning his dark evil about Fergus, Fergus would certainly be unable to lead them. He thought that Fergus was still responding to the beckoning music and the faint far-off crying, and there was nothing for it but to get them to Calatin’s house and safety. And then he thought, I suppose it will be safe in there.

Fribble, who had been scanning the darkness, said, “I can’t hear anything, you know, but I do think we shouldn’t stand out here in the middle of the forest with night coming on." And Taliesin smiled, and said, “You are entirely right, sir. Let us go up to the house, where at least we can be sure of food and warmth and lights and a little human companionship."

Fribble looked sharply at Taliesin and said, “Oh dear, you haven’t been thinking that Calatin is human, have you?"

“What is he?" said Fergus, and Taliesin knew a rush of relief, for Fergus had spoken in what was very nearly a normal voice. Had the faint haunting music withdrawn its hold? I do not believe in any gods at all, thought Taliesin. But if I did, I should be praying to every one of them that it has withdrawn. Aloud, he said, “Tell us about Calatin, Fribble,” and Fribble, who had been gazing at the house, said, “Didn’t you know? Calatin and his Sons are giants. Every one of them.”

*

If it takes courage to approach a sorcerer’s house and request admittance, how much more courage does it take when you have learned that the sorcerers are giants, and when your approach is being made at nightfall through an ancient, listening forest?

Taliesin knew that something deep within the forest was still watching them. He knew that it was following them, creeping along the dark forest path behind them, always just out of sight, so that if you whipped round without warning, it would dodge back into the shadows. He was very nearly certain that it was Fergus that the creature wanted, and he thought that if only they could get Fergus inside Calatin’s house, they might think themselves safe for the moment.

But I do not know whether the creature is good or evil.

The angel from the bottomless pit … Was there any possibility of that? Was there any chance that it was the wild beautiful untamable Fael-Inis? The creature they would have to summon to travel across Time? The rebel angel who rode the Time Chariot and consorted with the fire creatures?

He did not think it was Fael-Inis, for Fael-Inis, when he came to the world of Men, never came furtively and creepingly, with icy evil music, but warmly and glowingly, and with the heat and the fire of the Time Chariot all about him.

It was something darker that was stealing through the forest. Something infinitely sinister. Something hungry that insinuated itself into men’s houses and took their souls …

Probably I am imagining it, thought Taliesin. But he knew that he was not, for he possessed traces of the ancient, almost-extinct Samhailt, the strange elusive power to hear and understand the thoughts of others, and to hear and be aware of the unseen creatures who prowled the world, just out of hearing and just beyond consciousness. But despite all the dangers, he knew that he was alive and alight again.

When Fergus, helping Fribble over the last rough piece of ground, said, “Do you feel at all afraid?” Taliesin smiled in the old mocking way, and said, “I am terror itself, Fergus,” and knew that Fergus knew this was not true.

As they neared the house, they saw that it was much larger than it had first seemed. Taliesin thought it had a lowering appearance. It was built of some kind of dark roughish stone, and there was a steep overhanging roof, and row upon row of narrow windows. But the windows had a blank look to them, as if the rooms behind had been closed up and forgotten. An immense flight of stone steps led up to the house.

“Difficult to climb,” muttered Fribble. “Deep. Well, of course, they’re giant steps.” He sat down and hitched up his robes. “It won’t do to be tripping up,” he said.

They climbed the stone steps carefully. “Each step was at least four feet deep,” said Fribble, dusting himself down as they reached the top. “I wonder how big the giants are.” He examined the massive iron-studded door. “Do you suppose anyone’s at home? I think we ought to ring the bell. Can you reach it? Dear me, it’s rather a long way up. Of course, they’d only be used to other giants as guests. Did somebody say it was supper time? I’m very hungry, aren’t you?”

Taliesin grasped the bell rope and pulled it, and deep within the House of the Giants, a clanging, sonorous bell sounded. It was followed by a moment of most-profound silence and then, from somewhere deep within the great house, they became aware of a slow measured tread approaching.

“Not hopping,” muttered Fribble. “So it won’t be a giant.”

“Is that meant to make us feel better?” said Fergus, and Taliesin, listening, thought that Fergus was sounding more ordinary with every minute. He glanced back into the forest, and thought he caught a scuttling movement deep within the trees, and then was not sure.

The footsteps were on the other side of the door now, and there was a snuffling, as if some huge creature was trying to find the door handle. Taliesin caught the sound of claws ringing out on the floor, and his heart began to pound.

Slowly, inch by inch, the door swung open, and Fergus, who was a little ahead, said very loudly, “We bid you good evening, and have come from the Court of the High Queen of Ireland. We ask for discourse with Calatin and his Sons —”

“And beg for shelter and hospitality,” said Fribble, and then in an aside, “They usually like you to say that.”

There was a pause, as if the creature in the shadows was considering them. Taliesin caught again the sound of claws.

And then a deep, echoing voice said, “Come inside, travellers,” and the door swung open to admit them.

“You are expected,” said the voice, and the three travellers stepped over the threshold, into the House of the Giant Sorcerers.

CHAPTER FIVE

The minute that Grainne and Fintan and Cermait with Tybion stepped inside the Grail Castle, they were conscious of a feeling of great desolation. A shutting out of the light, and a cutting off of hope and warmth and ordinary companionship. It was like waking in the dark of the night —

‘In the terrible loneliness of the night watches, when all sleeps and the world spins on silently and the soul knows the infinite isolation…’

I have never heard those words, thought Grainne, but I know them.

Ahead of them was a stone archway and a flight of steps leading down to a sunken hall. There was firelight and shadowy figures, and there was the sudden hush that falls on a roomful of people when a stranger enters.

Grainne moved towards the archway and stood framed there, looking down at the firelit hall. The light flickered wildly, throwing huge, distorted shadows across the walls, and sending grotesque phantoms and phantasms dancing on the ceiling, and Grainne stood transfixed.

There was a moment — unwished for and never to be forgotten — when shock and horror rose up in her throat, and a terrible sickness threatened to overwhelm her. She fought for control, and the sickness receded, and presently she was able to look without flinching on what was below in the stone hall.

People seated at a long table. No, not people. Creatures. Travesties. Half-humans. Terrible, pitiable beings. Grainne took another step forward.

Creatures neither quite animal nor quite human. Fur and claws and hoofs and snouts. Cloven and webbed and pointed-eared and triangular-featured. Whiskers and skin and hide. Flesh and fur. Parodies. Dreadful, grotesque creatures.

As Grainne stood and looked, unable to speak or move, a pity so immense welled up inside her that she wanted to run down into the red glow of the hall and hold out her hands to the poor pitiful things, gather them to her.

For there was intelligence in the eyes that watched her, and there was understanding and tolerance; a patient acceptance of the cruel fate that had shaped and misshaped and caused these beings to be shut away.

They know what they are.

Grainne turned back to where Tybion and Fintan and Cermait waited by the door, and looked at them very steadily. “Wait here for me.” She thought that for a moment Fintan and Cermait made as if to protest, and Tybion certainly moved, but her voice brooked no argument.

Grainne said in a different, gentler voice, “It is all right. Truly. They will not harm me.” And knew they would not.

Even so, it was harder than she had expected to walk calmly down into the sunken hall with the deep stone hearth and the flagged floor and the flickering wall sconces. Their eyes watched her, and they were the eyes of animals, bright and dark and slanting. Unblinking cats’ eyes, and slitted reptilian eyes, and here and there small birdlike eyes.

And claws and fur, and talons and teeth … Yes, it was all here. Catmasks and eagle eyes and pointed muzzles … Don’t think about it, thought Grainne. Don’t notice it.

She walked in silence to the head of the table and stood looking, and now that she was closer, she could see the evidence of beast and human more clearly. She could see where men or women had been matched with foxes and with eagles and with panthers, and with prowling, growling things, who might sometimes walk on all fours, and sometimes upright like Men …

At the head of the table sat a golden-eyed creature, with the strong features of an eagle or a hawk. He had arms which were nearly but not quite wings, and skin that was nearly but not quite feathered, and there was a hard unblinking look in his eyes as he watched her.

The others had flinched from her gaze, as if they could not endure to be looked on, although the eagle creature sat calmly watching her.

At length, she said softly, “Will you permit me to join you?” and felt a stir of unease go through them.

“I mean you no harm,” Grainne said. And she waited.

The eagle man said, “You honour us, Your Majesty,” and a murmur went round the table.

“You recognise me?”

“The Wolfqueen. Yes, how would we not recognise you?” He gestured to a place at his side. “You are welcome at our table,” he said, “and your companions, also.” And although there was courtesy in his tone, there was no subservience.

She took the seat indicated and sat quietly watching them, waiting, not moving, as deliberately still as she would have been if she was reassuring a nervous horse or dog, and after a time she felt a wary acceptance from them.

The eagle man said, “Will you drink a glass of wine with us, ma’am?” and Grainne saw a small badgerlike girl with a furry snout and soft dark eyes step forward and pour wine.

The wine, when she drank it, was very good, and she sipped it gratefully, feeling it set up a little core of warmth. And slowly, little by little, so gradually that she was hardly aware of it happening, she began to feel a kin with these creatures, and a sense of closeness. At her side, the eagle creature said, very softly, “Do you not know yet who we are, ma’am?” and Grainne turned to look at him and said, “Tell me.”

There was a pause; then, “We are the Royal Houses of Ireland,” he said, and understanding flooded Grainne’s mind.

These were the results of humans mating with Beasts without the protection of the ancient Enchantment.

*

“The enchantment was lost,” said the eagle man, who was called Raynor. “It was lost in the reign of your grandmother.”

“Nobody knows how or why,” said the badger girl who had served the wine.

“But enchantments do die,” said a man with leather-pad paws and the features of a fox.

“But for the Beastline to die out,” said Raynor, his eyes on her, “has been the most dangerous and the most terrible threat ever to touch Ireland. For without the Beastline to rule, Ireland will fall,” he said, and Grainne remembered the old, old prophecy that if Tara should ever be possessed by the humans, then the curse once directed at the first High Queen of all would revive, and the Bright Palace would crumble.

‘And all Ireland will seethe with evil, and the skies will be crimson, and the doors will open to the terrible Forces of the Dark Ireland that forever waits…’

“Forgive me,” said Grainne. “I did not know.”

“Your grandmother kept the knowledge from all but the most trusted of her sorcerers,” said Raynor, and now his eyes held compassion. Grainne remembered how she had marked the lack of subservience, and thought, But of course they are not subservient. They are the Ancient Bloodline, the Beastline that was once the nobility of Ireland. They are the Royal Enchanted Houses of Ireland, but with the enchantment revoked.

The rough magic abjured and the spell wound up … and all your darknesses and all your nightmares dragged protesting into the light …

“Dierdriu charged a particular group of sorcerers to work in secret to rediscover, or reweave, the lost spell,” said Raynor. “We believe they are Tyrians, although we are not sure.” He looked down the table. “But since then, those sorcerers have worked ceaselessly. We do not know if they have succeeded, and we do not know if they will ever succeed.” A pause. “We are the results of their attempts, you see.”

“We are the failures,” said the fox man.

“We are failed spells,” said the badger girl sadly, and Grainne stretched out a hand, because there was the dreadful animal tolerance and the patience again, and so wretched was it that she could hardly bear it.

“We are of the same blood as you,” Raynor said steadily.

But you are whole and beautiful, and we are ugly and deformed … The words lay unspoken on the air, but Grainne thought that every person present in the sunken firelit hall heard them clearly.

Grainne said, “How long have you been here?”

“All our lives. We are brought here from the Sorcerers’ Chambers immediately we are born.”

“While we are helpless and blind,” said the badger girl.

“And — looked after?” It was very nearly unbearable to think about the poor pitiful newborn creatures, defenceless and vulnerable, carried here by night, thrown into the dark fastness of this great castle.

“Yes,” said the badger girl softly, “yes, we are well looked after, although it is not part of our beliefs that one person should work for another.” The dark eyes surveyed Grainne. “The Cruithin look after us,” she said. “It is the Cruithin who keep watch on the sorcerers’ attempts to reweave the Lost Enchantment. It is the Cruithin who carry away the sorcerers’ failures.”

“Dierdriu knew that the Cruithin were the only people other than the Tyrians whom she could trust,” said Raynor.

“That is why the Cruithin vanished. That is why they have never been seen in Ireland since Dierdriu’s reign.”

*

The Cruithin and the rescinded Bloodline. The proud loyal Cruithin, serving Ireland’s noble houses, staunchly and in secret. Protecting them. Using their gentle pure magic to surround the Grail Castle so that no one could reach it.

But I reached it, thought Grainne. I reached it.

Because you were allowed to. Because you are the Wolfqueen, the last of your line, and for you the Cruithin withdrew the spells they had spun around these creatures.

These creatures … There was an image, terrible, soulsearing, of the Cruithin, small-boned and fiercely loyal, carrying the poor unwanted things created by the sorcerers away from the prying eyes of the world. Hiding them and serving them, and summoning their own woodland spells to bind the Grail Castle with legend and myth, so that no one should ever discover its secret.

Grainne looked around and thought, These are my people as much as any creature in Ireland. They are mine, she thought fiercely, and I shall fight for them.

And when we drive out Medoc and the Dark Ireland, they must be with me.

*

It was a strange meal they took together that night, Grainne and Tybion and Fintan and Cermait, along with the creatures of the Grail Castle.

“Like something from another world,” said Fintan afterwards, but Cermait said it was as if they had been made free of a world that should not have been born. An unborn world, peopled with the creatures of a sorcerer’s nightmare …

They were made courteously welcome by the Beastline. “What we have is yours,” the badger girl said, and the others nodded and brought chairs to the table and poured wine. The man with a fox’s slanting mask and red-brown eyes brought in extra dishes of the food they had been eating: fresh lake fish with sorrel and wood parsley, and great platters of firm, crisp vegetables in some kind of sauce. There were wedges of warm fresh bread with the butter melting into them, and the honey cakes that Grainne remembered eating as a child. She smiled and ate everything they offered and watched carefully to see how they ate their own food, so that she might match them, for it was not to be thought of that the poor creatures should be made to feel themselves rough or uncouth.

But their manners were the ones that Grainne herself had been taught as a child, and their attitudes were of wary consideration for the strangers in their midst.

Grainne knew a deep gratitude to Tybion, and to Fintan and Cermait, who had accepted the inhabitants of the castle naturally and tranquilly. Tybion had helped to hand round the plates for the fish, and Cermait had wanted to know about the wine they were drinking and asked was it their own brew, because it was one that he had not come across before. Fintan, who would have found something to say even had he been cast amongst thieves and murderers and child-eaters, fell into a discussion with a small stunted creature with the jaws of a hound about the precise route they had taken to get here.

At Grainne’s side, Raynor said softly, “You perceive that we are a cultured breed, ma’am,” and Grainne looked up sharply, because he had guessed her thoughts so exactly that for a moment she believed him to possess the Samhailt.

“I do not possess it,” Raynor said. “The ancient gift of the first High Kings is not for such as we are.”

“But — forgive me — you do not seem in the least bitter,” said Grainne, and Raynor said at once, “We are very bitter, Your Majesty. But we have striven for …”

“Contentment?”

“Acceptance,” said Raynor, and he smiled at her, a pure winged smile, and Grainne stared at him and was aware, all over again, of a strength and control within him. She thought, There is a fire that has been fiercely banked down inside him. Is it passion? Or hatred? Or something entirely different?

“I have achieved acceptance, Your Majesty,” said Raynor, and turned to refill her glass.

Grainne sat sipping the wine, listening to the quiet conversation, and felt her mind tumbling and her pulses racing.

He is neither animal nor human. He is a creature of the skies. And he is the malformed result of a sorcerer’s search for an ancient, lost Enchantment. He has spent his life shut away in this dark castle.

And he has the face of a gentle hawk and his arms would be stronger than any human arms, and he would have the sinews of a bird of prey, and once in his power it would be impossible to escape, only that you would not want to escape, because he would be powerful and strong and exciting …

And, thought Grainne, seated next to this strange disturbing creature, and I should like to feel about me those arms which are not quite arms and not quite wings, and I should like to feel myself sink against the skin that is not quite skin, and I should like to feel the hard narrow thighs pressing against me … Oh, Fergus, my one and only love, forgive me …

It did not then occur to her that the thin trickle of wolf blood had woken in her more strongly than it had ever done before, and that for her to be physically drawn towards another creature with half-human-half-beast blood was no more than her inheritance. Her ancestors had been wild and amoral; they had lain with the Wolves, so that their issue should have the mixed magical blood …

If Raynor sensed Grainne’s thoughts, he gave no sign. He continued to talk to her, quietly and courteously; telling her a little of the history of the Grail Castle, listening with deep interest to her own tales of Tara, the Shining Palace, which he might so easily have shared. He was gentle and attentive and rather remote.

When they rose from the table, he stood before her and said, “And will you come with us now, ma’am?”

“To the Cruithin?”

“Yes.”

It was a strange experience to be taken in procession through the dark halls of the old castle to meet the people who some said were the first and only Irish race.

The Cruithin. The ancient kindred, who had once ruled Ireland, who had all of the gentle pure magic and the wood-lore and the knowledge of the Old Ireland. They had been driven out and driven back many centuries ago; they had been sent underground by the greedy, land-hungry traders from the east who had coveted the blue and green misty Isle of the Northern Seas, and who had fought to possess it.

But they had returned with the first ascent of the Wolfline. “To serve,” they had said. “For it is the Wolfkings who will make Ireland truly great. It is the enchanted Wolfline that will bring our country to a Golden Age.”

And when the Golden Age became threatened, when the Enchantment dimmed, they had again vanished, still serving but doing so quietly and unobtrusively now, going by night into the darkness of the Grail Castle, protecting the travesties created by the sorcerers in their attempts to reweave the lost spell.

Unswervingly loyal to the Wolfline still. Grainne felt her throat closing with emotion, and when Raynor said, “Are you ready, ma’am?” it was a moment before she could speak.

Without Fintan and Cermait and Tybion, she would have been uneasy walking openly through the castle. It was not that the passages were long and draughty — although they were. And it was not that the torches they carried flickered wildly and cast huge fantastical shadows everywhere — although they did. It was certainly not the presence of Raynor and the others.

There are pockets, thought Grainne, staring about her, deep and unexpected pockets of despair, and of sadness and pain. She thought that all manner of creatures had dwelled here, and she wanted to know about them, and in the same breathspace wanted to know nothing of them.

“But there is no evil here,” Raynor said softly, and Grainne looked up. “Your heart flinched for a moment, ma’am,” he said, and smiled, and Grainne stared, and knew a great wish to hear her name on his lips instead of her title … No. Oh, no, for it would be pain and torment and delight, and I must quench the thought. He is not for me, nor I for him, and that way surely lies heartache.

But when Raynor touched her arm to steer her across an especially uneven section of floor, delight ran all over her. Oh, no — quench the thought and douse the longing, for a thought, once formed, has too much reality, and a longing, once admitted to, has too much power.

The Cruithin were waiting in a small low-ceilinged chamber — Grainne thought it might be some kind of communal room where they might forgather and spend their evenings, and drink and talk and smoke their pipes. There was firelight here, also, but a different, stronger glow that cast shadows on the faces of the Cruithin. There was the warm woodsy scent of clay pipes, properly seasoned, and of clean wool, and apples roasting before the fire in autumn. An immense longing for the Old Ireland, the True Ireland, the Ireland of the Ancient Kindred and the Lost Enchantment of the Beastline, filled Grainne, and she wanted to fling wide her arms and embrace the lost land of her ancestors, and she wanted to summon every ounce of strength to conjure up and bring back all of the marvellous wild magic. For a moment, it was with her, that ancient misty land, where men had lain with beasts, and where beasts had sometimes walked upright like men. Where the magical eerie sidh and their King, the elven Aillen mac Midha, had served the Royal House, and where the courtiers of Tara had possessed three-cornered slant-eyed smiles that you would never quite trust.

And the Enchantment, the precious ancient Enchantment that had created and kept alive the mystical Beastline, was lost. If the sorcerers did not succeed, then the land of the Wolves would die, and the Dark Ireland would come flooding in, and Ireland, the real Ireland, would be lost.

She would not let it happen. Somehow, in some way, she would find the spell again, she would discover the lost magic and restore it to her people.

It had to be done. Standing at the centre of the grim terrible Grail Castle, with the secrets of countless ages, and with the sufferings of numberless exiles weighing on her heart, with these strange pitiful half humans, and with the Cruithin, Grainne knew it had to be done.

For Ireland.

And for Dierdriu, and for all the long-ago Wolfkings and Queens.

For Fergus, and for the Lost Prince, for Tara’s heir, who had never existed, and who might never exist.

A slow sweet smile spread across her face as she looked at the Cruithin waiting for her and sensed, at her back, Fintan and Cermait and Tybion, with Raynor and the others close by.

These are my people.

Grainne held out her hands, and the Wolflight, muted and glowing and luminescent, and infinitely loving, shone from her eyes.

CHAPTER SIX

As Fergus and Taliesin and Fribble stepped across the threshold of the House of Calatin, the shadows receded.

“Empty,” said Fribble, looking round. “That’s interesting. Do you suppose we imagined that voice and those sounds?”

They looked about them. The light was draining, so that purple and grey shadows were stealing across the floor, and Taliesin thought he caught the faintest of movements, so that for a moment he could have believed that something did lurk there, something that was misshapen and shuffling, but that could melt and dissolve and change into something huge and rearing, with claws and talons and teeth …

“We should search the house before anything else,” said Fergus, standing in the centre of the empty hall, and Taliesin heard with relief the incisive voice of the Fiana s leader again. He’s himself again, thought Taliesin. I think it will be all right. But he found that he was still listening for the cold beckoning music that might herald the Lad of the Skins …

Fergus had already started in the direction of the stair, and Taliesin and Fribble followed more slowly.

“The house is empty,” said Fergus, but he sounded uncertain, and Taliesin, following more slowly, thought that the house was not empty at all; there was no one here, and yet they all knew there was someone here. They could feel it. Something very terrible has happened here, thought Taliesin. Do the others feel it? I believe Fergus does, just a little.

The corridors on the upper floors were long and winding, and there were unexpected mirrors set at odd angles, so that you rounded a corner and caught sight of yourself and jumped. And there were huge ornate bedchambers, richly furnished.

“Sorcery is a profitable business,” observed Taliesin. “Almost as profitable as money lending.”

“I thought you were all beggars and paupers,” rejoined Fergus, and Taliesin eyed him, and thought, The sense of humour is back as well now. I believe we have somehow driven back whatever it was that was shadowing us through the forest. I believe that Fergus is safe. Aloud he said, “Money lending is only profitable because there has to be a reward for the way in which we are mocked and scorned, my friend. We make money purely as a revenge, I assure you.

“And that carpet is rather frayed, and if you do not watch your footing, you will fall down the stairway.”

Fergus, leading them through the great shadowy house, thought that for all his assurances, they were certainly not alone. There was something here, watching them, perhaps grinning, rubbing its hands together, licking its lips …

Someone who served Crom Croich and Medoc, and who walked abroad with a dripping sack? Someone who prowled the world by night, and peered through latches and chinks in curtains, and stole away the first-born sons to offer up to its terrible Master …

Were the Conablaiche and the Lad of the Skins walking tonight?

Fergus found himself constantly looking over his shoulder, searching the shadows, listening for a soft footfall. At his side, Fribble said softly, “I believe we are approaching the heart of the house now.”

“Yes,” said Fergus. “Yes, I know.” And looked at the other two. “The Chamber of the Looms,” he said, and Taliesin looked back and saw, reflected in Fergus’s eyes, the shared memory.

“I can hear the Looms now,” Fergus said softly, his head tilted, his eyes brilliant. “Listen …” As they stood silently, each of them was aware of a low-pitched resonance, a steady thrumming. And then Fergus moved on again, and they rounded a gallery where several staircases ended, and there, ahead of them —

“The silver door,” said Taliesin softly.

“The Chamber of the Looms,” said Fergus, staring.

“And it’s solid silver,” added Fribble. “My word, that will have cost somebody a pretty penny.”

Fergus approached the silver door cautiously and reached out to trace the carvings. The Tree of Amaranth, and the Nine Hazels of Wisdom. Writhing sidh creatures, and here and there the wolf emblem. Yes, almost exactly as those in the Tyrian sorcerers’ house. It brought back sharply the strange exotic house and the bizarre pact he had made with Taliesin’s people.

Taliesin said, “The Looms are not spinning now, I think?”

“I don’t think they can be,” said Fribble. “We should never stand it if they were,” and Fergus and Taliesin both remembered how they had fallen back under the great gusts of solid heat below the Street of Money Lenders.

“It’s all very interesting, isn’t it?” said Fribble. He stepped forward and laid his hand against the massive silver door, and when he brought it away, the flesh was scarlet as if it had been dipped in boiling water. “Very interesting,” he said. “I am glad I came.” He eyed the door again. “I’d like to go in there,” he said. “Wouldn’t it make Dorrainge angry if I told him I’d seen a spell being spun? He wouldn’t speak for a week, the fat fool.”

Fergus said hesitantly, “They say there are ways of protecting oneself from the heat —” and Fribble turned round and said at once, “Oh, yes, I believe there are. But I’ve never seen it done, and it’s quite dreadfully risky. I think we ought to finish our search, don’t you? I’d like to see a spell being spun — well, who wouldn’t — but they say that the power is so tremendous that it would burn out your eyes.”

“A fate I think we ought to avoid,” said Taliesin.

“Quite right,” said Fribble. “For a Tyrian, you show common sense. I told Fergus not to bring you,” he said, as they retraced their steps, “but I’m glad you came now. I’m very glad you brought the wine as well.”

“Will you have a drop more, sir?”

“That’s very kind,” said Fribble.

They continued to search the house, and now, in every room they looked into, a fire burned merrily in the hearth.

“The stoves are warm,” said Fergus as they stood in the scullery. “And look at this.”

“What is it?”

“The kettle is singing on the hob,” said Fergus.

An empty house, where fires burned and stoves were warm, and where kettles hissed … In silence, they retraced their steps and passed beneath a great stone archway.

“The banqueting hall,” said Fergus. “The only place we have not yet searched.” But Taliesin thought that Fergus hesitated, and he certainly caught a ripple of uncertainty from him. Because Fergus sensed that there was something ahead of them that was waiting for Fergus alone? I am probably being absurd, thought Taliesin, but still the feeling that Fergus was listening and waiting for something persisted, and the fear that some kind of darkness had been cast over Fergus became more firmly entrenched.

The shadows clustered more thickly in the ancient banqueting hall, and the quiet was in some way different here. Hushed. Dead. A place outside of Time.

The long oak table was laid as if for a meal. There were great platters of fruit and cheese; a steaming tureen of some savoury soup; crocks of butter and wedges of newly baked bread, warm from the oven. In the huge silver tureen, the soup was steaming, as if it had just been taken off the stove …

As if at any minute, the occupants of the house would return, or as if at any minute, the figure at the far end would open its eye and sit up and start eating …

At the far end of the table, still and silent and unseeing, slept a massive figure.

As Fergus and Taliesin stood motionless, Fribble said, “Calatin, the Sorcerer.”

“Is he — dead?” said Fergus.

“No,” said Fribble, moving forward carefully. “No, he is not dead.” He stood looking at the slumped silent shape, and something crept into his expression that sent fingers of ice down Fergus and Taliesin’s spines.

“But I believe his soul is in pawn,” said Fribble softly, and then, looking at them very straightly. “The Lad of the Skins was here before us.

“And he has stolen Calatin’s soul and thrown it into the Prison of Hostages,” said Fribble.

*

He was immoveable and cold and terrible and pitiable.

The soulless one. The sleeping giant. Calatin, the sorcerer who had served the High Kings. His body slept and his soul was in pawn; he was unseeing and unhearing, and he slept the terrible sleep of all who lose their souls to the Lad of the Skins. As they moved cautiously closer, they could see that his skin had a cold, stony look to it, and that spiders had begun to spin webs between his fingers.

“And over his eye,” said Fergus, shuddering.

Taliesin said, “The plates and bowls and cups are covered with dust, but it is a very thin sprinkling.” He looked at them. “I do not think he can have lain like this for long.”

Fribble said, “Dear me, this is very upsetting. It’s something I never thought I’d see. A soulless giant. An undead sorcerer. He’s very nearly a legend, you know. They’re a very highly respected branch of the Amaranthines, Calatin and his Sons. He’s been going for a good long time, even for a sorcerer. Since well before the present Queen. As far back as Dierdriu, so I believe. I suppose it would be discourteous if we sat down at the table, would it? Yes, I thought it might be. That’s not to say we’d have any appetite if we did. Is there a drain of wine left? Do you know, it’s made me feel quite ill to see the old boy like this, never mind making it difficult for you two, because offhand I can’t think of another sorcerer who could summon Fael-Inis, can you, Fergus?”

Taliesin produced his flask and said cautiously, “Is he sleeping or —”

“Or dead? No, he isn’t dead precisely,” said Fribble, drinking the wine gratefully. “I don’t know what you call it, only that it’s a perpetual sleep, and he can’t be woken.”

“Only by the forfeiting of another soul in exchange,” said Fergus in a rather odd voice, and Taliesin looked at him sharply. But Fergus only said, “I wonder what happened?”

“Well, the Lad of the Skins got into the house,” said Fribble. “I do think we can be sure about that. And of course, once you’ve let him into your house, it’s very nearly a foregone conclusion. You lose your soul and your body goes into what they call a petrified state. Like trees. And I believe,” said Fribble, thoughtfully, “I believe you have to be very careful over the body, as well, because the soul can still feel pain. You can’t spill hot soup on it or tread on one of its toes, or drop anything heavy on it, because the soul would feel it. Dear me, and Calatin was one of Dierdriu’s favourite sorcerers. Very able. They say he taught everything he knew to his Sons, but they aren’t thought much of, so I understand.”

Fergus said, “I wonder where the Sons are? Because the fires were all burning, and there was a kettle on the hob.” He indicated the twenty-seven chairs pulled up to the table.

“You’d think they couldn’t be far, wouldn’t you?” agreed Fribble. “But they aren’t in the house, because we’ve searched everywhere. And you couldn’t exactly lose twenty-seven giants, not even if they were smallish ones.”

“We ought to try to find them,” said Taliesin. “Because even if they aren’t thought much of —”

“Yes, you’ve got to call up Fael-Inis’s Chariot somehow,” said Fribble. “And the Sons might be able to help, of course.”

Fergus said, “There is one place we have not looked.”

“Yes?”

“The Chamber of the Looms,” said Fergus.

*

The Chamber of the Looms. The sorcerers’ workroom. The great dark room that lay at the heart of this ancient mansion, where Silver Looms hummed and spun, and where the enchantments and the spells and the curses and the bewitchments of the world were harnessed. They would have to go into that chamber where the heat would be so fierce it could burn out their eyes and shrivel their skin, and where the power would be so tremendous that it would scald their minds. Fergus and Taliesin, who had glimpsed the power and the relentless force of the Silver Looms with the Tyrian sorcerers, stared at one another.

“But we have to find the Sons,” said Fergus doggedly. “Somehow, we have to summon Fael-Inis and the Time Chariot.”

Somehow we have to travel to the Far Future and turn back the Four Heralds … No one said the words, but a sudden silence fell on them.

They retraced their steps, to the great galleried landing at the centre of the house, and stood looking at the massive carved silver door.

Fergus said, “Fribble — you said there were ways —”

“Yes, there are ways to protect yourself,” said Fribble thoughtfully. “But I’ve never seen any of them actually working, you understand.” He went on studying the silver door, and then, with the air of one who has made up his mind, said in a matter-of-fact way, “It’s probably all a myth, but I suppose we could try the Ice Cauldron.

“Didn’t you know about all that?” he said. “Dear me, didn’t you? I don’t know what they teach people nowadays. Of course, it isn’t very widely known. That would account for it. I don’t know if it would work, either.”

Fergus said, “But what is the Ice Cauldron?” and Fribble, who had been examining the silver door and tracing the carvings with one hand, turned round and said, “Well, it’s rather difficult to explain. And we haven’t much time.”

“Try us,” said Taliesin.

“But don’t take too long about it,” said Fergus.

Fribble sat down on the floor. He looked oddly comfortable and entirely composed, and both Taliesin and Fergus remembered, with guilty surprise, that Fribble, after all, was Chief Druid of all Ireland.

“There’s a group of people somewhere in the east with some very curious beliefs. It’s no good asking me where they’re from, because I’ve forgotten, if I ever knew, which I probably didn’t. But they’re quite learned. They have begun to follow a belief and a teaching that they call Dualism. Two worlds, you see. Light and darkness. Good and evil. Quite sensible if you think about it,” said Fribble. “If you pursue the belief a little further, you have to admit that for every good act there is a corresponding evil one; for every sliver of light in the world, there is a sliver of darkness. We know that night follows day, or perhaps it’s the other way around, I forget.

“If you accept that every single thing has its opposite, you begin to accept the belief that a thing cannot have an existence without that opposite. Good cannot exist unless there is evil, and evil cannot be defeated unless there is good. You can’t ever rout evil, of course,” said Fribble seriously, “because so far as we know, good and evil are both pretty much equal. That’s another story. You don’t want me to start telling you about the two Great Masters, one on the side of darkness, the other on the side of light, fighting their eternal battle. No, I thought you didn’t. But it is there. Disbelief in something does not kill its existence.

“Hunger and thirst have their counterparts and their vanquishers. By eating, we can defeat hunger for a time, and by drinking we can defeat thirst. But the one must be dependent on the other. You see? It’s all quite simple and sensible and easy to understand.

“By applying cold water or ice to a fire, we defeat the fire. If we could walk into the heat and the power of that room behind the silver door, somehow protected by cold water or ice, I don’t suppose the heat would hurt us at all.”

Taliesin said slowly, “But the heat is not a tangible heat, Fribble. It is invisible.”

“Yes, that’s the point,” said Fribble, getting up and dusting his robes down. He looked at them. “You defeat an invisible force with another invisible force,” said Fribble. “You fight the heat with something of your own. You imagine the ice,” said Fribble, and he beamed at them …

*

Imagine the ice. The three of them sat together — “Cross-legged,” said Fribble, “because it distributes the body’s weight evenly. That’s important, because it frees your mind.”

They linked hands. “For strength,” said Fribble.

And they closed their eyes. “Uncomfortable,” said Fergus, who was wary of sitting in a great dark mansion with evil all around and his eyes closed against it.

“You must do it,” said Fribble severely. “And now you must conjure up the Ice Cauldron in your minds. Think of it so hard that it appears to you. A great, ice-cold cauldron. Steamy with cold and white with frostiness. Great ice lumps floating on the surface. Fathom upon fathom of cold, cold water, blue and silver and glacial. Everything you can think of that is icy cold. Frozen mountainsides and iced-over lakes. Snow and frost. White on white.”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a chill crept over the three travellers. Fergus thought, and then was sure, that Taliesin’s hand on his left and Fribble’s on his right had grown noticeably cooler.

The Ice Cauldron. Think of it. See it. Feel it. Feel the coldness burn your skin, and remember that there is nothing to be compared with the pain of an ice burn. He drew in a great breath and felt it tear his lungs.

Yes. Cold on cold. Ice mountains and glaciers and the dark frozen wastes of the Northern Seas.

At his side, Fribble stood up slowly and carefully, and Fergus felt Taliesin follow suit. There was a moment of panic — I am not ready! — and then he was following them to the silver door, and the door was swinging open at Fribble’s touch, and the Chamber of the Sorcerers stood before them.

*

The head was like a solid wall. They flinched, and then — the Ice Cauldron! said Taliesin silently, and they picked up his thought and took strength. Ice on ice. Every cold thing you have ever known, every freezing dawn you have ever woken to.

The chamber was dark and immense. It was the most gigantic room any of them had ever seen. The ceiling stretched far above them and the floor seemed to fall away. The air was thick and heavy with heat and the smell of warmth, and there was a sizzling feel to the air, and a dryness. Ice on ice, thought Fergus, striving for calmness. Glaciers and frozen wastes.

For a moment, he could almost see the Ice Cauldron — huge and black, but rimmed with the heavy hoar frost that you would see on the skeletons of trees in the depths of winter. Solid lakes that you could walk across. Confidence surged up in him, and he thought, We can do it! Of course we can!

The silver door had opened halfway up the wall of the chamber, and they were standing on some kind of platform with steps that led down.

“And down and down,” thought Taliesin, staring, and remembered, and wished not to remember, the echoes.

Down, down to Hell and say I sent thee thither … for there awaits the fiery gulf …

Down into the bowels of hell …

The fiery gulf. The gaping chasm of fire and the huge furnaces of flames belching out heat, so that your eyes will burn and your skin will shrivel, and the blood will boil and burst your veins …

But remember the Ice Cauldron …

Fergus, his mind tumbling, his skin already flinching from the heat of the Looms, thought it was like every nightmare he had ever experienced.

Heat and darkness, and a great heavy stifling weight all about them. There was the dull thrumming of vast machinery all about, and there was the red glow of heat everywhere.

But remember the Ice Cauldron, and remember the frozen dawn of every winter morning …

Stretching away before them were the great silver Looms, the spinners of spells, the weavers of enchantments. The power and the force and the might of the sorcerers.

Great rearing edifices towered above them, and had their feet in the depths of the earth. Immense and powerful and awe-inspiring. Ceaselessly weaving and eternally spinning. Forever alive with the power they harnessed for the sorcerers.

There were roads between the Looms, little pathways, and at intervals, there were shelves full of ancient vellum books.

“The sorcerers’ library,” whispered Fribble, and Taliesin and Fergus nodded.

As they moved nearer to the Looms, they could see great tumbles and piles of raw spells heaped about the Looms’ feet.

“Raw bewitchments,” whispered Fribble. “We are seeing something that very few humans ever see.”

The nascent magic of the sorcerers. Unborn spells and formless bewitchments. Living colours and breathing scents and great rainbow swathes of shifting light.

The raw spells were lying in silken heaps, as if they had been taken from cartons like bales of material, and flung down by the nearest Loom until they should be wanted. There were huge spindle-like shapes as well, wound with skeins of glinting iridescence that caught the light and sent rainbow colours cascading everywhere. Fergus put up his hand again, but the other two knew that this time it was to shield his eyes from the pure brilliance of the unborn spells. Taliesin, who had seen the bazaars of the Tyrian silksmiths and the robemakers in the Eastern quarter where the money lenders lived, thought that the substances resembled rich, unfashioned garments, and then that they were more like unhewn gems.

“But there are visions within them,” said Fergus very softly at his side, and Taliesin looked sharply at Fergus, and saw that Fergus was staring into the depths of the formless matter that were embryonic spells, and that his eyes had an unfocussed far-away look, rather as a cat will look when staring into the leaping flames of a fire. “There are worlds within them,” said Fergus, and Taliesin, who had also glimpsed the worlds, and who had seen great rivers of flame and pouring cascades of molten colour, and felt his eyes becoming dry and harsh, took Fergus’s hand and felt it growing hot.

“Fergus, remember the Ice Cauldron,” he said, and summoned up every shred of the ancient powerful Samhailt, and closed his eyes, and concentrated on throwing about Fergus the carapace of coldness and hard-packed ice. On Fergus’s other side, he was aware of Fribble taking Fergus’s arm, and saying calmly, “Ice on ice … frozen dawns … snow and sleet and solid lakes and rivers …” And then Fergus’s skin grew cooler and Taliesin withdrew the images and saw Fergus grin, rather waveringly.

They moved warily on, searching the shadows, and Taliesin thought that every one of them could feel the Ice Cauldron all about them now, like solid armour. Fergus said, in quite an ordinary voice, “I suppose we do want to find the Sons, do we?”

“Beard the sorcerers in their lair?” said Taliesin with a lightness he was not feeling. “I admit, Fergus, that it takes extraordinary courage to do that. And when the sorcerers are also giants, and when there are twenty-seven of them …”

He stopped, and felt Fergus’s hand come down on his arm, and saw Fribble pause.

Sounds. Dreadful sounds. The sounds of a creature feeding. Sucking, guzzling, chewing … a beast, a monster taking in sustenance …

As they rounded a corner, they all heard the terrible low chuckling that Taliesin had heard earlier, and there was a sudden movement in the shadows ahead of them, and then the sound of huge leathery wings beating on the air. For a moment, the chamber darkened, and they thought that something reared up and flew over their heads.

There was a harsh, cawing sound, and there was a stench of rotting meat and bad fish and old blood.

Fribble said loudly, “All join hands. And whatever you do, remember the Ice Cauldron.”

But in each of their minds now, was the thought, Have we been lured here to be killed? Are we about to meet the Conablaiche and the Lad of the Skins?

And then the path widened, and they caught again the stench of blood and rotting flesh, and saw what lay ahead.

Neatly laid out, every one of them. Sightless eyes turned upwards, skin cold and waxen.

Every single one had been ripped open, so that their entrails spilled out, glistening wetly in the light. There were glimpses of lungs and liver; here and there the purple-veined sacs of stomach and bladder; the red stringiness of muscle … giants’ blood, giants’ marrow, and viscera … kidneys and bowels and skin.

The twenty-seven Sons of Calatin, butchered by the Conablaiche and their beating hearts torn from their bodies.

Giants’ hearts for Crom Croich …

The stench of blood was in their nostrils, and there could not be the smallest doubt that it had been the Conablaiche who had torn open the Sons of Calatin and left their ruptured bodies lying on the floor, like badly cured meat …

There was nothing they could do for the Sons. “But we can cover them,” said Fribble, who took death calmly, and they found some pieces of sacking and threw them over the bodies. Fergus and Taliesin hoped they would be able to forget the slimy trails of blood that ran from beneath the sacking, and they would certainly be able to forget the sight of the not-quite-colourless liquid that stained the sacking.

Taliesin stood up and wondered whether he would ever be able to get the taste and the smell out of his mouth, and as he did so, Fergus took his arm in a sudden grip, and said, “Look.”

“Where?” Taliesin, his mind still raw from the sight of the Sons’ bodies, took a deep breath and prepared to meet whatever else might be in store for them. “What is it?” Fergus was standing very still, pointing at something that lay very close to the Sons’ bodies.

Something that was nearly, but not quite, formed into the outline of soaring wings, and that was fashioned from some substance that was nearly, but not quite, gold.

Something that was molten gold and incandescent flame, that held within its depths slanting wildfire eyes and the whirling brilliance of a creature who could travel at immense speed …

“What is it?” said Taliesin again, and Fribble, who was staring intently at the half-formed shape, said, “Bless my soul, I believe it’s the spell to summon Fael-Inis.”

“Can we touch it?” said Taliesin, and Fribble started to say, “I don’t think —” when Fergus bent down and scooped up the beautiful strange thing that was the incomplete spell.

Iridescence whirled, and there was the blinding flash of skeins of colour fusing into a dazzling kaleidoscopic mesh.

The rushing sound of chariot wheels mingled with music poured through the house.

Fael-Inis.

*

Fergus and Taliesin were never afterwards aware of having moved out of the Chamber of Looms. Fergus had the impression of the immense Silver Door swinging open before them, and of the fierce heat suddenly fading, and Taliesin was aware of moving between the other two. And I believe that Fergus has laid down the spell, he thought vaguely.

The sounds of the Chariot drew them irresistibly down to the great square hall, and they could see that the shadows had crept back into the corners, as if they were being forced there by strong pure light.

Strong pure light … And it is coming towards us, thought Fergus. It is coming through the forest towards us.

Fael-Inis, the rebel angel, the nearly immortal being who could travel through and across and beyond Time, was answering the summons.

There was a moment, terrible, never to be forgotten, when they waited, fearing the Chariot would not stop. Fergus thought that if that happened, they would not know how to bear it, for he knew that all the stories told of how Fael-Inis was a wild, elusive, fly-by-night creature. The spell, half-formed as it had been, might not be strong enough, and if it failed, there would be no second chance.

The music was coming steadily nearer, it was reaching out to them, and so sweet was it, so brimful of a beckoning and a potency, that they stood still and let it wash over them, and in each, a deep inner chord was touched.

For Fribble, it was a simple matter of peace and tranquillity, and the freedom to return to the Tara of the Wolfline, and to read and study and teach.

For Taliesin it was freedom also, but a very different and a much more complex freedom. He felt the music engulf him, and he felt the boredoms and the dissatisfactions slough away, and he saw, more clearly than he had ever seen before, that all that was needed to break from the narrow Tyrian world of money that must earn more money, and of clients that must be appeased, was the courage to do it. As simple as that. And I was already branded by the Elders as a rebel. He stayed quietly where he was, but he could still feel the strong beautiful music coursing through him, and he could feel the courage and the strength and the awakening. And after all this, how could I ever return to the Street of Money Lenders?

As for Fergus, he felt his heartbeats slow to a warm sensuous joy, and desire stirred within his mind, so that the dark hall blurred. Six years dissolved, and he was back in that misty dawn in the woodlands surrounding Tara, and Grainne was running to meet him, her eyes on fire with love and longing, her hands outstretched towards him. He thought, Oh, yes, my lady, my love, this is all of it for you, all I am doing and all I am about to do, it is all of it for you, and there will never be another.

She is not for me, nor I for her. But I can give her back her kingdom. I can give her back Ireland.

The Chariot was coming directly towards the house now, and they could see the golden glow and the tongues of flame.

And the creatures drawing the Chariot, thought Fergus, staring through the deep windows that framed the door, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Six — or is it eight? Or more? He narrowed his eyes, and thought he could just discern the beasts’ shapes now. Strange, half-formed creatures, with arched necks, and patrician faces and glossy flanks. Like light made liquid. Like melting rainbows. He had the fancy that if he reached out to touch them, his hand would sink through them. For they have no substance, and no reality; they are like the unfashioned spells, they are creatures of dreams and legends … He remembered the legends of the Fire Mountains, and of the beasts of fire and light and speed, who possessed the ability to travel at such immense speeds that Time ceased to matter.

For if you have the power and the light, you can cheat Time …

The Chariot was outside the house now, and there was a warm sweet fragrance and a sensual stirring. Fergus and Taliesin both thought that the trees sighed and murmured, and the grass whispered, and all about them was an awareness, a feeling that something tremendous was about to happen.

And then the door opened, softly and easily, and he was there, framed against the dark forest, golden and glowing, bathed in radiance, more beautiful than anything they had ever seen, more alien than anything they had ever encountered.

Fael-Inis — the rebel angel — the strange, wild, defiant creature who had turned his back on the grim and terrible battle at the beginning of the world, when the heavens had been rent asunder and a brilliant overreaching angel had mutinied and been cast out … Lucifer, Son of the Morning, summoning his followers and leading the First Great Rebellion of Heaven, but failing to gain his victory, certainly failing to master Fael-Inis, the creature of fire and speed.

He was smaller than they had expected, and slender and fine-boned. But there was an immense power and a great strength, and there was an arrogance as well. Taliesin, his eyes never leaving Fael-Inis’s face, thought, A prince among princes. He is imperious and mischievous and exotic. I believe he has defied everything there is to defy, thought Taliesin. He saw the Beginning, the Creation, and he is the one who declined to play a part in Lucifer’s Fall. Dare we trust him? thought Taliesin.

Fael-Inis was studying them, wholly at ease, leaning against the door post, arms folded, head on one side. His skin was translucent and golden, and his hair was red-gold, tumbling about his narrow skull like silk. But his eyes — Oh, yes, it is in his eyes, thought Taliesin.

The eyes had it. Slanting and molten and all-seeing. Impossible ever to think him human once you had seen his eyes.

Fael-Inis said, “Well, Mortals?” and his voice was as soft and as golden as the rest of him. “You called to me. I am here.” He moved nearer, and studied them, and a smile lifted his face, and it was a smile that said, And now let us take the world by the ears and turn it upside down. Let us challenge the gods, and take what we will. The rebel angel …

Taliesin said warily, “We welcome you,” and the grin widened. “Can you help us?”

At once Fael-Inis replied, “Yes, I can help you. But there will be a price, you know.” He looked at them thoughtfully. “It is always as well to know the price.” The smile slid out again, tip-tilted and beckoning. “But I can help you, Mortals. I can take you on the fire tongues of Time into the Far Future, and there we will defy the Apocalypse and turn back the Four Horsemen.” He grinned, and Fergus thought, He is enjoying this, and Fael-Inis looked at Fergus, and said, “But of course I am enjoying it.” He smiled gently, and said, “You will have to trust me, of course,” and moved closer. “Will you do it, Mortals? Will you risk your lives and your minds and your souls to ride with me in the Time Chariot? You will have to pledge to me your sanity, and perhaps your lives to come. Will you do that, Mortals, for it is certain that you have other lives still to live?”

The quality of his smile changed, and he held out his hands to them, and suddenly the mischief was gone, and he seemed younger and more honest and very strong. “I will take you,” he said, “for there is a mission to fulfill. But first we will talk together, and before that we will eat.”

He led the way to the sculleries as naturally and as familiarly as if he had been doing such things for years. “For I am substantial and I can feel hunger and pain and passion and anguish,” he said. “And I am extraordinarily hungry tonight.” He moved about the stone-flagged scullery, peering into cupboards and pantries, selecting plates and cups. “I am the rebel from the seraphic hierarchy,” he said, looking at them from the corners of his eyes, “but I am sometimes very human indeed. We shall eat a huge supper together, and certainly we shall drink wine, for without wine there is no feast.”

Fribble, who had been investigating the contents of an immense bread bin, turned round at this and beamed, and said, “I am very glad to hear you say that, sir,” and Fael-Inis smiled at Fribble, and said, “But wine is the water of life. Wine and music are as necessary to life as food and water. In some cultures, I am known as a god of music and wine and love.”

He looked at them, his head tilted, and Taliesin said softly, “Pan. The shepherd god,” and Fael-Inis turned rather sharply and something very different crept into his eyes. But he only said, “I have many names, and many guises.”

“Can we trust you?” said Taliesin, and Fael-Inis said, “Yes, for today you can trust me.”

“You know what is ahead,” said Taliesin.

“Yes, I know. ‘Plague, War, Famine, and Death … they shall stalk the earth, and after their coming, the Beast Apocalypse shall ride into the world …’ Perhaps we can turn them back, and perhaps we can not. But we will try.” He studied them. “Your descendants will burn the world and destroy civilization unless we can stop them,” he said, and then his face softened. “But they should not be wholly blamed,” he said, and standing in the cold scullery, he said a curious thing.

“They should not be blamed, for it is the sins of their fathers that are visited on them.”

A sudden coldness washed over the three travellers, and Fael-Inis, watching them, said softly, “You see? Each of us is responsible in some measure for events. Your sins will echo down the corridors of Time, and it may be that your descendants will be destroyed as a result. It is not fair,” he said gently. “But who said that life was intended to be fair?”

Fergus said slowly, “But surely we did all we could …”

“There is always a little more that each of us can give,” said Fael-Inis. “We can always take ourselves a little further than we realise.”

“That is sometimes very hard,” said Taliesin.

“Who told you that life was intended to be easy?” said Fael-Inis, and smiled suddenly, and returned to his task of slicing the beef. “The first Herald is already in the Far Future,” he said. “Plague. The people go in constant fear and try to protect themselves by having little contact with one another.” He reached for another knife and tested its sharpness thoughtfully. “In some measure they are to blame,” he said, “for the Conablaiche, in its guise of the Conail, could not have sowed such evil if the soil had not been fertile.” He raised his eyes. “Medoc has let it be thought that the Conablaiche rode the Time Chariot, and escaped into the Future at my hands,” said Fael-Inis, and grinned suddenly. “Medoc will pay heavily for that one,” he said, and the three travellers instantly felt a deep trust and an immense confidence. It will be all right. We shall succeed.

Fergus said carefully, “Do you know anything of the Far Future?” and Fael-Inis regarded him.

“The world of the Future, the world we shall travel to, has seen the greatest and the most remarkable sexual freedom ever known,” he said. “Your descendants observed no restraints. They took their pleasure where they would and with whom they wished. Men with men, frequently. Women with women. The gratification of their lusts has become the meaning of their existence.” The eyes became mischievous. “The gratification of the senses is a thing of delight,” said the rebel angel. “But the people of the Far Future took it far beyond that. Now they dare not lie with anyone lest they contract a terrible and incurable disease.”

“That is the Plague?” said Fergus hesitantly.

“They do not call it Plague. They have another name for it. But it is Plague all the same. And it is deadly.” Taliesin said, “What of the Second Herald? Famine?” “Famine is nearly there, even as we speak. The world we shall go to is overcrowded. There is no longer sufficient food.” He looked at them. “The poorer countries suffer terrible privations. Children die for want of a sip of water, or a mouthful of bread.” He turned back to the supper they were preparing. “To the children of the Future, this would be a feast beyond their wildest imaginings,” he said. And then his mood shifted yet again, and the golden light danced in his eyes. “Did we find the wine?” said the rebel angel. “Oh, good. Shall we go up to the banqueting hall? The chairs will be a bit large, but we shall be able to make ourselves reasonably comfortable.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

They ate in the banqueting hall at the farthest end of the table from the motionless Calatin.

“He cannot hear us, of course,” said Fael-Inis. “His body sleeps the sleep of all whose souls are held captive inside the Prison of Hostages.”

Fergus said, “Has anyone ever returned from the Prison of Hostages?” and Fael-Inis regarded him thoughtfully.

“It can be done,” he said evasively. “But a very high price has to be paid.”

“A soul for a soul,” said Taliesin softly, and Fael-Inis turned his strange inhuman eyes onto him.

“You have understanding,” he said at length. “Yes, that is the immutable law. Measure for measure. Have we honey in that dish? Thank you.”

Fergus said, “But — would anyone offer his own soul to free another?”

“Would you?” said Fael-Inis with one of his direct looks, and Fergus, thinking of the terrible finality of the Prison of Hostages, said, “No. No I suppose I would not.”

“You have to love someone very greatly and very selflessly to make such a sacrifice,” said Fael-Inis, and Taliesin looked up, because there had been something unexpectedly gentle in Fael-Inis’s tone. But Fael-Inis was concentrating on spreading honey onto a wedge of bread, and seemed not to notice.

“What must we do to travel with you?” asked Taliesin, and for a moment Fael-Inis did not reply. Then, “I cannot take you with me without the sorcerers’ help,” he said.

“But —”

“I cannot,” he said. “You are Mortal, and you would die in the Time Fire. It is white hot. It is so fiery that you would shrivel instantly. The heat you encountered inside the Chamber of Looms is as nothing compared to the heat of the Time Fire.”

“Then —”

“You must be given the sorcerers’ protection,” he said. “It is a spell which Calatin will know.”

“But Calatin is lost to us,” said Fergus.

“Is he?”

“Well, his soul is in pawn.”

“That is rather different.”

“And the Sons are all dead.”

“Yes.”

“Butchered by the Conablaiche.”

“The Conablaiche takes what it will. It will have offered their hearts to Crom Croich, and Crom Croich will be surfeited. For the moment, that is,” said Fael-Inis, “for he is a greedy god, Crom Croich, and he will soon require more.”

“The slaughter of the first-born boys,” said Fergus slowly.

“Yes,” said Fael-Inis, eyeing Fergus again. “Medoc will revive that, for it fits well with his fear of the Wolfprince, whose birth has been prophesied. He will send the Conablaiche to kill every male child in Ireland,” said Fael-Inis, “for he believes that in that way, he will kill the child who will one day rise up to challenge him.”

“But,” said Fergus, leaning forward, his eyes absorbed, “surely that is just a legend?”

“Is it?” said Fael-Inis.

“Well, it’s a very old story at any rate,” said Fergus.

“Is it?” said Fael-Inis, the golden eyes glowing and piercing, so that Fergus felt as if Fael-Inis was seeing into his mind.

Fribble, who had been eating his supper with industrious pleasure, said, “I never heard that story until lately, you know. The lost Wolfprince — dear me, there’s a very evocative ring to it, don’t you think? And, of course, Medoc would be sure to know if there was such a child in Ireland. He has his sources,” said Fribble. “Well, don’t we all. But Medoc’s servants are nasty creatures. I daresay he’s used the Guardians more than once,” he added, eating cheese with composure.

Taliesin said, “But no such child has been born —” and Fael-Inis grinned at him.

“For all your surface cynicism, you are very innocent,” he said. “Have you never heard of bastard lines? Of children born and hidden away? Medoc believes that a child exists somewhere in secrecy, and that it possesses the ancient wolf-blood.”

Fribble, still eating his cheese, said, “And the legend has never said a legitimate child.”

“I should like to believe the legend,” said Fergus slowly. “But I don’t think I can, you know.”

“No?” said Fael-Inis. “And yet six years ago the music of the sidh was heard in Ireland again, Fergus.”

The sidh, the strange, cold, faery race, who would steal up to the gates of Tara and sing the Wolfline into the world …

“But,” said Fael-Inis, “for the moment we are concerned with the Conablaiche, and with turning back the First Herald. Plague … Calatin will be able to weave the spell that will protect you from the fire of the Time Chariot.”

“You are saying we must wake Calatin?” said Taliesin.

“Yes.” Fael-Inis continued to eat his supper. “He is not dead,” he said and smiled at them.

“But to wake Calatin,” said Fergus, “then a soul must be given in return.”

“Yes,” said Fael-Inis, and it seemed to Taliesin that he watched Fergus very intently now. “The supreme sacrifice,” he said softly. “One of you must be prepared to lose his soul in exchange for that of Calatin.

“And since the only one who can cage a Mortal soul and carry it to the Prison of Hostages is the Lad of the Skins, we must call him up.” He stood up and light streamed from him.

Taliesin had not thought it would be possible for the darkness surrounding the House to deepen, but it deepened in those minutes after Fael-Inis made his pronouncement. He knew that the darkness had not really changed, that it was because of the strength of the light within, and that it was because of Fael-Inis’s radiance.

The brightest of all the angels before the Fall … Son of the Morning … But no, that had been that other one, the wicked, overreaching Lucifer. Yes, but this creature would have known him, this one had been there, he had seen the Creation and the Fall … Do I believe any of this? wondered Taliesin. How does any of this square with the teachings of my own people? And he thought that it did square, that there was a common root, a matrix of beliefs. Even so — are we being manipulated? he thought. And then, Are we being bewitched?

Fael-Inis caught the thought at once, of course, and the slanting eyes rested on Taliesin with amusement. “You have an enquiring mind, Mortal,” he said. “But you may be at ease. I was there, and I did see, and were I to tell you, your Mortal mind could not comprehend.” Suddenly he looked remote, and there was an aching sadness about him. “It was all lost to us,” he said, half to himself. “All of the beauty and all of the love. We might have had it all, had it not been for that One.”

That One … the Shining One … the Son of Aurora … Lucifer the Light-Bringer …

“He is destruction and decay and despair,” said Fael-Inis. “He is corrupt and evil beyond belief. He has many servants in the world, and the Dark Lord Medoc is one of them.” He looked at them. “But you knew that,” he said.

“I saw the Fall,” said Fael-Inis, his eyes distant. “But I did not declare for the Light-Bringer, and I have never done so since. You may trust me, Mortals.”

I am what I am …

“And if you are being bewitched,” said Fael-Inis, “and if you are being manipulated, then it is only so that we may save the world.”

For the Four Horsemen are waiting, and already the First has gone into the Future … There is no time to lose …

Fribble, whose eyes were bright and whose whole bearing was alert, wanted to know what they had to do. “It’s all very interesting,” he confessed. “I’ve never seen the Lad of the Skins … well, I never wanted to. I don’t suppose anyone really wants to see him, do they? Will he come? I expect I ought to take notes, because the other Druids will like to know all this. The fat fool will never get over it. I’m very glad I came,” said Fribble, and accepted a glass of the wine that Taliesin poured. “And I’ll say this for you,” he said, “I didn’t want to bring you. I knew how it would be. A Tyrian, I said. Dear me, that’s not such a good idea. But it’s turning out remarkably well.” He beamed and drank his wine.

Taliesin said almost automatically, “Wine is as the breath of life, Fribble,” and raised his own glass in salutation. And then, looking at Fael-Inis, “Will the Lad come?” he said, and Fael-Inis said, “Oh yes. Oh yes, he will come. He fears me a little, but neither can he resist me, and he will certainly come when I call. We have had many battles, he and I, and many confrontations. We are old enemies. But I have always defeated him. That is why he will come.”

“To try for victory?” said Fergus, and Fael-Inis said, “Yes, of course. He believes that one day he will prove to be the stronger, and for that reason, if for no other, he will never resist when I call to him. He will come,” said Fael-Inis, looking round the table. “But when he does, you must be ready for what will happen.”

“What will happen?” asked Taliesin.

“That is up to you,” said Fael-Inis, and without warning his eyes grew remote and fiery; they became inward-looking, and slanted more strongly than before. Light streamed from him, and his hair became a golden aureole about his narrow skull.

They saw that between his fingers he held a slender, intricately carved set of silver pipes and, as they waited, he lifted the silver pipes to his lips and began to play.

*

In all of the stories of enchantment and in all of the legends of bewitchment, there is one that stands above the rest. A persistent, recurrent theme; a single strand of ancient lore in the weave.

The beckoning of enchanted music. The allure of pipes, of a lute, of a lyre, a flute. Pan, seated on his grassy bank, leading the naiads and the dryads where he will. Orpheus, using a lyre to charm the denizens of hell into giving him back his lady.

And others. Sinister stories. The Black Man of Saxony, playing grisly tunes so that the children would follow him to his terrible mountain lair, there to be given up to the Man of the Mountains. Ireland’s own counterpart: the Old Woman of the Mountains, who lures children into her warm fire-lit cave to weave their skin and flesh and hair and nails into her dreadful cloth.

The Macaber, the hooded, skeletal apparition, coming down from the Black Tower to dance amongst the plague-ridden townships of the Middle Ages, leading them in the dread danse macabre, forcing them to dance with him until they dropped … Shoes that must obey the call of the music and dance on and on until their wearer fell from exhaustion.

And perhaps the best-known of them all: the apparently harmless street musician who came to a little township called Hamelin, and agreed to rid the town of rats by means of his music …

The travellers knew some of the stories, for Tara had met many Time Travellers, and the tales had echoed back. What they did not know, they could imagine. The music of allure. Enchanted music. Cold and inexorable and wholly irresistible. As Fael-Inis began to play, each of them drew a deep breath and surrendered, and each of them experienced the deepest contentment at hearing the silver pipes of enchantment.

Fael-Inis was seated against the window, his whole outline bathed in light, his hair liquid gold, his eyes burning slits of topaz. His fingers closed about the pipes and they were translucent, as if the substance that ran in his veins might be light instead of blood.

The music was like a gentle bewitchment; it spun tiny filaments of delight, brittle and cold and cobweb fine. You could not be afraid of it, you could not possibly fear something so delicate and so insubstantial.

They could not have told when the music tightened its hold and began its pull, but to Taliesin, afterwards, it was as if there was a moment when he knew that he was able to resist, and then another moment when he had surrendered completely.

Taliesin thought there were voices inside the music now … Follow me, for I can give you beauty and I can give you joy, and all the delights and all the pleasures of the world … Follow me, for I am the core and the centre, and there is nothing now but the music …

There was a moment when Taliesin was able to stand back and think, We are being bewitched. And then he felt the music’s pull again, and thought that hadn’t they summoned Fael-Inis to help them, and wasn’t it sensible to obey him? And a man might die and count himself honoured for music so sweet … Any man, any creature, might be pardoned for answering the music’s lure …

Any creature …

Through the dark forest, along the narrow woodland path, came the sound of slow, dragging footsteps, and on the chill night air came the sound of crying.

The Lad of the Skins, walking abroad, scouring the night for victims …

“Let me in, for I am cold and desolate and hungry.”

Into the drugged minds of the travellers crept a warning note. Something out there asking to come in? Danger! But it is so cold, they thought. And the creature is surely little more than a child.

“Let me in, for I am lost and alone and frightened. I have no one and nothing in the world.”

Careful! thought the travellers, struggling to remember. Careful now. There is something here we have to be very wary of.

“Take me in by your fire, for I am shivering with cold and I am lost in the forest … oh, be merciful and let me share your fire and give me a cup of milk to sup and a mouthful of bread…”

There was doubt and anguish in the faces of the three travellers now. Even so, thought Taliesin, struggling against the Enchantment, even so, there is something — if only I could remember — we have to be very wary of the crying in the night outside …

Fael-Inis continued to play without ceasing, and the music spun and shivered and soothed, and across the slanting features there was a look of the utmost concentration now, for it is only at the invitation of a Mortal that the Lad of the Skins can enter a house and do his terrible work. For Calatin’s soul to be rescued, one of the three travellers must lose his soul in return, and for the Lad to take the soul, it must be one of the Mortals who invited him in.

“I have not eaten and I am in rags and all I ask is a share of your fire before I am turned out into the cold night again …”

There was a long sigh and then a sobbing, and so desolate and so hopeless was the sound that the three listening minds were splintered with anguish.

“Let me in, of your charity … I shall be no trouble, all I ask is a quiet corner of your warm room …”

There was the sound of footsteps outside, hesitant, light, submissive … Sure there was nothing here that could threaten.

“All I ask is a corner to warm my cold hands and a sip of milk … oh, let me in …”

There was a tapping at the window now, light fingers, child’s fingers, poor weak fingers numb with cold and tired and trembling with hunger.

Fael-Inis spun the music fractionally quicker, and in that fraction of a moment Fergus stood up and moved to open the door.

At first he thought it was a bundle of old clothes left on the step. “I gathered it up,” he was to say, “I actually scooped up the evil hungering thing in my arms and carried it into the house and laid it down by the fire.”

It felt light in his arms; a child starved of love and food and warmth: “And although a part of me, deep buried, hidden away, knew” he said, “still I wanted to weep for the pity of it.”

But yet the pity of it, O the pity of it …

He laid the thin little thing down close to the blazing fire, and he moved to the table and poured milk and wine into a cup, and sliced bread and meat.

The creature that Fergus had carried in was sipping the milk, crouched, shivering, near to the fire. Lapping it up like a weak kitten, thought Fergus.

And all the while, while he was handing him the plate of meat and bread, and while he was holding the cup to the trembling lips, a little silvery voice was beating inside Fergus’s head: This is all wrong. I know it is wrong. I cannot remember why it is wrong, but it is something to do with the music, and it is something to do with Calatin …

And then the music stopped and Fael-Inis laid down the pipes and turned his golden gaze on Fergus, and the spell faded, and a cold awareness flooded Fergus’s mind.

The Lad of the Skins! The hunter of souls! And I have asked him in and I have fed him and given him milk and wine and a share of the fire!

The Lad of the Skins. The hungry soulless being who served Crom Croich and walked abroad crying to be let in, and who carried on his back a dripping sack … He was sitting up now, regarding Fergus with a sly glittering smile, and there was a terrible knowledge in his eyes, and there was a knowing look.

For you know what is in store for you …

He was slender and pale and dark-haired, and his hair fell raggedly about his ears and his eyes were huge and dark-rimmed.

And there are some eyes that can eat you, Mortal …

Fergus stood, unable to speak or move, and the Lad smiled, and Fergus shuddered, for although the Lad was young and firm-fleshed, the smile revealed the evil beneath. His lips were red and full and soft, like an overripe fruit with the juices bursting through the skin — a fruit turned, and just beyond its best, so that while the outer layers remained fresh and moist, just beneath would be the beginning of soft oversweetness. Decay and corruption. Putrefaction. And greed. Above all, the most overwhelming greed …

There are some eyes that will eat your soul …

The Lad moved then, grinning, his hands reaching out. Terrible hands, claws with the nails curved and nearly but not quite rotten and ready to fall out, the fingertips swollen and ripe and splitting and spilling pus in little dribbles. And there was a stench now; rotting flesh, warm cooking meat, corpses oozing decay and filth and dissolving into putrescence.

Fergus was back against the table, one hand held up to ward the Lad off, and Taliesin and Fribble had sprung to their feet, both free now of the insidious music of Fael-Inis’s pipes.

But the Lad had his eyes fixed on Fergus. And Fergus will never escape him, thought Taliesin, and caught an answering thought from Fael-Inis. But Fergus does not want to escape him.

This is what Fael-Inis wanted, thought Taliesin, and knew, even as the thought formed, that Fael-Inis had not wanted it, but that it had been necessary.

For Tara, and for Ireland, and for the world of the Future, and perhaps also for the legendary Lost Prince who will one day rise up and defeat Medoc …

A soul for a soul. Fergus in exchange for Calatin, for only Calatin could weave the Enchantment which would allow them to ride in the Time Chariot.

It has to be done, thought Taliesin, torn between agony for Fergus and the knowledge of what they must do.

A soul for a soul … Because already the First Horseman is in the world of the Future. Plague. Plague already stalking the world, scattered by the Conablaiche. Famine beginning. “And then shall the Beast Apocalypse ride into the world …”

Weighed against all that, what did one soul matter?

But it is Fergus! cried Taliesin silently.

The Lad was coming onwards, his eyes glittering, his hands outstretched, the nails curved and predatory. Saliva dripped from his parted lips and ran down over his chin, and Taliesin and Fribble both shuddered, for the Lad would savour Fergus; he was licking his lips and salivating over him.

I shall tear out your souk and carry it away to the Prison of Hostages, and then perhaps the Conablaiche will come to tear out your heart, for there is nothing my Master likes so well as a warm heart, a Mortal heart, still beating, fresh and running with blood and juices …

Fergus had fallen back across the table and Taliesin and Fribble both moved to stand between him and the Lad. “We would have done anything to prevent the Lad getting to Fergus,’’ said Taliesin later. “There was nothing we would not have done.”

And then Fael-Inis stood up, and the Lad stopped and looked round, and his eyes fell on Fael-Inis, and Taliesin thought he had never seen such fear and such undiluted hatred in any living creature’s eyes.

Fael-Inis regarded the Lad quite coolly, and at length he said in an amused voice, “So, jackal, we face one another again, and fight for a soul,” and the Lad drew back with a snarl, his eyes showing red. He stood looking at Fael-Inis from the corners of his eyes, like a trapped hare.

“You cannot escape me,” said Fael-Inis. “Your mind is subservient to mine. You have owned me to be your superior before, and you will do so now.” He began to move round the Lad, and Taliesin, who was watching closely, thought that Fael-Inis was creating an invisible circle. For a moment he thought that a sprinkling of light fell wherever Fael-Inis walked, but as it touched the floor it vanished, and he could not be sure that he had seen it at all. But he thought that it was as if Fael-Inis had somehow taken a shard of pure light and splintered it, and then scattered it about them.

Fael-Inis was perched on the edge of a chair now, his eyes never leaving the dark-eyed figure of the Lad. After a moment he said, “Come now, a bargain. We both know what is wanted.” He looked to where Fergus stood, and the Lad snarled again and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Let the old man go,” said Fael-Inis softly. “You have had your fill of him. Take this one instead. You know who he is?” He paused and the Lad nodded. “I will allow you to take his soul,” said Fael-Inis again, “but I must have your promise that you will not give his body to the Conablaiche. Well?” And then, as the Lad hesitated, “You know I always keep my word,” said Fael-Inis. “You know that I am a prince of a very high order, and you know I obey the Ancient Code of Honour.” He looked at the Lad and Taliesin thought the Lad nodded very slightly. Fael-Inis seemed to withdraw his gaze fractionally. “Very well,” said Fael-Inis, as if something had been settled. “Very well, I will let you take Fergus in exchange for Calatin. Do what you must.” In that instant, the Lad leapt on Fergus.

There was nothing any of them could do.

“It was over before we knew it,” said Taliesin later, “and even if it had not been, I do not think we could have got near to the Lad.”

“It was the Light,” said Fribble. “The Knife of Light, Fael-Inis called it. White and dazzling.”

Fergus had been knocked backward by the Lad’s spring; he was lying on his back on the littered table, and the Lad was crouching over him, his eyes enormous, his face intent. His ragged hair fell across his brow, and his hands slid under Fergus’s skin.

The Knife of Light was hard and brilliant. It seemed to slither across Fergus’s skin, and they thought that he cried out. And then the Knife flashed again, describing an arc in the dark room that stayed in the watchers’ vision for a long time. Fergus gave a truly terrible cry, and for a moment it seemed as if a sudden coldness had descended. Something has gone from here, thought Taliesin. Something that was warm and alive and filled with hope and joy and fear and laughter, and all the living things, has suddenly gone from the room.

And then the Lad held up something that shimmered and rippled before their eyes, and that was beautiful and terrifying and — Powerful, thought Taliesin. So strong and so powerful and so vulnerable. Whatever it is, it is a force field, a magnet. It will attract every good influence in the world, and every evil one as well, and it will reject or accept, as it wishes. Wonderful and fearful and filled both with great weakness and immense strength. But he never spoke of the pitiful way in which the soul bowed its head humbly and submissively before the Lad. He thought later — “When I could think,” he said — that it was as if the soul knew that it must surrender itself into the Lad’s hands, to do with as he wished. There was a terrible resignation about it and a patience, and the pity of it slammed Taliesin at the base of his throat.

The Lad stood for a moment, his hands caressing the formless thing. As he did so, Fribble and Taliesin caught a flicker of movement from Calatin.

Then the Lad darted across the room like a fleeing hare, and vanished, and Calatin opened his eyes and looked right at them.

*

Fael-Inis said very softly, “There was no other choice,” and his hand came out to rest on Taliesin’s arm for a moment. “I am strength and power and light and speed, Taliesin,” he said, “but even I cannot protect you from the Time Fire. Only Calatin can do that.”

Fribble said, “He’s awake, you know,” and they turned to look to where Calatin was sitting in his chair, his single eye open, searching the room with a look of bewilderment.

“Bless my soul,” said Calatin in a deep rumbling voice, “bless my soul, I believe I dropped off for a while. Where’s that pesky creature that was footling about outside? Did he get in? The boys said it was the Lad of the Skins, although I don’t suppose it was any such thing. Still, you can’t be too careful. And the boys would let in anyone who asked politely, of course.” He rubbed his single eye and beamed. “And we have guests,” said Calatin. “Dear me, not the thing to fall asleep when there are guests. You’ll forgive the discourtesy, sirs? Well, I daresay you’d know I wouldn’t nod off in the normal way. Have we finished supper? Dear me, here’s a littered table. And dust! My word, I shall have to speak to the boys about this. Of course, you get a lot of dust in from the forest. But they might have run round with the mop and a bit of beeswax. I don’t know what they do all day, I don’t really.”

Fael-Inis said, “You have been sleeping the sleep of the soulless, sir,” and Calatin turned a look of great astonishment on him.

“Have I? Well, do you know, that’s a very curious thing. Inside the Prison of Hostages, was I? Well, now there’s a place not many escape from … well, there isn’t anyone that has that I can think of offhand. Now I come to think about it, that pesky Lad was dancing about somewhere outside. Did he get in? Did he? I suppose he told a good tale and the boys let him in. Kind hearts every one of them, but no brains. Just like their mother. Dear me, she’d have been sad to see this day.” He drew out an enormous red spotted handkerchief from a capacious pocket somewhere and mopped his eye.

“Of course, the Lad can be very clever,” he said, having blown his nose vigorously. “And the boys would never see they were being fooled.” He moved one arm cautiously. “Yes, I am a bit stiff,” he said. “Dear me, I must have been asleep for … No, I’d better not be told, because I should only begin counting up all the things I’d missed, and you’re better off not knowing what you’ve missed.”

“Indeed you are, sir,” said Fribble, fascinated.

“Well, if the boys let the Lad in, it’s their lookout,” said Calatin. “Time and again I’ve warned them, but they think they know best. They like things to be loud and dramatic, and if there’s one thing you can’t have in good sorcery, it’s loud noises and drama. Bless my soul, it’s all down in the Amaranth Chronicles. Get the spell right, I tell them. Keep the Looms well oiled and follow the Chronicles, I tell them, but they don’t listen to a word I say. You’ll forgive me, sirs, but I’ve forgotten your names for the moment. My memory isn’t what it was, although I daresay your names would come back to me if we waited a bit.” He tapped his forehead. “Old age,” he said. “Dear me, it’s a sad trial at times. A very sad trial.” And looked at them expectantly.

Fael-Inis said, “We are merely travellers, Calatin. But seeking your assistance,” and Calatin sat up straighter and looked pleased.

“I’m often sought out,” he said. “All kinds of people come to ask my advice, you wouldn’t believe. Well, we had to make a better road through the forest, although I see through the window that it’s grown up a bit. And of course, the boys don’t tell me things these days. They’d like me to retire if the truth was told, but what I say is, why retire when you don’t want to?” He beamed amiably at Fribble, who at once said, “Quite right. Dear me, sir, you possess good sense, I see,” and Calatin looked pleased, and slapped Fribble on the back, which, as Fribble later pointed out, was rather alarming, because — “Although he’s quite a small giant as giants go” — Calatin was still twelve feet tall and his hands were like York hams.

“I was bruised for days afterwards,” said Fribble, “but I didn’t say anything, because it wouldn’t have been courteous. And he’s very amiable. It’s all very interesting, isn’t it?”

Calatin was very amiable indeed. He insisted on them taking supper with him, and would not hear of a refusal.

“We’ve eaten supper,” began Taliesin.

“But we can always manage another one,” put in Fribble. “And the Tyrian has some rather good wine.”

“Oh, so you’re a Tyrian, are you?” said Calatin, inspecting Taliesin with interest. “My word, our ancestors had some rare old times together, didn’t they? Haven’t you heard of the sorcery wars between the Amaranths and the Tyrians? Haven’t you? Well, it makes a very good tale, only I don’t know if I could remember any of it —” He beamed on Taliesin, and then said in an aside to Fribble that he had never yet heard of a Tyrian who didn’t judge his wine remarkably well.

Taliesin, hearing this, at once uncorked the wine flask and offered it to Calatin, who accepted it, said he took it very kindly of Taliesin, and drained the flask in two gulps.

“Very good,” he nodded, mopping his mouth. “I never thought to see a Tyrian at my table, but you’re very welcome, sir.”

Taliesin said, “I will dine with any man who will serve wine, and I will talk with any race who will provide interesting discourse.” He raised his glass to Calatin. “You are providing both, sir,” he said, and Calatin said, “Am I really? My word, that’s very true,” and turned with relief to Fribble, who was trying to explain about their journey and about Medoc having taken Tara.

“Ah, you’re from the Court, are you?” said Calatin. “Well, that is interesting. I daresay I shall be a bit of out of touch, of course. But the boys will tell me everything.” He took another sup of wine reflectively. “Dear me, Medoc’s got Tara, has he?” he said. “I never cared for Medoc. My word, it’s a bad business and no mistake. Dear me, I don’t like to think what the end might be. He’s arrogant,” said Calatin, nodding and tapping the side of his nose with a forefinger. “Very arrogant, that Medoc. One of the Northern lot, you can always tell. They think they can rule the world, well, to be fair, they probably could, only it’s as well if you don’t let them know it. And it’s always a good idea to let them think you’ve got better enchantments in your armoury than you actually have, if you take my meaning, even if you haven’t got any enchantments at all. But that’s for you to worry about. I’m only a plain sorcerer. An artisan. It’s all quite easy. So long as you keep the Looms properly oiled and follow the rules, you can’t really go far wrong. No need to pretend otherwise, although I could tell you some stories … But I mustn’t breach trade secrets. I’m going to write my memoirs one day,” he said confidingly. “That’ll make a few people sit up. I’m looking forward to that. But I don’t gossip,” he said again. “I’m quite safe. You can tell me anything you like. The boys are a bit over-chatty sometimes. I wouldn’t like to tell them anything that oughtn’t to be widely known. They go to all these get-togethers. Sorcerers and wizards, and a few necromancers as well, I shouldn’t be surprised. One of them had the effrontery to bring a wraith back once. Over my dead body, I said. You take that hussy out of here, or you go through that door and don’t come back. Well, we couldn’t be having that sort of person in here. I don’t know what his poor mother would have said. But they’re good boys. They work very hard.” He nodded portentously, and Taliesin said in an undertone to Fael-Inis, “This is terrible. We’ll have to tell him.”

“In good time,” said Fael-Inis gently.

“I won’t ask too much about why you’re here,” said Calatin, looking hopeful all the same. “Unless there’s a plot against the Throne. Now that is something I won’t have anything to do with. I’m very loyal.” He looked quite fierce as he said this, and Taliesin and Fribble both backed away, because when a giant — even a small one — looks at you fiercely, it is not easy to stand your ground. Fribble poured himself another measure of wine. “For courage,” he explained.

Taliesin said, “You may be sure, sir, that we are the Queen’s men through and through,” and Calatin said he was very glad to hear it.

“If you’re fighting for Her Majesty, you have my support,” he said, rather emotionally. “And you’ll forgive me for making the point, but you do get the odd rebel, of course.”

He nodded, and finished his supper with enjoyment. “Because,” he said, mopping his plate industriously with a piece of bread, “when you’ve been asleep for a bit, you’re bound to feel a bit peckish when you wake up.” He ate a gargantuan meal, starting with some plovers’ eggs they had overlooked earlier, working on through a few roast geese with a brace or so of ducklings on the side, and ending with one half of a cheese and a couple of bowls of fruit.

“And now,” he said, having mopped up the last crumb, “now, what is it I can do for you? I should mention the — dear me — the fee,” he added, lowering his voice to a whisper, as if this was rather an impolite word.

Taliesin said, “We have not the riches of the East, nor the wealth of the world, sir. But I believe we can meet your fee.”

“I have to be expensive,” explained Calatin, sounding apologetic. “For one thing there’s this house — you wouldn’t believe the way it gets through money. If it isn’t the dry rot in the roof, it’s insects chewing the timbers. And the boys aren’t cheap,” he said. “They like their little get-togethers with other sorcerers — and why not, I say. But they will belong to the Sorcerers’ Fellowship, and then there’s the Old Boys’ Academy of Wizardry — mind you, I like to go along to that myself. And they’re all Comrades of the Loom, which of course is very useful. Secret handshakes and rituals,” he said, lowering his voice impressively which, as Fribble said, could still have been heard on the other side of the forest.

“And it all costs money,” said Calatin, shaking his head and refilling everyone’s glass.

“I oughtn’t to have any,” said Fribble. “Just a half glass perhaps. Well, if you insist — your good health, sir!”

“Yes, it’s all very costly,” said Calatin. “Subscriptions to this and that, and then suppers at people’s houses, and of course you have to return the hospitality. And my family weren’t what you’d term rich,” he added in another of his vast whispers. “Everyone thinks the Amaranth line was enormously wealthy, but so much of it went in the Sorcery

Wars — dear me, I intended no discourtesy, sir. But sorcery itself isn’t a well-paid profession, you know. We get what we can. But it’s as well to make these things clear.”

Taliesin murmured something that sounded like, “All the riches of the world we shall lay at thy feet,” and Fribble, who felt that a note of practicality was called for, said, “Be assured that we can pay your fee,” and Calatin looked pleased.

“And you know, you haven’t yet told me what it is that you want,” he said, and sat back, and eyed them expectantly, first one and then another, which Fribble found disconcerting.

“If he had two eyes like any one else,” said Fribble, “I could stand it. It’s this single unblinking stare I can’t cope with.”

But no giant single-eyed stare could prevail against Fael-Inis. He leaned forward and looked directly at Calatin.

“Well?” said Calatin, who was, truth to tell, becoming just the smallest bit afraid of this strange, golden-eyed creature, but who would not have dreamed of showing it, because you did not show discourtesy to guests, not if you wanted business from them. And so he waited for these really rather unexpected people to explain what they required, and hoped he would be able to do whatever it was.

And so when Fael-Inis looked at him and said, “It is something that is easily within your capabilities, good Calatin,” Calatin was very pleased, and said at once that he’d do his best.

Fael-Inis said softly, “Protect these men from the Time Fire.”

Calatin sat back in his chair and stared at the three strangers in his house and said, “Oh dear, you’re not going into the Far Future?”

*

“I’ll do it,” said Calatin at last. “I don’t like it, but I’ll do it.”

“Is there a difficulty?” asked Taliesin.

“Well, there is and there isn’t,” said Calatin, frowning, which made him look rather odd.

“A one-eyed frown,” murmured Fribble. “Dear me, I never thought to see such a peculiar thing.”

“The spell can be spun very easily,” said Calatin. “My word, it’s basic stuff, that. I can do it standing on my head, although I won’t. And fresh off the Loom it will be. And there’s the thing.” He leaned forward. “It’s a spell that has to be very fresh indeed for it to work,” he said. “You’ll have to be inside the spell and out of here into the Time Chariot so fast you couldn’t say ‘caterpillar’s boots,’ always supposing you wanted to say such a ridiculous thing, which I don’t suppose you do.

“But then you’ll want to come back,” said Calatin, “because it stands to reason that you won’t want to stay in the Future — well, no one would. A nasty place, the Future,” he said, with a shudder which rocked the table and made Fribble spill his wine.

“You’ll want to come back,” said Calatin, “and there’s the problem. You’ll have the spell with you,” he said, “but will it stay potent? And if it doesn’t, what will you do? I don’t know a great deal about the sorcerers of the Future,” said Calatin, who actually knew nothing at all about them, but thought it would sound unprofessional to admit this, “but I don’t think we should rely on them. For one thing we don’t know what they’d charge, and for another they might not understand about the Time Fire. It’s a bit risky. Are you sure you want to go? Yes, I can see you do.” He looked at them. “Shall we say noon today?” he said. “But you’ll have to remember that under no circumstances at all can you expect the spell to last longer than seven days.

“If you stay in the Future for longer than that, the spell will certainly be dead. You would never be able to come back.”

*

If the gallery outside the silver door had hummed and quivered and thrown out heat before, now the sensations were magnified and multiplied a hundred times as Calatin set the Silver Looms to harness the power of the sorcerer.

“He’s a very able sorcerer,” said Fribble, as they sat together in the banqueting hall. “He might seem a bit bumbling, but he’s very good.”

Taliesin said, “The bodies of the Sons …” and Fael-Inis said, “He will not see them.”

“The Cloak of Invisibility in addition to all else?” said Taliesin lightly, and Fael-Inis said, “Exactly,” and Taliesin looked up sharply, because although he had not been entirely flippant, neither had he been altogether serious.

Fael-Inis said tranquilly, “Calatin will not see the bodies until he has woven the spell we need.”

“Have you any of the higher feelings?” said Taliesin, and Fael-Inis looked amused.

“I have deeper feelings than ever you could comprehend,” he said. “When I walked away from the Great Rebellion, my heart bled with the pity and the waste and the anguish of it. When the doors closed on the place in which I had dwelled, and I found myself alone in the world of Men, I was in more agony than you could dream exists. There has never been a day, nor yet an hour, when I have not ached for the loss of that which existed before Lucifer led his followers against the gods. He suffered defeat and banishment, but there were others who had to suffer it with him. And though I cannot return until it pleases the gods to end the world, I have never ceased to long for it.” He looked at Taliesin. “I have many of the higher feelings,” said the rebel angel softly, “just as you have, Mortal.”

Taliesin said lightly, “I am uncaring and careless. I have no feelings for anyone.” He reached for the replenished wine chalice at his elbow, and lifted it rather challengingly.

Fael-Inis smiled. “You have imagination and sensitivity, and you care a very great deal,” he said. “You care for the future of mankind, and you care for the future of Ireland as well. That is why you accompanied Fergus and Fribble.”

“I cared only to escape from a life that was irksome and narrow,” said Taliesin, drinking his wine and reclining in the chair rather negligently.

“Rubbish,” said Fribble unexpectedly. “Guts and imagination, that’s what you’ve got. Unusual to find both together, you know. Especially unusual to find them in a Tyrian, because as a rule Tyrians only care about making money. That’s all very well in its way,” said Fribble, beaming, “but there’re other things to life as well as making money.”

“Other things in life —” Taliesin grinned at them both, and lifted the wine to his lips.

“Fribble is right,” said Fael-Inis, sending Fribble his sudden smile, and Fribble said at once, “Of course I am. People think I’m silly, but I’m not nearly as silly as I appear. It’s quite useful to let people think you’re silly sometimes. You get away with a good deal,” he said, looking at Taliesin thoughtfully. “It’s nearly as clever to let people think you don’t care as it is to let them think you’re silly. For a Tyrian you’re quite an interesting person.”

Taliesin laughed, and Fael-Inis said, “Why did you accompany Fergus and Fribble?” and Taliesin glanced involuntarily to where Fergus’s body lay on the velvet-covered couch beneath the window that looked out on to the forest.

“To save the world,” said Taliesin in a mocking tone. “What else?” and Fael-Inis smiled.

“Is that also the reason you will assume Fergus’s mantle and go into the Far Future to bind the Apocalypse and turn back the Four Horsemen?”

“Must I do so?”

“Don’t you think you must?”

There was a silence, and Taliesin felt Fael-Inis’s eyes boring into his mind again, and thought, Of course he knows what I am thinking, and of course he knows what I am feeling. Does he? Do I know myself? Despite himself, he heard again Fael-Inis’s words earlier: Who told you that life was intended to be easy, Mortal? Aloud he said, “Is Fergus completely lost to us?” and for the first time saw the golden-eyed creature hesitate.

But Fael-Inis only said, “We have certainly saved his body from the Conablaiche, for the Lad will not dare to break his promise to me.”

“Can we be sure of that?” Fribble wanted to know.

“Assuredly we can. The Lad will not invoke my wrath,” said Fael-Inis, and his eyes glittered rather frighteningly. “Did I not say we were old enemies, he and I? Fergus’s body will stay as it is.”

“And,” said Taliesin, “his soul?”

“That is rather different,” said Fael-Inis. “For there are other powers, and other laws that govern the soul.” He looked at them very gently. “But it is possible that Fergus’s soul will never return,” he said.

“Are you using Fergus’s sacrifice to compel me to take his place?” said Taliesin suddenly.

“No. Are you?”

“I thought I was not,” said Taliesin slowly.

“But you are thinking that it would be a dreadful irony if Fergus had given his soul into the captivity of the Prison of Hostages, only to have his quest abandoned?”

Taliesin stood up and regarded Fael-Inis steadily. “Well?” he said. “Wouldn’t it?”

“You will do it?”

“Save the world?” said Taliesin, and all of the old careless mockery was there. “How could I do otherwise?”

And then Fribble said, “The Looms have stopped.”

*

“I think it will work,” said Calatin. “It’s being finished. It’s cooling, you might say. You’ll have to treat it carefully, because it’s a fragile sort of spell. Don’t let it get torn or worn.” He eyed them severely. “Are you ready to leave?”

“The Chariot will be here at dawn, good Calatin,” said Fael-Inis, and Calatin at once said that this was a very good time for a journey.

“Dawn, there’s the thing. My word, you can’t beat a dawn journey,” he said, pleased. “I’ll bring the spells down to you, and then you’ll be off and away. Dear me, what an excitement. I’ve made one for each of you, of course.”

It was then that Fribble said, “I’m not going.”

He was very definite about it. “I should be in the way,” he said firmly. “Dorrainge was quite right, only I wanted to argue against him, fat fool. It doesn’t do any good to let him think he can overrule me either — well, he can’t really, because I’m Chief Druid after all. But he needs to be reminded now and again. I was reminding him when I said I’d come with you. And I’ve enjoyed it all very much,” said Fribble, quite seriously. “It’s all been very interesting and I’ve learned quite a lot of things I didn’t know before. But I should be in the way from here on. Taliesin will do very well on his own.”

Taliesin, rather appalled at the “on his own” part of this speech, said, “But we might need you for all kinds of things, Fribble. We might need your knowledge. You know things that I don’t. You certainly wouldn’t be in the way.”

“Yes, I should,” said Fribble. “It’s polite of you to say that, but it’s a young man’s venture this — well, that’s not to call Fael-Inis a man precisely, and that’s meaning no disrespect either,” he added to Fael-Inis, who replied with grave courtesy, “None in the world.”

“You will be in my thoughts, of course,” said Fribble in a down-to-earth tone. “Well, you’ll know that. And there’s a lot of strength in properly ordered thoughts, you know. People don’t think of it, but there is. I shall set aside a part of each day to think about you.” He regarded them quite severely.

“What will you do?” said Taliesin.

“Well,” said Fribble, “Calatin here has been so kind as to invite me to stay for a while.” He glanced over his shoulder to where Calatin was trumpeting into a red spotted handkerchief. “It’s hit him very hard, you know,” said Fribble. “About the Sons and the Conablaiche. Fael-Inis told him very gently and very nicely, but you can’t expect him to be other than quite dreadfully upset, can you?

“So I thought I’d stay with him,” said Fribble. “We shall have a good deal to discuss, you know. I shouldn’t be bored. We’re going to write his memoirs, well, we’re going to start writing them, and that will be extremely interesting. And then we’re going to edit the Chronicles of Amaranth, and after that” said Fribble, “after that, we’re going to embark on a history of the Sorcery Wars between the Amaranthines and the Tyrians. Of course, that will take a very long time indeed. But I expect I shall learn quite a lot. Also,” said Fribble, glancing to the velvet couch beneath the forest window, “also I do think that one of us ought to stay with Fergus.”

“Yes of course,” said Taliesin, his eyes going also to the motionless figure, because it was certainly unthinkable that they should leave Fergus like this, in the middle of a dark old mansion at the heart of an ancient forest.

Fribble beamed. “Do you know, you’re improving by the hour,” he said. “You’ll be quite a good sort of person by the time you return from the Future, supposing you do return, of course, because I didn’t like the sound of that spell, did you? Seven days only, that’s not long. I should miss you,” said Fribble seriously. “Dear me, yes, I should.”

“That is extremely ki —”

“Well, I should miss your wine,” said Fribble, “because it’s really very good. No, I wasn’t hinting — well, perhaps we ought to speed you on your way. My word, that’s a large helping you’re pouring me.”

*

Dawn. Birdsong and rebirth and the sheer undiluted delight of living creatures awaking to face another day. Tongues of colour washing over the old grey mansion. The vibrant hues of coral, and the rose and gold of dawn light. The shimmering dusky pink of a poppy field under a dawn sky.

Fergus should have been standing here, thought Taliesin, and there was a pain and an aching void at the knowledge, for this had been Fergus’s quest and his covenant. Standing in the dawn-lit hall of Calatin’s house, Taliesin knew that for Fergus this had been not just a venture, a battle for the Fiana, but something much deeper. The restoration of the Wolfqueen … And Fergus had made that final, overwhelming sacrifice so that Ireland should be safe, and so that the Wolfqueen should regain Tara. He should be here, thought Taliesin again, but since he is not, since he is forever inside the Prison of Hostages, then I must carry out the quest for him.

The morning light was piercing the old house now, sending shafts of pure colour sliding across the floor, making the dust motes dance in and out of the rays. With the light came the music. “The Beckoning,” said Fael-Inis.

Taliesin could never tell afterwards where the light ended and the music began. “The light ran into the music,” he said, “and the music into the light. I was dazzled and bewitched.”

Even so, he was able to look at the fireglow of the Chariot, and he was able to look into the light and see the salamanders with their wise faces and their eyes filled with ancient knowledge. He felt the cool silky spell woven by Calatin brush his skin like a thin liquid cloak, and he remembered that there were only seven days for Fergus’s task to be performed.

There was a strong sweet scent: sandalwood and patchouli and freshly cut grass on a summer morning. Applewood burning on an autumn night. Everything that makes up Ireland, he thought. I wonder if I am afraid? And he knew he was not the least afraid, he was only afraid of failing Fergus, who had surrendered his soul that the Wolfqueen might rule again.

And then the music was drawing him into the fire and the light, and he could see the massive shape of the Chariot limned against the forest now, bathed in its own radiance, hung with silk, lined with satin …

The echoes were all about him now, and the beautiful fragile images created by the people of the worlds not yet born … A Chariot of the Sun is being given to you … And the light is a garment … A flying chariot through the fields of air …

And time and the world are ever in flight

And love is less kind than the grey twilight

And hope is less clear than the dew of the mom.

And I am going into the light and I am going into time, and if I am to save the world, then I shall have served the world, and if I do not save the world, then at least I shall have tried.

Because nobody ever said life was meant to be easy anyway …

He caught the glint of a smile from Fael-Inis at that, and felt a sudden delight, because the fire was surging up all about them, and Fael-Inis had taken up a stance at the fore of the Chariot, and he was gathering up silken reins between his hands, only the reins were of living colour and shifting light, and there were certainly spells within them as there had certainly been spells in the Chamber of the Looms …

There was the sweet warm fragrance of gentle heat and of silken bodies, and the salamanders tossed their manes, and sparks of light cascaded across Taliesin’s vision.

And then Fael-Inis lifted the silver pipes to his lips, and there was a final burst of music, and the forest and the house and the Ireland of Tara’s Court vanished, and they were pulled into the Far Future.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lugh of the Longhand though things were going rather well. It was not everyone who could lead a party of men from Innisfree on to the mainland without being spotted. Lugh was certain that there had been nothing in the least bit noticeable about their journey. There had been a certain amount of bustle about it, but you could hardly have a journey — any journey — without a bit of bustle. You certainly could not lead upwards of twenty men, never mind a pair of Druids, on to Ireland’s mainland without being a bit noisy.

But nobody would think anything of it. As for Dorrainge’s idea of travelling by night, stealthily and furtively, Lugh had never heard anything like it. They would go openly and honestly by day, he said, and pretended not to hear when Dorrainge said they were inviting all kinds of trouble.

What Dorrainge did not realise was that Lugh was being subtle. It would pay off, they would all see. Lugh was going to be playing a decisive part in this victory. Dorrainge was in for a very big shock.

The setting up of the secret camp and the training of the men was a blind and a cover to fool Medoc, and people who said lugubriously that Medoc could not be fooled did not know what they were talking about. Lugh was going to fool Medoc very neatly, and they would all eat their words. While the men were training and getting their eye back for archery and broadsword fighting, Lugh would be creeping up on Tara, studying the Bright Palace to find out its weaknesses; he would be charting the movements of the guards and sentries, and counting up the number of people on watch at the Western Gate.

He knew that there was a whisper among the men that they ought to have had Fergus with them, but Lugh knew that Fergus was no great loss. It was plain to Lugh, as it should have been to everyone else, that Fergus — and whoever he took with him — was going to get into severe difficulties in the Far Future. Lugh had never thought it a good idea, and he had said so at the time, only nobody had listened. The Queen had agreed to it because the Queen would agree to anything Fergus wanted; everyone knew that.

Lugh had heard a few extremely surprising tales about Her Majesty and Fergus, but he had not gossiped, because Longhands did not gossip. You could not call what Lugh had done gossip, because he had done it for their own good. And he had done it tactfully as well, just mentioning to one or two people who had Dierdriu’s ear that Grainne and Fergus were sometimes seen together in rather questionable circumstances. Tact and discretion he had used, and he dared say that Dierdriu had been told who had been at the back of it. She would have thought the better of him for it as well, Lugh knew he could be sure of that. He had not liked doing it, but he had known his duty. Anyway, it had been a very long time ago, goodness gracious, it had been at least six years. It might even have been seven.

Fribble was not really very much of a loss to this expedition, because he would only have got in the way, falling asleep at important meetings (Lugh liked meetings), and eating all of their supplies. Lugh was being very fair about distribution of supplies.

“It’s to be fair shares for all,” he had said to Cathbad, and Cathbad had at once said, “Oh, dear me, yes, of course. I don’t know how else we should do it,” and had gone off to prepare their evening meal. And it had been extremely unkind, not to say ill-bred, of several of the younger ones to remark on Lugh’s own plateful of stew and to compare it unfavourably with their own portions. Everyone knew that the leader of the party had to be given larger helpings than anyone else.

But Lugh would rise above it all, and would not bother to listen to complaints about who was getting larger helpings of stew, or who was having the most comfortable sleeping quarters, or even who was getting up a bit later than everyone else. Leaders needed their sleep more than the people they led.

Lugh was not sure, now, if it had been a good idea to bring Dorrainge. He ought to have known that Dorrainge would meddle, well, he had known it, but it had actually been rather difficult to leave him behind.

“He’s Second Druid,” said Cathbad. “You can’t leave him behind.” And he had gone off to brew up a kettle of some herbal concoction, which he had said would do wonders for the men’s aching joints after the long march. “Legs and knees,” said Cathbad busily. “Legs and knees, and probably thighs as well. My word, thighs have to be looked after, don’t they? You can’t march an army unless your legs are in order. I’ll just give them all a little bit of a massage, shall I?”

Dorrainge was turning out to be very meddlesome. He poked his nose into things that ought not to have concerned him. “How much dried bear meat have we?” he asked. “Dear me, is that all?” And, “Are you sure we ought to make camp here?” he said. “Don’t you think we can be seen too easily? We’re in a direct line from Tara for Medoc’s spies. Of course, it’s nothing to do with me.”

It was nothing to do with Dorrainge at all; Lugh would make the decisions about where they pitched camp and how much bear meat they brought. They would probably not bring very much bear meat at all, because Lugh was not especially partial to bear meat, but it would have looked odd to say this.

Lugh would address all the meetings as well, and Dorrainge would not get a look in. Lugh always showed well at meetings, and he was good at speeches. It was not many who could make a speech like Lugh.

“It’s not many who’d want to,” said Cathbad, distracted by the necessity of having to provide supper early on one of Lugh’s meeting nights. “There’s me with thirty-five men to feed, and not a morsel in my larder tent!”

Cathbad did not contribute very much to the meetings, and so Lugh did not pay him very much attention. As for Dorrainge’s complaints, the camp site they had chosen was very good. It was unkind of Dorrainge to criticise and say that Medoc would be able to see them, and that Medoc would be able to tell everything they did. Medoc would not be able to see them, not when Lugh had finished his cunning arrangement of branches and twigs and leaves. Ah, the Longhands knew how to conceal things.

“But it’ll take you the best part of two days to provide the concealment,” said Dorrainge, surveying Lugh’s neatly drawn plans and watching the men sawing off branches and raking up leaves from the forest floor. “What do you suppose is happening all the time we’re making the cover?”

Lugh said it would not take two days and it would not even take all night. Medoc would not see them.

“It’s too close,” said Dorrainge. “I said it was and now I see I’m right. We’ll be seen. We’ve probably been seen already.”

Lugh kept his temper extremely well and pointed out all the advantages of the site. He was logical and courteous, so that it was unnecessary for Dorrainge to say that he supposed a Longhand had nearly always featured in Ireland’s greatest defeats, and Lugh was only following tradition. “We’ll be seen,” he said again. “You mark my words.”

Lugh did not enter into an argument. He walked away with dignity and went off to tell Cathbad to make several small fires instead of one big one that night, just in case their usual large fire was large enough to attract unwelcome attention.

“Little groups of us,” said Cathbad, nodding. “Cosy.” Cathbad thought it was a good site. “Plenty of nice dry wood for the cooking,” he said, “and I’ll just collect some of those wild mushrooms, shall I? There’s nothing to beat a handful of mushrooms in with a rabbit stew. And look at the wild sorrel! Sorrel with fish. I must gather some.”

Dorrainge said that at any minute Cathbad would start talking about holding a pig-sticking party, and Cathbad, who was plunging about happily in the wild sorrel, said, “And if we could only hold a pig-sticking party …” Several of the younger soldiers hooted with laughter, and Cathbad looked hurt and had to be brought out of the sorrel and soothed.

“And I’ve been stung by nettles,” he said, injured, and pretended not to hear Dorrainge, who said it was a mistake to pamper nettle stings, and they hadn’t the time to soothe people’s silly imagined injuries.

The soldiers liked being close to the Bright Palace, and they thought that Medoc would probably not be able to see them. Medoc was not that powerful, surely he was not, they said.

“Yes, he is,” said Dorrainge. “I’ve told you.”

But the soldiers thought it was great altogether to be near to Tara, and began to talk about getting up a party to go along and take a look, because wouldn’t it be the finest old inspiration a man could have to see the Bright Palace again.

“It’s not bright any longer,” said Dorrainge, and the soldiers looked as disappointed as children. Cathbad clicked his tongue, because this was not the sort of thing you should say to soldiers, who were easily cast down and sent into gloom and doom, something you should certainly avoid before going into battle.

Somebody asked why the Bright Palace was no longer bright, and Dorrainge said, “Because of Medoc’s dark enchantments of course,” and looked at the soldier as though he thought him a complete fool. “Which,” said the soldier afterwards, “I am not. I only asked a polite question.”

“To be sure you did,” said his colleagues, “and isn’t that the way of Druids to be so squashing.”

“I wouldn’t have come,” said the soldier, who would not have missed it for worlds, “I wouldn’t have come if I’d known there would be Druids squashing and glooming. Because if it isn’t Dorrainge telling you how we’ll be defeated, it’s Lugh Longhand making speeches half the night.”

Several people said it was, to be sure it was, and didn’t it make a plain man flinch.

“And if it isn’t that,” said the soldier, who was a man of fixed purpose, “if it isn’t that, it’s that Cathbad forever trying to get his hands on your —”

“But Lugh makes quite rousing speeches,” put in another soldier, rather hastily. “And it’s all quite friendly.”

“It isn’t so friendly out here,” said the first soldier with a shiver. “It’s downright sinister. We’re far too close to a lot of nasty things.”

“What sort of nasty things?”

“Medoc’s sentries. Medoc’s spies. The Twelve Dark Lords.”

“Oh, these woods have seen far worse than Medoc and the Twelve Lords,” said Lugh airily, who happened to be listening to this. “Much worse,” he said wisely, but Cathbad said that nothing could be worse than Medoc.

“Medoc comes from the most ancient line of necromancers,” said the soldier who had asked why Tara’s brightness had been quenched. “The ancient unbroken line; the evil sorcerers who command the Dark Ireland.”

Somebody asked, a bit hesitantly, how you would define the Dark Ireland, and Dorrainge, who felt he had been left out of this conversation for too long, said it was rather difficult. “Because nobody has ever seen the Dark Ireland, and nobody has ever visited it,” he said. “But it’s believed to be a kind of dark mirror-image of this world. The creatures who inhabit it are cold and greedy and evil and corrupt. Perhaps they are distorted and warped. Certainly they are forever trying to find a chink between their world and this. They would devour us if they could, and rule the land until the skies were dark with blood and the river ran with gore.

“The Dark Ireland is ruled by the powerful wicked enchanters of the North,” said Dorrainge. “Beings such as Medoc and the old Erl-King, although the Erl-King was vanquished by Cormac in the last century.”

The first soldier remembered that Medoc had always been called the dark, evil, beautiful one, and Dorrainge said, “Oh, yes, he is all of that,” and several people looked thoughtful.

One of the soldiers wanted to know if it was true that Medoc was preparing for the birth into the world of the monster god-idol Crom Croich, and an argument sprang up as to whether Medoc and Crom Croich were the most evil and most powerful forces ever to come out of the Dark Ireland, or whether the Erl-King had been worse.

“The Erl-King ate the children,” remembered one of the soldiers softly, and Cathbad shuddered, and wished people would not remember this sort of thing.

“But if Medoc does summon Crom Croich,” said another soldier, “he’ll send out the Conablaiche to tear people’s hearts from their bodies, and that’s just as bad as the Erl-King.”

“But the Erl-King didn’t —”

“And then he’ll offer the hearts to Crom Croich.”

“I still don’t think —”

“On a silver platter,” said the soldier obstinately.

Several people said you could not get anything nastier than a warm and dripping heart on a silver platter.

“And then Crom Croich eats the hearts,” said the soldier, and Cathbad, who had been very busy all afternoon supervising the skinning and jointing of an ox and had been planning to serve braised ox heart for tomorrow’s midday meal, turned quite green and tried to remember if they had any salted pig left.

Lugh said with amused tolerance that these were all fairy tales, but some of the soldiers said, were they indeed. Didn’t they all know about the terrible appearance of the Conablaiche last time, and how it had prowled the country, snatching sleeping children from their beds and tearing out their hearts for its Dark Master.

“And they say that after the Conablaiche would come the Lad of the Skins,” said the soldier, and a sudden silence fell, because everyone knew about the Lad of the Skins and the Knife of Light, and how, if you fell into the Lad’s clutches, he would take your soul and you would be thrown for ever into the Prison of Hostages.

“They do say,” said Cathbad, “that if you ever found your way to the Prison of Hostages, you would find all the children whose hearts were given to the Conablaiche during that time, and whose souls were taken by the Lad. The Lost Children, they call them.”

Several people said wasn’t that the most heart-rending story you’d ever hear, and had they finished all of the mead yet? The mead was passed, and the mugs were refilled, and the fires burned a bit lower.

Lugh, who had listened to all this with tolerance (because of being a good leader), thought that now was probably as good a time as any to slip away and take a real look at Tara. It was not everyone who would have relished going off into the dark forest; Lugh did not relish it at all, in fact. But he would be quite safe because he would keep a sharp look-out for anything and everything, and he would not be captured because no Longhand ever had been captured.

He moved warily through the forest, making very little sound. He was not really so very far from the camp either. He could hear the men beginning the old bawdy “Thousand and One Nights of the Wolfking,” which had been written about Cormac, and which Lugh did not care for overmuch, because even if you discounted half the things it said, you were still left with a patently exaggerated tale.

The trees were thinning now, and he was drawing farther away from the camp. Moonlight was pouring over the valley, black and silver, and presently Lugh was standing at the edge of the forest, looking down into the shallow dip that sheltered the great Manor of Tara.

Tara. The Shining Palace, the bright centre of all Ireland. The heart and the core and the living, breathing pulse. The place that the High Kings and Queens had called Medchuarta.

Seen like this, across the valley, seen by thin moonlight and mists, it was a place of shadows; it was a dark, rather forbidding fortress of night enchantments and of black sorcery. Lugh knew, as they all knew, that Tara’s light had been quenched by Medoc, because Medoc was a necromancer, a dark enchanter of such power that no light could live in his vicinity. If Tara’s brilliance, if the radiance that had once shone for Ireland’s High Kings was ever to be kindled again, Medoc must be driven out and destroyed. Lugh was the man to do this, of course.

He stood, fascinated, watching Tara. He was not a fanciful man (the Longhands did not believe in fancies), but he felt as if it was a miasma rising from a swamp, a sickness and a corruption.

Because the Dark Ireland is waking …

He thought he could hear voices now; silvery, gentle voices, dark voices, that made you think you might be being watched. He remembered the ancient legends of the Guardians, the Brotherhood of Sorcerers who would serve any master if they were paid enough, and who would guard anything in the world if someone would employ them sufficiently profitably; he remembered as well that the Conablaiche and the Lad of the Skins were abroad in the world again.

What might be watching him from the shadows?

The thin light was casting curious shadows everywhere now, and Lugh blinked and rubbed his eyes, because just for a moment it had seemed that figures were appearing through the mists ahead of him. The swirling greyness shifted again, and the shadows flooded nearer, but after all there was nothing to see. Or was there? Had that been a silent watching figure just over there? Something dark and anonymous? Something that wore black armour and had a visored face, and who would not materialise unless a dark and terrible enchantment was spun … Were the Twelve Dark Lords close by?

And then the shadows moved again, and Lugh could see that there was nothing there at all, and that he was nearer now to Tara than he had thought, and after all it had only been a trick of the light.

He remembered that he was being extremely clever and extraordinarily subtle about all of this, and that it would be subtlety that would win this war. Ah, they would all of them be astonished at how well Lugh of the Longhand had done tonight. He would go very quietly now, and he would go very stealthily, and he would slink inside Tara, and he would find out quite a lot about Medoc.

And there was nothing at all to be afraid of.

CHAPTER NINE

Fergus had not been aware of the precise moment when the Lad of the Skins drew his soul from his body with the Knife of Light, but he had known a great coldness, and a sense of desolation, and an abandonment so complete that it had overwhelmed him, and for a time he had scarcely been aware of what was happening.

He had wanted to wrap his arms about his body for warmth, but he had not been able to move, and his vision had been blurred. He had tried to cry out, but something had smothered his cries, and he had wanted to reach out and clutch on to everything that was dear and familiar and real and safe.

But Calatin’s banqueting hall and the house in the forest had wavered and grown dim — As if I am seeing it through water, thought Fergus — and there had been a great heaviness within him so that it was difficult to breathe. He thought he was dying, and panic seized him. And then he remembered the piercing coldness of the Knife of Light slicing deep into his body, and the Lad’s evil greedy eyes and grinning mouth, and he knew that he was not dying, that this could be worse than death, for he was to suffer the soulless existence of all who become victims of the Knife of Light.

I shall never die and I shall never be released, and hence-forth I shall wander alone in the eternal light …

Black despair engulfed him, and a loneliness so absolute closed over his head that he felt himself drowning in it. Forever alone … From now on, I shall be forever alone …

The cold was within his heart now, and he knew it for the heartcold of the truly bereft. I shall never see my own world again, he thought. I shall never see Grainne.

The house was becoming smaller now and distant, and he had the impression that he was being drawn away from it, and drawn away from the living warm world he had known. For a breathspace he saw his own body; he thought that Taliesin and Fribble had carried it to a settle beneath a window, and he wanted to grasp at them, for they had been dear, good friends, and the knowledge that he would never see them again was scarcely to be borne. But the pull on his soulless mind was too strong now, and he felt himself being drawn up and up into a vast emptiness, and into the endless skies of infinity. He knew that he was being sucked into the Prison of Hostages, for it is to that great and aweful dwelling that is not quite in the world of Men but not quite out of it that all soulless ones must go. Panic threatened to engulf him again, and the terrible desolate coldness was like an icy vise about his heart, and he knew he had never been so completely alone.

There was the sensation of immense speed now; he thought the skies were rushing past him, and there was a whirling, dizzying feeling, as if he might be at the centre of a maelstrom. He remembered how the travellers and the seafarers who came to Tara had always told that at the centre of every whirlpool, at the heart of every tempest, is a great tranquillity, and he caught and held on to this thought.

He glimpsed the Gates then — Ornate and tipped with something that catches the light and gleams, he thought. And saw, within the Gates, glinting points of colour … the Gates of Paradise, studded with chalcedony and jasper, inlaid with firestones and cedarwood, rimmed with turquoise and moonstones … But these are not those Gates, thought Fergus, these are the Gates of a place reserved for those who are denied admittance to Paradise.

But the Gates were opening, and he could see that they were more beautiful and more majestic than anything he had ever seen or dreamed.

Sea-washed, sunset Gates … the Gates of Light, unbarred and ajar …

And then he was passing beneath the huge, towering Gates, and he saw how they stretched above him into infinity, and he felt the timelessness of the great Prison descend on him like a huge, unseen weight.

The ceaseless light closed all about him.

*

Forever in the light. Forever open and vulnerable to the never-ending light of the skies.

There had been some kind of vast domed hall as he passed through the Gates; he thought there had been colours within the light then, and he had received a dim impression of a far-off vaulted ceiling. From somewhere deep within his mind, he remembered the whispers of the great and terrible Hall of Light, through which the soulless one must journey before being allotted a resting place here. But the Hall of Light faded, and the impression of great elegance and immense silence and a drifting unfamiliar scent faded, and he was falling forward and there was some kind of cell waiting for him, and this was surely the end of everything, and this was surely all he could ever expect anywhere in the entire world …

He thought that he lost his hold on sanity for a time then; he knew, later, that the black despair and the agony of loneliness had closed about him fully, and for an unmeasurable time while his reason spun wildly out of control.

But the training that had been such a part of his life, the long hours of studying the Twelve Books of Honour for entry into the Fiana at the age of eleven, the days and the weeks spent schooling his mind so that all situations could be calmly appraised, came to his aid and, at length, exhausted and drained, Fergus began to look about him and assess this strange, out-of-the-world fortress.

He had thought, insofar as he had thought about it at all, that all prisons must be akin; that there must be stone cells, barred windows, grilles, gaolers, other prisoners close by.

But although he could see areas of hewn stonework that seemed to close him in, and although he could certainly see barred windows through which light streamed, there were no gaolers, and there were no other prisoners. There was only himself and the vast, endless mansion of the skies, and Fergus, used all of his life to human companionship, thought that this solitude would be more than he could bear. And then he remembered that it had to be borne, that there was no other choice, and that there would be no escape from this place.

Would there? Fergus knew the stories; he knew how it was whispered that once inside the Prison of Hostages no one ever returned to the world of Men, but to Fergus, who had led the Fiana from the age of eighteen, and who knew the secrets and the devices and the weaknesses of half the ancient fortresses in Ireland, no prison was ever sealed so utterly and so completely that there was not a way out of it.

He began to study this idea, and he was to think later (“When I could think sanely again,” he said) that this was one of the things that saved his reason.

There is no prison from which an initiate of the Fiana cannot escape.

It was not quite one of the codes of the Fiana, but it was very nearly so. Fergus, who had stormed castles and laid siege to fortresses and who knew the arts of infiltration as well as he knew the Twelve Books of Honour, found himself summoning every shred and every tag-end of legend and myth and lore ever whispered or recounted or imagined about the Prison.

For if there is the smallest hope of escape … if there is the merest chance that I could return to the world and to Grainne, I would tear this place down stone by stone.

He knew that escape would not be made by force, but, even so, his mind returned again and again to the grains and snippets of stories that had somehow (how?) permeated into the world of Men.

The Great Hall of Light through which the soulless one must first pass — yes, I came through that, thought Fergus. Great pouring swathes of golden light, and the far-off glint of blue and silver, as if there might after all be something solid and man-made within the Prison. And some kind of early judgment had there been? Yes! thought Fergus. Yes, as if I was being assessed for a place, a level, a grading here. This was unexpectedly encouraging, because it was familiar. Within every structured society, certainly at Tara and very definitely within the Fiana, there were strata, tiers, sections and subsections. So there’s a structured society here, is there? thought Fergus, and felt at once warmer and less alone.

And then, because it was inherent in his nature to question and appraise and assess, he continued his exploration of the threads of knowledge he possessed about the Prison.

The Twelve Chambers of the Blameless and the Praiseless — which is to say fools and idiots, thought Fergus caustically. Yes, that certainly comes next. I suppose that is where I am.

And there were others, places with exotic, sometimes meaningless names … the Vale of Mists … the Hall of Golden Columns … Yes, I know these, I have heard them. He was concentrating furiously now, for, he thought, if I know of these places, then surely it must be because people have been able to talk of them. It must be because people have come out.

People have come out.

The knowledge gave him renewed confidence, and now the strange bizarre names came to him more easily. The Cage of Stars, the Lake of Darkness. The River of Souls which flowed nine times round the Prison. Was there a way out there? If I could find the River, I could ford it somehow, thought Fergus, his mind tumbling now with ideas and plans, and with half-forgotten memories. And there was the Star of the Poets, and surely there was —

Oh yes, thought Fergus, how could I have forgotten?

The Stone Hall of Judgment.

It was that through which he must pass next. But he did not know how long he would have to wait to do so.

It was this last that gave him pause, for, he was to say, “Although I had no knowledge of it — that place where the Twelve Judges sit — I believed that I had long since dreamed it, and I knew it for a place of great finality and immense power. Once inside the Stone Hall of Judgement, once subjected to the decision of the Twelve Stone Judges who pronounce on all Mortal creatures, I believed I should be beyond all hope of escape.”

And once that happened, Ireland was lost to him, for although he supposed Taliesin and Fael-Inis would continue the fight, he would never know its outcome. He would never see the world again. Far beyond and far above that, Grainne was lost to him. A bitter smile touched his lips at that, for hadn’t Grainne long since been lost? Hadn’t she been lost seven years ago, in the misty dawns and the drowsy afternoons? Hadn’t she been lost to him before even he had seen her.

Seven years. He had been the newly appointed Head of the Fiana, eighteen years old, heady with the power of it.

He had been the youngest ever to head the ancient, honourable Fiana; there had been seven years within its ranks only, and he had been intoxicated with the knowledge. Perhaps he had been arrogant, and certainly he had been imperious. But after all, he thought, after all, I was very young.

He could remember how his father had said that he need bow his head to no man in Ireland, save the High Queen, and he could remember how he had laughed, and said to be sure he would call no man master, and certainly no woman either. He had been wildly ambitious and intensely purposeful; he had been sure of his own worth, and determined to succeed.

It had been the confidence of ignorance, of course, but he had not known it then, for who at eighteen recognises such a thing? He had been ready to defy the conventions and take on the world — and win! he thought. Yes, I was ready to fight the world and win. If you intend to climb a mountain, you do not look at the foothills and worry; you keep your eyes fixed on the summit, and that way, if you are very lucky and very determined, you may achieve it.

The summit. He had achieved it more easily and more quickly than ever he had expected.

“Charm,” had said the tolerant, smiling on the young Fergus, prepared to accept him for what he was, but, “Arrogant,” said the older, more cynical courtiers. And, “Favouritism,” said yet others, who remembered how the High Queen Dierdriu had ever an eye to dark-haired, blue-eyed young men who smiled with charm and impudence, and who could woo birds from trees and noble ladies into bed.

It had not been charm alone, and it certainly had not been favouritism that had taken Fergus on his upward journey.

Dierdriu had been kind, certainly. She had smiled on the new young courtier, and she had helped him, and he had been fascinated by her, for although she was ageing, there were still easily discernible traces of the famous beauty who had led armies into battle and lovers into bed; who had brought Ireland to the brink of something so truly great that its fame would echo down the centuries.

Dierdriu had maintained the legend begun by the first Wolfkings, but her granddaughter would create a new legend altogether.

Grainne. Barely eighteen, wide-eyed and a little awestruck by the Court; receptive and responsive.

The Crown Princess, the future High Queen, beautiful and untried, and more desirable than any woman Fergus had ever seen before or since.

But she is not for me nor I for her.

He thought she had not known of his feelings, until the night of the receiving of new candidates into the Fiana, at which Fergus, as its head, must preside.

It was an ancient and rather solemn ritual, the admitting of young men of good family into Ireland’s small and carefully chosen band of warriors. The Fianaigheacht said, “Only the very highest in the land may enter.”

Fergus had questioned this, because his own father had been an ordinary townsman, one of the small landowners near to Tara. Well-to-do in an unassuming way; certainly respected. “But of the people,” Fergus was to say with unconscious arrogance. “Not of Ireland’s nobility.” Why then had his father made that curious statement: “You need bow your head to no man in Ireland save the High King or Queen.”?

The candidates had strength and stamina and charm, and Fergus, presiding over the banquet, watching them perform feats of skill and endurance and strength, smiled. He would accept all of them; presently he would cross the floor to where they would stand, and he would bestow acceptance on them.

He had started to move across the Sun Chamber, and a hush had fallen, for at such a ceremony, as the Fiana’s head, Fergus commanded absolute obeisance. And then he had turned his head and seen that Grainne was watching him, and a sudden, surprised joy unfolded within his heart, for there was such desire in her eyes that lights exploded inside his head, and he wanted to stand still and savour the moment. He wanted to drink it and touch it and explore it, for, he thought, surely there can be nothing so magical as the moment when you know, beyond all question, that the woman you desire desires you in return.

He had turned it aside, of course, for the Court was waiting. But the knowledge had lain beneath his thoughts, a warm, secret spring of joy. If I beckon, she will come!

Performing the ritualistic Acceptance almost without thinking about it, he had seen, quite clearly, the two paths down which he could travel. He thought, We are still safe, she and I. I have not yet taken the step. I have not yet beckoned to her so that she will come running to me, so that I shall lie with her today and tonight and tomorrow, and for a great many tomorrows. He was aware of the immense arrogance of this, but he knew he had not mistaken that long, steady look. If I beckon, she will certainly come to me! he thought, and his mind whirled, so that for a moment he barely saw the waiting Fiana candidates and the glittering Sun Chamber.

Or should he turn desire aside and pretend that there had never been that brief, blinding flare of longing between them? Should he take the honourable path, the virtuous path? Should he bank down desire and quench the longing, so that in the end desire would die and longing would shrivel and life would go on very much as before …

He had waited for her in the forests that fringed Tara, his mind filled with light and hope, his body more fiercely aware than ever it had been in his entire life. He felt as if he was about to take his first woman, and as he stood beneath the trees, watching her running towards him, Fergus felt himself trembling. He could not move, and he thought he probably could not speak either. He thought, I believe that this is how I shall remember her when it is over, as over it will surely be sooner or later. This is the image, the picture, the memory I shall fold away, so that somewhere in the future, somewhere on the other side of the pain I know awaits, I shall be able to unfold the memory and I shall never quite lose her.

If I can lie with her once, thought Fergus, if I can taste the sweetness, if I can possess her just once, she will be forever mine …

He had caught her in his arms, and there had been a soaring delight, an exchange of joy, wordless, mindless, stronger and infinitely sweeter than anything he had ever known. She clung to him, and his mouth found hers, and she tasted as fresh and as new as the morning, and desire had exploded within him, and he thought that after all he had been wrong: once would never be sufficient, he wanted her for always, he wanted to be with her, to share everything with her.

Share Tara? said a small treacherous voice he had not known he possessed. Would you share Tara if it was offered?

The thought slid serpent-like into his mind, and he thought, To share Tara. Oh, yes, to be with her and be at her side. Oh, yes, I could do that.

And my son would rule Ireland.

For a moment he had seen it clearly; himself and Grainne in the Sun Chamber; he had seen as well the child, the darkhaired creature of life and light and mischief … Grainne’s son and mine … A sweet, deep pain closed about his manhood, and it was then that desire rocketed out of control, and he felt himself become as hard and as high as the beech trees that stood sentinel to Tara’s western avenue …

Grainne arched her back like a cat, and Fergus began to peel the thin robe from her shoulders, kissing her bare skin, feeling her response, feeling the swing of her hair against his shoulders and chest, and exulting in it, for there is something so intimate and so wholly precious about the feel of a loved one’s hair against your skin …

There had been a moment when he sat back and looked at her, naked and submissive in the grass, and his heart started to sing and his mind spun into a dazzling vision of what might be … because we can only ever be a might-have-been, my dear love … that little boy with dark mischievous eyes, slender and supple, and Ireland’s future Prince …

Fergus had been so intensely aware of every separate part of her that it had been a pain and a torment. He had wanted to take each part — eyes, skin, hair, bones — and he had wanted to scoop her up and hold her between his hands and never release her again.

Passion had swept in then, and he had entered her, unable to help himself, clinging to her as she had earlier clung to him, and although he had been gentler than he had ever been with any other woman, she had cried out, and her face had twisted with pain, and Fergus had felt blood on his thighs.

And although I was sharing the pain with her, still I was exulting, because I had made her mine, and what I had had and what I had taken, no man ever in the world could have of her.

White-hot heat coursed through him, and with it came the rare, precious fusing of mind and body, so that her thoughts and her emotions flowed out to him, and his to her … we were truly one on that morning, thought Fergus. We were swept into the bitter-sweet dream, and there would be no going back, but on that morning we were truly one.

*

The dream had turned sooner than he had thought. Alone, in the eternal light of his timeless Prison, Fergus winced away from the memories, and then, with sudden resolve, turned about and faced them. For memories are the only things I can ever have of you now, my sweet, lovely girl …

He remembered every single one of the stolen meetings; how he had gone to her bedchamber by night, how she had come into the warm drowsy afternoons to find him, when everyone was busy about something and no one knew where anyone was and she would not be missed. He had been lost to all sense of preservation, both for himself and for Grainne.

The summons had come within a week. “The High Queen will receive you in the Sun Chamber,” and Fergus had known at once what was ahead.

But he had been unafraid, although a tremor had gone through him as he entered the great Sun Chamber and found Dierdriu alone and waiting for him. He paused in the doorway, because it was rare to see the High Queen without at least a dozen courtiers; certainly he had never seen the Sun Chamber like this, bathed in the glow from the dying day, alive with the strong, pure magic of the Purple Hour, the huge crystal windows that looked out over all Ireland ablaze with light. He thought that Dierdriu was outwardly calm, but that, in reality, she was not, as he was not. She turned and regarded him, and after a moment walked slowly and deliberately to the Ancient Throne of Niall of the Nine Hostages and seated herself on it. In the fading light, her eyes were yellow-gold and gleaming, and Fergus thought, Wolf-eyes! and saw Dierdriu smile, for she had picked that one up with ease. Of course she did, thought Fergus. Was not the Samhailt, the ancient art of hearing the thoughts of others, bestowed on the Royal line long ago?

But Dierdriu only smiled at him, and Fergus saw that it was the cruel, charming smile of her ancestors, who had lain with the wolves. She said, “Do you find it strange to see the Sun Chamber so empty, Captain?” and Fergus thought, Oho! she is calling me Captain. Then we are to be formal, are we!

He said mildly, “I am accustomed to seeing it filled with people, ma’am.” And waited for her to make the next move.

But she only said, “I am often here alone at this hour.”

“Why have you sent for me, ma’am?”

Dierdriu regarded him thoughtfully. “We shall not play games,” she said. “You have transgressed the law.”

“Yes?” Fergus put up his chin. “We all of us do that at some time or other.” You do, said his tone.

The smile deepened. “Oh, Fergus,” said Dierdriu softly, “you will have to curb that rebellious arrogance if ever you are truly to serve Ireland.”

Fergus felt a surge of real anger now, because how dare she treat him as an inferior, how dare she speak to him as if he was no more than one of her serfs, a possession, a pawn, a thing.

Dierdriu said, “You cannot have her, you know.” Fergus looked up, because for all Dierdriu’s hubris, he had not expected her to be so suddenly direct. He drew breath to speak, and Dierdriu said, “Shall I tell you why you cannot?”

“You do not need to,” said Fergus, his eyes holding the golden ones. “She is a Princess of Tara.” And thought, Let us leave it there, Dierdriu. Let us not say what we both know to be true. Let us pretend that it is only that Grainne is too far above me, and let us continue the pretence, for I do not think I can bear it any other way.

Dierdriu said, “Yes, she is a Princess of Ireland,” and looked at him and waited.

“She is of the old pure Wolfline,” said Fergus, meeting her eyes. “And that line must never be defiled or sullied.”

“Yes,” said Dierdriu, and stood up and came over to him. “But there is something else, Fergus.” And now her expression was softer, gentler, the yellow glint in her eyes dimmed.

“She is your sister,” said Dierdriu.

Fergus heard his own voice break the silence that followed. “I know.”

*

He had known for longer than he could remember. He could not remember a time when he had not known. Perhaps he had been told when he was first taken to Court. Perhaps he had guessed, without being told. “Remember,” said the man who had reared him, “remember that you need bow your head to no one save the High King.” And he had looked at Fergus rather sadly when he said this.

“Of course he did,” said Dierdriu. “For to him you were a changeling, you were a malartan. Grafted-on stock. He reared you, but he could never have understood you.”

No one ever has. Fergus did not say it, but he thought that Dierdriu would hear the cry, and he thought, as well, that she would also have experienced the immense lonelinesses, the sudden fierce panics, because it was inevitable that when you were a creature not quite human, you would instinctively look for your own kind.

And there are no others left of the old enchanted Beastline …

Only there had been. There had been Grainne. Was that all it had been? Like recognising like? The call of kinship? Oh, no, my love, for to believe that is to deny anything and everything we were to one another.

Dierdriu was still seated on the High Throne, watching him, and Fergus knew a quick anticipation, and thought, Is she about to tell me the truth about my birth? and was both intrigued and apprehensive, for he had never been told anything of his true parents.

Dierdriu said, “I am not going to tell you that, Fergus,” and there was a wariness in her tone now, so that Fergus looked up, startled. “It is not a story that bears telling. But you may know that hearts were broken and minds were splintered.” She looked at him. “If the truth had ever become known, Tara would have fallen.”

The old, old curse revived, and the Bright Palace threatened? The Dark Ireland waking?

“You were taken away,” said Dierdriu, “into safety. You were given into the care of people who reared you well.”

Made into a changeling. Cast out by my own kind … A Wolfchild abandoned, put out to humans … The thought was instantly and fiercely hurtful.

“No,” said Dierdriu. “You were put into safety, Fergus. Your safety.”

“And Tara’s?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Tara’s also. That was of paramount importance. We all knew it. We all knew that Ireland must not fall under the power of the Dark Lords.”

So it was the Dark Ireland you feared, madam …

“I have always feared the Dark Ireland,” said Dierdriu, and her eyes were huge now, and looking on a terrible possibility. “My ancestors — yes, Fergus, your ancestors also-waged endless battles to keep the Bright Palace and to beat back the necromancers and the dark sorcerers from that other Ireland. And if the truth of your conception had been discovered —”

“Why will you not tell me?”

“It would do no good,” said Dierdriu again. “And once you knew, you would wish you did not.”

“But we are — Grainne and I — we are full brother and sister?”

“Yes.” The light had shifted in the Sun Chamber now, and Fergus saw that Dierdriu’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Oh, yes, my dear, you are full siblings.” And then, reaching out to touch his arm, “I would that it were otherwise, Fergus.”

Fergus did not speak. He thought he need not have asked the question, and he wished he had not asked it. For while I did not know, there was still some hope. Because half kin might have been acceptable …

Pain sliced through him, and a terrible cold desolation. Then I must let you go, my love, and after all there is nothing anywhere ever, and there is no one in the entire world …

Dierdriu said gently, “Had you been half siblings, something might have been permitted. As it was, there was nothing anyone could do.”

“Full brother and sister.”

“You are twins,” said Dierdriu, “born within the hour. You were born here in the Sun Chamber, Fergus.” She stood up and began to pace the floor. “Twins,” said Dierdriu, “one of Nature’s cruellest twists, Fergus.” She stood framed in the great crystal window, her eyes on the plains and the rolling fields and the forests below Tara. “What was done was done for Ireland,” said Dierdriu. “You must believe that.”

Fergus said in a clear, hard voice, “Why am I not in Grainne’s place? Why is she the Crown Princess, while I am only her Captain?”

Dierdriu paused and then turned to look at him. “Yes,” she said at last. “Of course you would wonder about that.” And came again to seat herself on the High Throne. “You are a Prince of Tara, Fergus. It is your inheritance and your birthright, and although we may appear to have taken that from you, we have not really done so.” She frowned, and Fergus waited. “On the night you were born,” said Dierdriu, “the Wolves were restless in the forests, and there was the sound, very faintly, of the sidh singing at Tara’s gates.” She glanced at him. “The sidh have not been seen in Ireland since my own father’s day, but they are still here, Fergus. The most purely magical creatures in all Ireland. No one has ever looked on them and lived to tell of it, for they are greedy for the souls of humans. But when a High King or Queen is born, they have always come up to Tara’s gates, and sung him — or her — into the world. And although it is almost certain death to look on them, Fergus, I stole out of the Palace that night, and I saw the green and blue smoke that indicates their presence, and I saw, just for a moment, the Elven King, Aillen mac Midha, seated cross-legged on the ground. I heard the cold faery music.” She paused again, her eyes faraway now. “The music of the sidh is the most remarkable thing you would ever hear,” said Dierdriu. “Cold and inhuman and filled with their strange faery enchantment. It is said that there is a spell within the music, and that they always spin it for the true heir, and that it protects that heir throughout his life.

“But they have long since vanished from Ireland, Fergus, and it may be that I will be the last Queen to have seen them and heard them. There is a legend that says they will return when the Lost Prince of Tara appears, and that it is he alone whom they will serve. But,” said Dierdriu, “that is only one of many legends, and people have always talked of a great and mighty ruler who will appear from the ranks of the ordinary people and lead Ireland to greatness.”

The Lost Prince … Ireland’s once and future King …

“I wept on the night the sidh were last seen at Tara,” said Dierdriu, “for I knew that they could only sing for one of you, and that there could only be one ruler. I knew that these might well be the sidh’s last days, and I knew as well that I must find the courage and the strength to send one of you away.”

Fergus said, “But why? I don’t understand any of this,” and Dierdriu closed her eyes and leaned back, so that Fergus suddenly thought, After all, she is no longer young. No longer the wild young Wolfqueen who rode into battle with the armies of all Ireland at her back, and who took and discarded lovers at will. She is no longer young, thought Fergus, and pity stirred in him, and with it a thread of forgiveness. When he said, “Tell me,” his voice was very much gentler than it had yet been.

Dierdriu sat up a little straighter. “What I am about to tell you is known to only a handful of people,” she said.

“Certainly it is not known outside of the Bright Palace, and equally certainly it is not known outside of the innermost Council Chambers. It is something that is passed on down the generations, from each High King or Queen to the direct heir.” She paused, and appeared to select her next words carefully. “As a Prince of Tara, you are, after all, entitled to be told, but as a Prince of Tara, you must promise, solemnly and absolutely, that you will never, no matter the circumstances, reveal what I am about to tell you.”

“I do promise,” said Fergus, and Dierdriu looked at him very intently.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, you mean it.” And then, leaning closer to him, “I should know if you did not mean it,” she said. “You understand that?”

“Yes,” said Fergus. “We are of the same line you and I, ma’am, and although I have not the ancient Samhailt, I understand it. You may trust me.”

Dierdriu said, “You know the ancient curse laid on Tara at the beginning of her history?” and looked at him and waited, and Fergus said, half to himself, “‘If Tara should ever belong to a pure-bred human, then it will fall into ruin, and the Bright Palace will be no more …’”

“‘… and all Ireland will seethe with evil, and the skies will darken, and the rivers will run with blood.’ Yes,” said Dierdriu, “of course you know. All Ireland knows.

“But what you do not know, what very few people know, is that there is more.

“When the first High Queen cheated the curse by creating the Enchantment of the Bloodline,” said Dierdriu, “the sorceress is said to have turned back and made a curious prophecy.” Her eyes were slitted in the gathering dusk, but her voice was clear. “‘You may think to deflect the curse,’ said the sorceress, ‘and for a while you will do so, for your sorcerers are powerful, and the Enchantment they have woven will endure. Half-humans will rule Ireland for many centuries. But one day your line will divide, and it is then that the magical Beastblood will fade, and you will find you can no longer strengthen it by lying with the creatures of the forest. It is then that Tara will belong to the humans.’

“‘The Line will divide,’” said Dierdriu, looking at Fergus. “Divide. The sorceress could see into the future, and she could see how her curse might again fall on us.”

Fergus said, “The Line will divide …?” and looked at Dierdriu, not understanding, and Dierdriu said, “Twins, Fergus. If ever twins are born into the Royal House, then the Enchantment of the Beastline will lose its potency, and the curse will revive. Enchantments can die, Fergus, but curses can not. They can only be set aside for a time.

“Eighteen or so years ago, my dear, you and Grainne were born in this room in the Sun Chamber of Tara. Twins. And from that day, the ancient curse has been waking.

“We did everything we could,” said Dierdriu, pacing the room again. “We summoned the sorcerers, and we sat long nights in Council, for we knew that we dare not wait until it was time for the Ritual of the Beastline to take place; we had to know long before that if the birth of twins into the Royal House had truly damaged the Enchantment.

“And we did know,” said Dierdriu, her face haggard and old now. “The sorcerers knew at once. I do not understand the finer points of sorcery,” said the Wolfqueen, and a brief, suddenly youthful grin lifted her lips, “but I know a little. They permitted me to go down into Tara’s Sorcery Chambers for this. I was there when they took the Enchantment of the Beastline and laid it across the Silver Loom, and I was there as it fell to shreds in their hands. Have you ever seen a dead enchantment, Fergus? No, of course you have not. It is the most painful thing in the world. It was dead, shrivelled, blown to dust, exactly as the sorceress had said it would be, centuries earlier. The ancient curse was reviving …

“And so we separated you,” said Dierdriu, and now there was an immense sadness in her eyes. “We decided that you must be brought up apart from one another. The sorcerers believed that that would weaken the strong kinship that would exist between you.” And then, seeing his expression, “Oh, my dearest boy, forgive me —”

“It does not matter. Go on,” said Fergus. And then, as something else occurred to him, “Was that, then, the only time that twins had ever been born to the Wolfline?”

“No,” said Dierdriu, but now she spoke so softly that Fergus had to move closer to hear her. “No. Once before, twins were born.”

“What happened?”

“They were separated, but they were separated so fully and so completely, and so soon after their birth, that the threat withdrew.”

“How —”

“The Time Travellers took one of them,” said Dierdriu, and it seemed to Fergus that an old, never-quite-healed agony was in her voice now. “They took the boy-child, and no one in Ireland ever knew what happened to him.” And then, with an abrupt gesture, “But it was a very long time ago, and I do not know the details, for I was never told. And all who knew are dead now.” Again the shadow was in her eyes, and Fergus, who would have wished to know more of this, felt her retreat a little from him.

But he only said quietly, “Go on.”

“The Panel of Judges was summoned, to decide which of you had the stronger vein of wolfblood,” said Dierdriu. “That was believed important, for with the Enchantment useless, we knew that we had to keep the Wolfline alive for as long as we could. We had to give the sorcerers time to find the Enchantment or weave a new one. The adjudging of the beastblood is something else I do not fully understand,” said Dierdriu, “but it is a little to do with the eyes, and a little to do with the movements … And with other things I have never meddled in.”

Fergus said, “And so I was sent away and Grainne was permitted to remain at Tara.”

“Yes.” Dierdriu’s eyes fixed on him. “Yes, we sent you away, Fergus, but I know now that we did not send you far enough.” She reached for his hand. “Forgive me for that. But you were of my blood, and I had already lost so much —”

“Yes?” Fergus held his breath; he thought, Now will she tell me of my parents?

But Dierdriu only said, “And so you went away, and Grainne stayed, and when you came back to Tara, first as a soldier in the Fiana and then as its head, I could not bear to send you away again, Fergus.” And then, softly, “And indeed, the damage was done by that time. Why should you not take a high place in the home of your ancestors?”

“Why not indeed?” said Fergus lightly.

Dierdriu looked at him very directly. “When we sent you away, Fergus, you were a babe, no more than a few days old.”

“Yes?”

“The secret was kept in the way most secrets are kept, which is to say that although the truth did not get out, something got out. Something that became woven into the legend and the myth of the day,” said Dierdriu.

She looked at him again, the golden wolfeyes hard and unblinking, and Fergus, staring, said, “The Lost Prince —”

“Yes. Your banishment from Tara began the legend, Fergus. You were Tara’s Lost Prince.”

*

Tara’s Lost Prince. The abandoned Wolfchild sent away, made an outcast, given into the care of the humans.

Fergus, lying sleepless and alone in the Prison of Hostages, could still feel the pain and the bewilderment, and the terrible knowledge that he, who loved Ireland beyond measure, had been a part of her doom.

Because I was born twin to Grainne … because the Royal Line must never divide …

Even so, thought Fergus, staring up at the light, even so, there is something Dierdriu did not tell me.

My parents. She did not tell me that.

It was something that had puzzled him during all his years at Court, and it was something that had stayed with him. Who had they been, those poor tragic people who had brought forth the twins who were to fulfil the sorceress’s prophecy? How had they felt? How did it feel to know that you were the instrument and the cause of something so enormously and comprehensively dreadful?

Had it been Dierdriu’s son? Or a daughter? Strange, thought Fergus, turning restlessly and trying to escape the light, strange that throughout all Court history and throughout all Court gossip (and gossip at Tara had ever been lively), that no one has ever referred to Dierdriu’s child, to the heir to Tara who disappeared. No one has ever spoken of the child who must have been born to Dierdriu, and who had given birth to himself and Grainne.

Why not? thought Fergus. And then — She called me the Lost Prince, but supposing there is another Lost Prince?

CHAPTER TEN

Grainne explored the Grail Castle tirelessly. She could feel the enchantments of the ancient legend-haunted stronghold lying on the air everywhere, but she thought, Even so, I believe this is not a place of sadness.

“You will never quite discover all of the castle,” said Raynor. “For it keeps its secrets.”

“Secrets?” She thought he looked at her rather searchingly, and she held her breath, for surely there would be strange untold stories about this place, and surely he would know of them? But he only said, “It was raised from the rock by the first High Kings, and it is filled with rather strange magic. It does not obey the same laws as other dwellings.”

Grainne, feeling the castle’s subtle spells close about her, wanted to know everything; she wanted to find out all there was to find out about this dark fortress. At times she stole out from her bedchamber after nightfall, and stood listening to the night rustlings and the soft settling of the old timbers. Sometimes there were footsteps: not frightening, certainly not threatening, but purposeful and efficient, as if the owner was going quietly and efficiently about some routine task.

Sometimes she lay awake, feeling the castle sleeping all about her, hearing the little sighing sounds as beams settled into place, or the wind as it soughed beneath the eaves, or moaned in and out of battlements and turrets.

At such times, she heard the footsteps, and at such times, she half sat up, and listened. More than once she moved to go in pursuit, but she never quite did.

But she thought that if only she knew the right words,
or if only she had the power, she could summon the enchantments, and lay bare the secrets and understand this place. There are immense and terrible secrets here, she thought.

As Tara’s Crown Princess and then as its High Queen, she knew something of the castle’s history. She knew about Cormac of the Wolves, her great-grandfather, who had been exiled here for five years, and she knew about the others as well: Niall of the Nine Hostages, caught and chained and kept prisoner with nine faithful Lords until he broke out and regained the Throne. Nuadu Airgetlam, Nuadu of the Silver Arm, who had lost his left arm in a battle and been driven from the Bright Palace by the fearsome Gruagach. But Nuadu had returned; he had been made whole by the Court Sorcerer, and he, also, had regained his Throne.

Grainne thought it was strange that she had never before realised how many Kings of Ireland had been exiled and had later returned. Shall I return? Or shall I go down in history as the High Queen who lost Tara for always? She could not let it happen. She would rally the creatures of this castle, and the Cruithin, and drive out Medoc and beat back the Dark Ireland. And Grainne smiled briefly, because it was certainly possible that these thoughts were flowing outwards and being absorbed by the ancient stones. Perhaps she, also, was leaving a few secrets and a few memories behind.

And the castle was not entirely made up of sadness and shadows. There were sudden patches of light that you came out on to when you least expected it. You might walk down some sombre corridors and gaze upon dim, seldom-used halls, and you might run your hand across the scarred surfaces of the old walls, and then, without the least warning, you would find yourself in a sun-drenched quadrangle, or a courtyard where gentians grew or mountain ash flared. You came across patches of happiness here, just as you came across patches of colour.

When Grainne said rather diffidently to Raynor, “People have been happy here, I think,” he said at once, “Yes, there is happiness here.” And then, with one of his sudden, gentle smiles, “But it is necessary to look quite deeply for it, Your Majesty. And it is necessary for us to hide it as well.”

“More secrets?” said Grainne, willing him to unfold. But he only said, “Where people perceive happiness, ma’am, they will ask questions,” and he retreated again behind a courteous mask.

“You hide so much here,” said Grainne.

“Because it is necessary. Because we do not wish the world to look upon us.” He regarded her. “The Cruithin have a little of the old magic,” he said, “and the castle itself has its own.” He looked at her with his piercing stare, and Grainne, who had begun to understand a little of the castle’s strangeness, said tentatively, “The happiness within is not apparent from without.”

“It is not intended to be,” said Raynor. “The castle wishes to keep its secrets. The Cruithin have” — a pause — “the Cruithin have harnessed some of its darkness,” said Raynor. “And they have thrown it outwards.”

“It is very forbidding on approach.”

“Yes,” said Raynor softly. “Oh, yes, it is very forbidding on approach.” And, looking at her, “That is the inner darkness turned outwards. You understand why.”

The castle was forbidding and dark on approach because its occupants wished to keep intruders out. This was interesting and a new idea, and Grainne would have liked to know more. But Raynor only said, quite politely, “There are many such castles in Ireland, ma’am. There are many enchantments which have been woven into dwellings and which need only to be harnessed. It is only that people have lost the secret.” People have lost the secret … But it must be found, thought Grainne. Somehow I must find it again …

Raynor and his people had made Grainne and the others very welcome. There had been no ceremony about any of it, for ceremony of any kind seemed to be something that they did not embrace. But there was an acceptance, and a you-are-one-of-us that Grainne found restful.

The Beastline were interested in all she could tell them of Tara and of the exiled Court. They listened and asked a great many questions, but Grainne thought the questions were those of curious children, mentally exploring a fabled land … We shall never go there, we shall never dare to go there, but all the same, we like to hear of it. We like to think about the might-have-beens. And Grainne, who had her own might-have-beens, understood, and tried to make her stories of the Bright Palace interesting and amusing, and tried to minimise the rigours and the heartaches of exile on Innisfree.

And if she told them of her world, they, in turn, made her free in theirs. They each had their appointed tasks, and their place in the running of the castle, and Grainne, unused to being included in such ordinary daily tasks, felt it enfold her gently and naturally.

Rinnal, the fox man, showed her the garden where they grew their own vegetables and fruit. “For,” he said, “everything we eat we must provide for ourselves. Over there is our herb garden, and here are some fruit trees, from which we are cultivating a new strain. We think they will be ready next year, and we are looking forward to tasting the fruit.”

Two of the younger ones rather shyly explained about the workings of the creamery. “Butter and cheese,” they said, and Grainne was pleased that she understood the machinery, and even managed to churn quite an acceptable pat of butter, which the two Beastline creatures at once stamped with a wooden mould on which was carved, in reverse, the outline of a castle.

Bee, the girl with a badger’s furry snout and soft dark eyes, showed her the great sculleries where they all took turns to prepare the food. “All of us, even Raynor,” she said, and smiled. “Although he is not the best of our cooks, ma’am. But sometimes he prepares a dish of what we call Cais Breac — that is lake fish cooked in wine, with our own herb cheese. Quite delicious. We eat that when there is something to celebrate.”

“Raynor is your leader?” asked Grainne.

“In as much as we acknowledge a leader,” said Bee, regarding Grainne thoughtfully. “He is the strongest, you see,” she said. “I do not mean physically, although he is strong physically.”

“Mentally,” said Grainne, half to herself, and at once Bee said, “Yes. Yes, you do understand. I thought you would.” And Grainne was struck all over again by the complete lack of subservience of these creatures.

“When we falter,” said Bee, peering into a huge simmering cauldron of something that smelled savoury and good, “it is always Raynor who helps us. It is to him we go when we need support. Sometimes, you see, it is difficult for us.”

Grainne said slowly, “It is to be expected that you would despair at times,” and Bee responded at once, “Oh no. Never that,” and Grainne looked at her, startled.

“To despair is our most grievous fault,” said Bee. “Only think, ma’am, of the true meaning of despair. The giving up of all hope. An abandoning of hope that there is something — anything — better. To truly despair is one of the most terrible things in the world,” she said severely, and Grainne, listening, thought, Well, yes, of course. How very strange that I should never have seen that.

“We are the failed spells, ma’am, we must live here in secret, guarded by the Cruithin and also by the castle’s own strange protections. And although there are times when we falter — black times,” said Bee, her eyes huge and sad, “we strive never to fall victim to despair.” She gave Grainne a sudden, very sweet smile, and Grainne felt all over again the integrity and the tranquillity of these strange beings.

Fintan and Cermait Honeymouth, along with Tybion the Tusk, were establishing cautious friendships with the Cruithin. “Although,” said Fintan, “to get to know them you have to find them, of course.”

“They’re around,” said Fintan firmly. “They come and go a bit silently, of course, but that’s not to say they’re furtive.”

“They’re hospitable,” said Cermait, who, along with Fintan, had spent several very convivial evenings in the low-ceilinged, apple-scented room. “And my word, their stories! My word!”

Fintan said it was not the stories but the poteen, and it was only three nights since Cermait had had to be carried to bed.

“No, I was not,” said Cermait.

“Three of us carried you, and I was one of the three, and I had to tip a jug of water over you next morning to wake you.”

Cermait said, rather huffily, that it was a well-known fact that even an acorn-full of poteen sent you fast asleep, and Fintan gave vent to a derisive hoot.

“You snored all night” he said with relish, and Cermait got up and removed himself from this low vulgar company, because you could not stay in a room with people who told the High Queen that you snored. He said, with great politeness, that he would be in the buttery, always supposing anyone wanted to know, and Tybion the Tusk got up and helped him open the door, just to be friendly.

“He looked so upset,” he said.

“I was upset at being kept awake by people snoring,” said Fintan, but after a moment he got up and went off to the buttery himself, “because we need to know if the parsley butter is ready,” he said rather defiantly. “There’s baked lake fish for supper, so I hear, and some nice parsley butter will go very well with it. Bee’s baked soda bread as well. I’ll just go along and find out.”

*

As the days slid by, the Cruithin became a little less elusive, and Grainne waited, because she knew that to befriend them, to lead them back into Ireland, would be the greatest service she could render her people.

When at last they began to come out to her in the sun-drenched quadrangle on the castle’s south side, where she liked to sit, she was patient and cautious. It was a bit like sitting very quietly in a forest and waiting for a rare and timid wild animal to come out. But when they began to steal away from their tasks to sit beside her and smoke their pipes, Grainne felt more honoured than at any time since she had occupied Ireland’s Throne.

The Cruithin were interesting and learned. They talked to her about her ancestors, and about the Bright Palace, which they called Teamhair in their soft voices, and they told her about the battles and the people who had made Ireland magical and marvellous and richer in folklore than any country could ever be.

Grainne listened, absorbed and serious, and in her mind she began to see the old Ireland, the Ireland of the Lost Enchantments, very clearly. She could see the Beastline overlords who had sat with the Wolfkings at Tara; proud and noble and dignified, and just very slightly cruel, but charming and strong as well, and utterly loyal to the High King. She could see them standing on the ridge of hill that rose up behind Tara’s eastern boundaries, sending out the strong magic of the Samhailt to their creatures, so that the woods and the streams and the hillsides thrummed and quivered with the Mindsong.

“And every wild creature, and every forest animal had to obey,” said the Cruithin, their eyes bright. “They had to come streaming out of the forests and down to the Bright Palace, in answer to the summons of their Lords …”

When the Cruithin said, “The Enchantment is lost to us, ma’am,” Grainne turned to them, her eyes brilliant, and said, “But we shall find it again,” and saw them nod and smile, and felt suddenly and deeply happy.

Even so, there was a dreadful sense of loss in hearing these stories of her ancestors; there was an ache and a feeling of bereavement. Ireland has had so much, she thought; there has been so much magic and so much strength, and now all of it has gone. Hadn’t it? Can I truly bring it back? thought Grainne, watching the Cruithin disperse to their work again, leaning forward and hugging her knees. Am I being artless when I say that? Am I deceiving myself and deceiving us all? Why should I be the one?

She thought it would not be possible to talk about this to anyone — my burden and I must bear it, she had believed — but she found herself discussing it easily and naturally and very trustingly with Raynor.

“There is such a sense of loss,” she said, looking at him to be sure he understood this. “Ireland has lost so much.”

“But you are restoring it,” said Raynor softly. “You are bringing the magic back,” and looked at her and waited, and Grainne said in a whisper, “Am I?”

“Oh, yes, my dear.” And there was such a caress in his voice that Grainne felt her heart lurch. “The Cruithin will follow you, ma’am,” he said.

“And you? You and the others? Would you follow me also?”

She felt his retreat at once, and saw the shuttered look come down over his face. “I would that it were possible,” he said.

“Could it not be?” Grainne felt her heart thudding with such a fierceness that she could almost imagine he would hear it. But he only said, very softly, “For you I would ride into hell. I would endure fire and flood and the agonies of the world. But I cannot face the world that you have left, ma’am. Do not ask it of me.”

“I do ask it,” said Grainne, standing very still. “Very soon now, I will ask it.”

“Look at me,” he said in a low, anguished voice. “Look at what I am. Deformed. Distorted. A sorcerer’s error. A failed spell! If you have any pity, Grainne, do not ask it of me.”

Delight ran all over her at his use of her name, and she wanted to reach up and take his face between her hands and say, “You are beautiful and strong and gentle. Please do not hide from me.”

She fell into the way of sitting with him at supper, liking the custom that the Beastline creatures had of making each evening a little ceremony in its own right.

“We come to the supper table,” explained Bee, “rested and relaxed and ready to engage one another in conversation. Perhaps there have been odd, amusing little things that have happened during our day’s work, and we share these. Perhaps one of us is tired or discouraged. Then we all try to lift him out of discouragement.”

The nightly supper table was pleasant and restful. It was a focus in the day; a point to look forward to, to work towards. As Bee said, you found yourself encountering something amusing or interesting during your day which you stored up to tell. You knew that the others would be doing the same.

But it was Raynor who told her things about the castle she did not know; how it had been built for the first High Queen of all, and how the ancient pure magic had been woven into its walls. Grainne, listening, watching, saw how his eyes darkened when he became absorbed in something, and how the planes of his face shifted so that at times the eagle-blood was more strongly marked than others … now the cap-like golden hair shone beneath the light from the wall sconces … What would it feel like beneath her touch … ? Shall I ever dare to find out?

“The castle will always withhold something,” he said. “That was the first High Queen’s instruction when it was being raised from the rock. A place of immense secrecy. A place which could keep within its walls those things which must not be known. She knew,” said Raynor thoughtfully, “that long-ago Queen, that there would be times in Ireland’s history when things would need to be hidden.”

“We have many stories of that first High Queen,” said Grainne, cupping the wine chalice between her hands, her expression intent. “How she fought and intrigued and made Ireland great. How she bargained with the sorcerers to build the Bright Palace for her. How she was so beautiful that everyone in Ireland loved her. Men would travel hundreds of miles just to catch a glimpse of her.”

Raynor said softly, “But you are so beautiful that men would die for you,” and Grainne looked up, startled, because the words had been so soft that she could not be sure she had heard them correctly, yet she knew she had. Her heart began to thud erratically, and she felt as if a great weight was pressing down on her making it difficult to breathe.

Raynor stayed where he was, his eyes on her, and Grainne felt a surge of the utmost exhilaration. I am not mistaken! He wants me! And waited.

But he only said, “I am privileged to serve you, ma’am,” and turned away, and Grainne thought, Oh, damn! Can he not tell! What must I do? He is the most remarkable looking creature I have ever seen, and I believe I could love him very much, and I believe that with him I could forget Fergus.

*

Forget Fergus. The thought still brought a pain: for how could I ever truly forget you, my love?

Lying wakeful in her bedchamber that night, Grainne knew that she would never truly forget Fergus.

But since I can never have Fergus, not ever, why should I not have Raynor? There is no disloyalty. Why should I not?

Raynor. The unknown, eagle creature, created out of sorcery, but a creature of such strange, inverted beauty, and such strength. A creature who had never seen a world outside this castle. Grainne had sometimes wanted to renounce Tara, she had sometimes wanted to forsake the Throne and flee to obscurity, but this was a creature who had renounced the world without even knowing it.

And who had still achieved peace of mind.

She would never forsake Tara, of course, just as she would never forget Fergus. But — I believe I could learn to live with the memories, she thought. I could live comfortably with the knowledge of those nights with Fergus that should never have happened. I could live in peace with the might-have-beens as well; the elfin-faced, slant-eyed boy who never existed … Ireland’s Prince …

She had hated Dierdriu on the terrible day that Dierdriu had told her that she and Fergus were to be parted. She had bowed her head and accepted Dierdriu’s words, for she had known, at once, the truth of what Dierdriu said.

Your brother. He is your brother, Dierdriu had said, her face expressionless, but her eyes compassionate. And therefore he is forbidden to you by every rule, natural or manmade.

Grainne had not questioned the truth or the logic, or even the history that must lie behind this. She had known, instantly and completely, that Dierdriu spoke the truth.

For there was that closeness, that oneness, that immense and remarkable understanding between us … Was that all it was, my love? Only the call of the blood? Only the instinct of the wolves, our ancestors, recognising a member of the same pack? It does not matter, she had thought, numbly, for whatever it was and whatever it has been, it was forbidden for all time.

Forbidden for all time. If I waited for a hundred years, if I devoted my life to fasting and asceticism and scholarship as the Druids do, still it would make no difference. I can never have him, nor he me.

There had been black bitterness, and there had been a great aching void for longer than she cared to remember now. There had been anger as well at the cruel jest of fate that had brought her into love with her own brother.

She had not shown any of it, she thought. She had smiled and raised rather amused brows at the stories that tumbled in then of Fergus’s progress. An experience of women that would extend over many nations … Yes, the words fitted by then, no matter who had written or said them. She had even managed to shrug and say that, after all, the Fiana’s Head must be a person of some charm. And she had accepted what had to be accepted, and she and Fergus had parted. Except that we were never completely apart, my love, for you were always beside me, and you were always there, and I think that without you there, there were times when I should certainly have been crushed by the weight of a Crown I did not really want.

She had of course questioned the decision that had left her heiress to Tara, while Fergus, so indisputably a leader, so plainly possessing the natural authority Grainne believed she lacked, was relegated to the command of the Fiana.

“A high position,” Dierdriu had said.

“But he is a Prince of Ireland!” Grainne had cried. “Why is he not here at Tara!”

Dierdriu had looked at her for a long moment. Then, “My child, you will one day know,” she had said. “For now you must bear the loss.”

Grainne had nodded, and she had done as she was told, but deep within her had been a spurt of anger, for when had Dierdriu ever borne loss, when had Dierdriu ever lost a lover?

Lying wakeful in her bedchamber, with the Grail Castle silent all about her now, Grainne remembered vividly her emotions all those years ago. Dierdriu had never lost a lover, for Dierdriu had been reckless and abandoned, and had had any man she had ever wanted.

And then Grainne sat up in the bed, and thought, In my position now, what would Dierdriu have done?

And felt the beginnings of a smile curve her lips.

*

What would Dierdriu have done?

The Grail Castle was not entirely in darkness when Grainne slipped out of her room and closed the door carefully, but there was not very much light. Was there enough to see her way? There would have to be, because it would be quite difficult to make her way to Raynor’s room burdened with flaming torches. Also, it would attract attention. Grainne did not mind about attracting attention, but it would be better not to.

And again there was the quiver of amusement, because had Dierdriu ever been discreet when she went to a lover’s bed? Dierdriu, thought her granddaughter, had probably gone noisily and wantonly along brightly lit corridors, brandishing torches, attended by half the Court, very likely conducting a few odds and ends of State business along the way.

None of it would have done for the Grail Castle and the gentle remote creature to whose bed Grainne was going.

The castle was faintly lit by the soft light of the moon, and Grainne, pausing to look down over the courtyard through a small side window, saw how the countryside was bathed in radiance. And smiled, because there was a radiance within her. For surely he will not reject me … Would he? But if I do not go to him, he will never come to me, said her mind.

She supposed she ought to feel apprehensive, but she felt only deep delight, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to be making her way through the moonlight to Raynor.

The most natural thing in the world … and had we but world enough and time, my love … Yes, the echoes were still all about her, and there was a comfort in them, for she felt that she was not alone.

Only that I cannot tell if the echoes are from the past or the future, or some other world altogether.

His room was in the oldest part of the castle, along a narrow galleried landing, with thick dark hangings that stirred faintly as she passed. And although it was no moment to stop and remember those night footsteps that passed her door so regularly, Grainne did remember them. Part of the castle’s secrets? Perhaps. Perhaps I shall find out what they mean, thought Grainne, moving on.

The door to Raynor’s room was down a flight of steps and through a narrow archway. Someone had thrust a burning torch into an old iron wall bracket, and there was a warm soft light and the faint scent of fragrant wood burning. Pear-wood was it?

Grainne stood very still and knew she was going forward into something that might well be a delight, but that might also be a torment. He may reject me. He may take me tonight and then reject me tomorrow. Which would be worse?

But the decision is made, she thought. I think the decision was made long ago. I cannot go back now. And she descended the stairs and, tapping lightly on the door, turned the handle and went in.

There was firelight in the room, a soft gentle radiance that warmed the old stone walls and sent huge, fantastical shadows dancing across the ceiling. There was the impression of light and space, and of great tranquillity. Even so, Grainne, standing in the doorway, absorbing it all, felt beneath the tranquillity an aching solitude, and thought, Yes, he has been quite unbearably lonely here. And knew that the remoteness and the gentle strength had been hard won.

And then a log broke in the hearth, sending sparks cascading, and the shadows leapt, and Grainne remembered all of the old stories, and could almost have believed that the ancient Ireland had awoken at last; that goblins and satyrs and cloven-hoofed, pointed-eared creatures were prancing in the room with them.

And then she looked back at the bed and saw the naked longing in his eyes, and something that was better than desire and that was more enduring than passion broke within her, and she moved forward, and said, “Oh, my dear love —”

Raynor held out his arms and Grainne went straight into them.

*

He had no defences and no armour. He had wanted her almost from the first moment, and he had loved her for nearly as long.

They had been desires to be quenched, as he had quenched other desires over the years. He believed himself a near-monster, a deformity, a half-human creature born of a sorcerer’s mismanaged spell-weaving. “But I have feelings and longings,” he might have said. “I have a human side.”

It was a part of his creed never to give way to these emotions. He believed that the creatures inside the Grail Castle must not breed, for it was not to be thought of that the nightmare perpetuated by the sorcerers should be passed on. Flawed stock could not be allowed to spawn. He had not laid such an imposition on the others, nor would he have tried to do so, for, he would have said, who am I, knowing so little of the world, to make laws and rules for my fellow creatures? But he knew that the other Beastline creatures looked to him for guidance, and he had accepted the leadership they imposed on him, for he knew that there must always be those who govern and those who serve. Bee had said to Grainne that when they faltered or fell prey to despair, it was Raynor who helped them. “But,” she might have added, “we do not know who it is who helps Raynor, for he does not come to us.”

He did not go to anyone. He fought his own despairs and his own bitterness, and he had believed that he had built up an inner tranquillity and a strength, so that he was armoured against the lure of any woman.

But when Grainne came to the castle, he knew himself lost, and he knew that the carapace so diligently acquired over the years was melting. The Wolfqueen was waking in him longings and emotions that he had striven to bury. When Grainne slipped silently into his room, desire blazed up so uncontrollably that the banked-down emotions of a lifetime were swept aside, and he knew he would take her fiercely and violently. He would try not to hurt her, but the minute she touched him, the minute he felt her skin against his body …

She slid the thin silk robe from her shoulders and stood naked before the fire, looking at him, and he saw the humility and the fear in her eyes, and felt something fierce and triumphant uncoil.

For I am on equal terms with someone for the first time in my life. I have been sought by this remarkable beautiful creature who is offering herself to me …

He moved cautiously now, unused to the preludes, unsure of what she would expect. He stood for a moment longer, looking at her, unable to speak, seeing that she was so beautiful it was hurtful to him, thinking that in other circumstances he would be unmanned by such beauty, except that he was not unmanned, that was the very last thing …

And then, Perhaps after all I am not such a deformed thing, he thought, and a sweet heady joy began to pulse through him.

When he lowered Grainne on to the pile of thick fur rugs before the fire, he was trembling, but when he stood up and began to unfasten his own clothes, he did so with a calm sureness and a gentle authority.

*

Grainne had known that when it finally came to it, she would be afraid — For I have never known anyone other than Fergus, and with Fergus it was so natural and so sweet — but she had not expected this sudden rush of tenderness. She had gone to his room ready to play the wanton, certainly believing she would have to seduce him into her arms, and there had been an undercurrent of panic at this.

But the desire and the longing in his eyes had given her strength, and he had moved to her at once, so that she had known, once and for all, that there could never be anything strained or awkward between them.

He had watched her cast aside her thin robe, and he had smiled with such infinite love and such intimacy that pain had twisted through her from breast to womb. He had thrown aside his own robe then, and had stood for a moment looking down at her, the firelight playing over his body, and Grainne had felt her senses tumble, for surely, oh, surely there had never been anything so beautiful and so strong … He is half-eagle, and I have never seen such an exquisite thing … His skin had the golden sheen of an eagle’s plumage … skin but not quite skin — Oh, yes! thought Grainne, drowning in delight now. When he turned to look at her, the firelight cast shadows across his body, so that she saw his arms not as arms, but as wings … and they will enfold me so strongly and so sweetly that I shall never want to be free … His legs were supple and strongly muscled, and Grainne half closed her eyes, and let her mind race forward, and anticipated the feel of his thighs against her … There was a tangle of dark golden hair; it was not rough and harsh but silken, as if the true eagleblood might be centred between his legs …

When he touches me, I shall certainly be helpless … But I believe I shall be his, completely and for ever then …

*

When she touches me, I shall be hers for all time, and when she touches me, I shall be so hungry for her, that I may hurt her.

The thought was hardly to be borne. Raynor paused, looking down into the half-closed eyes, and saw Grainne smile, and saw, as well, that despite her apparent tranquillity, she had been nervous, and that it had not been easy for her to come to his room. He thought she would certainly have had other lovers, for he knew a little of the way of the Court, and he pushed the thought away. For she is certainly mine now, and surely in a way she has never been any other man’s … Even so, he thought that never before had she been the hunter, and as the thought was framed, Grainne said softly, “You are right. It was not easy,” and Raynor smiled at her and said very gently, “The Samhailt?”

“I barely possess it,” said Grainne, unable to take her eyes from him. “Although it is my heritage, I barely possess it. It is only that —”

“It is that we are closely linked, you and I, my love.”

My love … Natural and right and entirely familiar. I should be feeling disloyal to Fergus, I should certainly be wondering if what I am doing is right, and if I am going to be hurt. She did not wonder if it was right, and she knew there was no hurt ahead for her. Not this time. And oh, Fergus, my dear, lost love, am I doing you so much harm? Was not the harm already between us, before we had loved and before we lost, and perhaps before we were born?

She knelt before the fire, facing Raynor now, leaning her head back as he began to explore her body, feeling his hands, tentatively at first and then growing more assured, sliding over her shoulders and her breasts … His hands were not quite skin and not quite plumage … Silken and smooth and so deeply loving that the pain was there again …

Only that this one will never hurt you …

This one. This strange, remote, eagle creature, whose body was bathed in incandescence from the fire, except that it was not quite the fire; whose eyes were dark with passion, and whose arms, strong and safe, were enveloping her, and laying her down on the thick fur rugs before the fire …

There was the pure and unalloyed joy of reaching down to cup his passion between her hands, and of feeling a tremor go through him … Fires banked down so strongly for so long … He is on fire with hunger, thought Grainne, her senses spinning. He is on fire, and I believe we shall both drown in the heat, and I believe neither of us would care if we did …

And then Raynor entered her with a strong swift movement, and the fires engulfed them both.

*

Grainne lay in Raynor’s arms before the fire, warm and drowsy, and more deeply happy than she could ever remember being.

She thought she could so easily stay here, learning the ways of Raynor’s people, working with them. Perhaps teaching them a little of her own world. Oh, yes, I could do that, thought Grainne, sleepless and still half drowning in the warmth and the sweetness.

I could be happy here, in this great, shadowy, secret-laden place, where there are unexpected patches of happiness, and where memories sometimes echo back, and where you can feel the history of the years swirl about you. You would never quite know what you might find here; you would certainly find unexpected flights of stairs which might lead anywhere at all, and you would surely sometimes come upon doorways you had not known existed. You would continually find gateways, thought Grainne, falling a little more deeply into sleep. Yes, there were gateways here in the castle, where midnight footsteps trod purposefully down the halls …

Footsteps.

The sleep vanished, and she was fully awake at once.

Footsteps. Going silently and steadily through the castle, somewhere quite nearby. Grainne raised herself cautiously on one elbow, trying not to wake Raynor, and looked towards the door. Yes, the footsteps were the ones she heard every night in her own part of the castle. She hesitated, and looked down at Raynor, and saw that he was watching her, and saw, as well, that he understood.

Grainne said, “The footsteps — I have heard them before …” and Raynor said, “Yes. Yes, it is time you knew.” And reaching for his clothes, he pulled her to her feet, and said, “Come with me.”

*

If it had been possible for the old castle to grow darker, Grainne thought it would have done so in the hour that followed.

She lost all sense of direction, and, “I never knew quite where Raynor took me,” she said afterwards.

As they moved through the halls and the corridors, she felt as never before the layers upon layers of history. She thought she could almost see the memories and she could certainly hear the echoes. Happiness and despair and hope and fear. Plots and counter-plots and escapes and incarcerations. Torments and delights and pain-filled nights and promise-filled dawns.

Cormac of the Wolves, sitting out the long years of his exile; Niall and the Nine Lords chained and starving in the dungeons. Nuadu of the Silver Arm, submitting to the sorcerers so that he might be made whole again. And what of myself? thought Grainne. Am I also leaving a mark here? In time to come, will someone else walk these halls and remember the Wolfqueen who lived here for a time, but who brought the Cruithin out of hiding, and drove Medoc from the Bright Palace? Yes. And she smiled at Raynor and saw him smile back, and felt renewed, and understood how it was that Bee and the others came to Raynor for help.

Raynor said softly, “There is pain ahead for you,” and Grainne said, “Yes. I understand.”

“Would you wish not to go on?”

“No. I must see whatever there is to see.” She thought she knew about pain anyway, because there had been pain in losing Fergus, there had been nights and days and weeks of aching torment.

Raynor said gently, “There are different levels of pain, Grainne,” and Grainne looked startled, because he had heard her thoughts.

“I think you are acquiring the Samhailt, Raynor,” she said, and saw sudden delight flare in his eyes.

But, “It is just that we are in sympathy,” he said. To himself he thought, Supposing she is right! Supposing that after all the sorcerers did not fail? Supposing that I could stand on the hills surrounding this castle and send out the Samhailt, the ancient and precious gift bestowed on the Noble Houses of Ireland? Supposing I could call up the eagles? And then, What has she awoken? he thought, and in spite of his deep love for her and his longing to protect her, he knew a tremor of fear. This, after all, was the Wolfqueen, the last of a lineage so old that its beginnings were wreathed in legend and lore and magic. He knew that Grainne was gentle and strong and sensitive; he knew this as if it was something he had been born knowing; even so, he found himself remembering that the Wolfline were said to have old enchantments in their blood, and that the old enchantments were tinged with the dark sinister magic of the first sorcerers, and that the descendants of those long-ago Wolfkings could still spin their own bewitchments and weave their own spells. And, Is this what you have done, Lady? he thought. Have you summoned the ancient golden strength, to bind me to you once and for all time? He thought he would not care if she had in truth done so, although he knew it to have been unnecessary. But as he walked at her side through the dark halls of the Grail Castle, he remembered, and wished not to remember, that she might well have within her the strange power that could awaken all manner of sleeping bewitchments and lost enchantments. And the things that lie hidden in this castle? Oh, yes, certainly those, thought Raynor, putting out a hand to guide Grainne down a flight of stairs.

Grainne, going cautiously through the castle, thought that this was certainly not a journey she could have made alone.

Alone through the silent halls, where midnight’s arch stretches far above us … I am hearing the echoes again, thought Grainne, staring about her, her eyes huge and dilated.

And the footsteps? Were the footsteps also all about them?

This is like the centre of a dead world’s soul, thought Grainne. I think I am beginning to be very much afraid of what Raynor is taking me to.

The old stone walls closed about her, so that at times it seemed to be suffocatingly hot, and she found herself putting up a hand to her throat. There was despair here now — and it is the real and truly terrible emotion, thought Grainne. It was like falling into a black well, where you knew there would never be light, or it was like being cast adrift on a night ocean when you knew no ships would ever pass.

Alone forever, and with no hope, no joy, no warmth …

I do not think I can bear this, thought Grainne, but even as the thought was framed, she knew that for someone it had had to be borne, there had been no escaping it, this bottomless dark pit, this vast endless night sea …

Raynor said very softly, “Down here,” and Grainne hesitated, and then thought, Yes, but why is he whispering? What does he fear to disturb?

The steps led downwards, there were crumbling stone walls, so that they had to clutch at narrow ropes sunk into the wall at intervals. The steps were worn away at the centre, and Grainne wondered if it was from the footsteps which passed this way every night, or whether it was simply from age.

“A little of both,” said Raynor, and frowned briefly, for he was hearing her thoughts more clearly now. The Samhailt wakening? The Wolfqueen acting as some kind of lodestar? Is she affecting the castle? he thought. And then — and this was more sinister by far — or is the castle affecting her?

And then Grainne said, “It feels as if we are going down into some terrible prison,” and Raynor said, “Yes, it is a prison. It has been used as a prison many times. I do not know how many. But it has a dark and ancient history.”

He led her along a cold flagged corridor now, where the walls gleamed faintly with phosphorescence, and where, although wall sconces flared bravely, the light was greenish and lack-lustre, so that it was rather like walking under water.

Raynor came to a stop outside a thick, low door set into the wall, and stood for a moment looking at it, as if summoning up some inner resolve. Grainne saw that there was a small oblong grille set high up. To see in? Or to see out?

At length Raynor said, very softly, “Before we go farther, you must give me your promise that whatever happens inside here, whatever is said, you will not leave my side. You must not, under any circumstances at all, progress more than several paces into the room.” The sudden intimate smile lifted his lips. “Should I ask your pardon, Wolfqueen, for appearing to issue orders to you?”

“No,” said Grainne in a whisper. “Oh, no, never that.”

“Then, I will not,” said Raynor. “You will do as I ask?”

“Yes.”

The brief smile glinted again. “Unquestioning obedience,” he said. “I am fortunate.”

And reached for a heavy key and turned the lock. The door swung open.

The room beyond the heavy iron-studded door was larger than Grainne had expected. There was light of a kind, but it was the thin unreal light of the moon, and Grainne, standing still, adjusting her eyes to the room, saw that there were windows high up, and that moonlight, tinged with green from the forest, poured in from outside. There was the sound of the forest trees rustling. Or was it just the trees? Trees did not make that dry, brittle sound, as if old, dead bones were being rubbed together. Trees did not whisper and murmur and chuckle with an evil malevolence …

There is something in here that is barely human.

The room looked as if it might be quite comfortable. There were chairs, a table, a deep settle. Through an alcove was a narrow bed. But there were strong iron bars at the windows, and there was the dry, sticklike sound of bones; there was the mindless chuckling again …

The room should have been entirely normal. There were normal things in it; there were chairs and a table, on the table was a water jug, a bowl of food of some kind, fruit. The jug and the bowl were chained to the table.

Advancing stealthily into the room, Grainne felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck. As she moved, the something, the creature that chuckled and rubbed its dry-bony hands together, moved with her, as if copying. Was it? Was it only her imagination? Two steps farther in, and the creature moved two steps as well. Grainne stopped, and the creature stopped with her. Three steps now. A slithering of chains, a horrid steel-on-stone sound, and three steps to match.

Grainne stood very still, although she did not close her eyes, for to do so in here, with a creature, a something that was watching from the shadowy corners and grinning and copying her every move, was not to be thought of. But she half closed her eyes, and she put her head back very slightly, and felt the shadows stir and felt the something wait, and felt the wrongness and the lack of humanity that pervaded the room sweep over her. Like water flooding over your head. Like steam coming at you from a cooking pot over a camp fire. Like a sudden scent, borne on the wind.

A scent. And then she knew, with the extra sense that her ancestors, the wolves, had possessed, she knew suddenly what the wrongness and the dry evil intelligence meant.

Madness. There is sheer blazing madness in here. And we are locked in with it …

Grainne gasped and put out a hand to Raynor. They were not locked in with it, of course they were not. But just for a moment she had felt the weight of emptiness, she had felt how it must be to be shut away down here, bereft of even human companionship, away from the light, losing count of the days. Chained and caged.

Aye, cabbin’d, cribb’d, confin’d …

The echoes swirled and eddied all about them, but whether from the future or the past, Grainne was never able to tell. Anger rose up in her for whatever poor pitiful creature was shut away down here, and her eyes blazed yellow-gold in the duskiness, so that Raynor, watching her, thought, Yes, that is the wolflight. That is the power and the light and the strength of Tara’s wolves! And felt again the primitive thrill. Grainne was only faintly aware of Raynor at her side now. Her eyes were searching the corners, scanning the farthest recesses of the dungeon that someone had tried to make into the semblance of a comfortable apartment. The unseen creature was still, and Grainne had the sensation of being watched, inspected, assessed. The chains slithered again, and there was a scuttling movement in the shadows, and Grainne turned to see what crouched in the corner.

Her first feeling was of relief. Not human! After all it is not human! Some poor animal, some poor travesty that has been imprisoned for its own safety and the safety of others. Some living breathing thing that has succumbed to insanity, or been born that way, and which the Beastline and the Cruithin have taken care of. Not human.

She moved nearer, heedless of Raynor’s warning hand on her arm, not exactly pushing him from her, but summoning, without realising, the authority and the remoteness that had come down to her; certainly assuming the unconscious imperiousness that she had never known shone from her, and that was shining from her now in the dim, moonlit cell. Raynor, more closely attuned to her now than he would have believed possible, felt the strength and the sudden arrogance and the automatic shouldering of a burden, and knew that it was this quality, this mastery, that set her so much apart.

The creature in the far corner was watching Grainne’s approach from sly, slit-like eyes. As Grainne drew closer, a dry hand, the back covered with teethmarks as if it had been gnawed, came up and, with an abrupt gesture, pushed back the mat of hair that half covered the face.

Horror coursed through Grainne, so that for a moment the stone room tilted all about her.

Human, fettered and chained, with a mat of coarse brown hair, with sly, utterly mad eyes, but human. This is unbearable.

The creature was dressed plainly and simply. Some kind of loose gown, thought Grainne. But nearly in rags. Torn and stained and ripped. Here and there clawed. Anger flared, for surely they could have dressed the poor thing better.

The bright brown eyes were intent on Grainne now and, without warning, a new alertness came over the figure. It had been half sitting in the corner; now it seemed to crouch, as if ready to spring forward. Its chains slithered across the stone floor again, and there was a breathspace when Grainne thought it cowered.

Raynor made a warning movement, but the creature was before him, and in the uncertain light they could see the gleam of moonlight on bare sinewy thighs, which quivered with strength and intent to spring …

As Grainne stood, unable to move, bars of moonlight fell across the creature’s face, and the planes of its features, the angle of its bones, seemed to melt and dissolve into one another. The eyes narrowed even more and became inverted and reddish; the mouth thinned and slavered; there was the white gleam of teeth, pointed and dripping with saliva …

And then it sprang, the dreadful face a mask of blazing fury, the eyes fiery with hatred. The mouth was a mouth no longer, but a muzzle, a pointed snarling maw with snapping teeth that would certainly rend human flesh to shreds, with a lolling red tongue that would snake out and lick the blood and the marrow …

Grainne fell back as the creature lunged, and there was a furious yelp followed by a long-drawn-out howl as the iron chains held and jerked the creature back. But the nails that were nearly but not quite claws had reached Grainne, and a burning, lacerating pain sliced through her shoulder. She staggered and half fell and, as Raynor caught her, the wolf creature gave a howl of triumph and fell back on its haunches, making a scuttling, circling movement as a cat will make a nest for itself before sleeping. A cat. Or a dog or a fox.

Or a wolf …

Grainne, sick and dizzy from the pain in her shoulder, said, in a voice she did not recognise as her own, “Who is she?”

Raynor’s hand closed about hers. Then he said, very gently indeed, “Her name is Maeve. She is the only daughter of Dierdriu, and the rightful High Queen of Ireland.”

And as Grainne stared at him, horror and comprehension dawning in her eyes, he said in a voice of extreme tenderness, “And she is your mother, Grainne.

“But she has been caged inside the Grail Castle for the last twenty years.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Raynor’s room was a refuge and a haven. Grainne sat huddled before the fire, her torn shoulder bathed and dressed, her arms wrapped about her, shivering. Raynor had tipped a basket of logs on to the fire, and warmth and light were washing over the room. But — shall I ever be warm again? thought Grainne. Shall I ever be able to shut out the sight and the sound?

Raynor had fetched wine from a corner cupboard, and was heating it with a thin iron rod which had been resting in the fire’s embers. Grainne took the hot fragrant wine gratefully, and cupped her hands about the goblet for warmth. When she said, “Tell me. Tell me everything,” she saw his eyes soften and knew that he would surely tell her all there was to know.

“It is not my story,” said Raynor, speaking slowly now, “and although I know it, the Cruithin will know the whole.”

Yes, the Cruithin would certainly know. Loyal to the death, hiding the shameful secrets of Ireland’s Royal House.

“Your mother was born to Dierdriu,” said Raynor, “in the days when Ireland’s Golden Age was at its height. It was a marvellous time, I think. Tara was the finest, the most glittering Court in the western world. Your greatgrandfather, Cormac, had made it so, and Dierdriu, his daughter, continued the tradition. People travelled from remote lands just to be a part of it, for no one was ever turned from the door. Your great-grandfather was the most remarkable High King Ireland has ever known, Grainne; he liked to listen to the talk of people from other cultures, and he liked to learn about other lands.” He smiled at her. “In a way, he is still with us,” said Raynor, “for Ireland has never forgotten him, and never will.”

“True immortality,” said Grainne in a whisper.

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“Dierdriu was betrothed to a northern Chieftain,” said Raynor. “There was no mystery about it, but there was no particular distinction, either. It was as suitable a match as any could be for Ireland’s heiress.” He smiled briefly. “And they say that everyone knew that Dierdriu would never be faithful to one man. I think no one expected her to be. Also, the Beastline Enchantment was still so strong that it was not judged necessary for the Ritual to be invoked and the ceremonial mating with the Wolves to take place. Perhaps it was not thought important who Dierdriu married.”

Grainne said, “It is very carefully and very strictly planned, that Ritual.”

“The marriage took place, and a child was born,” said Raynor. “They called her Maeve, for a long-ago lady of the north. Shortly afterwards, the Chieftain was killed in a battle, and although there was a time of mourning, it was probably not very great. The marriage had been a business arrangement, nothing more.”

Grainne said, “Yes. I understand.”

“The little girl grew up at Tara,” said Raynor. “She was pretty and loved, and she was biddable and sweet-natured. If she had not quite the fire and the golden glow of her ancestors, nobody remarked it. They would certainly have noticed it, but there are other qualities useful to a sovereign. It was thought that with strong, carefully chosen ministers, she would do well enough when the time came.” He paused, and sipped his wine, staring into the fire’s depths.

“In time, the pretty, biddable girl began to be sought in marriage. She was fifteen, sixteen. She was a prize to be won. She might have had anyone she chose,” said Raynor, and a shadow seemed to fall across his face. “She might have married any of the Chieftains or the Lords who came to Tara, or the foreign Princes, for all knew that Ireland went with her.

“But she disliked them. She was not perhaps very courageous, which was unexpected in one of her ancestry. She was nervous of all men, and preferred to be with the women of the Court. Everyone said it would pass, and everyone still smiled tolerantly on the pretty, amenable child.

“It did not pass. She began to hide away when State banquets were in progress. She ran away from feasts and ceremonies. People began to worry. How could one so shy and so timid rule Ireland after Dierdriu was gone?

“And then one night,” said Raynor, his eyes unreadable now, “one night there was a great banquet for Samain, and that was the night that Medoc first came to Tara.

“No one knew him,” said Raynor, “no one recognised him, and for that the gate-keepers and the sentries must take great blame. They should have penetrated his disguise and they should have alerted the Royal guards and the Fiana and every sorcerer in the Palace so that he could be driven out.

“But Medoc is clever, Grainne. He is called, and with reason, the dark, cruel, beautiful one. He knows exactly how to present himself in the light best calculated to deceive. And it is true that no one ever expected him to walk openly and directly up to Tara and request admittance at the Western Gate.

“But that is what he did, and since he was garbed as a traveller, in a plain dark cloak with a pack on his back, no one thought very much about it. Cormac’s hospitality was famous, and no one was ever turned away.

“Medoc was not turned away,” said Raynor, sipping the wine, his expression absorbed. “He was asked in with his companion.”

Grainne looked up. “His companion? But in all of the legends, Medoc travels alone.”

Raynor said, “He had with him a young boy, little more than a child, it seemed. A child with huge dark hungry eyes, and ragged black hair. And a sack on his back.”

Silence. And then Grainne said, “The Lad of the Skins.”

“Yes. The Lad is one of Medoc’s most devoted servants.”

“Two of Ireland’s greatest enemies …”

“Yes. They were invited in, and given a place at the Samain feastings, and they took part in the revelries and the banquets. It is said that they were friendly and ready to be pleased by everything. Medoc talked interestingly and learnedly, and finally, little by little, the entire Sun Chamber fell silent and sat listening to him. He held them in thrall.” Raynor paused. “He has many gifts, Medoc, and he has at his beck a wardrobe of enchantments. For this time, he was a charming, rather scholarly traveller. Not young. A pilgrim. The Lad was his attendant — perhaps his son. He fooled them all. And no one was expecting him.”

No one had been expecting him …

“The Samain revelries were reaching their height,” said Raynor, his voice faraway now. “The feasting would go on for seven days. All the banqueting tables had been placed carefully, with full consideration to the dangers that abound on Samain. But,” he said, looking at her, “you would know far more of that.”

“Samain is the one night of the year when the Bright Palace is vulnerable. It is the night when demons walk and when every evil in the world is abroad. Also,” said Grainne, “there is a belief that at Samain the sidh sometimes return. They vanished from Ireland during my great-grandfather’s time, but on the night of Samain, the gateways between their world and ours open of their own accord, and they come back. They are the most purely magical beings ever known, the sidh, and they covet the bodies of humans. Their king is Aillen mac Midha, and in the past he would sit at the foot of the Palace ramparts, slender, and blue-green, and with the chill faery blood of all the sidh in his veins. If his creatures capture a human, they will steal one of the human’s senses — his sight, hearing, sense of smell, sense of touch, taste. There are terrible stories of how men have had their eyes torn from their sockets, or their tongue ripped from the roots by the sidh. And although they have not been seen in Ireland for many years, sometimes they are heard. But despite their greed,” said Grainne seriously, “they have always been loyal to the Wolfline. It is said that when a High King or Queen is born, if the child is Ireland’s true heir, they will sing him into the world and they will weave a spell of protectiveness.”

She stared into the depths of the fire, and Raynor said, “Tell me of Samain. Make me see it,” and Grainne turned back.

“They light the Druidical Fires. That is a ceremony in itself. There is a procession to the Plain of the Fál, to the great bonfire, and there is a chant in the Ancient Lost Language. No one understands that now, but we still use it. And there are banquets and rituals and revelries.” She put out a hand to him. “And one day you will see it all, and one day you will share it with me,” said Grainne.

“Perhaps.”

“Oh, yes. But tell me of Samain when Medoc came to Tara.”

“The feastings had drawn to a close,” said Raynor. “And the Court was about to assemble for the procession to the Plain. It was then that Medoc acted. They say he walked to the centre of the Sun Chamber, and that as he did so, the disguise fell from him, and everyone saw him for what he really was. The dark, evil, beautiful one. The most powerful Lord of the Dark Ireland. He stood at the centre of the Sun Chamber, and a terrible hush fell.

“Dierdriu was on her feet, summoning the Fiana and the Palace guard, but although they came running, it was already too late. Medoc had begun to spin the Draoicht Suany, the ancient and powerful Enchantment of Slumber. It spun and shivered on the air, and the threads and the filaments began to descend on the Court, covering them with the strong powerful magic. They were helpless, and Medoc had them at his mercy.

“He stood watching them,” said Raynor, “and it was as if he was searching for something. At last his gaze came to rest on Maeve, and his eyes widened, and a smile curved his lips. The Princess was powerless; when he beckoned to her, she went to him like a lamb.” Raynor’s hand came out to Grainne. “She would not have been able to resist him,” he said. “For he is dark and beautiful and possessed of all the attractions when he wishes …

“He swirled his black necromancer’s cloak about her, and he carried her from the Sun Chamber and out through the great doors, and out into the night and none could stop him. He carried her out of the Manor of Tara, and across the Plain of the Fál, and through the Forest of Darkness. There is a folklore that is closely guarded amongst the villages on the edge of the Forest,” said Raynor. “A handed-down tale of how a vast yawning chasm opened once in the sky over the Forest of Darkness; of how the people in that part of Ireland saw a glimpse of the true world of the Dark Ireland: the fiery furnaces where the manacles and the chains of evil are forged; the towering Black Looms of the necromancers; dark evil citadels and huge screeching night-crows and ravens; the silhouettes of wraiths and banshees and hags. For a few terrible moments they saw it all, and cowered, covering their eyes. And then there was a screech of triumph as the doors closed and the dreadful mirror-world claimed their Dark Lord and his victim.

“The Court was left trapped in the Draoicht Suan,” said Raynor, staring into the depths of the fire, his eyes lit not from without but from within. “Dierdriu and the courtiers slept all of the time the Princess was held captive inside the Dark Ireland. No one could dissolve the Draoicht Suan. Medoc had spun it truly and well, and they remained as Medoc and the Lad had left them, seated at the banqueting hall, apparently dead.

“Tara’s doors were closed,” said Raynor, “and somehow the secret was kept. The sorcerers worked long and hard to break the Enchantment but they could not, and the Sun Chamber became a grim and sinister place, where the High Queen and the Court slept a timeless sleep. Great brier hedges grew up around the Palace, and for many months Ireland had no ruler.”

“Who ruled?” asked Grainne.

“Those who had not been in the banqueting hall banded together and created an Emergency Council.”

“Did the people not know?”

“Tara has always been remote,” said Raynor without expression, and at once Grainne thought, And that is not a good thing! Those who govern should be close to those they rule.

“After many months had passed,” said Raynor, “they say that the chasm was wrenched open from within, and the gaping hole appeared in the sky over the Forest of Darkness. The villagers close to it believed that the Dark Ireland was about to ride into the world, but only Medoc rode out, astride a coal-black horse, with Maeve thrown across the saddle before him. He rode leisurely through the Forest, and across the Plain of the Fál, and finally along the avenue of trees that leads to Tara. He carried her into the Sun Chamber, and stood eyeing the sleeping Court with amusement. They say,” said Raynor thoughtfully, “that Medoc, of all the necromancers, has a sense of humour. And he found amusement in the slumbering Court. As he watched them, he released the spell, and they began to rouse, and when at last he turned to Dierdriu, she was awake and listening to him.

“‘Madam,’ said Medoc, ‘you see that I have returned what I took. She is yours for as long as you care to keep her. But Tara is mine, and will soon be mine completely. One day, quite soon I shall ride back into your Palace, and I shall reign in your place.’

“He vanished then,” said Raynor, “and with his going, the last vestiges of the Draoicht Suan vanished. And although there are even today people who know what happened, you will find no one who will speak of it. There are many secrets your House has kept, Grainne.”

Many secrets … Myself and Fergus, thought Grainne. Yes, for sure that was one of the closest secrets of all.

“What happened to — my mother?” she said at last.

Raynor stared into the fire for a long while. At last, he said, “That is something no one can be entirely sure of. But she had lived inside the Dark Realm for many months, she had been forced to see the terrible creatures that hold sway there, and she had been at Medoc’s mercy for all of that time. And the creatures of the Dark Ireland, Grainne, are soulless and cruel and evil beyond your comprehension. Their powers are subtle and strong, and they have the knowledge to wake in the minds of their victims that which would be better left unwoken.” He turned from the fire to regard her, and Grainne saw the leaping flames reflected in his eyes, hundreds of pinpoints of light. “Your mother was of the Wolfline,” said Raynor. “She was a direct descendant of the High Kings and Queens who had submitted to the sorcery of the Beastline, and lain with the wolves, and given birth to the Royal House.

“The Dark Ireland had woken the wolf, Grainne. Maeve had become a ravening, mindless wolf …

“She was brought to the Grail Castle twenty years ago,” continued Raynor. “The Cruithin brought her, and they guard her, and they guard the knowledge of her existence. In as much as is possible, we help them to do that. It is a service we can perform for the Royal House. But it is one of the reasons why the Cruithin disappeared towards the end of Dierdriu’s reign.” He looked at her. “We know only the barest details of what took place after Medoc brought your mother back from the Dark Realm,” said Raynor. “For Tara, like this place, keeps its secrets well. But we know of the birth — your birth, Grainne. We know that on the night you were born, the sidh’s music was heard.” He took her in his arms. “You were born shortly after Maeve was returned,” he said. “And therefore you had been conceived behind the closed gates of that dreadful other Ireland.

“And since Maeve was your mother, then, my dearest love, Medoc was your father.”

*

Medoc is my father. Mine and Fergus’s. Lying sleepless in the firelight, Raynor beside her, Grainne thought perhaps after all she had known. Not the entire truth, never that, but that there was something. A darkness. A fear. Something so terrible that it must remain deeply buried, it must never be allowed to emerge into the light …

Medoc is my father. I am the daughter of the darkest necromancer of them all.

It has to be faced, said Grainne to Grainne, staring up at the ceiling where the shadows leapt and danced. It has to be faced, as the knowledge that Fergus was my brother had to be faced. It is one more secret within my family, and it is a secret I shall keep, as I kept the secret of Fergus. I faced that, and I can face this, thought Grainne.

Could it be done? Could she come to terms with the fact that Medoc, the evil, cruel Lord of the Dark Ireland, had sired her and Fergus? Could she come to terms with the knowledge that they had been conceived in that dreadful place? She did not know very much about the Dark Ireland; she thought no one knew very much. But snippets and fragments of legend and lore had filtered in from somewhere. And what had Raynor said? A yawning chasm in the sky, through which people had glimpsed fiery furnaces where the chains of evil were forged … the necromancers’ Black Looms … Grainne had once seen the massive Silver Looms that the sorcerers of Tara spun their enchantments on, and she had been awed and terrified and overwhelmed. There would be dark fortresses in that world as well, and the skies would be forever heavy and lit to a reddish glow with the incantations and the dark sorcery that would rise like a miasma from the dark citadels … Grainne blinked and shook her head, because just for a few seconds she had seen with dreadful clarity the Dark Ireland, the Evil Realm, the world of malevolence and malignancy. And my father is Lord of that Realm … my father is Ireland’s greatest enemy and he has driven me from my Throne …

A deep, hard anger began to rise then, and, as dawn streaked the skies to the east of the Grail Castle, Grainne felt the golden strength well up again. The power and the light and the strength of the Wolves of Tara … The power that was turned inwards in my mother, but that I shall turn outwards.

O Medoc, thought Grainne, her eyes brilliant, her mind tumbling with images, every sense alive, O Medoc, you may be powerful and clever and subtle. You may be versed in necromancy, and steeped in alchemy, and schooled in the ancient cruel arts of your realm. But I am the Wolfqueen, Medoc. I have within me the Enchantment of the Beastline that was created at the beginning of Tara’s history. I am the descendant of Cormac and Dierdriuy and Niall of the Nine Hostages, and I can beat you, Medoc, I can ride against you, and I can defeat you. I am going to send you back to the Dark Realm of that other Ireland, and we will seal up the Gateways so that you and your creatures and your Lords of Evil will never be a threat to us again.

And Ireland will be truly safe at last.

*

They stood together on the hillside that rose up behind the castle.

“The Purple Hour,” said Raynor softly, and Grainne smiled, and thought that after all the old legends and the old myths had been right. Twilight, the Purple Hour, when magic was abroad and when spells awoke and enchantments stirred. If you listened very carefully and if you looked very closely, you could see it and you could hear it and you could feel it. Shadows and mists and approaching night, and fingers of deep purple stealing across the forest.

They were all there with her. At her back stood the Cruithin, alert and bright-eyed, ready for whatever might be asked of them. Loyal to the last drop of blood. Close by stood Fintan and Cermait Honeymouth and Tybion the Tusk, and Grainne looked at them and knew a deep and abiding affection for them.

The people of the Beastline were ranged directly ahead, facing her, as she had asked, and they were watching her with animal stillness. Raynor was a little apart, his eyes unreadable and such an intense concentration about him that Grainne knew he was hearing her thoughts.

He knows what I am about to attempt.

The golden strength was coursing through her, and with it an immense and unstoppable confidence. I know I am right. I know that deep within these creatures, these poor abandoned creatures, are the seeds of the Lost Enchantment, the thin, almost-dead bewitchment spun by the first sorcerers. I know that it is there, and if only, if only I can choose the right words, and if only I can tap the exact right source of power, then I shall see it ignite and flare into life.

There was no thought of failure in her mind, and there was no trace of doubt. These are the Royal lines of Ireland, and I am about to release the bewitchment, and I shall take them out of here, and together we will rout Medoc.

But when at last she spoke, she did so simply and directly, for although the moment was solemn, and although it was probably historic as well, these were not creatures who would react favourably to grandiloquence. Their lives had been plain and unadorned, and it was in such language that Grainne would address them. She glanced across to Raynor again, and saw him bow his head in brief acknowledgement, and she smiled inwardly, for it was Raynor who had given her the clue, the idea, the knowledge of how to approach his people.

“Many years ago,” said Grainne, looking at them all very directly, “Ireland’s rightful Queen was taken and held captive within the realms of the Dark Ireland. We know nothing of her months there, and we only know that when she returned it was with the dark inner side of her nature woken, so that she must be kept chained and guarded.”

A pause. No one spoke, but Grainne could see the listening alertness in them all.

“When Maeve was taken,” said Grainne, and those nearest noted that she did not falter over the name, “when Maeve was taken, the huge and fearsome Gateway to the Dark Ireland opened for a time. There are people living today who will tell you how, for a brief, terrible space, they looked straight into that world. How they glimpsed the Dark Lords who hold sway there, how they saw that the skies were dull and clotted with evil magic and black bewitchments. How they saw wraiths and hags and harpies, and the shadows of nightmares and the shapes of ancient and forbidden sorcery.” Again the pause. “And now Medoc, the terrible Overlord of that Realm, sits in Tara,” said Grainne. “With him are the Twelve Lords of Evil — each one the embodiment of the world’s great wickednesses. You know their names,” said Grainne, and a shiver went through the Beastline creatures and the Cruithin, for everyone knew the litany: Decadence, Hatred, Vice, Corruption, Jealousy …

“Medoc and the Twelve Lords are gathering strength,” said Grainne. “Already they have in thrall the villages and the farms that surround Tara. Already they have forced those people to work for them. And it is a terrible thing,” said Grainne, “to be forced to toil for a necromancer.” She looked at them again, and felt the intense concentration, and thought, and then was not sure, that something else had stirred. A knowledge deep in their eyes? Oh, please let it be.

“Medoc has already summoned the beast Conablaiche and the Lad of the Skins,” said Grainne. “They walk in the world today. We believe that now he will prepare Ireland for the rebirth of the monster-god Crom Croich.” She paused, and saw the shiver go through them again. Yes, they knew these names; even isolated out here, they knew of Crom Croich.

“It must not happen,” said Grainne more quietly, and several of her listeners saw the golden light beginning to glow in her eyes. “We must drive out Medoc, we must send him back to the Dark Ireland, and we must seal up the terrible Gateway that he opened before the creatures and the monsters of that Realm flood through it.

“You must help me to do it,” said Grainne, very gently.

“You must ride out with me, leave the Grail Castle, and come with me to Tara.” She drew a deep breath, and felt, as if it was a tangible thing now, the intensity of their thoughts. They do not understand, and yet they are beginning to understand. She stood for a moment looking at them, and saw how their heads were tilted in the listening attitudes of forest creatures, how their ears were pricked, and how their eyes were bright and intelligent. Behind them, in the forest, a tiny wind began to whisper, and a faint awareness stirred the air. Delight flooded her in a great wave, and — Oh, yes, I am right! cried her mind. In a stronger voice, she said, “I ask you to do this, because I have the right to ask it. Because of what you are.” Another pause. Was the forest wind becoming stronger? “You are the Ancient Bloodline of Ireland,” said Grainne. “You are the Noble Royal Lines, the Enchanted Creatures created by the sorcerers at the beginning of Tara’s history. You have the power over the beasts.” She looked at each of them, her eyes steady and brilliant, the wind scurrying across the forest now, nearly with them. “I cannot do it without you,” said Grainne. “I cannot drive out Medoc without the Royal Houses who have been lost, but now are found.” The wind had reached them, and it was lifting her hair. She raised her arms. “Send out the Mindsong,” cried Grainne. “Call up the creatures whose blood you possess. Together we will form the finest army that Ireland has ever known.” The wind was whipping about them now, billowing cloaks out and ruffling the hair and the fur of the Beastline. Behind them, deep within the forest, a low humming had begun.

“Do it!” cried Grainne, above the wind and the rhythmic sound. “Call up the beasts!” And stood waiting, and saw puzzlement touch them, and knew a moment of pure panic. I have miscalculated. I have lost them. But she stayed where she was, not moving, and the wind dimmed to a steady moan, and the sense of anticipation increased. Grainne thought, Now it is up to them. I do not think I can do any more. It must come from them. Have they understood? Have I reached them? Have I awoken the deep and ancient Beastline Enchantment?

It was Bee who spoke first, puzzlement in her dark eyes, but something new in her voice — assurance was it? “But, ma’am — Your Majesty — we cannot do it. We have no power.” Rinnal said, “We are the failed ones, Your Majesty. The travesties. Look at us.”

“I look at you,” said Grainne softly, “and I do not see travesties. I see a new interpretation of the Royal Houses. A rebirth of the Noble Lost Lines of Ireland. I see the Enchantment of the Beastline again.”

From where he stood, a little removed from the others, Raynor said, half to himself, “A palimpsest.”

“Yes,” said Grainne. “Oh, yes. A palimpsest. New writing on an old manuscript.”

Bee said, rather uncertainly, “But we are not the Ancient Nobility, ma’am. We are not the True Line.”

Grainne looked at them all with love and delight, and with an immense tenderness, and said, “Are you so sure?”

*

The Purple Hour had deepened to its utmost now, and the shadows were heavy with magic and heady with mystery.

And in the depths of the forest, the humming is still strong, and the wind is still swirling all about us, and something is stirring, something that is so strong and so purely magical that no one has ever been able to resist it …

The Lost Enchantment waking. Oh, please, thought Grainne, please let it be that, for I have come so far to find it. And anything will be worthwhile — the loss of Tara, the loss of Fergus — it will have been worthwhile if only I have woken the Enchantment of the Beastline. And, said a tiny treacherous voice, the loss of Raynor? Could you count that worthwhile as well? Oh, no, not that. And then — but if I must, then I must, she thought. Only — not that.

The Beastline were standing close together, silhouetted against the sky. And slowly, slowly, so gradually that it was barely perceptible, the watchers became aware of a change.

At first Grainne thought it was that power was stealing over them, and then she thought that it was not power but strength, only that did not seem quite right either. And then she knew, quite suddenly, that it was neither of these things. It was confidence, and it was awareness, and it was the dawning of knowledge. They were beginning to believe …

We are the True Ancient Nobility of Ireland …

Yes! cried Grainne silently. Yes! You are the Enchanted Ones, the Royal Houses reborn, and you have within you the power and the strength and the light, just as I have!

The wind was moaning more strongly now, and there was a sense of something powerful and irresistible drawing nearer.

The Mindsong.

The humming increased and became a chant: low, steady, throbbing. The forest seemed to become alive, and the wind swept across the surface of the trees, as if a giant hand had reached down to caress it.

A great exultant joy was sweeping through Grainne. I was right! These are the creatures of the True Line! The Enchantment was not lost! The sorcerers succeeded, and the Beastline still lives!

“The spells succeeded,” whispered Grainne, tears streaming down her cheeks and, as she turned towards the forest, the ancient magical Samhailt thrummed all about them, and the skies began to darken with Eagles and Hawks and White Swans, and the hillside became alive with Foxes and Badgers and Hounds and Deer and Gazelle, and Hares and Chariot Horses and Stags.

All rushing down the hillside to obey the Samhailt.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Talesin was not consciously aware of the moment when Fael-Inis’s Chariot was pulled out of Calatin’s forest and out of Ireland. He thought that at one minute they were still there, in the rose and gold dawn with Calatin and Fribble waving farewell, and the next minute the forest and the house was disappearing as if it was being sucked backwards away from them. And then he thought that of course it was not the house that was disappearing, it was himself and Fael-Inis.

Into the endless Time Fire and into the white heat of the Corridors of Time, where the centuries merge and where all the worlds that have ever been, and all the worlds that are still to come, meet and fuse and become one with the Time Light …

All about them were the thin pure flames stretching out endlessly and rising steeply on each side of the Chariot, as if they were travelling at immense speed through a great roaring tunnel. Fael-Inis was standing at the Chariot’s head, and his eyes were the exact colour of the fire, and Taliesin had the impression that they were the consistency of the fire as well. His hair fell about his narrow skull in a shining cap of molten gold, and his skin was becoming suffused with the light. He is bathing in the flames, luxuriating in them, thought Taliesin.

Fael-Inis half turned at last, and the three-cornered smile lifted his lips. But he only said, “I have bathed in the Endless fire, Mortal, not once but many times.” And then the smile widened and became mischievous, and he said, “But enjoy the journey while you can, for the return may be very different.”

And there are only seven days …

Taliesin felt the cool, silky enchantment spun by Calatin brush his body, and experienced a tremor of panic. Seven days, and then the spell would be useless. He would be trapped in the Future, unable to return. He would be there, at the mercy of the terrible days when the Apocalypse unleashed its fury into the world, and burned the earth, and almost destroyed mankind. Fergus and the others had talked blithely about enlisting the help of the machines and the inventions of the Future, and of chaining the Apocalypse and bringing it back to destroy Medoc and the Twelve Dark Lords. They had discussed how they would somehow enlist the help of the people of the Future, “For,” Fergus had said, his eyes bright, “if we can capture the Apocalypse and bring it back with us, then surely we are saving the world of the Future from Devastation.” But Fergus was lost to them — perhaps for ever — and Taliesin, left to continue Fergus’s quest, thought, Yes, but how do we go about capturing the Apocalypse? What had Fergus in mind? And remembered how Fergus had been a great soldier, and a practised warrior, the Fiana’s great leader. And I am but a dealer in gold and silver and the greedy dreams of men …

Standing in the rushing Time Chariot, the centuries tumbling past them, Taliesin thought, What if we fail? What if the Apocalypse destroys us before we get to it? He glanced to where Fael-Inis was standing, his head thrown back, the flames caressing his face, and felt better. I might fail, thought Taliesin. But this one never will …

Fael-Inis said softly, “Do not worry, Taliesin. We shall challenge this unknown world, and tumble it about, and if we are very fortunate, we may be able to halt the Four Heralds of the Apocalypse and gain the help we need for the beleaguered High Queen.” The smile he flung at Taliesin was straight and unwavering. “And you will find,” said Fael-Inis, “that the people of the Future are not, after all, so very different.” And then, “But you know that,” he said suddenly. “You understand that men and worlds and ages are not so different.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” Fael-Inis was letting the silken reins of the Chariot pour through his hands like water, and Taliesin watched, fascinated. “You have read deeply, Mortal, and you have studied the religions of the world. You have tried to acquire a little knowledge.”

“In an attempt to escape boredom —”

“Yes, you would say that.” The narrow eyes were unfathomable. “But all the same, you have gained knowledge and a deeper understanding of Men than most.” A brief grin. “You have not always liked that understanding, and that is one reason why you have frequently been at odds with your people.”

“A rebel,” said Taliesin, just very slightly diffident about using this term to this creature who was the greatest rebel the world had ever known.

“We are of the same pattern, you and I,” said Fael-Inis.

“Yes?”

“Rebels,” he said, and grinned. “But let us turn our attention to this cold, soulless world we are going to, my friend. You will dislike it, I think. You will find it cold and bleak and austere. You have a little of the Samhailt, of course, and you will feel all of these things with ease.”

“Yes.”

“You have never understood about the Samhailt.”

“No.”

Taliesin waited, but Fael-Inis only said, “It does not always go where you would expect, the Samhailt. And it is not a comfortable thing to possess.”

“No.”

It was not comfortable now. The cascading fire and the dazzling lights poured about them, but Taliesin could feel that they were nearing the end of this fantastical journey; he thought that the salamanders were not moving so vigorously now, and he thought he could feel the echoes and the emotions of the world they were going into; he could tell that ahead of them was a coldness and such a lack of sharing and friendship that it would be like going down into a deep, dank well.

We are going into a cold and bleak world, and yet for all that, it is the world of our descendants, he thought. And wondered whether, deep down, for all the tremendous anticipation, he was more fearful than he had let anyone see. And then he thought, The Chariot! What will happen to the Chariot!

“The Chariot will come and go as I wish it,” said Fael-Inis calmly, apparently picking this up easily. “It will not disappear, but it will acquire protective coloration. I shall summon it if we need it, Mortal. You can be sure of that.”

It gave Taliesin an unexpected sense of security to know that the Chariot would be at hand, that it would materialise at Fael-Inis’s summoning.

“And it will never appear quite the same to any two people,” said Fael-Inis. The grin slid out again. “It would be interesting to know how the people of this world see it,” he said.

“Will they see it?”

“Probably not. I think we do not want to draw more attention to ourselves than necessary.” He was holding the reins more loosely now, and Taliesin had the impression that the fiery walls and the pouring flames were not rushing past them quite so quickly. It was very nearly possible to pick out chinks in the flames, to catch glimpses of worlds beyond the fires … What must it be like to be able to go forward and through Time at will …?

“Extraordinarily tedious in the end,” said Fael-Inis, and sent Taliesin the winged smile again.

“Have you been into this world before?” said Taliesin, and Fael-Inis turned the remote stare on him.

“I am in all the centuries and all the ages,” he said. “Sometimes I have a different name, but I am always to be found.”

“I see,” said Taliesin, who did not see at all, and Fael-Inis laughed, and as he did so the cascading fire seemed to ripple down over him.

“I know a little of this world,” he said. “And I know a little of its people.”

“Yes?” Taliesin withdrew his gaze from the chinks in the fire and the tantalising glimpses of the worlds that existed beyond them. It was extremely important to know as much as possible about the world they were going into.

“They are a cold people, but also they are frightened,” said Fael-Inis. “But it has taken them many generations to reach this state.” He paused, and a frown touched his brow. “They reached a crossroads many times,” he said, “times in their history when they could have altered course, when they might have taken different roads. There could so easily have been a happier fate for them. But they are not entirely to blame, for no world is ever entirely to blame for what befalls it. They had greedy leaders and they had governments who were short-sighted to the needs of the people, and who were, as well, corrupt within themselves.”

“Kings and Queens?” asked Taliesin, and Fael-Inis said, “Not for a very long time. While they had them, they might have been saved, for they had a respect for their Royal lines.

“But there were, as there have always been, usurpers; bands of people who thought that Kings had no place in the world any longer. And so all the Royal Houses of the world disappeared. Not all at once, but gradually. They were assassinated, or they were deposed, or they simply died out. And then people lost respect, they lost the ability to submit to the rule of others who were wiser and better fitted to rule. The people cannot really rule the people,” said Fael-Inis. “Not completely. There must always be leaders and there must always be those who are led. The world — this world — lost sight of that.”

Taliesin was framing a question, when the huge glittering wheels of the Chariot jolted, and the salamanders threw back their heads and the fire rippled and the flames melted and parted, cleanly and easily. Straight ahead of them they saw roads and highways covered with some hard, solid, almost shiny substance, and towering buildings, and everywhere cold brilliant lights against a night sky.

The flames dissolved, and the Chariot melted, and together they fell into the noise and the lights and the cold hardness of the Far Future.

*

It was like nothing Taliesin had ever seen or imagined or dreamed. It was bleak and ugly and hard. Hard. That was the word that was foremost in his mind as he stood with Fael-Inis. Hard. Everywhere was coated with the grey or black substance of the roads; the buildings were huge, they were square or oblong, and they had harsh corners and uncompromising windows and doors. There was no softness, there was none of the mellowed feeling that Taliesin was accustomed to. He thought that there was certainly a sense of age and of an accumulation of civilisations, but it was the age and it was the accumulation of all of the unspiritual things. Greed and the acquisition of power. The intemperance of a civilisation that for centuries has been allowed to have all it wants.

Fael-Inis said softly, “You feel it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you would,” he said.

Taliesin, still staring about him, said, “But where are the people?” And then, in horror, “Have we after all come to the time after the Apocalypse? Are they all lying dead somewhere?”

“Oh, no,” said Fael-Inis. “Oh, no, for once the Apocalypse has walked the earth, these buildings and these cities will all be reduced to smouldering rubble.”

“How terrible,” said Taliesin dryly, and Fael-Inis smiled.

“I am glad that you retain your sense of irony,” he said. “I have lately feared you were losing it.”

“I may lose everything I possess and be bereft in a friendless world, but I should still retain a sense of irony,” said Taliesin at once, and Fael-Inis grinned.

“The people are all here,” he said. “Look.” And drawing Taliesin to the side of the road, he pointed to where lights burned in windows, and to where, stretching out below them, there were hundreds of solitary lights, strung out like glowworms. “Each light signifies that a person is there,” said Fael-Inis. “But they are locked away until morning.” The golden eyes were thoughtful. “They are a very frightened people,” he said softly.

“Of — Plague?” said Taliesin, remembering that the first Herald was already here, that Plague in the guise of the Conablaiche was stalking this strange, cold, unwelcoming world.

“Perhaps. Come, shall we walk along here?”

Taliesin found himself glancing back to see if there was any sign of the Chariot, but although he thought there was a sudden thickening of the shadows a little to the left, he could not be sure.

“It has become one with the shadows,” said Fael-Inis. “But it will be there for us when we wish it.”

“To escape with?”

“I hope we shall not need it for that,” said Fael-Inis, and led the way along the narrow road hedged with tall buildings on each side. Taliesin thought they were rather grim, rather forbidding structures, and then he thought they were not forbidding but sad. A solitary light glowed from each one, an oblong of bright yellow light.

“Occupancy?” said Taliesin, stopping before one.

“Yes.”

“They do not venture out into the streets? Because of the Plague? Or for some other reason?”

“They are afraid of the Plague,” said Fael-Inis thoughtfully. “I think we can be sure about that. And they are a dying world.” He looked at Taliesin. “You are not seeing the wild, noisy, sexual world that has lived in the Time Travellers’ memories,” he said. “You are looking on the last days of a world, Taliesin.”

“The Apocalypse?”

Fael-Inis sent him one of his enigmatic stares, but he only said, “The Apocalypse will merely administer the final blow. The world is burnt out already.”

And the people of this dying, burnt-out world remain inside their houses, thought Taliesin. They shut themselves away, they are locked away until morning.

They came out into a kind of square, with tall houses on every side of them. Taliesin thought there might once have been a square of grass at the centre, with trees and flowers, but the grass had long since died. And then he turned at a touch from Fael-Inis, and saw, directly ahead of them, a garishly lit sign that glittered just above the houses, and that blazoned a message in strange, unfathomable symbols.

At his side, Fael-Inis said, very softly, “So they do call it Plague, after all,” and stood looking at the cold bluish symbols with his eyes unreadable.

Taliesin said, “Is it —” And Fael-Inis at once turned, and said, “Forgive me, Mortal. I am blessed with the gift of tongues.” And he directed his golden stare on Taliesin, so that Taliesin felt a shower of cascading lights, needle-fine and silvery, pouring through his mind. The unfamiliar outlines of the strange austere houses blurred for a moment, and then came back into focus, and he thought it was not his imagination that they seemed sharper now, more definitely limned against the night sky. And then he turned to look at the cold blue lights of the lettering and drew his breath in sharply.

“The Gift of Tongues,” said Fael-Inis lightly, his eyes on Taliesin. “All right, Mortal?”

“Yes,” said Taliesin softly. “Oh, yes.”

“I do not bestow it lightly, you understand,” said Fael-Inis, rather mockingly. “But since we are to reside in this remarkable cold world, perhaps you should be given just a little help.”

“Thank you,” said Taliesin, matching the other’s tone, and Fael-Inis grinned, and Taliesin turned back to the shrieking message that towered in letters ten feet high and that shimmered with cold light.

PLAGUE! AS THE SPREAD OF THE DISEASE CONTINUES, THE DRAKON HAS ISSUED THE FOLLOWING DECREES:

1) NO PERSON OR PERSONS TO ENTER INTO SEXUAL CONGRESS WITH ANOTHER WITHOUT THE PROPER SUPERVISION.

2) SEXUAL CONGRESS WITHOUT PROPER SUPERVISION IS PUNISHABLE BY DEATH.

3) THE BIRTH OF CHILDREN IS RESTRICTED TO ONE CHILD PER FEMALE AND IS ONLY PERMISSIBLE ON PRODUCTION OF A BILL OF FULL AND CLEAN HEALTH. BIRTHS OUTSIDE THE LAW WILL BE TERMINATED.

4) ALL FEMALES WILL BE STERILISED AFTER THE BIRTH OF A CHILD.

5) SEXUAL CONGRESS BETWEEN PEOPLE OF THE SAME SEX IS PUNISHABLE BY CASTRATION.

6) THE PRACTICE OF PROCURATION OF SEXUAL PARTNERS IS PUNISHABLE BY DEATH.

7) THE CURFEW IS NOW IN FORCE FROM THE NINETEENTH HOUR OF EVERY DAY. PERSONS FOUND ABROAD AFTER THAT HOUR WILL BE INCARCERATED IN THE CUIRIM.

And then, in larger, even more brightly lit letters:

ISOLATION IS HEALTH.

CELIBACY IS FREEDOM.

THE WAY TO SALVATION IS TO LIVE ALONE.

And again:

ALL PERSONS ARE TO SPEND THEIR DAYS WORKING FOR THE COMMON GOOD.

ALL PERSONS ARE TO SPEND THEIR NIGHTS ALONE.

By Order of the Drakon.

And beneath that, in smaller, but no less brightly lit words:

THE DRAKON’S LAW IS ABSOLUTE.

THE DRAKON SEES ALL.

And a signature they could not read.

*

Taliesin’s first reaction was one of utter disbelief. He thought, But surely this Drakon, whoever or whatever it is, cannot force people to stay inside their homes like this! And then he looked again at the deserted streets, and at the shuttered buildings with the solitary lights, and he saw this brave new world not as the glittering place of the legends, but as sad and forlorn and frightened.

“They are very frightened,” said Fael-Inis.

“Of the Drakon, or of something else?” said Taliesin.

“That is perceptive,” said Fael-Inis thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe there is something other than the Plague that stalks this world.” He stood very still, and Taliesin thought that a frown touched his brow. And then his mood changed again, and he swung round and regarded Taliesin with all the mischief and all the rebelliousness that had shone from him in Calatin’s house. “Shall we wake them?” said the rebel angel softly. “Shall we send out the Ancient Beckoning that once spun and shivered at heaven’s gateway? That was exiled by the gods because it was so beautiful and so irresistible that Men wept and offered their souls to the Light-Bringer if only they could be allowed to listen to it?” His eyes glinted in the dark square, and Taliesin thought, He still calls him the Light-Bringer …

“Shall I play the Ancient Spell of Allure and bring the people of this cold dying world out into the streets, Mortal?” said Fael-Inis, and now there was no doubt about it; the reckless wild look was shining from his eyes.

Taliesin said cautiously, “We had thought — Fergus and I — that we would try to enlist the aid of some of them —” and Fael-Inis laughed.

“You are becoming too careful, my friend. Listen, and I will call up the Allure, and if one — if only one creature from this bleak and terrible city hears it and responds, then it will suffice. Yes?”

Taliesin said slowly, “Why only one?” And then, catching a little of the other’s mood, “Why not all of them?” he said.

Fael-Inis laughed. “Let us see who we can bewitch,” he said. And without waiting for Taliesin’s response, he seated himself cross-legged on a low stone wall, and let his eyes roam over the buildings and the lights. Taliesin remained silent, and at last Fael-Inis’s eyes came to rest on a threestoreyed house, with porticoes and white stonework, at the far side of the square. His eyes grew remote and inward-looking.

“In there,” he said, “in that building, is someone who is so strongly at odds with this world that she will hear the Beckoning easily. She understands just a very little about the old magic and about ancient enchantments. She does not quite believe in them, but she would like to believe.” He sent Taliesin the slanting smile, and lifted the silver pipes to his lips. “She will come running when I call to her,” said the rebel angel, and as he lifted the pipes, an aureole of light began to glow around him.

Music floated across the square.

It was all still there within the music. Everything Taliesin remembered, everything he had heard and felt and dreamed in Calatin’s house. Magic and enchantment; the strong gentle Beckoning that said, Follow me, for I am beauty and light and power. Come with me to the ends of the earth, follow me to heaven or to hell, but never once take your eyes from me. Let the music soak into your soul, and let yourself become one with the light and with the beauty, for there can be no salvation without beauty, and there can be no true happiness without complete submission.

Taliesin was half aware of Fael-Inis’s eyes, golden and slanting, and he was half aware that Fael-Inis was concentrating all his energies and all his powers on the threestoreyed white house. He thought that something stirred inside the house; a response, an answer, a creature drawn by the music and puzzled and dazzled and bewildered, but ready to obey the music’s spell.

But he was caught by the music’s enchantment all over again, and his mind was awash with the joy of it. For a second he saw splinters of light pierce the dark square, as if Fael-Inis was sprinkling the music all around them, and as if it was taking on the substance of thin, sweet light. He thought that surely the people of this strange, sad world could not possibly resist.

And then a door at the centre of the white building opened, and a girl came running towards them.

*

Taliesin’s first reaction was one of the most complete astonishment. “For,” he was to say, “I had seen many types of women and many different races. And while I had known that our descendants would be different from us, I had not thought they would be different in quite this way.”

She was rather small and slender, and although there was a fragility about her, Taliesin had the impression that it was deceptive. He thought she had an inner strength, and he thought she would be very determined indeed in a fight. She would fight like a cat, thought Taliesin, and then, because the simile seemed suddenly to fit, he went on thinking of her as cat-like.

Her hair was copper-coloured and glossy and, rather astonishingly in a female, it was cut short, so that it fell in a silky mass of curls level with her jaw. Taliesin found this unusual and rather attractive. But to one accustomed to the honey-mixed-with-cream skinned ladies of his own world, it was her complexion that was the strangest part of all. She was light clear golden brown, a warm honey-without-the-cream colour. Pale autumn leaves, thought Taliesin, fascinated. The colour of soft doe-skin. Almost as if the copper colour of her hair had run into her skin.

Her eyes were wide apart and grey, and thickly fringed with black lashes, and her nose was short and straight. The upper lip of her mouth curved slightly, and Taliesin thought it was this which gave her a faintly feline look.

He thought she was dressed very oddly indeed — “ways of dress change drastically over the ages,” said Fael-Inis, amused — but he thought she was interesting and unusual. He found it unexpectedly difficult to reconcile the pretty girl with the cold, greedy, unsharing world they were in, and then he remembered how Fael-Inis had said that to find a response to the music, they must find someone strongly at odds with this cold world. And the girl had certainly responded … He looked at her and waited, and thought that of all the extraordinary things that had happened so far, this was possibly the most extraordinary of them all.

“Oh!” said the girl rather breathlessly, coming to an abrupt stop and staring at them. “Oh! Was it you who made the music — but I never expected anyone to be out here after Curfew — and it is so late, and I daresay the Drakon will be prowling —” She stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

“If you are from the Drakon,” said the girl rather defiantly, “you may as well take me to the Cuirim at once. Only I do not see how anyone could be expected to resist the music, for it was so beautiful.” Again she stopped suddenly, and Taliesin found himself intrigued by the light, clipped tones, and by the way her words seemed to tumble along of their own accord. When she said, “so beautiful,” her voice was serious and intense, but when she said, “I do not see how anyone could resist,” there had been a careless, do-with-me-what-you-will manner.

Fael-Inis said, “You are quite mistaken. We are not from the Drakon or even remotely connected with it,” and Taliesin heard that Fael-Inis had with ease adapted his manner to their surroundings.

As you must do, if we are to escape here unchallenged.

“We are merely travellers,” said Taliesin, and at once the copper-haired girl said, “Oh, tourists! Yes, we get a lot of those, and if they are caught out after Curfew they always say it is later in their own city, which is entirely ridiculous because Curfew is the same everywhere. It does not do them any good, of course, because once you are caught, the Drakon is quite merciless.” She looked at them rather defiantly, and Taliesin thought that after all she was not really beautiful, she was actually very nearly plain. It was only that there was something that made you like looking at her, and want to go on looking.

Fael-Inis said, “You are abroad late yourself,” and at once a hunted look came into her eyes.

“It was only that the music … So difficult to resist just seeing where it came from … It was a good reason for being out after Curfew, but of course I would say that, wouldn’t I? Are you quite sure you are nothing to do with the Drakon?”

“Quite sure.”

“No, of course you are not,” said the girl. “Now that I look at you properly, I can see you are not. You can nearly always tell a Drakon spy anyway. It’s the eyes. Cold and hard. Of course, they have to enforce the law if we are to survive, everyone understands that. But they are very harsh. Did you ever read about the old wars at all? The Second War of the World? Doesn’t that sound dramatic? I always loved hearing about it. They call it Middle History now, although it’s nearer than that, isn’t it? Quite recent if you think about it. But when you see Drakon people, you can’t help remembering the stories about the German Secret Service, can you?

“Gestapo, that’s what they called them. Terrible. I always thought that what happened to Germany later — I mean much later, at the start of the next millennium — was a sort of judgement. I’m talking too much. If you are from the Drakon I expect you’ll carry me off at once.”

Fael-Inis said, “We have already told you that you may trust us,” and Taliesin said, “And since it is so late, perhaps we should walk along with you.” He thought, but did not say, that any young lady abroad so late must surely be dreadfully vulnerable to all manner of unknown dangers. And then, because it was what would have been offered in his own world, he said, “We can see you safely to your home.”

The copper-haired girl turned such a sharp look of surprise on him that Taliesin blinked.

“But you know that such a thing is forbidden!” she said. “‘Days to be spent working for the common good, nights to be spent alone.’ It’s incredibly dreary, but ever since they found the Doomsday Clock, they knew they had to try something if the world was to be saved —” She came to one of her sudden stops again and looked at them searchingly. “What are you?” she said. “Where are you from?”

“A world outside of this,” said Fael-Inis gently, and unexpectedly the girl laughed.

“Oh, no, I cannot believe … All of the ancient legends? All of the old tales? H. G. Wells and John Wyndham and those really peculiar theories in the twentieth century? Of course, they did not know any better, and they did have the beginnings of knowledge … And the books are fascinating to read. What used to be called ‘classics,’ whatever that may mean. But another world … Are you sure this is not a joke? Or a trap? But you are not from the Drakon, I do know that. And then there was the music … Goodness, this is remarkably difficult, but remarkably interesting. I think it is the most interesting thing that has ever happened to me. But if we stay here much longer we shall certainly be caught, because the Drakon’s people patrol the streets every half hour … Although we should hear them coming, shouldn’t we?” She paused and glanced about her. “But even without the Drakon’s patrols,” said the girl with a different kind of fear, “even without that, there is the Claw.” She looked at them, her eyes wide. “I think I am more afraid of the Claw than of the Drakon,” she said. And then, in a completely different tone, “You do know that the Claw is supposed to be here?” said the girl.

The square where they were sitting seemed suddenly to have grown darker, and Taliesin thought that a listening quality had crept into the shadowy corners. He glanced over his shoulder, because just for a moment he had thought that something was moving in the deep shadows. Was it? Were those eyes he could see watching them, or only pinpoints of light, some kind of overspill from this world’s strange power?

The Claw.

“Of course,” said the girl, “I know we all overreact a bit when it comes to the Claw, but the last bulletin did say that the Claw was thought to be in this city, and the Drakon bulletins are hardly ever wrong.”

Taliesin thought, She is telling us the truth. She is telling us about something — an animal? — that is loose in this world. The Claw … Aloud, he said, “You know, it seems very unsafe for us to be sitting out here like this.” In the dark, exposed to the prying eyes of whatever lurks in the shadows …

“Yes, but it is different,” said the girl. “And it is forbidden as well.” She grinned, and it was a gamine grin, and Taliesin saw that after all the beauty was there, only that it was a vagrant beauty, so that you saw it long after it had gone, like seeing the sun imprinted on your vision if you stared at it for too long. “Forbidden things nearly always turn out to be the most exciting,” said the girl. “And the evenings are so unbearably long. Mustn’t it have been grand to be able to go where you liked, as they did in the old days? And doesn’t everywhere look different at night? It smells different as well.”

Fael-Inis, who was watching her rather thoughtfully, said, “Will you tell us your name?” and the girl spread her hands, as if to say, Oh, why not?

“I’m Annabel O’Connor,” she said. “And I live in that white house over there, and when I came running out to find the music, I knew perfectly well that I was probably running into a questionable situation. You might be procurers,” she said suddenly. “I haven’t the least idea of what you are, really.”

Taliesin looked up at the garishly lit sign. “Procuration — forbidden on pain of death.”

“Yes, but of course it goes on,” said Annabel. “And most of us have been sought by the procurers at one time or another. It isn’t any particular compliment. I once thought of letting myself be taken by them,” she added. “Just to find out what happened at the other end. Only then I didn’t. But we have a saying, that if you do not succumb to the Disease, then you will be procured; and if you are not procured, you will be taken up by the Drakon for infringement of the laws. And if that does not happen, then the Claw will probably get you.

“And really,” said Annabel, “when you consider that the Doomsday Clock has been proven right beyond all question, and that the world is certainly going to end before our eyes, what does any of it matter?”

*

When you have grown up knowing that the world will almost surely end before you die, you become philosophical about it for most of the time. Annabel thought that for quite long stretches she was as philosophical as anyone she knew. It was only now and then (like when she had come running helter-skelter from the house into the night streets — absolutely forbidden!) that she forgot to be philosophical and rebelled.

It was actually very dangerous to rebel against anything. Nobody wanted to incur the Drakon’s displeasure and risk being castrated or put to death, or even being thrown inside the Cuirim to be forgotten about. Everybody knew someone who had been thrown inside the Cuirim, but nobody Annabel had ever met knew of anyone who ever came out again.

Knowing about the world ending gave you a remarkable perspective on things. It made you want to throw all caution (and probably sanity) to the winds, and try all the things you had secretly always longed to try. But since the Drakon nearly always caught you out, it was probably better not to try any of them, and, in any case, there was nobody to try them with, because everybody was terrified of the Drakon. Annabel was not especially terrified of the Drakon, but if the world was truly going to end, she would stand a better chance of surviving out in the streets, rather than inside one of the Drakon’s dungeons. And although it was certainly extremely reckless to be out in the streets like this — well, it was probably very nearly suicidal — the men were rather intriguing and it would be interesting to know more about them, because they were not like anyone Annabel had ever met.

“Tell me who you really are,” she said, as they crossed the square to her house. Should she invite them in? This would be reckless in the extreme, but surely no one would know? And although it was (wasn’t it) too far-fetched for words to truly believe they were from another world, certainly they were different from anyone in Annabel’s world, and this was something that ought to be explored.

The dark-haired one said, “We are travellers,” and looked at her rather intently, but the other, the one who had made the music, said softly, “We have told you that we are from other worlds, Mortal,” and somehow, when he said this, and looked at her with his slanting, fiery eyes, it was suddenly very nearly believable that they were truly from other worlds. It was suddenly perfectly possible that there were other worlds.

But Annabel hesitated in the tiny square of garden which would once have been green and flowery and now was dried up and barren. She was as sure as she could be that the two were not from the Drakon, and she was sure, as well, that even if they did not come from other worlds, they were not entirely of this world. And the thought of other worlds, other cultures, was so fascinating that it would be worth risking being out after Curfew, and it would probably almost be worth inviting them into her apartment and chance a Drakon patrol knocking on the door to see if there were unauthorised guests. It had never happened to Annabel, but everyone knew that it did happen.

And so Annabel opened the door that led directly into the tiny hall, and said to the two men, “Will you come in?” And hoped against hope that she would not end up regretting it.

Once inside, it felt remarkably normal and safe. Fael-Inis and Taliesin did not feel in the least like strangers. Annabel had asked their names carefully, and repeated them, because they were rather unusual names, and they had shaken hands, which was what people had once done before the Drakon had frowned on needless touching of people, because of the Disease, but which seemed to be the right thing to do.

They were both interested in the apartment, and they were quite complimentary about it. It was very ordinary, of course, and there was only one large room, which was all you could have these days. But the tiny kitchen was screened by a bead curtain, and Annabel had tried to furnish everywhere with pretty things, even the things which had to be functional, because if you had to obey a Curfew and lock yourself inside your home from the nineteenth hour every night, you might as well be comfortable. Fael-Inis seated himself in one of the chairs and looked perfectly at home, but Taliesin prowled about, studying the pictures that Annabel had found somewhere or other of old restaurants and theatres, and had framed and hung on the walls. She liked looking at them, and thinking about how people had once been able to go out to such places, six and eight and ten, all together, to watch plays being performed, and take meals, and drink wine. You could not get wine any longer, because it had been found to be a breeding ground for the Disease, and also because the Drakon did not really like people to drink wine. It freed too many inhibitions, said the Drakon sternly, and they all knew what the freeing of inhibitions led to.

It would have been nice to have offered wine now, as people had done in the old days. Annabel knew how you did it; you said, “A glass of wine?” and you lifted the bottle invitingly in one hand, while you twirled a corkscrew in the other. Annabel had never possessed a corkscrew because there was nothing to uncork any more, and even if she had, she would not have known how to use it, never mind twirl it.

She looked at them rather uncertainly, and then said, “Would you like coffee?” and then had to explain, because neither of them seemed to have heard of coffee before.

“But it is very good,” said Fael-Inis, sipping the hot fragrant brew that Annabel had served in thick pottery mugs which had swirly tabby-cat patterns on the side, and which kept the coffee nice and hot. She was pleased that there had been fresh milk, which you could not always get now, because of people being worried about cows getting the taint of the Disease, and also because of transport becoming difficult.

Taliesin said, “Is this what you drink here?” and Annabel said, “Yes, when we can,” and Taliesin said, “My poor dear child,” and then laughed and drank the coffee and said it was delicious.

“And although it has not the perfumes of Tarshish and Tyre, nor the splendours of the Eastern World, it is a heartening beverage. Do you live here alone?”

“Well, yes,” said Annabel, surprised.

“Of course,” said Fael-Inis, and looked at Taliesin as if secretly amused. Taliesin smiled unexpectedly, and Annabel saw with surprise that he had a sudden sweet smile. She had thought him a rather stern sort of person, but quite suddenly he did not seem in the least stern. She began to hope he would smile again.

“The Drakon is very strict, you see,” said Annabel, because neither of her guests appeared to know about the Drakon, which might have to be explained to them.

Fael-Inis said, “You fear the Drakon because it is harsh and powerful, but you particularly fear it because it is faceless,” and Annabel looked at him with astonishment, because no one had ever heard her thoughts in quite that way. She looked at him and thought how very curious this was. Like that old book — what was it called? — where things had got curiouser and curiouser. The little girl who fell down a rabbit hole into another world. Only it was these two who had fallen into her world. I don’t believe that any of this is happening, thought Annabel. Aloud, she said, “So you do know about the Drakon?” And tried to think where in the world the Drakon would not hold sway, and then remembered about them not coming from this world, and wondered after all which of them had fallen down a rabbit hole.

“We know only a very little,” said Fael-Inis, and Taliesin, who was watching Annabel, said, “Will you tell us?”

“It is quite difficult to explain,” said Annabel slowly, because clearly it was going to be very difficult indeed. How did you explain about the Drakon? You could quote the edicts. The Drakon sees all. You could say that, but even that would not convey the absolute and total control that the Drakon had over everyone.

At last Annabel said, “It’s a small governing body,” and found that she was choosing her words with care, because they seemed not to have quite the same words and the same meanings as she was accustomed to. “They rule absolutely, and they are very powerful.” She paused. “It is whispered that they are corrupt,” she said, “because power is corruptive, you know.”

Fael-Inis said gently, “Unlimited power is apt to corrupt the minds of those who possess it,” and Annabel stared, because this was rather an intriguing idea. Fael-Inis said, “A very great statesman said that, a very long time ago.”

“How do you —?” said Annabel. “The Institute of Knowledge does not permit access …”

Fael-Inis smiled the winged smile. “Because I heard it said when it was said,” he replied.

“That isn’t any kind of answer,” said Annabel. And then, half to herself, “Or is it?”

“Does your — Institute of Knowledge not allow people to know of the happenings of the past?” said Taliesin.

“No. It is believed that too much knowledge would cause people to panic.”

“But you have knowledge,” said Fael-Inis. “You have somehow read a little of the past history of your people.”

“Yes, I was employed at the Institute,” said Annabel, and saw them look at her, and realised that employed was another word that had no meaning to them.

“We — all of us — must devote a — a large section of every day to working for one or another of the Drakon’s aims,” she said, speaking rather slowly because it was quite difficult to explain about something so ordinary and so usual as working for the Drakon in one guise or another.

“It is one of your laws?” asked Taliesin, and Annabel said, “Yes. Yes, that explains it quite well. And I was lucky to be sent to the Institute of Knowledge because it is considered to be one of the most interesting of all the Institutes.”

“They send you?” said Taliesin, leaning forward. “You do not have any choice?”

“No, of course not,” said Annabel, staring at him in surprise.

“Forgive me. Go on. What had you to do at the Institute?”

“I wasn’t important,” said Annabel earnestly. “I helped to write letters and keep reports. The Drakon officers who controlled that Institute received information from other Drakon officers, and it had to be decided how much of the information could be made known to the people.” She put down her coffee mug. “But it was interesting,” she said thoughtfully, “because so much history was stored there … so much of the past.” She looked up at them, hoping she was making this clear.

“You studied the past?” said Taliesin.

“Well,” said Annabel, “it was forbidden, really.” She leaned forward, her eyes bright. “But it was so fascinating. All the reports and the records going back and back to the times when people could behave as they wanted to behave, and when they had machines to do the work for them and when there were governments one to each country. And you could buy all the things you wanted, there was money for everyone, and you could work at pretty much whatever you wanted to work at.” She looked at them, remembering how she had stolen down to the cellars that lay beneath the Institute of Knowledge; how she had managed to operate the old machines of the previous century, how she had seen fragments and snippets of history unfold as she sat watching, enthralled.

“I had to be so careful,” said Annabel, not seeing the other two now, staring ahead of her. “For one thing, power is so very sparse. There is barely enough for any of us. There was barely enough to work the machines.”

“But — you did it?” Taliesin was leaning forward, his eyes intent. “Was it a very dangerous thing for you to do?”

“Yes,” said Annabel, turning to look at him. “Yes, for if they had caught me, I should have been taken to the Cuirim at once.” The grin touched her face. “I think the danger was part of it,” she said. “At any minute, I could have been caught.”

“But you were not?”

“No. I saw so many things that the Drakon has tried to keep from us.”

“How? I mean, how did you see it?” Taliesin’s mind went over diaries, chronicles, perhaps paintings which might illustrate events. But Annabel said, “Well, everything is stored, of course. And you call up whichever bit you want.”

“How?”

“You press buttons,” said Annabel, and looked at Taliesin, and then laughed. “But the power is so thin that everything on the screens was fuzzy and jerky —” She stopped. “I think you have not the least idea of what I mean,” she said, and laughed again, and Taliesin smiled, because her laughter was warm and abrupt, rather like a sudden shower of warm rain. “This is more ridiculous than ever,” said Annabel, pouring more coffee from the jug. “I cannot grasp the idea of a world that has not … Are you sure you are not a new kind of trap from the Drakon?”

Fael-Inis said, very gently, “Remain very still, Mortal,” and as Annabel looked up, his eyes grew fiery and inwardlooking, and Annabel’s own eyes widened, and she said, in a gasp, “Oh! A million needles of light. And gold and silver. And — oh yes! Oh, how completely lovely!”

Taliesin started to say “What —” but Annabel was staring entranced at Fael-Inis, her hands clasped, her eyes shining.

“The most beautiful place I have ever seen,” she said. “And the people — there was something different about them — as if they possessed other powers, or as if — I do not believe this — but as if they were not entirely human.” She turned to Taliesin. “Is that your world?”

Fael-Inis’s eyes lost the other-world radiance. “That is Tara, Mortal,” he said. “The Bright Palace. That is the world we are trying to save, and that is the world to which we must eventually return.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” said Annabel.

“You do not need to.”

“Is there —” Annabel stopped. “Is there a way I could —”

“Enter our world?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps,” said Fael-Inis, but Taliesin saw that the remote look had returned, and he remembered that Calatin’s spell would protect only him, and that there were only seven days …

He pushed the thought away and said, “Tell us of this world instead. The Drakon — the Disease —”

Annabel turned back to him, and paused, because it would be very nearly impossible to describe to someone from that misty turquoise world, whose people would surely not understand about wars and international quarrels and power-hungry men, exactly what had gone wrong in Annabel’s own world. But because they were both waiting, she took a deep breath and did her best.

“Nobody quite knows when it began,” she said. “Not really. And at this distance, it is difficult to know the sequence of events.” She looked at them, her expression serious.

Fael-Inis said gently, “And perhaps because you had that access to the chronicles of your people, you have a better understanding,” and Annabel turned to him eagerly.

“Yes! Yes, because you see, it all seems to have been mixed up together. The wars and the dreadful weapons that people were creating, and the freedom men and women had together.” She looked at them both, hoping they would understand. “I think,” said Annabel, slowly, “that it truly began in the twentieth century,” and paused, because for some reason it had always been very real and very near to her, that strange, hectic, brilliant time. “It is not so far back that we do not have the echoes still,” she explained. “Although for all that, it is history, of course. People still say, ‘Ah, the twentieth century,’ you know, and they always look dreadfully wistful. I think it must have been the most marvellous time to have lived,” said Annabel.

“That is how long ago?” said Taliesin, trying to establish some kind of time-scale.

But Annabel only said rather vaguely, “Well, about two hundred years,” and Taliesin said, “Oh. Oh, I see.” And waited for her to go on, because she had a remarkable way of bringing the strange lost centuries of this world alive.

“We think it was towards the very end of that century that the Disease truly began,” said Annabel. “Or perhaps at the beginning of the next.” She glanced rather uncertainly at the two men. “You see, there had been freedom, that is, sexual freedom for everyone,” she said. “And from that, the Disease was somehow born. A terrible thing. People died in thousands, and it was so contagious that at its height they say people were afraid even to touch one another. We are still a little afraid now,” said Annabel, and remembered how these two had taken her hand, and how she had felt as if it was something she ought not to do.

“Go on.”

“Babies were born with the Disease,” said Annabel. “Poor, pitiful little creatures, already dying. It was hereditary, and it was so fierce. They say that people found to be tainted with it were isolated from those free of it. They were shut away in hospitals, all together, with food and drink passed to them through iron grilles.”

Taliesin said softly, “How unbearably sad,” and Annabel looked at him gratefully, because she had always known this part of the Disease to be sad. To be shut away, confined, never let to see your family or friends, imprisoned with people who were dying as surely and as irrevocably as you were yourself. For there had been no cure …

“I think it was the only way,” she said. And then, using a word unfamiliar to the other two, “Medication was given, of course. And there would have been comfort of a kind … They called it a Plague,” said Annabel, and looked up as Taliesin made an abrupt movement with one hand, and then was still. “But they were shut away together until they died.”

Fael-Inis said, half to himself, “O, the pity of it, yet the pity of it.”

“And so then,” said Annabel, “the Drakon came into being. It was a harsh and an unyielding force, but it was needed. Something was needed. By its severity, it managed to impose some kind of order.”

“‘And out of chaos there came order,’” said Fael-Inis, and Annabel at once said, “Yes! Yes, you understand.” And smiled at them both, because in some incomprehensible way, they both seemed to understand.

Fael-Inis said, “You must forgive our curiosity, Mortal. We mean no discourtesy. But perhaps we can help your world —”

“Can you?”

“I don’t know,” said Fael-Inis. “But we need to know as much as we can about your people. Tell us of the Drakon.”

“The Drakon became a kind of figurehead for the people,” said Annabel. “There were meetings and public assemblies, and everyone went. In times of trouble, people look to strength.”

There had been meetings and rallying marches. People flocked to hear the words of the Drakon. It was said that when the Drakon spoke from a public place, or at a rally, the streets were deserted, for everyone drew so much hope and such strength from the speeches. The words and the edicts and the rallying calls became famous. They echoed down succeeding generations.

“We shall fight this together, and we shall beat back the Plague and the sickness that has come upon us … Mankind is not so puny that it need submit to any kind of threat,” they had said. “The fight will be harsh, and many will perish, but the sacred flame that makes us better than animals can not be allowed to die.”

The sacred flame of mankind … “People liked that,” said Annabel. “It — touched something in everyone.” She smiled. “And then, of course, there was the most famous of them all. I do not know where it came from, only that it was not the Drakon’s own creation. I think someone once wrote the words, and someone remembered them.” She paused, and Taliesin said, “Yes?”

Annabel said softly, “‘This is the way the world ends … Not with a bang but a whimper.” She looked at them, her eyes dark with emotion. “Because the world was dying,” she said. “Inch by inch, painfully and slowly and unwillingly. But it was dying.”

“With a whimper, not with a bang …”

“Yes.” Annabel sat looking down at her folded hands. “Everyone knew it was happening.”

“What happened?”

“The governments did all they could. The Drakon did more,” said Annabel, and looked at them. “I do not like the

Drakon,” she said. “I think no one likes it. But in those days, with the Disease at its height, it saved the world. It said the world should not die, not like this, with a whimper. If it had to die one day, then let it be with a final extravagant gesture; a last burst of energy and power that would echo throughout the ages.”

“The Drakon did not stamp the Disease out altogether,” said Annabel quietly. “But somehow it halted it. By care and strict supervision, and by the dreadful harsh laws.”

“People submitted to the laws?” said Taliesin, and Fael-Inis at once said, “Oh, yes. Oh, yes, I think they would have submitted.” And then, to Annabel, “For when you are faced with the world dying, you are prepared to do anything.”

“They did it gladly,” whispered Annabel. “People embraced the new laws; they curbed their sexual appetites. The Disease was somehow halted.”

Taliesin said, “But the Drakon had gained control by then,” and Annabel said at once, “Yes! Yes, that was exactly how it happened!”

“A totalitarian state,” said Fael-Inis, using a word unfamiliar to Taliesin.

Annabel smiled. “That is a word our ancestors used,” she said. “It is something they believed they had stamped out.”

“Government of the people by the people for the people?”

“Yes, but it did not work,” said Annabel. “Because there were always those who must have greater power.”

“And where power corrupts, great power corrupts to a greater degree …

“A very perceptive writer,” said Fael-Inis.

Taliesin, who had been drinking a second mugful of coffee and finding it rather better the second time around, said, “I do not think I am following all of this.”

“No, for the concept of such a world is alien to you,” said Fael-Inis, and Taliesin said, with his old mockery, “Dear me, you are becoming adept at this strange language,” And sent Annabel another of his grins.

Fael-Inis regarded Taliesin thoughtfully, but he only said, “It is a courteous custom to try to use the manners of the people whose world you are visiting.”

“I am rebuked,” said Taliesin at once. “Visit your wrath on me, and I will be humble.”

“Will you?” said Annabel.

“No, of course I will not.”

“I didn’t think so.”

Fael-Inis was still seated entirely at ease on the soft-cushioned shape which Annabel had called a sofa. “Comfortable,” he had said. “You may have a harsh and bleak new world, Mortal, but you still have some softness left in it.”

Annabel had been secretly rather pleased, because the sofa had been a shocking extravagance, and she had had to save her Pledges for six months, and then had had to wait another three before it could be brought to her apartment. But it had been such a truly beautiful colour — flame-orange-red — and it looked so marvellous against the whitewashed walls with the shelves for her books, and she had never really regretted it. And it was so good to hear someone admire it and to see someone enjoy sitting on it. She was just relaxing a little, and thinking that after all this queer adventure was not turning out to be nearly as disruptive as it might have done, when Fael-Inis said without warning, “And now, Annabel, tell us of the Doomsday Clock.”

Annabel had, in fact, forgotten that she had mentioned this earlier on. She thought it just went to show that it was very easy for your tongue to run away with you when you were interested in something. She had been so interested in these two, and in the music Fael-Inis had played, and in the intriguing air of other-worlds that had hung about them, that she had forgotten about guarding everything she said. It just went to show.

“I can’t tell you about it,” she said, and knew of course that she would tell them, because clearly you could tell them anything. “It’s meant to be a secret,” said Annabel, in the sort of voice that had already admitted that it was a ridiculous thing to try to keep secret.

Taliesin said, “But you know of it.”

“Because my work has been in the Institute of Knowledge.”

“Because you stole down to the cellars and read about things you were not supposed to,” said Taliesin, and grinned.

“I’d have been a very good spy,” said Annabel thoughtfully. “I didn’t get caught, you know. They didn’t even suspect. And it was all so very interesting.”

“Tell us,” said Fael-Inis, and as Annabel looked at him, his eyes grew iridescent again. You can tell me anything, Mortal … Annabel stared at him, and thought all over again how extremely odd this all was. It was curiouser and curiouser.

But she found herself drawing closer to them; she refilled the coffee mugs and rearranged herself on the hearth, because for some reason hearths were good places to be when there was a story to be told, and she thought that the art of storytelling must be being lost, slowly and surely, because people did not forgather in houses around hearths any more. And it would be a shame, thought Annabel hazily, to lose the art of story-telling, especially when so much else had already been lost. It was important to preserve mankind’s heritage, to hand on something to the generations that would survive the last days of civilisation. You had to believe that some people would survive, because if you lost your belief in continuity, you lost everything.

Annabel was no longer aware of Fael-Inis’s eyes growing brighter and becoming larger, but when he said again, “Tell me of the Doomsday Clock, Mortal,” Annabel at once began to speak.

And after all, it was quite easy to explain about the great clock that had been set up long ago, sometime in the twentieth century, somewhere deep in the heart of what people had called a neutral country. It had been in the days when mankind was beginning to experiment with the terrible weapons that their scientists and their learned men had forged, and it was in the years when people had become fascinated by the harnessing of the truly great and awesome forces that could be unleashed.

“To begin with,” said Annabel, “they looked on it as a tremendous challenge, as something marvellous. That comes down very clearly indeed. They even joked about it. They called it a race, quite openly. The Arms Race.”

“‘Arms’?” said Taliesin.

“The weapons,” said Annabel. “The monsters that they themselves had created.” And she looked at them, to be sure they understood how truly mighty and extensive the weapons had been.

Taliesin, whose mind had been running on the armoury of his own world, said, “But — could not the weapons be taken and locked somewhere in safety? And guarded?” and Annabel, understanding that the blue and green forests that Fael-Inis had conjured up in her mind could not comprehend the forces created by her ancestors, said, “Oh, no. They were so vast, so far-reaching …” And seeing that he still did not understand, said, “The people of the day used to boast that they could blow up the world twenty times over,” and saw Taliesin’s eyes narrow in shocked comprehension. “And other countries had to match them,” said Annabel, “and not only match them, but go beyond them, and say, ‘Ah, but we can blow it up thirty times over.’”

“How terrible. And how futile.”

“Well,” said Annabel, who had often considered this, “the awful thing is that, if you think about it, it is understandable. It made them feel safe, you see. If your neighbour has a large stick with which he might attack you, or if he has a gun or a rifle or a bomb which he might use against you, you could only feel safe if you had a stick, a gun, a rifle, a bomb as well. And you would want it a bit bigger, just to be sure. If I was threatened,” said Annabel firmly, “I should want to be sure I could fight back. I was never in a war,” she said, “because we don’t have wars any longer,” and Taliesin smiled at the sudden wistful note. “But if I was,” said Annabel, “I’d be sure that my weapons were better than the other side.”

“An admirable philosophy,” said Fael-Inis gravely.

“We’re not supposed to approve of war any longer,” said Annabel. “The Drakon thinks it incites people to all manner of wickedness.” The grin flared briefly. “I wouldn’t mind a war,” said Annabel. “I’d fight if somebody threatened my home or my country.”

“That is what wars should be about,” agreed Fael-Inis.

“That’s what I think. But you see, they became frightened,” said Annabel, going back to her curled-up position on the hearthrug. “They became afraid of the — the monsters they had created. And although some people tried to pretend that the monsters did not exist, they all knew that they were there for always. You can’t uncreate a thing simply by pretending it hasn’t happened. The weapons had happened.

“It was about that time that a small group of people formed themselves into a kind of International League. I don’t know the details,” said Annabel, “and I don’t think anyone else does now. They might have been businessmen or bankers or churchmen. Yes, they might certainly have been churchmen, because people still followed the Church then.”

Taliesin started to ask what churchmen and churches were, but was silenced by a quick glance from Fael-Inis.

“They wanted, you see, to measure how close the world was to a war where these terrible weapons would be used,” explained Annabel. “They thought the war would probably never happen, but they couldn’t be sure that it never would. Perhaps there were statesmen in with them as well. And they all thought they ought to calculate the imminence of this final last war. Some people thought it was a senseless exercise, of course, but —”

“But,” said Taliesin softly, “if you are about to blow up mankind and bring about the end of civilisation, perhaps it is as well to be a little prepared,” He studied her. “Were those weapons, those monsters, truly so powerful?”

“Oh, yes,” said Annabel. “Oh, yes, they were every bit as powerful.

“They agreed, this group of people, that they would try to be continually aware of the squabbles between countries, and of the incidents and the crises, and all the things that might spark off a war. Because wars,” said Annabel severely, looking absurdly young as she said it, “can be started from the tiniest of incidents.”

“Such as necromancers becoming greedy,” murmured Fael-Inis. “Go on, Annabel.”

“They wanted to set up some kind of device, designed to show how severe the danger was. How close. It would have to be simple and direct, but it would have to have impact.

“They came up with the idea of a Clock,” she said, and then stopped, as Taliesin made a sudden questioning movement. “You do know what a clock is?” said Annabel, half laughing, half exasperated.

“A device for measuring time,” said Fael-Inis with exquisite courtesy. “My dear, you should ignore our poor friend, for I fear he has lived a very sheltered life.”

Annabel said, “But I cannot begin to understand —” And stopped and laughed the warm, abrupt laughter again.

Taliesin said, “Time has always been measured in some form or other. I do not see —”

“But,” said Fael-Inis, turning to him, “in this world, Mortal, the people are ruled by it. Yes?” This to Annabel, who nodded. “Here,” said Fael-Inis, “it is necessary to have a very exact idea of time, you see.”

“While I was working for the Institute of Knowledge,” said Annabel, who had been searching her mind for a way to explain, “it was necessary for me to — to be at my desk at the ninth hour exactly.”

“Exactly?”

“A bell would ring,” said Annabel. “And if I was not seated at my desk, ready to work when that bell rang, I was severely disciplined, and perhaps I lost a little of the money due to me that day.”

“How truly terrible.”

“Also,” said Annabel, with relish, “I could not leave until another bell rang at the eighteenth hour.”

“My poor child,” said Taliesin, and Annabel laughed again.

“It does not seem so if you have known nothing else.”

“That is why,” said Fael-Inis, taking up the explanation, “they have what are called clocks, machines which give the exact hour of the day, and the precise minute.”

“And that is why,” said Annabel, “the notion of a Clock was attractive to those people who wanted to know how close the world was to its final holocaust.”

“They were measuring the world’s life by hours and minutes,” said Taliesin, still not fully understanding, but grasping the concept now.

“Yes. I believe that the Clock itself was sited somewhere in the north of Europe,” said Annabel, her eyes faraway now. “Sweden or Switzerland perhaps, although I am not sure. And they met once a year, to move the hands of the Clock forwards or backwards, depending on the events of that year. Depending on the quarrels between nations, and the disagreements between governments. Midnight was what they called the Doom Hour.” She glanced at Taliesin. “You — you do have midnight in your world?”

Taliesin said, “Yes, we have what we call the deep midnight, which the sorcerers believe to be a deeply magical time.”

“Well,” said Annabel, who would have liked to hear more of this, but thought she had better continue, “they called midnight the Doom Hour. If ever it was felt necessary to move the Clock’s hands towards midnight, then it would mean that the holocaust was almost upon them. The terrible war that would end the world would have become inevitable.” She paused again, and Taliesin said, “Yes?”

“They met for many years,” said Annabel. “They did not meet in any particular secrecy, but they didn’t make a great display about it, either. They moved the Clock’s hands accordingly, and although it was frequently close to midnight — sometimes it was within ten minutes of it — somehow it never quite reached midnight.” She looked up. “I think they would have been quite honest about it,” said Annabel. “I do not think they would have deluded themselves. That was not their aim.

“And so the Clock never reached midnight.”

She stopped speaking, and Fael-Inis said, “But now?”

“The Clock disappeared,” said Annabel, “nobody knows quite when, for who does know the precise moment a thing disappears? You only know that you go to look for it, and it is no longer there. The Clock vanished, and no one knew when.”

It had not seemed to matter. Annabel, stealing down to the badly lit vaults beneath the Institute of Knowledge, had read the reports and seen the records. Nobody thought that the world was in danger by that time. People had become used to the idea of those terrible weapons forged nearly a century earlier. They had grown complacent. The holocaust would not happen. There was more tolerance in the world. People were learning to respect one another. Nobody wanted to blow up the world any more. It had been a good time to live.

“It was a good time to live,” said Annabel. “Countries who had been in a perpetual state of half-war were talking to one another. Richer countries were trying to help poorer ones. The disappearance of what some people had called the Peace Clock, and the dispersing of the small group who had controlled it, was a small matter.”

Fael-Inis, his eyes on her, said, “What happened next?”

“It is difficult to know the sequence,” said Annabel, as she had said earlier. “But the time was already beginning to run out for us. There was already concern about the world’s resources — food and power and water. There were droughts, dreadful arid months when the rainfall was so low that the great reservoirs began to dry up. Then there were famines — not just one, but many, all following one on top of another. People died by the thousands. And then there was the Disease, which the people of the time called Plague. It became rife and then virulent. Food supplies were dwindling. The rain forests were dying. And the water and the fuel were slowly running out.” She looked at them both. “It did not happen quickly, of course,” she said. “Not nearly as quickly as I am making it sound. It took years, decades. But it was happening …”

The world dying, not with a bang but a whimper …

Taliesin said, “But the world still lives. Annabel, the world is surviving.”

“No. The world is dying.” Annabel looked at him. “It is doubtful if there are many more months left to us.”

“You cannot know that.”

“I do know it. We all know it. The knowledge is not supposed to be out, but it is. It has leaked, little by little. Even the Drakon knows it can no longer hide the truth. Everyone knows that the world will soon end, although whether it will be with a whimper or a bang, we cannot tell.” She turned to look at them very directly. “Some years ago, the Clock was found,” said Annabel. “Deep in Ireland’s eastern mountains. Miners or pot-holers or explorers found it. It was there. And they found that all through its lost years, it had been moving. Living. Ticking. The hands had been moving by themselves. Forwards. All of the years when we had believed ourselves to be moving away from the disaster, away from the great, all-destroying war, we were moving towards it,” said Annabel, her eyes huge and dark. “The Clock had taken on some kind of life. It had lain there quietly in its mountain hall, and the hands had been creeping slowly forward. Nearer and nearer to midnight. The Doom Hour.

“They have tried to destroy it, but they have failed. And now there is a kind of superstition about it. They dare not attempt its destruction again.

“But they watch it ceaselessly. There are permanent vigils now, through every hour of every day, for they dare not miss the slightest movement now. The Drakon has sent in its own people to mount watch and to record every quiver of movement it makes.

“But it is moving forward all the time,” said Annabel. “It is very slow but it is unmistakable. The hands show one minute to midnight now. And when they touch midnight, the world will end. We have come to believe it. We all of us believe it.

“We are a doomed race and a dying world, and there is nothing anyone can do to save us.”

*

To Taliesin it seemed as if the three of them were entirely alone at the centre of a doomed and lost world. Annabel had brewed up a fresh pot of coffee in the bright, clean little room which she called a kitchen; they were warm and safe and closed in with food and drink and fire and companionship.

But outside is the darkness, and the howling confusion, and outside are the raging winds, and the endless night that is to come …

The words formed themselves in Taliesin’s mind, and with them came a vision so horrific and so dreadfully vivid that his senses reeled. He glanced to where Fael-Inis sat motionless, but Fael-Inis only blinked expressionlessly like a cat.

The darkness and the howling confusion and the endless night … It is approaching, thought Taliesin. Inch by inch, the world is ending. The Doomsday Clock is ticking closer to midnight, and somewhere beyond human vision, the Four Horsemen are waiting to lead the Apocalypse into the world.

And then: I wonder how it will happen? he thought, and as he framed the thought, Annabel, who had been pouring the coffee, said, “We do not know how it will happen yet,” and Taliesin jumped, because it was somehow unexpected to find a trace of the Samhailt here.

“But there will be theories as to what will happen?” said Fael-Inis.

Annabel said thoughtfully, “It is a quite strongly held belief that there are a number of countries in the world which still secretly maintain the weapons. Countries that were once shut off from the rest of the world, and sealed away from it. There was a phrase they used,” said Annabel, “the Iron Curtain. Part of the world was shut off behind an Iron Curtain, and for many years no one knew what went on in those countries. Our ancestors worked to lift that Curtain,” said Annabel, back in the past again, her eyes remote. “They worked very hard to lift the barriers that had been raised. They opened the Brandenburg Gate and they ripped down the Iron Curtain. That is quite old history, of course, but it must have been such a wonderful time to have lived through.

“But the barriers are back; the Iron Curtain of our ancestors has descended in a different place. We hear whispers of faceless leaders who are banding together to overthrow the larger countries. They would be ruthless, those leaders, and if they have the weaponry of the twentieth and the twenty-first centuries, then we are certainly doomed. They will use them against us unless we submit to their demands.”

“You would not submit?” said Taliesin, knowing the answer.

“Of course not,” said Annabel, and grinned at him. “We used to have an expression, in one of the really old wars: ‘Death or glory.’ They say the men used it going into battle against the enemy, although,” said Annabel thoughtfully, “I am not sure at this distance quite which enemy, because there have been several, you understand. But it’s rather a good expression, isn’t it?”

“A battle-cry,” said Fael-Inis solemnly. “Yes, it is a very good one.”

“Well, anyway, we should fight those greedy, selfish leaders,” said Annabel, her eyes bright. “Of course we should.”

“Death or glory,” said Taliesin.

“Well, yes.”

Fael-Inis was still seated quietly on the flame-orange sofa, but the other two suddenly turned to him, and Annabel thought, How remarkable he is. It is as if he has suddenly pulled on an invisible string, and we have both been compelled or commanded to attend to him.

Fael-Inis said, “The Doomsday Clock —”

“Yes?”

“Where is it now?”

Annabel studied him before replying. Then she said softly, “It is set deep in the heart of the mountains, in a remote part of Ireland. I do not know the true name of the place, but they say they were once called the Fire Mountains.”

Fael-Inis made an abrupt movement forwards, and the dying firelight caught his eyes so that they glowed. Almost to himself, he said, “So they still exist, in this brave new world, do they …?” And then, as the other two looked, “No matter,” he said.

“They had to find somewhere very safe for the Clock,” said Annabel, because he seemed to be waiting for her to continue. “Somewhere where it could not be tampered with.” She looked at them both to be sure they understood this, because it had been very important that people should not tamper with the Clock. “It is deep within the Fire Mountains,” said Annabel, “and it is guarded day and night.” She frowned, because there had been curious and rather sinister tales of the Clock’s guardians. Creatures not quite human, summoned from out of the past … No one had believed this, but there had been an odd and inexplicable note of authenticity about the tale. The Three Guardians, the three terrible Powers from a long-dead world, guarding the Cavern of the Doomsday Clock …

“They say,” said Annabel, “that the Clock is set high on a shelf of rock, narrow but regular. What our ancestors would have called an altar.” She glanced at them, but this word seemed familiar to them. “It is lit by burning torches, set high up in the inside of the mountain,” said Annabel, “and the torches are never allowed to go out.” She paused again, for there had been no reason to ensure that the Clock was always lit, only that no one had been able to bear the thought of the Clock ticking away the world’s last days by darkness. “The torches are kept burning,” said Annabel. “They are lit and replenished every four hours.”

“Firelight?” said Taliesin, for crude firelight did not somehow accord with the legends that had come back of this marvellous age.

“It is the only source of light that we can trust now,” said Annabel.

“And so the Doomsday Clock is set on its altar,” said Fael-Inis softly, “and it is deep within the Fire Mountains which once I knew as well, Mortal, as you know this room where you live.” He looked at them, his face alight. “Our task is clear, you know.”

“Is it?” said Taliesin, and Annabel started to say, “But what is your task?” and found she could not quite frame the question after all.

Fael-Inis stood up and looked down at them both. “We must travel to the Fire Mountains,” he said. “We must somehow penetrate to the torchlit Cavern of the Clock.

“And once we are there, we shall stop the hands from reaching midnight.

“We shall save the world.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Taliesin stood in the bright room that Annabel had called a kitchen, and watched her moving about, placing the mugs from which they had drunk coffee in a round bowl made of some hard shiny substance; reaching into cupboards for food and bags.

“Shall you really accompany us?”

Annabel turned round and looked at him and, without warning, the sudden wide grin flashed. “Death or glory, remember?” And then, more seriously, “Are you truly going to save the world?”

“I don’t know,” said Taliesin, who did not.

“You couldn’t expect me not to be in on the saving of the world,” said Annabel. “I couldn’t not want to be.”

“It will be very dangerous,” said Taliesin, leaning against the doorframe and watching her.

“I know,” said Annabel, and grinned the gamine grin again.

“Dangers and darknesses and raging seas,” murmured Taliesin. “All the sweet risk of all the perils ever known to … What is that?”

“Chocolate,” said Annabel, wrapping squares of a dark, rich-looking food. “A great rarity now. But very sustaining. And I thought we would take fruit and these biscuits. And the milk. Milk,” said Annabel severely, “fresh milk is unbelievably difficult to obtain now.” She packed it all away carefully, and then stood looking at Taliesin rather shyly. “I do not understand any of it,” said Annabel. “I don’t really believe that any of it is happening. Or if it is, then perhaps it is happening to somebody else, and perhaps I have got into somebody else’s dream. Are you a dream?”

“Are you?” said Taliesin very softly, and looked at her, and saw how her hair shone like copper, and wanted to pull her into his arms, and hold her hard against him, and take her back to the untidy house in the Street of Money-Lenders, and watch her curl up by the fire, and see her hair turn to a blaze of colour. It would not do, of course: she was from a different world, and it was impossible that their two worlds could ever mingle … And we are spirits of a different sort, he thought, and knew that this was not so, for they were of the same mould. Remarkable and incredible, and above all ironic that he should penetrate Time and enter a doomed world, and find the one woman above all …

He thought that she was looking at him and he thought, as well, that she was probably guessing or hearing his thoughts. And because this was not to be borne — for I must leave her here to face whatever terrible Fate awaits this world — he hunched a shoulder and said, “You are very trusting, Annabel,” and at once thought, And now I have used her name, and it sounded exactly like a caress …

But if Annabel had heard the caress, she gave no sign of it. She said, quite seriously, “I do trust you. Both of you.”

“Why? Your world is so harsh — so much has happened to make you suspicious and wary.”

Annabel said, “I think it is a little that I have always hoped,” She looked at him to see if he was understanding, and then went on, “I should like to be able to believe in so much. So much that has been written and imagined and handed down.”

“And always,” said Taliesin slowly, “always you have woken up.”

“Awoke and found me here upon the cold hillside … Yes,” said Annabel. And remembered, but did not say, how she had read the poets and the dreamers, and gone willingly into dreams, but how the dreams had always dissolved. There had been many cold dawns, many awakenings to cold hillsides, many lonely dissolvings of dreams, because no matter how much you wished and pretended, still the reality was the Drakon’s grim world, where food was running out, and a Clock deep within the Fire Mountains was ticking away mankind’s last hours. And then, because it would not do to admit to all of this, Annabel said rather flippantly, “What should I wear for the journey? What is correct when you are going to save the world?” And then, in a different voice, “How shall we get there?”

*

The soft sweet beckoning music of the pipes spun and shivered and beckoned in the quiet square, and Annabel stood very still and felt the music wrap her about, and could not speak for the sheer delight of it. It was like something you could reach out and take between your hands, and treasure and store away, so that you could unwrap it later and savour its beauty …

The Time Chariot came smoothly and easily, materialising from the shadows outside the square, sending shafts of pure colour into the night. The salamanders bowed their heads submissively, and tossed their manes, and blurred into colour and fire and light, and then back into solid shapes, and then into whirling flame again, so that you could not be quite sure from one minute to the next if they were really there.

“They are there,” said Fael-Inis. “They bathe in the Fire Rivers beneath the Mountains of the Morning, and they can harness all of the world’s power and all of the world’s strength and light.” He turned to look at Annabel, who was standing in the spilled light from the Chariot, entranced and enchanted. Taliesin looked at her, and remembered how she had talked about always wanting to believe, and how he had seen the hope in her eyes … Surely there are dreams somewhere, her eyes had said. Surely this cold bleak world is not all there is? He watched her, and saw the delight dawn in her expression, and knew that she was seeing the dreams come tumbling into her world at last. When she reached out a hesitant hand to touch the Chariot, he saw how the light and the fire spilled across her skin, and he remembered Calatin’s spell, and made an abrupt movement. But, “All is well,” said Fael-Inis softly. “For we do not travel across Time, yet. The fires will be cool enough for you both.”

Taliesin thought, We do not travel across Time, yet. But before much longer we shall have to do so. Seven days, and then Calatin’s enchantment will be useless. And even then, it will serve to protect only one … I cannot leave her behind! thought Taliesin in silent anguish. And then, Could I stay here with her? And felt again the desolation and the despair of the world they had thought would be so filled with marvels, and knew a great and aching agony. He looked at her and thought, She is not for me, nor I for her, and felt a strange haunting echo, as if the pain was not being felt for the first time.

Fael-Inis had moved to the Chariot, and was standing, lit by the flames, his hands outstretched to them. “Come with me,” he said, and now it was noc the quiet, thoughtful philosopher who had sat in the small apartment and drunk coffee and listened to the story of the ending of the world; now it was the rebel angel again, the creature who had defied the gods and turned his back on the war in heaven. Annabel gasped, and put her hand out to Taliesin, and felt herself to be falling headlong into the world of make-believe where almost anything could happen, and where chimerical creations lived and walked, and where there were no cold hillsides and no lonely dawn awakenings … There was surely no magic left in the world, and yet there was magic unfolding before her eyes. I still do not believe any of this … I am Lewis Carroll’s Alice, and I do not believe … But we are going to save the world, and it will be the most exciting thing anyone has ever done anywhere ever … I ought to be wary, said Annabel to Annabel. I ought to be questioning everything and distrusting it all. I certainly ought not to be feeling exhilarated and I definitely ought not to be looking forward to it. Death or glory … I wonder if they really did say that, or if it is just something somebody made up. What I really ought to do is turn my back on this weird machine and these two people who are probably adventurers of some kind, and go back into the safety of my own apartment. That’s what I ought to do, said the voice of the sane and practical Annabel.

And — how boring! said the reckless Annabel, the one who believed in dreams and enchantments, and who had known all along that there were other worlds, only that you sometimes had to look very hard to find them. How dull and boring! If I do not do this, I shall certainly spend the rest of my life regretting it!

And then Fael-Inis took their hands and drew them forward into the Time Chariot.

*

When you have always lived in a world where the only way to get anywhere is by walking, to skim the earth’s surface with a speed so breathtaking that you feel as if you might fall over the edge of the world is probably the most overwhelming experience you will ever know. Annabel, clutching the sides of the Chariot, her hair flying in the soft, warm wind, tried to catch her breath, and then abandoned the attempt. Clearly if you were going to travel like this, you would not be able to breathe, and that was that. She thought she might very likely die from delight, and not being able to breathe, but she thought that to die like this, with delight soaring and exhilaration cascading, would be the most exciting thing ever. When Fael-Inis said, in a voice that Annabel thought of as pouring flame, “Hold on, Mortals!” there was just enough breath left to call back a reassurance, and then the salamanders were streaming effortlessly ahead of them, and below them were the sleeping meadows and farms and towns.

Annabel, clinging to the Chariot, thought hazily that the people of the last century must have felt a little of this when they travelled in the machines that took them everywhere. She had always liked the stories of the machines that moved across the earth’s surface, although the Drakon said, austerely, that they had been noisy and dangerous.

The machines had long since gone, of course. The great Oil Wars a hundred years earlier had meant that there was no longer the means to power the machines. The drying up of the Oil Fields had rendered the machines useless. Expeditions had been sent out to find more of the same substances, and research laboratories had been set up, but by that time the power supplies of the world had been dwindling, and there had not been the means.

The machines were still talked about. People could remember hearing grandparents tell about them; how you simply pressed buttons and turned wheels, and how you took yourself anywhere and everywhere. But there had been too many of them in the end, said the Drakon. The highroads had become choked; the people had been ill from the fumes and the gases that the machines used up. There was not enough space any longer.

Annabel would have enjoyed the machines and she was enjoying the Time Chariot. She did not fully understand about it: “And I do not want to,” she said, and Taliesin understood this, because when you are faced with something enchanting and magical, you do not always want to know how it works. When you watch an entertainment, you do not want to be reminded that the players have painted faces and that their swords are card and their jewels paste. You certainly do not want to think about the flimsy structures that appear to be castles and mist-wreathed isles, but are really only plaster and timber with men behind them creating an illusion. You want only to believe in the illusion.

And so Taliesin, who had watched the plays and the make-believe of his world, and Annabel, who had only read about them, were easily able to accept the Time Chariot and enter wholly into its enchantment, and find it all entirely believable. Taliesin thought that perhaps Fael-Inis was no more than an illusionist, but if that was so, then he was an illusionist of truly remarkable powers; Annabel, who had been searching for illusions and magic all her life, did not even stop to question it.

“I was enthralled then and for ever,” she was to say. “I had fallen completely under the spell of this golden-eyed being, and I do not think I really wanted to be released.”

*

The road to the Fire Mountains was dark, but there was a soft spill of light from somewhere.

“Starlight,” said Fael-Inis. “A sad light.”

Annabel, child of a city, had never experienced such darkness. “There were always lights and there were always other people,” she said. “And the patrols were always marching, carrying their lanterns.” And then, “Will the patrols be out here?”

“I think so,” said Fael-Inis. “Yes, I think they will.” And gestured below them. “There are houses,” he said. “There are farms and cottages. Yes, the Drakon will be watchful.” Because the Drakon sees all, and because it must appear to see all … that is the Drakon’s strength.

Annabel thought that this dark sombre countryside was like another world. On each side, rearing up steeply, were the rough cliff faces. “The sides of the mountains,” said Fael-Inis. “The beginning of the Fire Country.”

Ahead of them lay the Fire Mountains themselves, purple-misted and dark and remote. Here and there were vivid threads of colour; orange and scarlet, like tiny far-off rivers of living fire pouring down the mountainside. But they vanished as you looked at them; they were like skeins of silk that caught the light and then disappeared. It was difficult to know if you had really seen them at all.

“You are seeing them,” said Fael-Inis. “They are the fires that burn deep below the mountains. Sometimes curls of fire escape and that is what you are seeing. There are rivers of fire and lakes of burning flames, all beneath the mountains.”

Annabel said, “Were they not once called the Mountains of Mourne?” and Fael-Inis said, “Yes. That is a corruption of an even older name, though. They were once known as the Mountains of the Morning, because of the light that sometimes shone from them. But it was not the light of the morning,” said Fael-Inis. “It was the fire that burns in the underground halls and in the deep caverns. It is the light and the fire of an old, old power and an old, old force that was ancient before even the world was spawned.” He was looking at the mountains now, his eyes bright. “But I am from the beginning of Time, Child, and you are from the other end of it. At the beginning these were called, and truly, the Fire Mountains and now, nearing the end, they are again called so.” He smiled, as the Time Chariot drew to a halt. “Shall we go on? The road is narrow, but if we stay close, we do not need to walk singly.”

And to do so might lose us sight of one another … Nobody said the words, but Taliesin and Annabel thought that nobody needed to, because everyone knew. Annabel was trying not to remember the whispered tales of a terrible entity that the Drakon had called up to guard the Doomsday Clock. The Guardians … Of course it would not be true. Taliesin was remembering that the Conablaiche had walked here, and might still do so. And Annabel had said something about a terrible creature, the Claw, of whom all went in fear.

And then Fael-Inis stopped abruptly and tilted his head, and said, “Listen,” and Taliesin and Annabel stopped, and Taliesin said, “I can’t hear …” and then stared and felt fear clutch his heart, for he had heard it as well now.

Hoofbeats. Somewhere quite near, but somewhere over their heads. The sound of horses being ridden hard across unseen plains and unseen skies.

“Is it — someone following us?” said Annabel uncertainly.

“It is the Four Horsemen,” said Fael-Inis and, glancing at Annabel, said softly, “The Heralds of the end of your world.” And then, as Annabel stared at him, her eyes huge, her face white and pinched, he said, very gently, “They are in your myths, Mortal,” and Annabel said in a whisper, “Yes. Yes, of course. The Four Horsemen. Plague, Famine, War, and Death. I had not realised … Then there is truly no escape. Only I had not thought it would be like this …” And stopped again, and thought that however she had visualised the end, she had not visualised it like this: unseen creatures riding into the world. It was suddenly very easy to imagine the Horsemen — and yes, they were in all the legends! — riding hard across the skies, seeking a way into the world …

Fael-Inis said, “They have tried to enter the world for countless ages, but always they have been unsuccessful.”

“Will they — find a way in now?”

“I have no way of knowing that.” He stood, looking up to the night sky, where great dark clouds scudded. “I hear them,” he said, half to himself. “I hear their hoofs pawing the ground, and their spurs clicking. They are searching for a chink between their world and this.”

“How long have we?” said Taliesin.

“I cannot tell. They are impatient and they are hungry. Their manes are being tossed by the evil winds of the Dark Ireland, and they are hungry for the world,” said Fael-Inis, and Annabel shivered, because surely if the world was to end, it should not be like this, helpless before some terrible entity that nobody could fight; it should be in a firework display of explosions and huge glorious battles, where people could ride helter-skelter into the fray. Death or glory … Had that ever really been said?

They moved on, more cautiously now, continually glancing back over their shoulders, trying as well to keep an eye on what might lie ahead.

“The Guardians,” said Annabel, her eyes fearful. “Terrible creatures called up by the Drakon. I never believed, not really. Only out here, I am not so sure.”

Fael-Inis turned to look at her, and after a moment said softly, “So your world makes use of those creatures, does it? How remarkable that I should come across them here.”

“Nobody believes in them,” said Annabel, “not really.”

“I believe,” said Fael-Inis. “Just because you have never seen a thing, does not mean it does not exist.”

Annabel said, “The Guardians —”

“Tell us,” said Taliesin.

“The brotherhood of sorcerers,” said Fael-Inis, the faraway expression still in his voice. “Necromancers, and evil enchantresses who will guard any object and kill and maim and devour to preserve that object. They are greedy and merciless and venal.” He looked to where the mountains lay ahead of them. “Beneath those mountains,” he said, “are the eternal fires, and the burning rivers, and the homes of the salamanders. It is not strange, Annabel, that your world should have been able to summon the Guardians to keep watch over the Doomsday Clock. Your world has almost lost the art of magic, but out here, in these mountains, the magic is still here. Can you not feel it?” he said, looking at her, and Annabel, staring at him, said softly, “Yes. Oh, yes.”

“If the Drakon called to the Guardians,” said Fael-Inis thoughtfully, “really called to them, they would certainly have answered.”

“Shall we meet them?”

“Yes,” said Fael-Inis. “Yes, I think we shall meet them.” And glanced at Taliesin. “Afraid, my friend?”

“Helpless with terror,” said Taliesin promptly. “Because if you are to offer me up to be a sorceress’s sacrifice, I will tell you that there are infinitely preferable fates —” And then stopped and said, “Listen,” and turned to stare back down the narrow road with the high rocky mountains on all sides, which made it impossible for anything to hide, but which also made it impossible to hide from anything.

Annabel said, “What is it?” and then heard it as well. Marching. Steel-tipped boots coming closer. The Drakon’s patrol coming up the narrow mountain road after them.

*

The patrols had always sounded like this; Annabel had grown very used to them. There had been a word once — military. The patrols were military. They marched exactly in step, and you could hear their boots ringing out in the quiet night. They had cold greedy eyes and they did not hesitate to knock on doors where they thought there might be a law being transgressed. Annabel knew people who had hidden in wardrobes and cellars or who had stood outside on narrow window-ledges to escape. No one ever did escape, of course. The Drakon saw all.

There was nowhere to run to here, and yet they must certainly not be found and caught by the patrol. It was after Curfew — it was very nearly time for the Curfew to be lifted, in fact, and Annabel was out alone with two strange men. She would be taken up at once and thrown into the Cuirim, and there would be an end.

Except that it could not be allowed to happen.

Fael-Inis grasped Annabel’s right hand at exactly the same moment that Taliesin took the left. “Run!” he cried. “Forward! Now!” And seemed to spring forward, taking them with him.

The patrol heard them at once, of course; it quickened its speed, and there was the sound of orders being rapped out. “Faster! There are people ahead of us!” And there was suddenly a sense of urgency, because they must not be found, they must not be thrown into the Cuirim.

Annabel was hardly looking where they were going, she was conscious only of Fael-Inis pulling her forward, and of her hand strongly in Taliesin’s, and of the night wind stirring her hair. She thought she could not run very much faster, and she certainly could not run very much farther, because her lungs were beginning to rasp and there was a tight pain across her chest, and after all perhaps it would be better simply to give in and she might as well be inside the Cuirim as anywhere else if the world were to end …

And then Fael-Inis halted and seemed to sniff the air, and turned sharply into what looked like solid rock, and pulled them through into a narrow jutting entrance. The soft starlight was abruptly shut off, and they were inside the mountain.

They stood for a moment, huddled close together, trying to adjust to the darkness, trying to gauge their surroundings.

Only Fael-Inis seemed at ease, but then, thought Annabel, he can probably see in the dark anyway. He is a creature of fire and light and speed, and I can not think of any danger he could not overcome. And then, because it was distinctly comforting to remember about fiery chariots that would probably ride full tilt at enemies and destroy them in a single glorious swoop, and about golden-eyed immortal beings who somehow crossed Time to save dying worlds, she held on to this rather firmly. If you had to be hiding inside an old dark mountain, it was a very good thought indeed to be able to hold on to.

The darkness smelt warm and dry and very old. Annabel, still managing to conjure up visions of arrows of fire and rebellious and unbeatable angels, thought this was a very old place indeed. It had seen the world born, and it had seen it wax and wane and transform, and quite soon now it would see it die. Annabel shivered, and Taliesin put an arm about her, and there was a sudden surprised delight, because his arm was strong and firm and warm, and the dark old mountain did not seem quite so menacing.

The patrol was nearly level with the narrow opening, and Fael-Inis, in a thread of a whisper, said, “Keep very still. Do not move or speak.”

Annabel found herself counting the footsteps. Ten more, and they will be exactly level with us; if they go on for another ten, they will have missed us. And, What a marvellous thing it will be to have evaded them! she thought. She stayed very still, her heart pounding, and presently her eyes began to adjust to the dimness, so that she could see that they were in a kind of narrow cave that might lead somewhere deep into the mountain, or that might not lead anywhere at all. It was probably all wrong to hope it did lead somewhere, and that they would be able to find out where. Perhaps they would have to move further back, and then they would find out.

She wished that her heart was not beating so furiously because the others must hear it, and if they could hear it, perhaps the patrol might hear it as well. They would hear, and they would listen, and then they would be able to track it to its source, like that really old story — Edgar Allan somebody, was it? — where the still-beating heart of the murdered man had lain beneath the murderer’s floorboards, beating so insistently that it had betrayed the murderer. I have a telltale heart, thought Annabel. They will hear, and they will find us, and we shall all be thrown into the Cuirim, and the Clock will go on to midnight, and the world will end, and it will all be my fault for having a heart that beat too loudly.

The patrol was level with the jutting rock now, and the men were swishing angrily at the grass. They know we are here, thought Annabel, and pressed closer to Taliesin. We are hunted animals; rabbits or hares or foxes. We are being hunted in the way that people used to hunt foxes many years ago, and kill them. She shrank back into the solid wall of the mountain, and tried not to notice the old, old smell of the mountain, and tried, as well, not to think about the weight of mountain that must be directly above them. All that solid rearing mountain, directly over their heads, pressing down …

It was then that they became aware of something moving at the far end of the cave.

Fael-Inis heard it first; he touched Taliesin’s hands, and Taliesin, whose eyes had been constantly raking the darkness, felt his senses at once spring to attention.

Something inside the mountain. Something coming stealthily closer. Something creeping and ancient and evil.

Something with claws and teeth and a great grinning, dripping muzzle …

Taliesin pushed Annabel back into the solid rock wall, shielding her with his body. Annabel, who was very frightened indeed of whatever it was that was creeping through the mountain towards them, gasped and, incredibly, experienced a sudden jolt of the purest pleasure. There was a breathspace of time when she did not think, I am inside a dark old mountain with what may be a ravening monster creeping up on us, but — This is the first time I have felt a man’s body like this … And was conscious of hard masculine strength and the feeling of warm breath on her cheek, and clean hair touching her face … And firm thighs, and a core of hard warmth between them …

Taliesin felt, for a brief dizzying moment, Annabel’s instinctive response, and delight and desire spiralled upwards. And then the dark old mountain and the creeping danger closed about him again, and he half turned his head to rake the shadows, trying to sense how close to them the shuffling, clawing creature was. He could hear it quite plainly now, and he thought he could smell it as well. A dry, old, stale odour that was coming closer all the time.

Was it the Conablaiche? If so, thought Taliesin, it will be greedy for our living hearts; it will tear them out and take them for Crom Croich … We shall be offered up on silver platters, and then all will be lost, and Annabel will certainly never see Ireland, and I shall lose her, and Medoc will have won …

Annabel, her face half buried in Taliesin’s shoulder, was aware of a great listening. Whatever was out there in the dark underside of the mountain — could it be the Claw? — was sniffing the air, trying to decide where its prey was hiding. In just another minute it would know, it would smell them out, and it would come loping across the hard rock floor, and it would pluck them from this frail concealment, and spit them on the end of its talons, and it would tear them open …

There was a growing feeling of immense evil now, and of something greedy and implacable approaching.

And then moonlight pierced the cave, so that they saw the terrible black shadow fall across the rock floor. The stench of decaying flesh was all about them, and they knew that the Conablaiche, the Claw, the ancient, evil Servant of the Dark Ireland, stood in the cave with them.

It could not see them. All three knew it at once. It stood for a moment, its eyes swivelling, turning this way and that, searching the dark corners.

There is a tasty morsel somewhere here. I can smell it. There is a toothsome morsel for my Master in this cave … juicy gobbets of fleshy and warmy still-beating hearts that I shall offer up on a silver platter, dripping and steaming … Come out from your hiding place, humans, so that I may flay you and snap your ribcages and tear your hearts from their moorings …

The moonlight lay across the floor, and they could see the creature in full, terrible detail; they could see that it was composed of every nightmare and every grisly story ever told or imagined or feared.

Huge. Towering. Ten feet high at least. There was a head with a narrow bony skull and a great curving beak. A vulture’s head! thought Taliesin, unable to look away. A great vulture’s head, with protruding, fish-like eyes that could swivel on stalks and peer into the darkest recesses of men’s minds and souls. A hard, bony body, not quite skeletal, but not fleshy either. Rudimentary organs, not quite formed, clung to the hard discoloured bones. Taliesin thought, Yes, it is not quite human, but it has human appetites. He saw with revulsion that the creature possessed crudely formed genitals: penis and scrotum sack beneath, and thought again that it might have human appetites, and tightened his hold on Annabel.

Annabel was managing not to scream, because if they made the slightest sound, the Claw would be upon them, it would reach out and spit them on its talons and tear them apart. The best thing, the sanest thing, would be to run back to the road, through the narrow opening, and out into the starlit night. That was what they ought to be doing.

But the patrol was at the opening to the cave. All the time the Conablaiche had been creeping towards them, the patrol had been marching along the road, swishing angrily at the rowan trees, alert to fleeing rebellious people who were at odds with the Drakon. As the three travellers stood motionless, caught between the two enemies, they saw the thin light that had been filtering in suddenly blotted out as the patrolmen discovered the narrow opening and pushed their way into the mountain. The great echoing cavern was filled with the loud voices of the Drakon men, and with the stamping of their boots on the rock floor. Both Annabel and Taliesin saw the shadow of the Conablaiche dart across the cave, and slither behind a crusted formation of stone at the far end. Taliesin, his every sense straining, caught the faint echo of the horrid bubbling chuckle he had heard in Calatin’s house, and he knew that the creature would lie in wait for the patrolmen, and that as soon as they were all safely inside the mountain, it would rear up from its shadowy corner and fall on them. And when that happens, there will be no escape … He looked to where Fael-Inis was standing, as still as if he was also made of stone, and he saw a look of furious concentration in Fael-Inis’s eyes. Could Fael-Inis somehow save them? thought Taliesin, and at once the response bounded back.

There are spells I can summon, but we are in the world of humans, Taliesin, and we must try to escape by human means …

Annabel, listening, caught this as well, and felt a terrible coldness. Were they, after all, to die like this, in the dark old mountain? And as the thought took shape, another followed it, like a sprinkling of light.

We shall still use the fire and the light and the sunbursts, Annabel … Be sure of it …

Annabel was instantly comforted, and thought, Well, yes, of course we will.

The Drakon patrol had spotted them. Annabel, who knew the whispers that Drakon people could sniff out rebels as if an extra sense had been bestowed, waited with a sense of inevitability for them to pounce. And although they would fight of course (Annabel thought she could inflict quite a good deal of damage by kicking hard at the men’s groins and perhaps by jabbing at their eyes), they could certainly not fight the creature that was hiding at the far end of the cave. And they were trapped between the Drakon men and the Claw.

The patrol was surrounding them; the tallest of the men, who seemed to be the leader, and who had the cold, hard eyes of all Drakon servants, stood regarding them, his hands on his hips. Taliesin, who had released Annabel but still held her arm, returned the man’s appraisal, and Annabel, glancing at him, saw with delight that he was as unruffled as a cat. Confidence surged back, because of course they would outwit these cold-eyed humourless men, and of course they would somehow escape the Claw.

Taliesin said urbanely, “Good evening. You are travelling in strange paths, sir,” and the Drakon patrolman stared at him, as if he found him rather odd.

At Taliesin’s side, Fael-Inis said, “Have you also lost your way in these dark roads?” and both Annabel and Taliesin heard that he had quenched his usual silken, warm timbre. He did not sound entirely human, because he was not entirely human, but, thought Annabel, he sounded nearly human.

The patrolman said, “We’re on lawful Drakon business.”

“Which,” said another at his side, “is the taking up of people who break Curfew and pry.” He looked to his leader, who nodded slowly, and then inspected Annabel, as if he found her of interest.

“Dear me,” he said, “here’s a pretty bit. I could get a thousand crumens for you in the Procuration Hall.”

Taliesin said at once, “Her price is very much higher than that, my friend,” and the patrolman looked at Taliesin coldly.

“You know the rules,” he said.

“I know the laws,” said Taliesin, who did not know them at all, but remembered procuration was forbidden on pain of death.

The patrolman made a contemptuous sound, and spat derisively on the ground. “Put that one up on the Procuration Floor, and she’d only reach Level Two. Is she broken?”

Fael-Inis made a quick movement and then was still, as if he was saying, I leave this to you, human.

Taliesin looked the man up and down, and there was a glint in his eyes. “If anyone is to put her up on the Procuration Floor,” he said, “I shall do it. This one is mine.”

“Ho,” said the patrolman, “a rival. Friend, do you not know the punishment for procuration?”

“Yes,” said Taliesin steadily. “Do you?”

The patrolman laughed. “I am in a privileged position,” he said. “You procure for the masses. I procure for the Drakon inner body.” He rubbed a thumb and forefinger suggestively. “A rich calling,” he said. “And the Drakon is used to having the best. You wouldn’t believe the opportunities I have to acquire the choicest little bits for them. And they would pay me well for this one.”

Taliesin said courteously, “I see you are a man of some acumen, sir. But I, in my own circles, am very highly regarded.” He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “I think if we put it to the test, we should find that I am your superior,” he said, “and that being so, you had really do better to leave her to me. Otherwise, you may find you are in a very embarrassing position, sir.”

The man laughed. “One of the Drakon’s inner circle, are you?” he said. “In that case, you will know very well that procurers do pretty much as they like. And I have the fancy to put this one up for bidding.”

Annabel said coldly, “I have not the least intention of being put up for bidding by anyone. But if I was put up,” she said, “then I should reach at least Level Four” She glared at him, and the man laughed and said, “Come here,” and made a sudden grabbing movement.

Annabel was wrenched from Taliesin’s grasp and sent sprawling on the cave floor. Taliesin moved at once, but the patrolmen were before him, slamming him back against the side of the mountain. Fael-Inis stayed where he was, but Annabel, her senses still spinning, saw light kindling in his eyes.

“Strip her,” said the patrolman, and now his eyes were no longer cold, but hot and greedy. “We’ll see if you’d reach Level Four.” He nodded to two of the waiting men, who moved at once, pinioning Annabel’s arms behind her, standing her up between them. Taliesin fought against the two patrolmen who still imprisoned him, but their arms were like steel bands and he could not move. “Strong,” said the one on his right, grinning and exposing a row of broken and discoloured teeth. “Practice against those who break the Drakon’s laws,” said the other, who had a brutish face and short, bristly hair.

The leader was undressing Annabel now, discarding the dark trousers and boots and the thick woollen cloak she had donned for the journey. “Nice,” he said, and now a clotted note had crept into his voice. “Certainly I could get a thousand crumens.” His eyes flickered over her. “Let’s see what’s under the shirt,” he said in a thick voice. Annabel drew back and braced the muscles of one leg to kick him, and at once the two patrolmen lunged downwards and held both her ankles.

“A very well-known ploy,” said the leader, grinning at her. “What a little cat you are.” He closed in on her, and slid his hands beneath the thin cotton shirt, and the fact that he did not remove the shirt gave his actions a repulsive intimacy. Annabel closed her eyes and felt horror run over her. He had red meaty hands, and the nails were dirty, and he was beginning to breathe hoarsely. His breath blew in her face, and it was dry and unfresh, and all the while his hands were exploring her body, stroking her skin … I could be a piece of merchandise, a side of beef that people used to prod before they bought it in the days when you could still buy beef, thought Annabel wildly. I can’t think what to do, except that there must be something … One of the patrolmen was still holding her ankles, one in each hand, and the other had her wrists tight in an iron grip. If he gets any closer, I could bite him, thought Annabel hopefully. I could bite him very hard. This is so unbelievably horrible that I don’t think it is really happening. She could see Taliesin struggling, and she could see Fael-Inis motionless in the shadows. Taliesin was powerless for the minute, but Fael-Inis would certainly do something to rescue her — what had he said? Spells I can summon. And then she thought that he would expect her to fight for herself first.

The patrolman withdrew his hands, and said to the one who had her ankles, “Hold her legs apart,” and as he did so, Annabel saw with a shudder of revulsion his left hand creep between his own legs, and make a sudden involuntary rubbing motion with the flat of his hand.

And then the other one was jerking her feet apart, which made her feel quite unbearably vulnerable, and the patrolman was advancing again, his eyes glittering, a sly intimate grin on his face. “Just to see how much you are really worth, my dear,” he said. “Just to see if you have kept the laws.”

Annabel said, “I don’t —” and gasped as he slid his right hand inside her shirt again, between her legs. There was a moment of the purest loathing, and she felt the thick dry hand on her thighs, and then there was a sudden jab, and the man’s finger was pushing upwards, exploring, probing … Annabel closed her eyes and remembered about death or glory, and about fiery-eyed angels who would come blazing to the rescue if you really needed it, and tried to think that surely this was nothing so very terrible compared with what might be ahead. If the men who held her would just relax their grip, she would certainly bite this revolting creature, even if she could not kick him.

He withdrew his hand at last, and stood looking at her, and Annabel, who was feeling a bit sick, but who would have been torn apart by wild horses before she would have let anyone know, tried not to notice that his other hand was still on his groin, caressing the hard ridge that had risen there.

“So,” said the man softly, “so you are a true obedient child of the Drakon. Untouched. And my masters are partial to that.” In the far corner, Taliesin struggled, and was again thrown back against the mountain wall by his two captors.

“It would be a pity,” said the leader, his eyes still on Annabel, “a very great pity not to — make use of this one before we put her up for procuration.” He glanced at Taliesin, and the greedy I-am-superior smile slid over his face again. “One of the benefits of the job,” he said. “As you will know.”

“I never lie with my own merchandise,” said Taliesin, sounding bored, and the patrolman said at once, “Are you sexually warped, perhaps, friend?”

“Not to the extent that you and your patrol are,” said Taliesin coolly.

The man looked at Taliesin. “That was unwise,” he said. “We are not always particular about whether we relieve ourselves on men or women.” He turned back to Annabel, and began to unfasten his trousers, and the patrolman who was holding Annabel’s ankles chuckled slyly and said, “Share it out a bit, won’t you?” and the leader said sharply, “Wait your turn,” and opened his trousers fully, and let Annabel see the rearing stalk of flesh.

Taliesin, who was still casting about in his mind for a way to outwit these men, said with a coldness he was far from feeling, “If you have her, she’ll be worth far less at procuration,” and the patrol leader turned to look at him with sudden surprise.

“Of course I am not going to have her,” he snapped, in a voice that said, Where-have-you-been-living-you-fool? “You know the dangers of sexual congress.” He regarded Taliesin scornfully. “I served four years in a Plague Hospital,” he said. “And I helped draw up the latest regulations.” He stood looking at Taliesin. “For all they’ll have you believe they’ve stamped it out, it’s still rampant,” he said. “This one felt unbroken, but for all I know she’s rotten with the Disease.” The sly grin touched his lips again. “But we all know the ways round it,” he said. And then, to one of the waiting patrol, “Put in the mouth clamp,” he said. “And then lie her flat.”

The mouth clamp was a tiny steel-springed contraption, a miniature dual-levered cantilever that would support something, or perhaps hold open something that would otherwise have closed tightly. Taliesin saw its use at once, and horror ran over him in a cold wave. The two men wrenched Annabel’s mouth open, and thrust the clamp inside, adjusting it so that she was unable to close her lips.

“All the better to bite you with,” said the patrolman, grinning horridly. “Only now you won’t be able to, will you?”

Annabel, half choking, gasped and reminded herself about not letting them see she was frightened, and remembered about Fael-Inis and the glinting anger and about Taliesin and about death or glory.

The clamp was attached to threaded screws that set the clamp to the exact degree the men wanted.

“Not too wide,” said the patrol leader, standing over her, caressing himself obscenely. “Not too wide. I want to feel this one’s lips.” Annabel could barely breathe, and she could certainly not scream, and even if she could have screamed, there was nothing to scream to, because Taliesin was in the hands of the patrol, and Fael-Inis would only call up a spell if they could not escape by human means …

Then a low bubbling chuckle filled the cave, and from its corner the Conablaiche reared up, casting its monstrous shadow across the floor. There was a snapping sound, a grisly, bone-on-teeth sound, and it loped across the floor, making massive swiping gestures with its great gristly arms, sending several of the patrolmen staggering back.

The Conablaiche had fallen on the leader; it seemed to spear him on the end of its talons, and it held him aloft as if inspecting him. Yes, yes, a tasty morsel indeed … The fishlike eyes swivelled and bulged with horrid appetite.

Taliesin, released by the two who had been holding him, bounded forward and snatched Annabel up, freeing her mouth from the thing they had called the clamp, holding her hard against him.

The patrolman was screaming, dreadful, trapped-hare screams, his arms and legs flailing, and the Conablaiche grinned, its fleshless lips widening, its breath fetid in the airless cave; it brought up its other arm and, deliberately and slowly, gouged the man’s now-flaccid penis from his body.

Blood and urine spurted out, and Annabel saw with a shudder of horror that they sprayed the creature’s face, and that the creature protruded a great, pendulous, leathery flap of tongue, and licked its bloodied jowls with relish.

Fael-Inis reached for Taliesin and Annabel, and drew them gently into the shadows, and Annabel, who was still feeling sick, thought, But where are we going?

The Conablaiche was bringing its talons up again in a great curving arc, and the three travellers stood for a moment longer, watching the man’s ribcage torn open. Blood covered the rock floor now, and the other patrolmen were falling and slipping as they scrambled for the narrow opening. Annabel thought they would not get very far, for certainly the terrible creature would be upon them. And even as the thought took shape, she saw the sinewy arm reach out and knock two more of the men to the floor.

To be dealt with presently, my dears … The grisly bone-on-teeth sound snapped out again, and the Conablaiche threw back its head and gave a neighing roar of triumph.

The patrolman’s heart was exposed now, embedded in flesh and muscle, and the Conablaiche inserted a pointed claw and, with a smooth, scything motion, began to cut around the raw beating heart. The screaming of the patrolman was growing fainter, but blood still pumped steadily from his mutilated body, and the three travellers could see that he still lived.

“Of course he still lives,” said Fael-Inis very softly. “Does not the Conablaiche take the living hearts for its Master?”

The Conablaiche gave its neigh of triumph again, and held aloft the dripping, steaming gobbet of flesh that was a human heart.

As he did so, Fael-Inis stepped farther back into the shadows, drawing Annabel and Taliesin with him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lugh of the Longhand thought he was doing rather well. He was not the man to be intimidated by dark nights and rustling creatures in the forest; he was certainly not the man to be intimidated by the towering bulk of Tara itself. Hadn’t he been to Tara more times than he could count, and wasn’t he entirely accustomed to the splendour and the beauty? Truth to tell, splendour and beauty, although all very well in their way, had never affected Lugh all that much. And Tara did not change.

It did not change and yet it had changed completely. Lugh stole through to the Western Gate and stood for a moment looking up at the Palace.

Tara did not change and yet it had changed completely. As Lugh slipped through the Western Gate — and it was strange that there were no sentries to challenge him — he felt a blackness and a great heavy curtain fall about his mind.

Darkness. Medoc’s darkness. It was a bit discomfiting to see Tara, the Bright Palace, like this. Lugh had known, of course, that Medoc had drawn a cloud of darkness over Tara, because Medoc was a dark necromancer, he was a Lord of the Dark Ireland, and it was only to be expected that he would create his own surroundings. Lugh quite saw that. Even so, it was unsettling to see the Bright Palace in shadow. Lugh found himself remembering all the nasty stories about Ireland’s enemies. And then there were all those beliefs about the sidh, the cold, inhuman faery folk who came up to the ramparts of Tara, led by the Elven King, Aillen mac Midha. The sidh were supposed to have a strange loyalty to the High Kings, but Lugh would not trust one of the sidh from here to that tree trunk, even if he had ever seen one, which he had not.

It was really quite startling to see Tara like this. Tara ought to blaze with light and glitter with brilliance. Lugh had been accustomed to seeing it as a beacon and a lodestar. Now it was quenched and quiet. In the great Sun Chamber, where once the Wolfkings had held their dazzling Courts, a powerful necromancer dwelled, and the galleries that had sparkled with music and feasting were thick with evil enchantments. Lugh could feel it all round him. And really, really, if you were logical (which Lugh naturally was), hadn’t you to admit to a sneaking admiration for the man who had somehow doused the light? Lugh was not, of course, going to support Medoc — dear goodness, of course he was not! — but you had to give credit where it was due. Medoc had taken Tara with consummate ease, and, more to the point, he had kept it.

Lugh was creeping through the galleries now, through the small antechambers with the mystical patterns etched in gold on the floors. He knew these for minor spells created by the Palace sorcerers for the Wolfkings; the sorcerers did not easily give away their secrets, but Cormac of the Wolves had persuaded them on several occasions, and one or two very inferior enchantments had been written down and then etched in gold on the floors. Lugh had always thought this rather pretentious, though he had never said so. But now, studying the etched symbols and patterns, the thought just occurred to him that hadn’t the Wolfkings been rather ridiculous at times? Couldn’t you argue that Medoc was a far better, far stronger ruler?

And in any case, the Wolfkings’ day was over.

At this point in his thoughts, Lugh stopped short and frowned, because wasn’t that a terrible traitorous thought to have, and the Longhands the champions and the paladins of the Wolfline as far back as Niall of the Nine Hostages and Nuadu Airgetlam?

But the closer he got to the Sun Chamber, the more he went on thinking it, and the more he thought it, the more sensible it seemed.

You could not really guard against your own thoughts. They slid into your mind from somewhere, and then there they were. Once you had thought something, you could not unthink it. And Medoc had taken Tara and Medoc had kept Tara, and Medoc was certainly the strongest sorcerer anyone had ever known.

This was all extremely traitorous, of course, but it was also rather a fascinating notion. Lugh, walking cautiously now, began to seriously consider whether he oughtn’t to give Medoc a fair hearing.

And he could feel Medoc’s presence very strongly now. A dark swirling force at the centre of the Palace; a whirling power that would embrace a man’s soul and smother his mind. A force that would certainly wrap itself about Ireland and mould Ireland. Yes, this needed thinking about very carefully.

Directly ahead of him was the Sun Chamber, the heart and the core of Tara. It was said to be the most beautiful place in the entire western world, although Lugh usually suffered a sick headache if he had to be in it for too long, and had to make an excuse to leave.

The double doors of the Sun Chamber were closed, and as Lugh made his way across the marble floors, he caught the faintest sound of movement from within. He stopped outside the doors and hesitated. It would probably be quite a good idea to go inside the Sun Chamber, because it might tell him a bit about Medoc. They needed to know all they could about Medoc.

But Lugh was becoming more and more fascinated by the creature that was Medoc; he wanted to know more about him, and if Medoc turned out to be what he, Lugh, suspected, then the idea of changing allegiances would certainly be looked at. Probably Medoc would be very glad to have a fine warrior such as Lugh in his ranks. Probably he would grant Lugh one or two honours, which Lugh would refuse with a becoming display of modesty, although he would not refuse too firmly, because that would be rude. The Longhands were many things, but rude was not one of them.

It would be extremely gratifying if Medoc granted him some kind of high place in his service, because didn’t all the stories about Medoc say that he looked after his own? That would show Fergus and Fintan and Cermait and those silly Tusks!

Still, it was necessary to be careful, because although this was Tara, the Shining Citadel, the seat of every High King of Ireland, it was also the lair of the darkest and most powerful necromancer ever to come out of the Dark Ireland. Lugh knew about necromancers; they were greedy and hungry and eternally on the watch for the glittering kingdoms of humans. Hundreds of years might pass quite peacefully, and they would leave the humans alone, and they would dwell inside the Dark Ireland, which was their domain. And then, without warning, they would find a gateway between the two worlds, and they would summon their terrible servants, and there would be wars and battles, and sometimes they would gain control of Tara, and sometimes they would be beaten back.

Lugh knew all of the stories. He knew about the terrible creatures of the Dark Ireland, and about the evil necromancers who dwelled there in dark towers and grim citadels. He knew very well that Medoc was Overlord of many of these beings, and probably he could summon them all and overrun Ireland if he cared to.

He knew, as well, about the Guardians, the rather dreadful band of evil, greedy necromancers, who would guard anything in the world, so long as someone would pay them enough. He wondered, briefly, whether Medoc might have called up the Guardians to watch over Tara, and he remembered some of the stories whispered about them. He remembered that there were three who were female but not human, and who nearly always worked together, and who were the most fearsome of all …

Spectre, who was grey and wraithlike, and who was composed of nightwinds and freezing winter dawns and howling blizzards … And Reflection, who many years ago had stolen the legendary Cloak of Nightmares from the Wolfkings, and now used it for her own nefarious ends. The last of the three was the Sensleibhe, who was the most fearsome of them all. The Sensleibhe it was who lured children into her warm, firelit room and then wove them into cloth made of human skin and human nails and human hair …

And then Lugh decided that these were such terrible thoughts to have when you were creeping through a dark and apparently deserted Palace that he would put them from him. Anyway, people did not believe in that sort of thing now.

He stood rather indecisively outside the Sun Chamber, because although he was becoming rather interested in the idea of confronting Medoc, it was quite likely that the Twelve Dark Lords would be in the Sun Chamber, and this was a very good reason for hesitating. Lugh did not know very much about the Twelve Lords. They were said to sup with Medoc every night, and to assist him in his sorcery and his rituals. They were each named for some aspect of evil; Corruption and Depravity and Lust and Perversion were but four — Lugh did not know them all and he did not want to know them. He was not overly particular about Depravity, except if you were involved in a war where there was generally pillaging and raping, and which you had to join in with, because people thought you were odd if you did not. But he would certainly go inside the Sun Chamber. He would go in at any minute. He was braver than most men, and he was not afraid of the Dark Lords. He was definitely not afraid of Medoc, because you were not afraid of someone for whom you were going to do a favour.

He would spin a tale for the camp when he got back, which they would all swallow without any difficulty. He would not tell them how he had bearded Medoc in his lair (which in fact he had still to do), but he would say that he had surveyed the lie of the land, and assessed the number of sentries and guards. This would be considered very useful.

He was just sketching out a bit of a tale which the soldiers would like to hear, when there was a definite sound from inside the Sun Chamber. Lugh stood very still and tried not to make any sound at all, and tried not to breathe, because his heart was thumping erratically and making him puff a bit.

The massive doors, carved with the wolf emblem, swung slowly open, and dark blue light, tinged with crimson, poured out into the dark hall where Lugh stood.

A soft and rather beautiful voice from inside the Chamber said, “Come inside, human.”

Of their own volition, Lugh’s feet took him forward.

Lugh was already more than halfway to accepting Medoc by this time, of course; he had already argued it out with himself, and he had already convinced himself that it would be to his advantage to give his allegiance to Medoc. This was not changing sides, simply being practical. The Longhands knew how to be practical.

The Sun Chamber was in shadow; it was no longer the blaze of light and colour it had once been, although there was light of a kind; there was a rather warm, rather reddish firelight, and there were curious shadows. Lugh glanced at the shadows and then away, because he had the unpleasant impression of solid figures within the shadows. The Dark Lords …?

The long banqueting table, which could seat a hundred and fifty people with ease, was laid for some kind of feast. The rich spicy scents of roasting meats and of warm, fragrant wine reached Lugh, who remembered, rather unexpectedly, that he was hungry. But he stood uncertainly in the doorway, wishing that the doors were not quite so wide and not quite so high, because to be sure it made a Man feel a bit puny to be framed like this in such a massive opening, and the last thing you wanted in this kind of situation was to feel puny.

As he moved forward, he saw that tall carved chairs were ranged about the banqueting table, and he counted them. Twelve. One for each of the Dark Lords. And one at the head of the table facing the door. Thirteen in all.

Twelve Dark Lords and the one who ruled them: Medoc.

The firelight washed over him, making him a creature of dark shadows and red flickering light, so that for a moment Lugh could not be sure if anyone sat there or not. And then he moved a little nearer, and he saw that a figure did sit there, and that it was watching him, wholly at ease, the fingers of one hand curled about the stem of a wine chalice.

Medoc. The Dark Necromancer. The cruel, beautiful, evil one who had driven out the Wolfline.

(And, let facts be faced, had kept out the Wolfline.)

He was rather smaller than Lugh had expected, and with every step closer, Lugh thought he was very ordinary indeed. His hair was dark and his face was lean and even slightly austere. You had the feeling that he might enjoy good music and wine and the learned, rather dry tomes of the Druids and the Alchemists.

Lugh began to feel considerably better. This was quite definitely a person he could handle. He could handle most people, of course, but he would admit to having been the smallest bit nervous about meeting Medoc.

Medoc had risen and come forward. It was gratifying to discover that he was not quite so tall as Lugh. It was even more gratifying to discover that Medoc, for all his sinister reputation, was not in the least bit alarming. You could not be afraid of a man six inches shorter than you were, and who seemed to possess the gentle, unworldly features of a scholar. Lugh squared his shoulders and began to feel in command of the situation. It would be nice to think that he might go down in history as the one who had bearded Medoc in his lair. And then he wished he had not used the word lair, because it conjured up rather unpleasant visions of dark firelit caves with reddish glows and eerie shadows that danced across the ceiling, and might have been anything at all.

A bit like the Sun Chamber now …

Medoc spoke then, and his voice was soft and gentle and soothing. He said, “You are most welcome, Sir of the Longhand,” and Lugh was at once pleased. He eyed Medoc and said he took that very kindly, because he had heard that strangers were no longer welcome inside Tara.

Medoc looked sad. He said, “Yes, I am afraid that amongst your people I have an unfortunate name. It is a great sadness to me. And things are not always what they seem. Will you be seated? And will you perhaps take wine with me?” The slender white hands reached for chalice and flagon, and Lugh watched as the wine was poured. “This wine is not to everyone’s taste,” said Medoc, and his dark eyes flickered to Lugh and then back again and, just for a second, Lugh had the uncomfortable impression that something that was neither gentle nor scholarly showed in their depths. “It is not to everyone’s taste,” said Medoc. “But I think you may have a more discerning palate than most.” He handed Lugh the chalice. “It is not a wine that everyone could appreciate,” said Medoc, and sat back and smiled.

And if it was appreciation of wine they were talking of, Lugh was your man. The Longhands had very delicate palates, which was not something widely known. Of course, you blunted these things a bit by living close to soldiers. You had to join in and drink the most remarkable liquids, just to be one with your men.

Lugh did not, in fact, care for the wine overmuch, but it would not do to say this. Medoc had spotted him as a man of delicate palate, and it would be rude to dispel this image. He sipped cautiously at the wine, and found himself liking it better on closer acquaintance. He did not think he had ever tasted anything quite like it.

“No, it is a very rare vintage,” said Medoc. “But I thought you would enjoy it.” He smiled, and Lugh smiled back, and relaxed a bit, because none of this was turning out to be nearly as frightening as he had expected. He sat back in his chair — very comfortable, these carved chairs — and took a look about him.

The Sun Chamber looked very nearly cosy. “Firelight,” said Medoc in his soft voice. “Restful. I find it relaxing just to sit by a fire at the day’s end and think, and perhaps read a little, and ponder.”

Whatever images Lugh might have conjured up of Medoc inside Tara, they had certainly not included one of Medoc sitting pondering by the fire. He felt even safer, because you could not be the least bit afraid of a man who admitted to pondering.

“There is,” said Medoc thoughtfully, “so much in the world that is not restful now, would you agree?”

Lugh said that was very true indeed, and would there be a drain more of the wine.

“Yes, it is a wine which improves on closer acquaintance,” said Medoc, and Lugh jumped, because this was what he had been thinking. He held out his chalice and watched the wine flow into it. Medoc’s hands were swift and sure; they were the sort of hands you found yourself liking to watch. They were not, Lugh thought hazily, very manly hands. They were nearly feminine really, white and soft. There was a dark red ring on one finger, the like of which Lugh had never seen before, but which seemed to catch the firelight and glint. It made you blink a bit to begin with, but then after you had looked at it for a while, you found it was not at all dazzling. It was quite difficult to look away from the dark red ring, which was not anything that Lugh would have worn, but which looked quite at home on a slender white hand that belonged to a wicked, powerful necromancer.

“I am not in the least bit wicked,” said Medoc softly, and Lugh thought again that he really had a very attractive voice. “As for necromancy” — there was a shrug, a gesture of self-deprecation — “I have dipped a little into the annals of these things,” said Medoc, “as who has not?”

“Indeed yes,” said Lugh, who had never come within a mile of necromancy, and would not have recognised an annal on it to save his life. It occurred to him that Medoc’s voice had grown momentarily stronger, almost as if he might be pulling down some kind of power. But this was patently absurd, and Lugh sank back into the warmth of the room and the drowsiness of the wine, and allowed himself to listen to the soft beautiful voice. It was a voice you could go on listening to. There was even a thread of authority in it now. Lugh knew about authority. It was not something you could teach people to have. You either possessed it or you did not.

Medoc possessed a remarkable degree of authority. He was smiling at Lugh and the great, dark red ring (would it be a ruby?) was catching and holding the light, so that Lugh could almost imagine there were fires within the ring, and that goblins with red eyes and pitchforks danced there, and that horned creatures waited there and that cave mouths yawned and … O be wary, Mortal, be wary of the vast caverns of hell …

Lugh blinked and the ruby glowed steadily and quietly and innocently. A trick of the light, nothing more.

“A trick of the light,” said Medoc. “But that has shown me you are a man of some perception, Sir Longhand.”

Lugh nodded, pleased. He did not trouble to correct Medoc over the question of title because clearly this was only a matter of time. He said that perception was the thing these days.

“Oh, perception has won many a war,” said Medoc, who seemed to be wholly in sympathy with Lugh’s ideas. “Battles are not always won by plundering and pillaging and raping.” They were not, this was very true, and as far as Lugh was concerned, you could keep pillaging and raping any day of the week. Plundering was different, because you acquired things by it.

“But it is all so barbaric,” said Medoc, and Lugh, lulled by the fire and the wine, drowsy from Medoc’s enchantment, nodded and went on nodding, because it was difficult to stop once you had started. He wondered would there be any more wine, and he wondered as well whether Medoc was going to offer him a bite of supper. It was not that he was greedy, but only that Cathbad kept them on astonishingly short rations. Lugh would enjoy a good plateful of roast boar, perhaps with some wings of pheasant as a side dish, and maybe a few honey cakes to round it all off.

The food was before him almost before he had framed the thought; succulent roast boar, exactly as he liked it, with the centre a little pink and the edges moist and brown. Pheasant wings stewed gently in mulled wine — a great delicacy. And honey cakes fresh from the ovens, the tops breaking open to spill out the warm fragrant honey beneath. The wine goblet, filled to the brim, was at his elbow.

Medoc said softly, “Eat and drink, my friend, for ‘Do what you like’ is the only creed worth anything.”

Lugh found this eminently sensible. It was shocking, when you thought about it, how in all of the stories told about Medoc, no one had ever said that he was sensible and courteous. People did not set much store by courtesy these days, but Lugh had been properly brought up and he knew what was what. Courtesy and good manners, and consideration for others, there was the thing. Plain old-fashioned politeness. Medoc was a gentleman.

“I am what I am,” said Medoc. “And I think we understand one another, you and I.”

Lugh said they did, indeed they did.

“And now that we have arrived at such a good understanding,” said Medoc, “I wonder if I may impose on your good nature.” He looked at Lugh, and Lugh found himself nodding all over again.

“Excellent,” said Medoc, and Lugh beamed, because Medoc was the sort of person you would like to find thought well of you. “And of course,” said Medoc in a soft purring voice, “of course, I am exceedingly generous to those who serve me. You have perhaps heard that? It is true. I will give much to those who swear allegiance, and who perform the tasks I set them.

“I will give you many things and many honours if you will undertake this task, Sir Longhand,” said Medoc, and Lugh, caught all over again by the silken note in Medoc’s voice, certainly held by the steady red glow of Medoc’s slanting eyes, said slowly, “I will do anything you ask.”

Medoc sat back in his chair and regarded Lugh. “The task is difficult and delicate,” he said, and a disinterested observer might almost have thought there was amusement in his voice now. “Discretion and imagination is called for. It is not everyone who could do this,” said Medoc, “but I have formed a very high opinion of your intelligence, Sir Longhand. I believe that you may be the one man in Ireland that I could …”

“Yes?” said Lugh.

“That I could trust,” said Medoc, and smiled and raised the hand that wore the great heavy ring, and once again the depths glowed with life. Lugh thought it was perfectly possible to imagine you were seeing pictures in the ring again. And the layers of colour were all there. Red on red on red …

And all the fires of hell reflected in between … all the torments of the burning dungeons … leaping, devouring flames … Look deep into the furnaces and be lost once and for ever, Mortal soul … look down into the boiling lakes and the beds of raging fire to the ovens tended by harpy-footed furies … look into the sins and the passions and the secret shameful desires of the world and be forever damned, human soul … follow the ways of the Dark Lords … the only creed is “Do what you will” … Follow me, human soul, and come down into the brimstone pit …

Lugh blinked and the ruby dimmed and the fiery caverns shimmered and dissolved, and he was back in the Sun Chamber that was a Sun Chamber no longer, but a dark mysterious lair with a slender, dark-visaged gentleman who had given him excellent wine and a very good supper.

He raised his eyes and looked directly at Medoc and said, “I will do whatever you wish,” and with the words the last traces of allegiance to the Wolfkings fell from Lugh of the Longhand, and he was Medoc’s body and soul.

Which was exactly what Medoc had wanted.

“Lies have been told of me through all eternity,” said Medoc, his eyes unwavering, and Lugh nodded solemnly. He thought he would perform this task for Medoc, whatever it turned out to be, and he would be very pleased to do it. The thought of the Twelve Dark Lords weighed a bit heavily on him, but he would not let this sway him. He would certainly not let the thought of Dorrainge and Fergus and the rest sway him either. Medoc would control the Twelve Lords, and Lugh would control Dorrainge and the others. It went without saying.

“The Dark Lords need not concern you,” said Medoc. “They are useful at times.” He smiled and Lugh smiled back. “One makes use of the instruments that come to one’s hand,” he said, and Lugh saw the sense of this at once.

Medoc said, “Ireland is threatened. It is threatened by a terrible menace.” He looked at Lugh, and Lugh nodded once again, because he knew all about terrible menaces and dreadful threats. Wasn’t Ireland always falling victim to one or the other? To be fair, they had all of them believed that Medoc himself was a terrible menace, if he was not a dreadful threat. One was as bad as the other. But Lugh could see that Medoc was neither. He sat up a bit straighter and waited to hear about the terrible menace. Or dreadful threat. Whichever it turned out to be.

Medoc leaned forward so that the firelight washed over his face and threw a strange, rather eerie mask across the upper part of his features. “As you will know, Sir Long-hand,” he said, “the Wolfline of Ireland is nearly extinct.”

Yes, Lugh knew this, everyone knew this, and it had been a source of some worry. He watched Medoc rather anxiously.

Medoc leaned back again and regarded Lugh. At last, he said, “Have you ever heard of the legend of the Lost Prince?”

For a very long time, neither of them spoke further. A silence of such brooding quality settled on the fire-lit chamber, that Lugh thought you could almost have reached out and touched it.

The Lost Prince … The legendary child who would appear and who would finally defeat the Dark Ireland … Tara’s once and future King …

Medoc said, “Yes, it is a seductive notion, of course. An attractive myth. And you will find the belief in many countries and in many creeds. People — uneducated people — like to have these foolish dreams and these absurd hopes.”

Lugh said he quite saw that and wouldn’t a sensible man dismiss it for the superstition it was.

“Unfortunately,” said Medoc silkily, “in this case, it is more than superstition.” The dark eyes glowed. “A few years ago,” said Medoc, “a child was born with the ancient and mystical wolfblood running strongly in its veins. A Wolfprince …”

Lugh did not speak, and presently Medoc said, “Great mystery surrounded the birth of this child. It was born in the most extreme secrecy ever to attend on the birth of any Prince of Ireland. It was taken by night and given into the care of an obscure family. But for all this anonymity, it is a Prince of the Old Nobility; the sidh stole up to the Gates of Tara and sang it into the world, as they have always done for the Wolfprinces.” Anger twisted the patrician features briefly, and Lugh flinched.

“It is said that the Elven King, Aillen mac Midha, foresaw such danger for the Prince that he attended its birth,” said Medoc. “And wove about it such a strong magic that it was believed the child would be forever safe.

“I learned of the creature’s birth by means which do not concern you,” said Medoc, and Lugh at once thought, Sorcery? Did he use sorcery! and Medoc smiled, and said, “Of course I used sorcery. Am I not a member of the Ancient Academy of Sorcerers? Do I not hold the right to wear the Dark Star of Necromancy, and do I not know of every spell spun and every enchantment woven in Ireland?” He seemed almost to sink into a reverie for a moment, and Lugh looked up.

Medoc said, very softly, as if he had forgotten Lugh’s existence, “And have I not drawn about the Tyrian sorcerers the Cloak of Failure, so that their absurd, pitiful attempts to re-create the Royal Beastline should never succeed?” His eyes gleamed redly, and Lugh felt an uncomfortable prickling on the back of his neck.

And then Medoc looked up, and smiled, and said, “Of course I use sorcery,” and Lugh saw that perhaps after all it would have been a reasonable thing to have done.

“The child must not be allowed to live,” said Medoc, looking at Lugh very intently. “The Wolfline is tainted, and it must die out.” Lugh, unable to look away from Medoc’s unwavering stare, said, “Yes, it must die out.”

Medoc leaned back, and appeared to relax very slightly. “For the Wolfline to disappear,” he said, “this child, this so-called Lost Prince, must therefore be destroyed.” He looked at Lugh and waited, and after a while, Lugh said slowly, “Yes. He must be destroyed.”

“He is no true Prince,” said Medoc. “He is an imposter.”

Lugh nodded.

“An imposter,” said Medoc again. “A fake. A cheat.” The slanting eyes were still fixed on Lugh, and to Lugh’s drugged mind it seemed that they grew larger. “But he is being reared in secrecy, and one day in the future he will rise up and challenge me.” He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming redly. “I have Tara,” he said. “And I will keep Tara. But to rule, I must have absolute power. There can be no pretenders, no Wolfprinces, no legends growing up in secrecy who might raise an army against me. You understand all this?”

“Yes,” said Lugh.

“The Prince must be sought out and killed,” said Medoc.

“He must be killed,” nodded Lugh.

“Destroyed completely.”

“Destroyed completely,” said Lugh.

“And you will destroy him.”

“Yes. Yes, I will do that,” said Lugh. And then, with a sudden frown, “But if he is so protected — if there is such secrecy …”

Medoc sat back in his chair, the fingers of one hand curled about the stem of his wine chalice. He said, “The child’s whereabouts are known to me. He is in a village called Folaim, which, in the old, pure Gael, means a place of concealment. It was not difficult to discover him.” He smiled, and turned the ruby ring on his hand, so that the strange red lights began to glow again.

“They will guard the creature as well as they can,” said Medoc, and Lugh remembered about the Guardians, about the Spectre and Reflection, and the terrible Sensleibhe, and hoped he was not going to encounter any of them.

“The Guardians serve another at present,” said Medoc, and, as Lugh looked up, he smiled. “Had you forgotten that I possess the ability to hear you, Sir Longhand?”

Lugh said, rather hesitantly, “The Samhailt,” and Medoc made a quick, contemptuous gesture with one hand.

“A milk and water enchantment, bestowed only on weaklings. There are stronger powers than the Samhailt. It was the Amaranth line who spun the Samhailt enchantment, and presented it to the Beastline of Ireland,” said Medoc. “But they forgot that there are others of an even older line, a line far stronger and darker than the Amaranthine. While the Amaranths were perfecting the Samhailt, I was spinning a far stronger, far more incisive enchantment. There is no code of honour binding the enchantment that permits me to hear your thoughts,” said Medoc scornfully. “I can hear whatever I care to.” He sipped the wine in his glass.

“The Guardians have served me,” he said, after a moment, “but they were called from the Dark Ireland to be of use to a world not yet born, and they are still serving that Master.”

He looked at Lugh, and Lugh vaguely remembered about Fergus and the journey to the Far Future, and wondered if Fergus would encounter the Guardians, and whether Medoc would know about it.

Medoc said softly, “The Guardians travelled into the Future only because I permitted it.” The thin, cruel smile touched his face. “Have you forgotten, Sir Longhand, that I rule in the Dark Domain also? And that every creature who dwells there must answer to me?” He studied Lugh again, and appeared satisfied. “The Wolfchild is hardly guarded at all,” he said. “They believe that the enchantment spun by the Elven King at the creature’s birth is sufficient.” His eyes glinted redly. “And so you must go to the place called Folaim,” he said. “You must seek out the Lost Prince, and you must kill him.”

“How will I know him?”

“He possesses the wolfblood. You will know.”

“But if I do not?”

“Then,” said Medoc, “you must kill them all. You must slaughter every first-born boy in Folaim under the age of seven years. And if you are still unsure, then you must slaughter every Manchild under the age of seven years in Ireland.” He gave Lugh the narrow gleaming stare again. “We shall revive the cult of Crom Croich to do it,” he said.

Lugh said, as if from a great distance, “There is one thing I do not understand.”

“Well?”

Summoning his resources, and certainly summoning his courage, Lugh said, “This child. This Wolfprince —”

“Yes?”

“Who were its parents?”

Medoc smiled the cruel, thin smile again. “Oh, Sir Long-hand,” he said softly, “can you not guess? Were you not at Court seven years ago when the Bright Palace rocked with the whispers of the great and terrible scandal? Do you not remember the stories that were told behind closed doors, and the speculations that took place behind hands? Were you not yourself instrumental in bringing to light a shocking truth?” said Medoc.

“Seven years ago, the creature you know as the Wolf-queen loved and lay with her Captain of the Fiana. And as a result bore him, in great secrecy, a son.

“It is that child who is Ireland’s Lost Prince. It is that child who must be found and slain.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

For a very long time, Fergus had been aware of a change inside the Prison of Hostages. He thought that you could argue that where there is no substance, there cannot be change; where there is nothing but the endless pure light, a man cannot be aware of things altering.

But the light that streamed constantly in and threw bars of white brilliance across the floor had changed subtly. Once, he caught the faintest shadow of movement, as if someone (something?) had darted down a long winding corridor outside the cell-like structure where he lay. Now and then he caught sounds, movements, scufflings, whisperings. Creatures outside of his barred stone room.

He was not afraid; he was curious, and he was certainly roused. He thought he would welcome anyone and anything who would end the solitude and the silence.

As time went on the whisperings grew stronger and, now, the shadow that had darted across the light reflected on the stone floor took on a little more shape. Fergus began to be aware of creatures, beings, humans, struggling to reach him. After a time, he began to be aware of a pattern, and he found this extremely comforting. There was an immense security about structure. The days and nights inside the Prison were shapeless, and time had become a solid shining thing to him; a noiseless, all-embracing ocean, the shadow on the dial, the striking of the clock, the running of the sand … Fergus pulled his thoughts up sharpie, because for some reason the images had become abruptly disturbing. The shadow on the dial … why should he suddenly see Time as a huge clock, with the hands creeping slowly nearer to death?

The whisperings were closer. Fergus tried very hard not to delude himself about it, but he knew, quite surely, that they were nearer. Stronger. Something was waking in here. There are other living creatures here.

He had always believed he could not be alone. The Lad of the Skins was a greedy harvester, there must certainly be other prisoners. But to Fergus, shut in the stone cell, light streaming endlessly in, it had seemed impossible that he would ever reach them. The stone cell was rudimentary, but it was a cell; the window had bars, and so did the door. There was nothing to stop him from walking out of the cell, and yet when he tried, there was nowhere to walk to. Great endless walls reared up before him; infinite skies stretched in all directions.

It was a hard punishment, but Fergus, alone and bereft, thought, I have deserved it. If I had never lain with Grainne, if I had never taken her sweetness and her innocence, knowing how forbidden it was, perhaps none of this would have happened. Perhaps she would still be safely inside Tara, and Medoc would never have been able to ride out from the Dark Ireland.

A hard punishment even so, he thought, weary beyond bearing, heartsick beyond endurance for the world he had lost.

Yes, but there are others here with you …

The whisperings were stronger now, and now there were soft light footsteps. There was a hesitancy and a simplicity in the whisperings that to begin with he could not understand. Simplicity, thought Fergus, considering this. Something childlike about them.

Childlike.

Childlike.

Comprehension flooded Fergus’s mind in great blinding waves, and with it came an immense pity.

Children. The ritual slaughter of the previous century. The slaying of the first-born of every family in the land. Sacrifice to the monster-god Crom Croich. He reached down into memory for everything he had ever heard, and remembered the dreadful stories; the engravings made of the blood-baths of the day. The torchlit meetings on the Plain of the Fál, for the high priests of Crom Croich’s cult had known the power of darkness in their grisly rituals, and they had known, as well, that to carry out the slaughters in the shadow of the Stone of Fál would add immense power to their offerings to the god.

Fergus had seen engravings of the butchered children, their tiny, mutilated bodies strewn about; the flickering torch flames of Crom Croich’s priests. The implacable figure of Crom Croich itself, reborn into the world by a dreadful travesty of human birth; called into being by dark sorcery. The Conablaiche had been present as well, on the fringes, grinning, its talons curved. The Lad of the Skins had squatted close by, the Knife of Light ready in his hand …

Those slain children were here with him. They were inside the Prison, thrown there by the Lad after their hearts had been offered to Crom Croich, and after their souls had been taken by the glittering ice-cold Knife of Light.

The murdered children were all here.

Of course, thought Fergus. Of course. And with understanding, he felt the first hesitant communion …

Help us …

Fergus sat up and felt his mind reach out to them.

Help us, Fergus, for we are fighting our way back to the world …

It had been Fergus’s own great-grandfather, Cormac, who had led the violent battles that had finally ended the terrible cult. Cormac had hurled himself and his armies into battle, driving back the dreadful religion, executing the high priests who had led it, forbidding the practice then or at any other time in Ireland. Cormac had gone riding furiously and fiercely into battle whenever and wherever there was need.

As I should have done! cried Fergus silently. As I should have done against Medoc! But I did. I did!

And you were defeated.

Cormac had led the Crusade Wars as well, those brave, pitiful attempts to rescue the soulless children from the Prison. “For,” he had said, “it is a terrible thing to lose a child.” He had consulted the sorcerers and the Druids, and he had, so went the legend, promised half a King’s ransom in gold to the sorcerers if they could help.

None of it had been any use. “There is nothing we can do,” said the sorcerers sadly. “There is no liberation from the Prison of Hostages. Once the Doors of the Sky have closed, there is no road back to the world of Men.”

“None that we have been able to find, anyway,” amended one of them.

“They will be safe,” said the sorcerers, kindly. “They will not suffer, for there is no pain inside the Prison of Hostages.”

There was no physical pain, but there was the endless pain of loneliness and of shapeless, formless, aimless years that stretched out before you like that shining, noiseless ocean, like the shadow on the dial, the striking of the Clock, the running out of the sands …

Help us, Fergus …

Fergus was listening with every fibre of his mind now. They were here with him, the lost children, the slaughtered boys. They had somehow broken through the timelessness and the endless silence, and they were begging for his help.

For we shall storm our way through the Doors of the Sky and down, down into the world again …

Anticipation raced through Fergus. I must help them, I must not lose them … back to the world … He tried to put from him the thought that by leading the children out, then he also would return.

He opened his mind to its fullest extent, and at once there was a flood of such scalding emotions that his senses reeled, and for a while he could not separate the layers.

But there was bitterness, that he did identify. There was a great sad bitterness: we have been deprived of our childhood, Fergus. We have been snatched from the world before we had time to know it … Of course we are bitter …

They were bitter, but they were unbeaten. They were ready to somehow re-enter the world. Somehow they would do it …

Only we need you to lead us, Fergus — oh, help us, for it has been so very long …

Fergus said, and did not notice that the communion was no longer wordless, “Tell me why, after all these years? Why, when you have been here for so long, are you now able to make the attempt to break out?”

There was a moment, as if the children were considering him. But at last, “We are being called back,” said one of them — Fergus thought that perhaps it would be the eldest. Some kind of leader.

“We are being called back,” said the boy.

“We hear the cries for help from the world,” said another.

“Children who are threatened by the same cult that took our souls,” said a third.

Fergus said slowly, “The same cult —”

The first child said, “Crom Croich. They are reviving the slaughter of the first-born.”

*

Fergus was never afterwards able to tell when the boys ceased to be soft blurred forms and gentle wordless voices; he knew that there was a moment when they were not there, and then there was a moment when they were there with him, but he could not have told how it happened.

The boys were pale and huge-eyed, and there was no mark on them of the terrible injuries that must have been inflicted in Crom Croich’s name. Fergus looked at them for a long time, and remembered how the Conablaiche had stalked the land, gathering up living, beating hearts for its Master, and how the Lad of the Skins had followed, taking the souls …

“Will you help us?” said the boy who seemed to be a little older than the others; Fergus saw that he had a tumble of dark hair, and a rather reckless, rather attractive gleam in his eyes. Yes, unquestionably their leader. “You see,” said the boy, whose name was Conn, “we believe that we are being given the chance to break the bonds of this place and return to the world to fight the Conablaiche.” He stopped, and Fergus saw the younger ones shiver at the name. “But we have no knowledge of fighting,” said Conn. “And we have no longer any knowledge of the world that exists beyond this place.”

Fergus said, “This place …” And then, on a stronger note, “Can it be broken from? Is it possible?”

“We have learned a very little,” said Conn, “for we are here as victims; and not as a punishment.” He looked at Fergus as he said this, and Fergus did not speak.

“There are only three ways to break the bonds of the Prison of Hostages,” said Conn slowly. “And even after the bonds have been broken, there is the journey back to the world. We believe that to be a terrible journey.”

“Dangerous,” put in another boy, a little younger than Conn, but with the same lively dark eyes. Fergus thought they might be brothers, and then remembered that Crom Croich had taken only the first-born of each family. Cousins, perhaps?

Aloud, he said, “Yes? Tell me.”

“The first is by a soul being offered in exchange. That is fairly widely known.”

“Yes?” Fergus remembered how they had done this for Calatin. It seemed as if it had been in another life. “Go on.”

“A second way to break the bonds is to be called back,” said Conn. “By someone who is in immense danger —”

“That is what we think is happening to us,” said the second boy. “The children who are in danger from the Conablaiche and Crom Croich, just as we were …”

They both stopped, and Fergus, listening intently, watching them, said, “And then there is a third way?”

Conn said carefully, “We have also learned that this is a place of — of punishment. Atonement. Because we were here as victims, we believe we have been allowed a little more freedom.” He glanced at the stone walls and at the continual white light that streamed into the cell. “We have explored this place,” he said, his eyes suddenly distant. “We have found out that there are many levels and many roads that lead into it.” He looked back at Fergus. “And only three roads that lead out of it,” he said, and now Fergus saw that there was pity in his eyes.

“The third way out?” he said. “Will you tell me?”

“Fergus, it will not be easy.”

“Tell me,” said Fergus again, and Conn seemed to hesitate, glancing at the others.

At length, he said, “Deep within the Prison is a place called the Stone Hall of Judgement. Within it sit the Judges. We do not understand what they are, for we have never dared to enter the Stone Hall. We know that they are not human. But we believe that a soulless human who approaches them will be judged according to his sins, and a punishment pronounced. If he is able to bear the punishment, then it is possible for him to return to the world.” Another pause. “If you brave the Stone Hall, and suffer the punishment, then you are shown the way back to the world.”

“But even then, it is a terrible and a dangerous road,” said Fergus, half to himself. And then, looking back at the boys, “You could take me to this place?”

“Oh, yes,” said Conn.

“And the punishment?”

“Punishments are made to suit the sin,” said Conn. “That we do know.”

The immutable law. The ancient rule that punishments were weighed; that penance was meted out in exact accordance with the sin. If you sow thorns, you should not expect to harvest roses. What we drink is what we have brewed earlier. Yes. Not to be argued against, any of it. Fergus thought, But have I not suffered enough already? Surely I have made reparation? I have endured the solitude and the silence. Surely I can now be counted absolved?

He knew that it was not enough. He had sinned, he had inflicted terrible grievous hurt on Grainne. Against these lost children, these forgotten, soulless creatures, he had not been punished at all. These little ones had not sinned. They had been torn from the world, they had been mutilated and ripped open, and their hearts had been offered up to a monster-god.

“What else must I do?” said Fergus at last. “What must I do?” And thought that there was nothing he would not do to escape the Prison of Hostages, and there was nothing he would not do to help these children back to the world.

“First we must take you to the Stone Hall of Judgement. You will have to enter it alone, and you will have to face the Four Judges. It is frightening, that,” said Conn thoughtfully. “And we do not think there is any appeal against the Judges’ sentence.” He looked at Fergus, and sudden compassion showed in his face.

“Yes?” said Fergus.

Conn said gently, “Fergus, the punishment must suit the sin.”

And Fergus stared at him, and knew that his sin had been of the flesh, and a dreadful fear flooded his mind.

The sin of the flesh. And the penance must be in accordance with the sin.

For an incalculable time he stared at the boys, unable to speak, certainly unable to think properly.

The sin of the flesh. “Oh, no,” whispered Fergus.

“It is the only way,” said Conn. “It is the only way to break the bonds and make reparation and lead us back to save the children from Crom Croich.”

“Why me!” cried Fergus in agony, and at once knew the answer.

Because you are what you are. Because you are a Prince of Ireland. You are one of the last of the Ancient Bloodline. You are a descendant of the great Cormac, and of Dierdriu, and of Niall of the Nine Hostages. No one has a stronger duty.

And then, most terrible of all — because you lay with your sister, and thus you drew down upon Tara the curse uttered at the very beginning.

All Ireland will seethe with evil and the skies will darken and the rivers will run with blood …

“Can I be held responsible for what I am?” said Fergus.

“We are all of us responsible for what we are,” said Conn quietly, and Fergus thought, Yes, they have a right to say that.

“And you are a Prince of Tara.”

And if I had not loved Grainne, perhaps none of it would have happened. Perhaps the curse would have been deflected yet again, and Tara would have been safe for a little longer, and life, in the end, would have gone on very much as before.

If you pour the wine, you must expect to drink it …

Fergus bowed his head submissively and held out his hands and the boys clustered about him.

*

He was aware that they were taking him through the vast echoing emptinesses of the great Prison; through high-ceilinged rooms, beneath vaulted chambers of blue and gold and ivory; along dim galleries and crimson panelled halls and through chambers that looked as if they had been hewn from solid gold, and on through rooms where the walls were encrusted with precious gems.

“But they are living gems,” said one of the children in a soft, awed voice.

Living rubies and emeralds, and great gushing waterfalls of diamonds, and clusters of garnets and gentle opals …

There were rooms of marble and porphyry and topaz, and Fergus, his eyes dazzled, his senses swimming, thought, The Gates of Paradise studded with chalcedony and jasper, inlaid with firestones and cedarwood, rimmed with turquoise and moonstones …

Conn murmured some of the names as they went. “Although we do not know many,” he said.

There was the Land of Ever-Living and the Plain of Two Mists. “To be avoided,” said Conn with a sideways glance, and Fergus nodded and tried not to think of where they might be going and of what lay ahead. He thought he ought to be interested in all he was seeing; he thought that if things had been different, he would have been interested and fascinated and unable to think of anything other than the great glittering halls and the achingly beautiful places. Certainly he ought to be storing everything up.

He could not do it. The images, the unfolding splendours, each room more mystical and more brilliant than the last, were too much and too many. Aloud he said, “Have you tried to break out before?” and Conn regarded him with the grave stare that was friendly and becoming familiar.

“Of course we have,” he said, and Fergus nodded, because of course they would have tried. “We believe that there are doorways back to the world of Men,” said Conn. “Although we have never been able to find one. But we believe that a door is being opened. Opened for us now.”

“Because the cult of Crom Croich is being revived?”

“Yes,” said Conn. “Because the children must be saved.” He looked about him. “But we would not have waited for that,” he said. “We would have gone through any of the doorways back to the world.”

“Sometimes,” said the boy whom Fergus thought must be Conn’s cousin, “sometimes we have felt very close to those doorways. We have heard voices calling to us. There were attempts to bring us out. But you would know that.”

“The Crusades of Cormac’s reign,” said Fergus. “Yes, of course.”

“And sometimes,” said the boy whose name was Niall, “we have thought we could hear the sidh trying to lure us out with their music.”

“I liked the music,” said the smallest boy of all, wistfully. “I’d have liked to follow that.”

“We would have done anything,” said Conn. “We would have gone through any of the doorways back to the world. We would have gone across the Plain of Two Mists or the Lake of Darkness.”

“We would have crossed the River of Souls,” said another of the children, and a shiver of fear went through them all, and there was a sudden silence.

Fergus said, “The River of Souls?”

“Dark,” said one of them.

“Endless,” said another.

“It is the River of the Dead,” said Conn. “It flows nine times round the Prison of Hostages.”

“There’s a Ferryman,” put in the youngest, Michael, rather unhappily.

“A fisher of souls and hearts,” said Niall.

“Once he has you, you are lost for all time,” said another boy.

Fergus said, “But surely …” and paused. “But surely, we are already soulless?” he said.

“Our souls are in pawn,” said Conn very quietly, as if he feared to be overheard.

“We are hostages,” said Niall.

“That is why it is still possible for us to break the bonds,” said Conn.

Fergus said slowly, “And the Ferryman lies in wait for souls?”

“He will take you across the River of the Dead,” said Conn, “but he may also decide to drag you down into the endless darkness. We do not know who it is he serves, but we know that he serves the Dark Ireland.”

“The darkness of that river,” said Niall, “would be a far worse thing than the ceaseless light in here.”

“But we would risk it,” said Conn.

“We would risk anything to break the bonds,” said another boy.

“There is nothing we would not risk.”

They were moving on now, and Fergus had the impression that they were reaching the heart of the Prison.

The names tumbled about them, beautiful and incomprehensible and mysterious. The Hall of the Golden Pillars, the Star of the Poets, the Vale of Dawnlight … And others. Beautiful, meaningless names for beautiful, awesome places.

“We know only a very, very little,” said Conn, giving Fergus his straight stare. “In this house are many mansions, you see,” he said, and Fergus nodded, because there was something familiar about the words, and there was something reassuring about them as well. “In this house are many mansions …” He grasped the words, because there was a comfort about them. Many mansions … I think it will be all right, he said, testing his responses silently. I think I can do it. Can I? Yes, for anything else is unthinkable.

And I cannot fail the boys.

He tried to ask Conn and Niall about the rooms and the empty galleries, but their answers were vague.

“Truly we know so little,” said Conn. “And we do not really understand any of it.”

The Stone Hall of Judgement, where the Four Judges will pronounce sentence in exact accordance with the sin …

“It is for you to enter the Stone Hall,” said Conn. “And wait for the Four Judges to speak to you. They will pronounce a punishment,” said Conn, “and you must endure that punishment before you can be free.”

The punishment for the sin of the flesh …

“Then we will be free, we believe,” said Niall. “We can leave the Prison, and enter the domain of the Ferryman and cross the River of Souls. Only that way can we hope to escape.”

*

He knew the place at once, of course. He thought he had been there in dreams and nightmares, and he thought that this must be one of the most secret places of Men’s souls.

The Stone Hall of Judgment.

The children were huddled together, their faces white, their eyes luminous with sympathy.

“We cannot come in with you,” said Conn, “for each must face it alone. But we shall keep you in our thoughts.”

“We shall not let you go,” said Niall seriously.

“I shall think extra hard,” said Michael earnestly and, despite himself, Fergus smiled.

The threshold to the Stone Hall of Judgment was high and wide and stretched far away. There was a warmth and a soft drowsy scent, and Fergus could feel hidden hands pulling him in.

Come inside, Mortal, for this is the place to which all Men must finally come … there is no escape …

And then the huge wide doorway vanished, and Fergus was alone in the Stone Hall.

The room was a little like a temple, although it was not like any temple Fergus had ever seen. It was narrow and there were rows of benchlike seats, intricately carved and laid with soft cushions. Fergus, rather intrigued, not yet afraid, slid quietly into the nearest one and sat waiting. He thought that this was some kind of anteroom, and he thought that presently he would be shown what he had to do next.

The walls were embellished with delicately carved screens made of some kind of fragrant wood. Between the screens, the walls were painted with scenes showing screaming human souls being dragged beneath dark waters … The Ferryman! thought Fergus. Shall I see him? And felt his mind flinch from the idea.

Directly ahead of him, facing the rows of seats, was some kind of altar, long and low and covered with heavy linen. A low light burned in an elaborate lamp, and there was the scent of something heavy and exotic and unfamiliar. Fergus, who had talked with the Druids and the Travellers, sought for and found the word “incense.”

Incense burning in an anteroom … Warm scents drifting across the Hall of Judgment, where all men must come to hear their sins read out.

Fergus thought, I am in the Stone Hall, and presently, quite soon, I shall be judged.

Behind the altar, huge and impassive, were four immense, carved figures. They were ancient and rock-like and awesome, and Fergus recognised them: the Four Stone Judges. They would judge you on your life; on all the things you had done and all the things you had left undone; and your kindnesses and your unkindnesses; and on your honesty and integrity, and selfishness and generosity, and tolerance and impatience, and on every action you had ever performed during your life. Nothing would be missed, nothing would be skimmed over. Everything would be inspected and weighed and given its due. The carved faces were enigmatic; there was a flat, stern, eastern look to the features. They sat, half set into the walls of the Hall, their hands placed palms downwards on their knees.

They would wake very soon, thought Fergus, unable to look away. Their blank eyes would open and they would see him, and then the final judging would begin. There would be no concealing and no pretending.

The Stone Hall was not especially hot, but Fergus felt a great stifling heat pressing down on him, so that it was difficult to breathe. Dark red mists swam before his eyes, and he had the impression that something ancient and strong was materialising in the Hall.

In another minute, in just another few seconds, it will be here in all its awful glory, and it will see into my heart, and it will know everything, and I shall be judged.

And then the Stone Judges will awake and the sentence will be pronounced …

The ancient force was forming; the walls were pressing in, and there was a thickening in the air, so that Fergus could feel his heartbeat getting slower and heavier, and his mind becoming sluggish, and the blood congealing in his veins.

The Final Judging … The nearest of the great carved figures opened its stone eyes and looked directly at him, and as he did so, the other three awoke and looked to where Fergus sat.

The ancient force began to take substance and, as it did so, Fergus saw the first of the Judges open its mouth to speak, and heard, quite distinctly, a great cavernous echoing voice pronounce the terrible punishment:

Castration.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Fergus lay on the cool marble floor of the Stone Hall of Judgment, the boys all about him.

Conn’s voice, quite close, said, “It is over, Fergus. The Judges sleep again,” and Fergus blinked and looked about him and sat up. And after all, the Stone Hall was only a long, narrow, rather bare room. There was no carved screen, no terrible paintings of dying struggling souls being pulled below the waters by the Ferryman, no altar or incense. And the massive stone figures had gone.

Fergus said carefully, “You heard the Stone Judges?” and the boys nodded.

“You knew that the punishment would fit the sin.”

“Yes.”

Fergus said, “One of you must do it to me.” And looked straight at Conn.

Conn had turned very pale, but his eyes held Fergus’s. “I cannot.”

“Yes.”

“Fergus, don’t make me!” It was a cry of anguish this time. “You will feel it — your body will feel everything —” He stopped, and Fergus said softly, “I know.” And remembered how Fribble had explained that the bodies of those whose souls were stolen by the Lad of the Skins could still feel pain. The Eternal Sleep, he had called it. The Living Death. “You must do it,” said Fergus, and now it was the old Fergus, the head of the High Queen’s Fiana, the famous Captain. Conn heard the new note of authority, and looked at him.

“You must do it,” said Fergus, very gently, “so that I can break the bonds of this Prison and lead you back into the world. So that the children in the Ireland of now can be safe from Crom Croich.” He held the boy’s stare unwaveringly, and at last Conn said, “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Fergus drew a deep breath, and thought: And although you do not know it, you must do it to save Ireland. For thus mutilated and thus deprived of manhood, desire will die and I shall be able at last to stop loving and wanting and aching for my own sister. The tie that binds us, this dreadful forbidden love I have for her, will dissolve, and then perhaps the old, old curse will weaken and the Ancient Bloodline can once again rule from Tara.

Because you may as well face it, Fergus said to himself, you may as well face it squarely and for all time. There has never been a day or an hour, nor yet a minute, when you have not wanted her, and when she has not been in your thoughts and in your heart. There has never been a time when you would not have welcomed her back into your arms and when you would not have taken again what she gave on those dew-spattered mornings, on those drowsy afternoons in the woods surrounding Tara. She was stronger than you, and when told the truth she turned desire aside, but you did not. There has never been a day when you have not hoped. Now the hoping will die as well.

And what of her? What of Grainne? Would she, also, be set free? Was she even now perhaps free? Perhaps with someone else? I should want her to be happy, thought Fergus, his mind in turmoil. Of course I should. I cannot be so cruel, so selfish, as to want her to live with only the memories. And then a brief smile curved his lips, because the memories would always be there; they would always share what had been between them, and she would not forget. There would always be that for them.

But like this, surely desire would die for her as well? Wouldn’t it? I no longer know! cried Fergus in silent agony. I can no longer understand any of it! Only I believe that this is the only way to kill the desire and the love and the sin!

When Fergus sat up and looked at Conn and the others, there was a different light in his eyes, and there was a determination in his expression.

“Do it now,” he said.

*

“Just the three of us,” said Conn. “You and I and Niall.”

“Yes,” said Fergus. “Yes, all right.”

Afterwards he thought — when he could think clearly again — that he had been grateful to Conn for that. Just Conn, this strange, grave child who had so rapidly become close, and just Niall who was Conn’s cousin. Just the two of them and Fergus and the vast echoing Prison walls.

The children would be near. “And our thoughts will be with you,” said one of them, and Fergus remembered that they had said this to him before. Rather like a ritual. He found it immensely comforting, and then he was struck again by their strange, grave, unchildlike mien. But he thought they had had too long to learn patience and tolerance and gravity, they had had so many years and so many decades in here to learn to be unchildlike. Even so, he was glad that it would be only Conn and Niall who would witness the pain and the humiliation.

Conn said, “But there is no humiliation. In some lands it is considered an honour. A distinction.”

“There will be a little pain,” said Niall. “But we shall be very quick.” But Fergus thought Niall’s face was rather white.

“It will be as difficult for us,” said Conn, but his face was set.

“Will you do it — quickly?”

“Yes,” said Conn.

“And,” said Fergus, beginning to feel sick, “and you have a knife?”

“Yes.” There was the splinter-light of something catching the glare of the Prison’s brightness.

“Very sharp,” said Conn gently, and Fergus had time to see that the knife, like everything else about this place, was unusual and elaborate.

“Where did you —”

“It was on the altar,” said Conn. “Waiting.” And Fergus nodded and did not ask again, because there was too much that was incomprehensible about this place. He saw that the instrument in Conn’s hands was a kind of hinged clamp with strange symbols etched on it. There was an elliptical opening, there was a section that had serrated teeth …

I don’t think I can bear it, thought Fergus, but in the next minute he knew that it must be borne.

Conn said, “We are going to tie you down.”

“Yes.” He had expected this. He thought he would struggle and try to break free, because it would be against human nature not to. And to try to escape halfway through would be unthinkable. He began to hope very strenuously that Conn would be quick, and he began to hope as well that he would lose consciousness almost immediately. He heard Conn say something to Niall in a low voice, and he heard Niall say, “Very sharp indeed.” The splinter of brightness flashed again.

Then Conn said, “Spread the sawdust on the floor.

“And then hold his legs apart.”

Fergus had not thought he would feel so vulnerable lying like this; he had been prepared for the fear and the flinching away from pain and mutilation, but he had not been prepared for the helplessness, the knowledge that the most intimate part of him was at the mercy of a boy with a knife. He tried to think: But it is Conn, and I believe that I could trust Conn with anything and everything.

He trusted Conn, but Conn was about to do this dreadful thing to him. And then he met Conn’s eyes and he caught the thought that flickered in the air between them: Fergus, there is no other way, and he remembered the pronouncement of the Stone Judges. For you have brewed the wine and now you must drink it.

If Conn caught Fergus’s thoughts, he gave no indication. He said, “Sign to me when you are ready,” and Fergus was grateful for this, because he could at least feel in control, he could perhaps summon up every shred of courage and fortitude.

Grainne, thought Fergus, oh, my dear hopeless love, this is for you and this is for Tara, and for Ireland, and for all those children who will be offered to Crom Croich. It is for the hurt I dealt you and for those forbidden, achingly sweet afternoons and those gentle dawns … And it is for the child I should have given you, the dark Wolfprince I should have given Tara and now never will … Only a travesty left now, my love. Only a half-man, a gelding, no longer able to pass on the thin frayed Royal blood … Although, thought Fergus bitterly, perhaps if the gods are unkind, I have passed it on; perhaps, after all, I have helped to create a monster-creature, a nightmare Wolfcreature, born out of a sorcerer’s greed and sired by means of a Tyrian money-lender’s wine … Perhaps, after all, I have left Ireland an heir, thought Fergus, and the thought was a bitter one.

Conn was waiting, his eyes patient and filled with compassion. Fergus, looking up at him, knew that very soon he must signal to Conn, that the blade must come slicing down, but that first he must somehow find a great surging wave of resolution and defiance that would carry him through the pain.

And then, because the memory of the effectiveness of the Ice Cauldron in Calatin’s house slid into his mind, he began to imagine the resolve and the bravery as a great cresting wave, a rearing wall of armour that would shield him from the worst of it; a huge, fast-moving, sweeping current of self-defence, a rampart that would cushion the worst of the pain; a bastion, a bulwark.

And if I can only build that crest to its highest possible peak, and if I can then sign to Conn, I believe I shall come through this more cleanly and more easily than I deserve … He began to see it, quite clearly now, a huge grey-green wall of water, rushing in on him, the tips white-flecked already, foaming and swirling and ready to rise up … The water was like glass, like silk, it would provide cover, lee, shield …

Up and up, clear glass-green, glittering, catching the light, beginning to curl at the top, beginning to be foamy and creamy, beginning to reach its zenith …

In another minute, thought Fergus, feeling strength pour into him, in another minute, I shall bear it, I shall nod to Conn …

The wave was sweeping in on him faster now, it was rearing back slightly, it would surround him, it would be a cushion and a bastion …

“Now!” cried Fergus, and Conn brought the razor edge sweeping downwards.

Pain exploded in Fergus’s body, irradiating outwards; so fierce, so intimate, so utterly and comprehensively agonizing, that the wave he had so carefully constructed in his mind closed over his head in a suffocating blackness. He was drowning in the pain, he was unable to breathe, because the pain was choking him, his lower body was a raw open wound, and his life blood was leeching from him, and there had never been such pain anywhere in the world. The waters closed about him and he sank into the merciful pain-free depths …

… to wake again to pain, dulled, but still terrible, and to Conn and Niall bending over him, their eyes wide and fearful, their hands gentle.

Conn was saying, “It’s all right. Fergus, it is over.”

And Fergus heard himself murmur, “Yes, over once and for all … and she is gone from me now for all time … she is safe and I am safe …”

There was an interlude, a between-time, which he was later to look on as a time when he was neither quite in the world nor yet quite out of it. He thought that the children came and went, solemn, dark-eyed faces watching him, their eyes filled with sympathy and trust. “For,” thought Fergus, restless against the vice of the pain between his legs, “for they are waiting for me to lead them out of this place and back into the world to defeat Crom Croich’s grisly cult.”

Conn and Niall were with him almost continuously. “I do not think you ever left me,” Fergus said afterwards to Conn.

“I did not,” said Conn.

He had thought that this would be the worst part of all; the memory of what had been done, the realisation that never again would he make love to a woman; never again would he feel the slow, sweet stirrings of desire, the excitement of pursuing a lady of the Court. But all through it, like a dim silver thread, was the thought of Grainne and the knowledge that at least he had killed that sweet, illicit feeling.

For her as well? Please let it be for her as well, thought Fergus.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Lugh of the Longhand had explained his new plan very clearly and very simply, and in an altogether friendly fashion. He had not dissimulated in the least bit, but still it had been odd how he had found it difficult to look directly at the wolf-emblem pennants which always flew from the camp’s entrance. He would not trouble about this, because he knew now that the Wolfline was nearly extinct, and it was dying. You threw in your allegiance with those who were in the ascendant. Medoc was in the ascendant. Lugh could be sure about this.

He had been very much shocked to learn that the Queen (he still thought of her by that title) had borne a child in secret, and allowed the child to be taken away and raised in secrecy: Folaim, the place of concealment. Lugh remembered very well indeed the rumours and the gossip, and he was rather pleased to think he had been instrumental in bringing the thing to an end. Just a word or two in the right quarters, that was all he had done at the time. And he had been saddened and hurt when Dierdriu, instead of calling him to thank him, and perhaps bestowing an honour of some kind on him (the Order of Nuadu Airgetlam, which was a silver wolfhead, would have been nice), had actually treated him rather coldly.

Medoc’s story about the child, the Wolfprince, fitted exactly. Lugh remembered how Grainne had gone on a tour of the Western Isles, and how she had been away for several months. Lugh thought it was deceitful and sly of Grainne, and wondered that she had been able to command such allegiance from the people. Cormac and Dierdriu had been no better, of course. What was in the meat came out in the gravy, and Grainne was really no better than her forebears.

He called the armies together and mapped out the new plan. He only spoke for quite a short time, telling how they would all march on to the little township called Folaim, there to raise further men for the battle. He managed to smudge over the reason for choosing this really rather obscure place quite well, so that it was irritating of Dorrainge, who always made things difficult, to ask awkward questions like: But why are we leaving Tara? And: What is so special about Folaim? Or even: But didn’t we come to Tara to spy on Medoc?

Lugh did not answer any of these questions directly, because for one thing he did not know how to. Medoc had not told him how he should deal with such a curt approach, and for another thing he was not going to have Druids telling him what to do. He adopted a rather vague manner and said it was all part of a new strategy and it would be a better tactic.

“Why?” said Dorrainge, and Lugh sighed at such bluntness. He said that it was a very good plan, and they would all of them do what they were told, and that the army in general, and Lugh in particular, did not have to be answer-able to Druids. He raised his voice towards the end, so that several people who had been nodding off woke up with a start, and four soldiers who had been engaging in a little dilettante dice-throwing at the back, scooped up the dice at once, because a quarrel between Longhand the Lily-Livered and Fatchops Dorrainge would be much more interesting than a furtive game of dice.

Lugh was not going to quarrel. He was not even going to quarrel with Dorrainge, even though he was being given provocation. He made a short speech (only a few well-thought-out words it was) about Duty and Loyalty and Obedience. He would certainly have gone on to talk about Fidelity as well, if he had not been distracted by Cathbad, who was tiptoeing stealthily out, one finger to his lips to indicate that he had no intention of making any noise, but unfortunately tripping over the feet of several people who were sitting on the ground, so that there was a good deal of tutting and shushing, and Cathbad was told he ought to be less clumsy, and Lugh lost the thread of his speech, and had to go back to the beginning which, as Dorrainge pointed out, was exactly what they did not want.

The men were interested in the new plan. They nodded and said wouldn’t it be fine to be on the march again. Several of them looked rather unhappily to the dark, saucer-shaped valley where Tara lay, and which was now a blur of shadow. A fine thing to be getting away for the moment, said the men. There was nothing but gloom and black sorcery down there, and if they could break Medoc’s nasty Enchantment by rounding up a few hill farmers and one or two shepherds and woodcutters it would be grand. Didn’t it just about break your heart to be so close to the Bright Palace and see it shrouded in darkness, only that you couldn’t see it at all, and wasn’t that the point. They became quite emotional, and somebody went round with the mulled wine which Cathbad had put out, and there was much drinking of damnation to the Twelve Dark Lords, and death and destruction to Medoc and the Conablaiche, and long life and health to the Wolfqueen.

“There’ll be a few sore heads in the morning I shouldn’t wonder,” observed Cathbad, “I’ll just gather a few pansies for a brew, or should it be elfwort? Let me see now …”

Lugh was glad that it had been so easy to persuade the men to march to Folaim. Of course they would agree to do whatever he told them. That was the sign of a good leader.

It was to be hoped that he would recognise the Wolfprince when he found it. This would make the task a whole lot easier, because no one wanted to go about slaughtering children wholesale. Lugh would look very hard for the signs of the wolfstrain, and since he was a person of some perspicacity, he would probably spot the creature without any trouble. He kept the image of the High Kings firmly in the forefront of his mind; let him once find a child who had the distinctive slant and golden glow to its eyes, the dark glossy hair that resembled an animal’s pelt, the three-cornered features that could look at once austere and sly, and he would know. Here is the Lost Prince!

But he had forgotten the really irritating habit that the reckless womanising Cormac had had of seducing anyone and everyone, and he had reckoned without the fact that Cormac (and one or two others of the Wolfline) had been indiscriminate, not to say incontinent, in the spreading of their seed.

When Lugh said crossly that there were bastards everywhere, he was misunderstood. Dorrainge frowned, and Cathbad sucked in his teeth and said, “Oh, dear me, what an expression, and me with my sheltered upbringing,” and Lugh had to explain.

Dorrainge said, “Oh. Yes, I see. Yes, Cormac was a great one for that sort of thing, they say,” and Cathbad, who loved gossip, was so entranced by this that he forgot to look where he was going, and tripped over his robes, and tumbled headlong into a thicket hedge, and had to be hauled out by several of the soldiers.

“And I was pricked,” said Cathbad breathlessly, dusting himself down, and hunched a shoulder and giggled when the soldiers guffawed and said, Yes, more times than he can count, and Lugh had to call them to order, because you could not have this sort of ribaldry among the men. You did not know where it might lead to.

They travelled a good deal by night — “Inconspicuous,” said Lugh, and they covered a good deal of ground that way. “No distractions,” said Lugh, pleased, although one or two of the soldiers muttered that a bit of a distraction was a good thing sometimes, and got you through a boring march.

Lugh could not have told when he first became aware that they were no longer alone; when they ceased to be the High Queen’s army and a brace of Druids and became something a bit different.

He thought it was when they were about two days’ march from Folaim, just as they stopped for a break and a midday meal.

“It’s called Black Pig’s Dyke, this,” said Cathbad, who liked to know all the names, and who had read the maps earlier, and had, in fact, dropped Lugh’s best map into a large puddle. “We’ll have a plateful of stew each,” said Cathbad, beaming.

Folaim was not a very long way ahead of them now, which was why it was odd of Lugh to keep glancing over his shoulder. He thought that it was as they were crossing a narrow river that he began to feel uneasy. A kind of prickling on the back of his neck. He half turned several times, thinking he would see one of the men, or possibly Dorrainge, standing watching him. But there was no one, although Lugh retained the strong feeling that there had been someone; that just before he had turned, the watcher had disappeared.

This was ridiculous, because you did not see things that were not there. But the feeling persisted, and Lugh began to have the impression that the night was going to be altogether too dark and the air altogether too quiet, and the forest through which they were now marching altogether too lonely.

He began to feel very strongly indeed that there was something with them. Something that was creeping through the dark old forest, and something that could see them without them seeing it.

A shadow. Yes, now that Lugh came to concentrate, there was a shadow. An insubstantial form that rode alongside them and kept pace with them. Something that hovered at Lugh’s side, grinning and waiting. Lugh frowned, because this was something he had not reckoned on, and he did not care for silent nearly invisible things that rode with you and watched you and vanished when you tried to pin them with your eyes. He frowned and tried to think what the thing might be.

And then, as they rounded a curve in the forest path, and saw Folaim ahead of them in a little hollow by itself, the shadow coalesced for a minute, and Lugh saw the shape quite clearly, and cold fear gripped his vitals.

Small. Light. Frail. A creature that would presently cry in the night and beg for a share of the food and a place by the camp fire. Something that would certainly be there when Lugh sought out the Wolfprince. Something that would certainly exult and gloat at the killing of the Royal child.

Medoc had sent the Lad of the Skins after them.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When Grainne said to Raynor, “Come with me to Tara. Help me to drive out Medoc,” she knew and Raynor knew that she was really saying: Return to the world with me. Let me give to you those things which have been denied you. She did not say this, because she knew that the knowledge was still too new for them. They had accepted that they were the Enchanted Beastline of Ireland, but they did not yet quite believe it.

“We dare not,” said Bee, but her eyes were shining.

Raynor listened to Grainne and watched her face, as if he wanted to absorb her and know her so well that he would never forget her. When she said again, “Come with me to Tara,” he turned on her a look of such fierce love and such blazing intensity that she felt her heart stop and then resume a painful beating. He cupped her face between his hands in the gesture she was coming to know, the gesture that said, “You are mine and nothing and no one shall take you from me.” And then he said aloud, “Yes. All right.” As simply and as directly as that.

It was important to remember that bringing these creatures out of the Grail Castle was only one part of the plan to defeat Medoc, and it was very important indeed not to lose sight of the fact that the Beastline would form only a small fighting detachment. Grainne thought she had not lost sight of any of this; there was, in her mind, the strong wonderful image of the Beastline and their creatures swooping down on Tara, with the ancient banners of their Houses streaming behind them in the wind — Banners that were so nearly lost to Ireland, she thought — but even as she was seeing this image, she still knew that it was the army, the Fiana, who would lead the charge against Medoc and the Twelve Lords.

And Fergus? Yes, Fergus must certainly be there, for it was not to be borne that they should regain Tara and Fergus not to be there with them. Grainne could still think, you are still here with me, my love; she could still pause in the day’s events and send out a thought, a message, an outpouring of strength to Fergus, who might be anywhere at all now, and who might be dead. Only if you were dead, my dear lost love, I think I should know it. She thought Fergus was safe somewhere, and she thought he would succeed, because failure was not something she would ever associate with him.

But when Raynor cupped her face between his hands and said, “You are mine,” and when he smiled the winged smile that was his strange inheritance and said, “Did you think I would let you go away from me?” Grainne felt delight pour over her in great, brilliant waves.

And the others would come with them; they would leave this dark ancient fortress, which might hold patches of sunlight and happiness, but which also held the miasma of centuries of despair and fear and madness.

When Rinnal said doubtfully, “We do not form a very large army, Your Majesty,” Grainne smiled at him and said, “But you will be the quintessence of it all, Rinnal. You and Bee, and your people. The Badgers and the Hares and the Chariot Horses and the Swans.”

“And we shall see Tara at last,” said Rinnal.

“Oh, yes,” said Grainne softly. “Oh, yes, you will see Tara.” For it is your inheritance as much as it is mine. And Fergus? said her mind, without warning. Isn’t it as much Fergus’s as well? I don’t know, said Grainne silently. I cannot tell any longer. Only that I must do all I can to drive out Medoc. It does not matter after that who rules.

Fintan and Cermait and Tybion the Tusk had been commissioned to marshal everyone into a proper fighting force. They had been charmed to be thus employed, although, as Fintan said, the task was not without its difficulties.

“It isn’t the people of the Beastline themselves,” said Fintan. “They’re the easiest creatures in the world.”

Cermait and Tybion had tried to count up how many they had. “Six Royal Houses,” said Tybion, but Cermait said there were the lesser Houses as well. “People like Bee and Rinnal, and Diarmuid and the Forest Dogs,” he said. “And if you allow ten animals per person, well, say a round dozen, that’s — dear me, it’s rather a lot.” He counted up on the fingers of both hands worriedly.

“It’s too many by far,” said Fintan crossly.

“It’s too many different species by far,” said Cermait, who had lost count and had to start again, and had already reached three different answers.

“It will be all right,” said Tybion, and Cermait at once wanted to know how Tybion could possibly think this, what with the Foxes falling out with the Forest Dogs, and the Badgers snuffling and getting under people’s feet, and the Hares leaping on to the table just as you were about to sit down to your supper.

Tybion said, mildly, that he thought everyone was getting on very amicably, all things considered, and Cermait said he would not call it amity precisely, not when the Foxes had spent that very morning chasing the Hares, and not when the Dogs had spent the afternoon barking at the Badgers who had decided to dig up the Grail Castle’s west lawn.

“It works,” said Tybion firmly.

“The stables are overcrowded with the Chariot Horses.”

“But nobody seems to mind.”

“I’m worried about the White Swans and the Eagles,” said Fintan, who was not going to be left out of such a promisingly gloomy discussion. “Mark my words, there’ll be trouble there once we set out. I told Her Majesty so,” said Fintan, who had not done any such thing, but thought it sounded well. “There’ll be trouble before we’ve done, I said. Of course, Raynor might be able to control the Eagles,” said Fintan doubtfully. “You never know.”

“It’s a grand strong army,” said Tybion contentedly.

Tybion was utterly and completely happy. He was enchanted to be here, to be in the High Queen’s service, to be helping his beautiful shining lady. He liked the Beastline creatures, and he thought they were courteous and noble and interesting, and that there was a fascinating air of great tragedy about them. Tybion, who had lived what he considered to be an ordinary sort of life, was intrigued by the tragedy and the drama of the Beastline creatures who had spent their lives shut away from the world and were now going to emerge into it. He was wide-eyed with delight, and he thought, as he went about the Castle, that to be sure this was the stuff that dreams were made on. He went about in a happy glow.

Grainne had talked to him, quite privately, and Tybion had stored this away to be relived later. She had said that she believed Tybion was going to be of great importance in the battle ahead of them, in the great fight to destroy Medoc and regain Tara, and Tybion, unable to take his eyes from her, had asked was there really going to be a battle, and Grainne had laughed and said, Oh, yes, for sure there was going to be a battle, and they would be sending Medoc and the Twelve Lords to the rightabout, and wasn’t that what all this was about anyway?

“And you are being such a help to me,” said Grainne, and Tybion mumbled and blushed and wondered should he kneel down to kiss her hand, but thought better of it, because she was not the sort of person whose hand you knelt down to kiss, unless it might be a State occasion, which this was not. You could easily visualise yourself dying for her, but somehow you could not imagine kneeling before her.

“That’s because she’s the People’s Queen,” said Cermait when Tybion tried to explain it later.

“She has what they call the common touch,” said Fintan, and then, because he liked Tybion, said quickly, “I didn’t mean you were common, my boy,” and Tybion nodded solemnly and understood, but thought that put next to Grainne they were all of them common really. Tybion knew quite well that he was not noble; none of the Tusks were, because none of them had the tiniest drop of noble blood, and they would not have known what to do with it if they had, so there was no use pretending otherwise. He went away to polish up the picture of dying for Grainne on the battlefield and wondered would a dying speech be considered presumptuous, because he did not want people to think him an upstart, and Fintan, a practical soul, went off to the kitchens, because they could not march against Medoc on empty stomachs.

“They all did so well,” said Grainne to Raynor. “They sorted the animals into separate sections, and kept the Foxes away from the Hares and the Dogs away from the Swans, and they even stopped the Badgers from tunnelling underneath the castle’s western foundations,” she said, smiling. “And they drew up a grand list of provisions.” She smiled again and Raynor smiled back.

He was unafraid of facing the outside world, although he knew it would not be easy. I have never known any other life, he thought. But he did not say this; already his mind was leaping ahead, and his thoughts centred on Medoc, the dark, cruel necromancer who had fathered Grainne and Fergus and taken Tara from them. He wanted to confront Medoc, to see him cringe and cower, and was rather appalled at the thought. “For,” he said, “I have always been a creature of peace.”

But he knew it was the strong enchanted eagleblood waking in him, and he knew he would never forget the moment when he had stood on the hillside behind the castle and sent out the call to the Eagles. He would never forget how he had felt when they had obeyed his call, golden and soaring and cruelly beautiful, their wings beating on the night air, the skies black with their numbers. He had felt it then, the legendary Enchantment streaming into him … The power and the light and the strength …

He knew that he must ride out with Grainne against Medoc; he must certainly lead the Eagles, those strong-winged creatures who would obey him, so that they might restore the light to Tara.

Tara, the Bright Palace … I shall see it at last, he thought, and felt a surging of his spirits, and a sense of homecoming. For it is my heritage as much as anyone’s, he thought.

He ached to be at Grainne’s side when they rode down into the valley that sheltered the glittering Palace; his whole body and his heart and his mind were already there, riding full pelt down the hillside, scattering the adversary, making the final triumphal march back to the Bright Palace.

Shall I in truth be there? He could see it very clearly, but he did not allow himself to see it for too long. For she is not for me nor I for her. Even though she has given me back my pride, and even though she has made it possible for me to break the chains of my own exile, still I do not see how we can be together. He thought he would have to let her go in the end, his lovely golden lady. He would return to the Grail Castle, but he would never for an hour forget her. No matter my heritage, I am not of her world, he thought.

But he would see Tara in all its blaze of splendour — oh, yes, let me see it, just once! — and then he would forswear the Wolfqueen. She is not for me nor I for her.

Even so, he thought, lying wakeful in the drowsy firelight, even so, I believe I can give her back her kingdom.

*

And so this is it, thought Grainne, seated on her horse, a little apart from the others, waiting for the moment when the great portcullis of the Castle would be raised, and the drawbridge lowered, and waiting for the moment when they would ride out across the ravine and down into the world. This is it, the moment you have dreamed about and longed for and yearned towards. Make the most of it, she said to herself, for it is certain that you will never, not if you live for seven lifetimes, know another moment to equal this one.

And all the power and the light and the strength is within me now, and the lost people of Ireland are all with me, and I am leading them back to Tara, and I am leading them out of their long and terrible exile …

The Purple Hour was falling, gently, softly, and the air was thick with magic. And let me always keep this moment, thought Grainne, standing quietly while the bustle of departure went on all about her, and the horses stamped their hoofs and tossed their manes, and people ran and hurried and came and went, and the animals tumbled and growled and went pattering and yelping and sniffing and fluttering everywhere. Let me always keep this, just like this, and let me be able to tuck it away somewhere safe in a tiny corner of my heart, and cover it with layer upon layer of happiness and memory and enchantment, so that one day, somewhere far in the future, I shall be able to unwrap it and look at it and feel then, as fiercely as I feel now, the love and the soaring delight, and the pure and undiluted happiness. Let me never forget the delight and the love and the loyalty that I am feeling now.

The portcullis was rising, and the horses were banding together, “For,” said Raynor, “when we ride out, we must ride in proper order.” There was a whirring and a screeching of disused machinery as the immense drawbridge was lowered, and the purple twilight, the enchanted bewitching blue and green mist, poured into the old dark Grail Castle.

Dust motes swirled and danced and the soft gentle light touched the waiting faces, and showed the happiness and the trust and the delight in every face. And I will not cry, said Grainne silently, although the tears were already gathering in her eyes. I will not cry, because this is it, this is the moment I have wanted and waited for ever since I can remember … The exiled High Queen leading the lost people of Ireland back to their own land.

They fell into line behind her now, obediently and naturally and quietly, but for all their tranquillity, there was a feeling of singing on the air, and there was a sense of the most tremendous anticipation.

They are all with me, thought Grainne, waiting for the moment when the portcullis would reach its zenith and the drawbridge would be fully extended for them to ride over. They are all with me. The creatures of the Lost Enchantment. The Noble Houses of Ireland. And the Cruithin, dear and loyal and staunch and as elusive as the flickering lights over the Fire Mountains. And she turned to look at these small dark people with their sly charm and their soft courtesy and their air of belonging to no one. The first Gaels, the one true Irish race, who had more right than anyone to inhabit Ireland, but who would never enforce that right, and who probably did not care about it overmuch anyway, for it has been said, and truly, that the genuine Irish do not care for land and possessions. “Clutter,” they say, for they like to travel light. The Cruithin travelled light, but they were travelling with Grainne now, and Grainne knew that whatever else she had done for Ireland, she had never done anything so truly good as bringing back the first true Irish people.

The portcullis was raised now — Midnight’s Arch — how could I ever have been afraid of this place? I am leading my people back and together we will defeat the adversary, and Tara will burn more brightly than ever it has burned before.

And then they were through the soaring stone arches and under the portcullis and they were riding down the drawbridge and the night air was cool and sweet against their faces, and Grainne felt, amidst the woodbine and the night-scented flowers, something deeper. Something ancient and warm and good. Something that she hardly dared believe in, and yet something that she knew was there, as real and as tangible as her own skin. Something that was stirring out of a long, long sleep, and that was lifting its head at last. The Old Ireland … The enchanted western isle of legend.

As they rode across the ravine and down on to the forest road, Grainne felt the air heavy with enchantment and heady with bewitchment, and felt, as well, that it was wrapping itself about her, like a soft gentle rainfall, like a cobweb cascade.

She thought, I dare not believe it, but I think I do believe it. I cannot see any of it, but all the same, I think it is there. The lost enchantments waking …

It ought to have been frightening to feel the ancient magic waking; certainly it ought to have been awesome. Grainne thought she ought to be frightened, for they were journeying by night, and the road was lonely. And for all their bravery, they were a small enough company. And all the time, all the time, she was aware of the strong, sweet awareness all about them. Every blade of silvered grass, every leaf, every moon-washed stretch of road, was alive and quivering with delight.

Because the Wolfqueen was returning …

Oh, yes, let it be that, thought Grainne, in silent appeal. Let it be because I have somehow found the lost Beastline and the Cruithin, and because we are going back to Tara. And please let us regain Tara, said her mind. For if Tara is beyond recall, then there is nothing left anywhere for me …

But here, now, with Raynor and the others with her, she thought she could believe that anything was possible. She felt the most remarkable sense of kin with the forest and with the night rustlings, and with the heavy enchanted night. She thought that for all she could not see the creatures of legend, they were there all the same. They were watching and nodding and smiling …

The naiads and dryads … Furry, cloven-footed beings with three-cornered faces and pointed ears … Water nymphs and gentle forest folk who understood the old pure magic that had been handed down before Time began, when men spoke to each other not in words, but in the unalloyed thoughtforms from which the Samhailt had been forged by the House of Amaranth …

*

The sky was lightening in the east, sending shafts of gold and rose to strike Fael-Inis’s Fire Mountains, and they were rounding the curve in the forest road, and Fintan was thinking wasn’t it just time to make camp and cook up a bite of breakfast. And then — no one quite knew when it began or where it came from — but everyone suddenly became aware that there was something moving closer; there was a great rush of anticipation, a feeling that something marvellous was about to happen; there was a sound on the air as if someone was drawing a finger round and round an immense glass bowl. A thrumming. A beating of cobweb wings on the air. A flurrying of something that might have been smoke and that might have been fire, but that could quite easily have been only the morning mist, but that everyone knew was not.

With the gentle rushing came the music, soft and cold and haunting, and Grainne felt her heart begin to beat faster, and she put up a hand to halt the others. There was the sensation of something singing just out of earshot, and of something unbearably beautiful moving just out of sight, and then —

“Oh!” said Grainne softly, and reined in her horse, and felt the others fall into silent place behind her.

Blue and green smudges of smoke. Wisps and curls of ice fire, blue on green on blue again; half seen and then gone, dissolving into the uncertain light, melting into the forest and then appearing again. Shapes and half-shapes; things you could not be entirely sure you were seeing, but creatures you knew were there, if only you had the extra sight, and if only you had the extra comprehension.

The sidh. The most purely magical beings in all Ireland. Cold and eerily beautiful, with not a single drop of human blood in them. Ireland’s faery folk, soulless and chill, and greedy for the souls of Men, but, for all that, loyal to the Royal House.

The creatures on whom no Man dared look for too long lest his eyes burn out, and with whom no Man dared commune for too long, lest his senses be stolen away, and his soul be dragged down into the endless caves under the sea.

They sang for me, thought Grainne, her mind bemused with delight, her pulses racing a little with fear, for she knew, as everyone knew, the dangers of looking on the sidh and talking with them. They could steal away your sight, they could tear out your tongue, destroy your mind …

But they have come again to us, thought Grainne, moving forward at last. They have sought us out, and I believe they are friendly for the moment, and I believe we can trust them.

And because it would have been the utmost discourtesy to have ignored them, she went forward alone, and dismounted, and stood in the clearing and waited.

They are very close, thought Grainne. There is green and blue everywhere, but it is vanishing into the forest, before the sidh materialise. They are nearly forming, but they are not quite forming. I can hear them and I can sense them and I can feel them. I cannot see them properly, and I do not think I want to. Except …

And then he was there. The slender unearthly High King of the sidh who could clothe himself in the semblance of human form, but who could never, not for an instant, be mistaken for a true human. Cold and beautiful and filled with the uncanny music of his kind.

Aillen mac Midha. The sidh’s Elven King. Remote and aloof, watching them unblinkingly with great dark eyes, inspecting them with the curiosity of one species for another.

The High King of Ireland’s ancient magical people sat cross-legged on a grassy bank, waiting with exquisite, impersonal courtesy for them to approach him.

We may all be deaf, blind, speechless, witless before the end of an hour, thought Grainne; still, there is nothing to do but go forward.

Even so, it was several minutes before she could speak.

And then he spoke first. “You called to me, Your Majesty,” he said. “I am here.” And a shiver went through the Beastline and the Cruithin, for his voice was in some way silver, and in some way transient, so that the words took faint shape and lay on the air for a while — thin, pale, shimmering forms. Fintan, who was the oldest of them all, drew in a deep breath of delight, for he knew that they were seeing something which was rarely granted to their world: the Samhailt made visible …

Tybion was thinking that the Elven King was the coldest being he had ever encountered. He remembered that the sidh dwelled in the rocks and in the seas, and that their homes were the caves beneath the ocean, where there was only cold green waterlight that rippled for ever on the cave walls, and where the floors were sprinkled with the bone dust of the sidh’s victims. There was no escape from the water caves, not unless you forfeited one of your five senses …

Aillen mac Midha said again, “You summoned me, Your Majesty. And since I am constrained by the ties that bind your House to mine, I have come.” And appeared to wait, and Grainne knew that here was one of those awkward occasions when the right words and the right ceremonies were absolutely obligatory, only that no one was ever quite sure what the right words and the right ceremonies were, because there was never any precedent for this kind of meeting.

But she moved to him at once and said, “I am grateful to you for coming, Your Majesty,” and Fintan and Cermait exchanged smiles, because wasn’t it as natural as breathing to the Wolfqueen to find the exact right words, and to show the exact correct degree of courtesy.

Grainne said carefully, “I have long wished to see you, Your Highness,” and Aillen mac Midha smiled slightly as if he had expected this, and nodded as if he found it natural.

“We have never been far from you,” he said. “In the first days of Tara, our Houses were inextricably bound. I am forsworn to serve you by the codes of that first Enchantment.” The strange inhuman smile slid out again, and Grainne remembered that, after all, this was the creature who held sway over the cruel merciless sidh and ruled over the sinister water caves, and regarded the world of humans as a hunting ground.

He heard her thoughts without difficulty; he said, “We do regard humans as our prey, but for the moment, we are bound with you against the Darkness,” and Grainne thought, Of course! They are creatures of light, the sidh, and of course they will be against anything that has quenched Tara’s brilliance! And thought that this was the nearest he would come to an outright declaration.

But he surprised her again: he said, “We are loyal to the True Line, ma’am,” and looked at her, and somehow managed to convey amusement, as if he might be saying, You see? I am giving you the courtesy title of Royalty, although we both know that my House is immeasurably older than yours. And Grainne, who could never remember to be haughty about the Wolfline, no matter how proud she was of it, nodded, and thought that this was very likely the most remarkable conversation she would ever have with anyone, and that it was probably the most remarkable conversation anyone in the world could have.

Aillen mac Midha leaned forward and Grainne saw that his eyes were the colour of the sea on a summer afternoon. “You have brought back Ireland’s lost people,” he said. “You have discovered the ancient Lost Enchantment. For that alone, my people would serve you.”

“Then your people will ride with us against Medoc and the Dark Lords?” said Grainne, and now her voice held a note of authority, so that several people looked up startled, and Tybion the Tusk was so proud of her that he wanted to run up and down the nearest mountain and shout to every living creature and draw every living soul’s attention to her.

The Elven King was still studying Grainne. “We have been with you all along,” he said. “For we are charged to spin the spell of protection about all who are born to the High Throne of Ireland. The first High Queen of all bargained with her own sorcerers to secure the spell, and although we fought to keep it, in the end we yielded.”

From his place, Fintan said very softly, “The Battle of the Dawn Enchantment,” and Aillen mac Midha turned his great, soulless eyes on Fintan.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it was the Battle of the Dawn Enchantment, for the spell we can weave into our music was the first spell of them all. It was born when Tara was raised from the rock, and we have guarded it jealously.” He looked back at Grainne. “But we yielded it to our long-ago ancestress, ma’am,” he said, “and we have held by the bargain that was struck with her. When you came into the world, along with your ill-starred brother, we poured our enchanted music into Ireland for you. You do not know it, but that music has protected you many times now.” He looked at her very directly, and Grainne held his look, and knew that he saw and understood far more than anyone had ever done. And then, without warning, he lifted one slender arm, and seemed to sprinkle something she could not quite see in the direction of the others. Grainne half turned her head, and glimpsed a thin shower of blue-green droplets, cascades of muted light, falling on the waiting Beastline and the Cruithin, and Fintan and Cermait and Tybion. She thought they blinked and Tybion put up a hand as if to ward something off, and Raynor seemed to move back as if a blow had been aimed at him.

Grainne said, “What —”

“The Draoicht Suan,” said Aillen. “The gentle Enchantment of Slumber. They will sleep while we talk.”

“Why have you done it?” Grainne was still looking to where the others were standing or sitting as they had fallen, the thin gleaming threads of the Enchantment all about them.

“They will take no harm.” He looked at her. “But there are things you do not yet wish them to know.” He stopped, and Grainne said nothing. “The boy is safe,” said the Elven King, and Grainne felt the colour rush to her cheeks, and such a powerful wave of emotion engulfed her that she could only gasp.

“We have protected him,” said Aillen mac Midha. “For he is Ireland’s Prince, for all that you gave him up, Your Majesty. He has had our protection since we sang him into the world at his birth.”

“I had no choice,” said Grainne, but through her words there was a sudden singing in her heart, and a sudden soaring joy, because he was not dead, the boy was not dead, Fergus’s son was alive and living, and perhaps one day she would find him … “I had no choice,” she said again, but for a moment her vision had blurred, and she was back in that terrible night when they had taken the child, and her heart and her womb had ached, and mingled in with it had been the yearning for Fergus, her brother, whom she could never have … And, oh yes, the sidh had been there, she had heard their music, pouring into the chill night, and she had known that the child was in truth Ireland’s heir, for the sidh only sang for the Wolfline.

The Lost Prince, the once and future King who would drive back the Dark Ireland for ever … Grainne stood very still and looked at the slender unearthly creature before her, and knew that he understood it all. He understood about the days when she had loved Fergus, and when she had learned the truth from Dierdriu, and lost Fergus for all time. He knew about the days and the nights and the weeks when she had ached and hurt and been more alone than she could have imagined possible; when she had had to see Fergus and the Court ladies, and when she had had to smile and seem not to mind, because she was Tara’s heiress, she was the Crown Princess, and even if Fergus had not been her brother, they would never have let her have him …

The Elven King said, “Better by far to have lost your love in that way than to have lost him to another. You never lost his love.” The huge eyes were steady. “But you knew that.”

“Yes,” said Grainne in a whisper. “Yes, I knew.”

They looked at one another, and then the Elven King smiled and it was a smile so blindingly beautiful that Grainne blinked. “The boy is safe,” he said, and already his form was blurring. “You will find him when the time is right for you to do so.” And then, in a fading voice, “And we shall be with you when you ride on Medoc,” he said. “I promise you that.”

There was a sudden swift movement, a smudge of blue-green, the beating of iridescent wings on the edge of the forest, and Grainne heard Fintan behind her say, “Dear me, did we drop off for a few minutes? I hope I haven’t missed anything.”

*

The sidh were with them on their march to Folaim, which was to be their first overnight camp.

“Folaim,” Aillen mac Midha had said, and there had been something unfathomable in his eyes. “A strange choice.”

Grainne thought it was not really a strange choice, because Folaim was directly on their route to the valley where Tara lay. They had plotted the journey while they were still at the Grail Castle, and the Cruithin had helped. In fact, Grainne thought, now she came to think back, the Cruithin had been quite firm about Folaim being their first camp.

“A good place,” they had said in their soft, courteous voices. “Your Majesty will do well to be there.” And they had looked at her with their heads on one side, and they had smiled and nodded, but they had not said quite why Folaim ought to be their camp stop.

The sidh stayed with them. As Tybion said, you could not but be aware of them. They were in the air and in the night scents and they were occasionally to be glimpsed when the light changed.

“I know they are there,” said Fintan crossly.

“We can’t see them, of course,” said Tybion.

“We don’t want to see them,” said Fintan, who would not have trusted a sidh from here to that tree and did not mind saying so. You had to be extremely wary of the sidh> said Fintan. Didn’t they all know the stories of how the sidh would snatch a man’s virility right from between his legs if the mood took them.

“But,” said Tybion, who was finding all of this so marvellous that he could scarcely restrain himself, “but isn’t it the most wonderful thing in the world that they’ve come to be with us?”

As to that, Fintan was as pleased as the next man. Of course he was. It was only that they must be wary, he said. To be sure, it was great altogether. And if the sidh were going to be with them in the battle, then they could be very hopeful indeed, said Fintan. But they would have to be careful, that was all, he said, and went off with Rinnal to discuss what they ought to do about supper that night, because you did not quite know what constituted good manners on these occasions, and nobody seemed to know if Aillen mac Midha should be asked to supper or not.

“But the sidh don’t eat ordinary food,” said Cermait, and Rinnal grinned and said, “I heard they ate the hearts and souls of humans,” and then looked horrified, because of the Conablaiche and the Lad of the Skins and Crom Croich.

“But he’s right,” said Fintan to Cermait. “They don’t eat ordinary food.”

“Then it’s as well you didn’t ask him to eat rabbit stew with us.”

“He would probably have eaten our souls,” said Fintan, and was put into such good humour at having imparted this macabre note to the proceedings that he went off quite happily to see could he coax a second helping of stew from Bee, whose turn it was to cook.

It was easy and pleasant and unexpectedly natural to sit with the others, about the fire that Rinnal had made, eating Bee’s rabbit stew which turned out to be excellent. Grainne felt such a sense of contentment and kinship that she thought she would like the supper and the quiet talk afterwards to go on for ever.

The stew went round very well and there were wild mushrooms in it and wood sorrel and sharp clean hazelnuts. “Everything I could find,” said Bee, delighted at the others’ enjoyment.

“It’s very good indeed,” said Fintan, eating his portion industriously.

“And there wouldn’t have been anything like enough for Aillen mac Midha and the sidh,” said Cermait. “Especially when people have three helpings.”

“I didn’t,” said Fintan.

“I counted,” said Cermait.

The stew in fact had gone round very well and there had been large helpings for everyone. “Even allowing for people who are greedy,” said Cermait.

“Well, we didn’t want any waste,” said Fintan. “It attracts predators if you leave wasted food in the forest. Anyone knows that.”

When the supper had been cleared away and the Cruithin had asked permission to light their pipes (which they were scrupulous about doing no matter the occasion), the sidh returned to the edge of the camp. Fintan said they came too close, but Cermait said that Fintan would have to put up with it. Several people said that it was rather restful to see the sidh drifting across the clearing and getting mixed in with the smoke from the Cruithin’s clay pipes.

“And it is more than restful to hear the music,” said Raynor, delighted. “I never thought to hear such music.”

The music began slowly and gradually; one minute it was not there, and the next minute it was entirely there, so that you thought it had probably been there for quite a long while. It was not that it crept up on you, it was more that it was such a part of the forest and the twilight and the fire, that you did not immediately realise it was all about you.

It was almost as if it was music you could not quite hear. And then it was all about the camp, it was pouring into the centre, a great blue and green fountain, an icy waterfall of beauty and enchantment and old, old magic. Grainne thought afterwards that it was as if they had been fed a sleep drug, as if their eyelids had been streaked with the juice of poppies, with mandragora, the drowsy sleep drug, with the golden heavy honeydew of slumber …

The music poured into the clearing like a crystal river and, one by one, Grainne and the others slept, and in sleeping dreamed sweetly and well.

Aillen mac Midha stayed where he was on the edge of the clearing, because to have approached too closely would have been dangerous for the humans. He could see, as Grainne had seen earlier, the gossamer threads of the ancient Draoicht Suan, the Enchantment of Slumber which his people had woven, and he could see, as well, within the threads, the other Enchantment, the spell that had been woven at the very beginning for the protection of Tara’s Royal Wolfline. It was a slender, rather fragile spell, and it had not always kept the High Kings and Queens entirely safe. But the sidh had been charged to protect and weave it for every Prince of Tara ever born, and it had been woven at Grainne’s birth, and again for the child whose birth had been so closely guarded that very few people in Ireland knew of it. But Aillen mac Midha knew, because it was not possible for a Wolfprince to be born without him sensing it.

The spell woven at Grainne’s birth should have kept her safe from Medoc and the Dark Ireland, but Medoc was the most powerful necromancer ever known, and his sorcery had torn through the gentle, pure bewitchment.

The sidh would help Grainne and her people in the battle against Medoc; they would do all they could to protect her, but Aillen mac Midha did not know whether it would be sufficient to save her from what lay ahead.

*

Lugh of the Longhand, rounding the curve in the forest, came upon the sleeping High Queen and her small retinue, and thought it was just as he might have expected. You could not trust anyone to do anything these days. Here was Lugh, marching the army strongly and firmly through the forest on the way to Folaim, keeping a weather eye open for any enterprising enemies that might lurk, and what should they come upon but the Queen, Tara’s High Queen, lying peacefully asleep with every person who should have been keeping watch asleep as well. Anyone might have crept up and committed all manner of crimes, well, hadn’t Lugh himself been able to march right up to the clearing, and no one springing out to challenge him! It was an outrage and a disgrace if it was not a downright scandal, and Lugh did not know when he had been so shocked. He did not scruple to say so.

“I don’t know when I have been so shocked,” he said, tucking his chins in sadly. “I am saddened,” he added, and then, on an inspiration, “I should not have allowed the High Queen to be so vulnerable,” he said, and shook his head in deep sorrow, which Cathbad said was so false it did not bear thinking about.

“I’m afraid he’s very false indeed,” said Cathbad to Dorrainge, who was marshalling the men, even though this was not, properly speaking, Dorrainge’s job. “I thought it days ago, and now I see it’s right,” said Cathbad, and Dorrainge, who had thought the same but was not going to admit it, and certainly not to Cathbad who was a shocking gossip, asked had Cathbad not better things to be doing than passing judgments on Her Majesty’s soldiery.

“He’s as false as a silk pig,” said Cathbad, getting his pots and pans together and paying no attention to the people who said he was getting in the way, and wouldn’t he help to knock in a tent peg or two, and hadn’t they all enough to do without tripping over fat Druids who got in people’s way everywhere? Cathbad paid this no heed, because he had a soul above tent pegs, and said he had far too much to be doing as it was. “Goodness me,” he said, “I’ve the supper to be seeing to, and where should we be if the men were not fed? In a great deal of trouble, that’s where we’d be,” said Cathbad, and took himself off to ponder over the evening’s repast, and wondered should he attempt a few nice little curd puffs, or would that be a touch too dainty?

Lugh had made a great deal of noise in setting up camp, partly to discourage the shadow that had followed them, and partly to wake the Queen’s people. He did not like the shadow, and while he was not especially worried about the Lad of the Skins himself, it was as well to remember he was out there.

The sleepers were lying all anyhow in the bracken, and Lugh stamped about the clearing loudly, because you could not set up camp with people asleep all over the forest floor, and you certainly could not do so when one of them was the High Queen. It was one thing to throw in your lot with Medoc (not that Lugh had done that precisely), but it was another to show discourtesy to the High Queen. Lugh would not have dreamed of committing a discourteous act if you had paid him, or not unless you had paid him a very great deal.

The sleepers were not pleased to see Lugh and the men.

“Because,” said Fintan, “if there’s one thing you wouldn’t want to see when you wake, it’s Lugh Longhand. My word, he doesn’t improve with absence, does he?”

Tybion the Tusk could not understand why they had all fallen asleep in the first place, but Cermait said solemnly that it had been the Draoicht Suan. “That’s what it’ll have been,” he said owlishly. “The Draoicht Suan.”

“Rubbish,” said Fintan.

“No, it isn’t. If that wasn’t the Draoicht Suan” said Cermait, “you may call me a goatbeard and have done.”

“I shouldn’t dream of being so rude,” said Fintan, and went off to help Cathbad, who was quite flustered at having so many extra people to feed, and had abandoned the idea of curd puffs, and was contemplating a dish of mumbled rabbit, which nobody had ever heard of.

“Rich,” said Cathbad worriedly, and shook his head over the necessity for procuring pimpernel or toadflax which, as everyone knew, greatly improved the flavour of mumbled rabbit.

Grainne had welcomed Lugh, but she was not as pleased to see him as it seemed. She asked about the plan of spying on Tara, and Lugh said, “Well, there was nothing to spy on, Your Majesty.” He bowed. “There was nothing to see, and nothing to be found about the guards or the sentries.”

“I see,” said Grainne thoughtfully.

“In fact,” said Lugh, “Tara was undefended.” And he looked at her with an odd, sly glint, which Grainne found worrying, because Lugh was a great many irritating things, but sly had not, so far, been one of them.

But Lugh did not seem to be concealing anything, and Grainne could not think what there was for him to conceal.

“And,” she said later to Raynor, “if Tara is undefended, then why do we need the army and your people at all?”

“Tara is not undefended,” said Raynor.

“Can you know that?”

“Medoc is far cleverer than that,” said Raynor, and frowned and then said, “How far do you trust Lugh?”

“I don’t —” Grainne stopped and looked at him. “Do you think Lugh is a traitor?”

“I think,” said Raynor, “that all Men have a vulnerable point, and that Medoc is very clever. That is all.” He regarded her, and Grainne thought, Yes, of course he is right. I am far too trusting. And remembered that Medoc was certainly clever, and that he was subtle and cunning, and had the forces of the Dark Ireland at his beck.

She had made Raynor and the Beastline known to Lugh and the army with deliberate ceremony, because it was important that the Beastline were welcomed properly and given homage.

The men had seemed to accept them. They were wary but they were polite. It was almost as if they were saying, Well, we always knew that the old Enchantment had not really died. They welcomed the extra strength to the army, and said to be sure the more people you had on your side, the more chance you had of winning. They wanted to know about the Grail Castle, and they listened to the stories with interest, and made room for Raynor’s people, and seemed altogether amiably disposed.

After supper, which was not mumbled rabbit in the end, but braised hare and pickled herrings, they eyed the animals a bit doubtfully, and said it would be grand to have them along, and it was to be hoped they could be kept under control.

“Raynor and the others control them,” said Tybion, and Fintan said this was very likely true, but it was disconcerting to march along with a crowd of Eagles and Swans and Badgers and the like, all padding and fluttering and scurrying and barking at your back.

“And I don’t trust the Eagles,” said Fintan with deep suspicion.

Cermait started to say that the Eagles were loyal, and Fintan said, “It isn’t their loyalty I’m worried about, it’s their temper.” Cermait laughed and told Fintan not to be ridiculous and to pass round the mulled wine. The soldiers, who had listened to this babble with enjoyment, said you never could trust an Eagle in peace-time, although they were great to have on your side in a battle, and wanted to know would the animals be sleeping separately from the humans, because you heard some odd tales these days.

“Quite separate,” said Dorrainge firmly, who had heard some of the tales himself, and was not going to have any of that kind of thing going on.

*

Lugh was planning the morrow’s movements. To a disinterested observer, it would probably have seemed that he was resting quietly on his pallet, and to an uncharitably minded person, it might even have appeared that he was avoiding helping with the work. In fact, he was thinking very hard, and this was something you had to do in absolute quiet and absolute privacy. It was better if you could lie on your back as well.

He was deciding what they would do when they reached Folaim tomorrow. He thought it might be time to select an ally as well. Allies were good things to have, provided you chose them carefully. He dismissed any of the Beastline at once, because he had not, truth to tell, been very impressed by them. In fact, he was inclined to think that Her Majesty had fallen in with a very doubtful set of creatures, and he hoped there would not be sorrow ahead because of it. And he dismissed Fintan and Cermait, and Tybion the Tusk, almost without thinking about them, because those three were really quite absurdly loyal to the Queen. Well, so was Lugh loyal to the Queen, only Fintan and the other two took it to a silly degree.

That left the Druids. Lugh considered the idea of Dorrainge and Cathbad very carefully, because Druids were people of importance, and anything they supported would be accepted.

On balance, Lugh was inclined to favour Dorrainge as his ally. Dorrainge was a bit suspicious by nature, but if he could somehow be brought on to Lugh’s side without knowing it, it would be a very good thing indeed.

It should be Dorrainge. Lugh had considered Cathbad only briefly before dismissing him, because Cathbad, whilst an excellent person in his way, was also a terrible old gossip, and if there was one thing you could not be having in a confidential ally, it was a gossip.

So Lugh would somehow quell Dorrainge’s suspicions and he would take him into his confidence, well it would not be entirely his confidence, because Dorrainge would not like the idea of carrying out a task for Medoc, even though it was for the good of Ireland. The thing would have to be wrapped up a bit.

Lugh linked his arms behind his head and frowned and disregarded the rest of the camp who were being very busy and extremely noisy and clattering pots and knocking in tent pegs and swilling mulled wine.

And then he had it. And really, it was quite brilliant, although no more brilliant than you would have expected from a Longhand. But it was so brilliant and so simple that it was a pity Lugh could not show everyone how very brilliant it was.

In exactly one week it would be Samain. The third of the four nights in the year when every evil force was abroad in the world, and when gateways were said to be ajar between all the worlds. Lugh did not believe any of this, but there was no denying that a good many people did.

The Druids believed. It was many years since they had been able to celebrate Samain properly; it was certainly a very long time since they had offered up a human sacrifice as their predecessors had done. The Queen’s greatgrandfather, Cormac, had outlawed the practice, and the Druids had bowed their heads in obedience to his law. Gradually the old ways had died out, and Lugh thought it was probably fifty years since the Druidical fires had been lit for Samain or Beltane.

They would revive it. They would revive the ritual fire of Samain in Folaim, and they would invite everyone in the village to join in. And the children would surely come, for children loved a bonfire and a celebration.

And once the children were there, he, Lugh, would be able to spot the Wolfchild with ease.

*

Grainne thought the sly glint was still in Lugh’s eye when he approached her with his idea of reviving the ancient Samain celebration, and a warning note sounded somewhere on the edge of her mind.

“But it would be a very fine thing,” said Dorrainge, who had been primed by Lugh earlier, and could not see any reason why they should not celebrate Samain properly, and who thought that it was rather kind of Lugh to be going to so much trouble.

“Would it?” said Grainne, frowning. “I am not sure —”

“Of course,” said Lugh loudly, “it is quite unnecessary for human sacrifice to form part of the rituals.” He bowed as he said this, and Grainne said very sharply indeed, “I hope it is, Lugh,” and Lugh looked deeply hurt, and said that human sacrifice had not been practised in Ireland since he did not know when.

“The very idea,” he said, shocked. “But it would be a wonderful thing if the Druids could be permitted to revive the old pure magic of Samain. It would be a wonderful thing for Your Majesty to be the one to revive it all.”

Grainne looked at him rather coldly, and Raynor said gently, “But surely — Samain is one of the four nights in the year when evil is abroad. Some of the rituals are known to lure the evil ones closer.”

“But,” said Lugh, “surely the gentler bewitchments, the kindly spells …” He said this very respectfully, so that it was really rather rude of Fintan to remind everyone that the gentler bewitchments and the kindly spells had once upon a time stretched to including human sacrifice on a bonfire.

“Human sacrifice has long since been seen for the empty mockery it is,” said Dorrainge, who was not going to let their plan be upset by Fintan, who, after all, was nobody at all.

Grainne said wistfully, “I confess I should like to see some of the old rituals. And if there is to be a feast for the people of Folaim —”

“A very fine feast,” said Lugh, who had already planned this with Cathbad.

“A feast,” said Dorrainge, “and a properly laid bonfire, with the correct woods gathered at the correct times. Wild agaric and dry oak. That,” said Dorrainge, “makes the new fire — needfire it is called.”

Raynor said softly, “The wildfire of Samain,” and Dorrainge said, “Well, yes,” and thought it was all very well for Her Majesty to be consorting with these people, and to be sure the Eagles were an old and honourable House, and some kind of alliance would certainly be entirely in order, but it was to be hoped that people who had held authority at Court would still be allowed to do so. He eyed Raynor suspiciously, and Raynor smiled blandly at him.

“Wildfire,” said Dorrainge, as if he had been about to say this, and Raynor said, “Quite,” and Dorrainge reminded himself that he was Second Druid after all, and a person of some importance.

Grainne said, “It would be a wonderful thing for the Beastline to be part of the full Samain celebration. It would be a welcome for them.” And paused, and frowned again, because Lugh still had the sly look in his eyes, and now there was a sudden fat complacent air to him, as if he might have achieved something he had been trying to achieve. But surely there could be nothing wrong about celebrating Samain in the old way, with a feast, and the people of Folaim invited?

And so Grainne quenched the misgivings, and smiled at Dorrainge and said, “Yes. Let us do it.”

From the forest, the Lad of the Skins watched, unblinking as a cat.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

As they went deeper into the mountain, Annabel could still hear the drumming of the hoofbeats somewhere over their heads.

“The Four Horsemen,” said Fael-Inis, standing still and listening intently. “The Heralds. But I think they are not yet inside the mountain with us.”

“Are they following us?” asked Annabel, who thought they would have enough to contend with without meeting the Horsemen.

Fael-Inis said slowly, “They are following me.” He looked at them. “We have brushed before, the Horsemen and I,” he said. “They serve one against whom I have fought before.”

“The Apocalypse?” said Taliesin.

“It had a different name then,” said Fael-Inis, and now it was the remote creature who had walked in other worlds and consorted with different beings. Neither Taliesin nor Annabel spoke and, after a moment, Fael-Inis seemed to give himself a shake. “Now,” he said, “it is the Apocalypse we must outwit.”

“Yes,” said Annabel, and thought that on balance she would prefer the Conablaiche again.

Fael-Inis said, “Listen for the hoofbeats constantly. Gauge their distance. Only by doing that can we know how near they are. You understand?”

Taliesin said, “And the Conablaiche …?”

“For the moment it has gone,” said Fael-Inis, and smiled at them. “We shall hear that one approach,” he said. “We shall smell it and sense it, and perhaps we shall again outrun it.” He led them deeper along the tunnel. “Come now, both of you.”

Annabel had expected to find the inside of the mountain dark and stuffy. She had thought it would smell of mould, and that there would be pale wriggling earth creatures. It had been one thing to visualise charging down a hillside, perhaps riding a horse (which she had never actually done), sweeping to victory, but it was another thing altogether to walk along in the dark like this, trying to penetrate the gloom.

The mountain was not especially dark. There were great echoing caverns, and huge crypts and rock tunnels; there were labyrinths and narrow passages, and once or twice they had to bend low to avoid hitting their heads on overhanging rocks. But there was a constant bluish light, and there was immense space, and it was very easy indeed to see their way.

Annabel, walking cautiously between Taliesin and Fael-Inis, began to find it exhilarating, and began to think ahead to what they were going to find.

The torchlit Cavern of the Doomsday Clock …

They were going to save the world.

This was such a tremendously uplifting idea that Annabel began almost to enjoy the entire peculiar journey. She certainly began to find the mountain fascinating.

But the hoofbeats were still over their heads, and the memory of the Conablaiche was still very fresh, and Annabel shuddered, and tried not to think too much about either of these things, and was very glad that Taliesin and Fael-Inis were there. And then she remembered that if it had not been for Taliesin and Fael-Inis, she would not have made this journey anyway, and saw the absurdity.

It was warm inside the mountain, and although there was a feeling of great space, there was also a tremendous oppressiveness. Their footsteps echoed and the smallest whisper bounced off the walls and reverberated all about them, and all the time there was the knowledge of the hundreds of tons of rock directly over their heads. Annabel found it terrifying and awe-inspiring, and hoped they would not miss anything unexpected, and hoped they would not miss their footing anywhere either, because there were narrow rock bridges over which they had to pass, and there were underground rivers which flowed silently and rather horridly beneath their feet. If you fell into one of the rivers, you would be swept away before you could be saved. You would be taken away, down to the mountain’s bowels, and you would never survive, and it would be the nastiest death … There was something particularly frightening about the thought of the black sluggish rivers and the still lakes where strange creatures might lurk. There was something very sinister about great volumes of stagnant water. You never knew what might lie below the surface.

It was not as dark as they had feared. “Starlight,” said Fael-Inis. “It is spilling in through the chinks in the mountain.”

The starlight was soft but rather eerie. It disturbed the shadows and showed you things you did not want to see, and that you were probably better not knowing about. Annabel had been treading carefully, because there might be all manner of things on the floor, and she thought she would not look down, because she had the really dreadful suspicion that they were walking on small bones. The bones were very small indeed, and there was a dreadful dryness about them, a twig-like feeling, as if the bones had shrivelled where they lay for a very long time.

Marrowless bones … sharp hollow hones, sucked dry by the creatures who prowl these dark mountain halls …

Stop it! said Annabel to herself, very fiercely.

It would be much more sensible to think about what they were doing, and about what might be ahead. Annabel concentrated hard on this, and tried not to think about the Guardians who might be lying in wait somewhere, and tried as well to listen for the hoofbeats, which might mean the Horsemen were close behind them.

Fael-Inis said, “They are not so very close yet,” and Annabel jumped, because for the minute she had forgotten Fael-Inis’s disconcerting habit of hearing people’s thoughts. She said, “What will they do if they catch us?” and Fael-Inis said at once, “They will try to kill us.”

“Oh.”

“They are sworn to bring their Master, the Apocalypse, into the world,” said Fael-Inis. “They will certainly destroy anything that threatens to prevent that.” He looked at them. “We have to outrun the Horsemen, Mortals, and also we have to outwit any more Drakon patrols.” His eyes glowed unexpectedly. “And then,” he said softly, “we have to face the Guardians,” and the other two saw mischievous delight in his eyes, and shared a thought: He is looking forward to facing the Guardians! Taliesin, who had been concentrating on thinking what they would do if they met any more patrols, stopped and looked round.

“Do the Guardians exist?” he said. “Or are they only creations of a disordered mind?” The old mocking grin slid out. “Are they perhaps simply visions, filled with sound and fury, signifying nothing?” said Taliesin.

Fael-Inis looked at Annabel, as if he might be saying, After all, my dear, this is your world. I know about the Guardians, but you tell us. Aloud, he said, “Shall we rest? The Horsemen are still quite distant. And we have a way to go yet.”

“How do you know that?” said Annabel.

“You know it also, Mortal,” said Fael-Inis, studying her. “You have perceptions that are more finely honed than most of your race,” he said, and Annabel felt pleased, because Fael-Inis would have met with a great many different people and creatures, and would not make this sort of comment lightly. It was an odd sort of compliment, but it was rather nice. She sat on the floor, because there was nowhere else to sit, and leaned back against the rockface, and looked at him expectantly.

Taliesin, who had been unpacking their small store of food, said, “Tell us about the Guardians, Annabel,” and Annabel frowned, and tried to gather up all the tag ends and the snippets of legend, and the untidy fragments of myth, and roll them into some kind of sensible whole. She accepted a wedge of bread and cheese from Taliesin, and said carefully, “A little is known about the Guardians, but it is not very much. Some of it is probably myth, and some is certainly conjecture, and most people do not believe any of it really.” And stopped, and took a mouthful of bread and cheese, and wondered whether people really did not believe, or whether they only pretended.

Fael-Inis said, “In all myths there is always a grain of truth. That is how myths are built.” He looked at them steadily. “Perhaps I am nothing more than a myth,” said the rebel angel softly. “But, as you see, I am here. I have an existence and a reality. We are making this strange perilous journey together.”

Annabel said, “Yes. I see.” And wondered if she did. She regarded the remains of the bread and cheese, and accepted the apple that Taliesin handed out, and wished she could put off telling the little she knew a bit longer.

“My people do not believe very much in legends,” she said at last. “Although I think they once did. Once legends and myths and folklore were a delight to them.”

“To you also,” said Taliesin, watching her, and seeing how her face had grown rather wistful.

“Yes,” said Annabel, looking at him, and seeing that he understood, and experiencing the sudden jolt of delight again, because she had thought that there would never be anyone who did understand. “But it was all a long time ago,” she said, pulling her mind back to the matter in hand. “And there have been so many other things … Enchantments have been crowded out,” said Annabel apologetically.

“But something lingered?” said Taliesin, thinking he could watch her face for ever, and thinking that he had never seen eyes change colour in quite this way.

“Yes. Fragments of myth. Queer stories. Memories.

Whispered beliefs, handed down through families. I suppose,” said Annabel thoughtfully, “that is how the real stuff of legends is made and preserved.”

“Of course,” said Fael-Inis. “If you had not believed in me — even a little — do you think I could be here?”

“I — am not sure,” said Annabel, and he laughed.

“No matter. Go on.”

“In the main,” said Annabel, “we are a practical race, you see. Our lives are built around possessions and machines, and the struggle to find new inventions and new power and different sources of energy and force. I suppose it is all necessary,” said Annabel, “because once you have had these things, and are in danger of losing them, you do not give them up easily.” She looked at the other two. “It is all very boring,” she said, and the sudden smile flashed.

“The legend of the Fire Mountains is a very old one,” said Annabel, returning to her story. “There are labyrinths and underground rivers here. In the past, people used to journey here, to try and reach the mountain’s heart. Many people made the attempt,” said Annabel, her eyes huge and faraway, “but I do not think that any single person ever returned. It was thought that they lost themselves for ever in the dark, or were killed by creatures that dwelled here.”

“That will not happen to us,” said Fael-Inis, and Annabel felt safe again.

“The labyrinths stretch for many miles,” she said. “One of the stories tells of how if you go deep enough and far enough, you will come to the great and terrible River of Souls. Once there, you will have to face the Ferryman, who is ever on the look-out for human souls.” Annabel looked at them. “No one really believes that,” she said.

“Nevertheless,” said Fael-Inis, “the River exists.”

“Within these mountains?”

“Yes. There are doorways between this world and other worlds,” said Fael-Inis. “And there are many worlds, and there will be many worlds yet. The worlds rarely converge, for to do so would mean confusion and chaos, and those are things reserved for the ending of worlds,” He looked at them both. “But there are gateways,” he said. “Tears in the Curtain of Time, through which people sometimes struggle, or fall, or slip. Sometimes it is deliberate and sometimes it is not.”

Annabel said carefully, “Is that how you come to be here?” and Fael-Inis turned his golden stare on her.

“There are places in the Curtain of Time where the fabric is thin,” he said, and it seemed to the other two that he was speaking with extreme care. “And therefore there are places where it is possible to go through from one world to another.” He glanced at Taliesin. “But your world knows of the Time Travellers.”

“Yes.” But Taliesin was thinking: Places where the fabric is thin, and where it is possible to go through … And knew that Fael-Inis was remembering Calatin’s spell, and how it would endure only for seven days, and how, after that, there would be no protection for him from the Time Fire. And how there was no spell at all for Annabel.

“The River of Souls is a chink in Time,” said Fael-Inis. “It is one of the oldest gateways.” He frowned. “But to venture into it is to pass into the Ferryman’s domain, and that is the most dangerous journey that ever Man can take.” The smile glinted. “You can believe it or not, just as you like. But there are images, engravings on the walls of caves, of foolhardy humans who embark on the River in frail crafts, and whose souls are dragged, screaming and in agony, into the deep, dark waters by the Ferryman.” He looked at them very intently, and Taliesin thought, He is trying to tell us that we may have to take that way back to the world we have come from.

“It is as well,” said Fael-Inis gently, “to know the dangers we may have to face.”

“Yes,” said Annabel, and wondered whether she was understanding any of this. Might it be possible to get into their world from this one through the River of Souls? Annabel, who had never quite lost the images conveyed to her by Fael-Inis of a misty blue and green world peopled with creatures of myth and legend, thought it would certainly be worth facing the Ferryman. Wouldn’t it? And I should be in Taliesin’s world, said her mind with delight. But they were waiting for her to tell what she knew about the Fire Mountains and the Cavern of the Doomsday Clock, and so she reseated herself on the jutting ledge of rock, and tried to remember everything she knew.

“It is not so very much," she said. “And it is only because my work was with the Institute of Knowledge. I had access to things which most people did not have,” she said, and grinned, and knew they were both understanding about how she had peeped into forbidden chronicles, and read secret files, and seen carefully guarded information.

“The Cavern was carefully chosen,” said Annabel, after a moment. “That is very clear. They considered many other places before deciding on these mountains. It was thought of vital importance to keep the Clock from prying eyes, you see. And perhaps,” she said, considering, “it was also thought better for people not to be reminded of the Clock’s existence. It was certainly thought better for it to be hidden, so that people could not see the hands moving steadily towards midnight, and could not hear the relentless ticking away of the world’s last days. That would have caused immense distress, you see,” said Annabel. “They would have started to count. And although the Drakon is arbitrary and tyrannical," said Annabel seriously, “I do think that for this once, it was right.”

Taliesin nodded. You could not have half the world’s population counting the hours left to them. You could not risk the panic and the distress and the breakdown of civilised life.

“The Cavern is believed to be at the very heart of this mountain,” said Annabel. “And it can only be approached by a series of three outer Caverns.” She paused. “We believe that the Drakon people have another means of entry,” she said, “but the only known way is through the three outer caves. Each cave has its own door, massive and solid and immovable, and hewn from hundreds of tons of solid rock. In each door is a giant lock, and to each lock is a key. And in each of the outer Caverns,” said Annabel, “one of the Guardians waits.” She looked at Fael-Inis. “I do not know so very much about them,” she said, “and what I do is all a mixture of conjecture and gossip.” She waited, for surely Fael-Inis would know of the Guardians. If, said Annabel, to herself, they truly exist.

“They do exist,” said Fael-Inis, and his expression was serious. “They are a trio of three sorceresses, and they will guard anything anywhere in the world so long as they are paid enough.” A brief smile touched his lips. “They are the most venal of all the enchantresses,” he said. “They are extremely mercenary.”

Annabel started to say something and then stopped, and Fael-Inis looked at her.

Annabel said, “It is only — at some time in my people’s history, there were soldiers of fortune who would work and fight for any master. They called them mercenaries.”

“Yes,” said Fael-Inis thoughtfully, “that describes these three. They are certainly sorceresses of fortune. They are not necessarily bad, but they will turn their powers in whichever direction seems most profitable to them.” He paused. “Medoc has used them many times,” he said.

“Are they human?” asked Annabel, and thought it an indication of how absorbed she was becoming in this strange adventure that she could pose a question like this so entirely naturally.

“No sorcerer, no enchanter, is ever wholly human,” said Fael-Inis, and Annabel shivered, because while it had been all very well to read and dream about half-human creatures in the world she had left, and about creatures who were not human at all, down here, in the dark old mountain, it was rather different. “Each must have a vein of the ancient magical Amaranth blood,” said Fael-Inis. “But over the ages, for many of them, that blood has been mingled with that of the Dark Ireland, and become tainted.” He glanced at Annabel, and the mischief lit his eyes. “The females of the Amaranth line are frequently at the mercy of their emotions,” he said. “They are seductresses, but they were not always good judges of their lovers.” He regarded her and appeared to wait, and Annabel said, rather vehemently, “I don’t see that it is only females who misjudge —” And stopped, and saw the amusement in his expression, and grinned a bit sheepishly.

“Humans,” said Fael-Inis, his tone serious, his eyes brimful of laughter, “are much better at choosing partners. And of the three we are about to meet, there is one who —” He stopped, and shook his head. “But you must see it for yourself,” he said.

Taliesin said cautiously, “You know these three we are about to meet?”

“Yes, I know them. I have faced them, and so far I have always been the victor,” said Fael-Inis. “When the First Battle of all raged, some of the lesser servants of the Light-Bringer summoned them. They did not add greatly to the Light-Bringer’s armies,” he said thoughtfully, “but still, they are a force to be treated with care.”

He leaned back against the rockface. “The first one we shall meet is Uathach, sometimes called Spectre,” he said. “She is the lesser of the three, but she is still a force to be counted. She is wraithlike and grey, and she is sometimes known as Hunger and Thirst, for she will fasten onto your flesh and drink your blood, and then toss the dried-out bones into the mountain chasms far below. She has many names — Sigh, Sough, Storm, Winter-Night, Wail, Groan. She is also sometimes known as Despair, for that,” said Fael-Inis, “is the coldest and the deadliest of all human emotions. We shall have to enter her cave first,” said Fael-Inis, “and to do so will be to encounter all the terrors of a howling storm on the darkest night of winter.

“The second of the Guardians is Aife, which means Reflection,” said Fael-Inis, and unexpectedly, a mischievous smile touched his lips. “She is very well known to me, that one,” he said. “She wears a Cloak of Nightmares which she once stole from a High Queen of Ireland, and it is that which gives her her strongest weapon.”

Annabel asked how a Cloak of Nightmares worked, and Fael-Inis said, “Once, the Cloak of Nightmares was Ireland’s greatest treasure. It was woven by the Sorcerers of Tara — that is, the good sorcerers,” he said, “for the first High Queen of all.”

Taliesin said softly, “The human Queen,” and Fael-Inis sent him a sharp look, and then said, “I see you know the history of the land of your adoption, my friend.

“But yes, she was the only human ever to rule Ireland, and it was for her that the Sorcerers wove the Enchanted Nightcloak. It is said that its power fades unless a pure-bred human wears it,” he said.

“Then —”

“Reflection is partly human,” said Fael-Inis, and it seemed to the other two that he frowned slightly. “It is something she is a little ashamed of, that vein of human blood, but it would certainly have enabled her to wear the Nightcloak of the High Queen to some effect.”

“Will it endanger us?” asked Taliesin.

“I cannot say. The Nightcloak has disappeared several times in Ireland’s history, and it has been used for good and also for great evil. For the moment, it is in the hands of Reflection, who will certainly use it as much as she can to outwit us.” He looked at them. “With the Cloak’s help, Reflection can summon up the nightmares of those who challenge her,” he said. “She can make those nightmares live. The nightmares will not hurt us,” said Fael-Inis seriously, “but the danger will be in telling the nightmares from the reality. And she can sometimes be very subtle,” he said, but the grin was still there, and Taliesin and Annabel both received the feeling that Fael-Inis knew Reflection very well indeed, and in fact rather liked her. “You will have to trust me absolutely when we are in Aife’s cave,” said Fael-Inis.

“And you will have to keep it firmly in your mind that the creatures and the torments she may summon are nothing other than your own nightmares. Also, we must on no account become separated, for, in that way, we can perhaps help one another. She is only Second Guardian and not Third, although she would dearly like to be Third, of course,”

“And the Third Guardian?” said Taliesin, and at once Fael-Inis’s eyes grew serious. He fell silent, and at length Annabel said cautiously, “It is said — in my world — that it is the Third Guardian who is the most terrible of the three.”

“Yes,” said Fael-Inis. “Yes, she is very powerful indeed. She has rarely fought on the side of what we would call justice, for she prefers to deal with the creatures of the Dark Ireland. She is a very powerful adversary, that one.”

“They call her the Sensleibhe,” said Annabel, “and although I have not much Gaelic, I think that means —”

“The Old Woman of the Mountains,” said Fael-Inis. “She is a very much more serious foe than the other two, that one, for it is said that she is ageless and deathless, and she is cunning and greedy and clever.”

“Our stories say very little about her,” said Annabel, “only her name. But I believe she is the most feared.”

“Oh, yes,” said Fael-Inis. “Oh, yes, she is by far the worst. She it is who controls the trio, and she it is who decides which tasks they will agree to.” He studied them. “We shall defeat Spectre if we are strong,” he said, “and we shall defeat Reflection if we are clever. But the Sensleibhe has never yet been defeated.”

Taliesin said, “But —”

“Of course,” said Fael-Inis, “she has never yet been challenged by me.” And the mocking smile lifted his face and his eyes flared with the old mischief, and Taliesin and Annabel felt a little cheered.

“We should go on,” said Fael-Inis, standing up. “The Horsemen are nearer than they were.” He held out a hand to each of them. “We have no time to lose,” he said.

But his eyes were bright, and the smile was the one that said, Let us challenge these ridiculous creatures and show them up for what they are! Let us march openly into this strange secret land and tumble it about!

“Let us go straight into the Three Caverns and save the world,” said Fael-Inis.

*

It seemed to Taliesin that the further they went, the clearer the light became. And there seemed to be an easier way now through the passageways and across the stone bridges. At times they had to bend down to pass beneath low-roofed caves, and sometimes they had to crawl on all fours.

“Undignified,” said Taliesin with a lift of one eyebrow. “That I should live to see a Tyrian brought so low!”

“If you will just duck your head,” said Annabel practically, “it is possible that you will avoid being knocked senseless by that overhang of rock.”

“My senses are as unravished as the quiet waters of the … You are quite right,” said Taliesin. “There was an overhang of rock.” And grinned, and said, “I wonder have you noticed how there is always a way through somehow? They say that the road to hell is as easy. Shall we ever find that out or shall we perish down here among the — Is that water I hear?”

“Yes,” said Annabel, stopping to listen.

“The River of Souls?”

“No,” said Fael-Inis. “You will know when we reach that.”

There were great silver-blue chambers with soaring pillars of some kind of stone, and crystal caves where the steady drip of water had formed into stalactites and stalagmites of such breathtaking size and of such uncanny beauty that Annabel gasped.

Once they passed under a natural arch of stone which seemed to be made up of leering faces.

“But it is only the rock formation again,” said Taliesin. And then, in a different voice, “Or is it?”

Fael-Inis said, “Not altogether,” and they both turned to look at him. “We are entering Spectre’s domain,” he said, very softly.

“And the Horsemen are nearer?” asked Taliesin.

“Inside the mountain?” asked Annabel.

“Yes,” said Fael-Inis.

*

They were almost running now, headlong down the tunnel in front of them, and all about them were strange scuttling sounds, as if tiny ratlike creatures ran with them. “But we have not seen anything yet,” said Annabel, who did not want to see anything at all.

Taliesin caught, more than once, the red gleam of eyes from the shadows, and he thought that they were in truth being watched now.

The path led down, a steady decline. “Towards the mountain’s heart,” said Fael-Inis, leading the way.

“And from every world there is a path to the fires below,” murmured Taliesin. “We shall go down and down until we reach the everlasting Gates that lead to … I suppose this is the way?”

“Can you see another?”

“No. Onwards then. Down, down into the bowels of hell and say I sent thee thither. Into the marble heart of the mountain and into the vasty deep of a strange and secret country. I have never visited it before, and yet I am as certain of the spot as if a chart had been bestowed — I am talking nonsense, you understand, but it is better than listening to the crawling rodents, and it is infinitely better than counting the hoofbeats. I suppose the Guardians will know of our approach?”

The Keeper of the First Cavern. Uathach. Spectre, who is also Hunger and Thirst and the howling night winds …

The passage was winding downwards more sharply now in a steady slope, and they were surrounded on all sides by the mountain. Annabel thought it was getting colder, and then was not sure if that was right. The light was still with them, only it was a colder light, a light without colour … it was the sort of light you might see if you woke up in the hour before a winter dawn and peered through your window.

Because I am winter night and I am freezing dawn, and I am gale and blizzard …

And then they rounded a sharp curve in the passage and there ahead of them lay, “The first of the Caverns,” said Fael-Inis.

In front of them was a massive door hewn into the rock, and a great iron lock.

And a figure guarding it …

*

There was no need for Fael-Inis to send out his silent command: “Caution!”

Taliesin and Annabel had slowed their footsteps almost to a stop, and were moving very stealthily indeed.

“We are walking on eggshells,” said Taliesin in a whisper to Annabel. “We are walking on spun glass, on paper-thin ice. One false step and we may all be plunged into eternal darkness.”

For this is Uathach, the creature who is Hunger and Thirst, and who is the dark howling winds of the night …

Spectre did not move as they drew near. She stood watching them from a ledge of rock a little to the left of the door, a creature of grey shadows and icicle fingers and sharp pointed nose. Annabel sought for, and found, the word ravaged. Uathach was ravaged by her own hungers and her own thirsts, and by the cold and the storm. And then, But surely we can find a weakness in her, she thought.

They could see the door quite clearly; a massive outline carved into the mountain, the outline traced by a thin line of light, as if once through it you would find yourself in a brightly lit place. And if only we can get through it, thought Annabel. Oh, if only we can. Never mind the other two Guardians yet, let us first defeat this one.

When Spectre finally spoke, Annabel felt her skin prickle, for she had not expected quite such a cold voice, and she had not expected such desolation. Spectre’s voice was the voice of the endless winter night; it was hoar frost and shivering dawn, and shoreless seas, and lowering clouds. It was tears and it was the eaves dripping with night’s rain in a cold, lonely house. Stop it! thought Annabel sharply.

“You have come far, travellers,” said Spectre, and Annabel gasped, because somehow she had not expected such ordinary speech. “You have come far,” said the figure in front of them, and waited and did not move.

Fael-Inis said, in a voice from which all expression had vanished, “We seek the adventure of the mountain Cavern, Lady,” and Spectre laughed. Without warning, the quest seemed an impossible quest, and the mountain seemed to darken and close round them.

And that is what Spectre wants! came the thought.

“We seek entry into the inmost Cavern, Lady,” said Fael-Inis.

“Many seek it, Mortal, but few gain it. None return to the outside world to tell of it.”

Taliesin was wondering how Fael-Inis liked being called “Mortal” and Annabel was thinking that Spectre was not quite what she had been imagining, when Fael-Inis laughed, and leapt on to the narrow rock ledge beside Spectre’s thin form.

“Let us have done with pretence,” he said. “You know me for what I am, Madam, as I know you. You are Hunger and Thirst and the long desolate nights of winter. I am what you know me to be.” Light streamed from him, and Annabel thought, I believe that the thing he hates above all others is pretence and hypocrisy.

Spectre regarded Fael-Inis. “We have met,” she said, and Fael-Inis laughed again.

“Yes, we have met, Lady, although I did not know if you would remember.”

“I was there,” said Spectre softly. “Do you not recall that I was there, Fael-Inis? The First Great Battle of the World? The Battle that is carved into the history of mankind for ever more. You misjudge me when you say I do not remember that.”

“Your part was a lesser part.”

“But you played no part at all,” said Spectre, and seemed suddenly to grow in stature and tower above them, her shadow sending fantastic shapes dancing and flickering on the cavern walls. She leaned closer. “But I was there, Fael-Inis. I saw the heavens weeping in torment, and I saw the great armies of Lucifer the Light-Bringer storm heaven’s gates. I felt the dreadful agony of the skies bleeding, and the anguish of Man being cast out of that which should have been his, and which he must for evermore travail and suffer to regain.” She studied Fael-Inis; the other two might not have been there. From the corner of her eyes, Annabel saw Taliesin begin to inch closer. “I saw all of it,” said Spectre, and it seemed to Annabel that Fael-Inis moved a little, so that Spectre was turned away from Taliesin’s wary progress.

Fael-Inis said, “It was a worthless battle, that. It was doomed. The Light-Bringer should have known he would never succeed.”

Spectre said, “It is the one thing I remember, Fael-Inis. That you played no part in it. You walked away from it, but before you did, you stood watching for a long, long while.” Her eyes were fixed on him, and Annabel held her breath. “Have you really forgotten?” said Spectre softly.

“Let us say that I have.” The golden eyes were glowing, and Annabel thought that Fael-Inis was calling down some kind of power to keep Spectre’s attention. “Remind me,” said Fael-Inis coaxingly.

“You would take no part,” said Spectre. “When the Light-Bringer was mustering his armies, when the rest of us were banding together, to follow one side or another, you stood back and declined every offer made to you.

“And at the end, when Lucifer’s creatures were pouring down on heaven’s armies, when the skies were stained red with the pity and the pain of it, you simply stood back and watched, and there was mockery and disdain in your face. You stood bathed in the red light of the battle, and you would take no part, even though your participation might have swayed the fight one way or another.”

“But the fight still goes on,” said Fael-Inis. “It always will.”

“You were arrogant and defiant,” said Spectre. “You were the creature of music and fire and speed, who declared for neither side, and who elected to walk out alone into the cold world of Men.” She was standing very close to him, and Annabel saw that Taliesin had nearly reached her side.

“Did you fear Lucifer?” said Spectre. “Or was it the One against whom Lucifer fought? I have often wondered that. I have carried that image of you with me for so long now; proud, haughty, choosing the cold alien world of the humans when you might have had so much. You might have turned the tide of the battle, had you wished. But you knew that, of course.”

“Of course,” said Fael-Inis silkily.

“Do you know what is said of you now, Fael-Inis?” said Spectre. “That it was cowardice that drove you from the battle. That it was lack of courage and lack of strength that sent you down into the world of Men. Does that hurt, Fael-Inis?”

“Not the very least bit,” said Fael-Inis, and smiled.

“And so, rebel angel, you would walk into the Cavern of the Doomsday Clock, would you?”

“I would.”

“You know that to do so, you must win the key of each of the doors from each of the Guardians?”

“I know.”

“Are we really to do battle this time, you and I?” said Spectre, and Fael-Inis laughed again.

“I do not fear you,” he said, “even though I know all your names. I know that you are Hunger and Thirst and Nightwind and Storm and Tempest.”

“And Despair,” said Spectre. “The greatest threat of them all. You know as well as I that when a human succumbs to Despair, then he is truly lost, once and for all. To despair,” said Spectre, “to abandon all hope of everything.” The thin grey smile touched her lips. “Let me show you,” said Spectre. “Let me show you true Despair, Mortal. Let me show you your poor doomed world. Do you really think you can enter the torchlit cavern and halt the Doomsday Clock? Poor futile creatures! You will never do it! Even now, the Horsemen are hard on your heels, they are making their way through the mountain tunnels and the caverns, and very soon they will be upon you. But before they are, let me show you what is ahead.

“Your world is hurtling to destruction. Soon it will be a dead world, a cold empty thing, rolling silently through the wastes of the night. Your race is nearly ended, and all your history and all your struggles and your fine achievements and your vanities will be for naught. See, I will show you what is ahead.” And she stepped back and raised her hands, and at once a terrible moaning wind whipped round the cave, so that Annabel gasped and put up her hands. Taliesin pulled her into the shelter of the rockface, and they stood, clinging together, trying to shield themselves from the force.

“See!” cried Spectre, her hands flung outwards, the thin grey cloak swirling about her, her hair writhing about her head as if it was alive. “See the ending of your world!”

And there before them, was the terrible final upheaval. The world dying; sheets of fire, great torrents of rain, boiling seas. People — thousands of them — running frenziedly, screaming, clutching, holding their hands upwards imploringly … And then there were empty plains, cities reduced to rubble, smoking ruins. Here and there was a movement; skeletal hands reaching out, the scuttling of rats beneath the rags of the dead and dying. Men fighting one another, wildeyed, for a mouthful of bread or a sip of water …

Everything gone, everything dead, mankind shrivelled and all of the world’s achievements, all of the world’s careful work, burned up and blown away in the charred ruins of a dead world …

Annabel gasped and thrust her fist into her mouth to stop herself crying out, because although she had known — they had all known — what it would be like at the end, still they had tried to pretend it would never happen.

“And there!” cried Spectre, turning again. “There is the creature you have so long awaited!”

An immense shadow fell over the cave, and a great darkness descended. Annabel felt Taliesin’s hands close warmly about hers, and drew in a great shuddering breath, because there was something worse, Spectre was summoning up something so vast and so terrible that even though none of it was real, it could not possibly be real, there was the feeling of something unstoppable and immense, something that would gobble up the world and spit it out, something that would tear mankind into fragments and toss the pieces into the dark, swirling universe …

Taliesin said in a voice from which the breath had been almost driven out, “The Apocalypse …”

There was the image of a clear horizon now, of cliffs and a swirling, boiling sea. And then gradually, little by little, the colour of the sky changed, it became suffused with red, as if a great furnace was bellowing out heat. The clear skies began to heave and pant; threads of fire trickled and seeped out … Annabel thought in horror: the skies are bleeding, and then there was a great wrenching, and a tearing sound, and blood and gore spewed forth from the skies, and the skies themselves parted, and there, standing looking at them, was the Beast, the Apocalypse, the Armageddon; a hundred feet high, grinning and slavering, red-eyed with greed, spiny-backed and gristly-jointed, cloven-footed and horned and insatiable, triumph and bloodlust and demonic strength pouring from it … Ready to eat the world …

And then just as Annabel was thinking she could not bear it any longer, and that the Creature would reach for them at any minute, Fael-Inis shot from his ledge, a pouring arrow of light, and fell on Spectre, knocking her to the ground. Spectre let out a screech of fury, and at once the terrible visions vanished, and there were only the two of them, rolling over and over on the cave floor, fighting for possession of the great silver key.

Taliesin had left Annabel’s side, and was standing ready to pounce, but the two combatants moved so swiftly that he could not judge his moment.

And then Fael-Inis suddenly sprang away and lifted his hand with the key gleaming in it, and Taliesin grabbed Annabel and the three of them fell against the locked door.

Fael-Inis thrust the key home, and as they fell through the door, they each heard the hoofbeats thudding down the mountain tunnel behind them.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Annabel opened her eyes and thought that this was the worst yet. Of all the strange, frightening, unexpected things that had happened so far, this was the strangest and the most frightening and certainly the most unexpected.

She had seen, quite clearly, the door of the cavern swing open. “Then has Fael-Inis somehow got the key?” she had wanted to say, only there had been no time. The hoofbeats had been thundering down the corridor, and Annabel thought that Taliesin had cried out that the Horsemen were almost upon them, and Fael-Inis had sprung on Spectre, an arrow of light, fire, and speed all blended together, and Taliesin had been half pulling, half dragging Annabel towards the Cavern door, and the last thing she had seen was Spectre going down beneath Fael-Inis’s assault, a whirling, biting, clawing creature, shrieking her rage, calling up tempest and flood and fire …

Riding the whirlwind and directing the storm … Yes!

There had been an instant confused impression of the most tremendous tempest; of boiling seas and walls of fire, and of massing purple clouds … And of scolding winds that will rive the knotty oaks and tempest dropping fire, and the groans of roaring wind and rain … the last agonies of a dying world struggling for life …

There had been fear and panic and a driving urgency. Run, run, for the Horsemen are almost here; the Heralds who will precede the coming of the Apocalypse are hard on our heels, they are within the mountain, they are riding full tilt down the caves and through the tunnels, they are fording the rivers and, in another minute, in just another minute, they will be upon us, and they have sworn to destroy us, and if that is allowed to happen, all will be lost and we shall be lost and the world will burn …

And then the great door had swung open and Annabel had tumbled through.

It was darker than she would have believed possible. It was so dark that she could not see even the outline of her hand when she held it up before her face.

This is absolutely ridiculous, said Annabel, and discovered that she had said this aloud, and that her voice had echoed rather horridly all about her as if she was quite alone. This was absurd, because they had all fallen through the locked door, and at any minute she would find Taliesin and Fael-Inis.

The Horsemen had been quite close. Annabel had heard them, distinctly, thudding down the tunnels in pursuit. She stood very still and listened hard, but there was no longer any sound of them. This did not mean they could be forgotten, of course. But for the moment there were other things to be thought of. Finding the other two. Trying to make some kind of light. Finding the way to the Second Cavern.

This was more cheering than she had expected, because it was a plan, and a plan would be a good thing to have. It would be something to follow and something to hold on to. It may not be a very good plan, thought Annabel, but it is a plan. It was unthinkable that she should stay here like this, waiting for something to happen. The only way that something would happen was if she made it happen.

It was important not to panic. She could feel her way along the tunnel; she could go hand over hand like this, and sooner or later she would be certain to get somewhere. She would not have to mind about the dark, and she would not have to think about the weight of the mountain above her. I’ll do it somehow, thought Annabel, beginning the cautious journey. Somehow I’ll find my way to where there is more light, and then I shall have achieved something, and then I’ll think what I ought to do next.

There were scuttling noises in the dark; tiny, clawing, scurrying rodent noises. They would have been very nasty in any circumstances, but down here, half buried in the mountain, and in the pitch dark, they were more revolting than anything Annabel had ever imagined. Something brushed against her foot and slid away into the darkness, and Annabel drew back sharply. But the something was still there; it was soft and cold and sinuous, and — I hope it isn’t a rat or a snake, thought Annabel. I think I can cope really quite well so long as there aren’t rats or snakes.

She thought there was a sliver of light somewhere ahead of her now. It seemed to be spilling out from a distant source — the Second Cavern? — and it ought to be possible to reach it quite easily. She would go in the direction of the light, and she would not listen to the slithering sounds and the pattering of claw-like feet, and the occasional swishing of thin rat tails all round her.

She began to feel her way warily forward. It would be particularly horrid to tread on one of the pattering, scuttering creatures, but, thought Annabel, if it is them or me, then it will have to be them. Sorry, rats, or whatever you are, but it’s every Man for himself down here. And then, because this was quite a lively thought to have had, she said it aloud, rather defiantly.

The thin light was nearer, and Annabel inched forward, treading carefully, feeling her way across the uneven rock floor. If you fell over here, the rats would be on you at once.

She thought she was standing on a narrow ridge of rock, and there was the impression of space beneath her. An underground river? But there was no feeling of water, no rising coldness. Probably it was just another strangely proportioned cavern. Even so, it was important not to miss her footing.

And then the light flickered suddenly, and the cave was illuminated quite clearly, and Annabel very nearly screamed, because she was standing on a precarious rock bridge, no more than a foot in width.

There was no river below. Directly below the bridge was a large dry pit, and the pit was filled with writhing snakes.

For a very long time, Annabel did not move at all. The light had died again, and the cave was as dark as it had been before. But that one brief flare had been sufficient to show the snake nest very clearly indeed. It had shown the narrow rock where she stood, and it had shown that the bridge was very flimsy and very smooth, and that it would be very easy to miss your footing and fall off.

Into the snake pit.

Annabel began to feel her way across the bridge. She thought it would be safer to go on all fours; there would be less chance of losing her balance that way, and she lowered herself cautiously and began to crawl. The brief moment of light had shown a solid wide ledge at the far end, and the light itself had to be coming from somewhere. Even if it was only another cave, it was somewhere else to go. If I can get across the bridge and on to the ledge, I shall be all right. If I can crawl quietly and slowly like this, I shall be safe. I shall get to the Second Cavern, and the others will be there, and I shan’t mind very much about meeting the Second Guardian — Aife, was it? Reflection. Reflection, who guards the Second Cavern, and wears a Cloak of Nightmares stolen from a High Queen of Ireland …

A Cloak of Nightmares.

Annabel stopped and held on to the ridge of rock, and sat very still. A Cloak of Nightmares. And Fael-Inis had said something — what had it been? — about illusions and monsters, and about being able to separate reality from enchantment.

I don’t believe in you, said Annabel silently to the writhing squirming nest of snakes below her. And then, because this did not seem to work very well, she repeated it aloud. Her voice bounced hollowly off the sides of the mountain.

“I don’t believe in you!” cried Annabel, and this time she heard the uncoiling snakes, and felt the dry heat rising. She thought there was the ghost of a malicious chuckle from somewhere, and the light flickered again.

Snakes were not cold and slimy as most people imagined. They were warm and dry. They coiled themselves about you and their forked tongues flickered at you and their lidless eyes watched you. There had been an expression: laidly worm, which meant loathsome snake. Annabel had read it somewhere in one of the books you were not supposed to read. Now she wished that she had not.

The snakes did not exist. She was not really alone in this dark mountain. It was a trick, an enchantment, a spell conjured up by Reflection from the Cloak of Nightmares. It was a test, to see what she would do.

Nothing in her life so far had really prepared Annabel to crawl, completely alone, across a narrow ridge of rock in pitch dark with a writhing, squirming nest of snakes directly below her. She thought it might have been easier if someone had been with her, and then she drew in a deep breath, because there was no one with her, and she could not stay here clinging to the rock like this. She would go on towards the light. Probably it was another trick, and there would be another horrid nightmare waiting for her there as well, but that would have to be faced. One thing at a time.

The light seemed to be a very long way off. If she was halfway across, she ought to be nearer to it. The narrow bridge ought not to be stretching out and on, so that it began to seem as if it was longer now than it had been when she began. And then, quite unexpectedly, this was heartening, because this was something that happened in nightmares and if this was in truth a nightmare, the snakes could not really hurt her. Even if she fell into the midst of them (which she was not going to do) nothing so very terrible could happen. Annabel took another deep breath and continued her stealthy journey.

The coiling and the hissing of the snakes was becoming frenzied. They know I am here, thought Annabel. They know that I am trying to crawl away in the dark, in secret, and they are excited. They are waiting for me to slip and fall into the centre of them. If that happens, I shall probably be smothered before they can bite me. No, I shan’t, because I shall wake up. I must remember that this isn’t happening, thought Annabel. Snakes do not live inside mountains, not artificially like this, and none of it is happening, and very soon now I shall wake up.

But the thought of being smothered by coiling, writhing snakes was so utterly repulsive that for a moment she could hardly breathe, let alone move. And then, because the idea of slipping, of missing a foothold or a handhold, was so awful, she began to miss her footing, and she began to find the bridge slippery, as if a thin film of something oily was covering it.

“But this is becoming childish,” said Annabel out loud. And then, rather crossly, “I don’t know who you think you are, Aife or Reflection, or whatever your name is, but I don’t think much of your spells. I think they are obvious,” said Annabel very loudly indeed.

If it had not been so dark, it might have been easier, but on the other hand, if it had been lighter, she would have been able to see the snakes. Perhaps it was better not to see them. In any case, she would be bound to wake up at any minute.

The brief light had shown the snakes to be not very far below the bridge. They might not wait very much longer for her to miss her footing. They might even be able to uncoil and slide on to the bridge anyway. But this was so terrible a thought as to be nearly unbearable. “I wish,” said Annabel aloud again to the listening darkness, “that you had sent me a proper battle, Reflection. I could have coped with that. I might even have enjoyed it,” said Annabel challengingly, and waited hopefully, in case the challenge was taken up.

No. Nothing altered in the least. Clearly this was the nightmare, and clearly she had to find a way out of it somehow. And at any minute she would lose the precarious hold she had on the bridge, and she would fall … With that thought the bridge shivered and moved beneath her, and her hand closed about nothing, and her left foot skidded on a patch of grease, and she fell …

… right into Taliesin’s arms.

She was lying in a perfectly ordinary cave, with the bluish light they had become used to, and Fael-Inis was watching them, and there was suddenly something normal and familiar and comforting about everything, and after all she had been right, there were no snakes, and no narrow bridges that went on for ever.

And Taliesin was holding her hard against him, and there was an expression in his eyes that made her feel warm and safe and as if she could fight this battle single-handed …

And then Fael-Inis said, “We are in the domain of Reflection, Annabel.”

“The Cloak of Nightmares.”

“Yes.” He regarded her. “Was it so very terrible, child?”

“Well,” said Annabel, “it was very real for a time.” And looked round cautiously.

“Yes, she has her tricks, Reflection,” said Fael-Inis. “But she is sometimes rather childish.” He moved away from them, apparently examining the cave walls now, and Annabel looked up at Taliesin and grinned.

“All right?”

“All right,” said Annabel. And then, curiously, “What were you doing while I was fighting snakes and rats?”

“Praying,” said Taliesin softly, his eyes tender.

“Really?”

He smiled down at her, and traced the outline of her features with a finger. “Listen, my love,” he said softly, “I would sooner lose you to a — what was it? — oh, yes, a snake pit, than see you at the hands of the Drakon patrol, as we did earlier on. But in reality,” he said, a suddenly serious note in his voice, “in reality, I could not bear to lose you at all.” His hands caressed the tumble of coppery hair. “I should like to lock you away from every bad thing in the world, Annabel. So that nothing harmful or hurtful would ever come near you. So that you would be forever safe.”

Forever safe …

“Oh!” said Annabel, and smiled.

“You would hate it,” said Taliesin calmly.

“Would I?”

“Yes. No cages, ever,” said Taliesin, and Annabel saw again the misty turquoise world and knew that there would be no cages there at all. “But,” said Taliesin, tightening his hold about her, “I should like to put you in my house, and see you curled up on the hearthrug, in the room where I work, and I should like to sit opposite you at the end of every day, and share with you everything that has happened during that day-all the little absurdities and all the comical events, and the sadnesses and the happinesses which make up life. I would put you in my house, but you would be forever free.”

Forever safe … forever free … Annabel, who did not dare believe that life would possibly be so full of delight, dredged up a token protest.

“What about this question of the different worlds?” Because it would be so easy — oh, yes, it would be the easiest thing ever to yield to Taliesin, and to go with him to his house (what would it be like?) and share the happinesses and the sadnesses and the absurdities of life …

I think I had better fight against this, thought Annabel, holding on to sanity. I think I had better remember that things like this don’t happen any longer. Sharing, and wine, and being loved … Being free …

And so although she was hating saying it, she said, “What about the different worlds?” And stared at him hopefully, and waited for him to find a way out for them.

Taliesin, understanding at once why she was arguing against him, his mood soaring into pure and untrammelled joy, said, “O my love, have you not yet learned that the world is only a glass that shines. An icicle dome, Annabel, through which the players strut … a ladder to go up and down, a perpetual see-saw, a towering wall through which we have to find our own chinks of escape …” He stopped and looked at her, and Annabel said, “Do you always talk so extravagantly?”

“Nearly always. It is a very good disguise,” said Taliesin. And then, more seriously, “I will take you back if I have to traffic with every Lord of the Dark Ireland, Annabel.”

“But,” said Fael-Inis softly, from behind them, “‘we travel not for trafficking alone, or for lust of knowing what should be known …’ Do you truly intend to take a golden road, Taliesin, and find yourself beyond the last blue mountain, or across the angry sea?” He stood looking down at them, and Taliesin grinned and said, “There will be a way back,” and Fael-Inis said, “Perhaps. If so, we will find it. In the meantime —”

“In the meantime,” said Taliesin, standing up and pulling Annabel to her feet, “there is a Second Cavern and the Second Guardian. Reflection.”

“Yes.” Fael-Inis studied Annabel. “It was a childish ploy of Reflection’s, that one.”

“I did see it for what it was,” said Annabel.

“Of course. And, as I have said, Reflection is sometimes rather childish. She intrigued and plotted for years to get the Nightcloak, and now that she has it, she finds that she is not sufficiently human to use it to its full extent.” He regarded Annabel thoughtfully. “If Reflection had been a pure-bred human,” he said, “I think the snake nest would have been very much worse and the escape very much harder. She makes frivolous use of the Cloak now that she has it, but then she is a frivolous creature.” The mischievous light flared in his eyes. “But you shall judge for yourselves. Are you ready to go on now? For we are at the entrance to the next Cavern. And I daresay we are being watched and listened to,” he added.

“Well, of course you are being watched, my dears,” said an amused, rather husky voice from the darkness. “Do, for goodness’ sake come in, for if I do not have someone to talk to, I shall scream with boredom!”

Fael-Inis lifted an amused eyebrow. “Well,” he said, holding out his hand to them. “Shall we go in?”

*

Aife, sometimes called Reflection, was waiting for them. She came forward at once, a thin ravaged creature with a curtain of black hair and huge eyes with painted-on eyelashes. She wore — Annabel blinked — a clinging silk flame-red gown, with a velvet cloak thrown rather negligently across her shoulders. But there was a smile of welcome on her face, and her hands were outstretched to them.

“And, my dear,” she said to Annabel, “you must please forgive that bit of fun just now. A snake nest, wasn’t it. Too horrid for you. That wretched Cloak.” She looked at Fael-Inis. “So,” said Aife softly, “Fael-Inis. The rebel angel. Dear boy, imagine us meeting again.”

“Imagine it,” said Fael-Inis.

“After all these years,” said Aife.

“After all these years,” agreed Fael-Inis blandly.

“Did you know I would be here?”

“Wild horses would not have kept me from this Cavern once I knew you to be its Guardian, Lady.”

Aife shrieked with glee. “You see!” she said to Annabel. “Perfect courtesy. So refreshing. But then he was always the politest of all the … I suppose you are staying, are you? Well, you must certainly come into my little abode. Too tiny for words, but there it is. And then we had better discuss getting you through the doorway, for I expect that is why you are here, is it? Yes, I thought it would be.” There was a whisper of silk, a flutter of hands, and Annabel and Taliesin found themselves somehow led through into a small, rather richly furnished chamber.

“Oh, it is too cramped for anything,” said Aife. “Not what I am used to, of course, and if I had only known … If I had harboured the smallest suspicion about the living conditions down here, I should never have agreed to come in on this one.”

“I daresay,” said Fael-Inis, “that you had no choice,” and Taliesin and Annabel were instantly conscious of his ability to adapt to any situation. There was a lightness in his manner now; he was mischievously flirting with Reflection.

“No choice!” shrieked Aife. “My dears, I was practically dragged here protesting! I was virtually coerced into it. The only thing they did not threaten me with was blackmail, and I daresay they would have done that if they could have found something sufficiently discreditable about me. My life is an open book,” said Aife, gazing at Fael-Inis limpidly.

“So I believe.”

“Oh, well, of course,” said Aife, “if it had not been for my debts, I should never have agreed.” She regarded them with her head on one side, and Annabel found herself thinking that Aife was really rather attractive. “Hopelessly insolvent,” said Aife, and spread her hands. “But what would you do? One must live, you know, and eat, and entertain a guest now and then, and have the odd rag to one’s back. And take a lover or two …” Her eyes slid to Fael-Inis. “I do not always admit to it,” said Aife confidentially, “but amongst people such as ourselves — and I can see that you are a man of the world, sir,” she said to Taliesin suddenly, and inspected him with interest. “Very intriguing,” said Aife, and Taliesin grinned. “Well, anyway, they were becoming so expensive, the young men,” said Aife. “They must be having chariots and golden pomegranates, and they must be haring off to rescue maidens from dark towers and slay dragons, and really, I am the most generous of souls. But these things cost money. People simply do not realise.” She gestured them to be seated, and arranged herself gracefully on a silk couch, plumping up several cushions. Cushions? thought Annabel wildly. Down here?

“I like to be comfortable,” explained Reflection. “And since I am bonded here for — oh, let us not count it up or I shall become so depressed, and there is no use in being depressed when there is no one to be depressed at. Sir, you seem like a gentleman of some discernment, I wonder will you pour us all a glass of wine. Yes, it is in the cupboard there — a very good brew,” she said to the other two. “I have never bought the inferior stuff, not even in my really bad times. People are far too quick to spot these things, and the next thing would have been that they would have been spreading it about that I was on my beam ends and threatened with a debtors’ prison! And once that got about,” said Aife, “I should have been ruined, I promise you. I should certainly have been hounded out of the Inner Circle of the Sybilline Ladies. They are rather severe about debt, you know,” she said as she daintily rearranged her draperies.

Taliesin, who had poured the wine, brought it to them and said, “Madam, I believe you are a lady after my own heart,” and Aife sat up and patted her hair, and looked at Taliesin with renewed interest, and Taliesin winked at Annabel, and handed the tray with the wine chalices to Aife.

“And no doubt, madam, you will not baulk at observing the ancient custom of my people, which is to taste each chalice before offering it to your guests.”

Aife laughed, and said at once, “Oh, it is not poisoned. That is not at all my style. Fael-Inis will tell you that.”

Fael-Inis, sipping the wine with apparent enjoyment, said tranquilly, “Aife has not, so far as I know, poisoned anyone yet.”

Aife leaned forward. “Enchantments and nightmares,” she said firmly. “That is what I go in for. I keep to my own line; it is far better. When they offered me this post, I accepted only on condition that I should be allowed to do the thing in my own way. Nightmares and the odd bewitchment, I said. Take it or leave it, I said. They took it, of course, well, they had no choice, because I put it to you whether anyone would choose to be buried alive in this place for several centuries — dear me, now I have said it — several centuries, and it has the most enervating ring, no matter how quickly you say it.” She leaned forward, and Annabel, fascinated, leaned forward as well. “Five hundred years,” said Aife in a confidential whisper. “But not a minute longer. And really, that is quite short as these guarding positions go.” She reclined again amongst her cushions, and regarded them over the rim of her wine chalice. “Still, I escaped my creditors, which is something to be very thankful for, although when you consider the screaming boredom down here — well, I wonder sometimes whether there would not have been more life inside a debtors’ prison. If it were not for the shame” said Reflection. “And my family would never live it down.”

The wine was very good indeed, or Annabel thought it was, because she had never drunk any before. It tasted of something faintly fruity and of something very mellow and soft, and there was a warming feel to it. Taliesin had lifted his glass to Aife, and said quite solemnly, “Madam, as I thought, you and I have tastes in common, and were you not an enchantress, and I a poor Tyrian money lender, and a human at that —”

“Well,” said Aife, sitting up and eyeing Taliesin all over again, “as to that, I cannot see that there would be any problem, sir, because I do have quite a lot of human blood, you know, although my mother would never openly admit to it. A little peccadillo two generations back. My great-grandfather and a serving girl —”

Taliesin said solemnly, “It happens to the best,” and Aife leaned forward, and said, “It was possessing human blood that gave me the idea of acquiring the Nightcloak in the first place, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Although I have to say,” said Aife, disconsolately, “that it has not been quite the success I hoped.”

“It is a human’s weapon,” said Fael-Inis. “Although I suppose in your rush to steal it, you forgot about that.”

“No, I did not,” said Aife crossly, and Annabel, watching and listening, thought, So! We have established that she is indeed partly human, just as Fael-Inis said. She will have human weaknesses, thought Annabel hopefully. But she found herself rather liking the amiable Aife, and she found herself hoping that there was not going to be some kind of messy fight where Aife might get hurt.

“I suppose,” said Aife presently, “that you have encountered Spectre? Yes, I thought you must have done.”

“A few winds and tempests, and a storm or so,” said Fael-Inis, regarding Aife with amusement.

“Oh, dear me, the poor soul, is she still using those?” said Aife, sitting up, her eyes bright. “Oh, she will have to widen her repertoire if ever she is to get on. Winds and tempests — so old-fashioned). And really, the sort of thing that anyone can do — yes, it is the easiest thing in the world, I could whip up a bit of a whirlwind myself if I put my mind to it. Oh, she will never get anywhere, that Spectre. I told her so — it was at a necromancers’ dinner — I remember I wore silver grey and I had a new cloak with sections of a cut rainbow woven into it — ruinously expensive — but it created such a stir, and I believe I took six lovers that night — it might have been more — but there were certainly six good ones. One of them went on to capture the Golden Horn, and I remember that there were some very prurient jokes made about it at the time.

“But I told Spectre straight: My dear, I said, if you are to make anything of yourself as an enchantress, you will have to branch out a bit. I even offered to give her a few lessons, but she thought she knew it all. People usually do think so. And so there she is, the First Guardian and no prospect of advancement at all, although if we are to be candid, I am only the Second, although only for five hundred years. Not an hour longer!

“However,” said Aife, “we had better talk about you. Dear me, I did not expect to meet you again, Fael-Inis. Are you still racketing about the world in your Time Chariot? Of course you are. My dear,” this to Annabel, “my dear, do make him tell you the story of how he got that. It is a very good tale. Of course, we have known each other for a very long time. I shall not say just how long. But it is a good many centuries now. Do you remember the Battle of the Goddess Danaan, Fael-Inis?”

“We were on different sides,” said Fael-Inis.

“We always were,” said Aife disconsolately. “And then there was the War between the Children of Lir. Do you remember that one? Wasn’t it that night I tried to lure you to bed?”

“I believe there were several such nights when you tried to do that,” said Fael-Inis with perfect courtesy, and Aife sighed.

“He would never be lured,” she said to Taliesin and Annabel. “My dears, I even took wagers that I would get him, but I never did. So devastating to my ego, because I have always been considered to be irresistible. They called me that once, you know. Aife the Irresistible. I don’t know that I cared for it overmuch. Rather common-sounding.” She looked at Fael-Inis again and sighed. “Really, dear boy, it was such a pity,” she said. “And so ungenerous of you, because I should have dined out on it for centuries. Ladies’ Nights, the Inner Circle of the Sybillines — oh, I should have been asked everywhere, because everyone is fascinated by him, and my stock would have risen sky high, my dears. And they all know,” said Aife confidingly, “everyone knows that I always kiss and tell. Well, it’s all part of the fun.”

She looked, at Fael-Inis expectantly, and Fael-Inis smiled slightly and sketched a bow and said, “Your gain was my loss, Reflection,” and Aife sighed.

“You see? Immaculately polite, but elusive. Nothing you can ever quite get hold of. I should have washed my hands of him centuries ago.”

Fael-Inis said, “It is your habit of flinging your lovers into the river the next morning, or dismembering them and feeding them to jackals and hyenas that is so off-putting, Reflection, my dear,” and Aife shrieked with mirth again.

“Oh my dear,” she said. “Do they still say that of me!

How perfectly ridiculous! And you know as well as I do that it was just a piece of spiteful gossip. You cannot trust anyone these days! However,” said Aife, “we are straying from the point, and the point now is what we are going to do with you all. Are you sure you want to get into the Cavern of the Clock?

“Well, it is quite your affair.

“And there is the ridiculous business of the locked door and the key. The idea is that you are supposed to try to get the key from me and I am supposed to resist. It hasn’t changed at all, I suppose? No, I didn’t think it had, although they do change it from time to time. And,” she said in an aside to Annabel, “they never tell me. Still, it makes no difference to me, because as far as I am concerned, you are welcome to the Cavern of the Clock. My dears, the noise! Positively deafening! Tick-ticking until you could scream. And absurd little men in black scurrying all over the place. I have nothing to do with any of it,” said Aife. “I made that clear at the beginning. A bit of spell weaving and a few nightmares and that is all. Don’t expect me to go into that place, I said, and do you know, they never have. Cold people. No charm,” said Aife severely. “Still, I have to obey their rules, because that is what I am here for. And we all get checked on now and then — oh, yes, quite businesslike. A kind of annual audit they call it, and my dears the things they do if you do not play the game — I could make your hair curl, really I could. Still,” said Aife, and stood up and quite suddenly seemed very much taller, “still, we may as well get on with it.”

Fael-Inis had risen almost at the same instant, and to Annabel it seemed as if he too had grown in stature, so that he now matched Reflection in height.

They eyed one another. “I suppose,” said Aife softly, “that you want me to give you the key, do you?”

“Yes,” said Fael-Inis softly, and held out his hand.

There was a moment of rather unexpected silence. Then Aife said crossly, “Don’t be silly, Fael-Inis. You know the rules. We have to do battle,” and Fael-Inis smiled, and leaned forward to touch Aife’s hand.

At once there was a crackle of light, and Aife’s form changed into a menacing towering figure, easily twelve feet high, brandishing a staff of pure light, her visage threatening.

Fael-Inis matched her without a second’s hesitation, hurling a shaft of fire across the cave, so that Annabel blinked and found the dazzle stayed in her vision for some time afterwards.

Aife resumed her normal appearance, and glared at Fael-Inis. “That was unfair,” she said. “If you knew how I schemed and searched, and worked — yes, I even worked to get that staff of light, and then you disintegrate it with positively no effort at all with one of your flaming torches. Oh, it is too bad of you, it is really!” she said, and turned about and sat down, frowning at him.

Fael-Inis said softly, “But you could acquire a flaming torch, Reflection. One of the easiest —”

“Well, it is not,” said Aife crossly. “If I was not partly human … You have no idea the obstacles I encounter.”

“Yes, you are a mongrel.”

“But with the best of both sides,” said Aife. “And of course, it is having human blood that has enabled me to wear the Cloak of Nightmares.”

“It suits you,” said Fael-Inis, still in the same soft tone, and at once Aife said, “Oh, this old thing. My dear, it is the veriest rag!” But she looked at him expectantly.

Fael-Inis said, “I will barter with you for the key, Aife.”

“Will you?” A sudden speculative and acquisitive gleam lit her eyes. “What will you offer me?”

Fael-Inis grinned. “I can offer many things,” he said, “but to begin with, we will say a torch of fire.”

“Really? Such as the one you used just now?”

“Such as that.”

“Well, that will do for a start,” said Aife. “What else?”

“Shall we say immunity from the Time Fire?”

“Now that,” said Aife thoughtfully, “would be very useful indeed. Can you really do that?”

“Since you are only partially human, I can.”

“Yes, I will accept that as well,” said Aife, and looked at him and waited, and then, as he did not speak, “Dear me,” she said, “nothing else, Fael-Inis?”

Fael-Inis moved forward without warning then, and took her hands in his. “Come now, Reflection,” he said, and there was a coaxing note in his voice, “come now, my dear, we know one another very well. We are old enemies.”

“I would have preferred that we were old lovers,” said Aife.

“That too could be arranged,” said Fael-Inis, and there was another sudden silence. “Well?” he said at last, and his voice was so low and so intimate that Taliesin and Annabel had to strain to hear it.

“After all these centuries,” said Aife thoughtfully. “Dear me, this is all very unexpected.” She eyed him. “You will expect me to give you the key?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well,” said Aife thoughtfully, “it is against all the rules, of course. But I suppose I could say I was forced.”

“You could do that.”

“And — I can still have the torch of fire and the immunity from the Time Fire?”

“Assuredly.”

“You won’t change your mind?”

“Did you ever know me to break a promise?”

“It seems a reasonable agreement,” said Aife cautiously. “Although you do know that I can give you no help against the Third Guardian.” She looked at them. “Make no mistake,” said Aife, “the Sensleibhe is quite as terrible and quite as cunning and certainly as evil as the legends tell. You will do well to beware of her.”

“The bargain,” said Fael-Inis softly.

Aife hunched one shoulder and said rather pettishly, “Oh, very well. But I do think it is the unfairest bargain ever struck. And I should have much preferred to have got you by my own wiles.”

“No one need ever know,” said Fael-Inis, and his voice was positively purring now.

“That is true,” said Aife, brightening, and looked at him again. “And it has been a very long time since we met, you and I.” She stood up and led the way through a small gap in the wall into an adjoining room, through which Annabel glimpsed a silken bed with canopies and rich hangings, and a general air of extreme luxury.

Fael-Inis turned to follow her, and then paused in the doorway and looked at Annabel and Taliesin.

“The things I do for Ireland,” said the rebel angel, grinning from ear to ear and following his lady into the bedchamber.

Annabel’s ancestors, at some time in their history, had been very particular about what they had called etiquette, which, as far as Annabel had been able to make out, was simply common politeness and the correct behaviour in a given situation. But they had taken it all very seriously; they had written books about it, which you had to consult so that you knew what to do and what to say, and how to reply to invitations, and how to accept a proposal of marriage, and the proper knives and forks to use when you went out. Some of it had been informative, and some of it had been bewildering, and nearly all of it had been amusing. Annabel had read quite a lot of books secretly, when the Drakon patrols could be trusted not to be prowling.

None of the books of etiquette told you how you ought to behave in a situation like this.

Taliesin was no help at all. He seated himself on Aife’s silk couch, poured himself another chalice of wine, leaned back with his feet crossed, and prepared to wait for Fael-Inis.

“I suppose,” said Annabel at last, “that he will get the key?”

“Oh, I should think so,” said Taliesin, his eyes brimful of mirth. He got up and refilled his glass.

“And, Aife will let us through into the next Cavern,” said Annabel.

“She will,” said Taliesin, and grinned and set down his wine. And then, “Come here,” he said in quite a different voice.

“Now?” said Annabel uncertainly.

“Yes.”

*

This, then, was a foretaste of that forbidden thing; the act that the Drakon had tried to outlaw, and had hedged about with so many restrictions and so many rules that most people had forgotten that there was supposed to be joy in it.

Annabel had not expected to experience quite such a soaring delight and she had certainly not expected to feel such an incredulous joy. When Taliesin lifted his lips from hers, she clung to him because the Cavern, Aife’s silk-hung chamber, was whirling about her head, and there had surely never been anything like this, there had surely never been a feeling in the world to equal this, not anywhere, ever.

Taliesin was smiling down at her, and Annabel smiled back, rather shyly, and began to hope very strenously that he would kiss her again.

“Of course I will,” said Taliesin, and bent his head.

Presently, Annabel recovered herself sufficiently to say, “Is that one of the forbidden things?”

“Not in my world,” said Taliesin, and pulled her to him again, and said, “There is far better ahead of us yet, my love,” and Annabel stared at him and felt dizzy again, because when Taliesin said “my love” like that, in such a soft caressing voice, that such things were forbidden mattered not a jot, because Taliesin would somehow find a way to take her with him into his own world, and she would sit on the hearthrug in his house, and they would share the absurdities and the sadnesses and the happinesses … Like this, with his arms about her, with the sudden press of his body against her, so that she could feel the surge of passion rising in him — Oh, yes, lovely! cried Annabel silently — it was possible to believe it would happen.

Taliesin thought, Yes, I could take her now, here, in this dark old mountain, with half a dozen dangers all around us! Shall I? And he remembered the restrictions and the prohibitions of her world, and took a deep breath and put her gently from him. No. It must wait a while yet, it must wait until they had traversed the dangers and overcome them, until they were far from the memory of the advances of the dreadful lusting men of the Drakon, and until they were back in Ireland, the Ireland of the Wolfkings, with the Darkness of Medoc and his creatures sealed in their own terrible domain again.

And then, my love, we will count the world — all the worlds — well lost, and you will be in my house, and I shall never let you go …

He smiled at her, and thought she understood, and thought there was all the time in the world to begin loving her, and then thought, I hope there is.

Fael-Inis emerged at last, and Annabel, who had been thinking this might be rather awkward, found that it was perfectly easy to greet him with composure. It was even possible to listen quite sensibly to his plan for the next section of the journey.

“The key?” said Taliesin at last. “Did you get the key?”

Fael-Inis grinned and produced the key from behind his back.

*

The third cavern. The last of the caves guarding the Doomsday Clock. The last Guardian.

As they walked through the tunnels, Annabel found that she was beginning to feel much more courageous. Because they had defeated two of the Guardians already?

Taliesin, who had been listening for the Horsemen, was feeling intensely alive and alert. He thought that this quest would have been remarkable under any circumstances, but that it was very remarkable indeed with Annabel at his side. He knew he would not let her go back to that dreadful bleak world, and then he remembered that if they failed in this quest, there might no longer be a world for any of them to go back to.

After a time, Annabel said, “The Horsemen are not quite so close to us now, don’t you think?”

“They are following us, but at a distance,” said Fael-Inis, and Taliesin, who had also felt this, nodded.

“Will they try to prevent us from entering the torchlit Cavern?” he asked.

Fael-Inis said slowly, “I think they will try to stop us from destroying the Clock. But also, they must first get past the Guardians, of course.” He glanced at them. “That is one of the purposes of the Guardians,” he said. “To stop all comers from getting to the Clock.” He grinned. “That would be a battle worth watching,” he said, and Annabel stared, because he spoke as lightly and as amusedly as if a battle between the Four legendary Heralds of the ending of the world, and three evil sorceresses, was quite a trivial affair.

Taliesin said, “If the Horsemen do reach the cavern,” and stopped and then went on. “If they reach it,” he said, “surely they will try to speed the Clock’s progress to midnight.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Because,” said Taliesin, still pursuing this thought and not liking it overmuch, “because once the Clock’s hands reach midnight, then —”

“Then,” said Fael-Inis, “the Apocalypse will ride into the world.”

“Will we see it?”

Fael-Inis did not immediately reply. “You saw a vision of it in Spectre’s cave,” he said, and Annabel shivered. “You should pray to every god you have ever held dear that you will not see it in truth,” he said seriously.

There was a moment of complete silence. Somewhere close by, Annabel could hear the melancholy dripping of water from the cave roofs. A dreadful coldness closed about her heart, and for a really terrible second, she wished she had not come, that she had stayed behind in the safety and the familiarity of her tiny house where, even if there were dangers, one knew what the dangers were, and providing you obeyed the Drakon, you would be let alone.

And then Taliesin said, mockingly, “Dear me, then we shall have to be very careful,” and Annabel felt safe and back in her skin, and knew that it was entirely right that they should be doing this.

“But of course we shall be successful,” said Taliesin. “I have no intention of being associated with anything doomed to ignominious failure.”

There was a rather desolate air about their path now. The cave roofs were low so that they had to bend their heads, and the ground was becoming uneven and ridged, and the cave walls were pitted with something unidentifiable. Once Fael-Inis stopped, and a gleam of light fell across a section of wall.

“You see?” he said softly, and reached out a hand to trace the faint lines of carved figures.

Taliesin moved closer and stood for a moment, studying them. “What are they?”

“A record of the First Battle,” said Fael-Inis, and in the dim cave his voice was low. “The Light-Bringer storming heaven’s gates. Man being cast naked and defenceless into the world below. The final great victory.” He turned to look at them. “Did I not tell you that these mountains were the oldest thing on earth.”

“Who made the pictures?” asked Annabel quietly.

“I did,” said Fael-Inis, and quite suddenly he was no longer the rather amusing companion and the strong ally who had fought with them against Spectre and Reflection, or the reckless creature who had summoned the salamanders and taken them across the world in the Time Chariot. He was a creature of fire and light and speed, who had consorted with angels and gods and devils, and who had possessed the immense courage and the breathtaking defiance needed to turn his back on heaven, to walk away from the great immortal battle that had never ceased to echo down the centuries, and whose outcome had been to lock Man out of Paradise.

“He is what he is,” thought Annabel, aware that the words came not from within but from without.

Taliesin, standing on the other side, knew that they had been afforded a fleeting glimpse of the creature who existed beneath the brilliant, mischievous exterior. He is many things, this one, thought Taliesin. He is transcendent, and he is probably immortal, and if he is not quite divine, he is certainly more than human. He is mystical and celestial and spiritual in a way I do not think we can comprehend. You could know him for a thousand years and not know him at all, or you could know him for an hour and discover everything. But he is elusive and wild, and he will never be captured. He will be no man’s and he will certainly never be any woman’s.

Be glad that I am yours, if only for a time, came the swift response and Taliesin smiled and thought it was perhaps not arrogant of him to hope that he had known Fael-Inis as well as anyone might.

The images on the cave wall were intriguing. “And rather frightening,” said Annabel, tracing them with a finger. “There is fire and blood and agony in them.”

“Yes, there was all of that, Mortal. There will be all of that again,” said Fael-Inis, watching her. And then, with one of his sudden switches of mood, “Shall we go on?” he said.

It was an eerie and uncomfortable sensation to walk like this through the dim mountain, knowing that following them were the Four ancient Heralds, the four terrible figures of myth and legend, the Horsemen who had ridden into the world and who would shortly try to fling open the world’s Gates and let the Apocalypse in.

The light seemed to be getting dimmer, and the tunnels were certainly becoming narrower and more difficult to walk through. Several times they encountered piles of rubble where the roof had fallen in, and each time they had to stop and clear a way through.

After some little time — Annabel could not be sure how long, because time seemed out of kilter down here — the light began to change and grow cold and greenish, and ripple against the cave walls. Fael-Inis stopped and lifted his head and appeared to listen very intently.

“The Horsemen getting nearer?” said Taliesin. And then, “No. Something else.”

Fael-Inis gestured to the cave walls. “Watertight,” he said. “A darkness. A lapping of water.” He turned to face them and took their hands in his. “We are very close to the River of Souls,” he said. “We are very near to one of the foremost dangers of the world.”

“Can we avoid it?” asked Annabel, who did not like water very much, and who particularly did not like dark ancient rivers that flowed silently and sinisterly and were presided over by nameless evils.

“The River of Souls flows between all the worlds,” said Fael-Inis. “It is dark and never-ending and runs nine times around the world. The Ferryman is unceasing in his vigil for souls.” He looked at Annabel. “I cannot tell if we shall be able to avoid it,” he said.

“Will we see it?”

“You may not do so. You will hear it. You will hear, as well, the echo, for it is said that all the world can be spanned by the River of Souls, and it is said as well that to stand at the mouth of the River is to stand at the epicentre of Time.” The golden eyes flickered. “It may be that we shall be called upon to listen to the agonies of the drowning souls,” said Fael-Inis, “or that we shall be forced to witness the dying struggles of the worlds that have been before this one.”

Annabel said cautiously, “Have worlds died before?”

“Assuredly. And will do so again.” Fael-Inis regarded her. “Nothing is constant, Mortal. Even worlds sometimes die.”

With a whimper or with a bang …

Taliesin said, “Have you encountered the Ferryman?”

“He has many guises and we are old enemies,” said Fael-Inis, but the other two thought that there was a wariness in his voice.

They had rounded a sharp curve in the tunnel, and Annabel had noticed and wondered whether she should comment on the trickles of water seeping through the walls. There was a dank damp feel to the air; a coldness that made you want to turn up your collar and stamp your feet and that seeped into your lungs and made you cough and think of clammy autumn nights when fog clung everywhere and you could not see anything properly.

Taliesin had just started to say, “It is getting very dark,” when Fael-Inis put up his hand and halted them.

In the dimness they stared at one another.

Annabel said, “I don’t —” and Taliesin said, “Hush. Listen.”

And then they all heard it quite clearly.

The ticking of a clock.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Lost Boys had helped Fergus far more than he would have believed possible. When he first emerged from the terrible agony and the anguish, they were at his side, silent and attentive, but with him. He thought that they were determined that he should return to the world and he thought, as well, that without their gentle insistence that he lead them out of the Prison of Hostages, he would have been lost indeed.

But after the first terrible days when he was wracked with pain, and when he could hear nothing and feel nothing beyond the wrenching agony between his legs, they began to talk to him about the world outside the Prison. They drew him away from the pain, they talked to him about the Ireland they had known a century before Fergus was born; of the dreadful days when the cult of Crom Croich had held the land in a merciless grip, and how the legendary Wolfking Cormac had ridden out to destroy the high priests of the cult.

“Remarkable,” they said, their eyes bright with a kind of amused veneration, “a marvellous King.”

“He would have saved us if he could,” said one of them. “He saved the ones after us, though,” said another.

“I saw him once,” said Michael. “In a procession. I liked him. I cheered a lot, and people threw flowers.”

“But,” said Niall, “Fergus will save us, now.”

“Fergus will take us back to the world,” said another, and they all looked at Fergus with such trust that a different, gentler pain twisted his heart. How can I fail them? he thought.

He would not fail them, and when at last he walked with them, back through the great echoing halls and the golden galleries, and the vaulted chambers of blue and ivory, he did so with a feeling of immense inner peace, so that he thought, Yes, I believe I have traversed the eye of the storm, and found the still, calm centre … I think I can return, thought Fergus. I think it will be all right. On through the crimson panelled halls, and through the glittering chambers, and back through the strangely named places … Here was the Land of Ever-Living … the marble and porphyry … the Lake of Darkness … And in my house are many mansions …

As the great Doors of the Sky yielded of their own accord, he felt a tremendous uplifting and a great surge of power. We can do it! We are succeeding! We are going through the Doors of the Sky, through that massive Gateway from which it is said no human has ever escaped. We are breaking the bonds and going out of the Prison of Hostages, and down into the world. I think it is going to be all right.

The Doors were fully open now; they were standing wide, and Fergus and the children moved as one. Each of them had the sudden feeling that there would be only this one chance, and there would be only a very brief space of time when the Doors would let them through.

There was a shaft of pure light as the Doors caught the rays of the sun, and there was a moment when the Doors were outlined quite clearly against a gold and rose dawn. The Gates of Golden Light, studded with chalcedony and jasper …

They did not look back. “We do not dare to,” said Fergus, but each of them sensed that the Prison had receded into the mists. “We cannot go back,” said Fergus, looking at the boys. “And so we shall go forward. See, there is a path. Leading downwards,” said Fergus, who had not had any idea of what they would find. “But I think we are still very high up.”

It was cold and sharp, with the bright dry coldness that catches in your throat and makes your eyes prickle with tears, but that also makes you want to take great lungfuls of the clean pure air, and that fills you up with soaring energy.

As they went, Fergus noticed that the children were becoming more solid, their cheeks were filling out and their eyes were shining. Several times they reached out to touch the trees and the bushes growing at the side of the path; as the path wound downwards, one or two of them gathered in handfuls of berries and ate them.

They drank from the clear, cold mountain streams, and they ate the berries; twice they managed to catch a small shoal of fish from the stream, and grilled them on a fire with pointed sticks.

“Marvellous,” said Niall, licking his fingers which had become burnt in the grilling process. “I’d forgotten about eating and drinking.”

“I hadn’t,” said Michael. “I missed being hungry.”

The crags and the canyons were smoothing out now, and the path was becoming less difficult.

“We are nearing the world,” said Conn, and Fergus saw that the boys looked deeply happy. He thought, but did not say, And to become a part of the world of Men once more, we have first to cross the bridge that exists between all the worlds.

The River of Souls, guarded by the Ferryman …

Fergus thought they would surely see the River very soon, and they would surely know it when they did see it. But although he scanned the horizon, and although he watched for any sign of water or lake, there was nothing.

They seemed to have been walking for a very long time when the mountains finally flattened and receded, and the way ahead became dryer and rather barren.

“A plain,” said Conn, rather uncertainly. “At least it will be easier to walk across.”

“Baked rock,” said Niall, a bit dubiously. “Fergus, do you suppose we can cross that?”

Fergus was eyeing the flat, barren, desert waste with misgiving, but when Niall asked if they could cross it, he at once said calmly, “Yes, of course,” and smiled at them. “I have crossed far worse than that,” he said, and the boys looked at him uncertainly.

“There are things,” said Michael. “Scuttly things. With slithery tails and scaly skins. I can see them.”

“Lizards,” said Fergus. “Interesting creatures, lizards. Gentle.”

“Nasty,” said Michael.

“No,” said Fergus, and bent down so that he was on a level with them. “We have to cross this desert,” he said. “There is no other way forward. And I promise you it can be done. We can do it. I have led the men of the Fiana across dreadful desolate plains, and we have always reached our destination.”

But it was more difficult than he had imagined, and it was far worse than he had feared. There was a dry heat in the air now, and the stench of death. Several times they came upon bones, bleached by the sun.

“Small animals,” said Fergus calmly.

The boys were remarkable. Fergus looked at them and felt his heart contract, because they were brave and determined and they were so trusting that he could hardly bear it. He saw that they were becoming tired and frightened and hungry, and he knew that after their years inside the Prison they would be confused and bewildered. They ought to have been led gently back into the world by stages. Instead, they were being forced to march across a baking desert.

Fergus put his fears aside. He made them rest every few miles, and he taught them the marching songs of the Fiana. He said there was nothing so heartening as a good song to march to. “And then,” he said, “you will all of you teach the rest of us a song. Will you?” And saw interest brighten in their eyes.

They liked the songs, and they liked knowing that they would presently be called on to teach their own songs. “For,” said Niall seriously, “although we have been together for a very long time, we are most of us from different parts of Ireland and from different times.”

Conn said it was altogether great to learn songs from other times and other villages and towns.

“We could tell stories as well,” said one of them hopefully, and Fergus smiled, and was grateful as he had never thought to be grateful for the Irish delight in story-telling, and the Irish gift for recounting a tale.

When the sudden desert night fell, Fergus set them to keep watch, turn and turn about. “There is not very much danger,” he said, “but there may be the odd prowling creature. If we had the means to make a fire we would do so, but there is nothing we can do. And so each of you must take turns at watching.”

Niall said, “I think there is a way to make a fire without sticks — something about striking two sharp stones together. And catching the sun’s rays.”

“Could we try tomorrow?” asked one of the boys.

“Of course we will try,” said Fergus, and smiled, and remembered that by tomorrow they would all be hungry and thirsty, and that they would have to start searching for raw lizards’ eggs to eat.

When the sun rose the following morning, the boys were hot and dusty and their eyes were red.

“But we are still here,” said Conn, and Niall said wistfully, “Yes, but we’re all awfully hungry.”

“I wouldn’t mind missing being hungry now,” said Michael.

Fergus said, and tried to keep his voice light, “Well, there is food of a kind in the desert, but it is not very palatable. But it will sustain us for the moment.” And managed to make a very light-hearted matter of searching for lizards’ eggs and of cracking the tough thick shells, and dribbling the glutinous liquid on to the sizzling rocks.

“Better with a little fresh milk and some butter,” said Niall, eating his with a struggle.

“Better with newly baked bread,” said one of the others, and another said, “Oh, yes! I remember newly baked bread.”

“I remember fruit and honey and cream from the churn.”

“And rabbit stew and baked carp.”

“Jugged hare.”

“Roast chestnuts and apple dumplings,” said Michael firmly. “That’s the very best.”

But they ate the eggs courageously, and gathered a few berries from the sparse desert bushes, and Fergus showed them how to suck the sap to gain moisture.

Conn was just saying that they ought to be getting on again, when Fergus looked up and caught a sound from above.

The beating of wings on the air.

Michael, who had heard it as well, started to say, “What —” and then they all saw the vultures gathering above them.

Fergus did not stop to think, and he certainly did not stop to reason. “If I had,” he was to say, “I might have remembered that vultures rarely attack until after death. We would have been safe from them for a time.”

But the time might not have been so very long. They were tired and hungry, and there was very little prospect of food. There was even less of water.

Fergus flung down the handful of berries, and grasped the arms of the nearest boys.

“Run!” he shouted, and began pulling them with him, looking back over his shoulder, seeing the vultures swooping and darting, knowing that they had sensed that their prey was already weakened. They would come swooping down, and their great wings would beat on the air, and they would fly at their victims’ eyes, rending flesh, tearing muscle … Fergus ran, pulling the boys with him, knowing there was nowhere to run to, but running all the same, because surely anything was better than to suffer the talons and the claws and beaks, anything would be better than being ripped open and eaten as you died, bleeding and mutilated on the baking rock.

Conn, who was managing to urge the smaller boys on, gasped out, “But where —” and Fergus gestured and yelled, “On! Keep running! There will be somewhere.”

And then Niall said, “There’s a kind of cave just ahead.” And Fergus saw the gaping hole under the overhang of rock.

Sanctuary.

The space beneath the rock was larger than it looked. It was very nearly a cave, and it seemed to stretch back farther than was possible.

But they all squeezed through; they had all somehow scrambled into the opening, leaving the vultures cawing angrily and beating the air with their wings, and emitting horrid little snapping sounds with their beaks. As Fergus pulled the boys to the back of the cave, they could see the vultures clawing at the opening, pushing their beaks in to peer through the gloom.

“Will they get in?” asked Niall, and Fergus said, “No. No, there is not room. But just to be sure, we will try to fill up the opening with rocks.”

The boys began to pile up stones and rocks, shutting out the light.

“It’s made it awfully dark,” said one of them.

“But it’s better than letting those creatures get us.”

“They won’t be able to get through the rocks, will they? Fergus, will they?”

“No,” said Fergus. “We are safe for the moment. Is everyone all right?”

“I scraped my shoulder diving in,” said Niall. “But I went head first. Did you hurt yourself?”

“I grazed my arm.”

“I went in on my bottom,” said Michael. “So I’spect my bottom’s a bit bruised.”

Niall, who had been crawling to the cave’s rear, said, “Fergus, this is a very deep cave.”

“It doesn’t smell very nice,” said Michael.

“But we are safe and dry here,” said Fergus, and tried to shut out the knowledge that they could not stay here for very long, because there would probably not be very much air, and before long they would have to go out into the desert again and the vultures would probably be there waiting.

And then Niall, who was still at the back, said, “Fergus — all of you — come here. I think there is a kind of tunnel.” And Fergus moved across and Niall pointed, and without warning Fergus found himself slithering down a steep slope, unable to stop himself, sliding at a terrific speed, going helter-skelter downwards with rocks and stones and rubble bouncing and flying, grasping at the ground, but still slithering and falling.

Above him, he heard shouts, and then he heard cries of alarm, and dirt and stones cascaded into his face as he tried to look up. He knew that the boys were following, and soon, at any minute, they would all hit the bottom of the chimney or the shaft, or whatever it was they had fallen into.

And then, quite suddenly, the sliding stopped, and they were on level ground, and although it was dark, it was not pitch dark, and they could see one another.

Fergus, dazed and with all the breath knocked from him, got cautiously to his feet and looked round. They were all together in a dark, high-ceilinged tunnel which stretched ahead of them and wound round to the left.

Fergus turned back to the boys. “Everyone here? Did we all come down the shaft? We’d better have a roll call, I think. Stand still, everyone. Now then. Names and degree of injuries!”

But although there were scraped knees and grazed hands, and although Michael seemed to have lost his shoes (“I’ll have to walk in my socks, won’t I?”), no one was seriously hurt.

“Bruises and grazes only,” said Fergus. “Very good. It could have been much worse.”

“Where are we?” said one of them.

“Have we got to go into the tunnel?” said another. “It’s a bit dark, isn’t it?”

“It’s like a nose,” said Michael. “It’s like a nasty dark nostril in a giant’s nose.” He sat down and turned his socks over at the tops. “I didn’t think we’d have to go crawling into a giant’s nose,” he said, and Fergus grinned.

“I haven’t the least idea of what it is or where it will lead to,” he said, ‘‘but we are somewhere other than the plain, and that is something to be very thankful for.” And still he could not repress a feeling of triumph, because they had escaped from the eternal light of the Prison of Hostages.

The tunnel seemed to take them deep into the earth’s core, and Fergus, sorting the boys into single file, thought, Well, I suppose this is all right. Will it take us to the River of Souls? But he could no longer plan that far ahead. And yet, thought Fergus, I believe we are closer to the world now …

The tunnel was narrow and the floor was ridged and uneven, and here and there slippery and gleaming faintly with phosphorescence. The boys were quiet, flinching from the weird carvings on the sides of the tunnel — “Faces,” said Michael in rather a small voice — and Fergus heard his own voice saying calmly, “No. Only an odd formation of the rock.”

But all the time he was remembering the Ferryman, and he was remembering how the Ferryman might be lying in wait for them. Supposing he was leading the boys into danger? But I can no longer judge, thought Fergus, going on down the tunnel.

They advanced slowly, silently, because there was something eerie and sinister about the light now.

“Waterlight,” said Conn, and Fergus nodded, and felt his heart bound, because surely if there was waterlight, they must be nearing the River of Souls.

There was the sound of water dripping steadily now, somewhere quite near. Fergus, helping Michael over an uneven piece of the tunnel floor, had the impression of tiny web-footed creatures quite near to them.

And then Niall said softly, “I smell water.” And as he spoke, the tunnel widened without warning, and the light changed, and Fergus heard the boys gasp.

Directly ahead of them, stretching as far as they could see, was an endless expanse of dark shiny water, with tiny glinting red lights in it.

The River of Souls.

*

For a long time they stood transfixed, watching the dark, silky River of Souls, remembering all of the tales and all of the myths: human souls dragged down and held beneath the surface; the Ferryman sculling the dark tunnels in his craft, leaping on his victims, wrapping his long scaly arms about their necks from behind, pulling them down, down into the dark cold depths …

The water barely moved, but they knew that it did move. A myriad of lights danced and glinted and tiny waves lapped gently against the River banks. Fergus saw the boys move back from it at once, and he thought that although the water seemed harmless, it was not harmless at all. It would reach for you, it would pull you out into the centre of the River, and you would never be able to get back …

Conn said softly, “The lights are the trapped souls that the Ferryman has captured. They are held beneath the River’s surface, as firmly and as endlessly as we were held inside the Prison of Hostages. They are in pawn to the Dark Master,” and several of the boys shivered.

Fergus, staring at the River, said, “Does the Ferryman serve Crom Croich?” and at once there was a disturbance in the water, a ruffling of the silky skin, a deepening in the red glow of the tiny lights that were human souls caught and caged by the Ferryman.

“Hush,” said Conn. “Yes, we believe that the Ferryman does serve that one. As do all creatures from the Dark Ireland.”

“Can’t we do anything to rescue them?” said Fergus, unable to take his eyes from the moving lights in the water.

Human souls, living, breathing, aware human souls, trapped and caught and held … “Can’t we help them?” he said.

“No one has ever found a way to help them,” said Conn. “Just as no one has ever found a way out of the Prison of Hostages.”

To Fergus, the soft sinister River and the hundreds of tiny winking lights was the most pitiful sight he had ever seen.

“But there are prisons for souls everywhere in the world,” said Conn, as if he thought Fergus would know this.

“I can hear them,” said Fergus suddenly, and Conn said, “But you couldn’t possibly —” He went quiet and looked at Fergus.

“I can hear something,” said Fergus. And then, “Or is it just the water lapping against the bank?”

Conn started to say that it was just the water, and then stopped, because quite suddenly, the sound was not in the least bit like water lapping, it was like something very different indeed.

Like something creeping down the dark tunnel towards them?

Niall said in a whisper, “You know, there is something,” and Michael said in a trembly kind of voice, “And the shadows are different.”

“How different? Michael, they’re only our shadows,” said Conn. And then, “Or are they?”

Michael shuddered and rubbed his eyes, and Fergus remembered that Michael was very young indeed.

One of the boys said in a whisper, “Fergus, I can hear it as well now,” and Fergus saw that they could all hear it, and that they were all frightened of it. He looked quickly about him. The great dark River stretched endlessly before them, but to their left the mountain tunnel snaked away a little. Was there a way out there? But we have to cross the River! thought Fergus wildly. To return to the world, we have to cross it! And then he saw that the River wound its way into the tunnel as well, a small tributary, and he thought that at least it would take them away from whatever was coming steadily towards them in the dark, and at least they would be going somewhere, and to go somewhere was surely better than standing here, irresolute, at the mercy of whatever was creeping down the tunnel.

He marshalled the boys quickly into single file again, for the tunnel was extremely narrow. And to fall into the River would mean the end of everything. Or would it? I can’t decide, thought Fergus. I don’t know if we are meant to plunge into it, or what we are meant to do. But I think we have to keep moving, and I think we have to move away from the creeping stealthy thing that I can hear.

The sounds were closer to them now, and Fergus tilted his head and listened, trying to identify the sounds. It was certainly not something walking, nor was it anything crawling. Something familiar, but something alien. Something that made you see the rhythmic dip of slender wooden paddles, and that made you see the tendrils of slimy weed that you dredged up as you went; the feeling of skimming over water quickly and effortlessly … And then he knew what it was.

Oars. The scull of oars coming down the River tunnels towards them.

Something was rowing a boat along the dark underground caverns and something was beginning to cast a huge shadow on the cave walls, and that something would very shortly be in the cavern with them …

“Quickly,” said Fergus. “Along here! All hold hands. And on no account slip …” Because to do so will mean that you will be dragged down into the glinting lights, and you will become another light, and you will be soulless once more, and you will be beyond the reach of any help …

And then, as they moved into the tunnel, the waterlight rippling all about them, the green shadows everywhere, they heard, quite clearly, the steady scull of oars.

The Ferryman was coming towards them.

*

There was a terrible, never-to-be-forgotten moment, when they first saw his shadow on the cave wall, and when they heard the soft splashing of the oars. The River seemed to heave, and there was a soft sighing sound, as if all the captured souls could hear and see and were afraid. The shadow loomed closer, and as they stared they saw a shape, hooded and cloaked, huge and thin and towering and hungry, standing in some kind of small craft, propelling it across the dark waters … The Ferryman, travelling through the shadowy underworld of his domain, searching for human souls to drag beneath the River …

Fergus drew in a deep breath, and said in a low urgent voice, “Quickly! There is no time to be lost! We must run!” And then they were all running, down into the warren of caves and passages, away from the approaching creature that rowed swiftly and silently on the terrible River of Souls, away into the safe, stifling darkness.

Fergus said, “Keep to the shoreline! We must not lose the River’s path! And we must not be separated for an instant! Link hands now!” And he half pulled, half forced them along, hearing the pounding of their feet on the hard rocky shore of the River, unable to tell whether the pounding was, after all, his own heartbeat.

They could see the way better than he had expected. Light shimmered and cascaded on the waters and the tunnels were becoming wider. But Fergus thought they might easily wander like this for ever, tired and hungry and lost, playing a grisly game of hide and seek with the Ferryman, who would certainly know they were here, and who would almost as surely set traps and lie in wait, and suddenly appear, barring their way, gathering them into his net, pulling them down beneath the waters …

Half-formed ideas of constructing some kind of raft raced through his mind, because he knew that to re-enter the world they must cross the River, but he could see no means of doing it; there was no driftwood to be seen and no rope and, in any case, there were too many of them. They must somehow outrun the Ferryman and find a safe place to ford the River.

They were still running, hands linked, the older ones helping the smaller; Fergus thought they had left the Ferryman behind now, but they dared not stop to see. They must go on, until they could come to other caves, until they could come to daylight and to the outside world. Once Conn gasped out, “I believe we are inside a mountain,” and once Michael squeaked because his stockinged feet had trodden on a sharp stone, but the children were silent, round-eyed with fear, ready to obey Fergus unquestioningly.

Niall, whose ears were sharp, stopped at the intersection of two tunnels and said, “Listen.”

“Oars? The Ferryman?”

“No,” said Niall, puzzled. “No, I think we have left him behind.”

“What is it, then?” said Fergus. “Niall, what can you hear?”

“It sounds like the ticking of a clock,” said Niall, and they all stopped and listened, and Fergus thought that Niall was right; the sound was exactly like a clock ticking.

“But probably it is just water dripping somewhere,” he said, but he lingered, because just for a second, there had been the sure impression of an immense clock, ticking slowly and inexorably closer to midnight, showing Time running out, like grains of sand trickling away through someone’s hands …

And although they had grown accustomed to the River sounds now, they were beginning to hear other noises; muffled and distant, but occasionally recognisable. Snatches of music. Fragments of roaring sounds, the clanking of some kind of machinery.

Fergus stopped and tilted his head, and remembered that the River of Souls was the bridge between all the worlds, and thought, Are we hearing other worlds now? Are we hearing the past and the future and all the unborn worlds and all the worlds born and died and forgotten?

Grating sounds, the harsh blaring of some kind of instrument. A feeling of smoke and dirt and heat and of impatience to be moving. Fergus found this curious, and he half closed his eyes, to listen more intently and, for a breathspace, for the span of a heartbeat, there was an image of metal oblongs that could travel at immense speed, and of people-hundreds of people — inside them, somehow propelling the oblongs along a great highroad. Towering buildings and brilliant lights, and the smell of grease and smoke, and the drone and the whirr of grating metal. And then the image was gone, and the sounds melted, and there was nothing but the soft waterlight, and there was no image other than the shadow of the Ferryman silently stalking them along the darkling waters.

And then Conn said, “There’s a light ahead,” and Fergus froze and motioned the children into the lee of the rock.

The faint warm light came bobbing into view, silhouetting three shapes, and Fergus felt his heart bound in his breast.

Directly ahead of them were Fael-Inis and Taliesin, and between them was a small slender girl with copper-red hair.

*

Fergus ran to them at once and he embraced Taliesin and felt tears streaming down his face, and knew he was being absurd, and thought he was probably being emotional, and could not help it and did not care.

Taliesin said, “Dear me, such emotion. Fergus, I am overwhelmed.” But his voice was not entirely steady, and he gripped Fergus’s hands with fingers that were glad and clutching. His eyes were over-bright, and Fergus found himself unable to speak.

Fael-Inis said, half to himself, “Out of the land of the sky and out of the House of Bondage,” and Fergus turned to him at last, and held out his hands, and Fael-Inis took them, and Fergus felt a warm glow and the sensation of silk being drawn gently across his mind, soothing out pain.

“We welcome you back, Fergus,” said Fael-Inis, and now there was affection in his voice, and Fergus felt a lump in his throat and the tears begin again, and was furious, and then did not care.

Taliesin, using the exchange of courtesies between Fergus and Annabel as a shield against the flood of emotion that had swept over him on seeing Fergus, knew at once that something terrible and irrevocable and unbearably sad had happened to Fergus inside the Prison of Hostages. He watched as Fergus took Annabel’s hands, and saw the shadows in Fergus’s eyes, and thought, Whatever has happened to him in that place — and perhaps one day he will talk about it — it has changed him completely and for good. He is still the great leader and the soldier, thought Taliesin, but some quality that was there before has been stolen. The scholar is still there, thought Taliesin, but I believe that the poet has gone.

Fergus, greeting Annabel, hearing the hasty introduction, saw at once that here was no moderate, agreeable formalist, but a lady who had certainly questioned the shibboleths and the standards of whatever world she had come from. And even like this, even in the rush of finding Taliesin and Fael-Inis, even with the creeping danger following them along the River tunnel, he recognised that there was intelligence and perception in her eyes, and defiance in the tilt of her head. But he grinned to himself, and he wondered what Fael-Inis thought of her, and thought as well that Taliesin might well find that he had a wildcat by the tail. And foresaw a few battles ahead for these two, and was pleased for Taliesin, who certainly would not have wanted his lady to be otherwise.

Annabel took the hand that Fergus held out, and thought, Well, so here is another of the people from Taliesin’s world! And saw, as Taliesin had seen, the warrior and the scholar, and guessed that there had once been a lover and a poet, but that these last two had somehow vanished for good. But she felt at once the air of authority that Fergus carried without realising he carried it, and trusted him even before she saw that Taliesin trusted him, and began to feel even more hopeful about their chances of defeating the Horsemen and the Apocalypse.

Fael-Inis was looking at the boys, who had stood rather silently on the edge of it all, not liking to intrude. And then Conn stepped forward rather hesitantly, and smiled cautiously at Fael-Inis, and a curious gentleness stole over Fael-Inis’s face. “The little lost ones,” he said softly. “The murdered innocents. Fergus, you have brought them out.” And then, without warning, he turned and raised his hand. A great silence fell, and Taliesin and Fergus half turned because they both heard the same thing.

“Yes,” said Fael-Inis, “yes, you hear it, Mortals. The Horsemen are coming nearer.

“And the Clock is ticking faster.”

*

None of the others could afterwards quite explain what happened next.

Fael-Inis raised his right hand and described an arc through the air. As he did so, a line of pure golden light followed his hand. Sparks soared, and then the radiance seemed to descend on the children, like stardust, like sprinklings of tiny slivers of fire, or like … Yes, thought Taliesin, like the Time Fire. He is bestowing on them the Time Fire.

The power and the light and the speed …

The boys did not immediately react, but Fergus saw an odd look come over them, and he thought it was as if something deep and mystical had been wakened in them so that they could not for the moment focus on anything. Annabel, who had been watching closely, thought it was as if an inner fire had been lit, or as if they had been shown something marvellous and given some undreamed-of power.

Fael-Inis stood for a moment looking at the boys, seeing, thought Annabel, the flaring up of the strange power he had given them. And then he said softly, “We are going to save the world, children.” And held out his hands, and light streamed outwards from him. “Come,” he said. “Come with me now, for the minutes are dying. Come, children, for the Horsemen are almost upon us.” He turned, and seemed to shimmer and blur. Annabel rubbed her eyes and wondered if he was still there, only she knew he was, because the light was pouring ahead of them, down the darkest of the tunnels. He was an arrow of pure light and speed, beautiful and exotic and unstoppable.

The children were with him, they were easily keeping pace, and there was the same brilliance about them, so that they were all bathed in luminescence. Gold light flew from their heels, sending cascades of fire across the dark River to their right. Taliesin and Fergus and Annabel, linking hands, running to keep up, shared a thought: Now we are truly seeing the real creature, the angel of fire and speed who rides the world and travels in and out of Time at will, and whom no Mortal can touch.

They could hear the Horsemen thudding after them now; Fergus hesitated, and turned to look back, and Taliesin pulled him on.

“The Horsemen — the Heralds! Fergus, we dare not let them catch us —” he shouted, and Fergus, his mind whirling and his senses swimming, understood that the Four Horsemen were riding into the world, ready to unleash the Beast Apocalypse.

Their leg muscles were protesting and their eyes were blinded with the effort of following the brilliant light. But Fael-Inis was darting ahead with the children, pouring out seamless fountains of radiance, like wildfire on Samain, like a blazing forest fire, like a beacon, like the northern lights on a clear night sky …

Fantastical shadows leaped and danced and gibbered from the dark corners, but Fael-Inis and the boys seemed tireless. And somehow, thought Annabel, somehow we are keeping up. Somehow we are getting closer to the Clock.

Fergus, at the rear, could feel the Horsemen on their heels, and he knew that the immense threat Fael-Inis had intended to turn back was nearly upon them. The ground was shuddering beneath the pounding hoofs, and he could smell the warm, dry, stable smell. He glanced back over his shoulder, and caught a darting shadow. But if only they could get through the tunnels, if only they could reach a place of sanctuary. If only they could outrun the Ferryman and defeat the Horsemen … And I was so nearly too late, he thought. If we had not broken out of the Prison when we did, if I had not submitted to the punishment pronounced by the Stone Judges, perhaps we should not have been here, and perhaps the Horsemen would already have let in the Apocalypse …

Annabel, running with the others, was listening hard for the Clock, trying to assess how close they were, for it was the Clock they were trying to reach, and it was the steady, inexorable ticking they must somehow halt. Midnight, and it must be so close now, because the Horsemen were already here, they were in the mountain and perhaps the Apocalypse was waiting to walk into the world …

And then, without warning, they half fell, half skidded, gasping and helpless, into a kind of intersection of all the tunnels; a great echoing cavern where several tunnels ended. Directly ahead of them was a massive door, hewn into the mountain, and from behind the door came the sound that Annabel had been straining to hear ever since they plunged into the tunnels: the steady ticking of the Clock.

Barring the door was the Third Guardian, and standing next to the Third Guardian was the hooded form of the Ferryman.

*

There was no escape. There was no point in turning back and running away, because the tall shape of the Ferryman would have caught them in an instant. Annabel, struggling to get her breath back, her lungs raw with the frantic exodus along the tunnels, thought that even the boys, still luminous from Fael-Inis’s fire, were exhausted. They were trapped, and in front of them were the two ancient evil creatures called the Sensleibhe and the Ferryman, and behind them in the dark tunnels were the Four Horsemen. She glanced at the boys, and saw that the odd, other-world quality was still clinging to them, that there seemed to be an inner strength, and the light and the fire of some unknown power. I am still not sure if any of this is happening, thought Annabel, but at least I am on the right side in the battle. At least I am fighting on the side of the just. And then she remembered all of the wars, just and unjust, righteous and dishonourable, that had been fought, and how often the unjust and the dishonourable had triumphed. But this was not a thought to be dwelled on, and so she turned back to the cave and to what was going to happen next.

None of them could see the Third Guardian very well — “Too much shadow,” muttered Fergus — and as they waited for their eyes to adjust to the gloom, they heard her speak. An old voice, a comfortable voice. Annabel, astonished, thought it was the sort of voice you could associate with security and safety. The sort of voice that would have belonged to nannies and children’s nurses in the old books. It was a voice that would bustle you in out of the rain, and make you get into a hot bath immediately. Annabel, who had been so fascinated by the world’s history that she had read as much about it as she could lay her hands on, thought it was precisely the sort of voice you would like to run to if you had hurt your knee or been bested in a fight, or broken your heart. And then she thought, But surely it is not a voice you would expect to hear down here, guarding the torchlit cavern?

“Dearie me,” said the voice, “Oh, dearie me, here’s a fuss and a bother. Here’s a to-do. My goodness gracious me, look at you all, drenched to the skin and liable to catch a death I shouldn’t wonder. And the little ones! A mug of my special cocoa, that’s what you need, my dears, and a nice warm by my fire. Come along in now, do.” Button bright eyes regarded them from the darkness, and a door seemed to open, and there was the comforting crackle of starch and the warm, dry scent of clean linen, and of washing airing before a fire with a brass guard that would catch the firelight and glow, and where you might be allowed to roast chestnuts and toast muffins.

“There’s freshly baked gingerbread,” said the voice, curiously — sinisterly? — in line with Annabel’s thoughts. “And I dare say that if we are very good, there might be scones and strawberry jam as well. So come along in, my lambkins, and be safe. A nasty night to be out in the rain and the dark and the cold. Come along in to the fire, and the warmth, and come along in to where it is safe.”

Fael-Inis turned as if to speak, but Annabel saw that Conn and Niall and Michael and all the boys were moving forward in the direction of the voice, their eyes bright.

“That’s the way,” said the voice with plump satisfaction, “all of you safely inside. What a lot of precious lambkins. Scones and jam for all and warm gingerbread, and you shall tell me about your adventures.”

The boys moved as one, and there was a chuckle and a movement from the shadows, and Annabel thought that something dark and formless moved. But then there was the gleam of an apron, and a whirr of sound that might have been anything at all. Spinning? Was it something being spun?

“All inside,” said the voice, and Annabel received the impression of somebody — something? — standing with arms folded, nodding placidly, and counting the children as they went. There was the scent of baking and of log fires and warm rooms, and there was the sound of a kettle singing on the hob. And then, before they knew it, the door had closed, and the children had gone, and the shadowy figure turned to Fael-Inis.

“All inside,” said the voice, and now it was treacly and purring, it was a gloating, chuckling voice. “And now,” it said, “and now, my dears, for the rest of you.”

The Sensleibhe. The Old Woman of the Mountains. Plump and cosy-cheeked and white-aproned. Fat and comfortable and safe and wide-lapped. You might run to her with your problems. You would surely trust her. If it had not been for her eyes …

Fergus, who was nearest, saw that the Sensleibhe’s eyes were dark and unblinking. They were animal eyes; dark, staring eyes that would reflect not the smallest sliver of light. He saw, as well, that her hands were predatory, with long thick nails, curved like claws.

Taliesin, standing nearby, thought, Well, I suppose she can be defeated. Can she? I suppose Fael-Inis will find a way. And we have to try. We have to get to the Clock.

Annabel was very frightened but she was also very angry. She thought that to have come this far, to have avoided the Drakon’s patrol and to have outwitted the first Two Guardians, and run willy-nilly from the Ferryman, and then to be barred from their goal by this ridiculous old woman, was beyond bearing. She would have flung herself forward had not Taliesin’s hand restrained her.

Fael-Inis had been watching not the dark squat figure of the Sensleibhe, but the thin hooded form just behind her. The Ferryman. The creature had not moved and it had not spoken, but Fael-Inis knew, as the Mortals could not, that it was this adversary they must be most wary of. It was this one who would take what the Sensleibhe left — the gleanings and the pickings. But he remained silent and he watched to see what these two would do.

The Old Woman said comfortably, “Dearie me, I can see you’ve been told some nasty tales about me! Bless and save us all, who’d have thought anyone could believe an old woman should be a danger to such grand strong gentlemen and such a pretty little lady! Why, if it wasn’t for Mr. Ferryman, I’d have long since been pushed out into the world, and a nasty cold place that can be! Why, Mr. Ferryman’s been a good friend to me.” She came nearer to them, and Fergus saw that he had not been wrong; the creature’s eyes were cunning and sly and darting.

The Sensleibhe was inspecting them now, walking round them, eyeing Taliesin and Fergus, patting Annabel’s cheek. Annabel drew back and scowled, and the Old Woman of the Mountains laughed.

“Dearie me, temper, temper. I should know what to do with you, madam, if you were in my charge. My word, there’d be early bed and no supper for a week for you!” She stood looking at Annabel, and Annabel stared back, because she would not let this creature intimidate her. The Old Woman grinned rather horribly, and moved back to the shadows. As she did so, there was a rather horrid sound of claws ringing out on the rock floor of the cavern. Taliesin and Fergus exchanged a thought: Is this the movement to spring? But the silent cloaked figure of the Ferryman moved, and they both stopped, because they knew they would not be permitted to get within two feet of the Old Woman. Fergus thought, He will be upon us and he will tear out our hearts and offer our souls to Crom Croich. And wondered how he knew this so surely. Taliesin, at his side, picked it up at once, and knew Fergus was right.

The Old Woman was seated in the shadows again, and Annabel saw with disbelief that in front of her was a spinning wheel, low and dark and ancient. As they watched, the Old Woman drew the wheel a little nearer and ran her hands lovingly over the machinery.

“It doesn’t do to be idle,” she said. “And with the morning, there’ll be plenty to spin. Well, this is a good catch for me, don’t you agree, Mr. Ferryman?” And then, as the dark figure did not move, she said, “He doesn’t say very much, that one, my dears. But he’s a good friend. A good friend and a bad enemy … He’s been good to me.”

Fael-Inis said courteously, “What do you intend to do with the children?” and the Sensleibhe turned to regard him.

“Dearie me, so it’s you. Eh, I never thought to meet you again this side of eternity.” The bright, dark eyes studied him and Annabel thought there was perhaps a gleam of uncertainty now, and hoped that this was not wishful thinking.

“And yet, as you see, I am here,” said Fael-Inis, and Taliesin knew at once that Fael-Inis was quenching his fire and his radiance. His voice was colourless, his words devoid of expression. “Tell us what you intend,” said Fael-Inis, and the Sensleibhe chuckled and Annabel shivered, because it was a gravelly, liquid sort of chuckle that made you think of horrid, bubbling, greasy liquids, and of things with repulsive names such as mucus and catarrh.

Fael-Inis moved nearer, and the others thought that a faint flicker of light came from him now. “Tell me,” he said softly, and the Sensleibhe laughed again, so that Annabel shuddered.

“All the better to help my spinning, my dear,” she said, and now there was a dark, leery sort of sound. “For, oh, what rosy cheeks, and oh, what plump limbs and pretty silken hair they have. All the better to help my spinning, Mr. Rebel Angel.” She hummed and rocked and the wheel whirred, and Annabel had the feeling that there was something rather grisly about the spinning. And remembered, and wished not to remember, the old, old fairy stories which people had once thought suitable for children, where old women rocked and grinned by firelight, and invited you in to warm cosy parlours where kettles sang on the hearth and gingerbread was baking; where suddenly the firelight burned up a little more brightly and showed you not a comfortable old woman in a frilled cap and button boots, but something very nasty indeed; something that had a grinning maw and wide predatory teeth, and something that was not covered with skin like a human, but with bristly hair, and that had claws and talons. Annabel gulped and took a deep breath.

When the Old Woman of the Mountains said again, “All the better to help my spinning, my dears,” Annabel found herself moving forward, and the Old Woman grinned and nodded. There was something unexpectedly soothing about the whirr of the spinning wheel, and there was something compulsive about it as well, so that you had to see what she was spinning, if only for a brief moment.

“See now,” said the Old Woman, reaching out a hand. “See what I do, down here, while I wait for the little children to come to me. Dearie me, they all come to me in the end. Mr. Ferryman goes on the hunt, and they all come here. They curl up by the firelight and they fall asleep, the precious little ones, their cheeks rosy, their eyes heavy with drowsiness. Oh, there’s no need of the Draoicht Suan down here. All fall asleep when I start my spinning. You see how pretty it is? Come now and take a better look. The gentlemen as well. Eh, gentlemen don’t like such things, I know that. But you come now and take a look. No cause for fear. It’s only the children I take, you see.”

Annabel, drawn forward against her will, unable to resist, felt herself coming slowly into the faint spill of light from beyond the mountain door. The Sensleibhe sat in the patch of light now, her spinning wheel humming. It was rather soothing. Soporific, that was the word. It was soporific. The Old Woman of the Mountains spun and hummed and spun and beckoned, and Annabel could see now that from the end of the wheel, a thin glistening thread was forming. A thin glistening thread, studded here and there with chippings of something sharp, with fragments of something you ought to be able to identify, and surely would if only the light was a little stronger. Skeins and strands and tufts, wet glistening threads, all woven into rope-like fibre that would presently be made into garments …

Annabel gasped and backed away from the spinning wheel, for the sharp hard pieces were slivers of human nails, and the wet glistening strands were human skin and human flesh, stained with blood, and the dark coarse strands were human hair.

Human victims, butchered and spun into thread to be woven into cloth for the Old Woman of the Mountains to wear.

The children were to be crushed and ground up and minced and spun into thread. This was what the Sensleibhe wanted them for. This was why she had trapped them.

And then, as they stood transfixed, there was a dreadful harsh clacking noise that made you think of nails clicking against cold stone, and of the beaks of vultures and predators opening and shutting hungrily.

The Ferryman moved into the light and, as he did so, he reached up to push the deep hood back from his head. The cloak fell aside.

It was the Conablaiche itself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

And so, thought Annabel, and so at last we have to face failure. We are trapped down here, with hundreds of tons of mountain rock above us, and with rock doors sealed against us. We are at the mercy of the Old Woman of the Mountains and of the creature that my people call the Claw and, somewhere quite close by, the Doomsday Clock is ticking the world’s life away and it seems there is nothing any of us can do.

The Claw, the Conablaiche, the Ferryman, who prowled the dark waters of the tunnels and hungered for the hearts and the souls of humans. The terrible ancient creature who owed allegiance to Crom Croich.

Fael-Inis moved first; Annabel thought that he sent a shower of radiance cascading across the floor, and she drew a breath of relief, for surely if anyone could defeat these two, then Fael-Inis could. There was a blur of light and fire, and she saw him launch himself at the Conablaiche, a straight arrow of brilliance that exploded in the dim cavern and dazzled them, illuminating the Conablaiche to dreadful clarity, so that they saw again the snapping vulture head, the protruding, fish-like eyes that swivelled and searched. They shrank from the torso that had sketchy human organs but was not human in the least, the rudimentary liver and lungs and ribcage, all blotched and smeared and made hideous by the shreds of human flesh from its victims, and the hard, bony spine discoloured by human blood. The Conablaiche was walking the world, seeking out victims for its Master, leaving their souls for the Lad of the Skins, leaving their butchered carcasses for the Old Woman of the Mountains to spin into thread …

The creature gave its clacking laugh, and watched them: Here are some fine juicy morsels for my Master …

And then it swept Fael-Inis aside with one great movement of its arm. Annabel thought that he fell and lay without moving, and then was not sure, because it was unthinkable that Fael-Inis should be defeated so easily.

Taliesin and Fergus moved as one. They were across the cavern and upon the Conablaiche, and for a second Annabel thought they would succeed, for the creature was brought to the ground, and they all went down in a horrid whirling jumble of human arms and beast bones and fists that punched and tried to restrain, and grisly talons that scraped and clawed.

The Conablaiche flung both men back against the mountain, and gave its cruel laugh again. Annabel, backed against the far side, looked frantically for some kind of weapon, because perhaps if she could lunge for the creature’s eyes it would give them all a chance. It would be the horridest thing she had ever had to do, to put out a living creature’s eyes, but it would disable the Conablaiche, and it would give them all a fighting chance.

Fergus and Taliesin were lying where they had been thrown; they were gasping and helpless, but they were alive. If they could be given just a very few minutes to recover, they would certainly try to overpower the Conablaiche again.

The creature was advancing on Annabel now, Taliesin and Fergus momentarily forgotten, watching her unblinkingly, a look of pure, gloating evil in its lidless eyes. It gave a neighing chuckle, and reached down between its legs to where a rudimentary penis hung, and began to rub itself suggestively. The raw stalk of flesh swelled and reared, jutting out from beneath the discoloured bones. Annabel, her eyes distended, stared down at it, and frantic thoughts of scrabbling on the ground for sharp stones which would cut it off tumbled through her mind. Would it be better to cut it off, or would it be better to attack its eyes? I shall have to do one or the other, thought Annabel, half kneeling on the floor, her hands searching furiously for sharp stones. Anything — a piece of stick … Was that something? Yes! Her hand closed about it.

The Conablaiche stood over her for a moment, its taloned, skeletal hand still between its legs, thrusting out at her in a travesty of the gesture made by the Drakon patrolman. Annabel managed to dredge up the slenderest thread of amusement: Well, and I have been offered two of these things since I have been here! She had to bite down the bubble of mirth, because clearly this was what had once been called hysteria, and she could not waste energy in being hysterical.

The Conablaiche reached down for her, and Annabel reached up, the sharp stick firmly in her hand. There was a really terrible moment when she thought she was not going to be able to do it; the creature’s stench was in her nostrils, and it was a stench of old blood and rotting meat; its bones were stained with the fluid of its victims, and there had never been anything so repulsive in the world ever before …

Annabel drew back her arm, and jabbed frantically, frenziedly, and with a violence she had not suspected she possessed, at the huge, lidless eye. There was a sudden, soft, squelching sound, and, what was much worse than the sound, there was a soft, squelching feel. Annabel felt the stick sink into the jelly-like matter of the Conablaiche’s eye, and touch something hard and bony behind it. There was a dreadful sensation of having pushed into decaying fruit, and there was a sudden stench of pus and rotting fluids.

The creature backed away at once, with a dreadful high-pitched screech that reverberated round the cave. Blood and thick white fluid gushed from its eye, and Annabel, shuddering, but still holding the stick, shot back, because the smeary liquid was spurting from the creature’s eye socket, and it was one thing to puncture an eye, but it was quite another to have the eye fluid spew out all over you. She crawled across to where Taliesin and Fergus were struggling to their feet.

The Conablaiche was staggering about the cave, its clawed hands clutching its gaping eye-socket. A horrid wetness oozed out and trickled between its talons, and it bellowed in agony. Annabel, glancing frantically over her shoulder, shook Taliesin, and reached to take Fergus’s hands, because it was not to be thought of that she should be here on her own, with the Conablaiche screeching in agony … And at any minute it would turn back and it would vent its fury on her, and this time she might not be able to get to its other eye …

Taliesin groaned, and seemed to half revive, but Fergus still lay supine, and Annabel, her heart racing, sent up a prayer that he was not dead.

And then, as she clutched at Taliesin’s hands — because he must wake up, they both must wake up! — she heard another sound, beyond the Conablaiche’s raw screaming, and beyond the inexorable ticking of the Clock.

The marching of a second Drakon patrol.

*

The patrolmen fell on them with such swift and cold efficiency that Annabel had just time to think, So much better organised down here! and to wonder whether, the closer you got to the Cavern of the Clock, the more efficient the Drakon became. They overpowered her easily, and although they glanced warily at the shape of the Conablaiche, they did not seem particularly surprised by it.

Two of the men took the unconscious Fergus, and a third half carried Taliesin. Two more picked Annabel up bodily, and the three of them were carried, silently and swiftly, into the dark tunnel.

As they moved away, Annabel heard the thick, treacly chuckling of the Old Woman of the Mountains, and the whirr of her terrible spinning wheel.

It is not easy to think clearly when you are being carried through a dark tunnel, alongside lapping water, to an almost-certain death. Annabel was by now very frightened, but she thought they could still fight.

She was dizzy from the suddenness of the Drakon’s attack, but as the patrolmen waded into the River, Annabel glimpsed lights ahead and heard the clank of machinery, and heard human voices.

The lights were not the warm, familiar half lights that Annabel had known for most of her life. They were brilliant and rather cold, as if nobody cared any more about dwindling supplies. Because they knew that time was now so short that there was power and to spare for what was left to them?

The patrolmen bent low to pass under a narrow arch of rock, and then flung the three of them down on the floor. Annabel heard Taliesin groan, and knew that at least he lived. She felt ridiculous tears of gratitude prick her eyes and reached up to dash them away angrily.

They were in a vast mountain hall, lit to cold brightness by the power supplies that the rest of the world had been forbidden. Annabel, unused to such brilliance, blinked and waited for her eyes to adjust.

There seemed to be dark-clad men everywhere, coming and going, severe and absorbed. Annabel knew them at once for Drakon patrols. Directly ahead was a long, low table with several men seated behind it, and Annabel stared at them and knew that they had been brought into the presence of the powerful all-seeing men who controlled the world. This was the Drakon, and these were the men who had written the stringent laws which people called Draconian, and who sent out the patrols and incarcerated people who broke them inside the Cuirim. These are the people who are the laws, thought Annabel. The Drakon sees all and the Drakon’s law is absolute.

The man in the centre was watching her, and Annabel shivered, because he had the coldest eyes and the most humourless features she had ever seen. He was tall and thin and the bones of his face stood out, and his eyes were the colour of a bleak November sky when it is going to snow and blizzard, and when he spoke, his voice was like being caught out in a snowstorm.

“Come here.”

Annabel went at once, because despite the coldness and despite the humourless eyes and mouth, the man possessed unquestionable authority. You might dislike him very much; you might fear him to an extreme degree, but it would not occur to you to disobey him.

She stood in front of the table and looked at the men and thought, So these are the real Drakon. I am face to face with the people who manipulate the world and who cause us all to be shut away from one another, and who make the laws and send out the patrols. She put up her chin a little and looked down her nose, which was something courageous people in old books had always done. It did not make her feel any braver, but it probably made her look fairly brave, which was better than nothing. And, because attack was supposed to be the best form of defence, she said, quite clearly, “My friends are injured. That creature you employ has injured them. I should be glad if you would have their wounds attended to.” And was pleased that at least she sounded unafraid.

“If they are injured,” said the cold-eyed man, “it is their own fault. The Claw is allowed to roam the mountain at will for the express purpose of catching trespassers and those who stray into places not meant for them to know about. You have been very foolish, Miss O’Connor. You and your friends will be thrown into a cell.”

“And later?”

The man studied her. “There will not be any ‘later,’” he said. “You are inside the Cuirim. The headquarters of the Drakon. Looked at from one viewpoint, you have done very well. You have tricked two of the Guardians and nearly reached the torchlit Cavern of the Clock. That is something very few people achieve.” He made a brief dismissive gesture with one hand. “The Guardians are unpleasant creatures,” he said. “But they serve us well enough.”

“You make use of strange servants,” said Annabel.

“We make use of whatever comes to hand,” said the man. “The people who discovered the Doomsday Clock also discovered that these mountains house stranger things than man has dreamed of for some time.” He leaned forward. “Our ancestors believed in gods and devils and dreams and nightmares, Miss O’Connor,” he said. “We do not. But I will admit to you that down here, buried in these mountains away from the world, we have come to believe in creatures and forces and powers that we would once have dismissed as primitive superstition. Twentieth-century credulity, Miss O’Connor … Perhaps earlier, for the later years of that century were quite realistic.”

“Still,” said Annabel, “the creatures exist. They are here inside the mountain. I have met them.”

“And defeated them, it seems.” Again he studied her. “That is to your credit,” he said.

“You serve an ancient and hungry god,” said Annabel scornfully.

“Superstition again, Miss O’Connor.”

“You are trafficking with the devil,” said Annabel.

The man laughed. “Your expressions smack strongly of medieval naïveté, my dear. I begin to think we should have kept a closer eye on you. You know the penalty for reading forbidden books and for studying the ways of our ancestors …? Yes, I thought you did. You are too inquisitive, Miss O’Connor. Your inquisitiveness has brought you to a place not meant for you to see.”

“Why not?” said Annabel defiantly.

“Because the world is dying,” said the man. “We do not want people to know. You are not without intelligence, you must know what is happening. Worlds do sometimes die.”

With a whimper or a bang, and after all what does it matter in the end …?

“But until the very last hours,” said the man, “it has been necessary to preserve some kind of balance. To safeguard people from this terrible knowledge.” He leaned forward. “You are not without imagination either,” he said. “You must be able to visualise what would happen if men and women were told or found out how close we are to the end: rioting and looting; despair and drunkenness and hysteria; mass suicides. Isn’t it safer, isn’t it kinder to leave them in ignorance for as long as possible?” He sat back. “Admit it,” he said softly. “Admit that we are right.”

Annabel said nothing.

“Do you suppose,” said the man after a moment, “that it has been easy for us down here? Knowing, counting, measuring the time left? Seeing time run out, and unable to do anything.” His eyes were distant and suddenly they were not cold any longer. “The worst part,” he said, “oh, by far the worst part, is not knowing where the end will come from, or how it will happen.”

Annabel said rather hesitantly, “The faceless statesmen. The secret countries. The weapons of the twentieth century —”

“Yes,” said the man. “That is the likeliest. Some kind of demand, some kind of threat. Do what we ask, or we will unleash all our power on you. And the world retaliating. Yes, that is the likeliest way. But we do not know!” he said, bringing his clenched fist down on the table. “We know that it will happen, for the Clock is approaching Doom Hour, and we have come to believe the Clock. But not knowing — I think that has been the worst part. You have no idea,” he said softly, “of how great the burden is.”

After a moment, Annabel said, “You are the head.”

“Yes.” He looked at her. “I am the Drakon,” he said, and smiled suddenly. “An ordinary businessman with grey hair. That is what you are thinking.” The smile vanished as if a slate had been wiped clean, and the cold cruelty was back. “You understand that we cannot possibly let you and your friends go, of course. We shall put you in one of the cells.”

He regarded her. “I am afraid you will not come out again. The end is not so very far distant now, you see.”

“You are very calm,” said Annabel.

“I have lived with the knowledge for a long time, my dear.”

“But surely —” Annabel stopped, and then went on. “Surely something will survive?” Because it was unbearable beyond words to imagine everything dead or dying, to think that Man would no longer walk the earth …

“We believe,” said the Drakon, “that Man will survive,” and Annabel looked up, because she had not expected him to sense her thoughts so very exactly. “Man will survive,” he said, half to himself now, “but it will be in a different form, perhaps. He is an adaptable creature, Man, after all. And perhaps after the fires have cooled and the Disease has dispersed, he will emerge, a little changed, a little different. But still in the world.” He stood up. “I am a realist, Miss O’Connor. I make use of whatever instruments come to hand. The Claw and the Three Guardians will continue to work and to serve me.” He stood up and nodded to two of the men. “Take them to one of the cells,” he said. “And give the Claw its reward.” And then, turning back to Annabel, “In any case,” he said, “your incarceration is of little account now.”

Annabel stared at him, her heart thudding painfully. “Midnight,” she said softly. “The Doom Hour.”

“Yes, midnight. If the secret countries unleash the forces that our ancestors were so proud of, then the world will burn, and this entire mountain may be rent asunder.”

Annabel said softly, “‘And Four Horsemen shall come into the world to announce the Beast Apocalypse … they shall stalk the earth and lay it waste in their several ways, and after their coming, the skies shall darken and the seas shall boil and the world shall burn for fifty days and fifty nights … ‘” She stopped and looked at him and thought that a gleam of approval showed in the cold, grey eyes.

But, “An even older superstition, Miss O’Connor. But in the main, you are right,” was all he said.

“We are close to the end?”

“Yes. I do not think there is anything that can save us.” He looked at her. “The Clock stands at exactly five minutes to midnight,” he said.

*

Taliesin and Fergus came back to full consciousness slowly and painfully. Fergus started to say, “What happened —” and then stopped, because he remembered all too clearly what had happened. They had been defeated by the Conablaiche and by the Sensleibhe, and they had been thrown into the Drakon’s prison.

And the Clock was still ticking …

Taliesin, who had put one arm about Annabel’s shoulders, said, “Fergus, my dear, I beg you will not make use of such obvious questions. Or do you really not know what has happened? Would you like me to enumerate our various disasters in detail?”

“Thank you, no,” said Fergus. “I remember everything. I wish I did not.” And then, “Is either of us injured very much?” he said.

“We have suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, but I believe that in the main we have whole skins. I daresay that our wits are a bit astray, but I daresay they always were. And probably we shall be able to think of a way out,” said Taliesin, and Fergus wondered if anything discomposed Taliesin.

“Very little, my friend,” said Taliesin.

Fergus looked round. They were lying in a stone cell, barely six feet square. Three of the walls were solid rock and the fourth made up of thick iron bars. There was a faint spill of light from the tunnel outside. It was sufficient to show them that the cell was as solid and as secure as it was possible for it to be.

Taliesin said, “‘Iron bars do not a prison make.’ Or do they? I suppose we shall find a way out, shall we?”

“I hope so,” said Fergus. “I don’t think we have very much time.”

“Very little,” said Taliesin, and looked at the other two and thought, Oh, my dears, if only you knew that it no longer matters. We are trapped in this cell, but also we are trapped in this world now. Calatin’s spell was to last for seven days, and seven days will soon have come and gone: we have no way of returning to our own world.

Fergus was inspecting the cell carefully. “For,” he said, “every prison has its chink.”

“The floors and the walls and the roof are of solid rock,” said Taliesin. And then, “Fergus, we have to get to the children.”

“I know,” said Fergus, not turning round.

“We have to get to the Clock,” said Taliesin, half to himself.

“Could we somehow dig our way out?” said Annabel, trying the floor with her feet. “No, it’s solid. And there’s nothing to dig with.”

“We could bribe the guards if we had anything to bribe them with,” said Fergus thoughtfully. “Annabel, are the members of the Drakon bribable?”

“I suppose they would be,” said Annabel.

Taliesin, from the shadows, said, “Every man has his price. Are there any other prisoners down here?”

“There must be,” said Annabel. “This is the Cuirim. No one ever comes out.”

“I wonder,” said Taliesin thoughtfully, “what Fael-Inis would do in this situation?”

“Blast the lock with a bolt of light,” said Fergus at once.

“Lure the guards with his silver pipes,” said Annabel. And then, because the thought of losing Fael-Inis was unbearable, she said, “I daresay he will help us in any case.” And so strong, so violent was the hope, that she turned to look down the dark tunnel, half expecting to see him appear.

Taliesin said, “We could lure the guards ourselves. By calling them. And then we could spring on them.”

“Yes, for they must have keys.” Fergus turned back, his eyes alight. “Yes, listen, if we could —” He looked at the other two, horror dawning in his eyes. “It’s too late,” he said. “Annabel, Taliesin, we are too late. Listen.” And stared at them, and saw his own horror reflected in their faces, and knew that they had heard it as well.

Hoofbeats coming down the mountain tunnel towards them.

The Four Horsemen …

*

Conn and Niall, with Michael and the others close by, woke from a deep, warm sleep, peopled with soft, happy dreams, and with the memories of the world they had been driven from. They were nearly back there now. Fergus would take them back, and the others would be there as well: Taliesin and Annabel and the strange, golden creature called Fael-Inis who had drawn them with him through the dark tunnels, so that there had been no time for fear, only a marvellous exhilaration, and a feeling that anything was possible and everything was within their grasp.

Michael, who had woken up first, sat up and looked round, because it had all been a bit muddled last night, and a person liked to know where he was.

The room was quite small and it was lit by a fire, which was very nice. Michael had always had a fire in his bedroom. It made you feel extra safe, and you could lie and watch the leaping flames make pictures on the walls and the ceiling.

He had done that on the night the creature came. He could remember it very clearly indeed. There had been rain outside; fierce, lashing rain that hurled itself against the windows and made you feel glad that you were lying inside warm and snug and safe with a fire. He had listened to it that night, but mixed in with the rain had been something else. Something outside. He had lain for a long time listening to it, but he had not called out, because the something might have heard him. He had known it was there, though. It had peered in through the chink in the curtain, and it had tried the locks. It had sniffed at the door — Michael had heard it — and he knew that it had claws and nails and teeth, and that it was trying to get in so that it could get to him while he lay in bed. He had pretended it was not there, because that was always a good thing to do if you woke up in the middle of the night and thought there was a something trying to get in. You pulled the covers tight over your head, and you shut out the frightened-ness, and quite often, well very nearly always, the next thing you knew it was morning and the sun was shining, and you were being called to hurry to breakfast, and everything was all right again.

But the covers had not helped that night, because the something that prowled and sniffed and peered had got in, and had come creeping across the bedroom. Michael had kept his eyes squeezed tight shut, as tight as they would go, but he had known quite definitely that the something was in the room, and he had not dared to move in case the something pounced on him, and it had all been quite dreadfully scary, and he would not remember any of it.

He certainly would not remember it now, not when Conn and Niall and the others were here with him, not when somebody was rocking slowly and comfortably by the fire …

It would have been better if the somebody had not cast quite such a huge shadow on the walls. There was nothing wrong with the shadow, not really, only that it made you think that people were not always what they seemed to be. Sometimes they turned their heads to look at you, so that you saw that they had slit eyes and grinning lips and a muzzle, a great, wide, dripping maw that would open wide to devour you. All the better to spin with, my dears … my dears … my dears …

That was what she had said last night, “Come inside, my dears,” and in they had gone. And then the door had clanged to, and they had been in here with her, and there had been firelight and the rocking of a chair and a spinning wheel and, quite suddenly, it was all too scary for words.

In a minute, Michael would open his eyes. It would be a good thing to do, really, because he would see Conn and Niall and the others. You would not be afraid of anything in the world with those. Conn could do absolutely anything and Niall could do very nearly anything.

He opened his eyes a chink. Yes, there was firelight. And an old woman — he remembered now — who was doing something with a spinning wheel. Michael’s grandmother had had a spinning wheel, because they had kept sheep, and there had always been nice fluffy wool for jerkins and mittens and leggings. Michael had been allowed to help spin the sheepwool into the thin, strong wool strands, and it had been interesting. He would quite like to see the spinning now. The lady was nodding and smiling and beckoning, and she was quite old, she was nearly as old as his grandmother had been, which was extremely old, and so there was nothing to be afraid of. It was silly to feel the creeping fear that made you remember about somethings that prowled and sniffed and got in to your bedroom when you were asleep. He would go and see the spinning and perhaps he would be allowed to help.

The lady seemed to know his name. “Michael,” she said, in a rather thick, slurry sort of voice. “Michael. How nice.”

People could not help their voices. This lady could not help having a slimy purr. She probably could not help having black glittering eyes either. She reached out and stroked his arm, and he flinched, because she did not have an arm like most people, but a kind of tentacle thing with hard stringy muscles, covered with bristly black hairs, with the hands curving into talons.

Michael tried to back away, but the Sensleibhe had him in her cruel grasp. “Come a little closer, my dear,” she said in the horrid, slurry, blurred voice that made you think of grease and thick bubbling mucus. “Come a little closer and see the spinning.”

Michael, who did not want to see the spinning at all now, and who was hoping rather desperately that the others would wake up and see what was happening, felt himself pulled nearer and nearer to the whirring wheel, and closer and closer to the treadle that went in and out and that jabbed and stabbed and began to look nastier the nearer you got to it.

“You see?” said the Sensleibhe. “You see, Michael, all the things I use for spinning. Little boys are especially good.” And she reached out her other hand and stroked him again. “Come a little closer,” said the Sensleibhe, and gave the horrid chuckling again. Michael twisted out of her grasp and shot back across the room and collided with Conn.

The Sensleibhe advanced on them. Her hands were reaching out and her eyes were greedy. She was grinning, and she was no longer an old lady like Michael’s grandmother, but a hungry ravening thing with a dripping maw that would gobble you up in minutes, with a muzzle and teeth and fangs … you would be minced and chopped, and she would pull you into the spinning wheel, and you would be turned into thread, all studded with your nails and bits of your hair and shreds of your skin …

“Come nearer, my dears,” said the Old Woman of the Mountains. “All the better to spin with … Little boys for the spinning wheel … Come a little nearer.”

The boys were all wide-awake now, huddled in the corner, staring at the dreadful creature that was creeping towards them across the firelit room.

“We’ll fight you,” said Niall loudly, and the Sensleibhe laughed.

“Such precious poppets,” she said. “Fight? Dearie me, you won’t fight me, my lambkins. Not a bit of a fight will you put up, or I shall have to fetch Mr. Ferryman to you. He’s waiting, you know. Did you know that? He’s just outside the door now. Shall we let him in? He’s standing just outside the door in the dark, very quietly listening and waiting. Shall we open the door and see him standing there in his long dark cloak and with his face covered by the hood?

“And you all know what Mr. Ferryman does, don’t you? You’ve all met him, haven’t you? You know how he creeps into children’s bedrooms and steals across the floor while they’re asleep, and gobbles them up. You’ve all met him, my lambkins, haven’t you? Shall we let him in now?” And she began to move to the door.

Michael thought afterwards that it was Conn who shouted, “No!” but he was never sure. He thought he might have shouted it himself. He thought they might all have shouted.

The Sensleibhe had moved with incredible swiftness to the door; she could not really be old at all, because old people did not move like that, they did not scuttle. The Sensleibhe scuttled. Michael reached for Conn’s hand, because Conn was a good sort of person to hold on to if something nasty was going to happen.

All the better to spin with … skin and teeth and nails and hair … all made into thread …

And then something very strange happened. It was so strange and so unexpected that none of them could ever quite explain it, and certainly none of them could ever describe it.

The Old Woman of the Mountains had reached the door, and she was grinning and nodding and reaching for the door handle. In another minute, the door would be opened, and there he would be, the dreadful creature they all remembered, the monstrous something that had crept into their houses while they slept and crawled up the stairs to their warm safe bedrooms and found its way into their beds …

The door was opening, and Michael had drawn breath to yell, when they all saw it.

Lights, and people running, and confusion. Dark-clad men hurrying about and shouting. And a sound so immense and so steady that for a moment no one knew what it was. Pounding. Drumming. Getting nearer.

And then they saw them. Sweeping through the dark shadow tunnels of the mountain halls towards them were four great creatures of such size and such strength and such dark and terrible beauty, that the boys gasped and cowered back. Horses, but horses such as no one had ever seen in the world. Great gleaming stallions, Barbary steeds, somehow made of shadows and of long endless nights and of eternal black seas. Their flanks were shining ebony and their saddles were crimson leather, and their eyes were like glowing coals, fiery and inhuman.

Michael gasped and felt Conn’s hand tighten about his. One of the boys said in a whisper, “What are they?”

“I don’t know,” said Conn, his eyes never leaving the leaping, pawing creatures. “But she’s afraid of them.”

The horses were coming down the tunnel now, rearing and stampeding. “And they are being ridden,” said Niall, whose parents had kept and trained horses for the Court. “They are being ridden harder than any horse I ever saw ridden.”

The horses seemed to burn with a kind of dark radiance, so that although you could see the radiance all about them, you could only see them as black shapes, at the centre of the unearthly light. They had neither form nor substance, and yet they were real and terrifying, and although you were afraid to look at them, you could not take your eyes from them.

They could make out the shapes of the riders more clearly now; they could see billowing cloaks and the glint of black armour. The riders wore visors, each one pulled down so that their faces were invisible.

“Faceless riders,” breathed Conn.

There was a sense of timelessness about the riders, and a feeling that no matter how long you looked on them, you would never see them properly.

The horses were coming nearer now, and the boys could make out the fiery breath and see the gleam of spurs and rein and bit. “And although we were frightened,” Niall was to say, “we could not move. We could not take our eyes away.”

The Four Horsemen entering the ancient mountain, riding down into the depths of the mountain halls, where the Doomsday Clock was ticking to the end of the world …

And then one of them said, “Look! The Old Woman! She is terrified!” And somehow, the terror of the Sensleibhe gave them all fresh courage, for the Old Woman of the Mountains was backing up against the walls, staring in dread at the Horsemen, her eyes bolting from her head.

And then there was a tremendous wind, and a great rushing sound, and the riders were standing up in the stirrups, driving their steeds on, and the boys could see them with blinding clarity, and the light was glowing and they were dark and terrible and unearthly and filled with immense power.

And then, quite suddenly, they were past the door, they were disappearing along the dark tunnel, and the radiance was dimming, and the sound of the hoofbeats was dying, and the Sensleibhe was no longer a threat.

Conn turned to look at the others, his eyes shining, “Now,” he said, “out and after them! Ready?” And stood looking at them with such delight and such strength that they began to cheer, a bit raggedly at first, and then with more assurance.

“After them!” cried Conn, and the boys poured out of the cave and out into the mountain.

*

To Taliesin and Fergus and Annabel, the approach of the Four Horsemen was the worst nightmare they had ever experienced. They stood close together, grasping the iron bars at the front of the cell, straining to see through the shadows, hearing Drakon men running and shouting, feeling the panic well up from the heart of the mountain. Fergus, accustomed to action, found himself wanting to tear the iron bars aside and go bounding out into the mountain, attacking the Drakon patrols, forcing a way into the torchlit Cavern of the Clock. Taliesin, quieter, far more detached than the volatile Fergus, remained very still and felt the terror and the chaos soak into his mind, and thought, After all, is this truly the end? Are we about to witness the world dying? Ought I to feel privileged to be here?

Annabel was the least frightened of them all. She thought it was because she had lived with the knowledge for so long, and she thought that when you have dreaded and feared a thing, you find that when it is at last upon you, it is not so terrible as you had thought. She found that she was clinging to the thought of Fael-Inis somewhere inside the mountain, and she found herself watching for the wisp of light and the faint shimmer of fire that would herald his approach. For he cannot have abandoned us! thought Annabel, standing between Fergus and Taliesin. And he cannot be dead, for surely he is nearly immortal!

At her side, Taliesin said softly, “He will not abandon us.”

“Then where is he?”

“Perhaps he is — injured,” said Taliesin, but Annabel knew he had been about to say, perhaps he is dead.

The hoofbeats were thundering closer now, and the three travellers knew that before many minutes had passed, they would be witnessing the dreaded coming of the Heralds, the emissaries who had been prophesied and foretold by generations, and who would precede the coming of the Beast Apocalypse into the world. Plague, Famine, War, Death …

The Horsemen came sweeping by and there was fire and darkness and flying flames and great splintering forks of lightning. Iron-sinew’d and satin-skinned, fierce as fire, violent and cruel and relentless they were. Pegasus ridden by Bellerophon, ridden by Jehu: marvellous and terrible and as unstoppable as the angels.

Tongues of fire and flame shot from the horses’ hoofs, and the three travellers moved back at once. The tunnel was bathed in brilliance, and the sound of the hoofs and the ringing of the spurs and the bridles was deafening. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rushing down on mankind …

Smoke belched out into the tunnel, and the sparks lit dozens of small crackling fires that ran along the ground and burned.

“Shall we burn!” cried Fergus, his eyes brilliant, his hair tumbling over his forehead. “Is this to be the end?”

They were half blinded by the smoke, and their eyes were stinging from the flames, but they could see the Horsemen turning the corner. “They are going away from us!” shouted Annabel through the tumult. “Down the tunnels!”

“They are going to the Clock Cavern!” cried Taliesin. “Fergus, we must somehow stop them —” And then jumped back as flames licked the ground beneath the bars at the front of the cell.

As the Horsemen rode hard round the curve, disappearing into the darkness, a spark from one of their hoofs flew out to hit the door. The lock gave and the door fell open.

Annabel and the two men looked at one another … “After them!” cried Fergus. “I do not think we have very much time left!”

*

No one stopped them as they ran gasping and frantic in the direction of the black Horsemen.

“Follow the sounds,” cried Taliesin. “The Clock — can you hear it?”

“Yes,” said Fergus. “Yes, it is quite close.”

“Don’t lose it,” gasped Taliesin. “There is so much noise, but we dare not lose the sound.”

The noise was deafening. Drakon men were milling about everywhere and there was the thick smell of smoke and the acrid tang of the flames from the Horsemen.

“The patrols and the guards are panicking,” said Annabel. “They are afraid of the Horsemen.”

“Because of the Horsemen they are hardly noticing us,” said Fergus. “We might walk unchallenged anywhere we like.”

They hesitated only once, at the intersection of three tunnels. Then, “This way,” said Taliesin, and Fergus nodded. They were not only hearing the Clock now, they could feel it. Taliesin, leading the way, Annabel between the two of them, thought it was like a great beating heart, like the fluttering of a giant pulse. And we dare not let it stop. Tick, tick, tick … If it stopped, they would know they had failed. If it stopped, the Horsemen would have reached the Cavern and the world would end. Taliesin found himself praying to all the gods he had ever heard of that the ticking would not stop. A heartbeat, a pulse, a pendulum … While it ticks and flutters and swings, we still live, there is still hope. Tick, tick, tick …

Fergus was racing along the tunnels, and he, as well as Taliesin, was feeling the Clock’s heartbeats. If it stopped, they were all dead. If it stopped, the Horsemen had triumphed and the Beast Apocalypse would walk into the world … Shall we actually see it? wondered Fergus, and remembered how he had once thought they would chain the Apocalypse and take it back to Tara to defeat Medoc. But Medoc was in another world and in another time, and it might be that they would never be able to return to it … Then this will be our world, thought Fergus, appalled. This dreadful, bleak, cheerless place will be our world … And if we cannot reach the torchlit Cavern in time, there will be no world for any of us. Is it still ticking? Yes, I can still hear it.

Drakon men were everywhere in the tunnels now, scurrying in every direction, confused and panic-stricken, shouting to one another, trying to avoid the licking flames that had sprung up in the wake of the Horsemen. Several of them were stamping at the flames, and several were dashing buckets of water on to the ground in an endeavour to stop the path of the fire.

Taliesin and Fergus and Annabel were scarcely aware of running now, but the tunnels were rushing past them, and they could hear the Clock’s heartbeats getting nearer. Once Annabel thought they were in the river tunnel again, because water lapped about their feet and washed over their ankles. And then they turned another curve, and Taliesin pulled them into a left-hand fork, and the River of Souls, if it had been, was behind them again.

They must be very close to the Clock now. Annabel thought that it was almost becoming a part of them. Tick, tick … Please let it go on, prayed Annabel silently. We are so near, we are nearly there. Only a very little longer. And the Horsemen have not yet reached the Cavern; I can still hear them. If only we can get there in time …

And then Taliesin gave a shout, and Fergus said, “There it is!”

Directly ahead of them, through a wide arch of rock, lit by burning torches that were never allowed to go out, was the cavern of the Doomsday Clock.

“Unguarded!” cried Fergus, moving forward. “Quickly!” And then — “Can you see the Clock?” he shouted, and Taliesin, who was standing framed in the archway, shading his eyes with one hand, said softly, “Yes, I can see it.

“And it stands at exactly one minute to midnight.”

*

But the Clock was still ticking. It was ticking swiftly and surely, and the hands were moving slowly, inexorably, but it was still ticking. And we are ahead of the Horsemen, thought Annabel. Somehow we have beaten them. If only we can do it, if only we can climb up to it …

The Cavern was smaller than they had expected. There was a high vaulted ceiling, and there were arches and niches in the rockface. Taliesin glanced at them, and thought they were probably natural rock formations. Shadows stirred above them, and several times they caught the soft beating of wings. But no one came to challenge them, and nothing came creeping out of the shadows, and as they stood there, it seemed to each of them as if a tremendous hush had descended.

Wall brackets were all round the Cavern, and burning torches were thrust into each one, lighting the Cavern to eerie life. There was the pungent scent of wood burning, and there was a feeling not only of extreme age, but also of great silence and of great peace, as if this was the heart and the core and the centre of the world.

Taliesin, absorbing it all, thought that after all, when you are at the heart, you do not need to be other than silent. Outside the Cavern was roaring confusion; they could hear running footsteps and shouts; great boulders were beginning to fall from the tunnel roofs, and the fires kindled by the Horsemen were roaring through the mountain.

But we have come to the epicentre, thought Taliesin. We are at the eye of the storm and here all is tranquillity.

And then, because he had seen temples and places of worship to various gods, he was strongly aware of a feeling of silent homage. They have looked on the Clock as a kind of god, he thought. A deity. A creature to whom they must pay homage.

The Clock was directly ahead of them, set high on a ledge of rock. The mountain walls gleamed with a faint blue phosphorescence, and on each side of the Clock, candles burned. An altar … A place of homage … Sacrifice.

The Doomsday Clock: the dreadful sinister instrument that had lain for centuries inside the dark mountain, untended, forgotten, and yet continuing to tick. Measuring out the world’s last years, until mankind would die and the world would end, either with a whimper or a bang, it did not really matter … Ticking in the dark by itself, unaided.

Small wonder, thought Taliesin, that the people who had found it had set it on a high altar and lit candles and burned scented logs before it. And then, because he had been trying to visualise the kind of device this strange austere world might have made to measure their time so precisely and so soul-chillingly, he studied the great machine with close attention.

The Clock was bigger than any of them had expected, although Annabel thought they had not really known what to expect. It was massive and oval-shaped, and it gleamed palely, so that it was difficult not to think of it as alive.

The hands were dark and ornate; the figures stood out elaborately against the pale background. Annabel thought they had once been called Roman figures, but could not be sure. And round the face, carved and etched and coloured in sombre greys and blacks, were four figures.

Four figures … An hour ago, we should not have recognised them, thought Taleisin. Now they are burned into our memories for ever.

Plague, Famine, War, and Death … And they are here in the mountain with us … They are raging through the mountain halls, and very soon, at any minute, they will come surging through the tunnels, and they will be in the cavern with us, and when that happens, the hands will touch midnight, and the ticking will stop.

There were thirty seconds to go.

Fergus was already climbing up the steep wall of the cavern, finding footholds where footholds did not exist, reaching for tiny jutting sections of rock, pulling himself up and up, hand over hand, scrabbling for purchase, slipping back sometimes, but going onwards. Taliesin was behind him, slower, but following in Fergus’s path, reaching for crevices in the rock, dislodging flurries of boulders and stones, sending them cascading downwards.

They had to turn the hands back as far as they could.

Annabel, knowing there was nothing she could do, certainly knowing she could not reach the altar ahead of them, stayed where she was, her nails digging into the palms of her hands, her eyes never leaving the Clock. It was dreadful to have to stand here like this, unable to help, hearing every tiny sound in the cavern. There were scufflings and rustlings in the Cavern now; where once it had been silent and somehow watchful, now it seemed as if it was coming alive. Several times, Annabel turned her head because, just for a moment, it had seemed as if there was a movement in one of the low narrow tunnels leading out of the Cavern.

Twenty-five seconds …

The Horsemen were over their heads now, thundering closer with every second. Annabel was vaguely aware of forked light illuminating the tunnel they had just come through. At any minute …

Eighteen seconds …

Fergus was inching higher, and Taliesin was on his heels. There were several feet to go before he gained the ledge. Surely they must get there in time, it was not bearable that they should reach the Clock and then fail.

Is it worse to see it happen? wondered Annabel. Is it going to be worse to know the exact second when the hands reach midnight? Would it have been better to stay in the cell and not know? Of course not!

Tick, tick … Thirteen seconds. I can’t bear it, thought Annabel. I shall turn away and close my eyes. But she did bear it and she did not turn away. She kept her eyes unwaveringly on the Clock.

Fergus and Taliesin were nearly there. They were on the altar at the left-hand side. They would have to crawl along the ledge — Annabel could see how perilously narrow it was. There were more of the narrow tunnels leading away from the ledge. Perhaps that was the way the Drakon people entered the Cavern. If they had been able to find the way through the labyrinth of caves, they would have reached the Clock much quicker.

Ten seconds …

They would not do it. Annabel could see very clearly and very coldly and very surely that they would not do it. If they could have gone faster, if the ledge had been wider and safer, so that they could run … If they could have found another way to the Cavern, through one of the tunnels that opened directly onto the ledge … And if the Clock had not been so vast …

Eight seconds.

And then from one of the narrow tunnels light streamed outwards and there was a flare of movement. Annabel stared, not daring to believe, not daring to hope … In a cascade of pure golden light he was there, and Annabel gasped, and Fergus and Taliesin turned.

He was filled with light and fire, and he was in front of the Clock now, a little to the left of it, and light was pouring from him, and his eyes were glowing with all the radiance he had possessed since before the First Great Battle, with all the power that he could harness; and he was blindingly beautiful and he was invincible, and he would save the world and turn back the Horsemen …

The being of fire and light. The rebel angel who would defy the world and challenge the gods and win. Oh, yes, he will win! cried Annabel in silent joy, He will win. For if anyone can save the world, he can.

Six seconds.

Taliesin and Fergus stayed where they were, their eyes on the slender figure by the Clock, their hearts pounding.

Five seconds …

Light poured from Fael-Inis now, and he drew himself up to his fullest height, and turned to the Clock.

Four seconds …

A bolt of pure light shot from his pointing hand, swift and sure, and hurtled towards the Clock’s face. The cave rocked with the impact, and showers of sparks fell from the roof.

Three seconds.

The watchers were as still as stones. The light exploded against the Clock face, sizzling and smouldering. Cascades of iridescence showered everywhere. The minute hand hesitated.

There was another tick.

Two seconds.

Annabel could hear the Horsemen, she could smell the hot fiery breath of the rushing horses … Has he done it? Has it been strong enough …? A bolt of pure light … Oh, please, please let it have been strong enough, let him have succeeded, for to fail like this would be unbearable, we shall not be able to bear it, it will be the worst agony ever, anywhere …

Light, pure and coruscating, split the Cavern, and there was a great thunderclap somewhere above their heads, and a sheet of flame reared up in the Cavern. The floor rocked beneath their feet, and chasms began to open everywhere. Jagged lightning tore across the Cavern and speared the altar. The Doomsday Clock began to teeter on its narrow ledge, and fireballs of red and orange poured in from the roof. The mountain began to split and great fissures opened up. Annabel saw Taliesin and Fergus lose their precarious hold on the narrow ledge and fall, clutching each other, down the steep side of the rockface.

Annabel thought she was shouting, “The Clock! Has it been turned back? Oh dear God, has it turned back?” but her voice was drowned in the tumult of rocks falling and the mountain splitting, and the screaming of people, and the running of feet and the crackling flames.

There was one final blinding sheet of light that illuminated the Cavern to painful brilliance, and Annabel and the two men saw with sudden delight Conn and Niall and Michael and the boys come hurtling through the archway, their faces white and smeared with dirt, but their eyes brilliant and alive. Fergus shouted something, and the children went to him in a single movement.

And then the intense vivid light flamed again, and they turned to see Fael-Inis for the last time, outlined clearly above them on the high ledge where the Clock had lain, silhouetted against the dark background of the mountain, his arms outstretched, his head thrown back, fire and light and radiance pouring over him and through him, the flames and the heat and the wild blazing fire engulfing him. And despite the danger, despite the fact that the mountain was tumbling about them, and that everywhere was in flames, and that they might all be about to die, still the three travellers stood still, the children clustered about them, looking at him, seeing him for what he was … the angel of fire and light and speed … the proud, arrogant, lonely rebel destined to walk the earth forever …

There was a wrenching pain and the faint, far-off rushing of chariot wheels, and a whirling, dizzying sensation, and the heat and the smoke seemed to blur and merge, and Annabel closed her eyes against it, because she could not bear it any longer, it was not to be borne …

An immense stillness descended on them, and Annabel opened her eyes and sat up.

Fergus’s voice said in a strange, distant expression, “Tara.”

Tara. The Bright Palace. It lay across the valley from them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Court had made camp in the folds of hillside overlooking the little township of Folaim.

“And a very good camp it is,” said Fintan, pleased. “Very comfortable. Not that you’d have expected it, what with people and animals all together, but it’s working very nicely. I said it would,” said Fintan, who had not said any such thing.

Smoke rose from the Cruithin’s fires: “They keep themselves to themselves,” observed Cathbad; close by, the army had settled itself into groups of threes and fours. Occasionally a snatch of song could be heard; now and then there was a burst of laughter.

“Rude jokes, I daresay,” said Fintan, trying to listen.

Cathbad scurried about with his pots. He was in a great state over the forthcoming banquet. “Because,” he said seriously to Grainne, “it has to be right, Your Majesty. There’s no sense in having a banquet if you don’t have it right. Dear me, what a flurry I shall be in, shan’t I? I wonder now, could we manage a few sod eggs — well, that’s begging your pardon, ma’am, for appearing to sound vulgar, but it’s what they’re called. What you do is you boil the eggs first — some people call it seething them, but I don’t,” said Cathbad. “And then you make a nice little sauce, and if Tybion the Tusk has taken my seething pot to catch trout again, I shall be very angry.

“And then,” said Cathbad, “I’ll make a marigold tart — well, several tarts, really, because one is never enough. And wild duck,” said Cathbad, with solemnity. “My word, there’s nothing to equal a few wild ducks on Samain. Properly stuffed, of course, that goes without saying. I’d better lay a few traps. My word, I am going to be busy.”

Fintan was heard to tell Cermait Honeymouth that they would all of them be as overfed as pigs. They would certainly be too full to indulge in any of the traditional Samain activities.

“You never do anyway,” said Cermait. “Were you thinking of leaping through the bonfire this year? The last time you tried that you got singed in the —”

“No, I did not,” said Fintan loudly, because several of the younger soldiers were listening and it would not do for people to know.

“You couldn’t sit down for a week,” said Cermait with relish.

Rinnal and Bee, and several others of the Beastline, had gone into the forest to gather the wood for the fire.

“Rowan and dry oak,” said Tybion, who was going with them. “And agaric from the birches, to make the needfire. It has to be right” said Tybion, unconsciously echoing Cathbad, who was by this time contemplating borage stuffing for the ducks, which he had not yet thought how to catch, and a first course of bean soup.

“We all like that,” he said, beaming.

“I don’t,” said Fintan.

“It’s warming,” said Cathbad.

“It’s purgative,” said Fintan crossly, and went off to supervise the gathering of the wood, because you could not trust the youngsters to know the proper rituals.

Lugh and Dorrainge had removed themselves from the main body of the camp, so that they could hold a serious and responsible discussion about the exact nature of the celebrations.

They were getting on rather well; Dorrainge was beginning to think that he had misjudged Lugh, who had even broached the question of some kind of sacrifice on the bonfire, which Dorrainge rather supported. He said there was nothing like a sacrifice on a Samain bonfire.

“I rather thought a small pig,” said Lugh, and Dorrainge tucked his chins portentously into his neck, and said, A pig, very possibly. Yes, a pig might serve the purpose nicely. It was necessary, he explained, to appease the forces of evil that stalked the world on Samain. That was why a sacrifice was a good idea.

“On Samain the barriers are lowered,” he explained. “The boundaries that exist between all the worlds are swept aside. The dead may walk, and the Dark Ireland will certainly be very close to us.” He looked at Lugh severely. “Also,” said Dorrainge, “the sidh mounds are flung wide open.”

Lugh said that this was very true indeed, hadn’t he always heard it to be the case, but felt it necessary to point out that they already had the sidh with them, or almost with them, and had they settled about the pig?

“I cannot see that it would hurt,” said Dorrainge, stroking his chin and being careful not to say that he was rather fond of roast pig. If you were contemplating a Samain sacrifice, you should not let your judgement be swayed by the thought of eating it afterwards. It would be very indelicate.

“We could eat the pig afterwards,” said Lugh, and Dorrainge remembered that the Longhands were all famed for their lack of delicacy. He said that it would have to be thought over, but that a sacrifice was certainly worth considering, and passed on to the idea of a few virgins to leap ceremoniously through the bonfire. He hoped that nobody would suggest reviving the Sacred Chant, because he could not remember it. If people knew that the Second Druid of all Ireland did not know the Sacred Chant, they would all start wanting Fribble back and telling each other that Fribble would have known the Sacred Chant backwards — which would have been disastrous of course: to recite the Sacred Chant backwards was simply asking for trouble.

Lugh said that they ought to have the Sacred Chant, pretending not to notice that Dorrainge groaned, and said it would all be altogether grand, and had they established about the sacrificing of the pig yet?

“We’ll do it,” said Dorrainge, who thought you might as well be hanged for a Sacred Chant as for a sacrificial pig, and went off to see about the laying of traps, thus sending Cathbad into a whole new flurry.

Lugh thought he was doing really rather well. He had set up the Samain celebrations, very nearly single-handed, because you could not count Dorrainge, who was now mumbling to himself and making hasty jottings of unpronounceable phrases, and you could not count Fintan or Cermait or Tybion the Tusk, and you certainly could not count Cathbad.

But a good leader knew about delegation, and Lugh was once again going to make use of Tybion. He called him aside, and told Tybion to go on down to the village and invite every single living soul to come up to the bonfire that night, and — Tybion must mind this carefully — to be sure to bring along the children, because it was what Her Majesty wanted, said Lugh, and Tybion, charmed to be of service to his lady in this small way, promised not to miss a single household in Folaim.

Which was precisely what Lugh wanted. It had been a brilliant idea to send out for the children. Even so, Lugh was not comfortable about what he had to do. It was one thing to agree to kill a child when you were in Medoc’s firelit lair, with Medoc’s powerful personality exerting its influence. It was another thing altogether to contemplate it on a cold hillside with half of Her Majesty’s Court, the army, and the Bloodline, to say nothing of the entire Cruithin contingent. Lugh had even lost some sleep worrying, which was unusual, because as a rule he was a very sound sleeper. It came of a clean conscience, and a tranquil mind.

There was nothing clean or tranquil about pussyfooting around in the dark with the bonfire yards away, trying to see was the Lost Prince, the prophesied Wolfchild, skulking somewhere. Lugh supposed the Lad of the Skins would be around to make sure it was done, but this did not help very much.

The child should be easy to recognise, which was the one straightforward thing about it all. A Wolfchild amidst humans … Yes, it would be easy to spot.

And once he had found it, he would have to kill it.

*

Grainne was very nearly completely happy. She thought she had never known quite such deep contentment, and such well-being.

It was not enough, of course. She had woken the Old Ireland, she had found the Cruithin and the sidh; best of all, she had brought back the Bloodline.

And there was Raynor. Remarkably, incredibly, she had Raynor. Enough happiness there for several lifetimes.

But it would not be enough, not until a Wolfprince again sat in the Sun Chamber, not until a direct descendant of the great Cormac and of Niall of the Nine Hostages again held Tara.

Not until Fergus returned.

The thoughts of Fergus were still a bruise on her heart; an ache that had not yet quite left her. The knowledge that he might be dead, that he might be lost to her forever, somewhere in a distant and alien Future, was scarcely bearable. Was he safe? She thought he was, for, thought Grainne, how could he not be safe, and I not know? It seemed a long time ago now, those far-off nights and those misty mornings. I know it happened, thought Grainne, drowsy in the afternoon sun, watching the Court and the army prepare for the evening’s celebrations; I know it happened, and I know it happened to me. But I think that I am seeing it from a distance, through a glass darkly, behind a veil …

But I should surely know if Fergus was dead. And then — But should I know if Fergus’s son was also dead? she thought.

The Lost Prince. Ireland’s heir. I was the one who lost him, thought Grainne, staring ahead of her. I denied him his birthright. I denied him Tara. For that alone I should be made to live in unhappiness for all my days. For I shut Ireland’s true Prince out from his kingdom, and I do not believe he will ever be able to return.

*

The Purple Hour was approaching when the soldiers set up a circle of burning torches, stout ash sticks thrust into the ground, which they had ignited so that the scene was lit to weird life.

Grainne, seated at the head of the table with Raynor at her side, smiled to see the men so pleased, and remembered all of the Samains she had seen celebrated at Tara, and all the ritual processions to the Plain of the Fál, and the kindling of the Druidical Fires. Shall I ever see Samain celebrated at Tara again? Please, yes.

Cathbad had decorated the table with trailing ivy garlands and was presiding over platters of wild duck, “Nicely stuffed,” he said, and dressed pheasant, and an array of sweetmeats. There were steaming cauldrons of soup (“I shan’t have any of that,” said Fintan) and mead, and mulled wine which Tybion and Rinnal had brewed over the Cruithin’s fires. The Cruithin, interested and bright-eyed, had contributed some kind of drink made from apples and honey and, as Cermait said, it would have skinned the soles of your feet if you fell into a vat of it.

The villagers of Folaim stood a little apart, shy, but pleased to be included in the modest celebrations, certainly delighted to be presented to the High Queen.

“Loyal,” said Tybion the Tusk, who had gone faithfully and doggedly through the village, and had rounded up every single person. “They’d follow you into hell and beyond, ma’am.”

“It was thoughtful of you to bring them up,” said Grainne, and smiled, and Tybion frowned and started to say that he thought it had been Grainne’s request, but then was distracted by Cathbad, who had tipped up the soup and was running about in a panic, trying to mop it all up.

The villagers thought it was a fine old sight to see on a Samain, and compared it all favourably with their own celebrations. To be sure, they always celebrated Samain properly and respectfully, they assured Dorrainge and Lugh. Didn’t they have their own fire every single year, and didn’t they all sit down to the finest banquet ever seen in Ireland? Let one of the dark forces try to get through tonight! cried the people of Folaim, and wouldn’t it find itself frizzled up on the instant!

They bowed awkwardly to Grainne, because they were farmers and landowners and woodcutters in the main, and bowing to the High Queen of Ireland was not a thing you allowed for when you were tilling land or chopping trees or gathering fruit. But they knew what was what, said the villagers happily, and swept clumsy bows, and said they were delighted to be here, and shuffled the village reprobate into line, because hadn’t Seamus the Ancient a terrible old habit of saying the wrong thing, and it the High Queen! The children stood rather silently, round-eyed and awe-stricken, staring at the mounds of food, and Cathbad, who was rather fond of children, at once rounded them up and shepherded them to his array of spun sugar confections and crystallised fruits.

And then the soldiers stepped forward to fire the bonfire in several places, and the flames leapt into the sky, red and orange and scented with the agaric and the dry oak.

Grainne, watching, sipping the wine that Tybion, faithful as ever, had poured for her, frowned, and Raynor at once said, “There is something wrong?”

Grainne said slowly, and very quietly, “I think we are being watched.”

Raynor did not speak for a moment, and then he said softly, “Yes.”

“There is something watching from the shadows. I feel it watching us,” said Grainne.

“It is not,” said Raynor, “necessarily evil,” and Grainne turned to look at him.

“On the night of Samain,” she said, “every evil force in the world is abroad. That is why these rituals take place. They are barriers,” said Grainne, her face serious. “Barriers to replace the natural ones that are lowered on Samain.”

“Between this world and the Dark Ireland,” said Raynor. “Yes. We too know of this. On Samain the Gateways between the worlds are wide open, and it is possible to pass from one world to another with ease.”

Grainne said, “That is why the rituals must be so exact. The procession to the Plain of the Fál. And the Sacred Chant … I do not pretend to understand that. I think no one has understood it for hundreds of years, for it was old when the world was young. But it is a strong magic, the Sacred Chant, and if it is to form part of the ceremony, it has to be exactly right. If the Chant were to be repeated wrongly, if it were to be inverted or in some way changed …”

“But if it was done in ignorance —?”

“I do not think it would matter,” said Grainne. “The gateways will already be opening. The creatures of the Dark Ireland will be waiting and watching their chance.”

And out there in the forest, something is watching us, I can feel it watching us …

She smiled at him. “But we should not spoil your first proper Samain with that. On Samain there are always strange forces abroad. I have felt them before.”

“At Tara?”

“Yes. And in other places.” She paused, and Raynor saw her eyes darken.

“Tell me,” said Raynor, and Grainne, looking at him again, saw the yearning in his eyes, and knew that he was saying, Make me see it all. For I can still not believe that I shall see it.

“You will see it,” said Grainne, and smiled at him. “You will see Gaillimh which is on the far western coast, and where, when the sun sets, it turns the sky to a sheet of flame. That is one of the most beautiful places in the world. And you will see Cnoc Aine where there are the burial mounds of the sidh — that is strange and disturbing and filled with faint music, and not entirely in the world of Men at all. And there are the Northern Isles, which are beautiful and friendly but tragic —”

“Tragic?” said Raynor, hearing her voice change.

“I found them so,” said Grainne, and Raynor saw and felt the shutters come down over her eyes and over her mind, and knew that there were still things about her he did not know or understand. But one day she will tell me, he thought. I must believe that one day she will trust me sufficiently to tell me everything.

He would not yet say it. He thought she was his more completely and more gladly than he had ever believed any creature could be. But she is not quite yet entirely mine, he thought. There is still a small part, a corner, that she is keeping from me. And then: But why should she not? he thought. Why should any one creature expect to know and own and understand the whole of another? And he lifted her hand to his lips, for this touching, this gentle communication of one person with another, was something still new and remarkable for him, and to sit like this, with a banquet laid out before him, and with the unthinking instinctive homage of the people to Grainne, was something he had still to come to terms with.

The feast was getting well under way. Lugh sat at the foot of the table rather solemnly; Fintan said he had deliberately manoeuvred himself into this position to appear important, but Cermait said this was unkind, because Lugh could not be important if he stood on his head.

The soldiers were quaffing the apple brew in alarmingly large draughts, and several of them had begun an impromptu rendering of “A Nice Little Bit of Comfort for the Maid of Bunclody,” which should not be allowed with children present.

“Although they won’t understand the half of it,” said Cermait, who had been joining in a bit furtively, but who had forgotten the last verse.

The soldiers accepted the ban amiably enough, and commenced instead a spirited rendering of “When Rafferty Raffled his Pig,” which, as Fintan said, was a sight worse in the end.

“I’ve never heard it,” said Tybion hopefully.

“No, and you don’t want to,” said Fintan, who liked Tybion, but who did not approve of bawdy songs on Samain.

Dorrainge had begun the Sacred Chant at last. “Good,” said Fintan, settling down and looking to see where his tankard of apple brew had gone. “A good bit of solid tradition’s what’s needed now. This’ll quiet them down,” he said to Cermait, who was sharing the half of a wild duck with Rinnal. “My word, it’s grand to hear the Old Ritual again,” he said, who would not have known a syllable of the Ritual if it had leaped from the ground and struck him, but who liked to preserve the legend that he knew a bit about everything.

“Dorrainge’s being very self-important about it,” said Cermait, through a mouthful of duck leg. “I wonder should we help him.”

“You don’t know the Sacred Chant,” said Fintan dismissively.

“Neither does Dorrainge, from the sound of it,” said Cermait.

“Well,” said Fintan, worried, “it’s to be hoped he does know it, because if he’s going to get it wrong, he might as well not say it at all. In fact,” said Fintan, “he’d be as well not to say it, because it might call up all kinds of things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Well,” said Fintan, “I don’t think we ought to put names to them.” And he glanced furtively over his shoulder to the shadows, because you never quite knew what might be abroad on Samain.

“Still, it’s a grand tradition,” said Cermait.

“It’s a forgotten tradition,” said Fintan. “I hope there isn’t trouble ahead.”

“Rubbish,” said Cermait, and took himself off to Cathbad’s corner of the feastings to see was the roast pig cooked yet, and went off to fetch a sharp pointed stick to test it, because roast pig had to be thoroughly cooked if they were not all to be taken with unmentionable ills half the night.

Dorrainge was standing before the fire, his hands outstretched, his head flung back.

“He’s making the most of it,” muttered Fintan, but was not paid any attention.

Lugh Longhand was only half listening to Dorrainge, although he did notice that Dorrainge appeared to be stumbling once or twice, and it did just cross his mind that it was to be hoped that Dorrainge, the fat fool, did not mix the Ritual up or make a fool of himself. Lugh was feeling personally responsible for the entire course of the evening, and it would not do for Her Majesty and half the Court to see that things went wrong. Perhaps Dorrainge would recover himself. Perhaps — although this was not very likely — he had taken a drop more than was good for him of the Cruithin’s apple drink. A number of people had certainly done that, thought Lugh disapprovingly.

The shadows were closing in on them. It would only be night falling, of course, but Lugh found the shadows disturbing. He knew that the Lad of the Skins was somewhere out there; he thought that the Conablaiche might be watching as well. He looked to where Dorrainge was still holding everyone’s attention, and he thought, As well now as at any other time, and slipped from his seat. No one would see him go and he would not be so very long.

The children were grouped together, seated cross-legged on the grass, their small faces intent, their expressions serious. They had been given small portions of supper, which they had eaten with industrious pleasure, and they had been given a tiny sip of mead each, diluted with spring water. They were rather well behaved, the children of Folaim; they had not interrupted their elders, or run about screaming and fighting; they had not had fights with pieces of bread or flipped damson stones at one another, or made fun of Cathbad, or fallen into the cider cauldron.

Lugh moved cautiously round the outside of the circle of people, every one of whom was watching the bonfire, some of whom were trying to hear Dorrainge’s Ritual Chant. The soldiers had, as Fintan had feared, begun a rival chant to the tune of “When Rafferty Raffled his Pig,” but no one was paying very much attention to this, and it would probably trail off into silence before the really rude verses were reached.

The children were quite near to the fire. The red glow was casting shadows on their faces and turning their hair to crimson. It was strange, now that Lugh came to think about it, how many people in Ireland had really dark hair with red lights in it. Chestnut, or the colour of beech trees in autumn. Sometimes travellers came to Tara; great fair-haired, fairskinned, deep-chested people who had sailed the northern seas to find the glittering Palace, and who had flashing blue eyes and hair the colour of a sunrise. Lugh dared say that was all very well, but he preferred the Irish. Dark, slight, pale-skinned, fine-boned people. There was breeding in the Irish. You could always tell.

The children of Folaim were small and slender, and they were nearly all dark-haired. Lugh stood where he was, more or less completely hidden by the shadows of the trees behind him, studying the small faces intently. Surely, surely, these were nothing other than the sons and daughters of good honest farmers and woodcutters and cottagers. Weren’t they?

And surely, it was among precisely these sort of ordinary people that the Queen’s friends would have hidden the pretender?

Folaim, meaning, in old Gael, a place of concealment …

Surely Medoc had not been wrong?

At the very back of his mind, Lugh knew that Medoc had not been wrong. He knew that the creature, the Lost Prince, the Wolfchild, was here. He remembered tales of hunters, and of how, nearing their quarry, they began to smell it and sense it and know it to be within their reach. He thought that there was no logical reason to know that the Prince was here, but for all that, he did know it was here.

He was still scanning the circle of faces, examining, discarding, sure he would recognise the child when he saw it.

Smooth-skinned faces, the unmarked faces of extreme youth. Smiling faces, untidy ones … a gap-toothed boy giggling with his sister, two tough-looking imps who would certainly be applying for entrance to the Fiana when they were older …

The Ritual Chant was soaring into the night sky, and Dorrainge was flushed with the effort of sustaining it. Lugh was fairly sure that Dorrainge had missed large chunks out. He supposed it would not matter in the end, and it had to be remembered that Dorrainge was not used to chanting the entire Ritual by himself. It seemed to have grown considerably darker since he had begun, and it was certainly a good deal colder, but that would just be the winter night. It was nearly always cold on Samain.

On the far side of the bonfire, the Cruithin were listening to the Chant. Lugh noticed with disapproval that several of them had lit their pipes, which was surely extremely discourteous to the Ancient Chant. He was rather surprised, because hadn’t the Cruithin always been spoken of as courteous and reverential to all of Ireland’s rituals? But he could see, quite clearly, wisps and curls of red heat rising; there was an odd heavy feel to the air as well now, which probably meant that the Cruithin were smoking something particularly unpleasant in their clay pipes. Lugh would have to have a word.

Dorrainge was definitely stumbling over the Chant now, and Lugh could see one or two people frowning. It just showed that you could not really trust anybody, not even Druids, these days. Probably Dorrainge was distracted by the thick crimson smoke from the pipes, and by the strange scent. If you happened to be fanciful, you could almost imagine that you were smelling fiery furnaces and burning coals, and that there were slanting red eyes peering at you from the depths of the dying bonfire …

This was nonsense, of course. Lugh would not give such whimsical absurdities any attention. He would concentrate on searching the children, because that was what he was here for.

The children were rather attractive creatures. Was that just Folaim or something more? Had the strange, beautiful Wolfchild, the Prince of Tara, been hidden where it would be least noticeable? Lugh carried on looking.

Small, dark-haired little things they were: a blue-eyed artless charmer of six or seven summers who would certainly wreak havoc in male breasts in ten years’ time; a chubby little roly-poly, eating plums with delight and listening to the soldiers; a snub-nosed freckled little soul who looked as if she might break into giggles at the smallest opportunity; a slant-eyed child with tip-tilted cheekbones and hair that grew close to his skull like an animal’s pelt …

Lugh stopped and fixed his eyes intently on the boy, and something incredulous and fearful sprang to attention in his mind.

Golden eyes. Wolfeyes, narrow and watchful: the eyes of the High Queen. Dark glossy hair and slanting cheekbones; ears set just that fraction too high to be wholly human, and that were just that little bit pointed …

Lugh stood very still and thought, I have found him!

The Lost Prince …

Had he? Had he in truth so easily and so quickly found the Wolfchild, the misbegotten Prince, born in secret to the High Queen? The creature about whom myth and legend had somehow grown up, just as myth and legend had always grown up about the Wolfline.

Was this the one who would topple Medoc and bring down darkness and destruction? The child whom Lugh had promised to kill?

He stood there and drank in the child’s every feature and every movement, and knew that this was indeed the one.

There was the unconscious grace that was wolfish, and there was the slenderness and the elfin-look; the three-cornered features of the ancient Wolfline of Ireland. Lugh stood and looked and could scarcely believe his eyes.

But yes, this was the one. This was the one with the ancient mystical wolfblood. This was the one who was a direct descendant of Cormac, of the wild Dierdriu. This was the real thing; the strength and the power and the might.

Could he be killed? Could Lugh do it? Could he stalk the creature through the dark night and scoop it up and sink a knife into its heart? Could I? murmured Lugh, and as he framed the question, there was a slight movement beside him, and he turned his head.

Standing beside him, thin, white-cheeked, ragged and hungry-eyed, was a shape that made Lugh shudder.

But he knew that if he, Lugh, could not bring himself to kill the Wolfchild, the Lad of the Skins certainly would.

*

The Court and the soldiers and the Beastline were not quite sure when the Sacred Chant became blurred and clotted and somehow mingled with the heavy, crimson-tinted sky, and with the burning scents, as if the doors to an immense furnace had suddenly begun to open.

Grainne, listening intently to Dorrainge, had known with a deep inner knowledge which had nothing to do with conscious learning but that was pure race-memory, that the Chant was wrong. It was inverted, displaced; Dorrainge was altering its structure, so that the ancient ritual was no longer perfectly balanced.

He has upset the pattern and he has disturbed the delicate interleaving of the enchantments that create the barriers and keep at bay the Dark Ireland …

She could feel Raynor’s sudden alertness, and there was a moment to be grateful for it — he understands! — and she was trying to think what should be done.

For if the barriers are in truth destroyed, and if the gateways are beginning to open, then we are in the most terrible danger …

Grainne thought that she had half risen, although she did not remember pushing aside the chairs, and she certainly felt Raynor with her. The skies were filling up with the malevolent red light, they were becoming lakes of crimson, seas of living boiling colour …

The Doors to the Dark Ireland unfolding …

Dorrainge had fallen back, his face white, sweat streaming from his brow, a look of horror in his eyes. People were huddling together, pulling shawls and cloaks closely about them for comfort; everyone was staring upwards at the glowing, panting sky.

Grainne felt Raynor’s hand close about hers, and then saw him move unhesitatingly into the centre of the people, and lift up a hand to gain their attention. She sensed that he had drawn breath to speak, and she felt, even at several paces, the sudden authority that enveloped him. People turned to him, gratefully, trustfully, because here was someone who would know what was happening. The crimson glow fell directly across him, so that for a moment his hair was no longer a cap of gilt, and his eyes were no longer shining topazes; he was a creature of the skies, strong and warlike. The Noble House of the Eagles reborn … And if Fergus is lost to us, then he could lead the Fiana and vanquish Medoc …

The thought came unbidden, but with it came an immense strength.

And then, without warning, crystal clear on the curdled night air, came the sound of the music.

It was like nothing anyone had ever heard. It was cold and terrible, slicing through the malevolent darkness as piercingly as a knife slicing through whey. People shivered and felt for one another’s hands, and moved closer together.

Was it the sidh? Grainne, still standing where she was, turned to scan the forest, because the music seemed to be coming from the trees. And surely the sidh had been with them earlier; mischievously chasing in and out of the feasting, blue and green smudges, never quite materialising, elusive and fey and icily beautiful.

It was not sidh music. This was something chill and unearthly and terrible. It was calling and it was luring, but it was an evil call, and it was a malignant lure.

And then it changed again, and somewhere deep inside it was the sound of crying.

A child crying in the night.

The women of the company leapt up at once, searching the shadows, several of them running across the clearing to where the children sat together, their faces anxious as they looked for their own sons and daughters.

All there. None of the children had slipped away to work some small mischief. Each was accounted for.

Grainne had scarcely noticed the exodus of the women. She had stayed where she was, staring into the forest, listening to the crying, knowing it was something that could not possibly be ignored, because it was desolate and lonely, and it was filled with the cold, dark nights, and it was the most pitiful sound she had ever heard.

Raynor was at her side in a single movement. “Grainne, you must not —”

She thought that Raynor was holding her back, but she could not stay, even for him. It was out there, the child, the poor, lost, pitiful thing, it was somewhere out there in the dark. She tilted her head, trying to hear it again.

Help me … I am lost and alone and I am afraid of the dark …

The crying was stealing over the listeners now, and Grainne felt her heart flinch with the desolation of it.

I am lost and alone … I am shivering and ragged …

Oh, Fergus, thought Grainne, pain closing about her, Fergus my dear, lost love, what did I do when I let them take your son? I cannot bear this …

A bite of food … a warm fire … I have been wandering alone in the dark, and I am frightened and I am friendless. Help me …

Grainne said very clearly, “This is unbearable. We must find the poor child.”

I am shivering and in rags … I am so hungry …

She began to move towards the sound of the crying, dimly aware that Raynor was restraining her, pushing him away. Raynor, his eyes on her face, only partly understanding, felt a coldness enter his heart. For a moment longer he was able to remain detached, to think, This is something dreadful and evil, and this is an old and a terrible enchantment and we must fight it, and Grainne must be kept safe.

Let me in to your fire and your love … I have so little … I have never known what it is to be loved …

Grainne began to move towards the dark trees now, the memories alive and hurting, memories that were six years old, nearly seven. Memories which ought to have been long since safely buried, a wound which ought to have Healed and skinned over but which was as open and as raw as it had been when she had let them take Fergus’s child away. Fergus’s son. Ireland’s Lost Prince …

She broke away from Raynor’s arms and ran straight into the dark forest towards the crying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Annabel and Taliesin, with Fergus and the boys following, began the cautious descent down the hillside. Annabel was bemused and caught in thrall; she had partly understood what had happened, but she had not wholly understood.

“None of us wholly understands,” said Taliesin. “But later I shall take you to the Druids, and they will spend hours pondering over it all, and perhaps they will come up with a solution and perhaps they will not." And Annabel stared at him, and felt the joy all over again, and wondered if she dared believe that they had truly left her cold barren world behind and somehow entered this beautiful, ancient, magical land.

“Of course," said Taliesin. “Now you are in my world." And smiled.

Fergus had been standing a little apart, looking about him, trying to gauge exactly where they were. “Somewhere overlooking Tara," he said at length. “But I am not sure exactly where." He looked at them. “But there is something different," he said. “Something has happened."

“Yes?"

Fergus said softly, “The Old Ireland has woken at last," and there was such delight and such reverence in his voice that Taliesin and Annabel stared at him. “All of the old lost enchantments," said Fergus. “Can you not feel that they are all about us?"

Taliesin said lightly, “Fergus, my dear, I am only a Tyrian and a money lender at that, and if I deal in dreams and enchantments, then I do not admit to any of it.” But although his voice contained all the old mockery and all the old irony, there was something in it that was neither mocking nor ironic. Fergus knew and Annabel knew that Taliesin felt the strange whisperings and the barely seen, only-just-heard stirrings about them.

For the Old Ireland, the Enchanted Island, is awake again …

Conn and Niall and Michael and the boys were sitting close together, their faces intent, their expressions deeply happy. They had not said very much, but Annabel had known how they were feeling, because she was feeling the same. A deep, deep happiness; a delight so strong that you dared not speak in case you shattered it, almost a refusal to believe. Can this possibly be meant for us? Dare I believe? But when Michael said to her, “Are we home again?” Annabel at once said, “Yes, Michael, home,” and Michael smiled and went back to Conn’s side, and curled into a tight little ball and sat absolutely still as if he did not even dare to move in case the precious fragile happiness should break.

Taliesin said, “Will you survey the terrain, Captain? For no one else has the least idea of where we are, and as the Fiana’s head — or are we lost beyond hope? Tell us, if you please, for if we are to wander in the wilderness like lost souls for a hundred years or more, it will be better to know. I suppose that is Tara, is it?”

“Yes,” said Fergus softly, looking across the valley again. “That is Tara. The Shining Palace. The bright city. In darkness still, for Medoc still reigns there.”

Taliesin said, half to himself, “And the light is no more, and which is most hateful, darkness or light, and which is most blessed, despair or hope? Do we go direct to it, Fergus?”

“Ride on Medoc?” said Fergus.

“I admit it appears to me a foolhardy thing to do, but whither ye go I shall follow, and whither ye lead I shall … Would it be better to take this road that appears to go nowhere at all?”

“It’s a dark road,” said Niall, uncertainly, and several of the boys looked up.

“Oh, radiant dark,” said Taliesin, “oh, darkly fostered rays. Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and forever mantling the world.

“Fergus, I wish you would stop staring across the valley.”

But Fergus did not move. “We cannot yet march on Tara,” he said, “but when I do, I shall do so with all the might and all the power and all the glory of Ireland behind me.” He turned back to them, his eyes shining. “The Future did not help us,” he said, “but I believe that here in this world, we will be able to raise an army so strong that we shall rout the Darkness from Ireland at last.” He looked at the boys. “Already we have these,” he said, and smiled. “And there will be more who will join us. And when I defeat Medoc,” said Fergus, looking at them very straightly, “I shall do so thoroughly and soundly, and with a triumph so great that it will echo down the ages. There must be no question of failure. To ride on Medoc now, just these few of us —”

“‘We few, we happy few, we band of’ … Yes,” said Taliesin thoughtfully. “That would be disastrous. We should be taken and captured at once. Medoc would throw us to the creatures who serve him.”

And if that happens, everything we have attempted and everything we have suffered will have been for nothing …

“So,” said Fergus, “for the moment, Tara must be closed to us.” And he turned his back on it with finality.

Taliesin said, “Then shall we take this road that appears to lead nowhere and see if we find ourselves anywhere?” And, half to himself, “Although it is a long, dark, lonely road, and — what have I said?”

“The long, dark, lonely road,” said Fergus, staring at Taliesin. “Of course.”

“Well?”

“The Grail Castle,” said Fergus. “This is the long, dark, lonely road that leads to the Grail Castle.” And he looked at them, his eyes shining, “This is the road the Queen took. This is where we must go.”

*

As they walked cautiously along the wide, curving road, they were aware of the overwhelming darkness again.

“Yes, it is very close to us,” said Fergus, and glanced back at Conn and the others. “But it is still sufficiently far for it not to be a danger,” he said.

Annabel, who thought it was as if dark heavy mists gathered in waiting on the edges of the road, said, “What is it?”

“The Dark Ireland,” said Fergus, and the others noticed that he spoke very quietly as if he feared to be overheard, and that he never ceased to scan the shadows that clustered on the sides of the road. “I believe that the Gateway that exists between our world and the Dark Realm is unfolding. And if that is so —” He stopped, and then went on. “If that is so,” said Fergus, “then every evil that ever lived, every force that ever tried to bring down the Wolfkings, will be waiting and watching.” He looked at them. “This is Samain,” he said. “And it may be that before the night is over, the denizens of that terrible world will have broken through, and will be loose in the true Ireland. If the Gateway is in truth opening, then Medoc will already have called up the Twelve Dark Lords.”

Taliesin said, “What of the Conablaiche?”

“It may be here already,” said Fergus. “I do not know. But it is possible that it was thrust back into this world with us.”

Annabel said carefully, “What did happen in the mountain?” and Conn added eagerly, “Yes, what did happen, Fergus?”

“Tell us,” said several of the others, and Fergus said, “But I don’t know what happened. I don’t think we shall ever know.”

“Did the Clock stop or did we stop it?” said Annabel, and saw again the figure of Fael-Inis, lit to brilliant life, hurling a bolt of pure radiance at the Clockface. “Were we in time to turn the hands back?” she said.

“I don’t know that either,” said Fergus. “There was a dreadful crash — some kind of explosion. If it was the Apocalypse in truth, perhaps it was that which jolted us back here.”

Taliesin said thoughtfully, “The Clock had reached the very last second before midnight.”

“Yes,” Fergus frowned, “but surely if the terrible devastation prophesied had taken place, then Annabel’s people would have had some warning. Wouldn’t they?”

“I don’t know,” said Annabel. “But I do wonder if the Apocalypse did come. Or whether I shall ever know if it did.”

Fergus sat down on the side of the road and leaned back against a tree trunk, and the others sat with him. Behind them was Tara, still shrouded in dark mists and the evil miasma of Medoc and the Twelve Lords. Ahead of them would be the legendary Grail Castle, and Fergus, who knew all of the stories, thought they would be fortunate indeed to reach it in safety. But for the moment, he looked at them all and said, “Do you truly want to know what happened? Annabel, do you really want to know if your world ended, if it burned and if the Four Horsemen rode across the earth and let in the Beast? If cities were razed and if mankind was annihilated?” He smiled at her very gently. “You see, we have heard the stories of what happened,” said Fergus. “We have had Time Travellers here. People who lived in the days after the Apocalypse is said to have walked. People to whom the Apocalypse is a terrible folk legend. A myth. They know it happened, but they do not know how or when or why. Only that some terrible and overwhelming catastrophe came to the world, and that mankind was nearly destroyed.”

Taliesin said, “The legends that the Time Travellers bring are fearsome … How the world burned, and how the seas were great boiling masses; how the skies rained fire and molten lead. How there were poisonous substances in the air, so terrible that to breathe was to burn up inside.”

Fergus said softly, “And even when the fires cooled and the world was a charred, smoking ruin, even then, the horrors did not end. People lived for years in the ruins and the rubble of the destroyed cities and towns, eking out some kind of existence, trying to preserve the flame of humanity … Stealing food and looting it, searching for water.”

Eating the rats before the rats ate them … Fergus did not say it, but it was the picture that had always haunted him from the stories about Annabel’s world.

“That is so dreadful,” she said. “Did we stop it after all? Was it possible that we did? For if people who lived after it happened brought back the legends —” She stopped and frowned. “I do not understand,” said Annabel. “If there are records that it happened, that dreadful final holocaust, how could we even begin to hope that we stopped it.”

“Can you unmake history?” said Fergus softly. “That is the question we had to ask before we travelled to your world, Annabel. And the answer is that none of us knows. The Druids would tell you that Time is continuous, that it is relative, and that if you know how to do it, you can slip back and forth through Time. But none of us has the understanding to grapple with its concept. Perhaps when Taliesin takes you to meet the Druids, they may have a part of the answer. They will certainly want to know you and to hear about your world.”

“My world was sparse,” said Annabel. “Barren and sad. Dying. I daresay it is very disloyal of me, but I am thankful to have left it.” She looked at them. “It will be easy for me to forget it,” she said.

“Nevertheless, you will find that it holds great interest for everyone here,” said Fergus. “You will be asked about it.” He smiled. “We shall not let you forget it so easily,” he said. And then, standing up, “Are we all sufficiently rested? Shall we go on?”

As they moved on down the road, Taliesin thought that Fergus was once more in truth the leader of the High Queen’s Fiana. He had donned, without thinking about it, the authority and the imperiousness of one who has been used to command. Taliesin, watching Fergus, thought that there was something in him that would always take charge of any situation. Was it simply the quality of leadership? Or was it something more? Curious and rather fascinated, he fell into step with Fergus and, at last, noticing that Annabel and the boys were a few steps behind, said, “Fergus, what did they do to you in that place?”

Fergus was startled; he thought, Is it apparent? Will people know? And felt again the sick agony and the swift black torment that had descended as Conn brought the knife down between his legs …

Castrated … rendered impotent, made emasculate. Even now, even with every ounce of fortitude summoned, the mental anguish was very nearly more than he could bear. How shall I support it! he thought, and knew that it had to be supported. For it was the only way. Only by submitting to the Stone Judges could I have broken the bonds of the Prison and brought the boys back to the world, and only that way could I have returned to drive Medoc from Tara and restore the light to the Bright Palace.

Yes, and only by doing so could I quench at last the sweet forbidden ache for my sister …

He had determined that no one should know; that he would become an illusionist, that he would wear false colours to the world, and that the world should never guess what had been done to him.

But he looked at Taliesin very steadily, and said, “It is nothing I did not deserve.” He smiled, and saw Taliesin’s concern, and felt his sympathy. “One day I shall tell you,” said Fergus. “But for now it is too new. Too raw. Perhaps one day quite soon I shall be glad it happened.”

Taliesin said lightly, “I am yours to command, Captain. When you speak, I shall listen.’’ And then, “Tell me, have we far to go to the Grail Castle?”

*

Annabel had spoken truthfully when she had said she was thankful to have left her world behind. She had been instantly and completely enchanted by this strange unknown land where blue and green mists shrouded the forests, and where bewitchments stirred in the air, and where there were magic castles and dark sorcerers and High Kings and Queens who were not entirely human. She had been rather intrigued by the stories of Grainne, and she had certainly been fascinated by the legend of the Lost Enchantment of the Beastline, and the curse placed on Tara at the beginning.

“Tara can never belong to the humans,” Fergus had said in one of their brief rest-stops on the road to the castle. “For that to happen, for a pure-bred human to occupy the Sun Chamber, would mean that Ireland would fall and Tara would crumble.”

And all Ireland will seethe with evil and the skies will darken and the rivers will run with blood … And if the line should ever divide, then the curse will fall upon Tara … if twins should ever be born into the Royal House …

To Annabel, child of the stark barren Future, Fergus’s stories were the stuff that dreams were made on, they were food and drink and sustenance. She drank everything in, and thought that despite the sinister dangers of this strange, enchanted land, she had never been so completely and utterly happy in her life.

She thought they might not get to the Grail Castle at all; she remembered all of the old forbidden fairy stories of her world that told of strange dark castles which disappeared when you got to them, and that housed secrets and spells and prisoners, and that were guarded by briar hedges and thickets which you had to hack your way through. I am living in a fairytale, thought Annabel, and smiled, because the thought was quite the most absurd she had ever had, but it was perfectly true all the same.

When Taliesin said, “Perhaps the Grail Castle does not exist, other than in the minds of people who imagined it,” Annabel looked at him gratefully and knew what he meant.

“It does exist,” said Fergus. And stopped and pointed directly ahead of them. “See?” he said. “It is waiting for us.”

Directly ahead of them was the towering, forbidding bulk of the Grail Castle, rearing against the night sky. And deep within the dark fastness of the halls, a single light was burning.

*

They concentrated on the light. “A good light,” said Fergus, and hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

“A light to brighten the world,” agreed Taliesin with the utmost courtesy, and Fergus grinned and thought that this journey would have been dull indeed without Taliesin.

“I am friendship itself,” said Taliesin smoothly. “Do we have to cross that narrow bridge to get to the drawbridge?”

“I wouldn’t like to be up here on my own,” said Niall.

“It’s a bit dark,” said Michael’s voice rather quaveringly. “Is anyone at home?”

“I think it’s deserted,” said Fergus. “There isn’t a light after all.”

“Did we imagine the light?”

“Probably.”

Fergus was eyeing the castle with a mixture of misgiving and fascination. His ancestors had called this place Scáthach, the Castle of Shadow, and it had long been used as a place of exile. Fergus knew the castle’s history very well, and now, staring up at it, the dark clouds massing at its rear, he found himself remembering every sad dark story that had ever been told or sung or remembered about Scáthach: Niall of the Nine Hostages, lying chained and desperate with the nine faithful lords; Nuadu Airgetlam of the Silver Arm, forced by the sorcerers to submit to a terrible punishment. And Fergus’s own great-grandfather, the famous wild Cormac, imprisoned by an enchantment, abandoned by his own kind, but served by the loyal Cruithin out here until he was rescued by a human.

Still, thought Fergus, standing very still and surveying the grim bulk ahead of them, still, people have penetrated to the castle and lived, and people have been exiled here and returned. He thought that Grainne would surely have got this far, for the road had been easier and smoother than he had expected. But he thought she was no longer here; the Grail Castle seemed deserted. There were no lights now — Did we imagine that flare? wondered Fergus — and there were no sounds carrying across the dark; no cheerful clatter of crockery from the nearby sculleries, no jingling of harnesses from the stables.

There had only been that solitary light burning … or had it?

Slowly and cautiously, they began to walk across the narrow bridge.

“Don’t look down,” said Conn.

“Why not?”

“It’s a long way if you fall. It’s a moat,” said Conn, “only there’s no water left in it anymore.”

“We ought to be roped together like people climbing a mountain,” said Michael from the rear. “Then if one of you falls, you pull everybody else with you.”

“That’s not the idea.”

“I’ve seen it happen,” said Michael firmly. “You all go slithering and bumping together until you reach the bottom.”

“Well, we don’t want that to happen here,” said Niall. “So if you do fall, we shan’t come slithering and bumping after you and you’ll be left behind.”

“I’d climb back up,” said Michael.

The courtyard was deserted, and the walls of the castle towered above them.

Shut in on all sides, thought Fergus, shivering, and turning up the collar of his cloak.

The windows were in darkness; they were slitted windows, and they were suddenly a bit sly. You felt as if eyes might be watching you, as if somewhere behind the walls there might be watchers. Fergus thought he caught a flicker of movement behind one of the windows, as if someone had dodged back into the shadows.

They crossed the courtyard warily, peering into the stables and the outbuildings, pushing open doors.

“Nowhere is locked,” said Niall, and Fergus said softly, “Oh, no. No, Scáthach was never a prison of locks and keys.”

“What then?”

“It’s a place of exile,” said Fergus. “But the locks are not locks of iron and the bolts are not bolts of steel.” He looked at Taliesin and Annabel. “To be imprisoned here is to be placed under the restraint of a spell,” he said.

“How do people break such a spell?” asked Annabel, and, despite the danger, and despite the great dark castle, was rather pleased to find that she could bring this out as if it was the most natural thing in the world to enquire about the efficacy of spells.

“Spells can be broken,” said Fergus, “but it is difficult.” He looked up at the walls. “Cormac of the Wolves was rescued from his imprisonment by a pure-bred human,” said Fergus. “For the spell placed on him had allowed for that.” He looked at her and said very softly, “The spell that broke Cormac’s exile began something like this: ‘Open locks, to the human’s hand …’” He smiled, and just for a second Annabel shivered, because there had been something very faintly not quite human about him.

But she said, “Oh. Yes, I see,” and wondered whether she did.

The massive studded doors were half open and rays of the blue-tinted twilight lay across the floor. Dust motes danced in and out of the shadows, and they stood for a moment looking through the open door, each of them thinking, Is this right? Dare we enter? And — Should it be so easy? thought Fergus. Annabel, standing between the two men, felt as if it was a massive dark cloud, the immense loneliness and the fears and the strange mixture of sadness and surprised happiness that permeated the castle. She thought that this was a place where people had endured great torment and great isolation, but that it was also a place where people had found a strange content. Surprised by joy, thought Annabel, who had read the forbidden works of the almost-forgotten nineteenth century, and the almost-lost poets of earlier centuries than that even. She stood in the dark, gloomy, old Castle of Shadow, and thought that Wordsworth and Byron and John Donne would certainly have known about dark shadow castles where single lights burned, and where mists swirled and moods and emotions eddied.

They were standing in the great sunken hall, and the boys were moving cautiously about, fascinated and wary, examining the deep stone hearth — “Big enough to roast an ox,” said Conn — and tracing the wolf emblems that were carved into the stone. Fergus stood very still at the exact centre of the hall and felt, without warning, a deep sense of belonging. He thought, So after all, this is my family’s oldest, most myth-laden stronghold. This is the enchanted Castle of the Wolves, the legendary Grail Castle, the Fortress of Shadow, Scáthach, the ancient moated keep that has lived in people’s memories. And he felt his blood stir, and felt, as well, a deep aching sadness, because the magical mystical heritage which had come down to him would end with him. I am a Prince of Tara, he thought, but I can never be acknowledged and I can never acknowledge it. Would the line end with him? He thought it would not, for Grainne would marry and have children. The knowledge hurt, but not as much as it would have done before Fergus’s ordeal in the Prison of Hostages. Even so, I should have liked a son, he thought, and the pain twisted again, and the dark memory of the Prison of Hostages rushed in. He stood very still and fought it down, and knew there would be many days and certainly many nights when he would have to fight this black and bitter despair. Yes, I would have liked a son, thought Fergus.

The boys had been opening doors, forgetting their fears in the castle’s calm, exploring the rooms and the passages that led off the central sunken hall, and Niall and Michael had discovered a huge, stone-flagged scullery.

“With food,” said Michael hopefully. “Quite a lot of food, actually,” and Fergus laughed, and was back in the present again, where there were dark castles to be explored, and enemies to be routed and enchantments to be beaten back, and supper to be cooked and eaten.

The scullery was bright and warm and somehow safe. Bunches of herbs hung from the beams and there were strings of onions and wild garlic, and there were rows of gleaming copper pans on the huge oak dresser. Annabel, peering into cupboards, thought there was surely a great reassurance in the mingled food scents: fresh parsley and chopped onions and newly baked bread and stored apples. The way to store apples properly was to make sure that no one apple ever touched another, otherwise you got bruised skins. But apples had been a great luxury in Annabel’s world. “Eggs!” said one of the boys, opening a cupboard. “A huge dish of them!”

“We’ll cook them,” said Annabel at once, and hoped she could remember how you made things like omelettes and how you scrambled eggs.

Conn and Niall laid a fire of twigs in the range in the corner, and Annabel cooked the eggs carefully, adding a dash of milk and butter, and heaping everyone’s plate with great fluffy spoonfuls of them.

“A feast,” said Taliesin.

Fergus had found bread, which they sliced and spread thickly with butter, and there was half a ham in one of the cupboards, and some dishes of potted meat. Michael brought out the apples. “And I polished them shiny,” he said. “You should always do that with apples.”

There were flagons of cool sharp cider. It was the grandest meal they had had: “Ever since I can remember,” said Conn.

They ate and drank hugely, and forgot about the brooding old castle and managed to forget about the single flaring light they had seen on their approach. Fergus knew that quite soon they would have to leave the security of the scullery and find out if that light had been real; Taliesin, his every sense alert, was thinking that even though no one had yet come out to challenge them, the castle would certainly not be empty. Empty places had a different feel, and the Grail Castle had not felt empty. Somewhere inside the grim old fortress were people, creatures … But I cannot tell how many or what their attitude to us might be, he thought. Annabel, drowsily content, was thinking that it must be almost midnight, and wondering whether the thought of a clock ticking its way to midnight would ever cease to make her shiver, when Taliesin suddenly said, “Listen,” and everyone looked up.

Taliesin looked upwards, his eyes narrowed. And then they all heard it.

Footsteps overhead.

That single flaring light had not been an imagined light. There was someone in the castle with them.

Someone in the castle. Someone inside the great, dark fastness, walking stealthily and carefully. In the dim, dark rooms, perhaps at the end of long echoing galleries, or in the turrets that would be approached by means of narrow winding stairs … somewhere out there, someone was waiting for them. Listening. Perhaps watching them.

Taliesin and Annabel shared a thought: But what kind of creature would not have come out to see who we are and what we want and what we are doing? What kind of creature would have listened to us raiding the sculleries and cooking a meal and drinking cider, and not challenged us?

What kind of creature had its lair at the centre of this dark enchanted castle?

Fergus was on his feet, looking at the boys, and the boys were standing up as well, their eyes bright, their faces expectant. Taliesin, detached as always, thought, They would follow him into hell and back, I believe.

Conn said, “Is it an enemy, Fergus?” and Fergus said, “I don’t know,” and grinned.

“Is it the first of the battles?” said Niall.

“It might be. Afraid?” asked Fergus, still grinning.

“Terrified,” said Niall, and grinned back. “Who’s going to lead the way?”

“I could lead the way,” said Michael from the other end of the table. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Fergus said softly, “At least let us explore a little,” and the boys grinned delightedly, and Michael beamed and was so pleased that he tipped his chair over backwards and had to be picked up off the floor and dusted down.

Fergus was standing in the sunken hall, seeing how the castle was not, even now, entirely in darkness. There was a soft reddish glow from somewhere, and there was still the dusky blue twilight spilling in through the slitted windows on each side of the huge studded door. Where the two lights merged, there was a soft purple hue. Behind him, the scullery was a square of bright warm light and life; there was something comforting about that.

But they must leave the light and they must go into the darkness of the castle to find the creature who lived there, and who had lit that single candle and who walked furtively about at midnight …

When Taliesin said softly, “Shall we explore the entire castle, Fergus?” Fergus said, without taking his eyes from the dark stair at the far end of the hall, “No. Oh, no, we shall never do that.”

“No?”

“It keeps its secrets,” said Fergus. “The legend tells that you might live here for fifty years and never know it all. There will always be an unexpected flight of stairs that you come upon that you have never seen before, or a doorway you have never noticed. There will always be a few places that the castle will never yield to you. And then, just as you have stopped trying to uncover the secrets, the castle will let you in to one of them. But you will never know it all.”

Annabel said, “Shall we then perhaps not be able to find the — the person we heard earlier?” And could not decide if this was a good thing or not.

“I don’t know,” said Fergus, grinning. “Let us see.”

*

A midnight prowl through the enchanted castle. I don’t really believe any of this, thought Annabel, who was in fact believing in it all more fully and more intensely than she had ever believed in anything in her entire life.

We are creeping through an old, old castle, wreathed about in myth and legend, soaked with the history and the lore of Ireland’s great Heroes and Princes and Warriors. Every tale ever told about this ancient misty world has, at some part, a tale about this place. What had Fergus said as they sat over supper? Every exiled High King of Tara. Every rebel Prince and every outcast and every vagabond King. Ishmael and Hermit and Anchorite: lone wolves, every one … Yes! thought Annabel, feeling the memories come tumbling into her mind, seeing the images clearly and plainly, not knowing, but half guessing, that this was a place where the echoes of the past and the future lingered.

But I don’t really believe it, thought Annabel, following Fergus and the boys up the dark silent stair. Of course, I don’t really believe it. I expect I shall wake up quite soon.

But she did not wake up and she did not really expect to. I don’t want to wake up, thought Annabel. To wake up now would be dreadful. I wonder what we are going to find?

Fergus was leading the way, and Taliesin, falling a little behind, thought it was as if Fergus knew exactly where they were going — some kind of extra sense at work again? And then, as they rounded a corner, and the moonlight slid across the floor, Taliesin saw Fergus tilt his head and listen, and he noticed for the first time the slant of Fergus’s cheekbones, and the way his hair grew flat on his skull, and the narrow flaring eyes.

Taliesin stood very still and stared and thought, After all, Fergus is a Prince of the Royal House. Small wonder that Fergus possessed that complex mixture of authority and courtesy; that he could be imperious and impatient, but he could also be warm and loyal and mischievous. No wonder he knows the way, thought Taliesin, watching Fergus lead them through the empty, shadowed galleries and down twisting stone steps and along moonwashed corridors. He has never been here before — I know he has not — but it is his family’s heritage, this place, and the knowledge is bred in him. I wonder where he is taking us.

Fergus was not conscious of following a definite path, but he found himself moving surely and swiftly through the castle; unhesitatingly choosing left or right as the choice arose, opening doors and descending stairs. The castle was silent now; there were no footsteps, but each of them knew that the owner of the footsteps was still here.

Taliesin had time to hope they were not walking into a trap, and Annabel had glanced to see that the boys were all still with them, when Fergus stopped abruptly, and they saw that they were standing at the head of a narrow stairway that went downwards, with the steps worn away at the centre, as if generations upon generations had trodden down them. There was a thin rope linked into the stone wall.

Fergus stopped, staring down the stairway, and Taliesin, who was still watching him closely, thought, Yes, he can see in the dark. And felt a strange shiver, for there was something uncanny about a being not entirely human, a being that was partly wolf.

They could feel the oppressiveness of the castle over their heads, and they could feel as well the despair and the fear that hung here. Annabel thought, Something dreadful has taken place in this part of the castle, and several of the smaller boys shivered and looked uncertain.

Then Fergus said, “There’s someone coming,” and a bobbing light appeared, coming slowly up the stone stairs.

It was the worst moment yet. Annabel was frightened, but she was also intrigued. She thought she could not have moved if she had wanted to.

The footsteps were light and quick; they were quite ordinary footsteps. They certainly did not seem to be the footsteps of some ancient sinister being who lurked in deep dungeons. They were normal footsteps, thought Annabel. They belonged to someone who was performing an ordinary, everyday task, and not troubling to be particularly quiet or furtive.

The light was bobbing as if it was a lantern which somebody was carrying. It was just a bit lower than it would have been if an ordinary-sized man had been carrying it. And then it rounded the corner, and a small dark person stood looking at them, and Fergus and Taliesin both saw that it was a Cruithin, and knew a sudden, swift delight, for the Cruithin had been gone from Ireland for so long. So, thought Fergus, with deep contentment, so they are still here, are they? And moved forward at once.

The Cruithin, who had stopped when he saw them, said, rather warily, “I suppose you’ve come to take the prisoner, have you?” And then moved nearer, his eyes on Fergus. Taliesin saw a look in which disbelief and purest joy both warred for mastery, and thought, He is seeing something that he finds so wonderful that he scarcely dare believe it. And looked back at Fergus and waited.

The Cruithin said in a voice of delighted reverence, “Sire. Forgive me.”

And fell to his knees.

This place had awoken the wolfblood in Fergus; Taliesin and Annabel found it fascinating.

The outlawed Wolfprince … Tara’s heir …

“No,” said Fergus, as they sat once more round the long scrubbed table in the scullery, the Cruithin, whose name was Mongan, seated with them. “No, I was never Tara’s heir.” He looked at them, and Taliesin saw the sadness in his face. “I was never Tara’s heir,” said Fergus again, “and I shall never be its High King.” He looked round the table and saw them all listening intently. I have to say it some time, thought Fergus, and drew a deep breath. “To rule Ireland is my sister’s right,” he said, and in the same moment felt the sudden lifting of an immense and terrible weight. I believe I am free. I believe I am beyond the storm, through the tempest. My sister. I can say it without pain now.

Mongan said, “Begging your pardon, Sire, and if it isn’t speaking out of turn, which I hope you know I’d never do —”

“Yes?”

“Your sister, that is, Her Majesty the Princess,” said Mongan, and stopped again, and looked at Fergus.

“Well?”

“She is not the Queen,” said Mongan. “She is not Ireland’s High Queen.”

“I don’t —”

“The High Queen is here,” said Mongan. “She has been here for the last twenty years.” He looked at Fergus directly. “Your mother is here, Sire,” he said.

*

My mother. Fergus stood in the larger-than-expected stone room, and felt, as Grainne had felt, the pity and the waste and the dreadful bitterness of it. This creature, this poor pitiable creature to be High Queen of Ireland, to be the one with the right to occupy the Ancient High Throne, to rule from the glittering Sun Chamber.

He had left the others outside, for he had known, quite surely, that this was something he must face alone.

“You should be careful, Sire,” said Mongan. “She — the lady is subject to sudden changes of mood.”

But Fergus had stepped quietly across the threshold, and stood absorbing the emotions that lay on the air.

She saw him before he saw her. She was silent and still in a deep shadowed corner of the far room, her eyes hard and unblinking through the tangle of hair. As Fergus searched the shadows with his eyes, her hands curled into a predator’s gesture, and the slight movement caused the chains to slither on the stone floor.

Fergus turned at once, saw her, and felt the horror rise up in his throat. Worse than I had believed possible. A thousand times worse than I could have imagined. And then: She is a wolf, he thought with dread. She is a ravening, slavering thing of the Dark Ireland. I can smell that she is, he thought, and as the thought formed, he saw the red glint and caught the white gleam of teeth already salivating with hunger. But he moved closer, seeing that she was chained, thinking that he would be able to judge the length of the chains, and move back if she sprang forward.

And then, without the least warning, she spoke.

“I shall not spring at you.”

The voice, the inflection, the timbre, was dreadfully and shockingly Grainne’s, and Fergus stood, unable to speak. And then, with a mental effort that came from outside himself, he said softly, “Why will you not?”

The thin lips drew back in a brief smile. “I shall save you,” said Ireland’s true Queen.

“For what?” The hairs were lifting on the back of Fergus’s neck; he could feel the coalescing of the air and he knew it for the gathering madness of the creature before him.

“The lady is subject to sudden changes of mood,” Mongan had said, eyeing Fergus uneasily.

“I shall save you for my Master,” she said, and grinned and licked her lips suddenly with a long red tongue.

Staying where he was, Fergus said, “Tell me your name,” and waited, and saw the characteristic narrowing of the eyes again, the sudden tilt of the head. Oh, yes, she is so nearly a wolf that there is hardly any human feeling in her.

“In that Realm where I am the chosen one of the Dark Lord,” she said, “and where I reign each night, I am called Damnaithe.”

She paused and regarded Fergus, and Fergus said softly, “Damnaithe. The damned one.”

“You have the Gaelic, then.”

“A very little.”

“But in your world,” she said with sudden contempt, “I was once known as Maeve.”

Fergus studied her. “You do not care for what you call my world.”

Damnaithe said, “Once someone has entered the Realm of the Dark Lord, and been made free of it, your world is narrow and colourless and vapid.”

Fergus lowered himself cautiously to the floor, and sat looking at her. After a moment, he said, “You have been there often? To the Realm of the Dark Lord?”

Her head came up at that, and something triumphant gleamed in the hard, inhuman eyes. “I was taken there twenty years ago,” she said. “The Gateway was opened and I was taken by him.”

Fergus said carefully, “But since then …” and saw the terrible smile slide out again.

“I am taken there by him" said Damnaithe softly. “He comes for me and takes me from this place of nothingness. Every night, after they have left me alone, he enters by the secret Gateway, and carries me with him to his Dark Domain.”

Fergus had just time to think, Of course she is mad beyond recall, but even so, she is convinced that she speaks truly, when Damnaithe turned her head and lifted one arm and pointed.

“You see?” she said, her eyes gleaming in the light from the wall torches. “He is approaching.”

As Fergus followed her pointing hand, the darkness became tinged with crimson, and the oblong shadow of a huge door fell across the cell. Malevolent red light poured in, and as the shadow door began slowly to open, Fergus became aware of a dark figure, clad in a swirling black cloak, watching them.

Medoc.

*

The inside of the stone cell was glowing with the crimson light, and Medoc was framed in the great doorway. Fergus had time to think, the Door to the Dark Ireland! And it is opening! And then Medoc had moved out of the framing doorway and the red light beyond it, and was in the cell with them.

He strode to where Damnaithe was stretching out her arms eagerly, his cloak billowing out behind him, and scooped her up, running his hands down over her body. Fergus, unable to look away, had the brief impression that it was as if Medoc was renewing some spell spun a long time ago. For the space of a heartbeat, he glimpsed a thin, sticky, silver web curling about Damnaithe’s ravaged body, and then he saw her arch her back and shiver with sensuous delight, and a look of slavish adoration come into her face. Her eyes slid round to where Fergus was still half crouched on the stone floor.

“Did you think me mad?” said Damnaithe, her voice blurred with exultant lust now. “They all think me mad, you know.” She moved away from the dark-clad creature. “I was never mad,” said Damnaithe softly. And then, turning back, “And if I was, then I was glad to be so,” she said.

Medoc had not spoken, and he had barely moved, but Fergus felt as if it was a tangible thing, the power and the authority and the — yes, and the beauty! — that flowed outwards from him. He ignored Damnaithe now, his eyes were on Fergus, and Fergus felt Medoc draw the thoughts from his mind as easily as if he had reached out a hand and plucked them. Medoc smiled; he said softly, “Yes, Fergus, I am the dark, cruel, beautiful one. The legends and the tales do not lie.” And smiled. “Have I not bequeathed a little of that to you, my son?” he said, and Fergus, his senses reeling, his mind plunged into a turmoil of half memories and half suspicions, stared, and then said, in a whisper, “You?”

“I, Fergus.” He moved gracefully across the room, and Damnaithe’s eyes followed him jealously. “I fathered you, you and your ill-starred sister,” he said. “Did you never guess that? Did you never suspect that you were conceived in my Dark Palace, in the necromancer’s lair?” He stopped, and Damnaithe said, in a gloating whisper, “The Dark Palace …”

“I seeded this creature there,” said Medoc, his eyes like burning coals now. “I caused this creature to spawn you and your sister, Fergus, there in that other Ireland you tried so long to fight.” He studied him. “You half guessed many times,” said Medoc. “So many times, when there was a dark sensuous pull at your soul, or when you were aware of the beckoning of all of the shadow beings, and all of the evil undersides of men’s natures. So many times you were aware of the darkness within you.” He moved closer.

“Did you think, Fergus,” said Medoc softly, “did you really think, when the Tyrians took you into their Sorcery Chambers, that it was your desires that made you such a willing lover for the she-wolf?” He smiled, and Fergus blinked, because it was a smile of such cold evil, and yet a smile of such infinite beauty.

“That was my bequest to you, Fergus,” said Medoc. “It was my darkness and my legacy to you.” He studied Fergus. “And that being so,” said Medoc gently, “what a very great pity that the sorcerers’ work was to no avail.”

Fergus said, carefully, “It failed?”

“Oh, yes,” said Medoc, and smiled the catsmile again. “My son, you did not think I should allow a vagabond group of Eastern money lenders to re-create Ireland’s strongest and most magical enchantment? How innocent you are, Fergus. I have long since drawn the Cloak of Failure about their absurd attempts.”

“I failed,” said Fergus, half to himself. “They trusted me and I trusted them, and still between us, we failed.”

And so after all, I shall never give Ireland an heir …

“My powers are more widely reaching than you ever knew,” said Medoc. “And in the end, you will have to admit it, you know.” He paused, and then said in his beautiful silken voice, “But you are a Prince of the Dark Ireland, Fergus, just as much as you are a Prince of this colourless world. You should not forget that.”

“And yet,” said Fergus coldly, “it seems that for all you call it colourless, you still covet our world, Medoc.”

“I covet it all,” said Medoc and Fergus caught the sudden greed in his voice. “And I will have it all, my dear. You will see that. I, and this creature whom your Cruithin servants believe mad, but who is not mad in the least.”

Damnaithe was at Medoc’s side now, her chains just barely stretching from the iron rings that embedded them into the wall. “I played the part well, Medoc,” she said softly. “No one ever guessed,” and Medoc turned to smile the cold dazzling smile and said, in a voice that poured over the cell like liquid silver, “You have served me satisfactorily, my dear,” and Fergus saw Damnaithe shiver again with catlike pleasure.

“Are you ready to come with me to Tara, Damnaithe?” he said. “Tara, the Bright Palace that once was yours, and will be so again. For the Last Battle of all?”

“Ready,” breathed Damnaithe, and her voice was filled with such extreme servility that Fergus, who had been disliking her immensely, felt a sudden pity. To be held in such thrall to this evil enchanter …

“She would not have it otherwise,” said Medoc at once, his eyes on Fergus. “For she has dwelled in the Mansions of the Dark Ireland, and she has walked in the enchanted night-fields, and she has supped at the cauldron of necromancy.” He turned to smile at Damnaithe. “And now she is ready to reign over your world and to turn Tara into the Court of Demons and of Endless Darkness,” he said. “I have tutored her for many years, and now she is ready.” Again the smile. “When Dierdriu had your mother brought here, she believed that she was hiding her from me,” said Medoc. “She believed that the Cruithin would keep her safe.” This time the smile was the smile of a cat playing with its prey. “And although the Cruithin tended her, and fed her and looked after her, they never guessed that I could still reach her.” He looked at Damnaithe. “Once she had dwelled in my Realm,” he said, “once I had taught her the ways of that world, and made known to her the Twelve Lords who serve me, she could never have lived fully in your world again.”

“Lust,” said Damnaithe, smiling at him with dreadful appetite. “Perversion. Jealousy. Depravity. Are they with us yet, Master?”

“They are waiting for us at Tara,” said Medoc, and Fergus knew that they both spoke of the Twelve Lords of Darkness.

“You will meet them, Fergus,” said Medoc, and the red light that surrounded him dimmed a little. He stepped back and, as he did so, he held out his hands to Damnaithe. “Your new kingdom is waiting, my dear,” he said, and now his voice was so filled with a caress, it was so deliberately seductive, that Fergus blinked beneath its dark allure. He shook his head to clear it, because just for a fleeting instant he, too, had felt the pull of the enchanted nightfields and the dark mansions of Medoc’s Realm …

Medoc knew at once. He turned back to Fergus and smiled deliberately and with full understanding. “You would be welcome in my world, my son,” he said softly, “and far more than I have ever been welcome in yours.”

Fergus said loudly, “You will not succeed, Medoc.”

“We shall see. My lady and I will certainly vanquish the army your sister has raised.”

“My —” Fergus stopped, but a sudden hope had welled up within him. So Grainne had been here, she was still fighting. She was still safe.

“She has woken the Beastline,” said Medoc. “She has unlocked the ancient Enchantment you had believed lost.” Fergus said slowly, “So she has broken your Cloak of Failure, has she, Medoc?” and saw the narrow dark eyes show red sparks of fury.

But Medoc only said, “She has called up the beasts of the forests and the fields, and she believes herself ready to ride against me.” He held Damnaithe against him, and Damnaithe writhed in ecstasy, her head thrown back. “Grainne will not succeed,” said Medoc. “I am the ruler of the Dark Ireland, the Ancient and Powerful Realm, and my powers are far greater than any of you has ever imagined. My armies will beat yours and my sorcery will swallow you whole. Tara will never be yours, Fergus. I shall fling wide the Doors that have for so long been closed between our two worlds, and my creatures will pour into Ireland and devour it.” He was moving back, and Fergus, knowing that he was about to retreat into his Dark Realm, taking Damnaithe with him, tensed his muscles ready to spring on Medoc and disable him.

At once Medoc held up his left hand, and Fergus was caught and held, so that he was unable to move.

“Do not be absurd, Fergus,” said Medoc. “You would like to slay me. But I am protected; I am a sorcerer, with the blood of the first Amaranths, and you would not get near enough to inflict even a scratch. Do you truly suppose I should venture even this far without first ensuring my safety?” He smiled, and held up his other hand, and at once a shower of something that was not quite fluid but not quite solid poured across the cell, crimson and gold and with the colours flowing in and out of one another. “I have an armour against this world,” said Medoc and, turning his back on Fergus, he snapped with ease the chains that had held Damnaithe. For a moment the two of them stood limned against the evil red light, framed in the half-open doorway. Fergus, still trapped in the spell that Medoc had thrown out, strained his eyes, and caught fleeting glimpses of dark towers and barren landscapes, of brooding turrets and lonely mountains. The Dark Ireland …

“We shall defeat you, Medoc,” he said softly. “Be sure that we shall defeat you.”

“You cannot.” The eyes were mocking now. “Your puny armies and your pitiful half-beasts can never defeat the might of my creatures.

“But it will be interesting to watch you try,” said Medoc, and then a soft mocking laugh echoed round the cell, and there was the sound of an immense door clanging shut.

Fergus was alone in the dungeon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Grainne had not been aware of moving. One minute she had been standing close to the bonfire — they had all been standing close to it — and she had been listening and searching the shadows that lay thickly beneath the trees, because it was from somewhere out there that the crying of the child came. And although she had not been aware of moving, it had suddenly seemed that she had been running headlong into the dark forest, straight to the crying. She had picked up the poor, thin, ragged little thing that lay under the trees, and she had comforted it and soothed it, thinking that there could be no more desolate sound and there could be no sadder sight. She had carried it carefully back to the warmth and the light, telling it how it should have warm milk to drink and a plateful of good food, assuring it of affection and welcome, stroking the dark hair from its forehead and smiling down into the huge eyes that stared up at her.

The revellers had fallen silent; they were standing watching, dark silhouettes against the leaping flames. The scent of roasted meats was still on the air, and the sharp tang of the mulled wine that the soldiers had brewed. The Beastline were close by. Grainne looked up briefly to see Raynor’s eyes on her, golden and watchful, and she thought he started to say something, but she could not be sure.

And all the while, deep within her, she knew that it was not the poor pitiful creature she was comforting, but the child born six years ago. Fergus’s son and mine … Ireland’s Lost Prince. And I have never ceased to ache for him, thought Grainne; there has never been a day nor yet an hour when I have not thought of the boy and wondered how he had grown up and tried to imagine how he would look … I have never been able to shut out the thought of Fergus’s son and mine somewhere out there in the dark night … I could never be sure that he was properly looked after, that he was loved and protected and fed and kept warm and safe. Unbearable to think of a child, made of such love, being itself unloved.

She had been told that his foster-parents had been carefully chosen, that the boy would grow up well cared for, surrounded by love and comfort. But I could never believe it, thought Grainne, staring down at the huge hungry eyes of the child she held. I have never been able to bear the sound of a child crying. I could never bear to hear the tales of the Lost Children, sacrificed to Crom Croich in Cormac’s time.

She carried the shivering child to the fire, and laid it down, and turned to cut meat and bread into cubes, and poured wine and water. In a minute the child would sit up, it would stop shivering and lap the wine and water, it would reach hungrily for the plateful of food …

“Please won’t you eat a little?” said Grainne, bending down and proffering the food. As she did so, the flames of the bonfire leapt into the night sky, and the hungry-eyed child sprang to its feet and stood grinning and leering, and a shudder of horror went through the watchers.

The Lad of the Skins stood very still, the fire burning up behind him; then he raised both his hands and threw his head back, and, as he did so, the skies behind him seemed to split and tear. Evil-smelling smoke belched forth, and as the split widened, tearing open the night sky, beyond it the watchers saw the grinning, leering, demon-faces of the terrible denizens of the Dark Ireland.

Raynor, who had crossed the clearing in a single step, and was at Grainne’s side, holding her hard against him, cried, “The Gateway! The Gateway to the Dark Domain is opening!” and people began to scream and turn to run towards the safe shadows of the forest.

The Gateway yawned wider, and Grainne, transfixed, unable to move, stood staring into the terrible other Ireland, the Domain of the Necromancers, where Medoc ruled.

There was a sudden stirring deep within that other world, a sudden swirling of the smoke and a screech of triumph and homage from the creatures of the Dark Ireland. Out of the gaping chasm that had rent the skies above Folaim appeared a dark-visaged figure.

Medoc, with Damnaithe at his side, walked into the clearing and stood in the midst of the watchers. A sudden silence fell, and Medoc smiled and, lifting his hand, beckoned to Grainne.

As he did so, a thin sticky web, a snail’s trail of slimy, evil Enchantment, fell across the watchers.

There was a moment when Grainne was able to think, The Draoicht Suan! And there was another moment when she knew, quite surely, that this was not the Draoicht Suan, the legendary gentle Enchantment of Slumber, but something different, something far more insidious and evil.

Medoc said softly, “They will wake when I wish it,” and he smiled at her, and Grainne blinked, for it was a smile of such evil beauty, and of such cold cruelty, that her senses swam.

“So, my dear,” said Medoc softly, “at last I find you. At last we meet. Ireland’s Crown Princess.” He gestured to the waiting figure at his side. “You have met,” he said, rather dismissively, and Grainne stared, and Damnaithe laughed.

“The child appears witless,” she said, and there was a rather horrid purring note to her voice. “She will do very well as a plaything for your Lords, Master. And then the Lad will have his way with her.” She looked to where the Lad of the Skins was standing watching, panting slightly, his eyes on Grainne. “You have done well,” said Damnaithe. “Our Master will reward you.” And made an unexpectedly regal gesture of dismissal.

Medoc was still watching Grainne, and there was something behind his eyes which Grainne could not fathom.

At last, he said, “You have tried to impede me at every turn. You have tried to come between me and that which I am sworn to possess.”

“Yes?” said Grainne, putting up her chin.

“Tara,” said Medoc, and now there was a sensuous and a savouring note to his voice. “I am sworn to possess Tara, Grainne. But you knew that.”

“You already have Tara.”

“Not completely. Not until I have removed the accursed Wolfline from Ireland.” He stood very still, regarding her. “You could never have defeated me,” he said. “You woke the Lost Enchantment of the Beastline, and you called up the sidh. But I am the most powerful necromancer of them all, Grainne. I ride at the head of the Dark Armies, and I command the Twelve Lords, and the Dark Ireland is only waiting for me to open up the Gates, and then it will flood in.” He smiled. “I can summon the Guardians and the Conablaiche,” said Medoc. He moved nearer, and Grainne stayed where she was. “And before many more hours have passed,” said Medoc, “Ireland will see once again the birth of Crom Croich into the world. Crom Croich, who eats the living hearts of its victims, and to whom all Ireland shall swear allegiance.” He was standing before her now, and Grainne was dimly aware of Damnaithe close behind him.

“A sacrifice,” said Damnaithe gloatingly, and Grainne looked at her, and felt a terrible cold chill close about her heart. My mother, and she would give me to Medoc.

Medoc said, “Yes, a sacrifice. For my Master is greedy, and also he is particular.” He smiled. “What better offering can I make to him than the Crown Princess of Tara,” said Medoc. “You will be the worthiest sacrifice I shall ever make, my dear.”

“My armies will never let it happen,” said Grainne, and Medoc laughed, his red-flecked eyes gleaming.

“Where are your armies, Wolfqueen?” he said. “Where is your beloved Fergus, your brother, and where are your Beastline Lords?” He made a swift gesture to where Raynor and the others stood motionless, caught in the tendrils of the malignant spell. “Where are your faithful staunch Cruithin and the warriors of your people?” said Medoc mockingly. “And where, my dear daughter, are the brilliant magical sidh? Where is Aillen mac Midha who cast an Enchantment when you were born, and whose sidhfolk are allowed to serve and protect the Wolfline? They are helpless,” said Medoc. “They are caught in the lightest and easiest of spells and they cannot even break free.”

“The Draoicht Suan?” said Grainne, knowing that it was not.

“The Draoicht Suan is a pale spell,” said Medoc.

“Insipid,” said Damnaithe, and laughed and tossed her tangled mane of hair. “Send them a nightmare, Master,” she said, pressing against him again. “Send them the harpies and the Furies. Send them the flesh-eaters of the Ebony Mountains and the blood-drinking trolls of the Red Caves, and the demons of the furnaces.” She slid to the ground, rubbing her face against his hips, and laughed again, a horrid, bubbling, curdled laugh, and Medoc bent down and removed her twining arms from his body quite gently, and put her from him. Against her will, Grainne remembered that Medoc, of all the necromancers, had ever been spoken of as a gentleman.

“The stories do not lie,” said Medoc, and Grainne knew that he had heard this with ease.

“What are you going to do with me?” she said.

Medoc looked at her for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful. And then, “We are going back to Tara,” he said.

*

There was no point in struggling or trying to run away. Grainne knew there had never been any point. Medoc would fling an enchantment to bring her down within seconds. In any case, the landscape for miles around was still lit to weird, unnatural life by the boiling red skies of the Dark Ireland, and there was no hope of concealment. There was no use in calling for help either, for no help could possibly come. Grainne cast a desperate look to Raynor, and saw that he, that all of them, were held fast in the spell, the travesty of the Draoicht Suan. They were blind and deaf, and there was no help to be had.

“How long will they be like that?”

“Until I decide to let them go,” said Medoc.

“They will find a way to break the spell.”

“No.”

“They will march on Tara,” said Grainne defiantly.

“They will not get within yards of it.” He regarded her almost with affection. “My poor child, do you not understand even yet? I have called up the Guardians, I have summoned Spectre and Reflection and the Sensleibhe, and no living creature has ever defeated those three.” Medoc glanced to where the Lad of the Skins stood, grinning. “The Guardians will protect Tara,” said Medoc carelessly. “Your armies will not get past them.” He stopped and seemed to study Grainne very intently. “There is one more thing,” he said, and now his voice was a caress.

“Well?”

“Six years ago,” said Medoc, “you gave birth to a child, Grainne.” Again the smile, terrible and inhuman and beautiful. “It was fathered on you by your brother, and therefore it inherited the wolfblood from you both.” He studied her. “The child was taken from you,” he said. “It was then that the legend of the Lost Prince arose. Your people believe in it, Grainne.”

“Yes.”

“They believe that one day the child will rise up and drive out my armies.”

“Yes,” said Grainne softly, watching him.

Medoc’s beautiful lips thinned. “I have spent years searching for that child,” said Medoc. “I have expended more time and energy than you could possibly imagine, and I have used every dark Beckoning I could find to draw the child to me.” He glanced to the shadows, where the armies and the Beastline and the people of Folaim were still sleeping.

Grainne said, hardly daring to breathe, “You feared it? You feared the Prince?”

“Let us say I knew it to be a danger,” said Medoc. “A threat. A Royal Wolfchild. I preferred it to die. When I finally rule completely, and when Crom Croich holds sway in Ireland, there must be no pretenders, you see. No Wolfprinces to grow up in secret and amass armies to ride on me. Your son is a threat, Grainne.”

“They sent him away,” said Grainne, half to herself. “I never knew where.”

“But I know,” said Medoc. “I knew of his birth, for there have always been those who would work for me, and I knew the exact moment he was born, Grainne.” He leaned closer. “I heard the sidh singing him into the world, my dear, just as they had once sung for you.”

“Yes,” said Grainne, staring ahead of her, and just for a moment she was back in the birth chamber, torn apart with pain, barely able to breathe, her senses blurred and her heart in torment for the child being born, whom she would never be allowed to know. And through it all, she had heard the singing: faint, beautiful, comforting. For after all, this is a Wolfprince, and after all, we shall spin our Enchantment, just as we spun it for his ancestors …

“For several years I lost him,” said Medoc. “I lost sight of him, and I lost the knowledge of where he was. But I worked and I paid the sorcerers, and I sent out spies and I laid traps. Finally I found him as, of course, I must have done. I should not have allowed him to escape me, Grainne.” He was standing before the fire, at the very centre of the sleeping revellers, lit by the flames. “He was brought to Folaim,” said Medoc. “And he is still here. I smell him and I feel him and I know he is here. Your son, Grainne. The child you bore your twin brother in secret. The Lost Prince, the Wolfchild who will one day rise against me.”

Grainne said in a whisper, “You cannot know that.”

“I do know it. I sent out the fool they call Lugh of the Longhand to kill him for me, but he has proved a squeamish tool, and I do not trust him. The boy is here,” said Medoc again, “and I shall have him.”

“Here?”

“Yes.” His hand came out to her and closed over her arm painfully. “That is why I have come,” said Medoc. “I have come to take him back to Tara with you, so that there I may offer you both to my Master, and render your souls to the greatest god Ireland will ever know.”

Crom Croich … the Crown Princess and the Wolfprince both slain and sacrificed … And then all Ireland will run with blood and the skies will be forever dark …

Medoc lifted his head and turned to look at the circle of children, and a slow smile touched his lips. He lifted his free hand, and a shower of dark red sparks whipped across the clearing. Grainne received the sudden impression of a rope of fire and, as she formed the thought, the rope snaked about one of the small dark figures on the other side of the fire.

Medoc stayed where he was, his eyes on the small slender shape. And then the child moved into the circle of firelight.

*

My son. My son and Fergus’s. The might-have-been child of fire and light and grace; the slender, slant-eyed boy with wide-apart eyes and mischievous lips; the Royal forbidden Wolfchild with the magical ancient blood of every High King and every High Queen — Cormac, and Niall of the Nine Hostages, Mab the Wanton and Dierdriu the Madcap--every warrior Queen and every hero King … Patrician and beautiful and wolvish, and just very faintly dangerous, certainly not wholly human …

The lost Wolfprince.

He was wide awake; his dark hair was turned almost to crimson by the fireglow, and red pinpoints of light danced in his eyes, giving him the look of a devil or an angel or both. There was the narrow skull, the glossy dark hair like an animal’s pelt … And his eyes! thought Grainne. Once you had looked at his eyes, you could never have mistaken him for a pure-bred human …

The ancient Royal Wolfblood, alive and strong and ready to fight for Ireland … Certainly able to call up the Wolves …

And then Medoc nodded to the Lad of the Skins, and Damnaithe moved into the light, and they both swooped on the boy, and, as they did so, Medoc turned back to Grainne. There was no time to think properly, and no time to feel joy at the child’s closeness. There was no time to be afraid. Medoc had enveloped Grainne in the swirling cloak, and there was a great rearing black stallion waiting, and they were galloping hard across the countryside, and there was no time to think or wonder, or even to breathe, for the countryside was rushing past them, and Medoc’s arm was about her as firmly as a band of steel and there was no possible escape.

But despite everything, she felt a soaring delight in the boy’s presence — Fergus’s son and mine! — and there was an exhilaration in the knowledge of where they were going.

The Crown Princess and the Lost Prince, returning to the Bright Palace …

Grainne had known that Tara was soaked in Medoc’s darkness and she thought she was prepared for it. But it was still a shock, it was a dreadful sickening jolt, to see it suddenly there ahead of them, in all its dark intensity, shadowy and dense …

For Medoc and the Twelve Lords have put out the light …

This is the worst yet, thought Grainne. I do not think I can bear this. But then she looked to where the Lad of the Skins and Damnaithe were riding alongside, the child held firmly between them, and knew that there was much worse to come.

The child looked across to Grainne; his hair was whipped into disarray and the night wind had painted fingers of colour on to his high cheekbones. He smiled at her briefly, blindingly, and Grainne felt her heart lurch, because it was Fergus’s smile, the boy was Fergus over again, but with the slanting eyes of their great-grandfather Cormac, and the mischievous grin of Dierdriu.

And then they were down the avenue, and the beech trees were on each side, and they were riding hard to the Western Gate where once had flocked the travellers and the scholars and the pilgrims of the world, and the terrible darkness was closing about them.

There was time to see the boy become suddenly intent; to see him become alert and to see his eyes narrow. Grainne thought, He is recognising it. He is coming back to the Palace of his ancestors, and although he does not know, for he cannot know, he senses it.

The portcullis was lifting to admit them, and the drawbridge was lowered, and they were riding hard across the drawbridge, the horses’ hoofs ringing out sharply.

And then they were inside, and the portcullis was lowered again, and Grainne and the Lost Prince were shut inside the Dark Palace with Medoc.

And the armies of Ireland and the powerful enchanted Beastline she had striven so hard to waken, and every single person who might have rescued them, were held helpless in sorcery far away in Folaim.

*

Raynor had not been aware of the exact moment when Medoc had flung the heavy dark Enchantment of Slumber at the revellers; he thought it ought to have been possible to see it and feel it and sense it, but it was not. At one minute they had all been feasting and laughing and drinking the mulled wine and the mead. And then, without warning, there had been the towering figure of the dark cloaked being, and there had been dull red lights all about them, and it was as if a great weight had descended on their eyes, so that it had been impossible to keep them open. There had been a drowsy scent as well; something exotic and languorous, so that you wanted to surrender to it: and you wanted to drown in it, and let it carry you away wherever it wished …

The thought that this was the Draoicht Suan flashed through Raynor’s mind, and then he saw the cruel, dark figure standing in the firelight, and he knew that it was not the gentle, kindly Draoicht Suan, but something far deadlier, and something that carried with it a sinister threat.

He had fought the Enchantment, and although he had not quite beaten it, he had not quite succumbed to it either. His limbs had been heavy and tired, and a mist had swum before his eyes, but he had been able to see what happened, and he had heard Medoc’s words distantly, as if they came through a long, narrow tunnel.

Medoc was taking Grainne and the Wolfchild to Tara to kill them.

If it had been possible to break the Enchantment and tear Medoc apart, Raynor would have done so and found delight in it. For Ireland? said his mind rather mockingly, and at once was the response: No! For Grainne! He cared about Ireland very much, but he would never care for any living creature as strongly as he cared for Grainne. The knowledge that Medoc had her was anguish and torment, and he fought the dark Enchantment with every ounce of his strength and with every shred of his energy.

If there had been help from outside somewhere, it would have made the task just about possible, but there was no help, because there was nothing and no one who could come to their aid.

And then, on the outer rim of his clouded vision, Raynor saw a wisp of blue-green smoke …

*

Aillen mac Midha did not approach too closely to the humans, because to have done so would have been dangerous for them. They were vulnerable; they were unable to look upon pure magic and on undiluted enchantments, these humans. For them to have seen the sidh, properly and fully in their cold inhuman beauty, would have burned out their eyes and shrivelled their senses. Aillen mac Midha’s people had frequently hunted humans and stolen their senses; they had done so for countless centuries and they would continue to do so, for only thus could they pour into their music the beautiful aching joy and the strong Beckoning. But the Princess was in the direst danger, and with her was the Lost Prince who had been born in secret and raised in concealment. Aillen’s people knew of the Wolfprince’s birth; they had sung him into the world and they had spun their enchantments about him.

They had known that this was the one who would finally drive back the Dark Ireland … the greatest High King Ireland would ever know.

Eireann, the One True King …

And now the child was in Medoc’s power and the Princess was with him.

The Elven King sat for a long while on the grassy tussock, surveying the sleeping armies and the Beastline and the Cruithin with his narrow glittering turquoise eyes. He did not move, and to an onlooker it might have seemed that he was weighing up the two sides of the situation.

The Lost Enchantments and the Lost Prince against the Dark Ireland.

The sidh could dissolve Medoc’s Dark Spell of Slumber, but it would be dangerous for the humans. It would be dangerous for them because their senses were vulnerable: sight, hearing, sense of touch, sense of smell, taste, might be burned out. One of the Princess’s people would almost certainly have to pay the price to the sidh.

Eyes, ears, tongue, nose, fingers …

The Elven King gave himself a shake and stood up. There could be no choice. If the Princess and the Wolfprince were to be saved, Medoc’s spell must be lifted.

No matter the cost.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Grainne was lying chained on the floor of the Sun Chamber, with the darkness of Medoc all about. The Sun Chamber was in the most complete darkness she had ever known; it was a place of near impenetrable shadows and of evil night creatures; of dark sinuous beings who would creep stealthily towards you and of black formless things that would writhe and materialise on the outer limits of your vision.

Directly ahead was the massive crystal window which had been so precisely angled that it caught the first dawnlight every morning and the last starlight every night. Grainne, brought up inside Tara, bred into the tradition of the brilliant glittering Citadel that Tara had been, felt the loss of Tara’s brightness like a knife-twist in her heart. This was the Sun Chamber, this was the place her ancestors had called Medchuarta, Tara’s heart, its core, the dazzling prismatic centre, the Ancient Seat of the High Kings of All Ireland … Shrouded in darkness by Medoc’s evil.

I am in his power finally and at last, thought Grainne, pulling at the chains that held her wrists and her ankles bound. I am in the power and at the mercy of the strongest, most evil necromancer ever to come from the Dark Ireland. Medoc, the dark, beautiful, evil sorcerer, and the Twelve Lords …

She knew a very little about the Twelve Lords; she thought that very few people knew much about them, for there had grown up a belief that even to know or speak their names was to make it easy for them to find their way back to Tara. But Grainne, growing up in the Shining Palace, had listened to the stories and the legends, and she knew more than most about the sinister shadowy Lords, who were said to sit with Medoc in his dark halls, and to assist him in his sorcery. She had heard their names, and she could remember some of them, though not all. There was the Lord of Corruption, and there was the Lord of Depravity, and of Perversion, and the Lord of Vice. Names to frighten children with: Decadence, Degeneracy, Impurity, Greed; the list went on, and they were every one of them names to frighten children with.

Children …

He was lying beside her, as tightly chained as she was, but despite this there was an alertness and a watchfulness about him, almost as if he might be curious and intrigued, and certainly as if he was ready to turn any situation to their advantage.

At length, Grainne said softly, “Are you all right?”

“Chained,” he said. “But all right. And you?”

“The same.”

Grainne said hesitantly, “You must forgive me, but I do not know your name.” And waited.

He turned his head to regard her, and a sudden smile touched his eyes. “Erin,” he said, and Grainne smiled, because of course they would have called him Erin, Eireann meaning “Ireland.”

“Erin, do you know where we are?”

“Tara,” he said, his eyes glowing. “We are inside the Bright Palace.”

“Are you …?” She stopped, because surely it would be wrong to use the word “frightened” to him.

But he put out a hand and said, “You can use the word to me, madam.” And smiled, and Grainne felt as if she had been given something precious and rare and more valuable than all the riches of the world, for he had heard her thoughts, and he was surely using the Samhailt, the ancient bequest that was only ever bestowed on the Ancient Royal House … “I am only a very little frightened,” said Erin seriously. “And I know this place —”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps it was a dream.” He looked at her, and Grainne knew at once that he was willing her to say that it had not been a dream. For a moment, memory slipped sideways, and she was back in that terrible night when he had been born, and the brilliance of the Sun Chamber had been a sick mockery to her. He had been only a few hours old when he had been taken from her, but, looking at the slanting dark eyes, now she thought, How far back can memory go? Can he possibly have retained some scrap of awareness? She said carefully, “It may not have been a dream at all.”

The dark eyes narrowed. “You were there,” said Erin. And then, in delight, “Yes, I remember. You were there.” You know what happened, said his expression. One day you will tell me.

“Yes,” said Grainne gently. “One day I will tell you.”

“The Bright Palace,” said Erin, as if he liked the sound of the words. “Tara.”

“Not so very bright at the moment.”

Erin looked at her. “But it will be again,” he said. “It will be bright again.” And grinned, and quite suddenly Grainne felt an upsurge of confidence, because the Dark Ireland had been defeated before, and the Wolfline had been exiled and returned before …

And this is Ireland’s heir, this is the Lost Prince, the son I bore and thought never to see …

“Are we going to escape, madam?”

“Yes,” said Grainne, her heart beating painfully. “Yes, Erin, I think we are going to escape. We will make a plan and we will be very watchful, and we will escape.”

“Are they going to kill us?”

Grainne drew breath to speak, although she had no idea what she was going to say, only that it was immensely important to reassure him, and important not to lie to him.

“I think —” she began, and stopped, and they both looked towards the great double doors of the Sun Chamber.

The doors were opening slowly, and the darkness was altering, it was becoming tinged with crimson. Crimson, the colour of anger and malevolence and vice and sin …

Medoc and the Twelve Dark Lords stood framed in the doorway.

Medoc wore the ceremonial robes of the Academy of Sorcerers, and on his left breast shone the Dark Star of Necromancy. Grainne remembered, and wished not to remember, that it was Medoc who had destroyed by sorcery the original priceless Codex of Necromancy, that manuscript of incalculable age revered by every sorcerer in Ireland, and who had tricked the Academy into accepting the corrupt and warped Charter for Enchantry. Medoc it was, as well, who had created the terrible fearsome Order with the insignia of the Dark Star that he now wore on his breast.

He walked forward calmly and quietly, the Lad of the Skins at his heels, and the Twelve Lords fell into line behind him. As they did so, Grainne saw a sliver of moonlight fall across the floor, so that she saw the Dark Lords clearly and terribly.

Clad in unrelieved black, every one. Garbed in the black matte armour that legend ascribed to them; the visors lowered but the eyelets gleaming softly. Grainne, watching from the corner where they lay, had the thought that if you reached up to lift one of the visors, you would find that behind it was nothing. Faceless beings. Each of the Lords carried a black spear, from which flew a black pennant with his insignia: Corruption, Decadence, Greed, Impurity, Lust …

Medoc came to the exact centre of the Sun Chamber, and stood looking down at them both. When he spoke, his voice held a deep savouring pleasure.

“The Crown Princess and the Wolfprince,” he said. “Ireland’s Lost Prince. I bid you welcome to Tara, madam. You will not escape me, for no one has ever escaped me.”

“No one has ever escaped you yet,” said Erin, and regarded Medoc with his narrow stare. Medoc became very still, and the two of them eyed one another. Then:

“So,” said Medoc softly, “so, you have the arrogance and the insolence of your ancestors, do you, Wolfprince?” He moved nearer. “You know who you are, don’t you?” said Medoc, and Erin said at once, “Oh, yes, Medoc. I know who I am.” And sent Grainne a look that said, Forgive me. And trust me.

“I cannot remember when I began to know,” said Erin. “I cannot remember when I knew that the dreams were not really dreams at all.” He studied Medoc. “I have walked in these halls before,” he said, and turned his head to look about him with detached interest. Grainne was struck all over again by his complete absence of fear. Because he knows we can escape?

Because it is important that this evil one does not sense our fear …

He had not moved, and the chains were still about his ankles and wrists, but Grainne felt his thoughts pierce her mind as clearly and as easily as spring water flowing down a mountain.

Erin said, “Are you going to sacrifice us to Crom Croich, Medoc?”

“I am.”

“I thought you would,” said Erin. “Will it make you very powerful?”

Medoc laughed, and at his side the Lad chuckled horribly. “Listen, Wolfchild,” he said, “I am more powerful than you can possibly imagine.”

“Listen, Medoc,” said Erin, “you are in the Ancient Royal House of my ancestors, and I am going to drive you out.”

For the briefest moment, surprise showed in Medoc’s eyes, and then his lips curved, and he bent down so that he was on a level with Erin. “I have flung aside your House,” he said. “And I have toppled your accursed line.”

“You still consort with a Wolfqueen,” said Grainne, who was drawing more strength than she could have believed possible from Erin. “Where is Damnaithe, Medoc?”

“When I am ready I shall call her,” said Medoc. “She will come.”

“Poor creature,” said Grainne, half to herself.

“She is content with her lot,” said Medoc curtly, and turned back to Erin, and Grainne, watching, listening, thought, Medoc is disconcerted by Erin. He is not afraid, but he is surprised. Erin is throwing him off balance. She looked again at this slender remarkable child who could sit chained and bound in the power of the wickedest necromancer in all Ireland, and still manage to throw him off balance. “Damnaithe it will be who will occupy the High Throne,” said Medoc.

“But you will rule through her,” said Grainne.

“Of course.” There was the smile again, thin, cruel, quite beautiful, and utterly evil.

“It will not happen,” said Erin. “It is a very great pity for you, Medoc, but it will not happen.”

“It will,” said Medoc.

“No,” said Erin calmly.

“Who will prevent it, Wolfchild?”

“I shall,” said Erin. “I know everything about the Wolfkings, and I know that I am the one who will destroy you.” He smiled as he said this, as if he was offering Medoc some kind of present. “But you knew that,” said Erin. “You did know it, didn’t you?” Again the sly, mischievous smile. “I am the One True King,” said Erin.

Medoc said, “A pity you will not live long enough to prove that.”

“I shall,” said Erin calmly. “In me the ancient enchanted wolfblood is stronger than ever it was before. I have the power and the light and the strength, Medoc. I have the Samhailt and I can call up the wolves, and I will call them up, Medoc. I am the vanquishing of the old, old curse that you have tried to revive.” He smiled. “You have ruled in a sort for some years now, but you will not do so for very much longer.” Again the smile — grave, considering: “But I hope you will proceed with your foolish ritual, Medoc, because we will be interested to see it.” He glanced at Grainne as if to say, Is that all right? Can we watch? and Grainne, alternately terrified and fascinated, fiercely proud, said gently, “We shall find it intriguing, Medoc.” And smiled up at him, and said, “Do please proceed.” And thought, Well, at least I am managing to sound as untroubled as Erin. How does he do it?

All a pretence, madam, came the mocking response. But we have him puzzled. Aloud, he said, “Go ahead and summon Crom Croich, Medoc,” and Grainne, listening very intently, knew at once that Erin had spoken calculatedly and deliberately, so that Medoc would be annoyed.

But if Medoc was annoyed, he gave no sign. He turned on his heel, and nodded to the Lad of the Skins, and at once the Lad sprang up grinning, and followed Medoc to the centre of the Sun Chamber. Grainne noticed that Medoc was standing directly over the ancient symbols etched into the Sun Chamber’s floor, whose origins were so old and so wreathed in myth and mist and legend that no one knew what they meant any more.

“I know what they mean, my dear,” said Medoc, turning his dark, slanting eyes on to Grainne and smiling the beautiful, cruel smile. “I could tell you how, at the very beginning, when Tara was raised from the rock by the sorcerers, the hags and the harpies and the Furies and the banshees came pouring out of the Dark Ireland; for Tara was then so beautiful and so desirable that every sorcerer and every necromancer and every enchanter sent out bewitchments to capture it.

“But no one ever did, for Tara’s own sorcerers were wily and far-seeing, and they sank into Tara a protective spell, and the sidhfolk came up to Tara’s ramparts and poured their music into its halls and into its battlements and into its fabric. Tara is wrapped about with enchantment and spells, my dear, and it is here, in the great Sun Chamber, that the spells are strongest.” He gestured to the symbols that caught the light faintly and gave out a bluish glow. “There is immense power here,” said Medoc, “and where there is power it can be harnessed. I shall harness it, and I shall use it, and we shall send it outwards and call down the great god-idol of all Ireland.”

Crom Croich …

“Yes, Crom Croich,” said Medoc, and smiled. “But you knew that. You will meet him,” he said, “and you will honour him and render to him allegiance.”

“No,” said Erin.

“You will!” said Medoc, and his eyes were shooting sparks of light. “You will, for I shall force you to do it.” He regarded them both. “And after you have done so,” he said, “I shall feed you both to him.” He paused, and the Lad of the Skins gave his low, bubbling chuckle. “I shall call up Crom Croich’s greatest and most loyal and diligent servant,” said Medoc, “and then we will summon the god himself.”

Crom Croich, who eats the living hearts of its victims …

“And then,” said Medoc, “when I have appeased the god with the hearts of the Crown Princess and the Wolfprince; when their hearts have been torn from their bodies and their souls taken to the Prison of Hostages, then my rule will be absolute. The Conablaiche will once again walk abroad, scouring the countryside for prey; the first-born boys of every family in the land will be taken for sacrifice, and the great religion of Crom Croich will once more hold all Ireland in its grip.” He moved from the central carved portion of the Sun Chamber’s floor, and came to stand over them again. “Tara is finished, Wolfprince,” said Medoc, speaking directly to Erin. “Once Crom Croich is in the world, Tara will fall and its light will be quenched, and the land will seethe with evil and the skies will darken and the rivers will run with blood.”

Erin said very softly, “You may have put out the light, Medoc, but you will see that I can restore it.”

“We shall see,” said Medoc, and turned back to the Dark

Lords and the Lad of the Skins. “Begin the ritual to Crom Croich.”

*

Crom Croich. The king-idol of all Ireland. The being of pure gold who demanded the fresh hearts of its victims. The terrible hungry monster-god who had taken scores of children and eaten their hearts, and in whose name the Crusade Wars had been fought several generations earlier. The god to whom every person in Ireland must offer the first-born of every stock: sheep, pigs, cattle, hens … boys. Grainne could remember the old stories of how every family in Ireland must send a representative to the gathering called Mag Slecht, where Crom Croich materialised in all his dark glory, and how every person present must bow down to the ground until their foreheads and the soft part of their noses and the caps of their knees and the points of their elbows broke; where it was whispered that three-fourths of the men of Ireland died of these prostrations.

Dreadful and pitiful and more cruel than anything Grainne had ever heard of.

Somehow it had to be stopped. Grainne lay back in the dark Chamber and murmured the words aloud. “It must not happen.”

“It will not,” said Erin very softly. “You will see.”

“What can we do?”

He turned to survey her, and the shadows lay across his face, so that Grainne saw for the first time the wolf’s mask, and felt a thrill of delight and fear. The descendant of the Wolves of Tara … And then she thought, But so am I, and felt in that moment the strength she had felt on setting out for the Grail Castle.

The power and the light and the strength of the Wolves …

“Yes,” said Erin, watching her. “Yes, that is how we shall do it, madam.” He sat up and glanced to where Medoc and the Dark Lords had disappeared through the great double doors. “They cannot hear us,” he said, “but perhaps they can sense what we are saying. You understand that?”

“Yes.”

Erin regarded her, his head on one side, and Grainne saw with delight and terror mixed that his ears were pointed.

“One thing can save us,” said Erin, and Grainne said, “Yes?” and knew, in the same moment, what he was about to say.

Erin said, very gently, “You had not the power to do it before. Not alone. But together we have power and to spare —” And stopped and looked at her again, with the way she was coming to know of expecting her to understand.

And I do understand, said Grainne silently. I understand and I am afraid and filled with pure delight at the thought.

“Well?” said Erin, waiting.

Grainne said slowly, “We have to call up the Wolves of Tara.”

*

The clearing where the Wolfqueen’s armies slept was becoming shrouded in the cold blue and green ice-fire of the sidh. Slender formless creatures moved in between the trees and in and out of the rocks and the hills and the grassy forest floor; beckoning arms and cold slanting eyes peered and smiled and, at length, gently and softly, the sticky filaments of evil sleep woven by Medoc began to fall away from the sleepers.

Wake to us, humans, for we will lead you back to the world of the living, and we will ride with you, wild and fearsome to drive out the Dark Adversary from Tara’s Halls. It will be the greatest battle Ireland has ever known, for it will be the only battle when the ancient and magical people of Aillen mac Midha have joined with you … Together we can defeat the Dark Lords, humans, only there is a price that you must pay … We must take one of you and take his senses … it is the age-old law, and we cannot waken you unless you give one of your number to us …

And you must waken, humans, you must open your eyes, and you must surrender to our music, for only thus can you put off the evil slumber spun on Medoc’s Dark Looms … only thus can you find strength to put aside the heavy mandragora sleep of the necromancer. Hear our music, humans … let it soak into your skins and let it trickle into the most secret corners of your soul Hear it and feel it and drink it … stand still and become one with it …

And give us one of your number, humans. Let us take his senses: sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch. For only thus can we spin our music and save you. Whoever looks on us now will become blind, deaf, witless, speechless, for ever … But it is the price you must pay for our help, humans … It is the price that must be paid if Ireland is to be safe …

The blue and green smoke whirled and towered and, as the music poured into the clearing, Lugh of the Longhand opened his eyes and looked directly at the sidh.

A shout of triumph went up, and the sidh closed in.

*

Raynor was the first to become fully awake, to blink and look about him and remember what had happened, and push away the clinging remnants of Medoc’s nightmares. He thought he recalled trying to fight the dreadful darkness that was shot with crimson and laced with evil, and he certainly recalled struggling, because he had known at once that this was black sorcery, Medoc’s ploy to stop them all from following him to Tara. To succumb meant to abandon Grainne utterly and forever to Medoc, and this was something so unendurable that Raynor would have done anything in the world to prevent it; he would have let the sidh take him to their underground caves; he would have let them cage his soul in the Prison of Hostages; he would willingly have given his sight, hearing, senses …

There was a ripple of light and the sensation of gentle, cruel mirth and malice at that, and Raynor knew that the sidh were still very close, and that they were hearing very clearly.

Oh, yes, we would have taken you, eagle one, had you been the first to awake … we would have taken you gladly, for you have strength and beauty, and we would have enriched our music by taking you …

Raynor stared round the clearing, trying to make out the blurred moving shapes.

Come with us, eagle one, come with us beneath the ocean where the waterlight moves ceaselessly against the walls of the caves, and where you will walk on the bones of all the humans we have taken, and where we will steal one of your five senses to pour into our music … Again the laughter, and Raynor thought, We dare not fully trust these creatures.

Oh, yes, you can trust us, you can be sure of us, for we have taken one of your number, and we are carrying him far far away, over hill and over dale … we are carrying him beyond the skies and beneath the oceans, and he will never return to the world …

Raynor said, “Who have you taken? Who is it?” And looked about him, trying to see who was no longer there.

We have taken one who was no friend to the Queen, eagle one … and now, because of it, we will ride out with you, we will join with you against the Dark Ireland. The Elven King bids us do it, but we do it gladly for the Ancient Royal House … We are what we are, and our music is made from the emotions and the perceptions of humans … We have taken what we want now, but beware of us, eagle one, for we shall return, and we may steal you away that time, for we are greedy and soulless, but our music is the most beautiful sound you will ever hear …

The laughter filled the clearing again, cold and unearthly, and Raynor closed his mind at once, for he knew as well as anyone the dreadful seductive power of the sidh.

Tybion the Tusk had woken at almost the same time as Raynor; he too had heard the chill music, and felt the sidh’s lure, and had felt, as if it was a tangible thing, the dark sluggish Enchantment dissolve and slide from him. He thought he was now strong enough and fierce enough to storm Tara’s ramparts and pull down the Palace walls brick by brick to rescue Grainne, and he was certainly angry enough to rip Medoc from gut to groin and spill his innards all over the Sun Chamber’s polished floor. This was a far more bloodthirsty notion than Tybion had ever entertained or expected to entertain, and he wondered why it did not horrify him. But he was not in the least bit horrified; he wanted to be off at once, ripping Medoc apart and wreaking some extremely gruesome form of punishment on the Twelve Dark Lords (disembowelling? boiling alive?), and he could not understand why the others, with the sole exception of Raynor, were still wandering about rubbing their eyes and being confused. Tybion was not the smallest bit confused; he was wide awake and brimming over with energy and plans and plots, and it was very irritating indeed when people such as Fintan and Cermait Honeymouth and Dorrainge the Druid were not running and scurrying and shouting for the horses and sounding the advance. They ought to have sounded the advance long since, said Tybion firmly, and would not listen when Cathbad tried to explain that Medoc’s nasty Enchantment had sat more heavily on some of them than it had on others. Tybion said that this was utter nonsense and sheer absurdity, and there was no time to be lost, because if they were to rescue Her Majesty, they ought to have set out two hours ago. For good measure, he prodded one or two of the most recalcitrant souls with the toe of his boot, and became very nearly angry with Fintan who, said Tybion, ought to have recognised Medoc’s spell the minute Medoc started to weave it, and warned them all.

“But there’s the point,” said Fintan, on whom Medoc’s Enchantment had sat rather weightily. “There’s the point. We didn’t any of us know until it was too late.”

“Utter balderdash,” said Tybion, and Fintan, never at his best when woken from sleep, and certainly not at his best when woken from a necromancer’s sleep, became very tetchy at this. He said it was all very well for Tybion to be bright-eyed and bounciful; it was all very well to be all of this at Tybion’s age. Fintan had been those things himself, said Fintan lugubriously, and pretended not to hear when Cermait remarked, in not quite an undertone, that this was stretching the truth a bit, because Fintan had been born middle-aged. These things were well and good, said Fintan, raising his voice a little, but if you had eaten a smidgen too much of Cathbad’s roast pig, and if you had drunk maybe a thimbleful more than you ought of the Cruithin’s mead, and on top of that had had a nasty black sorcerer tying you up in knots and nightmares, you were apt to take a bit of time to gather up your wits. They were all of them gathering up their wits, said Fintan, and glared at Cathbad, who said people took longer to do this because their wits were so wildly astray in the first place. They would set off at any minute, said Fintan.

Cermait thought that this was the thing to be doing; they would surely set off pretty soon, he said, because there was no saying what might have happened while they had all been asleep. From which the others gathered that Cermait had no more notion than Cathbad’s roast pig of what had gone before, and certainly had not the smallest suspicion that Grainne had been carried off by Medoc for purposes best not thought about.

“I wouldn’t trust Medoc,” said Cermait sagely. “Not from here to that tree would I trust him.”

“He’s got the Queen!” said Tybion loudly, and Cermait said if that was so, it was the most terrible thing that had ever befallen Ireland, and he was very sorry, but the entire thing had been a bit hazy, well, if they wanted the truth, it had been very hazy indeed, and if Medoc really did have Her Majesty, oughtn’t they all to be doing something about it instead of standing about holding a meeting. They were no better than Lugh Longhand, said Cermait, and he was very surprised indeed, and he was especially surprised at Tybion the Tusk, of whom he would have thought better.

At which Tybion lost his temper in good earnest and said they none of them had any romance in their souls, and that they were no more fitted to be in Her Majesty’s service than one of Cathbad’s pigs, and took himself off to find the army’s musicians, so that the proper advance could be sounded.

Cathbad said, “Oh, dear me, can’t you any of you see that half of us are still under Medoc’s nasty Enchantment,” and Fintan sat up and looked more alert than he had done for some time — several people said he looked more alert than he had done for years — and wanted to know the exact form the Enchantment had taken. He accepted a tankard of mulled wine, which Cathbad was distributing on the premise that mulled wine never hurt anyone, and said Tybion was right, they ought certainly to be mustering their forces.

Cathbad, who had now finished giving out the mulled wine, was simmering a cauldron of soup, which he had just boiled up from one or two odds and ends of the Samain feast. You had to be prepared for anything to happen, said Cathbad and although he had not himself been precisely prepared for Medoc, because Medoc was not the sort of person you expected to meet in the ordinary way, it just went to show that you should never relax your guard. Cathbad had not himself been prepared for Medoc to stroll into the middle of the feasting, as cheeky as an intoxicated fieldmouse, and he had not expected to be bewitched either, because it was not something you normally expected.

If anyone wanted to know, Cathbad had found it all a very horrid experience. He had suffered an unspeakably nasty nightmare, in which every creature he had ever cooked had grown legs and wings and teeth and feet, and had come running after him to dismember him and fling him into a stew-pot. He felt quite breathless still after running across a dark landscape with pigs and turtles and positively dozens of rabbits in hot pursuit, waving spoons and ladles and carving knives, and shouting things like, “Let’s make a Druid pie,” and, “Cathbad-stew for supper,” and, “I say we fricassee him.” It had been quite shudderingly nasty, and Cathbad had been very glad to wake up. He had gone off at once to stir up a pot of soup which would warm everybody, and prepare them for what might be ahead, and he thought he would certainly add the bones of the roast pig and the wild ducks and the rabbits, if only to remind himself that pigs and ducks and rabbits were eaten by people instead of the other way about. He would put in a few spoonfuls of chopped parsley as well, and some onions. Onions made a really good strengthening broth, never mind Lugh complaining that anything with onions in it went right through him. Cathbad would not have cared if the onions ran right through Lugh and out the other side. Now he came to look, Lugh was nowhere to be seen, but this was not something that anyone need trouble about, because they would all have a bit of peace.

Tybion the Tusk was very nearly distracted by this time. He discovered that Raynor had been quietly deploying the Beastline creatures and studying a map showing the quickest route to the Bright Palace. Bee and Rinnal had been putting together foodstuffs, and several of the others had been stamping out the embers of the bonfire and making sure that Cathbad’s cooking fire was properly smothered with earth and damp grass.

This was not something that it had occurred to Tybion to do, but he was very pleased to see such evidence of preparation for the march.

“But of course we are going to march on Tara,” said Raynor, looking at Tybion in surprise. “Did you think we should not?”

“Oh, no,” said Tybion. “It’s only that —” He tried to think of something sensible to say, because Raynor had the way of looking at you with his hard golden eyes, so that you felt he saw into your mind.

Raynor said gently, “It is only that the others are not yet properly out of Medoc’s spell.” And he smiled suddenly, and Tybion smiled back, and felt the smallest bit silly and wished he had not been quite so sharp to Fintan and Cermait Honeymouth. He said, quite humbly, that he would very much like to ride alongside Raynor and the others when they set out, and Raynor said, “We should count that an honour, Tybion.” Tybion beamed, and felt that after all they might succeed in getting the Queen out of Medoc’s clutches, because Raynor was a person who made you feel confident and sure of yourself, and, thus restored, he took himself off to apologise to Fintan and Cermait, and also to several people whom he had not offended at all, all of whom very politely said not to mention it; they were all of them distracted and in a state of confusion anyway.

Raynor, outwardly calm and composed, was in a far worse agony of mind than any of them knew. He believed that none of the others had guessed at his inner torment, and he thought this was how it must be. A Princess of the Ancient House of Ireland could never join her life with a parvenu of a Beastline, with a nobility created by a band of enterprising sorcerers. He remembered what he had thought on that first night: She is not for me nor I for her. He could still think of it, even while his body was remembering, and even while his heart was torn apart with longing. I shall let her go, thought Raynor. I shall let her go, even though I can hardly bear to think it. And then, without warning, a thought surfaced: At last I shall see Tara, he thought, and with the thought, came a flame of rebellion. But why should I not see it? thought Raynor, his eyes suddenly glowing, his mind lit to new awareness. Why not? I have the Enchanted Beast-blood, I have the right. Why should I not see the lights blaze, and why should I not see the doors sealed against the Dark Ireland? Why should I not he at the forefront of the battle to rescue Grainne?

Fintan and Cermait had woken up properly now, and were rounding up people sternly, and wanting to know why so much time was being wasted when Queens were being held captive by wicked necromancers.

“There’s no time to be lost,” said Cermait, and Fintan agreed, and looked round for Lugh, who might be a fool, but who was in nominal charge of the army.

“Oh, he’s sulking somewhere, I expect,” said Cathbad.

“He’ll have gone off in a sulk, and very likely we shan’t see him this side of the Winter Solstice.”

“And very nice too,” said Cermait. “It’s high time we saw no more of him. And if you want to know what I think,” said Cermait, even though most people did not, “it’s that Raynor is perfectly capable of leading the charge on Tara, and of destroying Medoc! He’s got authority,” said Cermait firmly, “and that’s something people respond to. Mark my words, everyone will follow him without even stopping to think.” And he nodded as if agreeing with himself, and glared at anyone who might have considered arguing against him.

No one did argue, because most people were becoming rather impressed by Raynor. As Cathbad said, he did not say very much; he certainly did not put himself forward in any way, “But you can’t help but be aware of him,” said Cathbad.

“He’s very well organised,” said Dorrainge unwillingly.

“I’d follow him into hell and back,” said Tybion, and was frowned at by Dorrainge, because hell was not a word you should use, even if you believed in it, which Druids did not.

Cathbad said they ought all of them to remember that in the legends the Beastline had been Princes of Ireland. And wouldn’t they all of them recall the great Conaire of the Eagles? demanded Cathbad, getting very excited. Conaire, who had ridden alongside Cormac himself in the historic battle against the terrible Erl-King. “I’d follow Raynor anywhere,” said Cathbad devoutly, and would not listen when one or two of the soldiers said vulgarly that Cathbad would follow anyone anywhere.

But Cermait was right; the men were responding to Raynor and quite a number of them were heard to remark that breeding showed: hadn’t Conaire of the Eagles been some kind of cousin of the Wolfline anyway? Wasn’t it time and more that they had a drop of the ancient Enchanted Beastline blood back with them?

“Rubbish and nonsense,” said Dorrainge, who liked to believe that all Men were equal, but he said this quietly, so that not many people heard. And he took himself off to search for Lugh Longhand, because you could not have the nominal head of the Queen’s army disappearing just when you were going into an important battle. Dorrainge had not yet settled with himself whether he would ride in the charge, because Druids were supposed to be peace-loving people; still, you could not have Medoc riding off with Ireland’s Queen and plotting fresh evil. Lugh would have to be found, said Dorrainge, because didn’t they need the head of the Fiana to lead them in all this.

“But he isn’t the head,” said Tybion, overhearing. “Fergus is the head.”

And then Cathbad, who had been scuttling about under pretext of gathering up the soup bowls, but who had in reality been eavesdropping on any promising bits of gossip that might be going, turned round and beamed and pointed, and said, “But there is Fergus.”

And everyone stood up and stopped what they were doing, and looked, and Tybion let out a raucous cheer.

Fergus, Taliesin, and Annabel, and the lost boys from the Prison of Hostages, were walking towards them down the hillside.

*

Lugh of the Longhand was confused, which was not a thing that often happened. He had been the first one to wake from Medoc’s dark spell, which was no more than you would have expected, and he had seen at once that the clearing was positively awash with the sidh. This had been extremely worrying, and Lugh had blinked and rubbed his eyes in the hope that the sidh would have vanished when he opened them again.

They did not vanish. They wreathed closer if anything, and Lugh began to have the impression that slender, snakelike blue-green arms were writhing towards him.

Come away with us, warrior of the Fiana …

Well, of course, Lugh Longhand was not going to be taken in by that! Dear goodness, didn’t everyone in Ireland know the sidh for what they were, and wasn’t it an ignorant man or a fool who looked on the sidh, looked on them fully and properly and saw them in all their unearthly beauty and lost his wits and his senses and his virility, or worse.

If anyone was going to commit the supreme folly of looking a sidh in the eye, it was not going to be Lugh of the Longhand.

The trouble was that once you had glanced at them, even by mistake, it was quite difficult to look away. Well, it was impossible actually. And there was a sort of beckoning, a slender, silky, “Come hither” sort of feeling.

Yes, yes, come to us, warrior of the Fiana, for we are the most beautiful beings in the world, and there are few who have looked on us and lived to tell of it …

And of course, it would be rather nice if it could be a Longhand who became the only human ever to look on the sidh and see their world and live to tell of it. This was a very interesting idea, and Lugh would very much enjoy seeing the legendary water caves, which he would probably be able to escape from with the utmost ease. Also, if there was going to be a march on Tara, it might be tactful if Lugh was out of the way when it happened. This was not cowardice, merely discretion, because it was pretty certain that Medoc would refer to the arrangement he had had with Lugh about the Wolfchild being killed. Actually, it was a foregone conclusion that Medoc would refer to it, and as publicly as possible, because Medoc was a mischief-maker and he would probably enjoy giving Lugh away before the entire Court and half the Druids and the Beastline and the Cruithin. This was something that could not be allowed to happen. Lugh would be better off exploring the sidh’s water caves and bringing back a grand tale for the story-tellers. It would be good, as well, to be able to rival the tales of the silly battle that everyone else was going off to wage on Medoc. Lugh would have something different. The story-tellers would very likely thank Lugh for it for generations to come.

He was surprised at how quickly they seemed to reach the sidh’s caves, because he had not been aware of travelling anywhere at all. He had, it is true, been conscious of soft silky arms entwining him, and of cool turquoise smoke obscuring his vision, and now and then of narrow glittering eyes watching him, and beckoning him deeper and deeper into the soft, formless lights.

This was ridiculous, of course, because eyes could not beckon in that way.

Oh, yes, they can, warrior of the Fiana. There are eyes that can beckon, and there are eyes that can eat your soul …

Lugh thought they might be in some way travelling under water now, and he remembered that in all of the tales, the sidh dwelled beneath the ocean, and lived in the cool green water caves, and sometimes came out and sang their gentle seductive music and lured unsuspecting humans down into the caves’ depths. And then he thought that it was not water they were travelling through but sky; a huge expanding infinity of sky, fold upon fold of it opening up before him.

We are below the oceans and beyond the skies, warrior of the Fiana … we are beyond the bounds of infinity and into the starlit worlds that are forbidden to humans. There are many worlds, and there are many creatures … Man is not the only creature, warrior of the Fiana. You shall see our world, and we shall not let you leave it ever again …

And then the lights were changing, and Lugh glimpsed the roaring ocean beneath them, and saw the cave openings, and quite suddenly they were there, in the cold green caves, and they were going down and down, and surely they were going to the earth’s centre, only that it was so cold, and people had always told how the earth’s centre would be hot …

But the caves were cool and rather clammy and damp feeling. It was not the least bit dangerous, and Lugh was not the smallest bit frightened, but on the contrary, very interested. To be sure, he could have done without the cold, but that had to be expected, because the sidh were chill faery beings, they had the cold inhuman blood of the Elven King’s people in them, and you had to expect that their dwelling place would be cold. And there was sufficient light to see by; there was a soft green waterlight rippling on the walls.

Lugh was not afraid, dear goodness, of course he was not! He would tell all this as a very good adventure when he got back. Ah, they’d all have to look to him after this. Anyone at all could ride on Tara and drive out Medoc, but no one in the world had been to the sidh caves and returned to tell of it.

Even so, the caves were chill and rather eerie. There was the sound of the ocean somewhere over their heads, and there was the sound of singing in the water as well.

The music of the waters., Fiana warrior … we make it and we preserve it, and we pour it back into the world for your people to enjoy. But we have to take from you before we can give, human, we have to take human senses to make it … Sight, hearing, touch, taste, smell … which shall YOU give to us, Fiana warrior …?

The sidh’s voices were whispery and really rather nasty. Lugh did not know when he had heard anything quite so nasty, in fact. You could discount pretty much of everything they said, and Lugh would discount it. Even so, you could not discount the fact that the sidh were here, in the cold green tunnels, and that they were beckoning and luring, and pulling so that you did not have much choice but to follow them.

And the light was not as good as Lugh had thought. It was rather dim as a matter of fact; a few good stout candles would not have come amiss, or one or two well-placed wall brackets. Lugh would have brought his lantern with him if there had been time. It was a good lantern, fashioned from horn, with a hole cut in it for the lighted candle to shine through. You could not beat a good strong lantern flare in a dim cave. It showed you where you were going. It would have stopped Lugh treading on the small, twig-like objects beneath his feet. This was in fact quite as horrid as the sidh’s whispery voices, because every time he moved, the twig-like things crunched, or sometimes they disintegrated, and a tiny cloud of evil-smelling very dry dust stirred.

Bone dust, Fiana warrior … the bones of all the humans who have ventured into our world. With every step you are scattering the bones of your fellow creatures …

But we shall gather it all up for our music, Fiana warrior, for there is no part of a human that we cannot use in our music. Which is it to be for YOU … Eyes, ears, tongue, lips, skin …?

This was all becoming very disconcerting. Lugh was not precisely frightened, but he did begin to wonder whether it had been an altogether wise decision to follow the sidh. If there had been more light instead of this absurd green dimness, he would have felt considerably better. He would certainly have felt very much braver.

And then, without the least warning, there was light of the most dazzling degree. Lugh moved a bit uncertainly, the sidh pushing him forward. He felt his sight blur and his senses swim.

Opening in front of him was a great silver-blue cavern, and directly ahead of him, seated on a massive carved silver throne, watching him from narrow turquoise eyes, was the Elven King.

*

Lugh knew exactly what they were going to do to him now, because you could not live in Ireland without hearing the stories about the sidh.

They stole any one of the five senses to weave into the music. It was this, said the stories, that made their music so beautiful and eerie and unearthly. It was this that made it so powerful, so that humans could not resist it, said people, and told how you should never look on a sidh.

And now, here was Lugh, standing in the sidh’s water caves, actually in the Elven King’s silver cavern, entirely at their mercy. There did not seem to be any escape, although if one was to be found, Lugh would be the man to find it, of course. He wished he was not remembering every grisly tale ever told about these creatures; how they tore out Men’s eyes and their tongues; how they took their time in doing it …

It flickered across his mind, rather wildly, that this was just the occasion for a bit of a speech, but no words rose to his lips, and then he remembered that he might not have any lips quite soon, and he might not have any tongue either, and he felt so sick that he did not think he could have spoken anyway.

Aillen mac Midha regarded him from his brilliant inhuman eyes, and Lugh shivered, because the creature was cold, so cold that you could freeze to death standing here.

The Elven King smiled, and it was a terrible and beautiful smile, cold and merciless, and yet with some kind of understanding in it. Lugh had the feeling that Aillen mac Midha saw right through to his soul (if you believed in souls, that was), and that he did not much like what he was seeing.

“I do not like it,” said the Elven King, and Lugh saw, as they had all seen outside of Folaim, the words take substance and lie on the air, like silver filaments of thread.

“I do not like what I see,” said Aillen mac Midha again. “I see that you have been a traitor to your kind, Fiana warrior.”

Lugh started to say that he had not been any such thing, not a bit of it, and the Elven King raised one slender hand for silence.

“You intrigued with the dark necromancer, Medoc, to kill the Prince,” he said, “and therefore you are no friend to the Queen.”

Put like that, it sounded really much worse than it had been. Lugh started to explain, because weren’t the Longhands faithful and true, every one of them, but Aillen mac Midha forestalled him again.

“We are constantly hunting in your world for victims,” said the Elven King, “for it is only by luring humans to our caves, and taking their senses and their souls, that we can survive. A question of practicality, you understand? It is a war that has long since raged, and both sides know the rules.” Never look on the sidh …

Aillen mac Midha smiled the eldritch smile as if he had heard Lugh’s thoughts with ease.

“We could have taken any one of you from Medoc’s Dark Slumber,” he said. “And to take at least one was necessary, for if we were to dissolve the evil Enchantment he had spun, there had to be a price.”

A price … and Lugh would pay it.

“We took you” said Aillen mac Midha, “because we knew that you had murder in your heart for the Prince. And we are constrained to protect Ireland’s Royal House, Fiana warrior. We spun the Enchantment about him when he was born in secrecy to the Queen, and we have watched him and guarded him ever since. Did you really think,” said the Elven King, “that we should allow anything to stand in the way of the Prince and his rightful inheritance?”

His rightful inheritance: Tara.

“He has yet to fight Medoc,” said Aillen mac Midha, “and we cannot tell whether he will be victorious, for he is younger than we would have liked, and Medoc and the Twelve Lords are more powerful than they were at his birth.” The narrow glittering eyes regarded Lugh with the pitiless stare of a predator. “But, the Prince must be given every opportunity,” said Aillen mac Midha. “We have removed his enemies before now, and we are removing you.” And you will lose one of your senses to us, Fiana warrior, and you will go into our music, and our music will he poured back into the world. True immortality, human … you will not quite die. We shall use every part of you and you will not quite die …

The Elven King remained perfectly motionless, perched on the massive, elaborate silver throne. But his eyes were watchful, and there was a wariness about him.

At length, he said, “You are well come to our world, human,” and paused and smiled. “But you know our laws.”

Any one of the five senses …

Lugh gulped and found nothing to say, and Aillen mac Midha smiled again and lifted his left hand.

The sidh surged forward, avid and writhing.

“One of his senses,” said Aillen mac Midha softly. “Which shall it be?”

And then, into the silence that followed, during which Lugh could hear the singing of the ocean above them, and could hear as well the faint, far-off chanting of the sidh’s music, the Elven King said very gently, “We will take his sense of touch.

“Peel his skin off. Flay him.”

Lugh did not escape. Immediately Aillen mac Midha had pronounced sentence, the sidh whipped about his arms and his legs, pinioning him so firmly that he could not move, twining their silken arms about him, and then stripping his clothes from him, so that at last he stood naked and trembling before them.

Silvery laughter filled the cavern now.

A poor specimen … we should have taken the eagle one, Majesty. This one will not enrich our music …

“Nevertheless,” said Aillen mac Midha in his silvern voice, “we have him, and he is our prize for dissolving the necromancer’s spell. And he is a traitor to his own kind, and for that alone he must die. Do what you will.”

The laughter rang out again, and now Lugh could see the sidh as clearly as ever a man had seen them; he could see them in their blue and green faery garb; cold and terrible, but so beautiful and so alluring that he knew the sight would stay with him forever.

Forever is a long time, human … Let us say, throughout Eternity …

The twining arms had become sharp and pointed now; hundreds of slender gleaming knives and pins that would slide beneath his skin. He felt the coldness of steel, and knew it could not be steel in fact, and he tried to struggle, but the silken cords held him down. He tried to cry out for help, for surely there would be someone, but the knives and pins were already beginning their work …

Pain began to explode all over his body in dozens of different places, and there was the feeling of slivers of light penetrating his skin. He thought they had started with his fingertips, and he experienced the truly sickening pain of having every fingernail bent backwards, far, far back until the nail was ripped out, and his fingers were a mass of raw agony.

He dared not look, for he knew he would see his fingers being stripped of their skin, and he could feel the white-hot knives sliding deeper and farther up his hands and then his arms.

He thought he must surely be bleeding in hundreds of places now, but when he caught sight of the floor, there was no blood, only a trickle of colourless fluid, seeping on to the ground beneath him.

The sidh were surging closer now, pressing in on him, and he tried to cry out, but the pain was smothering him, and he was drowning in the blue and green smoke and in the glinting eyes of the Elven King.

More, more, human. Give us your sense of touch … You will not need it, we will strengthen our music with it …

There was a dreadful thin tearing sound now, and the pain was searing his arms and covering his shoulders and his neck. He dared not look down now because, if he did, he might see raw flesh, muscle, bone …

A part of him still unaffected by the pain became aware that the sidh were slitting his body now, laughing and swooping down on him, beginning to pull back the skin of his chest.

He was screaming with the torment and the cruelty of it now, for surely, surely, there must be someone who would come to help him; it was not to be thought of that he should die like this, in these terribly lonely caves, at the hands of these cold faery creatures …

His entire body was a raw open wound, and he felt a dreadful slithering sound, and he knew that the internal organs held in place by skin were shifting, and that if he moved and if the sidh cut any deeper, his insides would slither on to the floor, and when that happened he would be lost and these creatures would devour his soul, and he would be soulless, lost forever.

There was a final wrenching pain, and he shuddered and cried out, and merciful blackness began to descend on him like great smothering folds, and the caves were receding, and the world was spinning, and the pain was fading and soon, soon he would feel them cut his soul free and cast it into the Prison of Hostages …

The Elven King sat watching from the carved silver throne, resting his chin on one hand, his eyes thoughtful.

It was some little time before he saw the soul emerge at the hands of the sidh, and stand before the silver throne, its head bowed humbly.

Aillen mac Midha said softly, “The soul of a traitor. I think we have no use for it.” And then, nodding to the waiting sidh, “Cast it into the River of Souls,” he said, “there to await rescue or the end of the world.”

He stood up and walked slowly to where the wet, formless thing that had been Lugh of the Longhand lay.

“A traitor,” he said again. “But he has served a purpose for us.” And then, giving himself a shake, he turned back to the waiting sidh.

“We must return to the world,” he said in his silvered voice. “For the Wolfqueen’s battle is not yet won.

“And the Lost Prince is still in the most terrible danger.”

*

As Fergus walked slowly and rather unsteadily across the grass, a great wave of delight washed over the watchers. As Bee was to say later, it was a truly remarkable moment.

The Captain of the High Queen’s Fiana; the warrior and fighter and lover, reputed to have been Her Majesty’s lover some years ago, reported as having lain with most of the women at Court, had returned. Amongst the soldiers, there was a great surge of confidence, and a feeling of: Now it will be all right. Now we shall be able to rout Medoc and restore the Wolfqueen. They began to cheer, and then fell quickly silent again without quite knowing why. Nearby, the Beastline creatures and the Cruithin stood very still and waited and watched Fergus approach. Dishevelled, exhausted looking, he was no different, and yet entirely different. The people nearest to him, one of whom was Tybion the Tusk, had the impression that although Fergus was back with them, he was not fully back with them. Tybion, who held Fergus in reverence, thought it was as if Fergus had experienced something so vast and so terrible and so truly awesome that he would never quite be able to be fully in the ordinary world again.

Fergus walked alone down the hillside, knowing that Taliesin and Annabel and the boys were deliberately keeping back, and feeling grateful to them for it. They did not fully understand, but they understood enough to know that this rejoining of his people, this reclaiming his army, was something precious and private and solemn. He stood still and felt the night wind lift his hair, and he looked at the waiting armies and the Cruithin, and felt an angry ache rise up within him. For, this is not how I wanted it! he thought. This is not the homecoming I visualised! He had wanted to come riding back in triumph, leading the boys, certainly with Taliesin and Annabel close by; riding at the head of them all, ready to topple Medoc, sure of a great victory.

And Grainne. He had always thought, in his visualising, that she would be there, watching, welcoming him back. She would have come running to him, her hands outstretched. Wouldn’t she?

She was not here. He knew it before his eyes had taken in the fact that she was not with them, and panic seized him. Had he, after all, endured so much and come so far for it all to be to no avail? Had Medoc taken her?

He stood looking at them all, absorbing the picture they made — the waiting armies, the creatures of the Beastline. Fergus paused at that, studying them, understanding at a level of his mind that was still detached that the Lost Enchantment was in truth awoken. I shall feel great joy at that some time soon, he thought. But for the moment, he could only think that Grainne was not here.

For a very long time, no one spoke. Fintan and Cermait said afterwards that Fergus had looked deeply happy, and then looked unsure of this, but Tybion the Tusk said quite positively that Fergus had looked unbearably sad. And while no one paid this much heed, because Tybion was always ascribing emotions to people who had probably not experienced any emotion at all, it was generally felt that Fergus had somehow changed.

“Although I could not say in what way,” said Fintan.

“He’s known trouble,” said Cathbad solemnly, shaking his head. “My word, he’ll have a few tales to recount. We’ll be able to gather round and hear them, I expect. Cinnamon wine and honey biscuits,” said Cathbad, nodding, because you could not tell a good tale without some kind of sustenance.

Annabel stayed where she was, at Taliesin’s side, and saw Fergus approach the strange beings, and felt the remarkable enchantment of this blue and turquoise twilit land close a little more firmly about her, and felt the bleak stark world of the Drakon move a little farther back from her mind. She thought that very soon this world would cease to be strange and unfamiliar to her; she stood looking at the creatures assembled in the clearing and knew that she would come to know them, every one of them, and that some of them would become close to her.

This is the true Ireland, thought Annabel, a spring of complete contentment welling up inside her. This is the heart and the core, and it is so wonderful and so beautiful and so brimful of elusive enchantments that the air all about us is alive and thrumming. Her eyes went to the Cruithin, silent and alert, their eyes bright, and she saw that these small dark people were surely the ancient fey beings of legend and lore: human, but possessed of their own gentle woodland magic. Behind the Cruithin were the soldiers, and Annabel’s eyes widened because, for all her world’s fighting talk, for all its vainglory, and its history of war and battle, she had never come anywhere near to seeing the true trappings of war. Death or glory … yes, I can believe that people really did say that and think that, thought Annabel.

And then she looked to where the Beastline stood, and her eyes went from Bee, watchful and quiet, to Rinnal, whose head was tilted, and then to the others, the Beastline of the Chariot Horses and the Beavers and the White Swans. And Raynor, a little apart as always, his hair a golden cap, the dying bonfire glinting on his golden skin. She experienced delightful recognition. I have never seen such creatures. I know I have never seen them. But I know them from dreams, thought Annabel. From legends and race-memory. I never dared believe they existed, and yet I never ceased to hope that they did exist somewhere.

The remains of Cathbad’s fire burned up suddenly, sending a gentle glow on to the night, and sending sweet-scented smoke across the clearing. Fergus walked into the centre of them all and stood looking at them.

And then his eyes went to Raynor.

It was the most extraordinary moment anyone had ever witnessed. The two figures stood very still, looking at one another, and to the watchers it seemed that something very singular and very unusual was passing between them. One or two people felt distinctly uneasy, because didn’t they all of them know about Her Majesty and Raynor and the nights inside the Grail Castle, and weren’t they all beginning to look on Raynor as Grainne’s consort. And very suitable as well, they had all thought. But then after all, this was Fergus, the Fiana’s Captain, and if no one had known for sure that there had once been something between Grainne and Fergus, most people had guessed. It was to be hoped that this meeting would not be an awkward one, and it was to be hoped, as well, that nobody lost sight of the fact that whichever of them the Queen finally ended up with, she had still to be rescued from Medoc’s hands, and that pretty quickly as well.

Tybion the Tusk had been dashing about trying to marshal everyone into some kind of order, because there was no time to be lost, but even he stopped and stood stockstill and looked at Fergus and Raynor, and was thrilled to the depths of his romantic soul. He would have been hard put to have said which of the two he admired the more, or which of the two he was trying to visualise next to Grainne on Tara’s High Throne.

At last, Fergus said, “I give you courteous greeting,” and everyone relaxed a little, because this was rather an ancient but very chivalrous salutation.

Raynor, his eyes wary, said, in the same polite tone, “You are well come, Captain, and timely returned,” and people began to feel better, because both of them were exchanging ancient and extremely honourable words of greeting.

Fergus glanced at the assembled company, and the waiting soldiers, and a rather bleak smile touched his face. “You appear to be held in some esteem by everyone,” he said, and the listeners looked up in alarm, because there was the faintest challenge in Fergus’s voice.

Fergus felt the alarm that rippled through them and understood at once. But he stayed where he was, and he watched the golden eyes in front of him, and thought, Yes, the others are waiting to see what will take place here. Because there is something between Grainne and this one? I do not know it, not for sure, thought Fergus, but I can feel that there is something. Grainne, my dear lost love, is this the one I shall lose you to?

Raynor said with deliberation, “Were you thinking I have taken your place, Captain? You must surely know that I could never do that.” And looked at Fergus with his straight golden stare. “That would be impossible,” he said.

“You are generous,” said Fergus, and a smile touched his lips.

“I have learned to recognise facts, Captain.” There was a sudden unconscious arrogance in Raynor’s voice, and Fergus felt the pain twist like a knife-thrust in his heart because, for sure, this was the one who had supplanted him with Grainne. This strange golden creature, neither quite human nor quite eagle. So this was her choice. This was the one who would rule Ireland at her side. He does not yet know it, thought Fergus, but I know it, and the others know it as well. He has authority and integrity, and that curious blend of gentleness and strength and imperiousness. I have lost Grainne to him, and I think I shall lose Ireland to him as well.

This is going to hurt, thought Fergus. This is going to hurt more than I thought possible. I think I shall bear the pain for a long time to come. And then without warning, he thought, But will I? and a tiny greenshoot of hope uncurled. Am I not already through the whirlwind, and am I not already through the tempest, and have I not already found the eye of the storm? And I always knew that I could never have Ireland, thought Fergus. I always knew that.

The eye of the storm, the centre of the maelstrom … I am not quite there yet, thought Fergus, still looking at Raynor. Not quite yet, my dear precious girl.

But I shall let you go, my lady, my love, and I shall pretend, and the world will never know what has happened to me, and I think that in time the pretence will grow into reality.

He moved then, and touched Raynor on the left shoulder, in the customary gesture of friendship and acceptance. He saw Raynor smile, and he saw that there was acknowledgment in the smile, and understanding.

The watchers relaxed, and nodded to one another, and began to feel safe, because Fergus was back with them, the Fiana’s head was in their midst again, and he would lead them in the battle against Medoc and the Dark Lords, and surely, surely, with such an army, they could not fail to be victorious?

But would it be in time to save the Queen?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

As moonlight silvered the Sun Chamber and lit the scene to eerie life, Grainne and Erin, bound and helpless, watched Medoc return, the Dark Lords and Damnaithe walking in procession behind him. Grainne saw that Medoc’s eyes were glowing, and she felt a cold, dark evil emanating from him.

He stood at the exact centre of the Sun Chamber, at the heart of the curious pointed symbols and carvings etched into the floor. In the uncertain light, Grainne thought that she could have believed the floor to be of solid silver, and at once Medoc turned to regard her.

Silver indeed, my dear, for the sorcerers have always known the power of precious metals.

Behind him was the great dais, where once the Ancient Throne of Niall of the Nine Hostages had stood, and where the great Cormac of the Wolves had held court, and where Dierdriu had entertained lovers and diplomats and travellers. Where once Grainne herself had held court for a few short months.

The Dark Star of Necromancy gleamed on Medoc’s breast, sending out spears of light, so that he appeared to be at the heart of a gathering darkness, with a nimbus of light all about him. The Lad of the Skins crouched at his feet, neither quite in nor quite out of the silver light, his dark eyes huge and watchful, and Damnaithe stood with her eyes fixed on Medoc.

Medoc threw back his head and held out his hands, palms upwards in the age-old gesture. Grainne, who had seen the sorcerers and occasionally the Druids do this, knew at once that Medoc was drawing down power, that he was harnessing and channelling the force poured into Tara at the very beginning by the first sorcerers, and by the sidh who had known that Tara must be protected from the Dark Ireland.

The power would not be the gentle, safe, pure blue force of the strong and good enchantments, but the terrible force of the necromancer. As they watched, the light surrounding Medoc became darker, shot with crimson, and Grainne felt a chill enter her heart, for this was in truth the dark and cold evil that would summon Crom Croich, and that would eventually destroy Tara once and for ever.

The Lad of the Skins was silent, but the Twelve Lords had moved, and Grainne saw Damnaithe turn to watch them, and clasp her hands tightly together with lascivious anticipation. The Lords took up a stance around the walls, as if they were sentinels surrounding Medoc. And where before there had been emptiness, a void behind the dark visors, now something was stirring … Damnaithe shivered with pleasure, and began to prowl round the walls, peering into the visors, stroking the dark armour. From where she lay, Grainne could not see directly into the visors, but she knew that behind every one, eyes would be opening.

The Twelve Dark Lords were waking …

With the thought came the names Grainne had sought to remember earlier and been unable to. Now, staring at the figures, she did remember; she knew every one of them, and their names tumbled into her mind as easily and as clearly as if they had been written on the Sun Chamber’s floor.

Debauchery. Lust. Greed. Decadence. Selfishness. Conceit. Perversion. Jealousy. Hatred. Deceit. Vice. Avarice.

All there. All here now inside the dark lair of the necromancer. The Twelve Evils. The Twelve Wickednesses. The sins of Men and the evils personified …

They were becoming more solid and more alive every minute, and Grainne could feel the evil lying on the air now, tangible and real, clotting the Sun Chamber and curdling the shadows, so that you could easily believe that creatures lurked in every corner, and that eyes peered at you from the darkness.

Damnaithe was still moving round the Sun Chamber, occasionally pausing before one of the Dark Lords, running her hands over the unyielding surface of the armour, shuddering with animal lust. Grainne, watching, saw Damnaithe move now upright and now on all fours, and saw the slavering cruel features of a ravening wolf again.

Yes, she is more wolfish than ever I believed it possible, but it is the evil, merciless side of the wolf … Grainne glanced to where Erin still sat quietly at her side, and remembered that they too possessed the same strange blood, and for the first time was afraid of her inheritance.

For this mad ravening creature is my mother, and this evil dark lord is my father …

She would not remember it. She would see these two for what they were, and she would see Medoc as beautiful but corrupt and steeped in evil and in vice.

If they are evil, then surely we are strong and good …

The thought sliced into her mind like a spear of light, and she knew it was Erin, and confidence returned.

And if we can but call up the Wolves of Tara we shall surely be safe …

Can we do it? said Grainne silently, and at once came the response, swift and sure, and with a child’s conviction, that if you believe strongly enough you can do anything in the world.

Yes! Yes, we can do it!

I do believe, thought Grainne. It is our only chance. And then: But even if we can do it, will it be in time? And will it be enough without the army? For we are still alone here. Raynor and the others are far away on the cold hillside of Folaim, held in Medoc’s evil bewitchment. And Fergus is trapped somewhere between this world and that of the Future … Grainne spared a thought for Fergus, whom she might never see again, and knew that if he had been able to come to her, he would certainly have done so long since.

There had been no news of his quest, and surely he would have returned if he could. There was a rather terrible pain at the thought that Fergus might be dead, but it was not something she could yet give attention to. There would be time to grieve when Medoc was defeated … Only let Fergus be all right, prayed her mind. Let him be all right somewhere, and oh please, please let him be able to know Erin.

Erin, the One True Future King …

He caught that, of course, and there was a flare of amusement. Not for a very long time, madam … you have many years left …

And despite the danger and despite the nearness of Medoc, Grainne knew a swift sharp delight, because of all the things Erin might have turned out to be, he was turning out to be brave and filled with the reckless charm of his great-great-grandfather. He might be Cormac born again, thought Grainne.

The Sun Chamber was becoming suffused with the heavy reddish light that Medoc was drawing down, and he was bathed in the crimson glow, a slender figure, silhouetted against the coruscating light. Grainne, unable to take her eyes from him now, was conscious of a deep, secret fascination. I am witnessing a necromancer calling up the Dark Ireland. I am seeing things which no High Queen of Tara has ever seen before. And this is my father …

It was a thought to be shaken off at once, and also to be shaken off was the sudden wish to know more, to explore the strange shadow realm where Medoc ruled …

The Dark Lords were with them in reality now. Grainne could feel it, even had Damnaithe not been watching them with a dreadful, frenzied exultation. There was a thickening of the air, a sluggishness in the shadows, and there was the miasma of ancient corruption, and of an old, old evil.

Sinister and quite terrifyingly alluring …

Grainne drew in a deep breath. As she did so, Medoc turned to look at her, and a slow smile touched the corners of his mouth. He knows, thought Grainne, staring at him. He knows what I am feeling …

And then something light and pure and swift stirred at the corners of her mind, and she knew it again for Erin, Fergus’s son, calling to her, sending out to the Samhailt.

The Wolves … Help me … I cannot do it alone …

But will they be strong enough? cried Grainne in silent anguish. Can they defeat all of this?

Medoc had stopped chanting now, and was standing motionless. Grainne thought that even so, even silent and unmoving, authority and power still poured outwards from him. She thought that if he beckoned to her now she would not be able to resist. She would walk to stand before him, and she would do his bidding …

The nearest of the Twelve Lords moved then; he stepped forward and bowed his head in obeisance.

“You called to me, Master. I am here.”

“Speak your name.”

“I am Debauchery,” said the voice from inside the black armour, and Grainne shuddered, because there was a thick, treacly, knowing timbre to it. You felt that the owner of the voice would find nothing too revolting and no action too disgusting.

“I walk the streets by night,” said the voice from within the armour. “I take my prey from the young and innocent. I am sexual excess and I am forbidden appetite. There is nothing I will not do to indulge my senses.”

“Who is your Master?”

“You are my Master, and I serve Crom Croich,” said the Lord.

“It is well,” said Medoc. “Take your place.” As the Lord of Debauchery stepped back, the next Lord came forward, and again Medoc said, “Speak your name.”

“I am Perversion,” said the second Lord, and his voice was soft and rather horribly intimate. You could easily imagine lying in bed in the dark and hearing a voice like this whisper dreadful suggestions in your ear. Grainne shuddered, and the Lord of Perversion went on. “I take my prey from the dark and warped side of Men’s natures,” he said, and now there was a caressing note to his voice, and there was the same knowing note as well, as if he, like the Lord of Debauchery, could see into the dark corners of Men’s natures, and see their most secret fantasies. “In my sway,” said the Lord of Perversion, “men and women perform every obscenity ever imagined. I am responsible for men desiring men and women desiring women. I am responsible for men mating with animals, and for the inflicting of pain for sexual pleasure. The sins committed in my name are many and varied, and my followers are legion.”

“Who is your Master?”

“You are my Master,” said the Lord of Perversion, “and I serve Crom Croich.” And again Medoc said, “It is well. Take your place,” and the Lord took the second place next to the Lord of Debauchery. As he did so, Damnaithe, who was crouching on the floor next to the Lord of Debauchery, reared up and embraced him, writhing against the hardness of the carapace, her head thrown back. Grainne stared and felt horrified, but felt, as well, a rather terrible pity, for surely the creature was only like this because of Medoc’s enchantments and Medoc’s beckoning spells, and because of what she had seen in her sojourn in the Dark Realm.

One by one, the Twelve Lords came forward now, and one by one they answered to Medoc, and gave their names, and swore their allegiance.

Hatred: vicious-sounding and angry, so that Grainne knew that behind the visor would be red glaring eyes and teeth and claws … Selfishness: cold and hard, so that you knew the Lord would have small narrow eyes and a tight, mean mouth; he would be vain and self-absorbed and self-indulgent.

Decadence came next, weary-sounding, and although his eyes were in shadow, you knew they would be as old as sin, as if they had seen everything there was to see. Grainne found the Lord of Decadence very horrid indeed; he made her think of thin pale-visaged gentlemen who reclined on comfortable chairs and sipped good wine, and watched while nubile young girls were paraded before them. When the Lord of Decadence said, in his bored voice, “Master, my appetites are jaded and surfeited, and it is the task of my followers to explore ways to rouse me,” Grainne knew that the image had been a true one. When Decadence took his place, Damnaithe flung herself on the floor in front of him, pulling her ragged skirts up above her waist, caressing herself obscenely with stiff jabbing fingers. Grainne, repulsed but unable to look away, saw the visored head tilt consideringly, and caught the red glint of interest from the half-concealed eyes.

Jealousy was called after Decadence; particularly horrid, with hungry eyes and grasping hands, and a smothering voice. And Deceit: sly and slimy and furtive. He would lure you into giving him your trust, and then betray you and hurt you quite dreadfully.

Avarice and Lust and Conceit came next. Conceit was remote and patronising, and faced with him you would feel every drop of confidence you had ever possessed drain away. He would make you feel small and silly, and he would certainly humiliate you.

To each of them, Medoc said, “It is well. Take your place,” and at length the Twelve Lords were ranged around the Sun Chamber, still silent and watchful, but no longer empty suits of armour. Ancient evil emanated from every one of them, and the Sun Chamber glowed with heavy dark enchantments, and old, almost-forgotten sorcery. Grainne, half lying, half sitting in the corner where she and Erin had been flung, thought that it was becoming difficult to breathe.

Medoc held out his hands once more, and the shadows slithered and there was a rather dreadful wet creeping sound, as if something was stirring in the farthest corners, and Grainne, her arms about Erin now, thought that it was easy to imagine that something sinuous and snake-like was forming in the corners and slithering towards them.

And then the shadows solidified, and there was no doubt any longer what Medoc was summoning.

The stench of rotting fish was in their nostrils, and there was a harsh snapping sound, like horn on bone, and there was a grating laugh.

Grainne turned her head slowly, because this was the worst yet, even though she had known there would be no escaping it. If Crom Croich was to be called up, Medoc would certainly need his terrible servant to assist him in the ritual.

As Grainne searched the shadows, there was a movement, lurching, loping. The shadows parted, and the something solidified, and the moonlight shifted, so that they saw it clearly. There was a sly darting movement and the snapping grating laughter came again.

Here I am, Master … You called to me and I returned from the Far Future, from the Mountain Halls …

The Conablaiche was in the Sun Chamber with them.

As soon as Grainne saw it, she knew that Medoc was having difficulty in controlling it. And for sure, this was not the furtive hungry creature of darkness; it was not the shadowy legend who prowled the cobbled streets of Ireland’s remote villages and hill farms after nightfall to snatch up sleeping children and offer them to Crom Croich. This was no midnight shadow, no creeping furtive servant. This was a monster, rampant and lusting for blood; a dreadful being, a ghoul, a nightmare apparition, raging and greedy and very nearly uncontrollable. It loped across the Sun Chamber, and stood before Medoc, a great hulking shape with shreds of flesh clinging to its skeletal figure, and fragments of skin adhering to its talons. It dripped with the blood and the juices of its victims, and it was hungry and salivating. Grainne saw that it had only one eye; that the other was in some way damaged; it hung from the eye-socket on a dreadful string of raw red muscle, and the creature pawed at this from time to time, as if trying to thrust it back into its terrible skull.

For the space of a heartbeat, Grainne and Erin both thought it would fall on Medoc, and they waited, hardly daring to breathe. But Medoc went forward at once, walking in a circle about the creature, intoning a spell, and Grainne saw the Conablaiche hesitate. It did not flinch, but the single eye became watchful and, although it made clawing movements with its gristly arms, it did not move nearer.

Medoc stood looking at it for a moment before appearing satisfied that the creature was penned in the circle he had made. He returned to the centre of the Sun Chamber, and light began to glow from the carvings at his feet. He again threw back his head and stretched out his arms, and crimson-tinged light streamed from him. There was a deep, far-off thrumming, and the air shivered. A vast coldness crept over the Sun Chamber, and Grainne knew at once that it was the great chill of an enormous approaching evil.

Heartchill, bonechill, and you will never be warm again. Crom Croich is drawing near …

Grainne drew Erin closer to her for warmth, even though she knew that the terrible cold could not be fought.

For Crom Croich was struggling for rebirth into the world of Men …

The Sun Chamber was pulsating with horrid life now; the crimson light was throbbing rhythmically as if a giant heart was beating, or as if something great and powerful was striving for life.

Crom Croich, entering the world of Men again, taking on the substance of flesh …

And then Medoc moved aside, and on the spot where he had been standing, at the exact point that the sorcerers and the sidh had created the enchantments that were to have held Tara safe, something was materialising.

At first Grainne thought it was only the gathering of more shadows, and then she thought it was something a bit more than that. Medoc began to chant, and the light throbbed and pulsated faster, and the thing was forming …

A wet glistening sack, repulsive and amorphous. A giant cocoon, shivering with movement from within, pulsating and twitching, wet and raw and slimed. Not quite flesh and not quite spirit. It reared up before them, a lumpish column, a giant chrysalis, growing stronger and more incarnate with every minute.

Crom Croich, reborn into the world of Men …

Very softly, Erin said, “What is it? What are we witnessing?” and Grainne, unable to look away from the heaving, panting thing before them, said, “The birth of a god.”

The thing was nearly twenty feet high now; it was a living pulsing sack that might at any minute burst open and vomit forth the dreadful monster-god.

The cocoon was heaving spasmodically now and the pale sack was beginning to split in places. Rivulets of a thick, not quite colourless fluid oozed out and seeped on to the floor of the Sun Chamber.

The birth of a god …

The Twelve Lords had moved silently, and were surrounding the creature now, the dark miasma of their presence hanging on the air. They were chanting the god’s name in steady, measured tones.

Crom Croich … Crom Croich …

The creature was taking a shape now; rudimentary arms were sprouting from the upper portions of the glistening sack, and stump-like legs protruded from the lower. There was a bulge at the highest point that would be a head in minutes, and there were bulbous excrescences that would become eyes …

Crom Croich, the word made flesh …

The Conablaiche was cawing and scrabbling at the floor with its claws, and eyeing the birthing greedily, and the Lad of the Skins was grinning in his corner, his lips wet and greedy, his teeth gleaming with saliva that ran down his chin. He slewed his eyes round to where Grainne and Erin lay helpless.

Soon to be in my hands …

The giant embryo was forming. The rudimentary shoulders and legs were rudimentary no longer. The god was being born before their eyes. Shoulders, arms; thighs and legs and feet. A thick neck. Pendulous features and slit-like eyes. The birth sack was splitting more fully now; there was a wet pulpy noise, a glutinous sucking sound, and from within the birth sack came a stronger and much more definite movement than anything that had gone before. The birthsack was disintegrating; in another minute, Crom Croich would stand before them, newly born, terrible, greedy, demanding sacrifice …

As Grainne and Erin half lay, half knelt in their corner, Medoc turned and walked with slow deliberation to the waiting Throne, the famous and symbolic seat of power, the Seat of every High King and Queen of Tara, from the first ruler of all, whom some called the cursed Queen, through the great Niall of the Nine Hostages, and Nuadu Airgetlam of the Silver Arm, down through the reckless charming Cor-mac, and Dierdriu, until it had come down to Grainne, whom some had called Grainne the Gentle.

And once that was my Throne, and once I held Court here, and now Medoc occupies it, and if I am remembered at all, it will be as the Queen who was defeated by the Dark Ireland, and who was sacrificed to Crom Croich. And I shall die, and Erin will die, and Fergus will never have known him, and Raynor will be for ever alone, and Tara will be lost, and Ireland will be lost, and everything my people have done will all be in vain.

And then, without warning, certainly without understanding, something pierced her mind, and she half turned her head to look at Erin. Something white and silvery and as pure and as clear as spring water, and as strong and as beautiful as crystal …

Erin’s thought-forms came clearly into her mind.

The Wolves … you must help me …

Grainne felt the silver light flooding her mind, and she half closed her eyes, and wrapped her consciousness all about it and, quite suddenly, she could sense it all, she could see the long slender twining cord that would reach out and circle the wolves, and bring them back to Tara.

The silver cord that never breaks …

Strength poured into her, and she knew it for Erin’s strength, and then there was a brief flare of awareness, and Grainne thought, I believe it is working! and felt the silver cord thicken, and felt the distant response.

And then Erin said, very softly, “Listen. Do you hear?"

And Grainne looked at him, her eyes shining, because she had heard, and it was the one sound she had never believed she would hear again.

The howling of wolves.

*

Nobody in the Queen’s armies, or in the ranks of the Cruithin or the Beastline, had dared to ask themselves if they would be in time to rescue the Queen, but every single person assembled on the moonlit hills outside Folaim thought it. Medoc had the Queen, he had imprisoned her inside the Bright Palace, and he had surrounded her with his own darkness. It was all very well to tell each other that Medoc was a gentleman, and he would treat Her Majesty with courtesy; you could be courteous and gentlemanly at one and the same moment you were cutting out somebody’s heart. Fintan said he could have wished that that particular example had not been used, because it conjured up nightmarish memories of Crom Croich and the Conablaiche, but Cermait said stoutly that this was nonsense; nobody, not even Medoc, would really consider reviving the cult of Crom Croich. But he looked doubtful and he followed it up by saying that they ought to be setting off right away.

Fergus had taken up his old position at the head of the waiting armies, but it was noticed by everyone that Raynor was close at his side. Dorrainge said, in his cold-fish way, that Fergus and Raynor would not get on, because they were no more alike than turnips and threadworms, but everyone knew that, beneath the skin, Fergus and Raynor were of the same mould.

Tybion the Tusk’s romantic soul was thrilled to the core by the sight of these two remarkable creatures preparing to rescue the lady they both loved. In fact, what with the battle, and the possibility of dying gloriously for the Queen, Tybion thought that if he could have been sure of Grainne’s ultimate safety, he would have been happier than he had ever been in his entire life. But he put these thoughts resolutely aside, because he had been given the command of the Cruithin by Fergus, and this was such an honour that Tybion scarcely knew what to do with himself for delight. He found the Cruithin to be perfectly amiable and entirely obedient, so that it was as well that he did not realise that the Cruithin did not really need leading, and that Fergus was simply making Tybion feel useful. The Cruithin would probably do whatever they wanted to do in the battle, and since whatever they did would probably be of immense help, it was immaterial who led them. It was fortunate that Tybion did not know this.

Fintan and Cermait had decided to ride with the Beastline because, as Fintan said, coming straight from the Grail Castle, they would not be accustomed to battles, and it would be a good idea to guide them. Cermait said this was very true indeed. The Beastline did not need guiding, any more than the Cruithin, but they were all far too polite to say so.

Dorrainge had decided to bring up the rear, since the Druids were peace-loving people, and anyway, Dorrainge himself, as Second Druid, had to be a bit removed from any danger. It was important for the Second Druid not to be killed or injured; it was particularly important for him not to be killed. He did not say this, and he was going to be unobtrusive about keeping to the rear. It was to be hoped that Cathbad did not do something silly and emotional, like flinging himself into the front ranks, because this would draw down unwelcome attention to the Druids, which was not something the Druids would like.

Taliesin and Annabel had stayed a little apart, watching everything, helping Niall and Conn and the boys to sort out horses and arm themselves with swords and bows.

“Marvellous,” said Conn, grinning.

“I shall kill a very lot of enemies,” said Michael, who had been given a minuscule sword, and who was going to be kept out of the real fighting, but who did not know this.

It had not previously occurred to Annabel that you could truly fight a war by getting on to a horse and brandishing a sword and riding off crying death and destruction to the other side, even though she had read about this in the forbidden books. It would be tactful not to go around telling these people about the way wars were fought in her world, the world of the Drakon, because it would have sounded patronising. Annabel, more used to buttons being pressed, and machines being sent out over enemy territory, and screens and electronic intelligences being consulted for battle plans, was intrigued.

“This is a much more exciting way of fighting a war,” she said to Taliesin.

“Wars aren’t meant to be exciting,” said Taliesin. And then, “Or are they? Mars approaching … leaden rain and iron hail … into the tumult and the fire and the — What are you doing?”

“I’m fastening on spurs,” said Annabel, sitting on the ground and trying to inspect the soles of her boots. “I borrowed them from one of the soldiers. I expect I shall have to give them back when it’s all over, and they’re not what I’d call comfortable, but you can’t have everything in a battle. But of course, you can’t ride into battle without the proper equipment,” said Annabel firmly, because it was always as well to be firm about something you cared about, and it was not to be thought of that she should not join in the battle, this immense war charge they were all going to make on Tara, now that she was here.

Taliesin said thoughtfully, “And I daresay that ‘a pair of good spurs to a borrowed horse is better than a peck of oats.’ Do you know I find it quite remarkable how the echoes reverberate about a battlefield. I know that somebody will some day say that, because I can hear it and I can feel it, and if it has not been said already, and perhaps to better purpose, then certainly it will be said in the future. I should very much prefer you not to take part in this battle, Annabel.”

“I know that,” said Annabel, who had been expecting this.

Taliesin took both her hands, drew her aside, and looked at her very straightly. “Listen, lady,” he said, and Annabel stared at him with delight, because when Taliesin said “lady” in just that voice, it was precious and private and so filled with promise that it was very nearly impossible not to do what he wanted. Only, said Annabel to herself, the trouble is that what he wants is for me to stay safely out here in the forest and miss everything. And I will not.

“Listen,” said Taliesin, not firmly, but very carefully, “this isn’t going to be an affair of glory and excitement and galloping to victory. It isn’t an adventure, Annabel.” And stopped, and thought how ridiculous this sounded, because surely all war was an adventure of sorts. “People will get killed,” he said. “Wounded. Maimed. People will die in agony, or live in agony for hours before they do die.” He paused, and his hands tightened about hers. “And we might be defeated,” said Taliesin gently.

There was a pause. Annabel said, in rather a small voice, “Might we?”

“Medoc is the strongest necromancer ever to come out of the Dark Ireland,” said Taliesin. “And his creatures are fearsome and merciless. Fergus is not invincible.”

“Well, I won’t stay behind,” said Annabel, who had not thought about them losing the battle until this minute, but who would still not have missed any of it for a King’s ransom.

“Obstinate child,” said Taliesin. “Are we then to ride forward as if the hounds of hell were chasing us, slaying Medoc’s dark creatures as we go?”

“I shan’t get in the way,” said Annabel, who had thought it all out, and was in fact planning to ride at the rear of the Beastline people with Bee. “We thought we’d be all right there,” she said. “We don’t expect to do any actual fighting.”

“Of course not.”

“But after all, I did disable the Conablaiche,” said Annabel. “Don’t forget that I did that.”

“I do not forget,” said Taliesin. “It is only that …”

“Yes?”

He paused, and then said, very softly, “It is only that if I am to take you back with me to my house in the Street of Money Lenders, and see you curl up by the hearth, and drink wine with you, and talk to you, and find out about you …”

“Yes?” said Annabel, scarcely daring to breathe.

Taliesin smiled. “It is that I should like you whole and unmarked,” he said. And then, in a different, much more intense voice, “Oh, Annabel,” he said softly, “we are going to shut out the clamouring world, and we are going to create our own world.”

Our own world … Annabel stared at him, and saw, for a heartbeat of time, the images and the visions.

Taliesin said, “Firelit walls and an immense deep reservoir of happiness. Days spent working, nights spent together. Companionship and sharing and laughter and wine and music …”

And friends to make and worlds to explore. And Taliesin there … And I shall never be lonely again …

Annabel did not say any of this, but she reached out to touch his face with one hand, and smiled back at him.

And then Taliesin said, in a different, more practical voice, “I believe that Fergus is ready for the charge.”

*

Fergus thought he was as ready as he would ever be. He felt odd and rather unreal, as if he had not yet completely returned to the world. And cold … I think I shall never be truly warm again, he thought, and wondered if it was only the lingering coldness of the soulless, or if it was a deeper cold. I shall never properly love a woman again, ever …

He turned to face the waiting armies, and the Beastline and the lost boys, and for a moment felt that he was seeing them from a great distance, from the far end of a tunnel, from behind glass …

Now we see through a glass darkly. But then face to face.

I am seeing them through glass, thought Fergus, still looking at the rows of soldiery, and the colours and the glinting armour and the weapons and the pennants. I am seeing through a glass, but before we reach Tara, I must somehow be face to face with them …

This is where I belong, thought Fergus. After all, this is where I belong, and this is what I know. Fighting and making war and winning war. Trying to keep Ireland safe.

Ireland. Oh, yes, thought Fergus, feeling the merest breath of warm air melt the ice about his heart. Yes, after all, it is Ireland that matters.

The memory of the Prison of Hostages, and of the mountain caverns, receded a little. This is the real world, thought Fergus. This is what I understand, and this is where I belong. He saw how they watched him, and how they were waiting for his command, and he saw, as well, as clearly as if it had been drawn out in front of him, the battle plan, and the route they would take, and the way in which they would ride on Tara. He turned his horse about and surveyed them all, and without warning, light kindled in his eyes.

For I am the head of the High Queen’s Fiana, and I can lead these people to victory, and I can restore the Wolfline to Ireland. He lifted his arm in the gesture that meant Make ready and felt a shiver of anticipation go through the waiting creatures. Fergus, his every sense alive now, saw spears of pure white light pierce the twilit skies, and knew it for the Samhailt, the ancient and most purely magical gift, only ever bestowed on the Royal Houses of Ireland. He looked at Raynor and Rinnal and Bee; at the other creatures of the Beastline, and knew the white light to be of their making; he knew that they were mobilising the beasts; the Eagles and the Foxes and the Hares; the Chariot Horses and the Deer; the Hounds and Gazelle and White Swans and Stags.

Ireland’s greatest army of all, the ancient Enchantment rediscovered …

And only one thing is needed to complete it, thought Fergus, and as he drew breath to commence the charge on Tara, he heard, faintly and from a great distance, the sound that no one in Ireland had ever thought to hear again.

The howling of Wolves.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The chanting in the Sun Chamber had become a throbbing rhythmic sound that made Grainne’s head ache and her senses swim. At the centre of it all, something gold and solid and incredibly powerful was forming, and Grainne and Erin both knew that Crom Croich was very nearly with them.

The Twelve Dark Lords were circled about the almost-born god, and from behind their visors, evil intelligence showed. Decadence, Debauchery, Lust, Perversion, Selfishness … Grainne could identify them all now; she could recognise the corruption in each figure.

Conceit, Avarice, Hatred …

Damnaithe was writhing and growling deep in her throat, her eyes glinting redly, her face a snarling mask. Grainne looked at her, and looked away immediately, feeling a deep loathing, and hating herself for feeling it.

There was a final convulsive movement from the thing at the centre of the Sun Chamber; a wet sucking sound, and a moment when Grainne actually felt within her own body a wrench as the creature tore through the birth sack. The now thick and horny surface of the sack split and began to fall from the heaving thing within, and the creature clawed its way out.

The dull, golden skin was smeared and matted with blood and with a thick, glutinous fluid, and the face was clotted with gore. There was a short squat neck and a low brow, and a blunt, tumescent skull. Grainne had seen carvings in old caves of ancient civilisations, and she remembered how those early humans, said to have evolved from apes, had possessed the same low brow and hulking shape. But in Crom Croich’s features, there was a terrible intelligence; the eyes were small and slit-like, but they glowed like rubies catching the light; there were broad flattened nostrils, and beneath them was a wide gaping orifice, a maw, a yawning gullet.

All the better to devour you with, my dear …

Medoc had moved forward and was standing before the great rearing shape of the god. With not the slightest trace of subservience, he went down on one knee and placed his left hand on his breast. There was a movement from the god; Grainne thought that its hands gestured, and then Medoc stood up again, and turned to where the Conablaiche and the Lad of the Skins were watching. The Twelve Lords fell back, and Medoc stepped over the circle which had imprisoned the Conablaiche.

At once the creature bounded forward, and stood surveying the company, its beak opening and shutting, its talons curving, its remaining eye swivelling and searching.

Medoc turned back to Crom Croich and said, “We are all ready to serve you, Master. We have the sacrifices here,” and as he spoke, the Conablaiche snapped its beak with a horrid harsh sound, and its restless claws rang out on the silver floor. At Medoc’s heels, the Lad of the Skins gave his low, bubbling chuckle, and scuttled across the floor to where Grainne and Erin half lay against the wall.

The Twelve Lords moved as well, silently and swiftly, Damnaithe in their midst; they suddenly seemed taller, and as they formed a half circle about Grainne and Erin, their shadows fell starkly across the two prisoners.

Medoc stood looking down at them both for a long moment, his lips curved in the beautiful, terrible smile, his eyes shining darkly.

“Kill them,” said Damnaithe, and crouched low on the floor, panting slightly. “Kill them, and let the blood flow.”

“She is impatient, you see,” said Medoc, never taking his eyes from Grainne. “She is impatient to see Crom Croich served. But so am I, my dear,” said Medoc in his beautiful caressing voice. “So am I.” He stayed where he was, his eyes still on Grainne. “The Crown Princess and the Wolfprince,” he said, and there was a lick of pleasure in his voice that made Grainne shudder. “The worthiest sacrifice I could devise for my Master.” And then to Damnaithe, “Keep back,” he said coldly. “Your worthless hungers will be appeased later.” As Damnaithe cringed, Medoc nodded to the nearest of the Lords.

“Make them ready. Prepare the altar. Light the sacrificial fires.”

*

Annabel had not been aware of the moment when the people of Tara began the final great sweeping charge down the hill. She had ridden cautiously, unused to being on horseback, but finding it surprisingly easy.

“The easiest thing there is,” said Bee, next to her, and Annabel was grateful for Bee’s presence.

Taliesin, a little ahead, turned in the saddle, his eyes narrowing suddenly. “Look ahead, Annabel. You see? The Shining Citadel. The Bright Palace.”

And Annabel managed to slow down the horse, and stood with them all looking down into the saucer-shaped valley with the huge sprawling palace.

Tara, the Bright Palace, the brilliant citadel, the radiant lodestar of all Ireland, which drew travellers and pilgrims and scholars and poets to its centre. The Aurora of the Western World, shrouded and smothered in the darkness of the necromancer.

A great silence fell on the watchers, and Fergus, at the head, felt tears prick his eyes, and did not mind whether or not anyone saw them. He remembered how Fael-Inis had looked at him in Calatin’s house, and how he had known then that he had failed in allowing Medoc into Tara, and that he had continued to fail for not raising a strong and massive army and attempting to drive Medoc out.

But Medoc was invincible! We all knew that. I had not the resources then, thought Fergus, and at once came the answer.

It does not matter. You could have tried.

Fergus bowed his head in silent acknowledgement and, as he did so, felt stir within him the fierce resolve and the determination that, even if he lost his life in what lay ahead, he would put rout to Medoc and his evil, and he would restore Tara to the Royal House.

Even if Grainne is dead? said his mind.

Even then.

He turned to rally the people again, for this would be the final great battle charge, and there must be no fumbling and no falling back. They must go down the hillside in a single clean movement, and along the great road that led to the Western Gate; they must fall upon any of Medoc’s creatures that might be lying in wait, and they must kill them instantly. Only then could they reach the Sun Chamber, and only then could they rescue Grainne.

He paused, because there was never anything quite like this last on-the-brink moment, the final few seconds before going forward into a battle, and he felt himself filling up with energy and strength and confidence, so that he remembered every battle he had ever fought and every war he had ever won, and he thought, Yes, of course! This is where I belong! And he looked to the armies with sudden, all-embracing affection, because these were his people, and they would ride with him, they would fight to restore Ireland, and they would fight to return Grainne to Tara.

He looked to where the Beastline were waiting, the animals in line behind them, and he felt undiluted delight at the sight, because wasn’t it decades, wasn’t it several generations, since the Enchanted Royal Houses of Ireland had ridden in battle. There was the most tremendous sense of anticipation, and Fergus thought that he could almost imagine that all Ireland was waiting and all Ireland was poised to surge down into the dark, saucer-shaped valley.

And if only Grainne is still safe, then I believe I shall not care about anything else, he thought.

He looked back at the assembled armies; at the Beastline who were serious and intent; at the Cruithin, small and elfin and certainly possessed of the pure gentle magic of their people. The boys were there as well; Conn and Niall and the small Michael, and all the others. All with me, thought Fergus. All certainly ready to follow me. And with the thought came another: But will it be enough? Will there be sufficient of us to drive out Medoc and his evil?

I can’t do it! thought Fergus in a sudden agony of doubt. I don’t think I can do it! We are not enough! And: I cannot fight Medoc’s enchantments with people alone! cried his mind.

But then, over the far horizon, from the west, mingling with the twilight, as elusive as the mist over the Mountains of the Morning, came the swirling, sinuous shapes of blue-green smoke, and at the heart of the soft cool creatures which were nearly but not quite solid was the eldritch figure of the Elven King. Aillen mac Midha, the creature of chill faery blood, the being whose people poured music into the world, and who came up to the ramparts of Tara at the birth of a Wolfprince and sang him into the world, and wove their fragile enchantments to protect him. Music began to fill up the night, and there was a challenge in the music, as if the music-makers were girding themselves for a tremendous battle.

Fergus had just time to think: the sidh! Aillen mac Midha and his faery sidhfolk! Making good their long-ago promise to protect the Royal House of Tara. Riding into the centre of the High Queen’s armies. They would not materialise; Fergus knew this quite definitely, for if a human looked full upon the sidh, upon their awful cold beauty, it would burn out his eyes or scorch his flesh or destroy his mind. But he looked with delight at the blue and green radiance, because the sidh would have their own enchantments, and only by using forces other than swords and arrows and bows could they hope to defeat Medoc.

From the other horizon, from the eastern hills, came the rushing sound of chariot wheels. Red-gold fire shot into the sky, and Fergus stood transfixed, unable to believe his eyes, because it surely could not be, it surely could not happen twice in so short a space of time … he would not come to the world of Men so soon again … Over the crest of the hill appeared Fael-Inis, standing at the prow of the Time Chariot.

And streaming in his wake were the Royal Wolves of Tara …

*

Annabel was breathless and dizzy and the wind was rushing past her making a whistling sound, so that it was difficult to hear anything, and it was very difficult indeed to feel any sensation other than the speed of the charge, and the urgency that was driving them all. She thought that Taliesin was shouting something, but she could not really hear, and then she thought that someone was blowing a bugle, and this was such a marvellous stirring sound that she would have liked to turn round in the saddle and see where the sound was coming from, but she was swept on by the headlong gallop of the horses. And then she thought that the sound was not from within their own armies at all, but from the spinning maelstrom of light and smoke and colour that was the sidh.

The sounds of the beasts were all around; the night sky overhead was filled with the beating of wings, and Annabel, glancing up, saw the soaring golden creatures that were following Raynor, and a little behind them, smaller and darker, Hawks and Night-owls and, in their wake, a blur of white which was the Swans. She could hear the Hounds baying, and the Foxes, and the deep resonant note of the Stags.

And ahead of them all, pouring down the hillside, leading them on, was the immense golden Time Chariot, creating its own radiance, fiery light shooting from its wheels, lighting the hills and the forests and the valleys to golden life.

The salamanders were flowing effortlessly on and on, and they could see Fael-Inis, his wild golden hair whipped by the wind, standing at the prow, urging them on, forcing a path down to the dark valley. Annabel gasped and saw that the Wolves were immediately behind Fael-Inis, keeping up with the Chariot with ease, their eyes gleaming redly, their long lean bodies bounding forward, their fur sleek and dark.

The Wolves of the Royal House of Ireland, converging on Tara, ready to tear apart the adversary who held the Wolfqueen captive …

Annabel thought that Taliesin was shouting to her to be careful because they were nearing Tara’s outer boundaries, and she thought that close by Conn and Niall were calling to Michael to keep back, and the thought just formed that she ought to try to look after Michael, who was brandishing his sword and shouting, and then they were down the last stretch, and the massive ancient trees that stood sentinel along Tara’s great western avenue were all about them, and Tara itself was rushing upon them, dark and massive and shrouded in Medoc’s evil, and they were going to do it, they were going to ride straight in through the legendary Western Gate unchallenged, and it was going to be all right … One glorious sweep to victory, death or glory, and they would be inside the Palace and they would rescue the Wolfqueen and Ireland would be safe … They were going to win …

And then the Wolves checked in their headlong flight, and the salamanders reared up so that a fiery glow poured upwards into the dark sky directly over the Palace. Fael-Inis swerved and the Chariot shuddered to a halt, sparks of heat shooting from its wheels.

Directly in front of them, barring their way, were the Three Guardians from the mountain halls. Spectre, Reflection, and the Sensleibhe.

*

It seemed to Grainne that the howling of the Wolves had stopped. Fear caught and held her, and she half turned her head towards Erin.

A light shone in his eyes that had not been there before, but he did not speak, and Grainne thought that perhaps after all she had been mistaken. Perhaps she had misheard that dim distant howling, and perhaps it had been too much to hope for. And then the gentle pure light of the Samhailt flowed into her mind again, and with it the strength and the confidence.

It was not too much to hope for and you did not mishear, madam. It is only that the Wolves are not so close as we need them to be … I do not know if they will reach us in time. And then, with more directness than he had yet shown: But we dare not give them our attention, lest the necromancer and his servants sense their approach …

The Twelve Lords were ranged about the Chamber now, intoning the sacrificial incantation, and four small braziers had been brought forward and placed at each of the four corners of the altar. As they watched, Medoc set fire to the braziers, and a sharp, pungent smoke leapt up.

The monstrous figure of Crom Croich moved at last. It lurched and waddled as if its short stump-like legs were unused to movement. Slowly, tortuously, it dragged itself to the altar and settled there, crouching and lowering, the blood and gore still smearing its dull gold skin, its tiny red eyes unblinking.

Grainne thought that that movement, that shuffling gait, that slow ponderous walk to the altar, had been as bad as anything that had yet happened, because while the god had been motionless, it had been very nearly possible to think of it as a graven image, a statue, something inanimate. Graven images and statues did not demand sacrifices; they did not watch, slavering, while the hearts of their victims were torn out, and they did not reach down with their great muscular arms to the silver platters held up to them, and scoop up steaming, still-fluttering hearts and convey them to gaping wet maws …

Crom Croich was seated at the centre of the altar, and Grainne, unable to look away, her heart racing, thought, Am I to die here butchered by the Conablaiche, sacrificed to the greatest evil Ireland has ever known …? Would the ancient altar witness the ritual deaths of the Crown Princess and the Wolfprince?

Medoc turned to smile at that, and for the first time there was true affection in his eyes. “Very soon now, my daughter,” he said, “very soon, you will be given in libation to my Master.” As he spoke, the Conablaiche gave its hard cawing sound, and the Lad of the Skins chuckled and began to reach for his knife. Grainne thought, The Knife of Light. Our souls to be hurled into the Prison of Hostages. And then there will truly be no escape, and there will be nothing any more, ever.

Medoc was watching her. “Flesh of my flesh,” he said, very softly, “does that hurt, Grainne? Blood of my blood and of my bone. Tainted stock, my dear. You and your son both.”

Tainted blood … the dark blood of the necromancer … This evil beautiful being lay with my mother and rendered her witless and Fergus and I were the results … Something dark and serpent-like slithered in Grainne’s mind, and she thought, After all, would it not be better to let the Ancient Line die out? After all, is it not better to cut out a canker? Tainted stock. And Erin too. Would Ireland not be the better?

At once there was a fierce response from Erin. Do not think it! It is what he wants you to think! It is part of his sorcery! There is no taint, madam, save the taint that enters the mind, and there is no shame, save that which enters the heart! The Wolfline must never be allowed to die!

I am sorry, rejoined Grainne, and blinked and shook her head, and felt the dark slimed thoughts dissolve.

Medoc was facing them now, the monstrous rearing figure of Crom Croich directly behind him, its red glistening eyes never leaving them. The Dark Lords were moving in and the incantation was becoming louder and stronger.

Crom Croich … the blood … the life and the heart and the core …

The ritual chant was humming and pulsating in their ears, and the Sun Chamber was becoming heavy and the air was dark and sluggish. Grainne thought it was the miasma of the evil that the Twelve Lords carried with them now.

Decadence and Perversion, Avarice and Debauchery … all of the sins and all of the frailties and all of the failings ever committed and dreamed of and feared …

She thought, And the Wolves? Are they nearer? and tried to hear and could not. Had they after all imagined it?

We did not imagine it, came Erin’s instant response. They will not fail us. But Grainne caught for the first time a note of fear in him, and she remembered that he was only six years old. Six years only, and soon he might be butchered and mutilated on the altar and his soul taken to the Prison of Hostages. He will be the Lost Prince in truth then, thought Grainne, for there is no rescue from the Prison.

Medoc’s dark eyes were shining with hard unnatural light and the Dark Lords were still chanting, and she could feel the power irradiating from the altar, dreadful waves of malignity. The Lad of the Skins was scuttling across the floor towards them, and for the first time Grainne saw the lumpish dragging sack he wore on his back.

For the gathering up of souls, Wolfqueen …

The Conablaiche was at his side, a nightmare shape, grinning and emitting harsh, cawing sounds. The Conablaiche was standing with its legs slightly apart, thrusting itself towards Grainne, grinning and snapping its beak, the fish eye gleaming.

Medoc looked at it and then down to where Grainne lay. “Well, madam,” he said softly, “shall I give you to this creature first?” And smiled. “Well, we shall see. It is an impatient creature.” He directed one of his dark shining looks at the Conablaiche, and said, “Wait, you.”

Erin said very clearly, “If you allow that, Medoc, I shall surely kill you.”

Medoc laughed, and it was as clear and untroubled a sound as Grainne had ever heard.

“Threaten away, Wolfprince,” he said. “Soon you will be lying on the altar, and soon you will feel the Conablaiche’s claws tearing open your chest, and you will feel your lungs and your mouth filling up with blood. It is an honourable death, Wolfprince, although I do not expect you to see it like that.”

The Conablaiche was so close that the stench of rotting meat and bad fish was making them feel sick. For a really terrible minute, Grainne thought she would, to her humiliation, be sick and then she took several trembling breaths and felt better.

The wolves? Erin, the Wolves?

Nearer, I think, came the rejoinder. But Grainne thought she could no longer feel the Wolves. Because Medoc’s enchantments were so strong now that they were sealing off the Sun Chamber? Yes, perhaps. And then she could not decide if this had been a good thing to think or not.

The fires in the braziers had burned up strongly now, and there was a pungent scent of incense and herbs, which mingled with the stench of the Conablaiche. Mist swirled and the altar was humming with magic, but Grainne knew it was not the strong good magic of the real true Ireland, but the tainted magic, the diseased enchantments and the malevolent bewitchments of the Dark Ireland that Medoc led. She thought, The Sun Chamber, the beautiful, almost-sacred heart of Tara, is tainted and it is thick with malignity, and I am not at all sure that it can ever be pure and beautiful again.

And again the dark insidious thought stirred: Why not, then, let it all go to Medoc?

With the thought came the whisper of sound in her ear.

“Why not indeed, my dear,” and she turned sharply, and saw one of the Lords close at her side.

“Why not let it all go to Medoc, Grainne?”

Conceit? Yes, it was the sly insinuating voice that could somehow get inside your head and inside your most private feelings before you realised it. Grainne frowned and tried to close her mind.

“It would be so easy, Grainne,” said another of them and, this time, Grainne thought it was Selfishness. “So easy to give in, and let Medoc take it all. And then you would see our Land, Grainne, and it is far more beautiful than ever you imagined.”

“All of your senses served, my dear …” whispered Decadence.

“All of your hungers fed,” said Greed, and chuckled wetly.

“No restrictions … do what you wish, my dear,” said Hatred, and there was the red flare behind the visor as he moved closer.

“No restrictions, Grainne …” The whispers were magnified, and the Lords were all about her, pressing closer.

“You would be a Princess of the Dark Ireland, Grainne, for Medoc is your sire, and Damnaithe your dam … You would rule from the Black Mountains that look across the Lake of Night, and you would be revered by our people, Grainne …”

Grainne put up her hands to cover her ears in an attempt to shut out the dreadful whisperings.

“You would walk in the Nightfields and you would reign from the Ebony Throne …” said Avarice. “And all the dark, glistening jewels would be yours.”

“All the beautiful young men of the world would be yours,” whispered Decadence.

“To do with as you wished,” said Perversion.

Grainne, her hands still covering her ears, said loudly, “No! No, I won’t listen! Stop it!” And stared at them, her eyes distended.

There was a contemptuous laugh from Damnaithe’s corner. “She is of no interest to us,” said Damnaithe. “She is insipid and colourless, and we do not want her. Fling her to the Conablaiche, and then offer her and the child to Crom Croich.”

“I would liefer by far be given to Crom Croich than rule in your Realm, madam,” said Grainne and Damnaithe laughed again and tossed her head, and turned her back.

“You were offered the choice,” she said, sounding bored.

“Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven?” said Grainne. And then to Medoc, “Well, sir?”

“You are offered the choice,” he said, his eyes watching her.

“There is no choice to make,” said Grainne. But she was aware, deep within the innermost recesses of her mind, of a tiny, insidious voice.

You would rule there absolutely … all the dark glistening jewels would be yours, and all the beautiful young men would be yours …

And you have never seen the Dark Island in all its terrible and fearsome beauty …

Grainne said again, more loudly, “There is no choice to make,” and then looked at them all steadily, and felt Erin’s hand in hers, and knew that he was still listening for the Wolves.

And then she was aware that Medoc was standing over them, and in the crimson pulsing light he seemed to tower to twice his normal height, and he seemed to be wrapped in the dark malevolence of his own evil. There would not be any escape, there could not possibly be, for the altar was glowing and ready, and Crom Croich was rearing above them, and the Conablaiche was moving into his place, with the Lad beside him, and the Lad had drawn the glittering Knife of Light to take their souls when it was all over …

Medoc bent down to lift Grainne, and she was aware through her fear that there was an unexpected gentleness about him, and she remembered that in all of the stories Medoc was said to be a gentleman. As he carried her across to lay her on the altar, two of the Dark Lords lifted the struggling Erin and followed.

And then Grainne felt the cold hard stone of the ancient sacrificial altar beneath her, and felt them lay Erin next to her, and saw the monstrous gold shape of the terrible hungry god-idol blot out the light, and knew that they were truly and completely lost.

*

Fergus had not hesitated. The minute he saw the Guardians, he knew that the only way to fight them was to ride straight at them. With the thought came a movement at his side, and he turned to see Raynor with Taliesin bringing their horses alongside. Gratitude flooded Fergus’s mind, and he thought, These are the ones I can trust! And felt the fragment of a thought from Taliesin: Never trust a Tyrian, my friend, and remember that I am most regrettably sober today!

Tybion the Tusk was riding hard across to join them, with Fintan and Cermait close behind. All of them to be trusted, all of them ready to follow Fergus into hell and beyond … And then he thought, And it may be hell we shall see before we are done.

Spectre was already standing a little ahead of the other two, her long pointed fingers outstretched, whiteness riming her silhouette. Instantly a howling icy wind rose and moaned and raged furiously about them, stinging their cheeks and bringing tears to their eyes. Ice formed beneath their feet, and the horses’ hoofs slithered and lost their grip. Panic swept through the armies as the horses fought for their footing, and people began to be unseated, and the horses whinnied in terror and reared up. The Beastline animals began to whine and bark, and Spectre laughed and lifted her hand again, and this time lightning split the heavens, and thunder crashed directly overhead. Several nearby trees were struck and fires flared up in half a dozen places.

Annabel flinched and saw Tybion start forward, and, to the left, Conn and Niall and the other boys were fitting arrows to their bows.

“Useless!” cried Spectre, and her shrieking laugh rang out. “Am I not winter night and freezing dawn, and am I not gale and blizzard and tempest? I can make the skies bleed and pant, and I can cause the heavens to rain torment on to your puny armies!” And once more she raised her hand, and to the scattered and tumbled armies it seemed that the night sky was torn open. There was a brief blinding glimpse of fiery light, as if the door to some immense furnace had been pushed ajar, and then as they flinched, trying to shield their eyes, a torrent of fireballs began to fall, searing the darkness and starting up great columns of fire.

Taliesin caught the end of a thought from Fergus: If we do not stop this, Tara will burn, and then Grainne will truly be lost! and he turned his horse about and tried to pinpoint Spectre’s whereabouts, because everywhere was smoke and belching flame now, and everyone was running wildly about, and those few who had been able to remain mounted could hardly see.

He thought that Fael-Inis had not moved; he could see the Time Chariot standing quietly a little way off, and he could see the slender form of Fael-Inis. There was time to think, Is he going to help us? and there was time as well to remember that in all of the stories, Fael-Inis had been the one who had walked away from the battle, “and never declared for either side.” Taliesin thought, But I do not believe he will not help us! and then he saw, on the outer edges of vision, the blue and green smoke of the sidh, and as he half turned, he saw them pour into the battle, whirling columns of iridescent light.

The sidh did not form, but those nearest to them could see faint dim shapes in the coiling smoke. Thin sinuous arms and round, seal-like heads and slender, serpentine bodies. Here and there were long narrow turquoise eyes, greedy and avid … Spectre let out a piercing shriek and went down in a whirling mass of glittering wings and swooping mist creatures, and as she did so, it seemed that the raging storm and the terrible icy blizzard lessened.

Spectre seemed in some way to be shrinking; Annabel, who was clinging very hard to the idea of war being glorious and exciting amidst the horror, heard a terrible sucking sound, and remembered that Taliesin had said something about the sidh being greedy for the five senses — sight, speech, hearing, taste, touch. And although it would have been very much better not to have heard what the sidh were doing to Spectre, the sound echoed across the battlefield. Annabel tried very hard to remember that Spectre had been cruel, and that she certainly served Medoc, and that she had been trying to prevent them from entering Tara to save the Wolfqueen.

Spectre shrivelled and seemed to dissolve into pools of horrid grey slime on the ground. As the blizzard blew itself out and the fires started by the lightning and the showering torrents of fireballs sank a little lower, Reflection said, “Dear me, how tedious all this is. I suppose it is up to me now.” She stepped forward, and pulled the Cloak of Nightmares tightly about her. “Too boring for you all, my dears,” said Reflection, gazing at them with her great dark eyes. “And of course, Fael-Inis, the dear creature, would never dream that I might enter into battle against him.” A brief mischievous look was directed to where Fael-Inis still stood, holding the salamanders in check. “A spectator once more, Fael-Inis?” said Reflection. “I suppose it was not to be thought otherwise.” And the Cloak of Nightmares shivered and Reflection became enveloped in pale, translucent light.

Great gaping pits opened up before the army’s feet, in which snakes writhed and monsters crawled and gibbered. The landscape shifted and became dark red and menacing — The colour of nightmares, thought Annabel wildly, and strove to remember that they were only nightmares, that nothing that Reflection could conjure up could physically harm them, only their fear. Giants with no faces strode silently over the surrounding hillsides and stood looking down on the armies … There were bubbling lakes of slime with grasping, struggling hands coming out of them to drag you down if you went too near; claw-footed harpies who flew through the air and fastened on to you and would gouge out your eyes and squash them to the ground; grinning skeletons, cauldrons of boiling blood, sea monsters and oceans of oily water … Annabel, gasping and trying very hard to hold on to her sanity, was suddenly plunged into a swirling underground river. At any minute the dark greasy waters were going to close over her head, and when that happened, there would be no escape, because overhead were hundreds of tons of solid rock …

Great lumbering nightmarish machines came crawling out of the forest, massive mincing machines that had cavernous human faces, which would scoop up human limbs and human torsos and mince them into blobs and gobbets of raw meat …

The army was in chaos now. The horses were stampeding, and most of the men had been unseated. The Beastline creatures were in the midst of their animals, rallying them, sending out furious white sparks of light that were the ancient mystical Samhailt taking shape. Everywhere the creatures were snarling and whining and yelping. Annabel saw Raynor standing at the centre of a whirling golden storm of Eagles, his hands outstretched to them; near to him, Rinnal was half hidden by leaping, snarling Foxes. Fintan and Cermait and the Cruithin were laying about the nightmare creatures, slicing at scaly heads and raining blows on writhing snake-like beings. Cathbad, incredibly, had gone running off to the dreadful lumbering machines, and was scattering stones in their path in an attempt to disable the clanking grinding metal. He was rather green about the gills, but he was shouting at the machines and daring them to come down in the midst of the armies.

Tybion the Tusk had not hesitated. He had seen Conn and Niall and the boys firing arrows at Spectre and Reflection, and he had seen, as well, that Spectre and Reflection had both been able to deflect them. And then he had seen the sidh, led by Aillen mac Midha, go streaking down on to Spectre, and he had seen Spectre fall and begin to liquefy, and he had thought, So that takes care of her! And had turned to survey the other two Guardians.

He realised at once that Fael-Inis was waiting for them to finish off the two minor creatures, and that when that was done, he would deal with the Sensleibhe for them. Tybion, who had never before seen Fael-Inis, but who knew the stories, found himself understanding exactly what Fael-Inis was doing. It was as if the golden fiery creature was telling them that they must help themselves first before he would help them. They must use their own strengths and their own weapons, and only after that would he come into the fray. All right, thought Tybion, setting his jaw firmly; all right, we shall see. And he looked at Reflection, who was standing wrapped in the Cloak of Nightmares, surveying the tumult she had created. Nasty, thought Tybion. Yes, extremely nasty. I daresay she will send out something perfectly unspeakable and entirely unbearable before I can get near to her. He shuddered and tried not to remember his own nightmares, and tried very hard to visualise the good dreams: the soft rain of a spring morning, and the blazing colours of autumn, and peaceful hillsides and firelight and mulled wine, and revels in the Tusk family, and the music of the sidh and the Queen’s smile. Oh, yes, that above them all. He could do it. He would ride straight at Reflection and somehow he would kill the creature, and that would leave only the Sensleibhe.

And, thought Tybion, if Fael-Inis does not deal with the Sensleibhe, then I think we might as well hand over Ireland to Medoc anyway! He gathered up the reins and dug his heels into his mount’s flanks, and rode straight at the pale glittering figure of Reflection, unsheathing his sword as he did so.

It was more difficult than he had thought it would be. Spectre’s tempest had almost died, but it had not quite died, and from the corner of his eyes, Tybion could see the swirling mists of the sidh still busy about Spectre’s decomposing form. There was still the breath of an icy wind on the night air, and Tybion knew that Spectre was not quite dead. He narrowed his eyes against the cold, because a cold wind was always at its bitterest when you rode straight at it, and concentrated very hard on autumn-lit forests and Grainne’s smile.

The wind was still very cold indeed. The thin sheet of ice had almost melted from the ground, but there were still treacherous patches which had not melted at all. Twice his horse skidded and almost fell, but each time Tybion managed to keep it going on. If only he could get near to Reflection, if only he could fight his way through the nightmares and reach her; it was important to remember that the scaly monsters and the slithering snakes and the clutching sinewy hands could not hurt him. Once Reflection was dead, the Cloak of Nightmares would cease to be activated, and the nightmares would all vanish.

He was within yards of Reflection — “Within feet,” Fintan was to say afterwards — when Reflection turned and saw him. She seemed to study him thoughtfully, and then there was a vibrant sizzle of light, and a hydra-headed creature, whose head was a writhing mass of snakes with teeth and claws, darted at Tybion. Tybion knew it was only a nightmare, but it was a particularly horrid one; he had often run from the thing in his dreams, and in every dream he had tripped headlong and lain panting, the breath knocked from him, helpless as the creature hovered above him. He glanced at it uneasily and tried to remember about the soft waterfalls and the bonfires in November and dew-drenched dawns.

He swerved instinctively, and as he did so, the creature darted at him again, and a gristly arm shot out. Claws ripped at Tybion’s shoulder, and there was a white-hot sizzling. Tybion gasped and clapped a hand over his left breast, because it had felt exactly as if a burning hot wire had pierced right through to his heart. The chaotic scene about him tilted, and when he could see again, he thought that Reflection had called up another of the nightmares, because now he was seeing everything through a dark, wavering, ripply light.

He would not heed it. It would be a flesh wound; the claws of the hydra-headed monster had torn his shoulder, and it was nothing to pay very much attention to. Anyone could be wounded in a battle. He would deal with Reflection, and then he would get it bound up. He took a tighter hold on the sword, which was quite difficult suddenly, because his hands and arms were feeling a bit numb, and his legs were growing heavy. He was not entirely sure that he could feel his legs any longer; he was certainly not sure if he could see where he was going, because of the darkness and the way in which his vision was blurred and wavy.

But Reflection was directly ahead of him now. He could see her pale, nearly pellucid figure, and he could see the Cloak swirling and hissing as if it possessed a life of its own. He remembered that the Cloak of Nightmares had been one of Ireland’s most treasured possessions. It had been woven by the sorcerers for the first High Queen of all, and although it had many times been lost to the Royal House, it had always been found again. Tybion, riding straight at Reflection, trying to keep a tight hold on his sword, thought it would be a truly great thing if he could restore the Cloak to the Royal House now.

He was riding hard across the nightmares, and he found he was no longer very much afraid. All about him were boiling cauldrons of blood and lakes of slime and faceless giants and creeping rodents and huge gobbling machines, and his ears were ringing with dreadful clanging sounds: echoing thunderclaps, and giant nails being drawn across tin surfaces, so that every nerve in your body winced and your teeth were all set on edge; but he knew that these were other people’s nightmares, and although the snake-headed thing had wounded him, that had been his own nightmare. Other people’s nightmares would not harm him. It was important to remember this.

He rode straight at Reflection, lifting his sword high, and then bringing it down in a sweeping arc. Reflection darted out of his reach, but as she did so, the Cloak slipped from her and fell in a soft pool of silk. At once the nightmare creatures vanished.

Tybion thought that Reflection had moved back to where the last and most terrible of the Guardians — the Sensleibhe — still waited, but he could not be sure. He was finding it difficult to stay in the saddle now. He knew he had been wounded, which was a very honourable thing to have happened, only it was beginning to hurt so very much. Someone would attend to the wound quite soon, and then he would be able to join the others, and they would be inside Tara, and he would see the Queen again. It was unthinkable that he should not see her, not when they had all come so far and endured so much. Yes, he must certainly see her again. But it was growing darker by the minute, and he wondered if the dying Spectre had somehow darkened the night air, or if Reflection had hurled a last nightmare before the Cloak slipped from her shoulders. In another minute he would not be able to see anything at all.

The pain in his chest was quite bad now. He was beginning to gasp and struggle for air, because it was actually extremely severe. Something was filling up his mouth; a thick, gluey substance, and there was an iron band round his chest.

And then he was lying on the ground, although he was not sure how this had come about, and his head was in somebody’s lap, and he managed a smile, because of course it would be the Queen; this was how he had visualised it, except that he had not thought it would hurt so very much. But it would certainly be Grainne whom he had loved so very much and so very faithfully, and for whom he would happily die. When a voice said urgently, “Tybion,” he smiled rather waveringly, and said in a conversational voice, “I always loved you so very much.” There was a pause, and then a soft voice — it had to be Grainne — said very gently, “And I loved you, Tybion.”

This was so marvelous that it was very nearly unbearable. Tybion narrowed his eyes and frowned in an effort of concentration, because everything seemed to be slipping away, and he was finding it hard to remember where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. But Grainne was here with him, she was holding his head in her lap, and there had never been a happiness so great, and he would remember this moment for as long as he lived. When she bent over him, he could smell the clean scent of her hair, and he wondered whether it would be disrespectful to reach up and take her hand. She seemed to understand, and at once her hand closed about his, and the fingers were smooth and supple and reassuring. He tried to say something to her; he thought he was trying to tell her that he wanted her to be happy, because he could not bear to think that she would not be happy, but she seemed to understand again, and although he could not see her, he felt that she was smiling at him, and he smiled back, and held out his hands, and then the darkness closed about him and his head fell back.

Annabel looked up from cradling Tybion’s head, and Taliesin saw there were tears streaming down her face. “He’s dead. Taliesin, he’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“But he was only — he was so very —”

Taliesin said, “He thought you were the Queen.”

“I know.”

“Don’t think about it,” said Taliesin. “There is no time now. Later we will think.”

Annabel said, “Yes. Of course.” Because there was no time at all, not if they were to vanquish the Sensleibhe and gain entry to Tara, not if Tybion’s death was to be worthwhile.

Taliesin said, “There will be time to grieve later,” and Annabel looked at him gratefully, because of course there would be time and of course they would all grieve for Tybion. There was still a battle to be won, and there was still the last and most evil of the Guardians to be defeated.

Raynor had led the eagles into the attack on the Sensliebhe, and they were flying at the creature, aiming for her eyes, swooping down in great golden angry arcs of light. Fergus had ridden into the ranks of the soldiers and was gathering them up for a concerted attack on the Sensliebhe. As he turned his horse about, preparatory to leading the charge, he saw the Old Woman of the Mountains rear up and seem to become almost twice her size, and stand surveying them from a ledge of rock, her eyes flaming in her plain round face, her claws glinting in the twilight.

There was the cackling laughter that Fergus remembered from the Mountain Halls, and the light glinted again on curved claws and cruel talons, and caught and held the dark animal eyes.

“Such a lot of pretty dears,” shrieked the Sensleibhe. “Dear me, all grist for my spinning. Come along now, my pretty ones, come along, my lambkins, for there’s only friendship to be had here. Only friendship. Bless us all, I’m an old woman and I can’t hurt a hair of your heads.” The chuckle rang out once more. “And all that silken hair,” said the Old Woman of the Mountains greedily. “All that pretty soft hair, for the spinning, and all the white tender skin, all for shredding.”

Fergus cried, “On and at her!” and stood up in the stirrups and rallied the armies. The soldiers let out a rather ragged cheer, and dug their heels into their mounts’ flanks, and Fergus brought his own mount headlong across the terrain, riding straight at the Sensleibhe.

At once she lifted her hand and, as she did so, streams of crimson light shot from her claws, so that Fergus had the impression of riding directly against a stream of magenta fire. He flinched and crouched in the saddle, and the Sensleibhe laughed again and raised the other hand. The fire spat again and Fergus, looking up, saw several of the Eagles fall from the sky, and saw Raynor throw up a hand and half fall from his mount. Bee ran alongside and Fergus saw that Raynor’s face had been laid open by the sizzling spears of fire. Blood poured from the wound, and Raynor shook his head impatiently and pressed a cloth to his face before mounting again.

The Sensleibhe was laughing horridly now, sending the crimson flames shooting into the night, surrounding herself with an aureole of angry light, so that none could get near her. Fergus set his teeth and swerved round to lead another charge, because they must destroy this one, there was no question but that they must get past her and gain the Western Gate of the Palace. Reflection did not worry him — bereft of the Nightcloak her powers were greatly lessened — but the Sensleibhe was another thing altogether. Fergus had not thought of what might be happening to Grainne, because he had not dared to think of it, but now, facing the Western Gate directly, he felt such a terrible cold despair clutch his heart that he thought he could have flung the Sensleibhe to the ground and stamped her into a jelly. He took a firmer grip on his sword again and tightened the reins of his horse. One last charge might disconcert the creature. Surely she did not possess inexhaustible powers?

And then a soft voice at his side said, “Captain! To the Time Chariot!” and Fergus turned sharply to see Fael-Inis at his side, perfectly composed, lit to blazing light by the Sensleibhe’s fire.

“The Time Chariot!” cried Fael-Inis again, and pulled Fergus with him. “It is our only chance against the creature’s fire weapons! Come with me!”

As they ran through the smoke and the heat and the confusion, Fergus shouted, “I thought you were to be only a spectator of this!” and Fael-Inis turned to look at Fergus, his golden eyes glowing.

“I cannot fight your battles, Captain,” he said, “you must fight your own battles. But when the adversaries are too great for you, and when the cause is just, then I am permitted — even I am constrained — to step in and do what I can. And the Wolfqueen and the Lost Prince must be rescued.”

Fergus started to say, “The Prince …” but they were at the huge Chariot now, and the salamanders were pawing the ground, and the Time Chariot was landing. Fergus had just time to think, I suppose this is the answer, and then the Chariot quivered and seemed to leap forward, and the radiance burst all about them, and the salamanders shot forward joyously, their fiery breath filling the night sky and spilling on to Tara, so that for a moment it did not seem to lie in such shadow.

Fael-Inis laughed and turned to look back at Fergus from where he stood at the Chariot’s prow, and his eyes were so wild and his whole bearing was filled with such recklessness and with such abandonment that Fergus said no more and concentrated on what was ahead.

The Chariot swerved to bring itself into direct line with the Sensleibhe, and Fergus thought, but could not be sure, that there was music singing on the air now; but it might only have been the rushing of the wind, and then again it might only have been the sidh, still busy about the dying Spectre.  But I believe it is Fael-Inis’s legendary silver pipes! thought Fergus, and delight exploded within him, for surely there had never been a battle to equal this one, and surely they were going to rescue Grainne and destroy Medoc.

Fael-Inis seemed to gather up the salamanders for one last great effort, and the Time Chariot gave a great bound foreward, and the lights and the fireglow blurred, and they sped down to where the Sensleibhe was standing.

*

Fire streamed outwards, and Fergus, at the exact centre of the light, could no longer see anything with any clarity.  He was blinded, gasping, dizzy and helpless with the sheer speed of the Time Chariot, and with the brilliant light, and with the fire and the radiance of the salamanders.  He could only wait and cling to the Chariot’s sides, and trust the insouciant creature whose eyes were glowing with pure mischief, and who might certainly have walked away from the First Battle of the Heavens, but who was most definitely not walking away from this one.

The rebel angel was fighting on the side of the Humans, leading the Wolfqueen’s armies against Ireland’s enemies, against the terrible Dark Ireland…

And then Fael-Inis half turned and shouted, “We are nearly there!  Hold tight now!”  He grinned. “And be ready to deliver the death blow!” he shouted, and Fergus raised his sword and gripped the hilt with both hands, and fixed his eyes on the Sensleibhe, and prayed to whatever gods might be appropriate that he would not miss.

For if you do, Mortal, there will be no second chance…

They were almost upon the creature now, and she had wheeled about to face them, crimson light still sparking from her claws.  Fergus thought that the pure bright Time Fire was somehow deflecting the crimson sparks, and he certainly thought that the dark angry flames were flying upwards harmlessly and melting into the night sky over the Palace. And then they were near enough to see the Sensleibhe’s evil grinning eyes, and Fergus remembered how she had lured Conn and the boys into her room inside the mountain, and he remembered the grisly spinning wheel with the shreds of human flesh and the parings of human nails and the skin and the gristle and bone, and fierce anger filled him up. As the Chariot swerved, he leaned forward over the side and drove his sword hard into the Sensleibhe’s breast.

There was a piercing shriek and a splitting sound, and the thing that had been the Sensleibhe, the leader of the Guardians, the Old Woman of the Mountains who lured children to a firelit room and killed them and wove them into cloth, seemed to soften and collapse. Reflection, from her place of safety high on a ridge of rock, screamed and drew back, and then Fergus withdrew his sword and thrust it into the Sensleibhe again. There was a dreadful pulpy feeling, as if he had stabbed into soft, rotten fruit. Liquid, mushy, putrescent…

The Sensleibhe fell to her knees, and they saw her clawed feet grip the ground in a death agony. Her body began to dry and shrink, and she grew older and older. At last, she was a tiny mummified old woman, wizened and monkeylike, clutching at the air and struggling for breath. And then even that faded, and she was a heap of brown flesh adhering to stick-like bones, and then the bones themselves crumbled into grey dust. The dust stirred and blew away and then there was nothing at all.

Reflection seemed to shimmer and blur, and then they caught the tail-end of silvery robes as she whipped about.

“She is escaping!” cried Fergus, both hands grasping his sword. “Fael-Inis, we cannot let her go!” He turned to where Fael-Inis was reining in the salamanders, and saw the fiery golden eyes grow suddenly gentle.

“Let her go, Fergus,” he said. “Without her hell-sisters she is no longer such a very dreadful threat.” And then, in a different voice, “Poor Aife,” said the rebel angel, softly. “She will never achieve true greatness.” And then, appearing to give himself a shake, “And you saw how the nightmare creatures vanished the minute the Cloak slid from her.” With one hand, he gestured to the scene before them, which was scattered with wounded and dead, but which was now free from the gruesome terrible army of creatures Aife had called up with the Nightcloak’s aid.

“Well, Captain?” said Fael-Inis, the delight glowing in his eyes. “Shall we advance to the Bright Palace?”

*

To Annabel, what happened next was the most remarkable thing of all the remarkable things that had yet happened to her in this beautiful but sinister world. Every time something new came along, she had thought, That is the ultimate surprise. That is the pinnacle, the zenith. Nothing can surpass that. And then — sometimes only minutes later — something did surpass it.

But nothing would ever surpass that extraordinary walk through the halls of the Ancient Palace of the High Kings and Queens of Ireland.

Tara, the shining city, the bright citadel …

Fael-Inis and Fergus had come back to the waiting armies after the Sensleibhe had been slain. Annabel had found the Sensleibhe’s death rather terrible, and she had had to remind herself quite sharply about how Conn and Niall and Michael and the other boys had been lured into that sinister firelit room, so that they could be killed and then woven on the Sensleibhe’s grisly spinning wheel.

Fergus had been swift and efficient and quite ruthless in deploying his army. Raynor had been with him, and Raynor had been just as swift and efficient, and although Annabel did not think that Raynor was wholly ruthless, she thought she would not like to make an enemy of him. She was getting to know the Beastline people quite well now — probably there was nothing quite like going through immense danger for bringing you close to somebody — but Raynor was still a rather distant figure. Annabel, studying him, listening to the stories of the Grail Castle and of the strange lost Beastline creatures who had lived there in exile, and of Raynor who had been their leader, found herself regarding him with something akin to reverence. Bee had told her how close Grainne and Raynor had become, and how they were all hoping that Grainne would take Raynor as consort, and Annabel was becoming more and more intrigued by Grainne. She thought that someone who could be loved by Raynor must be extremely special, and she began to hope very strenuously that they would rescue Grainne from Medoc.

Fergus and Raynor had sorted the armies out now, and made sure that the wounded were tended, and that the dead would be taken to be prepared for ceremonial burial after the battle.

At last, the two of them stood looking at one another, and Fergus said with sudden formality, “Will you be at my side when we enter the Sun Chamber?” and Raynor paused for only a breathspace before replying, “It will be my honour, Captain.”

Fergus studied him for a moment, and then, “She will wish you to be there,” he said, and there was a note of sadness in his voice now, so that those in earshot — which was very nearly everybody — knew that Fergus was deliberately and publicly relinquishing any claim he had ever had to the Queen. Cathbad was quite affected by this, and had to blow his nose rather vigorously, and retired to the rear, where he began to plan the feast to celebrate the Queen’s betrothal to Raynor.

“Premature,” said Fintan, a realist.

“No, it isn’t,” said Cathbad, who adored betrothals and weddings and christenings.

“We’ve got to rescue her first,” said Cermait.

“We’ve got to get past Medoc first,” said Fintan. “I suppose we are going in, are we? They seem to be taking a terrible long time over it.”

But then Fergus leapt on to a sharp outcrop, so that he was able to look down on them all, and smiled, and the wind lifted his hair, and the famous reckless we-shall-win look was back in his eyes, and several people began to feel very much better about what was ahead, and everyone began to think that after all they might defeat Medoc and restore the Wolfqueen to Tara.

Fergus grinned. “Well, my friends! Are we ready?” And then, as a rousing shout of assent came from them, “Then,” said Fergus, “let us advance!” And leapt down from the slope and looked at Fael-Inis and grinned as if to say, How was that? and Fael-Inis grinned back and looked rather like a cat, very composed and amused, and moved into place at Fergus’s side, with Raynor on his left.

There was still a faint light from the embers of Spectre’s fireballs, and by it Annabel could see that despite the bravery, and despite the rallying speeches, both Fergus and Raynor were white and strained. Raynor’s face was scarred where the fireball had scorched it, and Fergus was smeared with blood — whether his or other people’s, Annabel had no idea. Annabel looked at them both and thought that neither of them could bear to acknowledge that Grainne might be already lost, and then quite suddenly she realised that Fergus and Raynor both knew, with that strange extra sense they possessed, that Grainne still lived.

But Medoc has her, and we dare not lose any more time …

They had not, in fact, lost any time at all. They had taken every opportunity and they had not hesitated at all. Even so, Fergus made a careful selection of the ones who would accompany him into the Palace, choosing several lieutenants to bring up the rear, summoning Fintan and Cermait Honeymouth, and beckoning out the Beastline creatures, and Conn and Niall.

Lastly he turned to where the sidh waited on the outer rim of the scene, and everyone knew that although Fergus could not compel the sidh to accompany them, he would very much like them to do so.

“He does it well,” murmured Taliesin at Annabel’s side. “Would you say he is almost royal?”

“Yes,” breathed Annabel, unable to take her eyes from Fergus. “Yes, I would say it.”

“I also,” said Taliesin. And then, in a different tone, “Look at the light.”

“It’s Fael-Inis,” said Annabel after a moment. “Or it’s the sidh.”

“It’s more than that,” said Taliesin.

It was. There was the vivid strong light of the Time Fire, and there was the incandescence that perpetually surrounded Fael-Inis. There was, as well, the cool elvish light of the sidh. “A muted light,” said Annabel, who found the sidh fascinating and terrifying, and who could have listened to their music for ever.

The light was all of this and none of it. From within the dark hidden heart of Tara, from the place that had for so long been caught and held fast in Medoc’s evil magic, a faint shimmer of luminous colour was appearing. It was as fragile and as elusive as a will-o’-the-wisp or the flickering lights over the marshes on a winter’s night, or a string of glow worms deep in the forest. Faint and fragile and elusive, and so uncertain that you had to look twice and then thrice to be sure you had not imagined it.

But it was there and no one had imagined it, and every person present knew it was there. The light was beginning to burn again in the Bright Palace … Cathbad had to blow his nose all over again, and could not even be cheered by the planning of a banquet for tomorrow night, when they would undoubtedly be sitting in the Sun Chamber, celebrating the restoration of the Wolfqueen.

Incredulous joy was showing in every face now and, when Fergus turned to summon them to follow him, they fell into place silently.

Taliesin said softly, “Annabel. Look at the Wolves,” and Annabel, who had been a bit fearful of the Wolves (extremely fearful of them, if she was honest), turned to look and saw the most extraordinary change in them. Until now they had been watchful and rather distant from everyone.

Fintan had said that they were loners. “They’ll keep their distance,” he had said, and Cermait had said he hoped they would keep their distance, because wasn’t it a well-known fact that only the Royal Line could control them.

Now, falling into line behind Fergus, the Wolves were obedient and very nearly subservient; their fur was sleek and their eyes were bright with anticipation.

“Interesting that,” said Fintan thoughtfully, and studied Fergus rather more intently than he had been used to doing.

Cathbad said it did your heart good to see the Royal Wolves returning to the Palace, and mopped his eyes and said he was that overcome. “I shan’t ever be the same again,” he said, and did not listen when several people said they were very glad to hear it.

They walked in procession along the avenue of trees, and the great Western Gates of the Palace loomed ahead of them, a great frame beneath which they would pass.

“Very historic,” said Fintan wisely. “Dear me, these Gates could tell a few tales, well I expect they do tell them, if only we knew how to hear.”

“They’ll most likely be barred against us, won’t they?” said Cermait.

But the Gates stood ajar, and again there was the faintest spill of light from within.

Annabel, at Taliesin’s side, somewhere in the middle of the procession, remembered an echo of something from her own world, something from an old war, she thought, fought and won and recovered from two or even three centuries before she had been born.

“And the lights went on again all over the world …”

The lights were coming on again inside Tara, and it was remarkable and beautiful and awe-inspiring and terrifying, and if Medoc was possessed of any shred of feeling at all, he must be seeing it and he must know that his reign of shadow was almost over.

Fael-Inis stopped at the exact centre of the Western Gates and, making not the smallest ceremony about it, lifted the silver pipes to his lips. Music streamed out into the night and, as Fael-Inis moved into the shadow cast by the Gates, it seemed to the watchers that the music poured out behind them like a foaming wake in an ocean.

And wherever the music touches, it leaves light, thought Annabel, staring. And even though her own world was growing fainter and dimmer, and even though she did not regret having lost it and never would regret having lost it, still there were the echoes and there were the fragments of memory and drifts of scholarship and literature and learning.

“Through this house give glimmering light” … “I with the morning’s love have oft made sport” … “Light Ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure” …

And then, as if an echo came from both Fergus and Taliesin now, one of the most beautiful and one of the most apposite of them all.

“Put out the light and then put out the light.

If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,

I can again thy former light restore.”

Thy former light … We are restoring the light, thought Annabel, drunk with delight and heady with the beauty and the strength of it all. We are restoring the light to the Bright Palace, and Fael-Inis is sprinkling light everywhere, and the entire Palace is glowing, and soon it will be a beacon of iridescence, and the whole of Ireland will see it, and the whole of Ireland will rejoice.

Thy former light restored …

To Fergus, it was joy and peace and home-coming all rolled up into one: If I am never happy again, if I can never know another moment of pure happiness, then at least I am knowing it now, he thought. To be here, like this, to be forcing a path through Medoc’s darkness, to see the darkness part and give way to golden brilliance, to see the lights burning again in the home of my ancestors … He thought he would probably never acknowledge his right and his claim to the Ancient Throne: That is for you, my dear lost love, he thought. But he thought people would probably guess if they had not already done so, and he sent a glance to the Wolves, still padding silently behind him.

I have not quite the power and the light and the strength, but they have followed me and they have answered me.

And the light was beginning to glow again. “Through this house give glimmering light …” Fergus, like Annabel, like Taliesin, did not know where the words came from: the past, the future? — but he knew that somewhere, at some time, someone sensitive and gifted and far-seeing had understood about restoring light where there had been darkness, and he knew that someone had visualised with ease a slender radiant creature with molten hair and strange glowing eyes, who was not entirely human, but not quite divine, who could work pure strong magic and who could dart in and out of a shaft of light, and defy the world and challenge all the creeds and all the religions.

The rebel angel, who walked away from the First Battle, and never declared for either side … But he has declared for us, thought Fergus. He has fought this battle with us and for us, and I believe that because of him we shall now defeat Medoc and the Twelve Dark Lords.

Through this house … On and on they went, the music from the silver pipes casting its sprinkling of flame and its pure soft radiance, and Fergus felt Tara, the Shining Palace, the radiant citadel, waking and lightening and singing with joy all about him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Deep within the Sun Chamber, the darkness was heavy and stifling. Grainne could feel the cold stone of the altar beneath her, and she could feel, in more senses than she had ever felt anything in her life, Erin at her side. Medoc stood over them, with the Conablaiche and the Lad of the Skins at his side, and she stared up at them, helpless, knowing that there could be only a few moments left to them.

She did not think there was any escape. That faint far-off howling, even if it had been the Wolves, had been too distant. The Wolves might reach them — the armies might even reach them — but it would be too late. She and Erin would both die, and their souls would be thrown into the Prison of Hostages, and the Wolfline would be dead for ever.

And Ireland would be Medoc’s.

She thought that Medoc heard her thoughts very clearly, for a brief, rather gentle smile touched his lips. And then he said, quite softly, “My dear, even now it is not too late.” Something tender touched his lips. “You are flesh of my flesh,” said Medoc. “You could swear allegiance to me, Grainne.” He reached down and took her hand and, as he did so, he sent a sliver of light slicing through the cords that bound her to the altar stone.

“Come,” said Medoc. “Come with me and see, Grainne.”

He lifted his left arm again, and the Star of Necromancy glinted on his breast, and light poured outwards and Medoc described an oblong on the darkness. At once the oblong took on the outline of an immense Door and, as Grainne caught her breath, the Door opened slowly.

“The Dark Land,” said Medoc softly. “The Enchanted Realm of the necromancers and the world of the shadow beings. My world, Grainne. The kingdom where I rule absolutely.” He moved, and Grainne, helpless, caught in sudden and terrible fascination, moved with him. The Door was opening wider to admit them, and through it she could see the red-lit land, Medoc’s land, the Dark Realm, the world that her ancestors had for so long striven to keep out.

And I am entering into it …

Dark sinuous arms reached out, and slender hands pulled her in. There was a rushing sensation, the feeling of being sucked into a dark narrow tunnel, there was the sense of entering some lightless place, a world where light would never penetrate, where there would never be fields and sunshine and rain and summer afternoons and spring dawns.

Through the red mists, she could see imp-like creatures, grinning goblin creatures with leering faces and evil eyes. There were writhing shapes, raven-black and smoky, and there was horrid echoing laughter all about her.

The Wolfqueen entering the Dark Realm …

Medoc was drawing her farther in now, his hand was holding her hand, and his skin was cool and silky. Ahead of them were fields and lakes of glassy blackness, and beyond that were towering mountains with distant castles, more lonely and more menacing than anything Grainne had ever seen. Paths snaked through the mountains, glowing and sinisterly beckoning, and here and there were clusters of houses, huddled together, and here and there were low-roofed buildings from which came a fiery glow.

Grainne thought, The Sheds of the Dark Looms! and knew that the red glow was the dreadful effluence, the waste matter from the evil bewitchments spun on the necromancers’ Looms.

Yes, but to walk here, to rule from the castles in the mountains, to hold sway over the powerful enchanters of this land …

There was a dull humming everywhere, and there was a heavy drugged feeling to the air. You could very easily surrender to it, you could easily allow it to overtake you. It could be very sweet, this heady, spell-laden world …

“You see?” said Medoc softly at her side. “There are enchantments and bewitchments here. There are spells and charms and curses and incantations without end. You could rule here, and you could have all of this, Grainne.”

If you will bow your will to mine and relinquish Ireland to me …

“No,” said Grainne, not daring to look at him. “No.”

He turned to face her then and, as she looked, he towered above her, his eyes filled with malevolence, power streaming from him. “I could compel you to do it, Wolfqueen,” he said, his voice cold but his aspect forbidding. And then, in a softer, more insidious tone, “Shall I compel you, Grainne? Shall I take you to the furnace houses where we burn the flesh and boil the bones of the humans we draw in through the Doorways? For we have ever used humans in our work, Grainne. Or shall I show you the Nightfields where we hunt Men and tear the flesh from them for our enchantments? Shall we travel across the Lake of Darkness into the River of Souls, and see below the surface of the water the trapped souls of humans? And shall I let you see the spinning of the Dark Looms, which would make your famous Silver Looms appear like children’s playthings? They would burn out your soul,” said Medoc softly. “To look on the Dark Looms calling down the force would burn out your soul. But you could command them, for I would give you the power.

“Rule with me,” said Medoc, and now he was no longer the menacing necromancer, but the beautiful, dark, slender being, and his voice was caressing and seductive. “Rule with me,” he said. “Become one of the dark sorceresses. I could teach you, Grainne. I could spend long evenings and lazy afternoons with you, teaching you.” The smile was that of a lover now and, without warning, there was a sudden sexual pull. Medoc reached out and traced the line of her face, and there was a moment when his hands brushed the thin stuff of her gown, and she felt her breasts respond. “Help me to rule both of these lands,” said Medoc, “and you will see how great are your rewards.”

Grainne drew in a huge breath, and sought and found the clear light cord of the Samhailt. Erin! she thought, and the cord strengthened.

Still here, Madam. Do not let him overpower you …

Grainne looked at Medoc coldly, and said, “Turn your mindless creatures on to me, sir. I do not care for your world,” and at once saw icy fury in his eyes.

But he only said, “I wove deep and dark enchantments so that the accursed Wolfline would die. I lured the creature who is your mother to my bed, and ensured that you and your brother would be born.” He leaned closer to her. “Twins, Grainne,” he said. “I ensured that the creature who calls herself Damnaithe would give birth to twins, in order that the ancient curse would revive, and the Beastline Enchantment would die. I do not intend to have expended those enchantments in vain, my dear. If you will not renounce Tara, then you and the Wolfprince must certainly die.” He turned about, the dark cloak swirling angrily, and Grainne felt herself sucked back through the terrible land over which he ruled, across the Nightfields and the Seas of Darkness, back to the Doorway, and back into the Sun Chamber.

She felt herself thrown back on to the altar stone, and she felt Damnaithe’s eager hands on her, tying the cords, binding her down again. Frustrated anger welled up in her, for she had been free, for that short time she had been free, and surely she could have found a way to defeat Medoc.

He will be defeated, madam … the Wolves are nearer; if we can but keep him at bay for a little longer …

Hope surged up in her, but she quenched it, for Medoc, with his dark powers, would certainly hear her.

Medoc was standing looking at Erin now, his face in shadow. “If you knew,” he said softly, “how many years I have spent searching for you. They hid you well, Erin.”

“But not well enough,” said Erin coolly.

Medoc laughed. “You could never have escaped,” he said. “They gave you to the humans, but you would always have been noticeable.” He studied Erin, and Erin stared back. “After all my planning,” said Medoc, “still you were born. Still you have survived.” He walked round the altar. “You understand, do you, that you must die? That I can risk no pretenders.”

“I understand.”

Grainne said quickly, “Medoc, if you would release him — allow him to grow up somewhere far from Tara …”

“To lead an army against me in ten years’ time?” Medoc smiled. “Come, my dear, you have more intelligence than that. You know that this one would never rest until he had tried to regain the Ancient Throne of his ancestors.”

“But if he could be made to promise — to renounce his claim …”

“I do not need to claim what is mine!” Erin was watching Medoc through narrowed eyes. “For all you have gained Tara by your sorcery, Medoc, you will never really be Ireland’s true Ruler. You are a usurper.” He smiled. “I think you fear me,” said Erin.

“Let us say I prefer to dispose of irritations,” said Medoc, and Erin smiled as if he found this understandable.

“While you live, Wolfprince, you will always be a threat,” said Medoc, and his eyes went to the monstrous waiting shape of Crom Croich. “And my master is expecting sacrifice tonight,” he said. “I have summoned him, and I have brought him into the world of Men, and for that alone I must appease him.” As he spoke, Crom Croich’s little red eyes glinted greedily, and a smile twisted the thick wet maw.

“The Crown Princess and the Wolfprince are worthy offerings,” said Medoc. “My master will grant me so much power for that, and so much strength, that I shall have all I ever wanted.”

He stood back and signed to the Conablaiche. “And now,” said Medoc, “these creatures are yours, my trusted servant.” And then, to the Lad of the Skins, “And they are yours, my devoted follower,” he said. “Rip out their hearts so that we may feed them to the Master. Take their souls and carry them to the eternal light of the Prison of Hostages.”

The Conablaiche’s claws rang out on the silver floor as it came scuttling forward, its beak clacking, and the Lad of the Skins moved as well, a quick darting movement, the Knife of Light gleaming in his hands.

Grainne thought, So after all we are to die at the hands of this dark, beautiful, evil one. After all, Fergus and Raynor and the others have failed, and after all the Wolves will not reach us. She looked up to where Crom Croich was towering above them, its monstrous bulk heaving and panting, the thick lips beginning to stretch.

Tear out their hearts and let me taste them, for I am greedy tonight, and this is the Crown Princess and the Lost Prince …

And through the great double doors of the Sun Chamber came streaming the Wolves of Tara, sleek and beautiful and filled with avenging fury, and behind them were Fael-Inis and Fergus, Raynor and Taliesin …

*

The evil crimson light became instantly shot with streaks of pure white brilliance, and Medoc fell back at once, one hand flung up as if the light had seared his eyes. A great roar went up, and the Wolves erupted across the silver floor, their teeth bared and their faces masks of blazing hatred. They fell on the Dark Lords in a snarling, whirling mass of fur and teeth and black armour, and the Dark Lords, taken unaware, reeled back. Fael-Inis shot forward, an arrow of pure light, to where the Lad of the Skins cowered and, as he did so, Fergus, Raynor, and Taliesin, with the Cruithin and the small army at their heels, surged forward. Grainne, helpless, unable to move, felt delight explode in her heart, to be followed by an entirely new fear as Fergus and Raynor, with a single purposeful movement, made for the Conablaiche, their swords glinting angrily in the baleful red light.

The glowing brilliance was shifting and changing, and the crimson aura of evil was struggling against Fael-Inis’s light. The Sun Chamber became a moving whirling tunnel of crimson and silver and white and orange as the two forces fought for mastery. There was the ringing sound of steel against armour, and the Sun Chamber seemed to be filled with the High Queen’s avenging armies and with the legendary lost Wolves of Cormac, so that Grainne, fear and delight and confidence and terror all tumbling about together, thought, They are going to do it! I truly believe they are going to succeed! And forgot about the cold hard altar slab and the monstrous towering bulk of the terrible creature that Medoc had summoned, and was certainly not aware of anyone at her side until a soft, rather hesitant voice spoke.

Annabel, whose own world had certainly not prepared her for anything like this, and who was not at all sure how a High Queen ought to be addressed, said rather breathlessly, “Madam — that is — Your Majesty … ” and Grainne turned her head, and saw Annabel, and smiled with such warmth and such interest that Annabel blinked and understood at once why Fergus and Raynor were both prepared to fight to the death for the Queen and why Tybion had died happy, and why the armies had gone without hesitation into the necromancer’s lair to rescue her.

“Could I somehow untie you?” said Annabel, and Grainne said, “Oh, yes, if only you would, and Erin as well,” and quite suddenly it was perfectly easy to explain about how they had all stolen along the western avenue, and through the Palace, and how they had been afraid they would not be in time, and about Fael-Inis and the Wolves and the sidh. Grainne listened and, once her hands were free, helped Annabel with the chains that bound Erin, and seemed to know about Fael-Inis and all the other things.

“But we knew the Wolves were coming,” she said, and her eyes went to the snarling angry Wolves with such delight that Annabel blinked again, and remembered that after all this was the Wolfqueen, and that the blood of the Royal Wolves was in her veins.

“It was only that we were unsure how long they would be and how close they were to us,” said Erin gravely, and he and Grainne exchanged a smile, and then turned back to Annabel, and Annabel smiled back and knew that there was no question but that they must win this battle.

“Can we fight?” said Erin, suddenly and disconcertingly a small boy now, his eyes bright as he turned to survey the armies.

“You would be cut to pieces at once,” said Grainne. “And so would we. But we will watch our chance and there may be something we can do to help.” And then Annabel felt Grainne’s hand come down over hers in a painful grip, and Grainne said in a whisper, “The Dark Lords. Look at them.” And Annabel, who had actually been trying not to look at them (and who had been trying very hard indeed not to look at the Conablaiche), looked and said, “What is happening to them?”

“They are changing,” said Grainne, staring to where the Lords had moved back from the fight. “They are sending forth their dark inner selves.”

Debauchery, Decadence, Perversion, Hatred, Avarice …

Fergus, with Raynor and Taliesin, had cornered the Conablaiche, and Annabel thought the creature must already have been disabled by Fael-Inis’s bolt of light, because it was backing away and very nearly cowering. Its jelly-like eye swivelled and glared and, despite its cringing mien, it was clawing out at them. Annabel saw Fergus bring his sword slicing down on to the creature’s gristly jointed arm, and a pale viscous fluid spurted from the gaping wound. There was a stench of rotting meat and old blood and decay, and Annabel shuddered, and held on to her courage, and remembered about it being a battle they must win at all costs, and tried to see what they could do to help.

At her side, Grainne said, “Damnaithe — look!” And they both saw that Damnaithe was creeping alongside the wall of the Sun Chamber on all fours, the Knife of Light held between her teeth, advancing on Fergus from behind. “Come on!” cried Annabel, and they flung themselves on Damnaithe, knocking her to the ground, wresting the knife from her hand, sending it clattering across the silver floor.

Grainne snatched up the cords that had bound her to the altar earlier, and tied Damnaithe’s hands and ankles; as she straightened up, Annabel saw that she was very pale. Annabel reached for the Knife of Light and, as her hand closed about it, it shivered and splintered and dissolved into a myriad of tiny glinting sparks that rolled and danced and disappeared.

“Another evil gone!” said Grainne, and looked at Annabel, her eyes golden and shining, and Annabel, caught at once in the exultation, saw all over again why Grainne’s people were ready to die for her without hesitation, and began to understand why people had fought for King and Country, and risked their lives, and courted danger and death.

Fael-Inis had surrounded the Lad of the Skins with dazzling glowing light, and the Lad was screaming and putting up his hands, trying to ward off the light and tearing at the air in front of him.

“What is he doing?” cried Annabel, and Grainne said, “He is blinding him with the light. He is sending pure white light straight at his eyes!”

The Lad was still screaming, but the sounds were quieter now. Blood was pouring from his eye sockets and, when at last Fael-Inis withdrew the piercing spears of light, and the Lad turned his face to them, they saw the great gaping holes where his eyes had been.

Annabel said, in a voice from which all expression had been driven, “You are quite right. He has burnt his eyes out.”

“It is a fitting punishment,” said Grainne, and her voice was so stern that Annabel turned to look in surprise. Grainne said, half to herself, “I wish I could feel pity for the creature, but I cannot. The children whose souls he imprisoned …” And Annabel looked at Erin, and understood, and remembered all over again that here were weapons her own world had never dreamed existed, and wondered whether the bombs and explosions that destroyed her world were worse or better.

Taliesin, his dark hair tumbled, his eyes brilliant, was leading the Wolves against the Dark Lords, striking out at them with his sword. Annabel could see that the Lords were changing, and that from within the armour and the dark visors shapes were beginning to emerge. Dreadful nightmarish shapes; things that were not human and yet which had, rather dreadfully, a vestige of human appearance. As Taliesin brought his sword glinting down again, one of the Lords — Grainne thought it might have been Deceit — made a sudden vicious clawing movement, and Taliesin staggered back and half fell against the wall on the far side of the Chamber, one hand clutched to his shoulder.

“Injured only,” said Grainne, as Annabel gasped and started forward. “Do not move — you will be dead in minutes if you attempt to force a path through the fighting. And look to the Dark Lords!”

Annabel looked and saw the hideous shapes solidifying, and shuddered. “What of Medoc?” she said. “Is he dead? Will he fight?”

“He is over there,” said Grainne, who had never lost sight of the dark slender figure of Medoc. “He has the god Crom Croich with him. See?” And pointed through the tumult and the smoke and the heat to where Medoc was standing a little apart from the fighting, in Crom Croich’s shadow, his dark cloak wrapped about him. “He will not fight,” said Grainne, “for no true necromancer would ever engage in hand-to-hand fighting. But he is calling up the Twelve Evils; those are his weapons, and it is those we have to fear now.”

Annabel, curled into the corner with Grainne and Erin, said, “But Medoc is — is he not one of the Lords?”

“Medoc is all of them rolled up into one,” said Grainne, her eyes on the twelve creatures. “He is every evil and every sin and every wickedness ever committed or dreamed or thought or planned.” And then, half to herself, “And I cannot let him have Ireland,” she said and, at her side, Erin, without taking his eyes from the terrible battle, reached for her hand.

He will not have it, madam.

The Twelve Lords had by now distanced themselves from the Queen’s people, and they were ranging themselves against the far end of the Chamber, seeming to grow in stature with every second. The black armour was glittering and writhing, as if alive, and although the creatures that emerged could not possibly be human, Annabel saw again that here and there were human characteristics.

In another minute, in a few more heartbeats, they would all stand before the Queen’s people, in their dark and terrible majesty …

Grainne and Annabel were on their feet now, Erin between them. Annabel thought, I am extremely frightened. I am more frightened than I have ever been of anything in my entire life, but I should certainly be much more frightened if it were not for these two. And remembered what Taliesin had told her about the power and the light and the strength of the Wolfline. She glanced at Grainne and Erin, and for a moment she felt it, a golden strength, a soaring stream of pure courage, and thought, Yes, Taliesin was right. And then, on another note, Taliesin?

He was lying half slumped against the wall, his sword arm wounded and looking as if it might be broken, but, through the smoke, she saw him smile at her rather mockingly.

Not dead yet by a long way, lady. And she remembered that none of this would have been bearable without Taliesin.

And when this is all over, we will be together, Annabel … The thought came as clearly and as strongly as it could possibly be, and Annabel felt a wave of hope, because they would find a way to rout these nightmare creatures, and they would find a way to drive out Medoc and the Dark Lords.

The Dark Lords … The small band of men that Fergus and Raynor had believed would be sufficient had been beaten back by the towering raging beings that had now fully emerged from their armour. The Wolves were growling and cringing, their ears flattened, their eyes red and baleful, but even the Wolves would not approach these dark demonic entities that Medoc had called up to defend him.

Great billowing shapes uncoiled, and the Twelve Great Evils were there in the Sun Chamber.

Debauchery, the Overlord of the Twelve, and the least human of them all. He was a shifting, nearly formless mass of thick oily substance that was not quite smoke and not quite fluid and not quite flesh. There was a dingy muddy taint, and at the centre were a pair of evil glowing eyes, terrible opaque eyes that made you think of old, old gods and of ancient creatures with human appearance but webbed hands and feet that would peer up at you from the depths of dark underground lakes. He did not speak, although Grainne glimpsed the rudiments of a slash-like mouth, but if he had spoken, the voice that would have issued from the centre of the shifting greasy smoke-fluid would have been thick and clotted and slimy, and if he had taken human shape, he would have been dark and covered with scales.

Next to Debauchery was Lust: a nasty one this, made up of a fast swirling crimson pillar of smoke that twisted itself into a great thick column of flesh and took on the appearance of a huge erect phallus with a monstrously swollen tip. There were glinting eyes three quarters of the way up the phallus-shape and long bony fingers — dozens of them — that squirmed and that would pry and prod and insinuate themselves into every bodily cavity they could find … Grainne and Annabel both gasped and grew back, and Lust gave a low, treacly-sounding chuckle, and the eyes widened and several pairs of hands reached out. Pale thick fluid, giant’s semen, oozed from the pulsing tip of the terrible column of flesh.

Next to Lust was Selfishness: an amorphous jelly-like creature, very nearly ovoid with thick, pitted skin, small, mean features and a tight, prim mouth, all crammed into the centre of the ovoid.

Decadence was exactly as Grainne had visualised earlier: a thin-faced, pale gentleman, wearing a dark red velvet jacket, and with cold old eyes that inspected and discarded, and with pale polished skin. His hands were slender and smooth, and much too well kept, and they would curl lovingly about the stem of a wine glass and they would stroke young tender flesh under cover of darkness … Grainne disliked Decadence very much.

Hatred was a huge mask of glaring red eyes and teeth and claws; Jealousy — another nasty one, this — was another shifting changing shape, rather snake-like this time, sinuous and insinuating. He was green and the surface of his skin was faintly iridescent with what might have been fishscales. He would be cold-blooded and slimy. He had glaring yellow eyes and you could easily imagine that he would come writhing and squirming out of some dreadful steamy swamp. He would worm his way into your mind and coil his serpentine body about your thoughts, and his forked tongue would flicker and dart and he would whisper poison into your mind.

Greed, who was next, was made up of huge quivering sections of fat and blubber that ran and squelched because there was no skin to contain them. Here and there were patches of grease on the surface, and here and there, deep in the raw fat, were gaping wet mouths that made constant guzzling, sucking, lapping noises … All the better to gobble you up with, my dear …

Annabel, who had been just about able to cope with Decadence and Lust, found herself sickened all over again by Greed.

Deceit was thin and small and rat-like. He had a long slithering rat tail and a sly shifty eye. He was not quite a rodent, but he was not quite a human. He would scuttle into corners if the light fell on him and vanish into the dusty shadows if you tried to catch him. He would have a beautiful voice, and if you trusted him, he would hurt you quite dreadfully.

Conceit: beautiful and weak-mouthed; Perversion: a sinister figure in a long dark cloak with a deep, wide-brimmed slouch hat hiding his eyes. He would lurk in fog-shrouded streets or in dark forests where he could swirl his black cloak about you and take you to his lair and do things to you that you would probably prefer not to know could be done …

Vice and Avarice were twins, joined down the centre of their bodies. Annabel, who remembered about something called Siamese twins, thought they were particularly repulsive. They each had a wide, flat, curving, cruel mouth like a shark, and there were at least eight sets of arms and curved talons. Vice had a long downward-pointing beak like a vulture’s, and Avarice had a hard bony skull and a black shiny mandible like a giant beetle …

The Twelve Dark Lords were free of their concealing armour, out in the world to batten on their victims and fight for Medoc and Crom Croich …

Fergus and Raynor had both been backed against the wall by Decadence and Debauchery, and the twins Vice and Avarice; Greed was waddling towards the Wolves, licking and mumbling and guzzling, a monstrous, nearly liquid mass of wet, slopping blubber. The Wolves whined and cringed, but Grainne and Annabel saw that they did not actually back away. A shiver went through Erin, and Grainne knew that he was pouring every ounce of strength and confidence into them.

Taliesin, whose right arm was useless and hanging at his side, had managed to crawl round the edges of the room; Annabel saw him from the corners of her vision, and at once tried not to look, in case anyone should follow her gaze and see what he was trying to do. He was the farthest away from the Dark Lords, and it was just possible — oh, dear God, yes, it was just possible that he could take at least one of them by surprise. Some kind of diversion, thought Annabel wildly; if only he can create a diversion, then perhaps the Wolves can surge forward again and Fergus and Raynor can lead the men back in, and perhaps we shall be victorious after all.

As Taliesin inched carefully across the floor, Jealousy undulated and seemed to dissolve slightly; livid green scales shimmered, and a rope-like coil slid out and knocked him to the ground. An evil throaty chuckle rang round the room.

You see what happens to humans who try to fight us …

The Twelve Lords were moving forward now; they were shifting and coalescing, forming and reforming, almost becoming one terrible entity and then separating again. You could not fight them because they were terrible and invincible, and they were not human. You could not fight creatures like this with human weapons …

Decadence and Perversion moved forward, and reached for Grainne and Annabel, pulling them to the centre of the room; as they did so, Lust swirled forward, the huge penis-shape quivering and throbbing. Annabel gasped and thrust a fist into her mouth, but Grainne stood looking at the rearing form.

“Well, my dears,” said Decadence, in his smooth, weary voice. “Shall we feed you both to our brother? Shall we stretch you over the tip of his phallus? Shall we see him enter you and split you apart?”

The rearing shape of Lust chuckled, and clutching hands reached out from the column of hard, throbbing flesh.

“Take them to the Dark Realm and give them to us for pleasuring,” said Vice, and Avarice said, “We should know how to bend them to our Master’s will,” and chuckled, and Vice’s curving beak snapped with anticipation.

And then, as Annabel and Grainne both felt themselves being pushed closer to the chuckling trunk of flesh, Fael-Inis, who had been standing framed in the huge crystal window, said in what they both afterwards thought of as a voice of fire and light, “Medoc! Look to the skies! Listen to the echoes!

And everyone in the Sun Chamber heard the same thing, and Taliesin and Annabel both felt fear mixed with a sudden hope, because this had happened before, inside the mountain …

On the other side of the Sun Chamber, Fergus turned his head, and recognised the sound also, and dared not believe that this might be their deliverance.

Hoofbeats approaching them through the dark skies …

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse …

Medoc moved at once. He strode forward and stood at the great window, staring into the skies, his head tilted, his eyes dark and intent. Everyone moved back from his passing.

Fael-Inis moved to his side, and Taliesin who was nearest, and who was to wonder afterwards if the pain of his broken arm had made him see things not really there, thought he had never witnessed anything so clear-cut and so remarkable as these two disparate beings: light and darkness; the rebel angel of fire and light and speed, and the dark, cruel, beautiful necromancer. Both of them framed in the immense, intricate crystal window.

And then Fael-Inis said softly, “You called them into being, Medoc. You sent them into the Far Future with your creature, the Conablaiche.”

Medoc did not reply, and for a moment the silence in the Sun Chamber was absolute.

“But you failed to control them,” said Fael-Inis. “And you must know, Medoc, that the ancient immutable law decrees that any creature who summons an entity from outside the world, and then fails to control it, must perforce be at that entity’s mercy. They have been baulked of their prey,” said Fael-Inis gently and rather pityingly, “and so they are coming to the one who summoned them to take their revenge.”

He turned to Fergus, who was listening very intently. “Captain, you went into the Far Future to chain the Apocalypse and bring it back to destroy Medoc,” said Fael-Inis, and those closest to him saw that his eyes were shining. “You thought you had failed.

“You did not fail, Fergus. By breaking out of the Prison of Hostages, by leading out the slaughtered children who were Crom Croich’s victims in the last century, you forced open a chink between this world and that of the Future. You created a bridge, a nexus, a tear in the fabric of Time, Fergus. It is through that chink that the Four Horsemen are now coming.

“And they are very close now … they are nearly upon us …”

Fergus could not speak. He stood listening, his eyes never leaving Fael-Inis’s beautiful grave face.

Fael-Inis turned to hold out his hands to Annabel and Taliesin, and Annabel, who had been hoping that she could pass unnoticed in this rather awesome company, found herself walking forward, and found her hand taken by Fael-Inis, and thought it was rather like taking the hand of something molten and white-hot, but something that would never burn you.

Fael-Inis said, “In the Mountain Halls of the Drakon — the Far Future’s ruler — you escaped the Four Horsemen. You thought you had left them behind. You certainly thought they had been destroyed there.

“They were not destroyed, because they are indestructible. They are timeless and ageless and they will eternally stalk the world, seeking those evil ones who will try to use them. The Four Horsemen — who you also know as the Four Heralds — followed you back. They are riding through the night now, and they are riding through the skies, and if you listen closely, you will hear that they are almost upon us.”

Hoofbeats; pounding, galloping hoofbeats, drawing nearer and nearer, growing louder and louder …

Fael-Inis had released Annabel’s hand, and moved back into the frame of the crystal window again. As he did so, it seemed to the watchers that light began to stream from him; it poured from his fingertips and his head was becoming suffused with an aureole of light. The Sun Chamber began to glow and pulsate with beauty and brilliance and strength, and both Grainne and Fergus gasped, and Grainne felt tears sting her eyes, because they were seeing the Sun Chamber being reborn to all its former beauty. Raynor, who had dreamed of but never thought to see this, stood very still and felt the pure delight of the moment soak into his skin.

Thy former light restore …

And then the Sun Chamber was plunged into whirling confusion, and Annabel felt Taliesin pull her aside and there was a great howling wind somewhere, and although her eyes were tight shut, there were great exploding lights everywhere, and there was the almost deafening pounding of the hoofbeats, and the Horsemen were in the Sun Chamber with them.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse … the ancient messengers, the Heralds that precede the coming of the Beast.

Annabel opened her eyes and saw, for a never-to-be-forgotten instant, the great rearing figures of the Horsemen, etched in fire and bathed in blood-red light, awesome and fearsome and as old as Time. She saw them sweep Medoc up, and then she saw the monstrous shape of Crom Croich thrown into the air by one of the glinting hoofs, and fall across the leading Rider’s saddle. There was a howl of protest and fear from the Dark Lords, and a screech of fury from Damnaithe as she disappeared.

And then the Horsemen were streaming out of the Chamber, into the skies trailing chaos in their wake, into the strange other-world they had been summoned from, and the Dark Lords were dissolving, and Medoc and Crom Croich were gone, and there was a crackle of light across the eastern sky.

Silence, deep and enveloping, fell upon the Bright Palace.

*

Fergus opened his eyes and saw the pale, clear shafts of light spilling in through the crystal window of the Sun Chamber.

“Dawn,” said Grainne softly. “The first light.” She looked directly at Fergus and smiled, and for the first time since his return, Fergus looked at her properly, and felt delight and tranquillity.

The eye of the storm and the heart of the tempest. I think it is going to be all right, thought Fergus. My dear lost love, I think it is going to be all right. I shall meet you and love you and there will be no pain, except perhaps …

Except perhaps for the son I never gave you. Ireland’s heir.

Fergus turned his head, and saw Erin.

CHAPTER THIRTY

No one who had any pretensions to being anyone — which is to say just about everyone — would have dreamed of missing the Ceremony that followed almost immediately on the vanquishing of Medoc and the Dark Lords.

“The Ritual of the Fál,” said Dorrainge. “The embracing of the Stone of Fál by the destined Ruler. I suppose Her Majesty knows best,” he said disapprovingly. “But if she had asked my advice, I should have said, Leave well alone, ma’am. I never did like the Ritual of the Fál,” said Dorrainge, and would not listen to the people who asked why not.

“It’s because you never know if the Stone is going to answer,” said Cathbad, “and of course if that happens, you might be left with no King or Queen at all. It’s quite difficult,” said Cathbad, worried, and Dorrainge, listening furtively to this, began to wonder whether Cathbad was, after all, quite Druidical material, because Druids ought not to gossip.

Most people were rather intrigued and certainly interested in the Ritual, which had not been performed — “Dear me, since Cormac’s day,” said Fintan. “We shall find it very interesting.”

“The Druids won’t,” said Cermait Honeymouth.

“The Druids don’t approve of anything they haven’t thought up for themselves,” said Fintan.

In fact, the Druids were being very cagey about giving their support to the reviving of the Ritual. “Waiting to see which way the cat jumps,” said Fintan vulgarly, and was told to be quiet and pay attention to the ceremony.

“The Druids are more concerned with seeing that Fribble doesn’t have too much to drink and disgrace everybody,” said Cermait.

Fribble had come back for the Ceremony of the Fál. He had travelled from Calatin’s house in Calatin’s cart, which he had borrowed, and he had donned his best robes, and had accompanied them all to the Plain of the Fál, paying no attention at all to Dorrainge, who said it was all quite absurd and Fribble ought to have known better.

“At his age,” said Dorrainge, rather unwisely, so that several people frowned and told each other that they had never liked Dorrainge, and that in any case, Dorrainge himself was no spring chicken.

Fribble was very interested in the Ceremony of the Fál.

“I’m very interested indeed,” he said. “I’ve come back especially to see it. I’ve had a very nice time with Calatin; I’ve learnt a lot of things I didn’t know. But if I hadn’t come back, the fat fool would have had himself elected as Chief Druid, which would never do. I hear Fergus returned from the Future; well, I thought he would. He’ll have a good tale to tell, I shouldn’t wonder. And that Tyrian. Is he here? I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. He always brings his own wine, you know. You don’t mind entertaining somebody who does that, do you?”

“Sir,” said Taliesin, at Fribble’s side, “allow me to offer you a measure,” and Fribble turned round and beamed and said, “Well, just a drain to keep out the cold.”

“It is fire and warmth and the very breath of life,” agreed Taliesin blandly.

“Here’s to it,” said Fribble, causing Dorrainge to suck his teeth and remark that he had always said that no good came of consorting with sorcerers, and Fribble had acquired some very indelicate expressions.

“No, I didn’t,” said Fribble, who could usually be trusted to hear what people did not intend him to hear. “I’m what you call one of Nature’s gentlemen. I know how to behave and I’ve got very good table manners. Speaking of which, I expect we’ll all be having a banquet later, will we? You need a banquet after this sort of thing.

“Whose idea was it to hold the Ritual at the Purple Hour, I wonder? Of course, you need all the magic you can get, and the Purple Hour was always believed to be the strongest time for that. I don’t know that I believe it. But we’ll need a banquet afterwards, although it’ll be midnight, if it won’t be breakfast-time, by the time we get back to Tara. They tell me Cathbad’s roasting a few boar. I thought he would. I daresay it’s highly suitable when you think about it.

“Bless my soul, there’s Rudraige the Tusk. I’d better go across and have a word. A very bad business that about young Tybion. Don’t go away. I shall want to hear about the Future, you know.” He beamed at Annabel. “Very interesting,” he said. “I didn’t know they had people in the Future. Tell the Tyrian to bring you to see me. Don’t forget.”

“I should like that,” said Annabel, who would.

“Bring some wine when you come,” said Fribble, and set off across the Plain to where Rudraige was assembling a small party of Tusks who had come to see the Ceremony and pay homage to the Queen. He wanted to be sure not to offend Rudraige, who was Head Tusk and reputed to be rather wealthy.

Fintan was explaining to anyone who would listen (and several people who did not want to listen but could not get away) the exact nature of the Ritual.

“And they do say,” he said solemnly, “that when the Stone is embraced by the destined King of Ireland, it shrieks aloud.” He nodded as if agreeing with himself, and then glanced furtively over his shoulder, and drew a little nearer, with an air of the utmost secrecy, so that his listeners, hoping he was about to impart some interesting — and with any luck, shocking — nugget of information, did the same, and Cathbad, who had not been one of the company, but who had scented gossip, tip-toed on the outside of the circle, and tripped into a rabbit hole and went headlong in the dust.

“He had to be helped up and dusted down in full view of most of the Court and the entire Beastline,” said Dorrainge, displeased, and added that none of it was dignified behaviour for a Druid, and Cathbad’s Code of Entry might have to be reviewed at the next Solstice.

“Bother dignity and bother being a Druid,” said Cathbad, and went away to consider could they serve whole roast swan at the banquet, or would that be a touch discourteous. In any case, they would none of them be sitting down to the feast much before midnight at this rate, because nobody seemed to know how long the Ritual might be supposed to last, and so far nobody had seen the Queen.

“She’ll make a proper entrance when the proper time comes,” said Fintan.

The Beastline were deeply interested in the Ritual, and in the Stone of the Fál, and listened to everything that everyone had to say.

“They even listened to Fintan,” said Cermait.

“The Stone shrieks aloud, you see,” said Fintan, who had lost his original audience when Cathbad fell into the rabbit hole, and was preparing to start all over again with a new one. “When the true King embraces it,” he explained.

“Or the true Queen,” put in Cermait. “Don’t forget that.”

“I meant that,” said Fintan. “They knew I meant that. You did know, didn’t you? Mind you, I don’t know that I believe it,” said Fintan, who in fact believed devoutly in every sliver of myth and every shred of legend ever related, but who would not have admitted to this even in the face of torture of the most extreme kind. “And of course, we’ve none of us ever seen it performed,” he added for good measure, because it would not have done for people to have thought him credulous.

Taliesin was regarding the great rearing Stone. “I am sceptical about the entire thing,” he said. “But then I am a cynic and a rogue, and fit company for no man and certainly fit company for no myth.” He looked at the Stone thoughtfully. “I find it difficult to believe in Stones that cry aloud for chosen Kings,” he said.

“Or Queens,” said Cermait, and was told to hush.

But for all the doubts and for all the scepticism, for Taliesin was not alone, a feeling of anticipation was creeping over the twilit Plain. There was a sense of excitement, a feeling that something marvellous and mystical was about to happen. There was a faint humming on the air, and Bee, lifting her head, said, “The sidh. Or is it?” And frowned, because although the sound was a little like the sidh’s music, it was mingled in with the expectancy and the anticipation.

“But the sidh are certainly here,” said Rinnal. “Over there. See?”

“And it is their music,” said Bee, with contentment.

The music was all about them now; it was singing on the air, and it was mingling with the soft sweet twilight.

“Like music you can feel,” said Conn, who stood with Niall. “Like music you can eat and drink.”

“I’d rather eat and drink Cathbad’s banquet,” said Michael, but he did not say it very loudly, because he was as awed as the rest of the boys.

And then, just as the music and the anticipation and the excitement was reaching an almost unendurable pitch, and just as Annabel was thinking that she could not bear it any longer, Grainne, with Erin at her side, and Fergus and Raynor just behind, came walking slowly up the hill and stood on the far side of the Plain.

A great stillness descended on the waiting Court, because while they had never forgotten, not for a moment, that Grainne was the High Queen, the descendant of the great Rulers of Ireland, most of them had grown used to seeing her as she had been for the past weeks; informal, unceremonious. Dressed in plain dark breeches and leather boots and a cambric shirt, with her hair cut short. They had become accustomed to seeing her move about the camp, eating their ordinary camp suppers, joining in with the bonfire singing, listening when Fintan or Cermait related a tale or two.

Being one of them and being one with them, the soldiers had said, and had liked it. It had meant you had to curb your language a bit, and your drinking as well, but nobody had minded this. Everybody had known what was due to the High Queen. One of the soldiers who liked to think he had a bit of a turn for a good phrase had called her the People’s Queen, and this had been taken up.

Now, quite suddenly, she was none of these things. She was no longer the slender gentle creature who had helped them to serve supper, and who had laughed with them when Cathbad had added sugar instead of salt to a hare pie, and she was no longer the unassuming companionable friend who had helped in the plotting against Medoc and in the planning of journeys and in the drawing up of battle strategies.

She wore the ceremonial robes of Tara; the gold and black, silk on velvet, and on her head was the thin gold circlet forged by the sidh centuries earlier for the great Niall of the Nine Hostages, and she was the granddaughter of Dierdriu, and the great-granddaughter of Cormac, and she was the descendant of the magical enchanted Wolfline of Ireland.

Every person present knew that the sudden hush and the sudden unspoken homage was due to far more than ceremonial silk and velvet and gold. It was the instinctive recognition of the centuries of seigneurial mastery that ran in her blood. It was breeding, heredity, and it was that remarkable blend of power and charm and cunning that had made the Wolfline great.

The power and the light and the strength of the Wolves …

The Wolves were with her, upwards of a dozen of them, walking obediently at her heels, sleek and lean and alert. Several people eyed them uneasily, because didn’t Wolves have the terrible way of altering their moods in the blink of a whisker! Nobody wanted to be eaten by the Royal Wolves, never mind it was the grandest thing ever that they’d returned, never mind that it had at one time been the most honourable death that could befall a man.

Taliesin, at Annabel’s side, thought, How does she control them? What does she do to make them obedient and wise? And, as he watched, he saw the thin pure light in Erin’s eyes, and knew that it was not Grainne who was controlling them, but the slight dark child at Grainne’s side. Erin … Eirann, Ireland’s Lost Prince …

And then, because it would always be in Taliesin to see the layer just below the surface, as he had seen that the light in the boy’s eyes was the silvered light of the Samhailt, he looked at the child again, more deeply. And now he saw the wolfmask that lay across Erin’s face, and he saw, as well, that Erin had Fergus’s smile and Fergus’s way of walking, and thought, So that is it. Is it? Yes, I believe so. How extremely sad, thought Taliesin. How cruel that those two should be siblings. He wondered whether Fergus would ever tell him of what had happened inside the Prison of Hostages, and then he wondered whether Fergus needed to tell him. There was a look of peace in Fergus’s eyes, the look of someone who has fought torments and waged struggles, and won.

Erin was as plainly dressed as his ancestor Cormac had always been. No ceremony, thought Taliesin, his eyes never leaving Erin’s face. But I believe he does not need any. He never will need any. His presence alone is a ceremony. How very curious, thought Taliesin, and felt Annabel slip her hand into his, and knew that their thoughts were running alongside, and remembered that, quite soon, after the banquet, he would take Annabel back to the tall narrow house in the Street of Money Lenders, and that she would curl up before the fire, and the fire would turn her hair to molten gold, and that he would never let her go …

Annabel was more or less aware of Taliesin’s thoughts, and she was filled with delight. To stay here, in this magical marvellous world, to be with Taliesin, to become close to these people: Grainne and Fergus and Raynor and the Beastline; Fintan and Cermait, and Fribble and Cathbad and the Druids. They will become close, thought Annabel, and knew it would happen. And then, because there was no room for anything more now, she turned her attention back to the Stone, and saw that it was beginning to glow, and thought that she was mistaken, because it was probably the twilight casting strange shadows, or perhaps even the sidh, and saw that it could not be any of these, and shivered with delight.

The Stone waking …

*

The air was laden and heavy with enchantment now, and in every face was the utmost joy, because this was it. Wasn’t this at last the Old Ireland waking, the Ireland they had yearned for and sought, and tried to awaken; and hadn’t the Queen somehow woken it for them? This was the enchanted, mystical Ireland, the world of turquoise twilights and misty dusks, and of half-Men, who sometimes walked on all fours like beasts, and sometimes upright like Men; the land where people could spin magic, and where bewitchments could be had and where spells could be spun … This was the fabled land of Cormac of the Wolves and Niall of the Nine Hostages, and Nuadu Airgetlam of the Silver Arm; of Dierdriu and the sidh and the first Queen of all who was sometimes called the cursed Queen, and who had raised Tara from the rock by magic and charm and cajolery. All stirring and waking and living, and all there with them.

There was a humming on the air now; something that was not the sidh’s music, something that was ancient, and that had been ancient when the world was young, and something that was filled with deep pure magic and with strong bewitchment.

The Stone waking …

Erin moved forward then and, as he did so, Grainne fell back, and the humming and the anticipation grew in intensity, and Annabel thought that she could not bear it much longer.

Erin reached out and embraced the Stone with both arms. There was a sound, as if hundreds of great birds were flying past, or as if an immense wind was blowing on the Plains.

Annabel, who had been unable to look away from Erin’s steady approach to the Stone, felt undiluted joy wash over the watchers, and saw in their faces such pure pleasure, and such immense happiness, that for a second there was a sharp loneliness, and a feeling of isolation, because she was not one of them or one with them, and this was something she could not share completely with them. She thought, They are becoming my friends, every one of them, but still, this is something they are born to, it is their heritage, and it is something my world has never known … We lost the magic and the enchantment, thought Annabel. We lost the heritage we should have had, and inherited only destruction and sickness and a dying world.

And then she looked to where Grainne was standing, and saw Grainne smile at her, and saw that it was a smile that included Annabel in all of this, and that within it was the shared memory of how they had fought Medoc and the Dark Lords, and stood together against the dangers, and delight unfolded within her, because of course she was a part of it, and of course she was sharing it. How marvellous it all is, thought Annabel. And then: And how fortunate I am to be here with them all. She could hear the great Stone beginning to hum now, and there was an uncanny music in the sound, and she knew that she was hearing an old, old enchantment, and she felt the happiness surrounding her, because for sure they were all welcoming Erin, they were acknowledging him as their Prince …

There was a rushing sound above them, the feeling of something powerful and swift approaching — Immense wheels riding across the sky, thought Annabel, and so strong was the image that she looked up to the skies, and saw that others were doing the same, and strained her eyes to see, because surely, surely he would be with them at such a moment …

And then he was there, briefly and insubstantially, but he was there, golden and glowing, his eyes slanting, seeming to be on fire … The rebel angel travelling through the skies … The Time Chariot hovered for a moment to the east, splendid and unearthly, aflame with the Fire of Fael-Inis’s music and, for a breathspace, they heard again the silvery fragile music of the silver pipes, and felt the pull of Fael-Inis’s enchantment.

Come with me, Mortals, and we will challenge the world and tumble it about, and will win, Mortals, we will win …

And so we did win, thought Annabel, and smiled, and found that tears were streaming down her cheeks, and did not care, and then brushed them away impatiently, because she would not bear it if she did not see everything of the Ceremony.

The Stone was crying now; it was shrieking aloud, and Erin’s face was intent and absorbed, as if he might be drawing power out from the Stone.

“Or,” thought Annabel, more intrigued than she had ever been in her life, “as if he might be pouring it in.”

And she stayed quietly where she was, and looked at the others: at Grainne, whose face was shining with more happiness than Annabel had ever seen in any creature’s face ever before; at Raynor, at her side, calm and strong and gentle and wise. At Fergus, who stood a little apart, but with a look in his eyes as he watched Erin that was proud and humble and grateful and filled with the contentment of someone who has fought some strange inner battle, and been victorious.

The Druids were nodding and watching, happy to see such an ancient tradition honoured, and the Cruithin were on the far side, their eyes bright, their heads tilted in the characteristic alertness. The Beastline creatures were nearby, quiet and absorbed in everything.

Last of all, Annabel looked to where Taliesin stood beside her, and the deep joy welled up and threatened to spill over, because surely, oh, surely, this was more than anyone could ever expect to find in a single lifetime.

And then Erin stood back, and turned to look at them all, and his eyes were alight, and his whole being was transformed, and there was a glow about him, and every person present fell to his knees in homage to Ireland’s Lost Prince.

*

In the chronicles of Ireland, there is a chapter much read and much related and considerably loved by the Irish. It tells, in the beautiful simple language of the Cruithin, how the gentle and much-loved Grainne, sometimes called Grainne the Gentle and sometimes also called the People’s Queen, gave up the Throne in favour of her son, and how she lived to a wise and tranquil old age in the Grail Castle with her beloved Raynor of the Eagles, and of how the castle, in their time, became a place of pilgrimage, and of light and laughter and music and learning and of how they helped many poor and deprived people in the land.

It tells, as well, of how Fergus, the mighty Captain of the Fiana, stayed at Tara, acting as Regent to the child Erin, schooling him and guiding him and polishing him into the famous and strong High King he was to become. It tells of how Erin’s companions were Conn and Niall and Michael and all the lost boys who came out of the terrible Prison of Hostages into the worldy and who served Ireland and Erin faithfully and welly and were rewarded with high honours.

But always, always, in the telling of this remarkable and stirring chapter of Ireland’s history, the story-tellers will end with the same words:

“And it was only when the Lost Prince came to Tara that the Enchantments woken by Grainne truly began to live and it was then that Ireland saw the birth of the Golden Age of Erin.”

Erin. Eireann. The Once and Future King.

Rebel Angel

Chapter One

The Renascian Council had discovered that the Star patterns were changing. They were changing so rapidly and so drastically that the Star Maps, the marvellous ancient charts made by their ancestors, the long-ago Earth-people, bore hardly any resemblance to the skies any more. And although the Old Settlement had by now been explored fairly thoroughly, the Renascians had not discovered how the Earth-people would have coped with great jagged holes where stars had once been, or with the strange livid sunsets, or with the gradual leeching of daylight and the lengthening nights.

‘Whatever it is, it’s been happening for some time,’ said Floy, facing the Council along the long, polished oak table and spreading the ancient Charts out for them to see.

‘And whatever it is that’s disturbing the stars,’ he said, ‘it’s getting closer.’ He leaned forward, tracing the patterns on the original Star Maps of their ancestors, and comparing them with the ones they had so carefully drawn themselves, using the machine brought from Earth by the first Settlers that was called a sextant.

Floy looked round at the Council rather challengingly, and Quilp, who had been part of the Council ever since most people could remember, said it was all very interesting, but it surely could not be anything to worry about, that there were much more important matters to discuss in Council Chambers.

‘I disagree,’ said Floy. ‘There’s something wrong about it all. Can’t you feel that there’s something wrong?’ And then, looking up at them, ‘How do we know that the last days of Earth did not begin like this?’ he said, and a rather dreadful silence fell. Everyone knew of the terrible ending of Earth. Earth was still there in the heavens, a dead, dark world that they could just glimpse from the Twilight Mountains, though most people found it eerie and distressing to do so. But they all knew of the holocaust that had sent their ancestors fleeing and destroyed almost all forms of life. The optimists maintained that some of the people had survived and that there would still be life of some kind on Earth, but nobody could be sure about this. They only knew about the few who had managed to escape and reach Renascia.

It had not been so very long ago since it had happened, either, which made the difference in the charts even more puzzling. And since the Council did not seem as if it was intending to explore the matter, Floy had taken the Star Maps back to the house on Renascia’s outskirts that had belonged to his and Fenella’s parents.

‘The stars form a pattern,’ he said to her, unrolling the Maps on the table and frowning at them. ‘A recognisable structure in the skies. Can you see it? It’s like an intricate and very beautiful mesh. A lattice. The Earth-settlers charted them when they came here. I suppose they wanted to see how everything looked from Renascia as opposed to Earth.’ He traced the pattern again. ‘But now it’s as if an immense hole has somehow been punched through the lattice.’

Fenella, looking over his shoulder, saw what he meant. The stars had formed their own cobweb structure against the skies; you could see quite clearly their framework in the first Maps. As Floy said, it was rather beautiful. But when you looked at the new maps you could see the difference. There was a jagged centre, a blankness, a sickening absence of colour and light, so that you found yourself thinking of yawning chasms and bottomless wells.

You almost thought that something had torn through the fabric of the skies, and left only an immense black abyss …

Fenella frowned and although she did not know very much about stars or maps, she said, ‘Couldn’t the stars have changed by themselves?’

‘I don’t think they could,’ said Floy, thoughtfully. ‘It isn’t so very long since our ancestors came here.’ He looked back at the Charts. ‘The stars can't have changed so much in that short time. Something’s disturbing them. It’s as if something’s warping them.’

There was something extremely sinister about the idea of a something disrupting the stars and creating great black voids in the skies. There was something implacable and merciless about it. It would have been better to ignore it altogether. But since it was there, and since neither of them had been brought up to pretend that unpleasant things did not exist, it would have to be discussed and an answer to it all would have to be found. Floy would tell the Council that there was something very strange happening and although he might have to fight to make them listen, in the end they would do so, because he was his father’s son and Renascia’s leader.

It was not very long at all since Floy and Fenella’s ancestors, the Earth-people, had fled from their dying world, probably no more than six generations. They had managed to reach the small, friendly planet, which it was thought they had been observing for some time through their marvellous, powerful machines. It was not known what it had been called then, because the great fire that had raged through the Old Settlement in Floy and Fenella’s grandparents’ time had destroyed nearly all records. Whatever the fleeing Earth-people had managed to bring with them had been lost. Fragments and remnants of the Earth-people’s ways of life were uncovered in the Settlement from time to time and studied carefully by the two brothers, Snizort and Snodgrass, who were Renascia’s chroniclers, and who ran the Mnemosyne. But what there was was pitiably little.

There was the great shell of the Earth-people’s craft, which had been carefully preserved in the exact place it had come to rest, constructed of some strange substance nobody had ever been able to fathom. But it did not really tell the Renascians very much about Earth. Quilp and the Council thought it was very important to give proper reverence to this craft, which Quilp said the Earth-people would have called an Ark. They had the annual Earth Feast, when tables were set up in the Ark's shadow and people dressed as they thought Earth-people had dressed. Snizort and his people from the Mnemosyne enacted scenes from Earth-life and Snodgrass served them all with a supper of Earth-food. It was all very interesting and something to plan for all year.

But for the rest of the year, to most people, the Ark was simply a rather ugly shape that spoiled the view across to the Twilight Mountains.

The story of Earth’s last days was interesting, because you did not mind hearing about immense disasters and holocausts when they had happened three or four hundred years ago, and you had not known the people or the world they had happened to. It was only a pity that there was not more information about those last terrible days, or about whether there had been any kind of warning and, if so, what it had been.

There were a few legends, of course; frail, frayed threads that had come down to them after the fire in the Settlement, and which told a little about Earth and about how people had lived. These carefully preserved accounts of Earth’s last days told, in tantalisingly sparse detail, of immense walls of flame and of huge, onrushing sheets of fire that had consumed Earth and destroyed civilisation. Some of the stories told of prancing fire-beasts deep within the flames, but this was only embellishment, of course. You had to discount the prancing beasts, said people, but you could not discount the fire itself.

There was another story as well, which told of a great plague that had swept the cities and the towns towards the end, and which had been so virulent and so dreadfully contagious that hardly anyone had escaped, so that, finally, the handful of survivors had known that to preserve the race, Earth must be abandoned.

The origin of this tale was not known, and it was not so widely believed, although the Renascians were not unacquainted with plague. It was not very many years since they had suffered a very virulent one which had killed a great many people and forced a great many more to leave the Centre and go up into the mountains for a time to escape infection. The seeds were still in Renascia’s core, said the gloomier members of the community, although nobody paid this much heed, because nobody really believed it, any more than they believed in the fire-beasts, but it gave the sober-minded ones something to be gloomy about.

Floy and Fenella’s parents had died in the Plague, which was why Floy was governing now, and trying to rule the Council and for ever fighting Quilp to get laws altered. It was a hereditary thing, to govern Renascia, just as it seemed to have been on Earth. You grew up knowing you would one day step into your father’s shoes. As Floy had done.

‘He’s too young,’ said Quilp, who had sat on the Council of Nine ever since anyone could remember and who did not approve of reckless young men who tumbled Renascian laws upside-down and tried to allow ladies in to Council Meetings. ‘Too young and too flippant. There’s riots and dissension, if not civil war ahead,’ said Quilp, and did not know what things were coming to.

Fenella, who shared Floy’s ideas and ideals, and was trying to get together a small band of Renascian ladies to storm the Council Chamber and change the only-men-to-govern rule, thought that Quilp was secretly jealous of Floy and concerned for his, Quilp’s, position on the Council. This was entirely understandable, but did not help Floy who was attempting to get voted in some very good new laws, partly based on what he and Fenella thought their ancestors had done, but partly based on Floy’s own ideas.

Floy had so far been patient with Quilp and the Council, all of whom were much older than he was, because this was only polite, but it was possible that he would not be patient for much longer. He was exactly how Fenella remembered their father being and he might very easily tip up the long oak Council table in angry disgust one day so that all the papers would fall in disarray on to the floor, and then sweep grandly out of the room. Their father had done this more than once, usually because of Quilp. Floy would end up doing the same before long, especially if they could not get Quilp to give proper attention to what was happening to Renascia’s star patterns and the creeping up on them of longer nights.

‘None of it means anything at all,’ said Quilp, glaring at Floy when he faced the Council of Nine at their next gathering.

‘I think it means something very serious,’ said Floy, who had brought back the Star Maps and had spread them out on the long table, so that everyone could see them. He looked round. ‘I think we are facing exactly what our Earth-ancestors faced before their world ended. I think Renascia is moving into perpetual night.’

Perpetual night. It was an eerily descriptive expression. Quilp and the rest of the Council denied it, of course, but then everyone on Renascia knew that Quilp had long since peopled the Council with his cronies, and that they were only interested in thinking up new taxes and finding better ways of making money for themselves. A great many people had rather welcomed the succession of Floy as the Council’s head, because it was high time that somebody opposed Quilp’s laws, properly and strongly.

Perpetual night. To Floy’s annoyance, his words were quickly repeated outside of Council and people began to look worried.

‘But they have to know,’ said Fenella. ‘If something’s happening, the people have to know.’

‘Not until we can tell them what’s behind it,’ said Floy, who was furious with Quilp for repeating his words. ‘You don’t give people half a tale if it’s a sinister tale. We need to know more before we start telling people to worry,’ said Floy. ‘There might not be anything for them to worry about in the end.’

Fenella saw the sense of this and told her little band of Council-storming ladies that, whatever was happening to Renascia, it was not necessarily threatening but, on the contrary, rather interesting.

And heard herself voicing the words and wished she could stop thinking about the gaping abyss and the yawning tear where the stars had once been …

‘I’m afraid it’s too late to give people platitudes,’ she said to Floy. ‘The fiery sunsets were rather fun. But now »

‘But now,’ finished Floy, ‘it isn’t just fiery sunsets.’

‘No.’ Fenella looked at him and, after a moment, Floy said, ‘The days are eroding.’

‘Yes.’ Fenella heard the words with sick fear.

The days are eroding …

Little groups of people were already beginning to forgather in the Wine Shop on Renascia’s outskirts every evening and measure the decreasing daylight and the days’ lengths. Floy had asked Snizort and Snodgrass to do this officially, and they were doing it properly and sensibly, using clocks and using the sextants left by the Settlers, which they were finding very interesting machines. Snizort was keeping a full record of everything in his diaries. They would not disclose their findings yet, they said, because it was important to be sure what was happening, or even if anything was happening at all. There was no sense in worrying people unnecessarily. Floy was quite right about that.

But it did not need Snizort’s complex diagrams, or Snodgrass’s involved timetables to measure it any more. All that it needed was the growing group of Renascians seated at the Wine Shop’s scrubbed tables and a keen eye.

At the end of the following ten days, there was no question about any of it.

The days were shrinking at an alarming rate, and the light was somehow being leeched from Renascia.

It was at this point that Snizort and Snodgrass discovered the Casket in the Old Settlement.

* * *

They had been exploring a new section at the time; Snizort said, earnestly, that they had thought they might find something previously overlooked that might tell them about Earth’s last days, and whether the Earth-people had experienced the draining of the light and the rather sinister sunsets.

They were always discovering buried pots and books and utensils, or bits of machinery, they said; it was all very useful, because quite often it was possible to work out what the machines had done, and re-construct them.

The Casket had been beneath one of the buildings to the north of the Old Settlement. It was the farthest north they had ever explored, they said seriously. Previously, they had confined their expeditions to the ruins of the smaller buildings, which would have been the Settlers’ homes. You found out far more about a community by looking at its homes, they said. Cooking pots and machines and sometimes even writings. Books and diaries. They had not found many books, but there had been a few. It had given them a remarkable picture of Earth-life. Snizort had formed the History of the Earth Society, which met in their tiny, cluttered sitting room, and which was composed of earnest bespectacled people who talked about Earth and read scholarly papers and essays, and drank Snodgrass’s elderberry wine in alarming quantities.

The shell of the large white building had not, to begin with, seemed to hold anything of any great interest. They thought it had been a meeting place, which had been a great tradition on Earth, they explained solemnly.

The Earth-people had built large, sometimes ornate houses, in which they gathered to discuss the governing of the land and the imposing of laws. Snizort said there were a number of names for these buildings: they were Parliaments or Senates or Synods or simply Councils. That was where they had got the name for their own governing body.

The large white building had been at the centre of the Old Settlement and they had taken a party of their best students along with them to explore it.

‘We might never have found it, otherwise,’ said Snodgrass, as they led Floy and Fenella to the spot.

‘They’re all very enthusiastic,’ agreed Snizort. ‘And they’re very useful for the actual digging, you know, because, of course, Snodgrass and I can’t do the bending we used to.’

Snodgrass had a very old Earth-recipe, called a simple, which contained some remarkable ingredients, not all of them obtainable on Renascia, which you rubbed into your joints when you found them a bit creaky and unwilling. He had had great hopes and had given the recipe in the Renascian Journal, but the simple had not done very much good. His joints were still a bit creaky, but it could not be helped.

Fenella, who was, in fact, getting a bit out of breath keeping up with them, asked about the discovery.

‘Very serious,’ said Snizort, at once assuming the solemn expression he wore when he was asking the Council for more money to run the Mnemosyne, or when he was presiding over a meeting of the Earth History Society. He re-settled his spectacles firmly on the bridge of his nose. ‘That’s why we came straight to Floy.’

Snodgrass said he did not know where else they would go with the information, other than to Floy and Fenella.

They rounded the curve in the road and came to the edge of the grasslands, which bordered the old part of Renascia. Fenella felt the familiar shiver of apprehension as they neared the Old Settlement, which many people said was haunted by the ghosts of their ancestors. Fenella did not think it was haunted, although it was impossible not to feel the desolation and the sharp loneliness and the engulfing despair. Probably it was only because the Old Settlement was still blackened and charred from the fire. There was bound to be something a bit desolate and a bit eerie about a place where people had lived and worked, and which now lay in rubble.

But Fenella always had the feeling that it was a bit more than that. She always had the feeling that once, long, long ago, somebody had stood here and stared out over a dark and barren landscape. And felt only an emptiness, and such a complete sense of loss and helplessness, that it had hardly been possible to bear it.

They picked their way over the remains of some small houses, which had piles of bricks tumbled all anyhow, and parts of walls and sections of floor, and beams and joists exposed. It was sad to see these ruined houses, but it was rather interesting to note that their own builders still used what had, presumably, been an Earth-pattern; foursquare houses with doors at the front and square or oblong apertures for light, with divisions inside for different rooms and a pointy roof which was supported by thick wooden frames.

Floy was moving ahead of them, his eyes shining, the dark hair falling over his brow. He would be eager to see whatever Snodgrass and Snizort had uncovered, and he would already be thinking of how they could make use of the discovery.

The once-white building was on the outskirts of the Old Settlement. It was larger than either Fenella or Floy had expected, although Floy knew that the population of Renascia, small to begin with and decimated even further by the plague, would have been minuscule compared with Earth before its last days. Even so, he thought, staring at the centre of the great, ruined structure, it must have been possible for several hundred people to be seated in here, an inordinately large number.

There were ornate carvings which might originally have been over the main door and lying close to a raised area at the far end was a massive stone pillar, inset with strips of more of the cool, smooth stone. Floy recognised it as the parti-coloured stone which was to be found at the foothills of the Twilight Mountains, and which could be hewn out and polished to a glasslike surface. They had used it for building and it made marvellous floors and ceilings, cool and attractive and easily cleaned — until Quilp had managed to put a tax on it, so that not many people could afford to use it. This was only one of the many greedy laws that Quilp had sneaked into their Charter during the chaos of the plague months, that Floy was now fighting to get repealed.

The Earth-building had floors of the mottled stone, and walls with panels of it as well. They walked cautiously across the rubble and the heaps of fallen bricks, their steps echoing sadly in the quiet. Through the gaps in the walls, Fenella could see the towering Twilight Mountains, with the pouring colours of the sunset already behind them. There was a flurrying wind out here that she had never before noticed, with an odd coppery scent in it. This was so unusual as to be worth calling attention to, and Fenella had turned round and drawn breath to speak, when Snizort said, ‘It’s over here.’

The Casket was lying at the far end of the ruined house, beneath the raised area, half covered by debris and dirt and stones. It looked dark and rather forbidding, and extremely old.

Snodgrass said, ‘We think it must have been left by the first Settlers,’ and Floy, his eyes shining, his dark hair tumbled about his brow, said, ‘No it wasn’t. Look at it more closely.’

The Casket bore none of the imprints of Renascian workmanship. The tools and the implements of the first Renascians had, perforce, been plain and unadorned and austere. There was no time for embellishments, had said the Settlers, hewing a new world out of the strange, bare planet; there was no time and there was no need. Things must be serviceable and, where possible, adaptable, and that was all. There was no room for ornamentation.

And, although the need for austerity had long since passed, embellishments and ornamentations had developed in the Renascians’ own ways. ‘Because,’ said the artisans and the craftsmen and the journeymen, ‘because we make things which are of our world, of Renascia, and not of Earth. We have developed our own patterns and our own designs. They are no better and no worse than those of our Earth-ancestors; it is just that they are different. But they are our own.’

But the Casket that sat squarely on the floor now was certainly not of their own Renascian design. When Floy said, ‘It wasn’t left by the first Settlers,’ the others understood at once.

The Casket was of Earth-design.

It had been brought from the dying world of their ancestors.

Chapter Two

As they lifted the Casket from its half-buried place, it seemed as if the livid colours of the sunset were already trickling away and the black and purple fingers of night were stealing silently across the Twilight Mountains and shrouding the ruined Settlement. The wind that had snatched at Fenella’s loose hair earlier moaned all about them, scurrying into their faces, breathing dry, sour air. Fenella tasted the coppery taint again and flinched.

Floy glanced at the darkening Mountains and said, ‘I think we should go back, while there is still sufficient light.’ He moved as he spoke, prising the Casket out of its hole, directing the others to each take a comer.

The light was draining faster now and there was a movement somewhere inside it, as if something they could not quite see might be moving or breathing. Fenella received the sudden, startling image of a great, black creature circling round and round where it crouched, making itself a nest, watching from beyond the skies, licking its lips …

She took a deep breath and wished she had not remembered all the stories about the Old Settlement being haunted by the ghosts of the Earth-people. Perhaps this was how they had started, out here at dusk, with the odd, foul-smelling wind blowing down from the Mountains. It was sufficiently nasty to make anybody think about ghosts and strange sinister mountain creatures.

And yawning caverns in the skies that were not therefor our ancestors, but are there for us, and that appear in our Star Maps exactly like the slavering maws of monsters …

I won’t think about it, said Fenella silently. I’ll concentrate on helping to bring out the Casket, and I won’t look towards the mountains, and I definitely won’t look up at the skies. And if there was anything inside the Casket, it would be extremely interesting. Snizort and Snodgrass would be sure to ask her to help them in the sorting of whatever they found, and deciding if anything could be displayed in the Mnemosyne. Perhaps there would be an article to be written for the Renascian News, telling about the Casket’s discovery.

She took a comer of the Casket and helped the others to half carry, half drag it out of the decayed house and put it on a cart to carry it down to the pitted and narrow track that would take them back to their own part of Renascia. It was very dark up here now, and it would be nice, it would be comforting to be amidst lights and warmth and people and ordinary things like fireplaces and books and furniture and food.

They took the Casket straight to Snizort and Snodgrass’s little house which was nearer than their own, and hauled it down the narrow garden path. The Casket was not very big, but it was heavy, and a bit awkward.

‘The study, I think,’ Snizort said, helping them through the old-fashioned garden and into the warm, firelit study. ‘We’ll just put it down on the floor for the moment.’

The light had drained completely as they set the Casket down, and Snizort turned to light a fire in the hearth. Warmth and light burned up, driving back the creeping shadows.

The Casket seemed smaller than it had done earlier, and suddenly rather sad. Fenella thought it was somewhere around four feet in length and about two feet in depth. Not so very big at all. But it was made of something none of them recognised; something that was pale and cool and very strong indeed.

Floy, touching the comers warily, said, ‘There’s no sign of tarnishing or corrosion,’ and then, with sudden excitement, ‘it’s made of the same stuff as their Ark.’

And Snodgrass said, ‘Bless my soul, so it is.’

‘It’s seamless,’ said Fenella, kneeling down on the floor to get a better look, tracing the edges with one finger. ‘Except for the lid, it isn’t joined anywhere.’

‘Nor it is.’

The Casket’s corners were rounded and there were thick bands of a darker coloured iron surrounding it. And although Floy was right and there was no trace of blackening or tarnishing, here and there it was pitted as if some strong, burning substance had been spilled on it. The immense hinges were intact and the clasp at the front looked as if it was made of something that might be virtually indestructible.

Fenella caught the tail-end of a thought from Floy.

This is something our ancestors did not intend us to lose … This is something they wanted to make sure would reach us …

Fenella found that she was remembering a phrase, a myth, an old, old legend about a magic box that had belonged to somebody with a strange name. Pandora, was it? Yes, Pandora. Pandora had possessed a box, and it had contained the most remarkable assortment of things. Some of them had been good and beautiful and helpful, and some had been ugly and sinister and dangerous. I believe, thought Fenella, safe and warm in Snizort and Snodgrass’s warm cluttered safe-feeling house, I believe that in that iron or steel-bound box is something ugly and sinister and dangerous, and I really do wish it had stayed buried in the Old Settlement.

Snodgrass thought they ought to take a bite of supper before they got down to opening the Casket and Floy at once said, ‘Thank you, yes. We should enjoy that.’ Snodgrass looked pleased and took himself off to the kitchen which was hung with bunches of herbs and lined with gleaming copper pots. This was where he wrote articles for the Renascian News about how to cook peculiar foods that nobody had heard of, the ingredients for which could not be procured on Renascia anyway.

Fenella liked this house, where there were always huge fires burning, and deep comfortable armchairs, and desks piled high with books, which you had to be careful not to sit on by mistake. It was in the busiest part of Renascia, with all the groceries and bakeries, and places that sold cooked pies and made up remedies for illnesses. Fenella and Floy lived in their family’s house, which was large and stood in the centre of Renascia, and had been built by their ancestors shortly after the fire at the Old Settlement. It was quite grand, but Fenella did not think it possessed the same tumbled charm or the same warmth and feeling of safety that this one did.

The supper was something called Steak and Kidney Pudding, which Snizort said had once been a great favourite of their Earth-ancestors, although Snodgrass said you could not get absolutely all the ingredients on Renascia.

‘And so we don’t think it’s a true steak and kidney pudding,’ he explained, giving everyone huge helpings. ‘It needs something called suet, and we haven’t been able to fathom what that is.’

In fact, the pudding was wholly delicious, and Fenella had two platefuls. There was rich elderberry wine, sweet and strong, and Snodgrass had three glasses, and unbent to tell them all manner of scandalous stories about the Council of Nine in Fenella and Floy’s father’s day, and about how Quilp was not averse to an occasional bit of ponderous dalliance with the very young ladies who were employed in the Wine Shop, and Snizort beamed and rubbed his hands together, because he loved gossip and would incorporate it into his Diaries.

And then, without the least warning, they all stopped talking, and looked at one another and Fenella felt her heart give a sudden jolt before it resumed its normal beating. The time had come and they were going to open the Casket and discover what was inside. Pandora’s Box. Oh please, no, she thought.

But you cannot unmake an event, said Fenella silently, staring at the Casket. Even if we took it back to the ruined Settlement and covered it over with debris and rubble, we would still know about it. We would still have found it, it would still be there. We would wonder what it was, and why it had been constructed so strongly and so carefully. We would always wonder whether it had contained something that we needed to know about.

And, in any case, it might tell us something about what is happening on Renascia now, thought Fenella, firmly.

Floy was not thinking on precisely the same lines as Fenella, but he was not very far off. He was tremendously curious about the discovery; the Casket was more strongly made than anything they had ever found of the first Settlers, and he found this odd and intriguing.

He knelt down and unfastened the plain strong clasp. There was a click, unexpectedly loud in the quiet room, and Fenella felt her heart begin to beat loudly and painfully.

The hinges were clogged with the accretion of several centuries’ dust and dirt and Floy and Snodgrass scraped diligently at them until they were free. The dust had a strange smell to it; it did not smell of ordinary dust, the sort you brushed up from the floor, or found behind a cupboard you had not moved for a while. Fenella, curled into the deep soft chair at the side of the fire, felt her fingers curl into her palms in sudden apprehension because, just for a second, she had thought it was going to be the horrid, harsh sourness of the flurrying wind they had encountered in the Settlement.

And then Floy scraped some more of the accretion away, and she knew it was something quite different; it was the bitter-sweet scent of extreme age; of lost worlds and dead civilisations and forgotten empires. Tears pricked her eyes, and she felt the ache of loss for that long-ago world, for the kingdoms that must have risen and then fallen, for the learning and the wisdom and the legend and lore that they would never know about.

For the misty turquoise and blue Earth, the dead world of their ancestors, that still lay in the skies far beyond their reach …

Slowly, warily, Floy prised the Casket open and pushed back the lid.

No one spoke and there was no sound in the room now except the steady ticking of the clock over the fireplace.

When a log fell apart in the hearth, Fenella jumped and when Floy spoke, he did so in a whisper.

‘Earth craftsmanship,’ he said, and there was something near to reverence in his voice now. ‘See?’ He touched the inner surface of the Casket gently. ‘And made from exactly the same substance as the Ark. It’s something we’ve never been able to reproduce.’

‘Pale and hard and cold,’ said Fenella.

‘Some kind of metal they had which we do not?’ hazarded Snodgrass.

‘Truly, I have no idea. Perhaps they were somehow able to blend metal. Perhaps this is a mixture of several metals,’ said Floy. ‘That would be interesting.’ He touched the Casket’s inner sides again. ‘But it must be something they would believe to be indestructible.’

Indestructible. That word again.

The inside of the Casket was as seamless as the outside. It was almost as if the unknown stuff had been melted and poured in and then allowed to set. It was cool to Floy’s touch and had a dully gleaming surface. At the Casket’s centre were hinged layers of the same pale, cold substance, not thick, but fitting so tightly that Floy had to borrow Snizort’s paper knife to prise them up. There was a teeth-wincing, metal-against-slate sound, and then the hinged sections lifted up and folded back.

‘It’s very precisely made,’ said Snizort, who was seated at his desk, his spectacles firmly on his nose, scribbling notes.

‘Yes.’ Floy was kneeling over it again, reaching inside.

Inside again —

Floy reached into the Casket very gently and Fenella knew he was thinking, as she was thinking, as they were all thinking, that they were about to uncover something brought from Earth, something so ancient that they could barely comprehend it, but something from those long-ago ancestors who had built a marvellous world and then had to leave it to die.

We have only the sketchiest information about that world, thought Fenella, watching Floy. We do not know about its ending. But now, perhaps, we are going to learn more.

Using both hands, Floy lifted out several objects that Fenella had been unconsciously expecting to be papers. And then Floy said, very softly, ‘Not papers,’ and Fenella knew they had both been expecting the same thing.

Floy said, ‘Gold. Look. Isn’t it? Thin sheets of gold.’ He bent over the sheets, his black hair tumbled, his eyes intent, and then looked up at them, his eyes brilliant, fingers of colour painted across his cheekbones. ‘Engraved with writing,’ he said. ‘Earth writing.’

‘Truly?’ said Snizort.

‘I don’t think it can be anything else,’ said Floy. ‘Can it?’ He handed the top sheet to Snizort, who pored over it for a moment. Fenella held her breath.

Snizort said at last, ‘Dear me, Floy, I believe you are right. There is the same way of forming letters that we found in the original houses in the Settlement, and the same way of setting out words.’ He traced the sheet of gold with a fingertip.

Floy’s eyes were shining. ‘Then this is a letter to us from the people of the dying Earth,’ he said. ‘A message from a lost world.’

To begin with, Fenella and the two brothers did not altogether take in the flow of words. The Earth-people wrote in a curious blend of informality and something that was very nearly instruction. Fenella thought that whoever had written these words — perhaps quite a number of people — had wanted to convey information, but in a friendly fashion. And although they did not use a different language, although they used familiar words and familiar phrases, they did not use them in quite the way the Renascians did. Perhaps they had been unused to writing like this at all. Perhaps they had had machines that did all their writing for them. Perhaps it was simply that ways of speech change …

Fenella felt a thrill of mingled fear and excitement. She did not move from the fireside chair she had curled herself into, but she thought she was more alert and more aware than she had ever been before in her whole life.

‘To those of you who will eventually read this message, we say Greetings and Hello.’

Neither a word familiar to any of them, but clearly both meaning some kind of salutation. Floy frowned, and then continued.

‘We believe we may be the last of a dying world and, certainly, there is little time left to us. Already the light is draining from the World, and therefore we must be brief … ’

The light is draining … The four Renascians looked at one another for a moment and shared a thought: so Earth experienced it as well! The light draining from the days, eroding the hours of daylight … Something cold and implacable and ancient crept into the firelit study.

Fenella, watching Floy’s expression, received a fleeting, vivid image of those last Earth-dwellers, huddled together in a cave or the ruins of a destroyed building, summoning their final resources and their strengths, fighting for a place in one of the machines that had brought the survivors to Renascia. And the world burning and dying all about them … hungry and thirsty and exhausted … ‘The light is draining from the World … ’

Floy’s voice said again, ‘The light is draining from the World, and therefore we must be brief and we must hand on to our descendants — if descendants we are to have — the story of how we destroyed the world … We must do so while there are still the resources for us to do so …

‘For we were the men and women of science and of knowledge, and that is why we, out of Earth’s survivors, have the means to leave our world … That is why we have been chosen.’ A pause.

Fenella thought: ‘The men and women of knowledge … The ones chosen to go … ’ There was a sudden, unwelcome, impression of pride and complacency and arrogance. There was certainly the suggestion of a hierarchy of some kind, a society that was too-strictly layered, that gave privileges to a tiny sprinkling of its people while the rest must take their chance.

It had been only the Chosen Ones who had left Earth, while the rest had been condemned to remain. Was that what the last Earth-dwellers had been like? Haughty and uncaring and self-seeking? Oh, please no, thought Fenella, leaning forward, clasping her hands tightly together. Please don’t let them have been any of those things.

And then Floy’s voice said, ‘Despite all our knowledge and all our science, we have lost our world and we believe that only a few of us can now survive, and try to save Mankind and Fenella knew that it was all right; the Earth-people had not been arrogant or complacent; they had been trying to make the best use of what was left to them.

Floy said, ‘There are other worlds, and there are other ages, and it is to those worlds and to those ages, we now speak.

‘We cannot show you what we made of our world, and what we are about to lose.’ Again there was the break in Floy’s voice and Fenella knew that he, also, was seeing, albeit briefly, the terrible loneliness and feeling the dreadful desolation of the dying world. Because, of course, he would sympathise and, of course, he would be feeling the pain they had felt all those centuries ago. He has a skin short, my brother …

Floy said, ‘We were proud of what we had created, and we should have liked to show you the power we had and the beauty and the strength. We should have liked to be able to record the learning and the history and the science and the — ’ Floy stopped and said, ‘I think the next word is technology and I think it would mean their degree of learning.’ He glanced up and Snizort nodded, because it was a word he had come across.

‘It is a little like that other word they used, science,’ he said and Floy nodded, understanding.

‘But it is all lost to us. It is gone beyond recall and our world is dying. It is dying and burning all about us and there is little time left. We know that Earth must be abandoned and, within our group, there are people who have studied the stars and others who have the knowledge of — ’ Floy stopped and frowned.

‘They say space travel,’ he said. ‘I cannot understand that.’

‘Their means of reaching us, would it be?’ said Fenella. ‘I think it must be,’ said Floy. ‘For they must have possessed that knowledge. Yes, of course they must. We know they came here in the Ark, and there must have been some means of sending it here.’

Snodgrass said, ‘And they say that there are people within their group of survivors with the knowledge.’

‘Yes.’ Floy looked back at the thin golden tablet.

‘It rather sounds,’ said Snizort, thoughtfully, ‘as if they had managed to gather together people who had studied these things for many years, and who would therefore be of practical use. I could believe in that very easily, you know.’

‘Yes, it would be a sensible thing to do,’ said Floy. Fenella said, carefully, ‘I could almost believe that the people with the knowledge had been gathered together first. Before the catastrophe hit them.’ She looked at the others. ‘In that way, they would know that at least their — what was the word? — their science men and women were safe and could perhaps use their knowledge to fight or rebuild the world, or somehow rescue the dying.’

Floy said, mischievously, ‘Fenella is liking the fact that they refer to men and women of learning and knowledge.’

‘Yes,’ said Fenella firmly. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Well, why not?’ said Floy, and smiled at her.

‘What comes next?’ said Snizort from the desk, and Floy reached for the next tablet.

‘We have set our sights on the stars, and on the worlds we have for so long observed … And although we know that to be truly safe we should travel farther than. Man has ever travelled before, we no longer have the resources or the power. I think,’ said Floy, ‘that by power they mean some form of machinery.’ He looked up, and the others nodded.

‘It has been decided that we have sufficient power to reach the friendly little planet that we shall name Renascia, which is to say renewal, and we will take to it all that we have salvaged of our civilization and our culture.’

He stopped, and Snizort made a note.

‘There is very little that we can take with us, for all about us now is the terrible devastation and the stench of decay … There is hardly any time left to us, and our choices are limited. And there is nowhere else for us to go — ’

Again there was the sadness, the aching longing. Fenella saw Floy’s expression and knew that Floy was now a vessel, an instrument through which the agony and the despair of their ancestors was being poured. For the moment, their pain was his; it was like scalding water flooding through a pipe. Yes, he has a skin short, my brother …

Floy returned to the gold tablets. ‘Earth's ending was the greatest irony in the history of Mankind,’ he said. ‘It was the gods’ final and darkest joke.

‘You will know of comets; you will surely have seen such things from time to time, for they are there for all to see.’ He looked at the others and everyone nodded. It was interesting to hear that Earth had suffered meteors, just as Renascia sometimes did.

‘When the comet we called the Angry Sun made its first appearance in our eastern skies, our — ’ Floy frowned over another unfamiliar word, and then said, ‘Our astronomers and our cosmologists were excited; it was something that had not been seen in our skies for many hundreds of years. They studied it and charted its paths in the Maps and there was a growing belief that it was the very body that had presaged the birth of Christ. Who would that be, Snizort?’

‘I think,’ said Snizort cautiously, ‘that he was some kind of teacher they had. A widely followed cult. A very good cult,’ he said, earnestly. ‘But that would be a great many centuries ago. Perhaps several thousand years.’

‘It was something of moderate interest to us,’ went on Floy. ‘To our people who studied these things, it was of immense importance, but they formed only a tiny proportion and, for most of us, there was only brief interest.

‘But the comet had changed course since its last appearance. It had altered its journey and, although we believed that it had passed close to Earth several times in our history, it had never been sufficiently close to cause concern. It had been no more than a blaze in our firmament, a brilliant mass of light, something to bewitch and dazzle earlier primitive peoples; something about which earlier Ages wove many legends and many beliefs.

‘This time was different …

‘This time it would come so close that it would graze the Earth 's surface. It would scorch the Earth’s crust and there would be great fires in our forests and deserts. There would be immense floods, great tidal waves which would sweep our lowlands. A great many lives would be lost and a great many of our already-dwindling resources would be destroyed if it touched us.'

He paused again and Fenella moved closer to the fire because she was shivering. How would it have been to have known, quite definitely, that a great mass of fire and white-hot rain was hurtling down towards you … ?

‘We ought to have been able to defeat it,' said Floy’s voice. ‘We set out to defeat it, to turn it from its path and send it spinning into infinity, harmlessly and silently. We had machines and we had weapons, and it did not occur to us that we could not halt it. It was simply an exercise, a rather intriguing project. We had never challenged the stars in quite this way before; we explored them, but we had never attacked them. We were, perhaps, arrogant. We thought, as we had for so long thought, that Mankind had become invincible … And for that reason alone, perhaps, we needed to be given a lesson. But if so, it was a harsh and a cruel lesson …

‘For our machines and our power betrayed us. We had believed that we were invincible and that Earth was indestructible. We were wrong …

‘When the comet came, when it was seen in the skies, when the sunsets began to burn with the colour of blood and fire and the wind began to be tainted with the terrible scent of Infinity, Earth changed.

‘People who had been cultured and urbane became so no longer. They began to fight, to threaten. They became greedy and violent.

‘Worst of all, little sects all over the land began to recall the ancient religions and the long-ago portents … the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse who would ride into the world in its last days … The fire-beasts of the sun-god who would pour down out of the white-hot flames and devour Mankind … We had believed ourselves to be a practical) free-thinking world; now we saw that it had been a veneer, a thin outer covering only …

‘For at the end, when the comet was in our skies, the frail coating of civilisation was stripped and our people were little better than primitive savages again, believing in pagan gods, calling upon names we had thought long since vanished from our language, praying to deities who had no place in our tongue, reviving cults, sacrifices …

‘We reacted violently and arrogantly. We sent up our weapons and our immense and powerful machines. We flung them into the glowing sky, straight at the comet so that it would be destroyed, or turned off its course. And it did not occur to us that we should fail … ’

Floy stopped, and frowned, and Fenella said, in a whisper, ‘They failed … ’

Floy, his eyes scanning the page, said, ‘No. No, they did not fail. It was not that.

‘We succeeded in our aim; for although we did not destroy the Angry Sun, called in one language the Feargach Grian, we managed to change its direction. We sent it spinning away from Earth, off into the heavens, to wreak its havoc elsewhere, and we thought ourselves safe.

‘But we were not safe. The immense forces we had used to save our world from the comet, to avoid the small amount of damage it would have inflicted on us, turned upon us.’

Floy said slowly, ‘I do not fully understand this, but — ’ he stopped, and Snodgrass said, ‘But you have a glimmering of understanding, perhaps?’

Floy said, softly, ‘I believe I can almost see them. I believe I can picture them, hurling their powerful weapons and their machines into the skies. The weapons would collide with the comet, just as they had intended, they would knock it from its tracks, and then — ’ He stopped and looked straight at Fenella.

‘And then the weapons would rebound,’ said Fenella, staring at him, her eyes huge and dark. ‘They would recoil, they would — what’s the word I want? — ricochet. They would ricochet and they would go plunging and plummeting back to earth — ’

‘There would perhaps have been some kind of gravitational force involved as well,’ said Snodgrass.

‘And when they hit Earth, it would cause the great Final Catastrophe, the historic Devastation that has come echoing down to us,’ finished Floy, and then, looking back to the thin golden sheets, ‘yes,’ he said softly. ‘Yes, that is what happened. Listen.’

‘Our own weapons destroyed us. The forces we had thought would protect us, finally betrayed us … ’

The achingly sad words lay on the air clearly and terribly.

The forces that should have protected them had burned their world.

'And so,’ said Floy, reading again, 'and so, the destruction of Earth was, at the last, our own doing, exactly as all the portents and the harbingers had said it would be. Apocalypse had come at last, Armageddon was upon us, and the skies were tom apart with the fire and the terrible heat and the vicious, disease-laden rain that poured down upon the Earth …

‘We burned the world and perhaps we destroyed Mankind, but we did it unwittingly … We meant to save the world, not murder it … ’

Fenella closed her eyes briefly and felt the sharp pain, yet again. How would it feel to know you had slaughtered the world … ?

Snizort said, very softly, ‘How truly terrible for them.’

‘Go on, Floy,’ said Snodgrass.

'Little groups of us escaped. We scuttled underground, into cellars and basements, deep beneath the ruins of our great cities. We avoided the fires that still burned and the charred, smoking wastes that had once been towns and meadows and forests and highways. At length, some of us who had devoted much of our lives to studying and understanding power and travel managed to reach the — ’ Floy stopped again, and then said, 'managed to reach the laboratories and the powerhouses. Power,’ said Floy. ‘That word again. Clearly, it was their greatest source of strength and of force.’

‘Laboratory would perhaps mean some kind of workshop,’ offered Fenella.

‘Yes. Yes, for they go on to talk of working,’ said Floy. ‘We worked in the most horrific of conditions to salvage what we could, and at length we were able to power our craft, which we named the Ark of Ages … Quilp always insisted they had called it an Ark,’ said Floy.

'And now we have gathered together as many people as we can. We would like to believe that we could take every remaining creature on Earth, but such a belief would be foolish. There must still be men and women here, sheltering in caves and mountains, eking out a terrible existence in the cellars of devastated buildings … We cannot save them all … Even if we could reach them, there would not be sufficient room … ’

‘But they would have liked to do so,’ whispered Fenella, hugging her knees. ‘They wanted to save everyone.’

‘Perhaps the ones we have been unable to save will somehow live on. Perhaps they will be the new Earth-people and perhaps, at some time in a future we cannot see, they will re-build Earth and bring her back to greatness. It is impossible to know, but we will hope for that …

'For ourselves, we believe we shall be safe on Renascia. We believe that we can reach it and find sanctuary.’

And then, finally, and devastatingly, like great stones dropping into a quiet pool, 'There is only one cause for concern about Renascia and, although it is a serious one, still we must set our sights for there for we have not the power to go farther and we know of no other planet where life, as we know it, could survive.

'Our astronomers tell us that Renascia is on the rim of a vortex, that it is on the very edge of one of the yawning Black Chasms with which Space is studded …

'We know only a very little about these Black Chasms, but we know them to be places of infinite and incomprehensible density … If we are unfortunate enough to pass within the pull of the Chasm that borders Renascia, then we shall almost certainly be tom apart by the strong tidal forces that it will generate. It may even be that we would cross boundaries that no men have ever crossed before, for it is believed by some that once within a Black Chasm, Time, as we know it, ceases to exist … ’ Floy hesitated.

Time as we know it ceases to exist … The words dropped into the quiet room like stones into a pool.

‘We have always regarded these Chasms as Dark Lodestars, malign black lures which suck in unwary travellers, and as cannibalistic suns, angry and voracious … They are the underside of our bright, luminous suns; perhaps they are necessary, for without true darkness, how could there be true light … ? But there are many theories to explain and accredit and account for the things we do not understand, and there is not time to set them down. We have come to believe, however, that all worlds must have their dark undersides …

‘We shall trust our craft to bring us to safety, for we know that we have not the power to go farther afield than Renascia, and we know of no other planets where life, as we know it, could survive.

‘Renascia it is to be, and we shall put our faith in the gods and pray that we are travelling towards sanctuary and towards the salvation of Mankind.

‘And that we shall be able to steer clear of the Dark Lodestar that lies in Renascia’s horizons … ’

Floy laid down the tablets and looked at them. For a long time, nobody spoke. At length, Floy said, very softly, ‘They did reach Renascia. We know they did. They reached the sanctuary they had sought and they saved Mankind. Their quest succeeded.’

Fenella said, in a whisper, ‘The Dark Lodestar,’ and Floy met her eyes.

‘Yes.’

‘Where Time, as we know it, might cease to exist.’

‘Yes.’ He moved to sit beside her, his face serious and intent. ‘I am afraid that it is that — that Chasm that is warping the patterns of the stars,’ he said, very gently.

‘And eroding the daylight,’ said Snizort.

Floy said, in an expressionless voice, ‘Yes. That is the answer. That is what is happening to us. Perhaps, in some way, the Chasm has begun to expand.’ He frowned. ‘A black density,’ he said. ‘Perhaps — something to do with a star or a sun dying.’

‘Something to do with meteors being swallowed?’ hazarded Fenella.

‘Truly, we cannot know. But it must be expanding. It is the only answer to the vanishing of the days and the strange livid sunsets.’

‘Renascia is on the rim of a vortex. A black density,’ said Fenella. ‘A Lodestar beckoning us to its centre.’

‘And at its centre, Time could turn upside down,’ said Snizort, thoughtfully.

Chapter Three

Floy was not yet entirely accustomed to entering the Council Meeting Room and taking the high-backed chair which had been his father’s, and seeing the faces turn towards him with a mixture of alertness and respect, here and there blended with wariness. It amused him, this spurious reverence that Quilp and the rest donned with such alacrity; he thought it was a very thin crust indeed, and he thought he would not trust one of them. But he had tried to repay this reverence with deference; even while he had been oversetting the old and tried methods and introducing his own ideas and ideals, he had borne it in mind that these men had been on Renascia’s Council for many years and that they had, perforce, far more experience than he had in governing and administering. He thought he had, so far, treated them with the courtesy due to their years, but he thought, as well, that they had never before had to face such a grim situation. It might be that the time for courtesy and deference was passed …

He was not aware that, as he walked into the Meeting Room, a mantle of unmistakable authority had fallen upon him; his mind was on the contents of the Casket and the golden tablets and he was already framing in his mind the proposals he would be putting before the Council. But, as he took his seat, the Council exchanged meaningful glances and Quilp, looking up, was at once aware of the new light in Floy’s eyes. Something has happened, thought Quilp. This will either be very interesting or very awkward.

Quilp knew himself for a reasonable man, and he thought that he was being very reasonable now. He had attended this Special Meeting of the Council which Floy had called, promptly and unquestioningly, and had even cancelled a promising little supper with the pretty young thing who served turnip grog in the Wine Shop. But it would not do to allow Floy to gain the upper hand in the Council. Quilp had not allowed Floy’s father-charming, a little feckless, slightly weak — to do so, and he would not allow the son to do so either. He studied Floy covertly and saw, afresh, the charm and a little of the fecklessness, but he did not see any of the weakness. Oh dear, thought Quilp.

They all listened, without interrupting, as Floy recounted the story of the Casket and studied the careful transcripts that Fenella and Snizort had made of the message on the golden tablets.

When, at length, Floy finished speaking, the Council looked towards Quilp who had been making small, neat notes. Quilp did not speak. He finished his notes in unhurried and completely silent fashion (a trick he had perfected years ago and which nearly always discomfited people), laid down his pen, and regarded Floy steadily.

‘This is all extremely unexpected,’ said Quilp, raising his brows a little. He was annoyed to see that, so far from being thrown into confusion by such steady regard, Floy merely met his look and said, quite coolly, that unexpected was one word for it, certainly.

‘For myself, I would have called it alarming,’ he said. ‘But whatever we call it, we have to decide what we are going to do about it.’

‘I think we can accept the story of the comet,’ said Quilp, as if the overall direction of the Meeting had passed to him. He glanced round, as if for agreement. ‘And perhaps we can just about accept the — what did you call it? oh yes, the vortex. We have to allow that there are secrets in the stars which we do not understand,’ said Quilp, managing to sound extremely reasonable and open-minded.

He leaned forward, picking up his pen again, turning it back and forth in his hands. ‘But this tale about a yawning Black Chasm — ’ He smiled at Floy, rather sadly. ‘My dear boy, I think that perhaps you may have misunderstood the wording a little there.’ He thought to himself that this sounded really very courteous and was pleased, because discourtesy was not something he would ever stoop to. But it was necessary to be firm with Floy. He was always telling the rest of the Council that Floy was a good leader so long as people were firm with him.

Floy had felt his temper rising at this rather obvious ploy to make him appear as a supplicant who had been granted audience by the Council.

But he said, quite mildly, ‘It is a believable story, Quilp. And the contents of the Casket appear to be perfectlyy genuine. You may all see them for yourselves. Snizort has them under lock and key in the Mnemosyne. And you must admit that strange things are beginning to happen.’

Quilp said that he was a fair-minded man and would readily admit that strange things were happening. There was something a little out of kilter. Probably it would be no more than an approaching meteor storm and they could deal with it perfectly well if that was so. It might even be that the information Floy had brought to them had a smidgen of truth in it. You had to have a flexible mind, of course, and Quilp would be the first to admit that they did not know all the secrets of the stars. He asked what Floy proposed be done.

‘Whatever we do will be a huge gamble,’ said Floy and grinned suddenly, because he was not averse to a gamble, and surely this would be gambling against the most fantastical odds of all time? ‘It will be a gamble,’ he said, ‘against an unknown opponent, and against the most overwhelming odds ever known.’ His eyes glinted with sudden recklessness. ‘We may lose, gentlemen. We may be soundly beaten — and if that is so, then we shall lose our lives, and Renascia will be lost for all time.’ He leaned forward, his hair tumbling over his brow. ‘But if we win, gentlemen … if we win, then we shall have done something tremendous; something that has never been done before.

‘We shall have done what our ancestors could not.’

There was a silence round the table. Floy thought: I believe I have them. I believe they are with me.

He said, ‘We have not the resources our ancestors had although, at the end, they were not of much help. And so we must keep our battle plan simple.’ He glanced round the table and thought: I believe they rather like ‘battle plan’.

‘I believe we should construct a shelter,’ said Floy. ‘What the Earth-people called a dug-out. We must dig deeply into the ground and make a refuge there. That way, we have a fighting chance.’ He leaned across the table, his eyes glowing with fervour. ‘We must build a haven for our people, a sanctuary, a refuge to which we can go when the disturbances become severe. And we shall have to live underground for a while.’

‘Rather ambitious,’ said Quilp. And then, frowning, ‘And rather extreme, I would have thought.’

Floy brought his clenched fist down on the table angrily. ‘We need to be ambitious!’ he said. ‘We need to be extreme! We have to find a way of protecting our people! If the Golden Tablets are right, then Renascia is in far worse danger than ever Earth was! It is not simply in danger of being blown up, gentlemen, it is in danger of being sucked into a gaping black infinity from which it can never emerge!’

‘I fear,’ said Quilp slowly, ‘that the building of these shelters will be a costly exercise.’ And thought to himself that, provided it was not his money that was at risk, it did not much matter. In fact, he could quite see that it would look rather bad — well, it would look very bad indeed — if the Council were discovered to be doing nothing at all about the threat to Renascia. The building of a shelter of some kind would at least let the people know the Council were anxious for their welfare. They might even be led to think it was all Quilp’s idea, if Quilp could arrange it that way.

Perhaps they ought to go along with Floy’s plans. The Council would agree to do so, because Quilp would tell them to. Most of them would not have been on the Council if they were not Quilp’s staunch supporters anyway: Quilp had actually heard them called toadies and yes-men, but this was nonsense.

But Floy did not need to know about any of the profitable little deals which Quilp had been able to set up for the people who gave him their support; it was not something that anyone needed to know about, other than the people concerned. It was not dishonest dealing, either, merely a question of practicalities. But it meant that when Quilp wanted something doing, or perhaps not doing, they all agreed with him.

Floy was explaining his plans now; he was sketching plans on a sheet of paper, talking not about several small shelters, but one — or perhaps two — immense ones. Properly built and properly strengthened. Equipped with food and water.

‘Sanctuaries,’ said Floy, eagerly. ‘Our only hope for survival.’

One of the Council asked what kind of disturbances they might have to endure and Floy said, ‘I have no idea. But logic suggests that there could be immense tearing winds, violent storms, perhaps volcanic action from the mountains. And certainly the seas would be displaced, so that there would be great tidal waves washing inland.’ He stopped and looked at Borage the Builder.

‘You can help most of all here,’ said Floy. ‘We should be entirely in your hands over the building,’ and Borage, rather pleased at being deferred to in this way, managed not to catch Quilp’s eye and said indeed he could help. For a start, there was that piece of sloping ground on the town’s eastern outskirts, just behind the Wine Shop. It was just the place to dig out exactly such a thing as Floy was talking about. They could tunnel into the hillside and the fold of the hill itself would afford natural extra protection. It would not be difficult to dig quite far down. Thirty feet, perhaps, what did Floy think? And they could shore up the underside with good oak struts and maybe give them a coat or two of bitumen. There was nothing like bitumen for sealing, said Borage frowning delightedly over the severity of it all, sketching out one or two plans on his note-pad.

Quilp, leaning forward, said, ‘Our good Borage is certainly eloquent on the subject. I imagine we shall not expect him to put his men to work for nothing, Floy?’

Floy frowned and said, ‘I hadn’t actually thought about that side of it. I was more concerned about creating a place of safety for everyone.’ He thought, but did not say, that even if they survived the dangers ahead, they would probably emerge to a world so ravaged and depleted that coinage and monetary matters, as they knew them, would have ceased to matter. But since the Council had not yet seen this, he would not stress it to them. He simply said, ‘Borage must be paid from Council Funds,’ and Quilp nodded, well pleased. A proper transferral of money from the Funds would be made, he said, and various people around the table nodded solemnly. Quilp would arrange the transferral, because Quilp always arranged these things. It was better that way. Nobody ever precisely admitted that certain things were recorded in the Council’s dossiers, while other things were not, but everybody, with the exception of Floy of course, knew the plump little deals that went through the Council’s hands, and which resulted in various people being given nice little sums of money or, on occasions, pieces of land for Borage to build on, or sometimes even fully built houses.

In fact, it might be extremely awkward if Floy ever asked to see the Records in their entirety. His father had never done so, of course, and probably Floy would not either. There was not really any cause for the Council to worry.

Floy said, now, ‘I imagine we would be using public money for the shelters would we? That would be the proper source, I think. Marplot, that is your province.’

Marplot said, genially, that a proper orderly arrangement could be made, Floy need not worry over that side of it.

‘Good. Do we need to declare a State of Emergency in order to take the money?’

Quilp, speaking as if he might be selecting his words with great care, said, ‘Could I suggest — most respectfully, of course — that a State of Emergency might cause — ah — panic to everyone. Do we really want that?’ He looked round the table and people shook their heads, and said indeed they did not.

‘No,’ said Floy, thoughtfully, ‘I believe you are right. And yet we have to give some reason for the work that Borage will be carrying out and also for sending the people into the shelters when the time comes.’ He frowned, and then said, ‘Supposing we tell them that there’s to be a meteor shower? Something rather more severe than usual?’ He looked round the table. ‘Would you agree to that?’

‘Your sister knows the truth,’ said Quilp.

‘Yes, but she won’t say anything.’

Quilp shook his head and gave a rather sad smile. ‘My dear boy, I fear you have a way to go in your understanding of the ladies,’ he said, and the Council smiled with him.

‘Rubbish,’ said Floy. ‘Fenella will see why the thing must be — ’

‘Suppressed?’

‘Diluted … ’ said Floy. ‘Borage, how quickly could you begin work, do you think?’

Borage, feeling rather as if he was being swept along by a whirlwind, found himself in an awkward situation. He was caught, so to speak, between the gentleman who had been instrumental in providing him with a fat bank balance, and the one who was, when all was said and done, Renascia’s hereditary leader. He floundered and looked first at Quilp, who smiled and shrugged and sat back with his arms folded as if to disassociate himself from the entire proceedings, and then back at Floy.

‘Hadn’t you better start tomorrow?’ said Floy, impatient with this vacillating, and Borage made a show of consulting a small diary, and said, well they could do that, only it would mean abandoning the renovations of the Round House in which they sat that very minute, and whose roof was presently having to be re-tiled on the western side, on account of these strong winds they had been having. ‘The winds are merely a small dose of what will come later,’ said Floy, dismissively.

‘I was brought up never to leave a job unfinished,’ put in one of the Council members, whose name was Prunum.

But Floy was scooping his notes into order, and standing up. ‘I think we are all agreed,’ he said. ‘Borage had better commence work at once, hadn’t he?’ He nodded briefly to the rest, said, ‘Thank you for your time, gentlemen,’ and took his leave.

There was another of the difficult silences, and then Quilp said, in a pained voice, ‘Dear me, he is not in the least like his father.’ And then, with one of the crab-like sideways approaches to the problem, for which he was known, said, ‘I do fear that if we do not handle this correctly, we may find that our people are succumbing to panic.’ He lifted his eyes from the paper he had been studying and looked at them all very directly. ‘And I believe we should avoid a State of Emergency at all costs. Marplot, a word from you, perhaps?’

‘I never heard of vortexes and Chasms,’ said Marplot, a gentleman of scant imagination. ‘Floy’s getting carried away.’ He leaned forward. ‘But I do know,’ he said, ‘that States of Emergencies lead to the — ah — scrutinising of certain Moneyhouse procedures.’

‘Really?’ said Quilp, who had known this all along.

‘Very unwise,’ said Marplot, shaking his head. ‘Very unwelcome.’

Several other people, to whom the scrutinising of the Moneyhouse’s dealing was equally unwelcome, thought that Floy was getting carried away as well. Borage said, rather apologetically, that he would at least have to make a start on the shelters and, anyway, you never knew what mightn’t be going to happen. They were all aware of the strange darkening of the days, he said, and of the sudden sour winds that were sweeping down from the mountains, though doubtless it would turn out to be nothing worse than a meteor storm, and they all knew about those!

‘So long as Floy doesn’t see the ledgers,’ said Marplot, and everyone nodded in agreement.

* * *

The people of Renascia thought they might not know a great deal about governing and democracy and decision making (although they knew in a blink when Quilp and his coterie were up to something). They might not be precisely clever about money and investments and business, they said, solemnly. But when it came to building and digging and the construction of a grand big shelter against a meteor storm, they knew what was needed! A good large dug-out and plenty of stout Renascian timber to support the roof, with maybe a splash or so of bitumen just to seal it. Bitumen was the thing, they said, rolling up their sleeves mentally and literally, preparing to set to under Borage the Builder’s direction. And there’d need to be strong doors against any bit of a storm that might get up as a result of the meteors. You couldn’t be too careful when it came to such things. Good strong doors would be needed, and no question but that they’d need to be iron.

Survival, that was the thing. They might not be facing a disaster on the scale of their Earth-ancestors, they said, beaming at Floy and Fenella, who came to help; they might not be threatened with the ending of their world and the destruction of the entire Human Race. But it was astonishing how much damage a serious fall of meteors could inflict. It was a very good idea to build these shelters and take refuge in them.

They set to with a will, accepting the plans drawn out by Borage and taking themselves off to the site that had been so carefully chosen. There wasn’t any too much time either, they said, importantly. The meteors couldn’t be very far off now. If you listened carefully, you could hear them, nasty spiteful things; you could hear them whistling and moaning somewhere beyond the Twilight Mountains. If you were of an imaginative turn of mind, you could very nearly think that there was some huge creature up there somewhere, something black and hungry, howling for your blood. They glanced over their shoulders uneasily as they said this because, just for a moment, it had seemed rather dreadfully real, that unseen beast. It had been very easy to picture it, inhuman and merciless, ravening for prey, stalking the little planet of Renascia through the heavens …

There was a nasty-smelling wind whistling down from the skies now; you had to wrap up very warmly indeed against it, and there had been one or two outbreaks of sickness. People took to wearing carefully contrived mufflers for face masks, because you did not have to be in the teeth of the wind for more than an hour now before you were feeling queasy to your stomach.

All the same, they found themselves working with a good heart and a cheerful mien. There was an unexpected feeling of kinship with the Earth-people as well, a feeling of closeness to be working like this, in the shadow of the Ark which had come from Earth all those years ago. One or two people (Quilp among them, of course) had questioned Borage’s decision to make the dug-outs just here, but Borage, who did not mind standing up to Quilp when it came to a question of a building or a foundation, had said firmly that here was the place; soft, chalky soil to dig into with ease, and a bit of a fold in the land just above them to give extra protection. They’d burrow directly into the hillside itself, he said.

Snizort, who spent a good deal of time on the Plain, supposedly making notes, thought the hillside was a very good site indeed. He got in rather a lot of people’s way and provoked a few sharp words from people who said that the writing of diaries was all very well, but there were more important things to be doing just now and so would Snizort please move out of the way, because there was a new consignment of oak timbers coming up. They were lining the floors with planks of oak, and it was important to get the lengths exactly right. You could not be doing with diarists and museum-keepers under your feet at such a solemn time.

And while everybody had started off by regarding it all as solemn and grave, after a time the people who were made sick by the sulphurous winds simply took to their beds and stayed there, and the people who were not affected began to get used to the howling, keening sound that raged across the Twilight Mountains. They wore the face masks and donned their warmest clothes for the work, and almost became accustomed to the feeling of a huge, black beast just out of sight and just beyond consciousness, somewhere in the night skies, circling and watching and waiting …

‘Sheer bravado,’ said Snizort, scurrying about everywhere, and listening to the comments which he reported to Fenella and Floy.

‘No, I think they really have come to accept it all,’ said Floy.

‘It’s because it’s becoming an everyday thing,’ said Fenella. ‘You can get used to almost anything if you have to deal with it every day.’

‘They’re beginning to think of it as a holiday,’ said Floy. ‘Snizort, I hope I’ve done right in keeping the truth from them.’

Chapter Four

The danger was getting closer with every hour. Daylight had almost ceased, except for an occasional sickly streak in the east, and Renascia was living in a perpetual night.

Fenella thought it would have been easier if it had been an ordinary night, the kind of night with velvety blackness stealing in from the Mountains, and the night stocks and the sweet-scented jasmines brought from Earth unfolding and laying their gentle touch on the air.

But the night was dull and angry and swollen, the air stale and thick. If you stayed out in the wind, it was sometimes difficult to breathe, so that you felt as if your lungs were being compressed by iron bands, and your head throbbed. The darkness was tinged with livid crimson, as though the skies were torn and bleeding, and the wind had already torn out saplings and dislodged small sheds. Boats on the lakes had been ripped from their moorings and smashed against the Mountains on the far side.

Fenella, feeling sick from the sour, tainted air, but continuing to help with the work, thought it was as if a vast, ancient tomb was slowly being opened, and great gusts of stale dead air were hurtling out at them. It was, she thought, the stench of dead worlds and forgotten civilisations, of rotting universes. How many worlds had it swallowed, that gaping Black Chasm?

But it was important not to let the Renascians think that there was anything more serious than a meteor bombardment ahead of them, and so Fenella, visiting the dug-outs with Snizort, talked about the history of meteors, even managed to find one or two papers in the Mnemosyne that told about their construction, and how they could spiral through the heavens for centuries before touching a planet. That would be the reason for the strange winds and the sickly stench, she said. And everyone nodded and said, a bit too loudly, that that would be the reason, no question about it. And if people were beginning to look far more worried than a severe meteor bombardment warranted, nobody actually spoke out.

They were all working in what somebody said were called shifts now, relays of them, turn and turn about, five hours digging and constructing, then resting while another batch took over. They worked by the light of flaring torches, burning chunks of oak thrust into the ground. It was becoming quite difficult to keep the torches alight, but Snizort and Snodgrass had fashioned lanterns out of square boxes made of thin, almost-transparent material, into which the torches could be inserted and be free from the winds.

‘Box lanterns,’ explained Snizort. ‘A very old idea.’

The inside of the shelter was almost completed, and it was becoming clearer with every hour that, as soon as the doors were in place and the mechanisms for locking them home were screwed on, they would all go below and stay there.

It was larger and much better equipped than people had visualised when they started it. Quilp had been made to rescind the tax on the parti-coloured stone, and they had lined the shelter with it. It would be extremely strong, said Floy, looking to Borage for confirmation. It would protect them against any splits in the hillside.

‘Could that happen?’ asked one of the Council.

‘Anything could happen,’ said Floy.

The strange, slightly feverish mood of the previous days had vanished now; people not on dug-out duty took to huddling together in their houses, little groups of them gathering together for warmth and comfort, tending the fires which would not burn properly because of the wind shrieking down the chimneys and fastening the shutters firmly so that the horrid light would not seep through the cracks.

Seeing the two shelters take shape, helping where he could, Floy had the strong impression that something ancient and powerful, something steeped in legend, was being re-born.

For Mankind has been here before, it has sheltered from Flood and Deluge before … cedar and cypress wood were used then, and the whole was smeared within with pitch … Two animals of each sort were taken aboard, and a raven and a dove, so that messengers could be sent out to test the waters when they had receded …

Floy shook his head, but for a moment the strange image persisted, so that he had the strongest impression of Time spread out before him like a huge, glistening tapestry, interwoven with crimson and gold and silver, the entire history of every world ever lived and ever lost and ever died for …

And Time is running down, he thought, looking up at the darkling skies, seeing the massing clouds piling into pinnacles and peaks and huge, improbable impenetrable castles. Time is running out and running down, and I do not think we have very long left to us …

But standing in the shrieking night that was closing down on Renascia, with the Twilight Mountains black rearing silhouettes behind him, he looked down on the little houses and the shops and the grassed areas that people had so carefully tended, and thought: We have faced catastrophes and deluges and fires and floods and famines before … We have somehow survived …

We have been here before, thought Floy.

But shall we escape this time?

‘It’s all going quite well,’ said Snizort, in the warm, safe-feeling house, when Floy and Fenella came to supper to eat Snodgrass’s delicious baked ham with potted mushrooms, and blackcurrant pudding to follow.

‘I suppose we’ll all go in the shelter, will we?’ asked Snodgrass, setting out glasses for the carrot wine which was his newest experiment.

‘Well, there’s certainly room for everyone,’ said Snizort, taking a second helping of blackcurrant pudding and adding custard. ‘I suppose if there wasn’t we might have to draw lots for places. My word, now that's an old custom, the drawing of lots. It was the Second Elizabethans who used to do that, or would it have been even earlier … ? Let me think. I’m bound to have a note of it somewhere … Of course, if it was left to me, I’d say we ought to take some of the animals as well. One — or perhaps two? — of every living species on Renascia. Yes, two would be better — ’

‘It’s what the first Settlers did,’ said Snodgrass in a down-to-earth manner.

‘Is it really?’ said Floy. ‘I don’t believe I ever knew that.’

‘Oh yes, my word, yes certainly.’ Snodgrass peered at Floy over his spectacles. ‘Of course, they couldn’t bring two of everything,’ he said earnestly.

‘There wouldn’t have been the room,’ put in Snizort.

‘But they brought — let me see — chickens and ducks for sure.’

‘Eggs,’ said Snizort knowledgeably.

‘And I think that lambs and sheep were Earth things as well.’

‘I think we ought to take down some seedlings,’ said Snizort. ‘You ought to prepare for every eventuality. Is anyone having that last helping of pudding?’

Walking back to their house, their collars turned up against the cold, Fenella wearing her fur-trimmed cloak with the hood, Floy said, ‘Snizort and Snodgrass think of it almost as a game,’ and Fenella jumped, because she had been thinking the same thing and Floy sometimes had the way of echoing your thoughts which could be disconcerting.

She slipped her hand through his arm, and said, ‘It’s oddly comforting, though, isn’t it? And I think that, beneath it all, they are very serious indeed. It is just that they so enjoy their pieces of history and their discoveries.’

‘Could you wish they had not made this particular discovery?’

‘I don’t know.’ Fenella considered. ‘Would it have been better not to know?’

‘I’d rather know,’ said Floy, standing still and staring out towards the Twilight Mountains, his eyes narrowed. ‘If there’s something out there that’s sucking us into its black core, I’d rather know about it.’ He grinned down at her. ‘That way we can at least put up some kind of a fight.’

Some kind of a fight …

‘Floy, what will happen?’ asked Fenella, who had been trying not to ask this ever since they had found the Casket.

‘Truly, I have no idea.’ He frowned. ‘The idea — the whole concept of what our ancestors called a vortex is difficult to grasp.’ He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. ‘I imagine it as a great, deep, chasm — perhaps a black tunnel, where there is nothing at all, not even Time.’

Nothing, not even Time …

Fenella shivered, and said, ‘I don’t think of it like that. I think of it as a creature, a beast, something up there that is settling down into its lair, circling round as it does so. I know we shall fight,’ said Fenella, seriously. And then, ‘Why have the days gone?’

‘Because Time is slowing down,’ said Floy in an expressionless voice. ‘Haven’t you felt that?’

‘Yes.’

He smiled at her. ‘Would you prefer me to protect you, as all the other ladies are being protected?’ he said. ‘To pat you on the head and say, “Now, my dear, there is nothing for you to worry about, and we shall simply live in a shelter for a few hours, and then come out again to our homes and lives”? And tell you to run away and help with the soup-making?’

‘No,’ said Fenella. ‘Oh no.’

Quilp was living in chaos, which was not the sort of thing he cared for. It was not the sort of thing they had ever permitted on Renascia. Chaos could lead to confusion, and confusion could lead to downright anarchy, and they all knew what that meant!

It was Floy’s fault, of course. Floy was turning the whole of Renascia upside-down and inside-out; he was sweeping aside all of Quilp’s carefully thought out taxes and rules, and once a tax or a law had been rescinded, it was extremely difficult to get it restored. It was very nearly impossible. When Quilp thought of how he had worked and planned and — yes, all right, plotted! — to get taxes on the multi-coloured stone, and on people’s earnings, and on the houses and the highways, and of how he had been making himself and his fellow Council members a very nice little profit out of it all, black fury entered his heart. He dared say the next thing that would happen would be that Floy would start delving into Marplot’s ledgers, which was the very last thing they could permit.

Something would have to be done. Could they somehow get rid of Floy? He considered the idea, and the more he considered it, the better he liked it. He liked even better the thought that with Floy out of the way, he, Quilp, would be the obvious choice for Leader. Leader of the Council of Nine. It sounded well. Ruler of Renascia sounded even better. It would all have to be carefully handled and the Council would have to be subtly manipulated, but Quilp could do it.

And although it was not in his creed to be secretive or furtive, he called a very secretive and extremely furtive assembly of his fellow Councillors, with the sole exception of Floy. He hesitated over the inclusion of Borage the Builder, who was so pleased with having been appointed to oversee the construction of the shelters that he might turn out to have divided loyalties. But if there was one thing Quilp had always been, it was democratic. It would have been undemocratic not to have included Borage. In any case, what about all those houses Borage had built, actually using the cheapest possible materials, but recording that extremely expensive materials had been purchased? Borage had quite as much to lose as any of them. Anyway, somebody might have told him about it behind Quilp’s back.

None of them dared risk Floy delving into the Council’s financial affairs. There had once been a saying about there being a tide in the affairs of men which, if taken, could lead anywhere at all. Quilp thought there was a tide in the affairs of Renascia’s Council now, and if they did not take advantage of it, there might never be another opportunity. It went against Quilp’s nature to plot and scheme and intrigue, but there was too much at stake.

They met in Prunum’s Wine Shop. Quilp had specified the hour but, even as he battled his way down the street to the Wine Shop’s jutting bow windows, it occurred to him that it had taken a very long time for the hour to arrive. His own clock seemed to have run down somehow, and so he had sat in the window of his house, watching the huge Tompion piece in the square outside. That had never been known to give an incorrect time, and so Quilp knew he could trust it. Even so, it seemed to take a remarkably long time to reach the appointed hour. He found himself hoping that he would not be late for this very important meeting.

But when he reached the Wine Shop, the others were only just arriving, so it was all right. Probably this rather nasty perpetual darkness sent people’s ideas of time a bit out of kilter. And so he nodded to the pretty young thing who served the wine and the various brews. He noticed that she was looking particularly toothsome, took a minute to suggest that they might sup together very soon, then made his way to the back of the shop.

Prunum had set aside his back room for the meeting and was serving them some of his wortleberry wine, which Quilp did not care for, but which it would have been discourteous and unpolitic to have refused. He seated himself at the scrubbed table which Prunum had provided and eyed them all solemnly.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we have on our hands a situation so grave and so fraught with danger that I believe we should ask ourselves questions we have not, until now, needed to ask.’ A silence. No one spoke. Quilp sipped the wortleberry wine at his elbow and went on.

‘Our dear Renascia is being threatened and menaced,’ he said, and several voices murmured, ‘the Black Chasm,’ and several heads nodded.

‘Not only by that,’ said Quilp who, in fact, found the whole thing so outlandish that he could not even bring himself to pronounce the words. ‘Not only by that, gentlemen.’ He raised a clenched fist. ‘It is threatened from within,’ he said and looked at them and waited.

‘Floy,’ said Marplot, who had seen, as clearly as Quilp, that Floy would soon be asking for details about the various monetary transactions that surrounded the shelter-construction. He had taken the precaution of locking away the Moneyhouse’s ledgers and had even gone so far as to enter a sum from his own funds against a certain amount he had borrowed for himself without the encumbrance of interest or even repayment. ‘Floy,’ he said, very grimly indeed.

‘Floy,’ said Quilp, nodding. He looked round at the Council, and said, very sadly, ‘My dear good friends, I fear we can reach only one conclusion about him.’ And then, with a nice sense of timing, said in a doom-laden voice, ‘Floy will have to be got rid of.’

Prunum said hesitantly, ‘Is it absolutely necessary to do that?’

‘I fear it is,’ said Quilp, sorrowfully.

‘Well I say he goes,’ put in Prismus who liked to say he had not the squeamishness of the rest. ‘And the sooner the better,’ he added for good measure.

Borage entered a caveat. Floy was working so hard to save them from the Chasm, he said, worried. Only look how he had thought of the shelters, and how he and his sister were to be found at the dug-outs for several hours at a stretch. ‘I speak as I find,’ he said, firmly.

‘It’s a pity you find so little, then,’ said Marplot.

‘But,’ said Prunum, ‘it isn’t just a matter of Floy asking — ah-difficult questions about money matters, of course. It’s a much greater matter than that.’

He glanced at Quilp, and Quilp, pleased to find such an ally, said, ‘Precisely, my dear Prunum. I am glad to see you have such a complete understanding of the situation.’ Prunum beamed and thought that the private arrangement between himself and Quilp and the pretty young thing who served wine in the public rooms and provided quite another entertainment in the private rooms, had not done him so badly.

Quilp said, ‘As our good Prunum says, it is a much larger matter than Floy’s unexpected involvement with the finances of the Council. Floy is making changes. He is already sweeping aside our rules and our laws. He’s a reformist,’ said Quilp. ‘I’ve seen it from the very beginning. He’s a progressivist. He’ll change everything, and not for the better, mark my words. Hasn’t he already begun?’ demanded Quilp, bringing his clenched fist down on the table. ‘Hasn’t he already swept aside our laws and rescinded the taxes? He says it’s simply until after the danger is past,’ said Quilp. ‘He says it’s until it’s known what kind of life we can lead. But is it just until the danger to Renascia is past? Is it just for the duration of this threat?’

He leaned forward. ‘We have to ask ourselves that question, gentlemen. And if the answer to it is “no, it is not just for the duration, it is for good”, then we have to ask ourselves whether Floy can be allowed to continue as Renascia’s leader.’ He sat back and folded his arms. ‘It becomes a much larger question, a much more basic question than Floy simply noticing a few minor discrepancies in our books,’ said Quilp, and everyone nodded in agreement, because it was one thing to remove a leader simply because he might catch you out in a smidgen of sharp practice. It was another altogether to remove that leader because he was a danger to the wellbeing of the people. Those of the Council who had felt a bit troubled about Quilp’s suggestion, began to feel very much better.

Marplot said he had always thought that Floy and his sister were exaggerating the threat.

‘Of course they’re exaggerating it,’ said Quilp pouncing on this as a useful point, ‘of course they are. They see it as a means to bring in their own method of governing.’ He leaned back in his seat, and reached for the wine glass again. ‘Before we know it, they’ll be transferring our leading concerns into public ownership.’

‘What would that mean?’ said Prunum.

‘Probably that institutions such as the Moneyhouse would not be run by an individual, but by a Council composed of the people of Renascia,’ said Quilp, and there was a touch of malice in his tone. ‘Which would mean, my dear Marplot, that not just Floy, but every soul on Renascia would be privy to accounts and ledgers and balance sheets.’

Marplot said, ‘Dear me,’ and took a gulp of wortleberry wine.

‘Would Floy really do that?’ asked Prunum, who was making a very nice thing out of his private supper room and the young ladies who were not overly particular about whom they entertained there and how they did it. ‘Would he really?’

‘I happen to know that he would certainly do it,’ said Quilp, who did not know any such thing, but was not going to lose any opportunity of turning the Council against Floy.

‘I don’t think we could allow that, you know,’ said Marplot, worriedly. ‘I think we would have to do something about that. It wouldn’t be anything to do with Floy and the — ’

‘Minor discrepancies,’ said Borage.

‘Precisely,’ said Marplot.

‘Floy must be got rid of,’ said Prismus. And then, ‘But how could we do it?’

Quilp said, ‘Floy and his sister have turned this absurd idea of the vortex to their advantage. Well, let us now turn it to ours.’

Marplot said, ‘Excuse me, Quilp, but do you believe in the vortex?’

‘I am prepared to admit that there may, after all, be something in the information on the Golden Tablets,’ said Quilp in a dignified voice that indicated that he was of sufficiently strong character to be able to admit when he had made a misjudgment. ‘And I think that we may have to endure a few hours of unpleasantness.’ He made an airy gesture. ‘Some strong winds, perhaps violent storms. Even one or two localised fires on the higher parts of Renascia. It will be a little disruptive, but there are the shelters,’ said Quilp, and thought that he was almost managing to make it sound as if the shelters had been his sole idea. ‘After a few hours — at the very most a day — we shall emerge and return to our homes.’

The others nodded, as if they, too, thought this.

‘And that is my idea,’ said Quilp, and looked at them all very steadily. ‘Supposing, gentlemen, just supposing that Floy was not with us when we came out of the shelters?’

‘How could that happen?’

‘Supposing,’ said Quilp, ‘that Floy and his troublesome sister did not come into the shelters with us in the first place?

‘Supposing we accidentally shut them outside.

‘Just as Renascia tips towards the Black Chasm … ’

Chapter Five

The shelters were very nearly finished. All that remained was for the door mechanisms to be put into place so that, when they were all safely inside, the great, solid doors that Borage and his workmen had so precisely hewn from the parti-coloured stone could be closed tight and sealed. An exact fit, Borage had said, pleased. They could not afford to have any cracks or crevices through which water might seep. The doors would fit exactly and precisely. There were the grilles as well; Borage had been extremely pleased with these. They were strong, iron, shutter-like structures, carefully angled so that when the shutters were removed, they would give a clear view directly on to Renascia’s plains. There was a small chamber directly behind each grille, sealed off from the main shelter, and one or two of the men would climb into these small chambers in order to unseal the grilles and peer out to see if all the danger had passed.

‘There’s not really very much danger,’ said Quilp to everyone. ‘There’s hardly any more danger than when a single meteor passes over us.’ He hurried about his various Council duties, consulting almost hourly with the other Council members, his cloak billowing out and his hat blown out of shape by the relentless wind, so that he took on the appearance of a huge black crow.

‘But he doesn’t go out after dusk,’ said Fenella, watching from the window of Snizort’s study one evening.

‘Well, we don’t have dusk any longer.’

There was no dusk, and there was scarcely any light left, now. The whole of Renascia was becoming sucked into the evil black and crimson night and the howling winds were tearing across the planet almost without ceasing.

People were beginning to move slowly and to wear a faintly puzzled air, as if they found it difficult to comprehend what was happening. They began to forget things, to lose things, to find it hard to remember names.

‘It’s frightening,’ said Fenella, curled up in the jutting bow window, looking up at the sky, while Snizort worked anxiously at his desk, trying to record everything that was happening, because they would all like a proper chronicle of events after it was over. ‘Not just the physical danger, but the things that seem to be happening inside people’s minds. There’s a — a slowing down.’

‘Time running out and running down,’ said Floy, softly.

‘Everything seems to last much longer,’ said Fenella.

‘Quilp’s lasting much longer,’ said Snodgrass, crossly. ‘Everywhere you look, he’s there. He gets in people’s way.’

He was everywhere, it seemed, and so it was no surprise when he came knocking on the door of Snizort and Snodgrass’s house in company with Marplot and Prunum, later that day.

A small Council matter, he said, on being bidden to enter. Really, it was wrong of them to trouble Floy in this way, and also his sister and Snizort and Snodgrass, he said, smiling rather unctuously at Fenella, waving away Snodgrass’s offer of some refreshment.

It was just that they — he and the Council — had thought that some small ceremony ought to attend the sealing of the shelters, said Quilp, smiling at Floy in a way that Floy did not altogether trust.

‘An historic moment for us all,’ said Quilp. ‘We thought it ought to be attended by some solemnity.’ And smiled again and waited.

Floy said, rather baldly, ‘What had you in mind?’ and thought it was exactly like Quilp, pompous old idiot, to be thinking of ceremonies and speeches when they ought to have been checking that the shelters were as water-tight as they needed to be or looking over the provisions and making sure that everyone in Renascia knew to go into the shelter later that day, which was what had been decided early that morning. We cannot leave it any longer, thought Floy, glancing through the window.

Because Time is running down, it is slipping away through a tear in the skies, like sand trickling through a man’s hands, and we cannot have very much of it left now …

‘What had you in mind, Quilp?’ he said, turning back, trying not to show impatience, because whatever Quilp and the others wanted would probably not take very long and, if it pleased them all, it could not matter.

Quilp said, ‘Oh, very little, really. We thought that, perhaps, we would go into the shelter in procession, you know.’

‘It will enable us to keep an exact count of everyone as well,’ put in Marplot.

‘So it will. And if you and your sister — ’ Again the careful bow in Fenella’s direction, ‘would perhaps walk at the procession’s rear, it would make it quite ceremonious,’ said Quilp.

‘And then you could be the one to actually seal the doors behind us,’ added Prunum.

Floy said, ‘The old Earth-tradition of the Captain being the last to leave the sinking ship?’ And laughed, and said, ‘I don’t suppose it could hurt.’

‘I think it would go down rather well with the people,’ said Quilp.

‘Very well.’ And then, suddenly, ‘But Fenella must take her place in the shelter earlier with the other ladies,’ said Floy.

‘Certainly not,’ said Fenella at once.

‘It would be rather nice,’ said Quilp, ‘if she walked at your side. And it would only be a few minutes behind the rest of us, of course.’ He made it sound rather trivial, as if he thought Floy was making a fuss, and Floy thought: I suppose it is all right. After all, we shall all be going into the shelters together. And at least he would have Fenella with him. If she went down earlier, perhaps with the other ladies, they might become separated.

And so he said, ‘Yes, very well,’ and Quilp and his friends smiled all over again, and declined a second offer of refreshments, and said they would all meet up shortly.

‘For the last walk through Renascia’s streets,’ said Quilp.

The last walk … It was rather frightening to be dressing for the brief journey to the shelters, but Fenella tried to think that it was a little bit exciting as well. It was difficult to believe that Renascia might be completely destroyed, that it might cease to exist, and Fenella would not believe it.

She pulled on dark trousers which could be tucked into the tops of boots and folded a couple of cambric shirts and some underthings into a small bag. Toothpowder? Yes, of course. And hairbrush and comb. Quilp and the Council had told people to bring just a small bag each, not to clutter the shelters with unnecessary belongings. They would frown on the boots, and they would certainly frown on the trousers, which were an old pair of Floy’s, altered to fit, and which ladies did not usually wear. But trousers would be warm and sensible and Fenella was more concerned about being practical for what might be ahead of them rather than about satisfying Quilp’s sartorial requirements. She would take her cloak as well, which she could put over her shoulders. There was a fur-lined hood with large deep pockets which might come in handy.

The last walk … It was strange and rather eerie to walk like this with Floy, down the deserted streets, with the wind buffeting wildly into their faces. Fenella thought that already the streets had an abandoned air, as if no one would ever walk along them again, as if no one would ever live in the houses … Stop it! she said silently. I won’t think like that!

They walked through the darkness, both aware of the changing quality of the wind and aware, as well, of an immense pressure from somewhere in the skies.

Fenella said, softly, ‘It is very close to us now.’

‘Yes.’ Floy stopped and looked into the massing blackness over their heads, his face pale in the heavy light, his eyes shadowed.

He took her arm more firmly, because the wind was raging all about them and there was a feeling of tremendous oppressiveness. Here and there the skies were becoming streaked with crimson, great jagged streaks, as if they were wounded and bleeding. But, despite the tearing wind, the black clouds were moving slowly, as if they might be trying to resist the strong pull of something hidden over the far horizon …

This is quite terrible, thought Fenella, bending her head against the wind. This is the most terrible thing that could ever happen. And then, with sudden fear: And I believe we are alone in the darkness for ever …

With the framing of the thought, came another, not from within her mind, but from somewhere outside of it.

Yes, Mortal, you are outside now. You are outside in the howling confusion and in the raging winds and the endless night that is bearing down upon you …

Fenella blinked and looked round because, just for a moment, the words had seemed real and solid, as if someone, quite close by, had actually said them. But there was nothing but the night and the storm and there was no one but themselves.

It was Floy who said, ‘Shouldn’t we be seeing the others soon?’

‘Should we?’ Fenella tried to gauge how late it was. They had been careful to leave in plenty of time and Quilp had suggested that they meet in the square in front of the Round House. But it had seemed to take a very long time for the appointed hour to come round; there had been a slowness and a weary dragging out of the afternoon, so that they had both thought several times that the timepieces must have stopped, or perhaps that they had fallen asleep.

To sleep, never to wake … thought Fenella. Where have I heard or read or remembered that?

The Round House was in front of them now and it was deserted. There was an abandoned look about it. Could they have missed the others? Had they mistaken the time?

Floy took her arm, and said, ‘I think we had better go straight to the shelters.’ He had to shout, because the wind was so strong that it snatched the words away.

Fenella nodded and they began to move along the wind-ravaged street. It was difficult to walk very fast and it was disconcerting how different the houses looked now.

The light is draining from the world … I could wish I had never heard those words, thought Fenella, struggling to keep up with Floy, feeling the wind snatching at her cloak and trying to wrap it more tightly round her.

The light is draining, and Time is slipping through your hands, Mortals …

The horrid coppery taint was all round them, in their nostrils and in their mouths; it was like tasting blood, thought Fenella, feeling sick. And, from somewhere over their heads, was a rushing rhythmic sound, as if they were nearing a huge, gobbling whirlpool. It was becoming difficult to stay on their feet and, several times, Fenella would have fallen if Floy had not kept tight hold of her.

They stopped to draw breath at the intersection of two streets and stood for a moment, looking round.

‘Can you see anyone?’ asked Fenella, raising her voice above the buffeting wind.

‘No one,’ said Floy and Fenella caught an undercurrent of anger in his voice. Could Quilp somehow have tricked them? And if he had …

And then Floy turned, smiling, and Fenella felt a rush of relief because, of course, Quilp would not have done such a thing and, of course, it was only that they had somehow missed the procession. Perhaps, despite their care, they had simply been late.

She looked eagerly along the street, expecting to see the line of people, and then said, puzzled, ‘But it’s only two people. It’s — oh, it’s Snizort and Snodgrass!’

And although they were becoming extremely concerned at the emptiness of the streets, it was remarkably comforting to see the two brothers coming towards them down the street, puffing a bit, hung about with baskets and provisions and scarves and mufflers.

Snizort and Snodgrass were delighted to find they were not as late as they had feared. Snodgrass had been so busy in the kitchen that he had forgotten to keep an eye on the hour and Snizort had lost his turnip-faced watch anyway.

They had brought along everything they thought they might need, probably more than they needed. Snizort had packed a huge bag which looked as if it was made out of sections of carpet and which he said was called a portmanteau. He had brought paper and charcoal sticks which would be more practical than pen and ink, so that everything could be recorded as it happened, and he had added a spare pair of spectacles as well, because you never knew. Snodgrass had packed some of his ham pasties and honey bread and a tin of scones and two flagons each of Elderberry Wine and Damson Mead. It had been quite difficult to know whether this would be sufficient.

‘Sufficient for a city under siege,’ said Floy. ‘Do hurry, both of you,’ He took Fenella’s arm and began to move down the street again, Snizort and Snodgrass close behind, the four of them bent almost double against the shrieking wind. Fenella’s hair whipped into her face, obscuring her vision. The wind was stinging her skin and it was becoming more and more difficult to breathe.

‘We must hurry!’ cried Floy, and Fenella managed to nod, because they must hurry. They could see that the skies were forming a pattern above them; they were circling round and round, making a whirlpool, a maelstrom, a vortex.

Fenella vaguely thought that there were voices in the wind again, singing, crying voices that lived at the wind’s heart and would call and beckon to you, and whisper in your ear that the world was ending, it was dying, not with a bang but with a whimper, and they were out here in the howling night and the raging confusion, and if they wanted to escape, they must listen to the voices …

Yes, yes, listen to us, Fenella, walk into the wind and the light, and you will surely see us …

Fenella stopped and looked round, puzzled, but they had stopped in the temporary shelter of a building and there was a check in the wind’s force, and there was no light anywhere. Imagination, nothing more, said Fenella silently, and turned her mind to the more immediate question of where everyone was.

But it was Snodgrass, ever practical, who said, ‘Floy, what has happened? Where are the rest?’ and Floy frowned, the dark brows making a bar of anger. Fenella felt something cold and vicious clutch her heart.

Snizort said, almost to himself, ‘I always said I wouldn’t trust that Quilp from here to the end of the street,’ and Snodgrass shook his head dolefully.

Floy made an abrupt gesture which took in the empty streets and the shuttered buildings and Fenella realised that he was so angry he could not speak.

‘Even so,’ said Snodgrass, ‘even so, I think we should get on to the shelters.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course we must.’ Floy straightened up, and took Fenella’s hand again. ‘We’re nearly there, in any case.’

They were nearly there, but still it seemed a long time before they reached the outskirts of Renascia and saw the sloping hillside where they had worked so hard. They could see the small, narrow entrance and the steps that wound down to them.

Fenella, standing still, fighting the wind, said, ‘But — the doors are closed.’

‘And sealed,’ said Snodgrass, peering through the driving rain.

‘Both of them?’

‘Yes,’ said Floy in an expressionless voice. ‘Yes, both of them.’ And turned to look at his three companions.

They were shut out of the shelters …

It was a terrible moment. Fenella stared at the others and tried to form her thoughts into order, knowing that this was the worst thing that had ever happened to any of them.

They managed to stagger back to the lee of the streets again, where the tall buildings afforded some protection from the frantic wind, but they had to fight every inch and Fenella thought the wind was increasing. The red glow was certainly stronger. How long could they stay out here?

Snodgrass said, ‘Some plot of Quilp’s, do you think, Floy?’ and Floy said grimly, ‘I do indeed.’

‘But-wouldn’t the others override him?’ asked Fenella, unable to believe that the Renascians would have agreed to something so monstrous.

‘There are two shelters,’ said Floy. ‘The occupants of one could have been told that we are in the other.’

‘And the occupants of the other would be told we are in the first. Yes, of course.’

‘Clever,’ said Snizort, shaking his head. ‘My word, he’s clever, that Quilp.’

Fenella asked, ‘Do you truly mean that he planned it?’ And heard her voice saying the words, and did not believe she was hearing them.

‘Yes. Yes, he has planned it,’ said Floy, turning to stare at the blind closed doors of the shelters. ‘Perhaps he planned it all along.’

‘Why?’

‘Well,’ said Floy, ‘I can’t be sure, but it would be a very easy way for him to be rid of us. It would ensure that he would be the unchallenged Council head.’ He looked at Fenella. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I was impatient and rebellious with the Council. Perhaps I tried to change too many things too quickly and this is the outcome.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Snodgrass at once. ‘Quilp is out simply to snatch power for himself.’

‘And, perhaps, to protect his furtive little moneymaking schemes,’ said Snizort. ‘You were a threat, Floy, but not in quite the way you’re thinking. I never trusted him. Snodgrass, didn’t I always say I never trusted him?’

‘Even so,’ said Floy, immensely heartened by this, ‘I should have seen through his ridiculous little ploy. I should have been more wary.’

Fenella made an impatient gesture, because this was not something that mattered. What was important now was for them to find some kind of refuge until Renascia was out of danger. She did not think: if it ever is out of danger, because this was something else that must not be put into words.

‘I suppose,’ said Snodgrass, ‘that if we shouted and banged on the doors we would not be heard?’

‘No,’ said Floy, at once. ‘No, because one of the things we ensured was absolute sealing of both shelters.’

‘Could we shout through the grilles?’ asked Fenella. ‘We’ll certainly try,’ said Floy and was moving towards the shelters at once, his face set, his eyes blazing with fury.

Fenella thought: I would not like to be Quilp when Floy finally meets up with him. If Floy meets up with him. But this was another thought that was dangerous, and so she concentrated on keeping up with Floy, walking between Snizort and Snodgrass, both of them trying to avoid the pouring rain that was sheeting down on them now, and the howling wind, all of them uneasily aware of the sinister dark mass over their heads.

‘And there is a rushing sound now,’ shouted Snizort in Fenella’s ear. ‘Can you hear it?’

‘Yes, I’ve been hearing it for a while now,’ rejoined Fenella. ‘Isn’t it just the wind?’

‘I think it’s more than that,’ said Snizort.

The Black Chasm reaching out its greedy fingers towards them … The hungering monster of the skies bearing down on mankind once more, hungering for new victims …

I won’t think that and I won’t look up! thought Fenella. I won’t look towards the Twilight Mountains and I won’t hear. It’ll just be the wind. And, in any case, Floy will make them hear us. They’ll unbolt the doors and let us in and we’ll be safe. It’s just Quilp being malicious for a time.

Floy was ahead of them. He had reached the nearer of the shelters and he was already kneeling down to the grille. Fenella could see it quite plainly; a shuttered square, just large enough for somebody very small or very agile to slither through. Could they be heard?

Floy said, ‘Shout together. All of us. As loudly as ever you can. When I signal. Ready?’

He brought his hand down and they shouted and Floy hammered on the grille with a piece of rock.

But there is no sound from inside, thought Fenella. If they hear the wind, then that is all they hear.

‘Again!’ cried Floy. ‘They must hear!’

But the shelters remained locked and impassive and, at length, Floy straightened up and turned to face them, his hair whipped into a tangle about his head, his face bitter and angry.

‘There is only one thing we can do,’ he said and took Fenella’s hands as he looked straight at the other two. ‘We have to find shelter of some kind. We can’t be far away from the Chasm now. I can hear it,’ cried Floy.

The houses — ’ began Fenella and, at once, ‘No, of course not the houses.’

And then Floy looked at them suddenly, a new light in his eyes. ‘Of course!’ he cried, taking Fenella’s arm. ‘Quickly, all of us! It protected our ancestors on their journey here, and it may now protect us!

‘We must go to the Ark.’

Chapter Six

To begin with, Fenella thought, they would never do it. The wind was relentless now, tearing down on them from every side, so that whichever way they faced they were fighting it. There was the tainted, ancient stench deep within it and, although they had all wound scarves about their faces and Fenella had drawn the strings of her hood as tight as they would go, still the stench seemed to soak into their skins, so that they thought they would never be free of it.

As they moved away from the familiar houses and streets and the two shelters where the Renascians sheltered in safety and warmth, they began to feel as if they were walking towards the heart of some giant panting monster, black and evil and menacing.

Fenella, between Snizort and Snodgrass, thought that if you half closed your eyes you could very nearly see it. Rearing and snarling, with a thick scaly hide, and a hungering black maw, ready to devour the world …

Floy was concentrating on reaching the Ark and he was forcing every ounce of his will to get Fenella and the two brothers inside it. He did not know whether it would protect them as well as the dug-outs would have protected them, but he could not think what else they could do. Perhaps they might have found shelter in the depths of the Twilight Mountains; Floy cast a glance towards the silhouettes of the Mountains directly ahead of them, limned in sharp relief against the livid skies, great towering shapes. People shunned the Mountains and whispered tales about them, but Floy knew that people had explored them at times; little parties had gone deep into the honeycomb tunnels, taking food and light.

And sometimes did not emerge, said his mind …

Sometimes were never seen again …

There was no time to consider any of it. They were at the centre of a shrieking, whirling tornado, and the entire world was being turned slowly upside down. There was no time to think, there was only time to try to reach the Ark that had brought their ancestors out of danger centuries earlier.

Yes, yes, mortals, out of the land of bondage and into the freedom of Infinity …

To their left they could see the lake churning and spiralling, great walls of foaming water rising at its centre.

‘Faster!’ shouted Floy, half dragging Fenella across the scree. ‘The lake is rising! All of us! Quickly!’

They half ran, half fell, over the rough ground below the Ark, stumbling and missing their footing, helping one another as they ran. Once Fenella slipped and fell headlong but there was thick springy bracken and she was only winded.

‘Not hurt,’ she gasped, as they helped her up. ‘Not — looking — where – I — was — going — Hurry — ’

It was like being chased by some huge, ravening beast now. The sound and the wind and the steady rhythmic pulsating of the skies was engulfing them and, within the wind, was a great roaring sound.

And the Black Chasm, the monster of infinity is almost upon us, it is rushing down on us, ravening and slavering for prey … A predator, a giant snare, a trap opening its jaws ready to bring its teeth slashing down on Mankind …

Ahead of them was the sleek shape of the Ark, the strange, carefully preserved craft that had come from Earth, that had somehow been sent through the skies, thousands of miles, until it had come to rest on Renascia. It should be safe, thought Fenella, her heart pounding, her lungs ready to burst. It must be safe.

She summoned her last reserves and together they ran across the last stretch of ground. Snizort and Snodgrass were still with them; Snizort was puffing and Snodgrass was perspiring and they had certainly fallen back.

But they are with us, thought Fenella, with sudden gladness. Somehow they have kept up and they are with us.

As if Floy had caught her thought, he stopped, his arm still about her, and they waited for the two brothers, who came trotting and gasping up to them.

Snizort said, ‘Bless my boots, I’m getting a bit old for this sort of thing.’

Snodgrass had managed to keep the supplies slung about his shoulder, which had pleased them both.

‘Inside,’ said Floy, with a worried look at the sky. ‘Quickly!’

Time is slowing, and when the last grains have trickled out, it will turn back on itself and what then, mortals, what then … ?

Floy was standing at Fenella’s side, tugging at the fastening to the small door that was set into the Ark’s side. There was a moment, heart-stopping, breathtaking, when they feared it would not open, and Fenella felt a spiral of panic. And then Floy’s hands pushed again and the door fell open and they were entering the strange empty craft that had come from the dying world, Earth. It was larger inside than they had expected and there was a strange, cold, sharp scent.

‘It’s like the cabin of a ship,’ said Floy, looking about him.

‘There’s plenty of room for us all,’ said Snodgrass, putting down his haversack. ‘Bless my soul, this is a remarkable thing.’

The inside of the long-ago Earth-settlers’ Ark was lined with the pale, hard substance that the Renascians had never been able to reproduce or, indeed, identify. It was narrower than they had thought from outside, but it was long, and there were several odd-looking seats, curved to fit the body. To the left of the small door were rows upon rows of bewildering squares, all containing numbers and charts and patterns of various colours.

At the centre was a column, the thickness of a man’s waist, with more of the enclosed charts and what seemed to be dozens of switches and handles. To their right was a further small door, partly open, through which they could see more of the same seats and what looked a bit like storage units or cupboards of some kind.

But they were inside, and the raging storm was outside and, for the moment, there was stability and some kind of shelter.

They reached the seats and fell into them thankfully. Straps protruded from the sides, a little like belts, but made of some pale, pliable substance.

Floy at once reached for the fastenings and the others did the same.

‘Not rusty in the least,’ muttered Snizort. ‘My word, they knew how to make things, our ancestors.’

The straps were not rusty, but they were cold to the touch, and they were difficult to clip into place. They stretched across the front of the chairs, holding the wearer firmly in place, and Fenella could not decide if this was worrying or comforting. Had the people who built this craft expected it to be so buffeted and so flung about that they knew they must be tied down to escape injury? It was something else not to explore too deeply, and Fenella thought they should just be glad to have such security. And it was quite a safe feeling to be anchored like this. If the Ark was turned upside down and thrown backwards and forwards by whatever was ahead of them, at least they would not be dashed against its cold, unyielding sides.

The A rk had tiny circular windows, not made of glass as they were used to, but of something very slightly soft and immensely thick. Fenella peered through and thought that they gave a distorted view of what was outside. Then she wondered if it was not the glasslike substance that was distorted, but the outside itself.

It was just possible to make out the dark, swirling clouds and the livid crimson streaks across the sky, and the rather terrible structuring of the skies, as if they were massing together for some grisly purpose.

‘But we can no longer hear any of it,’ said Fenella, staring out. ‘We can no longer hear it and we can no longer feel it, either.’ Fenella felt her spirits rising. Of course they would come through, and of course Renascia would not be destroyed.

But it is coming nearer, Mortal, it is coming nearer with every second …

There was the sudden feeling that whatever was over their heads was swooping down on them and the feeling of being poised on the edge of a precipice. Floy and Snodgrass moved to seats and, as they did so, they felt the Ark shudder with the force of the buffeting winds.

Fenella thought, It is moving. I believe the Ark is moving. And waited, torn between fear and excitement, because this, surely, was the most immense thing that had ever happened and, surely, like this they must be safe.

And we shall see! she thought suddenly. Whatever is happening, we shall be able to see it!

And then, without the least warning, the storm ceased, and there was the sudden, silent feeling of a dark, thick cloak falling, and the sensation of weightlessness. Fenella thought the Ark moved again, and then was not sure.

It’s so quiet, thought Fenella, staring at the others. I never imagined such quiet and such peace.

Floy, seated close to Fenella, felt the peace and the sudden immense stillness at the same moment, and cold dread closed about his heart for he guessed the sudden, overpowering silence to be the silence of airlessness, and he thought: Renascia has been plucked from its carapace of air and sent spinning and tumbling through the skies. Somehow it has fallen out of its safe cocoon. We can no longer feel it, but we are hurtling towards something tremendous, something that will very probably shatter us for ever. Down into the depths of the Black Chasm? Yes, probably.

Floy glanced quickly round the Ark’s interior and knew a brief comfort, because the Earth-people must surely have known about the airlessness of the skies and they would certainly have somehow rendered the Ark safe against such a danger. But we can’t exist without air for very long, thought Floy, his eyes raking the incomprehensible oblongs of maps and figures and handles to their left. There will be air in here for a time, but it will soon become stale and unbreathable. He thought there must be machinery in here to combat the airlessness, but it would long since have fallen into disuse and, in any case, they had no way of knowing how to use it. I cannot think what we can do! he cried in silent agonised frustration. I believe the means to help us to be here in this strange craft, but I have not the knowledge!

And then the velvety blackness was split by blinding white light, veined with glittering orange and red fire. Great dust storms whirled before their eyes, dancing and beckoning, grotesque fantastical shapes that reared up and became grinning, threatening monsters, holding out impossible elongated hands, beckoning, reaching for them …

Floy, staring, unsure whether his eyes were playing tricks, thought: I believe there must be air again! Those dust storms could not have been raised without air of some kind! Perhaps they had fallen into a pocket of air. I don’t know if I believe in strange, within-the-shadows creatures, he thought, but I do believe in dust and in storms. I do believe in swirling clouds and winds.

There was a rushing sound as well, now, and Floy experienced a quick, deep thankfulness, for where there is sound there must certainly be air. But even as the thoughts were forming in his mind, there was a violent wrenching movement and they felt the Ark turn completely upside-down and hurtle down and down, twisting and spiralling as it went, faster than anything they had ever known, so that they were gasping and clutching the sides of their seats for safety. Light split the darkness once more, racing past them, blinding, dazzling, white-hot and streaked with fire like blood against a pale skin …

Fenella saw a rushing, swirling curtain of gold and brilliance, a maelstrom of fire and light, with glittering shapes deep within it and they felt the swirl of the fire billow out and engulf the Ark. There was the sensation of being tom out of the ground and scooped up into the skies and the blackness was somehow behind them, as if they were shaking it from them like liquid. Rivulets of colour and light came rushing out to surround them and they felt the Ark lifted bodily, not harshly but gently and firmly, and carried forward.

The light changed. It became tinged with pure, molten gold and there were eyes in the fire now, strange wise ancient eyes, as if there might be beasts who lived in the fire and who were not Human, who might well be dangerous, but who were certainly taking them forward, out of the black tunnel, on and on through the golden river of fire …

Floy shouted, ‘Keep tight hold, all of you! Is everyone all right?’

‘Yes!’ cried Fenella. ‘What’s happening?’

‘I haven’t the least idea!’ cried Floy, and the others caught the wild delight in his voice as he turned to look at them.

‘We’re moving again!’ cried Snizort. ‘Aren’t we?’

‘Yes! Hold tight!’

They were moving, swiftly and smoothly now, going down and down and round and round … Into the depths of the whirlpool, thought Fenella, tom between terror and excitement. Into the heart of the Black Chasm and probably, certainly, we shall never come out again …

But there are eyes in the fire, thought Fenella, staring through the tiny windows, unable to look away. There are slanting golden eyes, neither Human nor animal, and just beyond the light I can make out strange, silken creatures composed of the fire and the light, eerily beautiful, but somehow friendly.

The Ark was gathering momentum. They were going faster and faster and, at any minute, they would surely plunge straight to the Chasm’s core where they would be dashed to their deaths against its black heart …

But it was possible to see more clearly through the tiny windows, now; it was possible to see that they were travelling along some kind of wide, high, rock tunnel, inside a surging golden River.

Fenella thought: A golden pouring River, tumbling down and down inside a tunnel … I think we may be about to die, she thought, fearful and entranced. But I think this is the most exciting thing yet.

And then there was a jolt and a tumbling sensation and a burst of light and the Ark came to rest, quite gently, in a vast cave, filled with the soft pouring light.

They sat very still, not daring to move, hardly daring to speak, each of them thinking: are we safe? Has it stopped?

Floy, peering through the windows, saw that the strange golden river was still flowing past them, but shallowly now, so that the Ark was only several inches deep in it. It was rather as if they had come to rest on the shores of some kind of sea or the banks of a deep, wide river. Thin light cascaded over the walls and ran along the sides of the cave, spilling over the edges of some kind of cliff. The whole cavern was soaked in soft, prismatic light that rippled gently, like water-light in an under-sea cave, but stronger, more glowing, streaked with flame and gold. Here and there, they could see clusters of hard brilliance embedded into the cave walls and, at intervals, were deep alcoves, niches cut into the rock, each one bearing a strangely wrought flambeau, from which glowed spiralling flames.

The light was pouring from the Ark's sides, as if it was rainwater running off it, and Fenella could see the tiny glinting droplets on the windows.

It was Floy who moved first, unclipping the stout fastenings that had held them safely in the curved seats. He stood up, flexing his cramped muscles, and eyed them all.

‘Well, my friends? Nothing broken? Nothing damaged?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Fenella, cautiously, and looked at Snizort and Snodgrass, both of whom beamed and said they were quite all right, aside from being a bit jolted. Snodgrass thought the contents of the portmanteau might be a bit tumbled, but other than that they were unhurt.

‘And I do think,’ said Snizort, ‘that we ought to explore outside.’

Floy said, ‘Of course we are going to explore outside. Aren’t we?’

‘I don’t think,’ said Fenella, moving warily from the seat and finding that, apart from a bruise or two, she was perfectly all right, ‘I don’t think, you know, that this is anywhere on Renascia.’

‘No,’ said Floy, and they could hear the rising excitement in his voice. ‘No, it isn’t Renascia.’ He looked at them again with the glinting delight and Fenella caught his mood and knew that, although they might be in the most dreadful danger, this was the most exciting thing any of them had ever known. It suddenly seemed entirely and completely right to be here like this, with Floy and the brothers, somewhere in this strange place that might be anywhere at all, and which was certainly not like anything they had ever seen before.

And then Floy moved to the small door in the Ark’s side and reached for the bolts and the wheels that had sealed it closed.

‘Ready?’ he said, and spun the wheels.

They were standing quite close to the edge of the cliff and the golden flames were still pouring down the rocks and into the deep chasm. From where they stood they could just see that, far below them, was indeed a river, a great, surging fast-flowing torrent, sweeping its mighty way through the deep chasm.

But it is a river of pure fire, thought Fenella in delight. A River of Fire and Light …

It was a surging, pouring mass of licking, rearing flames, of hissing, molten gold that glinted and rippled and sent out a sweet, warm scent. Floy, who was nearest to the edge, stared down into the fiery depths and knew a brief, rather terrible, compulsion to plunge into the great fast-flowing fire. What it would be like to bathe in the flames, to feel them caress your skin and engulf your body … ? Would it be marvellous or would it be unbearable? Would you die instantly or become immortal?

Fenella, who was as much fascinated by the thin light cascading over the cavern walls as by the great river, was thinking that standing here was rather like being inside a fiery waterfall, and then that it was like standing beneath a gentle torrent of warm, soft rain, only that neither of these seemed quite right. Perhaps it was more like standing near a thin curtain that was made not from silk or cotton, or even beads, but of pure rippling flames that would not burn you but that might, perhaps, do other things to you …

And then a voice, quite close by, said, ‘The Eternal Fire will not burn you, but you should certainly not go into it without the proper preparation.’

They turned at once, sharply and swiftly, and saw, quite clearly, the figure of a slender, fire-washed young man seated on a rock, his eyes upon them.

It was another of those heart-stopping, breath-squeezing moments. For a moment no one spoke and then Fenella found herself moving forward.

‘The Fire will not burn you,’ said the young man again, and there was a sudden glint of gentle irony. ‘But to bathe there unwisely may cause you to lose your souls and render them ineligible for entry to whatever Heaven you may believe in.’ He regarded them thoughtfully with glowing narrow eyes, set slantwise in delicately boned features. He was slender and silky and the light fell all about him, so that he seemed to be not altogether flesh and blood, but somehow composed of the fire and the light and the fast-moving river.

And his hair is not hair, but molten gold, thought Fenella, fascinated and entranced, and just a bit frightened as well.

Floy said, cautiously, ‘Will you tell us where we are?’ and the figure appeared to consider this carefully.

‘In general, you are in the Fire Country that is my domain,’ he said. ‘I may allow you to penetrate to the inner halls of my country and, then again, I may not. It remains to be seen. Below us is the Fire River, which flows nine times round my country, and which is thought by many to bestow the gift of immortality on those who are brave enough to venture into it.’

‘Does it?’ said Floy.

‘I have no idea,’ said the young man, unfolding himself from the rocky ledge. ‘Since I am not mortal, it does not have any effect on me.’ He regarded them thoughtfully. ‘Tell me,’ he said, apparently studying them with interest, ‘tell me, Humans, did you lose your way?’

There was a rather disconcerted silence, because nobody quite knew how to answer this.

Floy said, ‘We thought to escape — ’ and stopped. But again, the young man divined their thoughts. ‘From the Angry Sun?’ he said, and smiled, and Fenella caught her breath, because it was a smile of such brilliance and such pure and undiluted mischief that it seemed to reach out and embrace them.

Floy said, ‘It wasn’t a Sun at all — ’ And stopped, and again the young man seemed to understand.

‘The Dark Lodestar,’ he said, softly. ‘But it is a Sun, Mortals. For all its boiling darkness, and for all its black allure, it was once a Sun, and will be so again. And there are many worlds who see its other side, who glimpse its glowing inner selfblazing in their skies. In that incarnation it is often regarded as a portent for good. But for you it showed its dark other self and perhaps it sucked your world into its core.’ He looked at them, his head on one side, and appeared to wait for them to speak.

Fenella said, ‘Have we escaped it?’

‘It is possible,’ said the young man, thoughtfully. ‘Yes, it is quite possible. I have sometimes met other travellers who have fled from the Angry Sun and tumbled into the Time Corridor and lost their way. For within the vortex of the Black Lodestar, Time ceases to exist and worlds may converge. But I do not make a habit of rescuing people who have become lost, you understand.’ He said this as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and Floy, staring, said, ‘Well, of course not.’

‘However, occasionally it is necessary.’ He inspected them. ‘To blunder about in the Time Corridor is dangerous and unwise. But perhaps your Chariot lost its way?’ He did not say any of this as if he was being reproachful, or even as if he was questioning their right to be in his domain, or even as if he thought them inefficient to be lost at all. He simply said it as one interested in a perfectly possible occurrence.

‘We didn’t actually intend to travel anywhere at all,’ said Floy.

‘We were sheltering,’ said Fenella, and the young man regarded her with amusement.

‘I see,’ he said, and moved towards them, walking rather fastidiously like a cat. They saw that his skin was the colour of pale amber and his eyes were like topazes. He was rather slight and certainly slender, but the four travellers would not have dreamed, even for a second, of believing him weak or fragile.

‘I am neither,’ he said, at once, sounding amused. ‘If you spring an attack on me, I shall fell you in an instant. If you try to cheat me, I shall know and treat you suitably. And if,’ he said, his eyes suddenly glowing and dangerous, ‘if you lie to me, you will regret it through many lives.’

Snizort, who had been at the back, said, ‘I think we ought to introduce ourselves, don’t you? It’s only polite. And we are trespassing, after all. It’s his country. He said so.’

‘We’re from Renascia,’ began Snodgrass firmly, as if this explained everything, and the young man inclined his head gravely, as if, thought Fenella, he knew all about Renascia.

That, and many things besides, Human …

Floy put out a hand to draw Fenella forward. He introduced her and then Snodgrass and Snizort, with himself last.

The slender young man listened gravely and repeated their names politely. He nodded with complete courtesy. ‘You are well come,’ he said, and waited for more.

‘Well,’ said Floy, ‘we should perhaps explain why we are here — ’ And stopped, because they were not really sure why they were here, or how they had got here, or even where‘here’was.

But the young man was smiling, as if he understood them perfectly easily.

‘You are not the first Humans to become lost in this way,’ he said. ‘There have been others before you and there will certainly be others after you. There will be many of your race who will be brought to me, for the salamanders are ever watchful for those who fall into the Angry Sun’s depths. Perhaps you encountered them?’

‘Golden-eyed beings in the Fire?’ asked Fenella, hopefully, and the young man smiled at her again, as if he rather liked her.

But he only said, ‘The salamanders are, in sort, guardians of the Time Corridor. And they carry with them their own fire.’

‘You said we had come through a Time Corridor,’ said Floy, not quite sure of his ground.

‘Certainly you have, just as many of your ancestors, the Earth-people did.’ He smiled. ‘And since Time is now so old, the fabric has become a little frayed here and there. There are tears in Time, mortals, just as there are tears in silk or hide.’ He regarded him with his head on one side.

‘Yes. I see,’ said Floy, carefully, and the young man laughed.

‘It is the truth, Mortal. And many of your ancestors have known of it. Many of them have tried to penetrate the Time Corridor and journey through the Curtain. A few have succeeded, but most have not. Most were taken and devoured and their souls held captive in the River of the Dead. That is why the salamanders patrol the Corridor, to help the lost ones.

‘There are greedy beings abroad, Humans. Life is not all like your pleasant, untroubled existence on your small friendly Renascia. There are creatures who prowl the worlds searching for prey. There are Lords of the Dark Realm who would seek out your soul and devour it.’

He studied them again, as if, thought Fenella, he was learning them. And because she wanted to hear him speak again, she said, ‘Would you tell us who you are, please?’

There was a pause, as if he was considering this. Then, ‘I am Fael-Inis,’ he said. ‘And in this world I am known as the rider of the salamanders, the being who can cross time, who can call up the Time Fire.’ He smiled and again it was the tip-tilted mischievous smile. ‘They will tell you — those ones who believe they understand such things — that I am the rebel of the seraphic hierarchy,’ said Fael-Inis.

Snizort drew in his breath and said, in what was not quite a whisper, ‘Fael-Inis, the Rebel Angel. Dear me, that’s a very old legend.’

‘I am not quite on the side of either heaven or hell, you know,’ said Fael-Inis, and the golden eyes were thoughtful. ‘That was never proven. So you should beware of me.’ And then, ‘But I think these are unfamiliar concepts to you?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Floy.

‘Early Earth myths,’ said Snizort knowledgeably.

‘Myths, are they?’ said Fael-Inis, moving so close that they could see the light that seemed constantly to irradiate from him. ‘Are you so sure?’ he said softly, and Fenella shivered because, just for a moment, the idea of heaven and hell, strange beyond-the-skies dwellings where you might go after you were dead, and where you might fare extremely well, or rather dreadfully, seemed strongly and sinisterly close.

‘But,’ said Fael-Inis, with one of his sudden switches of mood, ‘you are guests to this world and let us say I am your host.’ He held out his hands to them. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘I am not really safe to know, but I can be extremely well mannered if I choose. And for the moment, I do choose it.’ He grinned. ‘And to those who trust me, I can be a strong friend. For now, you will be tired and hungry after your journey and, although my manners are strange,’ he said, ‘my hospitality is not.’

Snodgrass, who enjoyed his food, remarked in an aside to Snizort that, whatever else you might say, you had to admit that they were not faring so badly thus far. ‘We’d be grateful for a bite of food, sir,’ he said.

Fael-Inis studied them again and smiled. ‘Then come with me to my Palace of Wildfire,’ he said, softly. ‘Where the Time Fires warm every chamber and where the River of Time flows nine times nine about the walls.’ He sent them the sudden, mischievous grin. ‘In any case,’ he said, ‘it is certain that when the salamanders rescued you, their light was seen in the skies. It is possible, even, that the dazzling underside of the Black Lodestar was seen, also. Already, there may be hunting parties out scavenging for you.’

‘Hunting?’ said Snodgrass, suspiciously.

‘Scavenging?’ said Floy, and Fael-Inis turned to regard them.

‘Certainly,’ he said, and now there was amusement in his voice. ‘Have you never heard of creatures who hunt Men for sport … ? You have travelled through the Time Curtain and you were rescued by the salamanders. To do so, they would have sent their brilliance and their fire blazing across the skies. Your arrival will already be known. It is certain you will meet the creatures who hunt Men.’ And then, turning away, ‘Come with me, Mortals,’ he said.

Chapter Seven

The Giants of Gruagach had been very interested indeed in the news that the brilliant fire of the Angry Sun had been seen again in the skies.

As Inchbad, who was the Gruagach King, said, the Angry Sun nearly always meant Humans, and Humans were something the Gruagach Giants were very interested in indeed.

The appearance of the Angry Sun was not something that happened very often. Inchbad thought it had not happened for at least a century, but Goibniu, who was Inchbad’s Chancellor, said, ‘Oh no, Your Majesty, it was far longer than that.’

It did not really matter how long it had been since the Sun, which some people in Ireland called the Feargach Grian, had been seen; the Giants would send out search parties instantly, so that any stray Humans could be captured and brought back and roasted in the Fidchell. They had not celebrated the Fidchell for many a long night, said Goibniu, pleased.

And who was to know but that the Feargach Grian might not be here to mark the arrival of the new Golden Age for Ireland, said Goibniu, in his usual unctuous fashion. The legends all told how it frequently heralded the birth of great and talented leaders, or the rising of brilliant rulers. And since they had left Gruagach and driven out the High King of Tara and taken up residence in the great Palace of Tara, Ireland had been ruled better and more strongly, said Goibniu. Certainly it had been ruled in accordance with the Gruagach’s ways.

He did not, naturally, refer to the fact that the Gruagach had actually been more or less driven out of their city by the terrible Frost Giants, because this would have been very tactless, and might have suggested to some of the younger giants that the Gruagach could not defend their own city. He merely reminded everyone of how the Gruagach (under Goibniu’s direction, of course) had stormed Ireland and driven out the High King and taken up residence in the legendary Bright Palace with no more ado than the squashing of a recalcitrant Human.

This was the sort of thing that Inchbad liked to hear, because when the idea of storming Tara and taking over the Ireland of the Humans had first been put to him by Goibniu and some of the others, he had been doubtful. He remembered that he had questioned whether they really wanted a Human stronghold and a Human land to rule; they all of them knew how sly and subtle and cunning Humans could be, he had said; had they all forgotten the dozens of stories, well hundreds really, of how their ancestors had been outwitted by Humans? Beanstalks and seven league boots, said Inchbad darkly, and had to be talked to for a very long time before he had agreed to it. But of course, something had had to be done, because Gruagach was in the hands of the terrible Frost Giants and their leader, the evil and dread Geimhreadh was already building herself a Court in Inchbad’s own state rooms and spinning her wicked, cold magic. It was extremely humiliating to be defeated by a giantess, never mind how old and how powerful she might be and how long she might have led the Frost Giants. Inchbad was not going to let people think he had been bested by a giantess, not if he had to turn Ireland upside-down and topple any number of High Kings.

They had put about really a rather good story. Gruagach in ruins, they had said, solemnly and sadly. The entire City crumbling into the most dreadful disrepair; Inchbad’s own castle actually with a leaking roof, and you could not get the drains cleaned out for an emperor’s ransom. It had worked very nicely. Inchbad had to admit that it had worked well, because here they were, safely inside Tara, which they were all finding very comfortable indeed, and the High King and his sons hardly more than a memory.

Inchbad began to think that, after all, it had all been worthwhile. And of course, in the end, it had been much easier than any of them had thought. That had been Goibniu’s doing — Inchbad would admit that freely. Goibniu had fallen into discussion with a very clever Human (well, part Human) called the Robemaker, who seemed to know all about the Frost Giants and the Geimhreadh, and who had been the greatest help imaginable. Inchbad suspected the Robemaker of actually being a sorcerer, if not a necromancer, and he had been a bit dubious, because they all knew where trafficking with necromancers led. But Goibniu had said no, the Robemaker was simply a nice old gentleman who had dabbled a little in the old pure magic of Ireland and been able to weave the good and gentle enchantment which had rendered the entire Gruagach party invisible and inaudible until they were inside Tara.

Inchbad had said, ‘Oh, I see,’ and thought that, after all, perhaps it had been all right. And, after all, here they all were, inside Tara, inside the Bright Palace of legend, the glittering Shining City where every High King of Ireland had dwelled, and the Angry Sun had already appeared in the skies which people would see as a sign, and the Gruagach were ruling Ireland, and so far no Humans had even challenged them, never mind outwitted them. Probably no Humans would even dare approach the Western Gate.

It was over the Western Gate that the Feargach Grian had been seen. The doorkeeper had seen lights in the sky, over to the east just before supper, and come running to tell everyone about it. A sign, he said solemnly, his huge stupid face awed; surely a sign that something very momentous indeed was about to happen. Wouldn’t they all come along to see?

They went along that very minute, or at least quite soon afterwards, because you could not always just stop what you were doing, and several people had been in the stool room, because the kitchens had served onion broth for noon-day dinner, and it had been a bit strong. But they all went along to the topmost turret because, as Inchbad pointed out, you should not miss seeing things which might herald the arrival of a few Humans, never mind it being probably historic and very likely portentous as well. He was rather pleased to be able to use a word like portentous, which was not the sort of word he would normally have known about, only that Goibniu had explained it to him.

And off they all went with a lot of shouting and pounding along the halls (which made the crystal windows rattle something terrible) and cries of ‘Last one up the stairs is a cod’s head’, and ‘What about a game of Catch the Mutton Bone on the battlements’, and ‘While we’re about it, let’s de-bag the doorkeeper’.

The doorkeeper paid this no heed, because he was used to the ways of Inchbad’s Court. He unlocked all the doors and took them up to the northern turret, which made one or two of them glance over their shoulders, because of it having once been the favourite haunt of the previous High Kings. Inchbad had once seen (or thought he had seen) the ghost of the long-ago Cormac of the Wolves who, some people said, had been the greatest King Ireland had ever known. But since Inchbad was apt to be short-sighted and had, as well, drunk rather a lot of mulled wine at supper that night, nobody had ever given much credence to the story, except for Inchbad himself, who still repeated it at intervals.

But although they looked very hard and stood on the turret for quite a long time, nobody actually saw the Angry Sun. Goibniu said he thought he could just see a faint glimmer of light to the east — ‘A new bright star in the firmament, sire,’ he said, and Inchbad was pleased, because it would be a very good thing if people remembered him as the King during whose reign a new bright star appeared. It would probably stop them spreading wicked stories about giants, and telling one another how they all supped on Manpies and fattened up innocent children for the ritual of the Fidchell.

Inchbad would admit to having had just a taste of Manpie now and again, and he would admit, as well, that this was usually after they had celebrated the Fidchell, which was all quite in accordance with Gruagach custom. Frizzle his Boots, said Inchbad crossly, what else were Humans for!

Anyway, although he had not himself seen the Angry Sun, it was quite likely that it was only that he had arrived at the tower too late. Goibniu had certainly seen it, and the doorkeeper had seen it as well, and this would suffice.

He said they would have to hold a feast to celebrate the new star that had appeared, and thought to himself that probably there was some kind of ritual that ought to be observed. Goibniu would know what to do. Probably there could be a huger than usual supper, with more than normal mulled wine. Caspar, who was the Court pimp, would be told to get up a search party to go out after the trail of the Feargach Grian and capture any Humans who might have been about. Perhaps he might supply a few village maidens as well, for a bit of a side-celebration, because he did not seem to do very much else these days and it was time he earned his keep. They might call in the Gnomes of Gallan to perform a few dances, as well. Say what you liked, there was no one the length and breadth of Ireland who could dance a jig as well as the Gnomes. On one or two occasions, Inchbad had allowed the Court sorcerers to call up a handful of demons, but demons were unruly and extremely vulgar as well, and their idea of a jig was not Inchbad’s. The Gnomes would be much better — and besides, Inchbad had a commission for them.

Inchbad was quite light-hearted at supper and listened to Goibniu telling about how the new star heralded a new Golden Reign for Ireland, and how it would all be attributed to the Gruagach in general and Inchbad in particular, and how they might even create a new tax to mark the occasion. Several of the younger giants looked rather mutinous at this and Inchbad’s heart sank, because a mutiny in the ranks was something they could not really afford to have. Also, he knew very well that Goibniu always sent traitors and mutineers to the Robemaker. Inchbad pretended not to know what use the Robemaker made of the offerings sent to him by Goibniu, but of course he did know, because everyone in Ireland knew, and it was not a very nice fate, even for a traitor.

But then somebody began to sing a ballad all about how the brightness of the star reflected the brightness of the Gruagach King, and the younger giants nodded and told one another that, after all, the Irish were not the only ones who could write a merry tune. Inchbad was relieved and prepared to sit down to the huger than usual supper and the more generous than normal mulled wine. He pretended not to notice that Goibniu, who had a taste for Humans, and whose appetites were nearly always aroused by mulled wine, had already sent one of the footmen out for Caspar, who was the Court pimp.

Acting as pimp to the Gruagach was no picnic. It was, in fact, a particularly thankless sort of job. Caspar sat in his bed-chamber, and pretended not to hear the feasting and the shouting and felt glum and wished he had never heard of the Gruagach. He wished he had never seen Tara, and wished that Inchbad had never been thrown out of Gruagach by the Geimhreadh and her creatures, and wished he had never heard of the Geimhreadh either. His bed-chamber was splendid, like everything else inside Tara, but if you wanted the honest truth, Caspar would have been happier in a crofter’s cottage with a sod floor and a dinner of herbs. He would have been happier as a tinker with a donkey and cart. If it came down to it, he would probably have been happier as the donkey.

Nobody had expected the Gruagach to attack Tara, because it was not the sort of thing that the Gruagach had ever done. People said, darkly, that they had been egged on to it (the Robemaker was a strong suspect for this), and that they were being used as pawns and puppets and straw leaders.

None of this made the Gruagach any easier to put up with. Caspar did not like giants, even when they had a dash of Human blood for leaven, and he was not going to change the opinion of a lifetime just because the Gruagach were housing him and feeding him and being jolly to him. He was, of course, very pleased to be housed in luxury inside Tara (a south-facing bed-chamber it was, which caught the evening sun nicely), and it had to be said that the food that came to the massive carved banqueting table every evening and every noon was extremely good, not to say plentiful (giants were nearly always greedy). The jollity was sometimes a bit exhausting, because the Gruagach’s notion of what was funny was not always Caspar’s. This was something that had to be endured, however, if you liked south-facing bed-chambers and laden supper tables.

But say what you liked about all creatures being the same under the skin, giants were different. They were not Human, and all the pretending, and all the dressing up in Human clothes and pretending to follow Human ways did not make them Human. Facts had to be faced — and the fact was that the Gruagach were giants.

And it was all very well for the ordinary Human people down in the village to smile slyly and nudge one another, and say that, to be sure, hadn’t Caspar the fine old job of work up at the Shining Citadel, never mind that it was the giants he served, and wouldn’t it do your heart good to know that your only task was to go off out hunting for comely girls to bring up to the castle?

It was not a fine job of work at all, and it did Caspar’s heart not the least bit of good. In fact, it frequently gave him indigestion and if anyone thought it was an easy life, all Caspar could say was they were all welcome to it.

It all came of the Gruagach being giants. Caspar had coped quite easily with the ordinary, everyday Court which had been sensible and normal and what they were all used to. He had quite enjoyed being a part of all that, seeking out young girls for whoever commissioned his services, occasionally sampling the wares for himself on the side, because it was a sorry old world if you could not take a perquisite for yourself now and then. Caspar was not over and above partial to that sort of thing really, but you had to conform.

The Gruagach were trying to conform now. That was mostly the trouble. They thought they ought to be bawdy and rollicking, and they thought they ought to bed everything that was beddable — which meant a great deal of extra work for Caspar because, as everyone knew, giants were lazy and would not be going off out to look for suitable bed partners for themselves. And if anyone thought it was easy to find females who were willing to go to bed with a giant who were pretty enough to satisfy the Gruagach as well, then all Caspar could say was just let them try it.

Human females were apt to be extremely apprehensive about getting into bed with a giant and, when you thought about it, you couldn’t blame them. Caspar was always careful to explain to likely candidates that, in fact, giants were possessed of unusually small penises and that they were very quickly satisfied (in fact the King nearly always nodded off halfway through), but Caspar was not always believed. It made life very difficult.

He was not especially pleased when the summons came for him to go down to the Sun Chamber, because he knew that this meant that the giants were bored, or perhaps they had decided to celebrate something or other, and they would want Caspar to be bringing up a prisoner or two, and they would probably want him to help them devise some kind of entertainment for the evening. It was a sorry old life at Tara these days and, as Caspar donned a fur-trimmed robe (because the Sun Chamber was apt to be a bit cold at times), and combed his hair into neatness, he thought it was to be hoped that the giants were not planning on celebrating the Fidchell. Caspar was no more and no less squeamish than the next man, but the Fidchell was the grisliest ritual he had ever come across.

In the great Sun Chamber, Goibniu was setting out the floor for the celebrating of the Fidchell and the others were cheering and beginning to lay bets, because it was quite some time since the Fidchell had been celebrated. They had celebrated it quite often at Gruagach of course, where there was never any interference and where there would usually be a few Human travellers who had lost their way or were on an adventure, or a quest.

It had all been easy and friendly, because everyone who had approached Gruagach and requested a night’s shelter could be assumed to know the dangers. Humans who walked up to a giants’ Castle and demanded admittance could be regarded as fair game, said Goibniu, and they had all agreed. But here, at Tara, they were in the Humans’ own land and they had to be a bit cautious. Also, you could not go rampaging down into the villages and the towns and just pluck up as many Humans as you felt like, because you would soon find yourselves without any Humans left.

They could all see this quite well, but for tonight, with the Angry Sun rampaging about the skies and surely carrying Humans with it, they could permit themselves a little indulgence. As Goibniu said, with one of his bellyshaking laughs, it was a very long time indeed since they had made the Humans jump and scurry and it was even longer since they had sampled Manpie afterwards. If Caspar had a few Humans in readiness, they might as well have a bit of a taster, said Goibniu.

‘What has he in the cages at present?’ asked Inchbad, and the younger giants looked about them greedily, because everyone knew that Caspar was under orders to keep a nice little supply of Humans in the dungeons. You never knew when you might be wanting a Human for a bit of entertainment. Some of the very young giants hoped they would be allowed to stay up late, because they had never actually seen the Fidchell performed and they had certainly not tasted Manpie.

‘An elegant taste,’ said Goibniu, who believed in keeping to the old ways. And then, ‘Although of course, it depends on the particular Human. They will gorge themselves on roast boar and too much poteen, and it makes them fat.’ He looked round, and said, rather more sternly, ‘And where is Caspar?’

But Caspar had arrived by now and was crossing the floor, looking rather small and insignificant compared with the Gruagach. He furrowed his brow on being questioned and said he thought they had a couple of poachers and maybe a tinker or two in the dungeons, and if their honours would allow him a few minutes — well, perhaps quarter of an hour, he would have them all up inside the Sun Chamber ready for the Fidchell.

‘But,’ said Goibniu, leaning down and thrusting his large brutish face closer to Caspar than Caspar cared for, ‘but, Master Procurer, there is to be no escape for the prisoners, contrived or otherwise. Or we shall make you squeal in the Fidchell yourself.’

‘Let them escape? My word, I should think not indeed,’ said Caspar, shocked to his toes at the very idea. ‘Bless us all, what would things be coming to if we allowed Humans to escape when your honours were wanting a play at the Fidchell.’

‘That’s better,’ said Goibniu, straightening up, and smiling in a way Caspar did not like. ‘And after you have supplied us, Master Procurer, you had better be off to find the Feargach Grian.’ He grinned again, because wasn’t there something especially comical about sending a Human to trap one of its own kind.

Caspar muttered an assent and took himself off to the dungeons, where the Gruagach had set up cages and where, despite their protestations and their ridiculous attempts at wearing nearly human clothing and pretending that they shaved and could grow beards if they wanted to, they were still sufficiently giantish to want a supply of captured Humans for the cat-and-mouse game of the Fidchell. They liked to think of the dungeons as their larder and, in fact, Goibniu was not above coming down here himself, just to see what prisoners there were. Which made it extremely difficult to release people furtively, which was what Caspar tried to do whenever he could. He would have to think of another way of releasing the prisoners, because no Human who was forced into the grisly Fidchell ever escaped.

Caspar wondered, not for the first time, whether the game was worth the candle.

Chapter Eight

Fael-Inis was leading the way out of the cavern with the chasm and the rushing Fire River, and down a wide rocky tunnel with the firelight pouring over the walls. Tunnels and passages led off at unexpected intervals. ‘Like a honeycomb,’ said Snodgrass, who had once attempted to keep bees. Fael-Inis turned at that and said, ‘That is astute of you, Human. In the legends of this world, this is known as the Road of the Honeycombs.’

‘You say “this world”,’ said Floy.

‘Yes. It is a world in between worlds. A Corridor. Presently you must pass out of it.’

‘How?’

‘I will take you.’

‘Oh. Yes. Of course,’ said Floy, and Fael-Inis laughed.

‘It is strange and bewildering, but it is not so very strange as all that. You are in a Corridor of Time. There are no doorways into Time, you see. The Time Curtain that was drawn down at the very beginning was intended to prevent worlds overlapping. Any such overlaps would have created problems of a magnitude that Mankind could probably not have survived. You have -I think you would say you have been forced through a tear in the fabric.’

‘By falling into the vortex?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is this your world?’ asked Fenella.

‘No.’

‘What is your world?’

‘Perhaps there is no such place. Perhaps I am condemned to search all the worlds until I find my place,’ said their host, and sent them one of his strange, slanting looks. ‘But for the moment I dwell here. And, for the moment, it is my task to rescue creatures who lose their way.’

‘“Task”?’ queried Floy, and again there was the sideways look.

‘You would prefer me to say “punishment”?’ said Fael-Inis lifting his brows and giving Floy one of his remote looks.

‘Is it a punishment?’ asked Floy, returning the stare.

‘It depends how you regard punishment,’ said Fael-Inis, unruffled as a cat. ‘There are Manmade laws which decree that the sin prescribes the punishment.’

‘That is a rather good arrangement,’ said Floy, thoughtfully.

‘It is the only one I would bow to,’ said Fael-Inis, unexpectedly. And then, before anyone could say anything else, ‘We have to go along here,’ he said. ‘And the roof is rather low.’

The roof was very low indeed and they all had to bend over to avoid it, except Fenella who was smaller than the rest. The tunnel floor was somehow soft, and Fenella saw that their feet were sinking, just a little, into its surface, as if they were walking on thick, springy grass. Only it was not grass, it was fire, but it was silky and only faintly warm.

‘I control the fires,’ said Fael-Inis, apparently picking this up easily. ‘If I did not keep them banked down, the poor creatures in the townships surrounding the Fire Country would freeze.’

‘The fires would suck all the heat from them,’ said Fenella, and Fael-Inis turned to regard her appreciatively.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I see you understand better than most, Mortal,’ and Fenella felt quite absurdly pleased.

‘Also,’ said Fael-Inis, apparently considering that more information was needed, ‘also, to drain the heat from any one place is to render it vulnerable.’

‘To — cold?’ asked Floy.

‘To the Geimhreadh and her terrible armies,’ said Fael-Inis. And then, as Floy looked up questioningly, ‘The Geimhreadh leads the dread race of the Frost Giants,’ he said. ‘She is a necromancer of the highest order and she will hold Court anywhere that is sufficiently cold and sufficiently bleak and desolate.’ He sent them a mischievous glance. ‘You are in unknown worlds, now, Mortals. Have I not told you you will encounter creatures who will hunt you for sport, and creatures who will stalk you for your souls, and perhaps even creatures who will stalk you for your bodies?’ The golden eyes were impersonal, although Fenella detected a glint of amusement again.

‘But if you are to sojourn in this world,’ said Fael-Inis, ‘you should know something of its dangers.’ He grinned. ‘I am heedless and uncaring of the laws of all the worlds, but I give you a warning, you see. Perhaps you will have had dangers and enemies in your own world?’

‘Yes, but not quite in the same way,’ said Floy, remembering Quilp.

‘But you can understand. You will understand that there are creatures to be wary of. You should be wary of the Gruagach,’ he said, suddenly, his expression serious.

‘What are they?’

‘They have in them giantish blood, and they hunt Humans for their supper tables,’ said FaeHnis, and Fenella shuddered, and Snodgrass said, rather faintly, ‘Dear me.’

‘They are stupid and brutish and, if you are clever, you may outwit them.’

‘And the Geimhreadh?’ said Floy.

‘Oh, you must be very wary of the Geimhreadh,’ he said, and then, with another of his mischievous looks at Floy. ‘She is endlessly eager for the bodies of beautiful young men.’ He regarded Floy and appeared to derive faint amusement from Floy’s start of surprise. ‘You do not have such beings in your world?’

‘Well, we do,’ said Floy, ‘only that they are not so — ’

‘Blatant?’

Floy said carefully, ‘It was not considered — acceptable — to admit to the appetites of the flesh in our world, you see.’

‘But it didn’t really make people any different,’ said Fenella, who thought they ought to defend Renascia a bit and who did not want to make it sound too meek.

Snizort, rather unexpectedly, said that he had recorded a few quite amazing things in his Diaries about the Renascians in general and Quilp’s Council in particular. ‘He wasn’t all he seemed, that Quilp,’ he added darkly. ‘My word, I could have told a few tales, my word I could.’

‘Double-sided,’ nodded Snodgrass. ‘That’s why we were so pleased when Floy looked like overthrowing him.’

‘By waging a war on him?’ asked Fael-Inis with interest. ‘No,’ said Floy, a bit regretfully, the others thought. ‘No, that was not our way. It would have been done by plots and intrigues,’ he said, and Fenella suddenly realised that Floy would have secretly enjoyed a war in the ancient traditions of the Earth-people.

‘It is one way of living,’ said Fael-Inis, who appeared to be interested. He glanced at Fenella, and said, ‘He was a rebel, your brother.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘I think you were also something of a rebel, Mortal.’

‘Well, I think I might have been,’ said Fenella, grinning and remembering the secret meetings in the Mnemosyne and the plans to storm the Council Chamber.

Fael-Inis returned the grin, as if he understood all about secret meetings and subversive plottings. But he only said, ‘Life is not always easy for rebels.’

‘That shouldn’t stop people rebelling.’

‘I do believe you are a lady after my own heart,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘Through here, now. We are almost at our destination.’

Snodgrass muttered to Snizort that he hoped they weren’t walking into something very nasty. ‘I don’t know that I’d altogether trust this one,’ he said. ‘Wild. Look at his eyes.’

Snizort said he wished they knew where they were being taken.

‘We’ll soon find out,’ said Snodgrass sepulchrally. They walked along the fire-drenched tunnels, seeing, here and there, curious etchings and symbols carved into the tunnel walls.

‘Battles,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘From before the beginning of Time.’

‘Who carved them?’ asked Snizort.

‘I did,’ said Fael-Inis, suddenly remote and unapproachable again.

The tunnel widened unexpectedly into a vast, cavernous structure. The fire was stronger here; it poured down over the walls, and there was a strong, sweet perfume. Floy, who was a little ahead of the others, thought he could hear, quite distantly, the slow, steady breathing of huge, unseen animals. So vivid was the impression that he stopped and tilted his head, trying to make this out.

‘You are hearing the salamanders,’ said Fael-Inis.

‘Yes?’

‘But then, you have already met them briefly.’

‘We did not see them very clearly,’ said Fenella.

‘You will see them shortly,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘They are steeds of fire and light and speed. They draw the Time Chariot for they are able to travel faster than Time, and they are able to pass unscathed through the white-hot fires of Time.’

‘Were they once called Fire beasts?’ asked Fenella, who had been wanting to ask this for some time.

‘There have been worlds who called them so,’ said Fael-Inis, in a matter-of-fact tone.

Directly ahead of them were immense, glistening gates. Beyond the gates they could see soft, rippling light, so pure they could look straight into it. Fenella received the impression of glittering pinnacles and fire-tipped spires and of golden turrets.

The gates were lit by hundreds upon hundreds of tiny glowing creatures who darted and swooped, leaving the imprint of brilliant swathes of colour where they flew, so that in front of the eyes of the four travellers were ever-changing patterns and kaleidoscopes of blurring shifting light.

‘Fireflies,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘In some worlds they are called will o’ the wisps, or, in the ancient language of the Cruithin, Tine Ghealain. There is a belief that they can lead Men to their hearts’ desires.’

‘Can they?’ asked Floy.

‘I have never followed them to find out,’ said Fael-Inis with perfect courtesy.

The will o’ the wisps were tiny winged creatures with delicate, beautiful bodies, not quite transparent, but not quite solid either. They darted about the travellers, and Fenella thought they beckoned.

‘They will beckon,’ said their host, studying the Tine Ghealain. ‘They are mischievous and entirely unreliable.’ He said this as would an indulgent parent regarding wayward but charming children. ‘If you try to follow them, they will lead you on an endless, exhausting journey. You might find your heart’s desire at the end of it,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but I do not believe that anyone has ever managed to reach the journey’s end.’ He sent them another of his brilliant enigmatic smiles. ‘But I am remiss as a host,’ he said. ‘The gates of the Palace of Wildfire are before us. Let us enter.’

He led them forward, through the gold-tipped gates, and they saw, properly now, that beyond the gates was a glittering, fire-washed palace, bathed in incandescent light, every window lit by flames, and with spires of glowing colour spiralling upwards.

At the front of the palace the drawbridge had been lowered.

Fael-Inis stopped and looked at them and the smile that was not Human slanted his eyes.

Fenella and Floy shared a thought: can we trust him?

But we have no other choice, thought Floy, and took Fenella’s hand.

‘Come inside, Mortals,’ said Fael-Inis, his eyes glittering, and, as they moved forward, the gates swung silently to, shutting them in.

Inside the Palace of Wildfire it was quiet and warm and there was the feeling of moving deeper and closer to the heart of something more alive and more aware than anything they had ever known.

Fael-Inis walked ahead of them, catlike, his head tilted as if he might be listening for something. The four travellers, silent and wary, followed.

To Snodgrass and Snizort, and particularly to Snizort, who had studied the fragments of the Earth-people’s civilisations, the Palace of Wildfire was very slightly Eastern in structure. There were pointed arches through which their host led them, and there were more of the niches and alcoves with copper flambeaux and small bright torches of flame. Here and there, silk hangings masked rooms, and, in several of the rooms, weird and fearsome creatures were etched into the floors and the walls. Snizort paused to examine a great rearing beast carved into the wall of an octagonal chamber, and Fael-Inis turned to look at him.

Snizort said, ‘What — ’ and Fael-Inis said, in a voice that had no expression at all, ‘That is the One whom your ancestors termed the Light Bringer,’ and appeared to wait for a response.

Snizort said, ‘The Light Bringer … ’ and then, ‘Lucifer?’ he said, cautiously.

‘That is how I saw him before he was cast from Heaven,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘But he can assume many guises, for he is a shape-changer like most truly evil creatures.’ A brief smile touched his lips. ‘He thought he would overthrow Heaven,’ he said. ‘He was arrogant and beautiful and proud, and he marshalled an immense force and led his armies fearlessly-and he was so nearly successful.’

‘But he failed, and was cast out,’ said Snizort, thoughtfully. ‘Isn’t that the legend?’

‘Yes. Perhaps, if I had declared for him, there might have been another outcome … ’

Fenella, who was not entirely following this, but who was intrigued, said, ‘You declared for-for Heaven?’

‘No. I walked away from the battle. I did not declare for either side. That is why I was called the rebel angel. I had no allegiance then, and I have none now.’ The golden eyes darkened briefly, and then he appeared to lose interest and, as Snizort said in an aside to Snodgrass, you did not really feel that you could question him any further.

‘Although I’d like to know more,’ he said wistfully.

Snodgrass said hadn’t they enough to contend with as it was, without Snizort wanting to find out about ancient battles and strange beings.

Floy was finding the inside of the Palace exotic and fascinating, but he thought they ought to be asking where they were, and where they might be going. He thought that he would question their host about this, and then he glanced at the remote profile of Fael-Inis and thought perhaps he would not.

Fenella, walking between Floy and Snizort, was quiet and withdrawn. She thought she was deeply happy and she was certainly completely enthralled. I do not really believe that this is happening, she thought. I think I am inside a dream, mine or somebody else’s. But perhaps, thought Fenella, if I do not speak, and if I do not do anything to upset things, I shall not wake up. The thought of waking up and being on Renascia again, where Quilp and the Council had plotted and at the end shut them out to leave them alone with the vortex, was almost unbearable.

And then Fael-Inis was ushering them into an oval-shaped room, the scents were stronger here, and before them was a table set for five.

‘Food and wine,’ said their host. And then, unexpectedly, ‘Do sit down,’ he said. ‘And eat and drink whatever you wish. I don’t know about you,’ said the rebel angel, suddenly and rather disarmingly human, ‘but I am quite extraordinarily hungry.’

The table was much lower than they had been used to on Renascia, and it seemed to be expected that they should sit on the floor, on the heaped silk and brocade cushions. This was, in fact, more comfortable than it looked, although Snodgrass had to repress a gasp as a twinge of rheumatism caught his knees.

There were dishes of food, strange spiced sauces and platters of fruit unlike any fruit they had on Renascia. The elaborately carved flagons held warm, fragrant liquid.

‘Wine?’ said Snodgrass, hopefully.

‘Silkmead,’ said Fael-Inis, pouring them each a chaliceful. ‘And also Tawnyfire and Flamewine.’ He handed them each a chalice.

Fenella wondered who had prepared the food, but Snizort was busy trying the Silkmead, and Snodgrass was investigating the dishes of food, and it did not seem the right moment to ask. And also, thought Fenella, curled up on a scarlet silk cushion, also I’m not at all sure that I want to have this explained, or not yet anyway. I can be logical and practical later, and I can start to wonder where the light comes from, or what’s behind the walls, or through that archway, later.

But, just for a little while, I think I’ll just enjoy everything. I’ll even believe that there might be shadow beings that come and go here, and lay tables and pour wine and cook food. She looked up to find Fael-Inis’s eyes on her.

‘Perhaps there are,’ he said gravely, and Fenella began to think that this understanding of people’s thoughts was not entirely comfortable.

Snodgrass and Snizort were interested in the manner in which the meal was served.

‘Eastern,’ said Snizort, nodding. ‘They always sat on the floor to eat, you know. On cushions. I’ve read about it. My word, this is all very interesting.’

‘I embrace all the cultures,’ said Fael-Inis, who was eating a portion of some strange, honey-flavoured dish with industrious pleasure. ‘I am glad you find it interesting.’ He helped them to portions of the fruit and handed them each a goblet of wine.

Floy said, ‘Would you tell us more about how we got here?’

Fael-Inis regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Would you believe that you came into my domain by chance?’ he said, and then smiled and said, ‘No, of course you would not. I have told you that you were brought to me by the salamanders.’

‘On purpose?’

‘They are guardians,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘They swim in the Fire River and they are the sentinels of the Time Corridors.’ He looked at them, and Floy remembered how, as they neared the brink of the Dark Lodestar, he had felt Time slowing down and running out and how he had seen it as a great gold-and-crimson-veined tapestry, unrolling and stretching out before them.

‘A good analogy,’ said Fael-Inis, studying Floy. ‘Time is a tapestry, after all. It is stretched out on a giant loom, and the history of all the worlds is spun and woven into it.’ He sipped his wine, the golden glow casting shadows on his face. ‘The Dark Lodestars that exist are warps in the fabric, you see. So that when your own world was poised on the rim of one of those Lodestars, when it began to spiral downwards into the vortex, Time began to spin more slowly until, finally, it ceased to exist. That was when the salamanders found you.’

He looked at them and appeared to wait, and Floy said, slowly, ‘You are making it sound almost as if the salamanders were looking for us.’ And fixed their host with a straight stare.

‘Perhaps they were,’ said Fael-Inis lightly, as if it was not very important.

‘Why?’

‘You have an enquiring mind, Mortal,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘It is something you should strive never to lose.’ He sat back, cross-legged, the wine goblet held loosely between his fingers, wholly at ease. ‘It is possible that the salamanders were looking for you,’ he said. ‘For there have been times when people of your race — that is, Humans — have saved other worlds from immense evils.’ He regarded them. ‘Perhaps you are needed to rout an evil,’ he said lightly, and Snodgrass murmured to Snizort that it was impossible to tell if he was serious or not.

Floy said, ‘But what of our own world?’

‘What of it?’

‘What will have happened to it?’

‘Worlds must sometimes die,’ said Fael-Inis gently.

‘You could not have saved it. It had played its part, it had been woven into the tapestry, and its time to die had come.’

‘That is hard,’ said Floy.

‘Who told you life was intended to be easy?’ He sipped the wine in his chalice consideringly. ‘When I brought the salamanders out into the world with me, it was so that they should stand guard at the endless echoing Time Corridors, and that they should steer lost travellers to safety. Sometimes they bring the travellers to me, as they brought you.’ He smiled mischievously. ‘You should be grateful for that, Mortals. If the salamanders had not found you, you might have been travelling the worlds for ever, and that is not an enviable fate. You might have fallen or been dragged into the River of Souls. Or you might,’ he said suddenly, ‘have been caught by the Robemaker, and fed to one of the Soul Eaters.’

There was an unexpected wariness in his voice, and Fenella, who had been enjoying the unfamiliar food and the soft, sweet Silkmead, and who could have listened to Fael-Inis’s soft beautiful voice for hours without tiring, felt a chill. If she had not been afraid so far, she was afraid now.

‘But,’ said Fael-Inis, appearing to give himself a shake, ‘the Robemaker is rarely seen out in the world. Also, he does not take Humans so very often.’ He sipped his wine again, watching them over the rim of the goblet.

‘Can we go out from this world?’ asked Snodgrass. ‘To other worlds?’

‘Yes. You must do so, for you cannot stay here. I could lead you out.’

‘Will you?’ asked Floy.

Fael-Inis leaned forward, the long slender fingers curling about the stem of his wine chalice. ‘I can do whatever I wish,’ he said. ‘I am the creature of fire and light, and I can go in and out and through Time.’

‘The rebel angel seeking his salvation,’ murmured Snizort, and Fael-Inis at once said, ‘Yes. But I shall not find it until the world ends, Mortal.’

‘Which world?’

‘Who knows?’ He sat back on his cushions, watching them. ‘So they still tell that story of me, do they?’ he said. ‘Even in your strange distant world, they tell of me.’

‘The creature who witnessed the splitting of the heavens, and who would not fight on either side,’ said Snizort, with wholly unexpected poetry. ‘I have read of the legend.’

‘I am the legend,’ said Fael-Inis and grinned. And was suddenly neither the strange, fire-washed creature of the Honeycomb Roads, nor the eerily beautiful half-Human who had witnessed the world’s birthing, but a young and rather amusing companion. Fenella smiled and relaxed and felt extremely safe, and Floy found himself thinking that here was one who would be a very useful person to have on your side.

‘I am on no one’s side,’ said Fael-Inis instantly. ‘But for the moment, you are my guests, and you are supping in my Palace of Wildfire, and I believe I shall guide you out of here.’

‘Where to?’ said Floy.

‘You have fallen into a strange land, Mortals,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘There are many worlds into which you might have fallen, but there has always been a nexus between your world and the world you are about to enter.’ He paused. ‘You are on the borderlands of a world that is peopled by beings who are not quite Human, but not quite beast either.’ He leaned forward again, his eyes hard and gleaming.

‘You are in what is, to you, the Ancient past,’ said Fael-Inis.

‘Are we — on Earth?’ said Fenella, who had not dared to ask this until now.

‘Oh yes,’ said Fael-Inis, softly. ‘Oh yes, Mortal, you are on Earth.

‘You are in Ancient Ireland in the Deep Past. This is the Ireland of Tara, the Bright Palace of legend, the Shining Citadel which was raised from the rock by the sorcerers at the beginning of Ireland’s history. It is a land peopled by creatures with the blood of the beasts in their veins. The Ireland of the Twelve Royal Houses, each one of them part beast, every one of them noble and imperious and just very slightly dangerous.’ He stood up and held out his hands to them.

‘You are in the Ireland of the Wolfkings,’ said Fael-Inis.

The Ireland of the Wolfkings.

A host of images tumbled through Fenella’s mind; vivid pictures and visions, some learnt and some remembered, and some simply inherited by some queer streak of race-memory or atavism.

The Deep Past … the long-ago Ireland of the Wolfkings …

Fael-Inis said, very softly, ‘Oh yes, my dear, you are right. You are right to believe. Your people know only a fragment of your history, but there are legends and myths, and palaces and sorcerers and strange half-Human creatures, and Royal Houses. They existed in your mythology long before your ancestors burned their world. They are a part of your heritage.

‘And now you are to meet them.’

He rose, indicating to them to follow him, and, as they moved, he led them out of the oval room with the silk cushions heaped before the table and the fragrant warm scents of the wine.

‘There is only one way for you to go deeper into this world,’ he said. ‘You must ride astride the salamanders, for only they can take you through the Honeycombs safely, and only they can ford the River of Souls.’

‘Do you ford the River?’ asked Fenella, and he smiled at her.

‘I can go through and beyond and before Time at will,’ he said. ‘I can harness up the salamanders to the Time Chariot which is made of fire and light and that will come for me if I summon it.

‘But for Humans to travel in the Chariot would be dangerous beyond comprehension. You would lose your minds and your souls would burn.’ He eyed them. ‘To ride the salamanders is unsafe,’ he said, ‘but it is safer by far than to enter the Time Chariot.’

‘Where are we going?’ asked Floy as their host led them down a wide curving stair and into a great, square courtyard where glistening trees were heavy with strange, warm fruit, and where gentle fountains played.

‘To the salamanders,’ said Fael-Inis, and again the smile slid out.

‘To the Stables of the Fire Stallions.’

Chapter Nine

The stables of the Fire Stallions. The halls of the silky slender wise-eyed creatures who were composed of fire and light, who could be harnessed to the Time Chariot and who could pull it beyond Time. The strange, molten beasts who had swum through the fiery tunnels with the Ark and towed it to the Honeycomb Caverns outside the Palace of Wildfire. The heart and the soul and the core of every enchantment ever spun and every legend ever recounted, and every myth ever written.

The magical creatures who lived at the heart of the Time Fire … Pegasus and Bellerophon and the perfumed fields of Elysium and the gold-streaked skies of Aegia …

The stables were not like anything the travellers had ever known.

‘Although,’ Snizort was to say, ‘the salamanders were not like anything we had ever known either.’

‘And we did not really know what to expect,’ said Snodgrass.

‘Had you no such creatures in your world?’ asked Fael-Inis, watching their fascination with amusement. ‘No horses, no Barbary steeds, no dolphins or fire-dragons or gryphons or centaurs? For the salamanders are a little like each of these, although, in reality, they are only like themselves.’

‘No.’ Fenella eyed him and wondered how much he knew about Renascia. ‘We did have animals, of course,’ she said. ‘But only the — I suppose you could say the descendants of the ones who came from Earth. And there was not so very much room in the Ark'

Snodgrass asked about the word salamander. ‘Because,’ he said, frowning, ‘to our people, I think it once meant a rather slow creature with a scaly hide.’

‘But the creatures we saw weren’t in the least like that,’ said Fenella.

Fael-Inis said, ‘You are speaking of the creatures who were the many-times descendants of the true salamanders,’ and sent another of his winged smiles at Fenella, as if to say: you see, Mortal? It happens in all the worlds, this process of evolution.

‘The true salamanders, the living salamanders are Elemental Spirits of the Fire,’ he said. ‘They are temporal — that is to say they are flesh and blood and bone — but also they have a little of the spiritual about them.’ The golden eyes gleamed suddenly. ‘In their veins is the thin, magical trickle of the Eternal Fire,’ he said, and the four travellers stared at him and each shared a thought: He, also, possesses the Eternal Fire.

Descending to the stables of the salamanders was like going down and down to the earth’s core. Floy thought: I suppose we are in the hands of a friend. I suppose that beneath it all, Fael-Inis is not evil and greedy, and a — what did he call it? — a soul eater? He glanced at Fenella, and saw a look of the utmost delight in his sister’s eyes as she watched Fael-Inis. For some inexplicable reason he felt suddenly safer, because Fenella, for all her gentleness, could nearly always see the real person behind the covering. He wondered, briefly, whether Fenella might not simply be dazzled by Fael-Inis, because certainly none of them had ever come across anything like him before, but he thought he could trust Fenella’s instincts. She had seen behind Quilp and events showed she had been right to mistrust him. But she is seeing Fael-Inis as a friend, thought Floy, and at once was aware of a ripple of amusement from their host.

Do not trust me too far, Floy, for I can be an inconstant friend and a fickle ally …

But with the thought came also a warm breath of comfort, as if Fael-Inis understood and sympathised.

I think it is all right, thought Floy, treading carefully where their host led them. I think we are in the hands of someone we can trust. I think it is all right.

They were walking cautiously through more of the wide rock tunnels and there were steps worn into the floors, so that the descent was easier than might have been expected.

‘Are the steps natural formations?’ asked Snodgrass. ‘Or were they cut?’

‘They are natural,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘They have been hollowed by the footsteps of countless ages.’

‘Who by?’ asked Fenella.

‘By me,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘I have worn these steps away, Mortals. Since the beginning of this world … If you do not look where you are going, you will be knocked senseless, Floy. Along here, and be wary of overhanging rock.’

And then they were in a great echoing cave and ahead of them were two forks and between the forks …

‘Oh!’ said Fenella, clasping her hands together in pure delight.

Between the forks were rearing rock formations, veined with gold threads, and within the formations …

‘Oh!’ cried Fenella, clasping her hands.

The Stables of the Fire Stallions …

The Stables seemed to stretch back endlessly — to the Earth’s core, thought Floy — and, within them, the four travellers could see fire-washed halls, huge, beautiful, high-ceilinged rock chambers, lit by tongues of flame, layer upon layer of fire, orange and red and tawny and deep, deep bronze. There was a sense of beckoning, of allure, so that they were each of them conscious of a strong wish to know more, to want to explore these remarkable fiery halls, but there was a feeling of fear as well, because surely such a place could not be safe …

Massive arched openings led into the Fire Stables, great curved doorways, and across each of these were spiralling columns of fire, endlessly coiling and twining upwards, partly obscuring the interior of the Stables from their view.

‘Curtains of Flame,’ murmured Floy and, as he spoke, they saw, deep within the glowing fires, the slanting eyes of the fire stallions watching.

‘Will they come out?’ asked Fenella.

‘Yes, for they know that I am summoning them,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘They do not obey many, but they will obey me.’ As he said this, the flames seemed almost to be brushed aside, and the salamanders were suddenly there, strong and sleek and not quite solid, and not quite fluid, but somewhere between the two, so that the four travellers could never afterwards describe their shapes. To begin with, the salamanders seemed to be like the engravings they had seen of Earth-horses; or, at the very least, centaurs, half Human, half horse. Or unicorns, thought Fenella, who had seen pictures in Snizort’s carefully preserved books. But, after a moment, the salamanders were nothing like this at all. They were high-nosed and arched-necked and arrogant and imperious-looking, but you felt as well that they might be friendly and mischievous and rather fun. And they were strong and sleek and their skin was glossy and it looked as if it had been polished, or as if warm sweet honey had been poured over it. They made you think of things like copper when it was being melted down to re-shape, and of glowing furnaces and white-hot metals, and firebrands.

The salamanders were strange and frightening and intriguing. They moved to stand before Fael-Inis and, although they bowed their beautiful heads, the gesture held not the least trace of subservience.

Even so, thought Fenella, staring, I believe they do render him obeisance. I believe they will do whatever he asks of them.

She thought she would never dare to ride astride one of these remarkable creatures and, in the same moment, thought she would regret it always if she did not make that attempt. I wonder if I ought to be feeling nervous, she thought, remembering how, on Renascia, ladies had been expected to be meek and hesitant, and how she had never been either of these things. How boring! thought Fenella, her eyes shining, not feeling the least bit nervous. And then: and how fortunate I am that Floy will certainly not try to keep me safely in the background of everything!

At her side, Floy was staring at the salamanders, visualising them bridled and harnessed, streaming through Time, pulling Fael-Inis’s Chariot. Above and before and below and beyond Time … Shall we dare approach them? he thought, and knew at once that they would certainly approach them, and that they would certainly ride astride them. He glanced at Fenella, and knew a swift delight. She is enjoying this with every ounce of feeling she has, he thought. She is certainly apprehensive about what is going to happen to us but, even so, she is still enjoying everything. He knew he would certainly try to protect Fenella against whatever might be ahead of them, but he knew, as well, that he would have to do so covertly, because Fenella would not expect to be protected and she would not want to be protected, either. She would want to be at the centre of everything.

The nearest salamander was regarding them from its dark glowing eyes. ‘Human travellers,’ it said and appeared to nod to the other three, and the four Renascians jumped because they had not expected the salamanders to speak. But the salamander’s voice was warm and deeply interested, and it was inspecting them. The other three, too, were regarding them with friendly curiosity, as if they might be a species that the salamanders only encountered very occasionally.

Fael-Inis had moved closer and laid his hand on the rippling manes of the two leading salamanders. ‘Chiron and Charybdis,’ he said gently, and Fenella saw that there was a tremendous closeness between Fael-Inis and the salamanders, as if they might have shared many things, perhaps encountered many dangers together. ‘They will take you safely out of this place and into a world that will be a little more like your own,’ said Faunas. The grin slid out, briefly. ‘But not entirely like it,’ he said, ‘for no one world is ever entirely like any other. But you will perhaps find creatures near to Human.’

‘Are they to traverse the River of the Dead, Master?’ said the first salamander, Chiron, and Fael-Inis seemed to hesitate. Then — ‘If you cannot avoid it,’ he said, and the salamanders tossed their heads in acknowledgement, so that sparks cascaded across the rocky cavern.

As they moved towards the archways, Fenella said, ‘Shall we meet you again?’ and he smiled at her, a genuine smile, as if he liked her.

‘I am to be found in many places,’ he said. ‘Only you sometimes have to look hard to discover me.’

He stood watching as the salamanders turned about, and they saw that he was still smiling and that the gentle radiance was all about him.

And then the first of the salamanders said, ‘This way, Mortals,’ and they were through the archway and out into a wide tunnel.

Ahead of them were the Honeycomb Tunnels and, beyond those, they could see the golden River.

Riding on the salamanders was a little bit like flying in the Ark, and a little bit like walking, and a little bit like reclining in a very comfortable chair close to a glowing fire. There was a strong, sweet wind blowing in their faces as they moved, and all about them they were aware of the rushing rock tunnels. Fenella thought they were not actually travelling very fast, because they could quite easily make out the figures and the symbols carved into the sides of the Honeycomb Tunnels.

Snodgrass and Snizort were extremely interested in these carvings. Snodgrass, who was at the rear, managed to make out several of them, and said he thought they were something called Christian, but Snizort, who had managed to don his spectacles and was peering intently at the etched symbols and figures, said they were much earlier than that.

‘My Master did know the One called Christ,’ said Chiron in his soft warm voice. ‘But my Master is older by far than that One.’

‘He knew others, also,’ said Charybdis. ‘Some of whom you may know, and others you may not. Noah and his people were here when Flood threatened another world.

Also Ut-napishtim the Babylonian … And Berosus, the Egyptian priest … People, races, whole worlds have been threatened by the Angry Sun.’

‘Are there truly other worlds?’ said Floy, who was finding the salamanders unexpectedly easy to talk to.

‘There are many,’ said the salamander, tossing its mane and bounding forward. ‘You are not the first of your race to have fallen into the Time Corridor and passed through the Curtain. Many of your people have attempted to cross Time. Some have succeeded, but others have been taken and devoured by the Soul Eaters.’

‘Others?’ said Snizort, who did not very much like the word ‘devoured’, and who liked, even less, the sound of the Soul Eaters. The creature turned its burning eyes on him.

‘There have been others who have believed they have fathomed the secret of Time,’ it said, ‘but they have failed, and they have become lost.’

Lost for ever in the echoing endless Corridors of Time …

‘There have only been a few occurrences of the Chosen Few escaping into the Past or the Future,’ said Snizort’s salamander.

Fenella was thinking how remarkable it was to be one of the Chosen Few, and trying to decide whether she thought she was worthy of it, when Floy said, ‘What are Soul Eaters?’ and for the first time the salamanders seemed to shiver, as if with fear.

‘They are creatures of the Dark Ireland,’ said Charybdis. ‘They serve the Lords of the Dark Domain that is the dread mirror image of the true Ireland, and where evil rules and where the necromancers spin their strong and fearsome magic.’

‘The Soul Eaters do not walk in the world of Men,’ said Charybdis. ‘They inhabit the Cave of Cruachan, which is one of the Doorways into the Dark Realm,’ and Floy felt the tremor go through her again.

‘But they have Servants,’ said Snodgrass’s salamander.

‘Beings they hold in thrall, or whom they have chained by a bewitchment, and who must serve them and bring to them the souls of Humans.’

‘Servants?’

‘They say the Robemaker is one of their Servants,’ said Chiron, and Fenella and Floy both felt the wariness they had felt from Fael-Inis earlier. ‘And also, the necromancer CuRoi, who rules from his Fortress of Illusions deep within the Dark Realm. Those two it was who used the Giants of Gruagach to storm Tara and oust the rightful High King.’

‘The Gruagach are their pawns,’ said Charybdis, tossing her mane rather contemptuously. ‘You will almost certainly meet with them, but they are stupid and slow-minded, and you will be able to outwit them.’

Floy thought to himself: I hope we shall! because he was rather disliking the idea of giants.

Charybdis laughed, as if she had heard the thought. ‘You should not worry overmuch about the Gruagach,’ she said. ‘Only about the Ones who use them as pawns.’

‘The Soul Eaters … ’ said Floy.

‘Yes. Every night, the Soul Eaters hold court,’ said Charybdis. ‘And they feast on the souls brought to them by their servants. Few Humans have seen the Soul Eaters,’ she said, ‘but it is known that they were old when the world was still young.’

‘Have you seen them?’ asked Floy, and Charybdis tossed her mane again.

‘We have seen most things in the world, Mortal,’ she said. ‘For we were brought into the world by our Master, whom you know as Fael-Inis, when the world of Humans was still cooling.’

‘You will have met the creatures who were forged from our blood during that cooling,’ said Chiron, with a sudden warm chuckle of amusement. ‘For they are woven into the legends and the lore of Men.’ He glanced back at Floy, mischievously.

Snizort, who had been listening, said, very warily, ‘We know of creatures who were called dragons.’

‘And unicorns?’ said Chiron.

‘Yes.’

‘And gryphons and minotaurs and wyverns?’ said Charybdis.

‘I-believe so.’

‘And sirens and phoenix and chimera?’

‘Well — ’

‘We are a little of all those things,’ said Chiron, and the salamanders exchanged glances as if sharing some brief, faintly amusing secret. And then, suddenly serious, Chiron said, ‘But we spoke of the Soul Eaters. You should pray to whatever gods you worship that you never find yourselves at the Court of the Soul Eaters in the Cave of Cruachan.’

It was then that Snodgrass, who had been looking about him very searchingly, said, ‘What’s that up ahead?’ and the other salamander said, quite calmly, ‘It is the River of the Dead. The River of Souls.’ And then, in a soft voice, ‘We shall have to ford it very carefully.’

The banks of the River of Souls. The four travellers slipped carefully from the salamanders’ backs and stood for a moment looking out across the vast expanse of dark water.

The River flowed silently and steadily and there was a faint, shimmering phosphorescence on its surface. Floy reached for Fenella’s hand, because there was something awe-inspiring and out-of-the-world about the River. Fenella would not show if she was afraid — she had not shown any fear at all so far; she had eaten supper in Fael-Inis’s Palace calmly and listened to him with interest, and retained a sense of humour, and behaved as if this sort of thing was very nearly everyday.

Fenella was not thinking about being courageous or calm, or even about pretending not to be afraid or keeping a sense of humour. She was grateful for Floy’s presence, and she was comforted by the feel of his hand pressing hers.

But she was staring at the dark-flowing River of Souls and, for the moment, there was nothing else in the world for her.

‘Where does it end?’ asked Floy in a low voice. ‘Does it have a — a source? A place where it ends?’

Chiron, who was watching the dark, glistening water thoughtfully, said, ‘It is believed that its end is in the Lair of the Frost Giantess, the Geimhreadh. It is said that in its beginning is its end and that she presides over its source.’ He turned to look at them, his brilliant eyes unreadable. ‘It may be only a myth,’ he said, and the travellers each had the feeling that he was holding the belief out for their consideration, as if he might be saying: you may believe whatever you wish; it is up to you.

Snizort and Snodgrass had not said very much, but they were standing silently, watching. The salamanders had fallen back a little, but they were close by, a constant warm presence. If we really needed to, thought Fenella, we could be astride them again and off into the tunnels; we could be pouring like a cascade of molten gold deep into the Honeycomb Caverns again. We could run away from the things that are held captive beneath the water’s surface.

The things that are held captive …

At first, Fenella thought they were simply tiny winking lights, pinpoints of red that danced and glittered and caught the soft phosphorescence from the cave’s ceiling. But then, as they drew nearer, she saw that they were not reflections at all, but hundreds of eyes that peered and moved, and came and went beneath the dark slow-moving River.

The soul-less victims of the terrible Soul Eaters of the Cruachan Cavern …

Chiron had moved ahead to where wide, shallow, nearly flat crafts were moored and Snodgrass’s salamander was helping him to unfasten the rafts and nose them into place before the four travellers.

‘Fortuitous?’ wondered Snodgrass, who believed in keeping a firm sight of reality, but Charybdis said in her soft voice, ‘No. For those who wish to cross the River, a means is always at hand.’

Chiron pushed the rafts into place, and Charybdis stood back and waited for Floy to take the first step.

‘As your people’s leader,’ she said, ‘you must go first.’

Chiron turned to Fenella and, in the dark, rippling water-light, his face was solemn and his eyes serious and filled with wisdom.

‘This will be a difficult journey for you, Mortal,’ he said. ‘For you will see, beneath the waters of the River, the soul-less ones, the victims of the Soul Eaters. They are hideous pitiful things, for the River that imprisons them is wreaking a terrible mutation on them. But we cannot help them. You must remember that we cannot help them.’

‘Yes,’ said Fenella, staring back at the beautiful slanting eyes. ‘Yes. I understand.’ Chiron studied her for a moment, and then nodded slightly, his mane swirling like smoke as he did so, and Fenella stepped cautiously onto the waiting raft.

There was a brief turbulence beneath the River as the salamanders pushed the rafts away from the banks and out into the centre of the River, and Fenella and Floy both saw darting fishlike movements in the water, as if there were creatures down there — beings not quite fish but not quite human, moving back and forth in the cloudy depths. The gentle radiance from the salamanders’ glossy flanks spilled into the dark tunnel and, as the light touched the water, hundreds of watchful eyes glinted redly below the surface.

‘And yet there is a stench of bad fish,’ thought Fenella, who did not much like fish or anything to do with fish.

Chiron was guiding the raft and they were nearly at the centre of the River now. The salamanders stood at the prow of the frail shallow crafts, one to each, looking intently ahead, their eyes serious and absorbed. They might have been statues, graven gold figures, had it not been for the continual rippling of their manes and the faint liquidity of their shapes. Against the dark River tunnel, Chiron’s outline was slightly blurred, as if at any minute he might melt and dissolve and re-form into something quite different. As Fenella felt the thought take substance in her mind, Chiron turned his head slightly and sent her a winged smile, as if to say: all is well,

Mortal, and Fenella felt better.

The punting of the rafts made a rather cold, slightly muffled sound in the enclosed tunnel and, mingling with it, was the steady lapping of the River. Fenella thought it might have been better if there had been some sound from somewhere, and then thought that perhaps it might have been worse.

It seemed a very long time before Floy said, very quietly, ‘I can see the far bank,’ and his words echoed rather eerily and Fenella knew he was trying not to make too much noise in case the owners of the glinting eyes were alerted.

The salamanders had not spoken, although Fenella thought that they had looked at each other, as if they were sharing their thoughts. Once Charybdis tossed her head, and once Chiron seemed to look up as if something had caught his attention. But there was nothing, and the rafts moved cautiously forward.

They were a little over half-way across the River now and they could all see quite clearly the malevolent eyes glaring at them from the green turgid depths. Floy made out pale man-sized fish creatures darting to and fro in the water, and barely Human things skulking fathoms below the rafts. He knelt down to see better and realised with disgusted pity that the creatures’ eternal captivity in the River of the Dead had turned them into repulsive soul-less water creatures: their bodies had changed and adapted to their surroundings; their necks were disappearing and their heads were becoming rounded and hairless. Most of them already had bulging lidless eyes and flat wide, slashlike mouths, and although some of them were still partly possessed of bony and spined human skeletons, others were quite plainly already spineless and virtually boneless and could only squirm towards the rafts.

But the soul-less creatures were purblind from the green murky light of the River; they could sense the intruders, but they could not see them. Fenella thought: we are safe. They cannot attack us. And was instantly ashamed at being so concerned with her own safety when she remembered these doomed creatures’ endless captivity.

As they neared the far banks, Fenella and Floy felt their thoughts raked by the creatures’ pitiful pleadings. Their cries for help rose up out of the River and lay on the air in a thick dark miasma of suffering.

Whoever you are, take us away from here on your boats, and up into the world again …

Help us to escape from the endless waters of the River … Help us to return to the world we once knew … Help us recapture our souls …

Fenella made an involuntary movement and, at once, Chiron said, sharply, ‘Remember, Mortals, that you cannot help them.’

‘Are they condemned to this for ever?’ whispered Fenella, staring into the River’s depths in horror. And Charybdis said, softly and pityingly, ‘They cannot be killed, for with their souls’ loss they are condemned to immortality. But it is a terrible immortality. They are truly the damned ones of the world, for they are doomed to always dwell beneath the River’s surface, until their world ends for all time. Then perhaps there will be release for them.’

‘I see,’ said Fenella, who only partly saw, but thought it would be impolite to admit to this, and Chiron turned his head to regard her.

‘You feel pity for them, and that is admirable,’ he said. ‘But you must remember that if you had tried to rescue them, they would almost certainly have dragged you beneath the waters to share their terrible fate. You would have become one of the thousands of lost creatures doomed to dwell in the half-light until the world’s end.’

‘How terrible,’ said Fenella, softly.

‘You should know these things, Mortals, since if you are to sojourn in this world, you may encounter the soulless ones again.’ And then, the golden eyes suddenly brilliant, ‘But ahead of us now is the far bank,’ Chiron said. ‘And beyond that is the world to which my Master is sending you.’

‘The world he is sending us to?’ said Floy looking up sharply, and Chiron smiled.

‘The Ireland of the Wolfkings,’ he said.

The Ireland of the Wolfkings …

As they stepped off the rafts and walked cautiously along the last stretch of tunnel, the River safely behind them, Fenella and Floy saw that the light was beginning to change.

‘Purple-tinged,’ said Floy.

‘Turquoise,’ said Fenella. And then, ‘Dark blue.’

‘It is what was once called the Purple Hour,’ said Chiron, who was still leading them. ‘That is, the hour when it is neither quite day any longer, but nor is it yet night.’ He looked at them. ‘I think you have not seen such a thing before?’

‘We have something we call twilight,’ said Floy. ‘But it is not so laden with scents and sounds and feelings.’

‘But this is a world where magic is abroad,’ said Charybdis, her voice perfectly serious. ‘And in this world, twilight, the Purple Hour, is thought to be the time when spells walk and enchantments lie on the air.’

‘But,’ said Fenella, wanting to believe this, but not quite daring to, ‘but surely that is all just an ancient superstition?’

‘Is it?’ said Chiron softly.

‘Wait and see, Mortals,’ said Charybdis.

The light was pouring in to the tunnel now, dusky blue and turquoise, dust motes dancing in and out of it, with stirrings and rustlings deep within it and faint, far-off scents of sweet night air and ancient trees and dry, crunchy bracken.

‘Twilight,’ said Chiron, standing still and listening. ‘Hear it, Mortals. Feel it. There are spells abroad tonight.’ Floy started to say something and then stopped, because they could all feel it now, the strange, heavy drowsiness, the sense that just beyond vision and just outside of consciousness, there were creatures from other worlds, and there were powers and forces and things which had certainly been unknown on Renascia.

And then the tunnel widened unexpectedly and they were walking out into a forest clearing and the dusk was all about them. The trees were lacing their branches overhead and beyond them they could see the deep velvet blue of a night sky spattered with stars. The salamanders had stopped and were standing watching them.

Fenella turned and started to say, ‘But you cannot leave us — ’ and saw Chiron shake his beautiful head, so that the silken strands of his mane flew about his face.

‘We shall meet again, Mortal,’ he said. ‘For my Master is ever abroad in the world of Men.’

Floy had started to speak, but the salamanders had moved back into the tunnel, only it was difficult to see if it was a tunnel, or only a bracken-covered cave now, because the purple-tinged twilight seemed to be falling all about them like a curtain. The fiery golden light was dimming, until there were only threads of it on the air, and then it was gone completely, and they were alone in the darkling forest.

Chapter Ten

The Halls of Tara were ringing with noise and the discordant laughter of the Gruagach and the even more discordant music of the Gruagach’s musicians. Caspar, who liked to think he had a bit of an ear for good music, sighed, and hoped they would not start up the really dreadful Fidchell Dance, which had quite the grisliest undertones to any music Caspar had ever heard. It made you think of captured people (Humans?) being stalked and pounced on, and it made you remember that the Fidchell squares were being set out upstairs, and that the spikes would certainly be already in place, and the selected portions of the floor would be having the white-hot heat raised in them by the Gruagach’s kitchens, where the Fidchell was considered the best entertainment ever devised.

It had not been possible to let the three Humans held in the dungeons go, simply because Goibniu, sly old fox that he was, had insisted on accompanying Caspar to the dungeons. ‘In case,’ he had said, grinning from ear to ear, ‘you need any assistance, Master Procurer.’

Caspar did not need any assistance at all, but it had been quite obvious that Goibniu did not trust him to deliver the Humans up to the Sun Chamber. But he had managed to look grateful for the offer, because it was actually very generous of Goibniu, who was the King’s High Chancellor, to stoop to such a mundane task, never mind that it was only that he did not want the Humans to be let to escape.

Three Humans were not really enough for a proper Fidchell. Caspar had heard the most dreadful tales of how, before the giants had come to Tara, they had played the Fidchell in the City of Gruagach, using Human travellers who had lost their way in the northern wastes of Gruagach; saving them up until there were at least a dozen; every one of them impaled on spikes held aloft by the footmen, each of them knowing that with the turn of the dice, they might be moved onto the white-hot squares, where they would slowly roast, until a throw of the dice sent them to another square.

‘A little cooking in advance,’ was what the Gruagach said, but Caspar thought it would be far worse to be partly cooked, and then taken down to the sculleries to be finished off, than to be thrown into a cauldron of boiling gravy and have done.

It was rather unsettling to descend to the dungeons like this, in company with Goibniu. Goibniu kept looking down at Caspar, as if he might be considering using Caspar in the Fidchell. As they were crossing the great echoing landing, where the very nearly legendary Chair of Erin had been put, Caspar was quite certain he licked his lips.

Inchbad was enjoying his evening. He had not expected to, because he did not altogether approve of the Fidchell, but it was remarkable how you could discover entertainment where you had not previously thought entertainment to exist. He had raised a doubt as to whether they ought to be celebrating the Fidchell at all but Goibniu had said, in a surprised voice, ‘But it is traditional when the Feargach Grian is seen, sire,’ and Inchbad had said, ‘Oh well, if it’s traditional — ’ and Goibniu had gone off somewhere to see about something and the scullions and the spit-boys had come running in to the Sun Chamber to set up the Fidchell squares. The Court musicians had begun tuning up for the good old Gruagach music, which was always played at such a time, and some of the younger giants had asked some of the giantesses to dance.

Inchbad nodded and tapped his feet in time to the music, and remembered about the Feargach Grian heralding the beginning of a Golden Age, and felt that everything was turning out very well for them in Tara.

Really, you could almost begin to think that the Frost Giants and the Geimhreadh had done them all a favour in taking over Gruagach. You could almost believe that Goibniu had been right when he had held those rather lengthy discussions with the Robemaker, most of which Inchbad had not really followed. In fact, he had nodded off before they were finished. Not that Goibniu would have entered into any unwise arrangement with the Robemaker or anyone else, of course. The Gruagach did not do things like that. They might have ousted the High King and sent him and his sons into exile, but they did not allow themselves to be made use of. By the beards of their fathers, they did not! Inchbad would like to see the creature, Human or otherwise, who tried to use the Gruagach as pawns and puppets!

It was at times like this, with a bit of a celebration going on, that Inchbad ought to have a Queen, a Consort. It was something that Goibniu was seeing to, because the King of the Gruagach could not be allowed to marry with just anybody and they wanted to make a proper diplomatic alliance. There had been a suggestion of making an approach to the Geimhreadh herself, but Inchbad had squashed this idea before it could take a hold of anybody’s fancy. He had heard all the stories about the Geimhreadh, and he did not especially favour the idea of having all his manhood juices sucked out of him drop by drop, which was what most people seemed to think she did. He would be perfectly satisfied with a plain ordinary princess of some kind, said Inchbad, and he would not baulk at a drain of nice Human blood, either. You could get some very pretty Humans. Well, you could get some extremely beautiful ones, actually. He began to rather like the idea of a pretty little Human for his Queen.

Goibniu, in his usual helpful way, had suggested several likely candidates, but most of them seemed to be in some way related to the necromancers of the Dark Ireland, and Inchbad, who could be firm if he had to, had said, quite severely, that if they were to take on any of that lot, he might as well have surrendered his manhood to the Frost Giantess and have done.

You did not really know when you could trust a necromancer, said Inchbad; they were apt to be out for all they could get, and none too scrupulous about the means they employed to get it. They did not want any of the nasty magic coming in to Ireland. Inchbad harboured one or two lingering suspicions about Goibniu’s discussions with the Robemaker, and was now wishing he had stayed awake a bit more.

They would just have a nice ordinary princess at Tara, he said, and Goibniu had said ‘As Your Majesty wishes,’ and Inchbad had said, ‘I do wish,’ and then had relented, and asked were there not any pretty young daughters of quite ordinary sorcerers they might approach. Goibniu had said, thoughtfully, ‘Well, there is Reflection’s daughter, sire. But they say her father was Fael-Inis, and he’s a very tricky one. You might not quite care for that sort of blood in a Consort, Sire?’

‘It might be worth asking,’ Inchbad had said, because he did not really mind what sort of blood his Consort had so long as she was sufficiently pretty and rich, and he was, in fact, rather pleased at the way in which he had worked the discussion round to where he wanted it. Goibniu had gone away to consider whether they could send envoys of some kind to Reflection to see if she would sell Flame to Inchbad.

Inchbad thought if he had to marry anybody, he would quite like it to be somebody like Flame, who was reputed to be quite outrageously beautiful, and would probably be inheriting Reflection’s money as well. There were rumours that Reflection was over her ears in debt, but Inchbad did not believe this, because he had never yet met a sorcerer or a sorceress who was not extremely rich.

The younger ones were dancing quite strenuously now, and the musicians were beginning to look flushed and shiny-faced. It might be better if they took a rest, because Caspar and Goibniu would be bringing up the caged Humans at any minute. The scullions had already dragged in the great iron squares, half black and half red, and were arranging them at the centre of the Sun Chamber.

The point of the game was to heat only some of the squares, and thus prolong the outcome, and Inchbad had made his selection earlier, frowning over which squares to order heated. It was an important matter, and it would not do to get it wrong. While the squares were being set out, one of the musicians asked permission to sing a song he had written about the Feargach Grian, and two of Inchbad’s most loyal Courtiers said what a remarkable sight it had been to see it.

‘A marvellous sight indeed, Your Majesty,’ said one whose name was Fiachra Broadcrown.

‘It swept the skies,’ said the other, who was called  Arca Dubh, and Inchbad had to pretend all over again that he had seen the Feargach Grian as plainly as the others seemed to have done.

The three Humans brought up by Caspar and Goibniu were standing huddled together in a corner of the Sun Chamber, and the musicians, seeing them, at once went into the ancient Fidchell March, which was a slow, pouncing, cat-after-mouse sort of tune, and which was greeted with shouts of delight.

‘And,’ said Goibniu, striding into the centre of the Sun Chamber, his meaty hands hooked into his belt, eyeing everyone with great joviality, ‘you all of you know the rules.’

‘No cheating,’ cried the giants, delightedly, forming a circle about the squares.

‘No prodding of the players with heated rods,’ said Fiachra Broadcrown.

‘No secretly heating extra squares,’ added  Arca Dubh.

'No letting the Humans over-cook!’ cried someone else.

‘And no trading of forfeits!’ shouted everyone delightedly, and the giants nudged one another and said wasn’t the trading of forfeits, one for another, part of the fun, and didn’t they all of them know it for one of the best parts of the game.

‘Then,’ said Goibniu, nodding and beaming and eyeing the Humans with greedy eyes, ‘let the Fidchell commence!’ He began the grand old Fidchell Chant in his great rumbling voice, and at once everyone joined in.

Dance, dance, for the sizzling of the flesh,

We are the Lords of the Fidchell.

Squirm and squeal for the roasting of the meat,

Wriggle and shout for the cooking of your feet,

If a throw of the dice brings the sizzling of the heat,

That is the way of the Fidchell.

Fee and fie and foe and humdum,

Peg and pig and pug and rumkchin.

With a dree and a drum and a dray and a thumbkin,

Into the ovens you’ll go, my dears,

Into the ovens you’ll go.

‘Heat up the squares!’ cried Goibniu, his face shiny with anticipation. ‘Bring in the dice!’

Caspar thought that, as ordeals went, it could not have been very much worse. He managed to squeeze himself fairly inconspicuously into a comer of the Sun Chamber — he would have liked to leave the Chamber altogether, but one of the giants would be sure to notice, and fetch him back. And so he stayed where he was and he tried very hard to shut out the sounds of the sizzling gridirons, and he tried even harder not to look to where the three prisoners were waiting, held in chains, staring at the squares of black and red as if they could not believe what was about to happen. Caspar remembered that stories were whispered about the Fidchell in the villages surrounding Tara, but that they were generally believed to be no more than a legend. He sighed and wished they could be a legend, and he wished that he himself could be somewhere a very long way away.

The giants were shouting delightedly, dragging the squares into place, here and there yelping as they touched a heated one by mistake, blistering their fingers. Every time this happened, a rather horrid scent of roasting giant wafted to where Caspar was standing, so that he remembered the old legend about giantblood being different to Human. Coarser. Thicker. Smellier.

The squares were nearly all in place now, great shining wedges of black and red, laid to form one enormous square, nearly the size of the Sun Chamber, and set alternately, so that it was a bit like an old game which Caspar thought the Wolfkings had enjoyed, called chess. The Gruagach would not have had the brains for chess, because, according to most accounts, it had been quite intricate and extremely subtle. The Gruagach were many things, but subtle was not one of them.

One of the younger giants had brought in the dice; great pale glistening cubes of ivory and bone, which had been made from the compressed bones of their ancestors’ victims, together with a few teeth for good measure. Caspar had not believed this to be true, until someone (he thought it had been Fiachra Broadcrown) had taken him down to the sculleries and shown him the huge metal machine with the square mould, which was used to squash the bones into shape.

There were two dice, each one four feet square, and both painted with various symbols all of which meant that various things had to happen on the squares. A red dragon-creature with an erect two-pronged phallus meant that the victim had to move to the right. A squat, repulsive female with six breasts meant a move to the left.

The Gruagach had come up with several other symbols which they thought very funny: there was one of a wolflike beast lifting its leg and pissing on Tara’s Western Gate, and there was another of a Human with a wolfs head, staring helplessly at a long thin member which he was apparently trying to raise for the writhing wolfwoman at his feet. The Gruagach considered this extremely comical and there was always great competition to turn up this side of the dice, which gave you two moves to the fore, and nearly always landed your victim on a sizzling square of the board.

The squares were heating now, giving off tremendous waves of heat, and the giants were pointing and laughing, slapping their thighs with delight, telling each other that the Humans would soon be roasting, and there’d be Manpie for supper later.

Goibniu, who was still directing the proceedings, said in his loud rumbling voice, ‘But, friends, we have to ensure that the heated squares are sufficiently hot! Hey?’ And a great roar of delight, that made Caspar’s ears ring unpleasantly, went up, because everyone knew what came next.

‘Well?’ cried Goibniu, grinning from ear to ear. ‘How do we test the heated squares, my friends?’

‘By spraying water on to diem!’ shouted the giants, poking each other and slapping their thighs again. The giantesses, bunched together at one comer of the Fidchell board, shrieked with glee, and clutched one another with helpless mirth.

‘And,’ bellowed Goibniu, standing with his legs apart, thumbs hooked into his belt, ‘how shall we do that, friends?’

‘By piddling on them!’ shouted the giants, delightedly, and at once there was a scuffle and a jostling for places at the edges of the squares.

‘Ready?’ said Goibniu, and the giantesses shrieked with mirth again and dug one another in the ribs, and told each other not to look, and weren’t they all awful, and then said would they just look at that Fiachra Broadcrown, aiming before Goibniu had even given the word, shameless as anything.

‘Aim!’ warned Goibniu who had produced a stopwatch the size of a large turnip and was making a great play of consulting it.

Caspar shuddered and fervently wished himself somewhere else, as the dozen or so giants unfastened their breeches and stood holding their minuscule organs ready, looking down at themselves with concentrated expressions on their faces.

‘Go!’ cried Goibniu, and the giants stood straddle-legged, directing streams of thick yellow giant-piss into the centre of the floor.

There were shouts of encouragement, and cries of, ‘Pooh! Fiachra Broadcrown’s been at the onion wine again,’ which was an old joke, and ‘Arca Dubh couldn’t put out a candle flame with that,’ which was another old joke, and in one case, ‘Goll the Gorm’s splashing everyone’s boots.’

As the sour-smelling urine sprayed onto the heated squares, from all edges of the board, there was a furious sizzling, and steam rose at once, sending out a stench of rancid giant and too-strong excrement and old stale sweat. Caspar saw the three humans shudder and he thought that one retched, and he searched his mind for some way to stop the grisly ritual, and let the captives go.

Goibniu was chuckling heartily and nodding and Inchbad, who had not, of course, taken any part in any of this, smiled and nodded to the musicians to strike up again, because the Fidchell was far better played to a bit of music and, anyway, it would mask the cries of the Humans.

At last, they all finished and buttoned their breeches again, and Goibniu pronounced Goll the Gorm winner of the pre-ritual, said that the heat was sufficient and turned to eye the waiting prisoners with his pig-like eyes. He gestured to the footmen to put the spikes in place.

‘Because,’ he said, the smile splitting his coarse red face like an over-ripe melon now, ‘we should not wish you to get away before the real fun begins.’

The footmen stepped forward, and lifted the three prisoners over the spikes.

Fiachra Broadcrown and Arca Dubh had started the chant again, and the giants were clapping their hands in unison.

‘The spikes, the spikes, spit the prisoners … ’

There were three footmen to each prisoner now and, as the clapping increased in intensity, they raised the prisoners shoulder-high, and positioned each of them above one of the gleaming needle-sharp points.

The prisoners were screaming now and struggling; Caspar thought one of them had fainted and remembered, grimly, that once the impaling began, he would immediately revive, and when his spike was moved by the footmen to one of the heated squares, he would begin to sizzle and roast. He felt sick and wished himself somewhere else all over again.

The musicians had started up again, and now it was the creeping, stealthy notes of the Fidchell March, that terrible slow inexorable music that built up and up, and continued to build up and up, until the prisoners were simultaneously impaled, when it erupted in a discordant clashing of drums and tin sheets and screeching horns.

The three victims were being hoisted aloft, one footman holding each foot, and spreading their legs over the massive waiting skewers.

Goibniu shouted out, ‘Avoid the backbone, footmen!’ and there was a general cry of agreement, because if you split the backbone too soon, the meat never roasted as juicily.

‘And don’t puncture their bums!’ cried Fiachra Broadcrown and everyone laughed very heartily at this, because everyone remembered the very unpleasant time in Gruagach, when two Fidchell players had suffered exactly that fate, and, as Goibniu had said, it had taken four footmen to clean up the mess, and the King’s favourite banqueting hall had smelt of Human dung for days, which was not something anyone wanted to remember.

The victims were in place now, and they were squirming and writhing, and trying to escape, but the footmen knew that to let go of a Human at this point was crucial, and they had a good firm hold of the creatures’ ankles. Extraordinarily frail ankles Humans had, but probably they looked all right to one another.

The three Fidchell players did not look all right now. Two of them were shouting and struggling; one of them was barely conscious, which was a pity, because it took some of the heart out of the game when that happened.

Of course, some Humans had no sense of fight, everyone knew that.

And then Goibniu raised his left hand in the signal, and the musicians began a terrific rolling of the skins of the drums, and one of them began beating the great deep-throated Fidchell drum steadily and rhythmically, and everyone started the clapping again, and the giantesses clutched one another in high excitement.

Goibniu brought his hand down, and the three Humans were impaled on the waiting skewers.

It was a very good banquet indeed. Everyone agreed that it was one of the best ever. The Manpies were particularly good this time; one or two people said they had splinters of backbone in their meat, and the footmen ought to have been more careful, but if there was one thing you could be sure of, it was that somebody would always complain about a backbone splinter at a Fidchell banquet. It was as much a part of the ritual as Arca Dubh not peeing as much as anyone else on the squares, or Goll the Gorm losing his place in the steps of the Fidchell Dance, which always followed the game.

And although three Humans did not make precisely a feast, the sculleries had eked the meat out carefully, and there was a good deal of nice rich gravy and huge dishes of vegetables, and everyone had a taste of Human, which was what it was all about anyway.

Goibniu made a speech and everyone cheered, and somebody else told them to lift their glasses to the Feargach Grian, because this was why they had celebrated the Fidchell, and somebody else again sang a song all about the Golden Age of the Gruagach, and everyone shouted that they were called Fomoire now, and there was a great deal of laughter and noise and banging of tables, and coarse jokes, which was exactly the sort of feast the giants liked.

Caspar managed to creep away just before the Manpies were served, because it would have been certain death to have been sick all over the table, which was what would have happened if he had stayed.

He sat in his bed-chamber with the south-facing view and the comfortable appointments and stared into the night sky. He wondered if anyone had really seen the Feargach Grian and, if so, how soon the Gruagach would send out a hunting party.

He wondered if the Feargach Grian really did herald the arrival of strange people from other worlds and, if so, where those people might now be.

Chapter Eleven

The four Renascians stood in the twilight, feeling the heavy heady scents of the Purple Hour close about them.

Fenella thought it was like nothing any of them had ever experienced, this sensing and scenting of a world that was laden with enchantments and filled with magic.

Magic … the word rippled across her thoughts, faintly disturbing, but also alluring and beckoning. We are in a world where magic is abroad. Probably we shall never return to Renascia. Probably there isn’t any Renascia to return to any more. Fenella examined the thought and wondered whether she minded any longer. Not while there is all of this to find out about, she thought. Perhaps, later, I shall mind very much. And perhaps, later, it will hurt very much, but for the moment there is too much here and it is exciting and a little bit dangerous.

Floy was looking about him, and Fenella saw the same delight, tinged with apprehension, in his eyes, and knew that, for Floy, this was becoming something marvellous and challenging; this was a world to be explored and discovered.

‘It’s not at all what I expected,’ remarked Snizort, staring about him.

‘What did you expect?’

‘Buildings,’ said Snizort, rather vaguely. ‘And people. Quite a lot of people. This is a forest.’

‘We’re on the edge of it, though,’ said Fenella. ‘If we walked in that direction, we’d come out of the trees.’ But she found herself not wanting to leave the trees and the deep blue shadows of the forest. They did not know what kind of creatures might be awaiting them beyond the safety of the dark trees and, although the forest felt strange, it had an unexpectedly safe feeling about it. What had Fael-Inis said? You will meet creatures who hunt Humans for sport …

‘There’s something over there,’ said Floy, pointing. ‘Through the trees and on the other side of the valley. Some kind of palace, perhaps.’ But his tone was hesitant, because none of them had ever seen a palace and no one was quite sure if one would look like this.

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Fenella, following the direction of his hand. ‘It’s easily the size of our entire main square with all the buildings together. And it’s bathed in light. Everywhere you look at it, it’s shining and brilliant.’

‘I suppose,’ said Snodgrass, studying the distant building, ‘I suppose that this is the — what did Fael-Inis call it? The Ancient Ireland of the Wolfkings?’

‘I don’t know that I like the sound of that, you know,’ said Snizort, looking worriedly over the top of his spectacles. ‘In all of the Earth’s history, wolves weren’t what you might call trustworthy. I think we ought to be careful.’

‘Wolves were a legend,’ said Snodgrass firmly. ‘They never existed. They were myths. And I think we ought to find out what the building is.’

‘It might be anywhere at all,’ said Snizort hopefully. ‘It’s quite a long way off,’ said Floy, who had been narrowing his eyes and trying to gauge the distance. ‘It’s certainly on the other side of that valley. But if we’re going to go anywhere, I think we ought to go by night.’

‘Because it would be safer … ?’ said Fenella, in a half-whisper.

‘Well, wouldn’t it? We’d be less conspicuous,’ said Floy. ‘And we can’t stay here. We’ll have to find people. And we can study the countryside as we go. That might tell us a bit more about this place.’

‘This place,’ said Fenella. ‘Shall we ever get back to Renascia, do you think?’

‘Shall we ever want to?’ said Floy, softly, and Fenella heard the sudden delight in his voice. ‘It’s Earth, Fenella. This is Earth. The lost world of our ancestors.’

Fenella said, ‘I was never entirely sure that it existed, you know.’ She looked about her. ‘I know we could see it from Renascia, or we could see something we believed was Earth, and something we were told was Earth. But I was never sure that it was anything more than just a — ’

‘Myth?’ said Snizort.

‘Legend?’ said Snodgrass.

‘A myth and a legend, and a — a romantic daydream.’ Snizort said, very softly, ‘Utopia and Erewhon and Avalon and the Isles of the Blessed.’

‘Yes,’ said Fenella. ‘All of those. I hoped that, if it did exist, then it might be like this; blue and green and misty and with huge dark forests and shining palaces.’ She made a quick gesture with one hand, encompassing the dark wood behind them and the strange landscape before them, blurred with dusk, purple fingers of twilight stealing towards the glowing castle across the valley.

Floy said, very gently, ‘You don’t expect daydreams to materialise so very exactly,’ and Fenella turned to him gratefully, because, of course, Floy would have understood.

‘And yet,’ said Floy, his eyes still scanning the valley and the strange wild beauty of it all, ‘and yet, here it is. The Ireland of the Wolfkings.’

‘I don’t believe in wolves,’ said Snodgrass again, and a cool, rather amused voice from behind them said, ‘Do you not indeed?’ and they turned at once to see a slender, dark-haired young man, leaning against a tree, watching them.

It is not a comfortable thing to suddenly discover you have been watched and overheard for longer than you have realised, and it is very uncomfortable indeed to discover this when you’re at the edge of an ancient wood with night falling, and the air heavily laden with something that might well be magic.

The four travellers eyed the young man cautiously, and then Floy moved forward and said, ‘Good day to you, sir,’ which was quite an old greeting, but one which Snizort had always maintained the Earth-people had frequently made use of.

The young man appeared amused. He said, ‘Good day to you,’ but the others thought he said it more as one trying out something new and intriguing, than as if it was something he was accustomed to. And, although he used the same words and they could understand him perfectly easily, his voice had a different, softer timbre. But it’s rather attractive, thought Fenella, staring, fascinated.

Floy said, ‘May we know where we are?’

‘Are you lost?’

The young man moved closer, and the slanting blue-green dusk fell across his face, emphasising the curious bone structure. Fenella drew in her breath sharply, and the stranger glanced at her and grinned, but it was not a grin that was like anything she had ever seen on anyone’s face before.

Floy said, ‘We think we may have missed our way, a little,’ and stood still and waited.

‘You are in what we call the Wolfwood,’ said the young man, and made a rather mocking gesture with one hand, embracing the ancient sprawling forest, as if to say: and it is all yours, my friends.

‘Ireland?’ asked Floy, trying out the word.

‘Where else?’

‘Where else indeed?’ murmured Floy. ‘And-may we ask your name?’

There was a pause, as if the stranger was thinking it over. Floy was suddenly reminded of how Fael-Inis had possessed the same slightly disconcerting manner. As if the creatures of this world might have to adapt to the four intruders’ way of speaking and thinking in order to be understood. Floy could not decide whether it was disturbing or very slightly flattering to be studied and learned in this way.

At length, ‘I am Nuadu Airgetlam,’ said the young man. ‘That is, Nuadu of the Silver Arm.’ He lifted his left arm in an abrupt gesture, so that the long full sleeve fell back, and they saw that while the shoulder was flesh and blood and bone, the rest was pure, soft silver. ‘I lost it in a battle,’ said Nuadu, rather off-handedly. ‘The Court sorcerer is trying to find a spell to make it whole again, but since he is not a very good sorcerer, I am still waiting.’

Again there was the characteristic tilt of his head and Fenella was reminded of a listening animal. He is listening to us at some unseen level and on some unguessed-at stratum of awareness. A bit like a dog, thought Fenella. Or a fox. Or a wolf … ?

Floy was introducing them carefully and Nuadu listened attentively and repeated their names as if they were strange pronunciations to him. He took their hands, one by one, which was an unfamiliar, but not unpleasing gesture. Fenella found herself staring at him and saw that his eyes were dark and oddly angled, and that his hair grew close to his skull like an animal's pelt. And I believe that if I look, thought Fenella, in fascinated terror, I shall find that his ears are pointed … Only perhaps I had better not look.

Floy said, ‘Would you tell us what is that place there?' and indicated the glowing palace across the valley. For the first time, Nuadu Airgetlam seemed to hesitate. Then, ‘That is Tara,’ he said and, behind them, Snizort drew in a sharp gasp and said, ‘Of course.'

‘You know it?’

‘Not in the least, sir,' said Snizort, beaming. ‘But it is in the legends, you know. My word, yes. Wasn't it cursed at one time?’ he added, and Snodgrass looked doubtful, because this was not the sort of thing you ought to be saying.

But Nuadu only looked intently at Snizort, and then said, ‘Yes. Oh yes, it has been cursed. It was cursed at the very beginning, only the sorcerers wove enchantments to keep it safe, and the sidh bound it about with their own cold magic. But then,' he said, ‘the sidh have always been loyal to the Wolfkings.’ And smiled rather maliciously at them, as if he might be saying: well? It is your turn now.

Floy, who was by turns fascinated and thrown off balance by their companion, was trying to decide if they ought to divulge where they had come from. At length, he merely said, ‘We find it — unexpected to hear stories of wolves,’ and the others knew he had been going to say ‘hard to believe’.

‘There are such creatures,’ said Nuadu, who had resumed his negligent attitude and was leaning against the tree again, his arms crossed. ‘They are rarely seen in Ireland now, but my ancestors lay with them.’ He did not say this as if he was boasting or as if he was ashamed, or even as if he was trying to shock them. He merely said it as one imparting information. ‘That is why I possess the mystical wolfblood of Ireland’s Royal House,’ he said. ‘Only those who are not entirely Human can rule from Tara.’ He regarded them. ‘That is the immutable law. I did not make it and I do not necessarily agree with it, but there it is.’ There was the glint of amusement again. ‘And the Wolfkings ruled Ireland for a very long time.’

‘Ruled?’ asked Floy, and Nuadu regarded him closely.

‘That is astute of you,’ he said. ‘They do not rule now, for they have been driven out by the Dark Ireland, by the powerful necromancers who made use of the giantish race of Gruagach.’

‘How do you know all this?’ said Fenella, who thought that although this was probably the least of all the things they wanted to know, they had to start somewhere.

‘Because,’ said Nuadu, ‘I am a bastard son of the Wolfking.’ He smiled and unfolded himself from his position by the tree. ‘And if you are really lost,’ said the Wolfprince, ‘then I had better take you to the exiled Court.’

‘If you were to ask anyone in Ireland today about the Wolfkings,’ said Nuadu, leading them through the darkening forest, his every step light and graceful but also stealthy, as if he was wary of someone or something watching them, ‘you would find that every single person would glance uneasily over his shoulder, and deny all knowledge. Everyone you asked would certainly say, as you said, Lady, “Oh, but there are no Wolves of any kind left in Ireland today.” It is dangerous to believe such a thing now, you understand.’

He looked at Fenella, and again there was the smile that was not quite human and not quite wolfish. ‘You are very perceptive,’ he said. ‘Of course there are Wolves. It is just that some are a little more — Human than others. But to say that Wolves still exist here, might be to be overheard by the Gruagach and they are afraid of the Wolfkings. They were given Tara for killing my father, the Gruagach, although they will tell you they won it by their own strength. Even so, they have it, and they will not give it up easily.’

‘Tara?’ said Floy, and Fenella half turned to look again at the shining palace across the valley from them.

‘Ireland’s great and wonderful Court,’ said Nuadu, and there was bitterness in his voice now. ‘The Court of Tara, which is sometimes called the Court of Demons, although the only demons there now are those which the Gruagach cause the sorcerers to summon for their amusement. Demons can be amusing of course. If you can control them.’

‘Yes,’ said Fenella and Floy both together.

‘Of course you will have seen Tara, and possibly it even guided you, for it is the lodestar that guides all travellers. Over there, to the east,’ he said, pointing carelessly with the hand that was ordinary flesh and muscle. ‘It sends out its beacon of light to all.’

Floy said, carefully, ‘We have heard of the Gruagach.’

‘They are rather stupid creatures, as are all with giantish blood in their veins,’ said Nuadu. ‘They believe they rule Ireland, but of course they do not. The necromancers did not put them into Tara to rule.’ He studied the four travellers in the fading light. ‘But the Gruagach will have heard of your coming by now,’ he said. ‘It is their boast that they can smell Humans from seven miles away.’ And then, on a different, sharper note, ‘You are Humans, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Floy, returning the steady regard, and putting his chin up a little. He started to say, ‘What else?’ and then thought better of it, and merely said, ‘Why?’

Nuadu smiled again, and the dusk-light fell across the upper part of his face, hiding his eyes. ‘Humans are highly prized here,’ he said, and it seemed to Fenella that he moved more quickly, leading them deeper into the forest. ‘The Gruagach will almost certainly be planning to hunt you down. You should be wary.’

‘Hunt us?’ said Floy sharply.

‘For the Fidchell,’ said Nuadu. ‘One of their grislier games. They are over-sized children.’ He turned to look at Floy again. ‘Do you not have such things where you come from?’

‘We do not have creatures who hunt people for sport,’ said Floy, an edge to his voice, but Nuadu only said, ‘Do you not?’ and moved ahead of them.

Snizort, who was trotting happily after the others, sniffing at the air, and occasionally turning round to admire the view of Tara, asked about Fael-Inis.

‘Oh, the Gruagach believe Fael-Inis to be some kind of god,’ said Nuadu. ‘They will not admit to fear of him, but they do fear him. And I do not know,’ said the Wolfprince thoughtfully, ‘that I disagree with them there. He is unpredictable and possessed of strange powers, that one. I do not think I have ever known anyone to cross him.’ He glanced at them. ‘He is said to have saved Tara in the past, and there are creatures in Ireland now who believe he will do so again.’

Floy said carefully, ‘It is very beautiful, Tara.’

‘Oh yes, it is the most beautiful place in the entire western world,’ said Nuadu, sounding bored, and rather as if he was reciting something once learned by rote. ‘And once upon a time they said that nothing that was not perfectly beautiful or beautifully perfect could ever be allowed to enter inside its doors.’

Fenella, who was walking between Nuadu and Floy, said, “‘Once upon a time … ’”

‘The words invoke a meaning for you?’

‘No,’ said Fenella, slowly. ‘Not really. But I have the feeling that they ought to.’

Nuadu sent her a sudden smile. ‘As for Tara, Lady,’ he said, ‘I go only by hearsay, for I have never been allowed inside.’

‘Why not?’

‘I am neither beautiful nor perfect,’ he said, regarding them. ‘As you have seen. Also bastard stock is never welcome anywhere and it is especially unwelcome in the home of its ancestors. I might try to lay claim to the Ebony Throne you see.’ He smiled again, and now there was no doubt about the bitterness. ‘That would be extremely awkward for everyone.’

‘But your family?’ said Fenella, unaccustomed to creatures who apparently possessed no father or mother, and Nuadu regarded her, his expression unreadable.

‘I have no family,’ he said at last. ‘My mother was a member of one of Ireland’s Noble Houses, she was a princess in her own right, and she was also the consort of the High King. But she transgressed the Sacred law and lay with a Wolf.’

Nuadu sent her the sideways glance.

‘They will tell you, in Ireland, that Wolves have not been seen since the reign of the High King Erin and perhaps they have not. But my mother travelled widely and trod strange paths.’ A sudden mischievous glint lit his eyes. ‘She was a reckless wild lady, my mother,’ he said. ‘But it is sure that my father was a Wolf, and although I am noble, I am also a bastard. Because of it, I was put out at birth to survive or die as the gods chose. The King would have welcomed his own bastard at Court, but he would never have welcomed his Queen’s. And so I grew up in the Wolfwood, where I am regarded as neither quite royal, nor quite of the people. It is a strange position to hold.’

Floy said, choosing the unfamiliar expressions cautiously, ‘But surely, if you were the Queen’s son — ?’

‘My mother is dead,’ said Nuadu in an expressionless tone. ‘She died at my birth. As for the King, he was slain by the necromancer, CuRoi. Tara no longer has a Wolfking.’

‘Had you no brothers?’ asked Floy, trying to remember what the procedure for inheritance had been and how these things had worked on earth. ‘Had the — the King no sons of his own?’

‘I had a half-brother. He was taken.’

‘Where is he now? Is he dead?’

Nuadu turned to look at Fenella, and his eyes glinted redly. ‘He is deep within the Dark Realm, Lady,’ he said, very softly. ‘He is held captive at its black heart by the necromancers CuRoi and the Robemaker, both of whom covet Ireland. He will never return to Tara; that has been ensured. For no one,’ said the Wolfprince, half to himself, ‘no one has ever been known to escape from the Dark Realm.’

As they went deeper into the forest, Fenella’s emotions alternated between fear and excitement. To read about giants and half-Humans and ancient enchanted forests in the safety of Snodgrass and Snizort’s house was one thing; to walk through a dark, old wood in company with a man who claimed to be half-Wolf and learn that such creatures did, after all, exist, and moreover were close by, was another thing altogether. I suppose I am not imagining this, she thought, sending a covert look at Nuadu. I suppose it is all happening. And then, darker and more dangerous still: I suppose he really is part Wolf?

Almost as if he had sensed this, Nuadu glanced towards her and, in the soft green light, something that was certainly not Human looked out from his eyes. As if, thought Fenella, the Wolf was waking a little more strongly with the deepening of the twilight. Hadn’t all the ancient tales warned against trusting Wolves? And, in those tales, wasn’t it always the half-brother, the illegitimate son, who was the most villainous of them all?

Surely, oh surely, you did not, if you had any intelligence, go walking into the depths of an ancient twilit wood with a young man whose eyes were dark and occasionally glinted redly in the twilight, and who moved with swift, lean grace through the undergrowth, and who had a way of tilting his head to listen to you that was definitely and disturbingly not Human … ?

The forest was quiet and brooding, but Fenella had the feeling that, just beneath the surface, creatures were stirring and waking and watching. Were they? Was it only her imagination, or was she really glimpsing three-cornered faces here and there, peering out from the trees … ?

Who are these creatures? Are they of interest to us? Are they Human? Can we use them?

Nuadu said, ‘This way, Lady,’ and stood back to allow them to walk forward to where the forest path widened.

‘Where is this?’ said Fenella.

‘Croi Crua Adhmaid,’ said Nuadu, very softly, ‘the Place of Ancient Enchantments. The Forest Court of the Six exiled Royal Houses of Ireland.’

Greenish light poured in from overhead, purple-tinged and shadowy, and the trees fringing the clearing were ancient and so immense that their branches interlaced high above them and the light that poured in was dappled, and smoky. On the far side of the clearing were caves, nearly but not quite obscured, vanishing into the deep blue shadows.

The Homes of the Exiled Royal Houses. The Forest Court of the Six Noble Lords …

At the centre of the clearing was an immense carved table; Fenella thought it was oak, although she could not be sure. But it was long and ornate, with six high-backed carved chairs drawn up to it, and the remains of some kind of meal still set. There were great silver dishes, and engraved plates, and chalices. Snizort’s eyes lit up at the sight and Fenella knew he was remembering how the medieval Courts of Earth had feasted exactly like this; in state and splendour, with elaborate cups and goblets, with flagons of wine and mead, and with great platters of roasted meats: beef and pork and venison and boar.

The clearing was bounded by twelve immense and ancient trees, and half set into the trunk of each one was a kind of rough, half-formed seat.

And then Nuadu said smoothly, ‘Allow me to present you to the Six Royal Houses of Ireland,’ and Fenella saw that six of the roughly hewn thrones were occupied.

Chapter Twelve

Fenella was not precisely afraid, but she discovered that she was extremely glad to have Floy at her side as they moved forward to the centre of the clearing. There was not really anything to be afraid of, of course. Probably these people would be very friendly and interesting. Nothing nasty had happened to them yet, in any case.

She found herself looking round for Nuadu Airgetlam who had at least been reasonably friendly. Or had he? Had he, after all, led them into a trap? Fenella caught herself remembering how he had looked slantwise at them in the Wolfwood, and said, ‘You are Human, aren’t you?’ and had to suppress a shiver.

But there did not seem to be anything else to do but go forward, and Fenella held up her chin, because even if you did not feel brave, you could at least pretend to be brave. It would not be quite as good as the real thing, but it would be better than nothing. Also, they were certainly not going to be intimidated by anyone, and they were definitely not going to be intimidated by a group of exiled half-Humans from out of the Ancient Past.

The Six exiled Royal Houses of Ireland, seen by twilight, seen in the deepening dusk of an ancient, spell-ridden forest, were cruel and beautiful and faintly sinister. Once you had looked at them, you could not help but go on looking, and once you had been looking for a very short while, you could not help seeing, without any question at all, that they were only partly Human. Both Fenella and Floy found themselves wondering about this, but for the moment, there was not time to wonder, there was only time to allow Nuadu to lead them forward and search their minds for suitable greetings.

Nuadu was looking remote and rather bored, as if he found all this inexpressibly wearying. But he said, quite courteously, ‘Allow me to present you to the Six Royal Houses of Ireland.’ And paused and added, ‘Once there were Twelve, but in the battles against the Gruagach, many were killed and others captured.’ His eyes were perfectly steady as he said this, but Fenella caught, without warning, a sudden strong emotion, and looked up, startled.

But he only said, ‘I shall, of course, present them to you in order of precedence.’

‘How else?’ said Floy blandly, and Nuadu shot him a sudden look of surprise, as if he had not expected irony returned.

‘They are all Royal, although they would argue that some are more Royal than others. And certainly some of them are of very ancient lineage indeed.’ And then, as if the subject had ceased to be of interest to him, Nuadu turned away and led them to the first of the tree-thrones.

‘Tealtaoich of the Wild Panthers,’ said Nuadu smoothly. ‘Cousin to the Wolfprince, may he be preserved, and therefore a prince of Ireland.’

‘And therefore standing in direct line to the Throne of Tara,’ said Tealtaoich, in a soft, purring sort of voice.

‘If,’ said Nuadu, his eyes glinting suddenly, ‘the imprisoned Prince, my brother, is found to be beyond our recall.’

‘Of course,’ said Tealtaoich, widening his brilliant green eyes at Nuadu. ‘Dear me, what else should I mean?’

‘I cannot imagine.’

‘Nuadu suspects me of being involved in the most sinister plots and intrigues,’ confided Tealtaoich, who was dark and slender with glossy black hair and a short, curving upper lip like a cat’s. ‘When really, I am the most guileless of creatures.’

‘And the Prince’s most loyal subject?’ said Nuadu.

‘And the Prince’s most loyal subject,’ agreed Tealtaoich blandly. ‘I cannot imagine how anyone could believe otherwise of me. Of course, people are the most shocking liars! You would not give credence to the stories that have been told of me. When we have completed our plans for regaining Tara, be assured that I shall ride at the head of our armies,’ he said. He fixed the travellers with an unblinking green stare. ‘In the meantime, whoever you are and wherever you are from, you are very well come,’ he said with sudden courtesy, and eyed Fenella rather fixedly, so that Fenella had the feeling he might be thinking: and you my dear are especially well come. This was very nearly sinister, but it would not do to appear at all disconcerted and, in any case, Tealtaoich was apparently a cousin to the captured Wolfprince and, therefore, a person of some importance.

Next to Tealtaoich was a huge, shaggy, earnest but rather friendly-looking creature, with massive square shoulders and a thick brown beard. A bear of a man, thought Fenella, and then remembered how Nuadu had seemed to pick up her thought earlier with such ease and thought she had better be extremely careful about what she was thinking.

‘Clumhach of the Bears,’ said Nuadu. ‘One of the Prince’s most useful supporters.’ He stood back and watched as Clumhach thrust out a friendly paw-Fenella thought you could not call it a hand — and bade them welcome. ‘Clumhach supports the Prince,’ said Nuadu, ‘and was one of the sponsors at his birth.’

‘He was a very lusty baby,’ said Clumhach earnestly, ‘and everyone thought he’d make a good king when the time came.’ He leaned forward, conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me,’ he said, ‘I never thought he had sufficient of the wolfblood in him to rule. It has to be very strong, as we all know.’

‘Well, yes,’ said the four Renascians, who did not know at all, but saw it was not the time to be asking questions.

‘I didn’t say anything then, because it wouldn’t have done,’ went on Clumhach, ‘and anyway, I don’t really understand these things.’ He sent a worried look round the clearing. ‘I daresay it doesn’t matter to say it now, what with the poor fellow in the hands of CuRoi and the Robemaker. Dear me, it doesn’t bear thinking about.’

Nuadu said, silkily, ‘Clumhach and I are, naturally, enemies, since he swore at the Prince’s birth to aid him at all times, and I, of course, am secretly plotting to keep the Prince out so that I can take the Throne for myself.’

‘Not true, old friend,’ said Clumhach in a deep, rumbly voice that made you think he might suddenly break into a ho-ho-ho kind of laugh and clap you chokingly on the back. ‘Nuadu likes to pretend he’s a wicked sort of fellow,’ said Clumhach, ‘when we all of us know that he has a heart of gold beneath it all.’

‘Even if it is a fair way down before you get there,’ observed Tealtaoich, who had seated himself on the edge of his chair and was trimming his nails thoughtfully.

Nuadu smiled rather maliciously and led them on down the line of tree-thrones, not in the least discomposed.

‘Dian Cecht of the White Swans,’ he said. ‘One of the Family of Lyr, and so we are, of course, greatly privileged that she has joined us. I daresay she will tell you that herself.’

Dian Cecht was, thought Fenella, rather beautiful. She was a slender, white-skinned, pointed-faced female, with long narrow dark eyes, and pale cap-like hair. She smiled at Fenella who tried to overlook the fact that the smile was somewhat chilly, accorded Snizort and Snodgrass a remote nod, and then looked with rather more interest at Floy. Fenella saw Floy tilt his head consideringly and hoped they were not heading for a difficult situation.

‘The House of Lyr,’ said Nuadu in his mocking voice, ‘is, of course, one of Ireland’s oldest families. Therefore, it was unthinkable that Dian Cecht and her son should not be a part of the Forest Court, even though they have to face considerable hardships out here.’

Clumhach said, ‘But the House of the White Swans have never been other than extremely loyal to the Wolfline, Nuadu. I am sure it never occurred to Dian Cecht to do other than be with us all.’ He beamed at everyone as he said this, as if he could not imagine anyone anywhere committing any kind of mean or disloyal, or even misguided act.

‘Also,’ put in Tealtaoich, ‘there was really nowhere else for her to go.’

Dian Cecht said, in a distant voice, ‘I care little for my own comfort. I am a simple and easily pleased soul.’ Without looking, she held out a beckoning hand, and said, ‘My son, Miach.’

‘The Court Sorcerer,’ said Nuadu Airgetlam, as one who says ‘the Court Fool’.

Clumhach, who was leaning forward anxiously, as if he was finding this part of the conversation a bit difficult to follow, said firmly, ‘He’s doing very well. Very well indeed.’

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Nuadu, and Fenella and Floy shared the thought that Nuadu’s tone was so laced with sarcasm that even the plodding Clumhach must have heard it.

But Clumhach beamed; he said they all found Miach’s experiments of the greatest interest. ‘I don’t know a great deal about these things,’ he explained confidingly to Snizort, who happened to be nearest. ‘I leave all that kind of thing to the sorcerers. But it’s a very long training, you know.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it must be.’

Fenella and Floy both smiled at Miach, who was pale and thin and — and spotty thought Fenella, in horror, because it was hardly to be believed that the imperious and icily beautiful Dian Cecht could have given birth to a son who was spotty.

‘But her son he assuredly is,’ murmured Nuadu, picking this up without any difficulty at all. ‘A mesalliance, or so I believe, with a pure-bred Human. Miach,’ said Nuadu in an expressionless voice, ‘is the result.’ He leaned back against the nearest tree, arms folded, and eyed the unfortunate Miach thoughtfully. ‘I daresay that, as a result, the White Swans and, therefore, the House of Lyr, will now become extinct,’ said Nuadu.

‘Really?’ said Tealtaoich, sitting up hopefully.

‘Nuadu has a bitter tongue at times,’ said Dian Cecht, and Fenella thought that her voice was cold and remote. ‘My family have never bred bastards, I am glad to say.’

‘Only nonentities,’ retorted Nuadu.

‘My family,’ said Dian Cecht, ignoring this, ‘is a tragic one. We are one of the great tragic Houses of Ireland. It is in all of the ballads and in all of the tales of Ireland.’

‘How sad,’ said Fenella, and hoped that she had managed to infuse her tone with the right blend of interest and sympathy.

‘The Children of Lyr,’ said Dian Cecht solemnly, leaning forward a little, and nodding. ‘You will know of them, naturally.’

‘I don’t think — ’

‘The terrible enchantment spun by the sorceress Reflection,’ said Dian Cecht. ‘An imagined slight dealt her by my family. There was an affair of the heart involved, you understand. Modesty forbids me to disclose what it was.’

‘Dian Cecht and Reflection both once wanted the same lover,’ said Tealtaoich, by way of explanation. ‘And Dian Cecht lost.’

‘A wicked and immoral creature, Reflection,’ said Dian Cecht, and shuddered delicately, pressing one curving hand to her breast. ‘But I would not stoop to her methods, I have that consolation, at least.’

Floy said, as one treading on very thin ice, ‘This would be the sorceress Reflection who presides over the Fire Court?’

Dian Cecht at once said, ‘I see you know of her. But then who does not? Yes, she rules over her absurd and vulgar Court, which she has actually had the temerity to model on Tara. And she is sought, actually sought out by people.’ She shook her head in a brooding manner.

‘She was once sought by the rebel angel himself,’ murmured Tealtaoich. ‘And rumour has it that you, also, were — ah — covetous in that direction, my dear.’

‘Fael-Inis! That charlatan!’ said Dian Cecht, and although she did not quite say ‘pshaw’, the general effect was much the same as if she had. ‘I would not soil my feet with Fael-Inis,’ said Dian Cecht with superbly regal disdain.

‘That’s not what I heard,’ said Nuadu Airgetlam, apparently to nobody at all.

‘Nuadu mocks, but he would not do so if his family had suffered as mine has,’ said Dian Cecht. ‘Ah, Reflection’s vengeance towards me for daring to challenge her was a terrible one. Both my poor dear sisters chained for ever to the Rock of Dairbhreach, and constrained to lure sailors to a watery grave until Reflection chooses to release them.’ And then, stretching out a hand to Miach, ‘My son is my greatest comfort.’

Miach looked uncomfortable, and said, ‘Oh, Mother.’

Floy took Dian Cecht’s hand and bowed over it, and said, ‘But we are glad to know you, at any rate, madam,’ and Fenella thought: I have never heard him call anyone ‘madam’ in his life! and then remembered about the thought-hearing and tried to quench this and waited to see what came next.

What came next was the presenting of the remaining three Royal Houses.

‘And they were all extremely friendly and nice,’ said Fenella firmly.

‘Of course,’ said Snizort, shocked. ‘True Royalty always is. There’s a very good story about Queen Elizabeth I — or was it Elizabeth IV? If I had my notes, I could tell you — you’d be very interested — ’

The golden hawklike creature called Eogan of the Eagles came next; his skin was not quite skin and not quite feathers. Fenella found him regal and rather remote and a bit alarming, but he spoke quite graciously, and asked where they had come from. ‘Which,’ said Floy later, ‘was really rather a difficult question to answer when you think about it.’

‘What did you say?’ asked Snizort.

‘That we had come from the Future,’ said Floy.

‘Goodness me. What did they say?’

‘That it was very interesting.’

The other two Bloodline Lords were Feradach of the Foxes, who was slant-eyed and had a silky golden beard, and Oisin of the Wild Deer, who was dark-eyed and rather scholarly-looking.

Fenella thought it was difficult to know what to say to each of these people. ‘It always is,’ said Miach, who had tagged on to the procession. ‘How do you think I manage?’

‘But you’re a sorcerer,’ said Fenella, who rather liked this word, even though she was not yet quite sure what a sorcerer did.

‘Only an apprentice.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I sometimes get it wrong,’ said Miach, and Fenella and Floy both thought that probably Miach nearly always got it wrong, but that it would not do to say this.

‘Also,’ said Floy, ‘you are one of these people. You are a — you are of the White Swan family.’ And hoped he had got this right.

‘Well,’ said Miach, ‘yes I am, but unfortunately my mother mated with a Human at the wrong time.’ And then, as Floy looked inquiringly at him, he said, rather pettishly, ‘Oh, it’s that absurd enchantment the sorcerers spun at the very beginning. So that the Royal Houses of Ireland possess what’s called beastblood.’

‘How?’ said Fenella, rather bewildered and trying to remember what Nuadu had said earlier and Miach hunched a shoulder crossly.

‘Well, by mating with the beasts under the ancient Enchantment of the Bloodline, of course,’ he said, in a where-on-earth-have-you-come-from voice.

‘Do they? I mean,’ said Fenella, ‘do they have to?’

‘Yes, of course. For the Humans to possess Tara would mean the fall of Ireland for ever,’ said Miach. ‘Tara would crumble. It’s a very old curse indeed. Don’t you know anything? The whole point of the Enchantment is to keep pure-bred Humans off the Throne.’

‘We are but lately arrived here,’ said Floy, gravely.

‘If you want to know what I think,’ said Miach, ‘I think it’s all a bit sordid, that enchantment. It’s all very well for people like Nuadu, who probably actually enjoys doing things like that with Wolves and whose mother the Queen was very wild, or for somebody like Tealtaoich, who most people agree has the oddest appetites. And Clumhach is so stupid he wouldn’t understand. But Mother’s different. Well, you only have to look at her! She would never subject herself to — Well, anyway, I think it’s an outdated convention, that’s what I think.’

‘One we do not have in our world,’ murmured Floy. ‘Oh, really? Oh, well, anyway, the Panel of Judges decreed that it was time for the White Swan line to be strengthened — they actually had the nerve to say the blood was getting thin. Thin! I ask you! And they ordered the Ritual of Mating, and everybody started to recite the enchantment and they prepared one of their stupid banquets, and everybody thought they were in for a high old time. And then, when it came to it, Mother refused to play her part. She was quite polite about it, but she simply declined to go through with the Ritual. And why shouldn’t she, I’d like to know?’

‘No reason in the world. She — mated with a Human instead?’ said Floy, once more aware that he was picking his words with care.

‘Yes,’ said Miach, rather baldly. ‘Yes, she did. In private. And so I inherited only Human blood and nothing at all of the Swans. That isn’t to say there’s anything wrong with being a pure-bred Human,’ he said hastily, ‘only it will probably mean that the White Swan House will die out now. Also,’ he added, ‘it’s a shame to lose your inheritance.’

‘Well yes.’

‘It’d have been nice to have had the enchanted blood,’ said Miach, suddenly wistfully. ‘And been in line for the Throne. That’s if the Prince is dead, of course.’

‘Naturally.’

‘If he’s inside the Dark Ireland he might just as well be dead. Anyone knows that.’

‘Of course,’ said Fenella and Floy together.

‘Anyway, I view it with the gravest misgiving, I do really,’ said Miach, gloomily. ‘It’s a hard life, you know, being a sorcerer’s apprentice. It’s even harder when you’ve been dragged away half-way through your training. There’s an awful lot I still don’t know.’

‘I’m sure it must be very difficult for you,’ said Floy, and Fenella, feeling that intelligent sympathy was required, nodded slowly.

‘Of course, we left a bit hastily,’ said Miach. ‘I had to leave all my notes and all the books on sorcery behind. And if they’ve fallen into the Gruagach’s hands, well, I just don’t like to think what will happen, that’s all. I just don’t like to think.’

‘Couldn’t you have — lived somewhere else?’ asked Fenella.

Miach glanced over his shoulder, and drew closer. ‘There was a suggestion that some of us should go to the Fire Court,’ he said, very furtively indeed. ‘But it was only a suggestion and, of course, after what Reflection did to Mother — ’

‘Of course.’

‘I wouldn’t have gone for anything,’ said Miach. ‘Even if they had offered me half of Ireland, I wouldn’t have gone.’ He appeared to consider this and to come to some agreement with himself. ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ he said. ‘Mother was perfectly right to decide to come into the Wolfwood and into Croi Crua Adhmaid. She always knows what’s best. I always do what she says. She’s marvellous, don’t you think?’

‘Fascinating.’

‘She was the one who arranged for me to go into the Academy of Sorcerers, you know,’ he added. “‘Miach,” she said, “it will be the very thing for you. I shall see to it at once,” she said. And so she did. I shouldn’t have known how to go about that, but Mother knew. And, of course,’ said the sorcerer’s apprentice, ‘of course, there’s not a great deal you can do, practically speaking, not if you’re a — ’

‘Mongrel?’

‘I was going to say half-breed,’ said Miach, rather hurt.

‘A much better word,’ said Floy. ‘I intended no discourtesy.’

‘And so I took up sorcery, you see. Mother said I should and so I did. I’m going to restore Nuadu’s arm.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, I am. I’ve been studying what to do and I shall do it. You’ll all see.’

Floy said, ‘Are you really all going to — wage war on the Gruagach?’

‘Well, it isn’t so much the Gruagach as the ones behind them,’ said Miach, and then glanced over his shoulder as if fearful of somebody listening. ‘It’s the Robemaker, really, and CuRoi. They’re the ones who sent the Gruagach to take Tara. The Gruagach would never have thought of it for themselves. Everybody knows that.’

Nuadu, who had padded silently across the clearing, and was standing listening, said, ‘Little Miach has it all worked out.’

‘I’m doing more than you are!’ said Miach, stung. ‘I’ve written some very good spells already! All you’ve done is lead us out here and set up a Court!’

‘T rue.’ Nuadu arranged himself on the ground at their feet and Fenella thought: everything he does is graceful yet I believe it is wholly natural.

‘All I have done,’ said Nuadu, ‘is to bring the Six Royal Houses safely out of reach of the Gruagach, and into the Wolfwood and Croi Crua Adhmaid.’

‘I didn’t mean — ’

‘It is little enough,’ said Nuadu. ‘Croi Crua Adhmaid is not, after all, invincible.’ He glanced behind them into the shadowy depths of the now-dark forest. ‘We shall only remain here for as long as it takes to lay our plans and marshal our forces. And doubtless we are already surrounded by the Robemaker’s creatures.’ He regarded Miach. ‘But what are you going to do, my child?’ he said. ‘Tell us of your plan to beat the Dark Ireland.’ And he leaned back and waited.

Chapter Thirteen

‘I’m going to wake the Trees.’

Miach sat back and beamed at Floy and Floy stared and thought: how the devil am I supposed to answer that one? He had drawn breath to make some kind of response, although he was later to wonder what he would have said.

Nuadu stared at Miach and said, ‘In that case, may all the gods preserve us.’

‘It’s a very good idea!’ said Miach, stung.

‘It’s a remarkable idea,’ said Nuadu, and turned as Clumhach came beaming over to them.

‘Food and wine for our guests,’ he said. ‘Come along everyone, everything is set out for you.’

‘We may live like gypsies, but we have retained a veneer of culture, you see,’ observed Nuadu, unfolding from his curled-up position and holding out a rather absent hand to Fenella.

‘Some of us have retained more culture than others, of course,’ said Tealtaoich.

‘Some of us brought a positive army of servants, with which to do so,’ said Dian Cecht.

‘That’s because some of us have loyal servants, my dear,’ said Tealtaoich. ‘I should not have dreamt of leaving my people behind to the mercies of the Gruagach.’

‘If you felt like that, you should have put up a better fight against them,’ said Feradach of the Foxes, and Tealtaoich turned a look of utter astonishment on him.

‘Do you mean go into battle?’ he said. ‘Oh, I could not contemplate such an extreme measure. I leave that kind of thing to people like Clumhach.’

‘I fought,’ said Clumhach, pleased to be able to join in this. ‘I fought very hard indeed. We all did.’

‘We lost,’ said Oisin.

‘Yes, but it wasn’t for the want of trying. In fact, we were going to call up the Beasts,’ remembered Clumhach. ‘It would have been the first time it had been done for — well, for a very long time, but we were going to try.’

‘The ancient art of the Mindsong,’ explained Nuadu to the four travellers. ‘What was once called the Samhailt. Each of us has the power over our own kind. In times of trouble we can call them to our aid.’

‘We didn’t have a chance to call them,’ said Oisin. ‘The Mindsong requires complete silence and utter concentration and we were all of us much too busy trying to fight the Gruagach. Because,’ he added, ‘despite what Tealtaoich will try to have you believe, he fought more wildly than any of us.’ He smiled at Tealtaoich in rather a mischievous way.

‘Oh, tooth and claw,’ said Tealtaoich, urbanely.

‘We all fought,’ said Clumhach. ‘I think it’s very important to remember that we all fought very hard.’

‘It’s quite important to remember that we also lost,’ said Tealtaoich, and there was a sudden anger in his voice, so that the four Renascians realised for the first time that these strange creatures, for all their rather brittle jibes, cared very deeply indeed about Tara, the Shining Palace which had been taken from them.

‘They care,’ murmured Nuadu, who had seated himself next to Fenella, ‘because they each of them want the Throne.’

Fenella said, rather sharply, ‘Do you always listen to people’s thoughts like that?’

‘If they will be of interest,’ said Nuadu urbanely. He reached for the wine flagon and filled her chalice. ‘Do you not have that power in your world?’

‘No.’

‘How dull and boring.’

‘It makes for privacy,’ said Fenella a bit sharply, because they might be these creatures’ guests, but it would not do to allow themselves to be patronised at all. Nuadu smiled gently and appeared not the least bit discomposed. Fenella, rather hesitantly, said, ‘When the- the Gruagach drove the King out, were you there?’

‘Yes, Lady.’

Fenella said, ‘If the others were going to — call up the Bears and the Panthers and all the rest, could you have called up your — that is — ’

‘Could I have summoned the Wolves?’ said Nuadu, sitting back in his chair, and regarding her over the rim of his wine glass. ‘Oh, no, Human Child, Fair Lady, I have not that power.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I am tainted stock,’ said the bastard prince and smiled the smile that was dangerous and sinister and exciting, but which did not seem to care for anything at all. ‘They would not have answered me. And also — ’ He stopped. A tiny frown touched his brow and then he said, as if it was unimportant, ‘Also, the Royal Wolves have long since gone from Ireland in any case.’ He sent her the slanting look. ‘That is what everyone will tell you.’

‘But — it is not true?’

‘The Wolves of Ireland have not been seen since the days of the High King Erin,’ said Nuadu smoothly.

‘But your … the Queen — ’

‘My mother the Queen was a very remarkable lady,’ said Nuadu. ‘She travelled to Ireland’s wild and remote parts.’ He looked at Fenella. ‘It is twenty-two years ago,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the Wolves still roamed in the off-shore islands and in the great northern forests then. They do not do so now.’ And then, as if shaking off a tiresome mood, he said, ‘But it is sure that when it is judged time for the Wolfkings to strengthen the line, by lying with the she-wolves, my family will end. The Wolves will no longer be there. And then, according to an old old prophecy, Tara will fall and Ireland will be forever damned.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Fenella, staring at him, ‘but don’t you care?'

‘I care for nothing and no one,’ said Nuadu at once. ‘Why should I? Tara is nothing to me. And Ireland is already in the grip of the Dark Realm. If you go out from here, if you go out into the villages and the towns and the hill farms, you will see that people are already being forced to make sacrifice to the Robemaker.’

‘Sacrifice?’ said Fenella, who knew the word, but had never actually said it.

‘Their sons,’ said Nuadu in an expressionless voice, ‘sometimes their daughters.’ He regarded her and Fenella frowned, because this was a totally unfamiliar concept.

‘They have to give them up for — to work for the Robemaker?’

‘Yes, some of them are chained in the Robemaker’s Workshops and forced to work there. But some are simply killed and their souls offered to the Soul Eaters,’ said Nuadu.

Again the mention of souls and their loss …

Nuadu said, ‘The idea of sacrifice is unknown to you?’

‘Well,’ said Fenella, ‘yes, it is, rather.’

‘It is something that Ireland is very used to,’ said Nuadu, his eyes unfathomable. ‘Throughout our history, sacrifices have been demanded and taken. Sometimes they are called by other names, but the end is always the same. The loss of lives, and the stealing of souls.’

Again the mention of souls and their loss …

‘But all creatures have souls,’ said Nuadu, looking back at her.

‘I think,’ said Fenella carefully, ‘that perhaps our — perhaps my people lost sight of it a bit. I think we have forgotten about souls. Our ancestors’ world was destroyed, you see, and so much was lost to us. So many beliefs and faiths and teachings.’

‘That saddens you.’

‘Yes,’ said Fenella. ‘Yes, it does.’ She looked at him. ‘We were cheated,’ she said. ‘Out of our history.’

‘To lose a thing, or even to forget about it, does not mean that it ceases to exist,’ said Nuadu. ‘Your history existed, nonetheless.’

‘Yes.’ Fenella was thinking that this question of souls and losing or keeping them was rather intriguing, but also that it might take some sorting out in her mind. But she only said, ‘What of the Gruagach. You fought them?’

‘Only to relieve the tedium of everything. In any case, we lost the battle. Allow me to serve you with some of this wild sorrel, Lady.’

The food was unfamiliar but delicious, and the wine was strong and fragrant and bore no resemblance at all to any of Snodgrass’s brews.

‘But it was very good wine,’ said Snodgrass later.

‘I drank four chalice fulls,’ said Snizort.

‘I asked them for the recipe,’ said Snodgrass.

‘How rude.’

‘Not as rude as drinking four chalice fulls.’

‘Did they give you the recipe?’

‘Well, no.’

‘There you are then.’

We are very nearly at home here, thought Fenella, listening to them, noticing how Floy had fallen into an absorbed discussion with Eogan and Feradach about the battle against the Gruagach, and how Snizort was making notes — ‘I asked if they would mind,’ he explained earnestly afterwards. ‘I wouldn’t have done it without asking, of course. But do you know, they were rather flattered.

‘They had what they called ollam at the Court; I think that means Chroniclers, but, of course, the ollam didn’t come with them into the Wolfwood. Oisin said they would be very glad to have some proper accounts of what was happening. He said all this was Ireland’s history in the making and it ought to be written down. Very sensible,’ said Snizort, happily arranging his papers and pens and the ink-pot. ‘I shall make a very careful record of it all for them.’

Snodgrass was discussing the precise ingredients of the hare stew with Clumhach and offering to cook them all his own blackberry pudding for tomorrow night’s supper.

‘I thought it would be only polite,’ he said. ‘And my word, the forest’s full of them! Blackberry pudding with apple.’

We are very nearly at home out here in this dark ancient forest, with these strange half-Human creatures …

Fenella found the thought surprising, but somehow not so surprising as it might have been. Oughtn’t they to be wary and suspicious and out of place? And oughtn’t they to be finding it difficult and awkward to talk with these creatures? But it isn’t in the least difficult. It isn’t difficult or awkward and none of it seems strange. Because we passed through so many remarkable experiences before we arrived here? Perhaps. Although I think it is more than that, she thought, curled into her chair at the table, enjoying the fragrant wine and the way the firelight made a pool of safety and warmth. I think it is simply that we were always meant to be here.

‘Perhaps you were, Lady,’ said Nuadu softly at her side.

‘Is that possible?’ Fenella would not turn her head to look at him, because that way he might see even more deeply into her thoughts. But she was strongly aware of him watching her and she knew, without looking at him, that his eyes would hold the disturbing glint and his face would be shadowed and secretive in the firelight. But, ‘Is it possible?’ she said again, her eyes on the others.

‘Time is not always reliable,’ said Nuadu. ‘It is occasionally flawed or damaged and sometimes things — people — whole worlds perhaps — are misplaced.’ He waited, and Fenella at once understood that he meant Time as a great glowing tapestry. ‘People are not always born into the place and into the age they were intended for,’ said Nuadu, very softly. ‘Perhaps that is why you are here now, Fenella.’ He smiled the wolfsmile, and his voice lingered over the syllables of her name, so that Fenella stared at him and felt a sudden dark stirring, a strong, sensual pull … How would it be to be held against him, to feel the cool silver arm imprisoning her so that she could not pull away … ? I think I had better not wonder about that, she thought firmly, and turned to talk to Oisin and Snizort.

Towards the end of the meal, which Fenella supposed they ought to call supper, there was a whisper of sound from deep within the forest behind them and the sensation of dozens of wings beating on the air and the feeling of dozens of eyes peering from the darkness. Perhaps it would be as well not to look too closely. There was no knowing what strange and sinister beings might lie in wait out there in the dusk, and there was no telling what might happen to them if they inadvertently looked on one.

Floy, sitting with Feradach and Eogan, felt, in the same minute, the stirring and the soft awareness but, unlike Fenella, looked behind him at once to the clustering trees, and caught — or thought he caught — a smudge of blue-green, wisps and curls of something that was not quite smoke and not quite water. There was a shimmer of iridescent wings, the sense of long, narrow eyes watching, of round, hard, seal-like heads.

From across the table, Tealtaoich said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Are you glimpsing the sidh, Floy?’ and Floy turned round in his chair, and stared at Tealtaoich, who smiled the catsmile, and said in a purring voice, ‘Do remember, my dear, that to look on the sidh properly, to see them in their chill and unearthly reality, is probable death and certain madness.

‘Dear me, how poetic that sounds,’ he said with lazy mischief. His eyes flickered over Floy for an instant and something that was neither lazy nor mischievous gleamed there. ‘Do not,’ said Tealtaoich suddenly and rather seriously, ‘even listen to their music for longer than absolutely necessary.’

‘What are the sidh? asked Floy, his eyes still on the drifting blue and green shapes within the Wolfwood.

‘They are the most purely magical creatures in all Ireland,’ said Tealtaoich. ‘They are believed to have served the first sorcerers of all and to have accepted the guardianship of every Wolfprince and princess ever born in Ireland. But although they nearly always serve the Wolfkings in times of war, they are greedy and merciless for the souls and the seed of Men. They live beneath the ocean in the water caves and they will try to lure you to the cold silver Court of their own King, the Elven Aillen mac Midha.’ Tealtaoich regarded Floy with faintly malicious amusement. ‘To try to follow the sidh’s music, or to try to see the sidh fully and clearly, is certain death,’ said Tealtaoich. ‘Remember that, Floy.’

‘I shall not forget,’ said Floy, but he glanced back to the shimmer of turquoise beyond the trees.

Dian Cecht, who had been eating the food with regal disdain, said, ‘It may not be the sidh that Floy is seeing,’ and turned on Floy her sombre dark eyes.

‘No?’

‘Perhaps Miach has already summoned the Tree Spirits,’ said Dian Cecht.

‘I devoutly hope he has not? said Tealtaoich with a shudder. ‘I cannot imagine anything nastier than seeing the entire Wolfwood wake and surge in upon us.’

‘Tealtaoich would tell you that the Tree Spirits are dangerous,’ said Dian Cecht, composedly to Floy, and Tealtaoich at once said, ‘I most certainly should'

‘But of course, Miach will know how to control them,’ said Dian Cecht.

‘After he has summoned them, that is.’

‘Naturally.’ Dian Cecht regarded Tealtaoich with surprise. ‘Miach is perfectly capable of calling up a few dryads and hamadryads. They will be extremely helpful to us in the battle.’

‘Battle?’ said Floy suspiciously. ‘What battle?’

‘Nuadu Airgetlam is going to rally us all to mount an attack on Tara,’ said Dian Cecht, as if this had all been discussed and agreed, and as if Floy ought to know all about it.

‘In fact,’ said Oisin, ‘the battle plan is almost ready. Isn’t it, Nuadu? All that remains is for us to summon our creatures.’

But Nuadu only said, as if his mind was somewhere else, ‘I have been thinking that there are other ways of fighting the Gruagach than riding full pelt down the hillsides.’

‘Really? What had you in mind?’ asked Oisin, leaning forward eagerly.

‘Oh, perhaps the sending in of a little decoy,’ murmured Nuadu, ‘something to distract the giants.’ And as Oisin looked at him rather sharply, ‘I believe the giants are very partial to Humans,’ said Nuadu thoughtfully, and smiled the wolfsmile.

Oisin started to say something, but was interrupted by Dian Cecht who was still talking about the Tree Ritual. ‘Miach thought it would be useful, you see. He has half completed the Ritual already.’

‘I don’t trust the Trees,’ said Tealtaoich and, farther down the table, Clumhach looked up and said ‘Trees? What Trees? Is somebody going to call up the Trees? My word, there’s a weighty undertaking. My word, I don’t like the sound of that.’

‘You see?’ said Tealtaoich softly.

‘Trees?’ said somebody a bit farther along — Floy thought it was Feradach. ‘Did I hear somebody say something about the Tree Awakening Ritual? Dear me, it must be centuries since anybody tried that? Does it still work?’

‘Rituals don’t lose their efficacy just because they haven’t been used for a few centuries,’ said Miach, rather huffily, and Feradach said well of course not.

‘I suppose we know what we’re doing, do we?’ put in Eogan.

‘Yes … does Nuadu Airgetlam know we’re going to summon the Trees?’ said Clumhach, and looked to Nuadu as he said this, and Floy received the strong impression that for all Nuadu’s brusque manner, and for all his gentle malice, these people still regarded him as their leader. Because he possessed the ancient wolfblood they seemed to set so much store by? Yes, perhaps.

‘My children,’ said Nuadu Airgetlam fondly, ‘I know all about little Miach’s games and I know all about the Tree Awakening Ritual. I derive immense enjoyment from it. Miach is welcome to call up the Trees,’ he said.

Somebody else said they would be safer with the sidh than the Trees, and somebody else said that you could no more trust a dryad than you could trust one of the Gruagach, which was saying quite a lot.

‘But they’ll be on our side,’ put in Miach. ‘Nuadu, tell them that the Trees will be on our side.’

‘You tell them, my child,’ said Nuadu, who was listening to the interchange with a malicious grin. I was not born at the time of the famous Battle of the Trees. I have not the remotest idea of how the Trees behave in times of war, or even which side they give allegiance to. Dian Cecht may be able to tell you more, of course.’

‘She may even remember the Battle of the Trees,’ remarked Tealtaoich, and Nuadu said at once, ‘Precisely my idea, cousin.’

‘I am not your cousin,’ said Tealtaoich in what was very nearly a growl.

‘Ah, the Battle of the Trees,’ said Dian Cecht. ‘Ah me, one of my family’s cherished memories for, of course, my ancestors fought at it.’

‘I suppose,’ said Eogan, ‘that we do want the Trees with us, do we?’ He looked rather stern as he said this and everyone turned to listen respectfully to him, which Fenella and Floy had both noticed they all did with Eogan.

‘I wouldn’t trust a Tree,’ said Clumhach firmly. ‘Nothing but trouble, Trees. My great-uncle Beariul — the one that married into the Jackal line — ’

‘Odd ancestors you have, Clumhach — ’

‘I’m not ashamed,’ said Clumhach, staunchly.

‘I would be.’

‘Everyone knows that the Jackals fight for the Dark Ireland,’ put in Oisin. ‘They’re very high up in the Armies of the Soul Eaters. Captains and Lieutenants and all manner of things.’

‘Along with the Rodent People,’ agreed Feradach, and both Fenella and Floy noticed that a shiver had gone round the table at the mention of the Soul Eaters and their Armies. Fenella thought it was probably only her imagination that the forest seemed to grow momentarily darker.

‘I’d almost rather adopt Nuadu’s original plan,’ said Tealtaoich. ‘The one we were drawing up earlier. Simply muster an army and march on Tara.’ He looked at Nuadu, who smiled and said, silkily, ‘But since then I have been formulating a much more subtle plan, Tealtaoich.’ And looked to where Fenella and Floy were sitting. Tealtaoich lifted his eyebrows questioningly, but Nuadu merely smiled and poured himself another chalice full of wine.

‘If we could once regain Tara, we would be in a much stronger position,’ said Oisin.

‘It would be more comfortable, as well,’ put in Clumhach.

‘But could we rely on the Trees?’ asked Eogan. ‘And could we trust them? Wasn’t there a time when they served the Dark Ireland?’

‘Was there? Then we ought to tell Miach to be extremely careful — ’

‘Miach knows what he is doing.’

Eogan, who had been looking out into the forest, suddenly said, ‘If the Trees do wake — ’

‘Of course they will wake,’ said Miach indignantly.

‘If they do wake,’ said Eogan, ‘then I think we ought to approach them fairly and openly and ask if they will join with us.’ He looked at Nuadu as he said this and Fenella noticed that, at the same moment, the others looked at Nuadu as well. They will not take any action unless he gives the word, she thought. How remarkable. And: I believe he dislikes it very much when they turn to him in this way, she thought.

Nuadu gave no indication of what he might be feeling. He said, in a disinterested voice, ‘By all means ask them. And then what do you propose to do?’

Tealtaoich said, ‘March on Tara. As we agreed.’

‘Admirable, cousin.’

‘I do wish,’ said Tealtaoich, in an irritated voice, ‘that you would not call me cousin.’

‘Do you object to being cousin to a bastard?’ said Nuadu. ‘Well, be assured, Tealtaoich, that the relationship disturbs me quite as much as it disturbs you.’ He studied the forest thoughtfully and a tiny frown touched his brow.

‘Eogan is quite right, of course. We must certainly try to enlist the Trees’ help.’

‘And regain Tara for the Wolfkings again?’ asked Tealtaoich, silkily.

‘Oh, Tara’s Throne is available to whomsoever is foolish enough to take it,’ said Nuadu, off-handedly. ‘But I do believe, my children, that before we attack Tara, a little stealth is called for.’ He looked at them and, just for a moment, something that was neither disinterested nor bored showed in his eyes.

‘What did you have in mind?’ asked Eogan.

‘The employing of spies,’ said Nuadu, gently. ‘Sending in someone-or maybe more than one someone-who can discover a little about the Gruagach’s movements and the extent of their sentries and their guards.’ He paused and looked at them, apparently waiting for some response.

‘But,’ said Tealtaoich, slowly, ‘the Gruagach would suspect anyone who approached Tara.’

‘Would they?’ said Nuadu, silkily.

‘They’re usurpers,’ said Tealtaoich, frowning. ‘They will be continually on the watch for any attempt to infiltrate Tara.’

‘And they certainly wouldn’t extend a warm welcome to any creature who simply requested admittance,’ put in Oisin.

‘Wouldn’t they?’ said Nuadu, even more gently.

Eogan said, ‘The only creatures welcome at Tara these days are — ’ And stopped.

‘Well?’ said Nuadu. ‘Do go on.’

‘Humans,’ said Oisin, staring at Nuadu. ‘Humans are welcome at Tara.’

‘Precisely,’ said Nuadu, and smiled.

There was a moment of complete silence and Floy and Nuadu regarded one another steadily.

Then, keeping his voice expressionless, Floy said, ‘You are suggesting that we go up to Tara and request admittance?’

‘Yes.’

‘In order to find out the number of guards and the times of sentry changes?’ said Floy.

‘Exactly.’

‘And there is no danger?’ said Floy. ‘Have I understood you correctly?’

‘Admirably,’ said Nuadu.

Floy was looking at Nuadu, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘I suppose,’ he said, at length, ‘I suppose we can be sure that you are on the side of right, can we?’ And smiled with perfect courtesy as he said it.

There was a rather shocked silence.

‘You see,’ went on Floy, speaking as if he was almost thinking out loud, ‘you see, we know nothing of your quarrels and your wars.’ He regarded Nuadu, his head on one side. ‘It’s all extremely interesting,’ said Floy. ‘It’s very stirring and intriguing and you have been eloquent, every one of you. We have no reason to disbelieve anything you have told us and I think we should rather like to see Tara.

‘But,’ said Floy, ‘how do we know that you are not the enemy? How do we know you are not planning to usurp the Throne of Ireland and depose the rightful King? How do we know who the rightful King is? Convince us,’ said Floy, and sat back and folded his arms.

Chapter Fourteen

‘There is only one way to convince you,’ said Nuadu. ‘And that is for us to exchange bonds.’ And then, as the four Renascians looked at him, ‘If you agree to go into Tara, we shall send one of our number with you and you, in turn, will leave one of your party behind. As bond.’

‘To be held captive?’ said Floy.

‘As a pledge,’ said Nuadu. ‘You will have with you one of our people, we shall have one of yours.’ He lifted his brows as if saying: how dare you question me?

But Floy merely said, ‘Your ways are different to ours. Perhaps you will allow us a brief time to consider the matter,’ and drew the others a little apart.

‘I think we should do it,’ said Fenella, frowning. ‘I think we have to do it, because we have to become a part of this world now, no matter how strange it is.’

‘Fenella’s right,’ said Snizort.

‘Yes,’ said Floy. ‘Yes, I think she is. This has to become our home. Renascia is lost to us, and we have to make this our home.’

Renascia is lost … Fenella felt a sudden sharp twist of loss.

‘And if we are truly to become part of it,’ said Floy, determinedly, ‘then we have to embrace its quarrels and its wars, as well.’

‘Take sides,’ said Fenella, trying the words out.

‘It seems as if it would be difficult to remain neutral,’ said Floy. ‘Snizort, Snodgrass, what do you think?’

‘I say we go along with them, but warily,’ said Snodgrass. ‘Very warily indeed. I don’t like the sound of the giants much.’

‘Half giants,’ said Fenella absently. ‘And so long as we avoid the Fidchell — ’

‘I don’t much like the sound of that, either,’ said Snodgrass.

‘We’ve only got their word about any of it,’ put in Floy. ‘I wish we knew if what they’ve told us is true. About the King — the rightful King that is — being killed, and the Gruagach being usurpers.’

‘I do think it might be true,’ said Snizort, thoughtfully. ‘I know it all sounds far-fetched — exiled monarchs and sorcerers and lost Thrones.’ He adjusted his spectacles and regarded them solemnly. ‘But it is only far-fetched because we’ve never until now encountered it,’ he said.

‘Earth did have its share of usurpers and outlawed Kings,’ offered Snodgrass.

‘So it did.’

‘And since we aren’t likely to get back to Renascia, this will be our home,’ said Fenella. ‘If there’s a war going on, we have to throw in our lot with one side or the other. We have to take sides. And if it’s a choice between giants and the creatures of this forest, and given the little we know of giants, I’d much prefer the creatures and the forest,’ she said firmly.

Floy said, ‘So would I. But one of us has to stay behind. A pledge. It’s their suggestion, and it’s reasonable enough.’

‘Well, we can’t leave Fenella on her own,’ said Snodgrass at once.

‘Certainly not,’ said Floy, and Fenella had just drawn breath to ask why not, when Snizort said, ‘I’ll stay. I don’t want to, because I’d rather come with you, and we ought to stick together really. But if one of us has to stay, I think I’m the best choice. They won’t harm me because one of their number will be with you and the giants. Especially if it’s the prince,’ he added, and Fenella looked up, because it had not occurred to her that it might be Nuadu who would accompany them. ‘Also,’ said Snizort, ‘I could listen to what’s going on and find out a bit more. That might be useful. I could listen quite openly.’

‘You’ve already established yourself as a chronicler,’ said Floy, thoughtfully. ‘And although it’s not an arrangement we’ve ever come across, it’s clear they have, and they believe it to be — ’

‘Honourable?’ said Snodgrass.

‘Honourable, yes,’ said Floy. ‘Thank you, Snodgrass.’

‘It used to happen on Earth sometimes,’ said Snizort. ‘I’ve read about it. They called it holding hostages. Countries would swop what they called political prisoners. I never fully understood it, but now I see the reasoning.’

‘If you stay,’ said Fenella, who was secretly horrified at the idea of leaving anybody behind, but who saw the inevitability of it, ‘if you stay, Snizort, you won’t be pretending about wanting to make notes and record the battles. You really will want to know about the war and the Gruagach and the Wolfkings. They’ll see that. And I think,’ said Fenella, ‘that in spite of their bickering and their odd ways, they are very sharp, these people.’

‘They would see at once if we tried to deceive them,’ said Floy, nodding. ‘Snizort won’t need to pretend to be other than he is.’

‘Well, I would like to know a bit more about how the giants were driven out of Gruagach,’ admitted Snizort. ‘And the — what do they call her? — the Frost Giantess who now holds Court at Gruagach. And I daresay, if I worded it tactfully, Oisin would explain to me the exact nature of this enchantment of the Beastline they all seem to hold in such high respect. It’d be a useful thing to know, that,’ he said, wistfully.

Floy said, ‘Then we agree? We’ll do what they want, and try to get into Tara?’ And, as they nodded, he grinned suddenly and a reckless light shone in his eyes. ‘I have to confess,’ he said, ‘that I should very much like to see inside Tara.’

‘Then it’s settled,’ said Snizort briskly. ‘But you won’t forget about being very wary, will you? Because I don’t like the sound of those giants.’

Floy said, ‘Let’s find out who their pledge is to be.’

The Court seemed to regard the pledge idea as perfectly natural and ordinary and appeared pleased, but not especially surprised, to learn that the Renascians would undertake the task of spying out the land at Tara.

‘And,’ said Floy to Fenella, ‘the very fact that they assumed we would believe their cause to be the right cause, adds weight to their case.’

‘They cannot believe that anyone would see it other than as the right side,’ said Fenella, thoughtfully.

‘Exactly. I think we’re all right,’ said Floy, his eyes brilliant. ‘I think this is the side of — ’

‘Victory?’

‘I was going to say justice,’ said Floy, grinning. ‘But we’ll hope that it’s victory as well.’

The Court were discussing which of them would go to Tara with Floy and Fenella and Snodgrass.

‘How far is Tara?’ asked Floy, as he and Fenella took their seats at the oak table again. ‘Because although we can see the lights, it’s difficult to gauge how far it actually is. Whoever accompanies us ought to know the distance and be able to lead the way without worrying about taking the wrong path.’

‘Oh, that’s not a problem,’ said Clumhach. ‘It’s quite near, anyway.’

‘How near is quite near?’

‘Well, it won’t take long to get there.’

‘If I go with them, I could lead the way very easily,’ said Eogan.

‘No, you could not,’ said several voices at once. ‘You’d be seen and recognised,’ said Tealtaoich. ‘If anyone’s going with them, it ought to be me. I’ve been to Tara more times than I can count.’

‘That’s why you’d give the game away,’ said Feradach. ‘You’d be recognised. Now if I went, I could slip through the forest and spy out the land for them first.’

‘I thought whoever went was going as pledge,’ said Dian Cecht. ‘If that is so, it doesn’t matter about spying out the land or being recognised by the Gruagach. I submit that whoever goes, ought to be the nearest to the Throne.’ Several people looked up sharply at this and Dian Cecht said, ‘I merely make the point. I do not expect anyone to listen to me, because I quite see that I am of little account to anyone.’

‘I’m nearest,’ said Tealtaoich, ignoring the latter part of this speech.

‘No, you’re not.’

‘If I went,’ said Oisin, ‘I should be quicker than the rest of you.’

‘Yes, but we don’t want quickness, particularly.’

‘Why not?’

‘We want stealth.’

‘Then let Feradach go. He’s pretty stealthy when he likes to be.’

‘I had a third cousin who was so stealthy you wouldn’t even know he was in the room with you — ’

‘It isn’t a matter of stealth, Clumhach, it’s simply that we have to send somebody who isn’t known at Tara — ’ said Tealtaoich, and then stopped, frowning.

Nuadu smiled the wolfsmile, and said, ‘Precisely, cousin.’ And then, turning to Floy and the others, ‘It seems that I am to be your companion into the giants’ lair,’ said the Wolfprince. ‘Shall we prepare for the journey?’

Nuadu padded ahead of them through the dark blue Wolfwood, occasionally pausing to tilt his head and listen, rather as if, thought Fenella, he could hear things the rest of them could not.

As if he had picked this up, he turned to look at her.

‘I can hear the creatures of the forest, Human Child,’ he said softly, and fell into step beside her. Fenella felt something unfamiliar and faintly disturbing twist the base of her stomach. ‘If you listen properly, fully, you might hear them as well,’ said Nuadu.

Fenella said, ‘I don’t think — ’ And stopped abruptly as Nuadu reached out to her and placed his hand lightly across her eyes. There was a sudden shiver of awareness and the impression of distant but strong thrumming, as if somewhere, a long way off, gentle fingers were being drawn across a huge stringed musical instrument, or as if someone was tapping lightly on a tightly stretched skin …

And beyond that, again, was the awareness of Nuadu’s closeness, the light touch of his hand on her face; his fingers soft but with a steely strength under the softness; the sharp, masculine scent of warmth and power and clean hair and, under that again, the impression of a prowling, snarling strength that might be harnessed at the moment, but that would not always be harnessed, and that would certainly not always be entirely safe …

Fenella gasped and blinked. Nuadu withdrew his hand and Fenella felt her mind become her own again and managed to say, with creditable calmness, ‘What was it?’

‘It is what was once called the Samhailt,’ said Nuadu, walking softly on again down the bracken-carpeted forest path. ‘That is, the art of hearing and feeling the thoughts of others. It has almost died out now, for people no longer trust it, and perhaps they no longer dare admit to it either.’ He sent her one of his sideways glances. ‘Once it was the sole prerogative of the Royal Houses of Ireland,’ said the Wolfprince, softly. ‘But now that it is dangerous to possess the enchanted Royal blood, it is also dangerous to possess other things. And so the Samhailt has been almost stamped out.’

‘But not quite?’ said Fenella.

‘It comes with the Royal blood,’ said Nuadu. ‘That is why I was able to lend it to you, a very little, just for a brief time.’ And then, unexpectedly, ‘It is not always an easy thing to possess,’ he said.

He was leading them farther away from the safe-feeling Forest Court now; into the twisted shadows cast by the ancient Trees and down narrow, overgrown paths. It was an eerie, none-too comfortable journey now. Each of them was aware of the night rustlings and of the tiny invisible forest creatures close by. Each of them felt the tiny wind that scurried into their faces and stirred the Trees high above them, making the leaves rustle and murmur.

‘I believe,’ said Snodgrass, in an awed whisper, ‘that they are waking.’

‘That was the idea,’ said Nuadu, hearing this. ‘Miach woke them because he thought they would aid us.’

‘Will they?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘I believe you think we shall aid you more,’ said Floy.

‘I believe you will be of immense help to our cause,’ said Nuadu, politely. ‘That is, if we can persuade you that ours is the side of — what did you call it? the side of right’

‘And providing we can outwit the giants?’

‘Providing you can avoid the Fidchell board,’ said Nuadu caustically.

‘Are we really risking our lives?’ said Floy.

‘I have no idea,’ rejoined Nuadu, lightly. ‘But I don’t think it’s very likely. You are sufficiently intelligent to outwit the Gruagach and, although I am only a bastard Wolfprince, still I can summon a thread of magic and I can certainly call the sidh if I have to.’

‘Can you?’ said Floy, and Nuadu smiled.

‘I can. The sidh are bound by a very ancient bewitchment to answer the enchantment known as the Draoicht Tarrthail, which is the Enchantment of Peril. I have never pronounced it, but I know the words, and the sidh would never dare disobey the Draoicht Tarrthail.’ He regarded Floy blandly. ‘Despite my birth there are still some things that have come down to me from the Wolves of Tara,’ he said. ‘Will you believe that we shall not go into the giants’ lair entirely unprotected?’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Floy.

As they neared the edges of the Trees, the Wolfwood became quieter and more strongly tinged with the strange dark blue light that Fenella and Floy had found so eerily beautiful.

‘Twilight,’ said Nuadu, leading them between the Trees, and nearer to the glow of light that was Tara. ‘The hour once known as the Purple Hour.’ He sent them a sideways look. ‘The hour when magic is at its strongest,’ he said.

‘Should we be afraid?’ asked Fenella and Nuadu hesitated.

‘You should be wary,’ he said at length. ‘There are many layers of magic. Some of it is good and some of it is evil and some of it is ancient. But between the good and the evil and the ancient, there are shades and half-shades, and there are degrees and half-degrees, and nothing is ever quite good or quite evil, Human Child.’ He regarded her with the characteristic tilt of his head.

‘Have the Gruagach any magic?’ asked Floy. And thought it remarkable that he was able to ask this question quite normally and quite calmly, as if it was the most everyday thing in the world to be discussing giants and their possible involvement in magic.

‘No,’ said Nuadu. ‘Giants have never had the-I think you would say the sensitivity-to harness anything magical or enchanted,’ he said, and Fenella started to breathe a sigh of relief, because if you had to be dealing with giants, it would be better if they did not have any magical powers. And then Nuadu said, ‘But they are able to command the services of those who do have powers,’ and Fenella remembered that it was always as well not to be lulled into a false sense of security. Even when it came to giants. Especially when it came to giants.

They were strongly aware of the presence of the Trees now; ‘There is a kind of whispering,’ said Floy, standing still on the edge of the forest and staring into its depths. But Fenella thought it was more that the Trees were listening and watching them. Were they? Was it only her imagination that made her catch a glimpse of eyes peering from the gnarled trunks of the largest Trees, and was it only her eyes playing tricks that made her see the slender twining branches as long arms with branchy fingers at the ends, or long flowing tresses of hair that was not hair at all, but leaves and twigs and fronds?

I won’t look too closely, said Fenella silently. I’ll remember that we are leaving the Wolfwood behind us, and that Miach will certainly be able to keep the Tree Spirits confined within the forest. At least, thought Fenella, turning to follow the others through the forest fringe, at least, I hope he will.

If the Wolfwood had been dark and rather sinister, and full of secret whisperings and laden with unseen enchantments it had, in some unfathomable way, also been safe. Both Floy and Fenella thought there had been a sense of security there; a feeling that at least you were protected by a something. Fenella thought she would not examine too closely what the something might be. But they had been safe. They had very nearly been cosy in the Forest Court.

The road that led to Tara was not cosy at all. It was open and bare and, although the Trees still fringed the road, there was something extremely disturbing about it. Several times, Floy turned round suddenly, as if expecting to see something (what?) creeping along behind them, and once Snodgrass stopped dead in the middle of the path and looked very intently at the high thick-thorn hedge that fringed the road.

Nuadu appeared unconcerned. He led them on down the road, guiding them when the path forked; apparently perfectly sure about which route to take.

Floy said, ‘You know the way well?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you told us you had never been to Tara,’ said Floy, and Fenella looked up because Floy’s voice held an edge to it.

Nuadu did not appear particularly perturbed. He simply eyed Floy with faint amusement and said, ‘You’re not altogether trusting yet, are you, Floy?’

‘Not altogether,’ said Floy.

‘Maybe you are right not to,’ said Nuadu softly and, as he spoke, the gathering twilight lay across his face and his eyes were dark and unreadable. Fenella shivered, because just for a moment, it had seemed as if something alien and cruel and inHuman was looking out through his eyes. ‘I have not been inside Tara.’ And then, his eyes still in shadow, ‘But perhaps I have been there in my mind. Perhaps I have traversed its halls in my mind and perhaps I have wandered in its marble galleries and perhaps I know it as well as if I had spent my every waking hour there.’ He looked back at Floy. ‘I have never been inside Tara,’ he said, again. ‘Even though it is the home of my ancestors, for my mother was of the ancient Royal House, and my father — ’ He stopped, and the slanting wolfsmile touched his face again. But he only said, ‘Tara is the shining castle, the bright palace of all the Wolfkings. I possess the ancient royal blood, but I am tainted stock and if I had tried to gain entrance, I should have been turned from the doors.’

‘And yet,’ said Fenella gently, ‘yet now you come with us.’

‘Yes,’ The slanting eyes were on her. ‘You see how much I am prepared to risk, Human Child,’ he said, mockingly. ‘Or perhaps it is only on account of your bright eyes.’

‘Will the Gruagach know you?’ asked Floy.

‘It is possible,’ There was the familiar tilt of his head. ‘I have the wolfmark on me.’ He shrugged. ‘If they recognise me, they will turn me from their doors and they will deal with you as they deal with all spies.’

Fenella and Floy stared at him. ‘Is that any different to how they deal with other Humans?’ said Floy at length.

‘Not in the slightest,’ said Nuadu. ‘But they’ll call it by a different name.’

‘But supposing — ’ began Floy, and then stopped and half turned. In the same moment, Nuadu whipped about and Fenella saw his right hand curl in a sudden predatory movement and his eyes narrow.

Snodgrass, who had been a little ahead, stopped, and said, ‘What is it?’

‘Into cover quickly,’ said Nuadu, pulling Fenella with him. ‘There’s something following us.’

Something following us … They all heard it in the same moment and, in that moment, knew that it had been with them for some time. There was a swirling of the shadows, a clotting malevolent coalescing of the night. Something evil, thought Fenella. Whatever it is, it is evil. It is something ancient and evil and faceless and it is creeping along the moonlit road towards us.

As they crouched in the rather sparse cover of the thin trees at the side of the road, the three Renascians tried to think that the something might be just another traveller, an ordinary, innocent-intentioned wayfarer, on his way to the nearest village, or the next township. But with the thought, came another: innocent travellers do not remain just out of sight and just beyond hearing, and just over the borders of vision. And even though Renascia was small enough to make travel an easy matter, the three Renascians understood the universal code for travellers; the almost obligatory courtesy that lone travellers, or parties of two or three, meeting on a journey, banded together, shared food, companionship, the protection of numbers against danger.

Solitary travellers did not prowl furtively down deserted roads without making their presence known.

Floy, lying in the bracken between Fenella and Snodgrass, hearing the sounds coming closer, realised that they had been hearing them for some time and glanced to Nuadu, remembering how Nuadu had seemed able to hear the night creatures of the forest so easily. Why, then, had he not heard this creeping slithering sound earlier and led them to safety? Is it a trap? thought Floy wildly. Is he about to give us up to some evil being? Nuadu was lying flat, his flesh and blood arm thrown half casually, half protectively about Fenella. His eyes were narrowed almost to slits, and he was so still that he had become part of the shadows.

Footsteps … Rather hollow-sounding. Fenella did not pause to examine why this should be so very frightening. Footsteps and a soft silken swishing sound. Silken skirts brushing the road. Or perhaps a long dark robe trailing the ground. A robe. And mingled in with all of it, was the feeling of a darkness so complete and so all-embracing, that you thought the light might at any minute be blotted out for ever. Fenella remembered, and wished not to remember, words like necromancy and sorcery and remembered, as well, that when the world was very young, there had been old and evil enchantments … And this is the world where those enchantments walked and where they might still walk.

What kind of creature prowled stealthily through the night, wearing a dark whispering Robe, and carrying with it the aura of an ageless dark evil …

Fenella remained very still and felt Floy’s arm about her protectively and was immeasurably reassured. And then realised that it was not Floy, because Floy was several feet away.

I am lying on the outskirts of an old dark forest, and something ancient and powerful and probably immensely evil is creeping along the road towards us, but his arm is around me … I am in the embrace of a wolf creature, a prince of an old Royal House, and I feel as if I was never alive until this moment …

The fear was thudding in her heart, but the delight was still pouring over her, and she felt, in the same breath-space, Nuadu’s arm tighten briefly about her. Protecting her? Or something else?

As if in answer, the fingers of his hand closed about her waist and there was a flare of understanding and of deep, primeval closeness, sudden and wrenching and — surely in these circumstances?-shocking. Fenella, briefly suspended between fear of what was coming towards them and purest delight at Nuadu’s touch, felt the misty forest blur and then right itself again.

She turned her head, and saw that Nuadu was scanning the shadowy road and that his features had somehow sharpened, so that there could be no doubt at all about his strange ancestry.

The sounds were nearer now, only just beyond the curve in the road; there was a slithering silk-against-bone sound, as if something cold and bloodless was clothed in slippery, oily satin, and, in another minute, in just another few seconds, the creature that was inside the silken robe would appear …

Nuadu said in a low, urgent voice, ‘Stay completely quiet. Do not move,’ and Fenella felt him tense to meet the danger.

Lying flat in the briar hedge, between Nuadu and Floy, with Snodgrass to the left, Fenella was chokingly aware of a thick, fetid staleness drifting over them and the sense that, as the creature drew closer, the very air was becoming fouled with something leprous and diseased.

The sound was identifiable now; a whispering slimy softness that concealed something foul and dripping and terrible … something that was tainting the air with its ancient, noisome aura, something that came prowling towards them, thinly clad in whispering softness to conceal its true self …

A monstrous, elongated shadow fell across the roadway directly in front of them, and Fenella thrust one hand into her mouth to stop from gasping, because the shadow could surely not belong to anything Human, or even partly Human, because it was so sinister, so eerie, so entirely soul-less that it was not to be borne.

At her side, Nuadu said very softly, ‘Dagda preserve us. The Robemaker.’ And, without warning, he murmured a string of words in an unfamiliar tongue.

There was a blurring and a humming on the night air and the shimmer of blue-green, iridescent wings, distant and unearthly and eerily beautiful. There was the faint, far-off sound of singing, of music so inHuman and so coldly seductive, that the three Renascians forgot for a moment about the dark, prowling evil, and the terrible shadow and the giantish castle that they must soon enter and surrendered, briefly, to the singing.

And then the shadow was upon them and they were in its darkness. The light from the night sky was blotted out and there was a heaviness on the air, the feeling of huge wings beating somewhere overhead.

Round the curve in the road, there came the hooded and cloaked figure of a thin, tall shape, its eyes and face hidden by the deep hood, a long, carved staff held in one of its gloved hands.

The blue-green iridescence deepened and the singing was momentarily stronger. Fenella thought that long, narrow, turquoise eyes gleamed from within the Wolfwood. The dusk thickened and, without warning, a thin mist-curtain of dark blue and indigo and sea-green, threaded with glistening silver veins, seemed to shroud the four travellers, so that they were obscured from view.

The dark hooded figure of the Robemaker passed by and went on down the road towards Tara.

Snodgrass made and lit a small fire and they sat round it, chilled and shaken, dusty from the tumble into the briar hedge. Snodgrass had even fallen into a bed of nettles. They sipped gratefully at the tiny but fiercely potent portions of some thick, sweet liquid which Nuadu had produced. ‘For strength,’ he said, and Snodgrass and Floy had drunk appreciatively.

The fire burned brightly, sending the creeping shadows slithering back into the Wolfwood and there was a sharp scent of burning within the smoke.

‘Peat,’ said Nuadu, regarding the fire critically. ‘In all Ireland you wouldn’t find anything to make a better fire.’ He grinned suddenly and, in the flickering light of the peat fire, he seemed very much younger and very much more ordinary and, for the first time, without bitterness.

‘You pronounced the — what did you call it? — the enchantment to summon the sidh,’ said Fenella.

‘I did.’ The grin deepened. ‘The Draoicht Tarrthail.’ He leaned back against the bole of a tree and looked at them, his fingers curled about the wine chalice. ‘The Enchantment of Peril,’ he said. ‘Once pronounced, by a member of the Royal Wolfline of Ireland, the sidh are compelled to come to that person’s aid and to that of his companions.’ The smile lifted his lips again. ‘They would not have liked doing it, because they would not recognise me as truly Royal,’ he said, ‘but for all that, it is powerful, the Draoicht Tarrthail, and they could not ignore it. It is the oldest of all the enchantments, that, and it was spun by the first sorcerers who came out of the North and built Tara, the Bright Palace, for Ireland’s first High Queen.’

He sat back, watching them, the glow from the fire making red lights gleam in his eyes. ‘I grew up in the forest,’ said Nuadu softly. ‘And I know little of my ancestors, other than what is known to all Ireland. But I am glad that I knew enough to call the sidh to render us momentarily invisible to the Robemaker. And I am glad that I have sufficient of the ancient magical wolfblood to summon the sidh.’

Floy said, carefully, ‘How did you know the words of the spell?’

‘Spells and enchantments do not necessarily have to be learned,’ said Nuadu, looking at Floy across the firelight. ‘It is not a question of sitting down with a parchment or a manuscript, and learning by rote. It is — I think you would call it a race memory. I was born knowing the words of the Draoicht Tarrthail.’

‘What is the Robemaker?’ asked Fenella, who had been wanting to know this ever since the dark silk-clad evil had passed on and vanished round the curve of the road.

‘He is a necromancer of the highest order,’ said Nuadu, seriously. ‘I do not know the details of the bargain the Gruagach struck with the Robemaker, I do not think anyone knows it. But the Robemaker is ever greedy for souls and that is why he comes out of the Dark Ireland. That is why he would have trafficked with Goibniu. The Gruagach certainly have not sufficient wit or sufficient — I think you would say — enterprise to vanquish and kill the King and then take and hold Tara. It simply would not have occurred to them,’ said the Wolfprince, and poured himself another glass of wine.

Floy said, ‘It is difficult for us to understand this question of souls,’ and Nuadu said, quite lightly, ‘If you have not the understanding, then it is something you will have to come to in your own way. It is difficult for me to explain it properly, because it is something I was born to. But believe me when I tell you that every sentient creature possesses a soul and that there are evil, hungering powers who would take those souls for their own dread purposes.’

‘Yes, I see that,’ said Floy. ‘But the Dark Ireland … ’ He looked questioningly at Nuadu.

‘It is the mirror image of this Ireland,’ said Nuadu.

‘The black and leprous underside of the world, which most people never see, but which is nevertheless there. All worlds have a dark underside,’ he said seriously. ‘Did not your own?’

‘I don’t think — ’ began Floy, and then stopped.

‘What of the Dark Lodestar?’ said Nuadu. ‘The Black Abyss that sucked in your world?’

‘Was that our Dark World?’ said Floy. And then, looking at Nuadu, ‘Is that possible?’

‘If you encountered a Dark Sun, then for sure it will have been the evil, hungry underside of a true fair world,’ said Nuadu. ‘Our philosophers and our learned men and our druids could no doubt explain it fully to you. It is an interesting thing, this question of light and darkness and of every thing having its direct opposite. It would be that Dark Sun that forced you through the Time Curtain into this world,’ he said.

‘You seem to accept it very easily.’

‘It is not unknown here, the existence of other worlds.’ He looked at Floy. ‘For you, Floy, I think the very idea holds out great allure.’

‘I should like to understand more of it,’ said Floy, slowly.

‘You should not try to understand too much,’ said Nuadu. ‘For it is told that the Dark Realms are more beautiful and more sensuous than we can imagine. It is dangerously easy to fall under the thrall of the Dark Ireland. We have ballads that sing of the Dark Fields of Enchantment and tell of how, once you have supped at the tables of the necromancers and swum in their Crimson Lakes of Ancient Magic, you are for ever enslaved. You would never wish to return to the world, even if you could do so.’

For a moment, something dark and devilish glowed in his eyes and something so strongly and irresistibly alluring showed in his face that Fenella felt a sudden unwelcome suspicion unfold: Supposing, after all, this is a being from that Dark Realm, and supposing he is drawing us deeper and deeper into its embrace, and closer and closer to its terrible powers … ? She shivered suddenly, remembering how that other Darkness had called to them on Renascia and how they had slowly and terribly become aware of it, crouching in the skies, holding out its hungering arms …

And then Nuadu moved and smiled, and a log fell apart in the depths of the fire, sending out brightness and the warm, safe-feeling peat scent. The shadows receded and the impression of something dark and menacing vanished at once.

‘My brother is inside the Dark Ireland,’ said Nuadu and his eyes were in shadow again. ‘He is held prisoner in the Fortress of Illusions, the citadel of the greatest necromancer of them all, CuRoi.’

‘Can he not be rescued?’ asked Snodgrass, and Nuadu frowned.

‘No creature has ever been known to escape from the Dark Ireland, and certainly no creature has ever been able to come out of the Castle of Illusions, for it is sealed by strong magic every evening at sunset and there are no doors and no windows.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps the offering of a soul in return, for it is an age-old law, that, the taking of a soul in return for a soul.’ He stopped again, and his eyes glinted redly in the fireglow. ‘It would depend on the soul,’ he said. ‘For my brother is Tara’s heir and, therefore, a great prize. I do not think that CuRoi would easily let him go. The necromancers of the Dark Realm have always coveted Ireland and they have always been greedy for Tara,’ he said. ‘That is why they have taken the prince. They know of the ancient curse that was placed on Tara which warns against a pure-bred Human ever occupying Tara’s Throne. That is why the Beastline Enchantment was spun, so that Tara should be ruled by creatures not entirely Human. That is how the curse has been held at bay for so many centuries.’

‘But what is the Robemaker?’ said Floy. ‘What does he do?’

‘He is a very powerful sorcerer,’ said Nuadu, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. ‘Also, he is a necromancer-that is, one who deals in the dark magic and in the forbidden power over the dead.’

‘Why is he called the Robemaker?’ asked Fenella, and Nuadu smiled again.

‘He has dark underground Workshops where he keeps the Silver Looms that weave the enchantments,’ he said. ‘Have you such things where you come from? Enchantments and spells? No? Well then, you will not know that when a spell is created, it must be woven, like cloth, on a Silver Loom. All who study sorcery can do it, although some can do it better than others.’

‘Miach?’ said Fenella hesitantly, and Nuadu laughed.

‘Miach is a child,’ he said. ‘He could not control a Silver Loom to save his life. But the Robemaker has in his Workshops the Black Looms of Necromancy, and it is there he weaves robes of spells for the greedy and evil people who seek him out.’

‘Do you mean,’ said Fenella slowly, absorbing this, ‘that it is possible to — actually to commission a spell?’

‘Yes,’ said Nuadu.

‘Oh!’

‘But the Looms must be kept weaving constantly; they must never be still for an instant for, if they were, the power they draw down would be lost. The Robemaker knows this and he is constantly searching for poor defenceless creatures to work for him. If he had seen us,’ said Nuadu, ‘he would certainly have chained us by magic and thrown us into the Workshops.’ He looked at them very straightly. ‘To be captured by the Robemaker and sent to the Workshop of the Looms is one of the most terrible fates that can befall any living creature,’ he said. ‘The Robemaker is a merciless master; his slaves must work at weaving the robes of enchantment without ceasing. For them there is no night and no day and there is only the endless sound of the Looms.’

‘Do they never try to escape?’

‘No one has ever escaped from the Robemaker,’ said Nuadu.

‘But there must be a way — ’

‘Floy, there is no escape. The enchantments the Robemaker casts to keep them prisoners are too strong. And once their bodies cease to be of use,’ said Nuadu, ‘he takes their souls and offers them to the Soul Eaters of Cruachan.’ He turned to look at them, his eyes brilliant in the firelight. ‘The sidh protected us from him this time,’ said the Wolfprince, ‘but I think it was with extreme reluctance and only because they were constrained to do so. And it is written that no one may call on the Draoicht Tarrthail more than a very few times in a single lifetime.

‘You should pray to whatever gods you have in your world that if we meet the Robemaker again, some other power comes to our rescue.’

Chapter Fifteen

The fire burned lower and there was the gentle scent of peat smoke on the air. Floy and Snodgrass seemed to have fallen into a discussion about the engravings in the Honeycomb Tunnels of Fael-Inis’s Palace, and Fenella thought that Snodgrass was suggesting that perhaps they could somehow persuade the salamanders to aid Nuadu and the others in the fight to regain Tara.

‘Always supposing,’ said Snodgrass, glancing at Nuadu a bit uneasily, ‘always supposing, that they are on the side of right, so to speak.’

In the flickering firelight, Fenella saw Nuadu smile as if this rather amused him. But he only said, softly, ‘Your friend is still very wary of me, I think. And your brother does not yet entirely trust me.’

‘Well,’ said Fenella, determined to be fair, ‘you can’t blame either of them. We don’t know very much about any of this, you know.’ She stopped, because she found herself wanting to say: and however much I trust you, Floy and Snodgrass don’t feel the same.

He heard that, of course; he leaned forward and took her hand, as he had done earlier and Fenella felt the delight wash over her again and frowned, because it was not to be thought of that she should fall quite so heavily under the dark romance of an unknown creature such as this. A piece of wood fell apart in the heart of the fire, and the light shifted, and a bar of shadow fell across the upper half of Nuadu’s face, so that she could not see his eyes. When he spoke, his words were like a caress brushing her skin. ‘You may trust me, Human Child,’ said the Wolfprince. And then, in the old, mocking tone, ‘But you already know that,’ he said, and Fenella, who did know it, but who was not yet prepared to admit it, said, ‘You don’t exactly behave as if we can trust you.’

‘No.’ He leaned forward. ‘Would you have me plead with you to help the exiled Court?’ he said. ‘Shall I beg you to give us your allegiance?’

‘Of course not,’ said Fenella sharply, and Nuadu smiled again.

‘I thought not,’ he said. ‘You do not admire weakness in any form, I think.’

‘You would never be weak,’ said Fenella involuntarily.

‘Floy is not weak.’

‘No. He will question things, however. He will certainly challenge you at every stage of this mission,’ said Fenella, mischievously pleased.

‘He is doing so already,’ said Nuadu. ‘I should not have wanted any of you for allies if you had come blindly and unthinkingly to our aid.’

‘Are we aiding you?’ said Fenella.

‘Oh, yes.’ His eyes were on her, and there was the sharpening awareness of him again. ‘Oh, yes, Fenella, you are aiding us. There is a long-held belief at Tara — ’ he stopped, and frowned.

‘Go on.’

‘There is a long-held belief that only a pure-bred Human can help an exiled Wolfking back to the Throne,’ said Nuadu, and Fenella caught her breath, and said, ‘Your brother — ’

‘He may be beyond our reach.’

‘But you think he is not.’

He lifted the warm, fragrant wine to his lips again, watching her over the rim of the cup, and when he spoke, the caress was back in his voice.

‘Would you come with me into the Dark Realm, Fenella?’ he said, softly. ‘Travel with me in the Fields of Necromancy and across the Crimson Lakes of Sorcery?’

‘I’m — not sure,’ said Fenella, staring at him, and he smiled.

‘It would be a perilous, darkly beautiful journey,’ he said. ‘And perhaps we would find our journey’s end, and perhaps we would not.’

Journey’s end …

‘And perhaps we would emerge unscathed, and perhaps we would not,’ said Nuadu, gently.

Fenella started to say something, although she was never, afterwards, quite sure what it would have been, when there was a stirring, a rustling of movement behind them in the Wolfwood.

‘The Trees — ’ said Fenella, turning to look. ‘Nuadu — are the Trees really waking?’

If he had recognised that this was her first use of his name, he did not react, nor did he betray any impatience that the thin, gently seductive spell he had been sending out to her had been splintered. He merely turned his head to look into the heart of the forest and narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes, they are waking. They are not fully awake; I think they have not been so for many centuries. But they are waking.’

‘It’s remarkable,’ said Fenella, who knew, quite well, that she had cut into his soft, alluring words, and was tom between wanting him to go on and wanting to feel safe again.

Nuadu said, with a suddenly more aware edge to his voice, ‘Come and see them.’ And stood up and held out his hand to her.

Floy and Snodgrass barely looked round as Fenella and Nuadu Airgetlam moved towards the forest fringe. But Floy said, ‘Do not stray too far, sibling,’ and sent her one of his grins. Fenella smiled, because sibling was a word that Floy did not very often use, only when he was being particularly protective and close, and she knew that Floy was wanting to tell her, without actually saying the words, that he was close by if she needed him. She did not need Floy, or anyone, to protect her, but all the same, it was a good feeling to have.

It was secret and exciting to walk like this, Nuadu’s hand holding hers, into the outskirts of the forest. Fenella had hesitated before following him. Curled up in front of the peat fire, discussing plans and strategies, she had seen, quite suddenly and very clearly, that two paths had opened up for her; the safe, familiar path which was with Floy and the firelight and the discussion about what they were going to do next. And the other path, the dark beckoning groves of Nuadu’s gentle seduction …

Because, said Fenella to herself, of course that is what he has in mind. I do know that. And stopped and looked very clearly at the two paths she could take. And saw that the familiar path with Floy and Snodgrass was not, after all, so safe, because nothing in this strange blue and green world was safe. And if I go with Nuadu now, that will not be safe either, thought Fenella. Only it will be unsafe in a different way entirely. It will be thrillingly unsafe, temptingly unsafe. And I think I want to find out what it is like to tread such an unsafe path. I suppose I could always turn back, anyway …

The dusky blue light poured in from overhead as they walked into the Wolfwood and Fenella could hear, much more definitely now, the soft susurration of the Trees. She found herself concentrating on this, because it would stop her from thinking about being here alone with Nuadu and how his hand felt, lying in hers, and whether he would move closer to her as they drew away from Floy and Snodgrass, and what she would do about it if he did.

There was a pattern in the forest sounds now, as if the Trees might be whispering to one another. As they walked, the branches were brushing neighbouring Trees, as if for strength and help. Here and there, the ground felt soft almost as if the Trees’ roots were beginning to move somewhere deep in the earth. Would the Trees truly move and wake and come surging out to them?

‘I don’t know,’ said Nuadu, looking about him. ‘Certainly their spirits will come out; naiads and dryads and hamadryads. The stories tell how they are beautiful and wild and filled with strange woodland magic.’

‘Are they,’ Fenella paused, searching for the right words. ‘Are they on the side of the Wolfkings?’ she said, and was pleased to hear that this sounded to be a perfectly natural and normal question.

Nuadu smiled. ‘They have always been so,’ he said. ‘Tealtaoich is right to be wary of them, but he is wrong to mistrust their allegiance.’ He stopped by a massive old oak Tree and leaned against it, looking at her. Fenella stayed where she was, but the blood was beginning to race in her veins and something seemed to be happening to her breathing. If she had to speak now, she was not at all sure she would be able to. She thought: this is the moment when he is going to reach for me, and this is the moment when I have to decide which of those two paths I shall take. I am not quite on that path yet, thought Fenella. I think I have set foot on it, but I think that is all.

And then Nuadu said, very softly, ‘Come here, Human Child,’ and Fenella knew that the moment was upon her and that she had still not chosen.

Nuadu smiled. ‘I shall not hurt you, Fenella,’ he said. ‘But come here and see and feel the stirring of the Tree Spirit.’ His eyes were gleaming and there was a mocking amusement in his expression. He was talking to her on two levels, of course, but it did not seem to matter, because they both knew that he was talking on two levels.

If he touches me I shan’t be able to go back, Fenella thought wildly.

And then Nuadu did touch her, reaching for her with the arm that was flesh and blood and bone; he pulled her closer, until she was standing before him, closer than she had been to him yet, and she could feel the warmth and the masculine strength and, so far from being worried now, the remembered delight was washing over her skin and nothing had felt so right and nothing had felt so natural ever before.

I believe, thought Fenella, I do believe that if he asked me now, I would go with him into the place they call the Dark Ireland. Into the Dark Fields of Necromancy and into the Crimson Lakes of Sorcery …

In the same velvet-on-iron tone he had used when he drew her into the forest, Nuadu said, ‘Were you thinking I brought you here to make love to you, Fenella?’

‘No,’ said Fenella, who knew he would not believe this any more than she believed it herself.

‘Were you not?’ said Nuadu, pulling her closer, holding her with the arm that was flesh and blood and bone, and Fenella found that she could no more resist than she could have flown.

‘The Gruagach will play games with you, Human Child,’ said Nuadu, his lips close to her ear, his breath warm and sweet and sending shivers of purest delight all over her skin. ‘They will know you for a maiden, Fenella, and that will delight them and excite them.’ He regarded her, his head on one side.

Fenella said, in a voice that was barely a whisper, ‘Should I be afraid?’

‘Of the Gruagach?’

‘Of you.’

He smiled down at her and, in the mist-shrouded, twilit forest, there was a sudden recklessness about him, and Fenella, staring at him, thought there was a slant to his eyes that had not been there before. The twisting shadows from the Trees fell across the lower part of his face so that, for a heart-stopping moment, it was not a slender, dark-haired young man who stood there, but a creature that would have high pricked ears and lean, silky flanks, and soft sable fur, and that might walk not upright like a Human, but on all fours …

‘In your world, Fenella,’ said Nuadu, ‘are there not tales that warn about maidens who walk in the woods with Wolves?’ And regarded her, his eyes glowing.

Fenella thought: he is doing this deliberately. I know he is doing it deliberately, because I can feel that he is. He is quite calculatingly letting the Wolf wake, because he believes it will lure me. And of course he is right, she thought. Even though I know he is doing it, it does not make any difference. Because the Wolf is there.

‘We do not have Wolves in our world,’ said Fenella.

‘But you know of them?’

‘Only in legends,’ said Fenella and hoped she had struck the right note; the one that said: and that will put you in your place!

But he sent her the three-cornered smile, as if he had heard her thoughts very precisely indeed, and when he spoke she was sure of it.

‘Are you afraid, Human Child?’

‘No.’

He took her face between his hands and began to kiss her, running his unharmed hand down over her body, the arm that was not flesh and bone holding her imprisoned against him, so that now she could feel the strong sweet arousal between his legs pushing against her.

‘You know what I am, Fenella?’ said Nuadu softly.

‘A Wolf.’

‘Does that frighten you?’

‘No,’ said Fenella, although she was not entirely sure about this yet and he smiled again and drew her down on to the forest floor.

I do not believe that this is happening, thought Fenella. I believe that this is some kind of dream. I am not here and he is not here and there is no forest and no purple-tinted twilight and all of this is a dream. She thought she ought to protest; she certainly thought she ought to push him away-only I cannot, thought Fenella, the blood singing frantically in her veins now, her heart slowing to a soft, sweet pulsing. She felt his hand unfasten the cambric shirt she had donned in Renascia — in another world and surely in another life! — and she felt the two hands then, one warm living skin and the other cold, silky, silver, caressing her naked breasts and then her thighs.

Delight was exploding all over her body now and there was the feel of his hand on her breasts, skin against skin — how lovely! — and deep, strong intimacy, the sudden closeness, because the soaring feeling of joy was something they were both sharing, it was like being one half of a whole, it was like completing something that until now had been only a fragment. I am moving along that path now, I have not quite reached the point where it will be impossible to turn back, but I am approaching it …

But just another few steps, she thought. Just a very little farther down the path …

There was a moment when the wolfmask lay across his face again, making it sharper, leaner … Crueller? thought Fenella, tumbling between fear and steadily rising delight.

Never that, Lady, not to you …

Fenella whispered, not wanting to break the delight, ‘You are hearing my thoughts again.’

‘Yes.’ He bent his head and there was the caress of his dark hair against her naked breasts and surely there had never been anything so immensely intimate as this feeling of another’s hair, silky, warm, against your skin …

He moved away then and there was a quick sharp pang, a coldness. But he simply discarded his own clothes, quickly and easily and without the least trace of embarrassment and, for a fleeting instant, Fenella saw him stand over her, the woodland shadows twisting all about him again, so that there could no longer be any doubt about his ancestry.

Half Wolf, thought Fenella, helpless now in purest fascination. Half Wolf and half Human, and I am no longer sure which half is in the ascendant, or whether it is deliberate, or even whether I care anymore …

The Wolf was strongly in his eyes; they were slanting and brilliant. He is no longer Human, thought Fenella, but she could not have looked away from that shining stare if worlds had depended on her doing so.

His body was lean and hard and beautiful and as he lowered himself on to the thick pine needles of the forest floor, to lie alongside her, there again was the curious, abrupt grace that was not the least bit Human.

He parted her legs gently and easily and his arms were about her and she felt his weight, strong and warm and insistent.

There was a brief moment, the span of a heartbeat, when he stopped and looked at her, as if trying to hear her thoughts again, and then she felt the thrust of strong hard masculinity and there was the sensation of falling into a whirling, rainbow-coloured well, more exciting than anything she had ever imagined, stronger and wilder than anything she ever believed could exist … Nuadu was holding her tighter and his face was no longer wolfish but suddenly vulnerable and his eyes were filled with an unexpected longing, as if he might need her desperately and as if, beneath everything, he might be very easily hurt.

Fenella felt her own heart lurch and felt a great melting and a warmth, so that she wanted to wrap her arms tight about him and shut out the pain he had suffered and the bitterness and the deep, aching loneliness …

He was moving strongly against her, but there was a gentleness she had not expected and a helpless need … Something unfamiliar and painful closed about her, because she had expected the strength and the — yes, the passion! — but she had not expected the gentleness or the need.

And then there was the sensation that they were blending into one being now, sharing a single, thudding heart beating deep within one of them … She could hear him breathing faster and there was an urgency now, incredibly laced with fear, as if he was afraid she might suddenly reject him. Fierce protectiveness arose within her, because she could not bear to think how he had been shut out and cast off and how he had lived as an exile, a bastard prince of the royal house …

Nuadu made a sudden convulsive movement and cried out softly and Fenella felt the delight explode and then a gentle, sinking sensation as if they were falling into a huge deep soft bed of feathers …

Nuadu lay watching her, the narrow wolflook still pronounced, but Fenella saw at once that the slightly cynical, slightly bitter mask was back in place, and that there were to be no more glimpses of the loneliness and the vulnerability.

But we shared it, that brief moment of oneness, we shared it, and I saw beyond the mask to the real person, thought Fenella. Does that mean anything, I wonder? Ought I to refer to it? And sat back and waited to see what he would say and what he would do.

‘Well, Human Child,’ said the Wolfprince softly, and Fenella saw that he was smiling at her and that something very gentle had touched his eyes.

She thought: I have known the creature who exists behind the arrogant and cynical prince of the Royal House.

Nuadu was looking at her with his head tilted and there was a sweet and secret smile in his eyes, as if he might be saying: we are centuries and worlds apart, you and I, and perhaps our languages are far apart as well. But still we have met on a level that does not count centuries and we have shared a world where there is no need of language.

There is no need of language …

‘Of course there is not,’ said Nuadu, and Fenella thought: I think he is telling me that what has happened between us is private and special. I’ll have to be very careful about this, she thought, because I daresay that it is not an out-of-the-way thing to happen here. I’ll have to pretend, just a very little, that I’m not in the least awed or dazzled, or even a bit bewitched. I am all of those things, I suppose, but I hadn’t better let him know. Not yet.

The difficulty was that she had no idea what kind of behaviour was normal here, or whether people did this casually. It had seemed natural and right to be made love to in the twilit Wolfwood, but it did not mean that it was natural and right. It would not have been natural or right on Renascia, or at least, so far as Fenella knew, it would not have been.

The fire had burned considerably lower and Snodgrass was jotting down a few notes which Snizort would be glad to have when they got back to the Forest Court. Floy, who had been sitting with his back against a Tree trunk, holding the stem of a wine chalice loosely between his fingers, looked round as Fenella and Nuadu walked back into the firelight. Fenella thought he looked at her rather searchingly. But he only said, ‘We are ready to go on up to Tara now, if you agree?’

Nuadu at once said, ‘Certainly, for the Gruagach will have finished their supper and be at a loss for entertainment. I daresay we shall provide them with some form of interest,’ He regarded Floy tranquilly. ‘Also,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘I believe we — that is the three of us — are now sufficiently in accord for us to protect Fenella if we have to.’

‘Yes?’ said Floy, and Fenella caught the sharpness in his voice.

‘Yes,’ said Nuadu softly, and held Floy’s eyes steadily.

Floy said, slowly and deliberately, ‘I should not like to think that any of us would go unthinkingly into danger, or into anything where there might be hurt,’ and Nuadu smiled the sudden, glinting smile.

‘No one will be hurt,’ he said. ‘That has never been my intention.’ And then, as Floy continued to regard him, ‘You have my word on it, Floy,’ said Nuadu, and Fenella thought that Floy relaxed just a very little and was aware that something had been exchanged between them both; that some kind of question had been asked by Floy and answered, more or less satisfactorily, by Nuadu.

But as they walked warily on down the road, the provisions they had brought carefully packed and distributed between them, Floy hesitated and glanced at her.

‘All right, sibling?’

‘Yes,’ said Fenella. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘I hope so,’ said Floy, and Fenella understood that Floy had guessed what had happened between her and Nuadu and was concerned for her, was concerned about her, and had only been partly reassured by the odd, two-levelled conversation. She started to say something-some kind of reassurance — when Nuadu turned round sharply, and Snodgrass said, ‘What’s that?’

Nuadu said, ‘Footsteps again,’ and tensed, ready to spring.

Before any of them could move, the long, sinister shadow of the Robemaker fell across the forest road, and the necromancer himself was before them.

There was a terrible moment when no one moved and no one spoke. Then Fenella felt Floy tense to spring, exactly as Nuadu had done moments earlier and, in the same instant, heard Nuadu begin to intone the words of the spell that would summon the sidh and knew that Nuadu’s action was the right one, because this dreadful being would never be vanquished by ordinary flesh and blood, daylight strengths.

The Robemaker, if he could be defeated, would not be defeated by physical attack.

But to Floy, still unused to spells and enchantments, physical attack was the only means to hand. The figure before them was repulsive and evil; he could feel the ancient malevolence that emanated from it. The stench of corruption was in his nostrils and in his mouth, strong and sickening, as if the door to a vast charnel house had been pushed ajar. Nausea twisted his stomach, but he tensed his muscles to spring, knowing at one level that this was a necromancer, one of the fearsome Dark Lords, but aware, on another level, that the creature must somehow be vanquished.

He leapt forward on to the hooded shape and, at the same moment, heard Nuadu pronounce the Draoicht Tarrthail.

The Robemaker flung out a hand and a spear of crimson light shot from his fingertips, sending Floy spinning across the ground. Fenella and Snodgrass, standing together helplessly, saw the gleam of white bone within the deep hood, and the malevolent red stare of inward slanting eyes without flesh or skin around them …

The Robemaker lifted his long arm again and the crimson light spat and curled like a whip about Nuadu. Fenella, unbelieving, saw the words of the Draoicht Tarrthail take shape on the air, silvery and delicate, and then melt and blur and run into nothing.

A still-born spell …

The crimson rope of light had snaked about Nuadu’s waist and the Robemaker made a quick, practised movement. At once the rope tightened and started to draw Nuadu nearer to the waiting figure, closer and closer. Nuadu was struggling and snarling and Fenella started to run forward, Snodgrass at her side. Floy, still a little way off, barely conscious from the first bolt of light, had risen to his knees; he was sick and dizzy and he was only vaguely aware of Nuadu’s captivity. There had been a moment when he had been sufficiently close to the Robemaker to catch a glimpse of a terrible, ravaged face, partly eaten away, of ulcerated bone, a gaping cavity where the nose should have been.

As his senses steadied, he saw that the words of the Draoicht Tarrthail were falling and fading and he realised that, in some way, the Robemaker was deflecting the enchantment. Nuadu was held captive, fighting the tangling rope-lights, but they held fast, bit into his skin. Floy saw Fenella tearing at the crimson ropes uselessly and he saw blood well on her hands.

Nuadu said, ‘There is nothing you can do, Lady — ’ And even at such a moment, Floy registered Nuadu’s use of the ancient, courteous title. He calls her ‘Lady’ thought Floy. And then: Later. I’ll think on that later.

He saw at once that Nuadu could do nothing, for the rope-lights were binding him strongly and cruelly and, although he had certainly never seen anything like the Robemaker before, he thought that if they could somehow disable him, they might be able to escape.

He looked about him for a weapon of some kind and snatched up a sharp stone, judging the distance between himself and the Robemaker. Nuadu was pronouncing the Draoicht Tarrthail again, and again the words formed on the night air quite clearly and then, just as clearly, died as the Robemaker dissolved them effortlessly.

And then the Robemaker chuckled and Floy felt a sick dread, because it was the most evil and the most sinister sound he had ever heard. It rang through the dark forest and Fenella thought, and then was sure, that the Trees that had been unfolding and reaching out ever since Miach’s spell, flinched, and drew in their leaves and that their branches dipped suddenly and fearfully.

For that is the terrible sound of the Robemaker, the One who dwells in the Dark Ireland, and who serves the Soul Eaters in the Cavern of Cruachan …

Nuadu was fighting the Robemaker every inch of the way, but slowly, inexorably, step by step, he was being drawn closer to the towering cloaked figure who was standing watching, arms folded, his face still in deep shadow. Floy, his earlier suspicions of Nuadu vanished completely now, drew back his hand to hurl the boulder. As he did so, the Robemaker turned his head towards him, as if to say: do not waste your energy, my poor Human victim, I am a creature of the Dark Ireland, and I dwell in the High Towers of that realm, and I can anticipate your every move with ease …

There was something so repulsive about having your thoughts overlooked by a creature such as this that Floy flinched and then was furious with himself. It did not matter that the Robemaker could hear his thoughts, it did not matter that he would be aware of their revulsion and fear. He flung the sharp-edged stone straight at the hooded face and saw the Robemaker throw up a long bony hand to shield himself. So he is not entirely invincible! thought Floy in triumph and leapt to his feet, ready to spring forward and knock the Robemaker to the ground.

And then the stone struck the gauntletted hand and there was a sickening pulpy sound, as if the hand beneath the black glove was not bone and flesh and muscle at all, but something rotten and soft, like overripe fruit, like diseased meat … The gloved fingers caught and closed about the stone and flung it contemptuously away. There was the evil glitter of eyes from deep within the hood again.

‘Puny Human,’ hissed the Robemaker. ‘Absurd, ineffectual creature to imagine you could so easily overcome me.’

Floy barely heard. He had gathered his strength again and, as the Robemaker hissed his contempt, leapt straight for the creature’s heart. At once, the crimson lights spat and whirled and Floy was momentarily blinded by the brilliance and the dark forest was lit to weird, unnatural life. There was a strong burning sensation; the feeling of white-hot wires penetrating his skin and, for a moment, he thought there was the pungent scent of skin and flesh scorching.

The crimson lights sizzled again and Floy was thrown back several feet. The sky and the Trees and the forest spun wildly all about him.

Fenella had still been trying to free Nuadu but, as Floy was felled, she ran forward at once, helping him to his feet, and the Robemaker laughed again, arms folded, his face still in deep shadow.

‘Ridiculous creatures,’ he said. ‘For although I may don the cloak of flesh and blood and bone when I walk here, in reality I am a Lord of the Dark Realm, and your blows and your stones cannot touch me. I shall not waste my powers on such weaklings.’ The crimson lights faded, and the Robemaker turned back to where Nuadu was still standing helplessly before him, unable to move. But his head was tilted in the characteristic arrogance and his eyes were brilliant with fury. He looked as if he could easily leap at the Robemaker’s throat and tear it out and fling it to the ground.

‘Yes,’ said the Robemaker, watching him, his horrid whispery voice clotted with amusement. ‘Yes, you would like to rip me open and throw my entrails to the jackals, princeling.’

‘I would,’ said Nuadu. ‘And one day I shall do so, filth. Be very sure that one day I shall do so.’

The Robemaker laughed again. ‘The threats of futility, Wolfprince,’ he said and paused, the hidden eyes inspecting Nuadu very thoroughly. ‘So,’ said the Robemaker, a lick of sinister pleasure in his voice, ‘so, I have caught a prize tonight.’ He paused again. ‘One of the greatest prizes I have caught so far,’ he said, and Fenella thought his voice sounded exactly as someone’s voice might sound if there were no muscle surrounding the lips, and no skin over the jaw and probably no lips either …

‘At least allow the Humans to go free,’ said Nuadu.

‘The Humans do not interest me,’ said the Robemaker, still studying Nuadu as if he found him of immense interest. ‘I have very little use for Humans.’ He said the word contemptuously. ‘And you have seen how easily I dealt with them.’ There was a movement inside the dark cloak and a second shaft of crimson light split the twilight and snaked about Nuadu’s features, fashioning itself into a thin cruel crimson mask that completely concealed the lower part of his face.

‘A precaution,’ said the Robemaker. ‘For although I can continue to dissolve the puny enchantment that would bring the sidh to your aid, I find it tedious to do so. You will wear the Mask of Silence until I choose to remove it, Wolfprince.’

Floy, who was standing with his arm about Fenella now, said, angrily, ‘Where are you taking him?’ and the Robemaker turned to look at Floy with a faint air of surprise.

‘He will be chained in my Workshops, Human, where he will work the treadmills with the others and see to it that the Silver Looms of Enchantment weave without ceasing.’ He studied Floy for a moment. ‘And if you oppose me again, you will be chained with him.’

‘I should kill you first,’ said Floy, his fists curling. ‘I should like to kill you,’ and the Robemaker let out his hissing mirth again.

‘Impossible. You could not get near me. You could not reach me.’

‘Do not be so sure,’ said Floy, and Fenella looked at him, startled, because even though there could surely be nothing that Floy could do, still his words held remarkable confidence.

‘I am sure,’ said the Robemaker. He reached out a black-covered hand and touched Nuadu’s upper face.

Nuadu, unable to speak, hardly able to move for the thin, glittering bonds, jerked his head back from the terrible caress and, in the uncertain light, his eyes above the harsh dark red mask glittered with undiluted hatred.

Fenella was standing with Floy’s arm about her. Seeing Nuadu like this was the worst thing that had happened yet. Even so, she thought, her eyes meeting his, even so, he is not cowed or humbled, and he is not the least bit subservient and, instantly, the thought came back at her:

Many things, but never those, my Lady …

Never that. There had even been a thread of affectionate amusement in the thought, as if he might be saying: of course he will not cow me and of course he will not subdue me.

Of course he will not, thought Fenella, torn between fierce pride and dread at what was ahead. Because wherever the Robemaker took Nuadu, wherever his terrible Dark Workshops were, they would surely be guarded, and there would be little hope of a rescue.

As if in response, the Robemaker turned the deep concealing hood to where Fenella stood, and said, ‘Your paramour will be out of your reach, Human,’ so that Fenella felt, as Floy had felt earlier, revulsion at the knowledge that the Robemaker could see with such ease into her mind.

‘He will be kept safe and he will be kept close,’ said the Robemaker, in the same fleshless, lipless whisper. ‘He will be my creature and he will work for me in the Workshops until he is bent and aged and until his back is breaking with the constant weaving of the Silver Looms. He will work until his legs are bowed and useless and the soles of his feet are flayed and raw from the treadmills that turn the Looms … ’ Once again the dreadful, bubbling chuckle rang out. ‘And when that has happened, Human,’ said the Robemaker, ‘when that has all happened — and it will not be so very long, for the creatures in my Workshops do not see the years accumulate into old age — then I shall take his soul and give it to the Soul Eaters, and his body will be flung to the River of the Dead.

‘And the baseborn son of the Wolves will never be seen or heard of again.’

Chapter Sixteen

The Robemaker had taken Nuadu, melting into the shadows, keeping them at bay with a glittering mesh of crimson lights, rendering them powerless.

And then the crimson lights had disappeared and, although the night air had smelt sweeter and fresher and lighter, they were alone on the dark road and Nuadu was gone.

Snodgrass thought there had been a mist that had come down to blur their vision. ‘So that he could get away with Nuadu,’ he said wisely. But Floy had thought it was simply that the Robemaker had gone, as he had come, in a swirl of darkness, in some terrible vortex of blackness, taking Nuadu with him.

Floy wanted to put his arms about Fenella and say that he understood that she was hurting and that he would bear it with her. If there was anything they could do, they would do it. He did not do this, because Fenella could sometimes be unexpectedly withdrawn; a shuttered look would come into her eyes and, although she would be entirely polite and even friendly, Floy would feel that a small, private part of her had been closed off.

Floy had not entirely understood Nuadu and he had been very wary indeed of trusting him, although he thought, trying hard to be honest, that this had partly been because of Fenella. I believe I may have been jealous, he thought, appalled. Am I, then, so possessive of Fenella?

He did not know. He had been proud of his sister; he had enjoyed her quick intelligence and her instinctive understanding, and he had encouraged and been interested in her schemes and her plans. It was rather dreadful to think he might have been jealous of Nuadu, who had called Fenella ‘My Lady’, and who had exchanged that look of sudden intimacy with her at the last. Well, he’ll have to be found, thought Floy. That’s all there is to it. Somehow we shall have to find him and rescue him.

Snodgrass was discussing the Robemaker with Fenella. ‘You saw how the spell — what did Nuadu call it? — the enchantment to call up the sidh was quenched before he even finished it.’ And then, taking her hand, and looked at her earnestly over his spectacles, ‘We shall try to rescue him, of course.’

‘We shall try and we shall succeed,’ said Floy, and Fenella looked at them both with immense gratitude. ‘And I believe,’ he said, looking across to the brilliance of Tara, ‘I do believe that we should continue with the original plan.’

‘Go up to Tara?’ said Fenella.

‘Yes. Inside Tara, we may learn where the Robemaker’s Workshops lie,’ said Floy and Fenella remembered that they had no idea where the Workshops were and that they had not even been able to tell in which direction the Robemaker had gone. They would have to try to find this out.

And so she said, ‘Yes, of course.’

‘We have to do something,’ said Floy, frowning. ‘And anyway, Nuadu and the others were so definite about the giants being stupid and easy to outwit. Now we have to outwit them on two counts instead of just one.’

‘Obtain the information about their guards for the Court,’ said Snodgrass.

‘And find out where the Robemaker’s Workshops are,’ finished Fenella.

‘Yes,’ said Floy, and the reckless light shone briefly in his eyes. ‘It’ll be easy,’ he said. ‘If we can’t fool a few giants, we aren’t worth much.’

Even so, they approached Tara with extreme caution.

‘Although,’ said Snodgrass in a practical manner, ‘there’s no call to let them know we’re afraid.’

‘We are afraid,’ said Fenella, staring up at the great bulk of the Castle and remembering that, no matter how dull-witted the giants might be, still they had managed to drive out the Wolfkings.

‘They didn’t do it by themselves,’ said Floy. ‘Don’t we know that already? They were simply the Robemaker’s pawns.’

‘And that other one — what did Nuadu call him? — CuRoi,’ put in Snodgrass. ‘But at least it means that they’ll know about the Robemaker, Fenella.’

‘And you can’t be afraid of pawns,’ said Floy.

‘I’m not afraid,’ said Fenella. And then, ‘Well, not very afraid.’

‘You don’t look at all afraid,’ said Snodgrass.

‘No, I’m believing that I’m brave. If I believe hard enough it might turn out to be true.’

As they drew nearer to the great Western Gate, where the soft radiance seemed to spill into the night until it surrounded them, Fenella found herself remembering that this was the place of Nuadu’s ancestors. He had never been inside it and now perhaps he never would. Was that why he had come with them? But that might mean that he had only been using them. And I refuse to believe that, thought Fenella. She would remember how he had called her ‘Lady’ and how he had been gentle and exciting, and how they were going to rescue him. They would be very subtle and clever with the giants, because giants were not really people to be afraid of. They were stupid and slow-witted, giants, and they were simply the puppets of the Robemaker and CuRoi. Once inside Tara, it would probably be quite easy to find out about the Robemaker and the terrible Workshops and the Silver Looms. They would not forget the quest for the creatures of the Forest Court though, because that was important, but they would make sure to find out the whereabouts of the Workshops.

But, said a tiny, whispery voice inside her head, but Nuadu should have been here. He should have been here with us, demanding admittance to the home of his ancestors … the Wolf prince returning … Only, of course, he was not really the Wolfprince, the rightful prince was somewhere deep in the heart of the Dark Realm.

The Palace of Tara, the legendary Shining Citadel, the Bright Castle of every tale ever told, was larger and more brilliant than anything they had ever seen.

Snodgrass was very impressed. ‘I’m very impressed indeed,’ he told them. ‘It isn’t at all what I expected. Is this the Western Gate? The one that Nuadu told us we would enter by? My word, it’s a massive affair, isn’t it? Was it originally built for giants, I wonder?’

‘I think it was just built to be awe-inspiring,’ said Floy, standing beneath the great soaring arches of brick, and looking all about him.

Snodgrass said that it succeeded, my word it did. ‘I ought to be taking notes,’ he said worriedly. ‘Snizort will be expecting a detailed account of all this, you know.’

‘Let’s get inside first,’ said Fenella, who was still reminding herself that she was not frightened.

They approached the huge iron-studded oak door which was pointed at the top and had great brass hinges and a round, carved knocker with a wolfhead carved into it. The place of Nuadu’s ancestors … What had he said: I am bastard stocky but my mother was a Princess of the Royal House in her own right … So this is truly the place of his forebears, thought Fenella, and discovered an unexpected comfort in this. Was it because within these walls, she would always feel he was not so very far away? Perhaps. And any sort of courage is better than none at all, thought Fenella.

Seen close to, Tara was smooth and elegant and still bathed in the strong, vibrant light. Floy, who liked to know what made things work and what lay behind things, thought it was some kind of inner radiance. He thought it was not artificially produced, in the way that the early Earth-dwellers had apparently been able to produce bright lights, which was interesting. And then he remembered that the creatures who inhabited Tara were years and centuries and worlds before the Earth-people who had known how to make light and heat water and shine vivid lights that meant you could see as clearly by night as you could by day.

They could see Tara very clearly indeed.

‘Massive,’ said Snodgrass. ‘My word, it must stretch for miles.’

‘It’s awe-inspiring,’ said Floy. ‘And it’s beautiful. Fenella, isn’t it beautiful?’

Fenella was standing with the other two, staring about her, her eyes huge. She said, softly, ‘I think it is the most beautiful thing I ever saw in my life.’

Set in the saucer-shaped valley, bastioned in light and bathed in its own iridescence, Tara was a fairy-tale palace, a shimmering castle, a walled city of beauty and colour and brilliance.

And it was inhabited by the usurping Giants of Gruagach. If there was to be any point at all to this strange quest, and certainly if they were to help the captured Nuadu Airgetlam, they must knock boldly on the great oak door and request admittance.

It was Floy who did it in the end. ‘Of course it was,’ said Snodgrass, ‘I was mortally afraid. I don’t care who knows it.’

‘It wasn’t easy,’ said Fenella.

‘You were the least afraid of us all.’

‘I was very afraid indeed,’ said Fenella.

‘No one would have known.’

But by now, Fenella was not as afraid as she had expected to be. Was it possible that Nuadu was still touching her mind and that he was imbuing her with his own yearning for Tara?

I don’t understand it, thought Fenella. I am not even sure if the thoughts are my own thoughts any longer. But I don’t think I shall question it.

Floy had walked under the brick arch, which was not built of the ordinary red-brown warm bricks they knew on Renascia, but of some kind of pale, smooth, faintly luminous substance. He stood squarely in the centre of the courtyard, his hands on his hips, his feet planted firmly on the cobblestones.

He was not particularly afraid, although, like the others, he knew that they would have to be very wary indeed. But he was fascinated by the remarkably beautiful place called Tara, and he was intrigued by the tales of its history. They would not forget Renascia or its people, but it was difficult to think about Renascia, lost beyond recall to them. He wanted to know more about these people and their world, and he certainly wanted to know more about Tara. Beautiful, thought Floy, staring up at it. And then: I wonder what kind of creatures we are about to meet?

There was a grille with a bell rope and Floy reached up and pulled it. A vast, rather hollow-sounding clanging sounded somewhere inside the castle and then there were footsteps coming down some kind of vast corridor. The three travellers moved together almost without realising it. For warmth? wondered Fenella, and realised, in the same moment, that it was not for warmth at all, but for security. They would have to keep very close together throughout whatever might be ahead of them.

The grille opened with a rather horrid grating sound. ‘Needs oiling,’ muttered Snodgrass, ‘Dear me, they don’t keep house very well, these giants,’ and was told to hush by Floy who was trying to gauge the size of the owner of the footsteps.

‘Giants vary,’ he said.

‘Will he be very large?’ said Fenella, who had been thinking about the height of things like old apple trees, or three-storeyed houses, or even the masts of ships; there were not very many ships on Renascia, because there was not very much sea, but there had been pictures of ships in the Mnemosyne, because some of the Earth-people had been a sea-faring race.

Floy started to say that he thought the owner of the footsteps did not sound alarmingly large, when there was the sound of bolts being drawn back and keys turned in locks. The iron-studded door swung to and they were confronted with their first giant.

* * *

Inchbad’s first thought, when the gatekeeper brought up the news about the Humans requesting admittance, was that it had something to do with the appearance of the Angry Sun. You could not always be telling quite how these things would work and it was quite likely — well, it was very likely really — that the Humans had in some way come from the Angry Sun. There was no accounting for the ways of Humans, any more than there was any accounting for Beastline creatures, although, of the two, Inchbad would far rather deal with Humans. Beastline creatures were neither quite one thing nor the other, when you looked at it plainly. Inchbad did not like dealing with the Beastline, and he very particularly did not like dealing with the Wolfline, who made him nervous and unsure of himself, which was not something a King ought to be made to feel.

He turned his attention rather frowningly towards the gatekeeper-quarter-witted, poor soul, but you could not have everything these days — and listened to the story about the Humans, two men and a girl, asking could they be given food and shelter for the night.

‘Has the Star fallen to Earth?’ he asked, very cunningly, because the Gruagach could be very cunning indeed if they had to. It was not in Inchbad’s nature to be cunning, but he could do it if it was necessary. And so — ‘Has the Star fallen?’ he asked, and the gatekeeper, who was called Balor, and who was in fact not nearly as quarter-witted as he let the Gruagach King believe, said, ‘I wouldn’t be knowing, Sire,’ but said there were two Men-Humans and a Girl-Human, and looked more wooden-brained than usual, so that Inchbad recalled the tale about the boy’s grandsire breeding from a Human, and remembered that what was in the meat came out in the gravy and thought you could always tell.

Inchbad looked to Goibniu for direction about the Humans, because Goibniu always knew what ought to be done. He was always a great help to Inchbad. He looked, as well, at Caspar, because there was a Girl-Human with the travellers and Inchbad was quite partial to a young toothsome Girl in his bed now and then. Humans were very pretty; they were much prettier than giantesses, if a bit on the small side. Inchbad would be very interested in the Girl, and perhaps something could be arranged for later. Caspar would see to that, of course.

‘Bring the Humans in,’ said Goibniu, in his rather rumbling voice and Balor took himself back to his cubbyhole by the Great Western Gate, thinking that, to be sure, didn’t His Majesty appear addle-brained at times and bethought himself of the old gossip that told how the King’s granddam had mated with one of the Ogres of Ole Acha than whom you could not get more stupid. These things often had the way of skipping a generation, but say what you liked, you could always tell the tree by looking at the fruit.

Goibniu had been rather pleased at this unexpected piece of good fortune. It was not often you got Humans actually asking to be let in. They would make the most of this.

He stood before the fire that they all liked to have lit in the evenings and hooked his thumbs into his belt and prepared to be affable. Inchbad, who was looking forward to seeing the Humans, and who was especially looking forward to the Girl, thought that Goibniu was becoming a bit obese these days. He was fond of his supper of course. Well, so were they all fond of their suppers. But Goibniu took the thing a bit too far. Inchbad had heard the younger ones sniggering about the village wenches that Caspar brought up for Goibniu and about how Goibniu had squashed three of them one night because he had rolled over in bed before they were ready for him.

Inchbad had thought this extremely vulgar of Goibniu and it had caused great trouble from the villagers who would not be letting their daughters (pretty little things) come up to the Castle to be squashed and rolled on by thoughtless giants. You might as well be baked and served up in a Manpie, said the villagers angrily, and they had actually marched on Tara by night, carrying flaring torches and brandishing pitchforks, and shouting things like ‘Death to the Giants!’ and ‘Tara for the Irish!’ and ‘No more Manpies for Goibniu the Greediguts!’ Some of them had even had the temerity to get up a Petition, which they had presented at the Western Gate, which had said they were sick of the Robemaker scouring the land for victims for his horrid Workshops and they were tired of hiding their strongest young men whenever he walked abroad and they were going to ride on the Workshops and slay the Robemaker.

This was extremely worrying, because the Gruagach did not dare to offend the Robemaker, particularly not when they were settling into Tara so very nicely and particularly when Goibniu was in the very process of arranging the weighty matter of Inchbad’s marriage. And although Inchbad had not been altogether happy about the plan to invade the south and wrest Tara from the Wolfkings, he was beginning to agree with Goibniu that matters were turning out very nicely.

To begin with, Fenella thought it was not so very bad. She thought she could cope with it. She thought she could certainly manage not to be afraid, or at least not very much.

The gatekeeper had been quite affable. He was probably not so very large as giants went although, as Floy was to say, it depended on your previous experience, of which they had none whatsoever.

Balor the Gatekeeper was somewhere around twelve feet high and dressed in a leather jerkin and moleskin breeches with the ends tucked into leather boots which had the tops rolled over. He had surveyed them with his thumbs hooked into his belt (they discovered later that this was a characteristic pose for most of the Gruagach), and he had a thatch of straw-coloured hair and rather small eyes, with a wide grinning mouth below.

‘Oho,’ he had said. ‘Bless us and save us and may we all grow to be two hundred and ten! What have we here?’ He bent over a little, the better to see. ‘Humans,’ he said, nodding delightedly. ‘By the hairs of my beard, Humans!

Come along in, do. The King will be pleased. Come inside.’ He flung the door wide and beckoned with one hand and Fenella and Floy and Snodgrass stepped inside.

Once inside, it was not nearly so alarming. The room where Balor had been sitting was very nearly normal. The three travellers, still keeping close together, thought it was furnished just as you would expect a gatekeeper’s abode to be furnished. To be sure, there were giant-sized tables and chairs and the cups and plates were giant-sized as well. But there were also ordinary, human-sized things; a rather nice oak table with carved chairs and what Snodgrass thought was called a dresser, where you would arrange your best china, or perhaps pewter or copper mugs. Fenella thought there was the feeling that the human-sized things had been pushed to one side to make room for the Gruagach’s and this was suddenly extremely reassuring, because it gave the Gruagach’s occupancy an unexpected air of impermanency. They would not be here so very long, after all, these giants.

Balor was pouring them each a thimbleful of mead, ‘For,’ he said, in his rumbling voice, ‘I daresay you’ll be chilled to the marrow and that’s a nasty thing, to get a chill in your marrow, by the great toe of the god Dagda, it is.’ He reached down and gave them each a cup of mead, and the cups were, after all, proper cups, and not thimbles, which was what they had looked like in Balor’s huge hands.

‘Drink it up, Humans, while I go along and see if the King will receive you,’ he said, and chuckled suddenly, as if enjoying some private joke.

Fenella and Floy sipped cautiously at the mead in case it might have something peculiar added to it, but Snodgrass, who was interested in food and wine, drank it all and smacked his lips and said it was very good indeed, and quite probably made from pure honey, which was extremely important when you made mead.

When Balor came back, which was quite soon, he was beaming all over his coarse red face. The King would be delighted to receive them, it appeared. Balor had strict instructions to take them straight up to the Sun Chamber which was a very great honour. And so, if they had all finished their mead and had had a bit of a warm at his fire — ‘best beechwood, and burn my bristles if there weren’t four beech naiads roasted in the process and the smell of it enough to turn your stomach!’ — he’d take them along that very instant.

There was no help for it. And anyway, thought Fenella, this was what they had come for. They had come to beard the giants in their lair. She wished she had not used the word lair because it conjured up rather unpleasant visions. But then she remembered that this was Tara, the beautiful shining palace, the home of Nuadu’s ancestors, the Wolfkings and that, surely, oh surely, nothing inside Tara could ever be truly evil.

Balor led them along corridors and galleries; through halls and chambers where the ceilings were painted with unearthly beings and the floors were etched with unreal symbols.

‘Minor sorceries,’ he explained, huffing a bit as they ascended a great, curving stairway with carved gilt balustrades. ‘They’re all over the place here. I don’t like’em a bit, but His Majesty likes to dabble a bit now and then. And Goibniu calls up the demons from time to time. Wicked sly things, demons, for all the sorcerers tell you they’re easily controlled! But the sorcerers say one thing and Goibniu says another and between them His Majesty ends up with demons dancing when they play the Fidchell.’ He sent them what Fenella and Floy both thought of as a sudden sly look. ‘I daresay they won’t have the Fidchell where you’ve come from,’ said Balor.

‘I am afraid not,’ said Floy tranquilly.

They had reached the top of the curved gilt stair now and there was a huge echoing, galleried landing, with double doors directly ahead of them, with wolfheads carved into the panelling. More of the strange symbols writhed about the architraves and Balor stopped and said, ‘Here it is. The ancient Sun Chamber of the exiled Wolfkings. The place they called Medchuarta, although I’ll lay you the fire demons of Reflection that it won’t be called that much longer.’ He threw open the great double doors and the three travellers stepped into the Court of the Giants.

Chapter Seventeen

To begin with, Floy and Fenella and Snodgrass were dazzled by the light and the noise and the heat which seemed to billow out in an immense, solid wave.

There were rather unpleasant smells in the heat; rancid sweat and stale, onion-tainted breath. Unwashed bodies, thought Fenella with a brief twist of nausea. This is going to be rather nasty. And then she looked directly ahead of her and knew that it was all going to be very nasty indeed.

The Gruagach were all waiting, standing in a half-circle about the King who was seated on a great carved Throne, on a raised area at the far end of the Sun Chamber. Fifteen feet tall at least, every one of them. With great heavy bodies and ugly brutish faces and thick, ungainly hands like blunt clubs. In the main, they wore leather boots, with the tops rolled down, and leather jerkins and breeches made of some kind of skin. Over this, most of them had put' on fur-trimmed robes, in dark reds and purples and plum colours, and the females had twisted garish jewellery about their necks and threaded pearls and circlets studded with brilliants into their hair.

They were as ugly as they were huge. Their faces were coarse and red and small-eyed. They had straw-coloured thatches of hair and thick repulsive necks and wide stupid mouths that just now were grinning and showing rotting teeth. The females had powdered their faces with thick white powder which had caked into the folds of skin, but, beneath the powder, they were still red-faced. Fenella, staring, could not decide if this was better or worse. Here and there, their great clumsy hands were curved into predators’ talons. Floy, moving closer to Fenella, noticed that one of them, who wore some kind of chain of office over a purple robe with a very short pleated skirt that left most of his crimson-hosed legs bare, was eyeing Fenella with dreadful grinning lechery and his hands were curving and flexing.

As the three travellers crossed the floor and drew nearer to the waiting giants, the giants grinned rather slyly at one another, and bent down — The better to see us, thought Floy — and the King, who had not moved, but who was resting his chin on one hand and watching, beckoned to the travellers to come nearer. His hand was fat and podgy and the nails were curved and thick and looked as if they might be made of horn.

‘We shall not hurt you, Humans,’ said the one with the chain of office and the giant who occupied the Throne, who had elaborately curled hair that made him look stupider than the rest, said at once, ‘We do not hurt Humans, you know,’ and a rather sinister laugh went round the watching circle.

Floy felt Fenella shiver, and he stepped forward, and said, ‘We bid you welcome, Your Majesty,’ and eyed the giants very directly, and supposed that this would be an acceptable form of greeting. Slow, thought Floy, studying them covertly. Brutish. Yes, I do believe that if they show themselves hostile, we could outwit them. The King looks mild enough and as if he might be persuaded one way or the other. But I don’t trust that one with the purple robe and the heavy gold chain, thought Floy, glancing sideways to where Goibniu stood at Inchbad’s side. I believe he’d have us all in the dungeons or into the sculleries before we could turn round.

Goibniu had come forward to meet the travellers, smiling with his wide, flat mouth. He bent down to take Floy’s hand in his own, the golden chain of his office swinging and clanking about his neck.

‘You are very welcome at Tara,’ he said and straightened up and eyed Fenella with his small hot eyes. ‘Dear me, it’s a very long time since we could welcome Human travellers to our supper table, is it not, Sire?’

At once the King said eagerly, ‘My word, it is.’ And, leaning forward, said, rather anxiously, ‘I wonder, are you anything to do with the Feargach Grian?

Floy felt the waiting silence descend on the Sun Chamber and guessed at once that the Gruagach had seen the Angry Sun and that they had woven stories about it, as Fael-Inis had said they would. He drew in a deep breath, because surely this was something they could turn to their advantage.

‘We have travelled with the Sun,’ he said at last and saw at once that they drew back a little. Good! thought Floy. He felt an unexpected surge of confidence and felt, in the same moment, the identical emotion from Fenella and with it a shared thought: We can beat these great stupid giants with ease!

‘At times,’ said Floy, his mind vividly alive, searching deep into his memory for help, ‘at times, we have followed the flaming fire that in our world is called the Angry Sun and at other times, it has followed us.’ He looked at them and thought: well, that’s shaken them a bit at any rate! I believe they won’t quite know what standing to accord us now! And stood his ground and waited to see what they would do next.

Inchbad was rather impressed by Floy. Indeed he was very impressed by three Human travellers who might have come from anywhere at all but who had, apparently, come, in some inexplicable manner, from the Feargach Grian itself. He thought that this might very well turn out to be quite a solemn occasion, because it was not often you met Humans (were they truly Humans?) who had travelled from another world in the Feargach Grian.

Inchbad looked to Goibniu, because Goibniu usually knew what to say on these occasions, but Goibniu was staring at the Girl, pretty creature she was as well, and clearly the only thing that Goibniu was thinking about just now was sending Caspar to bring the Girl to his bedchamber later on. Inchbad hoped that Goibniu would not roll on this one before they had had a chance to find out a bit more about the Feargach Grian and the world that the Humans might come from. It was quite important to keep your mind open and learn about other worlds. And so he leaned closer to the Humans and said, very cunningly, ‘And what is it like inside the Feargach Grian? and sat back, pleased with himself, and pleased to note that the Court was looking at him with respect and nodding at one another. Arca Dubh had dug Goll the Gorm in the ribs and looked as if he might be saying hadn’t the King the way of cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

Floy said, clearly and loudly, ‘To journey inside the Angry Sun, the legendary and eternal Feargach Grian, is the most remarkable thing you would ever know, Your Majesty,’ and grinned. Then he turned to wink, in the most casual way imaginable, at one of the giantesses, who looked taken aback and then simpered and twisted the rope of pearls she wore about her fingers and hunched a shoulder, coyly.

Floy said, ‘You are an unusual race, Your Majesty,’ as if he was considering the Gruagach rather in the manner of one who might collect weird specimens. And then, to strengthen this impression, he turned to Fenella and Snodgrass. ‘I do not think we have met a more unusual?’ he said.

‘Well, no,’ said Snodgrass, gamely joining in.

‘There were the Star People,’ said Fenella, plundering her mind for any snippet and tag-end of legend that might help them and that might intrigue the giants further. ‘But of course, they were filled with the — the Magic of the Far Skies. You can’t really count them,’ said Fenella firmly.

‘Nor you can,’ said Floy, and sent Fenella one of his grins, so that Fenella knew that Floy believed that to fascinate and dazzle these fearsome creatures might very well be their salvation.

‘And there were the people of the Fire Court,’ said Fenella, remembering that this had been discussed in the Wolfwood.

At once, a murmur of interest went round, because wasn’t the King actually negotiating for an alliance with the daughter of Reflection who presided over the Fire Court.

Goibniu said, ‘You have visited the Fire Court?’ and the tiny pig-eyes were shrewd.

‘We were honoured guests of Reflection,’ said Floy, unblushingly.

‘But,’ put in Fenella, who was finding it remarkably easy to maintain this pretence, ‘we are, of course, pledged to secrecy about its people. ‘

‘You will know why,’ said Floy, in the sort of confidential tone that is hardly ever questioned. He grinned at the simpering giantess again, who giggled and nudged her neighbours.

‘Yes,’ said Inchbad, staring at Floy. ‘Yes, to be sure we will.’ And hoped that this sounded convincing, because of course it would not do for them to let these rather unexpected Humans suspect that they did not know very much about the Fire Court. Well, if the truth were to be told, they knew nothing at all.

Goibniu did not like Humans (except for use in the Fidchell of course), but he was finding Floy and Fenella a bit out of the usual run. He stroked his chin and thought that, although they would certainly put these three to the heated squares, if they did indeed know the Fire Court they might be very useful in an unexpected manner.

Goibniu had intended to send a deputation to the Fire Court, with what was really a very generous offer of a marriage settlement for Reflection’s daughter Flame. The King had been very pleased with it, although one or two of the younger ones (Goll the Gorm had been particularly obstructive) had questioned whether they really needed to give away quite so much and whether they really needed to commission the Gnomes of Gallan to fashion a complete set of Royal raiments for Flame. Goibniu had squashed such rebelliousness at once, of course, and the Gnomes had been given the commission. If these three had, in truth, been guests of Reflection, and if they really did know the Fire Court, it was something they might very well make use of.

So Goibniu smiled kindly at Floy and Fenella and the odd-looking person who was with them and said they’d be bound to be cold and tired after their journey; he’d heard that the Feargach Grian could be a wearisome thing to deal with. They would be most welcome to a bed for the night. And pretended not to hear the chuckles that went round because, as a general rule, when Goibniu offered a bed for the night to Humans, he meant a bed in the dungeons for the Men and a share of his own bed for the Girls. The giants rubbed their hands with delight and nodded to one another, because nobody had expected to have such a catch of Humans so quickly after the last celebrating of the Fidchell. One or two of the younger ones thought it was a pity they had not saved the first batch, because with these three added to it, it would have made for a much better game and certainly more strongly flavoured Manpies, but the older ones said no, wasn’t it better by far to be able to celebrate two Fidchells within days of each other.

Caspar was summoned from wherever he had been to take the guests to two of the bed-chambers.

‘And then,’ said Goibniu, who was beginning to suspect Caspar of not being as zealous as he might be in his duties, ‘and then, good Caspar, perhaps it is time that you arranged that other little matter we spoke of?’

‘Oh, very well,’ said Caspar, who knew perfectly well that the other little matter was the searching out of more Humans who might have been in the Angry Sun, but who had been hoping to avoid this.

‘But before that, you must of course, settle our guests into the nicest of our rooms,’ said Goibniu, reaching down again, unable to resist just pinching Fenella’s cheek. Fenella gasped and just managed not to flinch, because Goibniu’s finger felt bristly and scratchy and leathery like the hide of a very old pig and altogether horrid. But clearly it was important not to show any discourtesy to these people and so Fenella smiled up at him.

‘You are very kind,’ said Floy, who had seen the pinch and felt Fenella’s repressed distaste. He would have liked to leap at the gross ugly creature and drive a sword into him, but since this was impossible, he merely said, ‘We should be glad of a night’s rest.’

‘And after that,’ said Goibniu, with a glance at the King, ‘I think we may have a task for you.’ And beamed again.

‘I think you’d better be careful,’ said Caspar, leading them through a bewildering array of rooms and galleries and halls.

‘They seem friendly enough,’ said Floy cautiously, in case Caspar might be in league with the giants.

‘They’re giving us a bed for the night anyway,’ said Snodgrass, and Caspar looked at them.

‘Don’t you know, don’t any of you know that when giants give a task to anyone, and when giants — any giants — show friendliness to Humans it is very dangerous. In fact, it’s extremely dangerous,’ said Caspar, scurrying along through the brightly lit halls where once Nuadu Airgetlam’s ancestors had held court and where once the entire western world had flocked.

Snodgrass wanted to know why.

‘Well,’ said Caspar, with a warning glance to Fenella, ‘they’re partial to Humans in rather sinister ways, if you take my meaning.’

‘What sort of ways?’

Caspar said ‘Oh, really!’ in an exasperated voice. ‘Where have you come from?’ he said, and then at once, ‘And don’t say the Feargach Grian, because don’t we all of us know that nobody really comes from that. At least, those of us with any wits know it. Giants,’ said Caspar knowledgeably, ‘aren’t particularly clever, you see.’

‘No?’ said Snodgrass, who was saving this all up to tell Snizort later on.

‘They’re very stupid indeed,’ said Caspar, hurrying across a huge, galleried landing with a marble floor and queerly shaped wall sconces. ‘That’s why most Humans can outwit them. Dear me,’ he said, stopping outside two carved doors, ‘dear me, how do you suppose I’ve been coping with them since they came to Tara?’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Fenella, ‘but what are you exactly? I mean, what is your position here?’

‘I’m a pimp,’ said Caspar, tucking his chins into his neck solemnly. Tm not especially proud of it, but there it is.’ And then, seeing Fenella's lack of comprehension, ‘I procure girls for them,’ he said.

‘Oh!’

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ said Caspar, a bit more loudly than he intended. ‘I did it for the Court -I mean the proper Court and I might say that pimping for the High King — the true High King that is — has always been considered rather an honourable profession. Not that the Wolfkings ever needed much assistance in that direction, of course, because there's a saying that they had only to lift a finger and half the females in Ireland would lie down and — But I'm forgetting my company,’ said Caspar, with a belated look at Fenella. ‘It's all this living so close to Inchbad’s people. It coarsens you.

‘Anyway,’ he went on, opening elaborate, carved doors with the wolf emblem engraved on them and brass wolfhead handles, ‘anyway, the Gruagach inherited me.'

‘Yes.'

‘And you needn't think it's an easy task,’ said Caspar, crossly, who had been saying this to people at regular intervals ever since the Gruagach came storming down out of the North and took everyone by surprise. ‘You needn’t think it’s all poteen and parties.’

‘Of course not,' said Floy and Snodgrass politely.

‘I dislike it very much,' said Caspar, glaring at them. ‘And if anyone can tell me how I can get out of it, I'd be very glad to know.’

‘Couldn’t you simply walk out?’ asked Floy and Caspar, who had been unlatching the door of the first bedchamber, turned round to stare at him.

‘Where would I go?’ he said. ‘Wherever I went, they'd catch up with me. Ever since CuRoi and the Robemaker put the Gruagach into Tara, every single house for miles around — probably all of Ireland really — is visited on a regular basis.’

‘Why?’ said Floy, because they had to learn as much as they could. ‘Why is that?’

‘So that the Robemaker can be sure he’s being given all the finest young men to work his Looms, of course,’ said Caspar, shaking his head in sorrow at people who did not know something so basic. ‘He’s taken a great many as it is but, of course, nobody lasts long inside the workshops. Also,’ said Caspar, warming to his theme, ‘also, have you ever tried to walk away from a giant?’

‘Well, no.’

‘I thought not. They’d catch up with me inside of ten minutes. Even now, when they’re sending me out down into the valley to see if there’s any Humans they’ve missed from the Angry Sun, even then, they’ll post sentries to be sure I don’t stay away too long.’

‘How terrible,’ said Fenella, sympathetically, wondering whether this might be the time to ask about sentries and guards.

‘They’d simply stride down to the village and pluck me out of hiding if I tried to get away,’ said Caspar. ‘And then, of course, we all know what they’d do with me.’

‘What?’ said Fenella and Snodgrass together.

‘They’d eat me,’ said Caspar, and Fenella turned so pale that Floy reached out for her in case she fainted.

‘Or,’ said Caspar with relish, ‘they’d give me to the Robemaker for his Workshop. And, on balance, I don’t know but what I wouldn’t prefer to be eaten, really.’

Snodgrass said, ‘Dear me,’ and peered over his spectacles.

‘As it is,’ said Caspar, ‘I’m of some use to them. They think I’m better at catching Humans for the Fidchell than they are. Which is perfectly true. I am better.’ He glanced over his shoulder, and then drew nearer. ‘I manage to let most of them go,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Only the Gruagach don’t know that. If they did, I’d be Manpie for certain.’

‘But,’ said Floy slowly, ‘didn’t you say that giants could usually be outwitted? Can’t you think of a way to escape them?’

‘Can you think of one?’ asked Caspar. ‘No, and no more can I. And I have to eat, you know,’ he said, crossly. ‘People forget that people have to eat.’

‘Especially giants,’ murmured Floy and Caspar looked at him sharply in case this was meant to be derisive. But Floy smiled back guilelessly and Caspar hunched one shoulder and turned his back, because it was not worth worrying about.

‘Here’s your rooms,’ he said, throwing open the second door. ‘I’ll leave you to sort yourselves out. I’m off into the valley, now. They’ll expect me to be back before dawn with any captives. I suppose there weren’t any others with you, were there? No, I didn’t think there were. And, even if there were, you’d be as well not to tell me. I do try to spare people where I can, well, I told you that. But I have to go through the motions.’

‘You have to eat,’ said Floy and Caspar shot him a suspicious look.

‘If I were you,’ he said, ‘I’d try to find a way out and see if you can’t be off into hiding somewhere. Couldn’t you just get back into the Feargach Grian and be off? It’d be far better for you. Because otherwise,’ said the giants’ procurer, ‘otherwise, they’ll have the Fidchell board out again, and there’ll be Manpies on the supper table tomorrow night.’ With which he took himself off, because if he had stayed, he might have fallen into conversation with these three travellers and, if he had done that, he might have found himself rather liking them. And say what you wished, it was entirely pointless to make friends of any Humans who landed themselves in the Gruagach’s hands.

The rooms were very comfortable indeed. There was a connecting door between them: ‘Safer,’ said Snodgrass nodding. ‘Floy and I can have this room and Fenella will be just through there.’

‘They’re very lavish,’ said Fenella, fingering the bed hangings and the thick, fluffy towels that someone had wrapped about huge copper ewers of hot water. Both rooms had jutting bay windows with tiny panes of glass in them and comfortable, velvet-padded seats directly below. There were thick, brightly patterned carpets on the floors and things which Snodgrass thought were brass warming pans and carved chairs and silk cushions.

‘Beautiful,’ said Fenella, in an abstracted voice. The three travellers stood still and looked at one another.

‘We’re inside,’ said Floy at last.

‘And we seem to have thrown dust in the giants’ eyes so far,’ added Snodgrass. ‘Bless us and save us all, that all went down well, you two. My word, I couldn’t have kept that up for the life of me.’ He nodded at them both. ‘Star People and the Fire Court,’ he said. ‘Very astute.’

‘I think they believed it all,’ said Fenella. And then, in a worried tone, ‘But we have to get out of here.’

‘Did you believe that person?’ asked Snodgrass, who was inspecting the furniture and peering into cupboards.

‘Yes,’ said Fenella. And then, ‘Didn’t we?’

‘I don’t think we ought to trust anyone inside Tara,’ said Floy.

‘Caspar was a Human,’ said Fenella.

‘Was he?’

‘He looked like a Human.’

‘I don’t think that necessarily means very much here,’ said Floy. ‘Let’s not trust any of them.’

‘Nuadu would have known who to trust and who not to,’ said Snodgrass.

‘Yes, he would,’ said Floy. ‘But we’ll have to rely on our wits.’ He looked at them both. ‘And we mustn’t lose any opportunity to find out about the Robemaker,’ he said very seriously. ‘We mustn’t miss any chance at all.’

‘Caspar knows about the Robemaker,’ said Fenella.

‘Yes, but we have to remember that Caspar might be in the Robemaker’s service,’ said Floy. ‘He might be working far more subtly than it seems.’

‘He didn’t seem subtle,’ said Fenella, thoughtfully. And then, half to herself, ‘But of course, somebody who was really subtle wouldn’t. It’s difficult, isn’t it, trying to remember that people mightn’t be what they seem.’ Floy was inspecting the two bed-chambers. ‘Comfortable, at least,’ he said, grinning at them.

‘The beds are enormous,’ said Fenella. ‘Although they aren’t giants’ beds. I think I’d have hated to sleep in a bed that a giant might have slept in last night. They’re large, but they’re Human-sized beds.’

At each of the four comers was a post, elaborately carved. Rich hangings were draped from the posts so that you could pull them across and be quite private once you were in bed.

‘Fourposters,’ said Snodgrass. ‘Bless my boots, Snizort will be sorry not to see this.’

‘Snizort will be very glad indeed to have missed out on this,’ said Floy, who was kneeling on the deep window seat and looking out over the darkened countryside. He turned back into the room and looked at them both, his eyes bright. ‘For the moment, we seem to be honoured guests of these creatures,’ he said. ‘But I suspect that we shall have to sing for our supper.’ He looked at Fenella. ‘Well, sibling? Can we sing? How many stories can we come up with about Star People and the Fire Court, and the dozens of other worlds we have visited in the Feargach Grian?’

‘I expect we could keep them quiet for a few nights anyway,’ said Fenella, and Snodgrass muttered something that sounded like ‘Scheherezade’ which, as Floy pointed out, was not very helpful.

And then Fenella, who had been exploring both rooms a bit further, said suddenly, ‘Floy. The doors are locked.’ The doors were not only locked, but bolted from the outside as well.

‘So much for being honoured guests,’ said Floy, trying the doors and pulling hard at the door handles. ‘They meant to lock us in all the time.’

‘And so much for Caspar’s friendship,’ said Snodgrass.

‘He told us to try to escape,’ said Floy, thoughtfully. ‘I wonder what he’d have done if we had tried.’

‘We don’t know for sure that it was Caspar who locked us in,’ put in Fenella, who had found Caspar friendly.

‘I wouldn’t mind laying a bet that it was,’ said Floy and sat down on the nearest of the beds, looking at them. ‘If it had been one of the Gruagach, we’d have heard.’ Fenella, who was beginning to feel frightened in earnest now, said, ‘It’s not an adventure any longer is it? It’s not something interesting and unusual and just a little bit dangerous. It’s real,’ she said, white-faced.

She tried to think that of course they would get out, there would be a way out and they would find it. But all Floy’s resourcefulness and integrity and shrewdness, and all Snodgrass’s scholarship and intelligence could surely not get them out through solid oak doors which were probably about two feet thick, or out of windows that were certainly a hundred feet from the ground with a sheer drop directly below. The combined strengths and wits of all of them would certainly not prevail against the strange enchantments and the dark powers that were abroad in this unknown land. Fenella found herself remembering that even Nuadu, with his magical wolfblood and his inherited knowledge of the old enchantments, had not been able to save himself from the Robemaker.

‘The floors are of stone,’ said Floy, who had been prowling the room. ‘I can’t see how we can get out of here until they let us out.’

‘Isn’t there anything we can think of?’ asked Snodgrass worriedly and then, in case they thought he was being a touch unhelpful, ‘I haven’t really got an adventurous mind, you know. I just don’t know very much about escapes and plots.’

‘That doesn’t really — ’

‘There were a good few escapes in the Earth-people’s history, of course.’

‘Yes, but that won’t help us now.’

‘There was the chap who was shut away and made to wear a mask because he looked a bit too much like the King — oh, dear me, now that was tactless. Fenella, my dear, I didn’t intend — ’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ said Fenella at once.

‘And there was that fortress, somewhere in what they called World War Two, where they put people captured by the enemy,’ went on Snodgrass, trying to re-direct the conversation, because he would not have hurt Fenella for all the worlds put together. ‘I forget its name,’ he said, ‘but it was supposed to be absolutely escape-proof, only people did manage to escape.’

‘This isn’t escape-proof,’ said Floy, pacing the floor and frowning. ‘I won’t believe that it’s escape-proof. We’ll get out of Tara somehow.’

‘Colditz, that’s the name,’ said Snodgrass, triumphantly. ‘Or was it Zenda? No, that’s something else. Dear me, my memory isn’t what it used to be.’ Fenella started to say that perhaps if they waited until morning, probably somebody would bring them some breakfast, and there might be a means of getting out then, when Floy, who had been standing by the door, his ear pressed to it, raised a hand and said, ‘Hush!’

‘What is it?’

‘Footsteps,’ said Floy.

‘Caspar coming back?’ asked Fenella hopefully.

‘No.’ Floy stayed where he was, his expression intent, his eyes serious. ‘It’s too heavy for Caspar.’ He put his head closer to the door and, as he did so, Fenella and Snodgrass heard it as well.

Footsteps. And as Floy had said, they were far too heavy for Caspar.

Giants’ footsteps.

It had been Goibniu’s idea for them all to meet quietly, to discuss how far they had progressed with the marriage negotiations for Inchbad and Flame, and also to consider how best they could make use of the three Humans who claimed to have come from the Feargach Grian. Inchbad had thought it a fine idea and had said they would use the place the Wolfkings had called the Star of the Poets, which seemed to have been some kind of special Council Chamber. It was thought that the Wolfkings had considered it to be a rather tasteful place, but Inchbad and the others thought it pale and insipid. And blue and silver was a poor sort of arrangement of colours when you were having a bit of a think about State matters. Goibniu had ordered up some nice dark red paint and had promised that there could be purple hangings at the windows (the windows were huge and made out of crystal with silver and pearl tracery, so they were something you would want to cover up as much as possible).

And they were all pleased to think that the pale, gold-etched floor would soon be covered by several of the grand new floor coverings from the East. It gave you a shivering grue just to sit here and have to look at the ceiling, with the spattering of silver stars and the maps charting the journey through the skies to Dagda’s country and the strange symbols that were probably the Workings’ ancient spells. None of the giants wanted to look at the journey to Dagda’s country and none of them, certainly, wanted to see the spells of the Wolfkings. The chairs were comfortable enough, because Goibniu had decreed that the Gruagach’s own chairs should be brought in, along with a decent-sized table. You could not be sitting on Human-sized chairs, said Goibniu firmly, especially when they were made of what appeared to be solid silver. You could get all manner of nasty illnesses from sitting on cold silver for hours on end, said Goibniu, and several of the older giants, who suffered from unsociable ailments which meant they had to spend longer than most people in the Stool Room and had to be given large helpings of prunes and figs three times a week, supported this view.

Inchbad donned his maroon robes, since this would be a proper Council, and remembered his crown, which he sometimes forgot, and was pleased to see that Balor had been told to bring up a few firkins of best onion wine. Arca Dubh and Fiachra Broadcrown would probably drink too much, and become quarrelsome and hurl the silver chairs at one another and Goll the Gorm would certainly fall asleep and snore loudly, but this could not be helped. If one of the silver chairs happened to go through the crystal window during an argument and shatter the ugly, ivory tracery, Inchbad would not waste any tears.

Goibniu opened the Council by reading out a list of the Settlements that had been offered to the sorceress Reflection for her daughter’s hand in marriage.

‘Impressive,’ said Fiachra Broadcrown.

‘Generous,’ added  Arca Dubh.

‘Not sufficient for Madame Reflection, however,’ said Goibniu, shaking his head.

Inchbad, who was hoping that they could agree to Reflection’s demands, asked what else they would be offering.

‘The Gnomes of Gallan are forging an entire new set of Crown raiments, Sire,’ said Goibniu. ‘And when they are ready, we are sending them to the Fire Court, in earnest of our good intentions.’

‘I see,’ said Inchbad, nodding ponderously, feeling his crown slip a bit.

‘In fact,’ said Goibniu, ‘even as we speak, Sire, the Gnomes will be journeying to Tara from Gallan.’

‘If they can find the way,’ said Arca Dubh with a guffaw, and everybody nodded and laughed, because this was a traditional joke. Everyone knew how the Gnomes frequently lost themselves and were never where they were supposed to be. They nearly always had to be looked for and found and brought to wherever they were supposed to be going.

Fiachra Broadcrown wanted to know, rather belligerently, who would be going to the Fire Court. The giants looked at one another rather doubtfully, because didn’t everyone know that the journey to the Fire Court was beset with all manner of dangers. You had to pass very close to the City of Gruagach to get there, they said, and wasn’t the Frost Giantess still in possession of the City? Not that they were in the least bit afraid, they said, banging the table firmly to show their courage; it was just that once you had encountered the Frost Giantess, leave aside the Storm Wraiths who served her, you thought twice — well, you thought more than twice, about risking another encounter.

Goll the Gorm said they could cope with Storm Wraiths and with any other nasty things that Reflection and the Geimhreadh might have set about the countryside to guard their domains. ‘As for sentries and guards,’ he said licking his lips, ‘I say fry’em.’

‘But what about the fire demons?’ asked  Arca Dubh. ‘Wasn’t Reflection always thought to be hand in glove with them?’

Goll the Gorm said that fire demons were a different pair of boots altogether, which did not seem to help the discussion much.

‘But,’ said Inchbad, ‘somebody has to go with the new proposals and the Crown Jewels.’

‘Well, it won’t be we,’ said Goll and loosened his belt and belched comfortably and reached for the onion wine.

‘It occurs to me,’ said Goibniu, as if he had only just thought of this, ‘that our guests have some acquaintance with Madame Reflection’s Court. We all heard them say so.’ He sat back in his chair, revolving his thumbs and nodding, and Inchbad looked at him and waited.

‘Why not,’ said Goibniu slowly, ‘allow one of the Humans to act as our emissary?’

‘Let a Human go!’ cried  Arca Dubh, who was particularly partial to Manpie and who did not think he had had his fair share after the last Fidchell. ‘I never thought to hear you say that, Goibniu!’ He looked at Goibniu in horror.

‘I say skewer them tomorrow!’ agreed Fiachra Broadcrown.

‘Fry’em,’ muttered Goll. ‘You can’t beat fried Human. My old grandmother always said it made your beard grow, fried Human — ’

Goibniu banged the table and the crystal window rattled and the firkins of wine jumped and slopped onto the table.

‘Would I let Humans go?’ said Goibniu, very meaningfully, and the giants looked a bit sheepish. ‘Well?’ said Goibniu. ‘Have you ever known me to let a Human slip through my fingers? Didn’t I order Caspar, under pain of being spitted on a skewer and roasted slowly, to lock them into their rooms?’

‘He obeyed as well,’ muttered  Arca Dubh. ‘I was standing in the gallery and I saw him do it.’

‘Exactly,’ said Goibniu, leaning back in his chair. ‘I can always smell out Humans,’ said Goibniu, grinning now. ‘And I shall smell out these three if they try to get away.’ He rearranged the Marriage Settlement and stroked his chin. ‘The Gnomes should soon be here with the Crown raiments for Flame,’ he said. ‘We’ll send to the Fire Court and we’ll send the Man-Human-what’s his name? Floy?’

‘Yes?’ said Inchbad, as Goibniu paused.

‘But because we want Floy to return,’ said Goibniu, ‘we’ll keep the Girl-Human here. As pledge.’

‘Yes?’ said Inchbad again, and Arca Dubh poured another measure of onion wine. ‘Ought we to trust him to come back, though?’ said Inchbad, frowning.

‘Of course we shan’t trust him!’ said Goibniu, shocked to think that anyone would believe him so stupid as to trust a Human. ‘We’ll send somebody with him,’ he said and the giants all looked at one another worriedly, because the journey to the Fire Court was long and arduous, and brought you close to all manner of nasty things. It was all very well to be brave and fierce when you were in your own Castle (Tara or Gruagach, it did not make very much difference), but being brave and fierce in the depths of the forest on your own was another thing altogether. Goll the Gorm reminded everyone that the road to the Fire Court passed dangerously close to the Robemaker’s workshops and a shudder went through the giants.

‘I’m not going,’ said Fiachra Broadcrown firmly. ‘Risk being taken by the Robemaker and put to the treadmills? Not for a dozen Marriage Settlements! Your Majesty,’ he added, belatedly.

‘Well, nobody need expect me to go,’ said Goll the Gorm. ‘Fiachra’s perfectly right. The Robemaker’s servants haunt that road; nasty skulking things. Everyone knows that.’

‘Yes but see here — ’ began Inchbad and was shouted down by the assembled giants, all of whom feared the Robemaker, none of whom was prepared to risk passing so closely by his workshop.

‘Send Goibniu,’ said Goll, with a sudden grin.

But Inchbad knew they did not dare send Goibniu on his own with two Humans. They would never see the Humans again. He said, a bit hastily, that Goibniu was needed at Tara to deal with important matters of State.

‘So are we all needed at Tara to deal with important matters of State,’ said Fiachra Broadcrown, and a general murmur of agreement went up.

Goibniu said, thoughtfully, ‘We might send Balor,’ and the giants all turned round to stare.

‘He’s quarter-witted,’ said Goll.

‘He’d never find the way there, never mind find it back,’ added Fiachra.

Goibniu looked towards Inchbad. ‘Sire?’ It’s your decision, said his tone, you’re the King after all.

And Inchbad, who was getting really rather annoyed with people who tried to tell him what to do and who thought he could not make proper decisions, spoke.

‘We’ll send Balor. He’s quite capable of finding the way if we give him a map.’

‘Of course he is,’ said Goibniu. ‘And as well as that,’ he added, ‘if we keep the girl-Human with us, it will be a little extra inducement to Floy to secure Reflection’s consent to the marriage, and to return. I think we can trust Floy to find the way there and back.’

He grinned, and drained another goblet of the onion wine. ‘If Floy doesn’t return from the Fire Court, inside of a week, with Madame Reflection’s assent to the marriage, then the Girl can be thrown onto the Fidchell board.’ He smiled round at them all. ‘And in the meantime,’ he said, ‘she can tell us some tales of their travels each evening at supper. It will keep us amused.’

‘And after supper?’ said Fiachra Broadcrown, beginning to grin hugely. ‘What shall we do with her after supper each night?'

Goibniu smiled even more widely. ‘I daresay I can think of something,' he said.

Chapter Eighteen

Caspar had gone rather irritably out of Tara, through the Western Gate, and was making for the first sprinkling of cottages on the edges of the Wolfwood. He had a friend or two there, who would be sure to ask him in and maybe offer him a drop of poteen, or even a bite of supper. He had eaten one supper already tonight, but eating in the presence of Goibniu and the rest could be a rather unpleasant experience and frequently took away any appetite you might have brought to the table with you. A bite of supper, taken with proper, ordinary people who did not spray soup over the table, or hold competitions to see how far they could spit out kipper bones, or search through the gravy with their fingers to find onion pieces, would go down very nicely.

Caspar had not decided whether or not he believed in the Angry Sun, even though Goibniu and the others had asserted that it had been a fine old sight. In any case, even if the Sun did exist, there was no more reason to think it had Humans in it than there was of believing that Tara would return to the Wolfkings. Caspar did not think he believed in the Sun, but he did think it was a sorry thing when you had to go hunting your own kind, simply to please great brutish lumps of giants. It had been enough being ordered to lock Floy and Fenella and Snodgrass into their rooms and then to be positively stood over by  Arca Dubh to make sure he carried the order out.  Arca Dubh had thought he had been very furtive about hiding at the far end of the gallery but, of course, everyone had known he was there.

It had felt deceitful and sly to sneak furtively along the gallery and turn the locks and slide the bolts across on Floy and Fenella and Snodgrass and Caspar had disliked himself very much. It was traitorous and treacherous and he was feeling very bad indeed about it.

He was still feeling bad about it now, prowling down the hillside, keeping a weather eye open for any stray Humans who might be taken up to Tara on some pretext or other and thrown into the dungeons to await the next celebration of the Fidchell It was a terrible thing to have to do.

He had decided to try to get Floy and the rest out of Tara and away from the giants’ greedy clutches. It would be quite hard and it would probably be extremely risky, but if Caspar could just come up with a plan, a really good watertight plan that would fool the giants, he would put it to Floy and they could be off out of Tara and Caspar would be off with them as well! People had their limits and he had reached his.

He was skirting the fringes of the forest now and he was just starting to look out for the first of the cottages where he might be given a welcome and thinking it would be O’Dulihan’s and his daughter’s cottage and very nice too, when the sound of singing, coming through the trees, assailed his ears.

Gobble gobble gow; it’s off to Tara we go.

Gobble gobble gach, off to the Gruagach.

Shall we escape the King?

Yes, if we run fast.

Shall we escape the tables?

Yes, if we are able.

Since this was not the sort of thing Caspar had expected to hear when he was supposed to be hunting Humans, he stayed where he was and waited. Presently, along the forest path and out on to the road, came a band of the strangest creatures that he had ever seen in his life. He recognised them for gnomes at once, although he did not recall ever having actually met a gnome before.

There were at least eight of them; Caspar thought there might easily have been nine or ten. They were marching quite jauntily along the forest path, plainly bound for Tara’s shining citadel, and not a one of them was above three feet in height. They had quite elderly, quite wizened faces, with jutting chins and rather happy expressions, and they nodded and bobbed amiably, one to another as they marched. They were colourfully dressed, some of them in scarlet jerkins and bright green breeches; one wore a yellow neckerchief with blue spots on it and another was topped by a wide, mushroom-shaped hat with a pleated brim and a feather in it and they all carried bundles tied to sticks on their shoulders. Several appeared to have shovels, and the yellow-neckerchiefed one sported an enormous spade, which appeared to be giving him considerable trouble.

They sang as they marched.

Off to Inchbad’s Court,

For the dancing of the Fidchell.

Oh there’ll be fun and games, my boys,

And there’ll be skips and hops, my boys,

If the giants bake you for pies, my b-o-y-s —

If the giants bake you for pies.

There’ll be no more digging for you.

There’ll be no more dancing for you.

If the giants bake you for pies, my b-o-y-s —

There’ll be no more digging for you.

A wave of amiable chuckling wafted across to where Caspar stood and then the leader of the little creatures (the one with the mushroom-shaped hat) stopped short and said, ‘Oho, there’s a traveller waiting to meet us, lads.’

‘A traveller, to be sure. Isn’t that a traveller and him knowing it in the twinkling of a gnat’s whisker?’ cried his comrades. ‘A traveller it is, and very likely come out to show us the way to Tara.’

They beamed at Caspar and several waved their hats and several more said, to be sure, wasn’t it a remarkable thing that just as you thought you’d missed your way, didn’t someone come along to direct you? The one who seemed to be the leader, whose name turned out to be Bith of the Bog-Hat, took a firmer grip on his shovel and trod purposefully across the remaining stretch of forest path and said, quite politely, ‘We bid you a good evening, sir!’

‘Isn’t that the way of it?’ cried the others. ‘A good evening it is, and him knowing it straightaways!’

‘Good evening to you,’ said Caspar, torn between annoyance at having his journey interrupted, and amusement at being addressed by creatures quite half his height and easily three times his age.

‘Would you be from Tara, by any chance?’ said Bith of the Bog-Hat, his head on one side, his eyes rather twinkly and definitely curious.

‘From Tara, that’s where he’ll be from!’ put in the others, and three of them sat down cross-legged and beamed at Caspar, while four dug their shovels into the ground, handle end up, and used them to sit on.

Caspar said, ‘Indeed I am from Tara. Would you, by any chance, be from Gallan?’

The gnomes said they were, to be sure they were, and on their way to Tara, only that they’d just missed their way a bit, which was a thing that might happen to any man, or even any gnome.

‘Is Gallan very far?’ asked Caspar. ‘How long a journey have you had?’

The gnomes were vague on this point. It was several days’ march from Gallan, they said, although it might very well be a week or two. It depended on how fast you travelled, of course, and on how many times you missed your way. But you started out keeping the sun in the west, of course, although it was a remarkable thing how often you lost it on the way and ended up with it on the other side altogether.

The gnome with the yellow neckerchief started to tell about how the sun sank in the west and rose in the east and an animated debate arose over this, because not all his colleagues went along with this view.

But be that as it might, they said, they’d finally got here, and hadn’t they a fine old commission to be undertaking for Inchbad, the finest commission for many a long year and as welcome as a Wolfking returning. They looked a bit worried at saying this and glanced over their shoulders, to see if anyone might have overheard, and Bith of the Bog-Hat frowned at them and told Caspar that wasn’t it difficult to guard against the old sayings sometimes and he hoped that Caspar would not be repeating such a slip of the tongue in quarters where it might be misunderstood.

‘Of course not,’ said Caspar.

The gnome with the yellow neckerchief, who appeared to be something of a nonconformist, said if you had to watch every word you said it was a terrible old world and you might as well be inside the Robemaker’s Workshops and have done.

To which his companions said, very hurriedly, that Culdub Oakapple had no sense of self-preservation to give tongue to such a remark and it the Purple Hour, with everything fine about them, and a gentleman traveller from Tara come to show them the way, which they’d unaccountably missed.

To which Culdub Oakapple said, be bothered and be blowed to self-preservation, because couldn’t a person with half a wit spread in his head see that it was a Human they were talking with, and had they any of them ever heard of Humans consorting with giants? ‘And no more have I,’ said Culdub Oakapple and the gnomes nodded solemnly and said you never heard of Humans and giants together, no more you did, and the Oakapple knew what was what, with him having the wits of three people put together.

‘At least,’ said Bith, turning round rather suddenly, so that the brim of his hat flapped wildly and nearly fell off, ‘at least, I suppose you are a Human are you?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Caspar, rather crossly. ‘Can’t you see that I’m a Human?’

The gnomes said they could, couldn’t anyone with half an eye see it, and one or two got up from their spades and slapped their thighs in agreement and clapped one another on the back and Culdub Oakapple was knocked off his spade-seat and had to be helped up and Bith lost his hat altogether.

‘And,’ said one of them after Culdub had been dusted down and Bith of the Bog-Hat’s hat had been squashed back into shape, ‘and, we haven’t yet introduced ourselves, sir, no more we have.’

His colleagues said no more they had and wasn’t that the rudest thing you’d come across in a ten-month?

Caspar started to say he thought he knew who they were already, but the gnomes had decided on proper introductions and would not be put off.

‘We’re the Gnomes of Gallan,’ said Bith, proudly, ‘and the finest goldsmiths in the whole of Ireland!’

‘You’d travel far and far worse before you found finer,’ added another and Bith said, even more proudly, that they were Court goldsmiths as well and wouldn’t that make you feel as great as great could be, just to know that you were responsible for forging the Royal Crowns in the Mountain Fires of Gallan. Then he turned to frown at Culdub Oakapple, who was polishing the toes of his boots by rubbing first one and then the other on the backs of his breeches, which was the height of discourtesy when you were making an introduction.

‘Well, now we’re here,’ said Culdub loudly. ‘We’re here because of the commission.’

Bith said, with great solemnity, that it was a fine old thing to be given a commission and it the low season, when the most that people would ask you to fashion was a silver ring, or at best an armlet.

‘You can’t live on that,’ he said seriously to Caspar. ‘Not when there’s taxes and Partholon’s Pence to be paid, never mind the stoking of the forges. So we accepted the commission.’

‘What is the commission?’ said Caspar, who thought that if he was going to think up a plot to free the Humans, it might be useful to find out as much as he could about what Inchbad and the rest were up to.

Bith scratched his head and said frizzle him for a flying fish if he hadn’t for the moment forgotten. ‘But it’ll come back to me,’ he said firmly. ‘It’ll be all that travelling, never mind missing the way a time or two, sir, because that’s a powerful fine thing for driving thoughts out of a person’s head. I wouldn’t have thought I’d forget something so important, but that’s just what I have done!’

Several of the other gnomes said they had forgotten it as well, and wouldn’t it make you fit to worry into a nothingness to know it.

Culdub said, crossly, ‘It’s a commission for an entire new set of Crown Raiments for Inchbad,’ and Bith at once said that was the very thing and hadn’t it been on the edge of his tongue all the while.

‘Inchbad,’ Bith said confidingly to Caspar, ‘is going to take a wife. Well, you’d call it a Queen, wouldn’t you, him being a King? Not that he’ll ever be a true King of Ireland, of course, long live the Wolfkings.’

‘Inchbad wants to marry the daughter of the sorceress, Reflection,’ said Culdub, morosely. ‘He thinks that by sending her a casket of jewels — ’

Bith turned round at this and said that this was the first he had heard of any caskets being involved and did Inchbad suppose them to be vulgar box-makers? ‘We’re goldsmiths and silversmiths,’ he said, hurt. ‘Craftsmen. It’s a tradition in Ireland. Why, sir, if you were to say to anyone, anyone in the entire world: Where would you buy the finest-wrought gold and silver, bless my soul if the answer wouldn’t be: From the Gnomes of Gallan!’

Culdub, who was looking extremely gloomy, said, ‘We didn’t want the commission, of course. Well, I put it to you, sir, who would want to be working for the Gruagach. But we took it on and we’ll make a fine old job of it. I’ve got several ideas already,’ he said, and his companions beamed at him and said you could always rely on the Oakapple to have an idea.

‘If,’ said Culdub, ‘Inchbad marries Reflection’s daughter, it’s very likely that people will point to the new Crown Jewels, and say: my word, there’s a fine set of jewels. My word, we ought to be thinking of consulting whoever it was who wrought those. You never know,’ said Culdub. ‘So I’ve got some very good ideas for a crown, and maybe a nice diadem or two and a gold torque. You can charge a very good price for a gold torque,’ said Culdub seriously. ‘And what with Partholon’s Pence — ’

‘That’s been increased again,’ said Bith.

‘So it has. And what with the new taxes, never mind the stoking of the forges — Well,’ said Culdub, unexpectedly finding the drift of his sentence again, ‘well, we thought we’d better accept. We thought we’d get the very best prices we could.’

‘The Gruagach will be getting the very best workmanship, of course,’ put in one whose name was Flaherty.

‘So they will, isn’t that the way of it?’ chorused the others.

‘And so,’ said Bith, who appeared to be taking part in the conversation again, ‘and so, we’re off to Tara, to consult with the Court about the designs.’

‘I wore my best boots,’ said one of the younger gnomes.

Several of the other gnomes said they had worn their best boots as well, and one of them had bought a new neckerchief.

‘And if,’ said Bith, ‘if you were minded to just show us the road, sir — ’

‘Or better still, walk along with us,’ put in Culdub hopefully,

‘ — we’d get there a sight faster,’ finished Bith, and everyone nodded and looked at Caspar hopefully.

Caspar hesitated. He was supposed to be out looking for Humans from the Angry Sun, or from anywhere else if it came to that, and it would not go down very well if he returned empty-handed.

But, on the other hand, he was not going to roam the countryside in the dark for giants or anyone else and, anyway, Goibniu would be so pleased to see the gnomes that nobody would be asking questions. Also, he was still turning over in his mind various plans about getting Floy and Fenella and Snodgrass out.

So he said, quite amiably, that he would walk along to Tara with the gnomes and be pleased to. At which the gnomes beamed and said there was nothing like a walk, to be sure there was not, and all of them well used to an hour or two’s march.

‘For,’ said Bith, ‘why were we given feet, if not to march with?’

‘Feet, to be sure, ah, there’s the thing, feet,’ cried his companions, delightedly, and slapped their boots admiringly and said there was nothing like a foot, unless it might be two feet, because you didn’t get very far with only one foot. They looked pleased at this display of wit and remembered that they had donned their best boots and said, didn’t it go to show that you never knew.

‘It’s no more than a half hour’s walk,’ said Caspar and the gnomes beamed and said half an hour, wasn’t that the thing, even if you got lost a couple of times there was nothing like half an hour, and would they be singing a bit of a song to help them on their way?

‘So long as we’re there in time for breakfast,’ said Culdub Oakapple, picking up his spade with an air of determination.

Chapter Nineteen

Floy and Fenella and Snodgrass had passed an almost totally sleepless night. Floy had spent several hours in deep discussion with Snodgrass and, between them, they had made an attempt to sketch out the layout of Tara, so that they could see if there were any weak areas they might make use of.

‘But I think it is a pointless exercise,’ said Floy, somewhere towards morning, a thin, cold light filtering in through the windows to where he sat at a great desk, his black hair tumbled, hollows in his cheeks, his face white with fatigue. ‘For one thing we’ve hardly seen Tara and, for another, we don’t know what kind of spells and enchantments they might have strewn about.’

Snodgrass, who had studied more sketches and impressions of the lost castles and palaces of Earth than he could remember, said he thought that nothing like Tara had ever existed anywhere in any world.

‘Didn’t someone in the Wolfwood say it was partly raised by sorcerers?’ he said. ‘That’ll be it, mark my words. You’re almost sure to be right about the spells and enchantments. Difficult. It’ll be the kind of place you might walk out of as brisk and easy as a knife cutting butter, or you might very well wander about for days, well, weeks even, without finding a proper door. It’s always the same with enchanted castles,’ said Snodgrass, as if, thought Fenella, only vaguely listening, enchantments were the sort of thing you met up with every day.

Fenella had not heard all of the discussion. She had curled up in the deep old window seat, the velvet coverlet from the bed wrapped about her for warmth, and had drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep. Of course they would escape and of course they would outwit the Gruagach, thought Fenella, her mind tumbling with images, fighting to stay awake in case she could help Floy and Snodgrass. Of course they would escape and they would rescue Nuadu. It was important not to remember how Nuadu had looked in those last moments, defiant and unafraid, his head thrown back as the Robemaker had dragged him forward by the vicious crimson rope-lights. I won’t remember it, thought Fenella, leaning her flushed cheek against the cold window. I’ll remember how he looked at me just before the Robemaker took him and how he called me ‘Lady’. And I’ll remember, as well, those strange fragments of memory I had when we arrived, because they certainly weren’t anything from my memory.

But it was probably better not to think about Nuadu at all. Fenella pulled the velvet folds of the cover about her and tried to sleep and not to think about what would happen and whether they would be let out of these rooms and what stories she might have to tell the Gruagach about Star People and the Fire Court and the other fictional places they were supposed to have travelled to. Her mind swam in and out of sleep and the fire burned lower.

And then, quite suddenly, it was full morning and the sun was slanting across the floor of the rooms. Floy was sleeping where he sat, his head resting on his folded arms, a look of such exhaustion on his face, that Fenella almost wished to be back on Renascia fighting Quilp and the Council and trying to plan to outwit the Dark Lodestar.

But it is morning, thought Fenella, washing her hands and face in the water from the brass ewers, liking the thick, fluffy towels left for them. It is morning and it is sunny and there is a world to be explored. And surely, oh surely, we shall be able to go after Nuadu, and surely the giants are friendly and last night was only a bad dream. And, said Fenella, very firmly indeed, I will not believe that any of us are in danger.

They were taken to breakfast by Caspar, who unlocked the doors, and regarded them rather shamefacedly.

‘Good morning,’ said Floy, as if nothing had happened and Caspar, who looked uneasily over his shoulder, then said, in an urgent whisper, ‘I didn’t like locking you in, you know, but I didn’t have any choice.’

‘I don’t think we expected anything else,’ said Floy, with complete courtesy and Caspar hunched his shoulders crossly and said, ‘There might be a plan. Could you be ready and keep your wits about you, do you think?’

‘Of course.’ Floy did not say: even though we do not really trust you, but Fenella and Snodgrass both felt him think it. Fenella thought that it was a pity that Caspar was so scared of the giants, because he knew so much about Tara that he might have been of considerable help. He certainly knew the whereabouts of the Robemaker’s Workshops. But he had locked them in last night and he had done so on orders from the Gruagach so they did not dare rely on him. They would do much better to rely just on their three selves.

‘I’m quite hungry for some breakfast,’ said Snodgrass, as they followed Caspar along the galleries and down the staircases and through huge, high-ceilinged chambers.

‘It’s always very plentiful,’ said Caspar seriously. ‘And His Majesty has particularly requested your presence.’

‘How very good of him,’ said Floy, blandly. Caspar shot him a suspicious look.

‘I suppose you don’t trust me after I locked you in,’ he said.

‘Quite right. We don’t.’

‘I suppose I can’t blame you,’ said Caspar, morosely. ‘I wouldn’t trust me, either. But you’ll see. I shall come up with something. I’m supposed to be guarding you, but I shan’t. Only we’ll have to make it look as if I am. In here. If you could try to look as if you’re being guarded, it would go a long way. But don’t worry too much about it, because they won’t notice very much. They’re not morning people, the Gruagach.’

Breakfast was served in a long, low-ceilinged room, with a deep fireplace, on which were roasting several animals which Snodgrass said, in an awed whisper to Fenella, were oxen. There were barrelsful of butter and platters of fruit and great sides of bacon and ham and sizzling sausages. The giants washed their breakfasts down with immense tankards of mead and ale and grunted and were inclined to be morose, which seemed to bear out Caspar’s remarks about them not being morning people.

The Gnomes of Gallan sat together at the far end of the table. They were presented to Floy and Fenella and Snodgrass by Caspar and they had all swept bows (Bith’s hat had fallen off) and been charmed to meet travellers like this. But then, wasn’t Tara the place for travellers, they said. Hadn’t it always been known as the centre of the Western World? They were rather pleased with themselves for saying this, because it was something the Gruagach would find quite flattering and, also, it had not referred to the Wolfkings, which would have been extremely discourteous, not to say disastrous. They sat together, in the small-sized chairs brought up by Balor, and ate their breakfasts and told one another wasn’t this the finest meal ever and would they all look at the roasting oxen, because it was a long time, well it was years, really, since any of them had seen such a sight. Bith took off his hat, which was a polite thing to be doing, and Culdub Oakapple tucked his yellow neckerchief into his collar by way of table napkin.

Fenella, who rather liked the look of the Gnomes, thought they were a bit like careful children, diligently remembering their manners, sprinkling their conversation with ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, and with things like, ‘I’ll trouble you for the jam pot, your honour’, or ‘after you with the tomato chutney, your worship’. They polished off most of the sausages, which they seemed greatly to enjoy, and Bith of the Bog-Hat and Flaherty shared a firkin of the giants’ ale, which Balor had brought up from the cellars.

But after they had finished eating (which seemed to the travellers to take for ever), Goibniu sent the other giants out of the room, because he had important business to discuss.

‘You’ll be told in good time,’ he said and would not listen when Goll the Gorm said, crossly, as they trooped out, that it was always the same; they were not told what was going on and it was a disgrace and a scandal and there’d be a revolution at Tara before much longer, if there wouldn’t be an outright war.

‘Now,’ said Goibniu, resting his elbows on the table rather vulgarly and eyeing Fenella greedily, ‘now, my guests, we have a little proposition to put to you.’

Floy, who had been cutting himself a slice of ham, looked up, because there was a lick of anticipatory pleasure in Goibniu’s tone. He exchanged a look with Fenella and saw that she was watching Goibniu quite politely, but that there was a wariness in her eyes.

But Goibniu was smooth and courteous; he was very nearly urbane. He paid a brief homage to the Gnomes, who had journeyed all the way from the Gallan Mountains to bring their ideas for the new Queen’s Crown Jewels and did not refer to the fact that they were four days late on account of getting lost on the way. He said they would all be wanting to study the designs the minute Balor had cleared away breakfast and Bith at once reached for the knapsacks, and said he hoped Flaherty had not spilled jam on the drawing of the four-pronged diadem and Flaherty, injured, said indeed he had not and it the best damson jam he had ever tasted.

‘And if there’s a bite more, I won’t refuse, your prominence.’

Goibniu remembered that Gnomes were reportedly extremely greedy, but said they would take a look at the designs now, if the Gnomes were quite ready, thus galvanising the Gnomes into anxious industry, resulting in much unpacking of knapsacks and unrolling of parchments and remarks such as, ‘Who’s got the plan of the turquoise bracelet?’ and ‘Why did we bring along four sketches for the everyday silver tiara?’ and ‘Flaherty’s sitting on the Coronation sceptre!’

But, at length, the drawings and sketches were laid out and the plans for Flaherty’s new steam-powered melting pot which had unaccountably been packed by mistake put away again. Weights were placed at all the corners of the sketches to stop them springing back into tight rolls.

‘And there it is, your throneships,’ said Bith, beaming, because when all was said and done, hadn’t they produced the finest old sketches ever heard of and wasn’t there good reason for them to feel proud?

Goibniu was pleased with the designs. The Gnomes had gone to considerable trouble; Culdub and Bith had sat up long hours and consulted books and chronicles and there had been much burning of late candles and worried scurryings to and fro between the Gnomes’ houses in the little mountain village. Flaherty and MacKnobb had produced thin gold and silver and emerald paint with which they had coloured the fine charcoal designs and the end result was really rather good. The Gnomes sat together at the end of the breakfast table and waited anxiously for the verdict. They thought that Goibniu was looking happy (although it was always difficult to tell with giants) and thought, wasn’t it a fine old thing to see how well the designs were being received and wasn’t it great, altogether, to see how well received the Oakapple’s sketches were, because hadn’t he been the guiding light behind most of the work?

Goibniu studied the parchments for some time, seeing that there was an elaborate circlet of gold for Flame if she became Inchbad’s Queen, studded with firestones which would be mined from Fael-Inis’s Fire Mountains. There was a corresponding Crown for Inchbad, of course, and the Gnomes had cleverly managed to make these subtly similar. There were ornate neck circles with chippings of moonstones and slender, silver anklets engraved with the tree symbols of fertility and great chunks of raw gold somehow veined with amber which would be used as Coronation accessories. And there were silver amulets studded with turquoise, bearing the insignia of the Gruagach and also the insignia of Flame’s ancestry. This had been quite difficult and the Gnomes had scratched their heads a good deal, because, although people did not openly refer to it, everyone knew that Flame’s father was Fael-Inis and it had meant a lot of worrisome discussions as to whether this fact ought to be openly acknowledged, or whether it might be discourteous to draw attention to it.

Goibniu thought it all looked very nice. He did not refer to anything so vulgar as payment, of course, because the Gnomes would not expect it. But he said they would present the designs to Reflection, these very sketches, and there would be a great deal of acclaim given to the Gnomes as a result.

Culdub Oakapple opened his mouth to say that acclaim was all very well in its way, but they had been hoping for something a bit more financial than that, but the two Gnomes on each side of him trod on his foot to stop him, because you could not always trust the Oakapple to be tactful. They could not be offending the Gruagach, and they especially could not be offending Goibniu the Greediguzzler. Bith remembered a nearly forgotten, seldom-told belief that, although Gnome was an acquired taste amongst giants, they would occasionally serve it at very special occasions. If Inchbad married Flame, it would be a very special occasion indeed; it might be just the occasion when they would want a dish or two of roast Gnome and, more to the point, it would get the Gruagach out of paying for the new Crown Jewels.

Fenella and Floy and Snodgrass had sat quietly at the other side of the table, not eating very much, listening carefully to everything that was said. Floy had been interested in the Gnomes’ sketches; like Fenella, he found the Gnomes rather attractive, friendly people and he thought their designs were clever and subtle and beautifully drawn. Snodgrass embarked on a story about a very famous jewel called the Koh-i-noor, which he thought had once adorned a great King’s State Crown and explained how it had been so rare and so heavy that it had had to be kept locked away behind bars and guards, so that nobody could steal it.

The Gnomes were very interested in this; as Flaherty said, you could not know too much about these things, although it was a pig’s pity that such a jewel couldn’t be worn by the King of the day when he went about his reigning, because wasn’t that the purpose of crowns and jewels anyway?

‘But,’ said Flaherty, ‘it’s all for your exaltednesses to say.’

‘We thought,’ put in Bith, who was feeling a bit bolder now that Goibniu had approved their ideas, ‘we thought that the lady — that is Reflection’s daughter — might like to see the designs before we put them to the forge, your honour.’ He looked wise and solemn when he said this, because he knew that ladies — even sorceress’s daughters — had their own ideas about what they ought to wear and it was not to be supposed that Flame would be any different. ‘Colours,’ said Bith rather vaguely. ‘It’d be nice for her to be given the chance to make a suggestion or two.’

Flaherty asked who was to take the sketches to the Fire Court and the Gnomes at once looked alarmed, because hadn’t they already travelled all the way from Gallan and it a terrible long journey, never mind getting lost twice, as well as the Robemaker’s Workshops and the Cruachan Cavern being on the route.

‘But of course,’ said Bith firmly, ‘if your honourships were wanting it, then we’d go and be pleased to.’

And the Gnomes looked at Goibniu worriedly and waited.

Goibniu was still studying the drawings and thinking that Reflection, greedy creature, would surely not be able to resist them and that it mightn’t be a bad idea to revive the ancient traditional dish of roast Gnome for the wedding feast, which would save them having to pay the Gnomes anything. But he smiled rather overpoweringly at the Gnomes, and said that: no, they would not dream of asking them to make such a journey, so hard on the heels of their march in from Gallan.

‘We are hoping that our two new friends will assist us by acting as emissaries to the Court,’ said Goibniu and, turning his head, smiled at Floy.

* * *

‘It wasn’t,’ said Floy, in the privacy of their bed-chamber, ‘a request.’

‘An order,’ said Fenella, nodding.

‘Carry out this task, while we keep your lady hostage,’ said Snodgrass. ‘They’ve locked us in again, you know.’

‘I do know,’ said Floy, his eyes glinting angrily. ‘It was politely done — ’

‘That one they call Goll the Gorm,’ nodded Snodgrass. ‘I don’t call him polite; in a pig’s ear I don’t.’ He frowned and said, ‘You know, dear boy, I think we may have to do what they want.’

‘Go to this place — what do they call it? the Fire Court -and take the proposals for the marriage of Inchbad,’ said Floy.

‘Yes. But that,’ said Snodgrass, worried, ‘would mean leaving Fenella here.’

‘We can’t do that,’ said Floy, staring at his sister. She was listening intently and her eyes were thoughtful, as if she might be toying with some idea of her own. It was unthinkable that they should leave Fenella here at the mercy of the giants. ‘We’ll have to find a way of taking Fenella with us,’ he said.

Fenella, leaning forward eagerly, said, ‘But listen, the journey to the Fire Court takes you past the Robemaker’s Workshops. We heard them all say so. It’s the very thing we’ve been waiting to hear.’

‘Yes,’ said Floy. ‘But it’s too high a price.’

‘It sounds rather fearsome,’ said Fenella, slowly, ‘to be left here with the giants. But I truly think we can’t miss the chance of getting there.’

‘Not if it means us going off without you,’ said Snodgrass. ‘We can’t possibly do that.’

‘I don’t think we’re going to be given any choice in the matter,’ said Floy, rather grimly. ‘Goibniu said they’d send the gatekeeper-what’s his name? Balor-along with us.’ He looked at them. ‘That wasn’t simply to show us the way,’ he said. ‘They could give us maps and we could find the way perfectly easily. It was to make sure we didn’t run away. Balor’s coming as a guard.’

‘To bring us back,’ nodded Snodgrass.

‘But of course we’d come back for Fenella,’ said Floy. ‘Don’t they think we would?’

‘They can’t know. It’s this question of different beliefs and different loyalties,’ said Snodgrass. ‘If it wasn’t all so dangerous, I’d almost be finding it interesting, you know.’

‘Goibniu suggested that I could mark the evenings by telling them tales of our travels,’ Fenella said, remembering. ‘One tale each night. I don’t know how long I can keep that up,’ said Fenella. ‘But I think I could keep it going for quite a while. I could tell them about Renascia to begin with.’ She glanced at the other two. ‘Doesn’t it seem an awfully long way away, now?’

‘Worlds and aeons,’ said Floy, softly.

‘Shall we miss it when we have time?’ said Fenella, a bit wistfully. ‘I do think I’d like to miss it. It seems so — so callous not to be thinking about it and wondering what happened to it.’

‘We’ll mourn for it when we have time,’ said Floy, touching her hand, and Fenella looked at him gratefully, because that was exactly what she had been feeling. Of course they would mourn for Renascia and remember all of the good things about it, only just now they had other things to concentrate on.

‘I’ll spin the Gruagach some tales,’ she said now, frowning. ‘Renascia and as much as I can remember of Earth legends and perhaps something about the Dark Lodestar as well.’

‘Scheherezade,’ nodded Snodgrass. ‘The lady-well, she wasn’t a lady at all, really, but she saved her life by telling exotic tales to her captors. She spun it out for years.’

‘There you are, then,’ said Fenella. ‘It’s been done before and it can be done again.’

‘But look here,’ said Floy, ‘you won’t have to do it, because we’ll find a way of taking you with us.’

‘As if we’d leave you here on your own,’ said Snodgrass, clicking his tongue at the very idea.

‘I think you’ll have to,’ said Fenella, who found the idea completely appalling, but who was trying to be practical and sensible and make it sound safe for them to go so that they could get Nuadu. ‘Also — ’ She stopped and looked up, and Snodgrass said, ‘Someone’s coming.’

‘The Gruagach?’

‘I don’t think so.’

It was not the Gruagach, but Caspar, who had come quietly along to their rooms when the giants were taking their midday snooze.

‘They always do,’ he explained, unlocking the door and coming in cautiously. ‘It’s the one time when Tara becomes almost quiet. Could I sit down? I’ve thought of a plan.’

The three travellers looked at one another and then Floy said, ‘Sit down.’

‘It isn’t brilliant,’ said Caspar, ‘I’d have to say it isn’t brilliant or clever or even very subtle. But it might work.’

He looked at them, his head on one side, and Floy said, ‘Do go on.’

Caspar said impatiently, ‘Oh, for goodness' sake, Floy! Do I look like the sort of person who consorts with giants!’ He leaned forward. ‘I don’t know where you’re from,’ he said, ‘and I don’t want to know. I’ve got enough to worry about without wondering if you’re from the Ancient Past or the Distant Future, or somewhere quite different altogether. It’s your business,’ said Caspar firmly. ‘But I do know that the Gruagach have only one use for Humans and if you stay here long enough you’ll find out what that is. Into the dungeons and then onto the Fidchell board,’ said Caspar, tucking his chins into his neck and looking solemn. ‘And it’s a nasty end, that one.’

‘Quite,’ said Floy.

‘Well, I’ve had enough of it,’ said Caspar, looking plumply mutinous. ‘I’ve had enough of hunting down Humans for them to play their grisly games with! It’s — it’s little short of traitorous,’ he said. ‘And I’m not going to do it any more. I’m going to do what you said; walk out of Tara and hide.’

‘Well?’ said Floy, sending a warning glance to the other two.

‘You’ll have to go to the Fire Court with Balor,’ said Caspar, earnestly. ‘You do know that, don’t you? If you don’t they’ll certainly have you all for supper.’

‘What about Fenella?’

‘Fenella can follow you in a day’s time.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll bring her,’ said Caspar, and sat back and regarded them with the plump pleasure of a person who has reached a final decision.

It took longer than he had expected to persuade Floy to agree. Floy was suspicious and Caspar did not really blame him for that.

‘I don’t blame you one little bit,’ he said, earnestly trying to win them over. ‘But you can’t stay here, that’s for sure.’

Floy said, slowly, ‘If Snodgrass and I were to agree to it — ’ He stopped and Caspar said, ‘Yes?’

‘How long would the journey take? And what sort of things might we have to encounter on the road?’

As to that, Caspar had no definite information. He thought it would certainly be a couple of days’ journey to the Fire Court — the giants would be sure to know, he said, because they had already sent emissaries with the marriage proposal. But he thought it could not be more than a couple of days.

‘Fenella and I would set out a day later,’ he said, looking at Fenella and thinking that she was rather a nice sort of companion to be having on a journey. Probably she would have a good few stories to tell about the world they had come from. Caspar would quite enjoy hearing about that.

Floy said, very carefully, ‘Could you show us the route?’ and Fenella looked up, as if, thought Caspar, she had heard something in Floy’s voice that the rest of them had not heard. But he thought it a reasonable request to ask for a route and he took himself away to Tara’s great map room to procure maps for them. He did this quite openly, because if anybody asked where he was going, he would say he was finding out the route to the Fire Court for Floy and Snodgrass’s journey. It was nice to be able to tell the complete truth for once.

But the only person he met was Balor, on his daily forage to the wine store during the Gruagach’s afternoon snooze, to replenish his secret stock of ale and mead, which had been sadly depleted with all these unexpected visitors to Tara. Balor did not grudge offering guests a mite of good wine, because it was only polite, but there was no denying it made inroads on your hoard. And if he had to set out on this nonsensical journey to the Fire Court with the Humans, it would be as well to just stock up a bit for his return.

They spread the maps on the floor of the larger of the two bed-chambers and Caspar pointed with a podgy finger to the Fire Country where Reflection had set up her Court.

‘It’s on the edges of Fael-Inis’s country,’ he said, ‘and we all know why.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ said Caspar patiently, but wondering where these three had come from, for goodness’ sake, ‘because Reflection once had a bit of a — well, more than a bit really … And they do say that Flame is very like him.’ He eyed the three travellers a bit hesitantly.

Floy said, ‘Do you mean that Reflection and Fael-Inis were once lovers?’ and Caspar, hugely relieved, said, ‘Well, so they say.’ He glanced over his shoulder and Snodgrass, who loved gossip, glanced over his as well, because you never knew who might be listening in an enchanted castle.

‘They do say,’ said Caspar thrillingly, ‘that she pursued him for positively centuries, until he gave in, purely to get her out of his way. He’s elusive, you see,’ explained Caspar earnestly. ‘You never know quite when you’ve got him.

Well, that’s always supposing you can get him in the first place, because the number of people who have actually seen him, you can count on one hand.’ He paused for breath and regarded them expectantly.

But Floy said, in an expressionless tone, ‘Do go on,’ and Caspar looked at Floy doubtfully, because he was not altogether sure of Floy yet and he had the feeling that Floy might very well be thinking and assessing and generally not revealing all his feelings. And so Caspar, who thought he could be as reserved as the next man, merely said, ‘Oh, he’s a strange one, Fael-Inis. A bit of a fly-by-night.’ And returned to charting the journey to the Fire Court.

Fenella, who had never seen a map quite like this one, had curled up on the floor to listen. The road to the Fire Court looked quite straightforward really; it seemed as if you had to go past a large lake and on down a narrow, windy mountain road with houses dotted on each side. Floy had asked about dangers and what they might expect to encounter, but Fenella did not think it looked especially dangerous.

‘Well, it isn’t dangerous precisely,’ said Caspar. He hesitated and tapped the map with his finger. ‘Or, at least it isn’t so long as we avoid that bit of road.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, they do say,’ said Caspar, and stopped and looked at them again. ‘They do say that it’s there that the Robemaker has his Workshops.

‘And the Robemaker’s Workshops,’ said Caspar, shuddering, ‘are the worst place in the world.’

Chapter Twenty

The Purple Hour was descending as the Robemaker thrust Nuadu Airgetlam before him down the final stretch of road that led to the grisly Workshops.

Nuadu, aching in every bone, the lower part of his face constrained within the harsh red mask fashioned from the Robemaker’s ropes of light, had not made a sound. He thought that the Robemaker was waiting for him to do so; perhaps somehow to indicate that he would ask for mercy, but he had done nothing. He could not speak and he would not make any gesture that would show weakness. He would, somehow, behave as the true Wolfprinces would have behaved in such a situation. He would behave as his mother’s people would have behaved. And so he walked quite calmly and very nearly leisuredly before his captor. And although the Robemaker lashed out at him from time to time with the thin, cruel rope-lights, he managed not to flinch.

He had some idea of what was ahead of him, for he knew the terrible tales about the Robemaker’s Workshops. He knew it was unlikely that he would ever see the true Ireland again because he was being taken to the place that many people believed to be one of the Gateways to the Dark Ireland. Certainly, now, he would never see inside Tara. He could think, with a brief twist of the old cynicism, that he had never seen inside Tara anyway and that he could not miss what he had never had.

But he did miss it; he thought he had been born homesick; he certainly thought he had spent most of his life waiting and longing and aching for the Bright Palace where his mother’s people had quarrelled and laughed and made love and war, and where the charming ruthless Wolfkings had woven Ireland’s history. But he had never seen Tara; he had been abandoned at birth, he had been flung out by the King, who would have none of his Queen’s bastard wolfson at his Court.

Finally, Nuadu had found his way to the strange twilight community of the Wolfwood; the place that gave shelter to the half-breeds: the bastard sons of Royal Houses, the creatures who were not possessed of sufficient Beastblood to be acknowledged at Tara, but yet were not entirely Human. Creatures welcome in neither world, he had thought, bitterly. We were all of us outcasts; we were all of us flung out by the Lords of Tara, who were jealous of their lineage and protective of their inheritance.

These half-breed mongrel creatures had acknowledged Nuadu as an aristocrat; a bastard but still a Wolf-prince, royal through his mother’s noble blood. They had made him their leader and Nuadu, cynical and bitter against his own kind, had thought that for all he was a base-born prince, still he had a Court of a kind and subjects of a sort.

When the Gruagach had come storming down from the Northern Wastes and attacked Tara and stolen away the Wolfking’s son, Tara’s heir, the people of the halfworld of the forest had vanished, afraid and timid. They had wanted no part of the terror and the bloodshed, and they had hidden in the mountains and the caves and the remote Northern Isles. Perhaps, when the battles were over and Ireland was whole once more, they would return, but perhaps they would simply remain in the hill-farms and the distant mountains, forging their own cultures, making their own legends, weaving their strange secret stories into the fabric of Ireland’s history.

But Nuadu had ridden out for the King and for the captured half-brother he had never known. He had ridden out for his mother’s people as well, and finally, he had joined with the people of the Court, ‘For,’ he had thought, ‘it is my people, my half-brother the Gruagach seek to drive out.’ He had thought he had not cared what became of him in the battle and he had thought that, when it was over, he would return to the Wolfwood and that the creatures amongst whom he had lived would return, also.

But the Wolfking had been killed and the prince imprisoned inside the Dark Realm. The giants had taken Tara for their own and when Tealtaoich and the others had fled to the Forest Court, Nuadu had gone with them, neither quite one of them nor quite not one of them, but feeling a cautious kinship with them and discovering, with cynical amusement, that they were looking to him to lead them back.

‘After all,’ Tealtaoich had said silkily, ‘you may be a bastard, my friend, but you are a High Queen’s bastard and you were sired by a Wolf. You have the blood of the Wolves of Tara and there is no question but that it makes you a Wolfprince.’ The green eyes had been steady. ‘You have a claim on Tara,’ said Tealtaoich. ‘You are the heir presumptive.’

‘If we are honest, you have far more right to Tara than any of us,’ put in Oisin.

‘Even though we shall not necessarily admit it,’ said Feradach and Nuadu had seen that they would serve even a bastard scion of the Wolfline before any other creature.

And for all that, I have fallen into the hands of the Robemaker, he thought angrily. I am as much a captive as my half-brother. Nuadu knew that the Robemaker would put him to the treadmills; that he would be forced to work at powering the Silver Looms to weave the Robemaker’s enchantments. He would have said that he was as courageous as most, but he knew that no one ever escaped from the Workshops. People lived and died there; they did not grow old there, because no one could live for very long in the Robemaker’s hands. And once their physical usefulness was at an end, the Robemaker tore out the souls of his slaves and carried them to the Soul Eaters in the Cruachan Cavern, which some believed were the Gates of Hell. Well, at least, he thought, with a glimmer of the old wry humour, at least I shall witness things the legitimate Wolfprinces did not.

They were nearing the Workshops now and Nuadu could see, in a saucer-shaped dip, the dull red glow rising into the night sky.

‘The furnaces,’ said the Robemaker, in his dreadful, diseased voice. ‘My creatures stoke them and work the treadmills, and so the Silver Looms are never allowed to be still.’

‘My creatures … ’And now I am one of them, Nuadu thought. The crimson rope-lights still held him, so that he was forced to go on down the slope until they stood before the terrible dwelling place of the necromancer.

Nuadu stopped and the Robemaker stopped with him, as if he might be saying: well, Wolfprince? Savour this last moment out in the world. Look your fill on my domain for, once inside, you will never come out.

‘Not until you are useless and flayed and bent,’ said the Robemaker softly and Nuadu knew that his thoughts had been heard with ease. ‘Not until the skin is hanging from your back and your thighs in strips and your flesh is withered from the heat and your sight is dimmed from the dry fire of the furnaces.’

The Workshops were a huddle of black, rather low structures; made of some kind of harsh, dark stone. Here and there were archways in the stone and through the archways, low doors. The windows were narrow and mean-looking, but from each one glowed the dull red fire from the terrible furnaces.

And everywhere, at every comer, within every stone and door and roof was the immense, thrumming power of the Silver Looms.

It poured out into the still night and Nuadu shivered, because he knew it for the evil magic of the Dark Ireland; the ancient, malevolent enchantment of the necromancers. Within the Wolfwood he had known and experienced the strong pure magic of his people; the music of the sidh and, later, the beautiful wild bewitchment of the stirring Tree Spirits. He had inherited, as well, a thin vein of sorcery of his own; a little from his mother, but a great deal from his father the Wolf. He would have said that he had as reasonable an acquaintance with sorcery as anyone in Ireland.

But now, here, in the hands of the most purely evil being ever known to Ireland, on the very threshold of the Dark Realm of the Necromancers, Nuadu felt, as if it was a solid wall, the evil strength and the merciless dark magic emanating from the Workshops.

Behind the Workshops was flat, barren wasteland, with stunted trees, and twisted roots. Nuadu glanced at this and saw that there might once have been verdant greenery, perhaps even a small forest. But the heat and the darkness and the twisted magic had long since drained the heart from the land; the dark sorcery had sucked out the goodness and turned it into a stunted, abandoned place.

Black fury rose in him against this creature, this monstrous being who was turning Ireland into black barrenness; above the mask his eyes glinted and he wanted to spring on the Robemaker and tear his throat from his body. But he could not move and, even if he had been able to, he knew that the Robemaker could fell him in a breath-space by sorcery.

As they moved nearer, Nuadu felt the heat belch out. The dull red glow was all about them now and the baleful light fell across the Robemaker’s cloaked figure so that, although his face remained hidden, Nuadu caught the glitter of his eyes, red and inverted and, despite the belching heat, he felt ice close about his heart.

I shall never escape from this place. I shall die here and then this creature will tear out my soul and carry it to the Court of the Soul Eaters. And then I shall be flung for ever into the River of the Dead …

And then they were inside, and the doors had closed to.

The sound of the door to the Robemaker’s Workshops closing, was one of the worst sounds Nuadu had ever heard. For a moment, he did not move and, at his side, the Robemaker waited, the slanting eyes watching from deep within the hood.

And then, ‘Well, Wolfprince?’ he said in his hissing, bubbling whisper, making Nuadu think of lipless jaws and clotting wounds. He wondered what hideous deformity might lie beneath the silken cloak and the deep dark hood.

‘Well, Wolfprince?’ said the Robemaker. ‘Where are your supporters now? Where are the creatures who swore to you their allegiance if you would regain the Bright Palace for them?’ He leaned nearer and Nuadu stood his ground. ‘They are cowering in the Wolfwood, Nuadu Airgetlam. They are trembling and hiding,’ he said, the slimy lick of pleasure overlaying his voice. ‘They are protecting their miserable skins while Ireland falls further into my grasp.’ He paused and then said, in a soft, menacing tone, ‘And Tara, Nuadu of the Silver Arm? What of Tara? Who now walks its silver halls and dwells in its marble galleries?’ One hand was flung outwards in a clutching gesture. ‘In the hands of my creatures, Wolfprince, just as you, now, are in my hands.’ He indicated the seething red-lit Workshops. 'Here is the True Ireland,’ said the Robemaker. ‘Here is my Ireland, Wolfprince. Here is the powerhouse of necromancy.’ And stood back and folded his arms as Nuadu looked about him.

The Workshops of the Looms were far larger than he had expected. They seemed to stretch back for a very long way and Nuadu, narrowing his eyes, trying to find his bearings, thought that they must go back and back into the hillside behind the road and deep within the earth. The ceiling was low and there was a thick, suffocating feel to the air and a stale, old stench. Despite the heat, Nuadu felt again the chill about his heart.

On each side of the room where they stood were massive iron furnaces; great, glowing stoves that belched out waves of heat so that the air was heavy and fetid. Huge pipes of what looked like iron protruded from the furnaces and ran along the sides of the workshops, disappearing into the ceiling in places and, in other places, into the walls. Steam rose here and there, not in puffy, damp, friendly clouds as if a kettle was boiling, but in hissing, angry spurts, as if some unseen being was venting its spleen.

Before the furnaces were some of the Robemaker’s captured slaves; Humans, once-strong sons of Ireland’s farmers and woodcutters and blacksmiths and builders and woolmen. The ordinary, honest, good-humoured people who had lived under the protection of the Wolfkings and rendered them allegiance. Will it never cease, thought Nuadu, this endless hungry taking of our people by the Black Ireland?

He stood very still, staring about him, his eyes adjusting to the glowing heat. He thought that here and there in the slaves he could detect traces of an old lineage. There was the dark-eyed, slant-featured look of the ancient lost Royal Houses of Ireland in several of them, the glossy hair that might easily have been fur in others. But he knew it to be a frequently found trait, for most of the Noble Lords of Tara had long since dispersed and the enchanted Beastblood, once guarded so jealously, had nearly died out. If these young men possessed traces of the Beastblood, it was from so far back that it could not be measured, and it was so slight that it could no longer hold the power to call upon the beasts for aid. Black fury rose in him against the evil creature who was leeching Ireland of her youth, but Nuadu quenched it, lest the Robemaker turn it to his use.

As his eyes adjusted to the scorching dry heat, he saw that the slaves were all lightly clad; in the main, they wore ragged breeches, with the upper halves of their bodies and their feet bare. The exposed skin was flushed and glowing; here and there it resembled tanned leather and, in some cases, it looked as if it had split and healed, and split again. The slaves’ hands were blistered and flayed and oozing, covered with angry weals that were burns from direct contact with the white heat of the furnace doors. They moved slowly, shamblingly, and there was a terrible hopelessness about them.

Several of the furnace doors were open, and threw out merciless, scorching fire. The creatures who were working had shovel-shaped implements with which to throw in an endless supply of wood and Nuadu, scarcely able to believe this, thought: but they are felling the Trees! They are murdering the Trees! And blinked and looked again, for the felling of living Trees, the cutting and slicing and mutilating of Trees which had not died and dried and seasoned naturally, was one of the oldest and most strictly forbidden practices in Ireland. As he stood there, a massive double door at the far end was kicked open and several more of the Robemaker’s creatures came shuffling in, dragging a wheeled cart, with a newly cut-down beech Tree lying on it. The Robemaker lifted a hand in their direction and the creatures at the cart took up massive double-edged axes and began to hack the Tree into small sections.

As the first axe cut into the Tree, a great wailing cry of agony rent the thick stifling heat of the Workshop and Nuadu knew at once that the Tree had been taken down while it lived and while the naiad still dwelled within it.

From where he stood, Nuadu saw the slender, copper-haired Beech Naiad emerge from the murdered Tree, her arms chopped to ribbons, her body maimed in a dozen places, the red-gold blood of the beech spurting from her. She hovered for a brief time over the trunk of the Tree, tears streaming from her eyes, shuddering as the axes continued to cut into the wood, shaking her head from side to side. Nuadu could see that her fingers were gone now, and that she was trying to pull herself back into the heartwood, which would have been her dwelling and the place from which she drew sustenance and vitality, but the Robemaker made another of his sudden curt gestures and the slaves fell to their work again, sweat streaming from their half-clad bodies and Nuadu saw the heartwood splinter and fall apart. The Beech Naiad let out a last cry of desolation, and fell to the floor. There was the sudden achingly sweet scent of burning logs on an autumn night and then the drift of thick, crisp, beech leaves in the depths of a forest and the Beech Naiad seemed to melt and shiver and dissolve into nothing.

The furnaces were blazing up more strongly now, and the slaves began flinging the freshly chopped beech-wood into the molten depths. There was the cold ring of iron, as they levered the great doors shut and the rhythmic clanking of machinery as the steam from the furnaces was forced along the great pipes. Through the doors at the far end, Nuadu caught the whirring sound of the Looms. The slaves continued their stoking, shuffling to and from the cart, heaving the beech logs into the next furnace.

The Robemaker moved forward, prodding Nuadu onwards and, as they moved down the centre of the Workshop, the blazing furnaces roaring on each side of them, Nuadu felt his skin already shrivelling from the heat. How must it be to work here day after day, month after month, knowing there was no end to it? He glanced at the working slaves, and saw that their skin ran with fluid from fresh blisters and their eyes were bloodshot, the eyebrows and lashes singed to nothing; many of them walked awkwardly, as if they had become deformed.

The Robemaker said, emotionlessly, ‘The soles of their feet are skinless from the heat of the floors. There are trays of salt for them to walk across when that happens, so that the raw flesh can be hardened.’ From within the deep dark hood, Nuadu caught the sudden glint of white bone and heard the guttural laugh. ‘And, of course, I hear your thoughts, Wolfprince,’ said the Robemaker. ‘You have surely not forgotten the ancient necromantic art of the Stroicim Inchinn?’

Nuadu did not move, but the icy fear closed about him again. The Stroicim Inchinn, the ancient forbidden art, sorcery of the strongest and most dangerous kind: the power of one mind over another. It was an enchantment expressly forbidden by the Ancient Academy of Sorcerers, and Nuadu had thought that even the Lords of the Dark Ireland hesitated over it. In the realms where it was studied, it was recognised as the ability to tear and claw into the mind of another. It was the terrible and forbidden dark side of the pure and honourable Samhailt and, although Nuadu had heard of it, he had thought it extinct.

The Robemaker was watching the slaves. ‘It would not be practical for their feet to be ruined,’ he said. ‘And if they flinch at the sight of the salt, there are persuasions I can use.’ The crimson rope-light snaked out and Nuadu saw the nearest slaves cower and put up their hands to shield their faces. One, who did not appear to be as badly scorched as the others, stood his ground, and eyed the Robemaker rather challengingly. Nuadu wanted to cry out to him not to be so defiant, for the Robemaker could certainly not be vanquished in such a way.

‘Dear me, a reckless one,’ said the Robemaker, sounding amused. ‘A small lesson for you, Human slave. And the Wolfprince shall see it.’

The crimson rope-lights whipped forward effortlessly and the boy who had glared angrily at the Robemaker was forced back against the nearest furnace. Nuadu could see that his eyes were distended with fright now, but he stared back at his captor, unflinchingly.

‘You,’ said the Robemaker, gesturing impatiently to the nearest slaves. ‘Take up the axes. Do it!’ He folded his arms and power streamed from his eyes, so that the two slaves were caught in the white glare. Slowly, blindly, they raised the axes to shoulder height.

Nuadu knew the young man was already lost. The Robemaker had only to exert his will; he had already clawed his way into the minds of the two slaves with the axes; it would be nothing to him now to whip their minds to his will. And his will was that the slave, the young man who was scarcely more than a boy, should somehow die for his brief moment of rebellion.

The two slaves moved jerkily, as if they were at the ends of strings. Puppets, thought Nuadu, unable to look away. He is using them like puppets.

The boy was backed against the wall between two furnaces, and Nuadu saw his face twist with pain. He guessed that the wall would be excruciatingly hot and that the boy’s skin would be blistering and shrivelling.

The Robemaker said softly, ‘Slice by slice — and slowly,’ and the slaves moved mechanically forward.

Slice by slice … The slaves swung the axes low, with one accord, and the boy’s feet were cut from his legs, so that he fell suddenly on to bleeding stumps of leg. The colour drained from his face and he would certainly have fallen, had not two crimson rope-lights shot out and pinioned his arms to the wall, so that he was forced to stand, vertically, halfhanging by his hands, half supported by his mutilated legs. Blood and splinters of bone spattered the floor, and Nuadu saw that the thin rivulet of blood nearest to the furnace actually bubbled from the heat of the floor.

And when the soles of their feet are skinless, there are trays of salt for them to walk across to harden the skin …

‘Again!’ said the Robemaker, his voice liquid and clotted now, and the two slaves swung again, a little higher this time, so that the hard, straight shin bones were sliced across, and the boy’s legs were shortened a little more.

‘Fuel for the furnaces,’ said the Robemaker. ‘You! Into the fire with the dead meat!’ And at once, two more leapt forward and scooped up the bleeding lumps of flesh and bone and flung them into the open furnaces. There was a roar of heat and, briefly and nauseatingly, the sudden sharp scent of cooking. Nuadu felt his stomach twist and clenched his teeth against it.

The boy was screaming and begging for mercy now, his lips bitten through.

‘Again!’ cried the Robemaker and now his voice had ridden to a high excited whine and Nuadu, glancing covertly at him, saw that he was roused to a devilish excitement.

The boy was barely conscious now; his face was the colour of tallow candles and his body sagged, held only in position by the crimson lights. The two slaves were hacking at his thighs now, and two more came forward, moving jerkily, so that Nuadu knew that the Robemaker was using the Stroicim Inchinn on them also.

‘The thighs!’ cried the Robemaker, ‘the thighs and the hips! Take them before I hurl you, also, into the furnaces!’ He stood for a moment, a towering dark figure and watched as the blood — sluggish now — seeped from the boy’s mangled body.

‘Human weakling!’ said the Robemaker, contemptuously. And then, in a different, gloating voice, ‘But his soul I shall take.’ He moved and the slaves cowered back, as if, thought Nuadu, they had witnessed the next part before and feared it even more than the mutilating of the boy. The two who had used the double-sided axes seemed to become more aware and Nuadu thought that the Robemaker had probably withdrawn the piercing spikes and the pinchers of the Stroicim Inchinn from their minds. They looked about them a bit hazily and then at the bleeding half-thing that had been the young boy and scuttled into a comer.

The Robemaker stood over the remains of the boy and lifted his arms wide, so that the cloak fluttered and his arms resembled great black wings. He pronounced a string of words in an unfamiliar tongue and, as he did so, the light changed abruptly and became dark and malevolent, tinged with purple. Black-edged shadows fell across the glowing floor.

There was a beating of wings overhead and a leathery, rustling sound and the slaves cringed and covered their faces. Nuadu stood his ground, his eyes raking the shadows. For I believe I am about to witness a thing few people see and live to tell of he thought.

Into the magenta light of the spell-ridden Workshop there appeared a monstrous creature, composed of great leathery wings and claw feet and a hideous, horny head, with great dark, gaping eye sockets and a bony, sloping jaw. The face of the creature was pointed, animal-like, goat-like, and there were cruel curving talons protruding from its front paws and curling toes with gristly joints and sharp nails at the back. There was a dry, rustling sound, as if old dry bones were being rubbed together and the sound of fleshless lips chuckling.

Nuadu stayed where he was, but his mind was tumbling with horror and revulsion. There was a dreadful, fetid stench on the air and the creature swooped across the Workshops, the wingspan of its great jagged wings immense.

Nuadu knew that the Robemaker must have summoned one of the creatures from the Cruachan Cavern to take his victim’s soul and, as he watched, the winged creature fell on the remains of the young boy, and settled on his chest, nibbling and clawing its way into his face. Sickness rose in Nuadu, but he fought it and forced himself to watch.

The boy’s eyes had been drawn out by the Soul Eater and it gave a dry, evil chuckle of triumph. Its talons whipped out and embedded themselves into the boy’s skull, using the emptied eye sockets as a means of entry and Nuadu, narrowing his eyes against the dimness, saw that the talons were in fact hollow tubes, thin transparent bones.

The Soul Eater crouched for a few moments and Nuadu saw that a thin silvery fluid was beginning to course along its hollow talons. It gave a low moan and Nuadu felt the nausea lift his stomach again, because there had been a very nearly sexual quality in the sound.

The Robemaker was standing very still, his hooded face turned in the direction of the Soul Eater and its victim.

The slaves were huddled together in a comer, their faces turned away, as if afraid that the Soul Eater’s attention might suddenly turn to one of them.

For from the power of a Soul Eater from the Cruachan Cavern, there is no escape, ever …

The winged creature had finished with the boy now and Nuadu thought it had taken its fill of the strange silvery liquid. But it remained still for a moment and there was the shimmer of silver about the boy’s head.

For the soul does not easily yield to those who will steal it for the purposes of evil …

And then the Soul Eater spread its wings again, and the pointed skull-like head turned to the Robemaker.

‘Another soul against your debt, Robemaker,’ said the creature in a dry, whispery voice. ‘The scales will have tipped a little farther over. But we ask far more of you before your bondage is at an end. There must be more souls for us, Robemaker.’

‘There will be more, Master,’ said the Robemaker.

‘You know the pronouncement,’ said the creature. ‘You must live with your curse until we have eaten our fill.’ And then, turning its head to look round the Workshops, it said, ‘We do not ask of you that you give us your slaves, Robemaker, for it is vital that the Looms are kept weaving. It is vital that you continue to suck from Ireland her heart and her being and her puny strengths.’

‘I continue to do so, Master,’ said the Robemaker and, although there was not the smallest trace of subservience in his voice, Nuadu, listening intently, received the impression that the Robemaker was choosing his words with care, as if he was in some kind of thrall to this being.

The Soul Eater said, ‘We shall meet again, Robemaker. In the Cavern of Cruachan, at the Court of my people.’ It spread its wings again, and the heavy dark beating of them filled the air. ‘There are many centuries before the debt is paid and the curse we placed on you lifted. There are many more nights when you will attend the Court of the Soul Eaters and render us homage.’ There was a deepening of the shadows and a swirling of something heavy and turgid and foul, and then the creature was gone and the Workshops were once again lit to crimson and the slaves turned back to their tasks.

Chapter Twenty-one

Snizort thought he was getting on rather well. He had spent most of the day talking to the people of the exiled Court and had made copious notes. He had rather enjoyed it and it had helped him to keep his mind off what might be happening to Snodgrass and to Floy and Fenella. He had asked a great many questions of the exiled Court and he hoped, he said earnestly to Oisin, that they would not think him inquisitive. It was only that none of this was quite what he had been used to.

Oisin said, very courteously, ‘Since our own Chroniclers and our Poets and Story Tellers were unable to follow us into exile, it is we who should be grateful to you for creating an account of what is happening.’

This was extremely polite of Oisin and Snizort had been heartened. He would make a very careful and very thorough account of it all, he said. He had already made some notes about the battle, and about the Gruagach besieging Tara —

‘On the orders of the Robemaker and CuRoi,’ said Eogan sharply.

‘Yes, the Gruagach would never have done such a thing if it hadn’t been suggested to them,’ put in Feradach.

‘Or even if they hadn’t been well paid,’ added Tealtaoich. ‘I hear that Goibniu, the Gruagach High Chancellor, is quite the most venal giant you could ever meet.’

‘Giants are all venal,’ said Feradach.

They were seated round the long oak table, with the remains of supper still spread out. Behind them, the Wolfwood was shrouded in the blue and violet shadows of the Purple Hour and Snizort could hear the night rustlings and scurryings and patterings of tiny woodland creatures. But within the clearing it was warm and safe-feeling; Clumhach had lit their usual fire, which was burning up brightly, and somebody had placed a cauldron of spiced wine to simmer over it. Snizort thought that this was probably the time of day that the Beastline enjoyed best; supping at the long oak table, making plans to regain Tara, drinking spiced wine or mead.

At his side, Oisin said gently, ‘It is how we lived at Tara.’

‘Yes?’ said Snizort, who had forgotten this business of having your thoughts overheard.

‘The days were spent in — oh, many things,’ said Oisin, his dark, velvety eyes far away. ‘Hunting, perhaps, or travelling. Chasing the white stag through the forests — never catching it, of course, for it is a — a creature of legend, the white stag.’

‘Yes. Do go on,’ said Snizort, reaching for a newly sharpened charcoal stick.

‘Perhaps there would be guests to be welcomed — travellers, or merchants from the East who would display their wares of silk or gold or ivory,’ said Oisin. ‘Perhaps there would be studying for some of us, discourse with the druids or the sorcerers. For those who held Office under the King — that is, Chancellorships or Council positions — there might be meetings in the Star of the Poets.’ He looked at Snizort to make sure that Snizort understood and Snizort at once said, ‘Yes, we had our own governing people in Renascia. A Council of Nine we called it.’

‘Nine is interesting,’ said Oisin, thoughtfully. ‘It is a very mystical and very powerful number, although twelve is more frequently found. Although there are only six of us here now, once there were Twelve Royal Houses.’ He indicated the twelve carved thrones at the edges of the clearing, set into the immense Trees. ‘I do not know when those were carved,’ he said. ‘Our legends say that it was at the same time as the great Ebony Throne of Ireland.’

‘That is inside Tara?’

‘No. No, the Ebony Throne is lost to us, as so much else is lost to us,’ said Oisin.

‘I understand,’ said Snizort, who had lived in a world where entire civilisations had been lost and who had spent his life searching for fragments of them.

‘It happened not all at once, you understand,’ said Oisin. ‘Not as it happened to your people, in one immense disaster. It happened naturally, over many years, and always sadly. Our people were killed in battles such as the great CuChulainn of the Chariot Horses at the Battle against the Erl-King in the High King Cormac’s time. Sometimes they embarked on quests and did not return. Sometimes they were taken by the Dark Lords and imprisoned for ever in the Black Ireland. There were many causes and many reasons and nothing lasts for ever. And so now there are only six Royal Houses.’

‘That is very sad,’ said Snizort.

‘But twelve has always been a number of great meaning to us,’ said Oisin. ‘You will find it repeatedly. We have the Twelve Sacred Couches of Conchobar in the Hall of Light within Tara. And there were the twelve evil Lords who served the necromancer Medoc. And twelve stone idols surrounding the ancient monster-god, Crom Croich.’ Snizort, on his own account, offered the Twelve Knights who had sat at a round table so that no one of them should be at its head and no one at its foot.

‘That’s something I’ve never come across,’ said Oisin, his expression absorbed and interested.

‘And there were the Twelve Companions of Odysseus and the Twelve faithful Apostles,’ said Snizort. ‘And we know that our ancestors kept twelve days of revelry for some feast or other. We tried to keep those as well, in memory of them, although we did not know which part of the year they had their twelve days.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Oisin, ‘our worlds are not so very far apart.’

‘Go on about Tara,’ said Snizort.

‘Oh, Tara,’ said Oisin and the sudden, slightly mischievous grin lifted his face. ‘It was said to be the most brilliant Court in the western world. And although the days would be taken up with working and hunting and discussions, every evening we would gather in the Sun Chamber and every evening there would be a banquet of some kind. We would eat and drink and there would be entertainments and music and dancing and stories. Travellers and pilgrims and men of unknown cultures and religions would be there, for no one was ever turned away, and every creature was welcomed and given food and shelter and his story listened to. You and your friends would have been accorded places of honour,’ said Oisin, ‘for certainly you have one of the strangest stories ever told.’

Oisin had managed to bring a number of books and chronicles out of Tara and Snizort had studied these during the afternoons. Eogan had told Snizort about the ritual mating between Humans and beasts, which could only be done under the strict control of the Court Sorcerers and the Panel of Judges, and Snizort had been entranced.

‘It’s fascinating,’ he said, scribbling away busily. ‘Now, have I got it quite right? I don’t want to make any mistakes. Every fourth or possibly fifth generation, the youngest son or daughter of each house has to appear before the Panel of Judges — ’

‘Sometimes it’s longer than four or five generations,’ said Feradach.

‘It depends on the strength of the blood, of course,’ said Dian Cecht.

‘My family could go for seven generations,’ said Clumhach. ‘In fact, I once had a third cousin — or was it a great-aunt … ?’

‘If the Bloodline is judged to have weakened, then the Ritual is ordered,’ said Eogan.

‘The — dear me — the actual mating with a fox or a — ’

‘Yes,’ said Oisin, and smiled. ‘Contrary to what you would think, it is rather a solemn occasion.’

‘I think it’s unnatural,’ said Miach, rather defiantly, from the other end of the table and Dian Cecht shuddered.

‘So unpleasant,’ she murmured. ‘And to one who has been delicately reared — ’

‘Of course,’ said Feradach loudly, ‘you do get the occasional bastard outside the Enchantment. They’re frequently mutants, because of the mating being done without the protection of the Enchantment. But sometimes it works.’

‘Like Nuadu,’ said Dian Cecht urbanely.

‘Well yes.’

Oisin had drawn breath to respond to this, when Eogan, who had been looking towards the forest, suddenly said, ‘What’s that?’

‘What?’

‘There’s something moving in the Forest!’

‘I expect it’s the sidh, isn’t it?’

‘The sidh are out there,’ said Feradach, looking searchingly into the trees. ‘But Eogan’s right. There’s something else out there as well. Something that isn’t the sidh. Can’t you hear it?’

‘Yes,’ said Oisin, after a moment. ‘There’s something moving in the shadows. Something huge … ’

They were all scanning the forest’s depths now and Snizort saw that a sudden stillness and an intense wariness had stolen over them, as if whatever was moving out there in the Forest was strange and alien and menacing.

Feradach and Eogan had both been right. Deep within the shadows of the Wolfwood, there were unmistakable movements; not ordinary movements as if somebody was walking quite normally and openly through the Trees, or even furtive movements as if somebody was creeping along, dodging between the Trees, hoping not to be seen. It might have been very nearly normal if the movements had been like that. Snizort thought you might very nearly expect creatures, beings, anything at all, to steal through a darkling forest and lie watching the strange group of people eating supper and drinking wine in the glow from the fire.

The movements were fumbling and searching and somehow groping. It was as if there was something out there — or perhaps several somethings — struggling to break free of a force that had held them for a very long time. Things that had been yoked, harnessed, held down and held back by a power that was dissolving.

Things that had for centuries slept without stirring, hut that were now stirring and waking and mighty at any moment, come prowling through the forest …

Here and there they could see long, reaching arms, struggling dark shapes, the occasional ripple of something that was touched with silver by the moonlight, but that might be green-tinted and golden by day …

It was the most remarkable thing any of them had ever witnessed. It was strong and deeply magical and filled with power and enchantment and with the twilit scents and the dusk-laden sounds that were part of the ancient Wolfwood. From somewhere quite close by they could all hear the faint, unearthly singing of the sidh and Snizort caught glimpses of blue-green iridescence and of shimmering wings beating on the air.

‘Yes, the sidh are close to us,’ said Tealtaoich softly, when Snizort touched his arm and nodded towards the sounds. ‘They are singing the Tree Spirits back into the world.’

‘Is that something they always do?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Tealtaoich, his eyes on the shadowy forest and the struggling Tree Spirits. ‘Oh yes, they would pour out their music for something so magical as this.’

The Tree Spirits were discernible now; it was as if they had broken through a thick veil, through a smothering black curtain, and they were recognisable as distinct forms, moving slowly in and out of the forest. The Purple Hour had come and gone and it was full night now, so that moonlight lay across the forest, gleaming coldly, silvering the outlines of the Trees and the silhouettes of the awakening naiads and dryads.

There were more of them now. Oisin, who knew a little of the theory of sorcery — ‘Although I have never aspired to its practice,’ he would have said modestly — knew that with the emerging of the first, the others would have gained strength and confidence. He knew, as well, that Tree Spirits cling tenaciously to their homes until those homes become untenable because of the Tree dying and drying and he thought that Miach’s spell must have been stronger than any of them had thought for it to draw the Spirits so fully and so firmly into the open.

The Tree Naiads and Dryads were a curious blending of flesh and skin and muscle and bark and tree and leaf. You could not be quite sure where the Tree part ended and the Human part began, although nobody was sure if Tree Spirits possessed any Human blood. Most people thought they did not. In the main, the Spirits were Oaks; solid, not young forms, with rather benevolent and scholarly expressions. Their arms were half arms and half branches and their faces were part of the trunk part of the Tree. They did not have hair, but trailing fronds of leaves and bracken.

The Elms, who seemed to stand next in line, were plain and sturdy, with pale-ish bark for skin and a good deal of greenery. They stayed close to the Oaks, as if they considered it their duty, and they looked as if they might find life a serious business.

In between the Oaks and the Elms darted the Silver Birches, slender and frivolous-looking, with wild, shining white hair that streamed out behind them and mischievous features and trailing garments that might have been some kind of cloth, but might as easily have been simply their pale leaves. The watchers thought that the Silver Birches would certainly be a bit wild and probably without any moral sense at all and Clumhach thought he must remember to tell everyone about his great uncle who had succumbed to a Silver Birch one scandalous afternoon. It would not do to forget something so interesting.

The Copper Beech Naiads were the most beautiful creatures any of them had ever seen. They were exquisite, rather fearless-looking creatures with manes of flowing red gold hair and skin the colour of an autumn sunset, long narrow eyes and slender, graceful arms and feet.

As Snizort and the Court sat, barely moving, the Trees seemed to become aware of the watchers and, one by one, ceased to move and turned to regard them. A great hush fell over the entire Wolfwood, as if, thought Snizort, every living creature knew or heard or sensed what had happened and was waiting to see what the Trees would do.

And I believe the Trees are judging us, thought Snizort. They’ve broken free and they’re turning to see what kind of creatures called them out of their enchanted sleep. They’re inspecting us and they’re considering what we are and whether we’re all right.

Tealtaoich said, very softly, ‘You know, one of us must approach them.’

‘Yes,’ said several voices, rather doubtfully.

‘Had it better be me?’

‘Well, you’re next after Nuadu,’ said Feradach.

‘Yes, but he didn’t actually say — ’

‘He wouldn’t,’ said Eogan, his eyes still on the Trees. ‘He never accepted the leadership of us all, not officially. He wouldn’t appoint anyone to lead in his absence.’

‘Because he didn’t care?’ asked Clumhach anxiously.

‘No. Because he cared too much. And Tealtaoich is nearer to the Wolfkings than any of us. He’s the King’s cousin.’

‘I should not dream of putting myself forward in any way at all,’ said Dian Cecht. ‘But I do think that someone of authority should go into the forest and approach the Tree Spirits.’

‘All right,’ said Tealtaoich, suddenly. ‘I’ll do it.’

He stood up and moved stealthily and warily forward and Snizort saw, for the first time, the sleek, feline grace. Tealtaoich was not exactly padding into the forest and he was not precisely slinking into it either. But the impression of dark, catlike prowling was there; the image of fur-covered paws and of sheathed claws and lashing tail. Snizort glanced at the others and saw in each of them, now, faintly but definitely the unmistakable traces of their lineage. As if something within them had sharpened to awareness, or perhaps as if the darkling forest had wakened their strange ancestry and quenched the Human side of them.

I suppose it is all right, he thought. I suppose we are right to throw in our lot with them. But there was no time to give this disturbing idea attention; Tealtaoich was nearly at the Trees and the Trees were grouped together watching him and waiting for him in complete silence and it was important not to miss a single instant of any of it.

Tealtaoich had moved with a soft, measured tread towards the flowing, twining shapes, not once hesitating. ‘And,’ said Oisin softly, ‘it’s actually quite brave of him. We none of us know if the Trees are safe or not.’

‘Tealtaoich is far braver than he’d like you to think,’ said Feradach.

Tealtaoich had passed through the twisting shadows and was standing facing the Trees now, a slender, solitary figure, silhouetted darkly against the massive solidity of the Oaks and the flowing silver-tipped hair of the Birches and the cascading russet leaf-hair of the Copper Beeches. The Tree Spirits were a great deal taller than Tealtaoich and, from out of the blending, shifting, gold and green and russet, their eyes were ancient and wise and beautiful.

‘And watchful,’ thought Snizort. ‘Bless my soul, they are certainly not to be lightly regarded, these creatures.’

Behind the Spirits they could see the shapes of the Trees themselves, stark and empty-looking, rather dark and brooding, like abandoned houses whose windows stare blindly and blankly.

The Oak Naiads were at the centre of the group, with the Elms in attendance. They’re Elders, thought Snizort. The Oaks are the Elders of the Forest and the others are aware of it. They’ll all have opinions and ideas and suggestions, but it’ll be the Oaks who decide and the rest will bow to their decision.

The Silver Birches looked rather fun. They seemed to giggle and shrug and eye Tealtaoich mischievously and be unable to decide where they would like to sit. They darted about on the front of the group, their silver-leaf hair rustling like raw silk. On the edges of the Trees, the Copper Beech Naiads had simply sunk to the ground, their hair falling about their bodies in rich cascades of colour, making pools of glowing russet and brown all about them. They fixed their huge unreadable golden eyes on Tealtaoich.

The Trees seemed to be waiting for Tealtaoich to make the first move and the largest of the Oaks had inclined their heads quite courteously. ‘But,’ said Clumhach in one of his huge whispers, ‘you get the feeling that you could easily be made to feel a fool by them, don’t you?’

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Oisin, to whom this remark happened to have been directed.

‘Those Silver Birches don’t look very reliable. Still, I’d rather have them with us than against us,’ added Feradach.

Tealtaoich stood quite still, regarding the waiting Trees and seeing that they were listening and apparently politely prepared to hear anything he had to say.

‘You are well come,’ he said at last, and the Trees inclined their heads again.

‘They’ll like that,’ murmured Oisin to Snizort. ‘It’s the ancient welcoming Ritual and, in all of the stories, the Tree Spirits set very great store by rituals. And they’ll like the fact that it’s a Prince of Ireland who has been sent to talk to them.’

Tealtaoich, facing the Tree Spirits, was remembering this as well. Then, hoping he could remember enough of the ancient language of chivalry and selecting his words with extreme care, he said, ‘Good Trees, we ask your assistance,’ and saw the Elms nod to one another meaningfully, as if they had been expecting all along to be asked to do something for the Humans.

‘Tara is in the hands of the Dark Powers,’ said Tealtaoich, hoping that this was the correct thing to say, because nobody had seemed quite sure which side the Trees would be on. ‘It is in thrall to a Necromancer of the highest order and the Wolfking is dead.’ There was a rustle of emotion at this. The Beeches drooped their beautiful heads and their copper leaf-hair rippled across the forest floor. The Elms looked at them rather disapprovingly and then turned back to Tealtaoich.

Tealtaoich said, ‘You have always been on the side of justice, Trees; come with us and fight with us and for us, as you have done in the past.’ He lifted his voice slightly. ‘Come with us and help us to beat back the Dark Ireland once again.’ A pause. ‘Once before,’ said Tealtaoich, reaching into his memory, ‘once before, you answered the Wolfkings’ cry for help. It is a part of our history, that, and a part which we revere greatly. Once before, you rose up from the great forests of Ireland and came to the aid of our greatest King of all, Cormac of the Wolves. You turned the tide of a battle then, centuries ago.

‘We have kept that memory with us ever since and we have always believed that the Trees would ever be on the side of the Wolfkings and the Beastline and the One True Ireland.’ He paused for breath. ‘Will you fight with us and for us again?’ said Tealtaoich. ‘Will you come with us to Tara and help us sweep to victory? Will you fight for the descendants of the great Cormac and his daughter Dierdriu and the descendants of Grainne the Gentle and of Erin and of Niall of the Nine Hostages? And of all the Wolfkings and Queens who have made Ireland great?’

Tealtaoich paused again and stood waiting and a murmur of approval went through the others. Feradach whispered to Oisin that you had to give credit where it was due; Tealtaoich really did this sort of thing extremely well.

‘Yes, but I don’t know if he’s reaching them,’ said Oisin, his eyes on Tealtaoich’s slight form. ‘They’re rather overpowering, aren’t they?’

The Trees seemed to be thinking Tealtaoich’s words over and Tealtaoich, still standing before them, received the impression that they might be somehow conferring with one another in some silent fashion of their own. The Oaks bent their branchy heads closer and the Silver Birches rippled and chattered. And then the largest of the Oaks moved forward and Tealtaoich saw that he had the high, domed forehead of a scholar and a thinker and that his ancient eyes held wisdom and knowledge.

‘Son of the Wild Panthers,’ said the Oak, in a warm, woodsy sort of voice, ‘son of one of Ireland’s most ancient Bloodlines, is it solely to ask our help that you have woken us?’

Tealtaoich thought, rather grimly, that this was a nasty one. They had woken the Trees only so that they could ask for their help, of course. As he hesitated, searching for the proper words, the Oak spoke again.

‘We have slept the enchanted slumber, the Draoicht Suan, for many centuries,’ it said. ‘You will know of our history and you will know that we were sent into that slumber many hundreds of years ago, by the Dark Lords who held sway in the reign of the High King Cormac.’

‘I do know,’ said Tealtaoich, and thought there was a note of reproof in the Oak’s tone, as if the Tree Spirits were angry at being summoned like this. They are not going to help us, he thought, and knew a rush of complete despair.

The Oak said, ‘But we have lent our aid to the Royal Houses of the Beastline in times of extreme danger and we have also fought to regain Tara for the rightful heir.’

The rightful heir … Taken and imprisoned and held fast in the black depths of the Dark Ireland. I wonder if they know about that, thought Tealtaoich. But he only said, ‘Will you join with us?’ and looked at the Oak very straightly.

There was a pause, and the Oak seemed to study him afresh with solemn, scholarly eyes.

‘Ireland is threatened by a terrible force,’ it said, and the listening Court held their breath. ‘It is menaced by the evil CuRoi and by the Robemaker.’ At the mention of the Robemaker, a shiver went through the Trees. ‘We know it and we feel it,’ said the Oak.

‘We do not promise to help you, Son of the Panthers. But we will attend a Council of War and hear your plans. If we believe that Ireland can be purged of the Dark Lords and the Wolfline reinstated, then we will join with you.’

The Oak regarded Tealtaoich severely. ‘For,’ it said, ‘unless the Wolfline is reinstated, Ireland is surely doomed for generations to come.’

Chapter Twenty-two

Floy and Snodgrass, with Balor accompanying them, set out from Tara at noon the next day.

‘Carrying,’ said Goibniu, ‘the new marriage proposal, and the designs for Flame’s jewels.’

The new proposals contained a revised list of the territories the Gruagach were prepared to cede to Reflection in exchange for her daughter but Caspar, who had managed to get a look at these, had told Floy that the Gruagach were only ceding some barren bits of wasteland surrounding the Robemaker’s Workshops, the Lake of Dhairbhreach — which nobody in their right minds would want — and a mountain or two. ‘It looks quite good on paper,’ he said. ‘In fact, it looks very generous. But it’s nothing more than a double-cross, really. Goibniu will never give away anything that is worth a button.’

The Gnomes had rolled the designs for the new Crown Jewels into cylinders and packed them carefully into long, hollow tubes, which they had brought with them for the purpose.

‘Best copper on gold,’ said Bith of the Bog-Hat. ‘Engraved with tongues of flame,’ said Flaherty, who had thought up this himself and did not want it overlooked.

‘I did the engraving,’ said Culdub Oakapple. ‘What you do is, you heat up an iron spike — ’

‘Don’t let Floy forget the chart of colours.’

‘ — until it’s so hot it’s white — ’

‘And there’s the pearl diadem we made, just as a bit of a gift — ’

‘ — I blistered my thumbs on it — ’

Floy said, ‘I shall not forget anything and I feel sure that Reflection and Flame will be greatly impressed by your sketches.’

The Gnomes broke into wide grins at this and said wasn’t impressing the thing and Floy in the right of it, and impress was what they’d set out to do and hadn’t Floy the way with words?

‘And if,’ said Bith of the Bog-Hat, ‘your impress-ship should ever be wanting an armlet or two, or maybe a plain everyday crown circlet, we’d be happy to oblige.’

The Gnomes chimed in, saying to be sure they would, obliging was what they were, and it the best thing of all to be, leave aside impressing, which was just as important.

‘And so,’ said Floy, looking at Fenella, wondering how all this might have been received on Renascia, ‘and so, we will set off.’

Fenella looked at Floy and remembered about the Robemaker and the way he had captured Nuadu and rendered them all helpless, and about the exiled Court and the sidh and the Tree Spirits that Miach had almost awoken, and which might turn out not to be friends, but enemies. And thought: and Floy is going off into the midst of all these and it is perfectly possible that I shall never see him again.

But it would not do to show any emotion before the giants, who had all gathered to see Floy and Snodgrass off, or before Balor, who was waiting in high good humour at the unexpected excitement of a journey to the Fire Court. And so Fenella said, ‘I wish you a safe journey,’ and was pleased that her voice came out firm and perfectly calm, as if she was quite accustomed to seeing her brother off on a journey to the Court of a Sorceress, which would take him past all manner of weird and darkly enchanted places.

‘And a speedy return,’ said Caspar, winking plumply on the side that the giants could not see. ‘That’s important. A speedy return.’

They were to depart from the Western Gate. ‘Which,’ said Caspar, ‘is where all important journeys start from.’

‘It will be our first real sight of Ireland,’ said Floy to Caspar, as if there was nothing more on his mind other than surveying the land they were about to travel through.

He stood for a moment, framed in the great gateway, and Fenella saw how the early morning light touched his dark hair and brought out red glints in it and saw, as well, that his eyes were shining, as if he was already looking ahead to the dangers and the adventures. Yes, perhaps it will be all right. Of course it will be all right.

Snodgrass was discussing with the Gnomes the best route to take and Caspar was making sure that they had packed the maps and Inchbad and Goll the Gorm and  Arca Dubh were nodding and smiling and, of course, there was nothing sinister in their smiles — and there was certainly nothing in the least sinister in the way that Goibniu was looking at Fenella, thumbs hooked in his belt, his wide greedy mouth curving into a satisfied grin …

Balor was going to let down the drawbridge so that they could ride across it. ‘Seeing that it’s a special occasion,’ he said, and Goibniu had procured two horses for Floy and Snodgrass to ride. Balor would walk, because giants did not ride.

‘There aren’t horses that would carry them,’ muttered Caspar. ‘And on horseback you’ll get a better chance of losing him.’

The provision of horses was unexpected, but curiously cheering, because it seemed to show that the giants were sending Floy and Snodgrass off in reasonable style, as if they expected them to return.

‘Of course you will return,’ said Goibniu. ‘The lady will be here, waiting for you.’ There was another of the smiling glances at Fenella. ‘She will entertain us every evening after supper,’ said Goibniu and Floy nearly abandoned the entire thing there and then, because there had been something so meaningful in the way that Goibniu had said entertain that he wondered how they could ever have considered leaving her here alone.

‘I suppose,’ said Floy, thoughtfully, fixing Caspar with an equally meaningful stare, ‘that we can trust you, can we?’ and Caspar said, ‘Oh, for the — Floy, I’ve been trying to get away from these creatures ever since they took Tara!

We’ll meet you on the road leading to Lake Dhairbhreach as we arranged.’

‘Yes,’ said Floy. ‘All right.’

Neither Floy nor Snodgrass had ever actually seen a horse, let alone ridden one. ‘But it is not really so very difficult,’ said Snodgrass, after he was hoisted into the saddle and discovered how to take up the reins.

Floy stood where he was for a moment, looking up at the great, shining edifice that was Tara, Ireland’s Bright Palace, the great legendary Citadel of Light, the home of the Wolfkings … Shall I ever see this again? And then, with a pang of real anguish: shall I ever see Fenella again? he thought. But there was nothing to be done; Goibniu had made it a request that Floy and Snodgrass travel to the Fire Court leaving Fenella alone. It had been courteously framed, but Goibniu had arranged for Balor to go with them and Floy had known — and everyone had known — that it had not really been a request but a command.

There was a quick, rather fierce embrace. ‘Go safely, Floy,’ whispered Fenella, who thought it safer not to say more, and then one of the stable hands brought the second horse forward and Floy found, as Snodgrass had, that it was actually quite easy to spring into the saddle and it was rather a safe feeling to be seated astride a horse like this.

And then the drawbridge was falling, with a clanking and a whirring of machinery and the light was pouring into the courtyard and the Gnomes were cheering and the giants were nodding to one another, and there was nothing for it but to ride away with Snodgrass, with Balor loping along at their side, with Fenella behind in the hands of the Gruagach.

It was a rather dreadful feeling to know you were alone inside a castle of giants. Fenella, tidying her hair for supper, thought she had never felt quite so alone in her life. Probably everything would be all right and probably there was nothing to be afraid of. Probably Inchbad and the others would be extremely friendly and entirely courteous. Also, the Gnomes would still be there. Fenella, who had almost forgotten about this, was cheered, because it was impossible to be afraid (well, almost impossible) with Bith and Culdub and Flaherty and the rest of them.

Caspar came to collect her before supper. ‘In case you miss your way,’ he said, but Fenella had heard the key turn in the lock earlier and knew she was still being treated as a prisoner.

Supper was rather an odd meal. Fenella was seated next to Inchbad, who patted her hand and said she was a pretty little thing, but seemed preoccupied. Goll the Gorm sat on her left and devoted all his attention to the food and Goibniu was two seats down. The Gnomes sat at the far table, eating and drinking happily, whiling away an amiable half hour by telling anyone who would listen the entire history of the Crown Jewels and the history of the Gallan forges. Flaherty took a drop more of the giants’ mulled wine than was good for him and very nearly disgraced his fellows by reciting an extremely improper poem, describing the exploits of a fair maiden who had fallen foul of a wicked and lustfully intentioned knight, but who had then escaped by invoking a demon who withered the knight’s passion. The Gnomes thought this very funny and Caspar laughed loudly but Inchbad and the giants missed the point.

‘Stupid,’ mouthed Caspar at Fenella, under cover of the serving of half a dozen roast boars. ‘I told you. We ought to be able to creep out easily when they’re all asleep,’ he added and Fenella frowned at him, because they could not risk the giants guessing what they intended to do.

They were three quarters of the way through the meal when Caspar, who did not miss anything any of the giants said and who had, in fact, long since perfected the art of listening to three different conversations at once, suddenly went rather white and made frantic gestures to Fenella.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Fenella as Caspar trotted round to her chair, under cover of bringing round a Human-sized bowl of fruit. ‘And do, for heavens’ sake, be watchful or they’ll suspect us of collusion.’

‘What’s that?’ said Caspar. And then, ‘No, don’t tell me, we haven’t got time.’ He took a deep breath and glanced round at the giants. ‘They’re going to celebrate the Fidchell again,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘Yes. With you and the gnomes. They’re not overly partial to gnomes, but they think it’s too good an opportunity to miss.’

‘But they were going to wait for Floy to get back! I was going to tell them about Renascia and the Angry Sun and — ’ Fenella trailed into silence, staring at Caspar.

‘They aren’t going to wait for Floy to come back,’ said Caspar. ‘In fact, from what Goibniu said, I rather think they don’t expect him to get back at all.’

‘Oh,’ said Fenella, suddenly feeling rather sick. ‘But that means — ’ And stopped.

‘It means,’ said Caspar, ‘that you and the Gnomes are going to be impaled on spikes and partly roasted on the Fidchell board. And then you’ll be finished off in the sculleries.

‘And then they’ll eat you,’ said Caspar, and Fenella stared at him in horror.

It was difficult to make the Gnomes understand. Caspar and Fenella had to explain it four times, and a fifth for Flaherty, who was still recovering from his overindulgence in the matter of the mulled wine.

To begin with, the Gnomes thought it a fine idea to be part of the traditional Fidchell and Bith of the Bog-Hat told how the Wolfkings had played it during the Winter Solstice with solid gold figures studded with ivory and pearl, which the Gnomes always had the supplying of. Flaherty said to be sure this was true, although he misremembered the last time they’d been called on to supply them, it being all of two years since the Wolfkings had been driven out by the Gruagach.

It was all very difficult.

‘And dangerous,’ said Caspar, with a backwards glance to where Goibniu was standing before the fire in the characteristic pose, thumbs in belt, surrounded by half a dozen or so of the others. He got down to the serious matter of explaining to the gnomes that the intricate, almost scholarly, Fidchell that the Wolfkings had enjoyed, bore no resemblance to the horrid gruesome version that the Gruagach played.

Fenella was watching the giants, feeling cold inside at the way in which they all kept glancing slyly in her direction. There had to be something they could do.

‘Couldn’t the gnomes do something?’ she said. ‘Bith, Culdub, can’t you think of something we can do? You know more about this kind of thing than I do. What do people do when they’re threatened by giants?’

‘If we don’t do something extremely soon,’ said Caspar, who was watching the giants furtively, ‘they’ll be heating up the squares any minute.’

One of the older Gnomes, who had a face like a wrinkled nutcracker and bright twinkly eyes, asked would a bit of magic be of any use anywhere, because wasn’t magic a powerful thing when you had a difficulty, and the other Gnomes said to be sure it was.

Caspar said crossly, ‘Well, of course it would be of use, only we haven’t got any.’

The Gnome, whose name was Pumlumon said, ‘But of course we have,’ and the Gnomes all shook their heads sadly, and did not know what things were coming to when Humans did not remember about Gnomes having any magic.

Fenella, trying to keep her voice low, so that Goibniu and the others would not hear it, said, ‘But what sort of magic, Pumlumon?’ and Pumlumon beamed and said weren’t there all kinds.

‘But if it’s the giants you’re wanting to fool, then it’d be the grand old Draoicht Suan,’ said Pumlumon, and the Gnomes nodded sagely and said that would be it, the Draoicht Suan it would be, the spell that had kept the Trees fast asleep for so many years now, and wasn’t it a powerful strong spell and Pumlumon the fellow to be spinning it for them all?

‘Well, what does it do?’ asked Fenella, who was by no means sure about trusting an enchantment and who did not like the way Goibniu and Fiachra Broadcrown were flipping coins and chuckling sinisterly over the results.

Pumlumon said in a voice of utmost astonishment, ‘But has your honour never heard of the Draoicht Suan}' and was instantly hushed by Bith of the Bog-Hat, who had by now sensed that something was wrong, being a gnome of more percipience than his fellows and who liked, no more than Fenella, the manner in which Goibniu was eyeing them all. He told the others they must not forget about roast Gnome being a traditional dish for the Gruagach’s grander festivals. Such as a wedding feast, said Bith severely.

‘It’s the Enchantment of Slumber,’ said Pumlumon. ‘It sends your enemies into the deepest of sleeps. My word, I’m surprised that your worshipfulness has never come across it. At one time, you couldn’t travel more than a half day across Ireland without coming across the Draoicht Suan in one form or another. Well, that’s what keeps the Trees from waking,’ said Pumlumon, looking solemn. ‘And if we’re to outwit these giants, there’s nothing for it but for me to call up the Draoicht Suan. We’ll send the giants into the enchanted slumber and be off back to Gallan in the whisk of a glowworm’s tail.’ He beamed at them again and Caspar was beginning to relax, because it seemed as if they might escape after all and Fenella was remembering about magic being very nearly everyday here, when Pumlumon said, ‘Of course, that’s so long as I can remember the words.’

He thought he probably would. He said there was not much of it to remember, really. Wasn’t it one of the simplest magics there was and his grandfather, to say nothing of his great-grandfather (who had lived long and fared well) passing it down to him. Why, said Pumlumon, hadn’t there been a time, not so very long ago either, when he could rattle off the words that set the Draoicht Suan working with no more ado than you might make in the squashing of a flea, always supposing you wanted to do something so pointless, which Pumlumon himself never had.

‘But you can remember it all?’ said Fenella, anxiously, and Pumlumon pushed his hat well back and scratched his head and said once he got it going, it would follow as the night the day, or maybe it was the other way round.

‘The thing is getting it going,’ he said. ‘If I could have a few minutes — let’s say half an hour-to think it over and make some notes, I daresay we’ll be as right as a snail’s whisker.’

‘But we haven’t got half an hour,’ said Fenella. ‘They’ll be bringing up the squares at any minute. You’ll have to pronounce it at once.’

‘Yes, but we want to get it the right way about,’ said Pumlumon. ‘It won’t do to be saying it backwards, or inside out, or to be missing a bit out that’s important, or adding a piece from another enchantment. Bless my best boots, that would never do at all. I’ll just recite it through quietly to be sure I can remember it first, shall I?’

‘We’ll have to distract the giants, then,’ said Fenella practically. ‘Supposing I offer to tell them about the Feargach Grian?’

The Gnomes thought this a fine old idea. In fact, Flaherty thought it was a better idea than invoking the Draoicht Suan until it was explained to him that unless Pumlumon did invoke it, they would all of them be roasting on spits in the Gruagach’s sculleries before the night was out, to which he said that giants had always been partial to roast Gnome and he had always thought it was a mistake to come to Tara in the first place.

‘Give me a few moments,’ said Pumlumon, setting his features in a frown of concentration and Fenella looked at Caspar with a have-we-any-choice expression and then, taking a deep breath, walked across to the group of giants by the fire.

Inchbad was pleased to see Fenella, pretty little thing, approach them. Of course, it was probably quite an ordeal for Humans to sup with giants, although Inchbad was pleased to think that they had all treated Fenella and the other two with courtesy. The Gruagach were strong on courtesy; Inchbad had always been very firm about this, even to the extent of feeding prisoners before the Fidchell which Goibniu had always said was a waste of good food and wine.

But it paid off in the end; here was the pretty little Girl-Human walking over to talk to them, smiling up at them -Inchbad always noticed the fair, smooth skins of Humans, whereas giantesses were apt to be a bit coarse and occasionally had incipient beards. You could not really beat a Human’s skin. Inchbad found himself thinking he would rather like to stroke Fenella. Perhaps they should reserve tonight’s Fidchell solely for the Gnomes. Nobody wanted to stroke a Gnome, except perhaps another Gnome. He thought he might just have a word with Caspar to see if Fenella could be brought along to his, Inchbad’s, bed that very night. Goibniu would have had his eye on her, but that was just too bad. Goibniu would have to wait his turn. There was really no reason why the Girl-Human could not be brought to all their bedchambers, one after the other, before she was used in the Fidchell. This was an eminently reasonable arrangement and nobody could possibly object.

The Girl-Human had seated herself before the fire; Inchbad could see how the firelight fell across her face and brought out red lights in her hair. He bent to hear what she was saying, because she had a rather soft voice. Soothing you might call it. The sort of voice you could just nod off to. Yes, he would very much like to stroke her. Face, neck, breasts … Giantesses tended to have loose thick-grained breasts. Inchbad was rather partial to a soft, tender Human breast. He shifted in his seat a bit. Yes, certainly Caspar would be told to make ready the royal bed-chamber tonight.

The Girl was explaining how she thought perhaps she ought to make some kind of thanks to them for their hospitality. (Goibniu and Fiachra Broadcrown sniggered at this, but nobody took any notice.) The Girl said that they had been so kind and welcoming; food all served to them and very good, too, and such comfortable bedchambers for their use. And they had expressed such interest in the Feargach Grian she was saying; as people of culture and learning, naturally they would be interested in it, she quite understood this.

This was appealing to everyone’s better instincts and most of the giants looked alert and nodded at one another, because, of course, the Gruagach were known the length and breadth of Ireland for their culture and learning. It had been really quite sharp of the pretty little Human to see that.

Perhaps a tale or two from other lands? the Girl was saying, smiling up at them. In her own country, there had been a saying: ‘Singing for your Supper’. She could not sing, she said, not really, but she could tell some stories for her supper. Would that do? And she smiled so nicely at Inchbad and Goibniu that everyone smiled back and thought it would be really very interesting to hear about some of the strange lands and the faraway worlds the Humans had visited from the great Feargach Grian, and also that it was always a shame to eat Humans when they were pretty and young and friendly. And while nobody wanted precisely to abandon the Fidchell which everybody enjoyed so much, there was really no reason why they could not play it with the Gnomes tonight and save Fenella for tomorrow, or even the day after.

And so Inchbad sat down and beamed at Fenella and said they would be interested to hear her stories and, at the same time, nodded to the waiting Fiachra Broadcrown to get the Fidchell squares ready for the Gnomes.

Fenella took a deep breath and, leaning forward, clasped her hands about her knees. It was warm over here by the fire and there was an unpleasant stench of stale giant and the surreptitious breaking of wind from Goll the Gorm who had eaten too much onion broth again, but these things would have to be overlooked. From the corner of her eye, she could see Pumlumon frowning and tapping his forehead for inspiration and the others standing in a worried circle about him.

Fenella began to speak at exactly the same moment that Pumlumon began to intone the Draoicht Suan.

To begin with, it did not seem as if anything was going to happen. Caspar, who distrusted most magic on principle, thought that probably nothing would happen at all and the evening would end as so many evenings were ending lately; with the heating of the squares and the terrible screaming of the victims.

But Fenella seemed to have caught the Gruagach’s interest fairly and squarely; Caspar, only partly listening, heard her telling them about another life, another world, where people had fled in panic from the Feargach Grian many centuries earlier and how the Feargach Grian had, on that occasion, appeared in one of its truly terrible aspects.

‘The Angry Sun in truth,’ said Fenella, her expression absorbed, her eyes fixed on Goibniu and the others.

Caspar saw Inchbad nodding and Goll the Gorm was utterly rapt. Pumlumon seemed to have got himself quite well into the enchantment now; he was looking much less worried than he had looked ten minutes earlier. (‘For doesn’t it always come back?’ demanded Bith. ‘Isn’t he the grand feller, chanting away, as if it was only yesterday he called up a spell or two?’)

Pumlumon set his hat more squarely on his head and continued. Caspar, sending a worried glance to the group around the fire, heard Fenella describing something called Renascia; Twilight Mountains and Seasons with different colours. Something about an Iron Casket that had held secrets of the Ancient Past … It might have been extremely interesting if Caspar had not been so worried about Pumlumon’s knowledge of the spell. Oughtn’t it to be working by now?

Fenella, seated by the fire, trying not to flinch from onion-tainted breath and unwashed feet (there was something particularly revolting about the thought of giants’ feet and their toenails), thought so as well. Inchbad had moved across to sit beside her and had taken her hand between his finger and thumb and was exclaiming what a pretty little thing she was and it the shame of the world that her brother had had to ride off and leave her all alone.

‘But I’ll console you, my dear,’ he said and Fenella smiled valiantly and tried to quell the nauseous lifting of her stomach.

‘That would be nice, but shan’t I tell you about the Fire Country of Fael-Inis now?’ It might be as well to sound a bit childish, and even slightly simple. ‘Or,’ said Fenella, hopefully, ‘should we save it for tomorrow?’

Goibniu opened his mouth to say something-Fenella wondered what it would have been — when an arrested look came into his small eyes.

Into the great Sun Chamber, the legendary crystal and silver hall, the place the exiled Wolfkings had called Medchuarta, stole something so delicate and so strong, and so — so beckoning thought Fenella hazily — that it was almost as if a thin, sugar-spun veil was falling over them. There was a faint sticky feeling to it, as if it might trap you if you tried to struggle against it — but no one would want to struggle against this, thought Fenella, bemused with delight.

For a moment, she thought she could see it: fragile silver filaments of enchantment, gentle brittle frost-webs of something that was not quite light, but not quite solid, but somehow composed of both. The Enchantment of Slumber … gentle and strong and wrapping itself about you … And within the enchantment are dreams, Mortal, within the enchantment are worlds within worlds within worlds and there are no longer boundaries and there are no longer the finite things that bind you …

Surrender now, Mortal, come into the deep folds of slumber, where your heart’s desire awaits you, where all things are possible …

Nuadu! thought Fenella, her mind tumbling with delight. And Floy! And all things are possible …

She gave a deep sigh and felt the silver threads spin filaments of pure light about her and the soft folds of slumber enveloping her … like a soft light veil, like a warm, wine-dark sea, like hazy afternoon sunlight … And then felt, with a rude awakening, Caspar’s hands shaking.

‘You can’t give in to it,’ he was saying urgently. ‘Fenella, you must wake up — ’ Fenella considered this and blinked. And from a great distance, heard Caspar say with irritation, ‘Damn and blast, I knew we shouldn’t have trusted those Gnomes — ’

With a huge effort, Fenella said, ‘What’s wrong with the Gnomes?’ And then, remembering a bit more, ‘Didn’t Pumlumon manage the Enchantment?’

‘Very well indeed,’ said Caspar grimly. ‘Only he forgot to make sure that the gnomes kept out of range. ‘They’re all fast asleep!’

‘How did we manage to escape it?’ asked Fenella. ‘Pumlumon was directing it straight at the giants,’ said Caspar. ‘I stood behind him, but you caught the outer edges of it.’ And then, curiously, ‘Did you see it?’ he said.

‘Well, I saw something,’ said Fenella rather uncertainly. ‘And I certainly felt something. But I don’t think it was as strong as it could have been. I mean, I’m awake, aren’t I?’

‘You were only on the outskirts of it,’ said Caspar. ‘But I don’t think it was very strong. I think the giants might wake up quite soon. We’ll have to be quick. I suppose,’ he said, ‘that we can’t just slip out now. Just the two of us?’

‘And leave the Gnomes?’ Fenella was shocked.

‘No, of course we can’t. We’ll have to wake them somehow.’

But the Gnomes could not be woken and, eventually, Caspar and Fenella gave up.

‘But we can’t leave them,’ said Fenella worriedly. ‘Caspar, we can’t.’

‘We could put them somewhere.’

‘Could we? Where could we put them?’

‘In a locked room?’ said Caspar, half to himself, and then, with more assurance, ‘Yes, in a locked room.’

‘Won’t they wake up and be angry?’

But Caspar said this was unlikely; the Draoicht Suan would probably keep everyone inside Tara asleep until somebody came along with the counter-spell.

‘And,’ he added gloomily, ‘who’s to know when that will happen. It might be a hundred years from now for all I know.’

In the end they hauled the Gnomes into a small anteroom across the galleried landing from the Sun Chamber.

‘Not ideal,’ said Caspar. ‘But it gives them a fighting chance. I tell you what we’ll do, we’ll try to find someone on the way who knows the counter-spell and send him back to wake the Gnomes up.’

‘Can we do that?’

‘You never know,’ said Caspar rather vaguely. ‘I’ve known stranger things happen.’ And then, impatiently, ‘And now do come on, or we shall never get away.’

Chapter Twenty-three

In the end, it was relatively easy to steal through the darkened halls of Tara and out into the night.

‘Although Tara never is really dark,’ said Caspar as they stopped to look back at the great shining edifice outlined against the sky. Fenella, who had found Tara a place of breathtaking beauty and who would have very much liked to explore it, saw how it gleamed gently against the night and seemed to have some inner radiance of its own.

‘I have seen it brighter,’ said Caspar in a rather expressionless voice.

‘Yes?’

‘When the Wolfkings rule,’ he said, and Fenella remembered Nuadu Airgetlam all over again and had to bite down the ache of loss.

They had stopped briefly in the great sculleries to pack up provisions. ‘For,’ said Caspar, ‘we shall need food and clothes.’

Fenella had gone back to the bed-chamber and pulled on her boots and found the warm woollen cloak she had brought from Renascia while Caspar had raided the sculleries and packed the maps.

‘Were they all asleep?’ Fenella asked as they stole through the quiet Palace.

‘Yes. Pumlumon’s spell must have been better than we thought.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘To the stables,’ said Caspar, sending her a surprised look. ‘You didn’t suppose we were going to walk all the way to the Fire Court did you?’

‘I did, as a matter of fact,’ said Fenella, who had forgotten how Floy and Snodgrass had ridden out earlier. ‘I’ve never actually ridden a horse before. I’ve never actually seen a horse until yesterday. ‘

Clambering on to the horse’s back felt odd and briefly unsafe and then, unexpectedly, exhilarating. Fenella, who on Renascia had walked everywhere, found her breath snatched from her as her mount followed Caspar down the great avenue of beeches that guarded Tara and out on to the Tree-fringed high road. She thought she would have to hold on extremely tightly if they were to go any faster, but she thought it was a thrilling, intoxicating sensation to be borne along like this.

Moonlight was silvering the countryside as they rode slowly along, draining it of colour, and all about them were rustlings and scurryings and the impression of tiny pattering feet and the beating of small, unseen wings.

‘Only night creatures,’ said Caspar. ‘Squirrels and hedgehogs and owls.’ But he glanced over his shoulder as he said this, as if he was not entirely sure.

The huge mass of the Wolfwood sprawled darkly to their left, black and rather forbidding, a place of thick impenetrable shadows. As they drew alongside, on the road they had travelled on their way to Tara, Fenella found herself staring into its depths and remembering the ancient Forest Court at its heart … Croi Crua Adhmaid … the Place of Ancient Enchantments … the Heartwood of the Forest …

But out here, on the high road, it was difficult to recall the purple and blue shadows and the firelight and the long oak table where they had all taken supper. It was very hard indeed to believe she had walked in there with a wolf creature and that he had drawn her down onto the forest floor and made love to her … I won’t think about it, said Fenella firmly. I’ll think instead about meeting up with Floy and Snodgrass and finding the Fire Court. Yes, that was a much better way to think.

But the Wolfwood was not entirely in darkness. As they rode cautiously along, Fenella caught glimpses of movement in between the trees. Several times, there was the brilliant smudgy turquoise streak of the sidh and, more than once, the impression of gold and green and amber beings, neither quite human nor quite woodland. Tree Spirits? Oh I do hope so, thought Fenella, peering into the forest depths, trying to make out the shapes more clearly. As they skirted the forest and came out on to a stretch of road fringed by slender copper beeches, Fenella had the feeling of something deep and ancient and strong moving all about them. The Dryads and the Naiads waking? But then the moon slid behind a cloud and the images vanished and Fenella thought that perhaps she had been mistaken.

She turned to say something about this to Caspar and then stopped and listened, because now — yes, surely — there was the faint eerily beautiful singing of the sidh.

‘Be wary of the sidh,' said Caspar as they skirted the Wolfwood. ‘And be very wary indeed of their music. They are greedy for Humans, the sidh, and if they can once trap you with their music they will carry you down to the caves beneath the sea and steal one of your five senses and tear out your soul.’

But Fenella thought the sounds and the movements were not all the sidh. Here and there, they caught sight of a fluid red-gold figure in between the trees and once a huge oak tree seemed to bend forward as if inclining its head to inspect them. Delight rose in her, for surely these were Tree Spirits.

They did not stop to rest, because Caspar thought they should put as much distance as possible between them and the Gruagach.

‘They oughtn't to wake,’ he said, worriedly, ‘but you never know. Let’s get as far away as we can.’

This was clearly sensible so Fenella did not argue. She had sorted out the reins now and Caspar had explained about just touching the horse’s flanks with her heels to spur it to a gallop.

‘I won’t try that yet,’ said Fenella, who was rather enjoying riding the horse, but was not sure how she might get on with whatever was a gallop. ‘I’ll get a bit more accustomed first.’ And then, ‘Or if we hear the Gruagach following,’ she said. ‘I’ll gallop then.’

Ahead of them would be the road that would lead to the Fire Court of the sorceress Reflection and her daughter Flame. They had studied the maps very carefully before setting out and Floy had marked out the way that he and Snodgrass would take. It had looked quite straightforward, thought Fenella, who was not very used to maps and was still adjusting to the vastness of this world after small Renascia. Floy had said he and Snodgrass would try their best to leave markers on the road as they went, providing that Balor did not catch them at it.

‘We’ll leave arrangements of stones,’ suggested Floy, and Snodgrass had said that he believed this had been done on Earth.

‘But many many centuries before the Devastation,’ he said. ‘There was something about a Bronze Age, I believe. It’s a good idea, Floy.’

Floy had said they would do their best, but Fenella and Caspar ought not to rely on it too much. ‘Because although we’ll try to outwit Balor, we might have him with us for a goodish while,’ he said.

It was strange to Fenella to know that presently the night would begin to die and that the pale grey and pink streaks of the new day would start to lighten the sky as it had done on Renascia before the Star Maps changed and the Dark Lodestar had sent out its hungry beckoning.

She had always rather liked the very early morning, which had been a little like the lifting of a curtain, a thin silver veil, spangled with droplets of moisture. It was one of the things that had disappeared from Renascia towards the end and it gave Fenella an odd, rather out-of-balance feeling to see dawn light again.

As the sky lightened even more and they began to make out their surroundings more clearly, Fenella and Caspar both found themselves looking out for the signs that Floy had hoped to leave.

‘Stones arranged in heaps,’ said Fenella, frowning, reining her horse in to a slow walk.

‘Boulders. What they call cairns in the north,’ said Caspar. ‘But very tiny ones. And they were going to put them in the shape of an arrowhead. That’s if they could put them there.’

‘Floy would have found a way,’ said Fenella firmly. ‘He knew we were going to be following him.’

‘What about Balor?’

‘Oh, he’d have got rid of Balor by now,’ said Fenella. And then, ‘Wouldn’t he?’

‘I hope so,’ said Caspar, gloomily.

As the road lengthened and the sky began to lighten overhead, they were able to see their surroundings more clearly. Fenella shivered and drew her cloak more tightly about her. There was a dead, barren feeling to the road now; the trees were becoming sparse and most of them were stunted and twisted. The grass was shrivelled and blackened and the leafless branches stood out against the grey morning and seemed to reach skeletal fingers towards them. There were great rocks on the road and thin mist seemed to cling to everywhere. And it was growing very cold. Fenella shivered and drew her cloak more closely about her. There was a dry, raw whiteness to the sky and when, at last, Caspar stopped to consult the maps and discuss with Fenella which road they should take, his breath formed a vapour on the air.

‘Because,’ he said, ‘there aren’t any signs from Floy or, if there are, we’ve missed them.’

‘I don’t think we’ve missed them,’ said Fenella. ‘I think that either Floy couldn’t leave them for some reason, or — ’

‘Yes?’

‘Or we’re lost,’ said Fenella, rather crossly.

‘Let’s trace our route on the maps,’ said Caspar, dismounting and tethering his horse to the low branch of a leafless Tree. ‘It ought to be easy enough.’

Fenella slithered down from the horse’s back and stood for a moment in the road, feeling the fingers of mist swirl into her face and touch her skin with damp clammy hands. It was rather a horrid mist; you felt as if it might be concealing peering, grinning creatures who were being very careful to stay just out of sight, but who were creeping after you as you rode along, or who were tiptoeing on ahead of you, rubbing their hands together, waiting until you reached them … Perhaps the Gruagach had been following them, keeping just out of sight, waiting until they dismounted, ready to reach out and scoop them up and carry them back to Tara and the roasting spits … I had better stop this, said Fenella to herself very firmly. I had better remember that there’s nothing in the least bit sinister about mists and fogs. And we should most certainly have heard the Gruagach if they had been following us.

She helped Caspar to spread out the map and, together, they traced the road from Tara along the sides of the Wolfwood and down through a couple of tiny villages.

‘We’ve done that,’ said Caspar, pointing.

‘Yes, there’s the villages we rode through,’ said Fenella, frowning. ‘And that’s the fork in the road where you said left and I said right.’

‘Which was it?’

‘Well, it was right, actually,’ said Fenella. ‘We consulted the maps to be sure.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘We haven’t got lost at all,’ said Fenella, who had been secretly rather afraid of this. ‘We’re on the right road.’

‘Oh, yes. It’s just that it would have been nice to have seen the signs,’ said Caspar, rolling the maps up and packing them in his saddle bag. He did not say that he hoped Floy and Snodgrass were all right, because he did not think he had to say it. Fenella would be thinking it without anybody to suggest it to her.

Fenella was thinking it, but she was trying to be sensible and practical. It was important to remember that it was only a few hours since Floy and Snodgrass had left Tara, the Shining Citadel, the Bright Palace, and that there was not very much that could have gone wrong for them in those few hours.

We’ll be with them in the Fire Court by nightfall. Or if not tonight, certainly tomorrow. I’ll believe that we will, thought Fenella, firmly. I’ll believe that we’ll catch up with them; probably quite soon. I wish this mist would lift.

Riding on again, down the road which they thought would be the easiest route to the Fire Court, Fenella began to have the feeling that the twisty Tree stumps were not Tree stumps at all, but horrid, stunted living things and that malicious ancient eyes looked out from their depths. So strong was the feeling that several times she thought she caught the tail-end of a movement as they passed by several blackened stumps and she turned sharply, expecting to see something leering evilly at them, but there was nothing.

‘And,’ said Caspar, ‘there is a heavy feeling to the air now, can you tell that?’

‘Yes,’ said Fenella in rather a small voice. ‘It’s quite difficult to breathe.’ And then, because it would not help to show fear, ‘What would it be?’ she asked and was pleased to hear her voice quite ordinary and sensible.

‘It might be a number of things,’ said Caspar, who was looking about him. ‘But what I think it is, is the Robe-maker.’

‘Here?’ Fenella shivered again, but at the comers other mind, something said: Nuadu! By finding the Robemaker (or being found by him?) they might somehow rescue Nuadu.

‘I think we are nearing the Robemaker’s Workshops,’ said Caspar. He reined in his horse and made a gesture with one hand that took in the flat dead wasteland and the strangled trees and the black barrenness. ‘Necromancy,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Do you know, I never believed in that hoary old tale about necromancy sucking all the goodness and all the warmth from everything, but perhaps I’ve been wrong. You’d certainly say the heart has gone from the land hereabouts, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Fenella, and wished that Caspar had not used the word sucking, because it made you think about coldly evil creatures with grisly appetites, who might leap on to you and cling to you and sink teeth and claws and needle-sharp pincers into you and suck out your blood and your marrow and all your life juices … ‘What ought we to do?’ said Fenella, a bit more loudly than she had meant. ‘We can’t turn back. Can we?’ Because if we turn back, said her mind, then you will be going away from Nuadu, you will be losing what might be the only chance of rescuing him from the Robemaker. Caspar had said that no one ever escaped from the Robemaker — but I shall not believe that, thought Fenella. I will not. If she half closed her eyes, she could still see Nuadu, the thin, rather sardonic smile twisting his lips, his eyes narrowed and mocking. And there had been that brief time in the Wolfwood -I won't remember it! thought Fenella, but she did remember it. The mockery fled, the Wolfprince suddenly and disarmingly vulnerable … Had he loved her at all? Perhaps just a little. I’ll believe he loved me just a little at least, thought Fenella, sitting quite still on her horse and looking about her. I’ll believe it and I’ll believe we can rescue him and then perhaps I shall manage. It was important to believe, and it was important not to give up. The early Earth-people had not given up on anything; they had conquered and explored and invented and they had made a marvellous and memorable world.

Caspar was slowing down, his eyes on a dip towards their left, where the road seemed to fall away into a natural valley.

‘What is it?’ said Fenella.

Caspar said, in a rather flat voice, ‘At least we can be sure of being on the right road.’

‘How can you — ’ Then Fenella stopped as well, because the maps had been very explicit. They had listed all of the places they would have to pass on their way to the Fire Court; they had shown the tiny villages and the Wolfwood and the forks in the road and the long flat road down to Reflection’s country and the glittering decadent Fire Court.

They had shown the cluster of dark low-roofed buildings huddled together at the road’s side, reaching far back into the hillside.

The Robemaker’s dark and evil Workshops.

And they were directly in their path.

To begin with, Nuadu had not found the crimson mask particularly punishing. The rope-lights were tight-fitting, but they were not cruel; he could breathe easily and he could move. He did not waste any energy in trying to break free of the mask, because he knew it to be pointless; the Robemaker’s dark enchantments were seldom broken and he knew, as well, that there would be far worse torments ahead.

After the winged Soul Eater had gone from the low-ceilinged Workshops, its leathery wings beating on the night, the soul of the mutilated boy held in a merciless grip between its claws, the slaves had scuttled back to their tasks and the Robemaker had conjured up another of the thin, whiplike lights that had lashed out and thrown Nuadu to the floor.

‘Hurry, Wolfprince, for my work does not wait for such as you,’ he said in his sibilant whisper, but now Nuadu detected a lick of pleasure in the voice. He moved at once, for he would not lie here on the floor before this ancient evil creature and, although it was awkward and painful to stand up because of the ropes that bound his arms, he did so in a swift fluid movement and stood eyeing the Robemaker.

For a moment, the Robemaker did not speak and then he drew nearer, the dark, silken folds of his cloak brushing the floor with a hissing sound. Nuadu had the sudden impression that, everywhere it touched, the robe left a thick slimy trail; faintly phosphorescent, certainly foul. A snail’s trail. A slug’s trail. An emission of pure evil. And this is the creature who is draining Ireland’s heart away and this is the creature who holds sway over Tara, he thought.

But he stayed where he was and he continued to regard the Robemaker from over the restricting mask and, presently, the Robemaker said, ‘Does it not irk you and chafe you to be so confined, Wolfprince?’ For the first time, Nuadu caught the briefest hint of discomposure from the necromancer and knew that by remaining calm and apparently indifferent he had succeeded in disconcerting the Robemaker a little.

But the moment passed and the Robemaker had folded his arms, the deep sleeves hanging down. Nuadu saw that his hands were hidden by dark gloves, but that they were thin and hard-looking. Emaciated. What was behind the dark robe and what was within the deep, all-concealing hood?

The Robemaker turned his head and Nuadu felt a sudden white piercing pain deep inside his mind and he knew at once that the Robemaker had made use of the ancient, forbidden Stroicim Inchinn again and that he had pierced into his secret thoughts. He felt a sudden unwilling awe for this creature who could with such ease summon and bend to his will the terrible Stroicim Inchinn.

‘The paths of your mind are mine to walk if I wish it,’ said the Robemaker. ‘You find that alarming, I think? Yes, for amongst your own puny sorcerers, there is a code of honour.’ The words came out on a sneer. ‘A code that forbids the Stroicim Inchinn.’ Again the dark hood moved and Nuadu caught the glint of dark, malevolent eyes. ‘I have only contempt and hatred for your sorcerers, Wolfprince,’ said the Robemaker, and again Nuadu had the sense that the Robemaker was gauging his reactions. He fixed his eyes on the cloaked figure and waited.

‘Your sorcerers cast me out,’ said the Robemaker. ‘Did you know that, Wolfprince? Did you know that they exiled me — me\ I was the greatest of the spell weavers and I was the most powerful enchanter they had ever known.’ He stopped, breathing harshly, and, within the hood, his head seemed to tilt slyly. ‘I was once at Tara, Wolfprince,’ said the Robemaker in his soft insinuating voice. ‘Does that surprise you? Once I served the High King Erin — oh, long since. Decades and centuries.’ He made an abrupt gesture, indicating the enveloping cloak, the deep, hanging sleeves. ‘Your ancestors were gracious to their servants, Nuadu of the Silver Arm,’ he said, sneeringly. ‘They were generous.’ He paused, and Nuadu felt the black hatred emanating from him again. ‘I brought immense powers to Tara in those days,’ said the Robemaker after a moment. ‘I sought to increase my powers, for to master the ancient art of sorcery, truly to master it, it is necessary to master all else. It is necessary to understand and master every pleasure and every pain, every cruelty and every kindness.’ He stopped again, and Nuadu waited. ‘I had mastered the pleasures and the kindnesses,’ said the Robemaker. ‘But it was still necessary to master their counterparts.’ The half-hidden eyes gleamed. ‘It was necessary to explore, to the utmost, pain and cruelty and the dark secret yearning of men’s souls,’ he said.

‘And so I did what few dare to do, Wolfprince. I went through one of the gateways that exist between this Ireland and the Dark Ireland, that other Realm, that mirror-image which is no mirror-image at all, but a land in its own right. The underside of the Wolfkings’ Ireland, Nuadu of the Silver Arm; the place where the necromancers and the dark Fields of Sorcery lie, where the Black Citadels of the powerful enchanters exist deep in the desolate Mountains of Twilight.’ He stopped again and Nuadu, trying to guard his thoughts, certainly trying to shield his eyes, thought: and once in the Dark Ireland, you were lured to the side of the necromancers! You were enticed by the dark magicians into their palaces and their dark citadels and you were shown the powers and the sinisterly beautiful rewards of sorcery.

It would not be the first time that a Court sorcerer had been lured away from the strong pure magic of Ireland and sworn allegiance to the Dark Realm. He remembered the ancient and persistent belief that once any living creature has walked in the Black Fields of Sorcery and dined at the tables of the Lords of the Dark Ireland, he is for ever lost to the true Ireland. For a terrible moment, something flared in his heart and he felt an insidious tug at his mind: how would it be to enter that Realm, and talk with the Dark Lords and learn their secrets … ? How would it be to walk in the Dark Fields and journey in the Mountains of Twilight and swim in the underground Crimson Lakes … ? And then his mind cleared, and he was looking at the Robemaker and feeling contempt for him again, feeling as well, the dangerous, powerful white spears of the Stroicim Inchinn withdraw, so that he knew the Robemaker had again called up the Stroicim without giving any outward indication of having done so. Nuadu thought that a glitter of amusement showed from within the folds of the hood. When the Robemaker spoke again in his soft hissing voice, he knew he had been right.

‘You see, Nuadu Airgetlam?’ said the Robemaker. ‘You see how easily I can influence your mind? You see how effortlessly I can conjure up the visions and tempt you into that Realm where I, too, am a Prince?’ He turned about abruptly, as if the subject was suddenly painful or an irritation. ‘It was the High King Erin who ruled in those days,’ he said. ‘And he it was who summoned the Court sorcerers to drive me out. It was those clever, smug Royal sorcerers, who wove the spell of punishment.’ A brief glitter of triumph showed deep within the hood.

‘But they were unable to chain me with their own powers,’ he said, softly. ‘They could not yoke me. And so they had to harness my own power — mine! They had to tap the source of my strength and turn it against me, until it formed a carapace, a cage that held me until they were ready to pronounce punishment.’ He turned about, the silken skirts of his robe hissing across the floor’s surface.

‘I was caged by my own power,’ he said in his soft, malevolent voice. ‘I was imprisoned and held captive by the very forces I had so long sought to perfect and that I had honed and polished until they were stronger and more glittering than anything ever known at Tara.’ He came back to stand directly in front of Nuadu.

‘But it was the High King Erin who pronounced the spell,’ he said and the cold bitterness was in his voice again. ‘He it was who stood in the deepest Sorcery Chamber of Tara and read from the Book of the Academy of Necromancers the incantation. For that,’ said the Robemaker, viciously, ‘I am sworn to inflict every curse and every torment I may summon on his House. That is why I joined with the Master CuRoi in his quest to possess Ireland. That is why I stooped to traffic with the Man-greedy Frost Giantess, and why I intrigued with her to drive out the Gruagach and why I helped the Gruagach to vanquish the High King and take Tara.’

A rather terrible bubble of mirth broke from him. ‘The Gruagach did not suspect,’ said the Robemaker. ‘Never once, during our association, did they guess that I was using them to further my revenge against the Wolfkings. But the Wolfkings have been exiled and, although the Gruagach are at Tara, it is I who truly rule. That was always my intention. It is still my intention.’ He paused, and appeared to study Nuadu. ‘It is why you are here, Wolfprince. Your half-brother lies deep inside the Dark Realm and, unless he is rescued, you are Tara’s heir. You are a bastard, but you possess the Royal blood and also the Wolfblood. If you called to the people, they would follow you because of that.’ Deep within the concealing hood, there was a gleam of pure hatred. ‘You are the heir presumptive,’ hissed the Robemaker, ‘and as such you must be quenched and crushed.

‘I shall put you to the treadmills, Nuadu of the Silver Arm, and I shall enjoy seeing you suffer. I shall enjoy seeing you suffer as I have suffered.’ With an abrupt gesture, the dark, bony, black-clad hands came up and the hood was thrust back. The flickering light from the furnaces fell across his exposed face.

‘You see?’ cried the Robemaker harshly. ‘You see what it was that the High King Erin pronounced over me! You see the curse I bear, Wolfprince!

‘Erin pronounced on me the Draoicht Tinneas Siorai.

‘The Enchantment of Eternal Disease.’

Nuadu was glad that he was unable to speak, for to have done so, to have uttered any kind of sound, would certainly have been to betray the utter revulsion that engulfed him. He thought he made some kind of strangled gasp; he knew his eyes would have expressed his emotions. He found himself hovering for a dangerous moment between pity and fear and he fought down the pity at once, for it was not to be thought of that he should feel such an emotion for this evil being. But as he stood facing the Robemaker in the low-ceilinged workroom, the humming of the Silver Looms all about them, the dry heat stifling and the air thick with the red glow of the furnaces, he looked fully into the face of his captor and thought: what did he do to Ireland's Royal House to deserve such punishment?

Seen without the concealing hood, the Robemaker’s face was mutilated and eaten away, so that here and there white bone gleamed. But even the bone itself is eaten away in places, thought Nuadu, sick with horror.

The Robemaker’s skin was covered with suppurating sores, great festering, oozing ulcers, leprous growths, cancerous chancres. In places, the bone was exposed and, in the uncertain light, Nuadu could nearly believe that it had been nibbled.

Yes, Wolfprince, nibbled, gnawed, ravaged by the bone-eating curse of Erin's sorcerers … The Draoicht Tinneas Siorai …

There was a lipless mouth, there were deep eye sockets from which gleamed the small evil, old eyes of the necromancer. Nuadu could see that even the pale, jellied part of one eye was partly missing and he had the sudden sickening impression that it had been eaten away from within.

At the centre of the face was a concave portion and Nuadu knew that the jutting bone of the nose had gone. There were two cavernous nostrils and Nuadu realised that this was the reason for the hissing whispering voice.

The malevolent smile lifted the terrible mouth again. ‘You see?’ said the Robemaker. ‘You see how the Wolf-kings reward those who dare to go against them?’ With a swift, savage gesture, he tore off the dark gloves. ‘You see?’ he said, thrusting skeletal hands forward and Nuadu flinched, for the hands were as ravaged and as eaten as the Robemaker’s face; the nails hung by shreds, and the remaining skin was matted and crusted.

‘One of the most malicious and vicious curses of the Amaranth sorcerers of Tara,’ said the Robemaker and pulled the hood back into place, so that it was once again the forbidding cloaked being who stood there. ‘I have worked for many centuries to lift it, Nuadu, but it is a long hard task, for the punishment was to be eternal.’ He stopped, and Nuadu waited. ‘At last I bargained with the Soul Eaters,’ said the Robemaker softly. ‘I bargained with them to regain my body and my powers. I traded with them so that the young girls of the country would no longer shrink from me in revulsion,’ he said, and there was a lick of sensuality in the hissing voice now. ‘For,’ said the Robemaker, softly and slyly, ‘if the Geimhreadh has the voracious appetites of all her race and seeks to suck dry every man who comes into her power, then I have the carnal appetites of Men.’ His eyes gleamed redly again. ‘The Gruagach think to buy the daughter of Reflection and Fael-Inis for their King,’ he said. ‘But it is I who will have that one! I will embrace her and caress her and possess her.’ Lust glowed redly in his terrible face, and then faded.

‘The Soul Eaters know me well by now,’ he said. ‘For I have gone many times to the Cavern of Cruachan. I have many times entered into the place that is called, and rightly, the Gateway to Hell.

‘I have taken souls to my Masters, Wolfprince, and every one I give them is placed on the Silver Scales of Justice.’ He looked up as Nuadu made a quick movement and Nuadu caught again the amusement.

‘Yes, Wolfprince,’ said the Robemaker in his soft diseased voice. ‘Yes, those Scales that the faithful foolish Gnomes of Gallan wrought for Erin and which disappeared towards the end of his reign.’ He moved closer to Nuadu and Nuadu caught the stench of diseased flesh. ‘The Soul Eaters took them,’ said the Robemaker. ‘Just as they will take everything of any value in Ireland. The Scales are in the Cruachan Caves, in the Court of the Soul Eaters, and every soul I offer up is placed on the Scales. And every time that happens, the Scales weigh a little more heavily in my favour.’ He was standing looking down on Nuadu now, the dark, silken cloak swirling. ‘Soon the Scales will tip in my favour,’ he said. ‘Soon I shall have given enough souls to my Masters. It is then that I shall be restored.’ The Robemaker laughed, and the sound made Nuadu’s skin prickle with horror, for it was a sickening bone-against-bone sound. Lipless mouth … noseless face.

And then: he has rendered up countless souls to the creatures of the Cruachan Caves, thought Nuadu. Why, then, has he not been released?

The white shafts of the Stroicim Inchinn darted again and Nuadu felt the piercing brilliance.

‘You are very innocent, Wolfprince,’ said the Robemaker. ‘There is one soul I must still take and give to my Masters.’ And then, as Nuadu tilted his head, waiting, ‘The soul of Ireland’s High King,’ said the Robemaker, and again the fleshless chuckle bubbled from him.

‘But you know already that he is held within the Dark Ireland and that he is captive in a deep and subtle enchantment. You have long since suspected what happened to your half-brother after the Gruagach stormed Tara and killed the King.’ He leaned even nearer and Nuadu stood his ground and managed to withstand the stench of the suppurating flesh and the rotting bones. ‘We fought over him, Nuadu Airgetlam,’ said the Robemaker, and there was a slick lascivious tone to his voice now. ‘The Dark Lords fought over who should have the chaining of him.’ A frown touched his eyes for a moment. ‘And because there are those whose powers are yet greater than mine, I lost him,’ he said. ‘He is held in thrall to the Dark Ireland, but it was not my enchantment that chained him.’

He stared at Nuadu, and Nuadu stared back, and thought: CuRoi! So CuRoi does have him!

The Robemaker said, ‘I shall reach him, of course. I shall reach him and when I have done that I shall break him.’ He studied Nuadu for a moment. ‘I shall break him,’ he said. ‘If it takes me seven centuries, I shall do it.’ There was the white gleam of bone as he smiled. ‘I shall give him to the Geimhreadh to play with for a few nights,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I shall watch while she drinks her fill of his manhood and sucks him dry of his accursed wolfseed. She and I are long since sworn one to aid the other,’ said the Robemaker. ‘And there is much pleasure in watching a virile young creature brought to impotency.’

The lipless mouth leered. ‘Have you never heard of the Geimhreadh’s pincer hands that hold her victim’s phallus in place and have you never heard of her darting pronged tongue that licks and pierces into the shaft of her victim’s phallus?’ said the Robemaker, softly and insinuatingly. ‘Then you, also, must be given that pleasure, for I should not care for you to miss an instant of any pain, Wolf-prince.’ He leaned closer and Nuadu regarded him unflinchingly. ‘I shall break you as well, Nuadu of the Silver Arm’ said the Robemaker. ‘You may defy me now, but you will not continue to do so. Even though I have chained and muzzled you for the Wolf you are, still your eyes challenge and your mind defies.’ The lipless mouth smiled again.

‘I shall put you to the treadmills,’ said the Robemaker. ‘I shall make use of you and you will work alongside my slaves here. You will work until your feet are stripped raw of flesh and until your legs are bowed and your skin is shrivelled. Only then, Wolfprince, only when you are cowed and submissive, only when I have drawn from you every shred of defiance, when I have extracted every sliver of pleasure I can from your predicament, shall I take your soul.

‘And when you and your royal half-brother have been sucked dry of every drop of accursed wolfseed by the Frost Giantess; when you have been deprived of every drop that might bear fruit in some unknown womb and create another wolfcreature, I shall give you both to the Soul Eaters.

‘With those two souls placed on the Scales of Sorcery and rendered to the Soul Eaters, my debt will have been paid.

‘My powers will be restored — and I shall rule Ireland forever.’

Chapter Twenty-four

Floy and Snodgrass had stopped to rest on the outskirts of the Wolfwood.

Floy thought he would have rather enjoyed this journey if it had not been for the nagging concern about Fenella, left behind in the giants’ hands. He would have enjoyed seeing more of this blue and green misty world with the lingering scents of ancient magic everywhere and he would have liked to see some of its people and found out how they lived and what they did and if they were happy.

But the few houses they passed seemed to have their doors locked and bolted and their windows shuttered. Floy looked with interest at the fields and pastures and thought that, although they were much larger than the ones on Renascia and the crops and vegetables were not quite the same, there was not so very much difference, really.

But they were untended. They were deserted and desolated and there was a terrible, bleak air of neglect everywhere. Floy remembered what Nuadu Airgetlam had said about the Robemaker taking sacrifice from the ordinary Irish people and putting the sons to work in the Dark Workshops and guessed that the people had simply lost heart. How must it be to tend your bit of land and sow crops and vegetables and perhaps rear animals, knowing you were building up a comfortable home and an inheritance for your children and then see your children taken and forced into slavery by the Robemaker?

As they rode farther along the road, Floy glimpsed the occasional peering face at a cottage window and guessed that the sounds of their horses on the highroad and perhaps the sight of Balor’s huge menacing figure, had sent them all scuttling indoors for safety. This was a truly dreadful way for people to live. Plainly they went in constant fear of the Robemaker and the Dark Realm. Clearly all the heart was going not only from the land, but from the people as well. He began to feel extremely glad that they had agreed to help the exiled Court. He thought they had unquestionably been right to believe Nuadu and Tealtaoich and the others.

With Balor loping along at their side, they could not discuss whether Fenella would be all right, or speculate how soon she and Caspar would catch them up, or even try to spy out a place to stop and wait for them. Several times Floy cast sidelong looks at Balor, trying to decide how percipient he might be, but Balor simply turned his head and grinned the gap-toothed grin and occasionally nodded amiably. Once he hummed a snatch of song, which was something about hunting Humans for the Fidchell and about turning them on spits and serving them up as Manpie.

But although he might not be bright, Balor’s head was on a level with Floy and Snodgrass as they sat astride the two horses and he was twice the size of either of them. He would very easily subdue them if they attempted to escape. He would certainly notice if they tried to leave signs for Fenella and Caspar to follow.

The Wolfwood was as dark and as secretive as it had been when they journeyed through to the Forest Court with Nuadu, but here and there, deep within the Trees, Floy caught the darting movement of green and gold; the rustling of silver-tipped leaves that looked, for a moment, like the trailing hair of a creature almost Human …

He touched Snodgrass’s arm and nodded in the direction of the forest and Snodgrass said, very softly, ‘The Trees. Miach’s spell,’ and Floy thought: so, after all, he woke them. He wondered whether they would see the Tree Spirits and then he wondered whether they wanted to see them. They had sounded rather fearsome beings.

‘Puny things, Trees,’ Balor said. ‘Chop’em down and use’em for firewood, I say.’ He dealt a nearby Tree a rather contemptuous blow with the flat of his hand and Floy saw the Tree trunk quiver under the impact. ‘And now a bite to eat,’ said Balor, grinning the wide, flat grin of all the Gruagach. ‘A bite to eat and then we’ll be getting along again.’

There was nothing for it but to do as he suggested. As they dismounted it crossed Floy’s mind that the longer they could delay, the better chance Fenella and Caspar had of catching them up. In the same moment, he realised that it would be extremely dangerous for Fenella to join them. Balor would at once know that they had outwitted Inchbad and Goibniu.

They walked a little way into the Trees, where it would be more comfortable to sit on the thick, dry forest floor and eat their food and rest. Dusk was beginning to touch the forest and deep shadows lay across the small clearing where they sat down. Balor leaned back against the nearest Tree and Snodgrass unpacked the food and spread it out.

‘A good spread,’ said Balor, his small eyes lighting. ‘I like a good spread.’ He reached for a half loaf of bread with both hands and said, by the six hairs of his grandmother’s beard, they were doing very well out of all this.

‘And it’s a fine day for a journey,’ he said.

Floy was still turning over in his mind ideas and schemes for getting rid of Balor. It was extremely difficult to know what to do with a giant who loped along at your side and who could reach out and pluck you from your horse’s back with one hand. Floy thought that, even if they broke into a gallop (which he was not at all sure about doing), Balor would simply increase his own pace and catch them very easily.

Floy and Snodgrass ate the food without noticing it very much, but Balor snatched great handfuls from the pack and crammed them into his mouth, spraying crumbs everywhere, letting grease dribble down his chin.

‘Pork,’ he said, nodding. ‘Roast pig. Very nice.’ And then, with a sudden cackle, ‘But not as nice as roast Human. By the whiskery snout of the gods, it’s nowhere near as good. But I see there’s blood sausage,’ he said, and sent them such a terrible leery grin, that Snodgrass, who had been cutting himself a slice from this, which he had innocently thought was something like the spicy Renascian liver-and-wine-roll, recoiled and snatched his hand back as if he had been burnt.

Balor grinned at Snodgrass and smacked his lips and grabbed the cask of mead and thought that hadn’t the Humans strange, mimsing appetites to be sure. There was nothing so fine as a good meaty portion of best blood sausage.

Floy had been surreptitiously trying to gather up stones which they could arrange at the roadside, perhaps in the form of an arrow for Fenella and Caspar. But, even as he did so, he knew that such a small sign would almost certainly be missed. They needed to leave something noticeable, something that could easily be seen and not misunderstood. And anything noticeable by Caspar and Fenella would also be noticed by Balor.

Balor had unbuttoned his jerkin and brushed the crumbs from his front and was preparing to take a snooze. He was rather liking this bit of a jaunt, although he had not been very enthusiastic when Goibniu had ordered him to set out. Accompany a brace of Humans on a journey and not touch hide nor hair nor whisker of either of them! he had said. There was a thing to make a decent Human-eating giant shiver in his boots and think shame! Could he not deliver just one of them, he had asked, looking at Goibniu slyly from the comers of his eyes.

But Goibniu had said no, both the Humans must be taken to the Fire Court and Balor must go along with them and, after they had talked with Reflection, Balor must bring them safely back to Tara.

He dropped into a bit of a snooze, which any giant might be pardoned for wanting after so much walking and a bit of eating, never mind a sup of mead. The Humans were sitting a little way off; Balor would hear them if they tried to get away. He would be up and after them in the blink of an eye.

As Balor’s eyelids closed and snores emitted from his mouth, Floy and Snodgrass exchanged looks. Dare they try to steal away now? Floy got up, not furtively, but quite openly and naturally, so that if Balor should open his eyes it would not seem as if Floy had been trying to run away.

It was an eerie feeling to be stealing through the forest like this. Floy began to have the sensation that he was being watched, not by Balor or Snodgrass, but by other creatures, creatures who lived in this huge, dark forest, and crept out only under cover of darkness …

He glanced back over his shoulder but Balor was still sleeping. If I can just reach the horses, thought Floy, moving stealthily forwards. If I can just reach the horses and reach up and untether them, I believe we could be off and down the road and the creature would never catch up with us.

He was strongly aware of the Wolfwood all about him as he walked cautiously under the Trees. There was a stirring, a sense that at any minute the branches over his head might dip over him and brush his face, or that the roots that had thrust up out of the earth might wriggle and become alive and twine themselves about his feet. Several times he stopped and listened, thinking that there had been a movement just behind him or just to the side of him, or that something had padded after him on stealthy feet and was standing watching him. But each time there was nothing and Floy thought that perhaps, after all, it was simply the half-light of the Wolfwood and the ordinary scurryings of the night creatures. He remembered that they had forgotten about dusk and about twilight on Renascia and about the strange tricks that the shadows could play. The light was fading perceptibly now; they had set out in the full glare of the midday sun, but they had ridden for several hours and dusk was creeping across the land.

The Purple Hour, thought Floy, fascinated and a bit fearful. What had Nuadu said? The hour when magic is abroad. I refused to believe it then, he thought, but I believe it now. Magic, stealing through the ancient forest, lying thickly on the air …

The Trees had thinned out now and he could see the road ahead of him. Could it be this easy? Could they simply creep away from Balor and ride out of his reach?

The stirrings and the rustlings were louder and Floy was suddenly and strongly aware of eyes upon him. He turned sharply, looking back to where the sleeping Balor lay. Snodgrass was nearby, sitting bolt upright, watching Floy anxiously.

There was a movement within the Trees, the sudden shifting of green and gold and russet, so that Floy knew the dusk had not been playing tricks after all. There were beings, creatures, strange inHuman presences everywhere in the forest.

He stood, looking, and there was the movement again; the blurring of shapes and silhouettes that were like nothing Floy had ever imagined; inHuman and ancient and filled with wild woodland enchantment …

The Tree Spirits of the ancient Wolfwood were awake and they were creeping through the darkening forest towards them.

Chapter Twenty-five

Balor had never been so rudely awoken from slumber in his life. Atone minute it seemed that he had been having a fine old dream about Humans and banquets and the Frost Giantess frying on a spit. The next he had been jerked fully awake and found himself at the centre of a circle of strange, hostile creatures, the like of which he had never seen in his life.

It seemed to his slow, sleep-sodden mind, that there were hundreds of the horrid things and that they were all bearing down on him, a rushing curtain of green and gold and brown, with here and there wild, menacing eyes and reaching, clutching hands that were not hands at all, but nasty, skeletal twigs. He stumbled to his feet and looked frantically about him, because although no self-respecting Gruagach would run from a danger, these creatures were too many and too huge and too angry.

He scrabbled into a half run, going deeper into the Wolfwood, not looking where he was going, not caring overmuch. He would outrun the horrid things who had stood leering at him, because there was never a being yet created that could catch a Gruagach once he put his mind to running. By the seven beards of his ancestors, Balor would run, and they’d see who could run faster! It certainly would not be the sinister Treelike beings who had regarded him with such terrible vengeance in their unnatural faces!

Floy and Snodgrass stared at one another and then Floy said, ‘We’ll have to follow them.’

‘Why? Isn’t this the exact chance to escape?’ said Snodgrass.

‘No,’ said Floy. ‘Because supposing they don’t catch him and supposing he does escape — ’

‘If he came back and found we’d made off by ourselves, he’d go back to Tara and tell them we’d reneged on the bargain,’ finished Snodgrass.

‘And Fenella would be at the mercy of Goibniu and the rest. Yes. That’s why we’ll have to see what happens,’ said Floy. ‘Hurry, and we’ll catch up with them!’

They broke into a run, seeing the Tree Spirits directly ahead of them; a pouring, changing, blurring mass of russet and green; a sweep of autumn tapestry, moving and reaching and sweeping through the forest after the giant.

‘But he won’t get far,’ cried Floy, managing to keep the Tree Spirits in sight. ‘He won’t get far, because this is their territory! They have him in their own country! Come on, Snodgrass! We mustn’t lose them!’

They were going deeper into the green and blue heart of the Wolfwood and Floy felt his lungs beginning to ache and his chest pound. At his side, Snodgrass was capering along, occasionally leaping nimbly over a patch of undergrowth, one hand holding his hat on his head, his cloak flying about his ankles, but keeping pace with Floy.

‘He’s fallen!’ cried Floy, and they slowed to a walk, gasping and trying to get their breath. ‘But you’re fitter than you look,’ said Floy, with a sudden grin at Snodgrass.

‘A touch dishevelled, of course,’ rejoined Snodgrass, who was puffing a bit. He righted his spectacles which had been knocked askew and straightened his cloak.

Ahead of them, Balor was lying on the ground and they saw that the Tree Spirits had grouped themselves about him, rather in the manner of people arranging themselves to watch some entertainment, or hear some kind of cause being pleaded.

‘He didn’t get so far at that,’ said Snodgrass, as they stood rather warily on the outskirts of the group.

Floy glanced over his shoulder, trying to gauge how far they had come and in which direction the road now lay. The light had almost gone from the day now and the forest was becoming bathed in soft, subtle hues of the Purple Hour. Dark blue and turquoise light slanted in through the trees, turning the Wolfwood to a place of dark secret shadows and heavy ancient magic.

Balor had fallen headlong and was lying on the forest floor, one foot caught and held by the root of a huge old ash Tree that protruded from the ground.

The wild golden eyes and the pitiless faces of the naiads and dryads and hamadryads loomed over him, hands that were not hands but branches, reaching for him, pinioning him down.

The Tree Spirits were wild and beautiful, but rather terrible. Closer to them, it was possible to make out individual characteristics; to see that they had trailing leaves instead of hair and huge, reaching branches instead of arms. They looked what they were: creatures, Spirits of Trees, that had emerged from the ancient Wolfwood from a long, long sleep and who were alive and alert and completely without pity towards their enemies …

Floy and Snodgrass stayed where they were, standing quietly, watching from the edges of the clearing. Floy thought they probably ought to be afraid themselves, because the Tree Spirits were so inHuman and so wild and so clearly filled with strange woodland magic that once they had finished with Balor they might very well turn to the two Renascians.

‘Ought we to try to get away?’ whispered Snodgrass, whose mind had been going along similar paths.

‘I think it’s all right,’ responded Floy, warily, but even as he spoke he was wondering whether it was all right, and whether they mightn’t be better simply to walk back through the forest and on to the road. And then he thought: I suppose we shall find the road again, shall we?

The Trees had surrounded Balor; a towering wall of reaching branches and immense trunks and snaking roots, veined with the golden threads of the Beeches and the glossy green Oaks and with the shimmering, silver rivers of the Birches.

To Floy, they were beautiful and rather frightening and immensely powerful. Their eyes were ancient, filled with the wisdom of their long lives, and their shapes were not quite Tree and not quite Human, but a blend of the two.

If you looked at the Trees’ upper halves; at the streaming leaf-hair and the mischievous faces of the Silver Birches and the wise, implacable solemnity of the Oaks and the cool, wanton beauty of the Beeches, you could very nearly see similarities to Human features and Human characteristics.

The Tree Spirits’ bodies did not thicken in the way that the Trees, their homes, thickened, except for the Oaks who had sturdy, rather shapeless trunks. They had graceful, slender bodies, tapering into root-like shapes where a Human would have ankles and feet. To Floy, these strange, rootish feet were the most alien feature of all.

‘And they are fibrous-looking,’ murmured Floy, half to himself. ‘They are too graceful for claws, but they are very like claws. They can almost grip the ground as they walk.’

‘They’re strong, as well. They would break a man’s neck easily, those roots,’ said Snodgrass.

They would break a man’s neck easily, and they would break a giant’s back with hardly more effort …

Balor was still clumsily trying to scramble to his feet, but the twining roots held him firmly. His brutish, stupid face was blotchy with fear now and his eyes were bolting from his head. He tore at the roots that were pinioning his ankles, breaking his thick horn nails in the process, but the roots held and it seemed to the two watching Renascians, that the Tree Spirits swayed and murmured with amusement. Balor let out a bellow of fear and, in the same moment, the Trees closed in.

They did it singly and purposefully, as if a silent command had been given. They surrounded him so completely that, for a few moments, Floy and Snodgrass could not see him. As they moved, the Trees sent out a wailing, keening cry, splitting the quiet forest.

‘It’s a war cry,’ said Snodgrass. ‘Isn’t it? They’re angry with him.’

‘For denigrating that oak where he tethered the horses?’

‘Yes. Yes, that, and the way the Gruagach ignored the — what did Nuadu and Caspar call them? — the Tree Laws,’ said Snodgrass, his eyes intent on what was happening. ‘Don’t you remember how, at Tara, they had those huge, roaring fires and how they had baskets and boxes piled high with logs and branches?’

‘Yes,’ said Floy. ‘Yes, of course. They’re being revenged on Balor for it.’

The Trees were all about Balor now and the Wolfwood was ringing with the shrieks of their blood lust. Their eyes glittered and their branches reached out. The fearsome, fibrous roots whipped across the ground.

What happened next was rather terrible. Floy and Snodgrass, unable to look away, were sickened and awed.

‘It’s no more than he deserves,’ said Snodgrass. ‘It’s no more than any of them deserve.’

‘Oh no,’ said Floy softly, remembering Fenella and the Fidchell board and Caspar’s descriptions of how the Gruagach used Humans. ‘No, they deserve no less.’

Even so, it was terrible. The Trees reached down to Balor with their branches and spread him flat on the ground, unlashing the ground roots that had held him, replacing them with the strong, clutching roots of two of the largest Oaks. Two more Oaks lashed their roots to his wrists and the Trees watched, critically.

Balor was bellowing for help; he was calling down vengeance on the Trees and promising that Inchbad and the Robemaker and the Master CuRoi would certainly punish the Trees for this.

‘By the hairs of my ancestors’ beards, you’ll be cut into collops and burned in the chimneys of Tara!’ he cried.

The Trees paid him no heed. They simply continued to secure him, coldly and efficiently, as if this was just something that had to be done and as if there was no particular feeling in doing it.

The largest of the Oaks, who had the high-domed features of a scholar and a thinker, and who had massive powerful shoulders, made a sign and the four Oaks who held Balor captive moved.

‘Away from one another,’ said Floy, in horror. ‘They are all moving in opposite directions.’

‘They’re tearing him into four,’ said Snodgrass. ‘Each of the Oaks is pulling on an arm or a leg and pulling outwards. This is - I suppose we can’t do other than let it happen.’

‘I don’t see how we can stop them,’ said Floy, his eyes on the circling Tree Spirits and on the four Oaks who were now hauling on their claw-like roots, dragging Balor’s limbs outwards away from his body.

Balor was braying in anger and pain. As the Trees moved, both his arms and legs were jerked into taut, out-flung positions. The coiled roots bit into his flesh, dragging against the skin, so that blood welled to the surface.

‘But the roots will hold firm,’ said Floy, unable to look away.

Balor was struggling and writhing, but his limbs were held fast and only his thick, shapeless body could move. It threshed this way and that, as the giant tried, uselessly, to pull free of the Trees’ cruel grip.

They moved again, pulling away, but Floy and Snodgrass could see that it was hard work for them. But they are gaining an inch at a time, thought Floy, in horror; they are stretching muscle and flesh. The farthest of the Trees made a sudden jerking, twisting movement and Balor’s arm wrenched out of its socket and lay flaccid and limp.

As the Trees bent to their grisly task again, there was a terrible cracking, bone-against-muscle sound and Balor screeched, sweat beading on his face and running down into his thick coarse neck. His eyes bulged from his head, red-veined and ghastly, and his lips were drawn back from his blackened, stump-like teeth, as the full horror of what the Trees were doing impinged on his dull mind.

The watching Trees showed no emotion. They simply stayed where they where, circled about their prisoner, their faces implacable, their eyes cold.

The four Oaks were still hauling on their prisoner and Floy and Snodgrass could see that Balor’s arms and legs were all wrenched from their sockets now, twisted at awkward, unnatural angles. Floy felt a lurch of sympathetic pain, because surely to simply dislocate an arm was purest agony, but to have it then pulled and pulled until the skin began to split and bleed, must be the most exquisite agony ever.

The Elms had moved forward in their stolid fashion and were leaning ponderously over the tortured Balor. As Floy and Snodgrass watched in silence, the Elms stretched out their hard, lichen-crusted branches and brought them down on the prisoner’s shoulders and thighs, at the place where the skin had started to tear.

Balor had let out a screech of purest agony, but the Elms bent over him with serious, heavy-featured faces and sawed partly through each of the pinioned limbs. They did not make any hurry about it and Balor writhed and flailed helplessly and blood began to run out on to the ground beneath him.

‘They’re making it easier for the Oaks,’ whispered Floy. ‘The Oaks couldn’t quite pull off his arms and legs, so they’re helping them.’

‘It’s like something from a medieval torture chamber,’ said Snodgrass. ‘We had a woodcut of one. Terrible things. They could wrench their prisoners’ arms and legs from the sockets. But I don’t think even they went this far.’

Balor had stopped struggling, but was moaning and panting shallowly. His face was the colour of tallow and blood and saliva ran down his chin and the two Renascians saw that his lips were bitten to shreds.

‘Dreadful,’ said Snodgrass, shuddering, but Floy said, ‘It is only what the Gruagach have done to the Trees.’

Dark, sluggish blood was running from the wounds made by the Elms and there was the gleam of whitish bone and of raw muscle. As the Oaks moved again, the wounds yawned and slowly, slowly, inch by terrible inch, they gaped wider and skin began to tear and the muscle and bone began to part with a sound that made Floy and Snodgrass both feel sick. It was the sound of flesh being rent from bone, and the sound of gristle and fat and marrow being torn apart. Floy thought, with sick dread, that it was the exact sound made when you twisted a leg of chicken from the carcase.

Balor gave a last bubbling cry and a sudden ripple of triumph went through the Trees as the farthest of the Oaks pulled free an arm and held it aloft, a bloody stump, a torn-off gobbet of flesh.

‘A trophy,’ murmured Snodgrass.

‘Yes.’

The other three Oaks had redoubled their efforts now and, one by one, the rest of the giant’s limbs were torn from their moorings and held aloft, wet, bleeding rags of flesh. The bloodied torso of what had been Balor lay twitching on the ground, moving clumsily, trying to pull itself along the ground, like a monstrous beetle which has been turned on its shelly back and cannot right itself. Thick, sluggish blood seeped from the great jagged holes where his arms and legs had been and, with them, a watery pus. A thick, too-sweet stench lay on the air.

As the Trees moved back, silently watching their victim, Balor’s bitten lips emitted a bubbling moan and saliva and blood dribbled out again. There was a choking rattle and his eyes turned upwards, so that only the whites showed, red-veined and protruding slightly.

‘Dead,’ said Floy softly, and then looked at the Trees.

The Oak, who had seemed earlier on to be the leader, said, ‘Yes, Human creature, he is dead. It is no more than he has done to our people.’

‘Yes. I see.’

‘We shall bury him,’ said the Oak, and Floy saw that already the Tree Spirits were scrabbling at the earth, their roots scraping and shovelling, so that, quite soon, a deep trench was opened.

‘Into the earth with the remains,’ said the Oak, turning to watch. ‘Let his rotting carcase mingle with the forest.’

It was rather dreadful to see Balor’s remains flung unceremoniously into the trench, first the mutilated torso and then the arms and legs.

‘Meat for our roots,’ said the Oak, and a rather grim smile touched its features.

‘Yes.’ But Floy was still sickened; he remembered how on Renascia they had tried to follow what they had known of the Earth-people’s death rituals and how they had had the large, austere Firehouse with the ornate bronze lamps which were always kept burning in memory of those who had died. The dead were consumed by cleansing fire at a ceremony which every Renascian was bound to attend and there would usually be a carefully arranged display of the dead person’s life and a small booklet telling about his life and his work, nearly always written by Snizort and Snodgrass in gentle and tactful collaboration with the bereaved family.

‘We shall eat the giant as its people ate our people,’ said the Oak and regarded Floy and Snodgrass steadily. ‘And as its people eat your people,’ it said. ‘That must not be forgotten. It is a fitting punishment, although it may seem harsh to you Humans.’

‘It is not what we have been used to,’ said Floy. ‘But I understand.’

‘The only basis for punishment,’ said the Oak, rather severely, ‘is to fit the punishment exactly to the transgression. It is a practice which has been followed in Ireland, since the High King Erin introduced it. He was strong and wise and believed in exact and precise forms of justice.’

‘I see,’ said Floy, who did not completely see, but who understood the premise.

‘And now,’ said the Oak, ‘you will wish to continue your journey, Human creatures.’ Its wise eyes were kindly and interested. ‘We shall wish you Good Speed and Safe Arrival.’

It sounded like some kind of ritual in the way the Oak said it and the other Trees bowed their heads in acknowledgement.

Floy said, ‘We thank you all,’ and hoped that this had the correct formality.

‘And we shall hope to meet you again,’ said Snodgrass and the Trees suddenly looked pleased and unexpectedly Human. The Silver Birches giggled in a skittish fashion and the Copper Beeches shook out their rippling manes of glowing leaf-hair and regarded the two Renascians through the red-gold curtains.

‘Perhaps you would do well to rest for the night and journey on by daybreak,’ said the Oak. ‘If you will accept the hospitality of the Wolfwood, we shall assure you of safety and warmth.’

‘Well — thank you very much,’ said Floy. ‘But I believe we must go on. It is a question of-of meeting up with our people, you see.’

‘Then,’ said the Oak, bowing its wise solemn head, ‘we shall not detain you.’

There was a murmur of assent and the wise, strange heads were dipped in the gesture of acknowledgement they had used earlier and the Tree Spirits moved away, not quite fading into the gloom of the forest, but somehow becoming one with it.

The moon was high above them as they walked cautiously through the dark forest and the pale, eerie light lay across the woodland path, cold and unfriendly. Over their heads, the trees interlaced their branches so that only tiny patches of the velvet night sky were visible.

‘And the Tree Spirits have retreated,’ said Floy, softly.

‘Yes. Interesting creatures, those Trees,’ said Snodgrass, trotting along beside Floy.

‘We should perhaps have asked the Trees the best path to take,’ said Floy, presently.

‘It’s only that this is such a vast place,’ said Snodgrass, firmly. ‘That’s all it is. Renascia was so small that you hadn’t to plan journeys at all. You could go from one end of Renascia in two days and from side to side in three. We aren’t used to such — such hugeness. The Wolfwood’s immense.’

Floy said, ‘If we could find the path to the Forest Court we could be sure of help.’

‘And food,’ said Snodgrass, rather sepulchrally. ‘We left the food with the horses, in those packs.’

‘Well, we can’t be far from either the road or the Forest Court,’ said Floy. ‘I won’t believe that we’re lost. And look, if we — ’

‘What?’

‘I was going to say if we carve notches on the Trees, at least we shan’t go round in circles,’ said Floy, grinning. ‘I don’t think we’d better do that, however.’

‘Bless my soul, no,’ said Snodgrass, shocked.

‘We could make a — a circle of stones, though,’ said Floy. ‘At the foot of the Trees. That’s more or less what we were going to do for Fenella and Caspar. Yes, look, we’ll do that, and then at least we shan’t go round in circles.’

They walked on, scanning the shadows, leaving markers at the foot of the Trees, trying to gauge their direction by the stars.

‘But the trouble is that we don’t know the pattern of the stars here,’ said Snodgrass, who had sent himself quite dizzy by standing perfectly still and craning his neck as far back as he could in order to see the night sky. ‘We could have done it on Renascia, because we knew where the stars where and what their names were. But here there’s so much of everything. Stars and forests and paths.’

Floy was becoming uneasily aware of the looming bulk of the Trees and of the scurryings and the rustlings and the patterings of unseen creatures all about them. Night was all about them and the Wolfwood was a strange, none-too-safe place. It was very easy to imagine eyes peering from the gloom, or strange beings creeping along the path behind them.

And there is magic abroad here … I wish Nuadu had not said that, he thought.

Snodgrass said, ‘Do you know, I believe the Trees are thinning. Over there.’

‘Where? Oh, there. Yes, I can see,’ said Floy, with a rush of thankfulness. ‘Yes, you’re right.’ And quickened his steps because, of course, they had not been lost at all and, of course, it had been ridiculous to think they had been. They had simply come a little deeper into the forest than they had realised. At any minute they would see the two horses and they would mount them and ride on down the road and all would be well. It might even be rather pleasant to ride through this strange, beautiful world with the silver moonlight. Floy had begun to get the hang of riding after a while. It was a question of balance and of bumping when the horse bumped. And on horseback they would feel so much safer. They would be able to gallop hard away from anything that might spring out at them. It was remarkable how unsafe it had felt walking through the forest like this.

They made their way through the thinning trees, the moonlight touching the grass with silver, seeing the shadows changing as they neared the forest’s edge, becoming thinner, less mysterious, more like ordinary shadows that lay across ordinary roads at night.

Ordinary roads …

The road ahead of them was narrow and winding, silvery and black in the moonlight. The forest sprawled behind them and ahead of them and, beyond the Trees, they could see the remote, beautiful outlines of mountains.

‘Mountains,’ said Snodgrass, frowning. ‘But there weren’t any mountains when we came along the road earlier.’

‘There wasn’t forest on both sides of the road either,’ said Floy.

‘Then — it’s a different road.’

‘It must be,’ said Floy, staring about him. ‘I’ve no idea where we are.’

They unrolled the map which had been tucked in Snodgrass’s cloak and spread it out carefully on the ground. It was important to find out exactly where they were, so that they could get back to where they wanted to be. It was even more important to do this quickly, because they had no food and they had lost the horses. Wherever they went, they would have to go on foot, which might take a long time.

‘I think we’re here,’ said Floy, after a moment, indicating a spot on the map. ‘D’you see the mountains and the Wolfwood? And this must be the road.’ He pointed, and Snodgrass nodded. ‘We’ve simply walked across the Wolfwood and come out where another road runs through it,’ said Floy.

‘Well, at least we aren’t lost,’ said Snodgrass, bracingly.

‘No, of course not.’ Floy frowned at the map. ‘We can go back through the Wolfwood and hope that we reach our original road again,’ he said. ‘Although that might take some time, of course.’ He glanced at the sky. Was it already streaked with the first faint grey fingers of dawn? Perhaps not.

‘If we continued down this road here, we’d still reach the Fire Court,’ said Snodgrass, who was quite good at maps and found them interesting. ‘We’d approach it from the south instead of the east, that would be all. But it looks much quicker than re-tracing our steps.’ He glanced uneasily in the direction of the Wolfwood and then said, ‘What about Fenella?’

But Floy had already faced this one. ‘We have almost certainly missed Fenella by now,’ he said. ‘If they set out from Tara at the hour they intended, they will have gone down the forest road hours earlier.’

‘While we were trying to find our way in the Wolfwood,’ said Snodgrass. ‘Perhaps while the Trees were setting about Balor. Dear me, yes.’

‘Fenella will go on to the Fire Court, of course,’ said Floy, who had very nearly managed to convince himself of this. ‘Caspar will be with her and he knows the roads.’ He did not listen too closely to the small, cold voice that had persistently asked how far they could trust Caspar. He thought they could be almost sure about Caspar. I’ll have to believe we can trust him, he thought. And Caspar helped us to escape. It’s important to remember that Caspar helped us to escape. I won’t believe that he was in a plot against us.

He looked back at the map. ‘I think you’re right, Snodgrass,’ he said. ‘This road we’re on looks to be the shorter way now. Let’s continue on it, shall we?’

Snodgrass thought this would be best. ‘We might lose our way in the forest again if we go back into it,’ he said. ‘We might wander about for hours and waste a great deal of time. That’s a mountain road ahead,’ he said, pointing to the map. ‘That means going a little way into the mountains and I don’t see how you could get lost on a mountain road. You’d have mountains on each side of you and there’d only be one way to go.’

Floy was tracing the road on the map. ‘We shall have to be careful there,’ he said, pointing. ‘The other side of that mountain road.’

‘Why? What’s there?’ said Snodgrass, adjusting his spectacles the better to see.

‘Just over the peak of the mountain,’ said Floy. ‘It’s the City of Gruagach. The City of the Giants.’

They looked at it in silence. The giantish city, the immense northern township where the Gruagach Giants had lived and lured Humans to their doom.

‘They’re no longer there, though,’ began Snodgrass. ‘They’re all at Tara,’ and then stopped.

‘No,’ said Floy. ‘The Gruagach are no longer there. But something else is. Something that we must avoid at all costs.’

He looked at Snodgrass. ‘Don’t you remember?’ he said. ‘When the Gruagach came storming down from their city to take Tara, Gruagach was taken by the Geimreadh.’

The Geimreadh … The terrible Human-hungry creature that Fael-Inis had warned them against …

Snodgrass said, ‘But can’t we avoid Gruagach?’

‘No,’ said Floy, and traced the route again on the map. ‘If we are to reach the Fire Court, we must pass close to the City of Gruagach.

‘We shall be inside the territory of the Frost Giantess.’

Chapter Twenty-six

Fenella stood very still and stared at the dark, hunched buildings at the side of the road.

The Workshops of the Robemaker … Dark and imbued with the evil of the necromancer and forbidding beyond anything she had ever seen.

And Nuadu is in there …

She had not expected anything quite so twisted and stunted-looking. A miasma of despair rose from the cluster of black Workshops and Fenella felt it billow out and engulf them in its sick, cold desolation.

‘And there is a sour sad scent on the air,’ said Caspar unexpectedly, his eyes on the Workshops. ‘The scent of despair.’

They were standing on the side of the road, with the forest behind them and the Robemaker’s Workshops directly ahead. It was not quite night, but it was very nearly night. The Purple Hour … Fenella shivered, because surely if there were any creeping darknesses abroad here, they would be abroad now, with the twilight stealing through the Wolfwood behind them …

But it was important not to think about things like shadows and creeping, unseen things. It would be better to concentrate on finding a way into the Workshops and getting to Nuadu and bringing him out. And I suppose, thought Fenella, with a sidelong glance at her companion, that I shall have to find a suitable way, an acceptable way, of explaining about Nuadu to Caspar.

In the uncertain light, they could see the dull glow that emanated from the Workshops and they could hear the steady thrumming of the Looms.

‘They never cease,’ said Caspar at her side. ‘They must never cease, otherwise the Power they draw down will be broken.’ He frowned. ‘All sorcerers know that,’ he said, ‘but only the Black Sorcerers use Humans to turn the treadmills.’

‘How else can they be turned?’ asked Fenella, partly from interest, but partly because it would be a good idea to know as much as possible about the Workshops.

‘They use water quite often,’ said Caspar. ‘Like mills.’ And looked at her questioningly. But Fenella knew about mills and mill wheels.

‘Or they use minor sorceries,’ said Caspar. ‘The best sorcerers do that. They create another source of power, a secondary source, to turn the Looms.’ And Fenella remembered the thin, frayed legend of how the Earth-people, at one time in their history, had created a race of machines and how they had then created machines to run the machines and how it had all got out of hand. So, after all, there was nothing so very new in the world …

‘Will the Robemaker be in there, do you suppose?’ Fenella was trying to decide how to explain to Caspar about the captured Nuadu. ‘Or might he be out looking for other slaves to turn the Looms?’ Nuadu had said that the Robemaker and CuRoi took sacrifices from the ordinary people of Ireland; strong young sons to work at the Looms, although presumably they would not actually do this work themselves. Had they servants to do it? Or was it done by necromancy?

‘They say that, for some of the time, the Robemaker dwells in the heart of the Dark Realm,’ said Caspar and glanced over his shoulder uneasily. ‘But he might as easily be here. We can’t be sure. That’s why we’d better move on without any delay.’

But Fenella, who had twice now seen the terrible hooded and cloaked shape creep up on her, thought that the Robemaker was not here. There had been a heaviness in the air on the Robemaker’s approach those other times; a cold, greasy feel, as if thick, oily fog had swirled out into the clean air.

‘I’m going to look inside,’ she said at length, and Caspar turned to stare at her.

‘You can stay here or go on without me,’ said Fenella, returning the stare very straightly. ‘I don’t much mind, although I’d prefer you stay. But whatever you do, I’m going to look inside.’

Caspar, genuinely appalled, said, ‘But don’t you know that it’s almost the most dangerous place in the whole of Ireland?’ And looked at her and said, ‘You don’t know, do you? But it truly is, Fenella. If the Robemaker is there, or even if one of his horrid spells — what they call Sentry Spells — is lurking, we’d be taken up and captured before you could say Gruagach. I’d be put to work on the Looms and you’d be — Well,’ said Caspar, who, despite his work for the Court and later the Gruagach, had retained a vestige of delicacy, ‘well, I’d rather not say what might happen to you. Let’s go on to the Fire Court. We can’t be so very far from it now.’

Fenella was trying to be very patient, because it was not in the least unreasonable of Caspar to want to go on and leave the Dark Workshops as far behind them as possible. She weighed the advantages of telling him about Nuadu and the terrible crimson mask against the matter of his allegiance. Was there a middle course she could take? Something to account for her needing to get into the Workshops, but something that did not give away the Beastline people’s plans to attack Tara? Yes, of course there was.

‘Caspar,’ said Fenella, looking at him very intently. ‘We didn’t tell you the entire truth, Floy and I.’

‘Didn’t you?’ said Caspar, suspiciously.

‘When we arrived here,’ said Fenella, and spared a thought for the absurdity of these words, because the manner of their arriving had been something so remarkable as to defy explanation or description. ‘When we arrived here,’ she said, firmly, ‘we lost one of our — our party.’

‘Well?’ said Caspar.

‘He-the Robemaker took him,’ said Fenella. ‘And we vowed to try to rescue him.’ She looked back at the huddle of low-roofed buildings. ‘He’s in there,’ she said, and something so sad and so wistful entered her voice that Caspar, who was by no means insensitive, looked at her more intently.

‘We must get him out,’ said Fenella, abandoning all pretence. ‘Please, won’t you help me?’

Caspar hesitated. As well as not being insensitive, he was by no means impervious to the sudden plea for help from a young and attractive lady. He had never met anyone quite like Fenella and he found her rather intriguing. He supposed he was more or less honour bound to help her. But his eyes went back to the Workshops and he frowned and sought for the right thing to say.

‘If you won’t,’ said Fenella, ‘I shall quite understand. But I shall have to go in by myself, that’s all there is to it.’ She studied the Workshops, frowning, and Caspar, who was becoming alarmed by this time, saw that this was no ruse to secure his assistance; Fenella intended to get into the Robemaker’s Workshops and rescue whoever it was who was in there. And whether he went with her or not, she would do it. This was not something that could be allowed, not by anybody’s standards. So he said that they could perhaps take a look round to see were there any secluded windows anywhere or any openings where they might just squeeze through. And heard his voice saying these things with appalled horror.

‘That,’ said Fenella warmly, ‘is a very good idea. You should always inspect the terrain before going into battle.’ And then, ‘I read that somewhere,’ grinned Fenella. ‘Shall we try this side first?’ and was off before Caspar had time to collect his thoughts.

He managed to detain her long enough for them to tether the horses, because there would be no sense in coming out of the Workshops (with, or without the prisoner) and finding that the horses had turned their heads for Tara and that they had to walk the rest of the way to the Fire Court. He thought, privately, that they might be very glad of the horses, because they might find that they came out of the Workshops much faster than they went in, but he did not say this.

‘Ready?’ said Fenella, having helped with the tethering and fastening her cloak more tightly about her shoulders.

‘No,’ said Caspar gloomily. ‘No, I’m not ready and I wish I hadn’t come, if you really want to know. In fact, if you want the truth, I wish I was back at Tara with the Gruagach.’

‘That’s not at all the way to think,’ said Fenella severely. ‘We’ll get inside somehow and we’ll find the — the person who was captured and be out again before you know it!’

She sent him the sudden grin again and Caspar said, ‘Oh dear me, what optimism,’ but he said it quietly.

Fenella moved down the narrow, steep slope with the stunted trees and the blackened, scarred ground and felt, as she neared the Workshops, a thick, clotted malevolence belching out towards them. It was rather like going down into a horrid, dark, earthy hole, where dull crimson fires burned and where grinning creatures might be peering at you from the shadows.

But I don’t believe there are, thought Fenella firmly. I truly don’t believe there are. The Robemaker isn’t here — I know he isn’t here — and we shall find a way to get inside and Nuadu will be there and we shall bring him out.

Caspar walked rather ploddingly along at Fenella’s side, but Fenella thought that at least he was at her side and found this unexpectedly comforting. There had been one or two Earth stories of how warriors going into battle had gone shoulder to shoulder, which had always seemed a rather odd expression, but which suddenly made sense. Caspar was not the ideal person to be shoulder to shoulder with, because he would probably melt away altogether if there was a real threat. But at least he is here, she thought, and wondered if she would really have tried to get into the Workshops by herself if she had had to. Would I? Oh yes, if it meant rescuing Nuadu.

As they neared the Workshops, Fenella heard the continuous thrumming of the Looms and saw the pulsating red glow of the furnaces. She thought that the sound and the scent would surely hammer your mind into a state of numbness, eventually. What must it be like to be imprisoned here, day after day, month after month? I wonder, does he keep them chained and manacled, thought Fenella, or does he use sorcery? And, so utterly immersed was she in this strange blue and green land that was not feeling strange any more, that she did not even notice that she was weighing sorcery against steel chains and seriously considering the likely outcome.

Closer to, the Workshops were much larger than either of them had realised. They seemed to stretch back into the hillside as if they might, at some stage, cease to become manmade buildings of stone and wood and brick and become ancient caves; tunnels that would penetrate deep into the earth’s core.

The walls were built of dark, rough stone, almost black, pitted here and there by the heat of the furnaces. There were narrow high windows, far above them; Fenella thought they would open on to rooms at a higher level than the ground. The windows had a sly, mean look, and Fenella had the sudden impression that the Workshops were not workshops at all, but a single crouching monster, black and hard-backed and scaly on the outside, but possessed of roaring, flaming innards, so that every breath it took belched out hissing steam and curls and wisps of flame.

The windows are its eyes, she thought, staring upwards. They are the eyes of the monster, red and evil and calculating, and they are watching us, those eyes, and thinking: oh yes, here are two very useful morsels of Humanity … And I had better not think like that, said Fenella silently, or I shall be too afraid to go any nearer. I’ll concentrate on getting inside, getting to Nuadu.

‘The Looms generate immense heat,’ said Caspar, as they drew nearer and Fenella flinched from the dry, gusty warmth. ‘It’ll probably be quite uncomfortable.’

‘Very uncomfortable, I expect,’ said Fenella and went on studying the black stone buildings to see if there was a small, partly hidden door that they might use to get inside.

As they skirted the western side of the Workshops, they both saw how the grass here was blackened, the walls charred in places, the great smokestacks thickly crusted with cinders. Fenella, moving ahead, saw, as Nuadu had not been able to see, that there were tiny cracks in the walls, from which the glowing heat threw out threads of fiery light and through which little angry hisses of steam continually escaped.

Caspar was peering along the darkened west wall, when Fenella said in a whisper, ‘Caspar! See over there? An open window. Exactly what we want.’

‘Yes. Yes, it is. And,’ said Caspar, ‘there doesn’t seem to be any heat coming from it. There certainly isn’t any light to speak of in the windows. Does that mean there are no furnaces in there, I wonder?’

‘Might it be a storeroom? Set a bit apart?’ The open-windowed room looked as if it was quite far away from the main body of the Workshops. And surely there must be fuel of some kind to feed the great furnaces, and surely there would have to be a store-place. ‘It could be a fuelhouse,’ said Fenella. ‘Which would make it a good place to try to get in.’

‘They say the Robemaker uses human fuel,’ said Caspar, half to himself, and then, ‘Fenella, do you really think we ought to be doing this? Wouldn’t it be better to raise help of some kind?’

‘What kind of help?’ said Fenella. And then, ‘Caspar, have you ever actually seen the Robemaker? Really seen him?’

‘Well, no.’

‘I have,’ said Fenella and repressed a shiver. ‘And he’s evil and merciless and terrible. He’d fell you with an enchantment in an instant. And he’d never be defeated just by strength. If you sent a great army against him, he’d simply cut it down with his sorcery. It’s stealth and trickery that’s needed to outwit him.’

The place that Fenella thought might be a fuelhouse was a small, added-on section, jutting out from the main body of the Workshops. Fenella remembered the houses on Renascia and how they had nearly always had sculleries and washing houses jutting out from the main rooms. This had the same kind of look to it. It was a part of the main building, but it was not a central part. Probably it was not used very much and probably they could climb through the window and be inside without anyone even realising.

‘I suppose you want me to go first,’ said Caspar as they stood looking up at the open window, which was grimy and smeary, but much lower than the other windows.

‘I’d go first,’ said Fenella, who would do so unhesitatingly. ‘I’m perfectly capable of climbing through a window. But I can’t reach the window by myself. You go up first and then help me.’

‘Let’s not be hasty,’ said Caspar, moving to the window. ‘Let’s just take a look first and wait till we see what’s inside.’ He grasped the narrow sill and hauled himself up so that he hung, partly suspended by his hands, his chin level with the lower sill.

‘Can you see?’ Fenella was standing on tiptoe alongside him, but the window was too high and she could not see. ‘What can you see?’ said Fenella. And then, as Caspar drew in a shocked gasp, ‘Caspar, what’s in there?’

Caspar let go of the sill and slid rapidly to the ground with a bump, looking a bit sick.

‘Oh, dear me,’ he said, standing back from the window and dusting himself down, wiping his face with a handkerchief. ‘Dear, dear me! I never thought to see such nastiness, not even serving the Gruagach, I didn’t. Well, it’s no sight for a lady, that I do know. I think we’d better forget the whole idea.’ He eyed Fenella uncertainly and Fenella, who was becoming impatient, said, ‘Well, for heaven’s sake — ’ which was an expression she had picked up from Snizort and Snodgrass and which was as meaningless as most of their expressions, but descriptive of strong emotion.

‘Do come away,’ said Caspar, taking her arm. ‘I promise you we’d be much better to go quietly back on to the road and make our way to the Fire Court.’

‘You can go to any number of Fire Courts,’ said Fenella, crossly. ‘But I’m going in there whether you come with me or whether you run away. I don’t much care which,’ said Fenella, who did not really want Caspar to ride off and leave her alone out here, but who was not going to get so close to Nuadu and then ride away and leave him. ‘And first of all, I’m going to climb through the window,’ she said and reached for a stack of sacking which had been thrown down near the wall and which, piled carefully, might enable her to reach the sill.

‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ said Caspar, but Fenella took a deep breath and clambered on to the sacks and grasped the window ledge, rubbing a bit of the window pane clear. And looked in.

The storeroom (yes, she had been right about that after all) was not very big and not very well lit. There seemed to be a door cut into the wall that was farthest away from the window; Fenella, trying to get her bearings, thought it would lead more deeply into the Workshops, perhaps even back and back into the cave part. Odd pieces of broken and split machinery were strewn about or propped against the walls.

The room looked to be what they had thought; a store or perhaps a fuelhouse which might be left unattended for most of the time. The sort of deserted outbuilding that might easily be forgotten, until a fresh supply of fuel was needed. The twisted machinery pieces cast shadows on the floor, weird and grotesque, so that, for a heart-stopping moment, Fenella thought that strange beast-things were crouching in the comers and remembered that Caspar had said something about Sentry Spells; minor enchantments that the Robemaker might have left on guard in his absence.

But light was spilling in through the seams of the door at the far end of the room; crimson, glowing light from whatever lay on the other side. After a moment Fenella’s eyes grew used to the dimness and she could see quite plainly into the room. She could see what had made Caspar turn pale and sick.

A great pile of felled Trees. Trees which had been hacked and chopped and mutilated, which had had branches tom away so that they could be roughly stacked against the wall. Fuel for the Robemaker’s roaring furnaces that must never be allowed to cool …

But the Trees were not just Trees. They were people, beings, half-formed creatures who might have been strange and beautiful and filled with wild, woodland magic. Beings who were now dead or dying, and who were lying in tangled, dreadfully mutilated heaps.

Fenella, clutching the narrow ledge, standing precariously on the piled sacks, thought, in horror: Miach’s spell. The emerging of the Tree Spirits. What had Miach called them? Naiads and Diyads and Hamadryads. Nymphs and oreads and nereids. Beautiful, half-human forms, partly emerged from the ancient beeches and oaks and elms and birches and ash Trees, taking shape under the summoning of Miach’s magic.

But here were hacked limbs and truncated bodies. Strange, greenish-gold fluid staining their skin which was not quite skin and not quite leaf. Tree-blood flowing down, mingling with the rippling bronze hair of the copper beeches and the pale, frond-like arms of the ash Trees and the poor, split, high-arched feet of the silver birches. There was a deep, thick blood from the old oaks, still trickling slowly out here and there, as if the Trees might not have been cut down so very long since, or — and this was much worse — as if there were still vestiges of life in them. Branches and limbs and hair and eyes all jumbled and mixed, so that you could not tell where the Tree part ended and the naiad part began.

The ancient Tree Spirits, awakened by magic after their centuries-old sleep, captured and taken by the Robemaker. Bound and held by his terrible evil magic, thought Fenella, sickened. Held, perhaps, by the crimson rope-lights, as Nuadu was held, and then butchered and slain and thrown into a dark woodshed, to await burning in the heart of a necromancer’s fiery furnace …

‘I’m going to climb in,’ said Fenella, at last, and pointed to a thick chunk of dried-out wood. ‘We can drag that underneath the window and then I’ll be able to get through the window.’

‘Best oak,’ said Caspar, looking at the log and shaking his head. ‘The Robemaker must have been taking the Trees for years.’

‘Well, we mustn’t think about it now,’ said Fenella in a practical voice. ‘It can’t hurt the Oak now if I stand on it to get in, can it? No, I didn’t think it could. Would you help me up?’

But Caspar, belatedly gallant, said that it was for him to lead the way. ‘I’ll go in first and then pull you up.’

‘It would be much easier if I went in first and then you could push me up,’ said Fenella.

‘It doesn’t seem right,’ said Caspar, half to himself. ‘It doesn’t seem polite if you know what I mean.’

‘We can’t worry about manners. Do hurry,’ said Fenella impatiently.

Fenella clambered cautiously on to the oak log and grasped the ledge. If the Robemaker had left any Sentry Spells, then surely this was the moment for them to come rearing out to challenge the intruders. She sat for a moment on the narrow window ledge, scanning the shadows in case shapes, creatures, sentinels should materialise. But nothing happened and Fenella felt a small, frail spiral of confidence and thought that the very suggestion that the Robemaker needed sentries at all indicated that he was not as all-powerful as they had feared. And if he has left any to catch us, then they aren’t very good, she thought. We’re partway in already.

‘Hurry up!’ said Caspar urgently, from outside. He hauled himself after her and Fenella gasped and half fell, half pulled herself over into the Robemaker’s wood-store, to be followed, a minute later, by a rather out-of-breath Caspar.

They stood silently together in the dim, rather narrow room, with the sharp scent of the butchered trees all about them and, underneath it, a soft, sad scent that Fenella thought must be the spilled Tree-blood. In the red-lit dimness it was possible to see the mutilated Tree Spirits more plainly now and Fenella thought there had never been anything quite so dreadful.

They were not all quite dead. Fenella and Caspar could see this clearly; they could see that some of the Tree Spirits were still breathing, shallowly and painfully, their strange, wise faces shuttered and suffering, their branches tom from their bodies and great, gaping wounds still bleeding.

‘Terrible,’ said Caspar, rather pale.

‘Can’t we do anything for them?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Caspar. ‘I think they are too — too cruelly hurt.’

‘We’d better try to find the prisoners,’ said Fenella at last, although she did not really want to leave the comparative safety of the wood-store. ‘Through there, do you think?’

‘As well there as anywhere,’ said Caspar.

The door that Fenella had indicated was the one with ill-fitting seams that permitted the red glow to seep through. It was wider than it had looked and Fenella thought she had been right to think it led away from the road, deeper into the hillside.

‘Can you hear anything?’ she said as they stood looking round.

‘I can hear the Looms,’ said Caspar. ‘But then, they never stop.’ He listened for a moment. ‘I can’t hear anything,’ he said. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready,’ said Fenella.

‘We’ll leave this door propped open,’ said Caspar. ‘In case we need to — ’

‘Escape quickly.’

‘Yes.’

And then, because there did not seem to be any reason to wait, they moved cautiously to the door at the far end of the wood-store and inched it open.

The noise and the dull angry light of the furnaces poured in.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Caspar and Fenella stood in the Workshops, with the wood-store behind them, their skin shrivelling and flinching and every sense assaulted by what was before them.

The room they were in stretched back and back — Into the hillside, thought Fenella — and far above them. In the evil, glowing red light they could see that the walls were not of brick or timber or of anything that walls were normally made of. They were earth; dark, hard-packed earth, here and there cracking with the endless dry heat. There was the feeling of being in a dark, hot cave and there was the sudden swift impression of ancient malevolent creatures that dwelled here and slept for decades, or sometimes centuries, until they were disturbed …

There are things in here that are sometimes asleep and sometimes not asleep, thought Fenella. Sentry spells? Yes, perhaps. I can feel them, thought Fenella, standing very still just inside the huge, high-ceilinged, firelit room. I can feel that there are forces in here that could very easily be woken and, if they are woken, they would come crawling and slithering out from their lair and we would not have very much chance against them …

At the far end, huge double doors opened on to the furnace room. The doors were partly open, showing the great iron stoves and the furnaces and the immense black pipes that disappeared into the floor. Billowing gusts of heat came from the furnaces and they could see the immense iron hods of wood, waiting to be fed to the furnaces. I hope their spirits are dead, she thought. I hope they are not like the ones we found in the store, still a bit alive.

Directly in front of them were the treadmills; huge, fearsome, steel and mesh wheel-cages, stretching far above them, at least twelve or fifteen feet high, great roaring, relentless, nightmare machines which rotated on and on. Fenella, horrified, her mind tumbling, saw that the treadmills were like huge fly-wheels, like the sides of giant spinning tops. They gyrated endlessly round and round … Immense grinding, grating, pounding things … On and on, and up and up … And then down again to begin the circle over again. To watch the ceaseless spinning for too long made you feel sick and dizzy and a bit out of step with everything else.

The noise was dreadful. It was a continual clanking, rotating sound, a whirring rhythmic, steel-against-steel sound that made your teeth wince. Fenella and Caspar staring, saw that huge spindles and cogs and pinions protruded from the dark-packed earth of the ceiling and that the motion of the great wheels caused these to turn and rotate and drive one another into rather horrid, grinding, gobbling motion. The red glow from the furnaces fell across the treadmills, turning the steel mesh to angry crimson, bathing the creatures inside them to eerie, unnatural life, blending and merging them with the machinery, until it was very nearly impossible to tell where the treadmills ended and the human creatures began …

The human creatures …

Within each treadmill were two workers; chained and manacled. Affixed horizontally to the inside of the treadmill were stout iron bars for the prisoned workers to grasp. Fenella, who understood in a vague way about mill wheels and how they had to rotate continually to provide power, saw with horror that the slaves inside the steel mesh cages were forced by the motion of the wheels to tread endlessly forward to keep the treadmills revolving. Each of them must tread on and on, a ceaseless, bonegrinding trudge, if they did not want to be taken up and up by the gyrating treadmill into the clanking, turning cogs in the roof and ground to dust between the pinions. They must tread ever forward, regardless of discomfort, heedless of exhaustion.

Sweat poured from their bodies and they wore only the thinnest of breeches. Their feet were bare and, even from where she stood, Fenella could see the knotting of the leg muscles from the agonising cramp which they must surely suffer almost continuously. In every case, dried blood caked the mesh cages and the thick iron bars which they used for the momentum of walking. A look of hopeless desolation, of almost animal acceptance was in their faces; they had long since passed beyond defiance and hope; their life was bounded by the ceaseless rotating of the treadmills which served the Robemaker’s Looms. Their life had become a never-ending trudge to keep the Looms of the necromancer weaving dreadful enchantments.

Sparks flew from the mesh cages and Fenella saw that great black iron pipes ran from beneath each wheel, along the wooden floor and out through a massive, carved silver door at the other end of the Workshop. She glanced at Caspar and saw that he was staring at the silver door. Somewhere through that door must be the Chamber of the Looms, the powerhouse of the Workshops, the force field of the necromancer.

The clanking of the machines was almost deafening, and Fenella wanted to clap her hands to her ears and try to shut it out. But she stayed where she was, her eyes raking the red lit chamber. Presently, she grew a little more adjusted to the noise and she began to make out the details a little more plainly; she could see that the captives were all young men, some of them not much more than boys, but certainly strong and lithe. She thought that not one of them could be more than eighteen or twenty, and she remembered how it had been said that the Robemaker scoured Ireland, taking the sons of the ordinary Irish families to work here.

And then Caspar, who had been narrowing his eyes and taking stock of everything and everyone, suddenly gripped Fenella’s arm and said, in a voice from which most of the breath had been driven, ‘Fenella — over there.’

‘What — ’

‘The Prince,’ said Caspar, softly.

Fenella looked to where he indicated, to the farthest of the treadmills and saw the single creature held captive there, and her heart jumped and missed several beats, and then went on again erratically.

Nuadu Airgetlam. The Wolfprince.

To begin with, they thought that the Robemaker had injured him in some unimaginable way, for the crimson mask still had him in its grip and in the flickering light, it looked for a moment as if the lower part of his face was covered in blood. Fenella gasped and then thrust her clenched fist into her mouth, because she would not, she emphatically would not give way to foolish emotion. But she moved at once and stood below the pounding clanking mesh wheel, looking up. She saw him look down at her and saw that his skin was raw and flayed in places; the arm of flesh and blood was scraped and scorched and the silver arm on the other side was reflecting the tremendous heat, so that it was copper coloured and glinting and must be causing him immense pain. But his eyes still held the old mockery and the remembered cynicism.

So you have sought me out, Human Child …

Fenella, hardly daring to speak, but knowing she must raise her voice above the treadmills, said, ‘Where is — ’ And saw his eyes smile, as if to say: he is not here for the moment. For the moment, you are safe. And then there was a warning flare and Nuadu’s eyes moved in the direction of the shadowed comers.

Fenella followed his eyes and at once said, ‘Sentry Spells,’ and there was a gleam of acknowledgement above the glinting mask.

‘Yes,’ said Fenella, looking up at Nuadu. ‘Yes, I understand. And we will be wary.’ And wondered, in the same moment, how they could possibly hope to cheat the Sentry Spells.

Caspar had crossed the room to stand at her side and he said, ‘Sire — ’ And stopped in some confusion, because he had known Nuadu at once — he thought every person in Ireland would recognise him, for the wolfblood was unmistakable, and everyone knew the story of the Queen’s bastard wolfson and the fierce quarrels that had taken place between her and the King when Nuadu was born. He understood, as well, why Fenella had been so chary of telling the entire truth. Because I suppose I must have appeared a bit untrustworthy, thought Caspar, what with working for the Gruagach and everything. I suppose I can’t blame her or Floy for being wary, he thought, rather sadly.

But he was a bit flummoxed at the reality of Nuadu, because nobody had ever told him how to address a bastard of the Ireland’s Royal House. However, it would be better to err on the side of too much courtesy, and so, ‘Sire,’ he said firmly, ‘if there is a way to get you out, we will find it.’

Nuadu’s eyes went to the other captives and Fenella at once said, ‘Yes, of course, all of you. If only there is a way — ’ And stopped, because Nuadu’s eyes had gone to the silver door.

‘In there? Do you mean — ’ Fenella stopped, trying to read the meaning in the dark eyes above the dreadful mask. ‘Do you mean there is a — is there a spell we could use? Oh, but — ’ And stopped and felt, with remembered delight, the shower of golden needle lights as his thoughts poured into her mind.

It is the only way, Human Child … The only thing that will release us is the thing that imprisoned us. Magic, Fenella. And in there is the Robemaker’s cache of enchantments …

The stockroom of spells … The necromancer’s treasure-house.

But beware the Melanisms, Fenella. They are the Robemaker’s sentinels, the effluence of necromancy, and you must be very very wary indeed of them.

The Melanisms … Fenella stayed where she was for a moment, still staring up at the imprisoned Nuadu. The Melanisms … With the words had come the fleeting impression of dark, sinuous creatures who could slither out of the shadows and wind their cold, serpentine fingers about you, so that you were trapped, who could twine about your entire body, so that you were smothered and suffocating from the cold embrace …

‘But there isn’t really any choice,’ said Fenella, firmly, and turned to the ornate silver door at the far end of the room.

Fenella had expected the silver door to feel cool and silvery and solid and was surprised when it actually felt extremely hot.

‘Yes, that’ll be the Looms,’ said Caspar. ‘This will be an ante-chamber, mark my words. It’ll be very hot because of being so near to the Looms themselves. We wouldn’t get near to the Looms, of course. Well, very likely we won’t get near to the store house, either. We’ll very likely be burned to a crisp the minute we get in there. Still, it’s all one to me. As well be fried and roasted on that side of the door, as turned to something very nasty by the Robemaker and fed into the furnaces. I don’t care,’ said Caspar.

There would not be very much time. They both knew this. Fenella could feel the shadows stirring already; she could feel a dark, slimy something uncoiling somewhere close by. The Melanisms, the Robemaker’s Sentry Spells, torpid and stagnant for most of the time … ? Sleeping in the darkness until some creature, some reckless, heedless Human should try to penetrate the ancient secrets of their Master … ?

They are waking, thought Fenella, struggling with the elaborate handle of the silver door, then standing back to give way to Caspar who seemed to understand the mechanism.

The shadows moved; they seemed to darken and to creep nearer, and long, groping fingers of blackness stretched across the floor.

As they began to turn the silver handle with the strange, serpent-like beasts engraved deeply into it, Fenella felt the Melanisms creep nearer. They are only shadows, she said firmly to herself. Not solid things at all. Effluence.

But the Melanisms did not feel like only shadows. They did not move like shadows; they did not shift and blur. They crept, developing rudimentary arms with nasty, elongated fingers as they went, groping across the floor towards the two intruders, as if they might not be able to see, but might be able to feel or smell their way to Caspar and Fenella. They were blind, seeking things, reaching out, feeling their way closer with every minute. It was unspeakably horrid to know that a great, slithering, inchoate mass of effluence was crawling and creeping and smelling its way towards you.

Fenella said, a bit impatiently, ‘Oh, do hurry up, Caspar! Shan’t we be able to open it? Isn’t it just an ordinary door?’

‘Of course it isn’t,’ said Caspar, crossly. ‘It’s a silver door, guarding something that’s strongly magical. I’ve seen the same kind of thing in the Sorcery Chambers at Tara. You have to keep turning until there’s a kind of silken click.’

Fenella was standing with her back to the silver door, watching the Melanisms. They were oozing closer, no doubt about it. I suppose, thought Fenella, that I was rather innocent to think that we could get in so easily, or that the Robemaker would not in some way guard his secrets.

‘Almost there,’ gasped Caspar. ‘I think we’re — ’ He broke off abruptly as Fenella let out a cry of purest revulsion and looked down to see the Melanisms at their feet, surging thickly upwards.

Fenella had managed to not quite scream. She had thought she had been keeping watch on the creeping grey-streaked matter, but it had moved suddenly, the embryonic fingers clutching the ground, pulling the oozing, mucousy river forward until it was bubbling over her feet.

She would not scream and she would not panic. She tried to back away and, at once, the Melanisms seemed to wriggle and chuckle, to slop forward with a dreadful, glutinous, squelching sound. Fenella, clinging to self-control, thought that it was a gobbling, lip-smacking sound, as if the soupy fluid was savouring her, as if it was going to enjoy bubbling upwards until it had engulfed her entire body …

She sent a frantic look to where Caspar was now standing and saw that the Melanisms had reached him as well now; his legs and knees were already covered.

This is dreadful, thought Fenella, struggling against the thick, cold viscosity. This is certainly the worst thing that has happened to me ever. Am I going to be able to get out? Am I going to be able to pull free?

As if in answer, the Melanisms tightened their hold, sucking and gobbling, the half-formed arms twining themselves about her thighs, tendrils of grey-streaked black curling upwards to her waist. The heaving fluid was not cold, as it had looked, but slightly warm, as if somewhere at the centre there might be a heart, and veins, and lungs to breathe with …

To reach down and try to free her legs would be disastrous. The minute she sunk her hands into the glutinous fluid, her hands would be trapped as well. She had the dreadful thought that once her hands plunged into the foul greasiness, she would feel reaching, grasping hands under the surface, clutching at her, pulling her down until she was drowning.

Drowning in the effluence of necromancy … Suffocating and smothering in the gelatinous mucous …

Fenella was using every ounce of her strength to climb free, but the Melanisms were tenacious and strong. They held on, tightening their grip, and Fenella felt herself being sucked in. She thought: but I can't simply stand here and be drowned by this horrid stuff! I can’t just do nothing! And looked up at Nuadu, encased in the terrible cage of the treadmill, and saw black, bitter fury in his eyes. Because she was being slowly smothered by the Melanisms? Or simply because they had come so close to rescuing him? I won’t think about that yet, said Fenella, silently.

Caspar was shouting to her not to struggle, because it would only mean she would sink quicker, but Fenella was struggling fiercely, because she could not just give in. She was feeling rather sick at the thought of drowning in the creeping, sucking mess. It was exactly like standing in a cauldron of lukewarm soup and feeling it inch its way up your body. There were nameless jellylike things within the Melanisms now; eel-like creatures that brushed against her skin and which felt boneless and yet gristly.

She managed to make a half turn so that she could see the silver door, because perhaps she could reach out and reach over and grasp the elaborate handle and somehow pull herself out. As she did so, Caspar turned with her, and Fenella knew he had had the same idea. They were both straining to reach, leaning forward as far as they could, agonisingly aware that the door and its ring handle that might have given them some leverage were out of their reach, when another sound fell on their ears.

They both turned back instantly, scanning the shadows, and Fenella saw Nuadu look up, sudden hope in his eyes.

From the other side of the room, from the shadows of the wood-store where they had entered, something was dragging itself across the floor towards them …

There was nothing any of them could do. Whatever was creeping towards them through the half-open door would have them completely at its mercy. Fenella and Caspar were both held fast by the wet gumminess of the Melanisms and Nuadu and the Robemaker’s slaves were chained and manacled inside the treadmills.

The sounds came nearer; dragging, crawling sounds, as if not one but several creatures were struggling across the floor. Fenella, her heart thudding frantically, kept her eyes fixed on the door and a fearful hope began to unfurl.

Through the half-open door, into the dry, shrivelling heat of the great, evil-smelling room, there appeared branchlike shapes and then a fall of blood-stained, leaf-like hair.

Caspar said, very softly, ‘The Trees. Fenella, the Trees.’

The wounded Tree Spirits that the Robemaker had hacked and mutilated were coming to the aid of the two Humans who would free the Wolfprince.

Fenella felt ridiculous tears sting her eyes and brushed them away impatiently because this was no time to be emotional.

The Trees were moving slowly and painfully and it was terrible and marvellous to see them. But will they reach us before this horrid stuff covers us? thought Fenella, frantically. Can they reach us?

There looked to be three or perhaps four of the Tree Spirits. They were twisted and butchered and maimed and it was difficult to see if they had been Oaks or Beeches or Elms or what. But there was a glint of green and gold still in them, and their eyes were pain-filled, but determined.

The Tree Spirits were clinging to the black iron pipes that ran along the sides of the floor, using them as levers and pulleys to help them across the floor.

At Fenella’s side, Caspar said softly, ‘They are unable to stand, poor things,’ and Fenella felt the pity of it hit hard at the base of her throat.

The Trees had crossed half of the floor now and the nearest one — Fenella could see now that it had been a Larch, elegant and slender-was already inching its way across the slimy black pool of the Melanisms, creating a kind of bridge. As it did so, the other two Tree Spirits did the same, the branches of the Larch reaching forward, until Fenella could lean over and grasp them.

She thought she gasped, ‘Oh, thank you!’ and she felt the Larch incline its head in acknowledgement. And then she was holding on to the branches, feeling where the Robemaker had hacked and sawn at them, knowing she must be hurting the Larch even more, and trying to be as gentle as possible.

The surface of the Melanisms heaved and panted, and Fenella felt the suction about her waist increase. The Robemaker’s sentries were not letting go easily …

‘Pull harder!’ cried Caspar. ‘Fenella, you must break free!’

‘Yes,’ gasped Fenella. ‘Yes, of course.’

And then the Larch moved back, and Fenella clung to its poor tom branches and the sticky evil effluence melted back, and there was a horrid oozing clutching feeling, and then she was pulled across the floor, and she was free.

The fact that they were both half covered with the slimy grey Melanism-fluid did not have to matter. Fenella and Caspar both knelt down, taking a gentle hold of the Tree Spirits’ maimed branches, searching for the right words to convey their gratitude.

At length, Fenella said, in very nearly a whisper, ‘Thank you, Trees,’ and there was a ripple of awareness from the Trees and a soft rustling of the trailing leaf-hair.

‘Is there nothing we can do to — to save you?’ said Fenella, and saw the wise ancient eyes regarding her.

‘Nothing, Human Creatures,’ said the Larch at last, in a warm, timbery sort of voice. ‘We shall die in the Robemaker’s fires.’

‘Can’t you simply — escape from your — your Tree homes?’ asked Fenella, unsure whether she understood the principle of all this, but hoping she had conveyed her meaning.

‘We are bound to our heartwood Trees in death,’ said the Larch. ‘We are the Robemaker’s victims.’ Its head bowed over.

‘But you must enter the Robemaker’s Storeroom of Spells, and free the Prince,’ said one of the others — Fenella thought it was a cypress. ‘He will lead your armies against the Dark Lords.’

‘If you can do that, then perhaps others will not be sacrificed and tortured and become soul-less,’ said a third.

‘Yes,’ said Fenella, who had not really been thinking in terms of armies and battles quite so definitely as this. But she said, very firmly, ‘Yes, we will do it.’

She eyed Caspar: ‘All right?’

‘Yes,’ said Caspar, who was not really all right, but who was not going to admit to it. ‘A bit muddied and splattered,’ he said.

‘Yes. But we’ll attend to that later,’ said Fenella, who was also muddied and streaked with the oozing matter.

She looked round. The Melanisms seemed to have retreated into their dark comers again, but Fenella had the feeling that they were simply mustering their strength again; they had been baulked of their prey and they had retired. But they would slither out again, and they would probably do so quite quickly. They had not very much time.

‘We’d better be quick,’ said Fenella to Caspar, taking his arm. ‘Hurry up — did we manage to get the silver door open?’

As they moved cautiously towards it, Fenella saw that it had opened for them just the smallest sliver and that beyond it were shards of light.

They pushed the silver door open warily and Fenella stepped forward. The door swung to behind them, shutting out some of the noise of the treadmills, but it did not quite close. ‘And we’d better make sure that it doesn’t,’ said Caspar, moving back to prop the door open with a stone. ‘We don’t want to find ourselves locked in here, that would be extremely nasty. You’d be forever wondering what might come at you from the shadows. I suppose the Melanisms have gone, have they? They aren’t slithering around in here?’

‘I don’t think so. But we’d better hurry up.’

They both glanced behind them and then moved into the coloured shadows of the necromancer’s storeroom.

Chapter Twenty-eight

They were in a rather long, quite narrow chamber, lined with shelves and with long racks with poles. And suspended from each pole …

‘Oh!’ said Fenella and stood still and clasped her hands together, and for a moment forgot entirely about being in danger in the house of an ancient and evil sorcerer.

Because from each pole there hung a robe, and each robe was of a different hue, and every robe was of a different consistency.

‘The Robes of Enchantment,’ said Caspar in an awed voice. ‘The necromancer’s wardrobe of spells.’

The Robes shimmered and gleamed and reflected the dim light. Each one glowed with its own prismatic brilliance and each one was soaked in pure, living colour, in rainbow light, in fluid iridescence. Fenella’s first thought was that the Robes were the most beautiful things she had ever seen. Her second was that although they might be beautiful, they were not all good. There was a darkness, a sinister menace clinging to some of them, as if simply to touch them might call up dreadful visions and evil forces.

Caspar was explaining in a hushed voice that they were looking at the Robemaker’s stocks of enchantments. ‘The Robes of Spells,’ he said. ‘People consult him. And they say he will fashion any spell so long as someone will pay him enough.’

‘Pay?’

‘Living bodies. Living souls,’ said Caspar rather hurriedly, as if he thought it might be dangerous to say things like this aloud. ‘Bodies for fuel, souls for offering to the Soul Eaters. They say he has traded with the Soul Eaters for centuries, although I don’t know why. Nasty!

Let’s not think about it. Fenella, we should try to find something — ’

‘Yes.’ But Fenella still stood, drinking in the wild, glorious kaleidoscope of colours, seeing the marvellous chequerwork of form and shape. Surely, oh surely, there would be something here that would rescue Nuadu and the other poor creatures … ‘Only,’ she said aloud, ‘only, we do not really know what we are looking for.’

Caspar was moving forward, frowning, inspecting the robes as he passed them, occasionally reaching out a hand to touch a fold of colour. Fenella saw, with a thrill of horror, that as his hand went through the colours, the robes shivered as if they were not made of plain cloth, but of some living, breathing substance.

Music and colour and the secrets of Men; the innermost desires of the heart and sunlight and twilight and hopes and dreams … All here, thought Fenella, walking cautiously in Caspar’s wake. Yes, all here. I can feel them all, thought Fenella. Music and colours and dreams and hopes … Oh yes. And she thought: but evil longings and greedy desires and black sour emotions, as well. She put out a wary hand and felt her fingers sink into the softness of a robe made of albescent whiteness, pouring ivory and soft, glinting pearl. Something good. Something pure and hopeful and silken. Perhaps a love potion? But the one next to it was veined with crimson and dull purple and, as Fenella touched it, she was instantly aware of a stinging pain, a boiling of hot sourness. She took her hand away at once.

Caspar was studying falls and swathes of crimson and gold. ‘Something nasty these, I should think,’ he said. ‘Can you feel it?’ And Fenella, coming to stand beside him, did feel it. She touched it warily and again there was the hot, dark heat, the feeling of suffocation closing about her, the surging upwards of bitter scalding liquid, as if she had drunk something that was too hot which was laced with a bitter and evil drug.

The heavy darkness seemed to hover above the deep magentas and purples and damson-hued gowns and, as they moved on again, to where the paler, gentler robes were hanging, the feeling passed.

‘We can differentiate the evil from the good,’ said Fenella, frowning. ‘But we don’t know what any of them mean!’ she said. ‘Oh Caspar, this is going to be impossible.’

‘Well, we’ll think,’ said Caspar. ‘See now, if the crimsons and the purples are evil — ’

‘Yes, very evil,’ put in Fenella.

‘Then the paler ones must be good.’

‘Does it follow?’ said Fenella. ‘And also, can we be sure that the Robemaker would ever weave a good enchantment at all?’

She regarded Caspar and Caspar, to whom this had not occurred, looked more worried than ever. But he said, thoughtfully, that he believed the Robemaker would weave anything so long as he was paid sufficiently highly.

‘All right. And,’ said Fenella, studying the robes and frowning, ‘would it matter if we used a — an evil spell to rescue Nuadu and the others? Would it hurt anyone?’ But Caspar, who had only the sketchiest knowledge of these matters, did not know.

‘Well, could we try one or two?’ said Fenella. ‘Could we simply take an armful out to the treadmills and put them on and see what happened? Would the Melanisms leave us alone for long enough, I wonder, or would the Robes themselves keep the Melanisms at bay? This is much more difficult than I thought it would be. But we can’t get so close to freeing Nuadu and fail now.’ She reached out for a pale, beautiful robe that seemed to be a continual pour of colour, like a mountain river with the sun shining on it and, as she did so, there was a whisper of sound behind them. Fenella whipped round and saw a long and terrible shadow fall across the floor.

The Robemaker was in the room with them.

Fenella had been standing towards the back of the Robe-room, half hidden by the racks of shimmering robes, but Caspar had been in the centre of the room, midway between two of the racks. As the Robemaker’s shadow fell blackly across the floor, Fenella ducked behind the nearest rack, but Caspar, caught without hope of concealment, simply turned and made the briefest of bows.

‘Good morning to you, Sir Enchanter,’ he said, and Fenella, crouched behind folds upon folds of living colour, half suffocated, heard at once, that he had put on a slightly simple voice. Hope sprang up in her, because if Caspar could make the Robemaker believe that he was merely foolish and not an intruder, they might have a chance. It was rather a good device and one which Fenella admitted to herself she would not thought that Caspar was capable of thinking up so quickly.

‘Good day,’ said the Robemaker and Fenella suppressed a shudder, because it was the hissing, whispering voice she remembered from the forest road earlier.

‘I have sought you for many a long day,’ said Caspar, cheerfully, pursuing the rather frail ploy he had thought up earlier in case of precisely this eventuality. ‘Yes, I have sought you,’ he said, nodding, half to himself, ‘for they tell me you are quite the best there is.’ He regarded the Robemaker and Fenella, peeping out cautiously, saw him smile a bit vacantly at the hooded figure. ‘And,’ went on Caspar, ‘I do need the best. That is very important.’

‘Who are you?’ The Robemaker had not closed the door, but he had pushed it to a little. The red light from the treadmill chamber spilled across the floor. ‘And how did you get in?’

‘Well,’ said Caspar, and then glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure no one was listening, ‘well, the truth of it is, that I work for the Gruagach. As a procurer,’ he said, and tucked his chins into his neck solemnly and put on an expression that said: and that is a reasonable thing for a man to do, of course.

‘I am not in the way of trafficking with Humans, but I know of the Gruagach,’ said the Robemaker, standing very still. ‘You do not answer my other question, Human.’

‘Oh, about getting in,’ said Caspar, and chuckled to himself. ‘Well, to tell you the truth, Sir Enchanter, I met one of your nasty, wriggling creatures on the way in.’

‘Yes?’ said the Robemaker, and Fenella held her breath, because this, surely, was a trap.

‘It inspected me,’ said Caspar, sounding as if he had found this amusing. ‘It took a look at me and then melted away into the shadows. I daresay,’ he added, in a confidential tone, ‘that it could see I was no enemy.’

‘Go on,’ said the Robemaker, and Fenella dared to hope again.

‘The Gruagach sent me here,’ began Caspar, and stopped, and then went on with more assurance, ‘they sent me along to see if you can provide a — well, I don’t know what you’d call it really. A spell of some kind for the King. Is that possible? Dear me, do you know, Sir, I had no idea this would be so difficult.’ He frowned and chewed his lower lip quite naturally and Fenella, hardly daring to breathe, saw that the Robemaker appeared to be listening.

‘The King,’ said Caspar, having apparently thought matters over, ‘is wishful to marry Flame. I daresay you’ll know of her, will you?’

‘Daughter of the sorceress Reflection and the creature Fael-Inis,’ said the Robemaker, and a sneer had crept into his voice. ‘I know of the Gruagach King’s plans and I know of the charlatan Fael-Inis.’

‘Is he a charlatan?’ asked Caspar, apparently interested in this. ‘Well, of course you’d know about that, far more than I would.’

‘He is an illusionist, no more. As for Reflection — ’ The cloaked figure made a quick movement. ‘A dilettante. A dabbler in magic. A greedy, grasping, lascivious creature.’

‘Still,’ said Caspar, ‘Inchbad is quite wishful to secure her daughter’s hand in marriage. The blending of two territories, so they tell me. I don’t understand, really. Well, I don’t need to understand.’ He eyed the Robemaker with wide, ingenuous eyes, and beamed. ‘But the thing is, Reflection is being rather — well, very greedy about the Marriage Settlement,’ went on Caspar, feeling that he was doing really rather well with this random blending of truth and fiction. ‘And she has locked Flame up until an agreement is reached.’

‘Daughters need to be whipped into line anyway,’ said the Robemaker rather dismissively. ‘And Reflection was ever over-reaching.’

‘Yes, but you see,’ said Caspar, feeling his way cautiously now, ‘you see, Inchbad would like to talk to Flame himself. And he — that is, he and Goibniu, thought that if we asked you — well, consulted you — you might provide a spell to get her free,’ said Caspar. And stood very still and waited — and prayed to every god he had ever heard of that the Robemaker would not utilise the dread Stroicim Inchinn and read into his mind. He thought the tale was reasonably plausible. Well, it was the best he had been able to come up with and, if it was not sufficient, he could not think what else he could do. Had the mention of the Melanisms lulled the Robemaker’s suspicions? Surely a person who had not been caught and killed by the Melanisms could be considered to have been inspected and found harmless.

The Robemaker was standing with his head bowed, sunk in thought. At length, he said, ‘And the fee? The price your masters will pay?’ Caspar managed not to breathe a huge sigh of relief, because this sounded very promising indeed.

He grinned rather slyly, and said, ‘We all know your fee, Sir. And the Gruagach will pay very well.’ He managed to achieve what was nearly a knowing wink. ‘The dungeons at Tara are always filled with Humans. That,’ said Caspar, managing to inject a note of pride into his voice, ‘that is my responsibility, you know.’

‘I do know,’ said the Robemaker. ‘I have heard of you, Master Procurer, and I know every one of your duties.’

‘Good,’ said Caspar, meaning it, and Fenella, still curled into her uncomfortable comer, crossed her fingers and tried not to disturb the shining folds of the Robes all about her.

‘It can be done,’ said the Robemaker. ‘But I should require — we will say six Humans.’ He did not say this as if he was asking Caspar as if six Humans might be possible or even negotiable. He simply said it. My fee. Take it or leave it.

Caspar at once said, ‘Certainly.’ And beamed again.

‘You will bring them here to me at the fall of the Purple Hour.’ Again, it was a flat statement.

‘I don’t-yes, I could do that,’ said Caspar, who could not do it at all, but could see that there was no other answer to be given.

‘And then, in return, you shall be given the Robe of Human Hands.’ Malevolent amusement gleamed from the shadowed eyes. ‘You will know of the spell, perhaps? The incantation that must be chanted with the wearing of the Robe? Open, locks, to the Human’s hand … ’ He stopped and Fenella repeated the words in her mind.

‘I see. Well, no, I don’t know it as it happens,’ said Caspar. ‘Could you — would you mind just — running over them for me. I don’t remember things too well,’ he added apologetically. ‘And so if you could — ’

For answer, the Robemaker lifted his arms out so that the great black cloak fanned out giving him the outline of a massive bat or a creature of prey.

Open, locks, to the Human’s hand …

Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys …

Fly open, bars, dissolve, untie, unchain, unfetter …

Slash and gash and carve and gnaw.

Pluck the splinters of irony and slice the thews of steel.

Scission and sunder, steal and plunder.

He lowered his arms and folded them, then stood regarding Caspar.

‘Thank you,’ said Caspar. ‘Yes, I think I can remember that.’

The Robemaker inclined his head and turned to open the silver door again, holding out one robed hand to indicate that Caspar should precede him. ‘The Purple Hour,’ said the Robemaker. ‘And six Humans.’

Caspar went out and the Robemaker followed, closing the silver door.

Fenella emerged from her comer only after the footsteps had died away and she was as sure as she could be that there was no danger of the Robemaker returning.

And I am not really sure of it at all, she thought, standing up and looking about her. I daresay he doesn’t even need to walk. He can probably simply appear. Materialise where he likes.

She would not think about it. She would try to find the Robe of Human Hands, which sounded rather horrid, but which would surely release Nuadu and the others. She would concentrate on remembering the incantation: Open, locks, to the Human’s hand …

And I won’t think, said Fenella, even for an instant, that the Robe might not be here, that the Robemaker might need to return to weave it on the great Silver Looms. How long did it take to weave a spell? It has to be here already, thought Fenella, trying to quiet the frantic thudding of her heart. I’ll make a proper search, and I’ll listen very hard, so that I can hear if the Robemaker comes back.

She would start nearest to the door and work her way along the jostling, glistening, pouring swathes of colours. She would be quick and quiet and efficient and she would not miss a one.

The Robe of Human Hands …

It was not, after all, quite so difficult to allot a vague identity to the Robes. The dark red and damson robes were heavy and stifling and they could not possibly be what she was looking for.

There were clusters of robes that seemed to pulsate and breathe, and there were others that slithered sinuously and rather nastily when she approached. There were rainbow clumps of raw colour which sizzled and suddenly coiled into snakelike forms as she approached and lifted serpentine heads to hiss at her; there were pouring cascades of things that had appeared to be silk or velvet, but which were molten gold when she got nearer and made her remember Fael-Inis and the cascading River and the salamanders. Was there something here that would help them? But when she reached out a hesitant hand, the heat from the liquid was so intense that she could not get any nearer to it. Even if this was the Robe they wanted, they would not be able to touch it!

She hesitated over several, dark, rather unobtrusive garments in one comer, thinking that they looked harmless until two creeping, fog-like hands reached for her and an evil chuckle filled the room, so that she shot back to the room’s centre out of their reach.

There were robes where the pouring light suddenly solidified into rather grisly bones that rattled and gibbered and, on the same racks, were robes made of several different kinds of skin. Others were wet and clingy and had pulsing red veins and stringy muscle cords woven into them. It began to seem that the entire storehouse was made up of substances which looked harmless and beautiful on the surface, but which changed and blurred and coalesced as you approached them. Perhaps this was some kind of protection. Perhaps, thought Fenella, the Robemaker had drawn a veil of colour and light over his spells, rather as people covered their favourite gowns or pieces of furniture with dust sheets. And I am disturbing the veils, she thought.

Towards the far end of the chamber there were several robes half hidden by billowing folds of grey clouds, but which seemed to be composed of eyes as she drew nearer. Like a veil lifting … Yes, I was right about that at any rate, thought Fenella. They are veiled, and they are covered by something thin and light-filled and magical. And as I get nearer, the veil dissolves. This is very remarkable.

There was something rather nasty about the robe of woven-together eyes. Would it be for seeing into people’s minds? Perhaps this was part of the Stroicim Inchinn. Fenella stood very still and stared at the Robe, seeing that the lids were closed and that here and there the lashes were matted and sticky-looking.

The Stroicim Inchinn … The thought that this was something that would be more useful than anything else in Ireland formed itself treacherously and slimily in Fenella’s mind.

Because with that, we should be able to hear our enemies’ thoughts and we should be able to tell what everyone else was planning …

The knowledge of how easy it would be to just reach out and take the Robe of Eyes and wear it and be able to see into other people’s deepest thoughts flooded her mind, scaldingly. Fenella gasped and felt the sour bitterness of evil magic touching her and remembered that the Stroicim Inchinn was the most strongly forbidden enchantment of all, and that whatever else they were going to be doing here, they were not going to be dealing with forbidden spells.

But she looked at the robe again and several of the eyes opened and blinked and swivelled in their sockets, as if they had heard her thoughts and were rather amused by them. There was a rather sickening, glutinous sound as the eyes moved, the sort of sound you hear if someone with sore eyes rubs them too hard and they squelch. I’m having nothing to do with it, said Fenella firmly. It’s evil and forbidden and I’m not even thinking about it!

The Robe of Human Hands was probably somewhere here, by the Eyes and the Skins and by the cloak made up of what looked like nail and hair … It must be here, thought Fenella, nearly in despair. It must be here, please let it be here, and please let me find it. Open, locks, to the Human's Hand …

Would Caspar be outside somewhere? Yes, he would certainly not abandon her. There was not really time to think about Caspar and there was not really any energy to spare to think about him, either.

And then she saw it. By itself, half hidden against the far wall, nearly obscured by billowing folds of grey cloud that huffed sweet, damp breath into her face as she approached.

The Robe of Human Hands … the enchantment that would release the prisoners … Yes. It could not by any stretch of the imagination be anything else.

It was not, as Fenella had supposed, a cloak in the way she knew cloaks. It did not have shoulders or long enveloping folds or a hood. It was rather small and it had been hung, quite casually, on a nail protruding from the wall. It was rather like a large belt; you could probably fasten it about your waist and it would sit snugly over your hips. If you pulled an ordinary conventional cloak over it, nobody would even see it.

The hands were not, as Fenella had feared, frightening. They were rather sad; dead-looking, woven and folded and, in places, plaited together. They were rather submissive-looking hands, as if they might be waiting, quite patiently and happily, until someone might need to make use of them. It was quite difficult to believe that there could be any animation in them. It was very difficult, indeed, to believe that they could snap open the cages of the treadmills and free Nuadu and the others.

Open, locks, to the Human's hand … Would it work?

It must, thought Fenella, snatching the spell off the wall and holding it between her hands as she stood at the silver door, waiting for an indication that the Robemaker had gone.

In the end, it was much easier than she had thought to push the silver door open by a few inches and to stand listening, trying to see, trying to hear, trying to feel the lingering dark presence. Had he gone? Yes, thought Fenella, drawing in a huge breath of relief. Yes, he has gone. She was not sure how she could be so certain of this except, perhaps, that there had been a miasma of heaviness, a cold, black diseased feel to the air which was not there now. Yes, the Robemaker had gone.

She pushed the door wider and slipped through into the treadmill chamber again.

Nuadu’s eyes were on her and, as she stood before the giant rotating wheels, she saw amusement in them.

So you have stolen the Robemaker’s spells, have you, Fenella?

Well, thought Fenella, it seems that at least I have found the right spell. At least, Nuadu seems to think I have. I have got that far. But what do I do now? She had not the least idea of what she should do next, other than perhaps to fasten the strange garment about her waist. Would that be right?

Yes, yes, Human Child!

His eyes were dark and brilliant above the cruel red mask and Fenella stood looking at him, seeing how the fireglow poured over his half-naked body, seeing how the silver of his left arm gleamed in the flickering light and was clamped about the horizontal iron bar with as much assurance as that other flesh-and-blood and muscle arm. The dark hair clung to his forehead and his body was flushed and glistening and bathed in the dull crimson glow.

He is caged and caught, thought Fenella, staring at him. He is caged and he is muzzled — and still he is arrogant and defiant and still there is the cynical mockery in his eyes.

Of course there is, Fenella. Would you have me cowed and obedient to Ireland's greatest enemy … ?

Behind her, the other treadmills still turned and clanked and the captive creatures trudged ever on and on, ever forward. Fenella looked over her shoulder at them and saw that they were looking at her with such blind trust and with such faith that cold anger rose in her at the evil Lord who had forced them to his work. I don't think I shall bear it if this does not work, thought Fenella. I don't know how we shall get them out, because they are exhausted and probably they will find it difficult to walk. But somehow we have to do it. She looked back at Nuadu and knew that it had to work. If I have to tear open the cages with my hands, I shall rescue him. I shall rescue all of them!

He caught that at once and his eyes above the mask glittered.

Welly Fenella? Use the spell. Or are we to stand here all day?

Caged and muzzled, but as arrogant, as imperious, as he always was and always will be …

Fenella fastened the garment about her waist, by no means sure that this would be sufficient, expecting it to feel uncomfortable and even grisly. But it was neither of these things. It moulded itself about her waist and it felt warm and rather safe, as if it might be armouring her against the evils in here. She sent a glance to the corners where the shadows still lay, thick and clotted and sinister, but nothing moved.

Fenella turned back to the treadmills and half closed her eyes, the words of the Robemaker still clear in her mind.

Open, locks, to the Human’s hand …

Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys …

The words seemed almost to repeat themselves on to the air and to lie there for a moment, perfectly visible, perfectly readable.

Open, locks, to the Human’s hand …

Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys …

The Hands about her waist moved at once, urging her forward, so that she was standing before the treadmill almost before she realised it. What came next? Yes, of course, the part about bars flying open.

Fly open, bars, dissolve, untie, unchain, unfetter …

Slash and gash and carve and gnaw.

She stopped, because something was happening to the strong steel mesh of the cages. Were they shivering? Razor-sharp shards of light pierced the shadowy red darkness and began to fasten about the metal cages of the treadmills.

Go on, Fenella. Continue the spell … There can not be very much time to us … For if the Robemaker does not return, the Melanisms will surely wake again …

‘Yes,’ said Fenella, gasping.

Pluck the splinters of iron and slice the thews of steel.

Scission and sunder, steal and plunder.

Little curls and wisps of steam were rising as the tough, thick steel dissolved and, as it did so, there was a terrible slowing down of the machinery, a grinding grating noise, as if the cogs were crashing against one another, as if the great engine above them was labouring.

Through the doors Fenella heard a shout go up and the red glow dimmed and wavered, as if a giant hand had doused it.

The great treadmill came to a halting, screeching stop, and the steel cage fell open.

Fenella dropped the Robe of Hands on the ground and Nuadu fell through into freedom and bounded forward and took her in his arms.

It was a hasty, unreal, Council of War they held, a little way into the forest, still dangerously close to the Workshops.

Caspar, who was extremely anxious about the whole thing, had wanted to go deeper into the protection of the Trees, but Fenella had said this was far enough for safety and, anyway, it was as far as most of the freed slaves could get. They would only rest for a brief time and they could keep a sharp lookout for the Robemaker or any of his creatures. They would see and they would hear and they would feel if anything sinister was approaching.

‘Because,’ said Fenella firmly, ‘although Nuadu is unscathed, the rest have been imprisoned for much longer and they cannot walk so very far yet.’ She had looked at Nuadu rather challengingly as she said this, but Nuadu had only smiled as if it did not matter.

And so they had helped the Robemaker’s prisoners as far into the Wolfwood as they could manage, sufficiently far to feel safe, and they had bathed their scarred and blistered feet and hands in a forest stream and sat down to consider what to do next.

There were about a dozen of the slaves, some of them badly wounded, all of them exhausted. They seemed grateful for Fenella’s careful ministrations, but they were bewildered and dazed.

‘There will have been many many more of them,’ said Caspar in an aside to Fenella. ‘Ones we were too late to save.’

‘Yes. What happens to the ones who die?’

‘Fuel for the furnaces,’ said Caspar rather hurriedly.

‘Oh! Yes, of course. I left the — the thing behind,’ said Fenella, rather hurriedly. ‘The spell. Ought I to have — ’ she stopped, because she had been trying to ask whether she ought to go back for it. ‘Ought I to have hung on to it?’ she said at last.

‘I think,’ said Caspar, ‘that it will be temporarily used up. I don’t think it could be used again anyway.’ He looked at her and Fenella said, ‘Thank you,’ because she had been secretly fearing that someone — and probably Nuadu — would say that the spell might be of great help to them and that it would have to be retrieved. I suppose that Nuadu or Caspar would go back, thought Fenella. And looked at Nuadu and thought that she would find it almost more than she could bear to see him go back into the Workshops and have to brave the Melanisms and perhaps encounter the Robemaker. It was difficult to know if Caspar had spoken truthfully, but Fenella thought she would not question what he had said. It was probably a rather cowardly avoidance, but it was what she would do.

The freed slaves sat where they were put, but Fenella and Caspar both saw that their eyes turned involuntarily to Nuadu, as if they regarded him as their leader, as if they might be waiting for him to say what they must do next. Fenella, who was trying not to look too much at Nuadu, understood that the poor, exhausted creatures had been so firmly in the grip of the Robemaker’s dreadful tyranny that they no longer had the power to think and reason and plan.

They were young men; perhaps Fenella’s own age, or perhaps Nuadu’s, but they gazed at Nuadu with the trustfulness of small children. Pity for them sliced through her and, with it, a new and different kind of anger against the Robemaker who had not only taken these young men’s strength and youth, but who had taken their independence as well. But they sat attentively on the forest floor and several of them turned their heads up as if drinking in the forest air and the night scents, and they listened carefully to everything that was said.

Nuadu appeared not to notice any of this; he was curled with his usual careless grace against a tree, sketching out a map on the ground for Caspar to study.

Nuadu leaned forward, his dark eyes brilliant, and Fenella caught herself thinking: oh yes, that was how he looked in the forest! That is what I remember! And then quenched the thoughts at once, in case his strange, disconcerting perception should pick them up.

‘You must all go on to the Forest court,’ said Nuadu. ‘To where the Beastline Lords are raising an army to march on Tara. There you will be looked after and perhaps you can return to your homes.’ He eyed them. ‘But,’ he said, a sudden lifting to his voice, ‘but if you should wish to be avenged on the creature who held you in such terrible captivity, and if you choose to fight for the rightful Wolfking against the Gruagach and the Dark Ireland, you should go to my cousin, Tealtaoich of the Wild Panthers, and make yourself one of his army. He it is who is controlling the attack on Tara. Or so he will tell you,’ said the bastard Wolfprince with a grin.

For a moment there was silence, as if no one quite knew what to make of Nuadu. And then one of the slaves, who was not so badly wounded as the others and who looked to be a little older than the rest, said, rather hesitantly, ‘Sire. That is, Your — ’ And Fenella saw the first twist of real anger on Nuadu’s face.

‘I have no right to that title,’ he said. ‘Remember that.’

‘I am sorry,’ said the young man at once. He frowned, as though he still found it difficult to marshal his thoughts, or even give tongue to them. ‘But, Sir, are you not accompanying us?’ He looked at the others, who all murmured, and said, ‘Yes, we need you, Sir,’ and ‘How else should we go?’

‘I can not accompany you,’ said Nuadu, and now his eyes went to Fenella. ‘There is a task I must complete.’

Caspar looked up and Nuadu said, ‘There is no reason why you should not know.’ In the thin light, Fenella could see little pinpoints of red light dancing in his eyes. ‘The Dark Lords hold my half-brother captive deep within the heart of the Dark Ireland,’ said Nuadu. ‘Until he is rescued, then the High Throne of Tara is vacant.’ His eyes glittered with mockery. ‘And therefore vulnerable to usurpers and adventurers and bastard lines of the Noble Houses of Ireland.’ Utter stillness fell over the freed slaves, as if no one dared even to breathe.

‘Therefore,’ said Nuadu, ‘the Prince must be brought out of the Dark Realm.’ He paused and then said, ‘I must go in and bring him out.’ He looked at Fenella again and appeared to wait.

‘How?’ said Fenella, staring at him.

‘Through one of the Gateways that exist between this world and the Dark Realm. There are a number of them, but I think I must use the most ancient of all.’

Fenella drew breath to ask how this could be done, when Caspar, who had been looking worried, said, ‘Fenella, what about Floy and Snodgrass?’

‘I’m afraid we’ve long since missed them.’

‘Yes, that’s plain,’ said Caspar, frowning.

‘But,’ said Fenella, who had already thought this out, ‘they’ll have gone on to the Fire Court. We’ll just have to continue the journey and meet them there. They’d know we’d do that. It’s what any sensible person would do.’ And thought that, as long as she did not look directly at Nuadu, she could continue with this really very practical discussion about what everybody was going to be doing and who was going where and who was accompanying whom. I’ll concentrate on that, said Fenella to herself. Caspar said, thoughtfully, that somebody ought to go along with the freed slaves. ‘Somebody’s got to get them to safety and to somewhere they can have a bit of a rest and their wounds looked at.’

‘Yes,’ said Nuadu, eyeing Caspar.

‘How would it be if I took them in charge for a while?’ said Caspar, who had seen and interpreted the look. ‘I could make sure they got to the Forest Court; I daresay you could be giving me directions, because we don’t want to be wandering about in the Wolfwood for days. If you could direct me, I’ll take them to your cousin and then be off after Floy and Snodgrass. How would that be?’ said Caspar, who thought that once you had made up your mind to a thing, it was not so bad as you had feared.

‘Excellent,’ said Nuadu crisply and Caspar felt pleased, because wasn’t it a fine thing to be pleasing a Prince of Ireland, never mind that it was only a base-born one? He said, choosing his words with care, ‘About the Dark Ireland, Sir — ?’

‘Well?’ said Nuadu, lifting his brows, so that Fenella thought: arrogance! Something I don’t like! And was not sure whether to be pleased that she had discovered something to dislike, or not.

‘You mentioned the Gateways,’ said Caspar.

‘Yes?’

‘Yes. Well,’ said Caspar, ‘I don’t wish to be speaking out of place, but you aren’t going through a Gateway alone, are you? To fetch the — that is, your half-brother? I don’t wish to be discourteous either, but won’t it be extremely dangerous? Oughtn’t you to have a — ’ He broke off and glanced at Fenella, as if caught out in deception.

Nuadu said, quite calmly, ‘The Spell of Human Hands would not be strong enough to dissolve the powers of the necromancers. We shall not attempt to retrieve it,’ and Caspar, relieved, said, ‘Ah.’ Fenella, watching him, suddenly had the feeling that this was not quite what Caspar had been meaning, and when Caspar spoke again, was sure of it.

‘Begging your pardon all over again, Sir,’ said Caspar, ‘but which of the Gateways did you think of using?

Because there’s only one that is anywhere near to us.’

Nuadu said, ‘There is only one that would be possible to force open.’

‘Yes?’

‘The Gateway that lies deep within the Cruachan Caves.’

‘Yes, that’s the one I thought you meant,’ said Caspar. ‘And it would mean passing close to the Court of the Soul Eaters, wouldn’t it?’ he added. Fenella felt a tremor of fear go through the listening slaves.

‘It may mean passing through the Court,’ said Nuadu. ‘I do not see that it need deter me.’ He looked at Caspar coldly and Caspar said hurriedly, ‘Oh no of course not. But it’s only that I was thinking if you’re intending to make the journey without any — any magical help — ’ He stopped again and looked unhappily to where Fenella sat listening.

Nuadu said, as if the matter was of small importance, ‘To rescue an exiled Prince of Ireland, a Human must take an active part in the rescue. That is what you are thinking, perhaps?’

‘The Humans have always been the Kingmakers of Tara,’ said Caspar. ‘I know it’s an old belief, but it’s in all the ancient stories. How the Humans must never rule from Tara because of the ancient curse, but how they possess immense strength in the rescuing of exiled Kings. It’s actually happened here several times, hasn’t it? It happened in Cormac’s time and then again in Erin’s. I was brought up on those tales.’

‘So was I,’ said Nuadu politely.

‘And I was thinking,’ went on Caspar, not looking at anybody now, ‘that if you truly mean to go through the Court of the Soul Eaters and into the Dark Ireland to find the Prince, then — ’

‘Then I should take a pure-bred Human with me?’ said Nuadu. And then, turning to look directly at Fenella, he said, very softly, ‘But that is precisely what I shall do.’

Chapter Twenty-nine

At the centre of the Wolfwood, in the place called Croi Crua Adhmaid, the exiled Court was deep in a War Meeting. This was what Snizort, with delighted memories of War Councils and Coalition Governments and Pentagons and Congress and underground War Rooms, had said it was called. He had explained earnestly to Oisin about how the Earth-people had elected small bodies of people to run the land and decide on strategies and laws and how, when there was a war going on, the battle plans had always been kept secret.

‘Why?’ asked Oisin, who was interested in the ways of these curious people whom Snizort called ancestors, but who, as far as Oisin was concerned, had not yet been born. ‘Why did they have to be secret?’

Snizort had not been very sure. ‘But I think,’ he said, ‘that it was because of the possibility of information being let out to the other side.’

‘Oh,’ said Oisin, who found it difficult to visualise a war where you did not have all your armies massing and which would be over in the course of a day, or perhaps a couple of days.

‘They fought for years sometimes,’ said Snizort proudly. ‘With machines.’

‘What kind of machines?’

But Snizort was not very clear. ‘Only we do know that the machines ended in destroying nearly all the people,’ he said sadly. ‘I expect your way is much better, really.’

Tealtaoich and the Oak Tree Spirits had ranged themselves round the oval table and Clumhach had helped by clearing away the supper things and going round with a cask of their best mead, which Eogan said ought to have been beneath Clumhach’s dignity, but which Clumhach had quite enjoyed.

‘Because I’m a homely sort of person,’ he explained. ‘And I chose the mead very carefully. It’s the very best mead. I wouldn’t offer them anything inferior.’

‘The Trees won’t drink mead, will they?’ said Feradach.

‘I don’t see why not.’

In fact, the Trees had accepted the mead with grave courtesy and had sipped it with quiet pleasure, although the Silver Birches had become a bit giggly.

Tealtaoich had asked Miach to lay one or two Sentry Spells so that nothing could creep up on them unseen while they unrolled maps and drew up the battle plans and generally explained to the Tree Spirits what had been happening in Ireland and what they proposed to do about it.

This had greatly pleased Miach, because it showed that people were beginning to regard him as a proper sorcerer at last. He had walked around the edges of the clearing, muttering and drawing symbols on the ground and, although he had not been able to call up the strongest of Sentry Spells, he thought he had summoned one or two quite useful Snares and a couple of Traps.

Snizort, who had accompanied Miach on his walk, wanted to know what Snares and Traps looked like.

‘Well, they’re quite small,’ said Miach. ‘And they’re silver and black and they have jaws, clamplike mouths that will close on the feet of anybody that comes creeping up on us.’

‘Supposing it’s somebody like Nuadu or Floy coming back?’ said Snizort, worried, but Miach said the Snares and the Traps were meant to protect the Forest Court and would not attack friends.

‘I hope they don’t,’ said Snizort, casting a worried glance into the forest depths.

Tealtaoich had unrolled the maps of Tara and the surrounding countryside which they had managed to bring with them and had spread them out on the oak table. The Trees had been deeply interested and had listened in courteous silence when Tealtaoich had explained about the Gruagach taking possession of Tara and killing the King and how his son the prince had disappeared.

‘We fear that he is in the Dark Realm, perhaps held prisoner in one of the necromancer’s Black Citadels,’ said Tealtaoich, and the Tree Spirits had nodded, as if this was entirely possible.

‘I fear that we shall not look upon his face again,’ said Dian Cecht. ‘Ah me, our beloved Prince. He is lost to us for all time.’

‘I recall you once called him a spoiled cub and said he needed whipping,’ remarked Feradach, and the Tree Spirits appeared not to have heard this, which Snizort said was as fine an example of diplomacy as you could hope to get. ‘My word,’ he said to Oisin, pleased, ‘I never thought to see it quite so strongly alive.’

The Oak who appeared to be the leader, and who was almost always the Trees’ spokesman, said, ‘Son of the Panthers, we know a little of the ways of the Dark Lords and, if your Prince is indeed in their hands, they will keep him and make some use of him.’

‘That’s what we fear,’ said Eogan.

‘And the truth is,’ said Tealtaoich, ‘that we have no clear idea of whether we should go in search of the Prince, or whether we should rout the giants.’ He looked at the Tree Spirits and Snizort, who was seated at the table’s foot, busily taking notes, thought that the Beastline creatures were actually a bit lost without Nuadu to tell them what ought to be done.

‘I say we rout the giants,’ put in Clumhach. ‘I can’t be doing with the thought of them rampaging about inside Tara.’

‘You are right, Brother of the Bears,’ said the Oak, and Clumhach, unused to being agreed with, looked startled. ‘To defeat an enemy, you must first strike at the enemy’s weakest point.’

‘The Gruagach are weak?’ said Tealtaoich.

‘They are stupid and brutish,’ said the Oak. ‘Their appetites are coarse and clumsy.’ He inclined his wise head. ‘We would join with you in a battle against the Gruagach,’ it said, thoughtfully. ‘For the Gruagach are no friends to our kind.’

‘We would certainly join with you to vanquish the Robemaker,’ said one of the Elms, and a shudder of fear seemed to go through the rest of the Tree Spirits.

‘Well, thank you,’ said Tealtaoich.

Eogan said, ‘We had thought to assemble our people by night and take the Bright Palace by surprise.’

The Oak said, ‘Battles fought by night, particularly when there will be the forces of dark sorcery on the other side, are seldom victorious. To fight for your people by night would mean that you would be at the mercies of every evil enchantment abroad.’

‘Then,’ said Tealtaoich, ‘if we go openly and honestly by daylight, will you come with us? You have seen our plans; we intend to call up our Beastline creatures and mass a large army.’

Eogan said, ‘If you would join with us, it would make our army so much stronger.’

‘We will come with you,’ said the Oak, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. As Oisin had said to Snizort, they were not any of them very used to planning a battle and he and the Oaks were carefully charting the journey they would all take back to Tara.

‘But,’ said the Oak, very seriously, ‘you must all call up your Beastline creatures.’

‘Yes, we intend to do that.’

The Oak regarded Tealtaoich rather thoughtfully, but only said, ‘Then let us study the maps, Son of the Panthers.’

Eogan, who was seated next to Tealtaoich, suggested that, in the old days, armies had frequently sent in a threepronged attack: ‘It confuses the enemy,’ he said, and Snizort began to tell them about how, somewhere back in history, armies had done just this and had nearly always been victorious.

‘Air, sea and land,’ he said. ‘That’s what they used to do.’

‘How did they attack by air?’ asked Feradach, looking up at the sky.

‘Had they winged people in their armies?’ said Eogan.

But this was something else that Snizort did not know. He said, rather vaguely, that it had all been done with machines and they would probably do better with people out here. Tealtaoich began to draw up a list of three different armies.

‘Headed,’ he said, ‘by three different leaders.’

‘Which three?’ asked Feradach, and a discussion ensued as to whether the Trees should be all together to form one single army, or whether it would be better to divide them and make three detachments, with each detachment composed of Trees and Beastline people and their particular creatures.

Dian Cecht had drifted, in an apparently aimless way, to where the Copper Beeches were grouped and was now seated at their midst. Feradach said it was not by accident that she had chosen to seat herself with the Copper Beech Spirits at her feet — ‘As if she was holding Court,’ he said crossly — but Eogan said this was unjust. Even Dian Cecht would not try to compete with the Copper Beeches.

‘Oh, wouldn’t she just,’ muttered Feradach, but he said it quietly, because Miach was within earshot and everyone was treating Miach with unwonted respect since the waking of the Trees.

‘Because,’ said Feradach to Oisin, ‘I didn’t think he could actually call up the Tree Spirits. I’ll admit to it. I didn’t think he could do it.’

‘He’s even managed to lay a few Sentry Spells, did you know that?’ said Oisin. ‘He took rather a long time about it, but they’re out there. If you look carefully you can just see them, glinting in the forest.’

Miach was having a grand time. He had performed what he felt to be a really useful piece of sorcery in waking the Tree Spirits. It was true that he had hit on the right invocation by mistake and that he had actually been trying to pronounce a quite different spell altogether at the time, but this was not anything that anybody needed to know.

And whatever else they might be saying about him, they could none of them deny that he had done something no sorcerer in this Ireland (or the Dark Ireland either) had done for centuries (never mind that it had been by the purest good luck).

The Trees had all thanked him very politely for summoning them, which was what you would expect of Trees who were a whole lot better mannered than most of the Beastline. Miach had listened to what the Trees had to say by way of homage and had acknowledged their thanks in a very dignified fashion, which he had fancied became him rather well. Mother had been pleased with him.

The discussion had gone quite well. The Tree Spirits had been helpful and intelligent. They had discussed the various routes which ought to be taken and had asked Miach, very politely, if he would summon the rest of the Tree Spirits from their slumber.

‘Because,’ said the Oak, ‘you will see that we are still quite a small number.’

‘We should like our brothers the Ash Trees and Spruces and our sisters the Trembling Poplars to be with us,’ said the Elm.

‘Yes,’ said Miach, rather uncertainly. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘And,’ said the Oak, turning back to Tealtaoich, ‘and now, you should be ready to call up your Beastline Creatures, using the ancient Samhailt.’

There was a rather unexpected silence. Snizort, from his place at the foot of the table, saw sudden alarm reflected in every face. He had been intrigued by this idea of summoning the Beasts; Clumhach’s bears and Eogan’s eagles and Oisin’s wild deer and all the others, and he had been looking forward to seeing it happen.

‘Our scribes and our story tellers, the ollam, write that it is a truly awesome sight,’ Oisin had said to him, and Snizort had looked at Oisin rather thoughtfully, realising that this was something that none of them had ever had to do, something they had only read about. He studied the creatures seated round the table now and saw that the Tree Spirits were silent, clearly waiting for an answer. The Oak had looked at Tealtaoich in rather speculative fashion earlier and he was doing so now. Bless my soul, thought Snizort, bless my soul and boots and whiskers, I believe that there is something wrong here! He did not reach for his inkhorn and paper, which would have been extremely rude at such a moment. But he thought that he must certainly not omit to record all of this exactly as it was happening.

Tealtaoich was looking very straightly at the Oak and, although his elegant pose lost none of its grace, there was a tautness in him that had not been there before. Farther down, Clumhach was looking decidedly worried and Snizort thought that even Dian Cecht had lost some of her languor. They’re worried, he thought. They’ve never done it, they’ve never summoned the Beasts; and they’re worried.

The Oak said, quite tranquilly, ‘The Purple Hour is almost upon us and that is the hour when all magic is at its strongest.’ It stood back a little and the other Tree Spirits moved with it, so that they were grouped together, flowing green and gold and amber, against the darkening forest.

‘Our thoughts are with you and about you,’ said the Oak, and instantly, as if some kind of ritual had been pronounced, the other Tree Spirits said, ‘And ours, also.’

Tealtaoich looked at the others and Snizort had the strong impression of someone who has been edged into doing something that is slightly frightening and certainly alien. He knew, then, that his earlier judgement had been right; these creatures had never before had to invoke this strange-sounding ancient enchantment and they were fearful of failure.

But Tealtaoich stood up and looked quite calmly round the table, so that Snizort felt unexpected respect for him.

‘Well?’ said Tealtaoich. ‘As the Trees have said, it is up to us to add our strengths to the army. As the remaining Royal Houses of Ireland, it is for us to call up our kind and then to ride on Tara.’ His eyes flickered, but he said, ‘Shall we commence the Ritual? Shall we summon the Beasts?’

The Ritual of the Beastline … The ancient, mystical Samhailt, the Mindsong, the call of these strange half-Human, half-Beast creatures to their people. I only understand a very little about it, thought Snizort. But I understand enough, I think, to write about it. I believe I understand enough to know that they are all very fearful indeed of it. Had the Oak Naiad guessed this? Yes, of course he had. But he had subtly made it impossible for them actually to refuse; he had simply appeared to assume that the Ritual would be taking place quite soon and had, perfectly reasonably, suggested the Purple Hour for its intoning. Clever, thought Snizort, glancing to where the Tree Spirits had gathered, watching. Clever and subtle and showing — what’s the word they would have used on Earth? — statesmanship, yes, that’s it.

And although it was a little unfair and certainly ungrateful to have put into definite thoughts the suspicion that Tealtaoich and the rest were perhaps just a little bit weak, Snizort found that he was thinking it. Hadn’t the Earth-people found, at some time in their history, that ancient aristocratic lines could eventually become a bit ineffectual? I wonder if that’s happened here? thought Snizort. I wonder if there’s been just a bit too much reliance on this inter-marrying and in preserving this ancient royal beastblood they seem to set so much store by, and if it’s let them down a bit now? But then he remembered Nuadu Airgetlam, who was certainly not weak and clearly not ineffectual. Still, he is bastard stock, thought Snizort. Dear me, this is all completely and utterly absorbing. I hope I can do justice to it. They’ll certainly want a proper record of it all.

The Beastline people were standing at the centre of the clearing and Snizort thought them a strange and impressive sight.

The Panthers and White Swans and Bears and Deer and Foxes and Eagles … The Six Royal Houses of Ireland, in the heart of the ancient enchanted Wolfwood, silhouetted against the Tree Spirits, the naiads and dryads and hamadryads, outlined against the darkening forest …

Tealtaoich stood a little to the fore, with the others making a half circle just behind him. Snizort and Miach moved quietly to the clearing’s edge and stood motionless in the shadows that had crept in from the forest.

‘For,’ said Miach, very softly, ‘I believe it is a very difficult thing to do, this Summoning. They will need every shred of concentration. We dare not distract them in any way.’ He looked suddenly very serious and very concerned.

‘What will they actually do?’ asked Snizort, hoping this was not an impolite question.

‘I don’t know,’ said Miach, his eyes on the Beastline. ‘I think it’s something that’s — ’

‘Instinctive?’

‘I was going to say inbred,’ said Miach. ‘But instinctive describes it just as well. It’s something from within. Perhaps they simply — open their minds and call, or perhaps they just concentrate on the animals. It’s the-unHuman part of them. I’ve only got the tiniest trickle of Beastblood myself, you see. I wouldn’t know.’

He narrowed his eyes as the Beastline fell into silence and Snizort saw that Miach had for the moment forgotten about making a good impression on people and reminding them about being a sorcerer. I believe he cares very much about all this, thought Snizort and discovered that he, also, cared very much.

Light slanted through the Wolfwood, purple and blue, falling about the Beastline like a thin veil. Snizort thought that each of them were becoming subtly more akin to the Beasts now; it was more marked with every minute, difficult to pinpoint precisely, but there, in the feline grace of Tealtaoich and the massive strength of Clumhach, and in the sharp light in Eogan’s eyes.

Their ancestors lay with the beasts of the forest to cheat the old, old curse and they have in their veins the blood of those creatures …

Their eyes were half closed now and a great stillness had fallen upon them. Within the Wolfwood there was a sudden stirring, a deep and primitive feeling of something incalculably ancient, something that had been old when Man was learning to walk upright; something that had, for countless centuries, lived just below the surface of civilisation, something that was not, itself, civilised in the least …

The stirring of the beasts answering an enchantment which had been forged in Ireland’s magical dawn by the first sorcerers for the long-ago High Kings and Queens.

The Samhailt … The strong, light-filled power of one mind over another …

Snizort and Miach both felt it at once; a dark, sensuous lure, a throbbing beckoning that you could no more help resisting than you could breathing. Snizort thought: it is working! They are succeeding! At any minute, at any second, we shall surely see the creatures come sweeping through the forest … panthers and bears and deer and fox … We shall hear the beating of wings on the night sky as the swans and the eagles obey … How remarkable and magical, thought Snizort.

And then, without warning, between one heartbeat and the next, the feeling faltered. It hesitated and wavered and, in that instant, the lure weakened its hold.

The light which had started to shine from the Beastline dimmed and the Wolfwood sank into its deep purple night. The watchers were sharply and dreadfully aware that the strange, mystical force which had lifted its head for a moment and listened, had turned back to its dark, deep sleep.

The Enchantment of the Beastline, spun at the beginning of Tara’s history, was beyond their reach …

Chapter Thirty

Floy was trying to be sensible about Fenella. He was remembering that she was not entirely on her own; she was with Caspar and Caspar would certainly have brought her out of Tara by now. They might already have reached the Fire Court and be there, waiting. This was a heartening thought, and Floy would hold on to it. He would remember that Fenella was brave and sensible and intelligent, that she had never, so far as he could remember, shirked anything. In fact, she was so far from shirking things that she sometimes went out to meet them of her own volition. Floy knew she would not be daunted by anything here. She had been fascinated and intrigued by the Forest Court and by the magic and the ancient enchantments — and she had certainly been fascinated by Nuadu Airgetlam.

Nuadu Airgetlam …

If Nuadu hurt Fenella, if he deliberately set to work that subtle, ironic charm and hurt her, Floy would kill him. Fenella was not weak, she was strong and perceptive and intelligent, but she would have no defences against Nuadu’s charm, because he was not like anyone she had ever encountered. Floy smiled rather ruefully at this, because Nuadu was not like anyone Floy had ever encountered either. But Floy had seen, as Fenella might not see, that Nuadu’s gentle malice was filled with dangerous allure.

The exiled Court had looked to Nuadu as their leader, had unquestioningly accepted him as the one who would regain Tara for the Wolfkings. The dark charm working again, had that been? And also, thought Floy, also, Nuadu is a son of one of the ancient, Royal Houses of Ireland. The words themselves were brimful of a beckoning romance and Fenella, for all her intelligence and perception, had a strong vein of idealism. If Nuadu beckoned, Fenella might well fall into his arms.

Floy was still unsure about Nuadu and he was very unsure indeed whether Nuadu was simply using them all as a means to get Tara’s Throne. And, although they were all still grappling with this business of thrones and exiled kings and palaces, Floy had seen enough of Tara to fall a little under its spell himself. Even with the brutish Gruagach inhabiting it, it had been the most beautiful place Floy had ever dreamt could exist. He found he had to quell a traitorous thought that whispered that Nuadu could not be blamed so very much if he was intriguing to get Tara. If Tara had been within Floy’s reach, Floy thought he might have been tempted to intrigue a bit himself.

They had both rested while it was dark and, when the first light was streaking the skies over to the east, they found a stream where they drank some water and washed a bit sketchily.

‘To freshen us,’ said Snodgrass.

There were Trees with apples growing and they had looked at them for a moment. ‘But I should think,’ said Floy, ‘that it’s all right to take fruit from the Trees. It’s a natural thing, isn’t it?’

Nothing happened when they reached up to pluck the apples, which turned out to be crisp and ripe and much juicier than the ones they remembered from Renascia. Then Snodgrass discovered a few blackberry bushes and picked some blackberries to go with the apples.

‘They’d be better if we could just simmer them over a fire,’ he said, rather regretfully. ‘With a drop of my blackberry wine.’

‘We haven’t the means of making a fire and, if we had, there aren’t any cooking pots,’ Floy pointed out.

Snodgrass said it was to be hoped that the journey would not be a long one, because they were going to get extremely hungry if all they could find to eat were a few apples and a handful of blackberries.

‘We shan’t get hungry,’ said Floy. ‘We’ll be at the Fire Court by noon. And from all accounts it’s a pretty hospitable sort of place.’ He grinned at Snodgrass. ‘They’ll wine and dine us royally.’

‘Well, I hope so.’

They set off straight away, taking the narrow, winding mountain path, intrigued and interested in the great violet and blue mountains ahead of them.

‘But we don’t go very far into the mountains,’ said Snodgrass, who was consulting the map at intervals. ‘It’s only a very little way.’ He looked up at the glistening peaks with the thin, beautiful morning light pouring over them. ‘They’re awesome things,’ he said, frowning over his spectacles. ‘It’s as well not to get lost in mountains, you know. You don’t know what might be prowling about.’

‘We shan’t get lost,’ said Floy. ‘We’ll follow the map. And there’s only the one road to take and Gruagach isn’t so far along.’

‘Well, so long as we’re careful not to actually go into the City of Gruagach,’ said Snodgrass. ‘I didn’t like the sound of that creature — what did they call it? — the Frost Giantess — did you?’

‘We’ll be sure to avoid Gruagach,’ promised Floy, who had not liked the sound of the Frost Giantess any more than had Snodgrass.

As they walked cautiously along the narrow mountain road, which wound upwards away from the rather friendly, forest-fringed road, the air became colder and the light began to change subtly.

‘It’s bluer,’ said Floy, who thought it was attractive. ‘Sharper.’

‘It’s certainly colder,’ said Snodgrass, fastening the flaps of the rather odd-shaped hat he had worn. ‘It’s not a very friendly feeling, is it?’

They walked steadily on and, as they neared the great ice-blue Mountains of the Morning, Floy began to feel farther from the world he had known than at any time since they had left the doomed Renascia. He thought it was just the desolate road they were travelling, or perhaps it was the persisting worry for Fenella, or maybe it was simply that he had never visualised a world quite like this one. It was beautiful and eerie and sinister and filled with unexpected creatures. I think I’m liking it though, he thought cautiously. I think we can make a home here. After all this is over, I think the four of us can live here and work here and find friends. He paused to wonder what kind of work they might do and then dismissed this, because they could only cope with one thing at a time and the thing to cope with now was delivering Inchbad’s proposal to the Fire Court and then finding Fenella and Snizort.

The mountain road, washed with the aqua tints of the morning, was the most desolate place either of them had ever imagined. They walked on, the sun rising somewhere behind them, indicating that they were nearing the middle of the day. But there was no warmth from it up here and the higher they went the colder it became.

Twice they stopped to rest. Snodgrass said that the people of this world would probably have made what was called a camp; building a small fire and cooking over it.

‘We could eat some of the berries,’ said Floy, but he looked at the sparse fruit growing there and was doubtful. They had no way of telling if this fruit was edible and it would be better to go hungry for a few hours than risk poisoning themselves.

They consulted the map at intervals and Snodgrass thought they ought to be nearing the City of Gruagach quite soon.

‘We’ll only skin it,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to actually go through it. I think we can avoid that. It looks as if there’s a road that goes round it instead of through it.’ He proffered the map for Floy’s inspection. ‘And once we’ve passed Gruagach — because it doesn’t look very big — once we’re past there, we’ll be in sight of the Fire Court.’

The mountain road wound even higher and there were drifting wisps of white cloud almost within their reach now. The ground was hard beneath their feet and there were no longer the sparse bushes, or the occasional, rather beautiful, scarlet-berried trees which they did not recognise. The Mountains of the Morning were harsh and barren and there was a sharp iciness in the wind which scurried in and out of the crevasses. When Floy stopped to point out how the road widened a little way on, his breath formed clouds of vapour.

As the sun began to sink low in the sky, the cold air became tinged with darker blue and they both glanced uneasily at one another. They had been here long enough to understand that twilight, what these people called the Purple Hour, was the time when sinister forces prowled.

‘I think,’ said Floy, ‘that we must go a little faster.’ He did not say that they had been walking all day and that they were beginning to be extremely tired as well as hungry, because it would not have served any purpose. He remembered that Snodgrass was no longer a young man and that he had been used to a gentle, rather academic existence, and he knew a swift gratitude to him because he had not once complained, or wanted to rest, or bewailed their lack of food. But he must be extremely weary, thought Floy, who was extremely weary himself. If they could have rested and eaten, or even taken a hot drink of something, it would have put fresh heart into them. But to be up here on this cold, desolate mountain path by night would be a truly dreadful thing. They must go on.

‘It isn’t so very dark yet,’ said Snodgrass, valiantly. ‘We can see where we are going perfectly well.’

‘Yes. I think we shall reach the Fire Court well before night falls properly,’ said Floy, and wondered whether they were both simply encouraging one another, or whether they both believed this. The giants had explained that the journey to the Fire Court would not take an entire day — but that had been when they were using the horses. On foot it would take much longer.

But a little further along, with the mountain path winding suddenly and steeply downwards, Floy stopped and said, ‘Look.’

‘I can’t see anything,’ said Snodgrass. ‘Is it — ’ And stopped as well, because directly ahead of them, beyond the last curve of the mountain road, unmistakable and forbidding, were the outlines of great rearing buildings and huge grim castles and towers and turrets.

Gruagach. The ruined City of the Giants.

Floy said, ‘And the road goes straight through it. We can’t avoid it.’

They walked cautiously through the outskirts of the ruined City of Gruagach …

‘I don’t think,’ said Floy wearily, ‘that we need to worry. If there’s anything here, it probably won’t even see us.’

‘No.’

‘But it would be as well to be very careful.’

It was as well to be very careful indeed. Neither of them cared very much for the bleak, desolate city, with the crumbling walls and the abandoned buildings, and the cold, dry wind that sang in and out of the ruins. Both of them knew, one layer beneath consciousness, that Gruagach was not entirely deserted and both of them had the feeling that they were being watched from the ravaged buildings and from the piles of rubble and the tumbledown houses that lined the streets. Both remembered, although neither mentioned it, that the grim-named Frost Giantess, the creature the giants had referred to as the Geimhreadh, would be somewhere close by.

But despite the feeling of lurking danger, despite the strong impression that dozens of eyes were peering out at them, Floy found himself thinking not of Gruagach and the Geimhreadh, nor of the dangers that might lie ahead of them, but of Renascia. Renascia, lost now for ever, had looked a little like this towards the end. Cold and barren and deserted. And swept by a terrible, keening wind.

The roads were filled with great craters, and at every comer they came to were great heaps of debris. All about them were half collapsed buildings, gaping windows, doors hanging on rotting hinges. Mould grew on rooftops and the stones were covered in bright green lichen. There were frostings of white everywhere, and everywhere was dust and decay. Weeds had forced their way up through the cobbles of the road and it difficult to walk without stumbling.

‘It’s so cold,’ said Snodgrass, shivering and pulling on his hat with the earflaps. I’ve never been anywhere so cold.’

There was a whiteness to the air. ‘Snow,’ said Snodgrass. ‘My word, now there’s a thing I never expected to see! Frozen rain, that’s all it is, of course. And traditional for quite a lot of Earth feasts, if my memory serves me. We seem to be walking into it rather than out of it. Shouldn’t we have left it behind in the Mountains?’

‘I suppose we’re quite far north,’ said Floy. ‘That might have something to do with it.’ He turned up the collar of his cloak against the biting wind and narrowed his eyes, trying to gauge how large the giants’ city was.

They moved warily in between the desolate buildings, here and there having to pick their way amidst the fallen rubble.

‘I didn’t much care for the giants,’ said Snodgrass, who had not cared for them at all, ‘but I have to say it must have been rather sad for them to see their city fall like this. What do you think happened, Floy? They were rather chary of saying much, weren’t they?’

‘I think,’ said Floy cautiously, ‘that they were made use of.’

‘By the Dark Ireland?’ Snodgrass had lowered his voice instinctively.

‘Yes.’

‘I’d have questioned all that,’ said Snodgrass, thoughtfully. ‘In the ordinary way, I’d have questioned it, you know. Necromancers and enchantments and another Ireland, an Ireland that’s the dark reflection of the true one.’ He peered up at Floy earnestly.

‘But we saw the Robemaker and we saw what he did to Nuadu,’ said Floy, understanding.

‘Yes.’

‘I think the Robemaker and the other one — CuRoi — ousted the giants from Gruagach and put them into Tara as a — a foothold,’ said Floy. ‘A stepping stone. I think they mean to take all of Ireland. And, as the first step, they’ve got rid of the rightful King.’

‘Yes. I daresay it’s been done like that before,’ said Snodgrass, thoughtfully. And then, ‘I suppose we’re sure that it was the rightful King they got rid of, are we?’

‘It sounded all right,’ said Floy, who had been asking himself this at intervals. ‘And it felt all right.’ He glanced at Snodgrass. ‘I think Nuadu and the rest are the right side.’ He frowned. ‘And I don’t see how we could have remained neutral.’

‘I don’t think we wanted to remain neutral,’ said Snodgrass. ‘If we are to live here — and there doesn’t seem to be any alternative — then we have to become involved. You can’t live in a country — or in a world — without embracing its causes and its struggles. At least, not unless you intend to live like a hermit.’

‘What’s a hermit?’ asked Floy, momentarily diverted from their surroundings.

‘Somebody who goes off to live by himself and never has anything to do with the rest of the world,’ said Snodgrass. ‘People occasionally did that on Earth. Mind you, when you think about some of the peculiar ages that Earth lived through it isn’t surprising. I’d have wanted to do it myself at times.’

‘Yes, and — ’ Floy stopped and turned sharply. From somewhere to their left, from the huddle of empty buildings, white-rimed now with the stinging icy rain, came a light, brittle sound of voices, as fragile as icicles tapping against window panes …

Come closer, Human Wayfarers, come farther in to the Icy City where you will find warmth and succour …

Floy and Snodgrass stood still, peering into the growing dimness, but there was nothing to be seen.

Floy said, in rather an uncertain voice, ‘You did hear it, did you?’

‘I heard something,’ said Snodgrass. ‘But I couldn’t say what it was, you know. Not to swear to, that is.’

‘Listen,’ said Floy, his head tilted to catch the sound, but now there was nothing, other than the stirring of the wind and the flurries of icy rain in their faces.

They moved on, every now and then glancing over their shoulders. Once Floy thought he heard the faint, rather sinister sound of laughter and, at the intersection of two streets, where the cobbles were icy and treacherous, Snodgrass said he had caught the glimpse of a vanishing shape in between the ruins.

‘Something thin and whitish,’ he said apologetically. ‘Beckoning fingers and a sort of swirling mist. I couldn’t see any more than that.’

Here and there they caught the frenzied scufflings of rats and several times they saw tiny red eyes peering at them from the dark buildings. Floy, who was still listening for the brittle voices they had heard earlier, thought: I suppose they are only rats, and quenched the thought before it could take any stronger form.

‘It’s very quiet,’ said Snodgrass at length. ‘Normally you’d think it was deserted, seeing it like this.’

‘Only we know it isn’t deserted,’ said Floy. ‘We know that the Frost Giantess is here somewhere.’ And thought that, even without the laughter and the strange, half-formed voices, they would have known that Gruagach was not deserted. There was an impression, a sensation, an extra instinct at work that heightened their awareness, so that they felt, at every corner, at every curve in the road, as if eyes watched them and unseen creatures flitted out of sight just as they turned to look.

Snodgrass suggested that they had only imagined the voices earlier on, but he said this in the slightly too emphatic voice of one trying to convince himself.

‘Let’s just keep walking,’ said Floy. ‘As if we aren’t at all worried by any of it. Do you feel that the wind’s growing colder?’

The icy wind was growing colder and it was growing stronger. As they walked on it began to feel as if it was cutting through their clothes to their very bones. ‘We can’t be so very far from the Fire Court,’ said Floy, lifting his voice above the howling wind. ‘Can you see it, yet? I’m sure Caspar said it had been modelled on Tara to a large extent and that it shone over the surrounding countryside. There’d be lights and perhaps spires or turrets.’

They both stood still and looked about them in all directions, but there was nothing but the black shapes of the giants’ dwellings and the whiteness of the icy rain against the darkening sky.

Floy, who was bitterly cold, said, ‘I think we ought to try to find some kind of shelter for a while.’ He turned to catch Snodgrass’s reply and, as he did so, the evil laughter rang out again.

Shelter, Human Wayfarers, oh yes, there is shelter here for those who wish it … There is warmth and food and fires, and there is a welcome for you …

‘It’s only the wind,’ said Snodgrass a bit too loudly. ‘The wind whipping through that empty house there.’

‘It’s more than that,’ said Floy. ‘There’s something here — perhaps several somethings. I wish we could see them.’ He peered about them, but there were more flurries of whiteness within the wind now and an ice-cold stinging rain was beginning to swirl all around so it was difficult to see anything. The wind tore down, making them gasp for breath, and Snodgrass had to take off his spectacles because it was impossible to see through them any longer.

The snow was driving relentlessly into their faces and the ground underfoot was icy and dangerous. Floy and Snodgrass, neither of whom had ever seen snow, both thought it would have been interesting and rather beautiful if they could have admired it from inside a warm room, with fires burning, and steaming drinks, and perhaps tureens of hot soup …

Then come to us, Human Wayfarers, come to us, and see our banqueting hall … let us welcome you and succour you and let us warm your poor, icy bodies …

Floy said, very loudly, ‘What are you?’ and at once there was a shriek of tinkling, ice-tapping-on-glass laughter.

We are the Wraiths, Human Wayfarers … we are the Spirits of the Frozen North, and of the Snowbound Ice Mountains. Where warmth is we cannot exist, but once the heat has been drawn from the land, then we live, and then we flourish. We are storm creatures and blizzard spirits … we are glaciers and ice caps and we are frozen seas and icy wastes …

‘But what are you?’ cried Floy, standing with his feet planted apart, the wind whipping at his cloak and tumbling his hair. ‘Tell us what you are!’

The cold, silvery laughter echoed all about them again, part of the raging wind and yet not quite part of it. It was very nearly impossible to tell if the voices came from within the howling storm, or from outside of it, or even, thought Floy, lifting one hand to shield his face from the biting cold, or even if the voices were there at all.

Oh yes we are, Human Wayfarers, oh yes we are …

‘Then tell us who you are!’ cried Floy with sudden impatience. ‘Or are you so ill favoured that you must hide away like monsters!’

There was a sudden lull in the blizzard and Floy and Snodgrass both thought it was dying. They both peered into the blinding whiteness of the storm, trying to make out the road, trying to gauge how far into the city they were.

Without warning, the storm raged again, whipping their cloaks, snatching at their hair. Great torrents of icy rain slashed down from the skies, blinding them with its intensity. Snodgrass gasped and fell backwards and, at once, the cold laughter intensified. Floy, his eyes streaming with the fierce cold, his skin feeling as if dozens of razors were slicing at it, saw, deep in the raging blizzard, grinning faces, icicle-nosed features … clutching, reaching hands with grasping, bony fingers … with frosted eyes and hair that was made of the snow and the ice and the freezing, cutting wind …

The voices came again, closer this time, clearer.

We are the Children of the Geimreadh, Human Wayfarers … We serve the Geimhreadh and our names are many …

‘Tell us your names!’ shouted Floy, trying not to flinch from the driving blizzard, trying to see more clearly into the heart of the storm.

We are many, Human … Storm we are and Sough … Sigh we are and Wail … Tempest and Blizzard and Winter-night … moaning wind and keening rain …

Icy fingers snaked about Floy’s cloak and drew him, struggling, into the heart of the blizzard. Snodgrass moved forward at once, but a dozen pairs of cold, bony fingers came darting from out of the whirling snow and held them both in a tight cruel grip.

We lie in wait for Wayfarers and we lie in wait for HUMANS … Those that the Mistress discards, we fall upon … We may fall upon YOU, Human Travellers …

‘Begone!’ cried Floy, trying to fight free of the cold, bony hands, feeling them bite deep into his wrists and legs.

Let us stroke your pale Human skin with our icy fingers … Let us kiss you with our cold lips and eat away your flesh in the embrace called frost-bite … The grinning, white, ice-dripping faces loomed nearer suddenly.

Come with us, Human Wayfarers, to the Castle of the giantish ones … Come into the ice-fires of our magic …

The cold laughter rang out again and Floy, struggling, half blinded by the fierce wind, his lungs raw from the icy blizzard, found himself drawn forward into its heart by the icy-cold hands of the storm creatures.

He thought that they bound him with wet, cold ropes which seemed to be made of coarse, rough hair that cut cruelly into his wrists and ankles. A grey mist swam before his vision and there was a sudden terrifying silence all about him, so that he thought the creatures had in some way blinded him and rendered him deaf …

And then the cold, cruel mirth assaulted his senses again.

We do not cover your eyes, Human One … said the voices. It is only our cloaks of hoar frost that obscure your vision, and it is only the keening of our blizzard songs that stop your hearing … Your senses are safe for the moment, Human Traveller … Until we embrace you, and THEN, Human Traveller, you will feel your flesh shrivel and you will see it decompose before your eyes … you will hear yourself screaming with the pain of the ice-burn … You will cry with the agony of the marrow freezing inside your bones … The blood will congeal in your veins and you will die slowly and you will be forever ours …

‘Where are you taking us?’ said Floy, gasping and trying to see through the blinding mist, but able only to make out thin, bony hands and pale, thin faces with frozen icicles on them.

To our Mistress, Human One … And then, with another eldritch shriek of laughter, To the centre of Gruagach and the Lair of the Geimhreadh.

Chapter Thirty-one

The Lair of the Geimhreadh …

Floy and Snodgrass could see, through the howling snowstorm, the great rearing outline of the castle above them. Ruined and crumbling, thought Floy. And then: or is it? Because lights showed at the narrow slitlike windows; torches burned in wall brackets on each side of the massive, iron-studded doors.

The ice creatures half carried, half dragged their two victims across the immense drawbridge (And who lowered that? wondered Floy) and beneath the great black arch. Ahead of them was a courtyard, with windows overlooking it on all sides. As they passed into the shadow cast by the bulk of the giants’ castle, Floy felt cold fear close about his heart.

The storm creatures scuttled and slithered as they went and occasionally took flying leaps through the air, so that they might almost have flown. They chuckled evilly as they went and pinched their prisoners with their cold, dripping wet fingers. Floy saw Snodgrass struggle and try to hit out, but the grey mist things simply laughed and melted out of reach and then formed again.

They passed through empty, echoing galleries and through huge, pointed doorways and down flights of stone steps.

‘Where is this?’ cried Floy. ‘Where are you taking us?’

To our Mistress … to the Geimhreadh …

The white fingers came out again, prodding, poking, pinching. Floy saw the leering snow-frosted faces grinning and tried to see, in the dimness, if the creatures were male or female.

Neither, Human prisoner, we are both male and female and we can pleasure you in the ways of women with men, or of men with women … Malevolent mirth trickled from the inward-slanting eyes. Or of men with men, or women with women … It is all one to us, Humans … Greed licked into the voices. We can freeze your marrow and we can congeal your blood and eat at your flesh with the stinging agony of frostbite …

The sharp, grinning features thrust forward into the prisoners’ faces and clawlike fingers, icy cold, pinched their skin.

Our Mistress will like you. Humans … she will enfold you with her cold arms and pillow your head on her ice-cold breasts and she will empty you of every drop of Human blood and Human seed and Human marrow …

‘Let her try it!’ said Floy. ‘We shall kill her if she tries to harm us!’

The Geimhreadh is invincible, Humans … She is beyond the harm of your puny swords and your ineffectual daggers and your flailing Human strength …

The ice creatures half carried, half dragged the two prisoners down winding flights of narrow, worn stairs that went down and down until it seemed to Floy and Snodgrass that they were descending into the very bowels of this grim fortress. The steps were surrounded by ancient, crumbling brick; moss-covered here and there from the clammy dampness, in places sprouting horrid fungoid growths. There was a smell of dank wetness and the sound, somewhere close by, of water steadily dripping.

‘Where is this!’ demanded Floy, and there was a brittle cascade of laughter.

It is where we bring our victims, Human creature … It is where we crouch in the cold darkness, gnawing at the bones of those whom the Mistress has discarded … The grinning faces darted closer.

After we have tom away your skin with our claws and eaten away your flesh with the agonies of frost-bite, we shall wind our long, dripping fingers about your thin Human bones … We shall freeze the bone-juices as they trickle out and then we shall crack open your frail, puny bones, and gnaw on them …

They stood outside a great, carved door with huge black hinges and a massive ring handle carved into the shape of a grinning gargoyle face. As Floy and Snodgrass half fell to their knees, the storm creatures darted forward, their hands eager to unlock the catch, their white-rimmed eyes grinning.

An eerie, bluish light emanated from within the room and, as the door swung open at the hands of the storm creatures, they both gasped and reeled from the blast of intensely cold air.

To begin with, Floy and Snodgrass thought the chamber was empty. A cold, bluish light filled it and a thin, evil-smelling vapour hung on the air, so that the shape of the room and the things in it were hazy.

And then, gradually, their eyes became accustomed to the cold light and they saw that it pulsated rather horridly, as if they were at the centre of a giant heart that was beating and pumping thick sluggish blood. Floy found this feeling extremely repellent, but he stood up very straight and managed to ignore the grinning storm creatures who had gathered behind him. And, although his hands were bound tightly behind his back, he made himself stand quite calmly, with what was very nearly a relaxed air. He put up his chin and looked down his nose at the room, as if he found it all faintly boring.

It was lined with the dark stone that they had glimpsed on their journey through the castle; great square blocks of blackness from floor to ceiling. Giants’ stones, thought Floy, and put the thought from him at once.

To the left was a great archway and, beyond it, they could see an expanse of dark glistening water, ink-black, its surface frost-rimed. There was a rather slimy look to the water, and a secretive look to it, as if half-fish creatures, cold-blooded webbed-footed beings might lurk beneath its depths, and might come slithering up in the dark and reach out their dripping wet arms. Floy found himself remembering the dark underground River of Souls in Fael-Inis’s country, and the dreadful pitiful beings who had lurked in its depths.

The cold mists swirled and moved and, for a moment, the great stone room was partly obscured. And then the mist cleared and they could see.

The Geimhreadh … the Frost Giantess who battened on her victims and emptied them of seed and blood and marrow … The terrible evil ogress who had come out of the Dark Ireland and who must certainly be counted as one of the evil black necromancers.

She is not as massive as the Gruagach giants, but she is far taller than any Human, thought Floy, staring. And then: whatever else she is, he thought, she is certainly not Human.

The Geimhreadh was not Human at all. She was seated on a great, glistening throne of ice with a high carved back and long, elaborate arm rests. The chair loomed high above them and the Geimhreadh’s terrible head rose above it. Floy and Snodgrass both thought that she must be eleven or twelve feet high and they both stood, transfixed, unable to move, their senses spinning, their skins crawling with horror.

The Geimhreadh was the most extraordinary blend of giant and snake and … And fish! thought Floy, his skin crawling with horror. For all her towering height, she possessed a narrow saurian body with no neck or shoulders. The head was a continuance of the wormlike body — slightly pointed, snake-shaped, darting … it was darker than the rest of the body, with reptilian eyes, hooded and black and unblinking, ancient and cruel. There was a flat, curving mouth, with the permanent, enigmatic smile of all snake creatures. And, as they stood looking, unable to speak, the lips opened slightly and the forked tongue darted and licked the flat scaly lips.

All the better to drain your marrow, my dears …

Short, fin-like arms protruded halfway down the narrow body, with rudimentary hands and fingers at the ends and they saw that the creature had some kind of thin pale silk wound about her. For some reason, instead of concealing the serpentine shape, this served to emphasise it. It was rather as if a giant pale-skinned worm had stolen human clothing and dressed up in it and sat on a human chair, waiting for a victim …

Swathes of silk hung at her back, but there was a cold, slimy look to the silk and there was the same foul river-weed stench they had been aware of earlier.

The Geimhreadh moved, her thin draperies stirring slightly, and they saw that the embryonic hands ended in webbed, star-shaped fingers. Snodgrass, who did not like fish things, shuddered, and Floy put out a warning hand. Whatever they were feeling, whatever they were thinking, they must try not to let this monstrous halfgiant, half-snake being see their revulsion. And they certainly must not let it see their fear.

The neckless head poked forward and the hooded eyes examined them.

‘You are well come, travellers,’ said the Geimhreadh) and Floy and Snodgrass heard the throaty, gobbling voice with revulsion. The dark eyes flickered again, as if the creature was inspecting them, assessing them, visualising what it would do to them.

Floy said, ‘It seems that we had no choice other than to accept your-hospitality, ma’am,’ and the Geimhreadh laughed with a dreadful braying sound that made Floy’s teeth wince and her monstrous head swayed and darted in a way that made them both remember half-forgotten Earth words like basilisk and serpent and white slug and worm. Worm was particularly nasty. It was a slimy, creeping sort of word, a blind, toothless word …

The Geimhreadh turned her eyes towards them and said in her soft, bubbling voice, ‘I am of the worm family, Humans. You read my bloodline correctly. I have many different strains in my blood and I am the result of many strange alliances.’ She regarded them unblinkingly and Floy remembered about thoughts being overheard.

The Geimhreadh, moving a fin-like hand in the direction of the grinning storm creatures, said, ‘My people will tell you that I am descended from a race of fish-creatures and snakes. Of how, many hundreds of years ago, there was an alliance between those houses and that of the giants of the north. I am the daughter of snakes and giants, Human travellers, and the descendant of an ancient and powerful race who dwelled in the wintry wastes of this land long before the Gaels or the Cruithin, and long before the accursed Wolfkings.’ The terrible head swayed again. ‘Once, Human creatures,’ said the Geimhreadh, ‘this land was sheeted in ice and crusted with snow and once it lived in endless, howling blizzards. It was then that my ancestors reigned here, prowling the petrified forests and crawling on their bellies through the frozen wastes.’

She regarded them, and Floy said, with perfect courtesy, ‘That is a strange ancestry.’

The snake-head swivelled. ‘Is that discourtesy, Human morsel?’

‘Merely a statement of fact, ma’am.’ Floy smiled blandly, and the Geimhreadh drew her head back and a faint, hissing sound emitted from her jaws.

‘Listen, Human morsel,’ she said, ‘when I made my Lair here, I did so because I knew that deep beneath the Castle of Gruagach ran a branch of the River of Souls.’ The lidless eyes flickered to the stone archway, where the dark, sinister River lapped greedily at the banks.

‘Deep within the Realm that is sometimes called the Dark Ireland, I have built an ice palace,’ said the Geimhreadh, ‘A place of cold northern winds and dark icy gales, with dark, subterranean rivers where I and my people can live for many years without once seeing light.’ She regarded him, the fin-hands quivering, the forked tongue darting. ‘But no Humans ventured there,’ she said. ‘No warm-blooded Human morsels came to my Lair and I became hungry.’ The worm’s head undulated slightly.

‘And so, when the one your people call the Robemaker drove out the Gruagach Giants, I made my nest here.’ A fin-like hand gestured. ‘Here, where the ancient, eternal River of Souls runs deep into the mountains, until it reaches the terrible Prison of Hostages from which no creature ever escapes.’ The head swayed again. ‘Once I have emptied you of your seed, Human,’ said the Geimhreadh, ‘once I have tasted your marrow and your blood, I shall throw your dried-out husk of a body to the River.’ The flat, scaly lips parted in amusement. ‘The Soul Eaters fish the River,’ said the Geimhreadh. ‘It is one of their hunting grounds. Your body is for my pleasure but, afterwards, your soul will be trapped beneath the surface of the River of Souls; it will be caught in the endless ebb and flow of the River, until it is taken by the Soul Eaters.’

‘We shall see,’ said Floy, and smiled with the same courtesy.

‘Are you mocking me, Human?’ asked the Geimhreadh in a soft voice. ‘I do not allow Human creatures to mock me.’

‘I do not mock,’ said Floy, but his eyes were defiant. ‘Will you tell us why we have been brought here?’

‘The Storm Wraiths are ever on the watch for victims.’ There was a soft, boneless movement from the ice throne and the Geimhreadh came towards them. Floy and Snodgrass saw that she had to push herself from the throne with the half-formed webbed hands and that, once upright, she did not walk like a human creature, but half slithered, half dragged herself.

A pale worm, a slithering, crawling, sluglike thing … part fish, part snake, part ogress … Floy stayed where he was and set a guard over his thoughts, but when she stood directly in front of them, the vermicular head studying them, he could not repress his revulsion. The creature’s head was darker than her body but, even through the thin, gauzy wrappings, he could see the pale, writhing body, the thin-ringed skin, here and there covered with the faintly luminous scales that bespoke the fishblood, thick and repulsive.

The Geimhreadh laughed, the obsidian head swaying from side to side again. ‘You find me ugly, Human,’ she said, ‘I wonder how you will feel when you are held in my embrace?’ A fin-like hand moved and brushed across Floy’s thighs and, despite himself, he flinched.

‘Strong,’ said the Geimhreadh, her voice becoming clotted with pleasure. ‘Well fleshed. Well muscled’ The hooded eyes narrowed. ‘I shall enjoy this one.’ And then, with a sudden writhing movement, she turned to the waiting storm creatures. ‘Tie them down,’ said the Geimhreadh.

The storm creatures leapt at once and Floy and Snodgrass were both held in an icy vice-like grip.

‘The ropes!’ cried the Geimhreadh. ‘Use the ropes!’ And then, as Floy felt the ropes binding him again, she said, in a thick, mucus type of voice, ‘Made from the pubic hair of my victims, Human. Can you not feel that? Can you not smell the blood and the spent seed?’ She writhed nearer again on her squat, waddling feet, the tiny hands flapping. ‘And soon you will contribute, Human,’ she said. ‘Soon you, also, will be drained of seed and blood. What is left will be given to the Storm Wraiths and then, Human morsels, then you will be thrown to the River so that the Soul Eaters may take your soul.’

She fixed her slitted lidless eyes on Floy and, the slimy lick of pleasure overlaying her voice again, said, ‘Tie this one well, for tonight I feel hungry for a Man-Human.’

Chapter Thirty-two

Fenella and Nuadu Airgetlam stood on the shores of the dark, lapping lake, with night closing about them, and stared out across the wide expanse of water to the Isle of Cruachan. Mist swirled before them and the black, rearing bulk of the island swam in and out of drifting clouds.

‘Cruachan,’ said Nuadu softly. ‘The Court of the Soul Eaters. Or perhaps it is only the Gate to Hell.’ And then, looking down at her, ‘Well, my Lady? Are you ready to traverse into Hell and beyond with me? You certainly entered Hell to find me, Fenella. You certainly braved worse than Hell to rescue me.’ He was standing very close to her and Fenella could detect, very faintly, the strange, exciting golden wolfscent.

But it would not do to let him see how delight ran all over her when he called her ‘my Lady’, and how her skin burned at the touch of his hand, so she said, in a rather preoccupied voice, ‘How do we get across the lake to the centre?’ She saw him smile and make a brief gesture of acceptance, as if he might be saying: well, if you do not wish to discuss what you did for me, then we will not.

He pointed across the lake and Fenella saw that there was a narrow causeway of rock, which would enable them to walk straight across to the black island. ‘You see?’ he said, and narrowed his eyes for a moment, gauging the distance. In the fading light, his eyes were brilliant and a lock of dark hair had fallen across his brow, making him appear younger, suddenly and disarmingly vulnerable. Cruachan was directly behind him as he looked at Fenella and, for a moment, he was silhouetted against the crimson-streaked sky. He was smiling at her, but there was a reckless light in his eyes. ‘Come, Lady,’ he said, softly, and took her hand.

The crag was at the exact centre; as they walked cautiously towards it, it reared up before them, a great dark shape against the violent night sky. Fenella stood still and craned her neck to look at it. You had to stand back from it and lean right back to see to the top and, if you did that, you had the feeling that the crag might be toppling forward onto you. It was not difficult to imagine that there were dark worlds within it and that dark, grotesque beings lived inside it, and peered through the chinks and watched them approach, and nodded and said to one another: yes, yes, these two will do very nicely … we will snare these two.

Nuadu said, very softly, ‘Fenella. Look. Up there.’ And pointed with the gleaming silver hand, and Fenella narrowed her eyes, and tried to follow his hand.

And then saw, half-way up the crag, a little to the left, what Nuadu was indicating. A deep fissure, a great wide split in the rock about a third of the way up. A deep, echoing, jagged-edged crack, yawning and gaping … There was a narrow-looking ledge just beneath it. Fenella thought it was just about wide enough for someone to stand upright. And it would lead into the rearing crag, and down and down beneath the surface of the lake … Into the dark bowels of Cruachan and on to the Gates of Hell.

Nuadu said, ‘Ready, Lady?’

‘No,’ said Fenella, her eyes on the fissure. ‘No, not really.’

‘But if I lead you will follow?’

‘Do I have any choice?’

She saw the sudden whiteness of his teeth as he grinned. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You can go back the way we came. You will probably find help somewhere.’ He looked at her. ‘Well, Fenella?’ said the Wolfprince softly and Fenella shivered with pure delight, because his tone held the caress again, the lick of desire, the soft stroking note. ‘Do you want to turn back, Lady?’ said Nuadu, softly.

Fenella returned his look and at last said, ‘I don’t really think I can, do you?’ And looked at him, and was delighted all over again, because, of course, they were not simply referring to the Cruachan Caves and it was remarkable and a bit frightening as well to know that, whatever she said, no matter the words she used, he would always hear the meaning behind them.

‘There is no going back, Fenella,’ said Nuadu, and again the smile slid out. He reached out and traced the outline of her face with the hand that was warm, living flesh. ‘There will never be any going back, Lady,’ said the Wolfprince softly and turned to begin the climb to the cave entrance.

The ledge was wider than it had looked from the ground. Nuadu reached it with ease pulling Fenella after him. He stood up, looking about him, and there was a look in his eyes now which suggested he was enjoying himself.

Of course I am enjoying it, Lady … Wolves prowl in all kinds of dark and dangerous places … Or did you not know that?

‘Also,’ he said, aloud, ‘for the first time for — oh, I do not know how long — I am actively serving Ireland.’ He turned to look at her and the shadows fell across his face so that the wolf-look was more strongly marked than Fenella had ever seen it. ‘I am no longer bored,’ said Nuadu. And then, studying her, his head tilted consideringly, ‘Have you never experienced boredom, Fenella?’ he asked. And Fenella, who had known all about boredom on Renascia, where ladies were not expected to do very much at all, and who had tried to change it, nodded and did not speak. And Nuadu said gently, ‘Yes. Of course you have.’

The fissure was directly before them, and as they passed under the overhang of rock into the darkness within, Fenella felt a great smothering heaviness descend. She shivered, and at once Nuadu drew closer, the flesh and blood arm about her, warm and strong and comforting.

Moonlight seeped into the crag, silvering the rock floor and touching the hard irregular walls. Here and there, alcoves had been cut into the tunnel’s side: man-shaped and man-height. Iron stakes were embedded into the alcoves, with thick, black chains. It was impossible not to conjure up vivid image of prisoners caught and held and manacled, left to rot in the dark …

From somewhere came a distant sound of water dripping, echoing coldly and rather desolately, and there was the faint, foul stench of ancient evil. It was as if something loathsome had died and lain rotting in a pool of putrescence for a very long time. Fenella hoped she would not be sick.

From time to time darting shadows flickered on the tunnel walls and the rock ceiling, black and sinister, moving and then vanishing. Fenella began to have the impression that they were being watched and followed and that, at each twist in the tunnel, evil peering things waited and watched and then whisked quickly out of sight, to be replaced, further along, by others.

But the shadows never quite materialised and although they could hear the scurrying of clawed feet quite plainly now, and the rather horrid sound of thin, boneless tails slithering across the rock floor, and although several times they whipped round quickly to confront something behind them, they did not actually see anything.

‘But,’ said Nuadu, very softly, ‘we are certainly being watched and certainly reports of some kind are being carried ahead of us.’

‘To the Soul Eaters?’

‘Probably,’ said Nuadu. ‘For the Soul Eaters are served by strange peoples.’ His arm tightened about her. ‘Afraid, Lady?’ he said, and, as she sought for the right words, ‘Of course you are afraid. But you are refusing to admit it.’

‘I’m pretending,’ said Fenella in a very low voice. ‘I’m pretending that I’m not afraid, because if I pretend hard enough — ’

‘You may even discover it to be the truth. Of course.’ He looked down at her. ‘You are the most courageous lady I shall ever know,’ he said. Then, without warning, he turned, his head tilted in the listening pose, and said sharply, ‘Fenella, is that light ahead?’

Fenella peered into the shadows, which were still thick and clotted and rather horrid. It was very easy to look at them and imagine that grotesque beings were standing behind you, silent and waiting; it was very easy to visualise all manner of creeping, lurking evils.

But she said, firmly, ‘Yes, I believe it is light. A bit to the left. Reddish and dull-looking. And there’s a stone archway — what would it be?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Nuadu, and stopped and looked down at her again, his eyes serious and intent. ‘I am frequently ironic and nearly always cynical, Lady,’ he said. ‘But if I can keep you from danger, I vow to you now that I will do so.’

Fenella stared at him, her mind tumbling. In the strange reddish light from beyond the archway, he was smiling the wolfsmile, exciting and mischievous and intimate, and Fenella sought for something to say.

And then the shadows leapt and pranced wildly and into the narrow tunnel came swarming nightmarish beings, lean feral creatures neither quite human nor beast, but a dreadful lumpish blending of rat and weasel and stoat … Scores of them, thought Fenella, shrinking back, appalled and frightened.

At her side, Nuadu said very softly, ‘The Rodent Armies of the Dark Realm — ’ And reached at once for Fenella, pulling her to him. The creatures had surrounded them easily and swiftly, almost before there was time to think; their mean red eyes glinted evilly from the shadowy tunnels and their saliva-drenched teeth grinned in their fur-covered faces. Fenella, knocked back against the tunnel wall by the sudden onslaught, received the tumbled impression of pointed hungry muzzles and thin sinuous fur-covered bodies and sly vicious faces with whiskers and snouts.

The creatures pinioned the two intruders’ wrists at once, holding them in tight cruel grips. Fenella gasped and tried to pull away from the grinning slavering faces, but they were all about her, holding her firmly and dragging her forward to the red-lit Cavern. The stench of them closed about her in a smothering, fetid blanket, so that for a few nightmare moments she could barely breathe.

To her left, Nuadu was snarling and lashing out, and for a moment Fenella thought he would overpower their assailants. He was being held by four of the creatures, but he was still fighting, he was resisting their attempts to pull him into the Cavern and in the uncertain light his eyes showed red. For a second, Fenella saw the planes of his face shift and blur, until it was no longer a Human face, it was a wolfmask, lean and hungry and snarling … He will not give in to them, she thought. Whatever they are, he will fight them every inch of the way. We are here to find the Soul Eaters and to enter the Cruachan Cavern but he will not enter it as a captive.

As if he had caught this, Nuadu sent her a sudden grin, and seemed to shrug, and to say: after all, what does it matter? and allowed the rodent creatures to drag him forward.

Into the Court of the Soul Eaters.

The ancient and terrible Cavern of the Cruachan Soul Eaters was lit to sinister life by flaring wall torches that gave out a thick, menacing glow, and cast dark evil shadows in the corners.

To Fenella’s horrified eyes, it seemed at first to be filled with the evil red-eyed creatures who had captured them. They were ranged along the walls, each one bearing a thin cruel spear with a gleaming spike at the top. Fenella caught the warm feral stench of rat and stoat and weasel, and overlying it all, a nauseating, stomach-churning miasma of putrefaction and decay and old rotting flesh.

They were both flung forward onto the hard rock floor and their captors stood over them, spears poised to lunge. Fenella, gasping for breath, caught the whisper of a thought from Nuadu: at least they have not bound us, Lady … At least we are unfettered … He leapt upwards in a single angry bound and stood challengingly on his feet glaring, as if he might be saying: how dare you treat me in this manner!

A great circular table, hewn from the solid rock of the cave, and worn smooth by the usage of centuries, stood at the cavern centre and Fenella, staring at the smooth-as-silk stone, felt all of the old Earth legends ebb and flow in her mind … Sacrificial altars and stone tables and tabernacles and oratories … There were sinister dark stains on the table’s surface — don’t think about them, said Fenella silently, and managed to stand alongside Nuadu, looking about her with a fair assumption of bravery.

The legendary Cruachan Cavern was high-ceilinged and vast. Etched into the rock walls were carvings, elaborate cave-pictures, and there was the gleam of silver from the great stone table. Fenella saw that it was set with chalices and platters and remembered that the Soul Eaters were said to hold a nightly banquet and to feast on the Souls brought to them by their dark servants. Behind the table were Thrones, each one on a small, raised platform, and behind each platform was a heavy swathe of black velvet, marked with symbols of some kind. Fenella noticed briefly that each symbol was different, as if each Soul Eater might be descended from a different lineage, although it was difficult to think what lineage such creatures might claim.

And on each of the Thrones sat the Soul Eaters themselves …

They were not identical. Fenella and Nuadu saw this at once. There were differences, individual characteristics. Somehow this was the most sinister thing about them, because it suggested that each one would possess its own warped personality, it would have its own peculiar traits and desires and greeds.

Each Soul Eater sat watchfully on its carved throne, its massive wings folded across its breast like a cloak, partly obscuring the rest of its body. Their bodies were not so very large; perhaps no more than man-size, but it was easy to see that their wing-spans would be many times wider than a man’s outstretched arms. Nuadu, remembering the single one he had seen in the Robemaker’s Workshops, guessed that the wing-spans would be easily fifteen feet in width. The creatures were covered in something that was not quite skin and not quite leathery scale, but something between the two. Something dark and tough, something that made you think of words like crust and hulk and hide.

Their heads were bony, long narrow skulls with slanting, baleful eyes. There was a flat, slashlike mouth and a rather horrid insect-like formation in the way the central bone — in a human it would have been the nose-bone — joined to the mouth. Several of them had homed heads, but in a few the horns were stumplike protuberances high up on the bony skulls.

They were wizened and shrunken and shrivelled and it was possible to see that their legs were gristly and jointed, with reptilian feet, ending in three clawlike toes. They were sapless and juiceless and mummified and Fenella thought she had never seen anything so repulsive.

There were twelve of them. Of course there are twelve, thought Fenella, there are always twelve. And I believe that each one has twelve soldiers, she thought suddenly; each one has a guard of twelve of the rat-creatures who brought us here.

Nuadu, regarding the occupants of the Cavern with his head tilted arrogantly and his eyes glinting dangerously, had known the rat-creatures for what they were at once. He looked at them now, and thought: Rodent People! Vermin! The Rodent Armies of the Dark Lords! The warped greedy mutant creatures bred from rats and weasels and stoats, created by a jealous necromancer during the reign of Niall of the Nine Hostages. He saw, as Fenella had seen, that each of the twelve Soul Eaters had a guard of twelve Rodent creatures.

One hundred and forty-four Rat-creatures here with them in the great torchlit cavern with the merciless Soul-Eaters …

They stood as if to attention and, as the flaring torchlight fell across them, Fenella saw that although they were certainly partly Human, they were not Human in the way that the Bloodline People in the Wolfwood had been partly Human. Tealtaoich and Eogan and the others had been half-Beast and half-Human, and it had been a rather attractive blend. There had been Human features with a feline slant, or with aquiline features, and with fur and flesh and tail and paws gently and mischievously mingled.

The Rodent People of the Cruachan Court were a nightmarish mixture of fur-clawed viciousness and sly, creeping Human. They were made up of lithe bodies and harsh, bristly fur. Their features were a dreadful blend of Human and vermin; in several cases they had both ordinary, rather sly, Human eyes and slitted red rodent eyes as well, just beneath. Here and there were fleshy Human lips, but beneath the lips were rows of vicious, pointed teeth. The Weasels were particularly horrid; they had Human features which had been somehow distorted into snoutlike leers and their eyes were heavily lidded and lashed.

Fenella thought that here, for the first time since she had penetrated into the Robemaker’s terrible Workshops and seen the treadmills, was the real darkness that threatened Ireland; here was evidence that the spells that were abroad were not all good spells, that the magic which had survived from Ireland’s beginning was not all pure woodland magic.

Here was the frontier, the border, the boundary of the Dark Ireland.

Nuadu had moved forward and Fenella saw that his head was still held as imperiously as ever. The Rat People surrounding them did not move, but both Fenella and Nuadu sensed the ripple of watchfulness and felt the tensing of muscles. If they tried to run, they would certainly be caught at once.

Courage, Lady. It came as strongly and as warmly as ever and Fenella felt Nuadu’s hand brush her arm lightly and was at once strengthened.

Nuadu walked up to the stone table and placed his hands on it, palms downwards, the silver left arm gleaming redly in the glow from the wall sconces. Fenella, following, saw the flaring light fall more strongly on the Soul Eaters, so that the narrow, bony skulls were more sharply outlined and the dry leathery skin was thrown into horrid relief. She saw, as well, what she had not seen until now: beneath the folded wings, each Soul Eater possessed tiny, clawlike hands, delicately webbed, each finger ending in cruel pointed talons.

Nuadu said, quite politely, ‘We crave your pardon for intruding into your domain,’ and glanced to the half a dozen or so Rodent creatures who had brought them to the Cavern. A brief flicker of amusement showed on his face. ‘But you will allow,’ said Nuadu, gently, ‘that your invitation was difficult to resist.’ He studied their captors and the watching Armies moved warily, their claws scraping on the floor as they did so. Several of the Jackals turned their squat ugly heads and regarded Nuadu unblinkingly while the Stoats growled with a thick clotted sound.

The most ancient-looking of the Soul Eaters, who sat on the Throne at the centre, and who had short, hard, bone-like horns and cruel, curving hands beneath his wings, moved slightly, with a dry, papery, bone-against-skin sound that set Fenella’s teeth wincing.

‘Son of the Wolf,’ he said, and his voice was sapless and harsh, as if the saliva had long since dried out.

‘Son of the Wolf, you disturb our nightly revel, and will certainly be brought to our table for us to feast on.’ The reptilian eyes studied Nuadu. ‘For that reason our servants caught you and brought you here. But, since you are of an ancient house, and since you possess the wolfblood, we do not, for the moment, bind and chain you and we will permit you a brief time to speak.’

The Soul Eater next to him said, ‘In your world, your House is regarded as an honourable one and, although we do not recognise such things in our domain, we recognise that you possess royal blood.’

Nuadu said, in a soft ironic voice, ‘You will accord a bastard Wolfprince royal standing, will you? You will hear me out before you eat my soul. I am indebted to you,’ he said, and the Soul Eater’s thin mouth stretched into a smile.

He said, ‘Precisely so, Nuadu of the Silver Arm.’

‘You will be served to us on a golden platter,’ said a third, and several of the Soul Eaters leaned forward, their talons curving.

‘Your Lady will accompany you,’ said the first.

‘We are both in your debt,’ said Nuadu with sardonic courtesy.

‘You will tell us why you seek us out, wolf-creature, when your world regards this place as one to treat with abhorrence.’

Nuadu appeared entirely at ease. He moved forward to seat himself with careless grace on the edge of the table, and the Soul Eaters rustled their wings uncertainly and eyed him. Fenella stayed where she was and kept her eyes on the serried rows of Rodent Soldiers. Directly above them were the flaring torches. Would it be at all possible to somehow bring down those torches and create a fire? I wish I could remember what frightens rats, thought Fenella. Does fire?

Nuadu had arranged himself comfortably on the stone table. He was sitting on it, one leg stretched out before him, the other bent, resting his flesh and blood arm on the bent knee. He was studying the Soul Eaters and appeared to be finding them interesting.

Then the leading Soul Eater said, ‘Your visit here is not, of course, purely from the curiosity of your kind.’

‘Of course not,’ said Nuadu, his voice tinged with amusement. ‘Although, I have always been curious about you.’ He regarded them, his head tilted to one side consideringly. ‘Your place in the legend and the lore of my people is an assured one,’ he said. ‘You have formed part of our storytellers’ repertoire for countless centuries. But you will know that.’

The Soul Eaters did not move, but Fenella had the sudden impression that they were listening very closely. Could it be this easy? Could Nuadu woo them and flatter them and somehow talk them both out of danger and on through the Gateway to the Dark Realm?

Nuadu was leaning forward, the flaring torches casting reddish shadows across his face. Fenella thought she had never seen him look so nearly evil before and repressed a shiver. She tried not to remember all the old stories about wolves and how they could unexpectedly turn on a friend.

Nuadu said, ‘I wish to go through into the Realm of that other Ireland which you guard.’

‘Yes?’ It was a cagey tone now, as if the Soul Eaters could not quite decide what to make of this strange traveller.

‘You have the power to open up the Cruachan Gateway,’ said Nuadu, and for the first time there was an authority in his tone which cut through the oppressiveness of the cavern like cold steel.

The Soul Eaters remained motionless, but Fenella saw several of the Weasels exchange glances.

At length, the Soul Eater with the horned head said, ‘You will tell us why you wish to enter the Dark Domain, son of the Wolves.’

‘You will also tell us how you have the arrogance and the insolence to request such a thing,’ said another.

Nuadu smiled round at them and rearranged himself on the edge of the stone table. ‘My people have always been arrogant,’ he said.

‘That we know.’

‘Why do you wish to journey in the Dark Domain of the Necromancers,’ said the first Soul Eater.

‘For reasons which need not concern you.’

The first Soul Eater leaned forward, his little eyes glinting. ‘But your reasons do concern us,’ he said.

‘And,’ said another, ‘you should know that entry into the Dark Realm is never permitted without some form of payment.’ There was a lick of nearly sexual pleasure in its voice over the word payment, and Fenella shuddered.

Nuadu said, ‘I am aware of it. You could be called venal for it.’

‘The Wolfkings and Queens have rarely been noted for their altruism, Nuadu Airgetlam.’

Nuadu smiled gently, but remained silent, waiting.

‘If we agreed to open the Cruachan Gateway,’ said the first Soul Eater, ‘what would you offer us by way of payment?’

Nuadu regarded the Soul Eaters very straightly.

‘The soul of Ireland’s High King,’ he said at last. ‘If you will allow me to go through the Cruachan Gateway, I will bring you the soul of the imprisoned Prince, my half-brother. I will serve him to you on a golden platter and you may eat your fill before you fling his drained body into the River of the Dead.

‘And then,’ he said softly, the wolfmask lying strongly across his face, ‘and then, Soul Eaters, Tara will be within my grasp.’

Chapter Thirty-three

Fenella stared straight ahead of her. It was extremely important not to look at any of the Soul Eaters, and it was even more important not to look at Nuadu.

I will bring you the soul of my brother, and then Tara will be within my grasp …

Of course it is only a ploy, she thought. Of course it is nothing more than that. She forced her concentration back to what was happening, because it was not to be thought of that she would miss any single shred of this.

Nuadu had leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the Soul Eaters. He said, very softly, ‘I understand you, Soul Eaters. I understand your needs. You are not greedy, but you need Human souls to survive.’

‘They are our life-blood,’ said the Soul Eater, and a murmur of assent went through the others. ‘If our kind is to survive, then we must suck dry the souls of — ’

‘Humans?’

‘They do not have to be Humans,’ said the Soul Eater, a sudden grating lust in his voice. The opaque eyes inspected Nuadu. ‘The soul of Ireland’s Crown Prince would be a very great prize.’

‘Better,’ said another who had not yet spoken, ‘than the puny, half-dead things brought to us by the Robemaker, after he has wrung out their sap on his treadmills.’

‘Better by far than the shrivelled, ineffectual souls we weigh for him on the Silver Scales of Sorcery,’ said yet another.

‘He has ten thousand years of his curse yet to endure. That is a great many souls he must bring to us. A great many warm, living souls for us to feed upon.’ The Soul Eaters laughed with such malignancy that Fenella thought that if she could, with safety, have turned and run, she would have done so. Nuadu did not appear to move, but Fenella saw the skin on his hand whiten as if he might have clenched his fist. But when he spoke his voice was as silky and as persuasive as before.

‘Better by far, sirs,’ he said. ‘For I am as aware as you that there are different qualities of soul.’ He leaned forward again. ‘But the soul of Ireland’s uncrowned King,’ he said, and the soft, caressing note was back in his voice. ‘The soul of one who is descended from the first High Queen, Dierdriu the Great, and from the famous Cormac, and Erin the Wise and Grainne the Gentle. From Niall of the Nine Hostages and from every Wolfking and Queen who ever ascended to the Throne of Tara. The hereditary High King. The one who has the right to ascend the ancient Throne of Tara.’ He regarded them. ‘I have not that right,’ he said. ‘For although I have royal blood, and although I have wolfblood also, I cannot claim such ancestry.’ The thin wolfsmile touched his lips again. ‘That is why my half-brother must be removed. Unless and until he is dead, Tara will elude me,’ he said. ‘And so I would bargain with you. Just as the necromancers bargain with you for extra powers, so will I bargain. If you will allow me, with my companion, to go through the Cruachan Gateway, then I will bring to you the imprisoned Crown Prince and you may take his soul and hold the greatest feast you have ever known.’

He looked at them and, at length, the leading Soul Eater said, ‘What of your companion?’ and there was a greedy rustling of wings and the hard bony heads turned to Fenella.

‘She is a Human,’ said Nuadu. ‘A pure-bred Human. You will assuredly know my people’s beliefs that the Humans are Kingmakers. You will doubtless recall the many times in our history when a Human has rescued an exiled or imprisoned High King? Cormac of the Wolves himself owed his freedom to a Human lady from another world,’ said Nuadu, smoothly. ‘The High King Erin the Just was only able to ascend Tara’s Ebony Throne because of another Human brought from the Far Future by his Court.’ He made a brief rather off-hand gesture to where Fenella stood listening. ‘If I am to reach my half-brother, I shall need the Human,’ he said.

‘The necromancers will assuredly fight against you,’ said a Soul Eater slightly smaller in stature than the others, but with such ancient, evil knowledge in his eyes that Fenella shuddered.

‘They will not wish to let their captive go,’ said the leading one, eyeing Nuadu and Fenella intently. ‘Whatever prison they have devised for him will be difficult to penetrate.’ He paused. ‘It may not be a prison of bars and walls.’

‘I am aware of that,’ said Nuadu levelly.

‘It may be a prison of dark enchantment.’

‘Yes, I understand that also,’ said Nuadu. ‘It is one of the reasons why I shall require the Human’s assistance to free my half-brother. After we return with him, you may do with her what you will.’

The first Soul Eater said, thoughtfully, ‘You know, Wolfprince, that it is CuRoi, the one they call the Master, who is believed to hold your half-brother? CuRoi is the most powerful Dark Sorcerer ever known.’

‘I am aware of that.’

The Soul Eater whom Fenella had thought to be the most ancient said, ‘You have heard of CuRoi’s fortress inside the Dark Realm? And how, no matter where he might be, he may still chaunt a spell to seal his fortress? So that any creature who has been able to breach it by day will be locked in with the darkness once the sun has set?’

‘I know,’ said Nuadu carefully, ‘that CuRoi was once a great chieftain of Ireland, but that he took to wandering in the annals of the darkest sorcery known to the Court. He was banished by Erin at the same time as the one you know as the Robemaker.’ He paused. ‘He is said to be the greatest illusionist my people have ever known,’ he said. And then, eyeing the Soul Eater who had spoken, ‘None of that makes him invincible,’ said Nuadu. ‘I shall enter his fortress and I shall find the Prince and bring him out.’

He smiled. ‘And then you shall have his soul.’

There was a silence. Fenella, hardly daring to move, almost not daring to breathe, saw they were thinking it over. They had retreated into their dark, wizened minds and they were thinking over this extraordinary and imperious request. She glanced at Nuadu, and felt the sliver of a thought from him. Courage, Lady. I believe we have them beaten …

The leading Soul Eater stood up and spread his wings and Fenella flinched, seeing the size and the power of the creature, and wondered how on earth they had dared to oppose such beings and how they were managing to escape unscathed this far.

But the Soul Eater said, ‘We will open up the Gateway for you and the Human, son of the Wolf,’ and Fenella felt the bolt of relief go through Nuadu.

‘We will open up the Gateway and we will permit you to enter the Dark Realm and seek out CuRoi, whose fortress is sealed at sunset every night,’ said the Soul Eater. He stopped, and the one next to him took up the pronouncement.

‘But we charge you, and we bind you by our own magical powers, to return to us within seven days with the Prince, and to render up his soul for our feasting.’ The dark, basilisk stare devoured Nuadu and Fenella for a moment. ‘We shall savour your return,’ said the Soul Eater.

‘We shall so return,’ said Nuadu, and the Soul Eater stretched its narrow lips in the travesty of a smile. He moved closer and Nuadu stood his ground.

‘If you do not return, son of wolves,’ said the Soul Eater, ‘then we shall make use of the ancient Summoning of Medoc, created by the greatest necromancer of them all. Medoc could pass in and out of the Dark Realm at will and his necromancy was the strongest in all the Dark Realm. But perhaps you know of him?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Nuadu, softly. ‘Oh, yes, I know of Medoc and the dark cruel, beautiful sorcery he once spun over all of Ireland.’

‘We plundered Medoc’s Black Citadel and took his necromantic annals for our own,’ said the Soul Eater with sudden relish. ‘The corrupt Dark Starred Book of Enchantry and the priceless Codex of Necromancy that was Medoc’s own creation, for he was one of the Scholars, Medoc.’ It leaned forward, the stench of its ancient withered body gusting towards Fenella and Nuadu. ‘If you do not return to us with the prince,’ it said, ‘we shall weave the dark Summoning of Medoc. Wherever you are, it will reach out its talons towards you and entrap you and bring you to us.

‘You will be caught by the beautiful and cruel Beckoning of Medoc which no living creature has yet been able to resist.

‘That is how we shall ensure your return.’

As the Soul Eaters moved from their carved thrones, a wave of awareness went through the serried ranks of the Rodent People and, with it, a shudder of fear. To Fenella, this was the most frightening thing yet, because if the Soul Eaters’ dreadful armies were afraid of the Gateway into the Dark Ireland, then surely, surely the Dark Ireland must be something so immensely and overwhelmingly evil that she could never hope to survive it. Almost immediately she felt the now-familiar ruffle of amusement from Nuadu: can you think I should risk the ignominy of failure, Lady? Of course we shall survive …

The Soul Eaters were moving into what appeared to be some kind of formation at the far end of the cave; the leader turned to beckon Nuadu and Fenella to stand with them and instantly the Rodent Armies parted to let them through. Fenella felt the touch of warm furred bodies as they brushed against the creatures and the dry, fetid scent, but she put up her chin and followed Nuadu and then they were through the lines of the army and standing next to the Soul Eater who had held most of the discourse with Nuadu.

Nuadu looked at Fenella. ‘Ready, Lady?’

Fenella was staring at the grisly figures of the Soul Eaters, seeing how the ancient evil gleamed in their eyes, seeing as well, that the nearest two had turned to regard their prisoners with malevolent glee. What are we going into? thought Fenella. What are they sending us into? She glanced at Nuadu, and thought, as well: and what do I really know of this half-Wolf creature whom I do not think I altogether trusty and who may well make sinister use of me in this dark other-world?

Aloud, she said, ‘Is there a choice?’

‘There is always a choice, Lady.’ But his eyes were brilliant with anticipation and the wolf-look was more pronounced than it had been earlier on.

‘If we draw back now, these — creatures will kill us,’ said Fenella, casting a quick look at the Soul Eaters and at the serried ranks of the Rodent Armies.

‘Oh yes,’ said Nuadu, softly. ‘Oh yes, they will kill us — and it will not end there.’

They will eat your soul, Lady, and to be forever soul-less is the worst, blackest, most eternal torment ever …

‘All right,’ said Fenella, staring back at the waiting Soul Eaters. ‘Yes, all right,’ and felt his hand close about hers.

At the back of the cavern, the Soul Eaters had formed a half circle. The leader was standing with his scale-covered head sunk and his narrow shoulders stooping, leathery wings folded at his side. Fenella and Nuadu both felt at once that he was summoning up some kind of hidden power and Fenella saw the Weasels and Jackals flinch and knew they were feeling the approach of something invisible and malevolent.

The Gateway to the Dark Ireland is forming …

They both saw it the minute it started to take shape; at first there was only a thread of colour, the thinly traced outline of an immense door, livid against the dark rock … But, as they stood motionless, the thread thickened, became solid and substantial … it is becoming real, thought Fenella, staring.

It was materialising into a huge soaring Gate, with black-tipped spires and with ebony and jet staves; it was wrought from crimson fire, streaked with scarlet and gold, powerful and ancient.

The Dark Ireland’s Gateway forming …

The most ancient Soul Eater was still standing in the shadow it cast, his head still sunk on to his chest, his eyes in darkness. As the Gateway stretched out into the darkness of the Cavern’s high roof, his eyes flickered open and he turned to face the Gate, rays of baleful light pouring forth from his eyes.

At once, belching black smoke was emitted from the Gate and with it a thick clotted malignancy. There was a faint, far-off chanting, a sinister rise and fall of gloating voices. Slowly the chanting increased, and inch by tortuous inch, so that for a moment Fenella and Nuadu thought their eyes were deceiving them and their ears playing tricks, the Gate into the Dark Realm began to open …

There was an enveloping darkness beyond and then Fenella glimpsed the Crimson Lakes and the Dark Fields and the Black Citadels, and knew that this, at last, was the terrible other-world, the fearsome mirror image of the Wolfkings’ Ireland, and that they must go into it. Panic seized her and there was a moment when she thought: I can’t do it! This is too much!

And then Nuadu was drawing her forward and there was no turning back: the Gateway was directly ahead of them and they could see beyond it more clearly now; they could see the vast black mountains and the glassy lakes and the crimson fields with the waving blood-coloured harvests.

Nuadu’s hand tightened about hers and Fenella caught his thought more clearly than anything he had yet poured into her mind.

We have surmounted every danger and every enemy so far, Fenella … Why should we not do so again?

She glanced at him and saw his eyes glinting and felt the excitement that was blazing within him and saw the wolfmask lying redly across his features.

lam stepping into the Dark Realm of the necromancers and I am doing so handlocked with a Wolf, thought Fenella, wildly. I suppose this is really happening, is it? And again was the warm flurry of amusement touching her mind.

It is all happening, in truth, Lady, and is it not the greatest adventure yet … ?

She understood that Nuadu’s strange ancestry was urging him on; that he was thinking that never before had any Wolfprince entered voluntarily into the terrible netherworld of the necromancers, and there was an unexpected response to that. Perhaps it will be exciting, she thought, and perhaps we shall find the one they call CuRoi and defeat him and find the one who is his half-brother and Tara’s rightful heir. We defeated the Robemaker, she thought suddenly. Yes! Perhaps it will be all right.

And then a silence fell over the watchers and the Soul Eaters brushed the air with their huge wings, as if they were growing impatient, and there was nothing else to do but to step forward.

Into the Dark Ireland.

Chapter Thirty-four

The Forest Court sat in worried conclave around the oak table with Oisin and Miach in command.

‘For once,’ said Feradach.

‘Well, Miach’s the proper person after all,’ said Eogan. ‘He’s the Court Sorcerer.’

Feradach made a derisory noise and Dian Cecht, who was seated next to Miach, looked up.

‘Gimlet-eyed,’ said Feradach.

‘Better than ferret-faced,’ said Miach, who was not going to have Mother maligned by anyone.

Snizort had been given a place next to Oisin and he was feeling extremely gratified, because it seemed to be taken for granted that he should play an integral part in these really very important discussions. The Oak naiads were there as well; they were not exactly seated at the table, because they did not seem to sit down anywhere. But they were in attendance. Snizort thought that was the nearest description you could give. ‘With us but not quite of us,’ said Oisin.

Oisin was looking solemn and concerned. He had spread out the chronicles and the manuscripts he had managed to bring out of Tara and Miach had done the same. Nobody had said very much, other than the somewhat automatic sniping between Feradach and Dian Cecht, because everyone was very worried indeed about the failure to summon the Beastline creatures. When Tealtaoich said they were little better than useless, everyone nodded, and even Feradach, who could usually be trusted to provide a sharp remark, said nothing.

‘We failed,’ said Tealtaoich, who had curled himself into a chair and was glowering at the mead which Clumhach had poured for them all. ‘We failed roundly and soundly and ignominiously.’

‘Oh, I don’t think it was as bad as all that,’ said Clumhach, frowning anxiously.

‘Clumhach doesn’t know what the word means,’ said Feradach to Eogan.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Clumhach indignantly. ‘It’s just a bit difficult to explain.’

‘It means we are failures and losers. We were unable to call the Beasts and we were unable to invoke the ancient Beastline Enchantment,’ said Tealtaoich, as one explaining a simple truth to a very stupid child. ‘It means that the noble and mystical blood we thought we all possessed no longer has any power. Well, we might as well hand Ireland over to the Robemaker and CuRoi and have done,’ he said with a gesture of dismissal. ‘We’ll never hope to regain Tara just by ourselves. We need an army.’ He scowled at the table and Snizort thought that if he had possessed a tail he would certainly have lashed it.

‘Our Houses are at an end,’ said Dian Cecht, musingly. ‘Tara is forever doomed.’

‘Well, that ought to please you,’ said Feradach. ‘Because ever since I can recall, you’ve done nothing but prophesy death and ruin. I suppose you’re quite pleased to see your prophecies come true.’

‘She didn’t mean any of it,’ said Miach, firing up at once. ‘You ought to know she didn’t mean it. She never does.’

Oisin said, in his calm, cool voice, ‘We must be very sensible and very clear-sighted about all of this.’

Tealtaoich said, ‘But we dare not let the Beastline Enchantment die. To do so would mean the end of Tara.’ He looked round the table. ‘You all know the words of the original curse,’ he said.

‘If ever a pure-bred Human should ascend Tara’s Throne, then the Bright Palace will crumble and die, and Ireland will be forever damned … ’

‘That is why the Beastline Enchantment was spun,’ said Tealtaoich. ‘So that a Human never would ascend the Throne. So that Tara would always be ruled by a creature with a little of the beasts in its veins.’

‘And the Wolfkings have ruled ever since,’ said Eogan, very softly. And then, in a stronger, firmer voice, ‘I think there is no question but that we must try to re-create the Beastline Enchantment.’

‘Yes,’ said Oisin, shuffling the chronicles again. ‘Yes, it has become a larger matter than driving out the Gruagach and finding the King. It’s no longer just a — a brief war which, in the normal way, we’d probably win.

‘It’s a question of Tara’s whole future,’ he said very seriously. ‘Without the Beastline Enchantment, not only are we without hope of beating the Robemaker and CuRoi, but Ireland’s entire history is at risk. We must be able to summon the Beasts.’

For a moment, no one spoke, partly because it was unusual to hear the normally quiet and gentle Oisin speak so vehemently, but largely because they were all so appalled at the thing that was happening. Without the Beastline Enchantment, the mystical golden power they had believed themselves to possess, they were helpless. The ancient prophecy that forbade a Human to rule would at last come true and Tara would crumble and fall.

Then Tealtaoich said, ‘Miach. This is your territory. May we hear from you, please?’

Miach was tom between gratification at being deferred to by Tealtaoich in this way and panic that he would not be able to do anything about this really terrible disaster. He had studied the few sorcery annals he had brought with him from Tara and he had talked earnestly with Oisin, who was quite knowledgeable, and also with the Oak Naiads who had been interested and concerned and sympathetic. ‘Although,’ they had said, politely, ‘it is for you to find the means to strengthen the Beastline Enchantment.’

‘Do you believe that it is lost?’ asked Miach, furrowing his brow.

‘That is for you to discover,’ said the Oaks, which, as Miach had crossly said to Oisin later, was not very much help.

But it would not do to appear to be at a loss — Mother would have died of the shame of it — and so Miach shuffled his papers importantly and donned an air of gravity.

‘Don’t put on airs,’ said Feradach at once. ‘It doesn’t become you and it doesn’t fool any of us. Just get on with it.’

If it had not been for matters being so very grave, Miach would have spoken quite sharply to Feradach, who needed putting in his place. He would not do so, however, because of not wanting to upset anyone any further. They were all upset enough as it was. Miach would make allowances.

And so he pretended not to hear Feradach and explained that he had studied the annals and the manuscripts. ‘What you might call the recipes for sorcery,’ he said, which he thought imparted a nice, homely touch to the proceedings.

‘Sorcery isn’t a homely thing,’ said Tealtaoich, who could usually be trusted to hear people’s thoughts in the most vulgar way imaginable. ‘As Feradach said earlier, get on with it.’

Miach said, ‘We do know that the Beastline Enchantment has wavered before.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘In fact, at one time it was believed to be lost altogether and the High Queen of the day set the sorcerers to weave a completely new one.’

‘I heard about that,’ put in Feradach. ‘It was during the reign of Erin, or perhaps it was just before.’

‘But it’s very probable,’ said Miach, ‘that the Enchantment is being smothered by the Robemaker’s darkness. As you know, this is the Trees’ idea,’ he said rather hurriedly, because although it would have been nice to have presented this as his own idea, everyone had heard the Oak Naiad say this, which meant that nobody was going to think it was Miach’s own deduction.

‘I haven’t many of the sorcery annals here,’ he said, ‘because there wasn’t time to bring much from Tara.’

‘Oisin managed it,’ said Feradach.

‘Yes, but Oisin’s bedchamber was near to Tara’s great library,’ put in Eogan. ‘It made it easier for him.’

‘But Miach ought to have made the sorcery annals his first priority,’ said Feradach.

‘I brought what I could,’ said Miach very crossly. ‘And if you remember, the Gruagach were actually in the courtyard at the time. They were about to use a battering ram on the main doors. And I must say that if Feradach’s going to be carping, then I shan’t weave any spells to help you, I just shan’t.’

‘Miach,’ said Dian Cecht to the company in general, ‘is such a sensitive boy. It is unkind of Feradach to bait him, particularly when Miach has worked so hard for us all.’ The great black eyes were turned on Feradach for a moment. ‘But then,’ said Dian Cecht sadly, ‘to suffer such discourtesies and such indignities is what I have become used to.’

‘I apologise,’ said Feradach, after what was clearly an inner struggle.

‘Our good Feradach is as worried as the rest of us,’ put in Clumhach, who was not following all of this, but who thought it incumbent on him to smooth a few ruffled tempers. ‘He doesn’t mean any harm,’ he added, beaming. ‘And I am sure that Miach will know what has to be done.’

‘I hope he will,’ said Tealtaoich. ‘Miach?’

Miach said, ‘It’s necessary to strengthen into the original Enchantment so that it can break free of the blanket of darkness that the Robemaker has thrown over everything.’

‘Yes?’

Miach cast an unhappy glance at the Oak Naiad. ‘There seems to be only one way of doing that,’ he said.

‘What is it?’

‘To invoke the original Beastline Enchantment,’ said Miach.

There was a sudden silence, then Tealtaoich said, ‘But that means — ’ and stopped.

‘It means,’ said Miach, who was very upset about all of this, and was not, in fact, entirely sure of his ground, but had decided to be firm, ‘it means that we must recite the Ritual that was written at the beginning of Tara’s history and that one of you — ’

‘Must lie with the beasts,’ finished Tealtaoich, staring.

‘Exactly so,’ said Miach.

‘We’ll have to do it,’ said Tealtaoich, at last. ‘I’m quite sure that this isn’t the way it should be done — hastily and uncertainly, but if Miach believes it’s the only way — ’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Miach, rather truculently.

‘Then it had better be done at once,’ finished Tealtaoich and frowned. ‘Has anyone seen it done, by any chance?’ Nobody had, although Oisin remembered reading an account of the last time the Ritual had been invoked. ‘For the Red Foxes,’ he said. ‘Feradach’s people. It sounds rather solemn and serious. Not at all what you’d expect.’

‘Sorcery is a solemn and serious business,’ said Miach, because it might be a good idea to try to surround himself with a bit of mysticism if he could.

‘Do you know the Ritual?’ demanded Tealtaoich. ‘Have you got the exact words?’

‘Yes,’ said Miach. ‘It’s in one of the annals I did manage to bring,’ he said, with a nasty look at Feradach. ‘It’s actually a rather simple chant.’

‘We ought to do it at the Purple Hour,’ said Eogan. ‘Yes, we’ll need all the help we can get.’

‘Someone will need all the help he can get,’ said Feradach, and there was a sudden and rather nasty silence.

‘Oh, I don’t think we need worry,’ began Clumhach, and then stopped uncertainly.

Tealtaoich said, ‘No, Feradach’s right. If we’ve got to do it, then we’d better face it properly and sensibly.’ He looked round the table. ‘Who’s going to be the one to do it?’

‘I’m not,’ said Clumhach at once. ‘I think it ought to be Tealtaoich.’

‘Clumhach, if you think we can find one of the Wild Panthers out here — ’

‘It would mean travelling as far as Gallan — ’

‘Farther. Panthers haven’t been seen in Ireland since — well, for a very long time,’ said Oisin. ‘I remember once travelling to the ancient Mountain Palace of Tealtaoich’s ancestor — Cait Fian. The mountains overlook Gallan and it’s the most beautiful wild countryside you’d ever find. But the Palace is a ruin and the surrounding countryside was barren. There were no panthers.’

‘Well, that’s going to make it rather awkward for poor Tealtaoich when the Panel of Judges next decree that his line needs strengthening, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, and as for catching an eagle — ’

‘Oh, you’d never do that. Also,’ said Eogan looking rather haughty and remote, ‘also, my family always said that ours was the most difficult of all the ritual matings.’ He looked round the table. ‘The eagle has to be held down,’ he said.

‘I suppose it sometimes pecks,’ said Tealtaoich, amused. ‘There have been cases of injury,’ said Eogan, coldly. ‘Well, if you want to put it like that,’ said Tealtaoich. ‘What about Feradach?’ asked Dian Cecht with what Snizort could not help feeling was more than a trace of malice. ‘There are enough foxes in the forest. Rather a common creature, the fox.’

‘It has to be a red fox,’ said Feradach at once. ‘Rather rare, my dear Dian Cecht.’

‘And also, if it was the Red Foxes last time, to repeat it might not be much good,’ added Eogan.

It was then that Miach said, a bit unhappily, ‘There’s something you ought to know … a sort of qualifier, a rider.’

‘Yes?’

‘What?’

‘The Ritual can only be chanted over the — the Royal House that has been judged ready to — oh, this is very difficult — ready actually to mate,’ said Miach, getting redder in the face with every minute. ‘If you invoke it over a House that doesn’t need it, it probably won’t have any effect. And we do need it to be effective.’

‘Well, who was last pronounced as needing the Ritual?’

‘The White Swans,’ said Miach in an expressionless voice, and every head turned to look at Dian Cecht.

Rather to Snizort’s surprise, Dian Cecht accepted the matter fairly calmly.

‘Oh, she’ll like being the centre of attention,’ said Feradach, who had been despatched, with Eogan, to the sidh pool on the Wolfwood’s eastern side, to capture two White Swans. ‘She’ll make a great play of reluctance and false modesty, but she’ll do it.’

Snizort said, ‘But didn’t she refuse the last time to — that is, I understand that she found the Ritual distasteful … ’

Feradach grinned. ‘That was Dian Cecht’s way of being different to everyone else,’ he said. ‘The normal thing, the traditional thing, would have been for her simply to submit to the Ritual. We all know it has to be done every fourth or fifth generation or so. It’s purely luck — good or ill depending on your point of view — whether it’s necessary in your own generation. Dian Cecht only refused in order to make a stir at Court.’

Snizort asked, as delicately as he could, about Miach’s sire.

‘Dian Cecht had a rather pallid relationship with one of the lesser sorcerers at Tara,’ said Feradach. ‘That’s how she got Miach into the Academy of Sorcery.’

‘Pallid?’

‘Wouldn’t you think it would be pallid?’ said Feradach, and Snizort, who had read about these things but had not actually had a great deal of practical experience of them, said, ‘Dear me, yes of course. And so, she will go through with it this time, will she?’

‘She’ll be saving Ireland,’ said Feradach with a touch of asperity. ‘Of course she’ll go through with it.’

‘And will there be — dear me, this is very difficult — will there be — ah — progeny?’ enquired Snizort, who had not quite liked to ask this of Oisin, but who thought that the slightly more robust Feradach would not mind the question.

‘Not necessarily,’ said Feradach, considering. ‘That’s usually the object of the Ritual, of course. But this time it’s a bit different. We simply want to — well, reinforce the Enchantment I suppose you could call it, strengthen the powers of the Beastline. ‘ His teeth gleamed whitely in a sudden malicious grin. ‘But it would almost serve Dian Cecht right if there was a result of the mating,’ he said.

Dian Cecht had seated herself a little apart from the remaining Beastline creatures and was gazing soulfully into the depths of the forest. As Snizort approached, she half turned her head.

‘I am calming my mind for the ordeal ahead of me,’ she said, in a remote tone and Snizort said he was very sorry if he had disturbed her.

‘My life has been nothing but a series of troubles and tragedies,’ said Dian Cecht, turning her enormous black eyes upon him. ‘My House is a doomed House, you see. And although the Ritual will be extremely repulsive to one of my delicate upbringing, I shall not complain, because it is for the saving of Ireland.’ One slender white hand was pressed to her breast. ‘Ah, Ireland, my dear tortured land,’ she said, and Snizort repressed the uncharitable thought that she was overdoing it a bit.

‘I have only one fear,’ said Dian Cecht.

‘Yes?’

‘It is that my son should not be wounded by my ordeal,’ she said, and Snizort thought, but did not say, that since Miach would be the one chanting the actual Ritual, it was going to be a bit difficult for Miach to avoid doing other than witness the Ritual first-hand. He thought it was not up to him to say this, however.

‘Miach is so sensitive,’ said Dian Cecht, with a sad, small smile. ‘Alas, he fatally takes after me.’

Snizort, greatly daring, said, ‘His father … ’ and Dian Cecht turned her soulful look onto him.

‘For a little time he was blessed,’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘I loved him.’

‘Ah. Yes. Dear me, of course,’ said Snizort, and took himself off rather hurriedly.

Miach was running through the Ritual with Oisin and the Oak Naiad. It was, as he had said, a fairly simple matter; he thought he could manage it quite easily. In fact he thought he could manage it without any trouble at all. He was a bit worried about the Swan — and he was very worried indeed about Mother, who ought not to be subjected to this sort of thing. He did not quite say, ‘at her age’, because that would have been disrespectful as well as uncomplimentary, but he thought it.

Oisin and the Oak Naiad were encouraging. Oisin said that the Ritual was simple, because it had always been intended to be so; the first sorcerers who had woven it on Tara’s great Silver Looms had deliberately made it plain and straightforward so that it could always be kept alive. The Oak Naiad said that the finest and purest sorcery was always remarkably simple.

‘It is only a question of the power the sorcerer himself draws down,’ he said, regarding Miach kindly, which Miach thought was the most alarming thing anyone had said yet. But it did not seem to have occurred to any of the Tree Spirits that Miach might fail in the Ritual, and so Miach thought he had better go along with this point of view. He squared his shoulders and flexed his mental muscles experimentally and, without the least warning, fully felt, for the first time since he had started studying sorcery, the strange, silvery stirring. Excitement gripped him and he thought: the enchanted power! So that's what it feels like! Remarkable! I believe I can do it! he thought in delight. I truly believe I can do it. And thought wouldn’t it be the most tremendous thing ever heard of if he invoked the ancient and legendary Ritual of the Beastline and enabled the people of the Court to call up the creatures of the forest and ride on Tara and rout the giants.

It was nearly dusk when Feradach and Eogan returned and, as they trod through the trees, Snizort and the others saw the pale flutter of white wings and saw the slender, graceful shape of the two White Swans.

‘Why two?’ asked Snizort of Oisin.

‘Swans mate for life,’ said Oisin, watching them approach. ‘It would have been dangerous to have brought the cob without the pen.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Snizort. And then, ‘Won’t the pen be dreadfully jealous?’

‘Miach’s trying to concoct a spell to make her sleep.’

Miach was, by this time, very busy indeed. He had found a version of the Enchantment of Slumber, the Draoicht Suan which could safely be recited over the pen, and he had also found the opposing enchantment which would dissolve the Draoicht Suan so that they could send the two White Swans back unscathed when it was all over. This was extremely important, because you should not invoke any ritual without being sure you could dissolve it if you had to. Anyone knew that.

He had drawn a circle at the exact centre of the clearing and he had found the ancient symbols of fertility and also the Hazels of Wisdom of the Tree of Amaranth, which was the root from which the oldest Sorcery House of Ireland sprang. He traced these carefully into the ground and glared at Clumhach who inadvertently smudged one by walking across it.

They were not going to leave anything to chance, said Miach, because it was very important that they succeeded. Ireland was at stake, he said very solemnly.

As the Court and Snizort assembled outside the circle, Miach thought that it was a pity he had not been able to don the proper ceremonial robes for the ritual. The sorcerers under whom he had served at Tara had placed immense importance on the proper robes for each spell-weaving. Miach thought he ought to have been wearing something grand and ornate; scarlet and gold, instead of the plain dark breeches which were only made of homespun, and the very ordinary shirt and jerkin he had donned when they had all fled from Tara that night.

Dian Cecht stood at the exact centre of the circle which Miach had drawn. She was wearing a thin, silken, white robe with a narrow girdle of gold and her short, caplike hair shone, emphasising the long, slender lines of her neck and shoulders. She looked remote and austere and as if she might already be wreathed about with the strong gentle magic of the Purple Hour. Snizort, who had elected to sit a little removed from the ceremonies so that he could quietly and respectfully record everything, thought that if it had been possible to reach out and pluck the air it would have thrummed and vibrated like a musical instrument.

An air of solemnity had fallen over the watchers and Snizort, who had not quite known what to expect, saw that their expressions were serious and that there was an air of immense concentration about them. At the culmination of Miach’s ritual chant, they would attempt again to summon the beasts.

He thought: and if they fail this time … And discovered that the idea of a second failure was something he could hardly bear to contemplate. They would not fail. Of course they would not fail.

Miach was standing with the Trees directly behind him and, in the fading light, their leafy heads were touched with the violet and blue of the approaching night. It was possible to make out the Tree Spirits here and there; the fall of a Copper Beech’s rippling hair, or the flutter of the Silver Birches’ skittish arms but, in the main, the Tree Spirits stood silently, dissolving into a swathe of gold and indigo and purple.

Miach looked young and vulnerable and suddenly extremely earnest. Bless my boots, thought Snizort, writing busily, I believe the boy means to succeed. As Miach frowned and lifted his arms, with the palms held upmost in the age-old gesture of supplication, Snizort knew that Miach was determined to succeed beyond all odds. And I do not believe it is purely for the glory of it, he thought. He cares what happens to Tara. They all care, thought Snizort, looking at the rest. They quarrel and taunt one another, but they care very deeply indeed.

Snizort did not understand Miach’s Ritual Chant, but he had not expected to. Oisin had explained that enchantments were written in what was called the Language of Magic, and that it was a tongue so ancient that no one had ever been able to trace its roots, but it was so immensely powerful that understanding was not really necessary.

‘Although the really scholarly sorcerers, the ones who have devoted their lives to its study, probably have some understanding,’ he had said. ‘Miach will not understand it, but it will probably not matter so long as he chants it correctly.’

Oisin and Tealtaoich were carrying the Swan to the circle’s centre; their faces were intent and absorbed and it seemed to Snizort that the Swan — lovely graceful thing — was lulled by the chant. Miach had sent the pen into a gentle sleep and she had simply folded her wings and sunk to the ground in a fall of silken paleness. But this was the cob, this was the male, suspicious, defensive, albeit subdued. A cold finger of fear, or was it distaste, touched Snizort’s neck.

But Oisin and Tealtaoich seemed to be managing quite well. They moved with a measured tread — everything seemed to be being done rather slowly — and Miach lifted his hands again and raised his voice. Slowly, slowly, so imperceptibly that it was almost impossible to be sure that it was happening, thin filaments of silver light began to twist and shiver all about him. Dusk was stealing in from the depths of the Wolfwood, fingers of dark creeping shadow, but the silver threads spun and hummed and the vagrant light fell across the forest floor like spun glass. Snizort, realising that even the faint scratching of a quill-pen might distract Miach or disturb the magic, put his notes aside and sat very still, absorbing the sights and the sounds and the scents.

Dian Cecht had discarded the white silk robe naturally and easily, and was standing completely naked at the clearing’s centre. She was rather thin and her skin was very pale. There was the faintest sheen to it, so that as the silver threads touched her it was easy to imagine that it was not skin, but sleek, smooth down. As Oisin and Tealtaoich approached, she turned towards them.

The White Swan was watching Dian Cecht from its dark, unblinking eyes, and there was an awareness about it. As Miach lifted his voice again in the ancient chant, the Swan unfurled its wings suddenly and seemed on the point of flight. A stir of fear went through the watchers.

But the Swan did not take flight. It spread its wings a little wider and a whisper of warm, musklike perfume touched the air. Tealtaoich and Oisin moved back and there was the outline of pale, glossy light as the Swan’s wings were silhouetted against the dark forest.

The entire forest seemed to wait as if it were suspended and caught on the threads of Miach’s enchantment and a tiny night wind caressed the leaves and whispered about the faces of the watchers.

The silver threads whirred and hummed more strongly and then the Swan glided effortlessly downwards and folded the waiting Dian Cecht in its massive wings as if it had wrapped a silken white cloak about her …

At once there was a strong dark stirring in the Wolfwood and Snizort saw that the rest of the Beastline had moved to stand quietly together and that they were facing out towards the forest, their hands held out, their eyes narrowed.

They were suddenly and disconcertingly less Human. There was the glint of gold in Eogan’s eyes and the sleek ripple of fur on Tealtaoich and Feradach and Oisin. There was an alertness, a sharpening, as if senses and instincts they were not normally aware of had awoken, and as if they could hear things not usually audible and see things not ordinarily visible.

The Swan was still enfolding Dian Cecht in its immense wings and Dian Cecht was deep in its strange embrace.

Deep within the Wolfwood, above the rise and fall of Miach’s chanting, there was a stirring, rushing sound; the faint, far-off hum of something singing on the night air, the darting of the blue and green sidh in between the Trees, and the movements of the Trees themselves, green and gold and beautiful and wise.

And then they all heard it. Scurrying and padding. The sound of creatures not Human approaching the clearing. Hope and delight surged across the clearing and, as it did so, the silver enchantment that Miach was weaving so fast now strengthened and glistened.

Fora moment, Snizort thought they had been mistaken; that their senses had deceived them into believing what they wanted to hear and see. He frowned and, as he did so, the scuttering and pattering and running came closer.

Fur and hoofs and paws and wings.

Slant-eyed creatures with three-cornered faces and creatures with pointed muzzles and pricked ears, with ancient woodland instincts and ancient woodland ancestries.

There was a beating of wings on the air and, above them, beyond the highest of the Trees, the air was becoming filled with gold and bronze and white.

The creatures of the Forest finally and at last obeying the ancient summoning, the strong, sensuous luring of the Samhailt …

Chapter Thirty-five

Deep within the ruined City of the Giants, Floy and Snodgrass lay helpless and bound, awaiting the arrival of the Geimhreadh.

They were lying on their backs in the terrible inner chamber of the Frost Giantess, in the cold, echoing, blue-lit lair with the dark waters of the River of the Dead lapping against the walls. Cold green waterlight rippled on the walls and there was a dank, slimy stench on the air. Floy, who had occasionally travelled among the famous Twilight Mountains on Renascia to hunt the Rainbow Ikons, recognised the stench for what it was: decaying water vegetation and fetid fish-breath and trailing viscous, mucus-like plants and gelatinous pale river-creatures with long slithery tails and boneless bodies … Revulsion washed over him and he concentrated his mind on trying to find a way of escape. It was unthinkable that they should endure being thrown into the River, to be at the mercy of the half-fish, half-human things they had seen outside Fael-Inis’s Palace of Wildfire.

At the Geimhreadh’s nod the storm creatures had carried Floy and Snodgrass from the outer room through to the cold, dank inner chamber, laughing and writhing, taunting their two victims, twining more coarse, sticky ropes about their limbs.

For you shall not escape us now, Humans, you shall not escape the cold, hungry embraces of the Geimhreadh … You will not loosen the bonds that confine you … The Mistress told you of the ropes, Humans, of how they are fashioned from the coarsest hair of her victims … They are the strongest form of bond ever made, Humans.

The Wraiths shrieked out their mirth again. You are bound by the fibres of sexual bonds, Humans … do you feel the spent seed and the clotted blood on them … ? Do you smell the stale juices and do you feel the shreds of tom skin, Humans … ? Our Mistress has strong appetites, Humans, she is merciless in her desires, and you will be expected to satisfy them all …

The cold, eerie laughter echoed all about them and the storm creatures swirled high above Floy and Snodgrass, their icicle-features grinning and pointed, their long, sharp fingers reaching out to stroke and prod their victims’ flesh. Their touch was icy and sharp and, although they constantly grinned and darted into the travellers’ faces, they never quite materialised; they were cold, smoke-like beings, neither quite substance nor shadow, but somewhere between the two.

We are Wraiths, Human morsels. We were born out of the coldness that lives in Men’s hearts and out of the greed that lives in their souls, for greed is the coldest of all the emotions and we are COLD, human travellers, we are cold and ice and we are frozen winter night and bleak winter dawn …

Floy and Snodgrass struggled and twisted, but the hair ropes held. In each of their minds was the thought that surely the storm creatures would leave before the Geimhreadh approached and surely, then, there would be a chance to escape.

Floy and Snodgrass felt icy needles pierce their thoughts.

We can hear you, Humans, cried the Wraiths in delighted triumph. We can hear you and we can understand you, for the Mistress has bestowed on us the ancient Stroichim Inchinn, the power of knowing the thoughts of others …

Floy, with memories of Nuadu Airgetlam, said, ‘But surely that is forbidden — ’ and the Wraiths shrieked with mirth again.

Nothing is forbidden, Human weakling, nothing is not permitted in the realm of the Frost Giantess … You will see, Human morsels, you will see … The laughter became fainter, and the cold blue shapes seemed to blur.

Floy, keeping a firm control on his thoughts, said quite calmly, ‘May we know what is to happen next?’ and the Wraiths laughed again.

You will be the Mistress’s lover for the night, Human … perhaps for more than one night if you please her … There was a break in the voices and then they went on. For more than one night if you please her. If you have the endurance to withstand the things she will do to you … Floy shuddered and made a sudden convulsive movement, but the ropes held.

And after that, Human morsel, after that, the Mistress will render you up to the Soul Eaters who feast every night in the Cruachan Cavern, and they will take your soul, and then fling your drained body into the River of the Dead … And your body will submit to the constant lapping of the waters, so that in time you will change, Humans, little by little, into the fish-creatures you have already seen … You will become scaly and coldblooded, your fingers will join into webs, your eyes will become lidless and staring … The laughter rang out again. You will CHANGE, Humans, you will change most fearfully, and most repulsively, so that if your people should come in search of you — perhaps in a hundred decades or so — if more lost travellers on a freezing winter's night should find their way to the Lair of the Geimhreadh, they will turn from you in shuddering disgust …

Snodgrass said in a low voice, ‘Floy this is terrible. Can we not — ’ And stopped.

‘Wait,’ said Floy softly. ‘There must be a way to escape.’

There is no escape, Humans, there never was any escape … no one ever escapes the embraces of our Mistress …

The voices were growing fainter, but they could still hear the creatures’ words, lingering on the air.

You belong to the Geimhreadh now, you are her chosen bridegrooms … You must pleasure her in every way she wishes, Humans … She is greedy for the bodies of Men-Humans, and she is insatiable … You will see, Humans, you will see …

After what seemed a very long time, but was in fact only minutes, Floy said, ‘I think that if we are to escape, now is the time.’

‘Yes,’ said Snodgrass firmly and very definitely, and Floy wondered if Snodgrass was quite as firm as he was sounding, or if it was just to make them both feel better. All the same, he was grateful for Snodgrass’s firmness, because it was something good to have in this sort of situation. Aloud, he said, ‘We probably don’t have very much time,’ and Snodgrass said, ‘No, I expect we don’t.’ Floy managed to half raise himself and look about the cold, dank, stone chamber and take stock of their surroundings.

The horrid lapping River tributary was a little way off, to their left, although they could see the silvery darting shapes just beneath the water’s surface and they could feel the miasma of cold despair which rose from the River’s depths. Floy repressed a shiver and thought that, surely, despair was the coldest and the loneliest of all the emotions of Man. To know yourself utterly and forever abandoned; to be without hope, without anything in the world ever again … To have to think: this is all there will be anywhere, ever.

They were bound by the repulsive ropes to two long, rather high couches. The couches were covered with some soft slippery stuff; Floy thought it might be silk, but whatever it was it was cold and faintly slimy and Floy found himself wondering who had lain here last. Then he glanced to the dark River and wished he had not.

Above them, the stone walls stretched up and up into the distant shadowy roof of the chamber. Within the shadows, they could see thick, pale cobwebs and there were faint stirrings in the cobwebs, as if blind scuttling things might lurk there. Floy received a fleeting impression of whitish, boneless creatures watching them. Creatures of the Geimhreadh … creatures of the Wraiths … But I had better not think that, said Floy silently, and I had certainly better not start imagining things that might not be there. It would be better, it would be far more practical, to assess this situation and try to get out of it. The storm creatures had gone. At least, it was to be hoped they had gone.

To begin with, Floy thought it might just be possible to pull the hair-ropes off, strand by revolting strand. He levered himself into a half-sitting position, his legs bent to one side, and tried working his thumbs against the ropes. But the coarse hair, the pubic hair of the Geimhreadh’s past victims, had been tightly plaited and it held. Overhow many years have these ropes been fashioned? thought Floy, sickened, and then pushed the thought from him. No matter how many years, no matter how numerous the victims, the Geimhreadh’s ropes held strong and well.

‘No good,’ said Floy, at length, and cursed softly and angrily.

‘Could we reach each other’s bonds?’ asked Snodgrass. ‘And somehow loosen each other’s ropes?’

‘We could try.’

But the silk-covered couches were several feet apart; and the Wraiths had tied the ropes to the couch legs and arms. Neither of them could move more than an inch or so in any direction. Floy tried to think that the Geimhreadh, when she came, would surely have to free them. Wouldn’t she? But that depends on what she is expecting me to do to her, thought Floy, grimly.

With the coming of the night, the lapping waters of the River seemed to have grown quieter, as if the creatures that dwelled beneath the surface might be sinking into a torpor. From time to time, there was a brief turbulence, as if the soul-less, half-Humans beneath it still moved, but the River had become more quiescent. It is listening, thought Floy. It is listening and it is waiting, and it is saying: soon we shall reach out and welcome two new brothers to our depths. Floy half turned his head again and caught the white gleam of the River creatures and glimpsed a flash of iridescence. Dozens of pairs of eyes, watching, waiting, expectant.

And then Snodgrass said, ‘Floy. There’s someone coming.’

And Floy heard it as well.

Slithering footsteps coming closer.

The Geimhreadh.

* * *

As the Geimhreadh slithered into the room her neckless body reared up and forward, her narrow flat eyes blinking in grisly anticipation. Floy saw the lipless mouth smile and the forked tongue dart in and out and saw, as well, the gleam of sensuous pleasure in the creature’s expression. He thought: she is going to enjoy us. She is going to subject us to whatever dark, unnatural desires she possesses. I cannot think of a way out of this, thought Floy, but he held the dark, unblinking stare steadily, because however unthinkable it was that they should succumb to the Geimhreadh’s horrid appetites, it was even more unthinkable to Floy that they should show this monster fear.

The Geimhreadh was still swathed in the loose pale wrappings she had worn earlier; a fold partly covered her head, lending her the semblance of a Human, but it was still the snake-disguised-as-female they had seen at the first encounter. As she came nearer, the dreadful head poked out, and the swathing cloths loosened a little.

‘So you have not tried to evade me, my precious ones,’ said the creature, in her gobbling, clotted voice.

‘We have no choice, ma’am,’ said Floy. ‘It seems that we are yours to command.’ Incredibly, a smile widened the Geimhreadh’s mouth.

‘Courtesy under these circumstances, Human. That is something I had not looked for. You have some spirit. That will make this all the more enjoyable.’

And all the better to devour, my dears …

She moved closer, towering above them. Eight feet tall? wondered Floy, staring up. More?

‘The Wraiths have done well by me this time,’ said the Geimhreadh, swaying a little on her tiny, stumplike feet and staring down at Floy. Floy had the impression that she was inspecting his body and was liking what she was seeing. ‘And you are healthy, I think.’

Floy said, acidly, ‘That is for you to discover, ma’am,’ and again there was the smile.

‘We shall see, Human,’ said the Frost Giantess, and made another of the sudden undulating movements, so that the loose wrappings fell to the floor, and she was naked before them.

As a young man on Renascia, Floy had been considerably sought out by unprincipled ladies, and sometimes by ladies who were quite principled, as well. On occasion he had done the seeking on his own account. But the results had nearly always been the same. Nights in beds that were not his own, afternoons in beds that were not his own, as well: for the long drowsy afternoons on Renascia had always been made languorous and sensual by the slow sinking of the light into the Mountains, and by the heady, heavy golden rainbow light from the chasing Ikons who came out at this time of the day and spread their light everywhere. Afternoons had been times when no one had quite known where anyone else was, very nearly traditional for seduction.

Floy would have said, had he been questioned, that he had loved wisely rather than too well; his heart had never been in danger, although his loins had certainly been led astray a time or two, and there were a number of Renascian ladies whose cheeks were be painted with a far from maiden blush when his name was mentioned. Certainly he would have admitted that, if the pleasures were offered, he had seldom refused.

There had always been a moment in the love-making, during the slow, sweet seductions, which he had always particularly savoured. He supposed it was quite a trivial part of love-making, but it was a brief moment he always looked for because of the way it seemed to lend an extra strength to the intimacy of the encounter. It was the moment when the lady of his choice (or the lady who had chosen him) slid from her silken gown, or velvet robe, or unfastened her satin nightgarb and let it slide to the floor in a whisper of sensuous movement and the faint drift of feminine perfume.

That was the moment that always touched Floy deeply and fired him to genuine ardour, occasionally even to a fleeting love. That sudden gentle stirring of fragrance. It was that which lent the edge to his appetite, which sharpened his every sense. It had always seemed to him a moment of intense intimacy; the scent, the fragrance, the essence of the woman with whom you were about to share an immense closeness.

It was something he had come to look for, to enjoy briefly but lingeringly, spinning it out, rather as a man about to enjoy a five-course banquet will spin out the savouring of what on Earth had once been called an aperitif. An appetite teaser. Floy had viewed that ruffle of fragrance, that flurry of female perfumed skin, as an appetite teaser. An emphasis, a reminder, a precursor of the delight and intimacy to come.

Now, tied down to a cold couch by plaited coarse fibres; the cold greasy lapping of a sinister River in his ears, almost certainly facing not death, but a terrible, endless, soul-less existence, Floy remembered every one of those gentle, feminine flurries of fragrance, every single one subtly different, every one an indivisible part of its fair owner, and felt a shuddering sickness at what was happening now.

Instead of the flurry of scented feminine skin he had always looked for, now there was a sudden breath of ancient stale flesh; of unwashed limbs and of tainted, carious juices, long since bereft of any freshness. Floy felt his stomach lift with revulsion; but when he spoke his voice was light and fearless and very nearly insouciant.

‘And are we to spend the night together, you and I, ma’am?’ said Floy, and had the satisfaction of seeing brief surprise flare in the dark eyes.

‘If you satisfy me, Human, there may be several nights.’ She leaned closer and Floy saw again the glistening ringed, wormlike skin. A cold, finlike hand came out to caress him. ‘My needs are many, Human, and my appetites are voracious.’

Floy said, rather coldly, ‘I fear I shall be unable, ma’am,’ and regarded her challengingly.

The Geimhreadh laughed and Floy and Snodgrass shuddered. ‘Your body will harden when I wish it to, Human,’ she said. ‘There are caresses I can give you that your weak Human females would never dream exist.’ She bent even closer and Floy tried not to flinch from the stench of fetid breath and unwashed scaly skin. ‘And although I have never failed yet to harden the loins of my victims,’ said the Geimhreadh, in a hissing whisper, ‘if that should happen now, morsel, then I have many enchantments at my beck. Not for nothing have I trafficked with the one called the Robemaker.’

She moved away a little and stood watching him, the forked tongue flickering again. ‘Shall I begin by licking the tip of your manhood, Human?’ said the Geimhreadh) and her voice had thickened with anticipation. ‘Shall I insert the prongs of my snake-tongue into the shaft of your phallus, Human, and shall I probe deep within it so that I penetrate to the core and lick your juices at their source?’ She moved again, and Floy felt the thick, rough snakeskin against his arm.

‘And,’ said the Geimhreadh, close to his ear now, ‘shall I caress you in the ways of men with men, so that we can see if your desires lie in that direction, so that we can then summon the Wraiths to pleasure you?’ A thick, clotted chuckle broke from her and rang eerily round the stone chamber. ‘They have their own appetites, the Wraiths,’ said the Frost Giantess and, with a sudden jabbing movement, slid the length of her body alongside Floy’s.

It was far worse than Floy had believed possible. It was like being wrapped in the boneless embrace of a giant worm or a flapping, finned fish-creature. The Geimhreadh’s breath was cold and fetid in his face, so that his insides churned with nausea. He could feel the thick, flaccid body pressing and writhing against him; she could feel every line of him, making him shudder at the horrid intimacy of it. He could feel the tiny fin-hands sliding between his thighs, probing, touching, exploring …

‘Harden,’ hissed the Frost Giantess, the tiny embryo fingers working against him. ‘Harden, Human, or must I call up the Wraiths to weave their spells and make you!’

Floy looked her in the eye and said, ‘You may weave your enchantments and work your filth until fire freezes, ma’am, but you will never take any satisfaction from me.’ And saw the dark fury in her eyes and knew himself bound now for the worst the creature could devise.

She reared back, slithering from the couch, and paused, gathering her strength. There was a furious hissing and the Geimhreadh's eyes glinted redly. She towered above Floy, her thick body whirling into a column of pale, mucous matter, spinning higher and higher in the cold stone room, a great pillar of curdled gelatinous matter, neither Human nor snake nor fish, nor any creature of the earth at all now.

There was the piercing whine of icy wind and the Storm Wraiths were there, laughing and shrieking, blue and glacial, their jeering faces hovering above Floy, their long icicle fingers darting at him, tearing at his clothes, ripping his breeches from him, and then caressing him with their freezing fingers.

Floy gasped and flung his head back on the silk couch and felt the icy cold creep over his entire body. He was dimly aware of a filmy silver garment being thrown over him, partially obscuring his vision, and from a great distance he heard the Geimhreadh’s voice saying, ‘The Cloak of Sensuality, Human-and one of the Robemaker’s best achievements.’

Floy set his teeth and curled his hands into clenched fists. The Cloak had descended about him now; he was vaguely aware that it was enveloping him, thin, cool, not quite transparent, but not opaque either, so that he could see the Geimhreadh and the Wraiths through a mist. Aye, Human, through a glass darkly, but yet face to face …

The cold was creeping over his body, now; it was stealing inside his skin, so that he was cold inside as well as out and it was licking his nerve endings now, with tiny, roughened tongues … This is not in the least bit sensual, said Floy’s mind. I am not responding to any of this in the smallest bit.

He was not responding at all, he was shivering with cold, and repulsed by the Geimhreadh, who was still rearing up over him, darting her snake-head face at him, reaching out the tiny fin-hands to touch his skin …

And I am not responding … I do not believe in enchantments, and I do not believe in the Robemaker’s Cloak of Sensuality.

Without warning, the blood descended between his thighs and there was a rush not of heat, but of repulsive congealed coldness, a terrible travesty of lust. Repulsive! thought Floy, shuddering and sickened, but, as the thought formed, he heard the Wraiths screech with triumph, and the sound echoed and reverberated round the stone walls, and sent the waters of the River churning and foaming.

He hardens, Mistress, see how he is ready for your embrace … see how MANNISH he becomes … And then: what easy prey these Mortals are!

Floy’s eyes were half-closed, but he could still see, very clearly, the evil, grinning masks of the Wraiths, and he could see the flat snakesmile of the Geimhreadh; he could taste the sour stench of her rancid flesh. He knew his body to be hardening, responding, betraying him, making a sick mockery of every sweet moment enjoyed in the rainbow-lit afternoons and of every scented hour stolen or snatched or enjoyed. I will not respond, said Floy silently, furiously. This has nothing at all to do with the sweet longing of one creature for another. This is malevolent magic. I won’t respond.

But the Wraiths were swarming over him now, tracing icy patterns across his naked skin with their sharp, dripping fingers, and there was a frenetic throbbing between his thighs, a horrid cold coagulation of blood and seed.

‘There is no fighting, Human,’ said the Geimhreadh and slid on to the couch beside him.

The Wraiths shrieked their rasping cries again and swooped all about him, but the Geimhreadh had lumbered her great writhing shape on to the couch and she was twining all about his limbs. There was a moment when she coiled her body into a spiral, so that Floy felt the tail somewhere against his feet, thick and crustlike. And then she straightened, the neckless torso pressing against him.

I shall endure it, said Floy silently, setting his teeth. I shall endure it and she will soon have done and then, perhaps, there will be a chance to escape. It cannot last for ever.

The Geimhreadh was flicking her forked tongue over his skin, little darting jabs that made his entire body crawl with repulsion. She squirmed her head across his body and darted between his legs. Floy felt the scaly skin brush his thighs and flung his head back, willing himself to endure without murmur.

The forked tongue darted again and the finlike hands curved about his stiff phallus, cupping it in a travesty of a lover’s caress … I shan’t feel any of it, said Floy silently. I shan’t know this is happening. I’ll remember that it’s part of the quest to help Nuadu and the others, that it’s part of the fight for them to regain Tara. Tara, the Shining Palace … Yes, that was better. That was a good thought, a clean thought. I’ll think about Tara and I’ll think about how Fenella and I might be able to be there properly, openly, how we might be able to enjoy the banquets and the feasts and the entertainments.

The forked tongue darted again, long and flickering, longer than seemed possible … it lengthened, curling whiplike from the creature’s flat lips and slid down into the shaft of Floy’s captured penis.

And down and down, probing deep into his body …

It felt like a million slimy cold needles pouring down, penetrating the most vulnerable part of him. It felt like every foul thing and every nightmare, and every slimed creature he had ever imagined, and every one of them was invading his body …

The Geimhreadh paused for long enough to glance up and to fix him with her basilisk eyes … See how I can enjoy you, Human morsel … And then returned to her horrid work, writhing and squirming against him, the fin-hands resting on Floy’s thighs to support her weight.

She made a really dreadful settling movement, as a creature about to hatch eggs will settle on a nest, and Floy felt the tongue again and struggled, for the cold wet was turning to white-hot needles. His loins felt as if they were being pierced, invaded by millions of tiny sizzling pokers …

The Geimhreadh made a terrible sucking sound and Floy’s muscles tensed and tightened. He set his teeth again and clenched his fists, but the creature’s tongue was embedded deep in his vitals and the Robemaker’s Cloak of Sensuality was all about him and there was no possible escape.

The climax, when it came, bore no resemblance to the soft explosions of pure pleasure he had known on Renascia. There was a deep, wrenching pain, a feeling of smothering, of something being suffocated, aborted, so that muscles which had been about to unfold, cramped, and nerve-endings winced. Floy half lifted his head and saw, with helpless disgust, the neck muscles of the Geimhreadh rippling as she swallowed his seed from its source …

Then there was a sound from the second couch and a sudden cry. The Geimhreadh turned her head just as Snodgrass slid from the second couch and into the River of the Dead.

Snodgrass had not intended to go directly into the dank waters of the River. He had, in fact, been working quietly and doggedly at the hair-ropes that bound him, as he had thought that the Geimhreadh and the Storm creatures would be so busy with Floy that they would not notice what he was doing.

He had thought that it ought to be quite easy to slip from the couch and hide somewhere outside the stone chamber until some kind of hue and cry was raised. (He had, in fact, been rather pleased at remembering this archaic expression.) Then he might find some way to rescue Floy.

It ought to have been easy to slip from the couch and hide somewhere. There was nothing to lose by at least trying this. Snodgrass had loosened the ropes carefully and furtively; it had been quite difficult, but he had managed it, strand by horrid strand, and he had actually been free for several minutes before he made his move. This had had to be judged very carefully indeed, because too soon would have attracted attention, too late and it would not have been worth escaping.

So he had judged carefully and he thought he had judged quite well, really. The pity was that he had not allowed for — or perhaps not seen — the cold slipperiness of the stone floor. He had slipped, not much, but enough, and the slip had turned into a skid and he had skidded straight into the River of Souls and found himself clinging to the sides, with the waters lapping about his ankles. There was a dreadful feeling of being pulled and a really terrible sensation of grasping hands within the River …

Come down into the depths, Human, and make one with us all … Snodgrass shuddered and tried to reach a safer footing, but the sides of the River were greasy and it was impossible to gain a hold anywhere. Snodgrass felt himself sliding away, so that the turgid waters of the River of Souls inched higher, and the reaching hands felt a little closer.

When Snodgrass cried out, Floy felt the Geimhreadh start back and, as she did so, the Wraiths swooped down about her head. There was a moment when the hooded eyes searched the shadows.

‘Where is the other one?’ said the Geimhreadh, and Floy saw the forked tongue flicker and dart, and then the Wraiths dived again and the Frost Giantess turned to urge them on.

The ropes that bound him had loosened beneath the Geimhreadh’s writhings and Floy, working frantically, managed to loosen them a little further. By dint of using his fingernails to saw at the ropes, strand by strand, he felt the coarse ropes part and his wrists spring free. The Geimhreadh was swaying to where Snodgrass was clinging to the sides of the River; for the moment she was not paying Floy any attention and Floy slid a furtive hand to the ropes about his ankles. It would be strand by strand again and he would have to work quickly and stealthily. I don’t know if I can do it, thought Floy, his eyes never leaving the undulating snake-form of the Geimhreadh. I don’t know if there will be time …

The watertight was rippling frantically on the stone walls now, as the River was churned into turbulent life by the threshing of the creatures within. Floy, hearing Snodgrass’s struggles, knew that the fish-Humans were no longer in their night torpor; they were alive and alert, and they were reaching out for the Human.

Come down down into the River of the Dead and join us, for we are sick for company and we are greedy for new friends …

The Geimhreadh had approached the River’s edge, moving with her ugly, legless gait which was not quite a walk but not quite a slither. The Wraiths swooped and screeched, darting at Snodgrass, prodding him with their long fingers, leering and chuckling and emitting their shrill cold cries.

Floy thought: and I am almost free. Only another few strands, only another minute or two, and I shall be free. And then the strands parted and he was free. He leapt from the couch and made for the River’s edge. He reached for Snodgrass at exactly the same moment as the Geimhreadh.

There was a hissing screech of fury as the monster whipped round, Floy felt his balance miss and he went headlong into the River of Souls, dragging Snodgrass with him …

At once, the River swirled into angry turbulence, and white spume appeared everywhere. From the dark turgid depths, there reared up dozens of pale, barely Human things, riding the waters and surrounding the helpless Floy and Snodgrass. The stench of rotting fish gusted into their faces, and there was the touch of scales brushing their skins, the sudden downward sucking of an underground tide.

Help us, Humans, SOULLED Humans … We cannot see you, but we can hear you and sense you and smell you, and we know you are free as we are not …

The soul-less creatures of the River of the Dead … They were all around Floy and Snodgrass, they were reaching for them with their rudimentary arms, riding the River’s flow in their blind fumbling compulsion to reach the creatures they could sense were close to them.

Floy, gasping and half-blinded by the churning waters, clutched at Snodgrass lest they should both be submerged. His vision was obscured by the white spumy River, but he could see that the creatures closest to them possessed scaly skins and that here and there the scales had thickened, repulsively, into shell.

Shell-backed creatures, grotesque crustaceans that once were Human …

Their eyes were already protruding on thick gristly stalks and the bulbous growths at the ends of the stalks swivelled, seeking the fish-creatures’ prey. Floy struck out at the nearest, hating himself for hurting the poor doomed thing, but knowing it was the only chance to break free. He sliced frantically at the nearest creature’s eye stalk, severing it from the hideous body and, at once, the thick pale blood oozed over him so that he felt his entire body engulfed in sickened disgust.

But even as the half-blinded, shelled thing fell back, churning the River to boiling turbulence again, Floy and Snodgrass both felt the cold scaly creatures pulling them down beneath the surface. The thick slabby waters of the terrible River flowed into their eyes and their mouths and they tasted slime and weed. Snodgrass choked and fought and, as he did so, the pale bloated faces of the soul-less fish-beings loomed yet closer, and the anguish and the greed of the distorted minds flowed outwards.

Help us, Human ones, help us out of our eternal prison …

They were being pulled down and down, gasping and helpless, the green muddy River closing over their heads. Floy could feel Snodgrass’s hand on his arm and he grasped it at once, for they could not possibly lose one another.

Human, but covered partly in silvery scale-like growths; fins that were not quite hands but not yet fins flapped and reached, and in the dimness, they could see the breathing flap-like gills that the creatures had developed in their necks.

To Snodgrass, who did not like fish in any form, this was the most repulsive thing yet, and to Floy, who was feeling his lungs begin to burn and scald with the lack of air, it was sinister in the extreme. For these creatures, these soul-less victims of the Robemaker and his kind, have managed to survive down here … they have adapted to a half-life in the River because they have no souls and therefore will never die … But we shall die, thought Floy, feeling his vision blur and waver, knowing that in another moment, in a very few seconds, they would both be forced to draw in breath and, when that happened, water would flood their lungs and they would die …

They struggled frantically to get above the surface again and there was a brief respite as they emerged, gasping and retching, gulping in precious lungfuls of air before the fish-Humans reached for them again, and the dark green waters closed about them once more.

And then, just as Floy thought they must be facing death, Snodgrass clutched Floy’s arm and thrust his other hand ahead in a slow pointing gesture and Floy saw, directly ahead of them, light pouring outwards from somewhere, throwing into sharp relief the darting misshapen fish-Humans.

They both surged forward at once — although the light might mean nothing at all, thought Floy — and the fish-Humans surged with them, churning the River into turbulence again, so that the light shivered and blurred.

But it is still there! thought Floy, feeling his lungs nearly bursting, red lights beginning to flash before his vision. The light is there and if only, if only we can reach it …

And then, without warning, the fish-Humans moved faster, creating a sudden current of water, and then they were in the light, and there were dark walls of some kind of tunnel all about them. Floy summoned up one last shred of resolve, and pulled Snodgrass with him straight at the light.

They emerged, gasping, dripping wet and exhausted, into an underground cave, where the waters of the River of Souls lapped gently and quietly against pale white rock.

Floy thought they were both certainly more alive than dead. They drew in air thankfully and neither of them moved or spoke for a very long time.

And then Floy, pulling himself together, sat up and looked about him and saw that the cave was quite a shallow one; it was possible to see straight ahead, to where the mouth of the cave opened onto a calm, flat, night landscape of fields and trees and star-spattered sky.

There was a cold clearness to the scene and a cleanness about the air.

And then Floy looked to the left and saw rearing, elaborate gates and high city walls. From within the walled city there glowed warmth and light and, occasionally, tongues of flame licked high into the night air. Even at this distance, he could see that the city walls were red-gold and that the elaborately wrought gates were tipped with flame.

The Fire Court of the Sorceress Reflection. There was no doubting it.

Chapter Thirty-six

It was extremely boring to have to go down into Mother’s nightly gathering and pretend to be enjoying the revelries and the feastings. Flame thought it was the most boring thing that anyone could ever be expected to do.

She had a new gown, of course; Mother had chosen it, because Mother always did choose her gowns, which was something else that was extremely boring.

It all came of Mother pretending that Flame was actually much younger than she was, so that Mother could sigh and tell everyone how young she was herself, ‘Of course, I was the merest child when that creature Fael-Inis took advantage of my innocence.’

Fael-Inis was Flame’s father, and everyone in the Court knew that Mother had not been innocent at all, although everyone fell in with the story because none of them wanted to be flung incontinently from the Court and perhaps find themselves on the Gruagach Road which would mean facing the Frost Giantess and the Wraiths.

Reflection did not trouble her head over the Frost Giantess. ‘Oh, I can easily send out a spell or two to deal with her,' she said, when people wondered whether the Frost Giantess ever posed any kind of threat to Reflection’s territories. ‘Of course she is not a threat! The very idea! Everyone knows she never got beyond the most basic of spell-weaving -I feel rather sorry for her, if you want the truth. Poor creature, she is not much sought after these days. I have sometimes wondered whether it would be a kind gesture to ask her to supper … What do you think? Or even,’ said Reflection thoughtfully, ‘for a few days’ stay. But then, of course, she would devour all my young men and that would never do. Poor things, they are utterly loyal to me.’ She smiled her catsmile.

‘They do say,’ said Reflection, growing confidential, ‘that she bites off their phalluses, before she eats their bodies and spits them out into the River of Souls for the fish-Humans to catch. Well,’ said Reflection, with one of her superb shrugs, ‘such vulgarity, leave aside the waste. No, I really could not have such a person staying in my beautiful Fire Court. It would lower the tone and people are so quick to notice these things. Before we knew it, they would be saying that I had become common. And if there is one thing I will not become, it is common. The Geimhreadh will have to stay where she is. Although they do say,’ said Reflection, thoughtfully, ‘they do say, that Gruagach is in positive ruins. Well, it is very sad, but we cannot be worrying about other people’s problems when we have so many of our own.’

Mother did not really have any problems, or none that Flame knew about, unless it might be the almost certain arrival of a new set of bailiffs at the Fire Court, which was an occurrence so frequent that nobody remarked it any longer.

‘Fling them into the River,’ Mother usually said on these occasions. And then, ‘Or no, on second thoughts, let me inspect them first. Bailiffs can be quite extraordinarily attractive now and then. I believe it is the power they have over one. You would be almost certain to submit, just a little, to someone who could throw you out of your house if he wanted to. Authoritative,’ said Reflection, nodding. ‘Yes, very attractive.’

They had a total of twenty-seven bailiffs now living at the Fire Court as a result of Mother’s finding the species attractive. This was generally thought to be a reasonable proportion when you considered that nearly a hundred had come to the Court over the years.

‘Dear souls,’ said Reflection. ‘And they do enjoy one another’s company. I believe they have set up some kind of money-lending institution, solely for everyone here, and if that is not generous, I do not know what is. I believe, you know, that you could say I had founded a community,’ said Reflection thoughtfully. ‘Services to the rest of the Court.

Very altruistic of me, wouldn’t you say?’

Mother liked it thought that she was generous. ‘I am the soul of generosity,’ she said whenever anyone was around whom it might be useful to let hear this. ‘Stories of my benevolence precede my coming everywhere.’ But, later, she would remind Flame that she had not a bottomless purse. ‘And where you find these hangers-on, Flame, I do not know. I do not know the quarter of the people who are to dine tonight.’

It was pointless to say that Flame knew none of the people either, because they would nearly all be adventurers or young men seeking their fortune, or poor younger sons on the make. Now and again there would be a few pilgrims, or genuine travellers, which could be quite interesting, but, in the main, the people who came to the Fire Court were ruffians and gamblers and opportunists.

‘The raff and skaff of Ireland,’ said Reflection, studying a guest list for that evening’s banquet and frowning. ‘Well, of course, my dear, it is entirely your affair who you ask here. I should not dream of turning away your friends. I never interfere,’ said Reflection, to whom interfering was meat and drink. ‘And I certainly never gossip,’ she said virtuously. ‘Y our father would tell you that, if he was here to tell you anything, which of course he is not.’

Flame’s father had never, to Flame’s knowledge, visited the Fire Court — ‘Too arrogant,’ said Reflection, ‘we are quite beneath his notice.’ — and, although Flame had never met him, she was intrigued by the stories, all of which she listened to. If you had to have a father whom you had never met, it was rather fun to have one who was mysterious and enigmatic and who was supposed to be able to whisk himself in and out of Time. As a child, Flame had listened to the servants’ gossip for hours on end, stealing down the narrow, curving steps which led to the sculleries and curling into a chimney comer where she could not be seen. She had crept down to the firerooms as well sometimes, where the immense furnaces that lit the Court were kept, and which had to be stoked and fed and maintained round the clock. This had not been so easy, because the fire-room workers guarded their domain jealously.

But she had heard a great many of the stories about Fael-Inis, the creature of fire and light and speed, and how Mother had somehow seduced him in the Fire Mountains and then quarrelled with him just before Flame was born. She had laid a great many plots for getting out of the Fire City and somehow travelling to the Palace of Wildfire where Fael-Inis lived, but Mother usually found these out (Flame suspected that this was not sorcery but plain old-fashioned spying) and confined Flame to her room for a week with bread and water to eat, and sometimes even summoned up a demon or two to give her nightmares so the game had ceased to be worth the candle. Flame would probably get to meet her father eventually, but not until she was quite old, by which time her father would have lost his famous charm and his intriguing habit of travelling through Time and it was all a very great pity.

It was going to be extremely tedious in the Court tonight.

‘I do wish,’ said Reflection, sweeping into Flame’s bedchamber an hour before the ball was due to start, ‘I do wish you would make an effort.’ She began to pick disconsolately at the contents of Flame’s wardrobe, remembering how this gown had been ordered for the night of the Masquerade Dance, and how this one had been worn on the day Inchbad sent his special envoy with the marriage proposal.

‘When I think,’ said Reflection, wringing her hands, ‘of how I scraped to give you a chance-well, I despair, that is all I can say, and that is a truly terrible thing for a mother to do of a daughter.’ She eyed Flame crossly. ‘Here you are,’ said Reflection, ‘approaching the age of-oh no, do not tell me your age, for I do not wish to know, so elderly-making-and how you are to be properly and honourably joined with Inchbad when all you do is scowl, I have not the remotest idea!’

‘Would you marry a giant?’ said Flame, and Reflection flung up her hands in despair.

‘If you knew the debts I have incurred,’ she began, which was quite an old ploy and one which Flame was entirely familiar with. ‘I am famous for my debts,’ said Reflection, who enjoyed her debts enormously and would not have relinquished one of them. ‘Do you know how many times I have escaped being flung into a debtors’ prison?’

‘Six,’ said Flame in a mutter.

‘Six,’ said Reflection dramatically. ‘My dear, the indignity of it! They would all be very pleased to see it happen, of course,’ she added. ‘The other sorceresses and the Court hangers-on. I should be the talk of the Sybilline Ladies’ Circle for at least a year, because they have very little else to occupy them, poor things.’ She eyed Flame. ‘But really, Flame, there is no help for it other than for you to marry Inchbad. They say he is quite reasonable-looking for a giant. And we should have the most lavish celebration.’

Flame said, ‘What about the Fire Ritual?’ because she had been brought up on the legend that if anyone with a vein of Amaranthine blood wanted to lie with a Human, the Human must first bathe in the Fire Rivers of Fael-Inis’s country. ‘Or,’ said the legend, ‘he will be shrivelled up at once.’

And so Flame, espying a possible escape here, said, ‘What about the Fire Ritual?’ every time Mother became too insistent on the proposed marriage with Inchbad.

‘A mere ritual,’ said Reflection, at once. ‘Hardly necessary, really. And you know perfectly well that the donning of a Fire Robe more or less gets round the problem.’

Mother had a cupboardful of Fire Robes, which the Robemaker supplied at a special price. She boasted that it was one of her hallmarks to coax her Human lovers into donning one of these before she took him off to bed, so that the Amaranthine blood did not harm him. Sometimes she did not bother with the Robe, of course, which meant that the poor young man had to be flung out the next morning, dried and scorched and shrivelled. Sometimes he was flung out anyway, Robe or not.

The Fire Robes were actually rather beautiful; they were made of a particular combination of fire (to match the Amaranth blood) and ice (to prevent the fire from scalding the colder Human blood). The Robemaker wove them with delicate threads of living flames and thin, pale icicles so that they hung to the wearer’s feet and down to his wrists, swathes of glittering scarlet and icy blue. They were silken to the touch and had the peculiar quality of feeling first blazingly hot and then exquisitely cool. Flame had seen several of Mother’s more favoured young men wearing them and they were extremely becoming. But the thought of Inchbad donning one made her feel ill. There was something quite horridly intimate about getting into bed with somebody who had put on a beautiful silken robe on your account. It ought to have been the sort of thing you only shared with someone with whom you were extremely close.

Flame knew quite well that, in fact, Mother’s ancestry was at best questionable. She had even heard whispers that her only claim on the Amaranthine House was that her great-grandmother had once caught the eye of a very famous Amaranthine sorcerer and spent a night with him, as far back as the reign of Cormac of the Wolves. With this ancestry, Mother could therefore claim nothing better than a bastard connection with the Amaranthines. And a tenuous one at that, said Reflection’s detractors dismissively, although nobody ever dared to say this to Reflection direct, because no matter how fragile the connection, Reflection could still call up remarkably effective enchantments, never mind the fire demons, with whom she was on very good terms. The servants said that Madame was a rare old one with the fire demons, and it more than a body’s life was worth to risk having them set on you.

Reflection smiled vaguely on Flame and departed in search of the sempstress who had left her new gown a half inch too short and would, as a result, be put to the mercies of one of those very demons for an hour or so, because Reflection did not believe in allowing menials to think they could get away with slipshod, slapdash work.

At the centre of the Fire Court, Reflection’s chefs and scullions and spit-boys and scrub-women were hard at work on the banquet that Madame had ordered for the evening’s entertainment. It was a fairly small banquet as banquets went; there would probably not be more than a hundred or so sitting down to the feast, although this could not be relied upon, because Madame sometimes had the way of adding upwards of a dozen extra guests at the last minute and it all made for a very difficult time. It made it hard to assess the number of roast swan and stewed peacock to serve and it made it very difficult indeed to know how many oxen to put on the roasting spits, because if the numbers at table were not what you had expected, you were left with a surfeit of roast ox, which was all very well, but could be a nuisance, since nobody wanted to have to eat roast oxen for a week, and Reflection would not entertain the idea of left-overs of any kind in the Aurora Banqueting Hall.

But a banquet had been ordered, and so a banquet would have to appear, never mind that they were all of them scratching their heads to get in the necessary food and wine, let alone clean table linen and crystalware, because if Madame had ever paid a bill in her life, nobody could remember it.

The bedchamber staff turned their energies to the laying of clean silk sheets on all the beds, because everybody knew how Madame’s banquets ended, and they were careful not to forget the discreet placement of flagons of aphrodisiacal wine for those whose strengths might flag a bit towards dawn. They were hotly in dispute with the kitchen staff as to which of them was the most overworked; Madame was very particular about her bedchambers, they said, and she was very particular indeed about her own bedchamber. When you considered that you never knew just what you might be finding on the floor of Madame’s bedchamber on mornings after a banquet, you might count yourself very fortunate if all you had to do was conjure up a few roast geese and maybe a swan or two to grace the table. Also, hadn’t Madame the habit of drawing up a strict rota for her own night’s activities. And if the kitchen staff thought it an easy task to have to keep an eye on the clock all night, and send in the young men every hour on the hour, they were welcome to try it.

The kitchen staff refused to be drawn. They said that, when you remembered that Madame had the way of flinging nearly all the unsatisfactory lovers bodily through the window before breakfast, it cut down on the tidying up of a morning, never mind reducing the number of breakfasts to be carried in.

Deep beneath the great Court, the furnace rooms would pour out the leaping firelight and the fire-room slaves would be working throughout the night to keep the furnaces fed. Nobody knew very much about the fire-room slaves, who kept themselves to themselves, (although the kitchen staff said they ate pretty heartily), but it was rumoured that Madame had an arrangement with the Robemaker, who kept her supplied with slaves from his own dark Workshops, and that they were kept happy by Madame taking them to her bed, once a week in strict rotation. Nobody had ever been able to find out the truth of this, but it was the sort of thing you could easily believe. Amongst the kitchen staff (who considered themselves overworked) and the bedchamber staff (who considered themselves under-valued) the fire-room slaves were known as Madame’s rough-rides, because work in the furnace rooms was apt to coarsen a person.

And so the great Fire Court hummed and throbbed with preparation and the scents of food and wine mingled with the scents of burning applewood and fruitwood, which Madame caused to be flung into the furnaces in cruel defiance of the laws governing the Trees. The ladies of the Court studied their wardrobes and sighed, because no matter what one wore, one would certainly be outshone by Madame herself, and the gentlemen wondered, a touch uneasily, which of them might be beckoned to Madame’s bedchamber and whether they would be able to stay the course if so, or whether they would end in being thrown from the window, which was the sort of fate which could bring eternal shame and disgrace to your descendants.

Reflection herself passed a pleasant hour in trying on a new enchantment which she had ordered from the Robemaker, which would have the happy effect of making every man who saw her fall desperately in love with her, and Flame sat in her bedchamber and thought up four ways of escaping from the Court, and wondered if she would have the courage to try any of them.

The doorkeeper, preparing to take his usual postprandial snooze, noticed two somewhat bedraggled travellers approaching and sighed, because it was a sad old life when a man could not have a bit of sleep after his dinner. Still, you could not turn away two poor creatures who had fallen foul of the Geimhreadh. They would have to be brought inside and warmed and fed, and probably provided with clothing. Also, orders were orders, and Madame’s orders were that all travellers were to be taken inside and made welcome, because, Madame said with one of her greedier smiles, you never knew what might turn up on your doorstep.

Flame was not particularly interested in the news that two travellers had come from Inchbad with designs for Crown Jewels, although there were rumours about their escape from the Frost Giantess which sounded as if they might have an interesting tale to tell.

But Inchbad had been sending presents and deputations and concessions to the Fire Court ever since it had occurred to the Gruagach to try to ally themselves with Reflection’s daughter. The thing to do was to go on reminding Mother about the Fire Ritual, and the necessity for persuading Fael-Inis to let them into the Palace of Wildfire to accomplish this. Since Mother had spent eighteen years denigrating Fael-Inis, it seemed pretty unlikely that he would open his Palace gates for something so trivial. Flame was rather pleased to have hit on the word trivial, because it seemed to reduce Inchbad and the entire scheme to something that did not matter very much.

But she donned the new gown for the banquet because it would probably be quite rude to just not turn up, and tried not to arrive too early when nobody would be there, but tried not to be too late either, which would have meant making a grand entrance, and which would, moreover, have annoyed Mother, who liked to arrive last, so that the musicians could play a fanfare and everyone could turn to look. Mother enjoyed making sweeping entrances; she made no secret of this and liked to tell people that she had designed the Aurora Banqueting Hall, if not the entire Fire Court, with this in mind.

Flame knew this to be stretching the truth because the Aurora Banqueting Hall had been Mother’s attempt to rival Tara’s Sun Chamber and the legendary Palace of Wildfire of Fael-Inis. Opinions were divided as to how well she had succeeded. Her detractors were wont to smile sadly and shake their heads and say that poor Reflection had done her best, but that really there was no comparison, quality would always out and dear Reflection had allowed her Hall to be spoiled by shoddy workmanship and cheap materials. Her followers, loyal to a man, if not sycophantic, were loud in maintaining that the Aurora Hall was infinitely superior to the brash Sun Chamber and the austere Palace of Wildfire.

The Palace itself was built of the pale dressed stone which Reflection had managed to discover in the distant quarries of the Western Isles and had brought inland at considerable expense — although Flame did not think it had been at Mother’s expense exactly, because the bailiffs said that the stone masons had never been paid, although Madame might have handed out a few discarded spells by way of reimbursement. The cluster of buildings and houses and lodges which had grown up around the Palace, and which housed the servants and their families, was built of the same pale cream stone. Flame, who was rarely permitted to step outside the City Walls, but who sometimes sneaked out at night when everyone was busy, thought that even when you did not have anything to compare it with, it was a beautiful place.

The City Gates had been angled to catch the evening sun and were tipped with raw gold to catch the light of the dying day, so that every evening the entire palace could be bathed in fiery light.

Chapter Thirty-seven

The fiery light from the City Gates was the first thing that Floy and Snodgrass had seen when they emerged from the terrible water caves of the Frost Giantess and the River of Souls, and in their cold and exhausted state, it seemed like a beacon, a bright warm lodestar sending out its allure. They had stood looking at it for a moment, Floy wrapped in Snodgrass’s cloak and they had known that their mission for the giants was almost completed.

They had entered warily at the behest of a rather dozy doorkeeper, then they rested and bathed and refreshed, and then had been provided with clean new garments by Reflection’s servants; who had appeared to find nothing at all untoward about the appearance of two cold and exhausted travellers who had escaped the Geimhreadh’s evil machinations by the skin of their teeth.

They were unsure of what they would find in the Banqueting Hall and they were wary about these people who served a sorceress.

‘But,’ Floy had said as they prepared to leave the comfortable, silk-hung bedchambers allotted to them, ‘we have to explore as fully as possible, because of Fenella.’

‘I should think she’d have got here long since,’ said Snodgrass, comfortingly.

They stood together looking about them, scanning the assembly for Fenella’s dark head and seeing only the sycophantic faces of the panoply of beings who had found their way to the Fire Court; noticing that there was a rather odd, certainly raffish set of people here.

‘I can’t see Fenella,’ hissed Floy.

‘Nor can I.’

Snodgrass started to say that in a place the size of this one it would be possible for a hundred people to remain hidden when there was a fanfare of music from the musicians and every head turned to the great, curving stair.

Snodgrass, who was rather short, stood on tiptoe, and wanted to know what was happening.

‘I rather think,’ said Floy, ‘that it’s our hostess.’

The musicians had sprung to attention and were playing the fanfare which always announced Reflection’s arrival. Everybody prepared to kneel in homage, because wouldn’t there be the devil to pay if Madame entered the Aurora Hall music-less and unnoticed? And nobody wanted to risk having the fire demons summoned.

Reflection stood framed in the great golden archway at the top of the stairway, smiling and nodding, lifting her left hand in acknowledgement, because, as she told everyone, there was nothing like a fanfare to attract people’s attention.

Floy, standing with Snodgrass, found himself thinking he had never before heard any music quite so garish or quite so grating, and he had certainly never seen anything to equal the arrival of the lady who was now descending the stair. He thought, as she moved down the stair and along the line of waiting people, that she had the pleased air of a wayward child who has dressed up in grand clothes and is expecting the grown-ups to praise her. See how important I am! she was thinking to herself. See how everyone kneels and renders me obeisance!

Floy thought she was not young by anybody’s reckoning, although he thought that to calculate her years by ordinary reckoning probably could not apply. How long did sorceresses live? She was rather tall and slender and her skin was the pure pale colour of buttermilk or of polished ivory. Her hair was dark and, although there were red lights in it, Floy thought these might be the reflection of the fireglow of the Banqueting Hall, rather than natural colours. Her gown of real leaping flames was the most dazzling thing he had ever seen; he thought to begin with that it was frightening, and then he thought it was beautiful, and then he thought it was neither of these, but part of the wilful child out to shock. Look at this outrageous gown I am wearing!

She is probably rather fun, thought Floy, but she is probably perfectly capable of calling up a nasty enchantment or two if somebody displeases her. I wonder what Fenella thought of her, wondered Floy, and looked round for Fenella again, because although he was rather enjoying Reflection and her bizarre Fire Court, he would have enjoyed it all much more if he could have shared it with Fenella.

As Reflection progressed down the stair, the musicians quickened the flourishing music and there was a flurry of instruments that sent banner-like sounds into the waiting Banqueting Hall. The leaping fire-gown swirled and the thin, light wrap which cloaked it swished and the people of the Court fell to their knees.

Floy and Snodgrass, sons of a world where nearly all men were equal, stayed where they were, although Snodgrass inclined his head a little because, after all, this was their hostess, by all accounts a lady it would be better not to offend. Floy remained standing upright and, when Reflection looked across at them, grinned at her. At once, Reflection walked across the floor towards them, as if her attention had been caught, the flame-gown swishing on the polished surface. She held out a hand and Floy, amused at himself, raised it at once to his lips. He saw the fire-gown’s sleeve slip back over the dainty wrist and saw the tiny, curling flames rear back a little.

‘I am glad, madame,’ said Floy, urbanely, ‘that you are able to control the more active sections of your gown.’

‘Oh,’ said Reflection at once, her eyes fixed on Floy, ‘oh, this old thing. Oh, I promise you it is the veriest rag and it is only that it was the first thing to hand when I opened my wardrobe this evening.’ She stayed where she was and her eyes raked Floy from head to toe. Her smile widened a little and there was no question but that she was thinking: dear me, here is an attractive plaything. There was something childlike about the sudden, intense interest and the lack of any attempt to conceal that interest.

‘Do tell me,’ said Reflection, after a moment, lowering her voice thrillingly, ‘do tell me, are you merely travellers, or something more interesting? I am always interested in travellers,’ said Reflection and widened her eyes a little.

Floy said, ‘We are filled with gratitude for your hospitality, Madame,’ and Reflection at once said, ‘Oh, I am the soul of hospitality, everyone will tell you that. No one is ever turned from my doors, you know.’ And drawing closer, ‘Do tell me where you are from,’ she said.

‘We come from Tara, Madam,’ said Floy, and Snodgrass bobbed his head in agreement. ‘With,’ said Floy, documents from Inchbad.’ He knew a brief moment of gratitude that the Gnomes’ designs and Goibniu and Inchbad’s letters had been tucked safely in Snodgrass’s cloak and that, although they had been soaked in the River of Souls, they had dried out quite successfully.

‘Inchbad,’ said Reflection, purring. ‘The dear creature. You must tell me all about Tara.’ And then, ‘I thought you were not simply chance-met pilgrims. I can always detect — ’ she paused, and then went on. ‘I can always detect quality,’ said Reflection.

Floy said, ‘We have deliberately sought you out, madame. Can you think it otherwise?’ He grinned. ‘Also, we have braved the clutches of the Frost Giantess to reach you.’

‘Oh, that creature,’ said Reflection, dismissively. ‘Oh, she is the greatest nuisance. Nothing but trouble, for if she is not eating all the best young men around, she is doing unspeakable things to their bodies.’ She paused and studied Floy. ‘You appear remarkably unscathed, sir.’

‘I escaped within inches of my life,’ said Floy gravely, and Reflection narrowed her eyes.

‘I should like to hear of your adventures,’ she said.

‘It will be my pleasure. But,’ said Floy, ‘to begin with, we must discuss matters of business. Also, we were to meet two of our party here?’ He stopped, and Reflection furrowed her brow slightly.

‘I do not think we have had any other travellers arrive here lately,’ she said. ‘But they may still be on their way, for it is easy to miss the road.’ She drew a little nearer and Floy was conscious of the warm, musky perfume emanating from her skin. ‘I have deliberately cut myself off from the normal travel routes,’ said Reflection, thrillingly, ‘although, of course, people still manage to reach me.’ Again, it was the pleased child, proffering a clever deed for praise.

Floy said, ‘I see. Yes, that is possible.’

‘No one would be turned away,’ said Reflection earnestly. ‘I do promise you that.’

‘Your hospitality is famous, madame,’ said Floy, who was finding this rather superficial, rather insubstantial conversation remarkably easy. ‘And your legend goes before you.’

Reflection looked pleased.

‘And,’ said Floy, ‘you should know that we have brought from Tara the designs for the new Crown Jewels for your daughter — ’

The smallest frown creased the smooth brow again. ‘Such an ageing word,’ said Reflection. ‘Daughter. And, of course, she is the merest child. As for marriage, well, it is quite absurd, but there it is. I am not one to stand in the way of anyone’s happiness. And child brides are quite the fashion you know.’

‘Of course,’ murmured Floy.

‘I was one myself,’ disclosed Reflection.

‘Indeed?’ said Floy.

‘I was a babe, no more, when that creature Fael-Inis took advantage of my innocence,’ said Reflection. ‘I was seduced by an unprincipled stealer of virtue! Oh, I shall have my revenge, make no mistake. But in the meantime,’ said Reflection, apparently recalled to a sense of her surroundings, and certainly recalled to a reminder that she had marked Floy out as a possible lover, ‘in the meantime, I have sought to hide my disgrace from the world, along with the poor child who was the result of my sin — ’ She broke off and eyed Floy. ‘I promise you it is all true,’ said Reflection in a very different voice, and it was the engaging child again, solemnly promising to tell the truth, holding out a secret to be shared.

‘I am sure it is. And your — self-imposed enclosure is a very luxurious one,’ said Floy.

‘I cannot live without beauty about me,’ said Reflection firmly. ‘And when you have reached my level in sorcery, people expect certain things. Feasts and banquets and pageants. And you would not believe the amount these things cost! I have removed myself from such sordid subjects,’ said Reflection. ‘I cannot give of my best to my calling if I am constantly harried. I told them all that. I said, “You may do as you wish, but do not trouble me with your columns of figures and your nasty accounts.”

‘Also,’ said Reflection, ‘I was brought up always to have the best, and one becomes accustomed. And Flame, poor child, had to be given some kind of life.’ She drew a little closer and glanced over her shoulder. Floy and Snodgrass, fascinated, did the same. ‘It is most unfortunate,’ said Reflection in a dramatic whisper, ‘that the child's parentage will not permit of her joining with a Human without having first bathed in the Fire Rivers of her father’s country. You take my meaning, sirs?’

‘Really?’

‘She has missed so much,’ said Reflection, her huge dark eyes still on Floy. ‘It has meant that so many suitors are quite ineligible, because the ceremony of bathing in the Fire — oh, it is ruinously expensive. Well, I doubt there is anyone in Ireland who could afford it. I could not afford it,’ said Reflection firmly. ‘I have told Flame so. “My dear,” I said, “if you are ever to be joined with anyone, it will have to be with a very rich person indeed, for your father will delight in charging us the earth for the Fire River ceremony. I should be a positive pauper, if I had to foot the bill, and the mere thought is enough to send me into a shivering wreck,” I said. And that,’ said Reflection, ‘is positively the only reason I entertained Inchbad’s suit, because he can afford the Fire River ceremony and still have a king’s ransom left over. But I daresay you will know this if you are from Tara.’

‘We are the souls of discretion,’ said Floy, gravely, which, as Snodgrass was to remark later, might have meant anything at all.

‘Inchbad has made his mind up that he will have Flame,’ said Reflection, with one of her shrugs. ‘And who am I to stand in the way of such an advantageous alliance for the child? Well, we shall discuss it later,’ she said, and studied Floy thoughtfully again.

‘For the moment, we shall eat and drink and dance. Dear me, it is all so tedious. Really, I do not know a quarter of the people here tonight. But it is expected of me and, as I have always said, who am I to disappoint my people?’ She smiled benevolently on them and moved across to where a group of hopeful young men were waiting.

‘Well,’ said Snodgrass. ‘What now?’

‘No Fenella,’ said Floy, dropping the light, frivolous pose he had donned for Reflection. ‘I think we can believe Reflection.’

‘I don’t much care for this place,’ said Snodgrass, doubtfully. ‘It’s got a nasty feeling of decadence to it.’

‘Yes.’ Floy was still scanning the assembly and, as he did so, a slender girl with Reflection’s glossy hair and pale skin entered the Aurora Hall from a door at the far end.

Floy stood very still. He saw the golden eyes and the slightly reckless tilt to the girl’s head; the faint impression that she might see things other people could not see, or dance to music that no one else could hear. As she walked through the great Banqueting Hall the impression strengthened. There was an other-worldliness about her, as if she was not altogether real and might vanish at any minute.

Floy thought: she might be made of moonlight and starlight and the golden fire cressets that lit the Palace of Wildfire.

The Palace of Wildfire …

Fael-Inis’s daughter!

*  * *

Flame was quite surprised to be sought out by the young, dark-haired traveller. Usually people were so dazzled by Mother that they barely saw Flame at all, which generally pleased Flame who did not much like the people Mother asked to her banquets anyway. In fact, it was the gods’ mercy that the Robemaker had not turned up tonight, which happened sometimes, especially since Mother had recently discussed with him the possibility of his taking Flame in marriage.

The traveller was different to the usual guests. He had come straight to where Flame was watching the dancing and had asked her to dance, and then grinned and admitted he might not be very good at dancing because, where he came from, they did not have this kind of dancing. In fact, they did not have dancing at all. Perhaps they might sit and talk?

This was instantly intriguing, because Flame had never heard of a place that did not have dancing and feasts. It might be interesting to hear more about it.

It turned out to be very interesting indeed. Flame took him out into the gardens, away from the dreadful music and the lights, so that he could see the Fire Court blazing against the night sky which was what people often liked to do.

‘Astonishing,’ he said in a voice that sounded as if he might really have been thinking: Hideous, and Flame glanced up at him hopefully, because she had long since suspected that the Fire Court was extremely ugly, but she could not be sure about this on account of having nothing to compare it with. It would be extremely interesting to talk to someone who might be able to tell her for sure if it was as beautiful as Mother’s followers said, or simply downright grotesque.

They sat in one of the remote comers of the gardens which Mother had not yet spoiled and where there were sweet-scented night roses and honeysuckle and Flame asked to be told about Tara, which was where she thought the young man had come from, and heard, instead, about a strange world called Renascia and about a dark and fearsome Lodestar which had swallowed it up, and about how Floy and his sister and their two friends had fallen into some kind of Golden River and passed through Time.

‘We were rescued and brought here by Fael-Inis,’ said Floy, watching her closely.

Flame said, ‘Oh!’ in a rather breathless voice, and clapped both hands to her cheeks which had suddenly grown warm. She had pretended for years that she would run away to Fael-Inis who would welcome her, but it was not really possible.

Or was it? Seated here with Floy it seemed, in some inexplicable way, to be more possible than it had ever seemed before. Was it because Floy had escaped from his world into another world? Or was it simply that he was proving that other worlds existed?

There are other worlds, thought Flame, entranced. There are other worlds and people live in them and sometimes move from one world to another. She turned her mind back to Floy, wanting to hear more about Renascia, which was quite different from anything here.

It seemed that Floy had tried to change things; he had been on the governing body of his people — there had been something called a Council of Nine and they had not liked it when Floy had tried to introduce new ways, or replace the old laws with new ones, all of which Flame thought sounded rather sensible and interesting. It was fun to try new ideas. In the end, said Floy, he had fallen out with the Council, because he had challenged too many of its traditions.

‘Really challenged them?’ said Flame, hopefully, hardly daring to believe that he would turn out to be a genuine rebel.

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Floy, and grinned again. This time it was the grin which Fenella had always called the buccaneering grin, the pirate who had wanted to turn Renascia upside-down.

‘I was a rebellious leader,’ he said, and this time Flame heard the amusement and the touch of selfmockery. It was absurd to think: this is how my father might sound, but she found that she was thinking it. Because Floy is a nonconformist, a defiant challenger of the shibboleths …

Floy is a rebel … Flame sat back, savouring this, and staring at Floy in delight.

Floy smiled, enjoying her strange, ethereal quality; seeing how her hair had red lights in it and how, as well, her eyes slanted and shone exactly like her father’s. Her skin was a warm golden colour, as if whatever had laid its burnishing fingers on her hair had let the colours run into her skin as well.

Fael-Inis’s daughter, born of a long-ago night when he was lured into a sorceress’s bed … I wonder what the truth of all that really is, thought Floy. I wonder why I am finding her so extraordinarily beautiful, when I did not find her glittering mother in the least bit beautiful?

But he only said, in a conversational tone, ‘The Fire Court is a remarkable place,’ and waited for her response.

‘It is believed to be beautiful,’ said Flame, politely, and then, ‘I do not have anything to compare it with, of course.’

‘No.’

‘I think it’s loud and vulgar,’ she said, defiantly, silently willing him to agree, and Floy saw with delight that her chin tilted in exactly the way her father’s had done and that her eyes sparkled with his golden luminosity.

‘I would not have said vulgar precisely,’ said Floy, and Flame felt the tendrils of disappointment uncurl, because, after all he was going to be just like the rest.

‘I would have said garish and pretentious and barbaric,’ said Floy, and Flame sent him her sudden blinding smile, because it was all right again.

Flame said, confidingly, ‘I sometimes pretend that I’ll run away.’ It was not something she would normally have disclosed to somebody she had only just met, but it would be all right to say it to Floy who had challenged his people and had been branded a rebel.

‘How?’ Floy seemed to be listening quite seriously, as if it might be entirely possible, and Flame was encouraged to expand.

‘I’d go by night,’ she explained. ‘Or perhaps early morning when no one was about.’ She leaned forward, clasping her hands about her bent knees. ‘Then I could be sure of not being missed and brought back. You can have no idea how — how dreadfully boring it is living here, with only Mother’s stupid admirers and people who don’t dare to oppose her, and nothing but horrid, glittering banquets every night. I’d like to see the other worlds. I’d like to travel to them and see how the people live, and find out about them.’

Fael-Inis’s daughter, travelling all the worlds like a will o’ the wispy slipping in and out of Time as effortlessly as her father, the rebel angel, did …

Floy said, in a voice carefully devoid of any expression, ‘Then why don’t you?’

‘Runaway?’

‘It would be easy,’ said Floy. ‘We could be out into the night and gone.’

‘Over the hills and far away,’ said Flame, and her voice was soft and her eyes held such delight that Floy knew that the image of those other worlds, and of the will o’ the wisp creature that longed for them, had been a true one.

‘Into Fael-Inis’s country and safe,’ he said to test her and, at once, the golden delight leapt to her eyes and he saw that she had meant it about running away, that she was not just being whimsical to attract his attention.

‘It is not so very far,’ he said.

But the habit of years held. Flame said, ‘It isn’t possible.’ And looked at him and waited for him to say that of course it was possible, that anything in the world was possible.

‘Why isn’t it possible?’ asked Floy, and Flame gazed at him in purest joy. ‘It wasn’t possible for my sister and me to travel from another world here,’ said Floy. ‘And yet we are here.’

Flame drew in a deep breath and started to say that it was a difficult, dangerous journey to Fael-Inis’s Palace, when a blaze of light erupted on the other side of the garden and people started screaming.

Chapter Thirty-eight

To begin with, nobody in the Aurora Hall had realised that anything was wrong. The banquet had finished; everyone had enjoyed it and they had been getting ready to dance, because the musicians had struck up for a roundel of the grand old Bedchamber Chase. This was greeted with cheers, because everybody liked the Bedchamber Chase, which was performed to extremely sly and saucy-sounding music and which required the participants to dance in and out of every bedchamber in the entire Court, meaning that if you happened to just stay on awhile in a bedchamber other than your own, (or even more than one) nobody noticed. It was all very friendly.

And then, just as the line for the Chase was assembling (the bailiffs had been a bit out of line, which was only to be expected, of course), people had begun to notice that Madame was nowhere to be seen, which was rather odd. Madame might be anywhere at all, of course, and it was nothing to do with her people; but it was unusual to find her not in place to lead them in the Bedchamber Chase and it was very unusual indeed not to see her waiting at the head of the gold staircase, watching everyone assemble.

A number of people thought that perhaps Madame had already taken her twin lovers off to her bedchamber, but then others said, no, there were the twins, on the other side of the Aurora Hall, as perplexed as everyone else.

A buzz of consternation started up and then, without warning, Madame was with them, swishing in through the great crystal doors that led out to the gardens, sweeping across the golden floor of the Banqueting Hall with the flames of her gown sizzling, and shafts of light streaming from her eyes.

Everyone dodged out of range, because a shaft of light could inflict quite surprising damage, and it was perfectly plain that Madame was in one of her tantrums.

Reflection stood in the centre of the glittering golden Aurora Hall, directly beneath the great, ruby-studded chandelier, and the musicians faltered into silence and everybody looked at everybody else and most people tried to think who might have incurred Madame’s displeasure, but nobody could think who had.

Reflection said, in strident tones, ‘Where is my daughter?’ and people looked anxiously around for Flame, who was not to be seen.

‘And where,’ said Reflection, glaring across at Snodgrass, ‘is the other traveller to whom I have extended my generous hospitality?’ But Snodgrass, who had fallen in with several of the bailiffs, had not noticed that Floy had disappeared. He had been listening to the bailiffs who were telling him about Reflection’s numerous and gargantuan debts and he had been so interested that he had not seen Floy and Flame vanish into the gardens.

‘I haven’t the least idea,’ he said, and belatedly added, ‘Madame,’ which was what the bailiffs had said Reflection liked to be called.

Reflection’s people, who knew their mistress very well indeed, guessed what had happened. They might even have breathed a sigh of relief, if Madame’s tantrums were not something to be so earnestly avoided. Flame, naughty child, had for once caught the eye of one of Madame’s young men and Madame was in a high old rage as a result. Well, there would be no escaping some very nasty fate or other for the young man — and probably there would be something very unpleasant ahead for Flame as well, saucy minx.

‘Out into the gardens and find them!’ cried Reflection and, as she turned on her heel, she appeared to grow in stature and become a whirling column of fire, so that she towered above the guests and the people of the Court.

The flames of her gown sizzled and spat and the smoky dark cloak billowed. Everyone began to walk stealthily backwards from her, because they all knew what happened when Madame whipped herself into one of her famous fire-rages. They all remembered the last time it had happened, when the fire demons had nearly broken from her restraints and a number of the Court had fallen under their malevolent sorcery and been forced to dance the terrible Fire Frenzy of the Demons to exhaustion point, until Madame had managed to imprison them again.

But they went out at once, rushing into the cold night air, and Madame stood at the centre of the walled rose garden with the silver and crystal fountain and the fire column swirling angrily, and pronounced a stream of apparently meaningless words. Shafts of light streamed from her fingertips and the terrible dark circle that would pen the fire demons appeared. The Court backed away all over again, because didn’t they all recognise the immense circle of sorcery which was supposed to hold the demons penned within it, but which did not always do so. But there the circle was, glinting redly, and there, within minutes — the bailiffs said it was within seconds — were the fire demons.

And there, presiding over the demons, was Madame, in the worst temper anyone had ever known.

The walled rose garden with the pouring crystal fountain, once Reflection’s pride and delight, and once the favourite place of the Court for summer evening assignations, was at once transformed into a raging ferment of noise and fury and panic and spitting crimson fire.

The demons were leaping and dancing within the dark circle and chuckling and reaching out to the people of the Court, brandishing their horrid white-hot tridents. They seemed to be unable to break out of the circle, but no one was taking any chances about this. And in any case, the demons could still fling their spears a remarkably long distance, and they could still hurl the sizzling firethorns which embedded in people’s flesh and skin, and which inflicted agonising burns for days afterwards.

None of the demons was more than two feet in height and they were coal black, with rounded, hairless skulls and huge pointed ears. They had long, twitching tails and their fingers ended in barbed, clawlike hands. Their eyes glowed redly, like living coals, and they had evil, toothless mouths, which grinned and leered as they danced and leapt to and fro, seeking a weak place in Reflection’s circle. The Court drew back at once, because you could not altogether trust Madame’s circles, and you especially could not trust the ones she created in a tantrum.

Reflection stood with her arms outstretched, the silver fountain directly behind her, her brow dark with blazing fury. The light became flooded with dark red and the demons climbed into the fountainhead and jabbed their fiery talons into the shimmering cascade, so that the water became a pouring crimson mass. Fire sparks flew upwards and outwards and little licking pathways of flame started up all over the garden. Scarlet flames and evil-smelling smoke began to rise into the night.

Flame and Floy, standing in their shadowy corner, watched in horror, and Flame felt sick, because although she had seen the fire demons many times before, she knew that this time Mother had called them up out of sheer jealous rage.

‘My fault,’ said Flame, staring down into the garden. ‘Floy, this is all my fault.’

‘Why?’ said Floy, not understanding, and Flame, her eyes never leaving the terrible sight, said, ‘Because you preferred me to her. She had indicated to you that she would like to have you for a lover. And you ignored her and preferred me. But,’ said Flame carefully, ‘I am quite glad you did prefer me to her, Floy.’

Floy started to say something and, as he did so, a terrible screech of triumph split the garden. Fire erupted into the night sky and with it the sizzling sound of hundreds upon hundreds of firethorns raining down on the Court.

The demons had broken out of the circle and were swarming over the rose garden.

Reflection was still chanting the spell that would keep the demons imprisoned, the licking flames of her gown swirling and hissing.

‘Only it is failing,’ whispered Flame. ‘It is failing because she is in a great rage.’ She glanced up at Floy. ‘Sorcery-any kind of sorcery is weakened by anger,’ she said. ‘The concentration is not total. She will fail to keep them penned.’

‘Go after the faithless ones who betrayed me!’ cried Reflection, at the fire demons prancing about her skirts. ‘Find my errant daughter and the Human who has abused my hospitality!’ shouted Reflection, her eyes sending more showers of sparks everywhere. ‘And bring them here to me! We all know what can be done with Humans!’ she added, and the demons chuckled and ran off, scuttling across the ground at a tremendous speed.

Snodgrass, who was keeping well back, and trying frantically to see where Floy was, saw several of the Court move warily towards their mistress, as if to calm her.

‘Get back all of you!’ screamed Reflection in a towering fury. ‘Stay back! Or do you wish me to send the fire demons to capture you! Is that what you want!’ shrieked Reflection, her voice soaring in triumphant spite. ‘Shall I let the creatures take you! Shall we see you all dance the Fire Dance of Frenzy!’

As she spoke, the demons let out squeals of delight and ran across the garden, encircling several of the terrified Court. People began to scream, and Courtiers ran this way and that, trying to dodge their captors and escape.

‘The girl!’ screeched Reflection. ‘The girl, you foolish, greedy creatures! Leave my people and seek out the traitorous flesh of my flesh! The seducer’s spawn who is betraying me! Seek her out and with her the Human who spumed me!’

But the demons chuckled and began to chant something that sounded, to Floy, so ancient and so incomprehensible, and so utterly and completely evil, that icy hands closed about his heart.

There was a terrible compulsion about the chanting; there was a rhythm, a pulsating that drew you and beckoned you and crept inside your head, and said: come into the heart of the dancing, Humans … and made you see a dark, swirling column with hands reaching out from its core that you would have to obey … Floy, his arms about Flame protectively, felt his feet move of their own volition, and at once Flame said, ‘Floy! No! You must not listen! You must not hear the demons’ Fire Dance!’

The dark chanting was forming on the air, taking substance and shape. As it increased in intensity, Floy saw the dark column forming, a whirling, coiling, smoke-wreathed serpent towering above the gardens, long fingers beckoning from its depths. The imprisoned Court people began to dance, slowly and unwillingly at first, as if they were fighting the dreadful enchantment, but then faster, frenetically, jerking their limbs, leaping higher and higher.

The demons squealed with glee and, as the imprisoned Courtiers whirled and leapt, Reflection strode to the grinning demons, anger in every line of her tall figure, her eyes spitting the streams of fury so that little rivulets of fire sprang up and ran sizzling along the ground and then died away. The sickening stench of burning rose on the air.

‘The girl, you fools!’ she cried, beating at the demons with her hands, snatching their tridents. ‘Go after the girl and bring her to me!’

For answer, the demons chuckled their horrid laugh and dodged out of her reach, hurling their spears at the frenzied victims of the Fire Dance. The spears sizzled through the air, several of them embedding in the victims’ flesh. Blood sprang to the surface, but the wounded Courtiers danced with a terrible grim concentration, sobbing now and gasping for breath, some of them pleading with the demons for mercy.

The once-quiet garden was ringing with the sobbing of the imprisoned Courtiers and, from where they stood, unnoticed, Floy could see that blood was staining their shoes.

He was horrified and appalled. When he spoke, the anguish was in his voice, and Flame, who was as horrified as Floy and who was frightened of what Reflection might do next, shuddered. ‘We must do something. This is unbearable — ’

‘No. Floy, there is nothing … ’ And even like this, thought Flame, even in the midst of panic and fear and chaos, there is such delight in saying his name. ‘There is nothing we can do,’ she said. ‘If Mother has failed to keep the fire demons penned in the circle, then there is nothing you or I can do to stop them.’

‘We could try,’ said Floy, and started across the garden.

‘No!’ said Flame, pulling him back. ‘Floy, you would be taken and forced into the Frenzy and you would die of exhaustion.’ And then, in a quieter tone, ‘And it would take you a very long time to die.’ She stopped, and felt Floy’s arms about her, the first time he had touched her, and at once there was a soaring delight and an overwhelming sensation of sharing. She was conscious of thinking that she had not known it would be like this, that she had not imagined that there could be such deep, pure joy. And then Floy bent his head and, as he did so, his mind seemed to pour outwards to hers, enfolding her. Almost, thought Flame, dizzily, almost as if we are not separate people at all, almost as if we have a single mind. A deep, sweet pain closed about her and she was drowning, helpless in an ocean of sweet, slow rapture … There was a moment when she surrendered to it completely, and then another moment when she heard, from out of nothing, the distant roaring of fire, and glimpsed a brief, blinding sheet of flame that would pour down on them at any minute … Flame pushed Floy from her at once, and stood rather shakily looking at him, and saw that he had seen the fire and heard the flames and that he understood.

But he smiled, and said, ‘Once, lovers slew dragons for their ladies.’

Flame could feel that his mind was still somehow alongside hers, and the delight was still there between them and the sharing, only both of these must be put aside for the moment. But they will be all the sweeter for being saved, thought Flame. They will not fade.

But when Floy said, ‘We cannot stay here,’ Flame at once said, ‘No, for Mother will soon recapture the demons, or perhaps she will summon others and they will be sent to find us and then, Floy, you will be punished and perhaps you will die.’

The demons were dancing and leaping, sending their sinister dark music on to the night. Sweat was pouring from the Courtiers, soaking their hair and darkening their clothes. Blood had spattered the thin silken shoes and their faces were the colour of tallow candles. Several times, one of them would fall, gasping for breath, flailing wildly at the air as if for strength, but each time this happened, the demons shrieked and jerked the weak one to his feet. The dancers were beginning to resemble puppets, inanimate creatures of wood and straw, manipulated from above.

‘They will die before dawn,’ said Flame. ‘Mother will try to cage the fire demons in a circle, but she will not succeed. And once those victims have died, then the Fire Demons will look for other prey.’

Floy said, questioningly, ‘The traitorous daughter they were summoned to punish?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Flame.

‘And the Human traveller who preferred the daughter?’

‘She will kill you, Floy,’ said Flame, her eyes huge as she looked at him. ‘She will kill you with no more thought than you would have given to squashing an insect.’

‘Then we must escape now, while she is still trying to quell the Fire Demons and while everyone’s attention is on the poor creatures in the circle.’ He looked at her very straightly and, in the red glow from the rose garden, Flame saw that his face was set and intent. ‘It is your only chance,’ said Floy, his eyes shining. ‘We could be out of the Palace before anyone knew. Into those other worlds.

Come away with me now, Flame.’

Flame said, ‘Can it be done? Oh, Floy, can it really?’

‘I have to escape,’ said Floy. ‘Because, demons aside, I have to find my sister.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Flame could understand this.

‘Then come with me,’ said Floy again.

Flame looked up at him and saw that his eyes were shining with a reckless light and that the dark hair had fallen across his brow, giving him the look of a rebel.

In the pulsating light from the rose garden Flame smiled and said, ‘Yes. All right.’

And the years of planning, and the years of pretending, fell suddenly into place and it was seamlessly easy to know what to do.

Floy stayed where he was, his eyes scanning the gardens, marking out gates, escapes, narrow paths down which fleeing lovers could steal.

‘But first I must find Snodgrass,’ he said, and Flame at once said, ‘Yes, of course,’ because it was not to be thought of that Floy would simply rush off with her, leaving the other traveller, his friend, to Mother’s mercies. Mother was quite likely to fling Snodgrass to the fire demons purely out of anger. Flame said, ‘He was talking with the bailiffs earlier on. And that is their tower.’ She pointed. ‘It is the one place where he would be safe from Mother,’ said Flame, and grinned. ‘Mother has never quite dared to offend the bailiffs,’ she said. ‘Your friend may well be there.’

Floy narrowed his eyes and saw the outline of the small tower, set a little apart from the main buildings. It would be easy to slip through the carnage and the tumult and get to it. He looked at Flame. ‘Can you put together a few things? A cloak and warm things for travelling?’

‘Yes. I can reach my room by a back stair. I don’t think I should meet anyone,’ said Flame, and then grinned. ‘But in any case, I can invoke a Spell of Invisibility.’ Floy stared at her. ‘Can you?’

‘Certainly,’ said the sorceress’s daughter, and then,

‘Did you think I had lived at this Court without learning anything? It will not be a very strong enchantment,’ she said, seriously, ‘and it will not last for very long, because I have not Mother’s power. But I can do it.’ The grin flashed again and it was disconcertingly her father’s grin, winged and mischievous.

‘Then hurry,’ said Floy. ‘Come over to the tower as soon as you can.’ He stood, watching her melt into the shadows, and then turned back. The imprisoned Courtiers were sobbing and gasping, dancing and jerking horribly, the fire demons hurling tiny, glinting darts at their feet to make them dance faster.

Everyone was running somewhere, and people were on the verge of panic. Nobody will see me, thought Floy. I haven’t Flame’s Spell of Invisibility, but if I am quick and unobtrusive, nobody will notice me.

As Flame had suggested, Snodgrass was in the bailiffs’ tower, his face creased with anxiety for Floy, whom he had lost sight of. He beamed with pleasure at discovering Floy to be not only unscathed, but planning to escape Reflection’s wrath.

‘But I don’t think I can come with you,’ he said. ‘What about Fenella?’

‘We’re going to be travelling the road that Fenella should be on,’ said Floy, who had already worked this one out. ‘We’re bound to meet up with her, or get news of her.’

‘But you don’t know that,’ said Snodgrass. ‘You might very easily miss her. One of us ought to stay here just in case she manages to reach the Fire Court.’

‘I can’t let you,’ said Floy, appalled.

‘Do you know, I believe you could,’ said Snodgrass thoughtfully. ‘I’ve become rather interested in what’s going on here. They’re rather interesting people, these bailiffs. And it’s quite private here in this tower, not to say discreet. I’ve been talking to them about all manner of things; their system of money and how the Court pay their debts, and all about Madame’s accounts. My word, she’s in deep trouble, that one.’

‘But would you be safe?’ said Floy, still unconvinced.

Snodgrass thought he might be very safe indeed. ‘They tell me she’s secretly rather afraid of the bailiffs,’ he said. ‘On account of her owing so much money everywhere. She’s bound for what they call a debtors’ prison, that one, and not for the first time by all accounts. Also, she’s drawn one of those circles they all set so much store by right round the bailiffs’ tower, and it seems that nobody can get inside without the bailiffs’ permission. That’s neither Madame herself, nor those nasty creatures she let loose a while ago.’ He regarded Floy with his head on one side and Floy said, slowly, ‘It sounds reasonable — ’

‘As well as that,’ said Snodgrass practically, ‘I’d be a shocking hindrance to you if you’re going to be running away. I wouldn’t be able to keep up for one thing. I’d slow you down.’

‘That wouldn’t matter.’

‘I daresay you’ll come back for me later on, when it’s all over, won’t you?’ said Snodgrass. ‘Yes, I thought you would. I’ll have a word with the bailiffs to be sure that they don’t mind. You can’t simply inflict yourself on people,’ said Snodgrass sternly. ‘It wouldn’t be polite. So I’ll ask them, to see if there’d be any difficulty.’

There was no difficulty at all. He met Floy and Flame at the foot of the bailiffs’ tower and said it was all arranged.

‘I shall be quite safe,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a word with the bailiffs — nice people. We’ve been getting on rather well. They’re going to give me a bed and we’re going to look into the accounts of lnchbad’s people. Madame’s requested it,’ said Snodgrass, suddenly looking serious. ‘It’s all quite official. She seems to think that the Gruagach haven’t always been — dear me, how should I put it? — haven’t always been quite straight in their dealings. Well, not to put it too bluntly,’ said Snodgrass, ‘the bailiffs think they’ve been fiddling the books from here to the other side of Ireland, not that that’s something I’d like repeated, you understand.’

‘Of course not,’ said Flame, who did not wholly understand, but gathered that Snodgrass thought Inchbad’s people were guilty of something vaguely dishonest. ‘Are you sure you will be comfortable here?’ she asked, and Snodgrass beamed and said he would be very comfortable indeed, thankyou kindly, and thought it was a very nice thing indeed to see Floy so taken with this rather unusual young lady, although it was certainly a pity that she had to be Reflection’s daughter, and you had to remember the old saying about what was in the meat came out in the gravy.

The bailiffs, who appeared to be quite agreeable to everything, shook Floy’s hand and wished him well on his journey. One of them, who was about Floy’s build, produced a couple of shirts and a woollen cloak, because you could not be letting a fellow Human go off into the night without a change of shirt.

‘Snodgrass’ll be all right,’ said Floy, as he and Flame stole round the eastern wall of the Palace. ‘All the same — ’

‘All the same, he is a good friend and he shared danger with you and you are unhappy about leaving him to strangers.’

‘Yes. That’s very perceptive of you.’

‘If we go down here,’ said Flame practically, ‘we can reach the side gate and be out into the world without anyone seeing us.’

‘Here?’ Floy led the way along a narrow pathway and saw the small, latched door directly ahead.

‘Yes.’ Flame watched as he lifted the latch and saw, through the doorway, the dark wastes of Ireland. Waiting. A shiver of purest delight, tinged with apprehension, rippled through her. I am escaping. I am about to see the real world and perhaps all the other worlds that exist …

As they slipped out, she said to Roy, ‘Where are we going?’ and waited, because although she knew, deep down, where they were going, she would like Floy to confirm it.

Roy looked down at her and smiled the reckless, we-can-do-anything smile that made her heart lift with joy.

‘To the one place in Ireland where you can be safe,’ he said. ‘To the Fire Rivers and your father. ‘To the Palace of Wildfire. ‘To Fael-Inis.’

Chapter Thirty-nine

As the immense Gateway of the Cruachan Cavern yawned wide, Nuadu and Fenella were instantly assailed by menacing darkness. Fenella supposed they had expected this, but she thought they had not expected the very air to have such clotted malevolence, or such a feeling of distortion. She stood at Nuadu’s side, with the Cavern and the Soul Eaters and the Rodent Armies behind them, and looked out over the sinister world that they must enter, the Dark Underside, the Black Realm, the Other Ireland.

The mirror-image of all that was good and strong and filled with light …

The terrible domain of necromancers.

The skies were black and heavy, streaked in places with deep, angry crimson, as if the heavens had bled and they were skies that would be forever dark. They reminded Fenella of marshes and quicksands and black swamps and she knew it would be smothering and frightening to have to walk under those skies.

The sense of distortion was almost overpowering. There was the impression that everything was slightly warped and out of balance, rather like a house which has been built with every angle out of true and every chimney leaning and every window and door not quite square. Fenella began to feel dizzy, as if the landscape was tilting, or as if it was shifting surreptitiously, but in the wrong direction. It was a bit like standing in a very high place and looking down, feeling your senses spin and your ribs lurch with vertigo.

As they moved forward, the door behind them slowly closed and they both felt a swift wrenching, a dislocation, as if they had been torn out of the real world and flung forward.

Fenella thought: yes, we are shut out of the real world, the real Ireland now. There is no going back. But she still stood irresolute, waiting for Nuadu to move, trying to see what might be ahead, trying to hear what sort of creatures they might have to meet.

She was just framing the thought that for all its menace, for all the grim black mountain silhouettes and the crimson-streaked skies that you felt you could reach up to touch, the Dark Realm was silent, when she became aware of the sounds.

Voices, thought Fenella, transfixed. Murmurings. Just beneath the surface, or perhaps just on the other side of the menacing sky. It was as if hundreds upon hundreds of creatures were talking softly together.

At her side, Nuadu tilted his head, his eyes shadowed, and something flared in his expression, as if, for the briefest instant, he had recognised the sounds, or even as if he had been waiting for them. But he only looked about him and then, holding out the hand that was solid pure silver, he made a gesture encompassing the landscape.

‘The Dark Ireland,’ said the Wolfprince, softly. ‘The Domain of the Necromancers. The fearsome mirror-image.’ The lick of excitement was in his voice, stronger now, and Fenella could feel pulsating waves of anticipation from him.

‘Can you feel it, Fenella?’ he said, looking down at her. ‘Can you feel the strangeness and the sense of being somewhere where there is no light and no truth or beauty or integrity? Only distortions and deformities and only stunted ugliness and lumpen malevolence?’

His voice was very nearly expressionless, but Fenella saw, in the strange, dark twilight, that his eyes were slanting more strongly than she had ever seen them slant before and that his lips had thinned, so that now there was a white gleam of teeth beneath.

Fenella stood very still and thought: I am about to walk forward into a terrible Dark World, peopled by evil creatures, and ruled by greedy malignant Lords. The air is fouled with dark enchantments and all about us are eerie whisperings and murmurings. And I am here alone, thought Fenella; I am farther from Floy than I have ever been in my life, and I am farther from the world I knew, which is lost and dead anyway. I am alone but for a creature who is half a Wolf — and probably more than half — and I do not know whether I can trust him.’

Nuadu said, ‘This way, Lady,’ and took her hand, leading her forward, deeper into the Dark Realm.

‘You know the way?’ said Fenella, looking about her at the dark desolation, seeing several different paths.

‘We should go deep into those mountains, which are the Black Mountains of the necromancers,’ said Nuadu. ‘That is where they have their citadels and their towers. That is where we shall find CuRoi’s Castle of Illusions. But before that, we must skirt the Fields of Blood.’ He took the path that snaked away towards the mountains; Fenella could see, in the near distance, crimson fields with waving strands of things that looked like pieces of bloodied and torn Human skin.

‘The Fields of Blood,’ said Nuadu, softly. ‘The harvest of the necromancers. The remains of their fleshly lusts.’

‘I see,’ said Fenella, carefully non-committal.

As they drew nearer, they could see that the Fields of Blood were as horrid as they had looked from afar.

‘Must we actually go through them?’ asked Fenella, staring at the Fields and feeling rather sick. The strips of skin were all the same length; about two feet in height, as if somebody had trimmed them to an exact size before embedding them in the ground and leaving them to dry and shrivel. In some sections of the Fields, this had already happened, and the skin-rags were tough and leathery-looking, but in others, the skin was still pale and fresh, streaked with new blood. Whoever had cut the skin so precisely had not troubled about trimming off pieces of bone or shreds of muscle and, the nearer they got, the more clearly they could see the white glint of splintered bone, or the glistening worms of intestine or dark red wetness of liver or kidney. Here and there were single eyes, attached to face skin, hanging downwards on thin stringy optic nerves.

Nuadu said, ‘No, I think the path winds alongside, but we do not go through the Fields themselves. ‘ Fenella was aware of strong relief, because it would have been inexpressibly dreadful to have to wade, waist-high, through the tattered, bloodied remnants. At the centre was even a ragged scarecrow, its sleeves flapping in the noisome wind that stirred the grisly surface of the fields.

‘What are the Fields for?’ asked Fenella.

‘I believe,’ said Nuadu, padding along at her side, ‘that when a necromancer has used a Human in his work, he plants out what is left, so that it can be harvested in the future.’

Fenella said, in an expressionless voice, ‘Pieces of Human skin and Human bone and Human eyes and muscle?’

‘Yes. They would all be useful in the dark sorcery,’ said Nuadu and, as he said this, the dark murmurings grew louder, and an eerie taunting chant filled the air.

Fillet the Humans, draw their fangs.

Strip their skins and pulp their hands.

Fenella and Nuadu both stopped and looked about them, and the dark murmurings swelled and chuckled.

Bones to jelly and blood to boil,

Eyes and hair and teeth and cauls.

Grist for the cauldrons and meat for the spells.

There was a greedy note to the murmurings, as if hidden, evil creatures might be watching and waiting and rubbing their hands.

From the corner of her eye, Fenella caught, fleetingly, the sight of reaching hands, long-fingered and greedy, and she drew in a sharp breath, because it was impossible to escape the impression of grisly blood-soaked beings, servants of the Dark Lords, hiding in the gore-spattered undergrowth of the Fields, watching for victims for their masters.

Nuadu said, ‘If we keep walking they will not harm us.’

‘Can we be sure of that?’

‘I think so.’ In the lowering crimson light, the wolfmask was lying strongly across his features. Fenella, glancing at him, thought: the Wolf is waking again, and experienced a cold frisson.

Nuadu turned his head slowly to look at her and his eyes glittered.

‘You are deep within the evil Dark Realm now, Fenella,’ he said softly. ‘You should be very wary indeed.’

Fenella said, ‘Of you?’ and met his eyes squarely.

‘Of everything.’ His eyes narrowed and red lights, reflections of the Bloodied Fields, shone deep within them. ‘How do you know I have not brought you here to give you to CuRoi in exchange for the King?’ said Nuadu.

‘I don’t know.’

He moved closer. ‘How do you know I have not brought you here under the order of CuRoi?’

Fenella said, ‘Have you?’ and thought: I will nor lower my gaze first! I won’t! But a tiny thread of doubt trickled across the surface of her mind and she thought: after all, I don’t know. He is quite right. But she stood very still, the light from the Fields casting its blood-laden shadows across them, and returned his stare, and saw that the Wolf was waking in truth now; it was in his eyes and it was in the curve of his hand and the thinning of his lips.

Nuadu said, ‘Be wary of me, Lady.’ He reached out and traced the line of her cheek lightly. ‘Do not trust me,’ he said, softly, and now there was no doubt about the wolfish note in his voice.

‘I don’t trust you,’ said Fenella. ‘Not entirely.’

‘But still you came here with me.’

‘To rescue the King.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Nuadu, very softly. ‘The King.’ His teeth gleamed whitely in a thin smile. ‘Yes, we must not forget him,’ he said. And then, abruptly, as if he was throwing off some unwished-for shadow, he said, ‘The Black Realm will wake all manner of darknesses, Fenella.’ Something unexpectedly gentle twisted his mouth. ‘Yet I think you have no darkness in you, Lady,’ he said. ‘I think you have never encountered any true darkness in your strange, lost world. But you may encounter it now.’ The red glint showed again. ‘Remember that I have a dark side. Remember that I am partly a Wolf.’

‘I shan’t forget,’ said Fenella, and stared at him, and felt a shiver of something that was partly fear, but partly desire. Because I have lain with this creature who is a half-Wolf, I have felt his strong surging passion and I have seen the vulnerable creature beneath … I don’t think I am afraid of the Wolf, she thought. But I think that so far I have only caught glimpses of it.

Nuadu led her forward, padding softly across the terrain, his head occasionally lifted to catch a sound. It was absurd to think that he seemed to know the way they should go, that he seemed to be choosing the paths unhesitatingly. But it was impossible to escape the thought that he might have been here before.

As they left the terrible Fields of Blood behind, the taunting chanting faded, and a charged, violent feeling stole over the air, rather like the heavy menace just before an exceptionally virulent storm. Fenella was conscious again of the feeling of standing at the edge of a precipice, looking down dizzily over a chasm, of dislocation. Perhaps this would pass. Perhaps she would become accustomed. Only — I don’t think I could ever be accustomed, she thought. I don’t think I could ever be accustomed to the tumbling vertigo and to the impression that everything here is distorted, askew, inequal.

They left the Fields of Blood with their gruesome harvests behind and turned in the direction of the Black Mountains, with their huge silhouettes, immense and towering and secretive, and tiny winking lights in their depths.

‘The Citadels of the Necromancers,’ said Nuadu, when Fenella pointed to them enquiringly. ‘Where the Sorcerers retreat from the world to weave their enchantments and plot their evil wars against the true Ireland.’

‘Fearsome,’ said Fenella, shuddering, because there was an awesome, isolated look to the Mountains and she could not help wondering what it would be like to be up there, deep within those terrible mountains, knowing that every light you saw belonged not to a friend who would take you in out of the night, but to evil sorcerers.

To their left were lakes and rivers, dark and with an oily film on their surface, as if the miasma of evil was rising from them like the stench from a swamp. They toiled onwards, climbing as the path wound up, feeling the air change, become colder, filled with the reek of evil. Several times red, scaly creatures with glinting eyes and ragged-edged wings flew straight into their faces and reached for Fenella’s hair with their claws and once a pair of screeching, ravaged-featured beings with the bodies of vultures and the faces of manic, grinning women flew overhead, and Fenella and Nuadu both ducked instinctively. But the creatures flew on quite purposefully, as if they had some destination and the strangers were of no interest to them. Fenella and Nuadu straightened up unscathed.

‘What were they?’ asked Fenella.

‘Harpies,’ said Nuadu. ‘Servants of the Dark Lords.’ He smiled. 'Minor servants, Lady.’

‘Then I hope,’ said Fenella, firmly, ‘that we do not meet any of the major servants.’

Nuadu shot her an amused look. ‘I think you would somehow retain a sense of humour in any danger,’ he said.

‘I think it might be the last thing that would go,’ said Fenella.

He regarded her, as if he might be learning her all over again, and Fenella, mindful of her decision to be friendly and cool and detached, smiled.

As they moved on they heard again, just under the surface of the landscape, the murmurings and the gloating whisperings they had heard from the Fields of Blood.

Yes, yes, these are two from the other Ireland, these are two who we can devour … Harvests for the Master, crops for the Black Reaper … Meat for the cauldrons that boil deep in the black sorcery chambers, and grist for the looms of necromancy that weave ceaselessly beneath the towers of the sorcerers …

Fenella found the whispering, mocking voices extremely sinister. She was rather glad when they seemed to fade as they neared the Black Mountains.

‘Up here?’

‘Yes. Will you mind, Lady?’

Fenella stood still, looking up at the towering shapes. ‘Ever onwards,’ she said, and grinned at Nuadu. ‘That’s something remembered and often quoted in my world. I suppose it has not yet been written as far as this one is concerned.’

Nuadu said, ‘I wish I had known your world.’

‘You wouldn’t have cared for it.’

‘No?’

‘Boring,’ said Fenella, shaking her head. ‘No adventure.’

‘Despite what you may be thinking,’ said Nuadu, rather wryly, ‘we do not always wage wars and challenge Soul Eaters here.’

Fenella said, ‘Shall we defeat CuRoi?’

‘We will try.’ He took her hand. ‘Absurd child,’ he said, very gently, and Fenella found that she had to blink back tears very hard. ‘Don’t let me harm you,’ said Nuadu.

‘I shan’t,’ said Fenella, and he smiled.

They moved on, falling silent as the Mountains closed about them. Here and there were solitary buildings; lookout towers of some kind, rearing starkly against the lowering skies, straight columns of harsh dark stone with gaping windows like empty eye sockets or monstrous decaying teeth. The air was cold and thin now, and the red glint was beginning to fade from the sky.

‘Nightfall,’ said Nuadu, stopping and turning to look back down the path they had traversed. ‘Or what passes for night here.’

Nightfall in the Black Realm of the Necromancers … And we are alone up here in the fearsome and desolate Black Mountains, thought Fenella.

They stopped to rest briefly, although Nuadu said they should not waste any time.

‘We must remember that CuRoi seals the Castle of Illusions every night at sunset and that after that it will be impossible to get inside.’ He sent her the slanting look. ‘We should be alone out here,’ he said. ‘Should you be very frightened?’

‘Yes,’ said Fenella, consideringly. ‘Yes, I should.’

‘And yet, still you are here.’ He studied her, as if he found her strange and intriguing.

Fenella said, ‘Let’s go on. Look, the path is quite easy now.’

She led the way and then, as they rounded a curve in the road, there directly ahead of them —

‘Oh!’ said Fenella softly.

It had been hidden by the fold of the Mountains, so well and so cunningly, that Fenella had not realised they were so close.

Directly ahead, surrounded by soft radiance, was a vast, turreted castle, spiralling up into the night sky, pinnacled and spinaretted, adorned with spires and slender, beautiful towers, glittering with pale iridescence, sending splinters of pure light into the dark landscape.

CuRoi’s Castle of Illusions. The legendary fortress of the great sorcerer, the Master of the Dark Realm, the palace of myth where, according to the Soul Eaters, Ireland’s King lay captive and helpless.

The Castle was limned sharply against the dark sky. It was a pure, sugar-spun edifice, crystalline and ivory and pearl, gleaming with its own inner radiance, sending out rays of light. Fenella tried to see the colours contained within it, but the Castle glistened with such prismatic brilliance that it was impossible. But she thought there was a pure, soft pink at the outer edges and that the pink was tinged with lilac and azure, deepening as it neared the heart, so that the very centre of the Castle was violet and deepest purple.

‘The Castle of Illusions,’ said Nuadu, softly. ‘Referred to in every Book of Necromancy ever written, and in every dark legend ever told, and in every warning ever whispered round a night hearth.’

Fenella heard her voice say, ‘And you knew the way to it.’

Nuadu looked down at her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I knew the way, Fenella. Are you thinking I should not have done?’

‘You will admit,’ said Fenella, ‘that it was a little — unexpected.’

Nuadu said, ‘I knew it had to be somewhere in the Black Mountains. Everyone in Ireland knows that. And there was only one mountain road we could take.’ He looked at her. ‘And it is wreathed in evil magic and steeped in sorcery,’ he said. ‘And if we can not get inside before the Dark Sun sinks, then every door and every means of access will be sealed and there will be no way of penetrating it until morning.’

As the darkness increased, so the Castle shone more brilliantly and sent out its glittering radiance. The pinks and lilacs deepened to crimson and violet and the Dark Sun described a fiery arc across the skies, much faster than either of them were accustomed to, sprinkling its baleful red light as it went. The portcullis was directly ahead of them, gold-tipped and glistening faintly.

‘But it is becoming fainter,’ said Fenella suddenly.

‘I think it is the enchantment of the Master,’ said Nuadu. ‘I think the sealing is beginning, Fenella. CuRoi is drawing down power from the setting Sun.’ And then, in a much more urgent voice, ‘The turrets are vanishing,’ he said. ‘Dissolving. Do you see?’

‘Yes. Yes, we’ll have to hurry,’ said Fenella.

There was no time to be lost. They began to run, heedless of where they trod, covering the ground in great leaping bounds, flying in the direction of the portcullis gate before the Dark Sun should sink altogether and the Castle seal itself with CuRoi’s strong, sunset-linked sorcery.

The rock bridge curved downwards as it neared the portcullis, so that they found themselves half running and half slithering, dislodging tiny rocks and stones as they went. Fenella could see the gates straight ahead of them, wreathed in dark, swirling mists, dark and sinuous smoky spirals. Could they do it in time? And then: do we want to do it in time? she thought, because, after all, they had no idea of what would be waiting for them within the Castle.

The last ray of darkness touched the portcullis gates and, as they began to melt and blur, Nuadu took Fenella’s arm and pulled her across the threshold and into CuRoi’s Castle of Illusions.

Chapter Forty

The glittering light of the Castle was abruptly shut off.

Nuadu and Fenella stood very still, just inside the vast door, handlocked, and Fenella thought: I believe I can hear Nuadu’s heart beating. Can I? Or is it my own? And then — and this was a terrible thought — or is it somebody else’s heart altogether, she thought? Is someone, something, standing close beside us, listening and watching? But this was so eerie that she did not let herself think it for more than a breathspace.

It was very dark. It was so dark that they dared not move. Perhaps, in a very few minutes, their eyes would adjust to the light. People’s eyes always did that. They would wait quite calmly and quite quietly, and presently they would begin to make out shapes, forms, things. Pieces of furniture, said Fenella to herself very firmly. Chairs and tables and cupboards. That would be all.

It was at that minute that the lights began to alter. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, slivers of radiance appeared on the outer edges of their vision, tiny sparks to begin with, and then increasing, growing, multiplying, until they splintered the darkness, silver and gold and scarlet. On and on they went, pouring and cascading and whirling, until Fenella and Nuadu were standing before a dizzying kaleidoscope, a blinding storm of light that hurt their eyes and which they thought would surely burn out their vision.

And then, quite suddenly, the quality of the light changed; it became softer, subtler, breathtakingly beautiful; it became tinged with pure, soft pink and lilac and the deep violet of twilight, and Fenella was just thinking that it was beginning to soften, and that they would be able to see properly at last, when there was a movement beneath their feet, as if the Castle’s foundations had shifted and the floor tilted so that Fenella half fell forward and grabbed wildly at a stone pillar.

Little by little, so slowly that to begin with they could not believe it was happening, the Castle began to move; it began to spin and rotate, so that the walls became rushing, whirling shadows, and they could see the dark, crimson-streaked skies outside spinning past.

‘This is the sealing!’ cried Nuadu, pulling Fenella to him and holding her against him. ‘The Castle is sealing! CuRoi is calling down the power of the dying sun and every door is dissolving! Look!’ And without letting her go, he pointed to the great studded door through which they had fallen, and Fenella saw that it was melting into the stonework.

The spinning increased, until they had to struggle to remain upright and Fenella began to feel sick. Round and round it went, on and on, silently and effortlessly, as swiftly as a mill-stone, as smoothly as a child’s top. The door had disappeared completely now and the windows also. Nuadu, his every sense stretched to the limit, heard beneath the whirling of the Castle a steady rhythmic chanting in an unknown tongue, a single, rather melodic voice that rose and fell in an intricate pattern. He had once heard, when a small child, the beautiful, sexless, sacred chanting of the Druids, the paeon of praise to light and the morning and the gods. This was the dark side of that ancient, sacred chant, and Nuadu knew it at once for the terrible Chant of the Necromancer. He knew that he had been right and that, from somewhere deep within the bowels of the Castle, CuRoi was indeed sealing every door and every entrance.

They were shut into the Castle of Illusions with the most powerful and the most malevolent necromancer Ireland had ever known. They were shut in until dawn, and there would be no possibility of escape.

The spinning ceased as gradually as it had begun and Nuadu and Fenella heard the strange Chant fade. Fenella put out a cautious foot, but the floor stayed where it was and the Castle was still.

The stone hall was quiet; the pouring brilliance had vanished. Fenella thought that, with the vanishing of the windows, there ought not to have been any light at all now, but from somewhere a gentle radiance burned, and they could see about them quite clearly.

They were standing in a vast, dome-ceilinged hall, with an immense stairway leading directly upwards in front of them to a great galleried landing. Deep velvet-blue light poured in from overhead and there were thick swathes and folds of cobwebs everywhere. Dust motes danced in and out of the light-beams and there was a faint drift of woodsmoke, which was unexpectedly pleasant. For some reason, the blue twilight and the woodsmoke and the dust made Fenella feel better, because there was something so normal about woodsmoke and dust, that CuRoi’s Castle seemed to be not quite so ensorcelled.

Nuadu was prowling round the great hall and Fenella said, ‘I think we must explore a little, don’t you?’ because it would be a good idea to appear unafraid and inquisitive. She was pleased to hear that her voice sounded quite ordinary.

‘Certainly we should.’ Nuadu’s eyes went to a door deepset below an arch on the galleried landing and something glinted in his eyes. Fenella thought: I believe he knows what is inside there. Or if he does not know, then he suspects.

‘It’s extremely dirty in here,’ she began severely, and then added in a practical tone, ‘where ought we to begin?’ At once a deep echoing chuckling reverberated all about them. Fenella started and turned back to scan the shadowy staircase, but Nuadu, who had been waiting for CuRoi to make some move, stayed where he was. The chuckling seemed to begin somewhere deep in the bowels of the Castle and end high above their heads. It was so gloating that they both flinched.

‘Dissatisfied with my abode, Human Child and Wolfprince!’ cried an echoing voice. ‘Well, that is something that is easily cured!’

Before the voice had quite finished speaking, a flurry of movement had started up at the centre of the hall and, as they stood, transfixed, it whirled into a spinning cloud of activity. The grey and white column of smoke, shot here and there with red and gold sparks, slowed its gyrations so that they could see that it was a pillar of every cleaning implement ever seen; it was brooms and brushes and dusters and mops, all tumbling and falling into line, rather as if someone had rapped out a command.

‘CuRoi,’ said Nuadu softly. ‘They say he has a certain sense of humour.’

The voice came again, on a note of command this time, but in a language Fenella could not recognise. But at the words, Nuadu stiffened and looked up, as if the words had meant something to him, and the voice chuckled again.

‘So you know a little of the Ancient Tongue, Wolf-prince?’ it said. ‘Now, that I find exceedingly interesting. I wonder where you learnt that, Nuadu Airgetlam? But I think you do not know enough to match me. Certainly you did not know enough to free yourself from my friend the Robemaker. It was the Human Child who did that, Wolfprince, or have you forgotten?’ The deep chuckling came again. ‘But now a little entertainment for your Lady, who finds my Palace not to her liking,’ said CuRoi. ‘Watch now!’ And again there was the odd-sounding five-syllabled word, and then there was a torrent of words, and before the words had finished, the brooms and the mops and dusters whirled about and, without the smallest warning, swept into a frenzy of activity, cleaning and polishing and sweeping and scrubbing. A great duststorm began to gather, and polish and soapsuds and beeswax and lavender flew in all directions, so that Fenella and Nuadu backed into a comer, coughing from the dust.

‘But,’ said Fenella in a whisper, ‘they are actually rather amusing, don’t you think?’ and at once, as if they heard this, the brooms and the mops all arranged themselves in a straight row, and embarked on a kind of dance, with the feather dusters fluttering at each end, and the polish tubs going off into a stately little march by themselves. The scrubbing brushes up-ended themselves and joined in with gusto and, at this, everyone seemed to jostle for pride of place and a mumbling, grumbling sort of quarrel seemed to take place between the mops and the brooms as to who ought to stand at the head; the feather dusters tripped up the scrubbing brushes, and the dusters tied themselves in decorative bows on the brooms, making them look as if they had large, floppy yellow feet.

Fenella started to laugh. ‘It’s an entertainment,’ she said. ‘A comic entertainment for children! How absurd!’

The brooms had finished sweeping by now, and there was the pleasant drift of lavender polish and beeswax. The great hall was gleaming and the floors were shining, and the copper pans hanging by the fire at the far end were bright. The mops tidied themselves away into their buckets and the dusters folded into neat squares and everything was quiet again.

‘And now,’ said the voice, ‘perhaps my Castle is fit for you to occupy for a time, Human Child?’ And Fenella forgot about being amused by the mops and the brooms and remembered where they were and what they had to do and about CuRoi being one of the great Lords of the Dark Realm.

At her side, Nuadu, said, ‘Look. Over there. At the top of the stairs.’ Fenella saw that at the head of the stairs, directly in front of the deepset shadow-wreathed door, a blurred outline was forming into the shape of a man.

CuRoi.

He was rather short of stature and dark and swarthy-complexioned. He wore a dark cloak with a scarlet silk lining, black boots of some shiny substance, and a starched collar with a cravat. In his left hand was a whip. He was just a little plump and there was an unexpectedly soft, pale look to him, as if he might, under certain circumstances, be very nearly effeminate.

Nuadu had not moved from Fenella’s side but, as the necromancer stood regarding them, he felt a shiver of horror and he knew that they stood in the presence of extreme evil. He felt a brief puzzlement ruffle the surface of Fenella’s mind and understood that she had been expecting to encounter someone sinister-looking and evil and cruel, another Robemaker. Nuadu had been aware, ever since they had entered the Castle, that Fenella had been tense and taut and wound up, ready to meet horror and power and leering menace. She had seen the Robemaker and she had seen what happened to his prisoners, and she had not been expecting this genially visaged, plump-faced gentleman who could whip up brooms and mops into an amusing display, and who looked as if he might wear scent and enjoy concocting dainty little dishes for his guests to partake of.

But Nuadu had absorbed the tales and the myths of the Dark Ireland and he had heard almost every snippet and tag-end of legend and lore ever encountered. CuRoi was called the Master of Illusions and Nuadu knew at once that they were being presented with a seamless, almost flawless illusion now. He is giving us the image of a good-humoured land-owner, thought Nuadu, studying CuRoi covertly. A genial gentleman, a soft-living dilettante, who dabbles in a little magic purely for the fun of it.

But with CuRoi’s appearance, Nuadu had felt his skin prickle with fear. It was as if a cold, greasy hand had stroked the back of his neck and the finely honed instincts, inherited from his long-ago ancestors, the Wolves of Tara, were alert and alive, warning him to beware. He watched CuRoi descend the great curving stair and cross the hall towards them and he knew that here before them was one of the most powerful entities ever to dwell in the Dark Realm.

He summoned every ounce of resolve he possessed and braced his mental muscles to meet any attack that might come. There was Fenella to be thought of. Fenella, so straight and so completely without duplicity, would certainly be dreadfully vulnerable. Nuadu knew a great many stories about CuRoi, and he thought that he would tear out the necromancer’s throat if he played any of his cruel cat-and-mouse games with Fenella.

But CuRoi was smiling and holding out a plump, well-kept hand to them. He said, ‘You are well come indeed, my friends,’ and it was the pleasant, happy tone of one who is delighted to discover unexpected guests on his doorstep.

Fenella smiled back, but Nuadu noticed that she somehow managed to ignore the outstretched hand and that she did so quite naturally and easily. So she is not so much dazzled by CuRoi’s neat little illusion that she will trust him sufficiently far to touch him! thought Nuadu. And she is not so guileless that she cannot put up a pretence.

CuRoi looked at them both and chuckled. It was a roguish chuckle, the chuckle of someone who sees very well that there is a joke against him, and is more than prepared to join in that joke.

‘Oh, dear me,’ said CuRoi, ‘dear, dear me, I can see that you have heard some very nasty stories about me. Well, they do love a gossip hereabouts, of course, but I promise you I am not really evil. It is only that I do enjoy a joke.’ He regarded them, beaming, his head to one side. ‘Did you enjoy my little bit of nonsense with the brooms and the mops?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I can see you did.’

He sketched a bow in Fenella’s direction, and Fenella said, as if she found the subject rather interesting, ‘It was a little like the puppets we had in a country I once lived in and the comic entertainments we arranged for the children, with music to heighten it all. Apparently quite simple, but actually extremely complex.’ She regarded him thoughtfully. ‘But amusing,’ she said. ‘Yes, I did enjoy it.’

CuRoi studied her rather intently for a moment, and then said, ‘Oh, life is intended to be amusing.’ He made as if to gather them in. ‘Life is not to be taken seriously,’ he said, and put his head on one side again and smiled and then said, ‘but I am being most remiss. You have travelled far and perhaps fared ill, for the road through this land is not an easy one. You will perhaps take a bite of supper with me and a glass of wine, yes? Oh, do say you will,’ he added, ‘because quite apart from anything else, I should be so interested to hear of your journey. There are many roads here and none of them especially pleasant. You would, perhaps, have to come past the Fields of Blood? Yes, I thought so. Very unpleasant. I hope you did not find it too offensive, my dear?’

‘We assumed that it was necessary in the pursuit of necromancy,’ said Nuadu, silkily.

CuRoi at once said, ‘Oh, not necessary at all. You have been listening to some of the darker tales about us.’ He made a quick, dismissive gesture with one hand. ‘Blood and skin and Human hearts — no, no, that is very basic sorcery. Very crude work. As for the Fields — well, I am afraid that some of my fellow sorcerers are very unthinking in the storing of their raw materials. And that filthy, ragged effigy to frighten away the Harpies? Quite unnecessary. Rather tasteless. Do come this way.’

He led them through to a room on the right of the hall, richly panelled and hung with crimson silk and damask, with emblems and symbols carved into the panelling. A dying fire sulked in the hearth and a long oak table at the centre of the room was sketchily set for some kind of meal.

‘Tsk,’ said CuRoi, pausing in the doorway. ‘Very scanty, this. But I did not know I was to have guests tonight, and we can soon put matters to rights.’ Lifting his hand, he murmured words in that strange cadence again and, at once, the fire spat and roared into life and chalices and plates spun about and, without warning, steaming bowls of soup appeared and platters of crusty bread and bowls of newly churned butter. At the centre of the table, a side of ham appeared, with a gleaming knife ready to carve it and, at the far end, silver bowls of glistening fruit materialised.

CuRoi stood benevolently watching, his plump little hands joined together over the modest swell of his stomach, the thumbs revolving. ‘An easy enough trick,’ he said to Fenella, ‘but one which always impresses guests. Do sit down, both of you, and help yourselves. Sire, the wine is not poisoned, I promise, and you may drink your fill.’

Nuadu did not speak, but his head tilted just fractionally and his eyes narrowed. Fenella received the impression that his ears had pricked, which was patently absurd, but when he spoke, his voice held a silky, bitter note.

‘I believe,’ said Nuadu softly, ‘that you mistake my standing, CuRoi. To address me as Sire, is surely to confuse me with my brother.’ He regarded their host unblinkingly. ‘And my world tells how you are never confused or mistaken,’ he said, and smiled the mocking smile, which appeared to be saying: well? How will you handle that one?

CuRoi returned the stare and Fenella saw that his eyes had become hard and cold.

‘A form of courtesy, no more,’ he said, but some of the former joviality had gone from his voice and Fenella thought his features were suddenly leaner and sharper. It was rather ridiculous to think that the plump geniality had melted a little, but it was what she did think. And wasn’t he known as the Master of Illusions? It was important to remember that. Anything that had happened here might be nothing more than illusion.

‘But,’ said CuRoi, turning to Fenella, ‘you do not eat, my dear,’ and when he said, ‘my dear’, there was such a lick of greed in his voice, that Fenella blinked.

But she smiled and slid into the nearest chair and accepted the bowl of soup that CuRoi handed her and took a slice of bread and some butter and ham and fruit.

CuRoi had seated himself opposite her and was watching her, his chin resting on his hand, to all appearances interested and benign.

The mask is back in place, thought Nuadu, who had seen, as Fenella had seen, the geniality slip, but who, unlike Fenella, had felt and seen what lay beneath.

Nuadu’s every nerve-ending was stretched to its utmost, and he was again calling on the wolf-instincts of his strange mixed blood. He knew that CuRoi was not yet playing one of his subtle, evil games with Fenella, but he thought he might begin to do so quite soon.

He sipped the wine warily and saw that Fenella was apparently composed, that she was, in fact, listening with apparent absorption as CuRoi explained how the belief that the Black Ireland was always dark was erroneous; it had beautiful sunrises and exquisite afternoons and there was great tranquillity at times.

‘And once,’ said CuRoi, in a soft, lulling voice, ‘once we had all the light and all the beauty in Ireland for the asking.’

‘Who put the lights out?’ asked Fenella in a down-to-earth voice and Nuadu felt CuRoi flinch and saw Fenella grin slightly.

But CuRoi only said, rather sadly, ‘I fear there have been greedy rulers here, as there are always greedy rulers in all kingdoms.’ He glanced at Nuadu, and said softly, ‘But your world knows about greedy kings, Sire.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ said Nuadu, and lifted his wine chalice again. He had eaten but sparingly and had only sipped the wine briefly for refreshment. He was not afraid of poison, for it would not be CuRoi’s way to dispose of unwanted guests so crudely. But he was stretching his mind to its utmost limits and he dared not blunt any of his awareness. When CuRoi said, quite amiably, ‘Do tell me how life goes in the other Ireland,’ Nuadu said at once, ‘But are you not fully aware of that?’ and regarded their host with a long, hard look.

‘I have my small powers, it is true,’ said CuRoi. ‘Among them the simple ability to look across the barriers of Time.’

‘That must be very useful,’ said Fenella.

‘It serves a purpose now and then, you know.’ CuRoi smiled benignly at them again and, as he did so, Nuadu felt the white-hot knives of the Stroicim Inchinn slice through his mind and knew, quite surely, that the necromancer was playing with them. He knows exactly why we are here and who we are, thought Nuadu. But I suppose we must play his little game for the moment.

But all the same, he avoided meeting CuRoi’s eyes, because he knew that for the Stroicim Inchinn to be completely effective, it must penetrate the mind through the eyes. And so he kept his glance averted and continued discussing Tara, and sipped the wine and ate sparingly. As CuRoi re-filled Fenella’s wine chalice, Nuadu stole a covert look at the sorcerer and, as he did so, a log fell apart in the hearth and red sparks cascaded across the chimney breast, so that a red glow fell across the upper part of CuRoi’s features.

The eyes of a devil, thought Nuadu. Yes, he has the eyes of a devil. I do not think that any of the stories lied. He recalled how CuRoi was believed to be steeped in what the Eastern Lands called exquisite torture, the torture of the mind … I wonder if he truly has my brother, thought Nuadu.

He looked at Fenella and knew a sudden strong wish to keep her safe from this evil, cruel creature. Was it because she was courageous and possessed of immense strength, and because she had an unquenchable sense of humour? I think that is all it is, he thought. For the moment, I must believe that is all it is. I dare not explore further.

But when CuRoi drew Nuadu back into the conversation, asking about their journey through the Cruachan Caves, Nuadu answered him with instant courtesy.

‘I had always wished to penetrate the Gateway to Hell,’ he said. ‘Since I am popularly believed to have been born there, you understand?’

‘You regard yourself as an outcast,’ said CuRoi, and Nuadu knew at once that, despite his care, the necromancer had been reading his thoughts with supreme ease.

‘It is how the world — my world — regards me,’ said Nuadu.

‘But you are a Wolfprince of the ancient lineage.’

‘Bastard. Tainted stock.’

‘Have you never — forgive me, but is an interesting question — have you never coveted Tara’s Ebony Throne?’

CuRoi leaned forward, the red glint deep within his eyes again.

Nuadu stared at him, and thought: the Ebony Throne of Tara … the ancient magical Throne created by the High King Erin for Ireland’s true princes … How would it feel to ascend that Throne, knowing that Tara, glittering beautiful Tara was yours, and that Ireland, the blue and green misty Isle of Legend was yours to rule for good or evil … ?

Aloud he said, ‘That would be a futile desire. My family wanted none of me, nor I of them.’

‘And yet,’ pursued CuRoi, thoughtfully, ‘and yet you still attempt to restore your brother, the prince, to Tara.’ He smiled at Nuadu. ‘Come now, let us play this absurd game no more, Sire. You search for the captured prince. We both know it.’

‘You are very direct,’ said Nuadu.

Fenella, who had been listening carefully to the interchange, said, ‘Directness is preferable on such an occasion.’ She looked at CuRoi. ‘We do indeed search for the prince, but we do so in the hope of arranging his release.’ She regarded CuRoi thoughtfully.

Nuadu, not entirely following Fenella’s thoughts, but trusting her instincts, said at once, ‘And you will acknowledge that we are a small enough force to storm citadels or raid dungeons.’

‘Greater wars have been won by little more than subtlety,’ said CuRoi, non-committally.

‘This is not a war,’ said Nuadu. ‘But rather a quest.’

‘And in any world, nothing is obtained entirely free,’ said Fenella. ‘If we could find the prince, we might perhaps discuss terms for his release.’

‘Really, my dear?’ The lick of prurience was back, but there was no question but that CuRoi was intrigued. ‘How might that be?’

Fenella said, ‘Are there not bargains that can be struck? In the world I am descended from there is a history of such things. Of what was called state prisoners being exchanged, one side to another.’

‘Indeed?’ CuRoi sipped his wine, watching Fenella over the chalice rim, the wine casting red shadows across his face. ‘You would be prepared to bargain in that way’

‘My people frequently suffered what they referred to as Cold Wars,’ said Fenella, and, for a moment, she was so rapt in the history of Earth that she almost forgot where they were and to whom they were talking. ‘Wars where violence did not play very much part, but where a great deal of bargaining and pledging went on. Do you know the game of chess? I think it is extremely old?’

‘I do.’

‘The Cold Wars were a little like chess,’ said Fenella. ‘One side ceding a few pawns, the other side trying to gain more than a few. Interesting. Requiring great subtlety and cunning. Usually both sides won. And,’ said Fenella, ‘it is true, you know, that valuable assets can sometimes be given in reciprocation for valuable prisoners. Particularly where prisoners are held as hostages.’

‘Assets? But surely there could be nothing more valuable than the hereditary High King of Ireland.’ CuRoi regarded her rather indulgently. ‘Any unscrupulous sorcerer who had in his power Tara’s Wolfking would never give him up.’

‘Not even if something better were to be offered in recompense? Because,’ said Fenella, as if she was thinking aloud now, ‘because there is not really anything that the King could give to that sorcerer, is there? It is not as if he would have particular powers. But as a pawn-yes,’ said Fenella, still as if she was arguing it out with herself, ‘as a pawn, I should think the sorcerer could regard the King as very valuable indeed.’

‘I cannot think,’ said CuRoi, his eyes never leaving Fenella’s face, ‘of anything in this Ireland or in the other one, that a sorcerer would consider to be of sufficient value to persuade him to give up such a valuable — pawn.’

‘But in such a case,’ said Nuadu, ‘the pawn would, in the end, be valueless. Merely a body lying in a dungeon.’ CuRoi said, amusedly, ‘Oh, were you thinking that the imprisoned King would be lying in a dungeon?’

He regarded Nuadu unblinkingly and Nuadu said, silkily, ‘Not in the least. Whoever has the prince will be far removed from such crude methods as dungeons and manacles.’

‘And,’ put in Fenella, ‘would the King not have been taken for bargaining anyway?’

‘I cannot imagine the kind of bargaining that would interest a High King’s captor,’ said CuRoi.

‘Well,’ said Fenella, half apologetically, ‘I was really thinking of the Soul Eaters.’

Silence fell on the table and Nuadu, feeling the nuances that spun and shivered all about them, sat back and waited.

‘You know of the Soul Eaters?’ said CuRoi at last. And then, ‘Yes, of course. You have traversed the Caverns of Cruachan.’

‘Yes,’ said Fenella. ‘Horrid creatures. But they dwell in a place that is in the other Ireland.’ She glanced from Nuadu to CuRoi. ‘I have that right?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Nuadu, who had been so much enjoying listening to Fenella and picking up her thoughts, that for a few moments he had relaxed his guard. He thought that the rather unexpected, certainly unusual story she was telling about the exchange of prisoners was probably true; and although he could not visualise a war in which armies did not ride out and where people were not slain, he knew that in Fenella’s strange, lost world, these things could well have happened.

‘Soul Eaters,’ said Fenella, buttering another piece of bread, ‘would make a very good exchange for a High King. Always supposing we could discover who it is who actually holds the King, that is.’ She smiled at CuRoi ingenuously.

‘They are powerful beings, the Soul Eaters,’ said CuRoi.

‘Oh yes, but whoever has been able to capture and hold the Wolfking of Ireland would surely be able to control them,’ said Fenella at once.

CuRoi said slowly, ‘It is true that once the creatures had been overpowered, there are enchantments that would bind them and force them into servitude.’ He looked at Fenella with renewed interest and Fenella smiled at him guilelessly. ‘The Robemaker is in thrall to the Soul Eaters,’ said CuRoi. ‘But you would know that.’

‘Ten thousand years of the Wolfkings’ curse?’ said Nuadu.

‘He is something of a fool, the Robemaker,’ said CuRoi. ‘He fell victim to the High King Erin, who pronounced the Curse of Eternal Disease over him. But he has his uses, the Robemaker. I have occasionally trafficked with him.’ He dabbed fastidiously at his lips with a damask napkin. ‘Perhaps we may talk a little more of this on the morrow,’ he said. And then, to Fenella, ‘You have an interesting mind, my dear.’

‘So I have been told,’ said Fenella tranquilly.

‘It is unusual to meet a Human — and even more unusual to meet a Lady who understands about bargaining for captives and about pledges and hostages.’

‘Thank you.’

CuRoi stood up. ‘And now I must remember my manners as host and escort you to your bedchambers,’ he said. ‘For you must be tired after your journey.’

‘You are very hospitable,’ said Nuadu.

‘It is my great pleasure. You will know that my Castle is sealed until dawn, of course?’

‘Of course,’ said Nuadu.

‘A strange custom,’ said Fenella, and CuRoi smiled and said, quite equably, ‘It is safer to seal one’s home against the night creatures that prowl in the Dark Realm. You may hear some of them. But be assured that nothing can get inside my Castle after sunset.’

‘Have you servants?’ asked Fenella looking about her as they moved from the dining hall. ‘Surely for such a vast place … ?’

The red lights gleamed in CuRoi’s eyes again. ‘My servants are better unseen,’ he said. ‘But they are all around us.’

He took Fenella’s arm lightly and led her from the firelit dining hall and across the stone-flagged hall.

As they ascended the curving shadowy stairway, CuRoi said, ‘Are you interested in my Castle, madame?’

‘Old buildings are always interesting,’ said Fenella.

‘Yes.’ The dark eyes regarded her. ‘Perhaps on the morrow you will allow me to show you some of it.’

‘Thank you.’

They moved down the corridor and up a flight of stone stairs that led to another floor and CuRoi showed them into two adjoining bedchambers and, uttering one of the strange, faintly musical commands, caused fires to burn up and copper jugs of hot water, wrapped in soft warm towels, to appear on the washstands.

‘A useful skill,’ he said, eyeing Fenella. ‘And one that ensures my guests’ comfort. But, for now, I shall leave you to your rest.’ He looked at Fenella and again the mask slipped, and something red and glaring and incalculably greedy looked out. ‘We shall meet in the morning,’ said CuRoi, and left them.

Left alone, Nuadu prowled his room restlessly, waiting for the Castle to become quiet, hearing, on a level beyond consciousness, the little settling noises that all old buildings make, the creaking of timbers, the expanding of joints and joists. As he moved about the room, which was richly furnished with dark red hangings of silk, and which had a huge tester bed with a velvet counterpane, he was aware of something dark and vicious waking deep within his mind.

The Wolf stirring …

He had said to Fenella that this evil Realm would almost certainly call to the dark, hidden sides of their natures and now, in this warm, comfortable bedchamber, at the Castle’s heart, with night closing all about, Nuadu was aware of an immense inner darkness. It was something he had felt now and again during his life, this deep, dark hunger, laced with golden strength, but also threaded with cruelty. There had been times during the years when it had woken without warning, when it had raked his senses into violent and voracious passion.

Nearly always, the taking of a woman had slaked the feeling and satisfied the hungers, but it had not always done so, and there had been nights when he had prowled the Wolfwood, stalking the tiny defenceless creatures who lived in the undergrowth … There had been nights when the only thing that could quench the ravening need was to see blood spilled and to feel soaring dominance and to scent the fear of the creature in his snare … For I can hold my prey helpless simply by unveiling the wolflook, simply by staring at it with the slitted unblinking regard of my ancestors, the Wolves of Tara … At such times, he had been more Wolf than Human and, although he had fought it, he had come to accept it as the consequence of his mixed ancestry.

He knew the stories, he knew that for many of Ireland’s Kings, the wolfblood had been a warm golden current, a surging powerful strength. The High Queen Grainne, who was sometimes called Grainne the Gentle, had called it the power and the light and the strength of the Wolves of Tara. Her son, who had been the greatly loved Erin the Just, had known it as a source to be tapped and channelled in times of trouble. They had seen it as a golden thing, filled with light, a deep well of power and potency.

But there had been others in the Royal House who had misused the wolf-strength; renegades and wastrels and cheats who had consorted with the Dark Powers and created evil, selfish laws. For them the wolf-strength had been a dark tainted thing.

And I believe that I am one of the dark ones, thought Nuadu …

Now, inside CuRoi’s Citadel, surrounded by the necromancer’s evil forces, he was aware of the dark, sensual pull at his mind and his body. The dark side waking …

He wanted to bound out of the bedchamber and seek out the necromancer, sink his teeth into CuRoi’s soft plump throat … And I should fell him with a single leap, and then I should be at his throat … and the flesh would taste sweet and juicy, and the blood would trickle down over my lips, so that I could lick it …

There was, as there always was, a strong sexual arousal, and he found his mind re-creating Fenella’s sweet innocence in the depths of the twilit Wolfwood, eager and warm and soft. The darkness was in the ascendant then, he thought, but he felt his lips curve into a smile because had it really been only that?

At the thought of Fenella, the warmth surged between his thighs at once and, despite the creeping danger of the necromancer’s Castle, he began to plan how he would go quietly to the adjoining bedchamber. There was a violent and twisted arousal in the thought of making love to his Lady deep within the terrible Black Domain of the necromancers. When all is quiet, I shall do it, he thought. When the Castle is soundly asleep, I shall pad along the corridor and she will be there, Fenella, with the sweet, warm Human-scent that is composed of clean skin and long silky hair and that other, indefinable, Humanish fragrance …

And then he heard the door of Fenella’s room open stealthily and soft, light footsteps go down the hall.

Fenella had not undressed, although the crisp, lavender-scented sheets had been alluring. It would have been a great luxury to slide between the sheets and fall into a deep satisfying sleep. And perhaps Nuadu would come, she thought … Would he?

But it would not do to even lie down, because clearly they would have to be out exploring the Castle for traces of the King’s whereabouts. And so Fenella washed in the hot scented water and dried her face and hands on the thick fluffy towels and felt refreshed and very nearly ready for anything. She heard the Castle grow quieter and felt the dark night of the necromancer’s Realm close about the great Castle.

She would not go to bed, of course, but she would just sit down in the rather comfortable chair that somebody had drawn up before the fire. There was something especially pleasant about sitting before a leaping fire, with no other lights, and looking deep into the flames.

Nuadu had at once understood her idea about offering an exchange of some kind for the imprisoned King. He had joined in and added weight to her suggestions. Fenella did not suppose for a moment that CuRoi would let the King go, unless something extremely powerful and magical was offered in return, but it had bought them time, and it had enabled them to be fairly honest, which had been important because of CuRoi being able to see into their thoughts.

There had been a moment when Nuadu had eyed CuRoi with a sudden thin and hungry look, which Fenella had found unexpected, because she had begun to think that the thin trickle of wolfblood was very thin and that his feelings and emotions were entirely Human.

Now, curled into the deep, soft armchair, with firelight washing over the walls, she thought that perhaps, after all, he was not as Human as she had been thinking. It might be as well to keep this firmly in mind although there was surely no harm in remembering how his hands had felt caressing her body, thought Fenella, rather drowsily. There was probably no harm, either, in remembering how he had felt as he lay close to her, and how his eyes had darkened with passion, and how he had been suddenly and disconcertingly vulnerable … It was the memory of the vulnerability which had stayed with her. It was one of the things she would find it hard to forget when all of this was over.

She was not falling asleep. It was important to remain awake, which was why she was thinking about Nuadu; it was keeping her on the right side of sleep. She stared dreamily into the fire’s depths and discovered, as many another had discovered before her, that if you half closed your eyes, you could see pictures in the flames, all kinds of pictures … There were deep-mouthed caves where goblins and demons might lurk … leaping fire creatures … Fael-Inis’s salamanders … It would be nice to think they would meet Fael-Inis again … It would be better to think that they would find Floy and the brothers. Was Floy all right? But Fenella thought she would have sensed if he was not. She would have felt a sharp, deep loneliness and she would have known. Floy was all right. It was remarkable how she knew, but she did know.

The fire was burning lower now and there were slanting golden eyes peering out from it and a soft heady scent in the room. The fire was hissing very faintly — was it the fire? — and within the hissing was a soft beckoning voice …

Come into the fire, Fenella … Come deeper into the enchantment …

Fenella blinked and sat up a bit straighter and the fire burned steadily.

Come into the magic, Human Child … Surrender to the sweetest bewitchment of all …

Fenella stood up and walked softly out of the room into the dark waiting halls of CuRoi’s Castle.

Chapter Forty-one

Fenella was vaguely aware that to go out into the dark, sealed Castle was to court danger of the most extreme kind, but there had been something so insistent about the fire-voice that it had not seemed possible to ignore it. The idea of an enchantment, some kind of luring, beckoning spell occurred to her only briefly. She was not very familiar with spells at all, but she thought that surely she would have known and guessed if CuRoi was sending out a subtle evil call to her.

In any case, it would be interesting to see more of the Castle. It might even be possible to find out about the King. She would have to be very quiet about it but there could surely not be any danger. The thought of Nuadu just touched her mind and, for an instant, her resolve wavered, because wouldn’t Nuadu think it foolhardy of her to venture out alone? But as she stood, irresolute, the fire-voice enveloped her mind again, so subtle and delicate, that Fenella, unused to enchantments, unfamiliar with bewitchments, fell into its lure a little more strongly. All memory of Nuadu slid away.

She moved stealthily out into the wide gallery outside her bedchamber and stood listening intently, trying to decide whether it would be better to go off to the left or the right. Nothing moved, nothing stirred out here, and Fenella felt her doubts recede. She would have known if CuRoi was somewhere nearby waiting. She would have felt it.

And now it is the Master who calls to you, Fenella … Follow the beckoning, and all will be well …

I’ll be very careful and I’ll be very quiet, thought Fenella, beginning to move stealthily along the corridor. I’ll keep all my wits about me and, if I see anything I don’t like, I’ll scream very loudly indeed. This made her feel considerably better and she fell to deciding which direction to take.

It would plainly be pointless to explore the rooms they had seen earlier; the great stone-flagged hall where the brooms and mops had performed their dance, or the long firelit dining hall. It would be much more sensible to penetrate to the Castle’s heart, to explore the deep, dark, secret rooms. The dungeons.

Fenella had never seen a dungeon, but she knew about them, and she knew that they were always underground, dank, dark, airless. She moved warily along the shadowy halls, ready to scream and leap for cover at the slightest movement, seeing how the occasional tiny breath of wind stirred the hangings. She would quite have liked to stop and examine the hangings more closely, because they looked interesting and might be what the very early Earth-people had called tapestries: embroidered and sewn pictures depicting famous battles or heroic journeys or expeditions.

Ahead of her was a smaller gallery, stone-flagged again, and lit to shadowy life by flaring wall sconces. It had been quiet so far, but now Fenella was becoming aware of whisperings, horrid dark murmurings that swirled and ebbed all about her, rather like the murmurings they had heard when they had walked past the grisly crimson Fields of Blood.

Fillet the Humans, strip their skins …

Fenella whirled about, but the shadows were still and lying thickly in their corners. There was a low, throaty chuckling that seemed to begin in one corner and scuttle across in her path and then trickle away into the walls. But there was nothing to be seen; only the shadows, lying thickly on the ground. The wall sconces dimmed slightly, as if a giant hand might have reached out to snuff them, and then burned up again, as if a giant breath might have huffed on them. There was a rather rancid stench from whatever the torches were made of.

Dripping grease and boiling vat

Melt the blubber, cool the fat.

Hadn’t there once been something written somewhere about evil necromancers who melted down Human fat for their spells? I shan’t remember it, said Fenella very firmly.

Dead Men’s grease and Dead Men’s gut;

Bones to light and marrow to suck.

But CuRoi isn’t that sort of necromancer, said Fenella, even more firmly. He told us he wasn’t. The Fields of Blood are only used by sorcerers who employ crude methods — and whatever else CuRoi might be, he isn’t crude. And so I’m not hearing those grisly murmurings at all. I’ll just go along quietly and carefully and everything will be all right. I’ll take this little stair here, because it winds downwards and probably it leads to the dungeons. Probably, that’s where the King is. CuRoi pretended he never used dungeons but I don’t suppose he was being truthful.

This was rather mixed thinking, but mingled with it was a strong, not-to-be-denied compulsion. Fenella did not quite feel the strong silvery threads that were pulling her firmly through the ancient dark Castle and down the stone steps, and she did not really hear the voice that still whispered to her. She did not know that the essence of a strong, subtle enchantment is that the victim should not realise an enchantment is being woven, and she certainly did not remember that CuRoi was the master weaver of illusions, the greatest necromancer ever to come out of the Dark Realm. She moved on, warily, and fell a little deeper into the dark spider’s-web of the thrumming bewitchment …

The stone steps spiralled quite steeply down. They were worn away at the centre, so that Fenella had to try to walk on the inside of them, close to the wall, which was extremely difficult. The lower she went, the more decayed the stone walls became. There were spreading patches of discoloration and, in places, the stones had been partly eaten and partly nibbled by some kind of creeping mould.

This is very nasty indeed, thought Fenella, treading cautiously, one hand on the wall to steady her balance, trying not to touch the slimy, stained parts. This is very nasty, but it is not actually frightening. I’m not really frightened. Nothing has happened yet. I’ll just go a bit farther on. I’ll go to the bottom of these stairs and then probably I’ll be in the dungeons.

So deeply caught in the glittering sticky mesh of CuRoi’s subtle evil spell was she, that she did not pause to question the danger of it, but walked calmly and firmly forward.

Nuadu stood outside the door of his bedchamber and stretched his every sense to its utmost. Somewhere in the darkness of this fearsome evil Castle Fenella was walking, alone and unprotected. Nuadu did not stop to question why Fenella should have gone out like this without him; it was entirely possible — it was even probable — that CuRoi had in some way called to her, or perhaps tricked her out of her room. And if she was under a spell of CuRoi’s weaving, then she would be in the most severe danger and she must be found and somehow rescued.

A sudden pain twisted Nuadu’s vitals at the thought of Fenella in CuRoi’s cruel plump hands, and he thought: so, my Lady, my love, you have slid under my skin and into my heart, have you? He supposed he ought to be wanting Fenella to be safe and warm and outside of the danger, but he did not. He wanted her here with him, sharing everything there was to share, even though some of it would be fearsome and most of it would be dangerous. They might both die here, tonight, at CuRoi’s hands, but still he wanted her with him.

He moved softly forward, feeling the faint ruffle of awareness that was Fenella’s presence near to the stone steps at the far end of the passage. Down there? Yes, I believe so.

He would have said that he had long since cast off the shackles of what his ancestors might have called chivalry, and he was certainly no gentle or perfect knight. But it suddenly seemed immensely right that he should be prowling through the dark, enchanted Castle, with the shadows shifting eerily about him, intent on rescuing his Lady.

The shadows were thicker as Fenella reached the foot of the stone stairs. From somewhere close by came the faint sound of trickling water, a steady drip-dripping that echoed bleakly and desolately. Fenella, staring about her, thought there was an underlying pain here as well, as if people had lived and perhaps suffered here, and probably died. What was down here? The dungeons? Prisoners? CuRoi’s victims, held chained and manacled?

Standing very still in the dimly lit stone passage, Fenella felt the terrible weight of long-dead agonies and long-dead anguish and fear close about her. So intense was the feeling that the darkness lightened briefly and she glimpsed, for the first time, the silvery snail’s-trail of necromancy which had lured her here. Alarm woke in her mind and with it fear. What am I doing down here! And, more worrying: How did I get here? She looked sharply behind her, but there was nothing to be seen.

But I think I am not alone, and I think that down here is something ancient and sinister and so powerful it is almost beyond Human understanding …

She was at the foot of the steps, standing in a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor. Ahead of her was another of the stone passages, lit by the smeary light of the wall sconces … Human fat and Dead Men’s marrow …

To the left were tiny low doors with pointed arches above them, set deeply into the wall, so low that Fenella, who was not tall, would have had to stoop to enter. Seven doors, each one of them shrouded in shadow, and each of them with a great iron ring-handle. Each one, perhaps, holding the necromancer’s secrets …

Fenella stayed where she was, because, although shreds of the spell still clung to her mind, she was becoming aware of the creeping evil everywhere, and the more she became aware of it, the more the spell dissolved. Surely, she thought, surely you did not, if you were sensible, pry into the dark dungeons in a necromancer’s lair. If you were sensible, what you did was to go in search of someone to pry with you, someone you could trust … The half-memory of Nuadu ruffled the surface of her mind and a few more strands of the dark glistening enchantment fell away. Fenella thought: I am standing at the heart of a necromancer’s ancient, spell-ridden Castle and it is dead of night and I am all alone … Of course he has woven an enchantment over me! How could I have thought he had not!

Fear surged up and she turned back to the stone steps, because she could be up the steps and back inside the warm, firelit room with the door bolted and Nuadu within reach.

But would it be safe and would it be warm and secure? Couldn’t CuRoi simply call to her again, no matter how many bolted doors and no matter how much cosy warm firelight?

And now I’m actually here, thought Fenella, now that I’m confronting these rooms which I suppose are dungeons, I might as well look inside. I might as well see if there is any trace of the King, or if there is any trace of anything at all.

And it would be rather interesting just to see, whispered the silvery voice, it would be a great adventure to peer into the secrets of the sorcerers …

There’s no one here, said Fenella firmly. It’s perfectly quiet and it’s perfectly safe — and if anyone had been prowling along after me, I should have heard.

I don’t know whether this is one of CuRoi’s horrid subtle spells, or whether it is my own curiosity, thought Fenella, and moved forward to the first of the doors.

The latch lifted easily and the iron ring-handle turned smoothly as if it was frequently used. Then this is no seldom-visited dungeon, thought Fenella. This is no forgotten underground prison-what did they used to call them? an oubliette — where victims rot to death in chains and gyves in the dark.

There was a twisted, rusting wall bracket directly opposite to the door and someone had thrust a flaring torch into it. It was burning strongly, and the thought touched Fenella’s mind that it must have been only just lit and that this might mean that somebody had been down here very recently and that the somebody might still be here, hiding in the shadows, watching, waiting …

She turned the iron ring-handle and pushed wide the door.

Pain screeched inside her head at once. Loud, hurting, white-hot pain tore into her mind, as her sight and her senses were assaulted and lacerated and sent spinning by what lay within.

The room was small, perhaps ten feet square. It was hewn from the solid grey stone of the passage and there were no windows.

Of course not, my dear, for is not this the famous Castle of Illusions, where all the windows and all the doors vanish with the setting of the sun, and where every entrance and every means of egress is sealed … ?

There was the same dank fetid stench she had been aware of earlier; a sweetish, rotting-meat, old-blood smell. A decaying tomb-like taint.

Great black iron hooks had been driven into the ceiling of the stone room, and from each of these hooks hung lumps of bloodied meat, Man-size, yes, Man-size, swinging to and fro slightly in the draught created by the opening of the door, moving, rotating gently on the terrible black hooks. The floor beneath each one was darkened and stained, and there was a steady dripping sound as the blood and the fluid and the juices of the carcases drained on to the cold stones.

Sides of meat. Carcases of red-streaked flesh and bone and gristle. Swathes of leathery skin and rattling bundles of whitening bone, and yawning, gaping trunks, with a stump at each comer, where the limbs had been hacked off.

Human carcases and Human meat. Truncated bodies, headless torsos, hanging in a butcher’s dungeon. Fenella felt sickness rising in her throat and swallowed convulsively.

A slaughterhouse. A meat-house. A necromancer’s spell-store.

Fenella was unable to move, but her mind was tumbling and her stomach churning.

CuRoi did not need to use the Fields of Blood, because he had his own storehouse here, he had his own private warehouse of Human flesh and bone and skin and hair.

Fenella backed away, her stomach lifting with nausea, and, as she did so, the whispering, murmuring voices echoed about the room.

The shadows moved and thickened, and Fenella, still half in and half out of CuRoi’s spell, remembered his servants.

Better unseen, Human Lady,

Or we shall rip you, Human Lady.

Fair of skin and dark of eye,

A Human to feed to spells, Lady.

The unseen servants of CuRoi, peering from the shadows of the necromancer’s slaughterhouse … Long, bony fingers reaching out, evil inward slanting red eyes peering … For a brief and terrible instant, Fenella saw them, grinning goblin faces, evil prancing shapes with long, scissor-like nails at the ends of their hands and jagged pointed teeth.

All the better to tear you apart, Human Lady …

Fenella gasped and choked down a scream and fell back into the stone passage. As she did so, a soft, light, footfall padded down the stone steps.

Nuadu was standing at the far end, watching her.

His head was tilted, and Fenella saw at once that there was something subtly different about him; something sleeker and leaner and something that you could very easily imagine bounding forward and felling you to the ground …

He regarded her silently, his eyes gleaming, and the shadows fell across the upper part of his face, so that his eyes showed red and slanting, and his mouth was thinner, a little cruel … Fenella stood very still and waited for him to speak. She felt the sticky spider’s-web-spell fall from her, so that she no longer heard the silvery fire-voice and no longer felt the strong sweet beckoning.

The planes of Nuadu’s face were altering, sharpening, becoming pointed and hungry … It might have been a trick of the light, but Fenella knew it was not. And wasn’t there the faint — yes, more than faint — suggestion of a muzzle forming … a muzzle that would slaver and savour, and sharp gleaming teeth beneath that would tear and rip … ?

Nuadu smiled and Fenella bit back a gasp, because it was not the gentle, ironic smile of the bastard Wolfprince, nor was it the sudden sweet intimate smile of the lover of the forest …

The smile of a Wolf stalking its prey … Alien and strong and possessed of such dark seduction that Fenella felt her senses somersault. A pang of longing sliced through her, followed at once by a wash of fear.

‘Come here, Fenella,’ said Nuadu in a soft voice.

He held out the hand that was flesh and blood and skin, and the thin smeary light from the wall sconce fell across it, so that his skin was no longer skin, pale and Human and ordinary, it was dark and silky and sable.

It was impossible not to be aware of the strong, dark allure of this strange creature who was certainly more Wolf than Human now. Into Fenella’s dazed mind flickered the old legends of snakes fascinating their prey and holding them motionless, simply by the power of their eyes.

I believe he is holding me motionless and probably helpless simply by looking at me now … What ought I to do? If he springs upon me, what could I do? Thought Fenella, her eyes distended. I think I might be fascinated as well. I think I ought not to be, but I have to admit to it.

Nuadu was leaning back against the far wall, his eyes glittering, the shadows still twisting about his body, so that it was impossible to see where the Human ended and the Wolf began …

But when he spoke, his voice was the one she remembered, and when he said, ‘Did I not tell you, Fenella? Did I not warn you?’ Fenella heard the unmistakable note of anguish.

He stayed where he was, wreathed in shadow, and now Fenella could see the wolfmask lying across his face, and she could see that, although he still stood upright, there was an unfamiliar stance, as if he was unused to standing like this, as if he was uncomfortable … As if he was accustomed to going on all fours.

Nuadu said, very gently, ‘I would not hide this from you, my love, but I would that you had never seen me thus. But I am what I am, Lady.’ And waited again, with such a patient mien, that Fenella took a deep breath and fought to remain where she was, but felt her heart singing, because he had said ‘my love’. He had called her ‘my love’, and surely this darkness would pass, wouldn’t it? and he would be freed from whatever strange bewitchment walked these halls?

At last, she said, in a whisper, ‘CuRoi. What has CuRoi done to you — ?’

‘I believe he has reached deep into my mind and found the darkness,’ said Nuadu. ‘Fenella, I felt it happen.’ A brief smile. ‘Did I not tell you what might happen?’ he said. ‘CuRoi has found the Wolf. He has uncovered the deeply buried hungers of my ancestors, the Wolves, and he has called to them.’ He turned his head to look at her again and then, quite suddenly, he said, ‘But CuRoi called to you, also.’

‘Yes.’ The strange fire-voice, the whispering grinning creatures … ‘Yes, I believe he did,’ said Fenella, slowly. ‘Why?’

‘To lure you down here.’

‘Into the — ’ Fenella stopped and Nuadu at once said, ‘You have found one of his storehouses? Human remains, perhaps?’

‘How did you know?’

‘No sorcerer who practises the dark art of necromancy can do so without using Human flesh and Human blood and bone and fat.’ He regarded her, and Fenella found that she was able to look at him quite naturally and easily now, as if the thin, sharply angled wolfmask was not in the least sinister.

Not sinister and perhaps even exciting …

Nuadu smiled at her and moved towards her in one single effortless movement and Fenella felt his arms go about her and felt again the hard, masculine warmth, insistent, throbbing … For CuRoi has woken the hungers …

And then, putting her from him, Nuadu said, in a cool, practical voice, ‘And now, my Lady, we have to explore further.’

Nuadu moved to the second door, and stood confronting it, legs slightly apart, the silver arm glinting dully. After a moment, he reached out a hand and pushed it open.

Sick greenish light poured out at once and, with it, the sour stench of decay. Fenella, at Nuadu’s side, felt his arm come round her, and stood silently by his side, looking in.

The second room was smaller than the first, but it was the same dank windowless oblong as the first, shadowy and silent.

At first, Fenella thought it was empty and then, as her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw that thrown down into the farthest comer was a pitiful collection of tiny shrivelled bodies, blind and boneless-looking creatures, only just recognisable as Human babies. They lay as they must have been flung, huddled together, as if blindly seeking the warmth and the companionship their aborted lives had been denied. Their skins had the waxen quality of creatures who live underground and their tiny starfish hands reached out as if in supplication. Most horrifying of all, over each soft vulnerable little skull was a veil, a thin membrane, a pallid film, covering the head and in some cases reaching down over the blind closed eyes.

‘Cauls,’ said Nuadu, softly, a note of horror in his tone. ‘The veils of unborn babies. Believed to hold immense power over death.’

Fenella thought she could not have spoken if her life had depended on it. She was unable to look away from the pitiful tumble of little soft bones, from the blind, barely formed faces, from the tiny reaching hands.

Ripped from the womb to serve a necromancer’s lust for power … This is the worst thing I have ever seen in my life, thought Fenella, staring at the poor, mangled forms. Of all the terrible things, this is the worst yet.

The chuckling bony-fingered beings were somewhere close by, with their horrid grisly chanting.

Kill the babies, eat their eyes.

Shred their skins and drink their slime.

Rip the wombs, deny them life.

Slit the birthsacs, wield the knife.

Smear their fat and let it boil,

Keep the caul, the caul is magic.

The caul is strong, preserve the caul.

‘We can do nothing for them,’ said Nuadu, very gently, closing the door. ‘They are long since gone, Lady.’

‘We can kill CuRoi,’ said Fenella.

‘Oh yes,’ said Nuadu softly. ‘Oh yes, we can do that.’ He looked down at her and Fenella saw that the wolfmask was still lying across his features, but that it was gentler now, less pronounced. Or was it simply that she was growing accustomed to it? It ought to have been menacing and alien, but it was not. There was the feeling of vicious courage, as if he would be quite capable of springing forward on to an enemy and tearing the enemy’s throat out with his teeth …

And enjoying it, Lady, and enjoying it …

Aloud he said, ‘You are already hating the Dark Realm, Fenella. After so short a time, you are hating it.’

‘Yes.’ Fenella frowned. ‘But you — your people — have lived with the threat of it for all their lives.’ She looked at him, ‘That is a terrible thing,’ she said. ‘We have to find a way to kill this creature.’

‘I would kill him with my bare hands,’ said Nuadu, his eyes gleaming again. ‘But he would vanish before I could get to him. Teeth and claws and swords will not vanquish this one.’

‘Probably he is listening to us now and chuckling to himself,’ said Fenella, raising her voice challengingly.

‘Almost certainly.’ Nuadu looked towards the third of the doors.

‘Can there be worse?’ said Fenella. ‘Can what is in there be worse than anything we have already seen?’

‘Will you stay back this time, Lady?’

‘No.’

They stared at one another and, unexpectedly, Nuadu’s expression softened. ‘Courageous but reckless,’ he said, and shook his head. ‘A dangerous combination.’

Fenella said, very deliberately, ‘I am what I am’, and Nuadu smiled.

‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘But let it not be forgotten that I made some attempt at chivalry.’

‘I’ll remember,’ said Fenella, who was actually beginning to feel rather sick.

The third door …

They heard the sounds before Nuadu reached out to the iron ring-handle and there was the sudden feeling that the room behind this door might well be larger and might well contain not pitiful Human shreds and fragments, but something else entirely.

There was a clanking, grinding sound, horridly reminiscent of the Robemaker’s treadmills, as Nuadu turned the handle. There was the sudden feeling of huge power and great force and relentless machinery being harnessed for some terrible, grisly purpose.

Nuadu pushed open the door.

If the first two rooms had been small and closed in, this was neither. It opened on to a short round tunnel, a culvert, which was made of rounded brick, and which was so low that, although they did not have to crawl on all fours, they both had to bend quite low. The sound of the clanking machinery was louder and there was a vast, echoing sound to it, as if whatever was creating the sound was doing so in some kind of vault.

Nuadu took Fenella’s hand in the now-familiar gesture and they moved into the mouth of the culvert and felt their way along its length. The floor was curved and there was a suffocating feeling, as if the smooth rounded walls might suddenly close in on them. There was not very much light, but there was enough to see that the sides were of rough black brick, pitted here and there as if something had scalded them or eaten into them or simply worn them away with the passing of time.

The floor was slippery in places and, as Fenella put out a hand for balance, the sides of the culvert felt cold and faintly slimy. She began to have the feeling that they were crawling through a drain, through which anything at all might have flooded and might still flood.

As they neared the sounds, they saw light directly ahead of them; a dull red, thick light. And then the mouth of the culvert widened and there was a brick archway and they were able to stand up and look about them.

They were standing on a small brick parapet, barely two feet across, and in front of them was a vast, echoing brick shaft, easily thirty feet across, stretching down into the bowels of the Castle. Nuadu, who knew only a little of Castles and ancient fortresses, had still absorbed a smattering of knowledge; he knew that Castles such as this one were sometimes built around a central hall or chimney which would extend from the turret tips down into the deepest part of the foundations and that these great, vault-like shafts could be used for a variety of things. They frequently held water containers near to the roof, which were designed to act as a reservoir for rainwater. Sometimes they were simply crude air shafts, with the Castle privies opening directly on to them. And although he had never seen the inside of Tara, the Bright Palace of his ancestors, he had listened to the stories of how it had been raised from the rock and how it had been used as a model for nearly every palace and castle built since. Tara’s central chimney shaft was said to wind intricately upwards through the State bedchambers, so that each chamber could have a tiny separate garde robe where fur garments could be hung and kept fresh.

But the immense stone chimney shaft at the centre of CuRoi’s Castle of Illusions had been used for none of these rather homely things. It contained a massive iron tank, a monstrous drum, smooth and cylindrical in shape and rather squat-looking. Nuadu, narrowing his eyes, thought it must be at least twenty feet in height and probably fifteen feet in circumference. Short, thick pipes ran in and out from it, as if it had to be fed, and then had to disgorge unwanted matter. The drum itself had the dull finish of steel or perhaps even tin; the sort of surface that would make your teeth wince agonisingly if you scraped your fingernails across it. There was the terrible charnel stench again, but there was a tin-like taint to it now, and Nuadu at once recognised it as the stench and the taste of a very great quantity of blood.

A reservoir of Human blood … A great smooth-sided iron cauldron, a cistern, twenty feet high and reinforced all around to withstand the immense pressures of the fluid inside …

The fluid inside …

At length, Nuadu said, very softly, ‘This is CuRoi’s Blood Reservoir.’

‘Yes.’ Fenella was staring up at the great squat cylinder, finding it horrifying and grisly, but finding as well that it had a dreadful live appearance, as if it might suddenly uproot its feet from their moorings deep within the Castle’s foundations and come waddling and lurching towards them, slopping its terrible burden over the sides as it came …

And then Nuadu’s hand closed about hers and Nuadu’s voice said, very calmly and very strongly, ‘It is very nasty, Fenella, but it is simply a great cistern filled with liquid.’

‘Yes.’ Fenella bit down her repulsion, because it was quite absurd to be felled by this when she had managed to cope with everything else so far.

As they stood watching, there was the clanking, teeth-wincing steel-against-tin sound again and they saw that there was an inner drum, very slightly smaller than the outer one, and that it was being pushed upwards from beneath, quite slowly and quite naturally.

Nuadu said, his voice echoing against the cold brick shaft, ‘The blood level is rising. It is being fed from somewhere.’

‘We had — ’ Fenella stopped, and then managed to go on fairly normally. ‘On Renascia, we had what we called water tanks — huge drums a bit like this, with mesh lids. There was a mechanism in them — fairly simple — which would measure the level and indicate when the tank was nearly empty, so that we knew to lever off the lid and catch the next rainfall. The tanks had an inner drum which rose when the level was high, and subsided when it was low. Not unlike this, I think.’

‘Ingenious race,’ said Nuadu. ‘So, after all, there is nothing so very new,’ and Fenella knew he was trying to force the conversation on to a simple, homely level, to reduce her revulsion.

At length, she said, ‘There is nothing here that will tell us about the King. Ought we to — ’

‘Try the other rooms?’

‘We’ll have to,’ said Fenella, firmly.

Creeping back through the culvert was nearly worse than creeping along it had been earlier. Fenella knew it was absurd to keep visualising the great Blood Tank suddenly lurching after them, reaching out its thick pipes like arms or tentacles to trap them, but she did think it.

She was grateful to reach the low door and be able to stand upright in the passage again.

‘Onwards?’ said Nuadu, looking down at her, and smiling to see that there was a smudge of dust across one cheekbone and that it did not make her any less beautiful. Her face was pale and her eyes were huge and dark, but he could feel, through her fear and revulsion, a strong, steady anger against CuRoi.

‘Onwards,’ said Fenella, at once, and from somewhere dredged up a grin, because if Nuadu had lived under the shadow of this evil, clever creature and this massive threat, then she could look upon whatever else they might find.

You do not need to try to match me, Lady …

‘I know that,’ said Fenella aloud. ‘Mustn’t we be nearing dawn now? Do necromancers lose a little of their power with the coming of the morning?’

‘Truly I have no idea,’ said Nuadu. ‘But it is possible there is no dawn here as we know it. And CuRoi may be playing some kind of subtle game with us.’

‘I know,’ said Fenella, who had not stopped listening for soft footfalls, or looking for slanting peering eyes.

The fourth room held the heads of the necromancer’s victims, but both Fenella and Nuadu found that their senses were still reeling from the tiny dead foetuses in the second room and from the terrible Blood Reservoir in the third. Fenella began to have the feeling that nothing could hold any terror for them any more.

The skulls were stacked against the wall, several dozen of them, each with its rags of neck skin streaming, each with its sightless eyes open and staring. Fenella shuddered,

The fifth room contained a jumble of golden, blood-crusted vessels; chalices and platters and bowls and etched into the floor were strange symbols and curious markings.

‘The language of necromancy,’ said Nuadu, studying it. ‘Or at least, a few words of it. I wish there was time to study it more closely.’ He glanced behind him. ‘I wish we felt safe enough to study it more closely,’ he said.

The sixth room was empty. ‘But,’ said Fenella, wrapping her arms about her body, to stop the sudden uncontrollable shivering, ‘but there is something here.’

There was something in the sixth room that was cold and evil and merciless. They both recoiled and Nuadu closed the door tightly.

‘Stored spells that we cannot see, perhaps?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Nuadu. ‘CuRoi is called the Master and it may be that he can cover his real secrets with the Cloak of Invisibility. That is a fairly simple invocation, but it is extremely difficult to maintain for any length of time.’ He looked at her, and Fenella said, ‘One room left.’ One room left …

‘Yes. The seventh chamber, Lady. The seventh secret of the necromancer. All right?’

‘All right,’ said Fenella, and they moved to the room at the far end of the stone passage. Nuadu pushed the door wider and they entered the chamber.

The room was of a more normal size than any of the others; it was long and rather narrow, but it was about the same size as the hall where they had dined earlier. It was not as dark as the other rooms, but Fenella thought that the light was of a different quality, less evil. They stood very still, waiting for their eyes to adjust, beginning to make out bare floorboards, the shadowy shapes of furniture.

Dark blue light poured in from somewhere over their heads, showing up great swathes of cobwebs. They stirred as Nuadu moved, and touched Fenella’s face eerily. She brushed them away impatiently and tried to search the shadows, because there was something here, something huge and incomprehensible and all-seeing.

Fenella followed Nuadu, treading cautiously, as if she was testing each step, and felt the shadows move with them.

At the far corner, standing by itself, was a massive carved chair, its back so high that it stretched above them, the arms and feet intricately carved and adorned with strange symbols. Light fell across the great chair, so that they could see the beautiful graining of the dark polished wood, and the gentle patina that only extreme age brings.

Nuadu stopped short, and an arrested look came over his face.

‘What is it? Nuadu, what is it?’

‘I am not sure,’ said Nuadu, very softly, ‘but I believe we are looking on one of the great symbolic treasures of Ireland.’

‘A chair,’ said Fenella, slowly, questioningly, her eyes still on the outline before them, seeing, now, that wolves were carved into the wood, and that here and there were other creatures … panthers, swans, deer …

‘A throne, Lady,’ said Nuadu, his eyes still on the dark glossy chair. ‘And made of the black silky wood of the first Trees that grew in the Wolfwood at the beginning of Tara’s history. Ebonywood.’ He looked down at her, his eyes brilliant and alive, and Fenella saw that the wolflook had completely vanished now. ‘There is a legend in Ireland,’ said Nuadu, ‘a long-held belief that — ’

‘That only Ireland’s true King may sit in the chair and that all others who dare to do so will perish in extreme agony,’ said a soft voice behind them.

Nuadu and Fenella turned at once to see, framed in the half-open door, CuRoi watching them. And at his side the sinister, cloaked form of the Robemaker.

Chapter Forty-two

Fenella was at once aware of a difference about CuRoi. She thought at first that it was simply that the light was casting odd shadows in here, and then she thought that perhaps it was just seeing him next to the thin, stooping figure of the Robemaker. And then she knew that neither of these had been right: it was that they were seeing CuRoi as he really was. The mask had been discarded, put aside, and this was the true evil creature, the legendary necromancer who ruled the Dark Ireland and who called down the force of the setting sun each evening and sealed the vast Castle of Illusions and had, at his beck, armies of Dark Servants …

He was taller and darker than he had been at supper; the swarthy look had gone from his skin and in its place was a pale, polished look, like ivory, like skinned bone. Translucent, the look of one who is not entirely Human … His eyes still had the faint slant to them, giving him a faintly exotic look, so that Nuadu, who had sometimes met and talked with travellers and pilgrims, remembered the stories and descriptions of Eastern princes.

As if to underline this, CuRoi was wearing a robe of scarlet silk, and his slender white hands were adorned with jewels. He moved, and at once the Robemaker moved with him, like a shadow.

Fenella felt Nuadu become very still and felt, as well, that he had tensed to spring.

‘I really should not do so, Nuadu,’ said CuRoi at once and, with the words, the Robemaker made a brief gesture with one hand, and the crimson rope-lights shot out and snaked about Nuadu’s wrists, pinioning them.

Nuadu struggled, but the rope-lights held and Fenella could see that they bit deeply into his skin. The Robemaker glanced at CuRoi and, with a second quick movement of his hand, sent out a second shower of crimson, and Fenella found her own wrists as tightly bound.

‘So,’ said CuRoi, moving forward, and studying them both, ‘so you have found your way to the Ebony Throne, have you, Wolfprince?’

‘As you intended,’ said Nuadu.

‘Yes. Yes, that is perceptive of you. But do you know,’ said CuRoi thoughtfully, ‘I did not expect you to walk into my little trap quite so easily.’

‘Let us say,’ said Nuadu, ‘that it suited me to appear to fall in with your little ploy.’

‘Indeed? Well, the Wolves were never noted for their judgement,’ said CuRoi, rather dismissively. ‘But I confess that it pleases me to have succeeded. Did you enjoy my series of locked rooms, my dear?’ he said to Fenella. ‘A rather childish ploy, but one that pleases me. Each one worse than the last, until you see through the device and then, of course, the rooms become relatively harmless. Store-rooms for chalices and salvers and the occasional discarded enchantment.’ He smiled and then turned back to Nuadu. ‘But I admit that I wished you to confront the Ebony Throne, Nuadu Airgetlam.’ He regarded Nuadu. ‘That was the reason for luring your lady down here. Of course you would follow her.’

‘Of course,’ said Nuadu, equably. ‘I see that you acknowledge the existence of chivalry, even though you do not practise it.’

CuRoi smiled and shook his head. ‘Tsk, tsk,’ he said. ‘A bitter tongue. Do you know what happens to bitter tongues?’ And he moved one hand in a curious, somehow inverted, gesture, and produced, from the long loose sleeve of his gown, a pink, wet Human tongue.

‘You see?’ said CuRoi, turning it this way and that. ‘Unharmed until it utters displeasing sentiments. And then we simply — ’ Another of the quick, light gestures, ‘We simply make it cloven,’ he said and, as he spoke, the tongue parted and split and blood and saliva oozed out.

‘A cloven tongue,’ said CuRoi, showing them the two separate pieces, and then throwing them into the air and watching them vanish. ‘A particularly unpleasant fate. But one I should enjoy inflicting on you, Wolfprince.’ His eyes grew cold and hard suddenly. ‘You know the legend of the Ebony Throne,’ he said.

‘The ancient Throne of ebonywood that will only accept Ireland’s true King,’ said Nuadu, rather offhandedly, as if the grotesque illusionist’s trick had barely touched his mind. ‘Yes, it is one of the earliest beliefs, that. Although I think that to most people it is simply a symbolic thing. And there are many such beliefs that surround all ancient Royal lines,’ he said. ‘There are many rituals attached to the crowning of kings. Stones that shriek aloud, swords that must be drawn from solid rock. It pleases the people to believe these things,’ he said, as if the subject did not interest him very much, but Fenella saw that his eyes went to the immense, gleaming dark throne as he said this.

‘It is not symbolic, Wolfprince,’ said the Robemaker, and Fenella and Nuadu both repressed a shudder, because they had forgotten the whispery, diseased voice. ‘It is very real and very powerful,’ said the Robemaker. ‘It was created from the first trees in the Wolfwood and the first sorcerers wove into it one of the most powerful enchantments ever known.’

Nuadu said softly, ‘An enchantment so that it would accept Ireland’s rightful King and no other.’

‘So you do believe,’ said CuRoi thoughtfully. ‘I thought you did.’

‘Not really.’

‘You would care to try it, bastard prince?’ said CuRoi, his eyes gleaming.

‘I think not,’ said Nuadu politely.

‘I thought you would not wish to.’ CuRoi smiled. ‘It is a vastly unpleasant death, to call down the Ebony Throne’s power. You have perhaps felt in the air the agonies of those who have been sufficiently arrogant to challenge me and whom I have flung to the Throne? They linger on, of course, as do all strong emotions.’

‘I have felt them,’ said Nuadu in a level voice.

CuRoi laughed and Fenella saw the shower of silver and red amusement cascade through the air and fall to the floor at their feet. ‘We are in no danger from your puny threats, Nuadu of the Silver Arm,’ said CuRoi.

‘We have never been in danger from you,’ said the Robemaker.

Nuadu regarded them, his head on one side. ‘But I have still teeth, CuRoi,’ he said softly. ‘I have still the ability to kill you.’ He regarded the necromancer. ‘I should take great pleasure in tearing your flesh, crunching your bones,’ he said thoughtfully, and CuRoi laughed again and again the sparks of malicious amusement touched the air.

Nuadu regarded them both, his head on one side consideringly. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, and Fenella caught the reckless note in his voice, and knew he might very well gamble on a sudden spring on either one of these two, ‘what do you intend now? Are we to be given the chance to find my brother? Let us be open with one another, at least.’

‘The Wolfkings are an accursed line,’ said the Robemaker. ‘Between us we have almost ended their reign.’

‘Almost?’

‘There is still you,’ said CuRoi.

‘But I am not a threat,’ said Nuadu. ‘Come now, we all know that I have no right to Ireland’s Throne.’

‘That is true.’ CuRoi walked to where Nuadu still stood, and appeared to consider him. ‘But supposing, Nuadu, that you were the last Wolfprince in Ireland, no matter your — ah — irregular birth. Might it not occur to some of your faithful Beastline creatures to propose you as a Monarch?’

‘You have still the wolfblood,’ said the Robemaker.

‘And,’ said CuRoi, ‘to some, it might seem that any creature with a trickle of the ancient wolfblood could be enthroned at Tara.’

He waited, and Nuadu said at once, ‘The creatures of the Beastline would take the Throne for themselves rather than see me on it,’ and CuRoi nodded, as if this was the answer he had expected.

The Robemaker said, ‘All creatures are venal, no matter their ancestry.’

‘Also necromancers,’ said Nuadu with extreme politeness, and CuRoi’s dark features twisted in a frown.

‘You see,’ said CuRoi, moving back to stand behind the blackened silky-smooth chair, ‘you see, Nuadu, we do not care to risk having you out in the world — either in this Ireland or the other one — where you might be the target for some kind of ridiculous act of what your world calls chivalry.’ He studied Nuadu. ‘We can permit no pretenders, no bastard princes,’ he said.

‘I understand.’

‘And so we shall kill you.’

‘As you have killed the King?’

‘Oh, the King,’ said CuRoi, and a cold smile touched his lips now. ‘Perhaps he is dead and perhaps he is not.’

‘Perhaps he is condemned to wander this Dark Realm, with the leaden Cloak of Ignorance about his shoulders,’ hissed the Robemaker.

‘A cruel torment which would be worthy of you,’ said Nuadu, as if in agreement. ‘Is that the fate you have reserved for me? The Lady can be let go, of course,’ he said, rather off-handedly, as if Fenella’s fate did not matter very much to him. ‘She has served her purpose.’ Fenella stared at the floor, because it was important not to let the two terrible beings before them guess at her thoughts, and she knew that Nuadu was trying to ensure her escape.

CuRoi said in a gloating voice, ‘We shall find uses for the Lady,’ and the Robemaker chuckled with a wet bubbling sound that made Fenella think of his eaten-away throat.

‘She will be put into service in my Workshops,’ he said, and lifted his head so that Fenella caught a glimpse of gleaming white bone and a great gaping cavern where the nose should have been, and caught, as well, the stench of ulcerous skin and leprous flesh. ‘To replace the creatures she so foolishly set free,’ said the Robemaker. ‘A fitting fate, my dear.’

Nuadu pulled briefly against the crimson ropes and CuRoi laughed. ‘You should know, wolf creature, that the Robemaker’s ropes of light are not to be dissolved.’

Only to the Human's hand … The words touched Fenella’s mind as lightly and as delicately as a batswing brush and at once something in her mind sprang to attention.

Open, locks, to the Human's hand … Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys …

Of course, thought Fenella, still staring at the floor, because these two creatures would almost certainly listen to her thoughts if they wanted to. Of course. The spell from the Robemaker’s own Workshops. The Robe of Human Hands and the chanted spell that freed Nuadu and the others. We have not the Robe, but we might have the chant. That’s if I can remember it. Can I remember it? thought Fenella frantically. Oh dear heaven, can I? And then: but will it work without the Robe of Human Hands? What happened to that? Did we leave it in the Workshops. Yes, of course we did. Will the spell work without the Robe?

CuRoi was moving forward and the Robemaker with him. They stood on each side of Nuadu.

‘We shall tie you to the chair,’ said CuRoi, and he said it gently and reasonably.

‘Why?’

A smile twisted the cruel lips again. ‘Oh, let us say, that it will be a fitting end for you.’ The dark eyes glittered. ‘Let us perhaps rather say that we shall feed you to it,’ he added.

‘It is an unusual way to die,’ said the Robemaker.

‘But a fitting one for a bastard Wolfprince, I think? And you possess more than your share of arrogance, Nuadu Airgetlam.’

‘He is an arrogant wolf creature,’ said the Robemaker. ‘He defied me and escaped me in the outside world. His concubine let loose my slaves. To see the Ebony Chair devour him will be a fitting recompense.’ There was the suggestion of a terrible smile within the deep hood.

‘But slowly,’ said the Robemaker, and there was a lick of relish in his voice now. ‘I shall draw him to it slowly, so that he has plenty of time to visualise what is in store for him.’

Nuadu said in a conversational tone, ‘I see, Robemaker, that you still suffer the Curse of Eternal Disease, the Draoicht Tinneas Siorai. Do you still have to feed captured souls to the Soul Eaters?’ He moved closer, his eyes reckless and shining. ‘Have you not yet seen that they will take all you give and still not release you?’ said Nuadu and the Robemaker drew back with a malevolent hiss and flung the crimson light again, so that it twisted about Nuadu’s face and formed itself into the hateful mask once more.

‘Accursed wolf-creature,’ whispered the Robemaker. ‘I do not have to listen to your poison! But you may be sure that your soul will go to the Lords of the Cruachan Cavern and be set on the Silver Scales, where it will weigh against my debt. And my debt is almost paid.’ He raised his hand again, and began to draw Nuadu to the waiting chair.

‘An interesting death, this one,’ said CuRoi, and then, glancing at Fenella, ‘and then, my dear, once your protector is gone, and his soul given to the Soul Eaters, we shall turn our attention to you.’ He smiled, and moved to stand before her, inspecting her. ‘Lovely,’ he said at last, his voice thick and clotted with lust now. ‘But then the Wolfprinces ever had good taste in women.’

Women … As if she was a concubine, a harlot. How dare this revolting creature treat them like this. Fenella put up her chin and regarded CuRoi haughtily and managed to keep her eyes from quite meeting his and sought furiously in her mind for the words to the enchantment that would dissolve the horrid crimson ropes.

Open, locks, to the Human's hand … If I cannot remember, I shall have failed and Nuadu will die … Open, locks, to the Human's hand … Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys …

CuRoi and the Robemaker had moved back to stand behind the throne and the Robemaker was lifting his hand again and Nuadu was snarling and struggling and, at any minute, the Robemaker would pull on the crimson ropes and Nuadu would be drawn forward …

Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys … Fly open, bars, dissolve, untie, unchain, unfetter … Nothing was happening yet. The whole spell would have to be chanted, of course. And there was something farther on about cutting … That would be the salient part of the spell, surely … Fenella, her mind spinning, concentrating for all she was worth, reached deeper into her memory.

CuRoi was smiling now, his arms folded on his chest. ‘The ancient Ebony Throne of Tara,’ he said. ‘The Seat of the High Kings of Ireland.’ He paused, and looked deep into Nuadu’s eyes. ‘How you would have liked it,’ he said. ‘How you have coveted it, bastard Wolfprince, for all your cynicism and for all your rejection of your ancestry. Well, now you shall have it, you shall feel its cold embrace and you shall feel its burning maw. For it will only accept the True King of Ireland,’ he said. ‘It will burn and it will consume all those who have no claim to Tara. You will burn from within, Wolfprince, and you will burn slowly.’ He smiled and turned to sign to the Robemaker to draw Nuadu forward to the throne.

Nuadu had stopped struggling and was standing very still and very straight. It seemed to Fenella that a different look had come into his eyes. Without warning, the words of the enchantment slid into her mind, whole and clear, and with them was an unexpected strength. She thought, and then was sure, that Nuadu was pouring the pure pale radiance into her mind and she experienced a feeling of such spiralling power that for a moment her mind was filled with nothing but the strong white light.

She stayed where she was, held by the crimson rope-lights, but she lifted her head slightly and repeated, in ringing tones, the words of the spell that had freed Nuadu and the other slaves from the Robemaker’s treadmills.

Open, locks, to the Human’s hand …

Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys …

Fly open, bars, dissolve, untie, unchain, unfetter …

Slash and gash and carve and gnaw.

Pluck the splinters of iron and slice the thews of steel,

Scission and sunder, steal and plunder …

There was a moment, terrible, never to be forgotten, when the most profound silence blanketed them, as if the ancient castle was poised between two worlds. Fenella thought: it is in the balance. I believe that the spell is warring with CuRoi’s evil. It is fighting it. I can feel that it is fighting it.

CuRoi had thrown back his head and stretched his hands out before him and Fenella heard the low, rhythmic chanting they had heard on their arrival. A dark, swirling vapour began to form on the air, fetid and suffocating.

There was time to think: CuRoi’s dark servants! and to remember the grinning, bony-fingered creatures in the dungeons. There was a fleeting moment of sheer terror as the darkness, crimson-streaked and menacing, advanced towards them.

And then, at the centre of the room in front of the ancient magical Ebony Throne of the Wolfkings, Fenella and Nuadu saw the two enchantments collide and the white-hot sparks fly outwards.

The strong, incisive Robe of Human Hands glittered and sliced across the darkness, blue-grey and made of razor-sharp edges, cleaving the air with ease, scything through the dark turgid mass of CuRoi’s terrible chant as it surged forward to where they stood. For a moment, the Human Hands faltered and at once the darkness reared up triumphantly, like heaving black waves. It will swallow us up, thought Fenella. It is like a muddy river, like a swamp that has boiled over. Like a slimy riverbed, veined with crimson, palpating and threatening. It will smother us and suffocate us and we shall drown in it …

And then the blue-grey steel of the Robe of Human Hands scythed the darkness again and the seething black slime parted and seemed to hesitate and there was the flash of scissor-edges and sawteeth and of axe blades and knives and of every sharp thing ever known or dreamed or imagined.

Open, locks to the Human’s hand …

The crimson rope-lights dissolved and fell to the floor, and Nuadu, freed, at once bounded to Fenella and grabbed her arm, pulling her from the dungeon, along the stone passage, past the six doors where CuRoi had laid his series of fearsome secrets.

They half ran, half fell up the narrow stone steps, gasping and struggling, and Nuadu pulled Fenella with him, through the firelit dining hall, and into the immense central stone hall.

Fenella, gasping for breath, holding tightly to Nuadu’s hand, knew that the spell had not been exactly right; it had not been a spell to find hidden doors, only to unlock doors that had been locked. But it is all we had, cried her mind, it is all we had, and it has worked so far and if it does not release us from this Castle, then we are lost and Nuadu will surely die and Ireland will be lost and there will be nothing, anywhere, ever again …

The razor-sharp lights splintered the air all about their heads and CuRoi’s Castle of Illusions began slowly to rotate.

‘It is rescinding the sealing!’ cried Nuadu. ‘The Castle is opening! Fenella, be ready to get out!’

‘Yes!’ cried Fenella. ‘Yes, as fast as ever we can!’

Great showers of angry crimson and purple sparks fell from the ceilings, starting up tiny vicious paths of fire all round them. The terrible chanting rose and heightened in intensity and, for a moment, the dark heavy clouds surged forward again. The Robemaker and CuRoi appeared at the far end of the stone hall and the Robemaker’s crimson ropes snaked out. Nuadu dragged Fenella back until they were both standing with their backs pressed against the wall farthest from the two necromancers and they both flinched and dodged away from the whiplash of the rope-lights.

The scything blades and the mowing saws and the churning, snipping scissor-edges whirled again and flung clean sharp spears of blue-grey light against the wall. As Nuadu and Fenella put up their hands to shield their eyes from the brilliance, the outline of a door appeared in the wall.

‘That’s it!’ cried Fenella. ‘It’s working! It’s breaking the seals!’

‘Yes, but quickly! Quickly!’ cried Nuadu, and pulled Fenella forward.

As they moved, the door opened, and they could see the black wastes and the seething Dark Lakes and the terrible Fields of Blood beyond.

Hand in hand, they fell through, out of the necromancer’s Castle.

Into the black night of the Dark Realm.

As they ran frantically down the hillside, they were aware, more strongly than ever, of the swirling eddying evil all about them. The skies churned and panted and great tongues of flame spat and curled out, so that several times they narrowly missed being consumed. Roaring winds whipped at them, snatching at Fenella’s hair, and icy rain hurled itself into their faces, so that they had to turn their heads to avoid it as they ran.

They could hear CuRoi and the Robemaker screaming imprecations after them, and there was not, surely, anywhere to hide.

As they neared the foot of the hill path, dozens of pairs of red eyes began to appear from the side of the path and the ground itself began to writhe and heave and throw them off balance.

Fenella said, ‘I … cannot run … any farther.’ And stopped, and bent over, helpless, doubling up over the stabbing agony in her left side. Nuadu, almost as exhausted, leaned against a tree.

‘A few — minutes only — ’

‘Yes. All the time in the world, Lady.’ Through the exhaustion and fear, the old grin slid out. ‘Ahead are the Fields of Blood,’ said Nuadu. ‘If we can reach them, we may be within sight of the door created by the Soul Eaters!’

‘But it vanished!’ said Fenella. ‘As soon as we were through it, it simply vanished!’

‘But it’s our only chance!’ said Nuadu. ‘Come now.’

‘Yes. All right,’ said Fenella, and gathered her strength, and they were running again, only now red-eyed creatures ran after them, bobbing and chuckling evilly, rubbing hands together, whispering and murmuring to one another as they ran.

Nearly there, nearly catching them … mustn’t let these two go … Cut out their hearts and roast them for the trolls if we can … Throw them to the Lake people … Turn them into the Nightfields and hunt them down for sport …

Nuadu lifted the glinting silver arm and pointed. ‘There!’ he cried. ‘The Crimson Fields!’ Fenella stopped, shading her eyes against the livid scarlet of the skies.

‘Are you sure? Nuadu, are you sure this is the right path?’ The thought of being lost in this terrible evil Realm, pursued by CuRoi and the Robemaker, perhaps never emerging into the true Ireland, was so unbearable that Fenella found herself unable to focus properly.

‘Yes!’ cried Nuadu, pulling her with him. ‘See the red glow rising against the darkness! And the figure of the scarecrow! Yes, come on, Fenella!’

Forked lightning was splitting the skies over them now and Nuadu, glancing behind, saw that CuRoi and the Robemaker were not pursuing them, but were standing together with the towering Castle of Illusions behind them. CuRoi had folded his arms across his chest, and he was suffused with light; the light was burgeoning and swelling, developing great elongated fingers which would reach out and down and scoop up the two creatures who had somehow outwitted the Master.

The Robemaker was standing in shadow, the deep hood of his cloak hiding his face. But Nuadu could see that the crimson rope-lights were spinning and whirling all about him and that they were forming a mesh cage which would imprison them both if they were not quick and if they could not find the doorway back to the Cruachan Cavern.

For a brief, scalding instant, his mind acknowledged the thought that, once in the Cruachan Cavern, they would again be at the mercy of the Soul Eaters and then he pushed it aside impatiently.

They were nearing the Fields of Blood — Fenella, whose lungs were hurting, but who was somehow managing to keep running at Nuadu’s side, saw the deep red glow, like fire, like blood seeping into the skies. The faint charnel stench assaulted her nostrils once more and she shuddered, because the Fields had been so terrible, so pitiful and repulsive.

But this is the way we came, she thought doggedly; this is the road we took, and this is the only way we can take now.

The strong glowing clouds of light that CuRoi had spun exploded like a star bursting and, at once, brilliant fingers of light poured forth down the hillside after them, thin snakelike streams of reaching enchantment that would catch them up and sweep them aside. It was a little like trying to outrun a fast-flowing mountain river which has burst its banks, or the volcanic eruptions that Fenella remembered from Renascia. Crimson light sizzled through the air and rope-lashes whipped at them cruelly. Nuadu, caught by one of them, stumbled and half fell and Fenella at once dragged him upright.

As they drew level with the Fields, they could see the waving tatters of skin. The scarecrow’s arms moved in the wind and its sleeves flapped sadly, as ravaged-faced Harpies screeched at it in derision, before flying off to attack another part of the Fields.

Fenella, drawing breath for a final sprint, was just thinking that CuRoi would certainly order the Harpies to attack them when Nuadu suddenly gripped her hand in a tight painful clasp.

‘What — ’

And then Fenella saw where Nuadu was pointing, the silver arm glinting redly in the eerie light.

The scarecrow had turned its head and was looking towards them.

It was alive.

It was one of the most remarkable moments Fenella had ever known. The scarecrow was alive; it was watching them from sad, dark eyes, and it was so clearly not a creature of this Realm, that there was no question but that it must be saved. Fenella and Nuadu both plunged at once into the terrible waving fields and, as they did so, the streams of CuRoi’s molten lava poured harmlessly across the road behind them, leaving them unscathed.

Nuadu was ahead. He was waist-deep in the terrible waving fields, among the bloodied tatters of Human remains, the slithery fragments of Human innards. Fenella, trying desperately hard to close her mind against the reality of the Fields, followed him and, despite her resolve, felt the grisly harvests brush her thighs. The ground beneath the skin was wet and squelching; here and there it was slippery and slimed. Once, half-way across, she caught her foot in a root and half fell, and then looked down and saw that it was not a root at all, but a writhing length of white intestine, coiled deep beneath the necromancer’s crop of flesh, snakelike and gruesome. Fenella thought that if she once gave way to the lurching, shuddering revulsion, she would sink down in the Fields and the bloodied tatters would close over her head and she would drown in the heaving sea of Human gore.

Nuadu was moving purposefully ahead, hacking his way through the Fields, using his silver arm mercilessly. Twice he looked back and Fenella felt his warmth and strength touch her mind.

All right, Lady … ?

All right, whispered Fenella in her mind, and Nuadu grinned as if to say: Courage, Fenella, we are almost there! and moved on.

The scarecrow had been somehow fastened to two strips of wood, roughly nailed together at the centre, forming a cruciform shape. The upright strut towered above them, casting a dense black shadow. Fenella thought it must have been ten feet in height, and the ragged, bloodied figure was fastened high on it, so that its bound feet were barely level with Fenella’s eyes.

Its arms were extended the length of the cross-piece and even from the ground Fenella could see that the Robemaker’s rope-lights bound its wrists and ankles firmly in place. There were more of the rope-lights about its waist, and they had cut deeply into the skin, so that the ragged garments it wore were darkened with blood. The pity of it slammed Fenella across the heart and she saw Nuadu reach up and then stand back frowning.

Fenella said, softly, ‘We can’t reach it.’

‘No. And even if we could, it is bound with the rope-lights.’

‘The Robe of the Human Hands?’ said Fenella, a bit hesitantly. ‘Would it dissolve the rope-lights once more?’ At once the ravaged features of the prisoner — Fenella could see now that it was a young man, only a very little older than Nuadu — looked down at her with such trust and such blind faith that Fenella knew that they must find a way of ending his torments.

She did not stop to think if there was time to chant the Spell again before CuRoi redirected the molten lava, or whether the Spell would work. Nuadu, who had turned to watch their pursuers, saw that CuRoi had vanished — into the Castle? — but that the Robemaker was still screaming imprecations and hurling sizzling light-whips at them. He thought that both necromancers would hesitate to destroy the Fields of Blood and he thought it ironic that they should have found temporary sanctuary in the necromancers’ storefields, a place which might so easily have been their own last resting place — indeed still might be so, he thought.

Fenella had not moved; she was looking up at the thin ravaged face of the dark-haired young man — it was a pale, rather unusual face — and the words of the Enchantment formed in her mind easily and smoothly. She stood very still and pronounced, for the third time, the ancient strong Enchantment stolen from the Robemaker’s storehouse of spells.

Open, locks, to the Human’s hand …

Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys …

Fly open, bars, dissolve, untie, unchain, unfetter …

Slash and gash and carve and gnaw.

Pluck the splinters of iron and slice the thews of steel,

Scission and sunder, steal and plunder …

There was confidence in her voice, because although the Spell was still not complete without the robe, they had proved its efficacy inside the Castle and they had escaped and surely they would free this captive now? It worked for us and it will work for him, thought Fenella, fiercely. It will work, because it must work. I believe that it will work.

The rope-lights which had held the young man to the cross melted at once, dissolving and running into nothing, and the prisoner fell gasping from his terrible bondage into Nuadu’s arms. For a moment, neither of them moved and Nuadu and the young man looked at one another very intensely.

And then the young man said, in a choking weak voice, rusty with disuse, ‘How shall I thank you — ’

‘Do not thank me yet,’ said Nuadu, straightening up and turning to look towards the Castle. ‘Do not thank me until we have escaped.’ And then he looked at the young man, and added, ‘Your Majesty.’

Ireland’s High King. Fenella stood transfixed, staring at the thin frail form, the exiled Wolfprince, Ireland’s uncrowned King, who had been held in such terrible thralldom. She thought: he has been imprisoned out here, held by a necromancer’s vicious cruelty, reduced to this poor wretched frail thing. There were scars on his arms and neck — talon scratches from the screeching Harpies who would have mocked him and flown at him and whom he would have been unable to drive off.

Nuadu had not spoken, but his face was white with bitter anger against CuRoi and the Robemaker. He said, ‘There is much for us to say, Sire, but this is not the place. We must somehow get you out.’

‘No ceremony,’ croaked the young man. ‘My name is Aed.’

‘I know,’ said Nuadu, and they looked at one another again.

Fenella had turned to look at the Castle again and, as she did so, the drawbridge lifted and framed in it were the figures of CuRoi and the Robemaker astride rearing black horses.

‘The NightMares,’ said Aed, who was also looking. ‘Fearsome creatures who stalk the dreams of their victims.’ A shiver went through his thin body and Fenella said, urgently, ‘Sire-Your — ’ and at once the young man said, ‘We will dispense with the formalities, Lady,’ and Fenella heard the echo of Nuadu’s voice, the same timbre, the same way of arranging words.

‘I am in your hands,’ said Aed. ‘I have not the strength to do much other than follow you — ’ A sudden sweet smile touched his face. ‘But I believe I have sufficient strength left to walk out of this place.’

‘This way,’ said Nuadu, who had straightened up and was scanning the landscape. ‘This way, for we may still find the Gateway to the Caverns. Back on to the road and straight towards the swamplands!’

‘The Black Marshes?’ said Aed.

‘Yes! That is where we came through the Gateway! That must be where the fabric between the two Irelands is at its thinnest!’

‘Hurry!’ said Fenella, grasping Aed’s arm on Nuadu’s other side. ‘They are already out of the Castle!’

CuRoi and the Robemaker were riding hard down the mountain slope, crouching over their steeds. Crimson fire surrounded them and, even from here, it was possible to hear the ringing out of the NightMares’ hoofs on the ground. There was a grim, relentless, pounding about the sound. They would reach the Fields very soon.

Nuadu and Fenella, with Aed between them, began to push their way through the Fields again, moving as quickly as they could. Fenella, holding Aed’s thin arm firmly, found it very nearly possible to ignore the horrid smeary skin shreds and the slinking trails of white intestines beneath her feet. It was more important to help Aed, who was so thin and so frail-looking that Fenella found her heart lurching anxiously every time he stumbled. He was so weak that it seemed impossible that he would survive the journey to the Cruachan Cavern. She glanced back. Could they outrun CuRoi and his creatures with such a burden to slow them? Then she remembered that their only way of escape was through the Cave of the Soul Eaters and that Nuadu had made that specious bargain to bring back the King of Ireland, so that the Soul Eaters could take his soul … And we cannot endanger him! cried Fenella in silent anguish. He has suffered so much already!

She glanced at Nuadu, but Nuadu’s expression was unreadable; his eyes were deep unfathomable pits and his mouth was set in an uncompromising line.

It is the only way out, Lady …

They neared the road and Fenella began to scan the horizon for indications of where they might have come through the Gateway.

‘But there is nothing,’ she said to Nuadu, very nearly despairing. ‘And CuRoi and the Robemaker are closing on us.’

They were, and with them were the Harpies, swooping through the night skies, forming a fearsome pattern, their ravaged-woman faces grotesque on their vulture-bodies and their claws vicious.

‘Cruel things,’ said Aed. ‘But they cannot actually kill.’

Nuadu, who had been looking intently at the road ahead, stopped suddenly and looked first at Fenella and then at Aed. ‘Listen,’ he said, and there was a note of spiralling excitement in his voice.

Very distantly, as if it was a sound that must travel down a long echoing tunnel, or as if it was coming from behind a closed door, they heard the beating of leathery wings on the air.

The Gateway formed almost at once. There was a whirring, thrumming sound, the impression of an approaching dark force and the feeling of the huge shadowy wings of the Soul Eaters somewhere above them.

A string of glittering light stretched upwards in front of their eyes, splitting the crimson-streaked blackness in twain, and then a second string, exactly in line with it, appeared. As they stood together, watching, the third line appeared, joining the two at the top, and there before them was the immense Gateway through which Fenella and Nuadu had come earlier, and through which they must now go back.

Because it is the only way, Lady …

Into the Cruachan Cavern. Into the domain of the Soul Eaters who awaited the soul of the High King. Taking the frail weak Aed to the predators who would tear out his soul and fling his poor tormented body into the River of the Dead. And it was the only way back …

Fenella heard the leathery wings again and a great shadow fell over them. Nuadu, looking up, his hand shading his eyes, said, softly, ‘The Soul Eaters. They are with us.’

‘But why have they come now? They were to give us seven days! They promised!’ Fenella cried, angrily.

Nuadu looked at Aed. ‘They have sensed your presence, Sire. Perhaps they have scented it in the manner of all predatory beings. They know that we have rescued you and that we are fleeing to safety with you. Also,’ said Nuadu, with a sudden wry smile, ‘they do not trust me to fulfil my promise to them.’

‘Promise?’

‘I pledged that if the Soul Eaters would give us unchallenged passage into the Dark Realm, we would in return bring your soul to them.’

There was a sudden silence. Then Aed said, ‘I see.’

‘But of course they did not trust me,’ said Nuadu. ‘And so now they are coming for you and we must find a way of evading them.’

Fenella, who was watching the Gateway, said, ‘CuRoi and the Robemaker will certainly fight them for the King.’

‘Precisely,’ said Nuadu, grinning suddenly.

‘Of course,’ said Fenella, staring at him in fearful hope. ‘If they engage in battle, perhaps we might slip through the Gateway unnoticed.’

‘It is what I had hoped,’ said Nuadu. ‘And it is our only chance of escape now.’

The Gateway was open to its fullest extent and the Soul Eaters were pouring through, a flight of great black predators, their huge wings spread, so that Fenella could see the scaly under-sides. They flew in a crouching fashion, their wizened bodies curled under their wings, talons poised to swoop on their prey.

There was no point in running now; to run would have made them more noticeable. The Soul Eaters and the necromancers would not lose sight of their three victims, but it might be possible to step lightly and stealthily back, a little at a time, until they were at the yawning Gate that would lead them into the true Ireland again.

At the sight of the Soul Eaters, CuRoi and the Robemaker had instantly reined in the NightMares, and the horses were rearing and prancing, their eyes glinting redly.

‘But they have them in control,’ said Aed, softly. ‘The Master is able to control them.’

‘Might they turn on him?’ asked Fenella, thinking this would be a good opportunity to move closer to the Gateway.

‘It is unlikely, Lady. The Master’s ways with disobedient or rebellious servants is known to all his creatures.’

Nuadu said, ‘Keep moving slowly towards the Gateway. If any of them look in our direction, stand absolutely still at once.’

The two necromancers were hurling light-shafts at the Soul Eaters, crimson and orange and flame spears that split the heavens and sent fire crackling across the dark terrain, lighting it to sharp and fearsome relief, and the Soul Eaters were swooping and diving to avoid the splintering fire. The Fields of Blood stood out starkly, so that the crimson-soaked, leathery harvest of the dark lords was blenched briefly to white.

The Robemaker was screeching curses at the Soul Eaters and his voice, rasping and ugly, came clearly to the three waiting below.

‘They will take the King! The Soul Eaters will take the King! After them! We must keep the King at all costs!’

The NightMares reared, sparks flying from beneath their hoofs, and, to the three trying to escape, it seemed that the two immense powers would converge and clash.

The Soul Eaters were massing above CuRoi and the Robemaker, their monstrous wings blotting out the livid skies, and so strong and so imbued with pitiless soul-less determination were they, that Fenella thought they must surely vanquish the necromancers.

But already the screeching Harpies were flying straight at the Soul Eaters, their talons extended, reaching to lacerate the dry harsh wings. The grinning, prowling creatures Fenella had glimpsed in the dungeons were there as well now, assembled behind their Master, leaping and prancing, jabbing at the darkness with their scissor-edged fingers, chuckling evilly. They linked hands and began to circle directly beneath the Soul Eaters and, as one of the creatures suddenly fell from the air, torn and mutilated by the Harpies, they fell on it at once, ripping it to pieces, flinging the scaly fragments of its wings high into the air, chuckling with malevolent glee.

Through the half-open Gateway, Fenella could see caves and flickering torchlight and surely, oh surely this was the moment to run, to flee for the cover of the caves and trust, to whatever gods could be trusted here, that they would somehow escape.

As if he had heard her thoughts, Nuadu said, softly, ‘Not yet, Fenella,’ and, in the same moment, Aed pointed to the Gateway.

The Rodent Armies were tumbling through in answer to the plight of the Soul Eaters. They were red-eyed and feral and they carried spears and barbed hooks and spiny-backed halberds and lances. They poured forth over the terrain, flinging the spears and the lances at the dungeon-creatures, whirling the great hooks on the ends of ropes so that the vicious hooks flew upwards at the Harpies. The Harpies screeched as several of the hooks embedded in their flesh and three of them fell to the earth.

The Weasels were brandishing great glinting axes, double-edged, and the Stoats carried thin, wicked javelins. They slunk close to the ground and swarmed upwards towards the Castle.

CuRoi reined in his rearing black steed and lifted his arm. At once an immense wall of fire reared up between himself and the Robemaker and the Rodent Armies.

The creatures flinched away at once and CuRoi’s mocking laughter rang out clearly on the night.

‘Puny creatures!’ he cried. ‘Is this all you can send against me in your fight to take Ireland’s King! He is mine — and he will stay mine!’

As if in contempt, the Soul Eaters flew straight into the fiery wall, passing through it with apparent ease, and the Weasels and the Stoats burrowed deep into the ground, cutting themselves tunnels through which they would burrow, to emerge on the other side of the flames.

‘Ours, necromancer! The King is ours. He was promised to us, and we have come to claim his soul … ’

The Soul Eaters were circling CuRoi and the Robemaker, avoiding the fire, making their dry bone-against-skin sound.

Nuadu took Fenella’s hand, and looked at Aed.

‘They are intent on their battle,’ he said very softly. ‘This is our only chance. The Cruachan Cavern is empty for the moment. We must go through it and out into the passages.’

‘Can we do it?’

‘Let us see if we can,’ said Nuadu. He glanced back to where the Soul Eaters were still hovering above CuRoi and the Robemaker, greed glinting in their tiny eyes. ‘Ready?’ he said, and slowly, stealthily, they moved towards the Gateway.

There was no time to look back at the battle; they were at the yawning Gateway and through it they could see the dark tunnels of the Cruachan Caverns.

Freedom! thought Fenella. Isn’t it?

There was a moment when they paused in the immense, light-filled Gateway, seeing ahead of them the Cruachan Cavern and the dark winding tunnels, but seeing, as well, the glittering Castle of Illusions in the Realm they were leaving, seeing it beautiful and sinister, sharply limned against the dark, blood-veined skies.

CuRoi and the Robemaker were retreating, turning the great black NightMares about and riding hard towards the Castle. A great howl of triumph went up from the Rodent Armies as they surged forward in pursuit.

Fenella saw, through the pouring, feral Rodents and the swooping, angry Soul Eaters, the immense Castle begin slowly to rotate.

‘The sealing,’ said Nuadu at her side.

‘And the Soul Eaters and their Armies will be shut out.’

‘They will not breach the Master’s magical defences, Lady,’ said Aed.

‘Then the Soul Eaters and their Armies will soon return,’ said Nuadu, leading them into the Cavern and through into the tunnels that Fenella remembered. ‘Therefore we have not much time.’

‘What about sentries?’ said Fenella, suddenly. ‘The Rodent Armies might have left sentries behind?’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Nuadu. ‘But if we are stealthy and quick we may evade them. We must melt into the shadows. There are only three of us.’

‘And the sound and the lights of the battle out there will serve to quench any noise we make,’ said Fenella, nodding. ‘Yes.’

The Caves were silent and brooding and they could feel the miasma of evil all about them.

‘But I think there are no sentries here,’ said Aed, softly. ‘You were right to think of it, Lady, but I think the Soul Eaters called upon every shred of their strength to defeat CuRoi.’

They were walking in single file now, Nuadu padding along ahead of them, and Fenella in the middle. Aed was keeping pace, but as they drew farther away from the raging battle, he stumbled and fell. Nuadu caught him. Fenella at once took Aed’s hands, and saw that his face was white and strained, that he had the look of a creature driven beyond endurance. As if he had caught this, Aed opened his eyes and sent her a smile that was uncannily Nuadu’s and said, gently, ‘I shall hold together for a little longer, Lady. Although we are nearly at our journey’s end.’

Journey’s end … Fenella thought: but does he simply mean our journey back to the True Ireland, or does he mean something more?

Between them, they carried the barely conscious King, and Fenella saw that Nuadu’s eyes were dark and shadowed. She thought: he cares very much that the King is weak and perhaps dying. He does not know him, but he cares. This is hurting him quite dreadfully.

As if in answer, Nuadu said, very gently, ‘My mother’s son,’ and Fenella said, ‘Yes. Of course.’ And hoped that this did not sound insensitive or inept.

Ahead of them the tunnel was widening and becoming tinged with blue and violet shadows and they could see the familiar magical purple dusk.

‘Closer with every step,’ said Fenella. ‘Shall we come out onto the Island?’

‘Truly I have no idea,’ said Nuadu. ‘It is said that there is only one entrance to the Cavern of the Soul Eaters, but that there are many exits.’

Many exits …

As the purple light poured into the cave mouth, heavy and heady, laden with the ancient magical Twilight Enchantments, they moved towards it and emerged into the pouring mystical Purple Hour.

Directly to the east, no more than a mile from them, were glinting spires and red-tipped gates and a soft radiance that lit the darkling skies.

The Palace of Wildfire.

Fael-Inis’s country.

They laid Aed carefully on the ground and straightened up, the rainbow-tinged light streaming into the cave mouth, both of them breathing in the clean cool night air with delight. They felt the sweet scents of the Purple Hour and the gentle warm enchantments soaking into their skin.

‘Safe,’ said Fenella at length. ‘Aren’t we?’

‘Yes, for we have only to cross to Fael-Inis’s country.’ Nuadu’s eyes were blazing with sudden excitement as he looked across to the shining towers and the fiery walls. ‘The Palace of Wildfire,’ he said, half to himself. And then, as if pushing the delight away, bent to the still form of Aed.

Aed’s eyes were filmed and his skin was cold to Fenella’s touch. I believe he is dying, she thought. He used his last reserves of strength to come with us out of the Dark Realm. He did not falter until we were in sight of the True Ireland, she thought, with angry pain. He reached his journey’s end.

Aed did not open his eyes, but he said, in a thread of a voice, ‘You are right, Lady. It is unthinkable that a King of Tara should die in that place. I could not be content until I stood on the threshold of my own world and until I could look upon my own Realm once more.’

My own Realm … This Ireland, thought Fenella; this twilit land, this strange magic-laden world of enchanted forests and dark sorcery and half-Human creatures who prowl the woods and the mountains. It is this that was his journey’s end.

She looked down again and saw that Aed was watching Nuadu and although his eyes were pain-filled, they were clear. He said, ‘Nuadu — we should have known one another — ’

‘That we did not was neither your fault nor mine,’ said Nuadu, and Fenella heard the bitterness in his voice and hoped he was not being cruel. But Aed seemed to understand. He reached for Nuadu’s hand: ‘My father was a good ruler but a hard man.’

‘Yes.’

Aed moved weakly, and Nuadu slid his arm about his shoulders, propping him up. ‘Nuadu — Ireland — ’ The dark gentle eyes rested on Nuadu and Fenella saw the two of them look at one another very steadily and very straightly and something seemed to pass between them.

Then Nuadu said, ‘Ireland will be safe, Sire.’

‘You promise it?’

‘I promise it,’ said Nuadu. And then, in a voice that was so low Fenella could never afterwards be sure she had heard it, ‘On the memory of our mother, I promise you that Ireland will be safe,’ he said.

‘Then I am content,’ said Aed, and his head fell back and the life and the light faded from his face.

Chapter Forty-three

The exiled Forest Court, under the direction of Tealtaoich and the eldest of the Oaks, had decided that the best thing to do was to march on Tara at dawn. Dawn, said Tealtaoich, his eyes glowing, wasn’t that the time to be sweeping down on the unsuspecting Gruagach and catching them all by surprise? Wouldn’t they all of them be still a-bed, lazy creatures, and now that they had woken the Beasts, wouldn’t they be able to re-take Tara with the utmost ease?

They had been very nearly overwhelmed by their success with the Beastline Enchantment; even Feradach had shaken Miach’s hand and admitted that Miach had succeeded in surprising them all, which, coming from Feradach, was quite a large compliment.

Dian Cecht had withdrawn from them all after the Ritual, seating herself apart at meals, staring soulfully into the forest depths.

‘It’s all a pose, of course,’ said Feradach to Snizort. ‘She would really like a silk-hung couch to recline on and slaves to kneel before her with food and wine. That’s what she’d really like.’

Snizort thought this was very probably true. He had spent his time busily setting down the story of the Ritual. He had shown the results to Oisin, rather worriedly, because he had not wanted to get any of this very important matter wrong, but Oisin had thought it extremely well written and said Snizort had captured the spirit of the strange Beastline Enchantment exactly.

‘When all this is over, we shall arrange for your writings to be bound in vellum and added to the great library in Tara,’ Oisin said, and Snizort beamed, because he had not looked for such very gratifying recognition. He would have discussed this further, and he would certainly have tried to talk to Dian Cecht about the Swans and their history, but the Court had been thrown into further disarray by the unexpected arrival of Caspar and the freed slaves.

‘Remarkable,’ said Eogan, as the rather sorry little group came exhaustedly through the forest.

‘I’ll lay them some places at the table, shall I?’ said Clumhach. ‘They’ll be glad of a bite to eat. Well, anyone would after being chained up by the Robemaker. Dear me, what a to-do.’

They had all been extremely heartened by the arrival of Caspar and the freed slaves of the Robemaker. Tealtaoich had made a speech of welcome, and Snizort had sharpened up his charcoal sticks again, because there would be a story to be told presently, when the poor young men had recovered. In the meantime, he was very glad to see Caspar who explained how Fenella and Floy and Snodgrass had escaped from the giants.

‘Floy and Snodgrass will have a fine old time at the Fire Court and Fenella’s with Nuadu,’ said Caspar. ‘I daresay they’ll all turn up any time.’ To which Snizort said, bless his soul, of course they would turn up, and felt happier than he had felt since the others had left him here, and went back to plotting how he could best record this latest set of events. One vellum-bound volume in Tara’s library would be very nice, but two would be even better. He made a few notes while Clumhach went round with the mulled wine. Everyone was extremely pleased to see Caspar and the freed slaves, although Feradach was heard to remark in not-quite-a-whisper to Eogan that this handful of battered young men would not be of any great help to them in their march on Tara, but Eogan had said sharply that this was not the point. The point was that Caspar and Fenella had been able to outwit the Robemaker to the extent of setting free his slaves, which showed that the Robemaker was not as omnipotent as they had feared.

Caspar, appealed to about the attack on Tara, said that dawn would be a very good time.

‘Although,’ he said, ‘it’s entirely possible that the Gruagach are still all under the Draoicht Suan.’

‘But if that’s so,’ said Oisin, ‘then we could simply march into Tara unchallenged.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Caspar doubtfully, because it surely could not be as easy as all that. But he listened to the plans, and was made to feel at home, and began almost to think that for somebody who had not wanted to participate in a battle at all, he was doing really rather well.

He was just helping Oisin to unroll the map of Tara and the surrounding villages, when Eogan looked across the table, and said, ‘Listen.’

‘What is it?’

‘There’s something coming through the Forest.’ He stopped, his head tilted to listen, and Feradach said, ‘It’s several someones.’

‘My enchantments will catch any enemies,’ said Miach, and stopped as well, because he could hear it now. Marching feet.

And the sound of rather uncertain singing.

We’re free of the giants, at last, boys,

We’re free as we can be.

We climbed down the castle wall, boys,

And slipped out from their grasp, boys;

But they’ll be chasing and running

And they’ll be stamping and shouting,

So we’d better make for safety, bo-o-o-y-s,

We’d better hide from the giants, bo-o-o-y-s,

Or we’ll be roasted for sure.

And we’ll be eaten for keeps.

And we’ll be never no more.

‘And death to the Fidchell,’ called a single, rather defiant voice, and at once the other voices said, ‘And death to the Fidchell'

As everyone rose and turned to stare in the direction of the rather unhappy singing, through the Trees, spades and satchels on their backs, hats determinedly jaunty, came the Gnomes of Gallan.

Tealtaoich moved at once to welcome them.

‘Because,’ said Oisin later, ‘they were plainly seeking sanctuary of some kind and, anyway, the Gnomes have always fought for the High Kings.’

‘Even when they have not understood the reason,’ said Dian Cecht who had rejoined the others to hear about the freed slaves, and who had fixed her mournful dark eyes on the comeliest and least battered of the young men.

The Gnomes were extremely pleased to find themselves at the centre of the Forest Court and welcomed into it by no less a person than Tealtaoich of the Wild Panthers. They brightened up considerably and accepted large tankards of mead from Clumhach and sat themselves down by the fire to get warm. Culdub Oakapple spread out his neckerchief to dry, because hadn’t it fallen into a puddle half-way here and a damp neckerchief gave anyone a terrible old attack of the rheumatics.

They bowed solemnly to each of the Beastline in turn, Bith lost his bog-hat when he bowed to Eogan, and then had to be presented to the Trees, because this was only polite.

The Gnomes were charmed to meet the Trees and Flaherty said he hoped the Trees hadn’t been thinking them ill mannered at all for ignoring them earlier on, only that they hadn’t precisely seen them until now, what with it being a touch dark in the forest, and what with it not being the sort of thing you’d be thinking to see anyway, and the others agreed that you wouldn’t expect such a thing at all, and wasn’t it the grandest thing ever to find themselves amidst a collection of such important people, and would their importantships be thinking of a bit of a battle at all?

‘We’d be happy to help out if so,’ said Bith of the Bog-hat. ‘We’re good fighters,’ he added, and at once the others said they were, the grandest fighters to be found in all Ireland, leave aside the forging of a few swords which they would happily undertake, and maybe a plate or two of armour and a length of chain mail to round it all off.

‘And,’ said Pumlumon, ‘haven’t we the bit of spell-saying as well,’ and the others joined in excitedly, saying they had, wasn’t that the truth, and Pumlumon a great one in the spell-saying department, and him wholly responsible for sending the entire clan of the Gruagach into the deepest sleep ever known.

‘And still in it!’ shouted Flaherty, who had, truth to tell, taken a mite more of the mead than was strictly good for him. ‘Aren’t they still in it!’ he repeated, and Bith of the Bog-hat told him to sit down and be quiet, it being the exiled Court they were talking to.

Tealtaoich, who remembered the Gnomes very well, and who had, in fact, consulted them on several occasions over the matter of some particularly special gems for one or two female acquaintances, asked to be told what had happened at Tara after Caspar and Fenella left, and Eogan seated himself at the head of the table, and said, ‘Yes, good Gnomes, we should find it very useful to know all you can tell us,’ and the Gnomes beamed and Bith rearranged his hat and Flaherty took another draught of mead to be sure not to run out of voice half-way through the tale, which would be a terrible thing to happen, and it the great Eogan of the Eagles and Tealtaoich of the Wild Panthers they were addressing, never mind all of the others.

And so Bith explained how they’d outwitted the Gruagach with the weaving of the Draoicht Suan, ‘Although,’ he added, ‘I’d be bound to tell your dignityships that it was all Pumlumon’s doing, and him knowing the spell as fast as the cat could lick its whiskers, not meaning any respect to your catship,’ he said to Tealtaoich, and Tealtaoich grinned and said none in the world, and please to go on.

Bith scratched his head and said bother and blow him for a pair of giant’s boots if that wasn’t all there was to it.

‘There we were,’ he said, ‘the entirety of us all fast asleep, because of the Draoicht Suan just catching us a bit unaware as you might say — ’

Flaherty said that this was the sort of thing that might happen to anyone, and the Gnomes said to be sure it was.

‘But the spell wasn’t directed at us,’ explained Bith earnestly. ‘Which is why we woke up without the counterspell, although I’m bound to say it was as well we did wake up, what with none of us knowing the counter-spell very well.’

‘And even if we had known it,’ put in Culdub, ‘weren’t we all fast asleep and not able to chant it anyway.’

‘So we were,’ exclaimed the Gnomes, beaming because wasn’t it like the Oakapple to spot such a thing.

Bith said, ‘And there we were, with the giants still fast asleep, every last one, and all of us not knowing what was what, or whether we ought to go or stay. Although,’ he added severely, ‘I’d be bound to say that we weren’t any of us happy about being up there in the first place, what with the Fidchell board ready and waiting, and Goibniu the Greediguts smacking his lips and reaching for the carving knife, and what with it being a well-known thing that giants are partial to a bit of roast Gnome now and then.’

‘I never wanted to go in the first place,’ said Culdub Oakapple, who was engaged in re-knotting his neckerchief.

‘And the end was,’ said Bith, turning round to frown at the Oakapple who could be a terrible old interruption, ‘the end was that we all woke up when the Draoicht Suan wore off, and came creeping out of Tara as quiet as mouses — ’

Several people said they had been quieter than that even, and Flaherty said he had been so quiet that everyone thought he had been left behind.

‘And we came straight into the Forest,’ said Bith, ‘because there’s no knowing when the giants might wake up and come chasing after us, what with Pumlumon having forgotten how long the Draoicht Suan lasts.’

Pumlumon said it was not a thing that you easily recalled, not when there was so much else to be thinking about, and most people turned to look at Miach, because you could surely expect the Court sorcerer to be knowing about things like this. Miach, who had taken longer to recover from Dian Cecht’s ordeal than Dian Cecht, said that he could very easily look this particular piece of information up in the Sorcery Annals, always supposing anyone would ask him politely. He managed to make it sound as if he was very preoccupied with half a score or so of various enchantments, so that he could not for the moment bring to mind a very minor detail like how long the Draoicht Suan might be expected to last.

And while Clumhach was anxiously looking to see was there enough mead left to offer the Gnomes, Miach went off to discuss the Draoicht Suan and the counter-spell with Pumlumon and a couple of the younger Oaks who might be trusted to know such a thing. If they were to attack Tara and regain it for the Wolfking, wherever he might now be, they would have to rouse the giants before they could drive them out.

Chapter Forty-four

Reflection was in the worst temper she had ever been in. ‘And,’ she said to her assembled household, ‘in the general way, I am the mildest tempered of souls,’ and her household, most of whom were still bathing the wounds inflicted by the fire demons the previous night, all of whom could recount a good many tales about Madame’s temper, nodded obediently, and said: to be sure, the temper of an angel.

‘But,’ said Reflection, striding up and down the Aurora Banqueting Hall, swishing her silk skirts angrily, and pausing to run a finger across an undusted chandelier as she went. ‘But, when it is a question of my only child, my poor innocent babe, the comfort of my — of my retreat from the world,’ said Reflection, and everyone looked sympathetic, and tried not to appear as if they all knew quite well that Madame had very nearly said, ‘the comfort of my old age’, which, as the chefs said, only went to show how very distrait Madame must be.

Reflection paused in her pacing and stopped at the foot of the stairs and then, remembering that to be higher than your audience gave you a good smatch of authority, ascended half a dozen stairs and turned to face them all.

‘I am distraught,’ she said, clasping her hands to her breast, and closing her eyes. ‘When I think of my poor untried child at the hands of that — seducer. Ah me, she is succumbing to the very fate that was forced upon me at the tenderest of ages, for,’ added Reflection, suddenly confiding, ‘for I was the merest child when that villain Fael-Inis took my innocence.’ She waited for a suitable response and her household, knowing their duty, nodded sympathetically all over again. And waited worriedly to see were they all about to be pressed into service for a bit of a battle, which was a thing which had happened once or twice before, and which could be remarkably nasty, what with Madame calling up a few enchantments to help out.

‘She must be brought back,’ said Reflection, glaring at the assembled Court. ‘Whether or not she will be unsullied we cannot yet know, for I would not put anything past that vile, decadent Human. Also,’ said Reflection, her eyes suddenly spitting fire at them, ‘also, we must do so before Inchbad gets to hear what has happened. He will be quite demented,’ said Reflection, limpidly, ‘and I would not for worlds upset the dear creature when he has been so obliging — that is to say when he is so inflamed with passion for the poor child.

‘And so Flame must be brought back at once,’ said Reflection. ‘We shall leave nothing to chance. I shall summon the help of my good friends to bring them back,’ she added grandly, and the Court groaned inwardly, because this almost certainly meant they would have to welcome the Robemaker to the Fire Court.

‘The Robemaker will lend his aid,’ said Reflection and everyone nodded glumly, but said to be sure he would, and him the grandest ally ever known.

‘And,’ said Reflection, consideringly, ‘I believe we should invite the Frost Giantess, for I hear she does not get out much these days, poor soul, and there is no knowing but that she may be of some help.

‘Although I will not,’ said Reflection, looking suddenly fierce, so that several people moved back a few steps, ‘I will not have those Storm Wraiths in my house. They are nothing but trouble, and the Frost Giantess will have to be told we do not want them. We can be quite friendly about it,’ said Reflection, which, as several people murmured, meant that it was a task that would be delegated.

Reflection then took herself off to her bedchamber, to look up the enchantment which would summon the Robemaker and also the Geimhreadh, and pondered as to whether CuRoi ought to be included in her party. He would probably accept for old times’ sake — he and Reflection had been rather close once, round about the time of the last attempt but two to take Tara for the Dark Ireland — and it was rumoured that he still had something of a fondness for Reflection. This was only to be expected, of course, but the trouble with CuRoi was that he was a terrible old attention-seeker, and he would almost certainly want to grab the glory of the battle for himself. On balance it might be better not to invite CuRoi at all, because if there was any glory going, then it was going to be Reflection’s.

She waited until the Purple Hour, which would give the incantation to call the Robemaker and the Frost Giantess a bit of a boost and issued orders to the household that she was not to be disturbed until they could report that the Robemaker and the Frost Giantess had turned up.

Snodgrass had listened to the reports about Madame’s intentions with a worried frown.

‘Dear me,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t like the sound of this. The Robemaker and the Frost Giantess, you say?’

Snodgrass asked would the bailiffs be riding out in the expedition to catch up with Flame and Floy and the bailiffs, who had of late been a bit bored with their lot, looked thoughtful and said: very possibly.

‘Then,’ said Snodgrass, determinedly, ‘I shall come with you.’

In the end they all went, although the furnace-room workers drew lots as to which of them would stay behind, because it would not do to be letting the fires die down and nobody wanted to risk Madame’s wrath when she returned to a cold and fireless Court, and a few of the kitchen staff stayed behind as well, in case a victory banquet was needed later. You could not just drum up a ten-course banquet for a hundred people inside of half an hour.

Reflection had been regally welcoming to the Robemaker and the Frost Giantess, both of whom had materialised reasonably soon after the incantation. She had given them glasses of wine and had explained the nature of the task.

‘I should be happy to place my powers at your disposal, my dear,’ said the Robemaker, sitting in his chair with his back to the light. ‘For I have had dealings with Humans lately that have roused my anger to a very high pitch against the creatures.’

‘Indeed?’

‘They disturbed the pact I have long since had with the Soul Eaters.’

‘Really?’ said Reflection, who knew all about \he Robemaker’s thralldom to the Soul Eaters and was charmed by this unlooked-for snippet of gossip. ‘Oh, do tell us more.’

‘A conflict of interest,’ said the Robemaker. ‘CuRoi had captured a very valuable hostage and was holding him in the Fields of Blood using the cruciform. You know of it, I daresay? It is an eastern method and one of the more refined.’ The hooded head moved angrily. ‘A vulgar quarrel arose between the Soul Eaters and the Master over the creature.’

‘Who won?’ asked the Frost Giantess and the Robemaker turned his hooded head to regard her. The bone-white smile showed briefly.

‘The hostage escaped,’ he said. ‘For the moment. The Master was outwitted.’ A malicious glint showed in the partly hidden eyes. ‘For the moment, I am done with that one, with his posturing and his posing and his illusions,’ said the Robemaker. ‘But I have since sworn to the Soul Eaters that I shall find the creature and offer it to them.’ The glint showed red. ‘A very valuable soul,’ he said.

Reflection thought, but did not say, that the Robemaker had clearly been up to his usual pastime of changing sides if it looked profitable to him. But she was rather pleased to think that CuRoi had for once been bested, and she was very pleased indeed to hear that he was engaged in some kind of tussle with the Soul Eaters.

She said, ‘But you yourself-and also you, ma’am — are free to assist me?’

‘I should relish it greatly,’ said the Robemaker, and the Frost Giantess chuckled wetly, and writhed in the chair that Reflection had given her. ‘Floy,’ she said and her voice caressed the name. ‘A beautiful young man.’ The little dark eyes gleamed. ‘I remember him. I shall enjoy helping our good friend Reflection to catch him.’

Reflection thought that you had to be charitable about your friends, but that, really, the Frost Giantess might be just a little less obvious. Also, she had already eyed several of Reflection’s own courtiers, and had tried to bargain with Reflection over the question of some of the furnace workers.

‘Young,’ she had said. ‘I like them young.’

Reflection liked them young as well, but did not go about saying so. She began to think that the Frost Giantess was abusing her hospitality, which, when you considered that Reflection had herself been thoughtful enough to tell the furnace workers to let the fires die down a bit, because the Frost Giantess could not be doing with too warm a room, was stretching friendship a bit far.

But she asked for their suggestions as to the enchantments they might best use to catch Flame and Floy, and agreed on the Robemaker’s crimson rope-lights, which were always useful, and the Frost Giantess’s tongues of ice and blizzard.

‘Then,’ said the Robemaker, ‘they will burn and freeze at the same time, and that, as you know, my dear, is a very nasty fate.’

‘But,’ said Reflection, ‘Flame must be spared, of course.’

‘Ah?’

‘For Inchbad,’ said Reflection. ‘Inchbad has made a most generous marriage proposal for the child.’

The Robemaker said in his hissing wet-lung voice, ‘That is something to be taken into careful consideration, of course. If you wish it, then she can be spared.’ There was a movement within the dark, enveloping cloak, and then he said, ‘And the payment, Reflection? The payment for our services?’

‘Well,’ said Reflection and stopped, because this was always the tricky part, and these two both probably knew perfectly well that she was on the verge of ruin and a debtors’ prison again. ‘Well,’ she said thoughtfully, and the Robemaker leaned forward, the deep hood slipping a little, so that Reflection caught a glimpse of the ravaged, noseless face, and shuddered, and thought that if you could not weave yourself an enchantment to make yourself a bit more appealing you were not much of an advertisement for your own wares.

‘May I make a little suggestion?’ said the Robemaker and then, without waiting for a reply, said, ‘Payment could be the most amicable of arrangements.’

‘Yes?’

The Robemaker sat back in his chair and the hood fell back into place, shadowing his face. He appeared to be perfectly composed, but his breathing had quickened and Reflection could hear the horrid slimy rasping sound more clearly now.

‘Give Flame to me for a night,’ said the Robemaker, and the breathing slurred and thickened into a bubbling croupy wheeze. ‘That is all the payment I ask of you,’ he said.

Reflection said, ‘And you, ma’am?’ and the Frost Giantess squirmed in lascivious anticipation and darted her thick neckless body in Reflection’s direction.

‘Our good friend has made an appealing suggestion,’ she said. ‘And since money and jewels hold little interest for me, then I will take my payment in Human flesh, also. If the Robemaker is to have the girl for a night, I will have the young man.’

Reflection looked at them both and remembered her mounting debts and Inchbad’s growing impatience and his very lavish proposals. If Flame were to be lost, then it might be rather difficult to explain this to the Gruagach. It might be even more difficult to explain it to Reflection’s growing number of creditors, all of whom had agreed to be patient until after the much-vaunted marriage had taken place.

‘Very well.’ She stood up. ‘But we must leave at once.’

To those few members of Reflection’s household who had remained behind, the setting out of Madame, together with her Court, made a remarkable sight.

If there were those who thought that Madame had assembled an extravagantly large number of people simply to bring back one errant daughter and one impudent lover, they were wise enough not to say so. In any case, Madame was ever extravagant in the settling of her quarrels.

Reflection rode at the head, astride a white horse with a golden flowing mane and tail; she wore a fire-coloured robe and about her head was the diadem of moonstones and rubies which the Gnomes of Gallan had made to Madame’s own design and which incorporated the Amaranthine emblem. Her hair was loose and woven into it were tiny glinting rubies and opals. She carried the famous spear which legend said she had wrested from Fael-Inis on the night that Flame was conceived and which could hurl shafts of pure light at one’s enemies.

The Robemaker rode at Reflection’s left-hand side, dark and stooping and menacing. He carried the terrible night-black spear of necromancy and, wound about it, were the sizzling ropes of light which he would use to bind Flame and Floy.

The Frost Giantess did not ride on horseback. ‘Too unwieldy,’ said the watchers and told one another that it would have been hard indeed to have found a mount for the creature. But she had her own method of travel; a kind of canopied litter slung between silver poles, strewn with cold satin cushions, and with the poles embellished with twisting snake creatures and writhing worms and horrid bulgy-eyed fish-beings. ‘An ancient line, of course,’ said the watchers, trying to inject a note of respect into their voices.

She lay, half coiled on the litter, occasionally darting her head in one direction or another; the lidless eyes inspecting the young men who had been taken from the furnace rooms to carry the litter. She did not seem to be carrying any weapons of enchantment, but the watchers knew quite well that she was able to whip up a raging blizzard and call up the Storm Wraiths, never mind Madame had said she would not be seen within ten miles of a Storm Wraith.

The household rode or walked sedately behind these three, in careful order of precedence, garbed and accoutred as they thought fit.

Dusk had fallen and, although the moonlight was strong enough for them all to find their way, Reflection conjured up some half a dozen fire columns.

‘I see you have not lost your skill, my dear,’ said the Robemaker.

‘The merest trifle,’ said Reflection at once. And then, half turning to the Geimhreadh's litter, ‘I trust that they will not be too warm for you, ma’am?’

‘Since you deemed them necessary, I shall not complain,’ replied the Frost Giantess. And then, sharply, to the furnace workers, ‘Do not tilt the litter so sharply, you!’ The snake-head reared for a moment and the lightless eyes narrowed.

And then the Robemaker reined in his horse and lifted the dark spear and said, ‘There they are.’

Flame had walked warily at Floy’s side, liking the soft, cool night, liking, as well, the silence. She had known, in a vague way, that the Fire Court had been a place of unnatural blazing light, but she had not realised how dark and how tranquil the true night could be.

When Floy said, ‘You have lived always at the centre of a maelstrom of noise,’ Flame knew he had heard her thoughts and sensed her feelings and that he had left her to enjoy them and absorb the newness of everything.

There was a pale, silvery light from the moon, which was quite enough for them to see their way, and there were Trees, growing wild, which was not anything Flame had ever seen, because Mother would not permit Trees in the Fire Court gardens, other than the stunted artificial shapes she created, half by sorcery and half by the skills of the sempstresses and the carpenters and the gardeners.

Once, after they had been walking for quite a time, she said, ‘We are going to try to reach my-to reach Fael-Inis’s Palace of Wildfire?’

‘Yes,’ said Floy.

‘Can we do that?’ asked Flame, meaning: do we know the way? and Floy said, ‘I have no idea. But at Tara it was said that the Palace lies in the direction of the rising sun. Also, your father told me that if you follow the path of the moon and do not falter, all roads eventually lead to your heart’s desire.’

He looked at her as he said this and Flame said thoughtfully, ‘I see,’ and fell silent.

‘He is given to speaking like that,’ said Floy.

‘Yes?’

‘Extravagant and colourful.’

‘Yes.’ Flame would not say what she was thinking, which was that the words had sounded a bit like someone trying not to give exact directions because he did not really want to receive visitors but was too polite actually to say so.

Floy said, quite seriously, ‘I believe we are going towards the Palace, Flame.’ He lifted a hand, pointing. ‘Do you see there? Although it is night, there is an iridescence, a colour. Fael-Inis told us that for those who seek him, a path is always to be found.’

‘Oh.’

Floy grinned. ‘He will not be quite what you expect, Flame,’ he said, but Flame had no idea of what she was expecting anyway.

They stopped to rest twice and the second time Floy unpacked the small store of food that Flame had managed to bring.

‘Will your — will Reflection try to bring you back?’ he asked, and Flame drew breath to say that it was very likely, because Mother would be so furious with them both, when Floy jumped to his feet and stared back down the path they had just travelled.

‘What is — ‘ And then Flame saw it as well.

Reflection riding at the head of her armies.

And with her the grotesque shapes of the Robemaker and the Frost Giantess.

As they waited, helplessly, the armies streamed towards them. There was nothing they could do, for there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. They were on open ground and, even if they had attempted to flee, Reflection would have overtaken them within minutes.

Floy scanned the horizon frantically. Was the glimmer of light they had seen earlier a little closer? He thought that it was, and, as he strained his eyes, he thought there was a glint of spires, gold-tipped and vibrant. Bitterness twisted within him, because it would be Fate’s cruellest joke if they were to be caught so close to sanctuary. He was angry to think that he had not foreseen Reflection’s vengeance when he had so heedlessly taken Flame away from the Fire Court.

Flame said, very softly, ‘It was not heedless, Floy. You could not possibly have known what she would do. I did not know, even.’

‘I ought to have known,’ said Floy bitterly. And then, striving for a calm, practical note, ‘Over there,’ he said, ‘is Fael-Inis’s country. The Palace of Wildfire. I am sure of it now.’

‘Yes, I see it,’ said Flame. ‘But I don’t think we can reach it.’

‘What about the Spell of Invisibility you used at the Court?’

‘Impossible,’ said Flame at once. ‘Mother would rip it aside instantly and I could never withstand her.’

The armies were closing. They could see the outlines of Reflection herself now; her hair flowing out wildly in the night wind, the rubies catching the light of the fiery columns that road alongside her. The Robemaker was a little to her left, crouched low over his mount, but, as he rode, they saw him raise a hand and the crimson rope-lights spat and sizzled through the air. Floy and Flame threw themselves to the ground and the rope-lights went hissing harmlessly over their heads.

The Frost Giantess had reared up almost to her full height; Floy lifted his head cautiously and saw her, a massive ugly writhing thing, silhouetted against the sky, her little finlike hands whipping the young men who bore the litter on to greater speed, coiling and squirming in horrid, lustful excitement. Behind these three were the people of Reflection’s Court, riding in what Floy thought of, even at such a moment, as rather a mechanical way. As if they were here only because they had been forced to it …

I do not believe there is any escape, thought Floy half sitting, half kneeling, his arms about Flame, searching the horizon for something that might help, something that might come to their aid.

From the east, out of the gold-tinged glow they had thought must be the radiance surrounding Fael-Inis’s Palace, came the thin, sweet sound of a bugle call …

And hard on the heels of the sound, the rushing of chariot wheels.

Chapter Forty-five

Floy and Flame were at the exact centre, between the two rushing armies. Floy thought it was if they were at the heart of a small core of blackness, a miniature copy of the hole that had swallowed Renascia, and that it was entirely possible that the coming forces might not even be able to see them.

The armies bore down on them; Reflection riding her gold and white mount hard, shouting to her people to follow her. As she drew nearer, the air began to sizzle with the fiery columns and sting from the whiplash of the Robemaker’s crimson lights that he was flinging ahead of him, so that the darkness was laced and latticed with the livid tendrils of light. Reflection stood up in the saddle and hurled shafts of light from the glinting spear and Floy and Flame huddled lower to avoid them.

The Frost Giantess was slower than the other two but, as Reflection’s people slowed, they could see her ordering the slaves to lay the litter down and, as they did so, she coiled herself into a rearing, scaly creature ringed with glistening white slime, and made hideous by the distended fins in her neck. A cloud of white had formed immediately behind her and, from where they crouched, Floy could see the ghost forms of the sharp-nosed, pointed-fingered Wraiths. They both took all this in rapidly and then Floy turned his attention to the golden creatures approaching from the east.

To begin with there had been only a blur of shifting colour, luminous and iridescent, as if light had somehow leaked out into the night skies, and Floy had stood, shading his eyes, knowing how easy it would be to be deceived, knowing how desperately he had been hoping for some form of rescue. But then, quite suddenly, there was the outline of an immense rushing chariot pulled by swift creatures with flowing gold manes and tails of spun silk, and wise, ancient eyes …

Flame gasped and put both hands to her cheeks. She felt a sudden rushing hope that she dared not quite believe in yet. But surely, oh surely, it could only mean one thing …

And then he was there, standing at the prow of the fiery chariot, the wind whipped up behind him, his hair stirred to a storm about his head, his eyes molten gold, and such a look of reckless delight about him that Flame wanted to run from the safety of Floy’s arms. There was a look and there was an aura about him which laughed at the absurd, ineffectual creatures that Reflection was leading, and which said, quite clearly: we shall rout these ridiculous beings … we shall fight the world if we have to, and every creature in it, but for all that, we shall WIN, mortals, we shall WIN …

Fael-Inis, the rebel angel, the being of fire and light and speed, riding to the rescue of the daughter he had never seen …

Flame heard Floy give a sudden shout of purest delight and saw that in the golden wake of the great chariot were two smaller chariots, glinting gold, laced with firegems, scything effortlessly through the curling waves of light pouring from Fael-Inis’s chariot, harnessed to four more of the strange, spun silk creatures.

In the first of them was a dark-haired, slightly built young man, with slanting dark eyes, and very nearly the same reckless look as Fael-Inis. Flame blinked, and thought that here was someone else who might very well like to challenge the world and defy the gods, and ride straight at all kinds of danger and who might very well be the smallest bit dangerous himself. Standing in the third chariot was a girl with Floy’s eyes, and his smile, guiding the beautiful salamanders, handling the thin, silken reins with such ease and such joy …

Floy shouted, ‘Fenella!’ and stood up and, at once, the girl turned the chariot aside, so that the two salamanders pulling it swerved and came sweeping across the ground, showering the golden light everywhere, directly towards Floy and Flame.

‘Quickly!’ cried Fenella, leaning down to help Flame into the chariot. ‘Oh, quickly!’

Flame said, ‘Floy — ’ and turned to see that the other chariot, the one being driven by the dark-haired young man, had been following and that Floy was already being pulled up into it.

‘Sire,’ said Floy, slightly out of breath, clinging to the sides of the speeding chariot, ‘I believe I must thank you for — ’

‘Saving you from Reflection and the rest?’ Nuadu was concentrating on keeping the salamanders in a straight line, but he half turned his head, and sent Floy the amused glance which Floy remembered. ‘But Fenella would have been so upset. And since we managed to reach Fael-Inis’s Palace unscathed and were taken in, it is perhaps only generous to give help to the rest of your party.’ His eyes went to the slender form of Flame in the other chariot. ‘You have been industrious, it seems,’ he said politely, and Floy grinned.

‘And of course,’ said Nuadu, thoughtfully, ‘it is almost obligatory to rescue a fair maiden from peril, these days.’

‘Reflection’s daughter,’ said Floy.

‘Really? And therefore Fael-Inis’s. So you have stolen Inchbad’s chosen bride, have you, Floy? But if she is his daughter, it would explain — ’

‘Yes?’

‘It would explain why Fael-Inis suddenly stopped talking as we sat at supper recounting our adventures; why he stood up and summoned the salamanders,’ said Nuadu.

‘The Samhailt?

‘Well, I don’t suppose it’s quite that in his case,’ said Nuadu, ‘but he certainly had the salamanders harnessed and the Palace gates flung wide almost before any of us realised it.’

Fael-Inis had turned his chariot about and positioned it to face before Reflection and the Robemaker and the Frost Giantess. He sprang to the ground, apparently unconcerned about the danger, and looked about him, as if he found his surroundings of interest. At once Reflection lifted her arm and, within a minute, the fire demons were forming, red eyes gleaming evilly, leaping and dancing. They circled Fael-Inis, grinning and pointing, hurling tiny wicked firethoms and Fael-Inis glanced down at them and brushed them aside as if they were no more than an irritation. But, as his hand moved, another of the cascading showers of golden light rippled from his fingertips and engulfed the demons, sweeping them aside. Flame, watching closely, saw fire tongues leap up, and engulf the demons and the terrible sound of demons screaming filled the night, and there was an acrid stench of burning.

Nuadu said, softly, ‘He is burning them, as they have burned others. A fitting punishment,’ and Floy, at his side, said, ‘Yes. Yes, that is his creed.’ And remembered, with sudden surprise, the ancient belief of the early Earth-people, that whatever evils you committed against others might one day be committed against you.

Fael-Inis was standing directly in front of Reflection now, studying her, his hands on his hips, his head tilted slightly as if in amusement. Fenella looked at Flame, and said, softly, ‘There is still a score to be settled between these two, I think.’ Flame, who was remembering all of the old stories about Mother and Fael-Inis, and who had not been able to take her eyes from Fael-Inis, her father, stared, and felt the deep delight begin all over again, because he had come riding out to her rescue and he was confronting Mother and the Robemaker and the Geimhreadh as coolly and as easily as if they were simple annoyances to be dealt with and forgotten. She thought it was impossible to imagine this remarkable being failing.

‘I don’t think he will fail,’ said Fenella, who seemed to have Floy’s way of hearing thoughts a little. But her eyes were on the slight figure of Fael-Inis and she was frowning, because she had not, until now, actually seen Reflection, and she had certainly not seen the Frost Giantess. She was thinking that the sight of these two, with the Robemaker at their side, was much more daunting than she had thought it would be. And then she remembered how, in the Palace of Wildfire, Fael-Inis had suddenly seemed to know — not exactly what was taking place, thought Fenella; only that something was. And then Fenella had felt it as well, a dark, massing danger very close by … something menacing and evil touching the Palace’s pure warm light, threatening it … It had been like a suffocating cloak descending on her mind, shutting out the brightness of the Palace of Wildfire. And it is something to do with Floy, she had thought with sick horror. Floy is somewhere close by — I can feel that he is! she had thought — and something dark and evil is coming towards him …

Fael-Inis moved cautiously and slowly towards Reflection and the watchers fell back a little, because it seemed as if these two remarkable beings must first commune, agree terms about something. Snodgrass, who was at the very back with the bailiffs’ contingent, and who had been trying to espy a chance to cross over to Floy and the others, stood on tiptoe to see better. Even while his heart was singing with delight at finding that Fenella and Floy were both safe, he could not help being interested in how Fael-Inis and Reflection were confronting one another, and thinking that it was exactly as if they were about to draw up rules of some kind for a battle of some sort.

Fael-Inis was looking at Reflection, and he was at his most catlike and graceful, entirely untroubled. After a moment, Reflection slid from her horse, and walked towards him, and it seemed to the watchers that, of the two, she was the more uncertain.

‘She is very wary of him,’ said Floy, watching them closely.

‘She has cause to be,’ said Nuadu softly.

Fael-Inis said, and everyone present heard the amused affection in his voice, ‘Madame. We are destined to be on opposing sides of a battle once more, it seems.’

And looked at her and waited.

Reflection had wrapped her cloak tightly about her, but she still held the glittering spear that could send out the blinding white shafts of light. ‘We always are on opposing sides, Fael-Inis,’ she said crossly. ‘And it is a remarkable thing that one does not clap eyes on you for positively decades, until the whim takes you to interfere in my affairs again.’ She hunched a shoulder pettishly. ‘I suppose,’ said Reflection, ‘that all of this show is purely to impress the child.’

‘What else?’ said Fael-Inis lightly, but Floy and the others sensed an awareness in him.

‘Well, it is nothing but pure ostentation,’ said Reflection. ‘And I do not recall any battle that was ever won by a lot of pretentious dazzle.’ She eyed him angrily. ‘I suppose you want the child,’ said Reflection.

‘I do.’

‘Well, I do not feel inclined to let you have her,’ said Reflection, tossing her head. ‘Even though she is nothing but trouble I am going to keep her.’ She glared at Fael-Inis. ‘And I must say, I think it is just like you to come sweeping in, all fire and empty pageantry, just to impress her,’ said Reflection. ‘I suppose you called the salamanders out especially, did you? Yes, I might have guessed it. Absurd creatures,’ said Reflection, glaring at the salamanders. ‘If sufficient people did not believe in them, they would not exist, did you know that, Fael-Inis!’ She eyed him triumphantly, and Fael-Inis at once said, ‘No, my dear, you are thinking of unicorns.’ And seemed perfectly prepared to enter into a discussion with Reflection about mythological beasts and their transcendental existences.

‘I have never seen a unicorn,’ began Reflection.

‘No, they will only reveal themselves to the very young and the completely innocent,’ said Fael-Inis gravely, at which Reflection stamped her foot and flung two spears of light at him. He laughed and deflected them by holding up one hand carelessly; the light spears bounced harmlessly on to the ground.

‘Your manners do not improve with the years,’ said Reflection furiously. ‘And if you have the impudence to suppose I should hand Flame over to you as if she was no more than a-a chattel — After all I have done for the child,’ said Reflection, piqued. ‘I have brought her up quite by myself, and I have never once grudged a penny piece on her education or her upbringing. She is very well tutored,’ said Reflection, suddenly confidential.

‘I am glad to hear it.’

'Every refinement. I have sacrificed a good deal for her, although I suppose that would not interest you. And as for her marriage, well! If I have arranged one advantageous marriage, I have arranged a dozen.’

‘With giants and necromancers?’ said Fael-Inis gently, and Reflection, who had been turning huffily away to remount her horse, instantly came back.

‘Inchbad and the Gruagach will make a very good settlement for her,’ shouted Reflection and her household, who had stayed mouse-quiet, exchanged nervous glances, because it was clear that Madame was boiling up for a fair old tantrum.

‘And,’ said Fael-Inis, softly, ‘the very good settlement would have paid some of your debts, would it?’

Reflection drew herself up to her full height and brandished the glinting spear. ‘How dare you imply that I would sell my only child, the comfort of my — that is the comfort of my exile, to settle a handful of miserable debts! I am famous for my debts, everyone knows it! I do not care a fig for creditors and bailiffs and prisons!’ shrieked Reflection, and, whisking about again, she flung out an accusatory finger towards the section where the bailiffs, Snodgrass in their midst, were watching and listening, enthralled. 'That is how I deal with bailiffs!’ shouted Reflection. ‘I enslave them!’ The silken skirts of her cloak hissed angrily as she turned back to him. ‘I thought the years might have mellowed you, Fael-Inis,’ said Reflection, ‘but I see now that you are a heartless adventurer, a gypsy, a time-travelling vagabond, and I should not dream of allowing my only child — ’

‘The comfort of your exile — ‘

‘Into your hands!’ finished Reflection triumphantly and, as she spoke, she swirled the dark cloak so that it billowed out behind her. A shrieking wind arose, howling and raging, dashing icy cold rain against the chariots and their occupants.

At once the Frost Giantess writhed upwards on her litter. ‘Unfair!’ she shouted. ‘The ice-cold blizzard is my weapon! How dare that abandoned creature steal my weapons!’ And uncoiling and hissing, she made a sudden darting movement. At once, the Storm Wraiths came swooping down, filling the night with their eldritch shrieking, diving for the salamanders, twining their cold, bony fingers about the flowing manes, crouching low on the salamanders’ glossy coats and digging their icy talons deep into the silken skins, so that blood matted the golden pelts, and thin films of ice began to form, and the salamanders reared and tossed their heads, and tried to dislodge the clinging Wraiths.

‘Cheat!’ yelled Reflection. ‘I told you — I expressly forbade you to bring those creatures with you!’ Whisking about, she raised the glinting spear and flung several shafts of light in the direction of the Geimhreadh’s writhing form. ‘Leave me to fight my own wars!’ shouted Reflection at the top of her voice. ‘Don’t you know it is the height of bad manners to meddle in wars where you are only a guest!’

Fael-Inis made a sweeping movement and at once the Wraiths fell from the salamanders and rolled into tight, huddled little shapes, shrivelling and shrinking on the ground before them. The Frost Giantess let out a wail of distress and Reflection laughed.

Snodgrass, who had been waiting until a diversion was created, spied his chance and detached himself from the group of bailiffs, tiptoeing in the shadows in a wide circle until he was clambering up into the back of Fenella’s chariot, and Fenella was hugging him, and it was grand to see her and Floy safe.

Fael-Inis walked to where Nuadu stood in the other chariot.

‘The winning of this battle is in your hands, Sire,’ he said, unexpectedly. ‘If you called to the Wolves now, they would answer you. They have not been seen in Ireland since the days of the High King, Erin. But like the sidh, they have always been there, just beyond vision and just outside of hearing; ready to answer a cry for help from the Royal House of Tara.’

He regarded Nuadu, as if waiting for him to answer, and Nuadu said, bitterly, ‘I am a bastard, a misbegotten son. It is not in my power. I can call the sidh, by the ancient enchantment of all of the Wolves but that is all.’

‘It is not enough,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘The sidh would strengthen your fight, but to win you need the Wolves.’ He regarded Nuadu, the golden eyes slanting and fiery. ‘You possess the ancient wolfblood,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘And you are the son of one of Ireland’s Royal Houses through your mother. The Wolves of Tara would almost certainly hear you if you called to them. Why will you not do it?’ Nuadu said, in a low voice, ‘You know why.’

Yes, I know, but you cannot avoid your fealty for much longer, Wolfprince. You are what you are. You may not care for Tara, but you care for Ireland …

Nuadu said, angrily, ‘You do not understand.’

‘I understand it all, Wolfprince. I understand everything about the shelving of responsibilities and about the avoidance of duty. You are a rebel, a rogue prince, the odd one in the litter …

‘But for all that, you are of the ancient royal House of Tara, and you made a vow to your dying brother.’ The golden eyes were shining with hard brilliance now. ‘Your half-brother’s body lies in state in the Palace of Wildfire,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘You brought him out of the land of darkness, and out of the Fields of Blood and he trusted you. He bequeathed Ireland to you and, although you do not want it, I do not think you can avoid it. You are the heir,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘You are the natural successor, the Wolfprince who can call to the Wolves.’

‘Supposing I cannot.’

‘But supposing you can … ’ Fael-Inis’s eyes were unblinking like a cat’s. ‘Supposing you can send out the Summoning, the ancient mystical Samhailt, the Wolfsong. Supposing they answer. To harness the Wolves now would unleash a power that has been for so long trammelled, it would be unstoppable. It would sweep the Darkness away in a glorious torrent of light.’ He looked at Nuadu very steadily for a long moment, and then, as Nuadu made no response, turned back to Reflection, and looked at her enquiringly, as if he might be saying: well, my dear? Is there anything else you would like to attempt? At once Reflection flung wide her arms, the palms turned upwards and crimson fire and blood and rain poured in torrents from the skies, splattering the occupants of the chariots, fouling the salamanders’ glossy coats and clogging the chariot wheels.

Reflection turned back and stood with her arms crossed, a look of triumph on her face. ‘Well, Fael-Inis!’ she cried. ‘That round is mine, I think! I have rendered your chariots useless and your creatures helpless. Let us see how you fight when your servants are rendered incapable! Let us see what eke you can call up from your armoury! You have not done so very much yet, have you!’ And then, as he stayed where he was, watching her, ‘Well?’ screamed Reflection.

Fael-Inis turned to look at Nuadu again. ‘There is little more I can do for you,’ he said. ‘I have shown you the means. It is in your hands.’ He began to move back, retreating into the shadows.

‘Help me,’ said Nuadu, and Fael-Inis shook his head.

‘The help is there, Wolfprince,’ he said. ‘It is up to you.’

I have shown you the means, and now you must take the means, or let Ireland be overrun by the Dark Realm …

I cannot! cried Nuadu silently. There must be another way!

Then find it, Wolfprince … The words were not harsh or dismissive; if you can find another way, Fael-Inis was saying, then do so. But he had moved even farther back and Nuadu had the impression that although he had not quite gone from them yet, he was stepping back from them.

Reflection and the Robemaker had been conferring and, as Fael-Inis melted into the shadows, Reflection surged forward again, her eyes hard and shining with triumph.

‘Well, creatures?’ she said, and there was a taunting note to her voice now. ‘So you have lost your champion, have you? Well, he was ever a fickle creature.’ She regarded Flame. ‘You see?’ said Reflection triumphantly. ‘You see how your father wants none of you? You see how he discards you and casts you off?’ And then, looking to where the Robemaker was waiting, ‘Do what you will, Master Robemaker!’ she cried. ‘Do what you will, and Flame is yours for a night before we sell her to the Gruagach!’

For a breathspace, the Robemaker did not move, and then he stepped forward and his terrible shadow fell across the blood-spattered chariots. He raised his left arm and the crimson rope-lights uncurled and snaked about the chariots’ wheels. A second whiplash of sizzling ropes corkscrewed through the air and wound themselves into the salamanders’ reins and about the occupants of the chariots. Behind him, dark clouds began to roll and gather and there was the sound of immense wings, dry and leathery, on the air. Reflection let out a peal of malicious laughter and the Frost Giantess began to writhe in excitement.

‘The Soul Eaters! The Soul Eaters are approaching!’

Reflection regarded the captives with her eyes glittering, and the Robemaker stretched his hands upwards to the skies, his concealing sleeves falling back, so that the crumbling, discoloured wrist bones were plainly visible. The beating of wings grew stronger and, as they strained their eyes to see, they became aware of the terrible shapes of the ancient creatures from the Cruachan Caverns, filling the skies, their immense wings casting huge black shadows, their cruel talons already curved in anticipation.

Fenella stared at the ancient, wizened, evil things, and knew at once that they were coming to claim payment for the bargain that had never been fulfilled.

We failed to keep our promise, she thought. We failed to bring to them Ireland's King, and now they have come to exact their revenge.

The creatures came to land at the centre of Reflection’s people; folding their great wings across their scaly bodies, their homed heads tilted in anticipation, their dark inHuman eyes surveying the company. Flame, who was feeling rather sick and cold inside at Fael-Inis’s apparent desertion of them, stared, and thought that surely there had never been anything so terrible and so utterly malevolent in all the world. She tried to count them because to do so might stop her remembering how Fael-Inis had walked away, but the Soul Eaters were moving, forming a circle. Their leathery wings opened occasionally and, in the shifting light, it was impossible to know their number. But Flame thought there were at least ten of them.

Fenella, at her side, saw that there were fewer than there had been in the Cruachan Caverns and remembered, shuddering, how the Harpies had flown at them, screeching and pecking, and how the red-eyed dungeon creatures had pounced on the ones who had fallen from the air, ripping and tearing … The Robemaker had stood at CuRoi’s side and fought them for Aed, and yet they still answered his summons. Because he is still in thrall to them? wondered Fenella. Because they believe he can still render up to them the soul of Ireland’s High King?

The Robemaker turned back to the chariots and lifted his hands again. At once, Floy and Nuadu, who were in the foremost chariot, felt the pull of the rope-lights drawing them towards the waiting Soul Eaters. The Robemaker gestured again and the second chariot, with Fenella and Flame and Snodgrass, began to follow.

Drawing them forward to where the Soul Eaters would tear them apart and eat their souls …

The wheels, still befouled and clogged with the shower of blood, stuck, and the salamanders dug their hoofs into the ground, but the Robemaker had advanced now and was standing directly before them, both hands raised, pulling on the crimson strands. Fenella saw Floy struggle and saw the rope-lights bite deeper into his arms, so that beads of blood sprang up. She reached into her mind for the spell of Human Hands which had freed them in CuRoi’s Castle but, even as she sought for the words, the dreadful wheezing laugh of the Robemaker rose on the night.

‘You do not think I should allow you to use that spell against me again, Human?’ said the Robemaker, addressing Fenella directly. Fenella put up her chin and glared at him, and the Robemaker laughed again and flung out a second shower of crimson lights that twined about Fenella’s face, into the dreadful mask. Fenella tried to cry out, and felt the mask tighten about her, hard and cramping and smothering.

‘Speechless, my dear,’ said the Robemaker, gloatingly. ‘As all Humans should be.’ He regarded them and malice gleamed deep within the hood. ‘You are caught, Humans,’ he said. ‘You are caught, and you will be given to the Soul Eaters and your souls will be weighed on the Silver Scales. That is the vow I made to them when the Master’s Harpies destroyed two of their number. A pact, Humans, just as you made a pact in the Cruachan Cavern, a pact that you did not fulfil.

‘The Scales will tip in my favour at last and I shall be free of the Everlasting Disease pronounced over me by the accursed Erin.’ He looked at Nuadu. ‘Your Lady cannot pronounce the spell she stole from me, this time,’ said the Robemaker. ‘There is really no escape for you.’ He chuckled and turned to Flame and said, with a dreadful lusting note in his voice, ‘And as for you, my dear, you shall be in my embrace tonight.’

Flame, who knew in a vague way about the Robe of Human Hands, and who had been trying to remember whether the rope-lights could be dissolved by any other spell, and if so, what it was, looked at him, and said, very loudly, ‘If you touch me, I shall kill you.’

The Robemaker laughed. ‘Puny creature,’ he said, and there was a note of indulgence in his voice now. ‘But I shall teach you to obey me.’

The Soul Eaters had formed a circle, and Reflection and the Frost Giantess had moved to the outer edges, each one now holding aloft a glittering spear of light, crimson-tinged and malignant. The lights cast an eerie red glow across the circle and Floy, who was nearest, saw that the Soul Eaters were standing waiting. At the centre was an immense pair of silver scales, etched with curious symbols, gleaming with a cold inner light.

Nuadu made a convulsive movement and then was still, and the Robemaker, turning his head, smiled from deep within the dark hood, and said, ‘Oh yes, Wolfprince, these are the Silver Scales, wrought by the Gallan Gnomes for Erin all those decades ago. They have been used to measure the years of my thralldom to Erin’s sorcerers. But soon now, that will end, and I shall be whole again! I shall be a true Lord of the Dark Realm once more!’ He pulled on the ropes and both chariots slid forward and the five prisoners were tipped on to the floor.

Chapter Forty-six

The five prisoners lay at the exact centre of the Soul Eaters’ circle. Reflection and the Robemaker had lit flaring torches and stuck them into the ground and the fire was leaping upwards into the night sky, scarlet and orange, casting huge, fantastical shapes everywhere. The dark forms of the Soul Eaters stood out against the light, evil and sinister, their only colour the glinting ancient eyes set deep into the bony, homed skulls. As they moved, great black shadows moved with them, dancing and flickering grotesquely.

Reflection and the Frost Giantess stood on the outer rim of the circle between the flambeaux. The Frost Giantess was writhing and undulating and at her back were the hovering shapes of the Wraiths, frost-rimed and avid, their sharp fingers reaching out, occasionally touching the leaping torch-fires, causing them to spit and hiss. Reflection, on the Frost Giantess’s left, was wrapped in the dark silken cloak, holding aloft the slender spear. Flame sent her a furious look and Reflection laughed, her eyes brilliant with malice.

‘Begging for mercy, child!’

‘No,’ said Flame shortly.

‘Soon,’ said Reflection, ‘you will wish you had not defied me.’

Flame said, ‘You would let that evil creature feed me to the Soul Eaters?’ And stared at Reflection and wondered whether she had ever really known her at all.

Reflection gave a shrug. ‘After all, my dear, it was your choice to consort with a Human,’ she said, and looked across to Floy. ‘You could have had the Gruagach King. You could have had the great ritual of the Fire River at your wedding, with your father to lead you forward to bathe in the Eternal Flame. As it is … ’ She glanced to the waiting Soul Eaters and Flame thought a tinge of regret touched her face. ‘As it is, you will end in the Robemaker’s embrace and your soul will be taken and your body thrown to the River of the Dead,’ said Reflection, and turned her head away as if the matter had ceased to interest her.

Nuadu lay where he had fallen, still and silent. The crimson mask bound the lower part of his face tightly and he could feel the rope-lights biting into his flesh. His mind was a tumble of anger and bitterness; he thought: we cannot all be given to the Soul Eaters! There has to be another way for us to outwit these creatures! But if I call to the Wolves, then I am taking up the mantle of my brother … No, cried Nuadu in silent anguish. No, I do not want it. I cannot do it! And I do not believe it is the only way. We shall outwit these creatures by some other means.

Floy had said little, but his mind was searching for a means to create a diversion. He thought that if one of them could somehow work the rope-lights loose, it would be possible to run from the circle, creating a diversion, and giving the others an opportunity to vanish into the night. Could they do that?

The Robemaker was standing before the Soul Eaters. Their massive wings were folded about their wizened scaly bodies like leather cloaks and their skulls tilted as if they were about to pronounce some kind of judgement. Before them stood the immense Silver Scales of Justice, sold, pure, silver, gleaming first silver and then red as the moonlight and then the leaping firelight caught them. They were larger than the prisoners had expected; they were almost the height of a man. Nuadu, who knew a very little of their history, knew he was seeing another of Tara’s lost treasures. First the Ebony Throne, and now the Silver Scales of Justice …

He thought the Scales had been wrought by the Gnomes of Gallan for the High King Erin. They were imbued with magic, for the Gnomes had consulted with Erin’s sorcerers and a rather unusual enchantment had been woven into the silver. Nuadu thought that Erin had issued very specific instructions regarding the Scales, so that he might use them in the judging of miscreants at his Court. The legend said that Erin had believed in an unusually exact form of justice: whoever brews the sour wine must needs drink it, he had said, and the Scales had enabled him to actually weigh a sin, and pronounce a punishment precisely in accordance with it, no more and no less than the offence deserved. And I suppose, thought Nuadu, studying the Scales, there are worse methods of dealing with miscreants. He remembered that it had been Erin who had ordered the Court sorcerers to pronounce over the Robemaker the terrible Enchantment of Eternal Disease.

The two dishes of the Scales, one on each side of the central column, were easily visible; they were deep and their outer edges were embellished with strange symbols. Nuadu thought he could make out the Tree of Amaranth, which was one of the earliest known magical symbols, and the House from which all sorcerers must descend. But there were others, whose origin he could not guess at. In the red-tinged night, the Scales were unearthly and faintly sinister, and Nuadu thought that although Erin had used them for good, since then they had become imbued with the malevolence of the Soul Eaters and their grisly work.

The right-hand dish was much higher than the left; it swung high up in the frame of the machinery, light and floating, as if there was barely any substance in it at all. Nuadu thought: yes, of course, that is where they weigh the souls against the other side.

The other side …

The left-hand dish was weighted so heavily that it was almost touching the ground. The silver, so carefully wrought by the Gnomes in Gallan decades earlier, was nearly hidden by the contents of the pan; they foamed and writhed and spilled over the edges, alive and grotesque.

The Draoicht Tinneas Siorai … The Enchantment of Eternal Disease. The spell which had held the Robemaker captive and helpless for centuries, creeping beneath his skin, eating away his flesh and his bones and his marrow.

It was a heaving nearly formless mass of tiny embryonic creatures; of half-formed foetuses, each of them covered with ulcerated leprous skin, bloodied and amorphous, most of the tiny inchoate creatures sightless, their clawed or webbed hands reaching out blindly. A thin film of membraneous skin covered them, as if the creatures had been flung indiscriminately into a sack and the sack’s opening tightly sealed. Atop the sack was a discoloured skull, its bones befouled with putrescence, its eye sockets and nose cavity packed tight with wriggling maggot-creatures giving it the semblance of dreadful life.

At the sight of the squirming creatures, the Robemaker gave vent to a gasping cry and drew back. Nuadu heard him hiss, ‘The Draoicht Tinneas Siorai!’ and at once the heaving creatures on the Scales seemed to pulsate and reach their tiny incomplete hands out to him. Single eyes bulged out against the sack’s surface and the Robemaker shuddered and threw up a hand to protect himself. Nuadu glanced to where Floy was watching and Floy looked at him. They shared a thought: here, at last, is something the Robemaker fears! And: can we somehow use this?

The Soul Eaters were moving closer; the ancient wizened one that Nuadu thought had spoken in the Cruachan Cave and who appeared to be their leader, said, ‘You flinch, Master Robemaker. And yet you should not, for it may be that the hour of your deliverance is at hand. It may be that the curse ordered by Erin is about to be outweighed.’ The old eyes slewed round to where Nuadu and the others lay. ‘Nuadu of the Silver Arm.’ He regarded Nuadu, and Nuadu stared back. ‘You thought to cheat us, Wolfprince,’ said the Soul Eater, softly.

‘You thought to deceive us,’ said another.

‘To trick us into allowing you and your Lady into the Dark Realm, where no creature may go unless permitted by a Lord of that Domain,’ said a third.

‘And for that alone,’ said the first, ‘you will certainly die and render up your soul.’ He turned to where the Robemaker was standing waiting, and Nuadu saw that there was an almost submissive droop to the Robemaker’s head now, as if he was saying: I have done what I can and now I am in your hands. Nuadu saw Fenella’s eyes widen in something that might have been pity and, nearby, Flame was almost certainly regarding the Robemaker with compassion.

And then the Robemaker straightened up, and began pulling at the rope-lights which held Fenella and Snodgrass. Floy felt Fenella’s mind lurch with fear and pain as she was dragged forward, and saw, Nuadu’s dark, slanting eyes show red.

Fenella felt the talons of the nearest Soul Eater reach out and pluck her from the ground. The shadows of the others fell across her and she saw them towering above her, their wizened faces suddenly avid and greedy, their talons opening and closing.

Our first victim … The leading Soul Eater was saying something about a young, unspoiled Human … They had unfurled their wings, so that the stark outlines threw great jagged shadows everywhere. They were baring their claws and there was something icily predatory about the movement. Fenella stared up at them, her mind tumbling with terror, and could see no way of escaping.

Nuadu had not moved, but the words uttered by Fael-Inis earlier had branded themselves onto his mind.

You cannot avoid your fealty for much longer, Wolf prince … You are what you are …

I cannot call to the Wolves! cried Nuadu, in silent anguish. There must be another way!

I have shown you the way, and now you must take the way, or let Ireland be overrun by the Dark Realm …

Cold clarity descended on Nuadu’s mind. He thought: if I must, then I must. But perhaps there is another way.

Lifting his head, he pronounced, in ringing tones, the ancient enchantment which had come down to him, which had been a part of his blood for as long as he could remember and which must be answered by the most mystical, most inHuman beings in all Ireland. They had saved him from the Robemaker once before; they had answered the summons then, and they could not fail to do so now.

The magical faery sidh, the elven race who were rarely seen in Ireland, but who were bound, by the chains of an old, old enchantment, to aid the Royal House of Tara at times of extreme peril.

At once the darkness was splintered and the darting blue and green outlines of the sidh filled the skies, lighting the night to turquoise brilliance. Dozens upon dozens of pairs of iridescent wings beat the air angrily and Fenella, tumbling back from the Soul Eaters’ circle, felt the brilliance sear her vision painfully.

‘Look away!’ cried Nuadu, on his feet at the centre of the cascading swooping sidh. ‘If you value your sanity and your five senses, do not look directly at them!’

The Robemaker had fallen back, his hands flung to shield his ravaged, vulnerable face, and at once the rope-lights, no longer held by the force of his evil will, dissolved. As Floy pulled Fenella and Flame clear, the Soul Eaters let out a single rasping shriek of fury and moved together.

There was a singing on the air now, the eerie, enchanted singing of the sidh who were cold and soul-less and who were said to hunt Men for sport, but who had sworn allegiance to the Royal House of Tara at the beginning of her history. Nuadu, his arms about Fenella, knew the sound for a seldom-heard hunting song and, although his skin prickled with the cold allure and the icy seduction of the singing, he thought: they are hunting down the enemy of the true Ireland. I believe it will be enough. I believe they will vanquish the Robemaker and the Soul Eaters.

Great livid streaks of turquoise fire were splitting the skies as the sidh darted, arrow-straight, at the eyes of the Soul Eaters and Reflection’s armies.

Floy and Nuadu bounded forward now, seeing their chance: Fenella had just time to see that Nuadu was leaping straight on to the dark figure of the Robemaker and that Floy had knocked Reflection to the ground and was grappling with her.

The skies sizzled with the sidh’s angry brilliance and with the flying crimson shafts from Reflection’s spear. The air was becoming thick and clotted with enchantments and with showers of blood and with the fire rising from the flambeaux.

The sidh flew straight at the Soul Eaters and Fenella, trying hard to shield her eyes, remembering all the warnings, glimpsed, on the outer rim of vision, creatures of gliding blue and green fire. At her side, Flame said, softly, ‘They will take their eyes.’ As she spoke, the Soul Eaters began to screech, terrible agonised sounds of rage and pain and fear. The strong, sweet humming swelled on the air again and the Soul Eaters began to fall from the skies like dried-out sticks, their wings flapping and broken. The sidh swarmed over them and their music flooded the night again, strange and inHuman, beautiful and un-earthly.

Floy, seeing that the Soul Eaters were vanquished, had wrested the spear from Reflection. He snapped it in two and then four across his leg. At once, Reflection slid away, darting into the night, a slender, silken shape. Fenella felt Flame’s hand come down on hers and knew that Flame was thinking: should we go after her?

‘We should never catch her,’ said Fenella. ‘But she has left the spear … ’and then, suddenly, ‘Flame-the spear!’

‘It’s broken,’ said Flame. ‘But its power won’t be broken.’

‘If we each take a piece of it,’ said Fenella, pulling Flame forward, ‘we can at least bring down the Storm Wraiths! Come on!’

They raced across the battlefield together. Fenella snatched up two pieces of Reflection’s spear of light and Flame took two more, and they both hurled the pieces at the Storm Wraiths. The air spat with tiny, diamond-bright chippings of light and the Wraiths shrieked with pain and fury, darting away into the night sky.

Floy had snatched up a sword and gone straight to the Frost Giantess’s litter. She reared up at once, the neck-fins distending, beating the air with her tiny hands. Floy leapt straight at her, lifting his sword high and bringing it down on the squirming undulating mass of cold flesh. Pale blood spurted and half covered him. He shuddered but lifted the sword and drove it home again. The Geimhreadh let out a terrible wailing and tried to crawl away, but the sidh swooped down, slicing at her with their ice-blue fire, and Floy, trying to avoid looking directly at them, saw the brilliant wings rise into the air again. He turned back and saw that the Geimhreadh was helpless on the ground, the thick, worm-like body flailing. He fell on her again and hacked at her until she lay still, her shapeless neck half severed.

Close by, Nuadu was facing the Robemaker; he thought he had inflicted some kind of sword wound already, but the Robemaker had whipped away, as slithery as a snake, and had stood facing Nuadu, a great spinning lattice of crimson lights surrounding him like armour. Nuadu was half blinded by the lights, but he advanced cautiously, a step at a time, the sword held out before him, his eyes narrowed. The Robemaker laughed and it was the terrible wet, bubbling laugh that Nuadu remembered. ‘You can not get near to me, Wolfprince,’ he cried. ‘For all your precious sidh, you cannot penetrate my armour!’ He gave another of his shrieking laughs and moved farther back and, as he did so, Nuadu saw forming, directly behind the cloaked shape, against the sky, the fiery outline of an immense door. The sidh flew at it at once but the outline held, and Nuadu could see that they were dashing themselves against it uselessly.

‘You see!’ shrieked the Robemaker triumphantly. ‘You see, Wolfprince! I shall escape you. I shall escape into the Black Realm, where the Dark Lords will rise to my aid!’ He turned about, the dark cloak swirling and, as he did so, slowly and menacingly, inch by terrible inch, the great Doorway began to open.

Floy was still standing by the mutilated body of the Frost Giantess, his eyes on the hooded figure of the Robemaker, outlined in the terrible glowing Doorway. He was holding the sword that had killed the Frost Giantess, but he thought that swords and knives would be of no avail against this one. Wasn’t there something they could use? Wasn’t there something that would defeat him, or, at the very least, disable him? With the thought came a stirring, a ruffle of memory, something tugging at the edges of his mind. What? Something that had happened earlier tonight, was it? Something that had made him think: so, after all, there is something that the Robemaker fears? After all there is something we could turn against him if we have the chance.

Of course! thought Floy, comprehension flooding his mind. Of course! The Draoicht Tinneas Siorai. The Enchantment of Eternal Disease.

He moved at once, swiftly and surely, crossing the stretch of ground to where the Silver Scales still stood, silent and sinister, gleaming dully in the moonlight. The Robemaker was silhouetted against the gaping Doorway and the opening was almost at its widest point now. At any minute the Robemaker would move back into the beckoning evil land and the Dark Ireland would swallow him. Once that had happened, there could surely be no following him. I have to stop him, thought Floy. Somehow I have to stop him, and I believe that this is the only way.

He moved until he was standing in the deep shadow cast by the legendary Silver Scales. He looked up at them and saw that although they had appeared to be man-sized, in fact they were much larger. Floy was fairly tall, but his head was barely level with the silver dishes. Standing beneath the immense and awesome Scales, he felt the waves of power and the insidious evil which had soaked into them during the years they had been in the Cruachan Caves. He felt the evil reach out and down to snake itself about his mind.

Come up to us, Human morsel, for we shall weigh you against your sins and we shall pronounce judgement accordingly …

There was a ripple of evil mirth then. And our punishments are such that you will wish you had never transgressed your puny laws. Human, and they are such that you will know yourself accursed and damned for this life and for all your lives to come …

I can’t hear you, said Floy silently. I can’t hear you and I’m not afraid of you.

Come up to us, Human, climb the silver spine of the Scales, and feel the cold embrace of Justice …

I’m not listening, said Floy. You are simply cold, dead metal, and I’m not listening.

The left-hand dish was still weighed down with the gross and terrible Enchantment of Eternal Disease, its underside almost brushing the ground. Could he do it? Could he reach out and take the loathsome, wriggling sack of disease and filth and squirming matter in his hands? But I have to do it, he thought. I truly believe that it is the only way to defeat the Robemaker and I have to do it.

The writhing sliminess was still churning and seething in the pan; the Draoicht Tinneas Siorai thought Floy, staring, trying to harden his mind. But it is still all encased in the sacklike covering, it is unable properly to get out, he thought.

Are you so sure of that, Human creature … ?

Yes! said Floy, silently. I do not believe that I am in any danger, and even if I am — he glanced to the menacing shape of the Robemaker — even if I am in danger, he thought, I believe there is more danger from that creature and his servants.

He reached up to the deep silver dish and, as he did so, tiny webbed clutching hands reached for him and bulging lidless eyes swivelled to stare at him. There was a wet sucking sound, as if fleshless, lipless mouths were already savouring him. Here is sweet clean flesh for us to devour … here is untainted skin and firm muscle and strong white bone for us to burrow into and scourge and defile and poison …

Dreadful. Don’t think about it. Think that it is this that the Robemaker fears, that it is this which will surely overpower him.

Floy reached up to the left-hand dish, with the foaming amorphous things, and grasped the membraneous sack with his left hand and the grinning phosphorescent skull with the other.

There was a moment, terrible, sick-making, when the sack slithered and shifted beneath his grip, and when the misshapen hands seemed as if they would tear open the transparent outer covering, and Floy thought it would burst apart and spew its contents over his hands. And then the moment passed and the sack was quiescent and, although there was a horrid, cold, greasy feel to it, its contents did not move again. Moving carefully, Floy started to half carry, half drag the sack which held the grisly Enchantment of Eternal Disease across to where the Robemaker had already turned his back on them.

Nuadu and Fenella and Flame were standing motionless, watching. Behind them, the light of the sidh had dimmed, as if the sidh also were waiting. But Floy dared spare no energy for anything else. Every shred of concentration he possessed was focused on taking the bulging, disease-filled membrane to where the Robemaker was waiting to go through the Doorway into the Dark Domain beyond.

And then he was there, standing before the Doorway, and so strong was the evil emanating from beyond it, that he felt it engulf him in a thick, smothering mass, which for a moment made him fight for breath. The crimson glow fell across him, so that when he held out his hands, they were bathed in the hideous colour and the Draoicht Tinneas Siorai was instantly turned to blood-red.

Now! thought Floy. Now is the moment. When he is waiting for the Doorway to stand fully open, and when he is no longer aware of what is happening here.

‘Robemaker!’ cried Floy with all his strength. ‘Robemaker! Turn about and face the one thing you fear!’

For the space of a heartbeat he thought the Robemaker was not going to heed him. Am I too late? he thought. Has he already passed through the Doorway and is he beyond our reach? But he stayed where he was, still gripping the terrible Enchantment in both hands, his eyes never leaving the grim, black-cloaked shape of the Robemaker and at last, through what seemed like an ocean of time, the Robemaker turned slowly and looked straight at Floy and at the slithering, now-frantic, membrane.

Even on the outer edges of the watchers, the bolt of fear that went through the Robemaker was felt. Floy, who was directly in front of the necromancer, saw him flinch and put up a hand to shield himself. Confidence welled up within Floy, because he had been right, this was the only way to defeat this creature.

Deliberately, carefully, judging his distance, Floy flung the sack into the Robemaker’s face.

A terrible cry rent the air and the Robemaker fell back, the dark hood slipping back so that his eaten-away face was revealed. The gaping eye sockets stared balefully and the white, crumbling bone was mercilessly exposed.

The bulging, dripping sack burst open, and the dread Draoicht Tinneas Siorai crawled forward. Everyone saw, in the angry light pouring from the Dark Realm, the living, breathing, corporeal diseases and illnesses and infections and poisons and plagues pour forward and smother the cowering figure of the Robemaker.

Flame was trying hard to remember the Robemaker had been evil beyond words; he had chained slaves and forced them to the treadmills; he had bargained to have Flame in his bed for a night. But she found herself flinching and putting up her hands to her face and had to tell herself, very sternly indeed, that she was not going to faint, and she was not going to be sick.

Fenella, standing at her side, was very white; she thought that perhaps, after all, the Silver Scales had meted out justice, for what could be more just, more precisely in accordance with any law, than to see the Robemaker at last defeated by the enchantment that he had rendered others soul-less to cheat? But, like Flame, she felt her own skin crawling with the horror and the pity of it.

The Robemaker was screaming now, dreadful gasping screams, nearly but not quite still-born out of lungs which were barely able to inflate any longer. As they watched, a swarm of bloated white maggot-creatures poured from the sack and descended on his face and Fenella, who was nearer than Flame, saw them burrow in through his eye sockets and knew they must be boring straight into his brain. With them came the snails’ trail of leaking, oozing pus and matter. Decay and filth, thought Fenella, and, as the thought framed, she smelt the sweetish bad-fish stench of decaying flesh.

Floy had not moved. He had stood resolutely before the dying Robemaker, watching as the crawling, squirming, disease-ridden creatures of the Draoicht Tinneas Siorai overcame the necromancer. When, at last, the creature was still and silent and the creatures of the enchantment lay supine and bloated and satiated, he turned to Nuadu, his face pale, but his eyes steady.

Nuadu said, ‘Well, Floy? The battle is not yet done. Shall we ride into the Dark Ireland and slay the Master?’

Chapter Forty-seven

As Nuadu’s words died away, Fael-Inis, the salamanders at his side, moved forward out of the shadows and Flame looked up in delight. He touched the salamanders’ glossy flanks, and at once the four who had taken Floy and Fenella and the brothers across the River of Souls came to stand before Nuadu, their heads bowed.

‘We are yours to ride into the Dark Domain, Sire,’ said the first one.

‘If you will take us,’ said another, and Nuadu reached his hands out and placed them on the salamanders’ gleaming necks. He did not speak, but the others could see the delight and the acceptance in his eyes.

But he only said, ‘We should be honoured,’ and the salamanders tossed their manes and kneeled, bowing their wise, sleek heads, so that it was easy to slide on to their backs. Lovely! thought Fenella in delight, and remembered how they had ridden through the tunnels of Fael-Inis’s Palace of Wildfire.

Nuadu looked across at her and sent the warm, sudden smile. ‘Ready, Lady?’ he said, and Fenella said, ‘Ready,’ and this time did not even stop to question anything. Of course they must go back into the Dark Realm, and of course they must seek out CuRoi and destroy him.

Snodgrass watched them, seeing them mount the gleaming sleek creatures, which were not like Snodgrass’s idea of salamanders, and probably not like anyone else’s either.

‘But I’ll stay with Fael-Inis,’ he said. ‘That’s if that’s acceptable, is it?’

‘Assuredly,’ said Fael-Inis, from his silent position on the edge of the light.

‘It’s a young man’s battle, this,’ said Snodgrass. ‘Well, and a young lady’s, too, of course. As if Fenella isn’t quite capable of giving a good account of herself, and Flame as well, I shouldn’t be surprised.

‘But I’d slow them down, you see,’ he said, eyeing Fael-Inis. ‘And if they’re to deal with these matters properly, then the last thing they want is to be slowed down.’

Fael-Inis said, ‘My hospitality is at your disposal, sir. Perhaps we may discuss a little of your world?’ and Snodgrass, who found Fael-Inis alarming but intensely interesting, at once said he would be very pleased indeed to accept such a cordial invitation.

‘We’ll be watching for your return,’ he said to Floy.

‘And our thoughts will be with you and about you,’ said Fael-Inis and, as Fenella said afterwards, it had sounded like some kind of ritual.

‘Rather comforting.’

‘Oh, yes.’

The four of them went through the immense Gateway in a single sweeping movement. There was time to realise that they were passing through what felt like thin, glinting light and time for Nuadu and Fenella to think: we are back in the Dark Realm again! And then they were streaming into the darkness and the salamanders were cutting a swathe of golden light through the Dark Ireland. The great Doorway opened up in the sky by the Robemaker was behind them and ahead of them was the glittering, sinisterly beautiful Castle of Illusions. And we have to enter it again, thought Fenella, remembering the dark radiance and the malevolent iridescence. We have to enter and we have to kill CuRoi.

The Dark Ireland was not nearly as dark as Fenella and Nuadu remembered. The skies were still black and low, so that you felt that you could reach up and touch them, but the strange distortion, the off-balance, out-of-kilter feeling was no longer so strong. To begin with, Fenella thought it was just that there were four of them and that it felt safer, or perhaps that it was the light from the salamanders. The sidh had melted away into their own strange world beneath the sea as soon as the Robemaker and the Frost Giantess had been slain and Reflection had vanished, but, once or twice, Fenella thought she glimpsed a smudge of blue-green against the skies.

But when Nuadu, riding the leading salamander hard across the ground, looked across and said, ‘Do you see how the Darkness is already dying, Lady?’ Fenella thought: of course it is dying! How could I have believed otherwise! And knew that it was nothing to do with there being four of them and nothing to do with the salamanders’ gentle radiance or the hovering sidh light. In some incomprehensible manner, the evil and the darkness and the terrible clotted malignancy of the necromancers’ Realm was weakening. Because the Robemaker was dead? Because something of Fael-Inis’s radiance clung to the salamanders? Perhaps.

They rode hard past the black swamplands and the black boiling lakes and on to the fearsome Fields of Blood, where Aed had endured the agonies of his bondage to CuRoi, the salamanders pouring through the necromancers’ realm in golden swathes of light, their manes streaming out against the darkness.

The sky was streaked with livid crimson and fingers of blood-red and, although there was a faint sound of beating wings and although they had the feeling several times that something dark and sinuous and boneless slithered across their path, there were no signs of the ravaged-faced Harpies or the prancing dungeon-creatures. Nothing came swooping down on them and nothing came scuttling across their path to bar their way.

The mountains reared ahead of them, stark black shapes, bathed in the evil of centuries, soaked in the terrible darkness of the fearsome Lords who dwelled within their depths. Fenella drew in a deep breath and glanced at the others, seeing that Floy was alert and intent and that Flame was at his side, riding hard, her hair streaming out as wildly as the salamanders’.

Fael-Inis’s daughter, riding the fiery salamanders through the Dark Ireland, sprinkling her father’s light …

And then there was no time to think about anything other than what they must do, because CuRoi’s immense Castle was in front of them, and spears of light were shooting outwards from it, as if CuRoi was already weaving the enchantment which would seal the Castle. The landscape was bathed in eerie light and Floy, looking up, caught sight of swooping, birdlike shapes above them.

‘The sun is setting,’ said Nuadu, suddenly. ‘Quickly, now, or the Castle will start to rotate and it will be sealed against us!’ He urged the salamanders on, but the salamanders needed no urging; they were pouring across the dark countryside, sparks flying from their hoofs, their eyes on the Castle of Illusions.

‘Can we force an entry?’ cried Floy and Nuadu half turned to look at him.

‘We forced an exit,’ said Nuadu, his eyes on the Castle. ‘And we have the fire and the light of Fael-Inis’s creatures. We have you, Flame,’ he said, suddenly fixing her with his brilliant stare, and Flame started, because it was disconcerting to be looked at like this and it was disconcerting to be suddenly marked out.

The chanting of CuRoi’s creatures was on the air all about them now; it ebbed and flowed on the darkness in a steady rhythmic pattern and, as it did so, Fenella felt the horrid distortion begin to creep back.

Flame, who knew a little more of the Dark Ireland than the others, and who had absorbed a smattering of sorcery in the Fire Court, recognised at once that this was the Chaunt of the Summoning, and that it meant that CuRoi was calling up every dark servant who dwelled here. Every creature of this terrible land would be flocking to the aid of the one they called the Master.

‘He is calling up his armies!’ she cried. ‘Floy! Nuadu! At any minute they will appear.’

Nuadu spurred the salamanders on and, as he did so, the great Castle began to rotate slowly and the chanting swelled to a massive crescendo all about them, sending their senses dizzy and reeling, so that they were in a vast chamber of rushing, chanting sound.

The voices grew to a tremendous tumult of sound and, as they did so, the four travellers saw the portcullis grow misty and faint. Dark heavy cloud swirled in, wreathing the great gates, and from deep within the Castle they heard the gloating chuckling of CuRoi.

Nuadu, who was a little ahead, shouted, ‘The sealing! Quickly, or we shall be shut out! Onwards!’

‘We can reach it!’ shouted Floy, his eyes brilliant. ‘Nuadu, if we use every ounce of speed, we can reach it before it seals!’

‘Yes! But there is no time to lose!’

And then a dark wall of seething, grinning creatures reared up in their path: the Harpies with their wicked talons and their ravaged-women faces, beating the air with their powerful wings; the red-eyed dungeon-creatures, long-fingered and bony, prancing and leaping, whirling in a mad evil dance.

CuRoi’s terrible servants, obeying their Master’s summons, banding together to drive out the Wolf-prince …

There were other creatures in the boiling sea of evil beings, as well; fearsome, nightmare things.

Hydra-headed snake-creatures and grinning gargoyle-beings; thin grey Human-like shapes with sunken eyes and reaching claws …

Hags and ghouls and viragos and Furies …

Humans to catch and Humans to eat;

Bones to grind and flesh to strip.

‘On!’ cried Nuadu. ‘Straight through them!’ But the denizens of CuRoi were increasing with every minute; there were dozens of them, there were hundreds, thousands; the air was black with their filthy exudence and foul with their stench. Beyond them, the four friends could just make out the silhouette of the Castle of Illusions, rotating slowly still, its drawbridge still lowered, the portcullis still high. There was still time to get inside. If they could somehow rout these creatures, there was still time …

The chanting surged all about their ears and there was a note of triumph in it now.

See how powerful is the Master! See how easily he is able to defeat you!

There was a moment of the blackest, most vicious bitterness Nuadu had ever known. To come this far; to defeat the Frost Giantess and Reflection; to vanquish the Soul Eaters and see the Robemaker destroyed, and then to meet defeat like this. Nuadu stared at the Castle and thought: we were within minutes, we were within seconds of reaching the gateway. We could still reach it even now, before it seals, if we could but fling aside these dark servants of CuRoi.

He saw Floy brace his muscles as if for battle, but Floy would know, as they all knew, that they could not possibly overpower so many. Within minutes, the Harpies and the grinning prancing red-eyed devils and the hags and ghouls would be upon them to tear them apart and fling their remains into the Fields of Blood.

And then I shall truly have failed, thought Nuadu. I shall have failed and Ireland will be the poorer for it. CuRoi is stronger than I had bargained for and I have failed.

The others had reined in the salamanders and the salamanders were tossing their manes, pawing the ground and waiting, eyeing the Castle with unease.

I have failed, and CuRoi will spin his enchantments and he will reach out from here and take Ireland, and there is nothing any of us can do …

Deep within his mind, a tiny silver voice stirred, and Fael-Inis’s words ruffled his thoughts.

The means are to handy Wolfprince … Did I not show you the means? You must take the means, or let Ireland be overrun by the Dark Realm …

Ireland, thought Nuadu. Tara, the Shining Citadel, the Bright Palace … my family’s stronghold, which I have never entered.

He did not want it. He had never wanted it. He had willingly embraced the strange half-life of the Wolfwood; he had sought out the company of creatures whom he believed to be like himself: rebels, misfits, outcasts. And yet, he thought, and yet … were they not gratified at finding themselves in proximity to one who possesses a little of the enchanted Wolfblood? Did they not unthinkingly give me homage, and did I not accept that homage as unthinkingly? Have I ever really been free of Tara?

Staring at the grinning, gobbling creatures, seeing beyond them to the dark shape of the necromancer’s stronghold, Nuadu felt the weight of Tara and the weight of all Ireland fall upon him.

After ally I am what I am …

And I promised Aed …

A great cascading wave of something strong and sweet and immensely powerful washed against his mind so that he all but fell.

But it is the power and the light and the strength of the Wolves of Tara, and already I am invoking it, already I am tapping the source of an old old ritual and of an ancient golden strength …

I have already set the magic working, thought Nuadu. There is no turning back now.

There was a blur of movement to the left and Nuadu turned his head and saw, limned on the distant horizon, silhouetted against the lowering skies, the shapes of dozens of lean, sleek creatures, sharp-eyed and pointed-muzzled, their outlines surrounded by nimbuses of fire, alive and glowing and slavering. On the scurrying night wind, came the unmistakable howling.

The Royal Wolves of Tara, waiting for the Wolfprince to summon them …

The golden strength was pouring through Nuadu, and he knew it was to be no longer denied.

And Tara, the Bright Palace, must be saved, and Ireland must be saved. I can no longer turn my back, thought Nuadu. I made a vow to Aed and I must keep that vow. Fael-Inis was right.

He lifted his hands and saw the power and the light and the strength pour forth, and at once the Wolves gave a great howl and bounded forward across the dark domain towards him.

Livid streaks of lightning split the skies as the Wolves fell upon the dark servants of CuRoi. The Harpies screeched and rose at once, flapping their wings, but the Wolves leapt and clawed at them, bringing them down, and falling on them, tearing and lacerating, their white pointed teeth sinking into the Harpies’ half-scale, half-Human hide.

Blood began to spatter the ground, and where there had once been a menacing army, now there was a raging maelstrom of fur and claws and teeth and talons.

The ghouls were shrieking, terrible mournful sounds, and leaping on to the Wolves’ backs, sinking their teeth into the thick neck fur, but the Wolves simply rolled over and dislodged them on to the ground and then turned and savaged them.

Fenella saw two of the Wolves take one of the red-eyed devils between them and tear off its head, tossing the bleeding carcase into the Crimson Fields. The Harpies were hovering, out of the Wolves’ reach now, but screeching their harsh, ugly cries, diving and swooping and then flying upwards again out of reach.

‘But there is a way through now!’ cried Floy, excitedly. ‘See! Over to the left!’

‘Yes!’ Nuadu turned to look at Fenella and Flame and the reckless, brilliant light was in his eyes. ‘Onwards now!’ he cried. ‘The Castle is still sealing! We may yet reach the evil one!’

‘Hurry!’ cried Fenella, gathering up the salamander. ‘Will the Wolves follow?’

‘If I wish it, they will follow me,’ said Nuadu and, just for a fleeting second, there was something in his voice Fenella had never heard before. Imperiousness? She glanced at him, but he laughed, and reached the flesh and blood hand to her. ‘For the moment they will remain here to deal with CuRoi’s evil,’ he said. And then he was turning the salamander’s head about and riding straight at the gap in the battle.

The salamanders went effortlessly through the whirling creatures, heedless of the Wolves and the screeching Harpies and the ghouls and hags. They did not quite fly, but they leapt through the air with a smooth, soaring movement that was so clean and so lovely, that Fenella and Flame, both clinging on for dear life, thought they would never feel the ground again. But then they were no longer in the air; they were pounding up the mountain path, nearing the Castle, and it was still rotating, it was still spinning, with that strange incandescent whirling, and the gates, the great gates through which they must pass were becoming immersed in mist, and at any moment, at any moment …

There was another soaring, flying movement, and they were through the gates, and under the portcullis, and CuRoi’s Castle of Illusions closed about them.

The four of them stood in the immense stone hall which Nuadu and Fenella remembered so well, the salamanders a little to their rear, spreading gentle radiance across the dark shadows.

The immense gates had vanished as they surged through — And we are shut in, thought Fenella. We are shut in with CuRoi and with whatever evil dark powers serve him. She stretched her mind to its utmost, trying to sense, trying to feel CuRoi’s presence.

‘He is here,’ said Nuadu at her side, speaking softly. ‘He is a dark muddied evil, at the Castle’s heart.’ As he spoke, Fenella thought: of course CuRoi is here! And felt, as Nuadu had felt, the waiting malevolence deep in the Castle …

They moved towards the stairway at the far end of the hall, wary and cautious, scanning the shadows as they went.

Floy said, ‘The dungeons are down here?’

‘Yes.’

As they reached the narrow stone stairway, the shadows swirled and thickened and Fenella felt, tugging at the corners of consciousness, the silvery sticky threads of CuRoi’s beckoning.

Come closer, my dear, for there are dreams here you have never imagined, and there are riches here that you have never envisaged …

I’m not listening, said Fenella inside her head. Begone, creature! I won’t listen to you!

They walked cautiously in single file down the narrow worn stone steps, putting out a hand to the wall for balance, as Fenella had done, peering into the dark.

Nuadu was leading the way, with Floy bringing up the rear and the two girls inbetween. As they rounded a curve in the stair, and saw a thick, smeary light fall across the ancient stonework, Floy said very softly, ‘They are not long lit, I think. Then, someone is here.’

Someone is here, Humans, someone is here, and someone is waiting and watching … Peering from the shadowy comers … watching from behind the wall hangings … Did that tapestry stir just then? Was it only the wind? Can you be sure it was only the wind … ?

Fenella set her teeth and pushed the insidious whispering away but, as she did so, Nuadu said, in an ordinary, practical voice, ‘I daresay we may have to fight back a lurking spell or two, you know.’

‘If they are minor ones,’ said Flame, ‘they might not be too hard to get rid of.’ She said this rather hesitantly, but Nuadu stared at her and said, ‘The sorceress’s daughter! Of course.’ And then, very seriously, ‘We need every bit of help we can get, Flame.’

‘I have only a very little knowledge,’ said Flame anxiously, because it would not do for them to be thinking she could hurl spears of light or call up fire demons. ‘But perhaps there might be a protective chant which would help.’ She thought it was not being vain to feel pleased that she could offer some small assistance in this very important and highly dangerous quest. She had contributed nothing at all so far. It would be a marvellous thing if she could just drive back the lurking dark creatures which they all knew were hovering, unseen.

Nuadu said, with sudden formal courtesy, ‘Yes. If you would do that now, please,’ and Flame gathered her thoughts.

It would have to be the strongest ritual she could remember, but it would not have to be a very long one. The Banishing Ritual of Mab might fit very well, because all its images were of shining light which would be a good thing to use down here, and there was mention of the ancient Amaranthine House, and the strong and pure magic of the first sorcerers of all. Yes, she would try that one.

She stood very still and summoned the words, calling up the images that went with them.

By the power of the heartwood Croi Crua Adhmaid

By the light of the Bright Palace of Tara;

By the under-water world of the long-ago City of Tiarna,

By the glittering gates of the Palace beyond the Skies.

Light, thought Flame, her eyes half closed, concentrating. Shining glittering spires and brilliant iridescent seas … The setting sun plunging below the ocean and turning the seas to fire … Spears and shards of white moonlight sliding through the Wolfwood to Croi Crua Adhmaid …

By the ancient shining Amaranthine Tree

By the power of the Well of Segais.

By the Nine Hazels of Wisdom,

Darkness vanish, creeping evil begone.

She opened her eyes and saw at once that the creeping shadows had receded and she felt that the hovering menace had lifted. Floy grinned at her and Flame felt absurdly pleased with herself, even though it had been the simplest of rituals, one she had heard Mother chant if the Wraiths or the White Hags came to the Fire Court and Mother could not be bothered to receive them.

Fenella was fascinated, not only by the ritual, which she thought beautiful and strange, but even more fascinated by the way Flame seemed able to tap some inner source of power.

‘Only a very little,’ said Flame at once, and Fenella realised that Flame had sensed her thoughts.

‘Sufficient to banish whatever was creeping after us, however,’ Fenella said, and smiled Floy’s smile.

Flame thought of saying that it was not actually a very difficult ritual, but decided not to, in case it might sound conceited. She was liking Fenella very much, but it was important to remember that customs and manners might be different outside of the Fire Court. She would try not to do or say anything that might offend anyone. But it had been marvellous that she had been able to pronounce the Ritual of Mab so successfully.

As they reached the foot of the steps, they saw the passage stretching ahead of them, empty and deserted.

‘And the seven chambers,’ said Nuadu softly.

‘Each one more terrifying than the one before,’ said Fenella.

They stood very still and looked at one another.

And then Nuadu said, ‘The room with the Ebony Throne. That is where he is.’

Dark blue light flooded the small stone chamber and, as they stood in the open doorway, they saw that CuRoi was there, a smile just lifting his lips, his head on one side, regarding them. Behind him was the austerely beautiful Ebony Throne, the satiny black wood gleaming gently, the wolfshead carvings standing out.

‘You are well come,’ said CuRoi and, for an instant, so strong was the impression of a genial host, pleased to welcome guests, that they hesitated.

And then Nuadu moved, Floy at his side, and, as they did so, Fenella and Flame both cried out, for the rope-lights so often used by the Robemaker had snaked forward and whipped about Nuadu and CuRoi was drawing him forward.

‘Dear me,’ said CuRoi, chucking a little. ‘Dear me, bastard Wolfprince, did you really expect to walk in unchallenged, and emerge unscathed? How trusting of you.’ He lifted his hand again, almost imperceptibly, and the lights drew Nuadu farther in. Flame, her eyes huge with horror, began to chant the ritual of banishment again, but at once CuRoi flicked out a second rope-light, and Flame gasped and fell.

‘And the mask, also, I believe,’ said CuRoi. ‘For I should not want any distractions.’ Before he had finished speaking, the cruel crimson lights had formed into the mask about Flame’s face. Floy made to move and CuRoi felled him with a third rope-light.

‘And the Wolfprince’s lady also, I think,’ he said, and Fenella was caught and bound as well.

‘Do you know,’ said CuRoi, lifting his hand in a slight under-stated gesture that brought Nuadu even closer, ‘do you know, I had been inclined to view the Robemaker’s little array of spells with very nearly contempt. A minor sorcerer, I had always thought him. How it ill became me to do that! These are very useful.’ Fenella thought he spoke in the slightly absent-minded fashion of someone choosing wares in a market place, or comparing one colour against another.

‘And so now, Nuadu of the Silver Arm,’ said CuRoi, turning back, ‘so now, we are come full circle. You are again in my Castle and you and your friends are in my power. Did you really think to escape me? Did you really think your puny armies, your snarling Wolves and your absurd sidh could vanquish me?’ He smiled at Nuadu again. ‘It will be a fitting end for you to be fed to the Ebony Throne,’ he said. ‘It will be an appropriate death for a bastard prince to die in the terrible embrace of that ancient symbol of kingship. I do like neat endings,’ he said, and again the rope-lights tightened. Nuadu was standing within a foot of the great, blackly gleaming Throne now and his eyes were on it, narrow and glinting.

‘Are you ready to die horribly and slowly, Wolfprince?’ said CuRoi, evil glittering redly in his eyes, the mask ripped from him so that they saw him for what he really was; a churning seething mass of undiluted evil …

‘Well, Nuadu Airgetlam?’ said CuRoi.

Of his own volition, Nuadu walked forward and sat in the chair.

Pure blue light poured on to the massive carved Throne, bathing Nuadu with radiance. The crimson rope-lights and the masks which had held them all spat and shrivelled and then dissolved of their own accord.

Nuadu was smiling, but there was a malicious amusement in his eyes as he regarded CuRoi and his hands were held out, palms upwards, the silver hand of his left arm gleaming gently.

Ireland’s heir … Fenella, staring, thought: of course! Aed made him promise that Ireland would be safe. And in so doing, Aed bequeathed Ireland to Nuadu! thought Fenella, tom between awe and delight.

CuRoi had fallen back the instant Nuadu touched the Ebony Throne. His face was twisted in undiluted hatred, but there was a moment — Fenella had seen it quite clearly — when he had flung up his hands to shield himself from the pure light.

He rallied slightly, and hissed, ‘Imposter! Bastard prince!’

‘Am I?’ said Nuadu softly. ‘Are you sure of that, CuRoi?’ As he spoke, the light fell all about him so that the Throne itself began to glow with an inner radiance. Fenella and the others were suddenly aware that the Castle was rotating.

But it is moving the other way round! thought Fenella confusedly. It is unsealing of its own accord! The evil is dissolving!

CuRoi was still staring at Nuadu. At length, he said, ‘Your brother … ’ and Nuadu smiled.

‘My brother is dead,’ he said, gently. ‘I think you know that. But perhaps you do not know that, before he died, he extracted from me a vow that Ireland would be safe.’ He regarded the necromancer. ‘He bequeathed Ireland to me with his dying breath,’ said Nuadu, softly, and Fenella drew in a delighted gasp. ‘And since he was the hereditary High King,’ said Nuadu, speaking as one explaining something simple to a very stupid child, ‘since he was the Crown Prince, by his bequest Ireland is now mine.’ CuRoi stared at Nuadu, black and bitter hatred in his eyes. ‘Was it a deception after all, Wolfprince?’ he said at last. ‘Your repeated vows that you did not want Tara, that you cared nothing for the Bright Palace? Did they mask a deep and subtle plot?’ He moved closer.

‘I deceived no one,’ said Nuadu. ‘I never wanted Tara. I do not want it now.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But I can not turn my back on it,’ he said. ‘I must take on the mantle of my dead half-brother. I must rout the dark evil of your kind, CuRoi.’ Again the look, pitying yet merciless. ‘I grew up in the Wolfwood,’ said Nuadu. ‘When the King repudiated his Queen’s bastard, he did so violently. I was born in great secrecy in the ancient Grail Castle, sometimes called Scáthach the Castle of Shadow, but soon after my birth the King ensured that I should be taken into the Wolfwood and left to die.’ He smiled. ‘I did not die,’ he said. ‘I survived, because of my father’s people.’

Floy, listening intently, said very softly, ‘The Wolves.’

‘The Wolves,’ said Nuadu. A smile touched his lips. ‘What else?’ he said.

What else indeed … ?

‘And now, CuRoi,’ said Nuadu, his eyes suddenly remote, ‘you are finished.’ He made a quick gesture, encompassing the slowly moving Castle. ‘Your enchantments are dissolving and light is streaming in to your dark citadel.’ He stood up and walked forward and, as he did so, Floy and the two girls moved to the door, barring the necromancer’s path.

‘I should like to kill you in the way of my father’s people,’ said Nuadu, his eyes on CuRoi. ‘I should like to savage you and mutilate you and fling your bloodied remains to the Harpies that screech outside your castle.’ Fear showed in the necromancer’s face again, and Nuadu laughed.

‘It is too swift an end,’ he said. ‘Instead, I shall follow the ways of the High King Erin who believed in exact forms of justice. The Silver Scales of Justice, which are accredited to him, were taken and corrupted by the Soul Eaters and can never be used for the punishment of evil again. But Erin’s premise still holds. Whatever crop you have sown, you must reap its harvest.’ He stood over CuRoi and, although he was not tall, he seemed to tower over the necromancer.

‘You are about to reap your crop, CuRoi,’ said Nuadu, and the others saw, fearfully and incredibly, the wolf-mask touch his face, the lips thin and the eyes slant and glow.

‘If you were a true Lord of Sorcery, a real and strong scion of the ancient House of Amaranth,’ said Nuadu, ‘you would have withstood our attack.’ He gestured to the other three. ‘Four of us only, and the Wolves,’ he said.

‘But you are no true sorcerer, CuRoi, you are flawed goods, damaged stock. You are the imposter … And you know the fate reserved for imposters,’ said Nuadu, very softly, and the planes of his face seemed to blur, so that for a brief moment the wolf looked out more strongly and more cruelly than the others had ever seen it.

And he is moving around CuRoi now, thought Fenella; he is circling him, driving him towards the Throne.

CuRoi was flinching now and the light that had poured from the great darkly beautiful Ebony Throne was sending its radiance towards him. Again he threw up his hands to shield his eyes from the light and in that moment Nuadu sprang on him, closing his hands about the necromancer’s throat, the strong hard silver hand circling it like a vice.

And with a gesture that was very nearly off-hand, he threw CuRoi straight at the Ebony Throne.

At once the chamber was lit to white painful light. Sparks and splinters of pure radiance tore across the small oblong dungeon and sliced into the ancient stones, so that they shivered and fell apart. There was a terrible scream from the depths of the great Throne, the cry of a soul who sees Hell yawning and, for a brief, terrible moment, Fenella glimpsed a great fiery furnace, red-eyed demons reaching out. There was the acrid smell of burning and the thing that had been CuRoi sagged, lifeless, eyeless, burnt out from within, smoking and charred.

Nuadu did not falter. He grabbed Fenella’s hand and bounded to the door.

‘Quickly, now, for the Castle is about to sunder and we dare not be trapped!’ He pulled Fenella with him, Floy and Flame at their heels, up the narrow stone stairway and into the great hall.

Deep blue light poured into the dark Castle of the necromancers; soft, purple-tinged dusklight, sweet and clean and untainted by the Dark Realm’s foul malevolence. Fenella could hear wailing and screeching from beyond the Castle’s walls; the scared running of creatures fleeing a great threat, the frantic beating of wings on the air of frightened beings who had served the dark powers, but who now saw those powers crumble before the might and the strength of the Wolfking.

The power and the light and the strength, Lady …

The Wolves were waiting. As the salamanders took them down the mountain path, they fell into line behind Nuadu, sleek and lean, their pelts dark and glossy, their eyes on Nuadu.

Fenella said, rather uncertainly, ‘Will they follow us back into the real Ireland?’

‘Yes,’ said Nuadu. He looked across at her and smiled and at last it was the smile of the lover of the twilit Wolfwood, the warm, intimate smile that held the shared memory of what had been between them, and what would be between them in the future …

And then the Gateway was before them and the lights and the brightness of the true Ireland, the fabled land of blue and green mist which was fabled no longer for Fenella and Floy, but real and warm and loving, were rushing towards them.

The salamanders poured effortlessly through the Gateway, the Wolves in their wake, and the Gateway closed behind them, leaving no trace.

Chapter Forty-eight

To Tealtaoich and the other Beastline creatures, who had all been accustomed to living at Tara and to being a part of its immense glittering Court, it was strange and quite dreadfully sad to have to approach it as aggressors.

‘But we have to drive out the Gruagach,’ said Tealtaoich.

‘That’s if they’re awake from Pumlumon’s Draoicht Suan.’

‘Well, I meant that. That’s what I meant,’ said Tealtaoich.

Pumlumon and the other Gnomes had been very flattered to be included in the march on Tara. Culdub Oakapple had said, lugubriously, that wasn’t it only that Tealtaoich and the rest needed Pumlumon’s help with dissolving the Draoicht Suan, but the Gnomes had not paid this very much attention, because hadn’t the Oakapple a terrible old way of squashing people’s optimism and wasn’t a bit of an optimism what was wanted now? Bith said it was very gratifying that Pumlumon was to go into Tara with Caspar, although wasn’t it only what you’d expect, what with Pumlumon being the one who had pronounced the spell in the first place. A spell could only be lifted by the person (or Gnome) who had first chanted it, said Bith firmly. Anyone knew that.

Feradach muttered to Clumhach that it was to be hoped Pumlumon could be trusted to remember the awakening ritual, but Clumhach, who was so pleased to be returning to Tara that he would not believe ill of anyone, said that of course Pumlumon would remember it.

‘He remembered the Draoicht Suan,’ said Clumhach.

‘I think that was a stroke of luck,’ said Feradach.

Pumlumon had, in fact, consulted anxiously with Miach about the exact wording of the ritual and a couple of the Oaks had helped. Pumlumon had repeated the ritual several times, just to be sure, and then Snizort had written it down for him, which was a grand useful thing to have done, and something Pumlumon would never have thought of doing. He would feel very important, he said, going on down to Tara alone with Caspar, and had asked couldn’t he take along one or two friends. Flaherty was the one to be taking with you when you were on an important mission, he said, and wasn’t Bith of the Bog-hat their leader, and ought, by rights, to be included as well. And the Oakapple never liked to be missing any bit of excitement that was going on.

But it had been explained to him that this first approach had to be very quiet and very stealthy, on account of not letting the giants know they were there until they had dissolved the Draoicht Suan. What they had to do, said Tealtaoich and Eogan, explaining it all to Pumlumon, was to wake the giants and then, just as the giants were blinking and feeling a bit sleepy from the spell, the armies would come roaring in and fell them before they had time to know what was happening. That was the way of it, said Tealtaoich, frowning at Pumlumon to be sure he understood.

And, of course, if it was stealth that was wanted, then Pumlumon was the one for the job, said Pumlumon, having seen the entire point of this plan. Hadn’t his own grandfather been known as the stealthiest Gnome that ever wore a hat, and wasn’t there a saying in Gallan to this very day, ‘as stealthy as Pumlumon’s grandfather’?

‘I’ll be there,’ he said, beaming, and Tealtaoich said to Eogan that it was to be hoped that Pumlumon could remember the spell.

‘Snizort’s written it out for him.’

‘He’ll have lost it by the time they reach Tara,’ said Tealtaoich.

‘Snizort made a copy and gave it to Caspar.’

‘Oh, I see.’

Snizort, who was walking with Caspar just behind the Gnomes, thought that the procession out of the Wolfwood and on towards Tara was awesome and solemn and one of the most remarkable sights he ever thought to see. He had rather enjoyed the walk, which had been in the nature of an informal march, and which had gone along to the accompaniment of singing. This seemed to be a traditional thing, and Snizort had enjoyed it greatly. The Tree Spirits had unbent sufficiently to teach the Beastline creatures several songs from the time of Cormac which everybody had liked, and then the freed slaves had sung several rousing choruses of songs which had been sung in their villages before the days of the Robemaker, and Snizort himself had even managed to remember two ditties from Renascia, which had been received very well. It had made the march seem much shorter than it really was and, as Clumhach had said, it had brought about a grand spirit of comradeship.

‘And of course,’ he had said to Snizort, ‘you won’t be expected to be on foot for the actual charge.’

‘Ah,’ said Snizort, who had wondered about this, but had not quite liked to ask.

‘Oisin will have a word with the deer, I expect, said Clumhach. ‘They’re very fleet and extremely nice. Unless you’d prefer a panther?’ He posed this is a perfectly ordinary possibility and Snizort, who had taken several wary looks at the prowling sinuous panthers padding after Tealtaoich, said, hastily, that he was sure the deer would be entirely acceptable.

The Beastline Lords had walked at the head of the march with the creatures they had summoned in their wake and the Gnomes behind the creatures.

‘If we had been strict about the precedence,’ said Caspar, ‘the Gnomes should have come last of all, after the Trees. But they’ve no sense of direction, Gnomes, and they might easily have taken a wrong turning. So Tealtaoich and Eogan thought they’d be safer in the middle.’

‘If everyone had their rights,’ said Dian Cecht, hearing this and turning round haughtily, ‘Miach would be spear-heading the attack and going into Tara with the Gnome Pumlumon.’

‘Why is that?’ asked Caspar rather belligerently.

‘If there is any sorcery to be done, Miach is Court Sorcerer,’ said Dian Cecht.

‘Well,’ said Caspar, ‘if you really want to know, Miach can have my place for the asking. The only reason I’m going is because if the giants aren’t still asleep, they won’t think it odd to see me. They’d think it very odd to see Miach walking back into their midst after they’d driven him out. It’s simply a question of being practical,’ said Caspar firmly, to which Dian Cecht said there was no longer any justice in the world but, in any case, she would not have given her support to Miach going into such a sinister situation, and it was extremely likely that the Gruagach were awake and lying in wait for anyone foolish enough to try to sneak past the sentries.

The freed slaves were walking with the Tree Spirits who brought up the rear. Snizort had managed to talk with some of the dryads and had found them extremely scholarly and rather formal.

‘But I’m learning a very great deal,’ he said to Caspar. ‘My word, I wouldn’t have believed the half of the things I’ve learnt here. Tell me, shall we take Tara fairly easily, do you suppose?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ said Caspar, who felt he had acquitted himself firmly but courteously with Dian Cecht, and who was beginning to feel quite optimistic about this remarkable quest. ‘I truly don’t see why we shouldn’t. If the giants are still under the Draoicht Suan, and if Pumlumon can wake them, they’ll be too sleepy to put up much of a fight. As a matter of fact,’ said Caspar, lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening, ‘as a matter of fact, it isn’t strictly honourable, attacking them like this. You’re supposed to send all kinds of challenges and warnings before you attack people.’

‘Ah yes. Chivalry,’ murmured Snizort, entranced. ‘The ancient code.’

‘But,’ said Caspar, ‘I think they decided — that is, Tealtaoich and Oisin and the rest decided-that since the giants didn’t observe the code when they took Tara, and since they’re usurpers anyway, the usual practices could be shelved. Also,’ he added, ‘it probably means we’ll be able to beat them.’

The armies approached Tara from the Western side and paused on the hillside behind the brilliant shining outline.

Oisin had told Snizort that this was the scene of many famous battles of the past.

‘If you stand on that hillside and close your eyes,’ he had said, quite seriously, ‘you can almost feel the past flooding in on you. That was where the great Cormac of the Wolves led the final charge against the usurpers Eochaid Bres and Mab the Wanton and where he defeated the terrible sisterhood of the Morrigan. And then later, Cormac’s great granddaughter, the High Queen Grainne, fought the necromancer Medoc there. It’s steeped in history and soaked in blood,’ said Oisin very solemnly, ‘and it’s a very good place indeed for us to assemble and begin the charge on the Gruagach.’

Below them, in the saucer-shaped valley, was Tara, the Bright Palace of legend, the Shining Citadel of Ireland’s history, woven into the weft and the weave, threaded into the tapestry of every tale ever told or sung or written or dreamed.

As Caspar and Pumlumon approached the Western Gate, they looked about them cautiously, staring up at the blind, unlit windows, seeing the traces of neglect everywhere. Pumlumon, a cleanly soul, tutted and said didn’t it make you feel a terrible old anger to see such shocking housekeeping.

‘They aren’t the tidiest of people, the Gruagach,’ admitted Caspar, standing in the courtyard. ‘But I think the neglect only strengthens our hope that they’re still under the Draoicht Suan.’

Pumlumon said at once that wouldn’t that be the way of it and Caspar the quick-witted one for spotting it. Would they be taking a look inside now?

‘Yes,’ said Caspar, who was feeling better with every minute, and who was, by this time, almost certain that the Gruagach were still under the Draoicht Suan. The notion that it might all be a trap occurred to him, but he put it from his mind, because the concept of a trap was far too subtle for Inchbad’s people.

And so he led Pumlumon through the echoing galleries and the vast chambers of Tara. Along the historic Wolf Gallery where, so said legend, Cormac had held the famous race with his court to see how many ladies they could each bed between sunset and sunrise. On down the great gilt stair with the curving, diamond-crusted balustrades, which was known as Mab’s Stair, and which the ladies of the court always used to make grand entrances into the banqueting hall below when there was a particularly festive gathering.

Caspar, who knew the way without really thinking about it, hurried along, Pumlumon scurrying at his heels, holding his hat on, tutting all over again at the dust and the grime everywhere.

They walked rapidly through the rather sombre official rooms, among them the exquisitely beautiful Star of the Poets, where the King of the day met with his Councillors and his advisers to discuss matters of state; past the slightly eerie, spell-ridden Hall of Light and the Skyward Tower where once had lived the nine sorcerers of Dierdriu, and on until there ahead of them —

‘The Sun Chamber,’ said Caspar. ‘Medchuarta. Ready?’ They moved forward, and Caspar pushed wide the great doors.

The first thing to assail their senses was the stale smell of unwashed giant and of onion-tainted, sleep-befouled breath. Caspar shuddered and Pumlumon shook his head, because wouldn’t a few sprigs of lavender have been of some help here.

In the great Sun Chamber of the Wolfkings, the immense glittering heart of the ancient Shining Citadel of all Ireland, the giants of Gruagach lay where they had fallen when Pumlumon spun the Draoicht Suan about them.

They were awkward and ugly; their jerkins were grease-spotted and their wide, stupid mouths had fallen open, showing blackened stumps of teeth. Most of them were snoring, and the Sun Chamber reverberated to the sounds.

The fire around which Caspar remembered them gathering that night had long since burned out and drifts of ash lay everywhere, sprinkling the silver floor so that it was tarnished and smeary. Inchbad’s crown had slipped from his head and with it the elaborately curled and powdered wig he had been wearing. There were cobwebs that were beginning to thicken, and there were even mouse-droppings in a neat line across the floor.

Pumlumon said, in a whisper to Caspar, that wasn’t this the most disgraceful thing you’d ever think to see.

‘We should never have let them stay for so long,’ said Caspar, staring at them, and looking fiercer than anyone had ever seen him. ‘I am very glad indeed that they are to be soundly beaten.’

He looked at Pumlumon: ‘If I go up to the Skyward Tower and give the signal to Tealtaoich, will you begin the spell to wake the giants?’

Pumlumon said he would, to be sure he would, and wasn’t that why they were here and there’d best be no delay.

‘Perhaps I’d better just run through it first to be sure I’ve remembered it, however,’ he said, worried, and Caspar, who had foreseen this and asked Snizort to copy out the spell, said, ‘Oh, really,’ and rummaged in a pocket for the ritual and put it into Pumlumon’s hands so there should be no further delay.

‘And remember not to start the ritual until I’ve reached the Tower,’ he said.

‘How long — ’

‘Count to one hundred,’ said Caspar and, as Pumlumon looked even more worried, said hastily, ‘Well, read the spell through silently, and then pronounce it,’ and sped away, thinking that really, when it came down to it, he was doing a great deal towards winning this war.

To the waiting Beastline and the Trees, Caspar’s signal came like a beacon of light, raying through the darkness.

‘The Skyward Tower,’ said Tealtaoich, softly. ‘Then they are inside and the giants are still under the enchantment.’ He turned to look at the others, and a mischievous, reckless grin lifted his lips suddenly, so that he was more catlike than Snizort ever remembered seeing him.

‘Ready?’ said Tealtaoich. ‘Then onwards!’

They had agreed that there should be no call to arms, no blasts of trumpets, or shrieks of war.

‘A swift, silent charge, it’ll be,’ said Oisin to Snizort, when he introduced the deer that Snizort would be riding. ‘Not the way it ought to be done, of course.’

‘Of course not,’ Snizort had said, entranced.

‘But practical.’

Pounding down the hillside towards the great, radiant Palace, the silence was unnerving. There was only the sound of the beasts’ hoofs on the ground and the rushing of the wind in their ears, or the rustling susurration of the Tree Spirits as they streamed across the terrain. Overhead, the White Swans and the Eagles dived forward in a maelstrom of gold and white, beautiful and powerful.

And then they were nearing the great Western Gate, going along the straight wide avenue and Tara was ahead of them, beautiful, shining Tara that was in the greedy, greasy hands of the giants.

Inchbad did not know when he had been so flummoxed. He said so, very firmly indeed.

‘I don’t know when I’ve been so flummoxed,’ he said.

The Gruagach were all flummoxed. It was difficult to know what to do. Goll the Gorm said, darkly, that they had all been the subject of a bit of a spell, mark his words, and everyone had agreed, because didn’t they all know how sneaky and sly spells could be.

There they’d all been, sitting round the fire after supper, as friendly as could be, looking forward to a bit of a game with the Fidchell board. Goll the Gorm had actually looked out the board from last time, and seen that it needed a bit of a clean what with it still having all manner of unmentionable stains on it from the last lot of Humans, and it a lady they were to be roasting this time. Goll had not known what things were coming to.

They’d been sitting round the fire and the Girl-Human had been telling them a bit about her own world; they’d listened to it carefully, because you never knew when a thing like that mightn’t come in useful. Fiachra Broadcrown had said to  Arca Dubh that it almost seemed a shame to roast such a pretty little creature and was frowned at by Goibniu.

And then — no one quite knew how it had happened — they’d all dozed off, every last one of them, and when they came to wake up, not only had the Girl-Human and Caspar and the entire Gnome clan vanished, but Tara was actually in the hands of the Beastline again!

They’d all scratched their heads and been very puzzled indeed, but, of course, when you were confronted with such a display of force, there was only one course of action you could take.

Goibniu and Inchbad had gone off to the Star of the Poets (Goll the Gorm said they had been taken off, but this was untrue) to discuss something called terms with the six Beastline Lords and the rather odd person who appeared to take notes of everything.

Goll the Gorm said there was a powerful bad time ahead for them all, but in fact, when Goibniu and Inchbad emerged, it had all been quite reasonable.

They were to return to Gruagach, said Goibniu solemnly, adopting his old, truculent stance, legs planted apart, thumbs hooked in his belt. A very amicable arrangement, said Goibniu, and did not even look behind him at the four panthers and six bears, and at Clumhach and Tealtaoich and Eogan who stood sentinel.

They were to return to Gruagach and the Beastline would send with them a carefully chosen detachment of the beasts to help them drive out the Frost Giantess, explained Goibniu. They had signed a pact agreeing to this.

‘I signed it,’ said Inchbad, who felt it was time he made a contribution.

‘So you did, Sire, and very nicely too,’ said Goibniu, and Inchbad, who had not altogether followed the negotiations, and who had suspected Tealtaoich of making fun of him for most of the time, subsided. Goibniu would see to everything, of course. It might even be rather pleasant to be back at Gruagach. Providing, of course, that the Geimhreadh could be got rid of.

Goibniu was explaining, very smoothly, about how they had never really intended to stay at Tara for very long, and the giants were nodding and reminding one another of the Spring feastings just around the comer, and making a few plans for how they might celebrate it. Spring had always been very good at Gruagach.

Inchbad let Goibniu get on with it. They would none of them miss Tara, nasty draughty place. It would be grand to get back to a proper castle with decent-sized dungeons and the torture chambers and the Fidchell room with the heated squares properly built into the floor. Yes, it would be nice to be home.

He turned his attention to the really very interesting project of whether they might approach the nearly defunct Ogres of the Northern Isles, to see would Himself of the Ogres be interested in giving his daughter in marriage to the Gruagach.

On the whole, giants were better not tangling with Humans.

Except, of course, for the Fidchell.

Chapter Forty-nine

The immense gold-tipped Gates of the Palace of Wildfire soared high above them and the glow of the deep inner fires were turning the night sky to crimson and orange and amber for miles around, so that the strange, sleek lines of the Palace were sharply limned against the countryside. The will o’the wisp creatures came darting and circling about their heads delightedly, occasionally dancing in unexpected formation, so that elaborate and glittering patterns were formed briefly against the star-spattered, red-lit night sky.

Fael-Inis stood in front of Nuadu and Fenella, Flame and Floy, the Palace behind him framed in the fire-washed gates. The four salamanders who had ridden with them into the Dark Realm were at his side, sleek and glossy and somehow part of the pouring light, so that when he placed a hand on their silky necks, for a moment it seemed that his hand blurred into the fluid light.

Flame thought: I have truly never seen anyone like him. I truly believe there is nobody like him. What had Mother said? That he was arrogant and selfish and proud and imperious. But she had not said that he was wise and beautiful and that he had the reckless light in his eyes and the mischievous tilt to his mouth that would make you want to defy the world and tumble it about and turn it upside-down and challenge everything in it …

He is exactly what I thought he would be, and he is precisely what I hoped he would be, thought Flame, staring at him, and knowing that here was another who believed the world was there to be challenged … Was it too much to have found that with Floy — because Floy had certainly been brushed with this rebellious spirit — and then to find it here also?

Fael-Inis had beckoned to Nuadu, although it did not seem to Flame as if he had made any particular gesture. He had simply looked at Nuadu, and Nuadu, who had been standing with the Wolves at his heels, at once walked forward. He was still covered with the blood of the creatures he had slain in the battle against the Robemaker and the Geimhreadh; his clothes were blackened from that last desperate ride through CuRoi’s fearsome enemies, and his dark hair was untidy and falling across his face. But Flame felt the silence from the other two and felt, as well, the sudden awareness of the Wolves and the obedience that radiated from them, and knew that there was something different about Nuadu now. He was no longer entirely the same creature who had ridden recklessly through the Gateway and led them to CuRoi’s Castle of Illusions. He was Ireland’s High King …

As Nuadu moved forward to stand before Fael-Inis, the firelight fell across his face and the wolfmask stood out clearly. As he moved, the Wolves followed him with their eyes.

Fael-Inis studied Nuadu. ‘Sire,’ he said, at last. ‘Your Majesty.’ And held out his left hand and touched Nuadu on the right breast, and Flame drew in a breath, because this was the ancient symbol of homage to Ireland’s King, rarely seen, never commanded, but almost always present at a Coronation ceremony.

Nuadu regarded Fael-Inis, his head tilted, and then said, in his lightest, most casual voice, ‘A reasonable battle, don’t you think? The enemy slain and the Ebony Throne regained for Tara.’

Fael-Inis said, with unexpected gravity, ‘Ireland will be proud of you, Nuadu Airgetlam,’ and Nuadu stared at him and forgot about being light and mocking and felt the beginnings of something approaching humility because, after all, perhaps he could take his place in the line of Wolfkings.

Fael-Inis seemed to understand his thoughts; he said, ‘You are not as unworthy as you think, Wolfprince,’ and then grinned. And some of the gravity fell from him and the mischievous light shone.

‘Did I not tell you,’ said the rebel angel, ‘that the means were to hand? And did I not say I could not help you unless you first helped yourself?’ He tilted his head consideringly. ‘Only when the odds against you are greater than you can match, am I constrained to help,’ he said, and glanced down to the Wolves at Nuadu’s heels. ‘You called to them at last,’ he said. ‘And it is certain that they helped you to slay the necromancer, CuRoi and his dark servants. They will stay with you,’ he said. ‘They will obey you, as they have obeyed every High King of Ireland, for they are the Royal Wolves of Tara, and unless you had called to them and they had answered you could not rule. It is as much a part of your kingship as the acceptance by the Ebony Throne of Erin.’

‘Yes,’ said Nuadu. ‘Yes, I see.’

Fael-Inis nodded, as if he had expected no more, and turned to Fenella and Floy, holding out his hands. They moved to stand before him.

‘Mortals,’ said Fael-Inis, and now the amused affection was strongly there. ‘Always it is Mortals, Humans, who help to save Ireland from the Dark Realm.’ He studied them, his head on one side. ‘You will assuredly have your place in Ireland’s long line of Mortals who have come here and found their destinies bound up with the Wolfkings,’ he said. ‘You will certainly miss your own world; that is natural and right. But it is sometimes necessary for worlds to die and for Humans to begin their history on a new page. The Dark Lodestar, the Angry Sun, has touched many worlds, and it will continue to do so. But always something survives. And you have been brave and resourceful; you have helped us to destroy some of the evil of the Dark Realm and for that Ireland will certainly salute you.’

Fael-Inis turned to Fenella and his eyes widened suddenly in a very knowing smile. ‘Fenella,’ he said, gently. ‘Did you know, my dear, that in the history of Tara, it was always the Humans who were the King-Makers, and that it has frequently been a Human who has helped restore an exiled King?’ His eyes flickered to where Nuadu was standing with the Wolves. ‘You will not find him easy to handle, my dear,’ he said. ‘You will wonder, at times, what kind of creature you have by the tail.

‘But for all that, I think you must accept what he offers you, Fenella.’ He paused, and then said, so softly that Flame barely heard the words, ‘He will offer you Ireland, my child,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘He will offer you Tara. And if you accept, then Ireland will thank you.’

‘Yes,’ said Fenella. ‘Yes, I see,’ and Fael-Inis smiled again, as if he understood very well what Fenella was thinking and feeling.

To Floy, he said, ‘So you will have my daughter, will you, Mortal?’

‘Yes,’ said Floy, returning the golden regard very straightly.

‘You should remember that she is the daughter of mixed blood,’ said Fael-Inis. ‘And that blood is a very strange mixture indeed. It was not a mixture that was ever intended to happen.’ A gleam of mischief showed. ‘And it would not have happened,’ said the rebel angel, ‘if I had not, for one night, been — let us say a little more Mortal than usual.’ The grin slid out, wickedly impudent.

‘A good way of putting it,’ said Floy, gravely.

‘Well, she was very lovely, Reflection, although we never could agree about anything.’ Again the grin. ‘But Flame is therefore Amaranthine on her mother’s side; fire-creature on her sire’s. At times the two sides may war and it may not always be easy for either of you.’

‘But,’ said Floy, with a sudden grin, ‘who said that life was intended to be easy?’

Fael-Inis looked at him very intently and then smiled. And Flame had the sudden feeling that her father had rather liked Floy for saying this.

Fael-Inis moved back and Flame thought: of course it was absurd to think he would even notice me, and it was ridiculous to imagine he would want to speak to me. I did nothing at all in the battle, thought Flame. I didn’t help or think of a plan. I might have muttered the Banishing Ritual of Mab inside CuRoi’s Castle, but it wasn’t so very much. They would have managed without it anyway. All I did was run away with Floy and make the entire situation a hundred times worse. And anyway, probably he only came into the battle because of the pageantry and the brilliance, thought Flame. Mother had been right all along. It was important to remind herself that it did not matter in the least little bit, that she did not expect Fael-Inis to notice her. It was very important indeed to remind herself that she was not going to cry because there was nothing in the world to cry about.

Fael-Inis turned and looked straight at her, and something infinitely soft and gentle touched his face, and a smile of sudden, achingly sweet intimacy shone in his eyes. Light streamed outwards from him and surrounded Flame. He held out his arms wordlessly and Flame gave a sob and ran straight into them.

‘So, child, you are free at last.’

‘Yes,’ replied Flame.

‘And,’ said the rebel angel, thoughtfully, ‘is the Palace of Wildfire to your liking, after your mother’s remarkable Court?’

‘It is the most beautiful place I ever thought to see.’

‘The Fire Court is dazzling, of course,’ said Fael-Inis, and looked at her and appeared to wait.

‘I think, now, that it was over-bright,’ said Flame. ‘I think it was tasteless,’ she said firmly, and waited to see how this was received, because she was still strongly aware of being a little adrift in a very new, very unexpected world. It might not be very polite to be too disloyal about the place she had lived in all her life.

But Fael-Inis nodded, as if this was entirely acceptable. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘you will brave the heat of the Eternal River with the Mortal, Floy?’

‘Yes,’ said Flame again.

Fael-Inis nodded, as if satisfied. ‘He has a good deal of the buccaneer, that one,’ he said. ‘I should not have permitted you to go to one who was not, in part, a rebel, my dear. Would you have fought me if I had tried to dissuade you from marriage?’

Flame considered this and then said, ‘Yes, I would have fought you. But I think it would not have been necessary, because I should not have wanted to be joined to one who was content with the world, and who never questioned its ways, or wanted to make it better.’ She did not say: because I had grown up with the legend of the most dazzling rebel and the most remarkable buccaneer ever, and every man would be measured against that legend, but she thought that he heard her thoughts easily.

‘Complacency leads to death, Flame, death of the mind and of the senses. And too much contentment has more than once killed civilisations and destroyed worlds.’ He lifted the wine chalice to his lips again, so that the shadow from the deep golden wine cast a light over his face and Flame, listening, utterly entranced, thought: I do not quite know if he is an angel or a devil, and I do not quite know whether I believe him, or even whether I trust him.

At once, Fael-Inis said, ‘You may believe me, and you may trust me, child, although whether I am quite angel or devil was never proven, you know.

‘But do not look to find me with you always, for I shall not always be here.’

He walks by himself, Mother had said, contemptuously …

And then, without warning, his mood changed and the mischievous light poured out and he leaned forward and reached for her hand and said, ‘But there will be times, Flame, when we shall harness the salamanders and ride the Fire Chariots of Time together … I shall show you the worlds, Flame, and I shall teach you to challenge the gods.’

Flame said, very softly, ‘And between us we shall tumble the world about if the mood takes us and re-write history if we have to.’ And looked at him, and sent him the grin that was so nearly his own.

And there is Floy, she thought, her heart warm with sudden delight at the memory of Floy. I shall have Floy when my Father is gone.

The Honeycomb Tunnels were lit to warm, soft light as Floy and Flame, Fenella and Nuadu followed the slender radiant figure. Fael-Inis moved ahead of them, light and graceful, and although the tunnels were lit by the flambeaux, Fenella and Floy both thought that, as Fael-Inis walked, he sprinkled a soft radiance everywhere.

They could see, quite clearly, the ancient, rather beautiful wall carvings, and the pictures etched into the sides of the tunnels, and there was a swift, strange surge of memory, because this was where it had begun, this was where they had started, falling into the rebel angel’s world which was neither quite outside Time, nor quite inside it.

As they emerged from the Tunnels, into the wide cavern with the golden waterlight, Flame thought it should have been stifling down here; it should have been smothering and suffocating to be here, below the earth, surrounded by leaping fire, close to the ancient immortal River of Time. But it was none of these things. It was beautiful and friendly and immensely comforting.

Fael-Inis had moved to stand before the arched, fire-washed doors and his eyes went to Flame. ‘Do you hear it yet, child?’ he said. ‘Listen hard, and you should hear it beyond the singing of the fire.’

Flame stood very still, her eyes half closed, and at last she turned to him, her eyes shining.

‘Yes! Yes, I hear it.’ And then, frowning, struggling for expression, ‘A kind of rushing, pouring sound. Cascading fire and what sounds like great torrents of water, only I do not think it is water at all. Beautiful. And also,’ said Flame, seriously, ‘also rather terrifying.’

Fael-Inis smiled as if this was the answer he had wanted. ‘I am glad you can hear it,’ he said softly. ‘And I am glad that you recognise it for what it is. Beautiful and powerful, but to be a little feared. As one who possesses the fire-blood — even a little — it was unthinkable that you should not hear it and understand it.’

Flame returned the regard steadily. ‘Was that a test?’ she asked at last. ‘Did you think that Mother had cheated you?’

‘There was always the possibility. Reflection is not known for her fidelity,’ said Fael-Inis lightly. ‘Although I did not think it so very likely.

‘Shall we go on? There is only a very little way to go.

‘The River of Time flows nine times nine around the Palace of Wildfire,’ said Fael-Inis, as they moved on. ‘It is -you would perhaps say it is the converse of the River of Souls through which you journeyed on your arrival, when you encountered the soul-less creatures who are chained there. That River is the dark underside of this one, rather as the Dark Ireland is the underside of the true Ireland. The River of Time is endless and immortal, or so the legend tell.’ He glanced back at them and, in the flickering torchlight, the mischievous three-cornered grin lit his face. ‘But,’ said the rebel angel, ‘I hardly ever believe legends, and so I can not be sure about any of it.’

‘Marvellous and terrifying,’ said Flame. And then, ‘I suppose it is safe, is it?’ she said, suddenly. ‘The River?’

‘No,’ said Fael-Inis, ‘it is not entirely safe.’ He glanced at Floy. ‘Life is not intended to be entirely safe,’ he said softly.

They moved on and, as they did so, Fenella and Nuadu and Floy heard the sounds of the River.

As they came out from the last tunnel, the fiery light from the Stables still casting red shadows and amber warmth everywhere, they fell silent.

They were in a massive domed cavern, with strange rock formations which bore curious carvings. There were none of the bronze wall sconces down here, for there was no need of light. The entire cavern was bathed in a strong, prismatic glow and there was a sudden solid heat, as if the door to an immense furnace had been opened, and they were standing directly in front of it.

Above them was the rock ceiling and all about them were the ancient cavern walls with their strange images of beasts and half-Humans and symbols that might have been magical and might have been powerful, or that might have been simply the recording of events of the Deep Past. Beneath their feet the floor was hard and, here and there, it was cracked as if the heat had slowly baked it over the centuries, causing it to contract and split.

Directly in front of them was the cascading fire of the legendary River of Time.

Fael-Inis moved forward and stood alone, a slender figure silhouetted against the rushing torrents of flame.

He does not fear it in the least, thought Flame. And then, Or does he?

If Fael-Inis feared it, he gave no sign. He stood, looking deep into the River for a while, as if he might be seeing things in it that the others could not see and, just for a moment, Flame thought she could see them as well …

Leaping unicorn shapes, rearing, prancing, winged beings who lived in the fires and who guarded Time and sometimes rescued lost travellers who had strayed or were pushed or fell into the echoing emptinesses that existed between the past and the present and the future … Slant-eyed faces and knowing three-cornered smiles, and beings who were so wholly magical and so completely lacking in Human blood that they would never be seen abroad in the world of Men …

And then Fael-Inis turned and held out his arms and smiled. And a deep and contented sigh went through the watchers, for now, at last, it was the warm smile of the companion and the guide and the creature who loved mankind and understood about its weaknesses and its frailties and who loved mankind not in spite of these failings, but because of them.

Fael-Inis, the rebel angel, the creature of fire and light and speed … Flame, unable to take her eyes from him, felt something harsh and painful close about her heart, because this was how she had always pictured him, exactly like this … The rebel angel, the wild, reckless being of fire and light, bathed in the leaping flames of the immortal River of Time, holding out his hands to the world …

And then Fael-Inis moved and the light changed and he was no longer other worldly. He was very nearly mortal — and he was holding out his hands.

Together, Flame and Floy moved forward.

Chapter Fifty

The ceremonial entry into Tara of Nuadu Airgetlam, Nuadu of the Silver Arm, the rebel Wolfprince who had been flung from the Royal House by the King, and lived in the Wolfwood, was a glittering and joyful event.

And although Nuadu had asked that there should be as little ceremony as possible, ceremony was there, nevertheless. It was in the crowds who flocked to Tara, and it was in the delight of the people who came from their villages and their farms and their towns, to cheer the procession and drink wine and dance in the streets. It was in the solemn procession of the Royal Wolves, who walked before the High King as he made the triumphal entry to Tara, the Bright Palace of his ancestors, the luminescent fortress of his predecessors.

He rode with the Lady who would take her place as his Queen, and everyone cheered, because wasn’t it traditional, wasn’t it historical, wasn’t it right that the Wolfking should have a Human as consort? They cheered very loudly indeed for Fenella, who had already ridden down into the villages and the townships and had talked with them and wanted to know about them and hear how they worked and what they did, and about their families and their ways. A lovely, generous lady, they said, cheering for her all over again as she rode at Nuadu’s side. A Lady for the people.

Behind Nuadu and Fenella came the ceremonial black-covered bier of the dead Aed, Nuadu’s half-brother, and at this, the people instantly sank to their knees in silent homage to the young man who had suffered at the hands of CuRoi and his creatures, and who had died of his torments at last knowing himself to be free. The bier had been given the premier place in the procession which was only right, but the people told one another that wasn’t it altogether grand to see that their new King was adhering to the proper formalities and the old traditions.

Behind the solitary horse with its sad carriage, was the beautiful fey creature who was Fael-Inis’s daughter. Half sorceress, half fire-creature, said the watchers suddenly hushed, certainly delighted. A soft radiance was all about her, but she was smiling and at her side was the thin-faced dark-haired young man Floy, who had slain the Frost Giantess and the Robemaker and ridden at the King’s side in the marvellous storming of the Castle of Illusions. It had been rumoured that the King was to confer some very high honour on Floy — the Noble WolfOrder of Cormac had been mentioned-which was no more than he deserved — and it had been announced, that very morning, that he was also to be given the command of the King’s Fiana, the ancient honourable soldiery who had the guarding of the Royal Castles.

The Beastline creatures came next, each one wearing the insignia of his or her House, as was correct for such an historic occasion. With them, were the Tree Spirits, one representative for each Tree: Oak and Elm and Ash and Copper Beech and Holly and Poplar and Silver Birch. One for each, beautiful and wild and filled with the ancient woodland magic. You had to be wary of Trees, of course, but it was altogether grand that they were awake and very right and proper that they should be here.

Behind the Trees walked the two brothers, Snizort and Snodgrass, whom most people thought a bit odd but whom everyone had found to be surprisingly interesting to talk to. It was thought they had been appointed as the King’s official ollam, and that chronicles were already being prepared about the newest chapter in Ireland’s history. Caspar was with them and Miach, and everyone reminded each other of the important part in the battle these two had played. Wasn’t it altogether grand to see an ordinary person such as Caspar helping to defeat the giants in the most casual way imaginable?

The Gnomes brought up the rear and as the ceremonial line neared Tara’s Western Gate the watching people suddenly stopped cheering and throwing flowers. Nuadu felt the silence and the anticipation fall upon the entire procession, because this was it, this was the moment they had all been waiting for. The Wolfking entering Tara …

As they passed under the pale, shining archway and into the embrace of the immense Palace, Nuadu looked up at the soaring turrets and the glistening spires, at the pale beautiful stonework, soaked with the magical prismatic colour that had been woven into Tara at the very beginning, and that could only be quenched by the forces of the Dark Realm.

Journey’s end …

For a moment, he felt the weight of Tara fall about him and there was a terrible instant when he wanted to push it away and say: I am not worthy! Let me go, and let me not have to take up this burden, this weight, this responsibility! Let me go back to the forest shadows and to the ancient twilight magic of the Wolfwood.

But the call of his blood was too strong; he had summoned the Wolves and seen them answer; he had hurled the power and the light and the strength of the Royal Wolves at the malevolent dark forces, and he had taken his place on the enchanted Ebony Throne of Erin.

And the Throne had accepted him …

So this is it, thought Nuadu, moving ahead on his own, feeling the others fall back and stand silently watching. This is it, the moment when I take up the mantle, when I shoulder the weight of Tara’s future and honour the vow to Aed. When I enter the place of my mother’s noble house. The moment when all Ireland is mine.

All Ireland is mine …

It broke within him then, a soaring fountain of the purest delight he had ever known, almost overwhelming in its force, certainly painful in its intensity.

I am Ireland's rightful King and Ireland is mine by blood and by battle and by inheritance … I am a Prince of a Royal House and I have fought for Ireland, and Ireland is mine. I am coming home …

The darkness rolled back and finally and at last he saw Tara for what it was; not a place of stifling weight and heavy dragging responsibilities and fearsome bondage, but …

A place of light and space and radiance and joy. And Fenella would be with him …

The wolfsmile lifted his lips as he moved forward to where the Ebony Throne waited.

Sorceress

Chapter One

Theodora had stolen downstairs soon after the banquet began, and had gone quietly along the passages that led to Great-grandfather’s Chamber of the Sorcery Looms.

She would quite have liked to be present at the banquet, but probably it would be boring, with everyone falling out and some people falling asleep. Father would glumly count up how much wine was being consumed, and Mother would count the silver after the Mugains had left the table, and everybody else would count Rumour’s newest tally of gowns. Rumour, who was Theo’s cousin, was supposed to be reckless and extravagant, and also something called ‘wanton’, which sounded bad but fun; people like Herself of Mugain and Great-aunt Fuamnach murmured things about Rumour behind their hands which Theo was not supposed to hear, on account of being only six and a half. But Theo liked Rumour best of all the Amaranths. She liked the way that Rumour smiled as if she found people amusing and life great fun, and she liked the way Rumour told marvellous stories, and the way she wore dazzling silk gowns and unexpected headdresses. Theo suspected that Rumour did it just because people expected it. ‘My dear, I have a reputation to keep up,’ Rumour might have said, winking at Theo on the side no one could see.

To get to the Chamber of the Looms you had to go along dark and rather gusty corridors. They were dark because Mother said she was not going to spend good money on lighting the passages, especially since no one but Nechtan ever used them. Theodora was strictly forbidden to use the passages on her own; Mother had thinned her lips in the way she did when she was displeased, and had said, ‘Spies and renegades from you know where.’ Father had looked solemn and said, ‘You never knew what you might find prowling about’, and Theodora was pleased not to go there by herself.

‘You know where’ meant the Dark Ireland, Theo knew that. It was very important — well, it was vital really — that you did not let any of the creatures from the evil bad Dark Ireland get in to the Palace.

But Great-grandfather Nechtan had spun all kinds of good strong enchantments to keep the Dark Ireland out, and so long as you were very quiet and so long as you were very stealthy, you could go along the passages and reach the Looms Chamber and be perfectly safe.

She would be perfectly safe now. She had taken a candle in a silver bracket, because of the darkness. As she went along, it flickered in the horrid, whispery winds and threw huge shadows on the walls. She did not mind the shadows, or not very much, because she had seen them before. They were roaming enchantments; spells that had somehow slid away from the Looms. They were nearly always friendly, and they would talk to Theodora in the Ancient Language of Cadence, which was the magical tongue of sorcery. Hardly anybody could speak in Cadence these days because it had been lost to the Amaranths during the terrible Wars, but Theodora could follow it a little, because Great-grandfather sometimes lapsed into it when he was angry or excited, and Theo had listened without him being aware of it, and also she had picked up a bit from the enchantments. Sometimes the enchantments were lost and confused, and had to be shown the way back to the Looms and put with their friends.

The shadow tonight was not very friendly-looking. It was following her, tiptoeing along after her, holding up huge, grotesque hands that looked as if they were poised to catch her up.

Theo took a deep breath and walked a bit faster. Probably it was nothing to worry about. Probably it was simply one of the horrid dark enchantments that Great-grandfather had spun for the High King and the Court to help keep out the necromancers of the Dark Ireland and the Human-greedy Fomoire.

Theodora knew all about the Fomoire and the Dark Ireland, because Great-grandfather had often talked to her about it: sometimes chuckling to himself as he stirred something that was bubbling over a fire, or measuring a skein of thread that would be woven into a spell; but sometimes looking very solemn indeed. Theodora would curl up in the chimney-corner of the workroom, which was the best place in all Ireland, and listen, her cheeks flushed from the fire, her eyes shining, watching the tall, robed figure that moved between the Looms and in and out of the rows of vellum-bound books that were the famous Amaranth Chronicles.

‘The Dark Ireland,’ said Great-grandfather, fixing Theodora with his long brilliant Amaranth eyes, and gesturing with his slender white Amaranth hands, ‘is fearsome and evil and malevolent, Theodora, and when you are old enough you will take the Solemn Vow to keep it from the true Ireland at all costs.’

Theodora would take the Vow when she was eighteen, which was what all Amaranths did, but she would not take it in the Language of Cadence, because of it having been lost, which was rather a pity.

‘Has it been lost?’ said Great-grandfather, his expression suddenly amused. ‘Has it indeed been lost? Well, they may think so if they wish. You and I know better, little one.’

And then, just as Theodora would have liked to know more about the Lost Language of Sorcery, and why it had been lost and who had lost it and how, Great-grandfather would be off again, telling Theo all the stories. He would tell about the terrible wicked Dark Lords, who had come rampaging out of the Dark Realm in the past, and who had tried to take Ireland for their own. He would tell about the defeat of the Fomoire, and also about the truly dreadful Fisher King, who had been driven back by the Amaranths themselves at the very end of the Wars, but whose dying curse had been that he would one day return, and that his spawn would destroy their House for ever.

‘But he was defeated,’ said Great-grandfather, frowning. ‘The Fisher King was defeated,’ he said, and Theo looked up because it had sounded as if Great-grandfather was talking to himself for a moment, and in that same moment there had been something in his voice that had been unsure.

‘They were all defeated,’ said Nechtan a little louder, and Theo remained silent, because she knew that even though the Fomoire and the Fisher King had been vanquished, there were others who had not.

Nechtan said, very softly, ‘They were all defeated save for two,’ and Theo inched nearer to the fire and whispered the words that came next.

‘They were all defeated save the Lord of Chaos and his Lady …’

It was important not to think too much now about how Great-grandfather had enjoyed weaving his enchantments, and thinking up new ways of keeping the creatures of the Dark Ireland at bay for the High King. Great-grandfather was dying upstairs — Mother had been annoyed, and had compressed her lips all over again, and said, ‘Dying, and without the slightest warning!’ — and all of the family had gathered to find out who Great-grandfather’s successor would be.

It was important not to think about the Dark Lords as well, especially when you were stealing along to the Chamber of the Looms, where you were not supposed to be in the first place, and when everyone else in the Porphyry Palace was upstairs in the marble hall, feeding and drinking and trying to decipher the ancient Ritual of Succession. Theodora would not think about it. She especially would not think about the Fomoire and their caves where they kept Humans, and fattened them for their skins.

She scurried down the last bit of passage and through the Silver Door.

Behind her, the shadow loped its grotesque way forward.

*

The great Sorcery Chamber of the Silver Looms, where the dying Nechtan had woven his strong magic, hummed with nascent bewitchments and shimmered with glinting rainbow iridescence. Theodora felt the warmth and the scents and the enchantment-laden shadows close about her, and it was familiar and comforting and safe after the horrid gusty passages with the lurking shadows.

There were the warm scents of ancient magic and frequently spun bewitchments, and just beneath the surface was the faint ebbing and flowing of something dark and secretive.

Theo stood for a long time just inside the door, waiting for her eyes to adjust. There was a soft spill of radiance from the Looms, and from the tumbling raw magic that lay all anyhow at the feet of the giant Looms, waiting to be formed into spells. The unhewn spells gleamed as Theo moved cautiously nearer; they sent spears of rainbow light across the floor, so that there were harlequin patterns at the Chamber centre, crimson and purple and pink. It was very quiet now, and Theo could hear the live magic stirring.

The live magic stirring …

There was a moment when everything was normal and familiar and friendly, and then — she was not sure how it happened — there was another moment when nothing was normal and everything was sinister and creeping and threatening. Theo, her skin prickling with sudden apprehension, stretched her every instinct to its fullest point.

There is something evil in here …

The Silver Door swung shut behind her with a satisfied little click, and Theo turned. In the same moment, the shadows clotted and coalesced and slithered nearer, making a black creeping river between her and the door.

There is something in here and I am shut in with it …

The Looms towered above her, black and silver and ivory, their feet embedded in the ground, but their heads and arms seeming to reach out to the source of their power. If you looked at them through half-closed eyes, you could nearly imagine that they were massive giants, with great legs buried in the floor, and immense shoulders and arms reaching up, their blank faces turned to the skies, far beyond the Porphyry Palace, far into some infinity.

Theo could hear the power in them; she could see it and she could feel it. A dull thrumming on the air. And there was gentle sly movement everywhere, the occasional darting of a silver thread, or the pouring of a skein of brilliant crimson across the floor. Magic is alive, Great-grandfather had said. It is alive, just as we are alive, so you cannot expect it to stay exactly where it is put.

But it was not raw magic, it was not uncut sorcery that was slithering at the core of the shadows.

Theo knew the soft rustlings that enchantments made before they were formed and moulded and shaped. She knew about the gentle whisperings and about the sudden silken movements, and about the silvery scurryings and the darting lights, and the glancing notes of sweet music that touched the air and then vanished.

The sounds she was hearing now were none of these things. Theodora stood very still and tried to see into the deep shadows and tried to hear the sounds coming from the far end of the Chamber.

Scratching sounds. Cold sounds. Sounds that made you think of words like claws and that made you think of things like slithery tails and inward-slanting red eyes. And something else … Something that was scaly and leathery and that might be finned as well; something that might have webbed hands and feet, and horrid lidless eyes; something that would come loping out of the dark on its great long legs with reaching, clutching hands that would wind about your neck and cover your eyes, so that you could not see what was going to happen to you …

Every one of the stories told by Nechtan tumbled through Theo’s mind. The Dark Lords and the Fomoire, forever trying to find a way into the real Ireland, forever covetous of the Porphyry Palace itself … The Lord of Chaos and his terrible henchmen who were called Murder and Anarchy and Misrule. It might even be the Fisher King, the huge repulsive piscine creature, who had squirmed out of his dank ocean palace nearly a century earlier, and who had been vanquished, but who had vowed with his dying breath to return:

‘My spawn will return to destroy those who have vanquished me …’

Supposing the Fisher King had found a way to return … ?

Theodora drew in a deep breath, and in the same moment a soft, slimy, cold voice close by, said, ‘Come over here, little girl.’

*

The banquet that had cost so much was very nearly disintegrating into chaos.

Cerball, who had given up trying to compute the exact cost of it all, had tried to persuade everyone to go along up to the dying Nechtan’s bedchamber before they began the ancient Succession Ritual. Visiting the Head of the Amaranths for the last time was something they all ought to do, said Cerball, tucking his chins firmly into his neck, and trying not to see Himself of Mugain helping himself and his immediate neighbours to yet another flagon of Cerball’s best tawnyfire wine. But when it came to it, visiting a dying sorcerer was not something anyone was very enthusiastic about. Laigne, Cerball’s wife, had said at once that Echbel could not go because he was far too sensitive to watch anyone dying, and Great-aunt Fuamnach gave this her unexpected support, because dying was something people ought to do quietly and as inconspicuously as possible.

‘We’ll have the procession to the Cadence Tower,’ said the Mugain of Moire who could not be doing with deathchamber rituals. ‘We’ll go along altogether, and Cerball and I will pronounce the Ritual. As Elders,’ he said, in case anyone should have forgotten this. ‘And then,’ said the Mugain, firmly, ‘we’ll all come back up here for a drop of mulled wine.’

This necessitated everyone getting up from the table, which took rather a long time because the Mugain had to find the five-branched torch, and then Rumour had to be prised away from the bevy of young sorcerers who had gathered admiringly about her, and several cousins were found to have gone off exploring the palace, so that they had to be rounded up. And then, just as they were all set to start out, Cerball dropped the Ritual, and everyone had to crawl under the table to retrieve it, and it was finally discovered with somebody’s soup splashes on it, so that it had to be sponged off, and it all took time. It was not at all in keeping with something as solemn and ancient as a Succession Ritual to splash it with soup, and it was none of it in keeping with the dignity that should attend the dying of the Head of the Royal Sorcerers. Laigne, who liked to think she was a firm but fair-minded mother, was very glad to think that Theodora was too young to be present at the banquet, while as for that hussy Rumour, Laigne told Cerball that the wanton creature would enter the Porphyry Palace again only under the most extreme of necessities, and probably only over Laigne’s dead body.

‘I would not soil my best slippers with the dust of the place, if you want the truth,’ said Rumour, who had actually had the effrontery to present herself in one of her scarlet silk gowns with swirling tongues woven into it and precious little top to it. She smiled in a catlike fashion through her long green eyelashes and twitched the silken skirts of the indecorous gown about her ankles, sending out several hissing sounds as she did so, causing several people to back away in alarm because Rumour had the nasty way of summoning the Whisperers when you least expected it. The Whisperers, who had served Rumour ever since anyone could remember, were nasty, ten-inch-high dwarfs, with grinning faces and huge, flapping ears, who scurried under people’s feet and told terrible stories behind their hands, and who went by names like Slander and Scurrilousness and Lies. Rumour could summon them with mischievous facility and, as Cerball said, they were always extraordinarily ugly and inflicted quite the nastiest of barbs in people’s minds. You did not really want to hear one of Rumour’s dwarfs scurrying about, telling the entire Amaranthine clan that your wife had spent all your money, or that your best friend was bedding down with your youngest daughter, or that you yourself were inches from a debtors’ prison.

It was the kind of thing that Rumour was good at. ‘Well, she has plenty of practice,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, crossly. ‘Doesn’t she bring those nasty creatures everywhere she goes?’

‘As guards, dearest Great-aunt,’ said Rumour, who had indeed summoned the Whisperers, and had sent half a dozen Gossips dancing about the floor, with the solemn purpose of informing the company that the Mugain was the next best thing to impotent, and that Herself was seeking consolation with grooms and gardeners, and the occasional vegetable marrow.

‘I am bereft and alone in the world,’ said Rumour, promptly deriving as much enjoyment out of the situation as was possible. She clasped green-tipped hands which matched her eyelashes to her breast. ‘I am alone and unprotected, and my poor loyal Whisperers are my only armour against a cruel world.’

Laigne started to say that Rumour had always been a shocking liar, when Rumour suddenly turned and fixed her eyes on the door, and said, in a voice sharpened with interest, ‘My dear cousins, it seems we have an uninvited guest at the feast.’ Framed in the doorway at the far end of the great banqueting hall was the cowled figure of a black-robed monk.

*

Andrew had approached the gleaming Palace of the Amaranth Sorcerers with extreme caution. He was not especially awed by it because he had seen several such places in England. His own monastery was a huge sprawling stone building; once, he thought, the stronghold of some long-dead Saxon chieftain, which St Augustine’s followers had found decayed and almost derelict, and had had renewed and rebuilt. He was accustomed to the English castles and fortresses, and he was beginning to be accustomed to the Irish ones.

Because he dared leave no place unexplored if he was to fulfil the strange mission laid on him by Brother Stephen, he must go up to the doors of every towering fortress, every dark stronghold in Ireland’s wild, pagan land. He must knock on the gates of the palaces and the mansions and the castles and request admittance. And, once inside, once accepted as a guest, he must question and search and listen.

But he had not bargained for pagan Ireland being so beautiful and so darkly seductive. More than once the thought that it would be a pity to lose the myth-soaked religions and the time-crusted rituals flickered dangerously on his mind. But he had been warned about this, and he was here not to convert but to fulfil a quest; he had been chosen above all the others to capture the traitor.

The traitor. The renegade. The wild, rebellious Monk who had broken free of the cloistered monastic world.

Andrew knew a little of the creature’s history, for when he had entered the Order, young and idealistic and fervent, the story was already a dark legend, a warp in the gentle aqua-tints of the monks’ short history.

The legend had begun quietly; where does a legend begin anyway? thought Andrew. At first there had been only strands and fragments: whispers of greed and lust. But the mission monks, doggedly preaching their message of love and light across Ireland, faithfully sending back word of their progress, had been at one in their accounts. The Monk was somewhere in Ireland; he was serving the pagan gods. Darker, wilder tales had shaled on with the years. Blood-hungers and human sacrifices. The sinister bartering of souls.

Brother Stephen had feared that the tales would harm their cause. Perhaps they would kill the burgeoning shoots of Christianity before they had time to unfurl, withering them like frost touching too-early crocuses. Christianity would be doomed before it had even rooted, and Ireland’s conversion would be lost. It could not be allowed to happen.

One of their number must somehow follow the trail of greed and lust that the Monk had strewn across Ireland. It would be difficult and it might be dangerous, for pagan Ireland was steeped in ancient beliefs, and although they knew paganism to be wrong, it did not stop it from being tempting. Whoever was chosen for the mission might find not only his body imperilled, but also his soul …

The mission would be hard because the Monk’s name had been erased from the monastery’s memory. Brother Stephen’s predecessor, taking his lead from the harsh, unyielding anchorites, had decreed it. The creature’s very existence must be struck from their records. It must be as if he had never existed.

It would make the quest doubly difficult, said Stephen, his old shrewd eyes on Andrew. But it would not be impossible. And if pagan Ireland was to be converted, it was their responsibility to find the one who was damaging their cause.

The creature whose real name was lost, but who was known throughout the land as the Black Monk of Torach.

Chapter Two

The Amaranths had never, so far as they could remember, welcomed a monk into their midst before.

The Porphyry Palace had always been known for its lavish and unquestioning hospitality, of course; Nechtan had been firm about this, because it was a great Amaranth tradition that no creature — Human, Beast or otherwise — was ever turned from the doors. He had said it behoved all sorcerers — well, all Men — to open their doors to pilgrims and travellers, and to listen to the stories of their travels. It broadened the mind, said Nechtan, who liked to hear about other ways of life, and had even entertained druids and would not listen to the people who said darkly that druidism was beginning to incorporate some rather odd customs, and was it true that the druids were reviving the practice of Human Sacrifice for Beltane?

The young monk who had come to the great western gate was quiet and extremely courteous, and rather self-effacing.

Questioned by Cerball and the Mugain, who said the procession and the Ritual could wait another few minutes, he explained that he was travelling alone, and that he was what was called a ‘mission monk’, which meant he had to travel as widely as possible to teach people about his religion. He said this rather with an air of watching closely to see how it would be received. Probably he had encountered some hostile receptions on his travels, because not everybody was favourably inclined towards monks, who were apt to lean dourly towards such things as fasting and silence, and even — it was rumoured — celibacy.

But Cerball and the Mugain were interested in Andrew; they had heard of monks, but never met one. The Mugain said this method of telling about the new Eastern religion was called ‘preaching’, and although they mightn’t want to embrace the queer, stark practices of Christianity — well, they did not want to embrace them at all — it did not prevent them from being courteous.

Also, said the Mugain craftily, hadn’t the High King himself held a meeting with several monks, and wasn’t that sufficient to see which way the tide of belief was turning? You went with the prevailing wind, said the Mugain, and neglected to refer to the fact that the meeting had in fact taken place on the Plain of the Fal, where the wily High King had known he would have Ireland’s old tested forces at his back just in case the new beliefs might be a touch necromantic. The Plain of the Fal was so imbued with Ireland’s own tried and trusted magic, that any new and dubious sorcery the monks might be planning on smuggling in would not stand a chance.

And so Andrew was given a place at table, and served food and wine. He was an easy and easily pleased guest; he ate sparingly but politely, praising the baked carp and asking only that his wine should be diluted with a little water. He listened to their discourse with what Herself of Mugain said was plainly a genuine interest, and did not seem to feel it necessary to preach, although several people noticed with interest that he traced some kind of symbol on the breast of his robe before eating and murmured a few soft words of some kind of brief ritual.

The sorcerers allowed themselves to be assembled into line for the ceremonial procession. The Succession Ritual had to be invoked over the legendary Well of Segais, which nobody present had seen, on account of it being a very long time indeed since the Ritual had last been chanted. Great-aunt Fuamnach said it was five hundred years, but nobody believed this because not even Nechtan could live that long.

The Well of Segais was situated in the bowels of the dark, legend-haunted Cadence Tower, the grim and sinister Tur Baibeil that Nechtan had raised from a mixture of Amaranth sorcery and ordinary prosaic Human building many decades earlier. The Well was so deep it was said to stretch down to the fabled underwater Cities of the sidh, and might even come out in the terrible core of the Black, Ireland itself, but this was another of the legends that might very well turn out not to be true.

But to discover Nechtan’s true successor, they would have to enter the Tower itself, they would have to open up the huge, jagged portcullis that had been sealed for almost a century.

No one had dared approach the Cadence Tower since the dark and evil Fomoire had come pouring and dancing out of it, singing their terrible Hunting Song, capturing Humans and flaying their skins.

Nobody knew what might live at the Tower’s centre.

*

Standing in the Sorcery Chamber, with the evil whispery thing watching her from the shadows, was quite the worst moment Theodora had ever known. It was the nastiest thing that had ever happened to her in her entire six years and a bit.

Whatever had crept after her was something that was very bad indeed. It might be something that had got in from the Dark Ireland and been hiding in the passages, waiting for her. It might even have been waiting for somebody to come along and open the Silver Door so it could get at the Looms. Theo was very frightened indeed, but it was important not to show it, and it was important to think what was best to do.

It was clearly impossible to cross the black puddly shadows to reach the door. The shadows were being cast by the creature: long, distorted blacknesses; and so Theo knew it was standing quite near to her.

What I had better do, said Theodora to herself, is to stay here, and try to find out what it wants. It was comforting to glance up at the Silver Looms, and see the faint gleam of life and remember how Great-grandfather had said that the Looms never truly slept. They’re awake, said Theodora, firmly. They’re awake, and I think that if I tried very hard indeed, I could make them spin, and banish the something for good.

This was a cheering thought; Theodora held on to it very firmly and remembered, quite suddenly, that Great-grandfather had said that she would find spinning the Looms quite extraordinarily easy. He had said it with one of his mischievous chuckles, as if it was something that might not please people. But Theo held on to Great-grandfather’s chuckle now, and she held on to his belief that she could work the Looms.

She moved into the centre of the Chamber so that the light would fall directly on her and the something would see that she was perfectly at home here. There was the scuttling sound again, and Theodora caught the flash of movement. Had she? Yes, something dark and crouching. It was watching her.

‘Of course I am watching you,’ said the voice, and Theo shuddered because it was a dreadfully cold, horridly slimy voice. It made you think of ancient sluggish rivers with silted beds, and of dank under-sea palaces where water-light rippled greenly on the cold, mouldering walls …

Theodora said, quite loudly, ‘Who are you?’ and at once there was an evil, bubbling chuckle.

But when the voice spoke again it only said, ‘A creature from another world who seeks its freedom from a terrible bewitchment.’ The shadows moved again, and quite suddenly the voice was much nearer. ‘You look like a little girl who might help me,’ said the creature, and this time Theo caught a glimpse of a great dark shape with a bulging forehead and pale glittery eyes and elongated arms and legs that ended in webbed fingers and toes.

Something that might once have dwelled in green ocean palaces with the cold ocean forever lapping against the walls …

‘If I am to help you,’ said Theo, carefully, because it would be as well to be a bit cunning about this; ‘if I am to help you, I should need first to know who you are.’

A pause. Then, ‘In the place where I have lived, I am called the Gristlen,’ said the slurry, bubbly voice.

‘Yes?’

‘If I had another name, I have forgotten it,’ said the voice, but there was a slithery slyness in its tone.

‘But what are you?’ said Theodora, peering into the shadows, not really wanting to see a creature called a Gristlen, but thinking it might be better to see it than imagine what it looked like.

There was a pause, as if the Gristlen was considering its answer. Then, ‘I am a cursed creature,’ it said, and there was another movement, as if it might be moving closer. ‘But I have dwelled in many places. I have sucked dry many places,’ it said with sudden relish. And then, ‘But I was cursed by the Dark Lords,’ said the Gristlen, ‘and so I wear the carapace of their punishment.’ It stopped and appeared to wait for her response.

‘How did you get here?’ said Theo, and the Gristlen chuckled with a thick, wet-liquid chuckle.

‘Through the Gateway,’ it said gloatingly. ‘Through the Gateway between your world and the Dark Ireland.’

‘The Gateways are closed,’ said Theo firmly. ‘They were closed when the Sorcery Wars ended. We fought in the Sorcery Wars,’ she said loudly, so that the Gristlen-thing would know it was not dealing with what Great-grandfather called, ‘No-account magicians’. ‘We fought and we won.’

The Gristlen chuckled its horrid, slurry chuckle again. It said, ‘I know of the Sorcery Wars, little girl. I fought in them, also.’ And half to itself, it said, ‘And lost so much.’

‘Did you fight on the side of the Lord of Chaos?’ whispered Theo. ‘In his Armies?’ and at once the Gristlen gave another dreadful, bubbly laugh.

‘Chaos is a weakling and a charlatan,’ it said. ‘He permits his lusts to cloud his true powers.’ The shadows moved again. ‘I was greater by far than Chaos,’ said the Gristlen, and there was a quite dreadful note of pride in its voice. ‘I had my own Armies.’

‘Well, where are they now?’ said Theo, knowing this sounded impolite, but thinking you could not let horrid whispery Gristlen-things get the better of you. ‘What happened to them?’ she said.

‘They will come back to me,’ said the Gristlen. ‘Once I have sloughed off the carapace cast about me by the Dark Lords, my people will return to me.’ A pair of huge-knuckled hands, covered in tough dark hide, reached from the shadowy comer. ‘And you look like a little girl who could help me to do that,’ it said, and now there was a soft, persuasive note in its voice. Theo shuddered and backed away to the far wall. Could she reach the Looms? She was standing almost directly beneath them, and she thought that if she stood on her tippiest tiptoe she might reach up.

‘What would I have to do?’ she said, keeping one eye on the hidden figure, and trying to assess how far up she would have to reach to the Loom.

The Gristlen chuckled thickly and, without warning, it reared up out of the darkness, a giantish figure with great, clutching hands and pale, bulging eyes and a flat, snouted face that loomed up at her, impossibly close.

And it is covered with a hide, thought Theo, shrinking back in horror. Whatever its true self is or was, it has been given a thick dark skin like old cracked leather. The carapace of a curse … This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, thought Theo, trying not to panic.

There was a lingering stench to it as well, something that made you think of tainted meat and badly cured animal skins.

Dreadful! But Theo kept her eyes on the Gristlen, and said again, ‘What would I have to do?’

The Gristlen chuckled and wrapped its long, fibrousy arms about its repulsive body. ‘Come into my embrace,’ it said, and there was a high-pitched whine to it now. ‘Come into my embrace and help me to tear off the accursed Gristlen skin and emerge as my true self again.’ It loped forward, no longer as giantish as it had first seemed, but moving in a crouching, hunchbacked way, brushing the floor as it came with one hand, leering and grinning with its flat, slash-like mouth.

‘The warm embrace of a Human,’ it said again, and quite suddenly it was not only frightening, it was pitiful and grotesque and there was a heart-wrenching sadness about it. The blurring lights of the chamber fell across it, and it held out its repulsive hands mutely, its eyes resting on Theo beseechingly.

‘Help me …’ it said. ‘Free me of the ugliness.’ Its bulging, glittering eyes were filled with entreaty, and Theo shuddered and reached up to the great Sorcery Looms.

The instant the cool soft silver brushed her fingers, something that crackled and spat ran down her arms. But it was a stinging, sizzling something, sharp and brilliant and exhilarating. A bolt of rainbow light poured into the chamber from above as abruptly as if a huge trapdoor into the sky had been opened, and whiplashed about the Gristlen’s thick body, flinging it back against the far wall. There was a sickening wet crunch as the creature fell and the fight dissolved and ran into nothing.

The Gristlen lay half against the wall, shaking its head and looking up in bewilderment.

‘You hurt me … You hurt me when I wanted only your help …’

The cringing puzzlement in its voice was unbearable. Theo choked back a sob, but kept her fingers curled firmly about the thin cool silver of the immense Loom above her.

‘Only to lose the ugliness,’ whimpered the Gristlen, rocking itself back and forth, shaking its head from side to side. ‘It was only so that I could slough off the accursed carapace. A Human embrace …’ It began to crawl across the floor towards Theo again, dragging itself by its great, disproportionate hands. ‘Pretty little thing,’ it said. ‘Pretty little thing has such beauty to spare …’

Theo gasped and, without thinking, shot across the room, tumbling headlong through the Silver Door and slamming it shut behind her.

*

Andrew had stayed behind in the banqueting hall when the Amaranths left for their procession to the depths of the Porphyry Palace, because it had seemed a secret, rather closed Ritual that they were about to perform. His Order knew about secrecy and it knew about rituals, and Andrew, listening to his hosts, had found himself comparing the monks’ own daily hours of prayer to this strange Succession Rite the Amaranths were preparing to chant.

Cerball had unrolled the Succession Ritual carefully and spread it on the table for everyone to see. Andrew had been interested; he thought that the thick, lovely parchment with its thin gold veining and the tiny winking lights had much in common with the painstakingly copied liturgical works of his Order’s Scriptorium.

When the Mugain told how the early Amaranth Scholars would have set their apprentices to the copying and the embellishing of the parchment, Andrew had said, ‘We, also, have our skilled workers who spend much time in similar work,’ and a faintly eerie breath of familiarity touched him.

He found the Amaranths with their long slender hands and their exotic looks unexpectedly attractive. They had narrow, brilliant eyes that seemed to see a little more than ordinary people’s, and pale luminous skins and glossy dark hair. And charm, thought Andrew, seeing their quick, unemphatic way of speaking, but seeing as well that they had a way of tilting their heads to listen, as if they might be able to hear the things left unsaid. They have charm and something faintly foreign and something strongly unHuman. Something that made you think they would be strong friends but dangerous enemies, and something that made you think you would do well to guard your thoughts in their company.

When they left the banqueting hall, their faces intent, their eyes filled with deep inner concentration, Andrew had, half guiltily, moved to great double doors that led out of the banqueting chamber and stood in one of the deep window embrasures looking out.

He saw the sorcerers set out, falling naturally and easily into line, the burning torches they carried flickering in the night wind. They had donned plain dark robes with deep concealing hoods and, as they crossed the courtyard, the pure sweet singing of the light-filled Descant they chanted came clearly to Andrew’s ears. Recognition prickled his skin again, and for a brief, aching moment he was in England again, with the great bronze mouth of the sonorous monastic bell chiming through the cloisters, and the monks walking in solemn procession to Vespers. Listening to the Amaranths, he heard not the ebb and flow of sorcerous ritual, but the monks’ plainsong, the lovely and simple music they had adapted from the Italian Ambrosian Chant and that they sung on festal occasions.

I do not believe any of this, thought Andrew, watching the procession. I do not believe that there are sorcerers and people who can spin magic, and who have at their beck unseen powers and unguessed-at forces. I certainly do not believe in creatures who are not altogether Human. These are simply heathenish people who follow ancient beliefs, perhaps a branch of some little-known race from somewhere. The east, could it be? Yes, that would explain the narrow eyes, the exotic charm. And there were many people throughout the world who followed ancient, apparently meaningless rituals. There were stranger methods of selecting the successor to a Royal Throne.

And it would be a pity to destroy all of this … The thought slid unbidden into his mind, and he felt the pull of this dark, seductive world that lay deep in Ireland’s heart.

A pity to destroy it … A pity to subject these people to persuasions and the arguments that would disturb the foundations of their ancient magical stronghold. It was a tiny, treacherous whisper. A pity to lose the ancient Amaranth enchantments …

But I do not believe in magic, said Andrew firmly, and I have surely learned, by now, to turn my back on temptation. That is why I was chosen for this mission. Brother Stephen believed I could resist temptation. He trusted me.

He turned back to the banqueting table, thinking he would permit himself a half-glass more of wine, when the great double doors at the far end were pushed open. A child, her eyes huge with fear, her face white with panic, stood there.

*

Theo had run as fast as she could through the dark narrow passages that wound upwards from the Sorcery Chambers. She had found her way to the banqueting hall — not really thinking where she was going, but knowing the banqueting hall was where everyone would be. They would all be eating and drinking and saying wasn’t it a terrible thing to think of Nechtan, may the gods preserve him, away upstairs dying, and was there any more wine to be had?

Mama would exclaim and draw her lips tightly together in disapproval at Theo’s interrupting it all, but Theo would not mind this because of escaping from the Gristlen. And once she had explained to them about the Gristlen, hiding below in the Sorcery Chambers, it would be all right. Father and Uncle Mugain would push back their chairs and say they would deal with it at once, and Great-aunt Fuamnach would rap her hazel stick sharply on the ground and say, My word, how dared such a creature come into the Palace and threaten Theo? What would Rumour do? But Rumour would probably call down one of her dazzling extravagant enchantments and frizzle the Gristlen where it stood while everybody else was talking about what to do.

It was disconcerting to find that they had already set off for the Cadence Tower, and to discover that there was only the unknown guest left behind. Theo had never encountered a monk, although she had heard Great-grandfather and Uncle Mugain talk about them. They were good people, monks. They were strict and silent, but they were good.

Andrew was reassuring and surprisingly easy to talk to. He made her sit down next to him, and gave her a glass of water with a tiny sip of wine in, which she was not normally allowed to have, but which Andrew said would be reviving. Theo sipped it warily, and after a while managed to tell him about the Gristlen-creature, ugly and terrible but so pitiable you could not bear it, and about how it was trying to get rid of its terrible carapace.

‘Only it has to be embraced by a Human to be its own true self again,’ said Theo, in a small, rather trembly voice, because this had been almost the worst part of all, and the only bit worse still had been the puzzled way it had looked at her when she had sent it hurtling across the Chamber.

Andrew turned out to be the kind of nice person who listened to you — really listened; not pretend, polite listening — and Theo began to feel better, because there was something reassuring about people who did that. Rumour always listened properly as well, which was one of the reasons Theo liked her.

She was not crying, although her voice was still a bit trembly. But the wine was warming, just as Andrew had said it would be. Theo began to feel a bit more hopeful.

Andrew was looking thoughtful. After a moment he said, in an expressionless voice, ‘Did the … creature touch you at all, Theodora?’ He had a nice way of saying her name, not shortening it as most people did, but saying it courteously and carefully, as if he thought the correct pronouncing of people’s names was important. ‘Did it reach you at all?’ he said, and Theo explained about managing to reach up to the Looms and send a bolt of light to smash the horrid Gristlen against the wall so that it was dazed and bewildered.

‘You did that?’ Andrew had only been amongst the Amaranths for a few hours, but he already understood that the powering of the immense Sorcery Looms was regarded as a massive undertaking. Something requiring enormous power and control. Had this child really been able to manipulate them, even for those vital few minutes?

‘It was only a very little bit of power.’ Theo did not want Andrew to think she was boasting. ‘And the Gristlen won’t be dead.’ Evil creatures did not die very easily, they lived for hundreds and hundreds of years, longer even than sorcerers. ‘It will still be there,’ said Theo, looking down at the wine glass and biting her lip.

Andrew stood up, holding out his hand. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that we must go in search of your people, Theodora,’ and saw her eyes fly upwards in mingled fear and alarm.

‘But they’re in the Tower. It’s the Succession Ritual because of Great-grandfather dying.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s a bit forbidden to go in the Tower,’ said Theo uncertainly. ‘I don’t think I could.’

‘Not if I came with you?’ Andrew had not planned to say this, he had not planned to be drawn into any of this. Because I don’t believe any of it! he cried silently.

But Theo said at once, ‘Oh yes, that would make it all right.’ And slid off her chair and held out her hand to him.

Chapter Three

As they walked through the Palace, Andrew talked to Theodora, reassuring her and trying to calm her. He asked her about the Palace, which he said he found beautiful and unusual, and he listened with interest to what she said.

He did not refer specifically to the Gristlen, but he said in an ordinary, unworried voice that there were a great many things in the world that were evil and wicked; Theo should not be too frightened because there was Somebody who watched over good people always and especially over children. It did not matter that you did not know about the Somebody, because He would always be there for you.

‘A king?’ said Theodora hopefully. ‘A great warrior who comes storming and galloping in to kill everyone?’

But Andrew said, No, the Person was not precisely a warrior or a king, but somebody who had lived a very long time ago and done a great many good things, and who still lived in people’s hearts and who looked down from Heaven, which was where Andrew’s own people believed you went after you died. He had been gentle and immensely good and more powerful than anything in the whole world, this Person. He loved everybody, but He especially loved children, said Andrew, his eyes serious and his expression intent. He loved them all and after He died, He had made a special place for all children in Heaven.

This was very interesting indeed, and Theo would have liked to hear more, because the notion of a Somebody who looked down on you and guarded you from evil creatures was quite the most reassuring thing ever. Andrew said they would talk about it properly later on, but for now they had to go across to the Cadence Tower; it was a good thing they had thought to bring one of the branched candlesticks from the banqueting hall, because it meant they could see their way quite easily.

*

The ill-starred Cadence Tower, Nechtan’s infamous dark Tur Baibeil, was wreathed in scudding clouds and shrouded in darkness.

Theo knew the legend; she knew how Great-grandfather had created it out of sorcery that was whispered to have been just a little bit dark, twisting into it fearsomely strong incantations, and raising it higher and higher, so that it would reach the unseen lands beyond the skies, or the fabled Cities of the dead. It was when the Tower had reached its highest point that the Cadence itself had been lost; sliding beyond their grasp, so that they could no longer call upon the marvellous, mystical Sorcerous Tongue, the silver-tipped, convoluted Language of Magic bequeathed to them by the sidh centuries earlier. People like Uncle Mugain said sadly that Nechtan had overreached and underestimated; in creating the Turk Baibeil, he had unwittingly opened up one of the fearsome dark Gateways into the necromancers’ realm. The rescinding of the Cadence and the abrupt descent to a single language had been the punishment.

It was through the Tower that the fearsome Human-hungry Fomoire had last come into Ireland, pouring up from the subterranean depths of the Dark Realm. They had come prowling and creeping out from the black-mouthed caves in the bowels of the earth; up through the ancient Well of Segais, and through the tunnels and the dark catacombs that twisted beneath the Tower’s foundations. It had all happened a long time before Theo had been born, but nobody would ever forget it. Everyone who had ever heard the Fomoire’s grisly Hunting Song, and seen their terrible whirling dancing as they circled their victims, said it had heralded the beginning of Ireland’s dark age.

But of course, the Fomoire had long since been driven back and the Gateway to the Dark Ireland was sealed forever.

*

The Tower was directly ahead, and Theo’s hand tightened in Andrew’s, because this was not as exciting as she had always thought it would be.

At the centre of the great rearing bulk was the portcullis, the massive iron grille that sealed the Tower. At the height of the Sorcery Wars, the Fomoire had held the Tower for their own, operating the portcullis with screeching glee, causing it to rise and fall so that they could drag their struggling victims beneath the spikes and take them down into their caves.

The portcullis had been raised, and Andrew, looking up at the jagged iron teeth, half sunk into the stonework, thought: well, at least the Amaranths got this far. At least we are going in the right direction. And then: has my quarry been this way? he thought, suddenly. Would he have been tempted by the shining Amaranth Palace as I was tempted by it, and would he have been drawn by the strange darkness of this Tower? As they approached the dark, yawning maw of the entrance, a tiny sour wind scudded across the night skies, huffing dry, rank breath into their faces; and Andrew shivered, and drew the thin woollen habit more closely about him.

From the ground it was impossible to see the Tower’s zenith, and Andrew wondered, a trifle cynically, if this had added to its dark legend. It seemed to lean away from you, so that the closer you got it, the harder it was to see where it ended and where it began. He thought its very construction would have made it a place that would easily become the core of legends and myths and creeping folklores.

Dry stale air gusted outwards from the entrance, as if an ancient, long-sealed tomb had been forced open, and dribbling blackness spilled across the cobblestones at their feet.

Theo stood very still and looked at it because, although she had known what to expect, it was still disconcerting to see the dark and sinister Tur Baibeil, once the lair of the Fomoire, unsealed after centuries of disuse.

*

It was like stepping into a black, fetid tunnel. As their eyes adjusted, they saw that just inside the portcullis was a small, round room, with two tiny, slit-like windows high up. Thin moonlight seeped in, silvering the walls, showing the yawning well of the Sable Stairway, the remarkable structure of ebony and jet that Nechtan had believed reached down into the bowels of the earth until it came out in the heart of the Dark Realm itself.

‘That is surely where your people are,’ said Andrew, indicating the Stair. ‘That is where they would go.’

‘Yes. Down to the Well of Segais.’ Theo was staring at the stairwell. ‘It will be a very long way down,’ she said, softly.

It was smaller inside than they had expected, and it was dark and musty. Andrew held the branched candlestick up and fantastical cavorting shadows leapt, making Theodora shiver. Above their heads was a black infinity, stretching up and up.

They moved towards the Stair, hand in hand, the candles burning with a thin, dry, blue flame. The footprints of the Amaranths lay in the dust at their feet, ordinary prints of boots and shoes, and Rumour’s extravagant high-heeled slippers.

Theo had explained about not interrupting the Succession Ritual if it had begun. They would have to stand on the edges and be mouse-quiet until it was over. Andrew had nodded seriously and had said he understood about rituals and about how you had to treat them with respect. It was a question of politeness towards whoever you addressed the ritual to. His own people called it ‘praying’, he said, and not one of them would have dreamed of breaking in on somebody who was praying. It would be like interrupting a private conversation.

The steps of the ancient black Stairway curved steeply and sharply, and the flickering candles threw shadows on to the walls, weird and leaping and grotesque. Andrew felt a cold prickle of fear against his spine, because just for an instant it had seemed as if the shadows were not the shadows of himself and Theodora, but of something else … Something that had long, fibrousy arms and huge-knuckled hands and that was creeping stealthily after them; something that was dark and ugly and that wore a fearsome carapace that hid its true self … The light flickered again, and Andrew caught the fleeting shape of a creature crouching on the stair above them, huddled into the shadows. There was the brief impression of a snouted face with pale staring eyes that glittered cunningly and malevolently … Theodora’s Gristlen? Had she seen it? Did I see it? But Theodora was going on down the Stair, treading carefully, one hand touching the wall for balance, and her small face was intent on the perilous descent. Perhaps it was only a shadow, thought Andrew, following her.

*

The Cavern of the Segais Well was smaller and darker than the Amaranths had expected.

They had descended warily, chanting the Cantor of Starlight as they went, Rumour leading them, her voice husky and rather like a young boy’s. The younger sorcerers, led by Echbel, had started the secondary chant, the Descant of Sunrise, and the patterns had mingled and blended, driving back the dark shadows.

Rumour, accustomed to her own small, beautiful Castle, found the Cavern almost unbearably dank and oppressive. The roof was low and crusted with mould, and in the comers were pale, blind growths, fungal things that had sprung up in the dank, cold atmosphere. There was the suffocating feeling of the great dark Tower above their heads, and from somewhere beneath them was the sound of water dripping against stone. Rumour remembered that the entrance to the underwater City of the sidh was believed to be beyond the Segais Well.

As they stood at the foot of the Sable Stair, Rumour looked at the others, waiting for someone to make the first move, and then with a shrug, stepped forward, lifting her hands above her head, the palms upwards. At once she was engulfed in light, cascading rainbow colours, pouring harlequin brilliance that sent shards of iridescence into the shadows, and then solidified into a swirling, silken cloak that fell about her ankles with a sensual whisper.

‘Eye-catching,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, tartly. ‘How like Rumour to produce something so exaggerated.’

But Bodb Decht said it was actually rather a useful thing for Rumour to have done, and Great-aunt Fuamnach snorted because it was as she had always said: Rumour had no sense of occasion and the Rainbow Cloak was simply a piece of exhibitionism.

Laigne said, rather haltingly, ‘It’s very dark down here …’ And then in a different, sharper tone, ‘Echbel, your heavier cloak would have been —’

‘It’s musty as well as dark,’ said Cerball hastily. ‘But we’ll wedge the torches into the wall-brackets for extra light.’

Great-aunt Fuamnach dug her hazel walking stick into the ground and was looking around disapprovingly. ‘It’s damp and neglected,’ she said, frowning. ‘My word, Cerball, this is not at all what I expected.’

‘It’s perfectly ruinous on silk slippers,’ said Rumour. ‘My dears, if I had suspected it would be as damp as this, I would have worn fur. Next to my skin,’ she added with a suggestive purr, and was glared at.

She barely noticed the glares; she had spoken more or less automatically, simply because they would be expecting her to be vain and flippant. She looked back at the Stair. Was that a shadow, crouching just around the curve? She murmured an incantation of light and the Rainbow Cloak glowed a little more strongly.

The Well was at the centre of the Cavern, embedded deeply into the floor, a gaping black abyss. There was a narrow brick parapet, crumbling with age in places, and from the depths came a faint mustiness. It was much smaller than they had expected, barely eight feet across, and the brick parapet was stained and blackened. Rumour saw that there was an iron ladder clamped to the inside of the Well, rusting and ancient, but looking sound enough. So it would be possible to climb down inside it, would it? Could I do that? thought Rumour. If I had to, could I set foot to that rusting ladder, and go down and down into the darkness? Did the Well truly lead to the hinterlands of fabled Tiarna, the magical under-sea realm of the sidh, or was that only another of the jumbled myths about this place? She leaned forward, and just for a moment there was not the tomblike stench and the impenetrable darkness, but something that ruffled the air with sweetness … On the rim of vision, she caught a flash of vivid turquoise at the darkness’s heart: the glint of iridescent wings, the sinuous bodies of eerie sea creatures with not the smallest drop of Human blood in them … She shook her head impatiently to clear the images, and as she did so, Cerball wedged the last of the torches into the ancient brackets. Light flared up, casting the Well into sharp relief, and Rumour turned back sharply.

‘Everyone. Look.’ She held out a pointing finger.

‘What is it?’ said several voices anxiously.

In the ancient dust surrounding the Well were tiny footprints, dozens upon dozens of them, light and swift and darting, as if the owners had traced circles inside circles inside circles … As if they had not walked but leapt and cavorted. Exactly as if creatures had come swarming up out of the Well’s black depths into the Tower. Exactly as if they had been dancing as they came.

In the same moment, they caught the whisper of sound from the Well and the breath of a chuckle. And then, fainter than the faintest of winds, as insubstantial as the frozen fingers of trees tapping against a window, the sound of voices singing.

‘O, give us skins for dancing in,

Pelts of Human silken skin.

Give us hides with Humanish veils

Fleeces with rinds of pale thin shale.’

The Hunting Song of the Fomoire.

‘It’s an echo,’ said the Mugain, a bit uncertainly. ‘That’s all it is, an echo.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Echbel ought to go back to the Palace —’

‘Oh, there’s nothing to worry about,’ said Cerball, hastily.

‘No, echoes can’t hurt anyone …’

‘And we know that echoes linger for — well, for quite a long time.’

Rumour said impatiently, ‘But all echoes were once attached to something, and it is the something we have to be wary of.’ She moved around the Well cautiously. ‘Cerball, you had better lose no time in pronouncing the Ritual.’

Laigne opened her mouth to say that Rumour had no right to be ordering people about like this, and Cerball had just begun to unroll the parchment, when the light shifted suddenly and became suffused with crimson.

Pouring upwards from the Well of Segais, there erupted baleful magenta light with, deep in it, dancing, whirling figures.

The Fomoire.

*

They danced as they came, whirling and leaping, the malevolent glow streaming about their bodies like a crimson mantle.

To begin with they were insubstantial; black silhouettes, paper cut-outs limned sharply against the red glow; dancing and prancing, casting weird, fearsome shadows against the crimson-lit Stair. But as they came pouring out of the Well, they seemed to solidify, and the Amaranths felt the terrible evil of the Dark Ireland surging and gushing about them.

Cerball and the Mugain began to form a circle, frantically gesturing to the others to link hands, and the Mugain’s voice was raised in a Banishment Chant, joined, after only seconds, by several others. Rumour held up her hands to summon power, and felt, with the purest horror she had ever known, the power slither out of her grasp.

‘It’s the darkness!’ shouted Bodb Decht, seeing her. ‘The Fomoire are blanketing everything with darkness!’

A noxious, pulsating menace was filling the Cave, and the voices of Cerball and the Mugain with Bodb Decht rose strongly in the Banishment Ritual. Several of the sorcerers were forming spears of light and hurling them at the Stair, and the Cave was becoming filled with sizzling, white-hot shards that pierced the malevolent crimson glow, and then splintered.

The Fomoire were leaping and whirling into the Cavern, and Rumour thought there were not so very many of them: perhaps there were fifty. But they moved so quickly, and they danced so wildly and so frenziedly, that it was impossible to count.

They whirled and spun, and caught one another’s hands and circled and pranced, and their shadows fell across the Tower walls eerily and fantastically. Several of them were astride snarling black creatures that reared and bucked, and tossed gleaming black heads with inward-slanting red eyes.

‘They are riding the NightMare Stallions,’ said the Mugain, in a voice of sudden awe.

The terrible legendary Fomoire, the hungry Dark Spirits who carried Humans off to their dungeons and flayed them alive … the Servants of the necromancers, breaking the bounds of their Realm, riding the NightMare Stallions into the heart of Ireland again …

The Gateway is open again!’ cried the Mugain. ‘Dagda preserve us all, the Gateway is unsealing!’

Then do something!’ shrieked Laigne. ‘Somebody do something!’

But the Fomoire were in the Cave with them, they were spilling into the Cavern, and they were marching round and round the walls, and the Amaranths could see that more were following them, pouring up from the Well, dancing and whirling as they came.

They sang as they danced; eerie, rhythmic chanting that set Rumour’s teeth on edge, and that ran slyly in and out of the Cavern’s crevices.

‘Give me a skin for dancing in;

And a pelt with a trim of silken sin.

Give me a hide with a Humanish veil

And a fleece with a rind of pale thin shale.

Give me a hide to climb inside

A murderer’s cloak or a child-eater’s fleece.

Give me a skin of Humanish thin,

A husk to hide my true self in.’

The crimson glow fell across the cave, and the distorted shadows leapt and danced wildly.

‘Do something!’ screamed Laigne again. ‘Cerball! Mugain! There must be something we can do!’

Rumour strode to the centre of the Cavern, her skirts swishing angrily, and lifted her arms high above her head, the silken sleeves of the Rainbow Cloak sliding back. She pronounced the first lines of the awesome Draiocht Tine, the great Fire Enchantment, and at once the sorcerers fell back, because the Draiocht Tine was a fearsomely powerful Enchantment; it required immense power and supreme confidence, and was believed to reach the Temple of the Dagda himself. Several people glanced with unwilling respect at Rumour.

As the last lines of the Enchantment died away, the air began to sizzle and forked lightning tore across the Cavern and buried itself in the sides of the Tower. Cascades of sparks shot high in the air and several of the NightMare Stallions reared up, flinging their riders to the ground.

Rumour, the Rainbow Cloak swishing about her slender figure, grinned in purest triumph because, despite the danger, and despite the terrible creatures pouring down upon them, it was the most marvellously satisfying thing in the world to pronounce a genuinely powerful spell and see it take substance in front of you.

And for a moment, it seemed as if Rumour’s spell had worked. A shriek of pain and fury went up from the Fomoire; the NightMare Stallions reared and bucked, and their inward-slanting eyes glinted.

‘The Draiocht Tine has never yet failed!’ cried Rumour, turning to regard them with malicious triumph. ‘All you need is confidence, my dears, that is all you need! We are opening the Temple of the Gods! Prepare to meet the Dagda!’

‘But the Fomoire are still coming!’ cried the Mugain, pointing. ‘They are still coming! Rumour, the Ritual, the Ritual! Pronounce it again!’ And even as he spoke, the Fomoire were remounting the NightMare Steeds, and were re-forming. The chill, grisly song filled the Cavern once more.

‘Give me a skin of Humanish thin

A husk to hide my evil in …’

‘Stop them!’ cried Herself of Mugain. ‘At any minute they will be upon us, and we shall all be carried down into the Dark Realm!’

Rumour was staring at the grinning, evil creatures in frustration and fury. ‘I cannot pronounce the Ritual again!’ she cried. ‘Foolish creatures, no one can call upon the gods more than once in a single night! You try something!’ said Rumour.

‘Give me a hide to climb inside,

A murderer’s cloak or a child-eater’s fleece.

Give me a skin for murdering in

A husk to hide my darkness in.’

‘Then back!’ cried Cerball. ‘Everyone! Back up the Stair and out to the Palace! Re-Seal the Tower!’

‘Run away? Never! See here, Cerball —’

‘Listen, it’s the only way —’

But, even as the words formed, even as the Amaranths tried to reassemble, a shadow fell across the Stair’s foot. They turned sharply and Andrew, with Theodora clasped tightly in his arms, half fell into the Cavern.

Behind Andrew came a fearsome creature, a hunched-over shape with a grotesque, snouted face, darting, lidless eyes and a thick, scaly hide.

The Gristlen stood at the entrance to the Stair, hugging itself with its huge, disproportionate hands, and peering hungrily at the Amaranths from its pale glittering eyes.

‘Prettinesses everywhere for me to take,’ it said, and threw back its dreadful head and laughed.

Chapter Four

Andrew was holding Theodora very tightly, surprised by the sudden feeling of fierce protectiveness. She had been trembling with fear ever since the Gristlen had come prowling out of the shadows and had run down the Sable Stair after them, and he tightened his hold, aware of the light, frail bones and the silky spill of dark hair, wanting to carry her to safety, knowing it to be impossible.

The sight in the Cavern assaulted his senses like a blow. He stood blinking in the pulsating crimson light from the Fomoire, feeling the thick clotted evil that surged and eddied everywhere. There was a moment when he thought, ‘Hell has opened and is spewing out into the world,’ and when he thought that, after all, his Leader had been wrong; Hell was not something that waited for sinners after death — it was here, now, its gates were yawning, and it was spilling its evil into the world. He stared at the leaping, grinning Fomoire and saw that this, then, was the old Ireland, the Ireland Brother Stephen had warned him against. This was the Ireland that was steeped in paganism and in magic and wreathed in enchantment and necromancy. This is the Ireland that beckoned to the Black Monk, thought Andrew. And this is something that cannot be fought with prayer or fasting …

The Fomoire had driven the Amaranths to the far end of the Cavern, and at least two dozen of the repulsive, grinning things were guarding them. A nauseating stench came from the creatures, a stench composed of badly cured meat and earth, and of old blood and raw agony.

Before us are the Fomoire, and behind us is the Gristlen. Andrew shot it a covert glance and saw that it was half crouching, half sitting on the Sable Stair, hugging its elongated legs in evil glee as it watched the Fomoire.

How sentient was it? How powerful? It looked stupid. I believe I would rather challenge that than the Fomoire, thought Andrew.

The torches that Cerball had thrust into the brackets were burning more strongly now and, as they flared up, Andrew turned back. For the first time he saw the Fomoire properly.

At exactly the same moment, Theo said in a small, frightened voice, ‘Andrew. They are wearing skins. They are hiding inside Human skins.’

At once there was a slithering, chuckling sound from the Fomoire.

‘O but give us skins for murdering in,

And give us pelts of silken sin.

Hides of evil to conceal ourselves in,

And then you shall see us, puny Humanish one.’

Human skins. Andrew felt the sick horror of it wash over him.

The skins were not slung about the creatures’ waists, or even worn like cloaks or hooded robes, as Andrew had heard of other pagans doing. They had each taken a whole Human skin, which had been slit open down the front, neatly and cleanly. They had spread the skin flat on the ground.

And then they had climbed inside.

Andrew thought he had never seen anything so extremely sinister as these nearly concealed creatures who peered slyly from inside their Human carapaces. The Human heads lolled on the dead necks; the features were blank and staring, but even so, there was a travesty of life; the legs walked and the arms jerked, and you felt that at any minute the empty, dead eyes might open and turn to look.

But the walk was a horrid jerking walk, as if strings were being pulled from somewhere unseen, and as the heads fell forward, the jaws were slack, with the mouths open and tongues falling out.

They were the most sinister creatures Andrew had ever seen.

But most sinister of all was the way in which the slits which the Fomoire had used to climb inside were not quite closed. They gaped raggedly open and, through the gaps, the evil sly eyes of the Fomoire could be seen, peering out. It was rather as if something wicked and alien had hidden itself behind heavy curtains and was looking out through a chink.

I wonder what they are really like, thought Andrew, and as if the Fomoire had heard his thoughts, they began to chant again.

‘Give us skins of Humanish thin,

Hides of evil to conceal ourselves in.

A fleece with a rind of pale thin shale,

A murderer’s cloak, a child-eater’s veil.’

At the foot of the stair, the Gristlen chuckled and mumbled to itself, and Andrew looked back at it.

‘Won’t take the prettiness,’ it was saying, in its gloating bubbly voice. ‘It won’t be allowed. The prettiness is mine. The prettiness is to save me. I chose it for myself.’ Its eyes swivelled round to Theodora, and it rubbed its hard horny hands together with a dry leathery sound that set Andrew’s teeth on edge. He tightened his hold on Theo, feeling again that fierce surge of protectiveness.

The Amaranths were recovering; several of the younger ones had banded together to charge the Fomoire, and the Mugain and Cerball began a Chant which several of the others took up.

Rumour and Great-aunt Fuamnach were drawing a circle using the hazel wand, and Rumour was standing with her arms outstretched again, calling down ribbons of rainbow light. But even as the fight reached the ground, the Fomoire sent black glinting shards to splinter it, and the nearest of the creatures chuckled slyly, and reached out a hand from inside its Human skin.

Andrew heard Laigne scream and saw her dart forward, and in the same moment, several of the Fomoire pounced on Echbel and dragged him, struggling and flailing, across the floor to the Stair.

‘The cages! This one for the cages!’ they screeched, and Laigne screamed again, a terrible frantic sound, and clawed at the restraining hands of the Amaranths who were holding her back.

‘My boy! Echbel … Save him! Kill the evil filth!’

Cerball had moved at once, but the NightMare Stallions rode at him, rearing up on their hind legs, forming a guard, and striking him with their hoofs, so that he fell to the ground. The sorcerers backed away, looking to one another for guidance, and although there was not quite panic in their eyes, there was something very near it.

Theodora was aware of a strength and a comfort from Andrew, but she was very frightened. She was trying very hard to think what Great-grandfather would have done, although it was the hardest thing she had ever had to do, what with people screaming, and Echbel being dragged across the floor by several Fomoire, and what with Mamma crying and begging them to do something, anything, only save him. And chuckling and gobbling to itself on the Stair was the Gristlen. Theo sent it a sideways look, and sensed, as Andrew had not been able to sense, that the Gristlen possessed far more power and far more necromantic strength than the Fomoire. The Fomoire were hungry for Humans and they were wicked and sly, but the Gristlen was soaked in ancient evil and it was intelligent evil.

Great-grandfather would have known what to do. He would have saved Echbel and he would have vanquished the Gristlen. But I don’t know what to do! cried Theodora silently.

She looked up at Andrew, her eyes filled with anguish. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

Andrew, his eyes on the struggling Echbel, his own mind searching frantically for a means of escape, said, Theodora, there is nothing you can do,’ and Theodora said, impatiently:

‘Yes, there ought to be something. Great-grandfather would say that I ought to be able to do something … He would expect me to do something.’

‘What?’

‘There ought to be a spell — something in Cadence … Only I can’t think of one!’ cried Theodora, torn between tears and anger. ‘I ought to be able to think of something, but I can’t!’

The Fomoire were dragging the screaming Echbel towards the Well, chuckling and prodding him, reaching out with hard, bony fingers, prodding and probing and fingering. ‘But preserve his skin!’ they cried. ‘No marks, no scars, no punctures!’

‘Preserve his skin for the wearing!’ shouted several more, leaping high into the air, the crimson fire glow falling eerily across them. The skins gaped wider now, and the Amaranths could see the wizened shapes of the Fomoire more clearly through the slits.

Theodora was staring at the Fomoire, and Andrew saw that she was still struggling to think of a spell, something the dying Amaranth Ruler would have known and invoked. He had just time to think all over again that this was a remarkable child, and he remembered how she had said that Nechtan would have expected her to know what to do, when the Fomoire began circling the Cavern again, pouncing and darting, and jabbing their tiny claws at the Amaranths.

‘Your puny spells will be useless!’ they cried in their gobbling voices. ‘We have the ancient dark blood in us and our powers are greater than yours! We have your little brother, and we shall take him back to our caves, and we shall enjoy him!’ They rubbed their hands gleefully together, leaping into the air, so that the dead heads of their Human garb rolled wildly.

‘Skins of Humanish thin!’ cried the Fomoire.

‘Cloaks of pale thin shale!’

‘To the cages with him!’

‘He is our reward for opening up the Gateway!’

Laigne, moaning, half lying at the centre of the Amaranths, with Herself of Mugain and Great-aunt Fuamnach supporting her, said in a terrified voice, ‘What will they do to him? What will happen?’ and at once the Fomoire turned, chuckling and leaping towards her.

‘We shall take him down to the black-mouthed caves.’

‘The caves that guard the entrance to the Dark Realm.’

‘Down below below —’

‘We shall lock him away in our cages.’

‘And while he is there, we shall anoint his skin with balms and unguents and with the fat of murderers’ brains.’

‘We shall bathe him thrice daily in the blood of unborn babes.’

‘Why?’ screamed Laigne, pushing away Great-aunt Fuamnach and trying to fight off the grinning, skin-clad creatures. ‘Oh why?’

‘To soften his skin, of course,’ cried the Fomoire.

‘To make it silken soft and Humanish thin.’

‘And when it is soft and when it is thin, then we shall flay him of his Humanish veil.’

‘And then we shall wear it!’

‘Do something!’ screeched Laigne, turning to the others imploringly. ‘Save him!’

The Mugain was facing the Fomoire truculently. ‘Why are you here?’ he cried, and the Fomoire grinned and gibbered at him.

‘To take captives. To harvest the skins of Humans.’ There was a dry, leather-on-bone chuckle. ‘To fill the cages of our caves.’

‘To carpet the way for the Lord of Chaos,’ they cried, in sudden, disconcerting unison. And then, without warning, they turned to regard Theodora with their glinting sly eyes.

‘To steal away the Amaranth Princess,’ cried the Fomoire, and as the words formed, four of them leapt on Theodora and tore her from Andrew’s arms.

As Theo screamed, the Gristlen leapt to its feet, its face contorted with fury.

‘Mine!’ it shrieked. ‘That one is mine!’ It was almost dancing in fury, and for a moment Andrew thought it would fall on the Fomoire and tear Theodora from them.

But in the same instant, light blazed from the Well, and Andrew and the Amaranths fell back, dazzled. Andrew threw up his hands to shield his eyes from the vivid, hurting brilliance, and as he did so there was the dull, rumbling sound of something being rolled back; and so vast was it that Andrew’s senses spun. It is the stone from the sepulchre, he thought wildly. They are rolling back the boulder and opening up the tomb …

But it is not a tomb, it is a Gateway: The Gateway to the Black Realm, the entrance to the Dark Ireland … That is what they said might happen, that is what they feared … But this is not happening, thought Andrew. I won’t believe this is happening.

When the sick dazzle faded, he saw that, silhouetted against the fiery crimson, was a darkly gleaming figure, armoured in ebony and jet, and he knew that his senses had not entirely played him false.

Through the visor of the figure’s helmet glittered long, evil eyes, devoid of humanity and warmth, and beneath the gleaming black steel was a cruel, beautifully modelled mouth.

The Lord of Chaos.

*

The Amaranths and the Fomoire fell back at once, awe-stricken terror in every face. Andrew was half aware that the Gristlen had cowered back in its corner, snarling, but he had no eyes for the Gristlen; he could look only at the dark figure limned against the fight. Ice closed about his heart and he thought: evil! This is the most evil creature ever beheld.

He stared at the Lord of Chaos, and confused memories of Brother Stephen’s earnest teachings tumbled through his mind.

Not Satan, who tempted sinners to his wicked and sensual ways … Not Lucifer either; Lucifer who had been bright as the morning, radiant and seductive …

But something closely akin.

The Lord of Chaos, who would ride at Satan’s right hand when the powers of Hell were unleashed into the world … Who would beckon with that cold and beautiful allure to Mankind … Had Andrew’s quarry encountered this one? Had the Black Monk been here, and was it this strange and terrible lure that had ensnared him? And could I find it in me to blame him if it had? thought Andrew, caught in helpless fascination.

The inward-slanting eyes looked across at him, and Andrew felt his limbs weaken. A terrible numbness gripped him and the surface of his mind was stirred by a ripple of cold, malevolent amusement.

Puny Human to think you could challenge me.

The Fomoire were bowing before the Lord of Chaos, cringing and subservient, holding out their wizened hands here and there, throwing back the concealing skins, so that their tiny bald heads were visible and their wrinkled, ancient-crone faces gleamed.

Several of them tore off the skins completely and spread them on the floor before the figure in the doorway, making a carpet for him to walk across. Andrew saw, without really registering, that they were small and goblin-like beneath.

As the Lord of Chaos moved slowly forward into the Cavern, the Fomoire prostrated themselves on the ground, and in their chuckling, sly voices, began to chant, softly at first, and then more loudly.

‘Carpet the world in Human misery,

Strew thick the harvest of the creatures of night.

Lay down the gleanings of the soul-eaters Kill the veil of the world of light.’

The Lord of Chaos moved soundlessly across the Cave and stood directly in front of Theodora, still helpless in the Fomoire’s grip. His arms were crossed on his breast and his eyes glowed with hungry fervour.

Andrew looked frantically about him for something to create a diversion, and saw for the first time that, directly behind Chaos, an immense, blood-red chariot had formed, with great stone millwheels to draw it. At the helm were his three henchmen: Murder, Anarchy and Misrule.

Dismay closed about him, for he saw that, although they were less awesome than their Lord, they were terrible and immensely powerful.

In the prow of the chariot stood Murder, and Andrew received the impression of twisting dark shadows and a swirling black silk cloak, the hem draggled with blood. Behind him was a crimson, snarling, masked creature that must be Anarchy; and with Anarchy was Misrule, again masked, but this time by a sly, grinning carving of gold. But after the first glance, Andrew’s eyes went back to Chaos.

Chaos, the Dark Lord of the sinister Black Realm, treading across the carpet of Human skins laid for him by the Fomoire, his eyes glowing like coals.

This is evil, real and pulsating, and seductive. It is not the absurd red-eyed demon-figure of punishment that some of my Brothers try to instil into the minds of peasants and pagans; it is not the scaly, horned and tailed beast that some monks describe to force Christian conversion by fear.

This is pure, malevolent, intelligent evil.

Chaos accorded Andrew and the Amaranths barely a look. His eyes were still fixed on Theodora; they were burning and smouldering, and as he approached her the Fomoire fell back.

Chaos half turned and signalled to the three creatures waiting in the chariot, and Murder moved forward at once, his cloak swirling evilly and emitting a faint, noisome stench of stale blood. He scooped Theodora up in his arms and flung her into the great millwheeled chariot, and Anarchy and Misrule both let out screeches of malignant laughter; Misrule flung snaking silver chains about her wrists.

The Gristlen howled in fury and loped across the Cavern until it was standing before the immense chariot. It raised its fists in rage, and its eyes glittered with malevolence.

‘Mine!’ it screamed. ‘The prettiness was mine, to break the curse of the Dark Lords!’

Chaos turned to regard it, and as his eyes fell on the grotesque thing, he smiled with such cruelty that Andrew shuddered.

‘A Gristlen,’ he said, very softly. ‘A warped, exiled thing bearing the carapace of the necromancers’ anger.’ He studied it, and the Gristlen cowered. But Andrew saw Rumour make an abrupt movement, and glanced across at her in surprise. Rumour was watching the Gristlen very intently, and Andrew saw wariness in her expression. Did Rumour then believe the Gristlen to be an enemy to reckon with?

The Gristlen had thrown up its horny hands as if to hide its face from Chaos’s burning stare, but although it spoke in a cringing whine, the pale eyes peered slyly through its fingers.

‘You have taken the prettiness, Master,’ it said, and Andrew heard, for the first time, an underlying lick of arrogance in its voice and a cold, cruel anger. It said, ‘You have taken the one who could have dissolved the curse. Cruel, Master,’ said the Gristlen, and it crouched on the floor, wrapping its long arms about itself and rocking to and fro, keening softly.

Chaos walked round the Gristlen, his eyes never leaving it. ‘So you are one of the escaped creatures who walks the world dragging its curse,’ he said. ‘You are one of the outcast things who must find a willing female who will endure your foul embrace. Yes, I have heard of your kind, Gristlen. Perhaps I have even condemned transgressors of my own laws to such a fate.’

For a second, the Gristlen eyed Chaos levelly, and there was such hatred in its mien that Andrew thought: is that what happened to the loathsome thing? Was it one of Chaos’s people, and did it somehow offend his laws so that he pronounced a curse over it?

But the Gristlen looked away. It said, half to itself, ‘Prettinesses, all of them,’ and leered and twisted its hands together, darting sly glances at Theodora from the comers of its eyes. ‘And you have taken the best.’

‘Because she is the Amaranth heir,’ said Chaos, and Andrew drew in a sharp breath and thought: of course! Of course it would have been Theodora whom the Ritual would have named! He looked across the Cavern and for a moment his eyes met Rumour’s, and he saw understanding in her expression. Rumour of them all had seen Theodora’s remarkable power. Rumour had known, just as Nechtan had known: ‘Great-grandfather would expect me to do something,’ Theo had said.

Chaos turned away from the Gristlen, as if deeming it of no interest. He looked at Theodora, still held in the chariot by the sinister cloaked figure of Murder, and his lips stretched in the thin, cruel smile again.

‘A great prize,’ he said. ‘A brilliant mind already lit by the Sacred Flame of the Amaranths.’ He moved nearer. ‘It will be an intriguing challenge to reverse the Flame, my dear, and to see if we can coax it to burn in a dark mould. I have some skill in these things. Within the Castle of Infinity, you will meet creatures of blood so mixed that only necromancy could have created them.’ He struck his breast. ‘Only I could have created them!’ he said. ‘My life’s work! And if I can reverse the Amaranth Flame of the Dawn Sorcerers, it will be my finest achievement! I shall rule unchallenged!’

Andrew felt a ripple of horror go through the Amaranths, but only Rumour moved. Rumour swished forward, her silken skirts brushing the ground, and stood before Chaos, her chin tilted defiantly, a reckless light in her eyes.

‘Take me instead!’ she cried, and Andrew saw the Amaranths stare at her.

Chaos studied Rumour. ‘You are very tempting, my dear,’ he said at last. ‘I am honoured.’

‘But — you refuse? You prefer the child? Then you are indeed warped,’ said Rumour, contemptuously.

Chaos looked at her very intently, and Rumour held his gaze. And then he smiled, and it was a dazzling, darkly beautiful smile filled with unexpected intimacy, as if he recognised that, next to Theodora, Rumour was the strongest of the Amaranths, and as if he was sharing the knowledge with her and acknowledging her strength.

For Rumour there was a brief, terrible moment when her senses stirred and Chaos’s dark glowing eyes awoke a dreadful response. Desire sliced through her from breast to womb, and she tore her gaze from him and looked down at the ground.

He said, very softly, ‘Let us say that for the moment I prefer the child. But we shall meet again, Lady, and I shall remind you of your offer to me.’

He turned back to Theodora, who was struggling against the silver chains in the chariot. ‘The Amaranth heir,’ he said again, and his voice was silky with satisfaction. ‘Many will fight me for you, Princess, but they shall not take you from me.’ He looked across at the Amaranths, and fervour blazed in his eyes. ‘I shall keep this one,’ he said. ‘You may send your puny Armies against me; you may revive the ridiculous Sorcery Wars in which you all fought so uselessly and so profitlessly, but I shall keep her.’

‘There will be others of your world who will want her,’ said Rumour, and Chaos nodded.

‘Oh yes, Lady,’ he said. ‘Oh yes, they will all covet her. But I shall never give her up, not if I have to plunge the Dark Ireland into internal War. Not if there is necromantic Civil War in the Black Realm for decades ahead. I shall turn the Amaranth Flame, the accursed Sacred Flame of your House, into the ebony fire of necromancy. It may take many years, but I shall do it. Your Princess will eventually sit at my right hand and rule the Black Domain with me.’

Without warning, he looked back at Rumour, and now the smile was warm and gentle. ‘We shall certainly meet again, Lady,’ he said. ‘And I look forward to it, for you will be a worthy foe and a stimulating lover.’

He sketched a brief bow, and turned back to the chariot, gesturing imperiously to his henchmen. At once, Murder took up the chariot’s reins, his cloak hissing and swirling, Anarchy beside him. Misrule leapt on to the seat, the sly golden mask glinting evilly, and the Lord of Chaos stepped into the chariot. He lifted a slender white hand again, and the chariot turned, the great millwheels striking sparks of fire.

The Gristlen leapt forward, but the chariot was becoming bathed in dazzling light and the heels of the Fomoire were already vanishing over the edge of the Well.

The Gristlen’s roar of frustration and fury split the Cave, and reverberated off the ancient walls. It reared up from its hunched, cringing stance to its full height — eight feet at least! thought the horrified Andrew — and its clenched fists were raised above its head as it bellowed its black rage. As the great chariot was swallowed by the gaping darkness of the Well, the Gristlen gave another of its terrible cries and, grasping the edges of the iron ladder, flung itself over the parapet and began to descend into the yawning maw.

There was the sound of its leathery skin rasping against the old dry bricks, and of stones being dislodged. But everyone in the Cavern heard the Gristlen’s feet smacking against the iron rungs as it descended, the sound gradually fading.

The deep thunderous roll of something being rolled back into place filled the Cavern again, and Andrew thought: the stone is being rolled back into place. The Doorway is closed.

But the Lord of Chaos had carried the Amaranth Princess and her brother into the heart of the Dark Realm of the necromancers.

And the Gristlen had gone after them.

Chapter Five

The sentinel sidh had long since ceased to bother much about the patrolling of the southern ramparts of the Elven King’s undersea City of Tiarna and the Palace of Nimfeach. It would have been a different matter if there had been any danger of anyone actually stealing up to the gates, of course, but everyone knew there was not the smallest possibility of this happening, because it never had happened, not even in the memories of the oldest sidh of them all.

The southern gate was not very vulnerable at all. It was not as if it was the eastern boundary, where the fabric between the True Ireland and the Dark Realm had become threadbare, so that it was occasionally possible to glimpse the black citadels of the necromancers, and the Crimson Lakes, and the NightFields with their sinister red harvests. One of the most venturesome of the sidh, who was called Inse, said he had once actually caught sight of the Lord of Chaos himself, riding out into his realm, with his fearsome servants, Murder, Anarchy and Misrule, in train behind him. But Inse was known to be rather over-imaginative, and this had never actually been proven.

The gates on the southern side of Tiarna were pale and studded with ivory and opal and pearl; they glinted coldly and occasionally threw out slender, white-hot spears of heat. The older sidh told how there was a spell composed of fire and ice in them, which Aillen mac Midha had commissioned from the sorcerers when the sidh had wrested the City from the nimfeach, the long-ago water-nymphs of Ireland. The Fire and Ice Enchantment was generally thought to be a very good deterrent to prowling Humans who might try to sneak into Tiarna, and penetrate Aillen mac Midha’s Silver Cavern. Humans did not like fire any more than they liked ice. The sidh did not like fire either, which was another good reason to avoid sentry duty at these particular gates. And while the sidh were all for welcoming Humans who could be pounced on and drained of Humanish senses (which was useful) and sometimes drained of Humanish seed as well (which was fun), Tiarna and her Water Caves were not intended for the prying eyes and clumsy, skin-covered, muscle-laced hands of Humans.

In fact none of the sidh had ever heard of any creature at all trying to get in, never mind Humans. This was another reason why sentinelling the southern boundary was the most tedious of all the sentinel duties. But it had to be done because you could not leave a single section of your boundaries unprotected, anyone knew that. Even the Humans knew it.

The sidh went out into the Humanish world and took whatever victims they could get, but that was within the rules. The Humans understood about it. They did not like it; most Humans fought quite hard to evade the sidh’s sinuous arms and serpentine embraces, and it was usually the ones who fought hardest whose souls and whose senses provided the best elixirs for the sidh’s music.

The four sidh on the southern ramparts were finding it very dull and extremely boring tonight. They had whiled away quite a good long time by recounting to one another the tremendous epic adventures of the High King, Aillen mac Midha, with especial attention to the remarkable time when he had clothed himself in the semblance of a Human and walked in the world of Men. This was always a good story; the grand old ballad, ‘Humanish Elven’, could be sung, and the echoes chased and caught and rewoven into the music. The sidh enjoyed darting about the tunnels in pursuit of echoes, and catching them and pouring them back into the music. And nobody ever grew tired of shuddering at the gruesomeness of the Ritual which Aillen mac Midha had had to submit to make himself visible to the Humans. This was a Ritual which was kept safely in the deepest and dimmest of all the crystal pools in Tiarna’s cool, water-lit library, down among the Scrolls of Language and the silver-bound Sacred Enchantments which the sidh had stolen from the long-ago Fisher King.

So far as any of them knew, the Ritual had only ever once been taken out and invoked. It was something that was so dangerous and so complex that it could only be contemplated in times of the severest danger, when either Tara, the Bright Palace, was threatened, and the sidh honour-bound to come to her aid, or when Tiarna herself was under siege.

It was a gruesome Ritual, the acquiring of Humanish form. It was generally believed that the skins of Humans were cold and leathery, and Inse had heard from the High King’s son, the Crown Prince Maelduin, that the skins made you feel heavy and sluggish. You felt muscles grating and bones crunching inside your skin, said Maelduin, with one of his slanting grins and one of his sudden, whiplash bounds upwards. Maelduin could sit absolutely motionless, drinking in the wisdom of the High King and the Elders; he could melt into the shimmering walls of the Silver Cavern itself if the mood took him, and the elder sidh would nod and smile and say that, after all, the Prince was absorbing the wisdom of his ancestors.

And then, without warning, something would spark his attention, and he would bound forward with one of his sudden pouring movements, and he would call his particular friends to his side, and light would stream over him like a shining cloak, and he would eye the others with his mischievous, brilliant eyes, and say: wasn’t it time they had a raid on the Humanish world, and stole a few Humanish senses? Wasn’t it time they drained the loins of some poor wretch of a Man of his thin, colourless seed? And he would be off, before the others had gathered their wits, darting through the tunnels with the rippling water-light, streaking up and up into the world of Men, sometimes taking them out through the ancient Well of Segais, sometimes taking one of the other routes, so that they might surface on the shores of Ireland’s beautiful, sun-drenched west coast, where the entire sea could look as if it was on fire, and where the gulls swooped and dived at the sidh and the sidh laughed and flew up at them, arrows of pure, turquoise light, with Maelduin at their head, leading them, laughing, and hurling bolts of pure, cool music into the air. Or they would come out at the heart of the Wolfwood, where you could slice through the layers of enchantment, and where you could cup in your hands the slanting rainbow mists of twilight, and where Maelduin would sometimes curl up on a grassy tussock and pour the sidh’s music into the deepening dusk, simply for the pleasure of seeing the woodland world come alive, and the creatures of the Wolfwood come dancing and obedient to his call.

All of which, said the older sidh, was actually very wasteful. The sidh’s music was not something you should squander on reckless fights with seagulls or the luring of frivolous squirrels.

If Maelduin had been on sentry duty at the south gate tonight, it would not have been in the least boring. He might have started up a Chaunt which might have summoned a few minor spells, with whom they could have held a contest of some kind. Or he might have taken a Lure from the oaken chest when the High King was not looking, and played it (Lures were nearly always composed of music, of course), just to see what kind of creatures would come in answer. Or he might dive into one of the crystal lakes in his father’s Palace, and come up streaming with silver droplets, the crystal water clinging to him like hoar frost, holding a Beguilement which he would unroll at their feet, so that they could hear one of the many hundreds of tales about the City of Tiarna and the Palace of Nimfeach, or about the long-ago battles between the sidh and the nimfeach people who were ruled by the cold, merciless Fisher King.

And then one of them, who was nearest the tunnel entrance, suddenly said, ‘There’s a shadow on the wall.’

The shadow was elongated and black, and very furtive indeed. The sidh were at once alert, becoming silent, nearly invisible wisps of blue-green smoke, only their long narrow eyes glinting in the dimness, only a faint iridescent shimmer betraying their presence.

The shadow was creeping nearer. It was a rather horrid loping shadow, as if its owner might be bending over, or as if it might be continuously looking back over its shoulder furtively, in case it was being followed.

The four sidh moved silently, banding together, melting into one for strength. This did not sound like a Human, but Humans were clever and cunning sometimes. It might be a subtle trap to decoy the guards away, so that Armies of Humans could pour down and overcome Aillen mac Midha’s kingdom. Strong sorcery, properly woven and authoritatively used, had been known to weaken the sidh’s powers. It had certainly been known to quench their music, and the sidh were very nearly powerless without their music.

The thought passed swiftly between them: this is no Human, but is it a creature we can use? Can we take its senses and its soul?

The dark shadow was with them now, and they could smell that it was not anything Human.

A Creature of Deep Dark Enchantment …

And then the creature said, in a thick and clotted voice, ‘Good sidhfolk, I am come to offer you the greatest prize in all Ireland.’ And, as the four sidh waited, not moving, not doing anything, the creature said, ‘If you will allow me into your City of Tiarna, and give me audience with the Elven King in his Silver Cavern at Nimfeach’s heart, I will show you the way to take, for your own, the entire Amaranthine race.’

Chapter Six

Cold, pure light poured into the Silver Cavern of the Elven King.

The four sentry sidh had snaked ropes about the dark intruder who had come stealing and sniffing down the watery tunnels into Tiarna; they had bound it with the silken cords spun in the underwater Seirician Caves and then they had drawn it through the pearl and opal-studded City gates, into the walled City and on through the Silvery Caverns to the Palace of Nimfeach.

Aillen mac Midha was seated on the immense carved Throne of the Nimfeach. The Prince, Maelduin, was at his right, for Maelduin would certainly not miss the chance of seeing the prisoner who had tried to infiltrate Tiarna. He might disrupt the Court if he was feeling particularly mischievous, but he was just as likely to listen, and perhaps even proffer some useful suggestions.

Aillen mac Midha had clothed himself in the half-garb of Human form which he assumed for these occasions. It was easier and swifter than the terrible Humanish Ritual; it gave him the semblance of Humanish form and it enabled him to converse with the prisoner in the clumsy, imprecise Humanish speech, assuming that the creature could use Humanish speech …

He was seated cross-legged at the centre of the great Throne of the Nimfeach, stolen from the Fisher King so many centuries ago, and although he had the silhouette of a Human, he would never have walked unnoticed in the Humanish world. There was a cool opalescence about him, and although his features were faintly Humanish, his eyes were huge and opaque. Several of the sidh thought that, like this, in this not-quite-Humanish, not-quite-sidh form, the Elven King was rather sinister. Inse thought it was because you were reminded that His Majesty had the ancient ability to alter his shape, and that there had always been something sinister about creatures who could do that.

The creature caught at the south gate of Tiarna was not especially sinister. It was ugly and repulsive, but nobody was regarding it as sinister. The sentries had pushed it forward until it was standing before the Elven King’s throne. Light fell across it, soft rippling watertight, casting its features and its body into cruel relief. The sidh who had caught it saw and felt for the first time that it was indeed a creature under a deep and terrible enchantment, and shuddered.

Aillen mac Midha did not move, but Maelduin, curled smokily at his right hand, felt a sudden alertness from him, and knew that his father believed that standing before them was a being that trailed with it the malignant cloak of necromancy, and that carried across its repulsive shoulders the terrible burden of a dark curse.

He thought: this creature has come from the Dark Realm, and therefore will have brought its aura of evil with it … It will have dragged its creeping stench of corruption into Tiarna, into our beautiful fragile world that we have so long guarded and that we have fought to bastion against the Dark Realm, and the clumsy brutalities of the Humanish …

The prisoner was taller than most Men would be, although it was not giantish; it was Humanish in shape with the arms and legs of Men. The joints were swollen and fibrous-looking, and it had enormous feet, with the toes webbed, and long-fingered, huge-knuckled hands. Its shoulders were hunched and its back was bent and lumpish and, when it moved, it did so in a lurching, loping fashion, occasionally touching the ground with its hands.

Its head was round and hard and hairless, and it had pale bulging eyes that glittered hungrily as they inspected the Silver Cavern, as if the creature might be saying to itself: oho and aha: here is a pretty little place and there is a nice comfortable Throne. Its cold eyes were set below a jutting brow, giving it a brutish look, and its face was concave at the centre, as if a huge fist might have pushed the features inwards. Beneath the bulging eyes was a snout, with two deep moist black caverns for nostrils; and beneath the snout was a fiat, gash-like mouth. Its skin was not the pale, almost-white colour of the Humans, nor did it have the satiny texture of Humanish skins, which the sidh found attractive. It had a thick, tough hide, leathery and dull and dry.

Repulsive, thought Maelduin from his seat by the Throne. Has it indeed come from out of the Dark Ireland? And he remembered suddenly, one of the oldest and grisliest of all the legends: the immense Tanning Pit of the Dark Lords; the eternal abyss; the smoking Pit into which the Dark Lords cast those who had displeased them, leaving them there until their outer coverings were dried and smoked and until their shapes were unrecognisable. Until they were repulsive and gristly … Until they were Gristlens … I believe that this is a Gristlen, thought Maelduin, intrigued and repelled.

How must it be to walk the world dragging such a pitiful body about with you? What was it originally? Despite himself, Maelduin experienced a twinge of pity for the ugly, bewitched thing. The guard sidh had shackled it; manacles bound its legs and, when it held out its hands, they were clamped in the iron gyves used for Humans.

The Silver Cavern was filled with the cool, ice-blue light of the assembled sidh, and with the flickering watertight that rippled eternally on the Palace walls. Aillen mac Midha sat cross-legged, resting his chin tightly on his hand, his eyes changing colour, becoming narrow and glittering, studying the prisoner unblinkingly. When he spoke, a stir went through the Court, for the sidh were unused to the spoken word, and it was always a shock to hear it. Maelduin wondered, as he always did, how the Humans could bear such a shackled method of communication, and how they understood one another fully with these ugly, restricting sounds.

‘You are unexpectedly come to us, creature,’ said Aillen mac Midha in his tight, silvery voice, and although he used Humanish speech, a trace of the sidh’s own word-picture mind-imagery lingered, so that his words took shape and lay on the air for a while before melting and dissolving into droplets of pure silver.

The creature said, ‘I am come to beg your help, Your Majesty,’ and its voice was as cold and as ugly as its appearance. ‘But in return, I could offer you something which will be of great value.’

‘Why do you seek help here?’ said Aillen mac Midha. ‘Tiarna is heavily guarded and few find their way to us.’ He leaned forward, his eyes glittering. ‘Few choose to find their way to us,’ he said. ‘For to risk capture by the sidh is something most creatures would wish to avoid.’

The Gristlen put its head on one side as if considering its reply. ‘So you still hunt the senses of Men, Aillen mac Midha.’ it said softly, and for the first time there was a calculating intelligence in its eyes. ‘You still drag the Humanish down into the water-caves and tear out their sight or their hearing or their speech or sense of touch.’

‘For our music,’ said Aillen mac Midha with perfect courtesy. ‘If our music is to survive, it must be fed with the living senses of the Humanish.’ He leaned forward, the cool silvery light falling across his half-Human half-sidh features. ‘Our music must never die,’ he said. ‘It is the most precious thing in all Ireland, the music of the sidh.’ He did not say, ‘Without it we are powerless’, but the listening sidh felt the thought frame in his mind.

But the Gristlen, its head on one side, said, still in the same soft voice, ‘I see, Elven King. It is your music that gives you your strength and your impregnable City,’ and Maelduin felt his father become more alert. A tiny breath of disquiet brushed through the Silver Cavern, and several of the sidh glanced uneasily at one another.

Aillen mac Midha regarded the prisoner thoughtfully, and Maelduin caught a flicker of puzzlement from his father, as if the Elven King might have heard something in the prisoner’s reply that he had not expected. But he remained motionless and graceful on the Silver Throne, his head leaning lightly on one cupped hand, and presently he said, with exquisite courtesy, ‘Will you tell us how you are called?’

There was an infinitesimal hesitation. Maelduin thought the other sidh would not have heard it — he was not sure he had heard it himself; but then his father repeated the question, and Maelduin knew his instinct had not misled him. There had been a bats-wing brush of uncertainty in the creature.

And then it said, ‘In the world which I now inhabit, I am called the Gristlen,’ and Maelduin thought: is that why it hesitated? Because it was ashamed? But it must know we would recognise it for what it is, he thought. And then: or does it want us to think it has forgotten its true name?

A ripple of awareness had stirred the listening sidh, and Maelduin knew that they, also, were remembering the legend of the Pit. This creature had dwelled there; for some reason it had been flung into the dry, smoking depths, and it had acquired the terrible carapace of the necromancers’ punishment. Whatever it had been before its exile — Man or Beast or Fish or Bird or Crustacean — it might never regain its true shape …

The Gristlen had moved forward, shuffling its huge webbed feet, dragging the gyves as it did so. The sidh recoiled, for it was painful to hear the heavy, cold iron scraping the silver floor.

‘I could be of service to you, Your Majesty,’ it said, and although it adopted a cringing humility, there was a sneering note in its voice when it addressed the Elven King. Maelduin, motionless except for his eyes which glittered like turquoise fire, thought at once: this creature was never humble! It is not humble now! I think we have to be very wary indeed! And looked at his father, and saw that the Elven King was regarding the Gristlen through narrowed eyes.

The Gristlen was watching them, a calculating expression on its black snouted face. ‘If you will dissolve the enchantment that binds me,’ it said, ‘I could be of service to you.’

‘Say on, Gristlen,’ said the Elven King, his expression remote.

The Gristlen had sidled up to the throne; its pale eyes were glittering and it held out its manacled hands.

‘Once I was beautiful,’ said the Gristlen. ‘Once I was shining and fair and walked abroad and was admired. In my own world, I ruled.’

‘And now,’ said Aillen mac Midha, still in his courteous silver voice, ‘now you are warped and ugly and bound by malignant spells. Now you are an outcast.’

‘Yes.’

‘You offended one of the Dark Lords? That is the customary reason for banishment to the Pit.’

The Gristlen’s lipless mouth twisted, but it did not answer, and after a moment Aillen mac Midha said, ‘Well? What was your transgression?’ and the Gristlen dropped back into its cringing, shambling stance, so that Maelduin felt the flicker of distrust again.

The Gristlen said, in a soft, suddenly wistful voice, ‘Once I dined at the Twelve Tables of the Dark Lords, and once I dwelled in the dark mansions of the Black Ireland. I was feted and respected and my necromancy was sought.’

It stopped, and Aillen mac Midha waited.

‘I was vouchsafed my own realm,’ said the Gristlen, and a remembering greed glittered in its pale eyes. ‘My own realm,’ it said again, and looked round the Silver Cavern. ‘I ruled there for many centuries, and my people rendered me obeisance.’

Again the pause. After a moment, Aillen mac Midha said very softly, ‘You were driven out of your realm.’ It was not quite a question, but the Gristlen said at once, its voice hissing with hatred, ‘You are perceptive, Your Majesty.’

‘It is clear that you were once a creature of power,’ said the Elven King.

‘I lost my realm,’ said the Gristlen, and bowed its head in acknowledgement. ‘I lost it in a brief and bloody war, and after that war was over, I was judged weak and unfit to rule.’ It beat its breast again, and the iron gyves grated. ‘My own kind judged me unfit!’ it cried. ‘That is why they cast me into the Pit.’ It clenched its fists in bitter fury.

‘That is one of the age-old laws of your kind,’ said the Elven King, gravely. ‘To be unable to defend a vouchsafed realm against an intruder, to be unable to keep a land in the grip of black necromancy is regarded as a severe crime by the Dark Lords.’ It studied the Gristlen again. ‘And so you were cast into the Pit,’ he said. ‘For your failure to keep and hold what had been entrusted to you, you were cast into the Pit.’

‘But I escaped,’ said the Gristlen, rubbing its cold webbed hands together and peering round with crafty pleasure at its cleverness. ‘It took many centuries, but at last I climbed out of the Pit and I returned to the world.’ It struck its scaly hide with a webbed hand. ‘And I will regain what was mine!’ it said angrily.

The Elven King said, ‘Are you come here to seek our help? Perhaps to bargain with us?’ And although he did not say, ‘Are you daring to bargain with us?’ every creature in the Silver Cavern heard the words quite clearly.

‘I can pay a fine price,’ said the Gristlen.

Aillen mac Midha said, very slowly, ‘What do you require of us?’ and the dreadful smile stretched the Gristlen’s face again. ‘A Humanish,’ it said. ‘A girl, but a willing girl to lie with. Only that way can I dissolve this accursed carapace, and only then can I regain the realm where once I ruled.’ It stood looking at them, its features evil and cunning. ‘Only then can I take my place at the tables of the Dark Lords once more,’ it whispered.

‘Capture me a Humanish girl,’ it said. ‘For you it is easy. Send your sidh into the world above to bring me back a plump, fair-skinned Humanish female.’ It grinned. ‘And then lure her into my bed with your music.’

Aillen mac Midha did not move. He said, ‘That would dissolve the carapace you have acquired?’

‘Yes. I should take her,’ said the Gristlen, its voice slurred and thick with lust. ‘I should have her in my embrace and I should enter her and I should slake my body on her.’ It reached between its scaly thighs and caressed itself obscenely, and Maelduin saw its withered-looking genitals swell and ripen. ‘A sweet juicy Humanish,’ it said. ‘It is the only way.’ And, looking back at the Elven King, it said with sudden arrogant impatience, ‘Well? You will do it?’

Aillen mac Midha studied the Gristlen for a moment before replying, and then he said with cool, austere politeness, ‘You are unable to do this for yourself?’

‘They flee from me!’ cried the Gristlen, and now there was a note of real anguish in its voice. It made a brief bitter gesture, indicating its monstrous body, and the gyves dragged harshly on the silver floor again. ‘The prettinesses run from me,’ it whispered, and Maelduin felt an unwilling pang of pity.

‘But you could do it with ease,’ said the Gristlen. ‘You have the music that will lure the Humanish into your arms.’ It paused, and Maelduin thought: that is the second time it has referred to the music’s powers.

Aillen mac Midha said, ‘And if we agreed, what would you give us in return?’

‘In return,’ said the Gristlen, ‘I will show you the way through the catacombs beneath the Cadence Tower.

‘I will show you how to get inside the Porphyry Palace and take the entire House of Amaranth Sorcerers.’

It leered round at them, and Maelduin said, ‘But why should we want the Amaranths?’

‘For your music,’ said the Gristlen at once. ‘That is why you take the Humanish. To add life and power to your music.’ It crept nearer to where Maelduin was curled half into the crystal rock, and stood looking up at him from beneath its lowering brow. ‘And think, Crown Prince, only think how rich, how colourful your music would be if it had the Sacred Flame of the Amaranths coursing through it.’

*

The sidh rarely used the sunken dungeons with their cold stone walls and the constant lapping of the ocean at their walls. When they captured a Humanish, they drained him of his senses almost at once and took his soul for their music, flinging the carcass into the ocean where it would surface in the shimmering seas of Ireland’s wild beautiful western coast. They took what had to be taken quickly and cleanly.

But the dungeons were still there: they were fathoms below the Palace; tiny stone cells deep in the ocean’s heart, lit to dim dankness by the rippling green light of the seas. Maelduin and the sidh knew the eerie tales that haunted these dungeons; they knew that the dungeons had been always filled to overflowing by the fearsome Fisher King for his nightly entertainment. They knew how the Fisher King had once presided over a terrible Court in Tiarna, and how he had held grisly firelit feasts when the wretched prisoners would be dragged into the great circular Arena of Light by the nimfeach, to fight the Fomoire. The Fomoire hungered perpetually for Humanish victims and they had ever been allies of the Fisher King.

But if the shades of the Fisher King and his nimfeach walked these dungeons, they walked unseen and they walked unheard. Inse and Maelduin took the Gristlen between them, and thrust it into the deepest and the smallest of the dungeons. It crouched in a corner, its long legs drawn up almost to its chin, hugging itself with its gristly arms. The rippling green light fell across its features, giving it a twisted, sneering look.

‘You will be here until we decide,’ said Maelduin, using the same half-Humanish speech that his father had used, finding it clumsy and imprecise as he always did. ‘Until we decide what to do with you.’

The Gristlen was unresisting. It watched them from beneath its low, brutal brow.

Inse said, ‘There is Humanish food here, and water. It will not be for very long.’

‘You are merciful to your prisoners,’ said the Gristlen jeeringly. ‘I think these dungeons have not always harboured such well cared-for victims.’ It lifted its head to look around. ‘The water dungeons of Tiarna,’ it said, half to itself. ‘A strange place to find myself.’ Something that might have been amusement showed in its eyes as Inse and Maelduin left it.

*

Maelduin did not immediately return to the Silver Cavern. His father would have summoned the Seomhra, the sidh’s governing creatures, and the Crown Prince’s presence would be expected.

But Maelduin paused in Tiarna’s immense, cool, dim library, and stretched out on the banks surrounding the crystal pools, trying to glimpse the submerged annals of the nimfeach that lay beneath the pale water. In the deepest of those clear silken pools, was there something that would help them?

Maelduin did not trust the Gristlen. He thought that, even if they agreed to its request, it would betray them in some way. It would allow them to dissolve its terrible enchantment, but once it stood before them in its natural state — and that could be anything, thought Maelduin — it might turn on them. There had been a moment, no more than the beat of a wing, when it had looked not repulsive and cringing and beaten, but sly and triumphant. Maelduin thought it had been when the creature had said, ‘So it is your music that gives you your strength.’ And its eyes had gleamed, and there had been the fleeting impression of a sharp cruel mind thinking: so that is Tiarna’s secret. That is the source of the sidh’s strength. How very helpful of them to tell me.

The Seomhra had convened in the Arena of Light, and when Maelduin slipped in, Inse was addressing them, questioning the Gristlen’s motives and asking whether they really wanted the House of Amaranth and whether they needed it. The Elven King’s chief advisor, Chimeara, reminded the others that to bring a Humanish to the Gristlen and to render her submissive by using their music would take up a good deal of magical energy. He did not doubt it could be done, said Chimeara, but he questioned whether they truly wanted to expend their beautiful music on such a thing.

‘We use the music for just such means ourselves,’ said Maelduin softly. ‘We capture the Humanish with it.’ He curled smokily at his father’s side. ‘It was for that Lure that we took the long-ago sirens,’ said Maelduin.

‘So that we should have the power to beckon to the Humanish,’ said Aillen mac Midha, and the partly-Humanish eyes of the Elven King met the slanting turquoise eyes of the Crown Prince.

‘Exactly,’ said Maelduin softly.

‘The House of Amaranth,’ said Inse, thoughtfully. ‘It is very tempting.’ He looked at Maelduin, who said, in a cool, silken voice that gave nothing away, ‘Oh yes. Immensely tempting.’

One of the older sidh asked whether they dared risk actually releasing the Gristlen. ‘For we do not know what its true state might be,’ he said, and there was a ripple of agreement.

Aillen mac Midha said, very softly, ‘There is a familiarity to it, I think.’

‘It knew you,’ said Maelduin, suddenly. ‘It said, “So you still tear out the senses of the Humanish.”’

‘Perhaps it is something from the long-ago. There have been many creatures we have vanquished,’ said Aillen mac Midha, his eyes dark and inward-looking. ‘But perhaps it is only that all cursed creatures carry with them the same evil miasma.’ He gave himself a shake, and turned back to the Seomhra to listen, and in his customary courteous fashion asked the younger ones for their opinions. They all knew that other peoples looked for advice and guidance to the Elders of their communities, but the sidh believed that young new ideas and outlooks could frequently be helpful.

The younger sidh distrusted the Gristlen. They were for pouncing on it there and then, and sucking out its horrid soul and its senses, and never mind getting into the Porphyry Palace.

‘But,’ said Maelduin, ‘do we want the soul and the senses of such a creature? Mightn’t it taint our world?’ He moved to a jutting spur of rock so that he was a little higher than the others.

‘It took us hundreds of years to purge Tiarna and the Nimfeach Palace of the soulless greed of the Fisher King,’ said Maelduin, and the sidh listened, entranced, because this was no longer the cool, faintly mischievous Crown Prince; this was the dazzling, passionate being that headed the raids on the Humanish; that hurtled arrow-straight through the dim fastness of the Wolfwood, or skimmed the surface of the sparkling western seas, swooping on victims with soaring delight.

And when Maelduin spoke of the work and the dedication of the years; the decades that had been spent purging the Palace of the Fisher King’s taint, and then imbuing it with their own strong, gentle bewitchments, the sidh nodded, and the younger ones who had been for draining the Gristlen of its soul, proffered their apologies.

‘But,’ said Inse cautiously, ‘what about its offer? What about the souls and the senses of the Amaranths?’

He looked at Maelduin uncertainly, and Maelduin smiled the slanting smile that was uncannily the twin of his father’s, but that had something far more reckless and far more audacious in it. He said, in a cool expressionless tone, ‘But we are sworn to aid the House of Amaranth. As one of Ireland’s Royal Lines, we are bound to the Amaranths. That was the bond made at the very beginning. In times of extreme danger, we are chained by the strictest sorcery to answer their summons if they should send it out.’

‘Humanish sorcery,’ put in Inse.

‘Amaranth sorcery,’ said someone else.

‘It’s nearly the same thing. The Amaranths aren’t precisely Humanish but they’re nearly so.’

‘But,’ said Chimeara, thoughtfully, ‘the Gristlen said it could lead us through the catacombs and into the heart of the Palace.’ He looked around. ‘The Sacred Flame of the Amaranths,’ said Chimeara.

‘But can we in honour take it? Maelduin, can we?’

Maelduin’s eyes were unreadable but there was a glint of colour deep within them.

‘It is not an offer to be lightly turned down,’ he said.

Chapter Seven

It was the most horrific situation the Amaranths could ever recall.

Theodora and Echbel were in the hands of the Lord of Chaos and the Fomoire, they were somewhere beyond the fearsome Gateway in the terrible necromancers Realm.

The Gateway had sealed. They had all heard it happen: they had heard the great thunderous sound of the stone rolling back, and they had stared at one another in helpless dismay.

Laigne had collapsed sobbing, and Great-aunt Fuamnach and one of the younger sorceresses had helped her from the Cavern, back to the Palace.

‘Understandable,’ said the Amaranths, but Andrew saw that they were barely aware of Laigne, and that they were circling the Well, most of them deep in thought, and that it had not occurred to any one of them to leave the Well Cavern or the Cadence Tower, until they had found a way to break into the Dark Ireland. He found himself suddenly liking them very much for this.

Herself of Mugain was watching Rumour, who had been standing lost in thought at the Cavern’s centre. ‘I believe that Rumour has a plan,’ she said presently, and Rumour looked up.

‘Yes, I have.’

‘What’s that?’ Cerball, who had been deep in discussion with the Mugain and Bodb Decht, turned around. ‘Has somebody got a plan? Well I’m very glad to hear that.’

Rumour smiled the catsmile and came to stand at the centre. She does it naturally and effortlessly, thought Andrew. She is so used to being at the centre of everything that she moves there without even noticing.

‘Really, my dears,’ said Rumour, sounding amused, ‘really, it ought to be quite shriekingly obvious to you all what we must do.’

‘What?’

‘It isn’t shriekingly obvious to me …’

Rumour eyed them all, and it was impossible not to know that, although she was as worried as the others, she was beginning to enjoy herself.

‘There is only one thing left for us to do,’ she said. ‘We must summon the sidh.’

*

There was an abrupt silence. And then Cerball said, a bit uncertainly, ‘Are you serious about that, Rumour?’

‘I was never more serious in my life.’

The Mugain, who had been frowning and beetling his brows, cleared his throat portentously and said he was inclined to be in favour. ‘It’s a weighty undertaking, of course,’ he said. ‘My word, it’s a complex thing to do. But it is the obvious thing,’ he added apologetically.

‘Oh yes.’

‘I don’t know why no one else thought of it then —’

‘And the sidh are sworn to come to the aid of any Royal House,’ said Cerball, still sounding as if he might be arguing it out with himself. ‘We all know that.’

‘They’re bound to come to our aid,’ said somebody else. ‘And to that of every Royal House in Ireland. It’s a very ancient spell indeed, that of the Summoning.’

‘I suppose Rumour knows the incantation, does she?’

‘Of course I know it.’

‘No, but really know it? Because it won’t do,’ said Cerball, looking unwontedly severe, ‘it won’t do at all to get it the smallest bit wrong.’

‘I shan’t get it wrong,’ said Rumour with a touch of impatience.

‘Then I suppose, yes, I really suppose we ought to try it.’

The ancient Summoning of the sidh, the powerful bewitchment that Rumour intoned, her hands lifted with the palms uppermost to call down power, was one of the most beautiful things Andrew had ever heard. He thought it would be something he would remember long after he had gone from these strange people, and he thought it would be something he would want to roll up and keep as a precious and immensely valuable experience.

The incantation was filled with gentle, rhythmic music, and with shifting, blurring patterns of fight and colour, and with a soaring, pouring chiaroscuro of bewitchments and enchantry and beguilements. Rumour’s soft husky voice rose and fell, reaching for the cadences with apparent effortlessness, shaping the queer, multi-syllabic words with what seemed to the dazzled Andrew to be supreme ease.

Cool light began to fill up the shadowy Cavern, and Andrew saw that the Amaranths had stepped back and were watching Rumour with mingled respect and admiration. They do not entirely like her because they do not fully understand her, he thought. But they acknowledge her strength. They respect her power and her learning. He realised with surprise that Rumour was probably very learned indeed. Would she not have been a possible successor for the dying Nechtan? he thought, and knew, in the same moment, that it would never have done. She was a gambler, a reckless adventuress. She had made that absurd extravagant gesture to the Lord of Chaos — ‘Take me instead’ — and although it had been courageous and generous, it had also been impetuous.

Rumour was standing alone, the cool fight twisting about her, turning her hair to a streaming cascade of turquoise and silver. Her slender cloaked figure was wreathed in a pouring waterfall of blue and green iridescence. She is beautiful and exotic and utterly pagan, thought Andrew, unable to take his eyes from her. And I believe that if anyone can force open that terrible Gateway, then she can.

Rumour’s voice rose and fell in the incantation, and Andrew felt, very faintly, the stirring of something from a very long way off. Something that thrummed with ancient power, and something that was so soft and cool and so achingly beautiful that it would sear your soul and brand your mind for ever … So that you would follow it into hell and beyond if only it would go on …

A huge anticipation was creeping over the Cavern now, as if every person present could hear and sense and glimpse that something tremendous was approaching …

The sidh, the ancient faery race of Ireland’s ocean city answering the Summoning … Rushing down to the aid of the Royal House of Amaranth …

Andrew drew in a deep breath and waited, torn between fear and delight, his eyes scanning the Cavern, his every nerve stretched, because it would be unbearable to miss a single second. And then, without warning, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, it began to fade. At one minute it was forming, it was taking shape and substance and life, and it was going to be beautiful and powerful and marvellous.

And then it was dying. It was fading and slipping, and there was darkness and a whirling, gaping void. Andrew saw Rumour’s eyes widen with surprise and fear, and he saw the Amaranths look up, startled.

It is going. Somehow she has failed. They all sense it.

Rumour whirled about, and her face was white. ‘They are not answering!’ she said, her voice taut with fear. ‘There is an emptiness …’

‘Try again!’ cried Cerball, and several of the others called, ‘Yes, again, Rumour!’

‘I cannot! It is useless!’ Rumour had moved from the centre of the Chamber. ‘There is nothing there! Can you not hear it? Can you not feel it?’ she cried angrily.

The Mugain said slowly, ‘Are they refusing to answer?’

‘They cannot! They dare not!’

‘They have to answer!’

‘They are bound to aid us, unless —’

‘Unless they themselves are dying,’ said Rumour, and stared at the others with horror.

*

The sidh, the cool faery creatures who had dwelled in Ireland from the very beginning, and who were constrained to aid her Royal Houses, were beyond their reach.

The Amaranths were shocked and horrified. Dawn was streaking the skies as they sat round the long banqueting table in the Porphyry Palace, stunned and appalled, eating the freshly baked bread and the honey and dishes of buttered eggs, but there was plainly no thought of resting. Andrew found himself warming to their doggedness and their unquenchable optimism, and he listened as they began to put forward suggestions, hesitantly at first, and then with more confidence. They drew strength one from another, he thought.

The Mugain, in whom Cerball’s wine had wrought a remarkable upturn in spirits, said they would be sure to find spells in Nechtan’s library which would force open the Gateway and get several of them into the Dark Realm. They had none of them thought of that. Somebody else remembered that there was a Spell of Keys which would unlock all doors, and somebody else suggested the White Stallion of CuChulainn which was said to be able to emerge victorious from all battles. There were Cloaks of Silence and Invisibility as well — Rumour was known to own several of those which might be helpful, and which she might be prevailed upon to loan. Great-aunt Fuamnach, who had helped to put Laigne to bed, but who had re-joined the party in time to partake of a huge breakfast, tartly said that these would be very useful indeed, always supposing that the loaning of them would not cause Rumour any deprivation.

‘My entire wardrobe is at your disposal, dearest Aunt,’ purred Rumour with impeccable courtesy.

Andrew had found himself seated next to Rumour. It flickered on his mind that she had deliberately arranged it, and a sudden delight surged up within him that this exotic and remarkable creature might have wished for his company. This was the closest he had yet been to Rumour, and he studied her covertly, seeing how the scarlet silk clung to her slender, supple body, and seeing that her skin had the faint ivory sheen of the other Amaranths, so that it was as if a flame had been placed behind thin, translucent alabaster. Her eyes were pure glowing violet, set aslant in her face, fringed by long dark lashes, and her long, striated, rippling hair changed from jet black to rich copper bronze, and was threaded with thin silver lace.

He had not, so far, dared to ask what would happen to Theodora and her brother, but even as the question was framing in his mind, Rumour turned her brilliant Amaranth eyes on him and said, ‘Echbel will be caged and fattened, and eventually the Fomoire will flay him and wear his skin.’

‘I see,’ said Andrew, who had already realised this, but who was so horrified to hear it put into fact that he hardly noticed that Rumour had heard his thoughts.

‘As for Theo …’ Rumour paused, and Andrew knew at once that, although the Amaranths were concerned for Echbel, and although they would do all they could to save him, it was Theodora for whom they were really fighting.

‘Theo will be held in the Castle of Infinity by Chaos,’ said Rumour. ‘It is many hours now since he took her, and probably they are still travelling across the Dark Realm. But they will soon be there. Every hour she is in there intensifies the danger.’

‘It would have been better to rescue her before Chaos’s Castle is reached?’ said Andrew.

‘Oh yes. There will be so many menaces,’ said Rumour, frowning. ‘Some we know of, but some we do not. But once she is inside the Castle of Infinity, she will be truly at Chaos’s mercy.’ She cupped her hands about a huge blue bowl of warm, thin mead, her eyes serious and absorbed. ‘Also, it is true what Chaos said; there will be many who will try to take her from him. The Crimson Lady of Almhuin will almost certainly be one.’

‘Yes?’

Rumour sent him a sideways look. ‘It is whispered that the Crimson Lady bathes in the blood of young and beautiful virgins, and of course,’ said Rumour, eyeing Andrew unblinkingly over the rim of the mead bowl, ‘of course, virgins are always a very alluring challenge.’

‘Why does she do that?’

‘It is how she preserves her eternal youth and her rather grim beauty,’ said Rumour. ‘There are other ways to do that, you understand, but the Crimson Lady has dark and depraved hungers, and the spilling of blood serves them. She was once Chaos’s paramour, although it is whispered that there has been a rift between them. But she would certainly want Theo for her slaughterhouse,’ said Rumour, thoughtfully. ‘And there would be others as well as the Crimson Lady.’ She turned her long glowing eyes on him. ‘It may be that war in the Dark Realm is about to break out.’

Andrew said carefully, ‘Because of Theodora?’

‘Yes, for she would be a very great prize. She has a remarkable power essence, Theo,’ said Rumour. ‘Chaos knew that at once, of course. Perhaps he knew it before we did so ourselves. Also, she understands something of the Lost Language of Magis, which the rest of us do not.’

Andrew said, ‘I had not realised — forgive me — that there would be female necromancers,’ and Rumour sent him one of her slant-eyed smiles.

‘Your Order does not account females very highly, I think?’ she said, and Andrew stared at her.

‘There are what we call abbesses,’ he said, rather coldly. ‘Women of immense piety who have forsworn a husband and children.’

‘How admirable,’ said Rumour lightly, and Andrew had the strong impression that she did not regard it as especially admirable, but that she did not regard the gaining of a husband and children particularly admirable either. But she said, ‘There are not so many female necromancers, but there are a few. They are sometimes extremely strong, and nearly always very beautiful, although I believe that some of them allow their hungers to quench their powers.’

Andrew said, with careful courtesy, ‘I have had little dealing with females, madame. My creed does not permit it,’ and Rumour leaned her arms on the table and allowed the silken gown to slide back, and looked into his eyes.

‘Does it not?’ she said, softly. ‘I should like to make you change your mind, Andrew.’ And smiled to herself, because although everything was truly dreadful, it was extraordinarily pleasant to discomfit this serious young man. He would be a celibate, of course, as the Druids were celibates, because it was part of this new, stark religion. I could have fun with this one, thought Rumour, with sudden mischief. There is something remarkably alluring about celibacy. There is something even more alluring about an untried lover, and I would stake my own Castle that this one is untried.

Andrew, who had eaten and drunk sparsely, sat back and studied the rest of the company.

Am I truly here, in the great Amaranth Palace, in company with creatures who profess to be able to harness magic? And am I really discussing the Realm of the necromancers with this strange exotic creature at my side? Am I eating breakfast with them and talking about enchantments and half-Human creatures, and dark evil spells, and believing in them? Am I believing in any of this?

And then, at a level of his mind that he hardly dared acknowledge existed: and am I feeling the stirrings of desire for this remarkable creature who may not be entirely Human?

He had embraced celibacy willingly, seeing it as something pure and strong; something that would lead to the greater purification of the soul. But his creed also demanded self-honesty, and now, faced with the mischievous, dazzling Rumour, he thought: but did I accept that particular vow only because I did not know what I was forswearing? Is it only that I have never encountered anyone quite like her? Is it simply the strange, not-quite-Human beauty, and the flame beneath the ivory … ? And the rippling hair, tawny and copper, that would pour over her shoulders and cover almost her entire body like a silken cloak … ?

He shifted uneasily in his chair. He would quench the desire as he had quenched other desires, and he would bank down this need as he had banked down other needs. It is no different, no more difficult than resisting rich food, potent wine. I can resist this one, as I have resisted others.

At the head of the table, Cerball had risen to his feet and was regarding his family solemnly. An instant silence fell on the Amaranths, and they turned towards him, waiting.

Cerball said, ‘As the direct descendant of our Ruler, I stand in his place until the Succession Ritual has been chanted.’ He spoke unassumingly and rather humbly, and Andrew understood that there had probably never been any question of Cerball succeeding Nechtan, and that probably Cerball himself did not want to. But someone had to take the lead, and someone had to stand in Nechtan’s place, and for the moment that someone had to be Cerball, Nechtan’s grandson.

Cerball said, ‘Since the sidh are beyond our reach, it seems that we must needs embark on a quest of immense importance and extreme danger —’

‘The forcing open of a Gateway into the Dark Realm,’ put in the Mugain, who would not have dreamed of usurping anybody’s temporary authority, but who liked to make everything clear.

‘Yes, since we are to attempt that, it would be appropriate to first invoke the Ritual of the Benison,’ said Cerball. ‘It would strengthen our powers.’ He looked down the table, his face solemn. ‘And so we will drink the wine and break the bread and call down the Benison of the Dagda,’ said Cerball, and as if they had been given a command, the Amaranths rose to their feet.

Andrew rose with them from instinctive courtesy, and stood quietly in his place. But his mind had been thrown into turmoil. When Cerball said, ‘We must invoke the Ritual of the Benison. We must drink the wine and break the bread’, Andrew had felt a sharp jolt of shock beneath his ribcage.

The Ritual of the Benison? And — drink the wine and break the bread? What am I about to see?

Cerball lifted his hands upwards and the Amaranths brought their palms together and bowed their heads. Andrew, staring, thought: but that is the Christian attitude of prayer. That is exactly the Christian attitude of prayer.

In the same unassuming tones, Cerball said, ‘Dagda, All-Father, we call on you to guard us from the Destroying Darkness that passes over our thresholds.’ He waited, and the Amaranths murmured a soft response.

‘Guard us from the passing over of the Destroying Darkness.’

Andrew was no longer aware of his surroundings, or of the presence of Rumour at his side. With Cerball’s words, the tumult had begun again, and he felt it swoop and darken about his head.

The passing over of the Destroying Darkness … The passing over … The Passover, thought Andrew, torn between shock and creeping horror. The ancient, honourable feast, named for the exodus, the passing over of the destroying angel of the thresholds of the Israelites … It cannot be that. But the words are almost exact. Just as the prayer attitude is almost exact.

Cerball was saying, ‘We render thanks, Dagda, for deliverance from the Darkness,’ and again, there was the soft murmur from the Amaranths.

‘Dagda, hear our plea,’ said Cerball, his voice low and serious.

‘Hear our plea and let our powers be strengthened.’

‘Grant, we implore you, the might of your Staff of Life and Death.’

‘Let our strengths be unwavering.’

‘Let shine the light of your Temple about us, and let pour forth the power of your Staff.’

‘Let our purpose be strong.’

Cerball paused, and then went on, ‘And, if among us here present there be any creature with evil in its heart or its soul, or if we have done anything to offend the pure Flame of the Dawn Sorcerers which is our inheritance and our vouchsafed power, let that be known now.’

Again, the response: ‘Let not the evil or the wicked or the maliced-minded come to this Table.’

This Table, thought Andrew. This Table where they have broken bread and drunk wine. Where they have invoked the help of some omnipotent figure … The Father-God …

There was a pause as if the Amaranths were listening for the presence of evil, and Andrew felt the intense concentration of Rumour at his side.

And then came the response.

‘For this is the Table of the Dagda where we have eaten the Bread of Life and drunk from the Wine of Purity and we do so in remembrance of the powerful Son of the Gods who once walked in the world of Men.’

Cerball lifted his own wine chalice and said, ‘We drink in remembrance of the Samildanach, who is the Man of Each and Every Art who will come again into Ireland and free her from the Dark Powers.’

He lifted his chalice to his lips, and the Amaranths copied him.

Andrew hesitated, and then reached for his own wine chalice. But as he sipped the strong, rich wine, his mind was in a ferment. He thought: how old is this ceremony? And then, terribly: But how old are the ceremonies of my people? How old is the ceremony of the Blessing, the Eucharist? When did the Last Supper really take place? And who truly presided over it?

With the sudden seething turmoil, the ancient wise words of the early mission-monks, Augustine and Justus and Paulinus, slid unprompted into his mind:

‘For if we put the new wine into the old casks, after a time, the new wine will smell of the cask …’

They adapted the pagan beliefs and the pagan rituals, thought Andrew, frantically. We knew that they did. So that the people, the peasants and the pagans and the simple, unschooled minds could be converted more easily.

Yes, but what about that last prayer — The Samildanach who will come again into Ireland and free her from the Dark Powers …

He thought he ought to have expected it. He ought to have known that fragments of Christianity would have reached pagan Ireland long since. That those fragments would have been absorbed into Celtic heathenism. They are believers without even being aware of it, he thought.

And then a tiny, treacherous voice said inside his head: but supposing it is the other way round? Supposing the New Learning, the marvellous, pure, clear Teachings, and the Gospels, are simply a new version of Celtic paganism? Paganism retold … Supposing it is we who are being given the new wine in an old cask?

Cerball had set down the wine chalice and had lifted both his hands. He said, The Benison of the Father-God, the Dagda, is all about us.’

‘And with our quest.’

There was a further moment of silence, and then the Amaranths lifted their heads again, and there was a feeling of: now we can begin! Now we are armoured!

They went in silent procession down to the ancient Sorcery Chambers.

*

Cerball and the Mugain had invited Andrew to accompany them down to the Sorcery Chambers. ‘You would be most welcome,’ said Cerball, who had rather taken to Andrew.

‘I shall be unable to further your work,’ said Andrew, hesitating, but the Mugain, who had formed a very favourable opinion of Andrew’s intelligence, said they needed all the wise heads they could get.

‘You’ll perhaps have found our rituals interesting?’ he said, and Andrew said in an expressionless voice, ‘Extremely interesting.’

The Purple Hour of twilight was stealing through the Palace as they descended to the Sorcery Chambers: ‘An hour which is itself laden with magic,’ Cerball had said seriously. ‘It may help to strengthen our endeavours.’

Andrew had inclined his head, half believing, half not, but deep within his mind he was uneasily aware that Theodora had been inside the Dark Realm for more than a day already; she might already be in the bowels of the Castle of Infinity. The internal battle that Rumour had spoken of: the fight between the necromancers to gain possession of the Amaranth Princess, might already be raging. It was a fearsome thought. Andrew had not been able to forget the way that Theodora had run to him and how she had trusted him, and how he had held her in the Cadence Tower. To one unused to children, or to dependency from any other living soul, Theodora’s instant and complete trust had been a remarkable experience.

He could not forget, either, that when the Lord of Chaos had held out his hands, Theodora had gone instantly into them.

‘Come unto me, little children, for mine is the kingdom …’

It was something else he dared not explore too deeply.

Walking quietly behind the procession, Andrew felt himself falling deeper into the sensuous, twilit, pagan world of these people, and for a moment, panic touched his mind. But I cannot stop now! he thought in silent anguish. I cannot pull back now. And this is perhaps the path I must take. Was it? Yes, for if the Black Monk still lived, what more natural than that he would be within the Dark Realm itself? If everything I ever heard about him is true, thought Andrew, then he would surely have been drawn into the dark allure of Chaos and his world.

He was immensely interested in the great, silver-doored Chambers below the Porphyry Palace, and listened carefully when the Mugain explained that he must remain distanced from the Looms themselves.

‘The heat,’ said the Mugain seriously, ‘and the power. Dear me, once the Looms begin to spin, the power is so immense that you could be blasted from the Palace!’ He eyed Andrew anxiously.

‘I understand,’ said Andrew. ‘I shall remain by the door.’ The Mugain went off to tell Cerball that you had to say one thing for this new religion: at least it taught its people obedience.

The great Sorcery Chamber of the Amaranths was one of the most remarkable sights Andrew had ever seen. He stood just inside the great Silver Door with the deeply etched emblems, his eyes adjusting to the light, his senses reeling.

It was darker than he had expected, rather as if the curtain of night that had fallen outside had somehow slid here as well. Purple and silver shadows lay everywhere, and there was a huge sense of tranquillity, as if the decades and the centuries of study and concentrated thought might have permeated the stones and the bricks. There was the flickering of firelight from somewhere, and as Andrew’s eyes adjusted, he saw that the Sorcery Chambers were long, rather narrow rooms, several chambers opening out of one another, linked by low stone archways, with flaring wall-sconces of pure soft silver. The Looms stood down the sides: huge rearing columns of silver and black, with silken glinting skeins of light weaving in and out of their structures. Formidable, thought Andrew, staring up at them. And also a little frightening.

He remained quietly watching, seeing the sorcerers move in and out of the Looms; seeing that the firelight came from the far end of the Chamber, from a huge brick structure that looked like a kiln that had been built into the wall. Within it was a leaping fire, burning with red and gold flames, giving out a sharp, pungent scent. Andrew thought: is it applewood? Or fruitwood of some kind? And then was not sure that it was the scent of burning wood at all. Was it the scent of burning magic? But I don’t believe in magic! he cried silently.

As the sorcerers moved to the Looms, the thin, silken heat increased, and Andrew saw that the sorcerers had changed; subtly and quietly and definitely they had changed.

How? What had happened to make them different?

They were all wearing the plain dark cloaks they had worn to enter the Cadence Tower, but these did not make them look insignificant or drab. To Andrew’s eyes, the Amaranths seemed to glow from some inner flame, and their eyes were lit from behind, as if flames had leapt up inside them. He understood that, in donning the cloaks, they had donned the mantles of their calling, and as he leaned forward, he saw that deep within the eyes of each one were tiny twin flames, glittering minuscule tongues of fire, twisting and spiralling.

The Power Essence, the Sacred Flame of the Dawn Sorcerers, about which the Amaranths had spoken during supper? Or something stronger? (The fire of the Holy Spirit entering the Apostles … ? No!)

And then Rumour touched the Looms nearest to him, and Andrew forgot about everything else.

Chapter Eight

The light from the rippling green water moved softly across Maelduin’s slender, shining form as he darted along the water tunnels of Tiarna, to the sunken dungeons beneath the Palace.

He felt the dappled, gently moving light pour about him, and although he was very used to it, it had never lost its power to enchant him.

Beautiful. My city. I am at home here, he thought. This is my place and this is where I belong. He would spend hours upon hours, unmissed by the others, unlooked-for by them, roaming these closed-in tunnels, with the cool green ocean-light, occasionally hearing the dark, cold echoes of the nimfeach, who had created these Caves and this City at the dawn of time, and who had left a bequest of evil which the sidh, over the centuries, had filtered and polished, until there was no evil, only glowing light and endless music, and shining, soft beauty.

Maelduin could hear the echoes and he could feel them, and he had never feared them.

Until now.

Since the capture of the Gristlen he had felt a stirring of unease; a feeling that something was smearing a sticky, viscous trail through Tiarna. He had not been able to forget how the Gristlen’s eyes had darted slyly back and forth, as if it was assessing the sidh, and he had not been able to forget, either, the sudden cunning alertness when Aillen mac Midha had made that reference to the sidh’s strength being in the music.

Now, approaching the Gristlen’s dungeon, he felt a ruffle of fear and a prickling warning. Something is wrong …

He slowed his pace, melting into the rock face of the tunnel, and waited.

Yes, I am right … There is something here that threatens and menaces …

He moved on, scanning every crevice and every sliver of stone and rock, his every sense alive and alert. Beneath him was the thick bone-dust of centuries; the soft powdery particles of Humanish victims. Maelduin looked down and icy fingers closed about him.

In the thick, pale bone-dust were footprints. The marks of some creature’s feet or paws or hoofs. Footprints.

Then something has walked these tunnels …

The sidh did not walk; they did not need to. They flew or they simply darted through the air, arrows of blue-green light. Sometimes they swam. But they did not leave footprints.

The footprints might be from the journey down here to bring the Gristlen into the deep, dank dungeons. Maelduin stayed where he was, considering this. Were they? He half closed his eyes, and recalled how he and Inse had brought the Gristlen down here. They had carried it between them to the dungeons, disliking handling it, but doing so firmly and steadily. Its jointed webbed feet had not touched the ground. Then these prints could not belong to the Gristlen, because no creature imprisoned down here had ever escaped. These were the Fisher King’s own dungeons and he had made them impregnable.

Could it be the Gristlen? Had it somehow found or forced a way out of the sunken dungeons? Maelduin stayed where he was, considering, feeling, as he always felt, the ancient agonies of the long-ago Fisher King’s prisoners, experiencing the dreadful, helpless despair that had soaked into the cold stones. A terrible emotion, despair. A giving up of all hope, a turning away from light and life.

He was framing the thought that it was even bleaker than usual down here, when he became aware that the light was changing; it was dimming, becoming colder, danker. There was a greasy look to it.

Something has happened … Something is happening … I was right …

He frowned and shook his head, because he knew, quite suddenly, that something had happened and something was continuing to happen. There had been one moment when everything was normal and ordinary and safe, and when Tiarna and the Palace of Nimfeach was secure. And then there had been another moment when evil — something ancient and hungry — had swooped in and swooped down, and Tiarna had become very unsafe indeed.

Something has come into Tiarna that is cold and menacing and more threatening than anything we have ever known …

And then he thought: no! No — not something coming in … SOMETHING GOING OUT …

Something had gone from Tiarna, something magical and strong and precious.

Maelduin poured forward, a shower of turquoise smoke, and saw that his earlier suspicions had been right. The door of the Gristlen’s dungeon stood open.

It had done what no other creature had ever done.

It had escaped from the Fisher King’s dungeons.

*

The silver light that had once suffused the entire realm of Tiarna and that had its centre in the great Silver Cavern of the Elven King, was cold and dull. As Maelduin entered the Cavern, he saw that the sidh had already gathered, huddling together, fear in their eyes. He felt, as if it was a physical blow, their anguish and their terror gust outwards.

Something is happening to our city … What has come amongst us … ? And, from several of the more perceptive ones: what has been taken from us?

Maelduin thought: yes, they feel it. Of course they do.

He moved forward, seeing them fall back, hearing the ripple of trust from them. The Prince … He will know what to do …

But I don’t know, thought Maelduin in sudden anguish. I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know what has happened.

But he moved with sureness, until he was standing at the centre of the Silver Cavern, facing the great Throne of his father.

And then he did know, and sick dread closed about him.

The Elven King was lying at the exact centre of the dais, still clad in the half-Human garb he had adopted to speak with the Gristlen.

His hands were crossed on his breast, the slender, beautiful fingers twined. But the opaque eyes were closed, and there was a cold, marble pallor to his skin.

Maelduin moved forward, his eyes on his father’s still form, and felt the others become silent and motionless. No ripple of thought-imagery reached him, and he knew that the sidh were too frightened and too stunned to surround him with their presence.

I believe my father is dead, he thought. The Elvin King, the near immortal Aillen mac Midha is dead.

I have no idea what to do … I have no knowledge of what is called death. I think that none of us has any knowledge of it …

But the King was not quite dead. As Maelduin approached, he saw that the folded wings still moved, as if a creature beneath was breathing, lightly and sweetly; and when he touched his father’s cheek, a tiny spiral of warmth reached him.

Not dead! He is not dead!

Not yet, my son … It came as faintly and as intransigent as the rippling water-light on Tiarna’s walls and, as it did so, the sidh stirred uneasily.

Not dead yet, my people …

There was the tiniest of movements from the still shuttered features, and Maelduin stood waiting, willing his father to wake and be with them; tensing every nerve-ending.

For a terrible moment there was a silence so immense and a stillness so complete and an emptiness so vast that Maelduin thought his father had died as they watched.

And then it came again, as gently and as dimly as a breath of wind in the world above them.

The creature has taken our soul and our core …

Maelduin felt the sidh ripple into that fear again, but he stayed where he was, the cold horror engulfing him.

Our soul and our core.

Our music …

The Gristlen has stolen our music, thought Maelduin, and with the thought came bewilderment, for how had the creature known what to do and how had it known where the sidh’s precious enchantments were stored? How had it penetrated to the deepest of the crystal pools so unerringly to snatch up the cool, beautiful music?

Somehow it did it, thought Maelduin. Somehow it found its way through the labyrinth of tunnels and caves into the world above.

There was no time to wonder how or why or when.

Their music had gone, and they were therefore surely doomed.

Chapter Nine

Rumour thought that matters were beginning to go a little better. Everyone was working quietly and intently at the Looms, and Cerball had gone round distributing Chronicles from Nechtan’s library where they were wanted, trying to keep careful notes of everything everyone was doing. As the Mugain had said, they did not want to find that four of them had all been working independently on the same enchantment.

Rumour had decided to attempt the summoning of the White Stallion of CuChulainn, the great, mystical, winged horse that could pour itself and its riders through the night sky, and slice through evil as cleanly as a razor through silk. It was an extremely difficult, complex invocation, and Rumour thought it was many centuries since anyone had attempted it. The incantations were rather long, but they were very beautiful, and if they worked, it would be immensely worthwhile.

She had already woven the threads of light and the pouring fire of dawn, and as soon as they had melded and cooled slightly, she would begin the first of the twenty-seven incantations. Nine times three, one of the strongest of all numbers. Once all three of the stanzas were chanted and the incantation complete, there would be the ancient Beckoning to the Fire Stables, where the White Stallion dwelled.

Good! thought Rumour, standing back from the Loom, letting the light threads and the fire meld, seeing how they were running smoothly together. Yes, the spell could be left to cool.

She was not exactly fatigued, because the weaving of spells generated its own marvellous energy. Normally when Rumour was spinning something new or altering something already created, she was crackling with enthusiasm and brimful of such energy that she could work for days without sleeping or resting.

But there was something — perhaps not fatigue precisely, but a dragging coldness, a dank, insidious chill. Heartcold. Bone-cold. As if I shall never be warm again.

If she had not known better, she would almost have thought it to be the insidious cold of necromancy. Which was patently absurd. Cerball had pronounced the incantation of the Repudiation very fervently indeed over the wine, because they dared not have anything in the Sorcery Chambers that smelt of necromancy if they were to reach Theodora. And the response of, ‘Let not the evil or the wicked or the maliced-minded come to this Table’ had been particularly strong, Rumour had marked it at the time. It was an immensely old and fearsomely powerful conjuration and Rumour thought that it would have shrivelled the smallest thread of anything tinged with darkness.

But for all that there was something extremely dark very near to them.

Rumour looked round the Sorcery Chamber, opening her mind to its fullest extent. Something dark and foul and leathery. Something that crept and lurked and peered slyly as it came. Cold horror touched Rumour’s skin. Whatever it was, it was not quite with them, but it was very near. Perhaps it was stealing through the deserted halls of the Porphyry Palace. Perhaps it was standing just outside the door, listening and rubbing its hands together and grinning.

There was a scrabbling sound from the other side of the Silver Door, and Rumour turned towards it at once, cold horror prickling her skin.

The Silver Door was opening slowly, inch by stealthy inch. Something was standing behind it, pushing it furtively ajar, as if whoever or whatever stood there was hoping to creep in and conceal itself somewhere. As Rumour stared, black reaching fingers appeared curled around the edge, webbed and tough and leathery.

Impatient anger surged up in Rumour, for how dared something creeping and sly come prowling down into the Sorcery Chambers like this, and how dare it peer in at them and try to steal into their midst? She hurled a spear of light at the door, and saw it splinter into dozens of tiny, sizzling cascades.

There was a howl of anger and frustration, and the door swung back of its own accord.

Framed there, its evil face dark with malignant glee, was Theodora’s pitiful, repulsive monster.

The Gristlen.

*

Cerball had felt the creeping coldness at approximately the same time as Rumour and, like Rumour, had looked round to see where it might be coming from. He had been overseeing matters generally, rather than weaving anything on his own account, and he had been worriedly watching the Black HeartStealers, who seemed to be working on something rather nasty. They did not want any necromancy creeping in. They did not really want the Black HeartStealers there either, and Cerball had been trying to discover how that branch of the family had got in. Somebody had said that they had been brought along by the Arca Dubhs who were apt to make undesirable alliances, and Cerball had been wondering, should he have a word with the Mugain about it?

At one minute it had seemed that there was nothing evil and nothing malignant in the Chamber, and everyone was working absorbedly and seriously. And then the next minute it was there, slam! a cold dark wash of necromantic power that hit you like a smack in the face and took away your breath with its suddenness.

As Rumour hurled the furious bolt of fiery light, the sorcerers turned as one, and an abrupt silence fell on the Looms’ Chamber.

The Gristlen moved forward, and a myriad of colours from the half-created enchantments fell across its snouted face. Dark, thought Rumour, shivering and drawing the Sorcery Mande more closely about her. This is an ancient dark thing. It is soaked in old, old evil.

Cupped in the Gristlen’s huge, horny hands was something small and light and delicate: something that shone with gentle, prismatic incandescence.

Cerball started to speak but Rumour cut sharply across him. ‘What is that you have there, filth?’

The Gristlen leered and held out its hands. Blue-green brilliance, cool and darting, trickled over its fingers and ran down its wizened skin, and Andrew, watching quietly, thought there was something obscene about such fragile loveliness spilling its turquoise and sapphire radiance over the ugly, warped body of this creature.

Rumour said again, ‘What is it?’ and her voice was sharpened with anger and impatience.

‘The sidh’s enchanted music,’ said the Gristlen. ‘I took it from Tiarna. I stole their essence and their life-force and now they are all dying.’ Throwing back its head, it bellowed its terrible triumph.

*

The music was a shifting, blurring kaleidoscope of rainbow colours and pouring crystal light and beckoning promise.

And it has an allure, thought Andrew. The music beckons and it sings and it is the most beautiful thing I have ever encountered. A man would be hard-pressed to resist a temptation of that strength.

It spun its soft, beckoning lures about the Chamber, so that the sorcerers stood momentarily transfixed, caught in its seductive strands …

Listen to me, creatures of the Amaranthine House, and you will never wish to listen to anything in the world ever again … Follow me, sorcerers, and never once look back, and you will not care if you are led into Hell and beyond …

There was the faint rippling of sound again, still distant, still barely recognisable, but light and silvery and mocking. Andrew thought: oh yes, I would follow that, I would not care whither it led me, so long as it would go on … Did he encounter this, the Black Monk? And did it lead him into dark and terrible byways and evil paths? I think I would not blame him so very much if that is what happened, thought Andrew, his senses spinning, his mind awash with the delight and the soft, sensuous pull of the music.

Rumour strode to the centre of the chamber and stood before the Gristlen. The music’s radiance touched her face and her hair, so that for a moment she was bathed in the light.

The Gristlen’s face twisted in a satisfied snarl, and it flung out its hands, the sidh’s music still clutched in its long-jointed fingers, thrusting it at Rumour.

‘Prettiness,’ it said, its voice so cracked and ugly with its desire that Andrew shuddered. ‘The prettiness must answer the music,’ said the Gristlen, edging closer to Rumour. ‘I stole the music for you,’ it said, and now there was such a terrible travesty of a lover’s persuasion in its tone that Andrew felt his stomach twist with pity for the dreadful, warped thing. ‘I took it for you so that you would look on me with favour,’ said the Gristlen, its eyes beseeching.

Rumour had thrown her hands up to shield her eyes from the music’s glow, and the Gristlen edged closer. ‘Such a prettiness,’ it crooned in its terrible voice. ‘So easy to do what it tells.’ It half crouched in front of her, straddling its thighs, and to Andrew’s horror, the shrunken, leathery genitals between its legs began to ripen and swell. ‘Love me!’ it said, and reached out for her.

Rumour raised her left hand and flung sizzling, white-hot light spears into the Gristlen’s face. ‘Evil filth!’ she cried. ‘How dare you touch me! How dare you approach me!’

The Gristlen was yelping with fear and pain. It had fallen back the instant the furious light touched it, screaming and tearing at its scorched face. The music slipped from its hands and Rumour tore the Sorcery Mantle from her shoulders and flung it over the beautiful, eerie enchantment. The elusive light vanished instantly, and the music faded with a tiny, gasping breath as if something precious and vulnerable had been smothered. An aching desolation crept into the Chamber.

Rumour was facing the Gristlen, with bitter anger blazing in her eyes. It cowered against the wall, pawing at the scorch-marks where Rumour’s furious fire had seared it; the stench of its burned hide filled the Sorcery Chamber. But its pale, bulging eyes glittered, and its snout-like face was twisted in a mixture of fear and angry spite. When it spoke, the power in its tone made Andrew flinch.

‘One day you will pay for that, BitchHuman,’ said the Gristlen, and it was quite suddenly no longer a cringing, pitiful thing, but evil and powerful and thrumming with menace. It reared up to its full height, no longer a crouching, hunchbacked distortion, but giantish and menacing. It towered over them, its elongated shadow falling across the Sorcery Chamber, and several of the younger Amaranths flinched. ‘One day you will answer the music’s lure, Amaranth sorceress,’ screamed the Gristlen. ‘And in a way that will surprise you very much.’ It looked round the firelit Sorcery Chamber with cold hatred. ‘One day you will all pay,’ it said.

‘Empty threats,’ said the Mugain briskly. ‘What are you doing here, creature? Why have you returned?’

‘You do not make me welcome?’ sneered the Gristlen. ‘No, I see you do not. I am an outcast and an exile. I am welcome nowhere. Even with that —’ it flung a pointing finger to the sidh’s music — ‘even when I bring you that, you shrink from me and twitch aside the hems of your cloaks.’ It lurched to the centre of the Chamber with its ungainly, lumpish gait and stood there, glaring malevolently at them, its breath harsh and rasping. But after a moment it seemed to shrink and to hunch itself into its former huddled stance, and when it spoke, it was again the cringing, whining voice, as if its earlier flare of anger had slipped out in error. It is trying to regain its earlier humble stance, thought Rumour, staring. It is trying to make us believe that it poses no threat and it is saying, Look at me, I am ugly and pitiful and I could not harm you.

But it could! thought Rumour. It is a foul, loathsome creature, soaked in terrible evil and immense ancient power. And it is far cleverer than it appears.

‘I am a cursed thing,’ said the Gristlen, holding out its hands in entreaty, and Rumour knew she had been right. ‘I am repulsive,’ it said. ‘Unless I can slough off the marks of the Dark Lords’ curse, I must drag this loathsome body across the world for ever.’ It looked round at them. ‘That is why I took the music,’ it said.

‘You are as mad as you are evil,’ said Rumour coldly. ‘I should never accept your repulsive embrace. Cerball, why have we not flung this filth into the dungeons by now? Or are we to stand discussing its future until it escapes us again?’

‘Yes, it must be imprisoned, of course.’ Cerball did not know what he had been thinking of. He gestured to several of the apprentices, who would probably like to try out their newly acquired knowledge, and was pleased to see that they stepped forward at once; weaving a thin, snaking chain that caught and held the Gristlen, and hauling it off to the Palace dungeons. The Mugain murmured in an aside that wasn’t it altogether grand to see the youngsters so efficient and obedient?

Cerball watched them go, and turned back to find out what they were going to be doing with the sidh’s music. ‘Because a stolen enchantment is of no use to us,’ he said. And then stopped.

The Mugain said, ‘Are we so sure of that?’

‘Could the sidh’s music get us into the Dark Ireland?’ asked Bodb Decht.

‘Under the right circumstances,’ said the Mugain, and from the fire wall, Rumour turned back to listen.

Great-aunt Fuamnach said, ‘It might get somebody into the Dark Ireland,’ and a sudden silence fell. Andrew, listening, felt the stir go through them and knew they were remembering something.

And then Rumour said, very softly, ‘The sidh’s music and the Samildanach …’ and several people frowned, but no one spoke.

‘It’s a very old belief,’ said Cerball, at length. ‘I don’t think we could rely on it.’ He looked across at Andrew and said, ‘Good sir, you are learned and a traveller. What do you think?’ Andrew said carefully, ‘I have not heard the legend. I only know of the … the being you refer to from your earlier Ritual.’ And thought: but now I am about to hear more, and I am not at all sure that I want to.

‘It’s probably not that well known a legend, of course,’ said Cerball, rather apologetically, as if it might be the Amaranths’ fault that Andrew had not heard of it. ‘It’s so old that I don’t know if anyone believes it anymore.’

Rumour said softly, ‘I believe in it.’

‘So do I,’ said several other voices.

‘The Samildanach,’ said Rumour, moving forward, her eyes on Andrew, her voice caressing the strange Gael syllables. ‘The Man of Each and Every Art, who will come into Ireland quietly and humbly, but before whom all doors will open.’

Andrew said carefully, ‘My own religion teaches a very similar belief. The One who will come into the world of Men and save them from eternal damnation —’

‘But,’ said Cerball, ‘the Samildanach is a Human. In all the stories, he’s a Human.’

‘Yes,’ said Rumour. ‘He is a Human. Precisely.’

There was a sudden intense silence, and every head turned to look at Andrew.

Chapter Ten

The Man of Each and Every Art, who will come quietly and humbly to the world of Men, and defeat the Dark Lords …

I could wish I had not been told that, thought Andrew. Or, if I had been told it, I could wish I had not seen beneath it and beyond it.

The Saviour who will be born to the House of David, and who will live humbly and obscurely, but whose death will free Mankind …

Is the story of our Saviour simply a newer version of the Samildanach … ? An echo, a rewritten legend … Did that gentle Nazarene carpenter never really exist, and was the world turned upside down, and were men sent to their death in agony only for a palimpsest — new writing on an old manuscript … ?

He did not quite believe it. He thought he dared not believe it. And yet so far was he from trying to argue against it, that he was listening to their beliefs and believing in their sorcery. Little by little, he was stepping deeper into the strange, twilit world of Ireland’s paganism. And discovering, along the way, that that paganism was not so far removed from the very beliefs the monks had travelled to Ireland to preach.

The Amaranths would ask him to go through the Gateway into the Dark Realm, of course. The sidh’s music in the hands of a Human. Powerful and unstoppable. And overshadowing it all, that eerily familiar legend. The Samildanach … Could I do it? Would it be arrogant of me to think I could don, even briefly, the mantle of the Samildanach? Would it help anyone? But the stolen music should certainly be returned, he thought.

But it was only when Cerball said, ‘We have no means of knowing what the Gateway is like and we have no means of knowing the creatures that guard it,’ that the real decision was made for Andrew.

He said, ‘Guardians?’ and Cerball said that there were several.

‘Although they do say,’ put in the Mugain, ‘that the most dangerous is the Black Monk of Torach.’

A stinging awareness lashed Andrew’s mind, and with it a surging exultation. Found! he thought. I have found him! And: so I was right! He did succumb to the lure of the Dark Realm, and he did travel down those evil byways!

‘The Black Monk is probably in some kind of servitude to the Dark Lords,’ said the Mugain, who had just remembered that the Monk might well be one of Andrew’s own strange kind, and who would not for worlds have dealt an insult to this quiet, rather austere young man. ‘But the story is that he prowls the boundaries of the Dark Realm, between their world and ours. What some people call the hinterlands.’

‘I understand.’

‘If he’s still there he’ll need to be sidestepped,’ said Cerball, frowning.

‘He would, perhaps, try to prevent anyone from entering?’ said Andrew, carefully.

‘Yes. And if he is held in bondage to the Dark Lords, he is probably constrained to take victims for them. But,’ went on Cerball, ‘we don’t really know.’

‘The music should protect you from him,’ said Bodb Decht, a bit doubtfully.

‘Oh yes. Although of course,’ said Cerball, ‘we don’t know what the Gateway will be like.’

‘That’s assuming he can find it in the first place.’

‘Well, I meant that.’

‘A rolling-back of an immense boulder, I always thought,’ said Rumour, half to herself, and Andrew glanced at her.

‘There may not even be a Gateway at all,’ said the Mugain. ‘Andrew may simply pass from one world to the next.’

‘But,’ said Andrew, with gentle irony, ‘the road into the Dark Realm, whatever it looks like, will be broad and straight and easy to travel.’

‘Why?’ The Amaranths looked at him in puzzlement, and Andrew smiled.

‘It is a belief of my people,’ he said, ‘that the road to the dark underworld — any dark underworld — is an easy one. It is only the road to the righteous and the sinless life that is narrow and hard to find.’

That is very profound,’ said Bodb Decht after a moment. ‘And rather an interesting idea.’

‘We believe it to be true.’ Andrew smiled at them again, and said, ‘And you think the music would enable a traveller to pass between the two worlds easily? Even with the Monk of Torach lying in wait?’ Saying the Monk’s name suddenly gave immense credence to his existence in the Dark Realm.

‘That’s always been the legend,’ said the Mugain. ‘The sidh’s music and the Samildanach. They rather go together. So even though our spells failed, you should have the right tools for the job.’

‘How do you know the spells failed?’ demanded Great-aunt Fuamnach belligerently.

‘We didn’t force open a Gateway.’

‘No, but we’ve found a way through.’ She glared round. ‘It seems to me that we’re succeeding very nicely.’

‘Yes, but not quite as we expected.’

‘That is often the way,’ said Andrew quietly.

*

He thought it remarkable that the two quests should suddenly have come together in this way. To find the Monk he must enter the Dark Realm, and by entering the Dark Realm, he would reach Theodora. Prayer was often answered in odd ways. He thanked God again that he could go after Theodora without dismissing his own task.

He stood with the Amaranths in a hand-linked circle, and listened to Cerball and the Mugain and Bodb Decht — as the Elders — pronounce a brief Benison of Light over Andrew’s journey, and then a half-sung, half-chanted incantation which sounded very beautiful, but which was in a tongue that Andrew could not understand.

‘Gael,’ said Rumour, at his side. ‘But extremely early Gael. Perhaps as early as Cruithin, or even what is called Q-Celtic or Qretani.’

‘It is very beautiful,’ said Andrew, gravely.

‘Oh yes.’

When they finished, he thanked them courteously and said, ‘Would you allow me to pronounce one of the prayers of my own religion now?’ and saw the instant assent in their eyes.

‘Please do,’ said Cerball, and the Amaranths nodded eagerly, because it would be immensely interesting to hear something of this new Teaching.

Andrew bowed his head, and joined his hands, and spoke the lyrical, stirring words of the Exurgat Dens, the psalm that Augustinus was said to have pronounced over the mission monks at the beginning of their journey into the wild, barbarous northern isles.

‘“Let God arise and let his enemies be scattered … Like as the smoke vanisheth, so shalt thou drive them away, and like as wax melteth at the fire, so let the ungodly perish … ”’

A great listening stillness fell over the Amaranths, and Andrew felt the beauty and the strength and the exultation of his beliefs consuming him. How could I have doubted?

When he said, ‘“The Chariots of God are twenty thousand, even thousands of angels, and the Lord is among them,”’ he felt the Amaranths stir in purest delight, and when he said, ‘“That thy foot may be dipped in the blood of thine enemies and that the tongue of thy dogs may be red through the same,”’ he looked up to see their eyes kindling, and he saw them bring their hands together, the palms flat, as they had done for their own Ritual.

Andrew lifted his head and looked at them, and pronounced the final words ringingly.

‘“Thy God hath sent forth strength … Give thanks O Israel from the ground of thy heart.”’

And to himself, murmured, ‘Let me not fail, O Lord.’

*

Andrew stood very quietly inside the Well Cave, and felt the strangeness of the Tower close about him. He could think: this is the magical Cadence Tower, this is the place that was built by an overreaching sorcerer and that destroyed an ancient magical language. I suppose I am believing it, thought Andrew, but several layers down he knew he was believing it, for he was remembering all of the old stories about greedy peoples who had tried to reach other worlds and built towers, and challenged gods, and been overthrown.

He advanced to the Well, and stood looking down into the impenetrable darkness, straining his eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of light. He thought there was no light at all, and he felt a cold fear at the thought of descending by the iron ladder into such blackness.

He was slightly afraid, but not unduly so. He thought he was strung up to a pitch of immense excitement. I am fulfilling the mission vouchsafed to me, he thought. I am nearing the Black Monk of Torach. I know it. He remembered how in England, men would say that, in the act of hunting, nearing the end of the chase, the hunter sometimes entered into the mind of the hunted. I shall find him, thought Andrew, delightedly and, murmuring a soft prayer to avoid the sin of Pride, he put the sidh’s music in its small golden casket safely into a pocket of his robe.

He had grasped the first rung of the iron ladder, preparatory to descending into the Well, when an amused voice from the door halted him.

‘If I am to accompany you,’ said Rumour, ‘you could at least help me over the parapet.’

*

She was wearing a silk cloak of a swirling flame colour, and her hair was unbound and threaded with thin silver strands, studded with tiny scarlet beads. In her left hand was a narrow hazel wand wreathed with curling symbols. Her eyes glowed with the tiny dark flames he had seen earlier on, and she was regarding him with her head on one side.

Andrew said, ‘I am to go alone, Madame. The one you call the Samildanach had surely not a companion with him during his life here?’ And heard a tiny voice within him warning against Pride again.

Rumour laughed. ‘I would not be so sure of that, Andrew,’ she said, and regarded him with amused eyes. ‘To begin with, at least, the Samildanach was an ordinary Human. Was not your own Leader?’

Andrew said, without thinking, ‘He had the one referred to as “the disciple whom He loved”.’

‘There you are.’

‘It is generally assumed to have been a man,’ said Andrew slowly. ‘Although there is no actual proof of it.’

Rumour laughed. ‘Then we have good authority for me to accompany you,’ she said. ‘Because the Samildanach, from any tale I have ever heard, was certainly able to enjoy the company of females.’ She perched on the parapet and peered into the Well’s black depths. ‘Dark and nasty,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it just as well that I brought an Enchantment of Light for us to see our way.’

*

The Enchantment of Light burned steadily as they descended into the Well.

Andrew went first, sitting on the low, narrow parapet, and then swinging his legs over into the black abyss.

He began the descent cautiously, closing his mind to what he was doing, trying to shut out the increasing feeling of suffocation, the impression that the dank, stale air of the Well was closing over his head so that he would soon be unable to breathe.

The ladder was fixed firmly to the inside of the Well. Iron rivets had been driven into the black brickwork of the Well shaft, and there were brackets holding the ladder in position. The rivets were rusting, but Andrew thought they would hold.

Above him, Rumour stepped down lightly and easily, little silk-slippered feet barely seeming to touch the ladder, casting the warm, soft light as she moved. There was a whisper of perfume on the air, warring with the dank mustiness of the Well. Andrew found himself sending up a prayer of thanks for this unlooked-for companion. I did not wish it, he thought; I should have undertaken this alone. And then, with the self-honesty which was inbred in him: but without her, this journey would have been perilous and lonely.

The lower they went, the colder it became, and the more noxious the air. There was a sour, tainted taste to the air, as if it was the foul breath of a monster. We are crawling into the maw of a leviathan, thought Andrew, into the gaping jaws of a giant …

Several times, he stopped and found himself struggling for breath. Once Rumour missed her footing on the narrow rungs, and half fell, clinging to the iron staves, her feet searching frantically for the rungs. Andrew scrambled back up to her instantly, and caught her about the waist with one hand, guiding her back; and Rumour, regaining balance, managed one of her mischievous smiles at him.

‘A chivalrous knight,’ she said, slightly out of breath. ‘And you have restored me to the path. Or were you intending that we should fall from the path together, Andrew?’

‘I do not intend that either of us should fall, Madame,’ said Andrew, and although his voice was perfectly composed, his heart was racing and his senses had reeled at the sudden, unavoidable press of her body, and the feel and the scent of her skin.

Rumour said, ‘It is sometimes extremely pleasant to fall,’ and sent him her sudden, mischievous grin.

‘So I have heard. If you would direct the light a little lower, I think it would make the descent easier.’

‘As you will,’ said Rumour, meekly.

As they neared what must surely be the Well’s bottom, they were able to see tiny blind creatures crawling from the crevices in the ancient black brick of the Well shaft, tiny wriggling worm creatures, pale and fumbling. But, thought Andrew, surely that means there must be a sliver of light from somewhere? No creature can exist in complete darkness.

With the framing of the thought, he became aware of light: thin at first, and then stronger. He touched Rumour’s arm and she nodded, as if she, also, had been noticing it.

‘I think it must be seeping in from below,’ said Andrew.

‘Yes, for there is nowhere else it could come from.’

‘Douse your own light,’ said Andrew, but Rumour had already done so.

They stood very still, scanning the Well shaft with their eyes, trying to gauge the extent of the light, trying to see where it came from. Andrew thought, and then was sure, that the Well shaft was widening, and that the brick walls were no longer black and pitted.

But the light was not the pale, cool, elvish light of the sidh’s City, which they had both been hoping for; it was not the beautiful, faintly eerie turquoise-silver of Tiarna. It was thin, trickling crimson, like blood seeping from a wound.

‘But whatever it is, we must go on,’ said Andrew. ‘We must reach the Well’s floor.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Rumour’s response was instant, as if there could be no other course for them to take. But Andrew thought he heard, for the first time, a note of hesitation in her voice, and this was the most alarming thing yet, because he had believed Rumour to be intrepid and adventurous and impervious to danger.

‘Of course I am not impervious to danger, Andrew,’ said Rumour’s voice softly. ‘To be so would be to be insensitive in the extreme.’

‘Of course. And to believe you so is to credit you with no imagination.’ In the uncertain light, Andrew looked at her. ‘I think you have a great deal of imagination, Rumour.’

‘I am honoured,’ said Rumour and, despite the danger, the note of amusement was in her voice. ‘Shall we go on?’

There was only a short length left of the iron ladder, ‘And I can see the Well floor,’ said Andrew, peering downwards. ‘But the iron rungs finish about six feet short of it. I think we have to jump from the last rung.’

‘If I fall,’ said Rumour, ‘I shall expect you to catch me, Andrew.’ And sent him, over her shoulder, the wicked grin again.

Andrew grasped the last few rungs firmly, and sought for footholds in the wall directly below. It was possible to hold the last rung, and half fall, half slide the rest of the way.

Rumour followed, descending to the Well’s floor in a slither of perfumed silk, half falling into his arms, so that there was again the warmth of her body, and the sudden, strong intimacy as they stood together in the near-dark.

For a moment she was pressed against him, and Andrew felt his body harden in swift, shameful response. He beat the sweet arousal down at once, and stepped back, and turned to look about them.

Directly ahead of them were black-mouthed caves, with baleful, flickering firelight deep within. Faintly, on the air, came the sound of rhythmic singing.

‘O give us skins of Humanish thin

To sew and weave and clothe ourselves in.

Give us hides and leathern skins

Shales to warm our caverns with.’

The dungeons of the Fomoire.

*

The dull light oozed into the rock passage, and they could see shapes moving within the caves; darting, dancing shapes that were wearing the semblance of Human appearances, but that were not Human in the least.

Behind them and above them was the Well shaft, with the iron ladder still within their reach. Beneath their feet was the hard packed earth of the floor. At their backs was a solid mass of black, pitted rock, and although there were crevices and indentations in the rock, when they tried to explore them they could see that they were simply shallow caves, niches in the wall.

There was nowhere else to go but in the direction of the singing.

Andrew was the first to move. He looked at his companion, and from somewhere dredged up a smile, and said, ‘Well, madame? Are you prepared for the first of the dangers you wanted to experience?’

Rumour said, ‘Perfectly prepared.’ But her eyes went to the red glow from the caves, and Andrew saw uncertainty there.

‘Is it possible to go past the caves without being seen, do you think?’ he said, and Rumour frowned, considering.

‘If we make no sound at all, and if we cast no shadow to alert them, we might do it,’ she said.

‘Mingle with the shadows,’ said Andrew, and thought: well, at least I do not sound afraid. ‘We must keep close together, and we must walk as if we walk on spun glass, and we must make no sudden movement that might catch their attention.’

‘All right.’ Rumour wrapped her silk cloak closely about her. She grinned again. ‘A Cloak of Invisibility would have been so useful, Andrew, but perhaps we shall manage without it. Onwards, then?’

‘Onwards,’ said Andrew and, hand in hand, they began to walk softly towards the Fomoire’s lair.

Chapter Eleven

Maelduin thought he was the only one left. Tiarna was already dying, as he moved through the great empty rooms, the gentle iridescence was dissolving and thin, brilliant threads of colour, like trickling spring water, were running down the rock walls. He reached out to touch the nearest rock face, and felt the cold dankness and the pale, thin sensation which meant an almost total absence of colour and light and music. He was unused to pain, but now he felt something very near to it, and panic gripped him. Many of the sidh were already gaunt and drab, swathes of pale colour, their narrow turquoise eyes filmed. Unable to move. Dying.

To begin with, he thought he might find help in the ancient magical libraries of the nimfeach, the silken crystal pools at the heart of the Palace. He darted along the silver tunnels, his mind in turmoil, but when he dived into the deepest pool, his body slender and shimmering, barely creating a ripple on the surface, he saw at once that there would be no help here. The cool sea-magic of the long-ago nimfeach — the evil, soulless water creatures who had lived in Tiarna before the sidh wrested it from them — was still there; but it was beyond his reach.

Maelduin’s people had spent years enveloping the cold, evil sea-magic in their own gentle, pure bewitchments; they had dissolved the nimfeach’s necromantic magic and imbued it with their own soft, cool sorcery, and the spells that lay beneath the crystal pools were now the strongest and purest magic in all Ireland.

But to reach it now, to dissolve the ancient protective carapaces, the music itself was needed. It was the key, the talisman. It must slide into the soft water, liquid and pure, until it had coloured the rock face and tinted the pools with sparkling colours, brilliant as peacocks’ tails, effervescent and elusive as herons’ wings. Only then could the dawn-of-time spells woven by the Fisher King and his minions be reached.

Maelduin swirled angrily in the clear silken water, a glinting arrow of blue and green fury and frustration, churning the pool’s surface to foam, emerging briefly to pour into the next pool.

In each one, it was the same. There were rows upon rows of spells and enchantments; each one exquisitely crafted and polished, each one written in the ancient mystical Cadence. Maelduin knew the Cadence as well as he knew the shining City of Tiarna. He could have pronounced any one of the enchantments effortlessly and it was certain that somewhere within those enchantments would be a spell that would revive the dying Elven King and restore Tiarna’s magic and show them where the music had been taken.

But without the music, the spells could not be reached, and without the music, Tiarna and the sidh would die.

Maelduin emerged from the last pool, and shook himself angrily, droplets of pale, shining water falling from him.

What now?

*

Light still poured into the Silver Cavern, where once Aillen mac Midha had held Court, and where once the sidh had sung their cool music, and sent out the lures of the nimfeach to shipwrecked sailors whose rafts washed up at the mouths of the sea tunnels.

But it was a cold, uncertain light now, colder than ever Maelduin had seen it, fainter than he had ever imagined it could be. The Silver Cavern was no longer the shining heart of the Palace.

Maelduin stood before the immense Silver Throne, where his father sat unseeing and unhearing. Dead already? Please, no! he cried silently and, as if his thoughts had taken shape, he felt his father’s response.

Not dead, my son, but fading and failing … And then, with a plea that went straight to Maelduin’s core.

Help me.

There was a flash of time, the span of a Humanish heartbeat, when Maelduin felt panic close about him again, and when he thought: but I cannot! I do not know what to do! And then, summoning his fortitude: Very well! What must I do to save Tiarna?

For whatever is necessary, I will do it.

He waited, and presently, as fragile as icicles tapping against the cave walls, came the response.

You must submit to the ancient ritual, my son …

Yes?

That is the only way to save us.

You must seek out the creature called the Gristlen and recapture the stolen enchantment …

You must don Humanish garb and leave Tiarna.

And you must walk abroad in the world of Men.

*

Become a Humanish.

I cannot do it! thought Maelduin, appalled. There must be some other way! But hard on the heels of the thought came another: you must. There is no other way. And you are the Crown Prince, it is your right and your duty and your inheritance.

It was the only way. If he was to search the world of Men for the Gristlen, he must do so unchallenged, undetected. He must do so as a Man.

He found the idea repulsive; he could not imagine how it would be to carry about the cumbersome bones; he could make only the most fleeting guess at how it would feel to be inside their skins, to move in the clumsy, slow way they had to move, and to have, as the only method of understanding, the imprecise thing they called ‘speech’. Once the Humanish had possessed the ancient magical Samhailt: the art of hearing and understanding one another’s thoughts, but Maelduin thought this was something bestowed only on a very few, and he thought that it had frayed and ravelled until it barely existed.

Become a Humanish …

But I have no choice. He moved back to the great Silver Throne where the Elven King was dying.

*

Nearly all the sidh were gathered in the Silver Cavern for the ritual, but Maelduin could see that it had cost them dearly. The younger ones had dragged themselves there, crawling painfully through the tunnels, but the older ones had had to be carried.

Their eyes were dulled, their once-brilliant bodies were harsh and lustreless, and they looked at Maelduin with such desperate hope that the pity of it closed about him suffocatingly.

No one knew if Aillen mac Midha still possessed sufficient strength to summon up the ritual that would clothe Maelduin in Humanish garb; most of the sidh knew it, but they would all have flinched at invoking it. It was one of the oldest and one of the most powerful of all the ancient rituals. And it could rebound; in the hands of one who lacked the understanding or the power, it could play evil and malicious tricks.

Maelduin knew all of this, but as he stood before the Silver Throne, his head bowed in complete obedience, his eyes deliberately hooded, he allowed none of his fear to show. The brilliance that shone from him was subdued, and several of the sidh nearest him thought that he, too, was dying.

But then Maelduin moved suddenly, and the blue-green light gleamed in his long narrow eyes.

Delight touched the waiting sidh and with it, hope. He is the Crown Prince, the heir to the Silver Throne, and he will not let us down.

I cannot let them down, thought Maelduin, standing up very straight. This will be the hardest thing I have ever had to do, but I cannot let them down. But he sent his father a covert glance. How strong was the Elven King?

Aillen mac Midha had been propped up with silken, ice-blue cushions; he was still clothed in the half-Humanish form he had summoned for his converse with the Gristlen, and this struck fresh fear into the sidh, for the Elven King would never willingly endure the heavy thick skin and the leaden bones of a Human if he could throw it off. Had he sufficient power left?

Aillen mac Midha seemed to make an immense effort, sitting straight-backed on the silver altar, the silken cushions framing his slight, slender form. The long turquoise eyes opened, and for a brief span of time there was the inhuman, faintly mischievous, faintly contemptuous glint that the Humans feared so greatly. Like this, he was strange and alien, neither quite sidh, nor fully Human.

He beckoned Maelduin closer with one translucent hand, the nails curved and silver tinted.

‘You are ready, my son?’ It was the merest breath of a thought, but every creature present heard it clearly.

Maelduin, using the thought-forms that all the sidh used, said, ‘Ready, sire,’ and the response was so firm and so strong that a ripple of hope went through the listening sidh.

Aillen mac Midha regarded Maelduin for a long moment. Without warning and apparently without summoning strength of any kind, he pronounced a string of unfamiliar words, silver-tipped and elusive, lying on the dim Cavern like quicksilver.

There was the faintest breath of something cold and alien drifting into the Cavern; something slow and ancient and creeping; something that had crawled up out of the oceans when the world was new-born and barren, and something that had once gone on all fours and that had once been finned and gilled, but that had learned to think and reason and speak.

Something that had been forged in the fires of Eternity and something that had been bestowed on the world when the world itself was still cooling.

The ancient skincloak of the Humanish.

With the feeling, there was a stir of sound in the cavern, and several of the sidh looked round.

At first there was nothing, the silence was heavy and stifling all about them, and they thought they had been mistaken.

And then it came again, no more than a breath of sound, no stronger than the lightest wind touching the leaves on a drowsy summer’s afternoon.

Faint, far off chanting.

The exhausted sidh struggled to hear more fully and, presently, little by little, it came nearer, slowly, inexorably, strongly, until they could hear the words quite plainly.

‘O give us skins for dancing in

And give us veils of Humanish pale.

Fleeces of fur and silken sin

Ivory bones for living in.’

There was a whisper of delight in the Cavern, and Maelduin, standing motionless before the Silver Throne, felt his senses ripple, for he knew that they were hearing one of the oldest enchantments of all; the Humanish spell stolen away by the terrible Fomoire, the skincloak of the Mannish, taken and twisted and warped, and rewoven in the Dark Realm to the Fomoire’s own, evil pattern.

‘Give us fur and Humanish hair;

Silken skins and Mannish vair.

Skins for dancing, dark and fair;

Fleece and shale and bones of pale.’

This was not the deformed, ugly spell that the Fomoire had woven in the Dark Fields of necromancy that they used to call down the writhing, squirming skins of murderers and child-eaters.

This was the gentle, strong magic of the newly born world; the true spell, bequeathed to the beings who struggled to survive at the very beginning. This was the unspoilt cloak of Man.

It was flooding their senses, sending them blind, dizzy, reeling. The voices multiplied, thousands upon thousands of times, echoing all about the cavern, singing the strong, rhythmic chant, never once pausing.

‘And give us shale of Humanish pale,

Skins and bones for dancing in.

Veils of silk and cloaks of sin.

Hair to stream and limbs to spin.’

The spell was whirling round them, measured and unfaltering.

Maelduin stayed where he was, feeling, with every filament of his being, the strong, ancient cloak of Humanish come nearer.

He did not move, and those nearest to him knew sudden and complete panic: it is not going to work! Several of them glanced uneasily at the barely conscious King, and a terrible thought shaped in their minds:

The High King no longer possesses the power!

And then Maelduin turned to look at them, and a strange, unfamiliar glint showed in his eyes, and every one of them saw, quite clearly, the Humanish transformation begin.

*

For Maelduin there was a moment of complete and utter awareness, when he felt and knew, with every one of his many senses, that he was sidh, pure and entire. The essence of the cool blue-green creatures who had wrested Tiarna from the long-ago nimfeach flooded his whole being, so that he wanted to soar high above the Silver Cavern, and swoop and dart and fly. He wanted to fall on the Humanish and tear out their senses and their souls for the sidh’s beckoning music. He wanted to reach out and scoop up the beautiful music, and reach down and down into its heart, where the allure and the seduction of the music lived, and then pour it through his hands, as easily as he could pour water.

He did none of these things. He stayed where he was, not moving, understanding that this sudden, swift awareness of his body must be the beginning of the transformation.

And then it began.

*

It was slow at first; a stealing over him of warmth, a dragging sensation, the feeling of weights being hung on him, so that it would be cumbersome and heavy to move, and slow and lumbering.

There was a moment of pure panic: I cannot bear it! he thought, and knew that it had to be borne.

He could feel his body being compressed, cruelly and strongly, and there was a deep, wrenching pain, so that he groaned aloud.

He was on the ground now, curled tightly into a ball, but the pain closed in and closed down, and the Silver Cavern swam and wavered before his sight.

A deep solid core was forming throughout his being, and he knew it for the bones of the Humanish: hard and ugly.

Ivory bones for living in …

The cloak of Humanish was closing about him more tightly; there was a suffocating, smothering sensation: the shaling of skin.

Humanish pale … skins for dancing in …

For a single, absurd instant he thought: but I could never dance like this! I could never leap and dart and swoop and fly through the air! And then he remembered that the Humanish way of dancing was very different to the sidh’s way, and the magnitude of the appalling thing he was about to do closed about him again.

The blue-green light that had shone from him so brilliantly was dimming. He thought: it is quenching, fading … I believe I am almost a Human. And with the thought, came the knowledge that the iridescence was dissolving into nothing, and that the heavy, dragging, Humanish cloak was closing about him.

There was a final wrench of agony that ripped through his body and left him gasping and blinded, and with it the terrible feeling that he was anchored to the ground.

There was a sluggish warmth in his veins, and he thought: Human blood! and remembered about the warm, slow blood of the Humanish.

But the warmth was not as repulsive as he had expected; it was slow and gentle, and there was unexpected comfort in it. I shall do it, thought Maelduin. I shall endure it, and I believe it will not be so very bad after all.

For a brief space, he thought that he had lost all of the finely honed senses of the sidh, that he would no longer feel and experience in the way that the sidh felt and experienced, and the panic clutched him again. I shall lose it all! he thought, and with the thought, became aware for the first time of the steady pulsating inside him.

The beating of a Human heart …

There was a soft stirring, deep within his head, and a gentle strength between his thighs, and he paused, exploring these new sensations. A brief grin touched his lips: oh yes, the Humans enjoy one another’s bodies! he thought, and with the thought was aware of a quickening heat and the faint beginnings of an insistent hardness between his thighs. The grin deepened momentarily, and he thought: perhaps after all this is not going to be all bad!

He stood up, feeling the heaviness and the clumsiness of the Human skin, but feeling, as well, an unexpected strength, and a violent curiosity as to what lay ahead.

For I am about to enter the world of Men, and I am about to follow their ways and their customs, and speak with them …

This was intriguing and arousing, but more arousing by far was the knowledge of the reason behind it all; his quest to find the Gristlen and recapture the music of the sidh and save Tiarna.

He caught the flash of reflection from the silver walls, and turned, briefly aware of hitherto unknown vanity. What do I look like?

And although he had expected to be repulsed and sickened by the strange creature he had become, he found he was neither of these things.

Slender and rather pale; yes, that is what I would expect, he thought, studying the image before him. There was a tumble of pale hair, silver-gilt with flashes of golden in it, sleek and shining like a cap …

Fleece of fur and veil of silk …

He moved, and the reflection moved with him, slender and supple and graceful.

Not at all bad, thought Maelduin, and grinned suddenly, seeing his image grin back at him. Yes, not at all bad.

The eyes were not quite Human, of course. He paused, considering, his head on one side. No, the eyes were not Human in the least. No Human ever had those long, narrow eyes, or that glinting cool colour.

But taking it all in all, he thought, I believe I shall pass unchallenged.

And then he was aware that the sidh were making way for him to go out of the Silver Cavern, and through the sea tunnels.

The time had come for him to enter the world of Men and seek out the Gristlen.

Chapter Twelve

The Amaranths had been divided as to what they should do with the Gristlen now that they had finally imprisoned it.

The Mugain, who could not be doing with creatures from the Dark Realm in any guise, was all for forgetting about the horrid thing altogether and letting it rot where it lay, but not everybody went along with this view.

‘Ceremonial execution,’ said Bodb Decht firmly. ‘That’s what the Academy of Sorcerers recommends in these cases.’

‘But can you actually kill something from the Dark Realm?’

‘We could find out soon enough.’

Great-aunt Fuamnach thought they ought to talk to it, and find out as much as they could about the Dark Realm. So very little was known, she said, and the Gristlen might be able to give them some useful information. They might find out a good deal about the Dark Realm, and it might help them to rescue Echbel from the Fomoire. They could not be expecting Rumour and the monk to deal with everything. A younger cousin asked, rather hesitantly, whether Echbel mightn’t use sorcery to escape on his own account, but nobody took this seriously, because everyone knew that Echbel had only the sketchiest knowledge of sorcery.

‘And,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, occupying the chair nearest to the fire and winding a few puckered skeins of one or two old enchantments, ‘it might give Laigne some comfort, poor dear.’

The Amaranths nodded, a bit sheepishly, because nobody knew quite the best way to cope with Laigne.

Laigne lay in her silk-hung bed, and heard the murmurings with sadness. They would none of them admit that Echbel, the dear boy, was in fact far stronger and far more knowledgeable than any of them, she thought. They were jealous of him, of course, so handsome and so clever as he was. Laigne had secretly been hoping (and still hoped) that the Succession Ritual would name Echbel. He would make a fitting Head of the Amaranths. He would rule kindly and firmly and wisely. Laigne would see that he did.

Curiously, the thing that had given her hope had been the strange, haunting music that she had heard from the Sorcery Chambers. It had drifted up as lightly and as softly as swansdown or snowflakes; it had been as insubstantial as frost-rimmed cobwebs, but Laigne, lying in her bedchamber, had heard it clearly. She had heard its message: follow me and all will be well … Come with me over hill and over dale, and there you will find your heart’s delight …

Follow me to the source of all joy …

She would follow the music to its source. She would wait until it was dark and everyone was sleeping, and then she would go quietly and calmly and no one would know.

There was probably a degree of danger in this of course; Laigne was not so foolish that she did not remember all the soft, seductive beckonings and the gentle, sly lures sent out by creatures of necromantic powers. But this was surely different. This was something soft and pure and good. It promised her her heart’s desire … And Laigne’s heart’s desire was to reach Echbel. She would not disregard the possibility of danger of course, but she would not let it deter her.

The others thought she was a poor weak creature when it came to sorcery. Great-aunt Fuamnach had been known to look slightingly on her and refer, quite openly, to Laigne’s dash of Human blood from three or four generations back. Laigne paid this no attention: it was extremely vulgar to mention such a thing, and in any case a drop of Human blood could be a remarkable help in sorcery.

She waited until night had fallen and the Palace was silent, and then she got up from the bed and donned a thin, silk robe. It would have been better to have dressed properly, but nobody would see her.

The music had long since faded, but Laigne could still hear it deep within her head; she could hear its haunting promise.

Come to me, Human, come into the heart of the music and I will give you the thing you desire most … I will show you the way to reach your dear one, and it will be a way that you never dreamed existed …

Echbel! thought Laigne, and slipped through the quiet Palace.

No one came out to challenge her, and Laigne walked softly through the moonlit galleries and halls, and on down the narrow stone stairway that led to the Sorcery Chambers. Wasn’t it here the music had come from, and wasn’t it here she must go first?

She stood for a moment in the Sorcery Chambers, the warm scents of raw magic closing about her, the quiet thrumming of the quiescent Looms purring in her ears.

Here? No, there was nothing here save the slithering gold and scarlet skeins of enchantments, the trickle of something light and silvery spilling from one of the Looms and then dissolving into tiny shards of fight as it reached the ground.

Not here. Where? Laigne stood very still and whispered the fight, pure words of a Trance Ritual which would open her mind to its fullest extent and allow her to follow the music to its heart. Trance Rituals were perfectly simple, but the others always had to make such a fuss. All you needed was a tranquil mind, which Laigne possessed anyway. Echbel would have made a study of Trance Rituals if he had not been torn from her. He would probably have been a Master.

She began to move through the Sorcery Chamber, her eyes wide open now and slightly filmed. Trance Rituals were really the easiest thing in sorcery. You had to have a layer of Command and a layer of Compulsion close together. And a layer of Repose and another of Silence. And then you cloaked everything in the purest of blues you could conjure up.

Come further down …

Yes, it was there! She had heard it, the faintest of stirrings, the lightest of touches on her mind. Not the music, but something that understood the music’s pull. Something that had possessed the music, and something that might help her to reach Echbel. Something that knew.

It was still calling to her.

Come further down and closer in …

The dungeons! thought Laigne. Whatever it is, is in the dungeons! She passed through the door that led beneath the Sorcery Chamber, and down into the ancient, dark foundations of the Porphyry Palace.

*

The narrow stone stair curved round sharply, and there was a rope fixed to its sides so that you could hold on while you descended. The steps were damp and slippery and not very clean because the servants never came down here. Laigne would speak sharply to them about that, and would have no patience with their silly tales about occasional demons wandering down from the Looms Chamber above. The Amaranths had never had any truck with demons, or only minor ones anyway.

The passage leading to the dungeons was cold and lit to eerie life by the flickering wall-sconces. Laigne shivered, pulling the thin robe more closely about her. Through the flimsy silk slippers she could feel the damp stones of the floor, and the slippery lichen that had crept up through the cracks.

There were only four cells down here: each of them was set back into the thick stone foundations of the Palace, and each one had iron bars which stretched from the roof into the floor. There was a small gate cut out at the centre, and the keys hung on a nail outside, near to the foot of the stone steps. Laigne, treading softly on the cold stone flags, paused and listened. Was she still within hearing of the compulsive silvery voice that promised so much?

Over here, my dear … Over here … And then, with sudden discordance, But you must come willingly … You must come because you wish to come …

But she did wish it. She wanted to find the creature who had had the music and who was calling to her. There was a darkness about it, but it was an alluring darkness.

When the voice again said, You must come willingly, Laigne said aloud, ‘I do come willingly. I come because I wish to.’ And reached up for the keys.

As she unlocked the cells, Laigne had the sudden impression that something cold and unclean and dank uncoiled itself, and surged towards her. Something ancient and implacable, and something that had known other worlds and ruled other creatures …

For a moment she could not breathe; the cold mustiness seemed to close about her throat, and there was a moment of undiluted panic. She stood very still, concentrating on Repose and Tranquillity and on the pure blue of Calm, and the smothering darkness cleared, and she could see and think properly again. She could see everything inside the stone cell at the far end.

Of your own wish …

‘Of my own wish,’ whispered Laigne.

There was very little light in the cell. There was a tiny window, high up, with thick black bars across it, and there was a spillage of light from the wall-sconces outside the dungeon. Some wisps of straw had been thrown down, and there was a metal dish containing food, with a pannikin of water close by.

The Gristlen was sitting in the far corner, its jointed legs drawn up before it, its pale eyes watching her. A shiver of cold repulsion disturbed the tranquil surface of Laigne’s mind, because this was not the pure and lovely spell she had been following; this was not the silver and turquoise tracery of cobweb allure. This was something dark and ugly and soaked in blackest evil. But what lay beneath the darkness?

The Gristlen was grotesque and hideous and there was a slyness in its eyes. But Laigne was here for Echbel. She had followed the music’s promise, and she would not flinch now.

But when the Gristlen spoke, it was courteous, and even humble. It said, ‘You have come in search of something, Amaranth Lady?’ and appeared to wait, quite submissively, for her response.

It was disconcerting to realise that this creature knew the purpose of her visit, and that it might even have been behind the music’s sensuous pull. Laigne set down the candle on the floor, and stood looking down at the dark, scaly-hide being. Yes, it was steeped in evil; in old and corrupt evil. Laigne, for all that she was believed to be a little light in the theory of sorcery, knew the difference between what was called Simple Evil and what was called Corrupt Evil. Simple Evil was a young and generally straightforward evil, frequently born from something as basic as greed or lust. Corrupt Evil was different. It was ancient and convoluted; if you imagined it as a solid wedge that you were slicing through, like bread or dough, you would find many different layers: hatred and bitterness and greed and malice and perversion and depravity. Many others. If you went on slicing, right down to the core, you would find that the core was black and warped and twisted.

But nobody had ever said to Laigne that Corrupt Evil could be so compelling, and nobody had ever suggested that, once faced with it, you would want to find out more.

The Gristlen reeked of Corrupt Evil. It possessed ancient and forbidden knowledge, and it had certainly walked in dark worlds. This gave it an unexpected allure. It gave it an authority. Laigne, partly horrified, but partly fascinated, caught herself wondering what its true self was. How had it looked before the Dark Lords had flung it into the Pit? How had it looked in the days when it had spun its terrible evil and wielded its forbidden powers? Had it still been ugly and repulsive? Or had it been one of those darkly beautiful Lords whom you knew to be corrupt and wicked, but whose very corruptness gave them a mantle of seduction?

The Gristlen was watching her, and there was an amused look in its eyes, a knowing look. Laigne had the sudden feeling that it possessed something — some inner strength, some secret ability — that it knew would fascinate her and that might even excite her.

This was not to be permitted. Laigne had come here in good faith; she had followed something that had beckoned and promised; that had spun a light cobweb of rainbow music and that had held out the promise of rescuing Echbel. She reminded herself that she was a sorceress of the House of Amaranth; she had studied and become proficient in the Academy of Sorcerers’ teachings, and they might say what they liked about that dash of Human blood on her great-grandmother’s side …

The Gristlen’s pale, bulging eyes were raking her body, and Laigne was suddenly conscious of the thin robe. Could it possibly see through to her body? Did such a repulsive, warped thing still possess ordinary physical lusts?

‘Certainly I do,’ said the Gristlen softly, insinuatingly. ‘Oh, certainly I do, Madame Sorceress.’ It moved then, suddenly and swiftly, rearing up from its half-sitting, half-crouching position, and loping across the cell to where she was standing by the iron gate. ‘And I could give you such pleasure as you have never dreamed of,’ it said. It was easily a foot taller than she was, but it was stooping over, so that Laigne found herself staring helplessly into the pale eyes.

‘When I look at you, my dear,’ said the Gristlen, its voice no longer harsh and ugly but caressing, ‘when I look at you, I see your slender white body, and the gleaming thighs, and I see what lies between those thighs, and I should like to feel what lies between those thighs.’ It stretched out a hand unexpectedly, and Laigne felt the thick leathery skin brush her neck.

‘White skin,’ it said softly. ‘With a drop of Humanish blood.’ It half closed its eyes, and Laigne thought: I am arousing it. This is a creature who has walked in the dark realms of forbidden practices and known all manner of depravities and I am arousing it. The knowledge gave her a sudden feeling of power.

The Gristlen was backing her against the wall of the cell, and its strong jointed fingers came up to her throat, caressing, stroking. Power rippled beneath its dark skin, and Laigne shivered in helpless fascination.

‘Afraid, my white bird?’ whispered the Gristlen. ‘You need not be. And you came here quite willingly,’ it said. ‘You came here to me willingly.’

Laigne, transfixed, staring into the cold, glittering eyes, whispered, ‘Yes. I came here willingly.’

‘You came because you wanted to.’

‘I came because I wanted to,’ repeated Laigne obediently, and at once the Gristlen’s face stretched into a smile. Its hand slid inside the bodice of her gown, the fingers with the thick horn nails touching her breasts, rubbing the nipples, the webbing between its fingers brushing intimately against her skin. She felt arousal swelling between its thighs. It was repulsive, of course it was repulsive, but … But it was once powerful and once it walked in the forbidden paths, thought Laigne.

When the Gristlen leaned closer and whispered, ‘Love me,’ Laigne felt the darkness within it uncoiling and reaching out serpent-fingers to her mind … A wave of desire, dizzying in its intensity, sliced through her, and she thought that if the dungeon wall had not been behind her, she would certainly have fallen.

The Gristlen tore aside the thin robe she was wearing, and reached beneath, the scaly skin scraping her flesh. It was beginning to pant as if it had been running, and it was thrusting itself against her. There was the feeling of a hard, huge phallus, huger than anything Laigne had ever imagined, pushing against her. The shameful desire spiralled inside her again, and she threw her head back and pulled the creature’s body to her.

At once the Gristlen bellowed in triumph and forced itself between her thighs, pushing her legs apart. There was the painful rasp of needle-like points tearing her skin, and Laigne gasped and looked down.

The Gristlen’s monstrous rearing phallus was studded with tiny cruel spikes, so that once embedded in flesh it would tear and lacerate … It was barbed, it was fletched like an arrow, and in another minute it would thrust inside her …

Laigne screamed and struggled for the first time, and the Gristlen made a convulsive movement, forcing into her. Pain tore through her womb, and there was a sudden shameful flood of wetness between her legs as her bladder succumbed to panic and agony.

The Gristlen chuckled and thrust deeper. ‘Fear, my pigeon, or ecstasy?’ it hissed, and Laigne screamed again, and felt it grunting and heaving, moving inside her in terrible savage thrusts, pushing in and then withdrawing a little, so that the barbs, the wicked spiny growths, tore her skin. Her flesh was being ripped and there was a white agony, there was grinding, screaming pain … She could feel thick blood oozing from her, and she sobbed and struggled because it was tearing her apart; she could feel it happening. It was mutilating her beyond endurance, and she would die in the foul embrace of this evil, corrupt creature …

‘What are you!’ screamed Laigne, almost beyond reason now. ‘In the gods’ names, what are you?’

‘You — will — see …’ gasped the Gristlen, thrusting against her. ‘You will see because you will feel the curse dissolving,’ it cried, and clutched at her skin so that she cried out with the pain of her torn flesh. ‘Feel it!’ shrieked the Gristlen. ‘Feel the curse sloughing! Rejoice with me!’

It gave a final, guttural shout, and moved convulsively. There was a wave of agony so intense that Laigne thought she would die, and there was an icy wetness as its seed spurted into her, tainted and loathsome.

She cried out, but it was a broken, mewing cry now, and no one outside the dungeons could have heard.

The Gristlen withdrew completely, and a cry of agony broke from Laigne as the barbs of its phallus tore into her again. There was the terrible feel of its seed, cold and poisonous, flooding her womb. She sagged and half fell to the floor, doubling over, hugging the pain.

The Gristlen stood over her, looking down with a malevolent smile, and she saw through a sick mist that its dark carapace was indeed sloughing. It was digging its horned nails into its skin, raking furiously at the dark, repulsive hide, peeling it back in great gobbets, like a child tearing off a scabbed wound.

Laigne, almost beyond reason now, thought: in another minute it will stand before me in its true state! And I do not want to see it! screamed her mind. I do not want to know!

Beneath the fibrous lumps of torn skin, pale thick fluid was oozing to the surface, and in places there was the glimmer of greyish scales, faintly luminous in the dark cell.

And then the creature was emerging, it was climbing out of the discarded shell, and it was standing over her, a monstrous rearing shape, palely and evilly beautiful. A shining, membranous tail protruded like a giant fin from the base of the creature’s spine, and through the new skin, Laigne could see the tiny brittle bones of a creature accustomed to dwelling beneath the seas. There was a central hollow spine with a myriad of tiny, bony rays fanning out from it, extending into the arms and lower limbs.

A sea-creature. Something piscine. Something that had walked the world many centuries ago … A terrible fear began to form.

The Gristlen’s shrivelled black skin lay on the floor, and in its place was a sleek being with a round, hairless skull and Human features. There were bulbous eyes and a flat, wide mouth, and a thick neck with rudimentary gills.

Gills and hollow bones, thought Laigne. A lashing, jagged-edged fin. And there are scales, faintly phosphorescent, between his thighs …

Tumbled memories of mermen who left their sea-worlds to walk on land and spin their evil seductions over Humans churned through her mind, and with them came a searing knowledge.

Not a merman. Not something from the cool under-ocean realm of the sidh even.

This was the Fisher King. The ancient, legendary Fisher King, whose reign had been a reign of bloody terror, and whose name was even now whispered with fear.

The legend said that he had been driven from the world, that he had been vanquished by the sidh and that he could never again return to the world of Men. Ireland had been a safer place because of it.

And now he had returned. The Fisher King, Coelacanth himself, had come back.

*

The Amaranths were shocked and horrified. To think that Laigne had gone alone to the Gristlen’s cell, and there been so brutally savaged, was scarcely to be borne.

The Mugain said it was all very well to say tut and pshaw and that Laigne had acted in a foolhardy manner; there the thing was, and whatever her reasons had been, now they must make the poor soul as comfortable as they could.

One of the younger Amaranths, who had made something of a study of cures and elixirs and healing spells, had spun a cool, soothing balm, made up of gentle grey cobweb substances and thin silky twines. ‘It will calm her mind,’ said the sorcerer, whose name was Cecht, and who had until now been rather over-awed at finding herself in such august company.

‘Did she say anything about — about the Gristlen?’

‘Only that it attacked her,’ said Cecht, and everyone looked solemn, because you did not have to have achieved the level of scholar-sorcerer to guess what form the attack would have taken.

‘Where is the creature now?’ demanded Great-aunt Fuamnach, who had been sitting by the fire, unravelling the puckered enchantments for re-use. ‘What happened to it?’

‘It escaped,’ said Cerball crossly. ‘Of course.’

‘And is probably roaming freely about the Palace, ready to pounce out on to another of us,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, beckoning to Bodb Decht to sit in front of her and help with rewinding the skeins of enchantment. ‘Well, Cerball, I never criticise; but how we are to sleep safely in our beds with such a creature prowling the corridors, I hope you will tell us!’ She fixed Cerball with a stern look, and Cerball, who had already spent a nasty morning worrying over this one, and had assigned the Mugain to organise a proper Banishing Ritual, said crossly that it was all in hand.

The Banishing Ritual was duly performed, with the Mugain leading them all. Somebody produced an especially strong Enchantment of Light to shine in every dark corner, and most people said firmly that the evil had gone.

‘Self-delusion,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach. ‘It’s still here. Mark my words, it’s still here.’

Whether it was still here or not, nobody really knew any longer. It might have scuttled into some dark hiding place somewhere, or it might have whisked itself out of the Palace altogether. And, as Bodb Decht said, there were so many itinerant enchantments wandering about the Palace at the moment, it was difficult to tell what was good and benign and what was just a little bit grey, and what was downright evil and black.

‘And now there’s poor Nechtan’s funeral rites to think of,’ said Herself of Mugain, and added that wasn’t it exactly like Nechtan — may the gods preserve his soul — to up and die just as they were in the midst of a turmoil. Nechtan, said Herself irritably, had always been a shocking old attention-seeker, and clearly he had not altered in death.

The funeral rites would take nine days and nine nights. Nobody had the heart for it, but it was not something that could be scamped and it was certainly not something that could be ignored. Although nobody quite said it was inconvenient, most people thought it. But there it was; Nechtan must be made properly ready for the great journey to the Land Under the Ocean, so that his spirit could scale the walls of the Gates of Paradise, and unlock the Three Gates of Wisdom, of Poetry and of Knowledge.

The female sorcerers had already prepared Nechtan’s body for its last journey, and the upper floors of the Porphyry Palace were redolent with the scents of natron and the burning of hazelwood. He had been dressed in the ceremonial white robe with the amethyst colours of the Amaranth House, and then his body would be placed on a silver bier draped with purple and white.

For nine days and nine nights, the Amaranths would read from the great annals of Ireland, nine of them at a time for a stretch of nine hours, after which a further nine would take over. It was exhausting and it drained their power, but it was important to surround Nechtan with poetry and wisdom and knowledge, so that the Three Gates would open for him with ease.

The first three days would be given to the chanting of poetry, the most beautiful and the most evocative poetry of Ireland. There would be the verses from the famous Voyage of Bran:

Unknown is wailing and treachery

In the familiar cultivated land,

There is nothing rough or harsh,

But sweet music striking on the ear.

Without grief, without sorrow, without death,

Without sickness, without debility …

They would also use some of the beautiful poignant works of Amairgen the Blind, who had lived in Ireland centuries earlier and bequeathed a wealth of poetry and wisdom to generations after him:

And it is at the Purple Hour

When the day is handed into the keeping of the night

When spells are cast and enchantments walk abroad,

When the unseen creatures of the Old Ireland prowl,

When the silver bars of the body are dissolved

And the cag’d soul at last takes flight,

And joy abounds for ever …

The next three days would encompass wisdom and knowledge, so that there would be readings from the Chronicles of Calatin the First and the Annals of Sorcery. Probably there would also be sections from the lives of some of Tara’s wisest rulers; those of Grainne the Gentle and Erin the Just would also surely be chosen.

The last three days would be entirely given to music. The ancient magical runic songs of the Druids, which symbolised wisdom as well as music, would be sung, and the beautiful sad ballads of the long-ago High Kings and Queens, all of them beautiful and filled with adventure and bravery and magic.

It was unbearably difficult for them to give it their fullest concentration. Nobody could forget that the Dark Realm’s most powerful necromancer had entered Ireland with ease and snatched up Theodora. Nobody could forget Echbel in the grisly clutches of the Fomoire.

‘But,’ said the Mugain very fiercely, ‘we must pay this last homage to Nechtan, and we must do so fully and properly, for it is unthinkable that we should do other than ensure his entry through the Three Gates.’

It was unthinkable to all of them, and they would do it.

*

Laigne heard the slow, solemn procession set out for Nechtan’s last rites.

She was trying very hard to forget what had happened to her. She was trying not to remember how he had felt and how he had looked: Coelacanth, the Fisher King … There was that remarkable image of him standing over her, virile and strong, the stance of a masculine animal who has taken and given pleasure …

Given pleasure …

There had been a surprised knife-thrust of sheer physical ecstasy that had shaken her body to its core. There had been the feeling that her womb had opened of its own volition to accept the creature’s cold seed …

Coelacanth’s seed. Coelacanth’s son …

One hand strayed to her body low down, curving over her flat stomach, and the beginnings of a mad, secret smile lifted her lips.

Chapter Thirteen

As Andrew and Rumour drew nearer to the black-mouthed caves, they became aware of the steady rhythmic chanting again.

The caves were still some way ahead of them. Beyond them, the rock tunnel snaked into shadow, and Rumour said, very softly, ‘Once we start to move, we should keep moving. Then, if they look out, they may think we are simply part of the shadows.’

Andrew nodded. The firelit shadows leapt and pranced, and by moving smoothly and ceaselessly, they might blend with them. But if they moved and stopped and moved again, the Fomoire would see a break in the shadows’ pattern and would be at once alerted.

The Fomoire were dancing round the fires at the mouth of the largest of the caves, singing their horrid Hunting Song. Their skin-clad silhouettes flickered grotesquely on the cave walls and on the rock wall, and they were grisly and so inHuman, that Andrew knew a moment of near panic. He thought: I do not believe we can get past the caves without them knowing. They will scent us, he thought, torn between anger at his own helplessness, and fear at what lay ahead.

And then the old resolve surged back, and he thought: I will not despair! I will not believe that there is not some way in which we can reach the Dark Ireland! He glanced to Rumour, and saw that she was standing very still, her eyes narrowed so that the long lashes shadowed her cheeks, her expression absorbed. He felt at once that Rumour was summoning strength, just as he was summoning it. And although our sources are different; although we both mine a different quarry to find that strength, in the end, the result will be the same.

The Samildanach, who will come to Ireland humbly and quietly, but before whom all gates will fall …

Which of them had come first? Which was the grafted-on belief? The treacherous thought: does it matter? slid into Andrew’s mind.

They linked hands, and began to move cautiously down the tunnel, keeping close to the right-hand side, treading in the lee of the rock, so that if the Fomoire should look out, the intruders would not be seen, and the Fomoire would see only the shadows cast by their fires.

There looked to be five or six caves, and as they moved cautiously nearer, they saw that the firelight came from the large central cave, and that the others were in deep shadow.

They were edging along with their backs against the rock wall, their eyes never once leaving the leaping figures.

As they drew nearer, they could see that at the entrance to each cave were piles of white, gleaming objects with shreds of skin adhering to them, flung down in a tumble. Andrew felt a shudder go through Rumour, and knew the objects for Human bones. Skins hung at the entrances to the caves, whole pale Human skins, spread out and nailed to the rock by the hands and feet. The skulls had been left intact, with blank staring eyes and lolling tongues, and it was dreadfully easy to imagine that at any minute the poor sightless heads might lift, and the thin frail arms would beckon, and the pinioned ankles would writhe and struggle.

A warm dry scent belched out from the caves. Andrew identified it as a cooking scent, rich and savoury, overlaid with a faint greasiness. He thought: I believe they are cooking the flesh of their victims! That is Human meat I am smelling. His mind was at once imprinted with a nightmare image of the Fomoire scraping the flesh from their victims’ skins, and casting it into a pot to bubble.

The Fomoire were grouped in the centre cave. Inching stealthily forward, Rumour close behind him, Andrew felt again the immense gratitude for her presence, mingled with disgust at his selfishness. This was to have been my task, he thought; I should have approached it alone. I am taking her into a terrible danger. But as the thought took shape he felt Rumour’s response.

You do not take me, I come of my own accord!

They could see into the caves now, and they could see that they stretched back and back. Deep and dark and winding away into the ancient labyrinths of legend, thought Rumour, and remembered the tales of this strange between-world where half-Human beasts were said to prowl in the shadows. The firelight cast leaping shadows as the Fomoire danced and, as they moved closer, Andrew and Rumour saw that deep within the side caves were iron bars, sunk into the ground and stretching up to the cave roof.

Iron bars, thick and harsh and so close together that once behind them it would be impossible to escape.

The Fomoire’s dungeons.

*

The Hunting Song was all round them now, a grisly rhythmic chanting, and the red glow was falling across them, turning Rumour’s hair to pouring molten gold. Andrew held up one hand and saw that it, too, had been turned to fire, so that the skin seemed transparent and he could see the bones and muscle and the flesh beneath.

They were nearly level with the first of the caves, and Andrew felt Rumour take a deep breath.

Ready?

Ready!

They flattened themselves against the rock wall and began to inch forward, level with the cave’s mouth, part of the flickering firelight, melting into the shadows … This is the last stretch, but this will be the worst. Don’t pause, don’t stop, keep edging forwards … Andrew was repeating the words in his mind as if they were a prayer or a talisman. At any minute the Fomoire might look up, at any minute they might whip round and come pouring out of the cave.

But I think we are going to do it! thought Andrew exultantly. Only another few feet, only a dozen more steps … This was only a part of their journey: the descent into the Segais Well had been the first part and this was the next. If we can only reach the blackness beyond the tunnels, then we shall have left this stage behind us and have embarked on the next. And each stage will take us nearer to the Gateway itself. Am I nearing the Black Monk? thought Andrew.

His eyes flickered towards the tunnels. The deeper hinterlands, thought Andrew. The next stage. What lies within those tunnels, I wonder? Is it the borderland, the between-world where he prowls?

Don’t think about it yet. Concentrate on getting past the Fomoire’s caves; concentrate on blending with the shadows and the crimson firelight … Almost there. Please God, let us be safe …

He was bracing himself for the last, dangerous steps, when there was a check in the dancing, and the singing stopped as abruptly as if a door had been closed on it. A terrible cry went up.

‘Humans!’

‘Humans close by!’

‘I smell Humans!’

‘Out and after them!’

‘Get them all and into the cages!’

The Fomoire came swarming out of the great, red-lit cave and fell upon them, knocking them to the ground, dragging them into the cave, and flinging them down before the fire.

They circled the two prisoners, grinning gleefully, rubbing their clawlike hands together and occasionally aiming a kick at them with their dead Human feet.

Rumour half struggled to her feet and lifted one hand to sketch a spell on the air, but the Fomoire were there at once, knocking her hand aside, and the spell, whatever it had been, was stillborn. Black fury rose in Andrew, and he bounded upwards, hitting out at the creatures, feeling a surge of exultation when his blows sent one of them reeling backwards, seeing two more flinch and cower. It flickered on his mind that he had in some way surprised them by the blow, as if they were unused to being physically touched, and he struck out again, feeling his clenched fist punch into the nearest, feeling it go beneath the half-concealing skin cloak and sink a little way into the creature’s body. There was a brief twist of nausea; it was exactly like jabbing into an overripe fruit, and feeling the crust split, and the rotten juices spurt out. For the space of a heartbeat, the Fomoire hesitated, and Andrew drew in a deep breath to hit out again, an unexpected part of his mind exulting in the angry violence.

And then the Fomoire had recovered; they were on him again, binding him with thin, cruel ropes, tying his hands behind his back, dragging him into the cave’s depths. Iron cages lined the rock wall, serried rows of them, four or five all on top of one another. Small gates were inset into each one. Andrew and Rumour were lifted, and flung into a cage half-way up. The door was closed, and the key turned in the lock.

*

The sound of the key in the lock was the worst moment yet. They both pushed at the gate at once, finding it strong and firm.

‘As we knew it would be,’ said Andrew, striving for calmness, pleased to hear that his voice sounded reasonably untroubled.

‘It is as well to try,’ said Rumour. ‘Because, of course, we cannot stay here.’ She looked about her, her eyebrows lifted in disgust, but Andrew saw that, in the uncertain fight, her eyes were dark and thoughtful.

The cages were cunningly wrought so that they were not quite tall enough for a captive to stand up, and not quite wide enough to lie down in. The two prisoners found themselves half sitting, half lying, and they both knew that to be unable to stand or stretch would soon become almost intolerable. There was rock dust on the floor, and hunks of bread and pannikins of water in one corner.

Rumour said, ‘Do they call that food?’

‘I am afraid they might.’

‘It looks quite disgusting,’ she said, and now it was the exotic sorceress who disdained all but the best, and who dined at the highest tables in Ireland, and would wear only the most costly silk and velvet and lace. Andrew heard this, and despite himself, smiled briefly.

He said, hesitantly, ‘Is there perhaps a spell of any kind we could use to escape?’ and thought: I do not believe I am saying this! I do not believe that I am asking, hoping that she can summon up an enchantment to free us! Prayer is the strongest force of all! That is what I must turn to! And, even while he was thinking, he knew that sorcery existed, and he knew as well that if magic could free them, he would welcome it.

Rumour said thoughtfully, ‘The Fomoire are the Spirits of Darkness, the essence of what we call Corrupt Evil, and Corrupt Evil is extremely difficult to fight. Perhaps it is impossible to fight. I think it will be very difficult to summon up anything that will beat back these creatures,’ she said. ‘You saw how easily the Fomoire knocked my hand aside when I raised it to begin a protection spell? There was more to it than just a blow.’

Andrew said, carefully, ‘There is the sidh’s music,’ and Rumour said, ‘I had not forgotten it. But we are unsure of whether it can be used against an enemy, other than by the sidh themselves.’

‘Cerball and the Mugain said it would get us into the Dark Ireland. It must have great power.’

‘It will cut a path through the Gateway, certainly. Its light should do that, for the sidh are creatures of light. But I do not know if it can protect us from the Fomoire,’ said Rumour. ‘And there is the danger that if we use it and it fails, we have placed ourselves more surely in their hands.’

‘We have shown our strengths,’ said Andrew, understanding this.

‘Yes. I believe that if we are to outwit the Fomoire, we must forget sorcery,’ said Rumour suddenly. ‘We must defeat them by ordinary Human trickery.’ The sudden grin slanted. ‘That is by your Human trickery, and my partly-Human trickery,’ said Rumour.

Andrew sat very still, and thought: of course she is not wholly Human. Of course I knew. Even so, it was a strange and not wholly comfortable feeling to be here in the cage, with the Fomoire banking up the fires, knowing that his strange, exotic companion had the blood of something unHuman in her veins.

He had heard the amusement return to her voice, and he welcomed it. He was beginning to understand that she would show that surface flippancy in any situation she found herself in, but that in fact beneath it all she was not flippant in the least.

He sat deep in thought for a moment, and then said, ‘When I hit those creatures out there —’

‘They flinched at once.’

‘Yes.’ He knew gratitude once again for her instant comprehension.

As if to strengthen this, Rumour said, ‘And I think you were horrified to discover violence in your heart, Andrew.’

‘Yes.’ He did not say that it made him frightened about what else might lie undiscovered, but he thought she would know it.

Rumour leaned over and took his hand. ‘But violence is in all Men,’ she said. ‘Perhaps for some it is never called into being, but it is the only difference. Some are never tested.’

‘My Teaching eschews violence.’ Andrew frowned.

Rumour, who had already felt how much he was struggling to come to terms with this deep-seated anger against the Fomoire, said at once, ‘But that is a very arbitrary statement. There must surely be times when violence or anger could be justified.’

‘Our Leader showed anger more than once,’ said Andrew, and looked up. ‘Against greed or hypocrisy. Yes, especially against hypocrisy. There is a recorded case of how he hounded the cheating money-lenders out of the Temple, and how he overturned their tables, and set about them.’

Rumour, watching his face, said, ‘That is a Leader to follow.’

‘Yes.’ Andrew smiled at her, and then said, thoughtfully, ‘Those creatures — they seemed almost afraid of being touched.’

‘And yet they touch us to drag us into the cages,’ said Rumour, considering this.

‘But through the skin cloaks.’ Andrew sat up. ‘They only touch us through the skins, Rumour. Is there something — some weakness in them that we could use? Could it be so easy? What exactly are the Fomoire?’

Rumour said slowly, ‘I have only glimpsed them through the skin cloaks, but they are tiny and dark and wizened. We all saw that.’ She looked at him. ‘I believe them to possess goblin blood,’ said Rumour, and grinned as Andrew stared. ‘Do you not accept such things, Andrew? You should, for there were once goblins and demons and imps in Ireland, and they walked abroad openly and easily and fought with the first Irish peoples.’

‘Tell me.’ Because surely the more they knew about their grisly captors, the more chance there was of outwitting them.

‘The goblins dwelled in the forests and the caves,’ said Rumour. ‘They were creatures of the earth, dark and ancient, and they lived near to the ground. They were always vicious and greedy and black-hearted; there was one very old family of goblins who were known as the Black HeartStealers, in fact.’ She paused. ‘The legend is that, hundreds of years ago, they inter-married with a distant branch of the Amaranths. I think you may have met the descendants of that marriage in the Porphyry Palace.’

‘Yes, I recall. Tall and rather brutish-looking.’ Andrew remembered that he had felt a coldness and a greed from them.

‘Cerball and Laigne were careless to allow them into the Palace,’ said Rumour. ‘Although perhaps they did not learn of their presence until it was too late. Every branch of the Amaranths had assembled for the Succession Ritual, you see.’

Andrew said, ‘I think there is a vein of evil blood in all families somewhere.’

‘There is very little known about the goblin strain,’ said Rumour, keeping her voice low, occasionally glancing to where the Fomoire were seated about their fire. ‘But it is known that they were imbued with what is called Corrupt Evil — which is extremely difficult to defeat — and that they were scouts for the necromancers; messengers who prowled the woods and the caves and the mountains, searching for prey for their overlords.

‘When the first true Humans, the Cruithin, came to Ireland, the goblins were driven back, but they were not driven out. They hid themselves in the undersides of the earth; in the deep caves and the labyrinths and the underground tunnels.

‘The Cruithin were good and gentle, and filled with the strong woodland magic that pure-bred Humans can sometimes command,’ said Rumour. ‘They served Ireland faithfully and well, but they, in their turn, were driven out many centuries later. The Cruithin have almost vanished from Ireland now, although you may find traces of their descendants in remote hill farms, or mountain villages. I believe that there is a community of their descendants on the western coast, within the Moher Cliffs. They are small, dark-haired, rather attractive people, and they have a slightly elfin look to them.

‘But the goblins — occasionally chronicled as ginid, although that is a feminine term — did not vanish,’ said Rumour, absorbed in her story now. ‘The legend is that they traded with the necromancers, and were finally given the lands that lay between the Dark Realm and the True Ireland.’

‘Hinterlands,’ said Andrew thoughtfully, and Rumour said, ‘Yes.’

She looked at him. ‘I think we are in those hinterlands now, Andrew,’ she said. ‘And I believe that the Fomoire are halfgoblins; perhaps the blood-descendants of the original ginid and some strange alliance made since.’

‘You are very knowledgeable,’ said Andrew, and Rumour grinned.

‘I hold a very high degree in the subsidiary magical art of story-telling,’ she said. ‘If we escape, Andrew, one night I will spin for you the Tapestry Enchantment which I created many years ago. Woven into it are the legends and the myths and the folklore of Ireland. It took me many years to finish it — although it will never really be finished, of course, because there will always be more to add. But it is marvellous and magical and enthralling.’ She did not say this as if she was boasting, or as if she was expecting him to compliment her. She merely said it as though stating a fact. ‘Occasionally I have unrolled it at ceremonious gatherings, although it is rather fragile and has to be treated with care. But it is a very beautiful enchantment,’ she said, seriously, and then, grinning at him, ‘And, of course, it is one I can turn to good advantage if I have to. Telling a story, properly and fully, so that your listeners are held completely spellbound can be extremely useful. I have talked my way out of many a difficult situation,’ she said, and then, grinning, added, ‘And there have been occasions when I have talked my way into one as well.’

Andrew smiled, but said, very seriously, ‘Can we use our knowledge of the Fomoire to defeat them?’

‘Goblins were always believed to harbour a strong and bitter hatred for Humans,’ said Rumour, frowning. ‘No one ever knew why, for they possessed a dark, strong magic of their own, and they were many times victorious in battles with Humans.’

‘But the Cruithin drove them back.’

‘Yes, the Cruithin drove them back.’ Rumour frowned.

‘That must mean the Cruithin found something — a weakness —’

‘Yes,’ said Rumour. ‘But I cannot think what it would be.’ She frowned and began to say something, when Andrew turned sharply at a sound from the mouth of the cave.

Footsteps, light and darting and leaping.

The Fomoire were coming for them.

Chapter Fourteen

The Fomoire approached the cages with a sly, sideways walk, as if they were pretending to creep up on their victims, even though they must know they could be seen. Several of them had joined hands and tiptoed forward with exaggerated movements, and several more were holding a finger to their lips in hushing gestures like malignant children.

The leading one unlocked the cage, and at once the rest fell on Andrew and Rumour, pulling them out.

Andrew said, ‘You are speedy in your dealings with us,’ but all the while he was noticing how the Fomoire handled them through the skin cloaks, using the dead Human hands rather like ungainly gloves.

‘And since you are speedy, we shall not keep you waiting,’ said Rumour, and the Fomoire shrieked and jabbed at them with hard bony fingers that they thrust through their skin cloaks.

‘We shall not be dealing with you yet awhile,’ they cried.

‘We shall wish to savour that pleasure,’ said another.

‘And you have to be fattened first,’ said a third.

‘Until your skins are soft and juicy,’ said the first.

‘Until you are plump and fair.’

‘Then we shall peel you of your cloaks, Humanish.’

‘Show them!’ cried the Fomoire, prodding one another. ‘Show the Humanish what is ahead of them!’

‘Let them witness the feast!’

They pulled the two prisoners forward, and forced them into the largest of the caves. The fire was at the exact centre here and, as they were dragged into its light, they saw that the Fomoire were carrying in driftwood and logs which they cast into the flames.

‘The gleanings from the shores of Tiarna,’ said one who sat on the far side of the fire, and who carried an air of authority.

Rumour said, ‘So you prowl the outskirts of the sidh’s city?’

‘We prowl the world, Madame Sorceress,’ said the Fomoire. ‘We are ever hungry for Humans, and so we prowl the world.’ It gestured to several of the others. ‘Throw on the bones,’ it said. And then, with a cunning glance to Rumour, ‘There is nothing so fine as the fat of Humans to make a fire burn brightly.’

As the flames leapt, the rest of the Fomoire ranged themselves in a circle about it, some of them sitting cross-legged, the heads of their skin cloaks thrown back like hoods, so that Andrew and Rumour could see their tiny, bald, wizened skulls and their grinning, toothless, leathery features, and the flat, pointed ears. Rumour looked at them, and knew she had not mistaken: there was goblin blood here. I see it and I feel it and I smell it, she thought.

The Fomoire who was seated across the fire from them lifted an arm and gestured to the five who were holding Andrew and Rumour.

‘Bind them fast,’ it said. ‘And then bring out the other one. Bring out his cage and let us have a little fun with him.’

‘Bring out the prisoner!’

‘Bring out the Humanish prisoner!’

Andrew and Rumour were bound with the thin ropes again, and held tightly before the fire while several of the Fomoire went out, with their strange circling, half-dancing walk. While they were gone, the rest began the dance again at the back of the cave, almost as if they might be trying out new steps, moving this way and that, reaching down some of the skins from the cave walls, spreading them on the floor, and then dragging them behind them as they moved, as if they were ceremonial trains.

And then the others returned, and Andrew and Rumour saw that between them they were pulling a great square cage which was composed of iron bars on all sides, and which had a roof and a floor of bars. There was a small gate in one side with a massive padlock.

Inside the cage was Echbel.

*

He was naked and his air was matted and unkempt. He was screaming and clawing at the iron bars, begging the Fomoire to let him out, promising them all manner of things, offering them the Amaranths’ secrets, offering them the Cadence itself.

‘Useless,’ snapped the one whom Andrew thought was the leader. ‘We know your people’s secrets already.’

‘We inherited them from our ancestors,’ said another, and Rumour knew that these were indeed the strange mutant descendants of goblins.

They grinned and crouched before the cage, prodding at Echbel with long spiked sticks. Echbel scuttled into a corner of the cage and huddled there, shielding his face with his hands, and the Fomoire sent their shrieking laughter into the glowing cave.

‘String him up!’ they cried. ‘Hang him over the fire and let us see if he jumps!’

‘For if he jumps, then we shall take his skin!’

‘If he jumps, then it will be a skin for dancing in!’

‘Make him jump! Make the prisoner leap and dance!’

They linked hands and began to circle the fire, singing, and as they did so, four of them dragged the cage to a great iron winch, with clamps, and fastened the cage into the clamps. The smallest of them adjusted the screws, and two more began to hoist the cage aloft, winching it higher and higher, up and up, winding it outwards then, so that at length it hung directly over the fire.

The Fomoire threw handfuls of a fine white powder into the fire’s heart, and the flames leapt up, sizzling, throwing out a sickly-sweet stench of decay, licking at the underside of the cage, turning the lower bars to glowing heat. Echbel screamed and clawed at the bars, climbing to the cage roof.

‘Human bone-dust!’ cried the Fomoire, gleefully leaping higher in delight. ‘See him jump! More! More bone-dust for the flames!’

‘Burn the bones!’

They began to sing again, with a greedy, gleeful sound that made Andrew and Rumour, watching helplessly from the side, feel sick.

‘Give us fire to burn up higher,

Flames to roast and bones to flare.

Burn and roast and scorch and sear,

Singe the skins and tan the fur.’

‘Tan him!’ cried the Fomoire. ‘Tan him and burn him! A good skin, a worthy skin! A skin for murdering in!’

Andrew said in a whisper, ‘This is terrible. Surely there is something we can do?’

‘Nothing,’ said Rumour in a low, furious voice.

‘The sidh’s music —’

‘Save it for yourself,’ said Rumour. ‘Soon it will be our turn.’

The Fomoire were reaching up to Echbel now, each of them brandishing sharpened sticks and long-handled forks. In some cases they had thrust the ends into the heart of the fire, so that they glowed white-hot. They poked at Echbel, and laughed as he ran from one side to another of the cage, doubling up with mirth and holding their sides as he tried frenziedly to escape. The fire burned higher, and Echbel scrabbled frantically at the cage, trying to climb to the barred roof. His skin was already flushed and shiny from the heat, and his eyes were bloodshot.

‘Enough!’ cried the leader at length. ‘Preserve the skin!’

‘Preserve the Humanish cloak!’

‘Winch him lower!’

‘Yes, let us see the juices run!’

‘Let us feel the juices run!’

‘Lower! Lower!’

Three of them darted to the trivet, and began to wind the black handle, so that the cage inched its way out of the flames’ reach, and then down further until it hung on a level with the fire.

Echbel was screaming continuously now; terrible, trapped-hare screams. He was clinging to the sides of the cage, as close to its roof as he could get, his hands curled about the bars, his feet twined through them lower down. He was so close to the flames now that, when sparks flew up, they touched his hair, making it flare drily and brightly. The sickening smell of burning hair mingled with that of the bone-dust stench, and Echbel fell from the sides of the cage, writhing on its floor as he clutched at his hair and tried to beat the flames out with his bare hands.

‘Careful of the fur, lads!’ cried the Fomoire, instantly concerned.

‘Don’t singe the fur!’

‘For there’s nothing so fine as a fur-trimmed cloak!’

‘A fur-trimmed cloak of Humanish vair,

A sable lining with a veil of hair.

Singe the beard and tan the hide

But leave the fur safe behind’

Andrew and Rumour were both struggling against the harsh ropes that bound their hands behind their backs, and Rumour was again murmuring a spell of light. But each time the spell began to form, each time the narrow splinters of light began to glisten against the cave’s black walls, one of the Fomoire knocked it away, so that it fell into hundreds of tiny, glinting beads, useless and impotent, trickling away into the crevices in the corners.

Echbel’s skin was turning bright red and the soles of his feet were cracking. The Fomoire leapt in delight.

‘The juices! The juices are running! Don’t miss them!’

‘Give us the juice of Humanish blood

Give us the seed of skinflesh and hide.

Balm to smother our own hides in

Give us the sap of Humanish skin.’

Echbel’s skin was splitting in several places now from the intense heat. Andrew, unable to look away, saw that a colourless fluid was seeping from the splits, that it was actually running down his body and dripping on to the waiting Fomoire. For a moment, he was surprised that there was no actual blood, and then he realised, with a twist of nausea, that the Fomoire were so cruelly expert, so practised, that they could judge the exact moment when their victim’s skin would exude what they called the juice; the sluggish colourless fluid of a surface burn. They had not left Echbel long enough over the flames to draw blood, but they had left him long enough to make his skin scorch slightly all over so that the fat beneath the skin oozed and ran down.

The Fomoire were fighting one another for places directly beneath the cage, squabbling and shrieking, tumbling over one another in their eagerness. Several of them fell into the fire, and shot out again squealing, bringing with them a pungent smell of burnt hair and nail and skin; but most of them managed to stand beneath the cage, their cruel goblin-faces upturned, their shrivelled claw-hands reaching upwards, cupped to catch the terrible fluids that dripped from the cage floor. They smeared their repulsive bodies with it, shrieking their delight, and Andrew and Rumour, sickened and appalled, exchanged looks, both of them frantically searching for a way to rescue Echbel.

The Fomoire were winching the cage down now, shouting to one another not to let the skin split any further.

‘We have the juices, don’t spoil the skin!’ they cried.

The cage was on the ground, and Echbel was struggling to break out, tearing his hands and nails in the process. Thin blood smothered the stout iron lock on the door, and the Fomoire wailed.

‘Make him ready!’ cried the leader. ‘Spread him out and make him ready!’

‘Take the cloak! The cloak of Humanish thin!’

‘The cloak of thin pale shale!’

‘Lay him out.’

*

A deep and sudden silence fell on the cave as Echbel was dragged from the iron cage and forced to the ground. The Fomoire abandoned their leaping, dancing mood, and suddenly took on an air of immense concentration. Several of them drove four iron stakes into the cave floor; strong thick stakes with short ropes attached, set in a roughish square. As they lowered Echbel between these stakes, Andrew and Rumour saw that he was to be tied in a cruciform shape, his arms and legs spread wide.

And then they will flay him, thought Andrew.

The Fomoire were quiet and watchful now, and the two prisoners were aware again of the deep and sudden concentration. They circled Echbel again, but now it was a silent, watchful movement; it was the circling of predators before they pounced. Their tiny evil eyes were assessing and calculating, as if they were gauging how many knives would be needed, how many needles and razors …

Several of them had fetched long knives from the rear of the cave, and they held them out, so that the blades caught the fire glow and glinted redly, evilly.

‘Now!’ cried the leader, and the Fomoire moved.

Each one had its appointed place; each moved to it, and stood with a knife or a razor poised. When the signal was given, they moved as one, making a long, absolutely straight slit from Echbel’s throat to his groin, slicing through the layers of skin and yellow fat beneath. Blood bubbled to the surface, and two of them mopped it, enabling the others to see what they were doing.

Echbel was still screaming, but it was a sobbing, hopeless sound now. Rumour thought he scarcely knew they were in the cave with him, and was glad of it, for it would surely have been torture for Echbel to hope for rescue.

It was quicker than they had thought it would be, but it was not really very quick at all.

The Fomoire inserted wafer-thin flat-bladed knives into the single cut, and began to slide them beneath the skin. Rumour, with memories of a hundred Royal banquets, found herself recalling how the High King’s chefs would serve delicate pastry concoctions, and how they would ease a fragile slice from a serving dish with a silver server and lay it on the plate before the guests. Horrid! I believe I shall never want to eat again! thought Rumour. If only these goblin-creatures would ignore us long enough for me to pronounce a spell of some kind. What about a spear of lightning? But the instant she began the incantation, the guards brought their hands down and yet again the embryo enchantment died stillborn.

Rumour gave vent to a brief angry curse, and then, quite suddenly, an idea slid into her mind.

A spell to disable the Fomoire was clearly impossible, but what about a spell to free them both of the ropes? What about a tiny hidden spell? thought Rumour, abruptly alert. A delicate razor-sharp spell, a miniature enchantment to slice through their bonds? Could she pronounce one without the Fomoire hearing and sensing it?

She kept her eyes lowered, in case any of the creatures should look across and see her thoughts. I do not think they possess the Samhailt, thought Rumour. I do not think they do, but I cannot risk anything. She searched her mind quickly, flipping through the layers of memory, much as she would have flipped through the Chronicles and the Indexes of Sorcery.

A mixture? A little of the Spell of Human Hands? No, for to use that, a pure-bred Human must chant it, and although Andrew was becoming close to her thoughts, he was not close enough for her to give him a whole incantation.

But there were other spells. There was the Lightning Spell she had attempted earlier; that could be used in a minuscule version, perhaps with something else. There was a fairly simple Enchantment of Slicing Fire that might do.

And then she had it. Simple and clear and strong.

The Silver Cord of the Druids.

It was many centuries since it had been chanted; legend said it had last been used by a Human whom the Druids had tried to sacrifice on a Beltane Fire in the days when Human sacrifice was still permitted. It was Ireland’s ancient tongue, long since lost to Men — another Lost Language! thought Rumour — but the words of the Chant had been chronicled and recorded, and Rumour had seen the parchment bearing the words in Nechtan’s library.

They had nothing to lose. She would try it, and if their bonds unravelled, then they would have a fighting chance.

For the Fomoire do not like being touched … Rumour glanced at Andrew, and saw the flicker of a response. She drew in a great breath of relief, for although Andrew could certainly not help her in the Silver Cord Chant, he was undoubtedly alert and aware, and he would fall on the Fomoire the instant they were released.

He is not a man of violence, thought Rumour; he abhors violence, but he will do it. How remarkable. She sent him a sideways look, and saw the strong clear line of his jaw. Yes, he would certainly fight if he had to. This was quite remarkably comforting.

The skin was being eased slowly away from Echbel’s flesh now. They could see the raw meaty flesh beneath, here and there the red stringiness of muscle, and the brief whiteness of bone. The Fomoire were completely absorbed in their work; if I am to do anything at all, thought Rumour, then I must do it now, while their attention is on Echbel. She half closed her eyes, and reached deep into her mind, seeing before her the ancient, vellum-bound Chronicles of Nechtan’s library, turning the leaves in her mind. It had been gold-tipped, the parchment, and twined with the licking, silver fire that signified it to be an ancient Druidic tongue.

The Fomoire crouched low over their victim, moving the skin inch by careful inch, giving little irritated clicking noises if they cut too deeply and caused blood to well up.

Andrew thought that Echbel was almost dead. His skin had been peeled as far as his limbs; all that they could see of his trunk was a glistening, sac-like lump, a membranous bag of red-raw flesh and muscle, with the occasional dark streak of liver and kidney. God’s bounty, thought Andrew, sickened. God’s bounty, packed tight but ready to spill out on to the floor if a knife or a needle-point cuts too deeply.

The needles were used by two Fomoire who were crouched at Echbel’s feet. They slid the needles beneath the skin, apparently loosening it from the flesh before the flat, thin blades were used.

The skin was the colour of tallow now; grey-yellow. Echbel’s eyes were now only showing the whites; they had rolled back in his skull, and his mouth had fallen open, the tongue lolling out. Dead, or as near dead as made no difference. God take his soul, thought Andrew, and found a fleeting comfort in forming the familiar words. He half turned to Rumour, and felt a bolt of such triumph from her that, for a moment, he was very nearly blinded. But he thought: she has harnessed a spell of some kind! She has reached and caught something to free us! With the thought, he became aware that the bonds about his wrists were loosening, they were sliding over his hands, falling to the ground.

The Fomoire were standing up, holding the pale empty skin aloft, reaching out from their cloaks with their little clawlike hands, beginning a triumphant dance.

Andrew, Rumour at his side, leapt forward and fell upon them.

*

It was difficult, but not as difficult as they had thought. The Fomoire were taken by surprise; they were off their guard, and Andrew’s first furious blows fell hard and woundingly on the unprotected goblin-bodies within the Human skincloaks. The Fomoire fell backwards, the two that Andrew knocked down slipping in the grease-spattered floor. Andrew’s mind registered with horror that it was Human grease; the grisly drippings from the cage. Don’t think about it! He turned to where four more were circling him and, as he did so, he saw Rumour lashing out, her long, glittering nails raking down the bodies of those Fomoire trying to hold her. As they flinched, he saw delight flare up in her eyes; the tiny flame that had intrigued him at their first meeting kindled suddenly. He thought: she has managed to overcome the darkness! and with the thought, saw lightning spit from her outflung hand, and pierce the cave.

Andrew, catching her exultant triumph, turned and reached for the dancing Fomoire, who were leaping out his reach now, grinning and egging him forward.

He bounded forward again, spurred on by the knowledge of Rumour’s triumph, dragging open the skin cloaks, reaching for the scrawny necks, squeezing, throttling …

Rumour was at his side, shouting to him to run, and Andrew flung the two Fomoire from him, feeling surging delight at the sudden crunch as they hit the cave floor.

And then they were hand in hand, running from the cave, out into the dark tunnels, safe in the embracing shadows.

Behind them, the Fomoire were dancing in fury, shaking their fists, silhouetted against the cave fires.

‘But they are not following us!’ gasped Andrew, pulling Rumour with him. ‘They are not following! Dear God, can it be this easy to escape them?’

Rumour said, between breaths for air, ‘We defeated them! Andrew, we defeated them!’ And without thinking very much about it, flung herself into his arms, sobbing and crying with delight.

Andrew’s arms tightened instinctively about her, and at once there was a strong, shameful response. His body had already been aroused by the violence in the caves, and now it throbbed at her touch, and the blood raced through his veins. He felt himself become charged and stiff with desire, and he let out a low groan, and pulled her to him. The softness of her breasts crushed against him and, as he felt them, his mind spun out control.

For I have never felt a woman before, I have never known what it is to have a woman’s soft body pressing against mine …

He brought his mouth down on hers, savagely, helplessly, and Rumour reached up, twining her fingers in his hair, feeling his arousal through her thin gown, wanting to reach down and caress him, knowing that they must certainly move further out of the tunnels, but still standing locked in his arms.

And then Andrew put her from him, gently but firmly, and she saw that he was trembling.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, and his voice was suddenly remote and cold.

Rumour said, ‘I see nothing to forgive.’

‘Yes, you do not know …’ He took a deep breath, and dredged up a smile. ‘We are not yet out of danger, I think.’

‘So it seems,’ said Rumour steadily.

‘Our escape was so easy!’ said Andrew, frowning.

‘A trap?’

‘Truly, I have no idea. But we should keep in mind that it could have been a trap.’

‘For what reason? Why would they let us go?’ said Rumour and, in the same breath, ‘But yes, of course, they might simply be driving us deeper into the Dark Realm. They might be feeding us to something lying in wait further alone.’ She stared at Andrew, her eyes huge.

Something lying in wait … The Black Monk? thought Andrew, and felt a chill lift the hairs on the back of his neck. But he said, ‘Whatever is behind it, we have to go on.’

They began to move forward, and as they rounded a curve in the rock, Rumour’s grip on Andrew’s hand tightened.

‘What is it … ?’

‘Look,’ said Rumour, sudden delight in her voice. And then Andrew saw it as well.

Directly ahead of them, where the tunnel wound away to the left, was the cool, ice-fire, blue and green light of the sidh.

The ancient underwater Kingdom of Aillen mac Midha.

Tiarna.

Chapter Fifteen

The tunnels wound down and down, and the cool, blue-green light rippled gently against the rock walls.

‘We are beneath the seas now,’ said Rumour, softly. ‘We are entering the strange, under-ocean realm of Aillen mac Midha. The kingdom of the sidh. And I think,’ said Rumour, frowning, ‘that we should not stay there for any longer than we need.’

‘But — there is air?’ Andrew had been visualising some kind of secret kingdom deep beneath the sea-bed, but Rumour’s words gave him pause.

But she said at once, ‘Yes, it is a — you could say a physical world. Secret and deeply buried. But it is no legend, no chimerical land.’ She glanced at him and smiled. ‘Tiarna exists,’ she said. ‘It is real. “Far beneath the ocean bed and deep beneath the world’s seas … ” One of our poets wrote that of it, and it is true. You have to go a long way down and you have to pass through strange hinterlands to reach it. But I suspect,’ said Rumour, thoughtfully, ‘that you pass through some kind of Gateway.’

‘But we shall surely know when that happens?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Rumour.

It had been precisely what Cerball and the Mugain had thought. To pass quietly through the Gateway and be barely aware of it.

Rumour said, ‘You are silent, Andrew? Is it too unobtrusive for you? Should you have preferred great, glittering doorways sketched against the dark skies, and beacons of fiery light guarding the way?’

Andrew smiled, but he said, ‘It seems odd, you must allow, to enter other worlds so easily.’

‘We have not entered it yet,’ said Rumour.

The blue-green radiance was growing stronger, and they were both becoming aware of a feeling of immense desolation somewhere close by.

‘As if,’ said Rumour, softly, ‘something just out of sight and just beyond hearing is crying helplessly and for ever.’ She glanced at Andrew. ‘The sidh, dying, mourning for their lost music?’

‘Yes. An immense desolation,’ said Andrew, gently. ‘And intense pain.’

As they walked on, water-light rippled and played on the rock walls, and they made out carvings on the hard rock walls, cave pictures of strange sea-beasts with homed heads and lashing, finlike tails and slanting eyes that peered sideways and saw secrets and chuckled to do so …

‘The nimfeach,’ said Rumour, as Andrew pointed to them. ‘The ancient sea-people who once dwelled in the City of Tiarna and were ruled by the Fisher King.’

‘What happened to them?’

‘The sidh, under Aillen mac Midha, drove them out,’ said Rumour. ‘They vowed to return one day, of course, as all dispossessed peoples vow to return. But it is so long ago that no one now knows very much about them: where they came from or what their allegiances were.’

‘Or even if they existed?’ said Andrew, softly.

‘Oh, they existed, Andrew. The Fisher King and his minions existed. But it is so long ago that they are simply another of Ireland’s lost tribes. Ireland’s origins, like that of most worlds, are lost in the mists of Time, for Time now is so old that we cannot know what was in its genesis. There are lost peoples and ancient secrets and legends in all worlds, I think,’ said Rumour. ‘But perhaps Ireland has a little more than most. Or so the Irish would have you believe.’ She paused before the nearest of the wall carvings. ‘I believe that to have been the nimfeach overlord,’ said Rumour softly. ‘The Fisher King. Called in some legends “Coelacanth”.’

The Fisher King of the lost tribe of nimfeach. He was depicted as being much taller than Humans — ‘What is called giantish,’ said Rumour — but he was slender and finely boned and covered with thin, translucent skin, so that you knew that if he stood before a strong light, you would be able to see the small, frail bones. Here and there were scales on his body, scattered between his legs, and across his upper limbs. Almost like armour, thought Andrew, or like the beginnings of a carapace forming.

Rumour said, ‘He was neither quite Human nor quite Fish, but a blend of the two.’ She studied the carving for a moment before turning back to walk at Andrew’s side.

Ahead of them they could glimpse Tiarna itself now; faint, uncertain images of shining spires and turrets and silver-tipped gates beyond the tunnels. Rumour said, very softly, ‘We are leaving our own world at last, Andrew; we are very close to the boundaries.’ Andrew nodded and understood her meaning and remembered about passing from one world to the next.

He said cautiously, ‘Will it be difficult to get into Tiarna? Will there be —’ And stopped, because he was still trying to come to terms with the idea of sentries and prowling enchantments and invisible guards. ‘Will there be anything to prevent us from entering the City?’ he said at length. ‘Cerball and the Mugain spoke of a legend: the Black Monk …’

‘Yes, I have heard the name,’ said Rumour. ‘The Black Monk who guards one of the Gateways into the Dark Realm. It is quite a new legend,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘And not so very widely known. But from time to time the Dark Lords entrap those they believe can serve them. They are usually poor husked-dry things in the end, those victims, for the Dark Lords are greedy masters. They will gratify the victims’ lusts, but there is usually a long period of servitude in return — sometimes several centuries of guarding a boundary or a fortress. It is possible that the Monk was one of those more lately caught.’

‘And legends have to begin somewhere,’ said Andrew, half to himself.

‘He interests you, that one, I think?’ said Rumour.

Andrew hesitated, and then thought: why not tell her a little of the truth? ‘There is a belief that he was once one of my own Order,’ he said.

‘And — you would like to reclaim him for your strange religion?’ Rumour was interested. ‘Yes, of course you would like to do so, for the idea of returning a strayed sheep to the fold is always alluring and … What have I said?’

‘Only the mention of straying sheep. But yes, I should like to find him and bring him back if I could. My people believe that his evil ways may do harm to the new Teaching.’

That is understandable,’ said Rumour. ‘But I do not think we will encounter him here. If he is in thrall to one of the necromancers — Chaos himself, perhaps, or the Crimson Lady of Almhuin — then he will be much deeper in the Dark Realm than this.’ She sent him one of her sideways glances. ‘We have scarcely begun to penetrate the Dark Realm yet,’ said Rumour. ‘Even this part, even Tiarna, is only one of the borderlands.’

‘Yes, I understand.’

Rumour said, ‘The world of Aillen mac Midha has always been accounted the most fortified world ever known. That is why I do not think the Black Monk would be here. The sidh guard Tiarna themselves. They have never needed Humans.’

‘But now they are injured,’ said Andrew, thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps dead. That should mean that at least we can enter unchallenged.’

But as they drew nearer, and as the cool turquoise light became stronger, they were both aware of a sense of unease and a creeping darkness. Rumour sketched a Banishing Ritual on the air, and with it some brief words in a tongue that Andrew thought was Gael. He glanced at her, and then joined his hands, and murmured his own plea.

‘“O God, the author of peace and lover of concord, defend us Thy humble servants in this assault on our enemies, that we, trusting in Thee, may not fear the power of any adversaries, through the might of Jesus Christ our Lord”.’

The words flooded his mind with calm strength. He remained still, his head bowed, his eyes closed, and thought: still there. That inner reservoir of strength, that marvellous, bottomless well of love and succour and infinite understanding. If I forgot you, God, even though it was for a brief space, you did not forget me.

There was a sense of something familiar and comforting; as if he had looked round to see a good friend whom he had not met for a time, or as if he had returned to a dearly loved place. Peace in the Lord and peace from the Lord. Of course this is right. How could I have thought otherwise? Forgive me, God, for I had almost forgotten how it felt to experience the strength and the power. The Everlasting Arms …

He looked up then, his eyes meeting Rumour’s, knowing that, if she showed derision, or even incomprehension, he would feel the first stirrings of impatience and her allure would weaken.

But Rumour had joined her own hands, not quite in the Christian attitude of prayer, but in something closely akin to it. She had listened intently to the short prayer, not trying to join with it, not quite identifying with it. But sharing in it. When she spoke, she said thoughtfully, ‘Those are stirring words, Andrew. There is a remarkable comfort in them. That is a God I could trust.’

And Andrew knew that she did understand, and knew, as well, that the sinful, seductive threads still held him in thrall. He said, carefully, ‘It is a strong force, prayer.’ And then, in a different voice, ‘There is a feeling of distortion ahead of us. Would it be the sidh?’ And then at once, ‘No, of course it is not the sidh, for they are helpless without their music.’ And barely paused to wonder at how normally he was discussing enchantments and their powers.

‘It’s something more than the sidh,’ said Rumour, frowning. ‘I am not sure what it is, other than that it is dark and extremely ancient.’ She glanced at him, and in the soft turquoise and silver light, her eyes were amused. The iridescence had turned her hair to rippling blue-green, woven with silver, and her eyes were lambent. ‘Are you thinking you would prefer to return, Andrew?’ said Rumour softly. ‘To go back to your safe, ascetic world, where the rules are set down and all you have to do is follow them?’

Andrew stood very still and looked at this exotic, beautiful being and thought: she is taunting me. She is doing so deliberately and mischievously in order to provoke the response she wants. And even though the response that Rumour wanted had long since been evoked; even though he ached to touch her, he said, quite calmly, ‘I believe we should go on. Remember that behind us are the caves and the cages of the Fomoire.’

‘And therefore we are between a rock and a hard place,’ said Rumour, thoughtfully. ‘I daresay that is something your Teacher would have known about, Andrew. What would he have advised?’

‘Prayer,’ said Andrew, after a moment. ‘Resolve. Faith. Certainly the determination to rout evil.’

‘What of violence?’ said Rumour, musingly, pulling her cloak round her more firmly as if a cold breath of air had touched her. ‘What would he think of violence? Because, Andrew, I think that whatever is ahead of us must be vanquished — and perhaps physical force will be necessary.’

‘The defence of one’s self is permitted,’ said Andrew. ‘Also, violence which will defeat evil is permitted. And,’ he added, ‘there is Theodora to be reached.’

‘I do not forget,’ said Rumour. And then, taking his hand, ‘Do not worry about transgressing your creed, Andrew,’ she said.

*

They approached the gates of the ancient under-sea City of Tiarna in silence, still hand in hand. Andrew, who had been vividly aware of the touch of Rumour’s soft slender hand in his, was aware that a deeper, warmer emotion was starting to bind them. There was no seduction in the touch of Rumour’s hand against his, and no sexual edge to it. It was a closeness; the touch of one sentient creature seeking comfort and assurance from another. He thought: we are both extremely apprehensive, and we are both reaching out for warmth.

When Rumour said, ‘I am glad you are here, Andrew,’ Andrew at once said, ‘I am more than glad you followed me to the Well.’

He knew he should not permit it for very long, this warmth, this pleasure in being close to another creature in this way. Already I have gone too far, he thought. Already I am taking such strength from her and such delight in her presence. It must not be. His Order decreed that a man must walk alone and cleave only to One; nevertheless, thought Andrew, for the moment, I am thankful for her warmth and her closeness and strength and humour.

The tunnels widened and the blue-green light strengthened, and there ahead of them was the fabled underwater City of Tiarna, its light gentle and muted, filled with such unearthly beauty that Andrew and Rumour stared at it in awestruck silence.

The ancient City of Tiarna. The secret kingdom of the sidh; the world that the Elven King had wrested from the long-ago Fisher King and the nimfeach …

It echoed softly with the sidh’s cool, elvish magic, and it was wreathed with shreds and curls of their misty turquoise enchantments. Directly ahead of them were the City Gates, still twined with the sidh’s ice-fire spells, still misty with the soft rainbow light. But silver droplets were already appearing on the glinting Gates as the ice melted, and there were tiny hissing flames as the fire licked at the dissolving ice.

Rumour said, very softly, ‘Small wonder they have guarded it so jealously and so fiercely.’

To Andrew there was a silky, seductive beckoning about Tiarna. He had expected it to be beautiful; but he had not been prepared for this living radiance, this marvellous cascading light that caressed his senses. He understood why the sidh had ceaselessly and jealously guarded their City, and spun their ice-fire enchantments to deter travellers and invaders. Had I been born to this, thought Andrew, I should never bear leaving it. I should never bear to see it in the hands of clumsy, stupid fools, perhaps desecrated by Humans. This is something that belongs to the cool faery creatures of the seas. A world that Humans should never penetrate and despoil, but visit only in dreams and visions and longings.

The Gates stretched high above them, twenty feet at least, and they made out, very distantly, a rippling sea-green light, a ruffle of cloudiness, shot here and there with threads of vivid brilliance.

Andrew said, very softly, ‘So there is to be a Gate after all.’

‘Yes.’ Rumour indicated the dappled light far above them. ‘I believe that we are seeing the oceans of the world from beneath,’ she said. ‘One of our beliefs tells how, after death, the soul is taken to the place beyond and beneath the Roof of the Ocean.’ She sent him one of her sidelong glances. ‘There, the soul encounters the Wall of Paradise, over which it must climb,’ said Rumour very softly, and just as Andrew, earlier, had looked to see if she understood about prayer and faith, now Rumour looked to see if Andrew could understand her world’s beliefs.

He said, half to himself, ‘The place where all the worlds converge,’ and Rumour smiled with delight, because if he could understand that, if he could accept the difficult ancient beliefs and set them alongside his own rather beautiful, austere teachings, he was a very rare creature indeed.

Andrew said, ‘It is a concept I am not familiar with.’ But he looked at her as he spoke, as if wanting to know more, and Rumour said:

‘There are many worlds, and the wise men teach that, in places, the fabric between them is very thin. I have always visualised the worlds as prisms, polished diamonds, many-sided and multi-faceted.’

She looked at him and waited again, and Andrew said, slowly, ‘If that should be so, then in places the surfaces of the worlds could touch. Facets of worlds could impinge on one another.’

‘So that it would be possible to pass from one world to another,’ said Rumour softly, and looked at him and thought: so you are indeed able to open your mind to teachings other than those of your strange Order. And if I am not very careful, I may find myself attracted as much by your mind as by your body. And that would be the most dangerous attraction of them all … That would be completely and irreclaimably foolish, said Rumour to herself very firmly.

‘I am not sure, you know,’ said Andrew carefully, ‘that I can believe in other worlds.’

‘But there are other worlds, Andrew,’ said Rumour, still staring up at the glinting silver and blue City Gates, and at the misty world beyond. ‘There are other worlds, and there are other beings and there are certainly creatures who have not a drop of Human blood in their veins.’ She glanced at him. ‘You have already met the Fomoire,’ said Rumour, a questioning note in her voice, as if she might be saying: deny that if you can.

‘Yes.’ Andrew frowned.

‘Also,’ said Rumour, ‘you have met the Amaranths.’ And, as he turned to look at her, ‘Did you truly believe us to be entirely Human?’ said Rumour softly. ‘We are a small part Human, but we are not entirely so. The first sorcerers of all were imbued with the ancient magic from the dawn of the world; it is in the veins of all true Amaranths, and although inter-marriages with Humans have occasionally taken place, the thin trickle of the Amaranthine flame is in us. That is why we can harness the power and channel the ancient forces that prowl the world unseen. That is why a few of us were vouchsafed the Sacred Flame at the very beginning. So that we could work and rule and harness the good and pure Dawn Sorcery.’

There was a brief silence. I dare not believe, said Andrew silently, staring at Rumour. It is a dangerous, seductive idea, and I will not believe any of it. He closed his mind to the insidious bewitchment of creatures of an ancient magical lineage imbued with some kind of flame-like force, even while his mind was touching on the stories of the Twelve Apostles, filled with the Spirit of the Lord and bidden to go out and spread the Word … ‘Upon thee I will build my Church, and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it …’ Simon Peter taken from the shores of Galilee to fish for men instead; Andrew his brother, James and John; Philip the lawyer who was the scholar Apostle … And what of Mary of Magdala, Mary, whom some Churchmen believed to have been the Apostle that Christ loved best … ?

4 And for those who wish to enter, the Gate is always open …’

The words repeated themselves in Andrew’s head, and as if at a command, he reached out and pushed them.

They swung open with a silken whisper, and the soft, blue-green radiance of Tiarna poured outwards and fell about them.

*

As they passed beneath the Gates, Andrew and Rumour were both instantly aware that they were not alone in the dying City.

There were scuttlings and slitherings; cold creeping sounds, as if unseen creatures were crawling and slinking across the ground just out of their sight.

‘The sidh?’ said Andrew in a whisper, but knew at once that it could not be the sidh. The sounds were made by creatures who were evil and cold and who possessed a dark, cruel intelligence.

‘Not the sidh,’ said Rumour softly, looking about her, the blue-green radiance of Tiarna falling about her like a cloak, turning her hair to rippling silver. ‘But perhaps some strange, chill race that has crept into Tiarna since the sidh’s music went.’

‘Come inside, Human Monk and Amaranth Sorceress …’ The cold, dank whispering hissed in their ears, and they whipped round towards its direction. There was a cold, dragging sound, and a sly chuckling, and there was the impression of pale, lidless eyes peering from behind the silver and blue pillars. But whatever was watching, and whatever had whispered its cold beckoning, had whisked into hiding, and there was nothing to be seen.

As they moved forward, they heard the sounds behind them again.

‘Not footsteps exactly,’ said Andrew, frowning.

‘Something crawling?’

Something crawling …

Several times, as they walked on, there was muffled laughter, as if the creatures watching them were savouring their presence, and once Rumour caught a glimpse of something pale and scaled that did not quite walk but did not quite crawl either.

Something that crept and slithered along the ground …

The Palace was in front of them; a glistening, blue-green castle of ice and fire, lit not from within, but from without. Its topmost spires reached upwards to the rippling, silver-veined ocean, and its turrets were shining and spiralling with the pouring water-light from above.

‘It looks Human,’ said Andrew, and instantly wondered if this sounded absurd. ‘It looks as if it was built by Humans,’ he said.

Rumour, staring at the Palace, said, ‘It is Human, Andrew. It was built by the nimfeach at the beginning of Ireland’s history, and legend tells how, when the world was young and Tara, the Bright Palace, was new, the Fisher King crept through the tunnels we have just traversed, and walked in the world of the Humanish. He stole the designs and the plans for Tara itself, which had been created by what we call architect-sorcerers for the first High Queen of Ireland, and he and his people, the nimfeach, used the designs to build their own Palace. What you are seeing is almost an exact mirror-image of Tara.’ Her eyes were still on the gentle, beautiful spires and turrets and crenellations. ‘Tara is said to be the most beautifully perfect thing in all Ireland,’ said Rumour. ‘But this is a Tara soaked in centuries and aeons of the sidh’s soft allurements and seductions and their cold, elvish magic. And whatever waits for us in there, it is not the sidh, Andrew.’

Andrew was staring at the Palace. He said, ‘Whatever waits for us, we must go forward.’ He looked down at her. ‘All right?’

‘All right,’ said Rumour.

*

There were no pathways or tracks or roads as they knew them; there was no way of knowing how the sidh would travel to their shining, cool Palace. Rumour, who understood a little about the sidh, knew that for the most part they simply poured through the air, and that they had no need of roads or tracks.

Silver grass, waving and soft, grew all round the Palace, and here and there clung to the pale substance of the walls, rather as an ivy will creep over brickwork. In the depths of the silver fronds, Andrew caught flashes of soft, turquoise light, smudges on the ground or against the Palace walls.

‘Sidh-creatures,’ said Rumour. ‘Yes, they are dying. Then-light is fading. Whatever has crept into Tiarna found little resistance from them.’

As they passed under the great arch of the portcullis, Andrew paused, unsure of the way they should now go, but Rumour, whose boast that she had been intimate with the High King was not an empty one, had once known Tara’s layout very well indeed. She saw that the inside of the Palace corresponded almost exactly to the inside of Tara. Ahead of them were the galleried landings that led to the Staterooms: the Star of the Poets, the Skyward Tower, the beautiful, eerie Spirit Tower. Exactly the same, thought Rumour, torn between fascination and anger against the long-ago Fisher King who had stolen the architect-sorcerers’ vision of Tara.

As they passed warily through empty, echoing galleries, and down silver staircases, they saw, here and there, drifting, formless, turquoise smoke, blurs of colour so faint and so indistinct that Andrew thought it was a trick of the light.

‘It is no trick,’ said Rumour in a low, angry voice. ‘It is the sidh, Andrew, and they are dying a little more with every minute.’ She moved forward, her silken-clad feet skimming the floor, Andrew at her side.

They heard the sounds before they reached the Palace’s centre. At first, Andrew thought it was simply an echo, a lingering voice, some fragment of the dying sidh’s magic. And then, as they neared the centre, the sounds grew louder, and he realised that they had nothing to do with the sidh and their eerily beautiful world.

This was something evil and powerful; something that was
destroying the cool beauty and the lingering fragrance of the sidh’s music …

Immense double doors with etched symbols were ahead of them, partly open. Rumour and Andrew could see leaping candlelight, at first glance very nearly ordinary, and then not ordinary at all: smeary crimson, shot with frosted icy-blue, and filled with the clotted malevolence of ancient corruption and old evil.

There was shouting and jeering; bursts of goblin-laughter, screeching voices raised in revelry. A scent of food, warm and spiced and rather greasy, wafted through the doors towards them.

The whispering voice echoed about them again: ‘Come inside, Human Monk … Come inside, Amaranth Sorceress … Partake of my hospitality …’

The doors swung inwards. Beyond them was an immense banqueting chamber, a huge marble and crystal hall, created to reflect Tara’s glittering Sun Chamber.

But it was lit to garish life, and it was pulsating with a smeary red glow from dozens of thick, evil-smelling candles, and it was alive with shrieking, grabbing, rioting creatures.

And some of them were skincloaked, wizened, dancing creatures, and some were slender, writhing fish-beings.

The long marble tables were piled high with food, great overflowing platters of roasted meats and baked game and jointed carcasses. There were dishes of glistening fruits, crystalline and shiny with syrups and sugars, and the scent of hot, greasy food, and of spilt wine.

Andrew and Rumour stood in the doorway, their senses assaulted by the sights and the sounds that filled the banqueting hall of the Elven King. Through the thick, rank heat, they began to make out the shapes of the creatures who rioted and tumbled and held such grotesque revels. Andrew’s eyes were stinging from the fetid smoke, but he saw with cold horror that ranged about the tables were at least two dozen of the Fomoire, grinning goblin faces peering through slitted Human skins, tiny black paw hands reaching and snatching the food and wine. The skincloaks were shiny with spilled grease, and rivulets of fat ran from their lips. They gnawed at haunches of meat, spraying the table with fragments of half-eaten food, and then turned to the wine flagons, tilting them to their lips, spilling the liquid so that it splashed on to the tables and ran on to the silver floor. Several of them had scuttled on to the tables and were sitting cross-legged, the terrible cloaks flung back so that their wizened goblin-bodies were exposed. They reached for the hunks of warm meat joints, gnawing into them, and Andrew remembered, with an abrupt twist of nausea, the Fomoire’s black mouthed caves and the bubbling cauldrons of Human flesh.

Seated with them were nightmarish creatures, neither quite Human nor fish, but a cold, malevolent blending of the two. These were beings that could not walk upright like Men, but must go on their bellies like snakes or worms.

Slithering across the ground, thought Andrew, sickened. So it was those creatures who crept after us. He saw that they had small flat tails, jagged-edged and membranous, that hung from their spines.

Their faces were those of the beings depicted in the tunnels: sea-nymphs, sirens, with pointed, snouted features and thick, lipless mouths. There was such greed and such cruelty in them that Andrew and Rumour both shuddered. Their bodies were pale, but not in the eerily beautiful way that Rumour knew the sidh to be pale; these were whitish-grey, sluglike beings: neckless and bloodless and coldly evil. Their skins were spattered with pale, faintly greasy-looking scales, and they bent over the long food-strewn table, their bodies curved, so that it was possible to see a line of thin, glistening bones that bristled outwards from their spines.

As the flickering candles burned up, distorted shadows leapt, and Andrew and Rumour both had the sudden impression that the ancient cave drawings had been woken; that the carvings had opened their scaly eyes, and stepped down from the cave walls in the darkness.

Andrew thought: the nimfeach! The lost people of Tiarna! And looked at the grey-scaled, iridescent creatures, and at the lashing, pronged tails and the sly, cruel faces, and felt the terrible cold evil emanating from them.

And then he looked at the creature who sat at the table’s head, his pale eyes watching them, a cold, cruel smile curving his flat mouth.

The Fisher King.

The ancient, legendary Coelacanth, freed of the bondage at last, holding terrible revelry in the realm where once he had ruled.

Chapter Sixteen

Remnants of his Gristlen persona still clung to him. Shreds and fragments of the dark carapace that had shaled on to him in the terrible Pit were still adhering to parts of his sleek, pale body.

But where the Gristlen had been ugly and even pitiable, the Fisher King was not pitiable in the least. He was coldly and sinisterly beautiful, and he was imbued with such undiluted evil that icy fear formed at the pit of Rumour’s stomach. For this was Coelacanth himself; this was the enigmatic ruler of the nimfeach.

The Fomoire were chanting a tuneless, pounding song, beating the table with their clawlike hands, their evil goblin-heads peering through the skincloaks. The nimfeach did not sing, but Andrew and Rumour were both aware of a high-pitched humming, a keening wailing that spun and swooped all about the chamber.

The Fisher King stood alone, a grotesque figure silhouetted against the marble walls of the banqueting hall. He was as tall as the cave drawings had shown him: he was taller as well than the crouching, hunchbacked Gristlen had been. His body was sleek and streamlined, but there was a Humanish outline, as if fish and Human had long ago lain together and this was the result. To Andrew, this Human resemblance was the most sinister thing about him. And although his skin is not quite translucent, the bones are just visible, thought Andrew, appalled. I can see the bones and the pale thick flesh adhering to them. They were not Human bones; they were thin, brittle fish bones that would break very easily; they would snap and splinter between a man’s violent, angry hands …

There was a finlike tail protruding from his spine, as pale as the rest; jagged-edged and covered with glistening scales, and lashing like the beating of a single wing.

The Fisher King was looking straight at Andrew and Rumour as they entered, and as he lifted his hand in a travesty of a salutation they saw, quite clearly, the light shining through the webs between his fingers.

And then he chuckled, and it was a sound so filled with cold malice, and with such evil triumph, that Andrew felt ice churn his stomach.

‘Come in, my dears,’ said the Fisher King, and his glittering eyes were on Rumour. ‘Come in to my celebration.’

Rumour said, ‘Celebration?’ and moved into the banqueting hall, Andrew at her side.

The Fisher King indicated the creatures seated at the long, laden, silver table. ‘My friends,’ he said. ‘My people. The nimfeach returning to Tiarna. Our good allies the Fomoire. They rejoice at my escape from the bondage of the Pit.’

‘So I see,’ said Rumour. ‘And the shedding of the Gristlen’s skin? Do they rejoice at that also?’

‘Of course.’

‘How did you do that?’ said Rumour in a rather off-hand voice. ‘The embrace of a willing female, was it?’

A leer split the Fisher King’s flat features. ‘So you know that, do you?’ he said softly.

‘Of course I know it. It is not an unusual way of dissolving a curse. In fact, I have always thought it rather common,’ said Rumour disdainfully. ‘I suppose it was why you wanted Theodora?’ she said, and the Fisher King’s eyes darkened.

‘I almost had her,’ he said. ‘She was almost mine.’

‘But Chaos took her instead,’ said Rumour. ‘Yes, I see. And then you had to find another.’

He smiled again. ‘Laigne,’ he said, softly. ‘She came to me of her own accord.’ He smiled again. ‘She answered the music’s call, as countless thousands have done,’ he said, and the smile became filled with remembering lust. He reached between his thighs, fingering the repulsive phallus that hung there obscenely. ‘I entered her. I invaded her flesh with mine. And she was warm,’ said the Fisher King with thick relish. ‘She was warm Humanish flesh.’ His eyes glittered. ‘She will never admit to it, but she enjoyed me,’ he said. ‘Deep within her, she experienced a throbbing enjoyment.’ The narrow, flat eyes slid to Andrew. ‘Does that arouse you, Monkish One?’ said the Fisher King. ‘Does it harden your loins and make the juice run?’ Again the horrid, cold laugh. ‘I filled her with the seed of my blood,’ he said, ‘Milt. Fish-sperm. I sluiced her shrivelled womb with it.’ He looked back at Rumour. ‘The dissolving of the enchantment happened there, in the Porphyry Palace,’ he said. ‘The crust that had formed in the Tanning Pit sloughed from me.’

‘And then,’ said Rumour, ‘you returned to Tiarna.’

‘And then I returned to Tiarna,’ said the Fisher King. Exultation touched his voice, sending it spiralling into madness. ‘And I am again in the Palace that was once mine! The sidh are helpless, they are dying in the place they call the Silver Cavern, which once was my Throne Room!’ He struck his breast in triumph. ‘My Arena of Execution!’ he said. ‘Where my prisoners were forced to fight the Fomoire and the nimfeach to their deaths as I watched!’ A rising note of lunacy shrilled in his voice. ‘Aillen mac Midha took all that from me!’ he said. ‘He took my Throne Room for his own!’ He paused, and then said, in a gloating voice, ‘And now it is his own tomb!’

‘Because you took the music,’ said Andrew. ‘How did you do that?’

‘It was easy, Human Monk!’ The cold eyes rested on Andrew with amusement. ‘I crept down here and through the tunnels that once I knew so well,’ said the Fisher King. ‘I slunk as a supplicant into the kingdom where once I had ruled.’ The madness soared in his voice again, and again he made the gesture of striking his breast. The monstrous, membranous tail lashed with sudden, obscene excitement. ‘And they threw me into the water dungeons,’ he said with contempt. ‘My own water dungeons that once I had filled with Humanish: the fools put me there! Into the very sea-caves that were still soaked in my own necromancy!’ He made an abrupt, contemptuous gesture. ‘I broke the seals almost before the guards were out of sight — the seals that I had woven myself centuries earlier. I took their music,’ he said. ‘And because of it, they are entombed in their own Palace. They are dying.’ There was a lick of relish in his voiced and Andrew said:

‘But although you took the music from the sidh, the Amaranths in turn took it from you.’ He studied Coelacanth through narrowed eyes, trying to sense if the creature could tell that they had the music with them now.

But Coelacanth said, contemptuously, ‘I allowed the Amaranths to take it because I no longer had need of it. It had served its purpose when it lured Laigne into my arms.’ He regarded them both. ‘And I had had my revenge,’ he said. ‘After centuries of exile, I had had my revenge. That is something you would know about, Monk?’

‘Oh yes. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’

‘The immutable law,’ said the Fisher King.

‘And so the curse is dissolved,’ said Andrew.

‘Yes.’ But the Fisher King looked down at himself, at the raw newness of his pale, bone-laced flesh, here and there oozing pale, thick fluid, as if it was seeping blood under a peeled-off scab. ‘I still hurt,’ he said, half to himself, and then, to Rumour, ‘perhaps you will help to heal me, my dear.’ His eyes narrowed and he held out a webbed hand. ‘Come here,’ he said, softly. ‘Come here, and caress my poor, bleeding, raw flesh with your sorceress’s hands.’

Rumour pronounced a word of several syllables, almost negligently, and the Fisher King flinched as if struck.

‘BitchHuman!’ he spat. ‘Amaranth filth! I know that for the Draiocht Taimel So you would sink the spikehorns into my flesh, would you! You would embed into me the barbs and the nails of the Humanish fishermen and reel me into your power! That is twice you have spurned me. You will suffer for that!’ He nodded to the listening Fomoire, who leapt at once from their places and surged towards Andrew and Rumour.

Rumour lifted her hand again, but the Fisher King was before her, sending a ribbon of pale, viscous light towards her. It whipped about her wrist and dragged her forward. Andrew caught her other arm, trying to pull her back, but the Fomoire danced gleefully about him, and formed a circle, jeering and laughing. As they did so, the cold, spiny nimfeach moved towards him as well and surrounded him, pressing close so that he could smell the cold, dank stench of them. Their slithering, barbed tails lashed about his legs.

‘There is no escape,’ said the Fisher King, smiling the flat wide smile. ‘Eventually, Human Monk, you will be taken by the Fomoire for their cauldrons, and you will certainly be stretched and anointed and then flayed.’ He regarded them both. ‘Did it not occur to you that your escape from their caves was very easy?’ he said, and Andrew and Rumour exchanged a look.

At length Rumour said, ‘They let us go knowing that you were here, of course.’

‘Of course. The Fomoire have served me and mine for many centuries.’ He flicked his hand again, so that the viscous ribbon pulled her closer. ‘I think it damages your vanity to know that, Madame Sorceress,’ he said, and Rumour shrugged as if it was of no account.

‘Arrogant,’ said the Fisher King softly. ‘Oh, Madame Sorceress, you will soon be pleading for mercy. You will soon crawl to me and beg me to release you.’

‘We shall see,’ said Rumour equably. ‘But I think you are not so strong as you believe, Coelacanth.’

There was a sudden silence, and then the Fisher King said in a slimy, purring voice, ‘So you know my name.’

‘I know one of your names,’ said Rumour. ‘Like all Corrupt Evil creatures, you have many.’

From where he stood, surrounded by the nimfeach, the words formed in Andrew’s mind: they are Legion; their names are many …

‘And you shall call me by all of the names, Madame Sorceress,’ said the Fisher King with a terrible, gentle menace. And then, as if impatient, he flung out a webbed hand and stabbed the floor directly in front of him. ‘Kneel!’ he shrieked, and Rumour, struggling, found herself forced downwards, as if iron weights pressed upon the back of her neck.

‘Now, BitchHuman,’ said the Fisher King, softly and caressingly, looking at her through slitted eyes, his face so close to hers that Rumour could see the crusting of scales, ‘now, Sorceress, pleasure me.’ His eyes widened, and Andrew, horrified, saw the webbed hands descend between the scaly thighs, caressing the barbed phallus, rubbing it as it swelled and became engorged. ‘Pleasure me,’ said the Fisher King, and Rumour, on her knees before him, her hair falling over her face, was jerked forward.

For an instant, Rumour thought he was about to force the monstrous organ into her mouth, but, as the thought took shape, the Fisher King laughed again, and reached out to pull her to her feet.

‘I am not so careless,’ he said. ‘Do you think I do not know the pleasure you would take in biting at my flesh?’

‘A pleasure indeed, Coelacanth,’ said Rumour.

‘Nevertheless, you will pleasure me,’ he said, softly. ‘You will submit your body and your flesh to mine, and in ways you never dreamed existed.’ The pale, glittering eyes swept over her body, and Rumour, her mind searching frantically for an escape, knew that, for the moment, she was trapped. ‘I know a little of your reputation, my dear,’ said the Fisher King, his eyes still on her. ‘You boast many lovers.’ And then, as Rumour did not speak, he said, ‘And yet despite your wantonness, I think that you will be more surprised than you know at what I shall do to you.’

Rumour glared at him, saying nothing, searching her mind for some way out. And, because it was in her to face up to whatever ordeal might present itself, she stopped fighting, and shook back her hair, and smiled dazzlingly into the pale, bulging, lidless eyes. Because, after all, thought Rumour, his body is not so very different from a Human, and it is perfectly true that I have taken many lovers. Even the Wolfkings and the Beastlords, with their half-Human, half-Beast blood … Would this be so very different? And then panic spiralled again, and she thought: but this is the terrible Fisher King, this is Coelacanth himself. No matter. She would not allow herself to believe that it would be so very different.

Andrew was struggling to break free of the nimfeach, and several of them had caught and held him tightly, curling their spiked tails about his ankles, drawing blood. Rumour was facing the Fisher King defiantly; if she had to, she would probably endure his body with courage and cold contempt. But it was not rape that Andrew feared most for her; although it would hurt her, he thought, his eyes going to the immense rearing stalk of flesh between Coelacanth’s scaly legs. But she would almost certainly survive being raped by this monstrous creature. What Andrew feared most was the other things he might do to her afterwards …

Andrew looked about him, trying to assess the number and strength of the Fisher King’s Armies, seeing that there were at least a dozen Fomoire, and as many again of nimfeach. Too many and too strong. But there must be something we can do, thought Andrew, his mind scurrying back and forth.

What about the music? What about the sidh’s music, so thickly wrapped about with protective spells, so carefully placed in the small golden casket. Could he reach it? Could he twist out of the spiny tails of these creatures and somehow fling it in Coelacanth’s face?

But in the same minute, he remembered that, even within the dark crust of the Gristlen’s skin, the Fisher King had been able to manipulate the music: he had held it out to the Amaranths in their own Sorcery Chambers, and Andrew knew quite positively that every one of them had felt its sensuous pull. I dare not risk it, thought Andrew. I may be giving him extra powers. I may be banking the fires against us.

Rumour had managed to damp down her own raging anger, because anger would be detrimental to the spinning of any enchantment. She was not trying to spin an enchantment to defeat the Fisher King because, for the moment, newly emerged from his terrible bondage in the Pit, his powers would be rampant and raging, and he was probably stronger than she was. Also, there were the nimfeach and the Fomoire. Rumour sent them a sideways glance. Even with Andrew at her side — and it was remarkable how his presence gave her courage! — even together, they could not hope to defeat these creatures. We should be overcome, and killed; or perhaps flayed by the Fomoire before we died, thought Rumour. And then Theodora would be beyond our reach, and Tiarna would surely die.

No. Somehow she must defeat this creature.

She stood before him, and sent him the dazzling smile again. There was a brief pause, and Rumour sensed his puzzlement, and felt a surge of exultation. I have discomfited him! He does not know what to make of me! He expected me to be subdued, to plead for mercy, and I have not done so! And then, because it was in her nature always to take the most outrageous and the most unexpected course, she leapt on to the tables with a single, catlike movement.

‘Clear the tables!’ cried Rumour, turning to the watching creatures, her skirts swishing about her ankles. ‘Clear the tables! You! Play music!’ She gestured imperiously to the little group of musicians, and at once sly, rollicking music filled the Silver Cavern.

‘Better,’ said Rumour and, slowly and deliberately, every movement studied, she began to dance, shaking her hair out so that it whirled about her head, silken and perfumed. The feel of it brushing her shoulders gave her courage, for she had twined into her hair a great deal of strength and a great many subtle spells. She remembered, briefly, how Great-aunt Fuamnach and the rest had called it vanity, but Rumour had laughed and said it would come in useful one day. And now perhaps it will! she thought exultantly. Now perhaps I can bemuse them and cloud their powers with lust. The Fomoire with their dark goblin-blood probably possessed Humanish lusts. What about the nimfeach? Could they be sexually aroused? If so, their perceptions would become clouded and she would have them at her mercy. And then, thought Rumour, then I can spin up something that will vanquish them!

As the music quickened, Rumour also remembered the sidh’s music; but, unlike Andrew, she knew instantly that it could not serve their cause. The sidh’s music had been Coelacanth’s own spell, spun centuries ago for the sirens, the predecessors of the repulsive nimfeach who sat on the rocks that jutted out of the oceans and sang to the sailors and lured them to watery graves.

She moved with the music, confidence beginning to unfold, remembering how once she had danced like this at Tara, the doors locked, shedding her gown and her silk underthings to the music’s pattern, her audience the High King’s son, the twenty-year-old Prince and several of his Court who had stood around the table, cheering and shouting, finally carrying her off with them to the nearest bedchamber. She had made love with the Prince and his courtiers for most of the night, all of them intoxicated and laughing, tumbling together in the massive bed until dawn found them exhausted and satiated. The memory strengthened her, and she threw back her head, and began to peel off her clothes; the thin black cloak, and then the flame-coloured gown, sliding it voluptuously over her shoulders, letting it fall to the table in a whisper of softness. Beneath it she wore, as she always wore, lace-trimmed, cobweb-fine garments, wisps of Eastern silk and lawn. The nimfeach turned their pale eyes towards her, the gaping gills in their neck opening and closing; the Fomoire scrabbled at the table, evil lust showing on their ugly goblin-faces. Rumour laughed, and slid out of the last shreds of silk, and stood naked before them, the firelight pouring over her, her striated hair flowing over her bare shoulders, rippling copper and silver and gold.

Was Coelacanth watching? Yes! She glanced towards the silver throne and saw that he was seated motionless, his eyes narrowed with lust, the monstrous triangular fin already beginning to distend. One hand slid between his thighs, caressing his ripening phallus, and Rumour thought: unless I can harness power of some kind very quickly, I am going to have to accept that! I am going to have to let him thrust it into me. Horrid! Can I do it? The barbs will tear and hurt, and he is huger than any creature I ever saw. And he will be icy cold, as all creatures of the Dark Realm are said to be. Don’t think about it! I’ll avoid it if I can, I’ll trap him with his own lust, and then I’ll tie him up with something so strongly magical he will be helpless.

Slowly, imperceptibly, mingling it with the throbbing of the music, she began to intone the ancient gentle Draiocht Suan, the legendary Enchantment of Slumber, the simple, beautiful spell that had come down from the very beginning of Ireland’s history, and that was so gentle and so clear-cut that a child could have chanted it and watched it form. Rumour saw it form now: thin, spun-silver filaments, tiny strong threads that would cascade about the Fisher King and his creatures, binding them into a deep, dark sleep. Yes! It is working! I have sliced through their guard, simply by arousing their horrid lusts! Triumph surged up within her.

As the silver web began to slowly descend, a howl of rage and fury burst from the Fisher King, blotting out the music, drowning the sly chuckling of the Fomoire and the strange, high-pitched, mewling cries of the nimfeach.

Coelacanth was on his feet, his hands outstretched, sending shards of evil, glinting sparks into the centre of the Draiocht Suan, causing it to splinter and fall in tiny, useless specks of light which dissolved and ran into nothing.

‘Bitch!’ cried the Fisher King, ‘Accursed Daughter of the foul House of Amaranth! So you would cheat me, madame! You would deceive me with your seductions! You would lure me into your embrace and then spin about me another accursed spell!’ He fixed his eyes on her, and the Fomoire pranced closer, their tiny claws reaching out.

‘You will not defeat me,’ said the Fisher King, his face lowered so that it was on a level with Rumour’s. ‘You will not cheat me, and you will pleasure me, and my people.’ He held her, effortlessly, capturing both her hands in one of his, pulling her against him so that she could feel the horrid cold clamminess of him; feeling, as well, the triangular fin unfurl of its own accord, and stand erect behind him like a rearing cloak of hard, dry flesh.

The Fisher King threw Rumour on to the ground, and with his free hand, forced her thighs apart. And then he fell on her.

*

Rumour had known it would hurt, but she had not been prepared for quite such searing pain, or quite such white-hot agony. The Fisher King thrust into her at once, savagely and brutally, gripping her thighs with his webbed hands, the jointless fingers digging into her flesh. His hands were soft, but there was a hard, gristly core of soft, pliable bone at the centre.

Rumour, summoning every ounce of fortitude, lay unresisting, knowing that to fight would feed his lust.

But the touch of his cold, slabby body was so repulsive that, despite her resolve, it was difficult not to cry out, and to beat at him with her hands.

His monstrous organ was pushing deep inside her now, cold and moist, horridly intimate, and Rumour could feel the spiny barbs beginning to tear her flesh.

The Fomoire were dancing and cheering all about the hall, pulling tiny shrivelled organs from between their legs, thrusting them forward at the entwined pair with obscene glee.

The nimfeach were swaying, their pale, slug-like bodies writhing to and fro, emitting thick glottal sounds. Andrew, glancing at them, saw that the gills in the sides of their necks were opening and closing, as if the creatures had no conventional speech, but could only make the strange, high-pitched, keening sounds through their gills.

As the Fisher King pulled Rumour closer, several of the Fomoire leapt on their neighbours, tumbling them to the floor. Andrew, still firmly held, looked across at them and remembered the sin of Sodom. The Fomoire had cast off their grisly cloaks, and they were bending over, baring their anuses, leaping on one another’s backs and clutching with tiny, clawlike hands as they thrust their mummified organs deep into each other’s bodies, jerking and pumping into repulsive climax.

Several of them were seizing the nimfeach, knocking them flat to the ground and then straddling the creatures’ thick necks and riding them obscenely, their jutting penises forced into the nimfeach’s lipless mouths. They shrieked with glee and then rolled off again. Andrew, horrified and sickened, looked wildly around the banqueting hall, searching for a weapon of some kind, anything …

Rumour’s head was thrown back, and her slender white throat was pulsing as she fought for breath. The distended triangular fin of the Fisher King was swollen now, erect and rampant, fanning out behind him like a monstrous jagged wing, a frame, a tail-feather … It enfolded the two of them in a cloak of horny flesh.

The Fomoire were chuckling their evil delight, and the nimfeach were writhing between them like huge, glistening slugs. They tumbled over and over in a hideous blur of skin and scales and lashing barbed tails and claws.

Rumour was scarcely moving; she was locked tight in the embrace of her fearsome lover, and she had seen, and then felt, the terrible fin curl round them, and this was the most repulsive thing yet. The fin was cold and clammy and loathsome and, as it furled about them, the Fisher King groaned; his eyes glittered, and he drove into Rumour brutally. Rumour, the pain of the spikes tearing into her, closed her eyes, and murmured a brief enchantment of balm. Nearly there. Nearly over. Surely he will soon be done. Surely I shall soon feel the spurting of his loathsome seed, and it will be done, and we shall somehow escape.

She felt it then, the quickening, the tightening of the creature’s muscles, the swelling of blood vessels, and a tiny part of her that was untouched and untarnished by the foulness, recognised that, in this, Coelacanth was little different from a Human lover. Could he be wounded at the moment of climax? For he would be vulnerable then, thought Rumour. She remained still, concentrating on calmness, keeping her mind fixed solely on remaining silent, on not letting him hear or see her agony and revulsion.

Coelacanth moved convulsively, and the barbs tore into her womb, inflicting such sudden and overwhelming agony that Rumour’s vision blurred, and her mind spun. The banqueting hall, the watching nimfeach, the Fomoire, and Andrew — oh yes, dear Andrew was still with her! — swam and grew distant.

Finish! screamed Rumour silently, beyond thought of spellspinning now, certainly in too much pain to be able to call down power of any kind. Spend your filth in me, and let us be done! And with the thought, the Fisher King threw back his head and gave a screeching, guttural cry, and Rumour felt razor-sharp pain surge into her, and knew it for the cold, tainted seed of Coelacanth, and thought: cold, poisonous fish blood and evil, tainted fishjuice! Icy milt, the seed of the sea-creature! I shall never feel clean again!

He pulled away from her, and Rumour fell as the spikes tore at her, feeling the repulsive cold stickiness on her thighs, knowing that she was bleeding, feeling her own blood mingle sickeningly with his cold juices, stinging and hurting, hating the pain, but hating far more the intimacy. But I did not cry out! she thought, triumphantly. I did not even give vent to a gasp of pain! And now we shall see what can be done! thought Rumour and, as she half sat, half knelt before the Fisher King, her mind was already sliding into the spell patterns that would summon power.

The Fisher King had fallen back against the Silver Throne of Aillen mac Midha, and he was watching her with his cold, pale eyes.

At length, he said, ‘So still you do not submit, BitchHuman.’

A frown touched the flat, scaly features, and Rumour said, ‘I shall never submit, filth.’ And was glad to hear that her voice was contemptuous and defiant. ‘If that is the worst you can do, Coelacanth, I do not think much of it,’ said Rumour and, even as the words formed on the air, she saw Andrew’s eyes darken with horror, and knew at once that the words, spoken out of bravado and out of sheer relief that she had endured the ordeal, were screamingly dangerous. It did not need Andrew’s involuntary movement to tell her she had overreached.

The Fisher King was smiling, and there was such cold triumph in the smile that Rumour shivered. ‘Oh, my dear, we have not yet begun,’ he said. ‘There is so much more I am going to do to you. So very much more, my dear.’ He nodded to the waiting nimfeach, ‘Take her to the Crystal Pools,’ he said. ‘Shave her hair and anoint her.’ And then, to Rumour, who was staring up at him, her eyes huge and fearful, ‘Let us see how you respond to my other hunger,’ said the Fisher King.

*

The nimfeach half dragged Rumour from the banqueting hall. She was dimly aware that Andrew was still with her: he was being guarded by several of the Fomoire and prodded by their spears to make him follow. She thought that he was fighting them, struggling against the nimfeach who held him, but there were too many. They twisted his arms behind his back, their lumpish muscles moving beneath the pale skin, squirming about him like monstrous worms. The Fomoire jabbed his skin with their spears. Rumour flung him an agonised look, and felt at once a bolt of comfort and strength from him.

Continue to have courage, Rumour! We shall outwit them somehow!

But they were overpowered; there were only the two of them, and physical violence was useless. Rumour, trying desperately to calm her mind, murmured yet another incantation, and saw the Fisher King deflect it with contemptuous ease. It flickered on her mind that they would take her to the great Silver Cavern — what had Coelacanth said: that it was the Elven King’s tomb? — and hope rose in her, for perhaps she could in some way turn the sidh’s sorcery to her own ends.

But the nimfeach slithered and crawled along the empty, echoing galleries, dragging her into a great, dimly lit cavern with deep, clear crystal pools set into the silver floor. The cool water-light lapped against the pale walls, and there was a feeling of learning and repose and tranquillity. For a moment Rumour thought the pools were simply great shining discs of silver, but as they passed the nearest, it rippled, its reflection moving gently on the walls, and Rumour understood that this was the sidh’s library. And in those pools are the stored spells of countless centuries! If I could only break free and reach them!

But the crystal pools, where once Maelduin had dived and swum, and where he had studied the Cadence, were beyond her reach. The nimfeach were dragging her to the centre of the room, and the Fomoire were leaping and prancing, pointing to her with horrid glee, uncoiling lengths of thin, leathery rope. They fell on Rumour, and as they bound her hands behind her back, Rumour felt the cold smoothness of the ropes, and knew that they had been fashioned from strips of Human skin.

But I think I am beyond caring about that, she thought. I think I am beyond repulsion. A part of her mind noted that her feet and legs had been left free, and she at once thought: does that mean he will do it to me again? For the first time her resolve wavered.

The Fomoire had circled her; they had produced glinting knives, razor-edged, wickedly sharp and slightly curved. Rumour struggled and, as she did so, she caught a convulsive movement from Andrew. But as he tried to break free again, the nimfeach dragged at his arms, twisting them behind his back, wrenching at the sockets painfully.

The Fomoire were leaping and whirling into their grisly dance, circling their prisoner, shrieking with malicious glee.

Peel her smooth, shed her fur.

Moult the Human, cast her hair,

Let the Master swallow her.’

As Rumour shrank back, they advanced on her, still dancing, turning completely round as they whirled, and then falling back into place again. They reached for her long, rippling hair, letting it slide through their wizened hands, chuckling and nodding, brandishing the glinting knives.

‘Leave the scalp, leave the skin,

Let the Master swallow it in.

Peel her smooth and peel her fair,

Shed her hair and moult her fur.’

Rumour’s head was jerked back so that her spine arched and the tip of her skull was almost touching the ground. Her hair swung loose, brushing the ground, and the Fomoire yelled with delight and closed about her. There was the cold touch of the razors then, the scrape of the thin, glinting blades against her skin. A sudden silence descended on the chamber, and Rumour and Andrew both remembered with sickening vividness how the Fomoire had worked on Echbel, how they had fallen suddenly and completely silent in this way, directing their concentration to their grisly task.

Rumour felt Andrew’s thoughts flow out to her again.

Courage, Rumour … This will be unpleasant, but you will endure it …

Yes, thought Rumour valiantly. Yes, whatever they intend to do, I shall endure it. I endured that filth inside me. I won’t let them see that I’m frightened. I’ll be angry and disdainful, that’ll be the thing to be.

She half closed her eyes and sent the now-absorbed Fomoire contemptuous looks, and felt, all the while, the terrible sharpness of the blades, and then the heavy, silken weight of her hair falling to the ground. There was a whisper of sound, and a cold, numb feeling, and she knew that they had taken her hair. She struggled to get her hands free, to reach up and cover her poor shorn head, because there was something so raw, so exposed about the feeling that it was scarcely to be borne. But the skin-ropes held; the Fomoire had bound them tightly, and they cut cruelly into her wrists. Real anger surged up within her then, and she thought: how dare these loathsome creatures treat me like this! Her mind reached for a spell, something vicious, something cruel and sharp that would tear into them and rip them apart, but anger and pain had blunted her mind, and the patterns she sought eluded her.

‘And now the oils,’ cried the Fomoire.

‘Anoint the Human!’

‘Grease her for the Master!’

They whirled and danced, chanting as they went.

‘Human grease and Human fat

Slither and slime, oil and wax.’

‘Bring the cauldrons!’ cried several of them, and Rumour saw two of them carrying in a black cauldron, dragging its bulk across the silver floor with a scraping sound. They placed it at the centre of the room, a black menacing crucible, the rim on a level with the lolling, dead Human heads of the Fomoire’s skins, the sides pitted. A rank, rancid stench gusted out from its interior.

Andrew and Rumour stared at it in horror, and Andrew fought to break free.

The Fomoire danced about the cauldron, the Human skins flying outwards, the dead heads rolling, and then they approached the cauldron, leaning over, their tiny, clawlike hands reaching into its depths, scooping up handfuls of not-quite-colourless grease, chuckling and screeching as gobbets of it slopped on to the floor.

‘Anoint her well, boys!’

‘Make it slick, boys!’

‘Don’t tread in the fat!’

‘Human fat, slither and slime!’

They leapt and cavorted back and forth between Rumour and the cauldron, standing on tiptoe to reach into its depths, ladling the repulsive, lardlike substance out in their hands, and slathering it over her skin. Thick, slightly warm fat ran into her eyes, and then into her mouth, trickling down her throat, so that she coughed and retched. It was like being smothered in mucus, in blubber, in every loathsome fluid ever imagined. She was trapped in a mucus bag, in a slimy, soupy bladder of Human grease and Human fat, boiled by the Fomoire from the flesh and the bones of their victims, melted and clarified, and then tipped into the black cauldron.

As she lay, gasping, half blinded, fighting down rising nausea, the door opened and the Fisher King walked in.

Chapter Seventeen

He stood framed in the arched doorway with the silver curlicues and the elaborate carvings, watching her, and he seemed to tower above them all, ten feet high at the very least. Rumour, her vision almost completely obscured by the warm grease, saw that the monstrous fin was distended and erect again, and that the barbed phallus reared up between the scales that covered his upper thighs.

The nimfeach held her firmly but, as the Fisher King moved closer, they stood back. Rumour struggled upwards, and caught a movement from Andrew, as if he might be trying to break free. But at once the Fomoire were there, surrounding them both, grinning through their slitted, Humanish cloaks, ready to pounce.

The Fisher King stood looking down at her, his eyes glittering, the scales shining greyly in the light from the pools. He nodded to the Fomoire and the nimfeach, as if satisfied, and stood poised on the edge of the largest crystal pool. Its surface rippled faintly, and the Fisher King dived, in a single smooth movement, into the water. There was a brief glimpse of his sleek body, streaming through the water, and then the waters churned and his head emerged, the water pouring from it in shining droplets. Torn fragments and shreds of the sidh’s ancient spells spattered his body, and he brushed them off impatiently, and turned to look at Rumour; and the swollen fin reared up out of the water behind him.

He turned to the waiting Fomoire and said, ‘Throw her in!’

*

The film of grease was still blurring Rumour’s vision, so that although she heard the Fisher King’s imperious command, she could barely see the Fomoire move to surround her.

There was the sudden horrid feeling of the Fomoire’s claws, and the clammy fin-hands of the nimfeach lifting her, several losing their grasp because of the slippery oil, so that she fell hitting her shoulder against the floor. And then they had a firmer hold, they were lifting her, and there was the sudden cold scent of the water as she was flung towards it.

Her body hit the crystal pool with a flat, sickening sound, and Rumour felt, through the layers of grease, the shock of the icy water stinging her skin, as if it was being pierced by hundreds of tiny, sharp needles. Her shaven scalp felt as if knives were tearing at it, and she gasped and threshed wildly, trying to free her bound wrists, trying to see better, struggling to escape.

The instant she hit the water, the Fisher King dived again, darting through the pool directly beneath her. Rumour felt him brush her legs and twine his hands about her ankles; cold, webbed, dragging her down. There was a moment when the waters were over her head, and she was seeing the wavering depths of the pool with the ancient, priceless library of magic, the beautiful, intricate enchantments created by Aillen mac Midha.

The cold water had revived her a little. Rumour kicked out, feeling her feet brush scaly thighs, feeling him pull her down deeper, guessing that his intention was not to kill her yet, only to half drown her so that she would not be able to fight. And then she was pushed upwards, and the cold wet body was pressed close to her, and it was repulsive, but he was thrusting her out into the air again …

The Fisher King pushed her half out of the water, so that she broke the surface, gasping and fighting for breath. His head appeared, sleek and round on the pool’s surface, and Rumour was aware of his hands reaching for her under the water again.

He pulled her to him, the water slowing his movements, making them very nearly languorous. I shall bear it, thought Rumour although her courage was almost failing her now. I will bear it, and I will survive it! The rearing phallus pressed against her again, and she silently cried out, Oh no, please, not again …

But he made no attempt to force apart her legs, and Rumour realised that his excitement was no longer sexual.

She willed herself to be calm, feeling him holding her, feeling how slowly he moved, wanting him to do whatever he intended to do, wanting him to get it over, trying to think of a way to escape.

He did not enter her. He reared partway out of the water, silver droplets streaming from his body, the scales glittering, the monstrous fin erect behind him.

And then he was above her, curving over her, his head directly over hers, his body bending over, his head was drooping forward, boneless, fluid, repulsive …

His mouth began to open. It opened and stretched wider than she had imagined any creature’s mouth ever could stretch. Rumour writhed, churning the water to great foamy waves, but he held her firmly, his flat wide mouth stretched so wide that she could no longer see his features; he was simply a monstrous, gaping fish maw. There were no teeth, but there were ridges of jaw-bone, gleaming whitely, crusted with some kind of growth, greyish-white and more loathsome than anything she had ever visualised.

There was a sound of chanting somewhere close by, but Rumour by now saw only the Fisher King’s wide brutal mouth, and felt only the pushing barbed phallus, hard and throbbing with obscene lust.

Her stomach lifted with nausea as the tainted stench of his breath gusted into her face. There was a moment when the shape of his head was directly above her, blotting out the light, grinning and salivating, dripping thick mouth-fluids over her, and then the membranous lips closed over her shaven head, wet, flabby, sucking … Her reason spun wildly and panic possessed her almost completely, and she thought: he is going to eat me … he is going to suck me into his mouth and down through his gullet and into his stomach … He is pure fish now, and fish swallow their prey whole …

The great grinning mouth was closing over her head; it was covering her eyes, sucking her in … His mouth was sliding down over her face, so that she was fighting for breath, and his stench was all about her: she was drowning in the poisonous stench of the creature’s saliva …

There was a wet, sucking sound, and Rumour felt her waist gripped by the webbed hands, and her head pushed further down …

Darkness closed about her, and her vision was shot with whirling red lights … There was a suffocating, drowning feeling, and she thought: but I cannot drown inside the creature’s gullet! and then she was being pushed down and down; his hands were reaching for her hips, he was forcing her into his mouth.

The light shut off completely, and the world was spinning and her lungs were bursting for air, and it was ending, it was ending, she was being forced down, down through the soft tissues of the creature’s maw, down into the distending stomach …

*

As the Fisher King began to force Rumour’s head into his wide, grinning mouth, Andrew drew in a deep breath and flexed his muscles to shake off the nimfeach and bound forward. Anger was pouring into him, for how dared this monstrous creature treat Rumour with such contempt?

With the anger came a sudden, cascading awareness, a cold, steely strength, and the sensation that it was not his strength, but that it was being poured into him, as easily as pouring water from one jug to another.

As if the strength came not from within, but from without …

The Spirit entering the Twelve …

The thought formed with silken ease, and Andrew seized on it, for it did not matter whence the strength came, only that it was there for the taking. He whirled about, snatching a spear from the nearest of the Fomoire, pushing the creature back, fury against Coelacanth blazing through him like a forest fire, knowing, at some deep, unacknowledged level, that it was not his fury, and it was not his strength …

The Fomoire was caught off balance at once and, as it went tumbling and shrieking to the floor, Andrew, still in the grip of the strange, alien force, plunged straight into the churning pool, feeling the water drag at his woollen robe, but barely aware of it, hardly noticing the icy sting of the pool.

The Fisher King’s webbed hands were around Rumour’s slender waist, and he was beginning to lift her above his head, holding her aloft, so that she would slide into his gaping maw … Behind them, the Fomoire had recovered from their first shock of surprise and were starting forward; from the edges of his vision, Andrew caught a glimpse of the nimfeach closing in on him.

He plunged into the foaming water, the strength that was not his strength lifting the spear, and then thrusting it at the Fisher King’s face, aiming straight at the bulging, lidless eyes. He felt the tip of the spear pierce the eye-sac and meet hard bone. A cry of agony split the air, and thick eye-fluid, viscous fish blood spurted out, evil-smelling and repulsive, spattering Andrew’s hands. Coelacanth fell back, the great fin hitting the water behind him.

Andrew pounced at once, dragging at Rumour with his free hand, the three of them crashing over and over, tumbling in the churning, foaming pool, its surface curdled and slimed with the Fisher King’s thick, colourless blood, the Fisher King himself thrashing and screeching, flailing in his death agony.

Rumour was in his arms now, blinded, gasping, but blessedly alive. She clutched frantically at him, almost pulling them both under the water, and Andrew staggered back, and then righted them both. He lifted the spear again and brought it slicing down on the Fisher King’s trunk, seeing the cold scaly skin part, feeling the repulsive juices spurt over him.

A great cry of agony rent the air, and the Fisher King writhed and threshed, the great tail-fin lashing the water and sending cascading waves over the sides. Great sheets of water drenched Andrew and Rumour, but now it was the pure cool water of the sidh’s pool, and it had a sharp, clean feel.

The nimfeach had fallen back, and Andrew, still supporting the half-drowned Rumour, managed to look back, and saw fear in their eyes; and through the threshing of the dying Fisher King, he saw the gills in their necks gaping and distorting as they fought to frame Humanish speech.

‘The Samildanach … The promised Humanish …’

Their voices were wet and ugly, but Andrew’s senses were reeling and he barely heard them. His mind was sickened at what he had done, but he was still caught in the spinning maelstrom of rage, and his entire body was throbbing with angry passion against the loathsome Coelacanth.

He dragged Rumour bodily from the pool, and climbed out after her, turning her on one side, shaking her so that the water gushed from her mouth. She was white and pinched, but she was breathing, and Andrew sent up a heartfelt prayer of thanks.

The Fomoire were moving towards him, circling the pool, but Andrew saw that they were very wary indeed. The nimfeach were cowering, and he heard again the ugly, unnatural gill-speech. ‘The Samildanach. The mantle of the Samildanach is upon him … It is as it was prophesied.’

A tiny part of his mind registered that the nimfeach pronounced the word not as he had heard it in the Porphyry Palace, but with a different, eerily beautiful cadence of their own.

From the corner of his eyes, he caught the movement of the Fomoire as they lifted their spears and bunched together, as if to make a concerted rush. He shook Rumour again, hating himself for doing it, seeing that she was barely conscious, knowing that she should be left to healing sleep, but knowing as well that if they were to have any hope at all of escaping, she must pronounce a spell at once. Coelacanth was dead, his maimed body was now floating, face down, in the crystal pool; but Andrew knew that, although the nimfeach might hesitate, the Fomoire would not. He had disconcerted them, he had slain Coelacanth, and the nimfeach had ascribed to him the mantle of the legendary Samildanach. And that is all it was! he thought. That is all it was, and at any minute the Fomoire will be upon us.

Rumour, swimming in and out of consciousness, heard Andrew’s voice shouting to her to pronounce an enchantment to beat back the advancing Fomoire.

‘Something — anything! The Draiocht Suan,’ cried Andrew, picking one of the few enchantments he had heard of. ‘Rumour, you must!’

‘I can’t —’

‘You must!’ cried Andrew, desperately. ‘There will be all the time afterwards to recover, but you must find that last shred of energy! I cannot do it! You must safeguard us!’

Rumour, clutching the remnants of sanity, heard Andrew say that they could be safe, and her mind cleared a little. Iron bands still held her lungs in a vice, and it hurt to breathe, but Andrew had said she must pronounce a spell that would safeguard them.

She summoned the last dregs of her strength, and whispered the words of the ancient, powerful Draiocht Suan, the gentle Enchantment of Slumber, and then fell back in Andrew’s arms, exhausted. She did not know if it had worked, or if the darkness of Coelacanth would stifle the spell, but there was nothing more she could do.

Holding her to him, trying to infuse the warmth of his own body into her, Andrew saw, with deep and immense thankfulness, the silver cobwebs of the Draiocht Suan descend about the advancing creatures, so that they fell to the ground, caught in the sticky silver cobweb of the ancient Enchantment of Slumber.

*

He carried her out of the chamber with the crystal pools, leaving behind the dead body of the Fisher King and his unconscious servants. He had no knowledge of the Palace, but there would surely be somewhere he could lay her down and dry her and warm her, and let her sleep.

She was dripping wet, and her skin was still streaked with the thick grease and with the spattering of Coelacanth’s viscous blood. Her head was bare and shaven, but Andrew, looking down, saw the long thick lashes lying against her cheeks, and the beautiful bone structure, and felt something painful wrench his heart and his loins, because she was so beautiful, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and her pain was scarcely to be borne.

He was barely aware of her weight; he thought she felt like a trembling bird sheltering, her heart pounding against the thin cage of her ribs. The anger and the strange, invasive strength had left him, going as swiftly as it had come. I suppose, thought Andrew, that it was simply something born out of fear and out of the need to save Rumour. Yes, of course that was what it had been. Little more than a perfectly natural self-preservation. He dared not believe anything else. And Coelacanth was dead and the others locked into slumber by the Draiocht Suan, and for the moment they were safe. For the moment he would concentrate only on healing Rumour, on finding somewhere for them to rest.

Directly ahead was a corridor with doors opening off it, all of them etched with the silhouettes of sea-creatures and twining hazel wands and beings with rippling hair and lashing, iridescent tails. Surely there would be a room where they could rest and recover. He turned into the first, and saw with immense thankfulness that, although there was not a bed in the sense that he understood it, there was a low, wide dais with pale, silken cushions. To the left was a tiny crystal pool, with a silver fountain spouting fresh water, and behind the dais were thin, gauzy lengths of some blue-green stuff that shimmered silkily. Some kind of guests’ wardrobe?

He laid Rumour on the dais, piling the cushions about her for warmth and comfort, turning to reach down lengths of the blue-green silk to wrap about her, seeing that the silk was fashioned into the shapes of loose robes, some of them fur-trimmed, several of them crusted with iridescent stones. He pulled off his own drenched robe impatiently, and pulled on the nearest of the robes before turning back to the unconscious Rumour.

The water in the tiny pool was fresh and clean; when Andrew dipped his hands into it, it slid over his hands like thin rainwater, gentle and soothing. He soaked a length of the thin silk in the pool, and turned back to sponge Rumour’s lacerated body, thinking that, when she regained consciousness, at least she would be cleansed of the Fisher King’s spattered slime and fish blood.

He thought: I should like to bathe her in the perfumes and the unguents I am sure she is used to. I should like to immerse her in swansdown pillows, and wrap her in down and velvet so that nothing harmful or evil could ever touch her again …

He was conscious of the absurdity of it, for he had only plain water, and he had only his own rough, unskilled hands, more used to the monks’ harsh lye soap than to perfumes and soft lotions.

The water revived her; colour touched her cheeks, and the velvety lashes fluttered. Her eyes opened, and Andrew murmured a prayer of gratitude.

She looked up at him as he continued to wipe away every trace of Coelacanth’s monstrous assault, and as he reached for a robe of peacock-blue to wrap about her, she said, very softly, ‘I have no words to thank you, Andrew.’ For the first time since he had known her, Andrew heard her voice falter. ‘But I do thank you,’ said Rumour, reaching out a hand to trace his features. ‘I thank you for my life and for my sanity.’ A travesty of her old mocking smile showed. ‘My poor man of peace,’ said Rumour softly. ‘Had you to wrestle with your conscience and your god to kill him, Andrew?’

‘No,’ said Andrew, staring down at her. ‘There was no fight. The creature had to die.’

Because if he had not died, you would not he here, my love …

‘There was no fight,’ he said, again. ‘And what I began, you finished. I could not have held off the Fomoire if you had not pronounced the Draiocht Suan.’ He looked at her, seeing all over again that, even without the rippling hair framing her face, she was beautiful; there was no part of her that was not beautiful. Eyes, skin, teeth, shoulders, breasts … The peacock-blue robe turned her eyes to pure turquoise, the colour of the Gaillimh coast on a brilliant summer day, the colour of dragonflies’ wings. The robe was loosely tied, and beneath it her skin gleamed ivory white …

Rumour half sat up, propping herself up on one elbow, looking about her; Andrew, knowing that, despite his resolve, his body was betraying him, sat back. At length, Rumour said, very softly, ‘If you would enfold me in your arms, as I think you have been wishing to, I should be so grateful.’

Andrew said, ‘That creature has — hurt you …’

‘The hurt is deeper. Please,’ said Rumour and, unexpectedly, there was a thread of amusement. ‘I have never before had to plead for an embrace,’ she said, and Andrew saw that, although the familiar mockery lit her eyes, behind them was hurt; pain and terror, and the dreadful memory of what Coelacanth had done to her. He could have coped with the mockery; he had schooled himself to cope with it ever since they had descended to Tiarna, and he could have withstood the lingering fear. But the knowledge of her pain unmanned him. He could not bear to think of her hurting. He thought: after all, I am only Human, and after all, she is asking for no more than warmth and closeness. He held out his arms, and Rumour went into them.

*

There was more sweetness, more warmth and more pure joy in holding her than he had ever imagined possible.

Her skin smelt of the clean water, and of her own special fragrance, and Andrew held her, not daring to do more, feeling that she was still shivering, knowing that he was shivering also, although whether from cold or from some other cause, he was unsure.

He thought: there is no sin. She has been used cruelly, and there must only be this closeness, this warmth. But all the while, he was aware of his traitorous body, throbbing with wanting, aching with desire, hard and sinful and sweet.

At length she fell asleep, and Andrew moved away cautiously, because it would be sensible to make sure that the Draiocht Suan still held their enemies, and it would be practical to find if there was food and wine in the Palace, lotions for Rumour’s torn skin.

But each time he moved, she cried out, like a child frightened of the dark, and clutched him, and at length Andrew crept beneath the silken covers and the cushions, and held her.

*

There was no dawn in Tiarna; Andrew, lying with Rumour quiescent at his side, thought that, where there was no sky, no sun, there could not be day or night, as he knew it.

But gradually he became aware of a faint softening of the rippling water-light, arid a silvering of the shadows. There was the feeling of renewal, of the darkness receding, of an awakening.

And imbued with the new Teaching of the Nazarene as he was, he found himself remembering the ancient beliefs, pagan but suddenly comprehensible. The sun-worshippers, the many peoples who had lifted their voices in paeans of praise and thanksgiving for the dawn and the light. The legendary Mansions of the Gods in the East, and the ritual sun-dances of primitive tribes.

I understand it, thought Andrew, watching the light grow grey and then silver, feeling the creeping shadows retreat. There was something strong, reviving, about the beginning of a new day.

Andrew silently offered up prayers of thanks, and a simple brief supplication for strength to continue. He looked down at Rumour, sleeping peacefully, and thought: there must be no more nights like this one, the two of us alone, our bodies tangled together for warmth and comfort …

Moving cautiously, he washed in the cool, pure pool, and found it refreshing and faintly scented. His Order decreed that a man must wash and cleanse his body regularly. ‘For,’ had said Brother Stephen, ‘the body is God’s creation, and must perforce not be abused.’ But Andrew had guessed that the Brothers’ rule of regular washing in cold water and the scouring of the rough drying cloths was intended to quench sensuous thoughts and desires.

Now, rinsing his entire body in the pool, he felt not just cleansed but purged, refreshed, silken clean all over.

Donning the blue-green robe, so different to the serviceable but rather coarse wool robes the Brothers wore, he remembered Brother Stephen’s edict against any material other than homespun for robes. And, in truth, there was a soft, insidious sensuality about the very act of sliding his arms into the whispering silk; there was a caress in the cool, slippery robe, there was even pleasure in the colours of the silk — azure blue, shot here and there with a thin silver thread. Andrew stood very still, feeling the glossy robe stroke his skin, brush his thighs, and with a twist of irony, he made brief acknowledgement to the wise Brother who had known that men could be vulnerable, and that the sexual appetites could be aroused by things other than a woman’s body.

*

Andrew and Rumour found food in one of the adjoining rooms: fruit and honey, exotic and unfamiliar, but wholly delicious. There was wine in exquisite silver casks, fragrant and sweet, tinged with the scent of fruit and with the colours of the oceans, blue-green and heady.

‘I do not know if Coelacanth’s creatures would have fed on this,’ said Rumour, wrapped in the vivid turquoise robe, eating and drinking with industrious pleasure. The long Amaranth eyes glanced up and filled with amusement. ‘I am ravenously hungry,’ she said. ‘I daresay it is indelicate of me, but there it is.’ She reached for the wine.

Andrew said, ‘The sidh would eat this?’

‘In fact, I have no idea,’ said Rumour, reaching for the platter of strange-looking fruits with crisp, spicy outer crusts and strong, sweet hearts. ‘It is said that they feed on the senses of their victims,’ she said, and bit into the fruit, and although the look she threw him was not quite the old mischievous one, it was a creditable attempt at it. Andrew smiled back.

But he said, after they had eaten and drunk, ‘Perhaps you should stay here while I explore?’ and looked at her, and knew this for only a token attempt at chivalry.

Rumour said, ‘Rest and recline on the silken couch?’

‘I did not really think you would. Also,’ said Andrew, draining his own wine chalice, ‘to explore Tiarna together will be more interesting.’

‘So it will.’ Rumour set down the wine chalice and stood up, and then, suddenly serious, her eyes sliding away, ‘my strength is gone,’ she said and, lifting one slender hand, indicated the shaven ivory scalp. ‘Therefore I must find a carapace, a covering until it is restored. And also,’ said Rumour, looking up and grinning, her eyes filled with the fight of self-mockery, ‘I could not possibly be seen abroad looking like this.’ But she reached for his hand as she spoke, and Andrew heard the fear and the note of self-doubt.

He took her hand, and said, ‘Like this you are even more beautiful.’ Reaching out, he touched her face with his other hand, tracing its outline, lingering over the satiny feel of her skin. ‘Truly, you are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.’

There was a sudden silence. Andrew thought: her closeness is almost unbearable. I dare not remember how she lay in my arms.

And then Rumour withdrew her hand, gently and naturally, and said, ‘Well, I shall feel better properly covered. And therefore, I must plunder the sidh’s cache.’

‘Will there be something?’

‘Oh yes. For there have been times when the sidh have donned the garb of Humans, and walked abroad in our world. They do not like to do so, and they only do it in extreme danger. Perhaps at a time such as this, when they have lost their music and their very existence is threatened.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, that is entirely possible,’ said Rumour, thoughtfully. ‘If they had time and sufficient strength left to them, they may have sent out one — perhaps more — of their number to try to find the lost enchantment.’

‘They could do that?’

‘Yes, certainly. Although the danger to them would be almost overwhelming,’ said Rumour. ‘They would find it difficult to survive in the world of Men, because of the extreme differences in the ways of living. But if one of them was sufficiently courageous and sufficiently resourceful, he might do it. He might almost pass as Human. But he would not dare live like that for very long.’

‘He would acquire Humanish appetites and thoughts?’ said Andrew, tentatively.

‘Yes. How extremely perceptive of you. But as well as that,’ said Rumour, ‘he would begin to acquire an accretion of Humanish essence. To begin with, the donning of Humanish garb would be only like the wearing of an unfamiliar gown or a cloak. But if he lived like that for too long, the gown, the garb, the Humanish covering would begin to blend with the sidh beneath it.’

‘He would be changing from sidh to Human?’

‘Yes,’ said Rumour. ‘Exactly that.’

‘Then that is why they keep Human garments,’ said Andrew, remembering how he had found the silken robes.

Rumour grinned. ‘These robes do very well,’ she said, ‘but I believe that, if I can find them, I shall array myself in the regalia of the Elven King. Shall we explore?’

It was an eerie experience to walk through the empty, echoing Palace, knowing that the nimfeach and the Fomoire slept the deep, enchanted slumber of the Draiocht Suan close by. Rumour entered the chamber of the crystal pools unhesitatingly, Andrew at her side, and pronounced the spell again: ‘To strengthen it,’ she said. They stood silently, and watched the fragile filaments form on the air, and descend in a cobweb cloud over the slumbering creatures.

Andrew said, ‘Coelacanth?’ and Rumour sent a quick look to the pool, where the Fisher King still lay on the water’s surface.

‘When the sidh return, they will know how to deal with that one,’ she aid, and her face was shuttered, so that Andrew knew that, although she was already recovering from the Fisher King’s terrible assault, deep within her mind must still be areas of raw agony.

But she surprised him again. As they stood together outside the sidh’s ancient, beautiful library, with the slumbering enemies still held by the Draiocht Suan, the barely perceptible dawnlight of Tiarna silvering the Palace, she said, ‘Andrew, I cannot think of any other man who would have drawn my attention to Coelacanth, as you did just now. Almost every other man would have tried to pretend that he was no longer there, and would think that I must not be reminded of what had happened. That I must be shielded.’

‘Should I try to shield you? Should I pretend it did not happen? I can’t do it,’ said Andrew. ‘And you would see through it. I cannot … unmake the horror of what happened to you. Perhaps I can help you to heal; I can offer you comfort and friendship and love, but I cannot unmake Coelacanth’s brutality.’ He watched her, seeing the play of the silver light on her face, seeing it find tiny silver lights in the dark pools of her eyes. ‘I think you would not wish for any pretence,’ said Andrew softly. ‘I think you would not want well-meaning deceptions. If I had stood in front of Coelacanth’s body, so that you could not see it, you would still have known it was there.’

Rumour said, ‘I cannot bear pretence or falseness.’

‘No.’ He took her hands. ‘You are stronger than anyone I have ever known.’

‘You are stronger still.’ Her hands lay in his, unresisting. ‘I think I could have killed Coelacanth,’ she said. ‘If sorcery failed me, then I think I could have killed him as you did. I should have hated it very much, but I think I could have done it. But I do not know if I could have sufficiently overcome such deep-rooted beliefs as you did.’

‘The Man of Peace?’

‘Yes.’ She withdrew her hands with the same gentle, natural gesture. ‘It is not in your nature to offer violence to another living creature. It is not in your creed.’ The grin slid out. ‘I do not altogether understand your creed,’ said Rumour, child of a people who enjoyed warmth and comfort and love and wine and music. ‘But I understand that violence, killing, is abhorrent to you. And still you killed Coelacanth without hesitating.’

‘I was lent the strength to do it,’ said Andrew, so softly that Rumour barely caught the words.

But she said, ‘The Samildanach …’ and Andrew looked at her.

‘So you heard the nimfeach.’ He had wondered about this.

‘I heard them, but I do not understand it any more than you do. But it is an old, old belief, and an old, old legend, that of the Samildanach. Perhaps the nimfeach had their own version of it.’

Andrew said, ‘To us it is a very new and a very wonderful belief. The One who walked the world and redeemed Men of their sins. And who will one day return —’

He stopped, frowning, and Rumour said, ‘I think you are beginning to question that prophecy, Andrew.’

‘No.’ His eye met hers. ‘But perhaps to question its origins,’ he said.

‘Would your priests have …’ Rumour paused, searching for an expression that would not sound too brutal, ‘would they perhaps have manipulated the legends and the beliefs they found already in existence?’ she said.

The new wine in the old casks … ? No, thought Andrew. Please, no. If I lose the trust in that belief, the Nazarene carpenter who saved Mankind and who will one day return; if I lose that, I shall have lost everything. He said, carefully, ‘For what reason would they do such a thing?’ And waited to see her reactions.

‘To make their own new teachings more acceptable. To make them a little familiar. Oh, Andrew, you know it as well as I do. And I could understand it if it were so,’ said Rumour. ‘I could understand it very easily.’ She glanced at him. ‘It is not difficult to adjust truth and it is not hard to make people believe what they would like to believe,’ said Rumour, and her eyes met his coolly, with no trace of expression in them. ‘When a quest or a task, or when something of immense importance is at stake, it is surely a thing frequently done,’ she said. ‘Are you sure that they were not looking for a way to impose their own authority on the gullible?’

‘If they were,’ said Andrew, slowly, ‘they did so purely to show the people the Truth. There would be no selfishness behind it.’

‘People are rarely selfless,’ said Rumour, and touched his face lightly. ‘Most people are driven by some kind of self-interest. Remember that, Andrew.’

And then, as if suddenly impatient with herself, she shook her head, and with an abrupt change of mood, turned, indicating the galleried landings ahead of them. ‘I think that along here is the Elven King’s legendary Silver Cavern,’ she said. ‘If the Palace is a replica of Tara, then we are close to what is called the Throne Room at Tara.’

As they entered the Silver Cavern, light lay across the floor in great pearly swathes, and there was a thick, soft silence, as if swansdown lay everywhere, or as if a great fold of stifling velvet was enclosing the chamber. The walls were fashioned from some kind of pale, shimmering rock, exquisitely beautiful, veined with glinting crystal and delicate ivory, studded and crusted with great opalescent stones. Here and there were soaring, ice-blue formations, crystalline stalagmites, and within them were the outlines of slender shapes with slanting, mischievous eyes and sinuous, beautiful bodies. Andrew stood looking, thinking he had never seen anything so strange and so eerily beautiful, unable to tell whether the shapes were natural formations, or whether they had been hewn.

‘The sidh,’ said Rumour softly, looking up at them. ‘That is how they appear to anyone who is foolish enough to look directly upon them. Or at least,’ she said, ‘that is how they are believed to look, because no one ever looks on them and lives to tell of it.’

Andrew had been aware, ever since they entered the Cavern, of blue-green smudges, darting threads of turquoise light, moving on the outer rim of his vision.

‘They are not dead,’ said Rumour softly, when Andrew indicated this. ‘But do not try to look too fully upon them, Andrew.’

They moved forward, across the shining silver floor, and there, in front of them, was the Silver Throne of the Elven King …

Rumour stood very still, and her hand came out to Andrew. In a whisper, she said, ‘So he is here. Exactly as Coelacanth said.’

Directly ahead of them, seated in the great carven Throne of the sidh, still wearing the eerie, half-Humanish form he had donned for Coelacanth’s repulsive Gristlen, the Elven King was unseeing, unhearing. His skin was ivory pale, translucent, dull, and the long turquoise eyes were filmed over. His hands, thin and slender, lay supine on the arms of the Silver Throne, the fingers delicate and curving inwards, indicating the predatory vein in his chill faery blood.

Aillen mac Midha, the strange, icily beautiful High King of the sidh, the most magical, most inHuman creature in all Ireland, bonded by ancient sorcery to the Royal Houses of Ireland, constrained to give his people’s aid to them in times of extreme danger, but now silent and helpless, poised in a halfworld …

‘Is he dead?’ said Andrew, at length, staring at the Throne.

‘No, he will not be dead, for the sidh do not die as we know it,’ said Rumour, also staring. ‘I think he could be revived.’

‘The music?’ Andrew started to reach for the golden casket with the shifting, beautiful enchantment, because surely this was the time to return to the sidh the stolen magic of their race; surely this was the time to restore their life and their world to them?

He started to open the delicately crafted lid, and at once Rumour put out a hand to stop him. ‘No!’ And as Andrew looked up, startled, she said:

‘It is only that I believe we should keep the enchantment ourselves for a little longer.’

‘But that is why we brought it.’

‘No. We brought it to force open a Gateway into the Dark Realm. Into the necromancers’ kingdoms.’ Her eyes glittered and Andrew, staring, thought: the idea of that excites her. Because she wants to enter the Dark Realm? Because, despite all she has said, there is something there that calls to her? Chaos?

But Rumour said, ‘If we are to truly help the sidh, we shall do so by destroying Chaos and his evil.’

‘And in order to reach Chaos and the Dark Ireland, we need the sidh’s music. Yes, of course.’ But Andrew looked back at the slender, unearthly creature on the throne, and he remembered that he knew very little indeed about the exotic Amaranth sorceress. A prickle of unease brushed his skin, and he thought: I must remember that there are many forms of temptation. I must remember that, even while she is tempting me, something may be tempting her.

Rumour had moved to the Silver Throne, and then behind it, where the soaring rock was a shifting, blurring cascade of cool blue ice-fire, threaded with glistening pearl and ivory. There was a moment when Andrew caught a whisper of entreaty — ‘Help us!’ — and there was a glimpse of slender, shining forms, wingless dragonfly bodies swooping and darting and then falling to the ground. And then the visions faded, and the heartbreaking whisperings died away, and there was only the sad silence, and the still figure on the ancient Elven Throne; blind, deaf, locked into helpless silence.

Rumour stood for a moment at the Cavern’s centre, her hands lifted, her head thrown back. The silver and blue light poured about her shoulders, and Andrew received a fleeting impression, not of the exotic, wilful, Amaranth sorceress, but of something that was imbued with the cold eerie light; something in whose veins might run the chill, faery blood of the under-sea creatures …

And she is withholding the music that would surely pour the life back into them …

And then Rumour moved, and the light changed, and the vivid image vanished. She slipped behind a jutting rock that was crusted with pale, translucent gems, and Andrew, watching, saw that she moved with assurance. Because she has been here before? Because she has consorted with these creatures?

He stayed where he was, looking about him, seeing that in places rock ledges gave way to alcoves, niches, seeing the blur of colour deep within the niches. And then Rumour reappeared, and Andrew caught his breath, for here, once more, was the beautiful exotic Amaranthine, the daughter of Ireland’s Royal Sorcerers, the creature composed of fire and magic, of twisting spells and cascading enchantments. He stared at her, momentarily unable to speak, and saw, as he had seen in the Porphyry Palace, the candle shining strongly through the pure alabaster of her skin, the rippling vein of mystical Amaranth blood that gave her the strength and the power to spin bewitchments.

Rumour was clad in a shining turquoise garment that slid over her body in a silken cascade, and clung to the slender outline. Here and there were scatterings of blue-green gems that moved and glistened and caught the light, making it seem alive. Woven into the gown’s substance were threads of living silver; rearing, licking tongues of pale light, exotic and dazzling.

On her head, she wore a close-fitting jewelled helmet, made up of the same turquoise and silver stones, glittering with icy fire, banded with pure silver. Beneath it, her eyes gleamed, slanting, tiptilted, filled with power and light.

Andrew knew he could not fight his desire for her for very much longer.

*

Andrew and Rumour supped together that night, in the room with the dais and the pouring crystal fountain, eating the sweet, crisp fruits, drinking the fragrant, brilliant wine.

Rumour had curled on to the cushions, graceful as a cat, the silken gown rippling sensuously over her limbs. As the light dimmed and softened into the strange night of Tiarna, shadows touched her face, making great, mysterious pools of her eyes, silvering her skin to purest alabaster, to cool, seamless marble …

Andrew ate little, as was his custom, although he found the fruit palatable and sustaining. He drank the wine, thinking it would calm him, knowing all the while that, so far from calming him, it was firing his ardour, it was feeding the sweet, strong throbbing of his body, sending his desire soaring as high and as hard as the cascading rock walls of the Elven King’s Throne Room.

He felt his heart begin to beat more slowly, and a great dark heaviness seemed to hover over him as he reached yet again for the chalice of wine at his place. When he moved, she moved with him, as if she had been sharing his thoughts, as if she had walked alongside his thoughts for every step of the way. She had travelled the path with him, her desires matching his, and when he set down the wine chalice and put out his hand to her, her hand was there, waiting.

The touch of her skin, soft, cool against his, fired his body to unbearable longing; he looked at her, and his mind tumbled with delight and fear; and passion, hot and hurting, raged through him.

He thought: I am sliding towards surrender; I am reaching the point where I shall not be able to stop …

Let me have this one night with her … Let me know, just once, the sweetness and the delight … Let me have that, thought Andrew, and I will forever suffer penance for it, I will go fasting all my days, I will embrace celibacy for ever more. But let me know it, just once, let me possess her, just once …

He traced the line of her face, moving over her neck, feeling the scent of her warmth reach out to engulf him. Of their own volition, his hands slid beneath the silk gown, cupping her breasts: exquisite, beautiful, sufficient to make a man cry with longing … Just this once, said his mind, and I will go barefoot, dressed in sackcloth; I will take the scourge upon my back willingly …

From somewhere came the strength to pull away from her, to move back and stand looking down at her. A tiny frown twisted Rumour’s face, and Andrew saw anger behind her eyes. He went abruptly from the room, feeling her eyes upon him, knowing that, if he looked back, if he saw her amidst the silken jewel-colours, he would be lost.

He went blindly through the great Palace, scarcely noticing where he went, his mind seething with a dozen different emotions, his body on fire with raging, hurting desire.

At last he found himself in the desolate Silver Cavern, the great rock-lined chamber with the eerie, silent figure of the Elven King and the strange, drifting, blue-green colours. He was trembling violently, but at length he sank to his knees, and bowed his head, reaching blindly, frenziedly for the calm, still centre that he had always been able to touch: the huge tranquil pool that he thought of as God’s love and that had always been his strength and his inspiration.

Am I so weak, so easily lured? he thought, horrified and wracked with self-disgust. He remembered how he had always felt slightly superior, slightly contemptuous of the poor frail men who had allowed themselves to be tempted by women. He had seen those women — the Jezebels and the Delilahs — as no better than the harlots in the Temples, as flaunting, unclean creatures; painted-faced, vulgar-minded, raucous-voiced. He had seen the men who consorted with them as dissolute, debauched libertines, bestial and crude. Wasn’t there something in one of the Epistles — to the Ephesians, was it? — that warned against such consorting? Such behaviour was not the stuff that made saints; ‘ … therefore fornication and all covetousness should be avoided … Walk as children of light … For unless ye be as children ye can not enter heaven …’

And it is not the stuff that saints are made of.

But now, struggling with the violent desires that Rumour had aroused in him, Andrew found himself remembering again those women he had always found contemptible and beneath notice. He remembered that they had been of high birth and considerable scholarship: Delilah had been sought out by the Philistine lords to entice Samson and learn the secret of his strength. Jezebel had been a King’s daughter, a lady of power who had forced the Phoenician religion in Israel and persecuted the Israelite prophets. And Salome was a Queen’s daughter. They might have been evil and calculating, but they must also have been clever and beautiful and courageous in their own way. As Rumour was beautiful and courageous and clever.

Rumour was worlds and years away from the harlots and the painted whores. And has, as those creatures had, her own motives?

For what do I truly know of her? They were thoughts to instantly quench, just as his response to her allure was to be instantly quenched. For to succumb to that, to fall into the temptation of the flesh is not the stuff that saints are made of! cried Andrew in silent anguish, and at once there was the answer:

Are you being so arrogant, so insufferably proud as to think you are in the mould of a saint?

The sin of Pride. There it was, clear as a curse. And he had not even seen it. He had been striving for something that was beyond his reach and out of his grasp.

For I am no saint.

*

He was never aware, afterwards, of returning to the cavern with the crystal fountains, of moving to the silken couch, of lying once again next to her, the press of her body curving into his, naturally, softly, making them almost one creature.

Her arms closed about him, gratefully, warmly, and he was no longer fighting the sweet, sensual singing of his blood: he was almost drowning in the soaring joy.

She peeled the robe from him and he felt her hands against his skin; soft, caressing, at once soothing and exciting. She moved closer, her breasts against him, and desire, so long banked down, flared out of all control.

He no longer thought of such sweetness as mortal sin. He no longer thought: for this I may burn forever, but: this is the woman I love, and I shall do so for always.

He wanted to know every part of her, every separate bone, every shred of skin, eyes, flesh, lips … The eternal fire would be no punishment for this, for even its searing heat could never match the fire that was scalding his body now … And I believe I shall not care if Hell opens and its flames consume me for ever, he thought.

There was the feeling that he was fusing with the one creature who understood him, the one living creature with whom he could share everything and for whom he would do anything in the world.

He paused only once, as her hands reached for his manhood, and a low groan was forced from him, for he had never before known a woman’s touch there, and it was exquisite, it was beyond any emotion he had ever imagined. He looked down at Rumour and saw that her eyes were half closed with longing, and that her skin was glowing with desire. But even with his control snapped and with the restraints of years gone, he paused, remembering how Coelacanth had savaged her, hesitant.

She understood his hesitation at once, for she said, ‘Andrew, I am aching with desire for you.’

‘But there could be pain …’ He stopped, conscious of ignorance, and Rumour pulled him closer and kissed him, not gently, not even lovingly, but savagely, as if she had been driven to the brink of endurance. Her lips were warm and soft, and she tasted of wine and love, and the last vestige of Andrew’s control dissolved. He moved to her, trembling, feeling the sweet, sinless warmth.

His last conscious thought was that he no longer knew whether he was forsaking his god, or whether his god was forsaking him, but that he had ceased to care.

Chapter Eighteen

To leave Tiarna was the hardest thing Maelduin had ever had to do. To walk like this through the dark, whispering tunnels, in the strange, bone-filled garb and the pale skincloak of the Humanish, and somehow enter their alien world, filled him with dismay.

But there had been no other way. The Elven King had been helpless, beyond their reach, and the sidh were ailing and fading. Maelduin and Inse and two of the others had carried Aillen mac Midha to the great Silver Throne in the ice-blue cavern of the Seomhra. Maelduin had seen Inse begin to shiver and miss his way, as if he could no longer see properly, and he had known that the darkness was quenching Inse, as it was quenching them all.

And I have only escaped it because my father pronounced over me the ancient Humanish Enchantment, and I carry the flesh and the skin and the warm Human blood now.

There were still unexplored territories about his new self; feelings, emotions, pain, pleasure, fear. He could feel them all, one level below conscious thought, and it was a strange, rather alarming knowledge that, before his quest to find the sidh’s music was over, he might have known some of these feelings. And passion? said a tiny silver voice. Will you know the passion of the Humanish? Will you take their women in the way of their strange love-making? His thoughts formed no answer, but a smile curved his lips.

Before he left Tiarna, he went to the crystal pools of the sidh’s library, in search of the nimfeach’s priceless marvellous maps, so that he might find his way through the tunnels and into the world of Men. There was a bad moment there as he realised he could no longer dive into the pools, arrow-straight, his slender, glinting body making scarcely a ripple on the surface. He could no longer swim at his leisure below the water, searching in the ancient, carefully preserved spells for this enchantment or that.

But he had managed it; he had discarded the thin silk robe he had donned after the Enchantment, and he had plunged into the pool naked, feeling, with a shock, the extreme coldness of the water, remembering in the same instant that Humanish blood was warmer than the chill faery blood of the sidh.

There was unaccustomed pain from having to hold his breath for so long, and having to come back to the surface many times to fill his lungs with air and to rest, and he found that Humanish sight became blurred under water.

It was a tedious, long-drawn-out exercise, for there were many pools to search, but at length he found the maps, locked deep into a silver cage with the curiously wrought doors that showed it to be of nimfeach crafting.

He had pushed from his mind the strong feeling that dark forces were closing in on Tiarna; it was absurd to think that the minute he left, Tiarna’s enemies would pour in, and it was illogical to imagine that they had been there all along, waiting, watching, wanting just such an opportunity as this to wreak their vengeance. He went at once, leaving the Palace, his movements swift and graceful, not entirely quite Humanish, although he did not realise this; despite the strong Enchantment, he had still traces of the sidh’s cool, sensuous bewitchment.

His feet, lightly shod in thin hide of roe deer, made prints in the bone-dust that had thickened on the tunnel floors over the centuries, and the soft cambric shirt and pale leather jerkin and breeches felt heavy. But this was Humanish garb, this was how they dressed and how they travelled. He must become accustomed. He had taken a last look at his reflection, in the rippling silver walls of the fountain room, and he had thought: yes, I believe I am not ill pleased! And then he had put the thought from him, for it did not matter so much how he looked, only that the Humanish would not question him too closely. Only by being accepted into their world could he find out about the Gristlen and the sidh’s music.

Several layers below conscious thought, he was aware that it was the shining citadels of the Humanish that drew him, rather than their forests and their villages and the hill-farms. The palaces and the castles and the great legend-haunted fortresses of the High Kings …

The Grail Castle, sometimes called Scathach, the Shadow Place, only accessible by means of a long dark road and a dark dangerous journey from which not all travellers returned …

The Dun na nGed on the banks of the Boyne River, built by Domnall, who had so feared the ancient Curse of Tara that he would not live there. Maelduin knew of the Curse, he knew that the High Kings held it at bay only by the strongest and most intricate magic, but the Curse still lived, for no curse that had been properly pronounced could ever be destroyed.

And what of Tara itself, the seat of every High King and Queen of Ireland? The legendary glowing Bright Palace, the Shining Citadel, raised from the rock by the Amaranth sorcerers for the first High Queen of all, the beautiful, mischievous Dierdriu. Tara, so close in design to his beloved Palace of Nimfeach, that Maelduin had always thought he would surely feel at home there. He would like to see Tara.

And the Porphyry Palace of the House of Amaranth. A mischievous grin touched his lips. The Porphyry Palace, the home of the Royal Sorcerers, the Amaranths, the magical line who had served every High King and Queen, and who could trace their lineage to the long-ago Dawn Sorcerers, when Tara was no more than bare rock and the magic yet to be spun; to the days when Ireland was still inhabited by the small, elfin Cruithin race, and when Coelacanth still ruled in Tiarna …

It might be very interesting indeed to visit the Porphyry Palace, and to see the Cadence Tower, the great dark Tur Baibeil created from a clever blend of sorcery and architecture, whose building had resulted in the loss of the Cadence, the sidh’s magical gift to the Amaranths … The sidh did not fully understand what had happened, for the Amaranths could be secretive, but they knew that the Cadence, given to the Amaranths so long ago, could no longer be reached by the sorcerers.

If Maelduin could somehow recover the Cadence, it might assist him in his search for the sidh’s music. The Amaranths had lost it, but Maelduin thought it would still form at the bidding of one with sufficient understanding of it. And he understood the Ancient Language of Magic as well as he understood Tiarna’s shining halls.

The grin became very slightly malicious.

Why should he not enter the ancient, spell-ridden Tower, and reanimate the Cadence and reclaim it for his people?

Why not indeed?

*

It felt strange and unexpected to find himself approaching a world where night and day were sharply delineated, and where dusk fell in great purple and violet swathes over the land, spattering the skies with stars. Maelduin, used to the gentle fading of the Tiarnan days into a soft half-night, walked cautiously forwards to where the tunnels widened, remembering as he walked the countless times he had poured along these tunnels with the other sidh, sometimes bringing a Humanish whose senses would be stolen and poured into the music, occasionally bringing a raw length of magic from the sorcerers.

And sometimes we paid for the magic, and sometimes we did not, he thought, and there was a bitter knowledge in that memory, for had not the sidh been repaid in their own coin now? Their most precious possession of all had been taken; the Gristlen had vanished, and with it the music of Tiarna.

He came fully out of the tunnels, into the strange soft twilight that the Humanish called the Purple Hour, and which was laden with its own strong, gentle magic, and saw, directly ahead of him, the pale, lilac-tinged turrets and the soaring crenellations and the mist-wreathed spires of the beautiful ancient seat of the Royal Sorcerers of Ireland.

The Porphyry Palace of the Amaranth sorcerers.

*

Cerball was always ready to extend a welcome to unexpected guests, even when they came at such an awkward time as this. And as well as it being awkward, it cost money. Another place at the table meant another mouth to be fed, and Cerball was already finding the entertaining of the entire Amaranth clan more expensive than he had bargained for. But it could not be avoided; Nechtan had established a tradition of lavish hospitality, and it had to be maintained, unless you wanted to be branded as a miser. Cerball was many things, but miserly was not one of them.

So he made Maelduin welcome, thinking that, although it was all adding to the bills, this rather unusual-looking young man would be an interesting addition to the company. And Cerball would be glad to have any kind of diversion to take his mind from Theodora and Echbel, and from the really very awkward matter of Laigne.

But there was not, of course, anything so very extraordinary about the fact that Laigne was expecting a child. There ought not to be any need for concern.

But Cerball was very concerned indeed. He went about the Palace wearing a bothered look, because wasn’t there something extremely worrying about it; and, if he was honest, wasn’t it just the smallest bit sinister? He did not quite like to come out and tell people that he had not shared his lady’s bed for rather a long time; Laigne did not care much for that kind of thing, and Cerball, while he could enjoy the company of the saucy young cousins and the giddy young nieces who came to the Porphyry Palace, was not overly fond of it himself lately.

Laigne had presented the information about the child to him a few days before Maelduin’s arrival, using the most fadeaway of all her fadeaway voices, lying on her bed in a darkened room, a soothing draught of camomile tea at her hand and a length of cobweb-fine Draiocht Suan on her pillow, left by the conscientious Cecht.

Too tiresome, she had said, her face turned to the wall. Too tiresome and really almost embarrassing. She did not, of course, say, ‘At my age,’ but Cerball knew that everyone else was going to say it for her. In his hearing or out of it.

They had all had to be told. There had not been any way out of it; the Mugain had already said hadn’t they all better be staying on a while, so that they could pool their strengths and continue to bombard the Dark Realm with spells to reach Theodora and Echbel. His lady had supported this — ‘Saving servants’ wages and food bills at Mugain,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach — and Cerball had not been able to think of a polite way of asking them to please all go home. It was very heartening to think that his family were rallying round him, of course; Cerball admitted to being very heartened indeed. The trouble was that there were so many of them. At the last count, there had been forty-five people sitting down to a light midday repast (which had still taken two hours to consume and consisted of five courses), and there would have been more than that if several cousins on the distaff side had not become so involved in a new idea to reach Theo and Echbel that they had forgotten the time and missed the meal altogether. Cerball began to wake up at the unreasonable hour of the First Dawn Song, with a steady parade of mounting bills for food, wine, table-linen, firewood, and laundry marching past his eyes. He felt it tactless, as well, of a young cousin of Rumour’s to start a discussion on an increase in Partholon’s Pence, which apparently involved an exact head-count of people in your house several times a year. The more people you were found to be housing, the higher your Pence. Cerball listened to this glumly. He had previously been feeling quite warmly disposed to the cousin, whose name was Murmur, and who had large, soulful eyes, but clearly his feelings had been misplaced.

Still, since he must needs continue to extend hospitality towards the entire House of Amaranth for an unspecified time, they had to know about Laigne. It was not something you could hide, or not for very long. Cerball had made the announcement directly after they had all finished eating supper, and had felt sheepish and extremely silly. (He had also had to remember not to look at Murmur while he made his speech, because it could have been distinctly embarrassing in view of certain recent exchanges between them.)

There had been a moment of startled silence, and everyone had glanced at one another uneasily. And then the Mugain had risen to the occasion, and said wasn’t this the grandest news, and wouldn’t they all drink to the newest scion of their House (which necessitated ordering up three more flagons of best tawnyfire wine to refill everyone’s chalice, because you could not be drinking the health of anything in inferior stuff)? Herself said that, in the light of this, they must certainly stay, because hadn’t somebody to be supervising the scullery staff? And everyone drank to the health of the unborn Amaranthine, and several people drank to it more than once, which meant yet another round of tawnyfire, and it was all extremely depressing.

Cerball was glad that nobody had made any bawdy remarks (which would have been embarrassing) and that nobody had congratulated him (which would have been inaccurate). He was very glad indeed that it did not seem to have occurred to any of them that the announcement had come sinisterly soon after poorest Laigne’s quite dreadful experience at the Gristlen’s hands.

*

It had occurred to every single soul at the table, of course. People had got together as soon as possible, congregating in worried clusters, posting the youngest apprentice sorcerers to keep watch in case Cerball should come along and hear them talking about him. It was probably a good thing that Cerball had not thought for himself that the unborn child might be the Gristlen’s.

The Mugains had called a proper, sensible meeting of the older Amaranths in the Tapestry Room, because this was the sort of thing you should do in such an ominous situation. They had drunk some more of the tawnyfire wine, just to help them along, but they had held a responsible and solemn discussion despite this.

The Arca Dubhs had declined to attend the Mugains’ meeting, because wasn’t Himself of Mugain always taking the running of the entire clan on his shoulders and him with no more right to do so than the stable cat. The Arca Dubhs had long since thought that their own branch had the better claim to the Porphyry Throne, and in fact had expended a great deal of time and energy grooming Iarbonel Soothsayer for the Ritual at the Well. It had been extremely annoying when their plans had been spoiled. They commandeered the winter dining-hall, which meant they could quite openly order up a bit of a noonday banquet just to help them think, and told one another that if Laigne, poor soul, was to give birth to the Gristlen’s son, it would be a very good reason to depose Cerball’s branch of the family. You could not be having that sort of creature born into Ireland’s Royal Sorcery House. They became quite animated, and drew up plans for taking over the Porphyry Palace and manning the battlements, and sending Cerball and Laigne into exile.

Bodb Decht and several cousins held a learned and scholarly meeting in Nechtan’s manuscript room, where they became sidetracked from their original purpose by the discovery on one of the dustier shelves of a hitherto unknown spell of Nechtan’s composing, about infiltrating the barracks of the Dark Lords’ armies, Almhuin itself.

Several ladies, under the aegis of Great-aunt Fuamnach, got together in Laigne’s still-room under pretext of brewing some soothing potions, but in reality picked over the more sanguine details of what might occur at the birth. Poor Laigne had never been strong to begin with, of course (that very undesirable strain of Human blood!), and she was certainly not as young as she had once been. They brewed up one or two infusions of chamomile tea and some mugwort broth, and enjoyed themselves hugely.

And while the Mugains had done a good deal of tablethumping (which had made the wine flagons jump and dance), and the Arca Dubhs had spilt mushroom soup on the best table-linen and eaten the last of the pressed duck; while Great-aunt Fuamnach’s coterie had clashed with Bodb Decht’s scholars over who should have the use of the Book of Medicinal Herbs and Potions Gathered at the Dark Midnight, in the end they had all come to pretty much the same conclusion.

‘We cannot be sure that the — ah — child has anything to do with the Gristlen,’ said the Mugain rather portentously, when they all gathered in the banqueting hall, with sentries posted at both ends again. ‘It is highly probable that it will be a true Amaranth, a son or daughter of Cerball and Laigne. Cerball thinks so, anyway,’ he said firmly.

It was unfortunate that Murmur should choose that precise moment to giggle; the Mugains both glared and thought, couldn’t you trust any close relation of Rumour to be frivolous and silly at a serious meeting? Murmur drew breath to say that it was extremely unlikely that Laigne’s unborn child had anything to do with Cerball, since she had what was virtually incontrovertible proof that Cerball (even under the most encouraging of circumstances), could not raise his flag much above half-mast. This was the kind of thing that her Cousin Rumour would have said, but Murmur, who had not yet Rumour’s panache (but was working on it), looked round at the company, and doubted her ability to carry the thing off. She apologised and relapsed into subdued silence.

‘I believe,’ said the Mugain, removing his frown from Murmur and tucking his chins into his neck solemnly, ‘I believe that it behoves us to keep our suspicions to ourselves, and not put extra anxiety onto Cerball at this difficult time.’

Several people nodded, because hadn’t they all been saying this, and the Arca Dubhs sneaked conspiratorial looks at one another, and remembered the very good suggestion of Iarbonel Soothsayer to involve the Black HeartStealers in the plot to overthrow Cerball.

‘We’ll continue to work on the spinning of spells to reach Theodora and Echbel,’ went on the Mugain, who was rather enjoying himself by this time. ‘We’ll continue to do that, but meantime, what we’ll do is, we’ll be weaving a few extra bits as a protection against anything nasty that might be born.’

Great-aunt Fuamnach wanted to know what kinds of bits of protection Himself had in mind, and the Mugain, who had not visualised anything more definite than a length of Rainbow Light, or maybe conjuring up the Mirror of the Sorceress Reflection, said firmly that they would work something out.

They all gathered for supper that evening, a bit strained and a bit wary, and it was into this strained and wary company that Maelduin, watchful as a cat in the dark, came. He stood for a moment in the doorway to the banqueting hall, amused and curious about this Humanish practice of eating and drinking round a table, the food scents and the fragrance of the wine touching his senses. Hunger and thirst. A need for the companionship of their own kind. Yes, these were things the Humanish found important.

He moved forward at Cerball’s bidding, and was made known to the Mugain and his Lady, and to several of the younger sorcerers. When asked his name, he replied, ‘I am called Maelduin,’ and heard his voice fall on the air with a faint silvery tone. He looked at them to see if they had detected any strangeness, but although Great-aunt Fuamnach looked at him sharply, and the Mugain paused in the act of replenishing wine chalices, no one appeared to find anything unusual. Cerball, who seemed to be some kind of Elder, said he was very welcome; there was always a place at their table for a traveller, and a bed for the night to follow.

This was entirely keeping with what Maelduin knew of Humanish, and particularly of the Amaranths. They enjoyed the company of people not from their own territories; they liked to hear about other ways of life. Presently they would ask him, with perfect courtesy, where he had come from and what his journey’s end was. There were a number of replies to this; some truthful, some not. He would wait to see if the Amaranths were likely to be of any use to his quest, and also, whether he thought they could be trusted.

He sat at the table, watching to see how they ate, interested in the instruments they used for eating, copying them with the oddly fashioned silver implements laid out for his use.

The food was unfamiliar but very good. Maelduin, fastidious by nature, perceptive and receptive, precise and delicate in his movements, found it surprisingly easy to segment pieces of meat with the silver utensils, to scoop up portions of sauce, and then to sip at the wine placed next to his hand. The food was brought by servants; Maelduin, unused to such a concept, found this intriguing. Was this all they did? How did the Amaranths secure their subservience? Were they in some way a slightly lower form of Humanish? The sidh had known that the Humanish world had grades, levels, so that some were richer and better housed than others. But how was it decided? Was it just luck?

He looked round the great banqueting chamber, interested to see how the Amaranths arranged their possessions and embellished their rooms. There were wall-hangings — a bit stifling, but interesting — and standing against the walls were massive wooden frames, on which were placed tureens of soup and platters of meat and fish and bread. The rich reds and vivid blues of the walls were oppressive to one used to the cool ice-fires of Tiarna; the floor was covered here and there with very beautiful silk, the colours glowing and vivid. And they had a rather attractive way of making light: positioning small burning twists of wood or perhaps wax in silver holders on the walls. The tiny flames burned up, casting a soft radiance over the assembled company. Maelduin found this beautiful and intriguing.

He listened to them carefully, hearing how they addressed remarks to one another, and then interposed comments of their own. A kind of tossing to and fro of speech, as if it were a game. If he half closed his eyes, he could see, very faintly, the glistening threads of their discourse, twining and spinning, touching first one of them and then another, occasionally rolling up into a huge silver globe, being thrown to someone else, and then unravelling again. He found it rather endearing that they should share their thoughts and their feelings in this way. Was it something he could do?

When Cerball, turning to this unexpected, rather unusual looking guest at his table, said, ‘And may we know whence you come, Maelduin?’ Maelduin said, choosing his words with care:

‘I must carry out a quest for my family who have suffered grave illness.’ And thought: I believe that is ordinary and acceptable.

It was ordinary and entirely acceptable to everyone. The Amaranths were used to people engaged on quests and pilgrimages and crusades. It was not considered to be in the best of good taste to ask for details of the quest or the pilgrimage, unless of course the traveller proffered the details voluntarily. Then it was usually very interesting, and everyone listened and asked questions and sometimes offered advice. Rumour, in fact, had woven a whole series of enchantments simply from listening to travellers’ tales; she had called them the Tapestry Enchantments, and when they were invoked, each one was in the form of a huge, glittering tapestry which Rumour could unroll and spread at people’s feet like a vivid carpet.

But the young man called Maelduin, with his brilliant turquoise eyes and hair like a cap of molten silver, did not say very much about his quest. He was quiet and appeared interested in his hosts, and although he was not like anyone they had ever seen before, most of them were used to the heterogeny of people who came to the Porphyry Palace, or to the smaller castles of the rest of them. Hospitality to all comers was an Amaranth tradition.

Great-aunt Fuamnach murmured to Bodb Decht that the boy had not the look of a pure-bred Human, and Bodb Decht, who was still engrossed in the newly discovered spell to infiltrate Almhuin, looked round and said, ‘I daresay he isn’t entirely Human. A great many people in Ireland aren’t.’

Cerball, slightly puzzled by Maelduin, saw that he was listening to the various conversations that were going on round the table, his head tilted, almost as if he might be hearing their voices at a different level. Cerball thought: I hope we are not being infiltrated by something from the Dark Realm, and knew a stab of panic. Surely there were no more horrors for them to meet? Surely they had their share at present?

Maelduin was beginning to enjoy himself. He found the Amaranths attractive and interesting, and he found their way of life intriguing. He had seen at once that each of them possessed the ancient vein of Amaranth blood, the strange, mystical, flame-like power of Ireland’s true sorcerers, and he had seen that some possessed it in greater quantity than others. The Arca Dubhs caused him some disquiet, for he had seen at once the black stirring that was fermenting within them. He studied them, thinking there was something there that threatened the others, and that it would be a pity if these charming creatures were thrown into disruption or civil war. But it was nothing to do with him; he was here purely to find out if he could reach the Cadence, and then to embark on his search for the Gristlen and the sidh’s lost music.

He was not aware that he was being inspected with strong interest, or that several of the ladies, particularly Murmur, were eyeing him with anticipatory delight. One or two felt the brilliant narrow eyes rest on her for a moment, and felt in that moment a bolt of such shattering light that it was necessary to look away instantly. A sorcerer? But he was not anyone that any of them had ever heard of. Like Cerball, they began to wonder about this exotic, beautiful young man who was most certainly not entirely Human.

*

Maelduin retired to the bedchamber allotted him, and regarded his surroundings with a faint air of amused curiosity. So this was how they slept when they rested; this was how they lay down, covering themselves with lengths of silk and velvet and fur. He stroked the bed-coverings, finding them soft and sensuous to his touch, and then turned to examine the ewers of hot scented water put out for him (servants again!), and the thick, thirsty towels, and the silver combs and brushes. In the oval mirror, he could see his reflection more clearly than he had done in Tiarna’s silver walls; his eyes were smoky in the candlelight, and his hair was so pale as to be nearly colourless. He studied his reflection, and thought that, in a world where a goodly number of creatures were not entirely Humanish, he passed as well as any. If there was a difference, it was in his eyes and his long-fingered, slender, sensitive hands.

He plunged them into the warm water, and then splashed his face, liking the freshness it gave him, intrigued by the idea of lying down in the great deep bed, seeing the nightfall of the Humanish, and then the thin, beautiful dawnlight.

He undressed only partially, for he was still not entirely accustomed to this habit of discarding certain clothes at certain times, and donning others for different occasions. The bed, as he had thought, was soft and comfortable and warm. Did they lie beneath the coverings or on top of them? He tried both, and found it was warmer and more comforting to lie beneath. Humanish luxury. Someone had lit a fire in the hearth, which he had believed he would dislike, but which was actually rather pleasant. He could lie and watch the flames wash the walls with vivid colour.

He was not exactly falling asleep, for he would have said that sleep was not a thing he understood. But he was very close to it, for it had been a long and arduous journey, and he was still finding the fleshly cloak and the ivory bones awkward and unfamiliar.

He was totally unprepared for the tap on his door, and the sound of the door being pushed open. There was a drift of feminine fragrance, and the sensuous sound of silk brushing the floor.

*

Murmur had dressed — rather say undressed, she thought with a grin — very carefully for this really rather daring adventure. At times, you had to take what you wanted, and at times you had to risk a rebuff. Rumour had taught Murmur this, although it was difficult to imagine anyone ever rebuffing Rumour, who was the most dazzling creature Murmur had ever seen.

The exotic young traveller called Maelduin was fascinating. Murmur had sat quite quietly during supper, not really listening to the conversation, certainly trying to avoid Cousin Cerball’s eye. Cousin Cerball, nasty old man, had subjected her to a bout of rather embarrassing fumbling in the library, and Murmur, who believed you should find out all you could about these things, had actually felt a bit cheapened by Cerball’s puffing exertions. She had allowed him to stroke her breasts and her thighs, and had even slid her hands obligingly into his breeches. It had been really quite insulting to discover that his manhood was barely aroused, and that even Murmur’s attentions could not arouse it any more. In the end, the whole thing was reduced to a middle-aged sorcerer, a bit stout, standing with his breeches round his ankles, sweatily trying to get himself into the necessary physical condition. It had all been very embarrassing, and Murmur thought it served her right for being so vulgarly curious.

Maelduin was different. He was so different that Murmur had barely been able to take her eyes off him. He had looked across at her just once, his eyes seeming to see straight into her mind, and Murmur had experienced a bolt of longing so intense that she had thought she might faint. But he had looked away then, and continued his rather quiet discourse with the others.

But you have to take what you want, my dear, and risk the occasional rebuff … Murmur could hear Rumour saying the words.

And so, following her cousin’s excellent example, Murmur had perfumed her small, feline body, and rubbed aphrodisiacal ointments everywhere, and had brushed her hair until it shone. She slid into a thin wrap of cream-coloured silk with silver embroidery, and tied it loosely, so that it would fall open at the least touch, and thrust her feet into dainty slippers, in which she could tiptoe along the corridor to Maelduin’s room.

As she slipped into the room, the silk robe parted a little, showing slender hips and gleaming thighs and pink-tipped breasts. The musky perfumes were heavy on the warm room.

Maelduin regarded his unexpected guest from the bed, and something totally outside of his experience leapt within him. He thought: seduction. And by this remarkably lovely Humanish female. He lay back and watched her approach, his eyes raking her body with such cool allure, his lips curving in such a beckoning smile, that Murmur fell a little deeper into his strange, fey bewitchment.

The small core of Maelduin’s mind that was still purely sidh knew that he was about to be initiated into the Humanish custom of love-making, and he found it amusing that he should be embracing the ways of the Humanish so fully. But alongside the amusement was a deep sensual stirring, a hard warm arousal between his thighs. So this was how it felt. This was how the Humanish felt when they took their women and laid their plans for love-making and feasting and libation to their gods of love and eroticism.

Murmur dropped the silken wrap to the floor, and stood for a moment looking down at him. Maelduin said, very softly, ‘I believe you are well come, madame,’ and smiled the beckoning smile again; the smile that said, Come closer, my dear, and come nearer … Let me see you and let me touch you and know you and let me feel you …

He reached out a hand and traced her body, feeling with delight the soft smoothness of skin, and the gentle curve of bone and muscle; feeling, as well, the heat of alien Humanish blood … Lovely! thought Maelduin, pleasure and passion flooding his entire body now. Hair and eyes and skin and teeth …

Murmur found herself swept into the most remarkable maelstrom of emotions she had ever known. There was a moment when there was nothing but pounding anticipation, the knowledge that he had not rebuffed her; that, so far from rebuffing her, he had welcomed her with his cool, alien beauty and his secret, exciting smile.

And then there was another moment, when something else entered her mind, slyly and insidiously, but so strongly that she felt it happen, as clear as a curse, as definitely as a door opening … Fear trickled through her mind and into her body …

He was regarding her with amused delight, as if they were about to share something marvellous and secret and entirely wonderful, and she was naked now, standing before him, the warmth of the room and the rising heat of her body making the musky fragrances stir. The fear receded, and in its place was only the purest, most undiluted delight, and with it exultation. Rumour was right! There are times when you have to reach out and take the things you want!

And then he reached for her, and Murmur arched her back with pleasure, half closing her eyes, waiting for the ecstasy, more ready for his touch than she had ever been for any other lover. His touch, when it came, was gentle and strong; his hands were exciting and silky and it was going to be the most exhilarating thing she had ever known … But as Maelduin caressed her body, his hands pouring over her skin like thin water, she felt again the flicker of fear.

His hands were soft and silky, but Murmur opened her eyes startled, because there was the sudden feeling of a creature in the bed who did not possess ordinary Human blood, and who was cool and shining and alien. A half-forgotten memory stirred in her mind, that of strange half-Human beings who lured victims into their arms and so to their deaths, using cold, sly bewitchments, and she thought: But he did not seek me out! He did not beckon to me! I came here of my own accord! A tiny treacherous voice said: oh, but did you? Can you be sure? Can you be sure that the beckoning was not so subtle, so practised that you did not even feel it?

I am sure! cried Murmur silently, but the fear swam a little nearer, and the throbbing desire lessened.

He was pulling her down beside him, his skin against hers, his eyes brilliant with passion, and surely it was all right, surely there was nothing to be afraid of …

But they were together in the deep soft bed, and his body felt light and supple, and in some curious way weightless, so that you could visualise him as a soaring creature of light and speed, not needing, not wanting Human limbs and Human strength and muscle and bone … able to pour effortlessly through the skies and the seas and the worlds …

He was covering her with his body now, and yes! he was very nearly weightless, there was no sense of heavy masculinity, there was only slender, glinting strength, the flare of brilliant aquamarine eyes with, deep behind them, iridescent colours …

But his hands were like ivory and his skin was like silk, and her senses were spinning into such strange and dangerous rapture that she no longer knew whether to cry with fear or with passion …

She felt him part her thighs easily and smoothly, and of course it was all right, of course this was no cold sinister being from some eerily beautiful race … Passion rose again, so that she pulled him closer, unable to bear it any longer, wanting to feel the hard masculine strength, wanting to explore this faintly menacing feeling, wanting to know more of this remarkable intoxication.

Maelduin’s mind was soaring into wild delight, and his body was spinning with ecstasy. Exhilaration engulfed him, and deep within it, the small sidh vein of amusement was saying, wasn’t it easy, wasn’t it the easiest thing in all the worlds, smooth and seamless, a silken melding of their bodies, a marvellous, magical uniting.

Ecstasy rocketed upwards, and with it the urgency of need, a pulsating throbbing that he would not be able to bear much longer …

He slid easily and smoothly into her body, feeling at once the extraordinary Humanish heat, flinching briefly, and then, swept along by the soaring delight, unable to control his wild desire.

Murmur’s mind was in chaos; she was tumbling helplessly from passion to fear and then back to passion. She felt the icy coldness as Maelduin penetrated her, and gasped because he was cold, he was colder than any living soul, and it was as if he had thrust a glinting frozen spear into her body …

She cried out, feeling icy fluid like frosted milk already beginning to fill her, and Maelduin, hearing her pain but beyond control, made a convulsive movement and felt, in a terrible searing ice-blue sheet of agony, the cold seed flow from him and flood the warm, Humanish blood.

Chapter Nineteen

Cerball and the Mugain, Bodb Decht and Iarbonel Soothsayer sat behind the great purple and silver desk which had been Nechtan’s, and looked at the slender, brilliant-eyed young man before them.

Cerball had said, and the Mugain had agreed, that there should be just this small private inquiry. Murmur’s death in Maelduin’s bed had stunned the entire Palace, although Great-aunt Fuamnach remarked that she had always said that Murmur would come to a bad end. She did not say it with very much force, however, because she had rather liked Murmur — naughty, frivolous child, who might have no more moral sense than her Cousin Rumour, but who could usually be relied on to lend a sympathetic ear to a friend in trouble, or come up with a light-hearted remark if you were a bit low.

They had all liked Murmur. Charm, said the Mugain dolefully, that was the thing. There was nothing quite like it, and Murmur, poor, dear child, had possessed it in great measure; well, didn’t all Rumour’s side of the family possess it? There would be a fine old sending off, the Mugain made no doubt of that. Cerball would see to it, of course, and wouldn’t they all contribute a bit towards the funerary rituals? To which Cerball, driven nearly to distraction by the thought of another funerary ritual, thought: I hope you will!

They had decided that they would talk sensibly and quietly to Maelduin to find out what had happened. The Mugain had said that to be sure they did not want to be knowing the exact details; Murmur’s relationships were her own affair, and no doubt so were Maelduin’s. Cerball thought, but did not say, that you might almost call it an abuse of hospitality when a guest was welcomed into your home, given one of the nicest bedchambers (a south-facing view, it was, and caught the early sun), and then up and seduced your fifth cousin to death, plunging you into yet more unwelcome expense.

They decided that there should be just a representative from each of the main branches of the family to talk to Maelduin and decide what ought to be done. Nothing official. There might be a very good explanation for Murmur’s death. As to the representatives, well, there would be Cerball himself and the Mugain on behalf of all the other Mugains; they would include Bodb Decht, who would speak for what were usually called the Scholars. They had hesitated a bit about inviting Iarbonel Soothsayer, because it was a moot point as to what standing the Arca Dubhs had in the family.

‘They haven’t any,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, who thought she should have been included and was a bit waspish as a result. ‘They haven’t any standing at all. There’s nothing but rubbish on that side of the family. I’m surprised Cerball considers it.’

But Cerball had had to consider it, because there was the very worrying fact that the Arca Dubhs had recently been seen consorting somewhat furtively with the Black HeartStealers: not once, but several times. Cerball had asked, as politely as possible, if the Black HeartStealers would very kindly return to their homes, but he had received an evasive reply, and the outcome had been that they were all still in the Palace. This was worrying, because they all knew that the Black HeartStealers practised a type of sorcery which was beyond the Codes of the Academy of Sorcerers, and there had been some rather sinister marriages. Great-aunt Fuamnach said that Iarbonel Soothsayer’s grandmother had actually borne twins to a necromancer, and that the family trafficked with the Dark Realm, but this might have been an exaggeration. The Mugain and Bodb Decht were trying to keep watch on the Black HeartStealers’ activities in case of anything really nasty, such as out-and-out necromancy in the Looms Chamber, or a mutiny within the Palace walls, but the trouble was that you could not be watching people every minute of the day.

In the end, they included Iarbonel on the grounds that not to do so might seriously upset the Arca Dubhs and provoke real rebellion, which was the last thing that was needed just now.

Maelduin, called to stand before the great Desk of Sorcery that Nechtan had coaxed out of the hands of one of the High Kings, ought to have been subservient. His stance, facing them all, should certainly have been that of a supplicant, but he was neither supplicating nor subservient. His eyes glowed, and his head was tilted arrogantly, as if it was the Amaranths who were called to account, and Maelduin who was interrogating them. Cerball, unsure as to how they should deal with all this anyway, found himself thinking that surely the boy ought to be showing some remorse.

Maelduin said at once, ‘I feel more remorse than you can know, Cerball,’ and Cerball thought crossly that the careless use of his name was all of a piece with the rest of this strange creature.

‘Should I then call you “my lord”?’ said Maelduin, picking this up at once, but speaking in a voice that said, quite plainly, he had no intention of using such a form of address.

The Mugain, scenting antagonism, said, ‘I think it is immaterial what anyone calls anyone. That is not what we are here to discuss.’ And frowned at Maelduin with the expression that generally caused lesser members of his house to blench.

Maelduin did not blench. He said, ‘I offer you my extreme regrets for the death of your …’ and hesitated, searching for the right term. ‘Of your sister,’ he said. Was that the right word? ‘I had not intended harm.’

‘Yes, but look here, young man, she didn’t just die of no accord!’ said Cerball. ‘You must have done something!’ He caught the flicker of a prurient grin from Iarbonel Soothsayer, and thought that matters had come to something when you could not make an ill-worded remark without your own kith and kin smirking offensively.

‘Murmur came to my bedchamber unasked,’ said Maelduin, and the Mugain looked very shocked, because such a statement was outside the code of politeness about seductions. The Mugain would not have dreamed of telling people that a young, attractive lady had visited his bedchamber unasked, even if it had happened, which unfortunately it had not. He shook his head and wondered where such behaviour would end, while Iarbonel Soothsayer made a note on the vellum-bound book he had brought, in which he was listing all the things they would use when they threw Cerball and the others into exile.

Bodb Decht said firmly, ‘Could we at least know how Murmur died?’ and regarded Maelduin.

Maelduin returned the look unblinkingly, and at length said, ‘I do not know myself.’ And then, as Cerball drew breath, he said, ‘But I believe it is because she lay with one who is not Humanish.’ And then, as they stared at him, he said, ‘If I had known it would happen, I should not have permitted it. That would not have been in accordance with my creed.’

There was silence. None of the four Amaranths knew quite what to say to this. At length, Cerball, choosing his words with care, said, ‘You’re telling us you are not Human?’

‘Of course I am not Human,’ said Maelduin. ‘Neither are you.’

Cerball thought this was nothing to do with the matter, and the Mugain began to tell how the Amaranths had started out as pure-Human, and how it had only been with the advent of the Dawn Sorcerers that they had been given the Sacred Flame of Sorcery, but Cerball and Bodb Decht squashed this hurriedly, because once you got the Mugain off on the exact balance of Human blood against sorcerous he was apt to get carried away.

In any case, said Cerball, weren’t there any number of people who had their blood mingled with other species, and how would Tara itself survive if it had to be inhabited by Humans?

‘It will be one day,’ said Iarbonel, putting on the rather distant look he kept for prophecies. ‘At some far-away time, the Humans will take Tara. And then the Curse of Tara will —’

The Mugain said be bothered and be blowed to the Curse of Tara, because didn’t they all of them know that it would one day overtake them, it could not be kept at bay for ever, but so long as it happened after he, the Mugain, had departed to the Place Beneath the Ocean Roof, he did not much care.

‘To return to this matter of Human blood,’ began Bodb Decht, and looked inquiringly at Maelduin, who said in his cool, silver voice:

‘I have no Humanish blood in me at all.’ And regarded them, his narrow eyes piercingly brilliant.

Bodb Decht, staring, said, quite suddenly, ‘You’re a sidh.’

‘Yes.’

‘How —’

‘I am the Crown Prince,’ said Maelduin, and now the arrogance was unmistakable. ‘I am the son of Aillen mac Midha, and the heir to Tiarna and the underwater Palace of the Nimfeach.’ He looked at them with the slant-eyed look that quite clearly said: and since in my world I bow my head to no creature, I do not intend to do so here. Cerball experienced a sudden compulsion to kneel before this eerily beautiful, imperious creature.

Bodb Decht, staring at Maelduin in complete fascination, said, ‘It’s your eyes. I once saw a cave drawing of one of your people, and there were long turquoise eyes depicted by some kind of gemstone — I don’t remember what exactly. But there was the same look: like the western oceans with the sun glinting on them.’ He studied Maelduin. ‘And your voice is different. Cooler.’

Maelduin said, ‘So that is how you knew.’ He regarded Bodb Decht. ‘Then our sorcery is not quite as perfect as we had believed,’ he said. ‘I had hoped to be unchallenged.’

‘Why are you here?’ said Cerball.

‘Because our world was invaded by a being who had been chained in the Pit of the Dark Lords —’

‘The Gristlen?’

‘Yes. So you know of it also.’

‘It has been here,’ said Bodb Decht.

‘And will again,’ said Iarbonel Soothsayer, shaking his head.

‘It came to our world,’ said Maelduin, and now the brilliant eyes were misty with pain. ‘And it stole the one thing that we cherished and valued; the thing that was our life-blood.’

‘The music,’ said Bodb Decht, very softly.

‘Yes.’ Maelduin regarded them again. ‘And so I have submitted to the Ancient Enchantment so that I may walk in your world and recover the music. I have donned the Cloak of Humanish Skin.’

The Mugain said slowly, ‘Your people frequently hunt ours for sport and slaughter. Even if we believe you, we cannot trust you.’

Maelduin lifted one shoulder, as if to say: trust me or not and believe me or not, just as you choose, and the Amaranths looked uneasily at one another, each of them thinking: ought we to tell him? Ought we to tell him how the Gristlen brought it here, and how Rumour and the monk Andrew took it with them to help them to reach the Dark Realm and Theodora?

Maelduin said, in his soft, beautiful voice, ‘So that is what happened. I see.’

‘You hear our thoughts?’ This was the Mugain.

‘Yes. If your thoughts are near to the surface, I hear them clearly. Although it is forbidden most strictly to pry beneath that surface.’

Cerball said, cautiously, ‘You possess the Samhailt?’

‘A form of it,’ said Maelduin, tranquilly. ‘Although for your people I think the Samhailt is almost lost. You have misused it and sometimes you have abused it, and it has become frayed and worn, almost to extinction. You rely on your Humanish speech. Perhaps that is why you lost the Cadence.’ He frowned, and said, quite suddenly, ‘So the music was here but is here no longer. I have missed it. I was so near, but it has eluded me.’ There was suddenly such pain in his voice that no one dared to speak.

Maelduin appeared to withdraw, as if considering the matter, and then, without warning, the ice-blue fire blazed back into his eyes. ‘Your people took the music to penetrate the Black Ireland,’ he said, accusingly, and his stare was so piercing that the Amaranths shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Cerball said, ‘They intend to return it to Tiarna,’ and was annoyed to find a note of self-deprecation creeping into his voice. ‘After they have managed to find Theodora,’ he said.

‘Theodora?’

‘Well, she’s —’

‘She is your heir,’ said Maelduin, suddenly, looking at Cerball as if he thought him a fool. ‘And — she is in the hands of the Lord of Chaos?’

‘Well, yes. You see —’

‘But that is extremely serious,’ said Maelduin. ‘Why did you not summon my people? Why did you not invoke the ancient law that binds us to help you?’ And stopped speaking suddenly, because the answer was perfectly clear. ‘You did call to us,’ he said, staring at them. ‘You called and we could not hear you.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Cerball awkwardly. ‘That’s what we did. The music —’

‘The music had by then been taken,’ said Maelduin, half to himself. ‘Yes, I see it now.’ He looked back up at them, his eyes blazing. This is a situation of immense gravity,’ he said. ‘But you will know that. The Princess is in Chaos’s hands. How long has she been his prisoner?’

Cerball found himself apologising again, and explaining that they had not thought of Theodora in that way.

‘But she is your House’s Ruler,’ said Maelduin, impatiently, and Bodb Decht said thoughtfully, ‘You know, Chaos himself said something of the same kind. That Theodora was the heir.’ He looked at Maelduin with renewed respect.

The Mugain who was still goggling at Maelduin said, ‘But she’s a child of six —’

‘Yes?’ said Maelduin, politely.

‘There was the Ritual,’ said Cerball, frowning. And then, to Maelduin, ‘That is the Ritual of the Segais Well.’

‘I know of it.’

‘But it wasn’t finished,’ said Cerball, still trying to remember exactly what had happened. ‘We didn’t complete it because of the Fomoire and the Lord of Chaos …’ He broke off again, staring at Maelduin. ‘Even if the Ritual would have pointed to Theodora —’

‘She is your House’s Ruler and without it you’re dangerously vulnerable,’ said Maelduin.

‘But a child —’

Cerball said, ‘She is only six —’

‘That does not matter. Without your Ruler, your House is weakened. Also,’ said Maelduin, ‘it is possible that they intend to hold the Princess to some kind of ransom.’

‘We had not thought of that,’ said Bodb Decht, and Cerball did not like to say that he had thought of it, but that he had been hoping it would not happen, because he was not sure if there was enough money to pay a ransom.

Maelduin said, ‘The music of the sidh will be of immense protection to your emissaries, and since the Princess must be reached, I cannot deprive them of it.’ He stopped, frowning, and at length he said, ‘No, it would be impossible. It would break the ancient law that requires my people to help the Royal Houses of Ireland. I cannot do it. Even if I could reach them, I would not take the one thing that might aid their quest.’ There was anger in his voice, and frustration, but when he looked back at them, something shone in his eyes. ‘But there is the Cadence,’ he said, softly, and felt their start of surprise with amusement. Had they not expected him to refer to the Cadence?

The Mugain said defensively, ‘What about the Cadence?’ and Maelduin grinned inwardly. But he said, politely, ‘It is here. My father made your House a gift of it.’

Maelduin was bitterly disappointed at finding the music beyond his reach, but he had seen what he thought might be another way to save his people. He was beginning to enjoy the Amaranths’ discomfiture; clearly they were rather ashamed of having lost the Cadence, and equally clearly they had been intending on keeping its loss a huge secret. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms and waited to see what they would do. ‘Well,’ began Cerball. ‘The thing is —’

‘Unfortunately,’ put in the Mugain, ‘we no longer —’

‘That you lost it is known to us,’ said Maelduin, impatient and suddenly losing interest in the game. ‘You lost it, but you lost only the understanding of it. It is still here.’

‘Is it?’ Cerball looked to Bodb Decht for guidance, and Bodb Decht said slowly:

‘It must be. Yes, of course, it must be.’ He turned back to Maelduin. ‘Within the Cadence Tower, would it be? Yes, for Nechtan wove it into the walls and into the substance and the fabric of the place. It was then that it became lost to us.’ Maelduin, listening and watching, thought: so it is nearer even than I hoped! Good! But he said in his cool, silvery voice, ‘Would you permit me to revive it?’

‘Well, it —’

‘If it is truly there, it can be revived. And it is the matrix spell, the core. Inside Tiarna we use a version of it in our spells, but it is — I think you would say — a pale copy. The genesis enchantment would be quite immensely powerful …’ He leaned forward, suddenly and endearingly youthful. ‘If you would permit me to try, you would find that I would be no trouble to you. I am accustomed to long hours of study. And if you would prefer that I do not eat at your table and sleep beneath your roof, I can fend for myself.’ A sudden mischievous grin. ‘I am accustomed to fending for myself,’ he said. ‘But if I could revive the Cadence, the true, original heartspell, perhaps I could use it to save my people.’

The Mugain, who had the feeling that things were slipping from their control, said, ‘Well I don’t think there could be any objection to that, of course. And I daresay that one more mouth at table, and one more bedchamber to be prepared makes little difference.’

He looked to Cerball for confirmation of this, and Cerball at once said, ‘Oh, no difference in the world.’ And supposed he might as well be made bankrupt this year as next.

‘But,’ said the Mugain firmly, ‘we have not resolved the matter of Murmur,’ and Iarbonel said nor they had, and oughtn’t there to be some kind of reparation made.

‘The High King Erin,’ he said cunningly, ‘once made a law in this country that the punishment given for an offence must fit that offence very exactly.’

‘Well, what do you suggest in this case?’ demanded the Mugain, who was beginning to think they should never have included Iarbonel, silly old fool. ‘We can hardly arrange for the boy to be shafted to death — dear me, I beg your pardon …’

Maelduin, suppressing the amusement he was feeling at the way the Humanish squabbled, said smoothly, ‘When I have refound the Cadence and restored it, and when I have set in action the means to save my people, you should pronounce sentence on me for Murmur’s death in accordance with your laws.’

‘How can we trust you not to run away while we aren’t looking?’

‘You have my word on it,’ said Maelduin, raising his brows at Cerball in surprise, and, as Cerball was to say afterwards, there was such frosty hauteur in the look, that you found yourself believing the boy — and even trusting him.

‘It may be,’ said Maelduin, ‘that in your House’s present turmoil, there will be a service I can render. Perhaps a danger will threaten which I can help you to avert at some cost to myself. That I would consider a just penance. To risk my life to help your House, and to avenge the death of the Lady who died in my arms.’ He looked across at Iarbonel Soothsayer, and said, with silken courtesy, ‘Your High King Erin would have considered that just.’

‘Would he? How do you know he would?’ demanded Iarbonel suspiciously.

‘My father once had the great pleasure of meeting him and speaking with him,’ said Maelduin with immaculate politeness; and the Mugain whispered gleefully to Cerball that that should show Iarbonel Soothsayer where he stood in the pecking order, silly old fool!

Iarbonel Soothsayer, who was not going to be squashed by this cold-eyed upstart, said sepulchrally that he could foresee a danger.

‘You always can,’ said the Mugain.

‘A journey,’ said Iarbonel, portentously. ‘An exile.’

Maelduin looked at Cerball very intently. ‘This is so?’ he said. ‘One of your people wishes to embrace exile?’ Cerball thought he said this as if he found it entirely natural, and as if a self-imposed exile was not in the least unusual.

He said, ‘It was something that occurred to me; I had not discussed it with the others …’ He stopped and frowned, and then said, firmly, ‘The creature called the Gristlen assaulted one of the Ladies, and it is possible that a child will be born as a result.’ And thought that this explained it as neatly as anything could. He did not see the look the others exchanged, which said quite clearly: so he did know!

‘And — you would wish to exile the child?’ said Maelduin. ‘If it should bear the mark of the Gristlen, you would wish it to be imprisoned? Cast into some dungeon where it could not trouble you?’

Cerball said, ‘That is putting it rather starkly …’

‘What else would you do with it? If it is in truth the spawn of a Gristlen, you could not kill it, for it would possess necromantic blood. It would be difficult to kill it.’ He looked at them, waiting, his head tilted to one side. Cerball looked at the others and saw that they were watching him closely. He thought: they knew it may be a son of the Gristlen that Laigne carries! Of course they knew! But he clutched at the remnants of his dignity, and said firmly, ‘Yes, that is what I … what we would wish.’

Maelduin said, ‘I understand.’ And looked at them and thought that, if the Gristlen had indeed left its pawmarks on an Amaranthine lady, the results could be horrifying in the extreme. Had they any concept of what such a child might be? He thought: I have injured them by the death of the one called Murmur, and I should make reparation. He did not fully understand death, but he knew that it was something that the Humanish regarded with extreme awe. If a Humanish caused a death, reparation had to be made. Supposing he offered to cage the Gristlen’s creature when it was born? It would fit with their laws, it would gain more of their trust. And the further they trusted him, the more he could use them.

Aloud, he said, ‘If you consider it fitting: firstly, I will work to find the Lost Language of Cadence, not only to save my people, but to re-present it to yours.’ Were they accepting this? He listened with the level of his mind that was above speech and beyond words. Yes. They had been ashamed of losing the Cadence, and they were ready to be grateful to him for restoring it. Good! He had judged them accurately.

‘It will take some time, I think,’ said Maelduin, softly. ‘I have not your measuring of time, but I think you would say … many weeks.’ His eyes held Cerball’s unblinkingly like a cat’s. ‘If your lady is in truth to bear the fruit of the Gristlen’s seed, then that fruit could be more horrendous and more monstrous than anything your Humanish minds can encompass. You will know that the creatures who become Gristlens were once necromancers in their own right?’

‘Yes.’

‘They are outcasts,’ said Maelduin, very seriously. ‘Evil, warped beings who had offended the Dark Lords. They are called, and rightly, the damned of the Dark Realm. Many of them carry the taint of old and evil lineages: there is goblin blood in many of them, and giantish blood also. Some of them are descended from the terrible Northern Houses of necromancers.’ He studied them. ‘If the House of Amaranth is about to witness the birth of the seed of such a one, you’re in very great danger. The creature will assuredly have to be caged and bound.’ He paused. ‘I will do that for you,’ he said. ‘I will take the child to the strongest of all Ireland’s many strongholds, and to the blackest and most remote of all the many fortresses.’

There was a silence, and then Bodb Decht said in a horrified voice, ‘The Grail Castle?’

‘The Grail Castle,’ said Maelduin, grimly. ‘It is sited in the loneliest part of all Ireland, and it is surrounded by thick stone keeps and guarded by iron yetts and jagged-toothed portcullises. There is nowhere else in Ireland where the walls are so thick, the dungeons so deep, and the bars so strong.’

‘How do you now so much about it?’ asked Iarbonel Soothsayer suspiciously. ‘It is said that no living creature ever returns from journeying to the Grail Castle.’

‘My father has journeyed there and returned,’ said Maelduin. ‘But,’ said the Mugain, quite as horrified as Bodb Decht, ‘my dear young man, to attempt that journey is almost certain death. Iarbonel is right; no living creature has ever returned from the Grail Castle.’

‘I am aware of it. But I pledge to you that I will do it. If a monster-child, a spawn of the Gristlen, is born, I will carry it along the dark road that is said to end in the Grail Castle, and I will cause it to be caged and imprisoned in the deepest of all the deep dungeons so that it can never escape.’

He looked at them all, his eyes blazing. ‘Even if I forfeit my life in the process,’ he said.

Chapter Twenty

Laigne had become accustomed to being left by herself for long stretches at a time. It was all of a piece with their treatment of her; she no longer expected anything better. It was heartless of them to say she must join in the life of the Palace, emerge from her bedchamber. They did not understand. They did not know that she was becoming engrossed in the creature growing inside her: the Fisher King’s son.

The memory of him was still with her. Not the poor, piteous Gristlen thing the curse had made of him, but the strong, powerful Sea Prince with his pale, compelling eyes and his extraordinary dominance. The remarkable sleek being who had called to her and whose embrace she had suffered to dissolve the ancient curse. She no longer saw it as a suffering, but an honour and a privilege. And he had chosen her to bear his son, he had chosen her out of them all to receive his seed and give birth to his spawn. It was something to hug to herself, something to enjoy in deep, dark secrecy. It was something to gloat over. The Chosen One …

Cerball visited her and he was dutiful and kindly and well-meaning, but he was dull and plodding as he had always been dull and plodding. He tried to talk about the pain and the ugliness of the Gristlen’s attack, never once guessing that the pain had been fleeting, and the ugliness had given way to the shining creature of the ancient legend. He did not know, and Laigne was not going to tell him.

The others had talked uneasily of finding a spell to free her; if she harboured the Gristlen’s fearsome seed, they said, it ought to be dispersed. It ought to be killed before it could live, even though the killing of an unborn creature was a risky business, they added worriedly. Even when you used sorcery it was risky.

‘Especially when you use sorcery,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach tartly.

Laigne thought vaguely that it said a good deal about their opinion of Cerball that they had all jumped to the same conclusion. And of course they would be fearful of the Gristlen’s spawn. But she would not tell them that she would never let this child go; she would birth it even if they subjected her to torture of the most extreme kind. It was his child — Coelacanth’s — and he would return for her and for it; she knew it quite surely and quite definitely.

She did not let any of them suspect the true identity of the Gristlen because it was nothing to do with any of them. She remained in her bedchamber, lying on her bed most of the time, dreaming of the child, watching the days slide past, waiting for the Fisher King’s return.

Her body thickened and became swollen and gross, and she began to suffer odd, slithering pains, as if the child within were moving in an unnatural fashion. She clasped her hands to her body when that happened, trying to hear it, feeling the child circling in exactly the way a forest beast circled when it was making a nest or a lair … Coelacanth’s spawn circling within her womb, moving and sniffing to find its way out into the world …

After a time, it became possible to shut the others out completely; to lie quietly on the bed, but to withdraw the real part — the small central core that was her real self — into a dark, safe cave.

She thought that the cave had been there for a little while, almost as if somebody (something?) had prepared it. It was faintly disturbing to think of a ‘something’ preparing a dark cave for her; but then people could not get at you if you lived deep in a cave. They could call in things to you, and sometimes you heard and sometimes you did not; they could leave food at the mouth of the cave, which you did not need to eat if you did not want to. The cave was safe and dark; she could stay in it for as long as she liked. Perhaps she would never come out. She retreated into it, liking the dry darkness closing about her. She need never bother with the absurd people of the Palace again.

The strange creature whom they had told her was attempting to revive the Cadence came sometimes. He did not say very much; he stood at the opening to her cave and watched her. Laigne wanted to ignore him, but he was more difficult to ignore than the others. She could not work out why this should be, and it puzzled her. But she always looked up at him, by this time so deep in the grip of the dark insanity that was creeping over her, that she saw Maelduin framed in the cave’s mouth with the light behind him, a clear, silhouetted figure.

He upset her. He seemed to know things and to see things that the others could not: the memories of Echbel, for instance, over which she brooded sometimes and which she had so painstakingly buried in the floor of her cave so that no one else should share them. That night in the Gristlen’s cell. The circling child inside her. Once, she even thought he had known about that wild, dizzying pleasure from the Fisher King’s body; that deep, scalding wash of delight.

It was all plainly absurd but, just to be sure, Laigne scuttled further back into the safeness of the dark, and began to bury the treacherous pleasure, scrabbling at the hard-packed earth with her hands until a cache had been scooped out; laying the memory in the earth until she should want to dig it up again. It should be a twice-buried thing, and it should be buried so deeply that no one would ever know it had existed.

*

Maelduin found the sight of Laigne unexpectedly distressing. She was so plainly in the grip of a dark madness, and he had the feeling that she was retreating into some sinister shadowland. And then he thought: retreating? Or being pulled?

Darkness worried him. Even the suggestion of it was almost like a physical pain, lancing through that part of him that was still pure sidh. He felt it surrounding Laigne, swallowing her, blotting out her mind. At times he could almost see it, stealing slowly and inexorably over her.

By offering himself as gaoler for the Gristlen’s spawn, by striking that strange bargain for Murmur’s death, Maelduin knew he had taken Laigne’s plight on his shoulders. He had almost felt it descend on him physically; a heavy, stifling weight, dark and turgid, shot here and there with dull crimson. He thought he might have been absurdly foolish: what the

Humanish called ‘chivalrous’, and he knew as well that to journey to the Grail Castle would hamper his real quest, and delay the time when he could return to Tiarna with the means to revive the sidh.

But as a Prince of an ancient House, he could have done nothing else. Murmur’s death had been his fault and reparation must be made.

It had been an odd experience to feel the life suddenly drain from Murmur. It had been a rather dreadful reminder that the Humanish lived only for a short time. Maelduin had felt no sense of loss for Murmur, but he had felt something. Coldness. Sadness at the briefness of Humanish lifespan. How could you accomplish anything, how could you leave any kind of imprint on your world if you had only a few short decades? And he had shortened it further for the pretty, feckless creature. That he knew to be unforgiveable by the Humanish belief — and perhaps by my own beliefs also, he thought.

A life for a life. The High King Erin had lived by that creed, and Maelduin, living in the Ireland that had once been Erin’s, would live by it also.

Even if, said a sly, silvery voice within his mind, even if it means journeying to the terrible Grail Castle and incarcerating the monster-child in its dungeons?

Even if it means that.

He had commenced the task of reviving the Cadence at once, going alone to the Cadence Tower, the fearsome, legend-ridden Tur Baibeil, at the time the Humanish called the Purple Hour. The Amaranths had wanted to accompany him; the Mugain and Bodb Decht had wanted him to allow the reciting of the Chaunt of Banishment, and perhaps the Cadenzas of Light. Didn’t he know that the Tower was where the Fomoire had found a bridge from the Dark Realm?

Maelduin was not swayed. He knew the legends and he knew the tales. He did not quite say that he would be able to deal with the Fomoire, but he indicated it. To himself, he thought that a single creature slipping through the shadows would be far less likely to attract attention than half the Amaranth clan chanting spells and brandishing torches. It was strange how they spurned solitude, the creatures of this Humanish world. Were they afraid to be alone for any length of time? He remembered again the shortness of their lives, and thought perhaps they clustered together for assurance.

But to Maelduin, born to the near-immortality of the sidh, long periods of silence and solitude were very natural indeed. He was well used to lonely towers and dark citadels soaked in sorcery.

But the Cadence Tower gave him pause. He stood in the great cobbled courtyard, with the creeping shadows reaching out purple and black fingers, and stared up at the immense black citadel, and thought: yes, they are right to be afraid of it, and to approach it with the protection of Light and Banishment Rituals. It is steeped in evil and it is soaked in malevolent necromancy. Profane Evil is here, thought Maelduin, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Profane Evil and also Eclectic Evil. Had it leaked through from the Black Ireland? Yes, perhaps.

The darkness was a deep ache in his mind, so that he wanted to put up his hands to shield his eyes from the suffocating, pain-filled blackness. But he stayed where he was, remembering Tiarna, remembering that by reaching the Cadence he might save his people, and presently thread by fragile thread, cobweb by cobweb, he felt the silver and gold filaments of the Cadence, the Lost Language of Magic filter through the darkness. Excitement gripped him, and he thought: yes, I was right! It is here! The ancient sorcerous tongue, the runic language of mysticism and enchantment and magic. The talismanic chronicles of sorcery.

They have lost it for their people, but it is still here! It is still here and I can reach it! he thought. I could recapture it and take it back to Tiarna!

And little by little, their powers — the ancient, flame-like vein of sorcery that they are so proud of — would erode, and the House of Amaranth would die …

I could steal the Cadence from them and they would never know.

*

The smile that was so uncannily not Human curved his lips, and he slipped through the shadows and into the Cadence Tower.

At first, he thought that after all he would not be able to do it. The Cadence — the beautiful, intricate enchantment, woven by the long-ago nimfeach, taken by Aillen mac Midha for his people, and polished by them before it was given to the Amaranths — was so deeply buried that it was almost impossible to reach.

Maelduin had gone warily to the central, star-shaped chamber, knowing that this would be the heart and the core and the powerhouse, slipping through the courtyard with the creeping shadows, and through the jagged-toothed gate with the massive iron rings. The Dark Evil had been all about him; he had felt the anger of the sentry spells, left there by the Lord of Chaos and his henchmen; he saw them almost materialise: slithering black creatures, low in intelligence but high in cunning.

But he ignored them. He walked calmly through the dim halls and the ebony satin of the Sable Stair, and stretched his mind to its furthest point, reaching for light, feeling for the silver strands, the elusive mesh of the Cadence. The shadows retreated as the light within his mind touched them, and swift exultation rose in Maelduin’s mind. He thought: so it is still there! The cool, elvish light of my people is still within me! I am still my father’s son, and while I can still feel the ice-blues and the frost-greens, I am safe. While I feel that, I can still look upon the Humanish as creatures to hunt, creatures to hound for their souls. I can see them for the absurd beings they are!

And then, hard on the heels of that thought came another: but how involved am I becoming with them? Already he had found himself experiencing sadness at Murmur’s death, wishing to make reparation.

I dare not! thought Maelduin, his eyes flashing turquoise fire. I must look on these creatures as my prey! I must remember how it feels to chase them and swoop on them and drain their souls! There must be no involvements, no sympathies.

He dared not permit Humanish feelings to seep into his mind, for the more the Humanish garb shaled on to him, the harder it would be to return to his natural state. And I could not bear never to see Tiarna again!

The Cadence Tower was silent and secretive. Maelduin seated himself cross-legged at the centre of the star-shaped room, his eyes glittering turquoise slits, his head tilted, as if he was listening for something.

He narrowed his mind to a single, silver point, a speartip, a glinting pinhead of light in the darkness. If I am right, he thought, if I have the strength and the knowledge and the — yes, the perception! — and if the Cadence is truly here, then I shall see it. He would see it irradiating from the silver speck of light; beautiful, powerful, exquisitely wrought, intricate and complex. He did not yet know if he would be able to capture it.

He did not reach it on that first attempt, nor yet the second, nor the third. Despair threatened to cloud his mind, but he pushed it back fiercely, for despair — that terrible desolation of the spirit — could not be permitted.

He spent most of his days in the Tower, seated silent and still in the star-shaped chamber. Despite his resolve, there were times when he found himself beating back hopelessness, and there were times when he almost despaired of reaching the lost Cadence, for he knew it for an elusive, chimerical spell, faithful and loyal once caged, but mischievous and prankish and as transient as the will o’ the wisps that danced across the night marshes, beckoning mockingly to foolish travellers.

He took his place at Cerball’s table each night, grateful for the food and the wine that was always there for him, listening to the discourse of the Amaranths, beginning to find this Humanish custom of gathering together over the evening meal to share and discuss the events of the day rather attractive. They had celebrated the funerary rites for Murmur, and Cerball and the Mugain had courteously invited him to take part.

Maelduin had looked at them both thoughtfully, and had said, gravely, ‘I do not think your people would welcome it.’ And had stolen out of the Palace before dawnlight, leaving them to their strange nine-day ritual, seating himself on the hillside that rose behind the Porphyry Palace, hearing the rather beautiful chants and the singing; seeing the torchlit procession that set out at the Purple Hour with Murmur’s embalmed body in a silver casket. He sent up his own plea for Murmur, calling up strands of light, and weaving them into a thin shining veil to wrap about her soul, chanting a Halcyon that would enfold and protect her with its strength and its tranquillity.

He found the Amaranths interesting and companionable. They made him welcome, and they shared their work with him. They were still trying to reach the child, the Amaranth princess who had been taken by the Lord of Chaos, and they discussed their attempts openly, which Maelduin listened to with absorption.

When Bodb Decht talked of the spell for infiltrating the Rodent Armies, or Cecht and Great-aunt Fuamnach told how they were trying to conjure up the Looking-glass of the Sorceress Reflection, Maelduin thought: but those are enchantments of light, and you are surrounded by such darkness! You will never succeed! And then: do they not feel the darkness? he thought. Do they not sense the stifling, heavy shadows that lie over the Palace?

He wondered if the Amaranths were aware of the growing menace from the Black HeartStealers, and whether he ought to warn them. But he was still unsure about the ways of the Humanish: wars and feuds and battles were a part of their world, and he was aware that Humanish emotions were already seeping into his mind. Unsafe! he thought. I must not! And already he looked forward to the nightly gatherings with more keenness than was safe; to hearing about the progress of their day’s work, to learning whether this spell or that was taking shape; whether they had decided to attempt the difficult summoning of the White Stallion of CuChulainn, or if the Looking-glass of Reflection had materialised.

Several times he found himself wanting to tell them of his own endeavours; of how the Cadence stayed elusively out of his reach, but how he was determined to capture it. It would have been heartening to have talked about it, but he would not do so. Humanish weaknesses! This is my battle and that of my people. I dare not be drawn any deeper into this world.

But when Bodb Decht said to him that they believed their powers to be hampered by a darkness, Maelduin said, carefully, ‘It is a belief within my people that the greatest threat is sometimes from within the ranks of one’s own race.’ And let his eyes move to where the Black HeartStealers were gathered at the far end of the table.

Bodb Decht frowned, and Maelduin, seeing it, was satisfied. For although I do not care what happens to these creatures, they have been hospitable; they have not driven me out and they have accepted my help. He thought it was not in any creed that he should not try to warn them of the uncoiling evil in their midst.

He had found that the best time to pursue the Cadence was the Purple Hour; the magical drowsy time between day and night called dusk, when shadows thickened and there were drifting scents on the air, and the feeling that creatures from other worlds hovered. At these times, he knew the Cadence to be very close, a thread of light on the rim of his vision that would expand and open into the great silver chronicles of the Cadence if he could pin it down.

As the shadows thickened about the dark lonely Tower every night, Maelduin sat on, bending every ounce of his will to calling the Lost Magical Language to him, heedless of fatigue or thirst or hunger, barely aware now of the restricting Humanish cloak of skin and flesh and hair and bones. Every night, the scents of the Purple Hour closed about him, and every night he pursued the flickering lights; until at last he felt the Cadence within his reach. Slowly, stealthily, so gently that Maelduin could not be sure his senses were not tricking him, a glimmer of light began to form on the rim of his vision, a disc of pure, solid silver.

He stayed where he was, not moving, barely breathing. Was this to be the night? Was he about to capture the vagrant Cadence, the Language of Magic created all those centuries ago?

Slowly, with infinite patience, he wrapped his mind about the slivers of light, spinning a cage of enchantment so strong and so bright that after a time he began to see it before him: the bars slender and strong, the vagrant spell inside.

And then finally and at last, strand by exquisite strand, the Cadence began to form. At first there was only the faint glimpse of symbols on the darkness: strange curlicued shapes, scrolls and whorls and half-formed emblems and fragments of inscriptions and incantations, and torn shreds of runic signs.

Maelduin thought: it is closer! It is so close that I believe that I could reach out and hold it in my hands!

He knew that he must not. The beautiful fey spell was not a thing of the body; it was ephemeral, a thing of the mind and the spirit. The silver cage he was spinning was as ephemeral as the Cadence itself, but it was the only symbol that could be used. Capture, imprisonment, silver bars and golden cages …

You could not reach out and hold the Cadence in your hands, you could not spread it out before you. You could only conjure it by the force of your understanding, and if you were very lucky, you could harness it and yoke it, so that you could pronounce its beautiful complex patterns in speech, and so open up the door to the entire storehouse of sorcery, and reach every enchantment ever spun.

A key. A door. A gateway into the glittering, shifting, chimerical world of magic.

The light was stronger now, and the patterns were lying, harlequin and beautiful, across the floor, silver and violet and pink and turquoise and gold. The great Chronicles of the Amaranthine sorcerers were unfurling before him, like a series of great, silver-leaved books, the pages studded with live enchantments and breathing spells. On and on they went, reaching back and back into the mists of time, stretching back into the dawn before the world began, when Men walked on all fours like beasts and could understand one another without words … On and on, back into the darkness that existed before the dawn, when ancient magic stalked the world, and Men were unborn … Magic and Enchantment and Bewitchment and Allure and Beckoning and Beguilement …

Maelduin could see the shapes clearly now, he could see the awesome silhouettes and the outlines and the shifting, blurring shapes. The symbols danced and darted all about him, but now he could look on them with understanding. He could decipher the symbols, and pronounce the strange, multi-syllabic incantations, and see them form at his bidding. He thought: I can conjure it all up; I can summon the whole history of magic if I wish.

The entire Tower was suffused with light; it was a soaring, flaming mass of brilliance that was soaking into the blackened and pitted walls, driving back the shadows, lying like a great silver and rose tapestry across the floor at his feet.

And within that tapestry are the dreams of the world and the hopes of Mankind and the skills of the sorcerers, and within it lies the intricate weaving of every spell ever spun and every incantation ever pronounced, and every enchantment ever woven on a Silver Loom … And they are all there for the taking …

I have done it! thought Maelduin, his mind rocketing into purest delight, exultation filling his entire body. I have reached out and captured the Lost Language of Magic.

*

Maelduin walked slowly back to the Porphyry Palace, aching and bruised with exhaustion, but still filled with such deep delight that his tired body ceased to matter. So this was what it felt like to experience deep contentment and immense satisfaction; the all-embracing joy of something fought for and finally achieved.

Above him, dawn was silvering the sky, and he thought: yes, but which dawn? How long was I in the Tower? He was strongly aware of hunger now and of thirst. It would be good to enter the banqueting hall and eat and drink and be in the company of the others again.

I have begun the journey, he thought. I have battled with an immense strength and imposed my will on it. And somewhere within those silken, silver paths I must find a spell to save my people.

And what of the Amaranths? whispered a mischievous voice in his mind. Are you going to simply hand back the Cadence to them?

My father’s gift, thought Maelduin, frowning. Yes, it was my father’s gift, and they should have treated it as the precious thing it was. They should have guarded it. If I took it from them now it would only be what they deserve.

He approached the Palace, and slipped in through a side door. He would go to the room allotted to him, and lie for a time on the bed, letting his mind wander in the half-conscious state that was so refreshing. Perhaps he could ask for food and wine to be brought, or go down to the great, stone-flagged sculleries and fend for himself.

But as he closed the door behind him and turned to mount the stairway that led to the upper floors, he felt, as abruptly as if it was a blow, the angry, struggling darkness inside the Palace.

He stood motionless, his eyes looking upwards, their brilliance filmed with exhaustion, and after a moment, he knew the angry evil for what it was.

A monstrous creature clawing its way into the world. The dark, evil fruit of a terrible rape, tearing at the womb in its hungering desire to be in the world of Men.

The birthing of the Gristlen’s spawn.

*

The Amaranths had tied Laigne down to the bed. Herself of Mugain had done it, with Cecht and Great-aunt Fuamnach. Cerball had wanted to help, but he had been so upset by the sight of Laigne writhing and screaming, and by the thick dark blood oozing out between her thighs, that he had had to be sent out of the room. Great-aunt Fuamnach had said it was better anyway; you did not want to be doing with Men in a birth-chamber, it was not their place. Cerball was please to go away and leave the ladies of the family to get on with the matter.

Laigne’s lips were bitten to shreds and her nails were torn where she had scrabbled weakly at the straps and the lengths of sheet they had used to tie her down. She had flung herself to the floor at one point, clawing at the ground, fighting them off. She had screamed imprecations in an ancient tongue, which nobody had quite followed, but which Great-aunt Fuamnach, frowning, thought was a kind of libation to the Fisher King.

‘He will return for me!’ shrieked Laigne, rearing up, her hair sweat-soaked and rank, the flesh of her face pinched so that her nose jutted out like a snipe’s beak. ‘Coelacanth will come for me!’ she gasped, her voice hoarse with pain and exhaustion, sobbing and struggling.

It was then that they had tied her down, fearful of such insanity, frightened that she would injure herself. It had been a truly appalling thing to do, and the gentle Cecht had had to go away to be sick afterwards, but in the face of such demented torture, there had been nothing else for it.

They had pronounced all of the usual spells, of course; there were any number of soothing balm-enchantments, and a good many had been created precisely for birthing.

But the spells had all failed; Cecht’s potions and infusions had failed. The monster-child was tearing its way out of Laigne’s body, fighting and clawing, and Laigne seemed to be falling deeper and deeper into the terrible, tormented madness. They could see the child heaving within her; a great, lumpish creature, struggling and churning, rippling her distended body from within. Great-aunt Fuamnach, who liked to think she had no trace of squeamishness, found herself likening it to a stunted, warped beast trapped inside a pale sack, punching and squirming to find its way out …

Maelduin had gone quietly and unobtrusively to the room allotted to him. He was drained and exhausted with the final effort of recapturing the Cadence, but he was unable to rest. His body ached with fatigue and his mind was dizzy with exhaustion, but he could feel Laigne’s agony and her terror lacerating his mind and smothering his senses. He had not known that the Humanish must suffer such terrible torments, nor that his mind would be so open to it. Every time Laigne screamed, Maelduin felt white-hot agony sear his mind. Am I becoming more Humanish? he thought in a sudden agony of his own. Am I feeling their pain and their torment, and am I acquiring another layer of Humanish emotion? The tiny sidh-core of him could distance itself from the agony tearing through the Palace; the creature that Maelduin was becoming could not.

He felt a cold horror at what lay ahead, but would not renege on the bargain he had made.

He would take the creature while it was still blind and helpless, and he would embark on the treacherous journey to the legendary fortress whose name had crept into every sinister tale and every dark myth in Ireland’s history.

The Grail Castle.

Chapter Twenty-one

Even though he was dead, Coelacanth still walked through Rumour’s dreams: evil, monstrous, rearing up to torment her.

She knew he was dead; she had seen his body cold and lifeless in the crystal pool. She had watched him die and she had heard his death throes. But she could not rid herself of the feeling that something of him lived … That somewhere was still the seed, the core, the cold evil that had dwelled in the black void of his soul …

The nimfeach and the Fomoire lay in the sticky web of the Draoicht Suan, sealed into the room with the crystal pools, and Rumour knew they could not reach her. But the nightmares remained, so that she would wake crying, clutching at Andrew.

And every time the nightmares attack me, he is there, she thought. Every time I am afraid, he is with me, calm and gentle and strong. I can lose the nightmares in his arms.

He intrigued her as much now as he had at the beginning. She found herself continually remembering the ancient legend of the Samildanach, the strange, myth-wreathed figure, the Man of Each and Every Art, who would release Ireland from the dark bonds of the necromancers. The one who would return to slay the evil that threatened Ireland …

Legend told how the Samildanach possessed all the gifts and all the graces; how he was poet and scholar and lover and musician and artisan.

And I believe he is all of those, thought Rumour, studying Andrew in the days that followed, as they explored the threatened City of Tiarna, and talked and ate and made love, and regained their strength. I have seen the scholar, for he is certainly learned. As for the lover — oh yes, she had seen the lover: fiercely passionate, and gentle and strong. And within the lover was surely the poet. He had said, ‘I would quote to you every beautiful verse ever penned and every love-poem ever spun had I the learning, but I have not; you will have to take me for what I am, my love.’

Take me for what I am, my love … But that had been poetry, thought Rumour; there had been poetry in his voice and there had been music in his touch. Yes, he was lover and poet and scholar and musician … What of the artisan, the worker and the craftsman? He had told her a little of the strange, enclosed community where he had lived. He had told her of how each man must work with his hands: tilling the land when it was his turn, scrubbing floors, helping with the preparation of food, occasionally brewing wine for their feasts and festivals. And there had been the maintaining of the fabric of the austere, stone-walled building where they all lived; there had been carpentry and stonework and thatching at times …

‘I turned my hand to most things,’ he said, dismissively, as if it was of small account.

And so, thought Rumour — half fascinated, half fearful — the artisan is there as well.

What had started as an amusing challenge in the safety of the Porphyry Palace; a determination to lure the austere, attractive young monk into her bed, was now something very different indeed. She understood that Andrew had broken some kind of deep and solemn promise, and that it troubled him very deeply. She tried to understand this. But I was born into a world where love and music and wine and laughter hold the greatest sway, she thought wryly. I cannot enter into his mood when he talks of fasting and prayer and scourging. I can listen but I cannot share that. He was violently passionate, as if he had been thirsting for this for most of his life, and must now take it before it slipped from his grasp, and it was this, above everything else, that wound its way into Rumour’s heart and fastened on to her emotions with treacherous sweetness.

When Andrew talked to her of the unfamiliar religion; the queer, harsh beliefs of his Leader who had died for all men, she felt the passion in him, only now it was in his mind. Can I compete with that? thought Rumour, curled at Andrew’s feet, wearing one of Aillen mac Midha’s extravagant robes, listening and trying to understand.

To begin with, she had tried to hide her poor shaved head from Andrew, believing it to be ugly and feeling it to be repulsive. But he had hardly seemed to notice. When he had taken her in his arms, and when he had lain with her that first night, there had been such fierce longing and such blind, helpless need, that Coelacanth’s maiming and Coelacanth’s brutality had ceased to matter. There had been a soaring satisfaction, and he had taken her again and again, she forcing him on, neither of them able to hold back the relentless passion that swept through them.

When Rumour said, very softly, ‘I think this has been a long time in the making, my love,’ Andrew said, ‘All of my life, I think,’ and took her face between his hands and stared into it, as if he was trying to learn her, as if he believed that one day soon they would be parted forever.

And when that happens, my dear forbidden love, I must have your beloved face for ever imprinted on my mind, so that I can store it in the groves of memory, and call it up from my heart, and look on it, and say: ah yes, of course, that was the time when I knew true happiness …

*

It had been soon after that that Rumour had raided the Elven King’s storeroom of gowns and robes and headdresses, selecting the most beautiful, folding them inside a large cloak which could be carried easily and lightly when they left Tiarna.

‘Vanity, of course,’ she said to Andrew, partly serious, partly inviting him to laugh at her. ‘I am known as wanton and extravagant, and I should like to continue to be so known. The slant-eyed grin slid out. ‘If we are to take on the Dark Lords and reach Theodora,’ said Rumour, demurely, ‘I would like to do so properly dressed for it. I shall go into the necromancers’ Realm dressed as they will expect me to be dressed, or I shall not go at all. A fanfare of trumpets to announce my entrance would help,’ she said thoughtfully, amusement and self-mockery dancing in her eyes. ‘The sorceress Reflection never made an entrance to her Court without one. But perhaps it would be impractical.’ She grinned. ‘And in the meantime, it will be rather fun to try out Aillen mac Midha’s things.’ Rumour did not see why she should not extract what fun she could from the situation. The stories told of how, when Aillen mac Midha walked in the world of Men, he always did so garbed in shining robes and iridescent cloaks, occasionally with jewel-studded headdresses: silver and gold helmets, tiaras with great cabochon rubies and pearls, exotic pearl and ivory creations. Rumour, plundering his store, discovered shimmering satins; silken gowns woven in the magical Caves of Seiricia, where no Human had ever penetrated; robes and cloaks veined with silver, helmets with lapis-lazuli and firegems and chalcedony and turquoise. Beautiful. Yes, she would dazzle the Dark Lords with these. A tiny, treacherous voice, deep within her, whispered that she might also dazzle Chaos: Chaos with his evil, cruel smile and his dark sinister eyes … The cruel Lord of the Black Ireland, with his beautiful, seductive voice that almost certainly owed its allure to the ancient Enchantment of the necromancer Medoc, but that had beckoned to her and evoked that swift, shameful response … Dangerous! thought Rumour. And then: but when did danger ever deter me?

Andrew was watching her. He said, ‘You will dazzle me, also,’ and Rumour forgot about darkly dangerous seductions, and remembered that it was sweet and warm and safe to be loved. Of course she would not succumb to Chaos’s dark romance. She tried on all the gowns, and the headdresses, using the crystal walls of the Silver Throne room for mirrors, half serious, half amused at herself, because surely there was scant room for this kind of vanity in their quest.

They left Tiarna after several days, taking what little food they could, taking the maps that Andrew had found, which would lead them towards the hinterlands of the Dark Realm.

As they walked, they could hear the faint lapping of water somewhere, as if there might be hidden shores and unseen coasts, against which the oceans constantly washed. At times the tunnels widened into great, echoing caverns, where the waterfalls had created pale icicle pillars and immense, sweeping walls of glistening, frosted water. Above their heads were arched roofs, veined with the silver and ivory and pearl of Tiarna’s kingdom, almost unbearably lovely and exquisitely shaped.

‘Shall we actually see the borderlands?’ asked Andrew as they walked warily through these great, echoing caverns. ‘Or shall we simply pass from Tiarna into the Dark Realm without knowing it?’

‘I have no idea. I am not sure if we shall see the borderlands, or how they will look to us if we do see them.’ She frowned. There are only a very few ways in which one may pass from the True Ireland into the Dark One.’

‘Yes?’

Rumour said, ‘The best known is by using one of the existing Gateways. That is how the Fomoire came into the Cadence Tower, and how we passed into Tiarna. The Cadence Tower and the Well of Segais are both …’ Again the frown. ‘I think you would say, flaws in the weave,’ said Rumour. ‘Breaks in the pattern. There are a few here and there in Ireland. There is a very ancient one in the Cruachan Cavern of the Soul Eaters, although that is many days’ journey from here. And there is another deep in the heart of the Wolfwood, but that is difficult to find. An even older legend tells of a third Gateway somewhere in the Cliffs of Moher on Ireland’s western coast, although most people give that scant credence.

‘But just as a door is a break in a wall, a break that allows people to pass through the wall, so those breaks, those flaws in the fabric between the two worlds, will allow people to pass through the worlds.’ She glanced at him. ‘For those people brave enough or foolhardy enough to go into the Dark Realm, those are the Gateways that are nearly always used. But very few people have attempted it, because it is fraught with appalling dangers.’

‘I understand. But here we are using a — you called it an interface,’ said Andrew, questioningly.

‘Yes. Tiarna is neither quite of the True Ireland, nor the Dark Realm, but is between the two. A buffer world. Nechtan and the Amaranth Scholars taught how it was diamond-shaped, multifaceted, and how several of its facets impinged on the other worlds.’

She paused and Andrew said, ‘Your voice changes when you speak of Nechtan.’

‘Does it?’ Rumour looked up and smiled. ‘He was good to me, that incorrigible old man. When I was an apprentice sorcerer, he taught me many things that are not normally taught to sorceresses.’ Mischief shone in her eyes. ‘We are generally believed inferior to the men,’ she said. ‘And generally we are inferior. I do not like to say it, but it is true. We have not the power.’ She paused.

‘But Nechtan believed that some females could be stronger than the men,’ she said. ‘He saw no reason to — to make differences. When I asked to study for higher levels than are normally permitted to sorceresses, he fought for me. That is why I hold much higher degrees than most of the others.’ The mischief showed again. ‘That is why many of them dislike me,’ she said.

‘And,’ said Andrew, gently, ‘that is why you are here now. Because Nechtan would have believed you could succeed.’

‘It was something I could do in repayment,’ said Rumour seriously. ‘In gratitude for the way he fought on my behalf; the way he forced the Academy of Sorcerers to permit me to study for the advanced levels of enchantry. For the time and the patience he expended on me — hours and hours, Andrew.’ She paused and then said, ‘In the way I believe he was tutoring Theodora.’

‘Yes. I understand that.’

‘She must be saved,’ said Rumour. ‘Or everything I have ever believed in — everything Nechtan believed in — will have been for nothing.’ And then, directing her mind to what was ahead of them, said, ‘The maps you found will be invaluable to us. I think we are nearing the borderlands of the Dark Realm now.’

‘Yes.’ Andrew had traced their journey carefully. ‘I think we shall be faced with mountains which form a natural barricade to the eastern boundaries,’ he said now.

‘Yes, they would be the Sliabh Ciardhubh, which means the Black Mountains. Fearsome. Within them is the Crimson Lady’s grim fortress at Almhuin, and within the mountains prowl her creatures.’ She looked up. ‘If the Black Monk is still within the necromancers’ realm, it is very likely he will be there, Andrew.’

‘In thrall to the Crimson Lady?’

Rumour paused, and then said, carefully, ‘The Crimson Lady is known to have a voracious appetite for the unspoilt bodies of young men. If the Black Monk strayed into her realm, and if he was comely —’

‘Of that I have no idea,’ said Andrew.

‘Well, she may somehow have captured him and forced him to work for her. But if that is so, it will be a harsh fight to release him,’ said Rumour, frowning. ‘She is said to be immensely powerful.’’

‘We have overcome immense darknesses already,’ said Andrew.

‘And we may have to overcome others.’ Rumour half unconsciously touched her head with the concealing silver helmet. ‘Coelacanth and the nimfeach may have taken some of my strength,’ she said, and her voice was suddenly uncertain. Andrew thought: she is afraid.

Rumour said, ‘There is an ancient belief that much of the strength of sorcery exists in the hair.’

Her brilliant eyes rested on him, and Andrew said, slowly, ‘My own people once held a similar belief. That to shear a man of his hair was to take his strength.’ He looked at her. ‘But you do not believe it?’ he said. ‘Not truly?’

‘Of course not,’ said Rumour at once, but her expression was thoughtful.

Andrew said, ‘Since Coelacanth attacked you, you have attempted no sorcery of any kind.’

‘So you have noticed.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Andrew, softly, ‘I have noticed, Lady.’ He reached out to trace the lines of her face. ‘But the strength is not gone. I think it will be there for you when you need it.’

‘I hope so.’

The journey through the tunnels was much shorter than either of them had envisaged. Because the beautiful tragic city of the sidh was even closer to the Dark Realm than they had realised? Perhaps. Andrew, following the charts carefully, finding it surprisingly easy to choose a left-hand fork or a right, or to take the road directly ahead, thought that it was simply that Rumour’s description of the interface between the worlds had been a true one: they had travelled through the surface of Tiarna that abutted on to the fearsome Dark Realm of the necromancers, and now they were reaching the interface itself. Light was seeping into the tunnels, and it was no longer the soft water-light, the rippling gentle sea-light that had cast eerie green shadows and turned Rumour’s eyes to emerald.

It was a thick, smeary light; sluggish and heavy and brooding.

And then the rippling water-light receded, and the tunnel widened, and they came out into the hinterlands of the Dark Realm.

*

Rumour caught her breath and reached for Andrew’s hand, and they stood silently together, the caves behind them, knowing that finally and at last they were in sight of their goal.

The Black Domain of the necromancers … The Dark Realm of the Evil Lords of Ancient Magic. The terrible mirror-image, the underside of everything that was good and true and strong, and where all was warped and twisted and soaked with the black sorcery of ages and the vicious corruption of countless centuries.

The Other Ireland.

It was directly ahead of them; perhaps it was a walk of three miles across a flat expanse of pale, barren land that darkened as it neared the borderlands of the necromancers’ empire.

The Black Realm, the Domain of the Lord of Chaos and the Crimson Lady; the necromancers’ world … From where Andrew and Rumour stood, it spanned the entire horizon, spreading out in front of them like a dark, glowing tapestry, a grim crimson and black vista of mountains and turrets and wide flat plains and dark oily lakes, wreathed in shadows, shrouded in darkness.

The skies were black and lowering, veined here and there with pulsating magenta light. To their left, in what Andrew assumed was the west, they could see the silhouettes of the terrible fortresses of the necromancers; turrets and citadels and ancient strongholds, all of them soaked in old, old evil. They would have harboured immense wickedness, those turrets and strongholds; their windowless dungeons would have witnessed centuries of torture at the hands of the Dark Lords’ servants. Chaos’s henchmen would be there somewhere now: Anarchy, Murder and Misrule. And others … Rumour remembered, and wished she had not, the sinister tales of the Flesh-eating Trolls of the Red Caves … the Manhunts of the Rodent Armies who pursued Humans for sport across the NightFields … And I suppose those are the NightFields we can see to the east, thought Rumour. Flat, endless plains, blackened and charred and streaked with crimson, scattered here and there with mounds — what looked like burial heaps or barrows. Above them hovered screeching, crowlike shapes, swooping and diving and fighting. Carrion creatures and Harpies, voracious and pitiless.

The sky was low and menacing; Andrew thought it was so low that it was almost as if a massive black lid had been clapped over the landscape, shutting off the air. If they stood on tiptoe and stretched their hands up, they would be able to touch it, that stifling black lid. There was a stale dryness to the air, as if this was a place where fresh breezes never blew, or clean white clouds never scudded, or where rain never fell.

Away to their right, limned clearly against the lowering skies, were the crouching outlines of a vast jagged mountain range.

Rumour, looking towards them, said in a low voice, ‘Sliabh Ciardhubh. The Black Mountains. The Jagged Tors of Necromancy. Soaked in evil and imbued with every dark power ever known. They are the western bastions of the Dark Realm.’ She paused. ‘And in their heart is Almhuin itself. We cannot see it from here, but it is there.’ She fell silent, her eyes on the terrible menacing mountains, and Andrew thought: yes, she is right. I can feel that it is there. The Crimson Lady, the Beast of Almhuin …

He remembered that Rumour had said that Almhuin’s Lady had a voracious appetite for comely young men. Had the Black Monk been comely? Am I drawing nearer to him now than at any other time? he thought. He studied the jagged mountains thoughtfully, and said, ‘It looks to be a dangerous path to take.’

‘Oh yes.’ Rumour was watching the mountains intently.

‘But,’ said Andrew, gently, ‘even if we must pass by Almhuin itself, I cannot see that there is any other path for us to take.’

‘No.’ Rumour had feared that they would have to pass through Almhuin all along, and now, faced with the terrible landscape, she saw her fears were founded. They dare not go straight into the City itself, and although the NightFields would be easy to cross on foot, they were sentinelled by the screeching carrion birds. The creatures would dart and swoop on them and tear them apart before they had gone more than a dozen steps.

Andrew said, as if he was thinking aloud, ‘If we go quietly and stealthily through the Mountains, perhaps we can be unnoticed.’ He took her hand and they walked warily towards the foothills of the Mountains, the terrain becoming clearer as they neared it. Beneath their feet, the silvery sand of Tiarna’s borderlands thinned and melted, and Tiarna itself became no more than a blur behind them. The ground was harsh and rough and there was a dry heat to it now, as if an immense fire might lately have blazed across the land.

The western horizon had a damaged look to it as they drew closer. The dark skyline of the citadels and the fortresses was ravaged, split, here and there crumbling. There were gaps, great jagged holes where towers had collapsed, or turrets torn away. To the extreme west, on what Andrew thought must surely be the furthermost City boundary, was a great elaborate edifice with onion spires and domes and battlements. But it was gutted and torn open; the domes were pitted and ruined, as if a giant hand had come down and crushed it.

Rumour, puzzled, thought: it is as if the castles and the citadels have been attacked. As if they have been ravaged. What could have done that? What power has attacked the castles, and was so great that the necromancers could not defeat it?

They had kept the NightFields to their left as they walked, skirting them carefully, wary of the screeching birds. And although they were making for the scree of the Black Mountains, they were sufficiently close to the NightFields to see across their desolate face. And they are not simply black, they are burned, thought Andrew. They are smoking ruins. I think they are not even cooled yet.

The NightFields glowed redly and evilly, the crimson light glowing upwards into the darkling skies. Andrew and Rumour, shading their eyes from its glare, saw that it came from great stagnant lakes of blood, from huge, glistening pools of gore that lay across the NightFields and oozed slowly across the plateaux. The small, untidy mounds that Rumour had thought might be barrows, were tumbled piles of rags and skulls and pieces of bone. As they stood looking, a dry, sour wind ruffled the tattered mounds and puffed the sickly-sweet stench of decay into their faces.

‘Corpses,’ whispered Rumour. ‘And the carrion crows are eating them.’ As she spoke, three of the birds swooped, screeching, and tore at the tumbled heaps, and then ascended into the air again, tearing and clawing at gobbets of bleeding flesh, two of them with protruding stained bones, the other with a single eye hanging from a reddened shred of skin. Their dark harsh features were matted with blood; their talons dripped with gore.

Rats and weasels scuttled within the heaped bodies, their little eyes red and baleful, their thin, boneless tails twitching and slithering. The mounds heaved and undulated with their scurrying, lending them a semblance of grisly life.

Rumour nodded to the hovering birds. ‘Carrion vultures,’ she said. ‘And Harpies. The bodies of birds, but the faces of voracious women. They also will eat the flesh of the dead bodies.’

‘I have read of Harpies,’ said Andrew. ‘But I had hoped never to see them.’

They stood still, watching, and as they did so the Harpies shrieked in eldritch glee and swooped again on to the gore-soaked fields, scrabbling and tearing at the piles of rotting corpses, several of them scooping up the scurrying rats and flinging them bodily across the NightFields, and then rising into the air again with the gobbets of decomposing flesh. Andrew saw two of them fly at the same piece of bone and tear the flesh that adhered to it, flapping their blood-soaked black wings as they did so.

Rumour was standing very still, watching the Harpies. ‘I believe,’ she said, after a moment, ‘that Chaos’s prediction has come true. Do you remember, Andrew? Do you remember what he said in the Well Cavern? That the Lady of Almhuin would fight him for Theodora? That there might even be war and schism within the Black Ireland? I think it has already happened. I think it is still happening. The Crimson Lady is leading her people against Chaos. She is waging war on him in an endeavour to get Theo from him.’

‘The necromancers fighting one another for the Amaranth Princess,’ said Andrew, slowly, and Rumour at once said:

‘Yes! We are seeing the carnage of a War of Necromancy, for only one thing would have been powerful enough to destroy the Castles of Necromancy —’

‘More necromancy,’ finished Andrew.

‘Yes. They are fighting one another. They are at war.’ She turned to face him, her eyes huge with apprehension.

‘If they are still fighting for Theodora, she must be safe.’

‘Yes. But this is Civil War, Andrew! We will be walking into a land where necromancers are fighting one another! Where they will be using the darkest, most evil sorcery they can summon!’ Rumour’s eyes went back to the ravaged skyline.

This will be the most dangerous part of the whole journey,’ she said.

Chapter Twenty-two

The Black Mountains of Almhuin were dark and forbidding; Andrew thought they gave the impression of leaning over, so that you felt that at any minute they might topple forward and crush you. But as they began to ascend the scree, neither of the two travellers sensed anything stirring in their depths.

And then there was a moment when the Mountains ceased to be quiescent, and became something very different indeed, something menacing and watchful, as if some concealed beast had woken and looked up, and seen them approaching, and had rubbed its hands together and licked its lips …

The sentries of the necromancers, alerted by two Human intruders? Or the Crimson Lady, Almhuin’s BeastWoman, who immersed her body in the blood of young virgins and whose servants were ever on the watch for fresh victims … ?

There was the feeling of something dark and immensely powerful passing overhead, and so strong was the sense that they flinched, and Andrew saw Rumour throw up her hands to shield her eyes. He flung his arms about her, both of them diving for cover beneath a jutting overhang of rock.

There was the sound of dark wings beating on the air, and the skies flared to angry life. Rumour shivered, and a scorching flare of scarlet tore over their heads, splitting the darkness wide open. The skies were lit to brilliant, hurting colour: great sheets of molten fire, livid and pulsating, shivered above the jagged Mountains, and huge, vicious starbursts exploded everywhere.

At once an answering volley of flames erupted from the west, and great, arrow-shaped tongues of fire poured over their heads, straight to the centre of the fiery heat, a white-hot wake sizzling its path across the burning sky.

There was the sound of rocks falling, and boulders and stones and rocks came tumbling and spilling down on to the mountain path. Andrew and Rumour pressed deeper into the shelter of the jutting rock, trying to avoid being hit. Andrew heard Rumour cry out, and knew she must have been hit. He moved instinctively to shield her, but the avalanche had already slithered to a halt, and the sounds were dying away.

At length Andrew stood up, and peered cautiously about them. The fiery lightning was dying, and the thick, stifling darkness of the skies was creeping back. And although rocks and stones lay everywhere, the narrow mountain path was not blocked as he had feared. He turned back to Rumour and saw that she was bent over, her face white, her eyes dark with pain. Fear flooded him. He said, ‘You are hurt …’

‘Only a rock; but it crushed my foot.’ She was half lying, half sitting against the mountain wall, and Andrew saw that her left foot was bruised and torn where the rock must have fallen on to it. Blood soaked her shoe, and her foot was already swollen. Andrew winced inside, knowing that to suffer a blow on the soft fragile instep is excruciatingly painful.

‘I think it is only bruising,’ said Rumour. ‘I think the bones are not broken. I can go on a little way. And there is a healing spell I could call up, unless this place is smothering my powers.’ She looked up at the skies uneasily.

‘Were those things directed at us?’ said Andrew.

‘I think they were part of some kind of battle,’ said Rumour and, as she spoke, they heard, very faintly, the sound of hoofs thudding across a hidden terrain. ‘Cloven,’ said Rumour, very softly. ‘Cloven-hoofed stallions.’

‘A battle?’

‘Yes, almost certainly.’ Rumour looked about her angrily. ‘We are so vulnerable here,’ she said. ‘I am slowing you down, Andrew.’

‘Then I’ll carry you,’ said Andrew at once.

‘No.’ Rumour gestured to the narrow path with one hand. ‘It is far too narrow and dangerous. We shall have to walk very cautiously as it is. If you were carrying me, you would very easily miss your footing and we should both be at the foot of a ravine, or dashed to death against the crags.’ She straightened up, and tried putting her foot to the ground. Andrew saw a fresh jag of pain go through her, and looked about him. Could they rest here? But it is the open mountainside, he thought. We would be at the mercy of any creatures that prowl here. As he framed the thought, he saw the screeching Harpies rise into the air.

Rumour said, ‘We have to keep moving, Andrew. The Harpies were alerted by the fire and the lights of the battle. They have seen us, and they will have sensed that I am wounded. They will be watching to see if we are weak enough for them to attack us.’

‘Yes.’ Andrew understood this. ‘If we could go a little further up,’ he said, scanning the mountain; ‘if we could reach the shelter of a cave or a crevice, perhaps it would be sufficient.’

As they moved back on to the path and began the ascent again, Andrew had the feeling that the mountain was becoming more evil, as if its shadows had been disturbed, and as if lurking evils had woken and looked up and seen them. The fiery skies had dimmed, but they could still hear, to the west, the pounding of the cloven hoofs.

‘And there is a scent of blood,’ said Rumour, softly. ‘Can you smell it, Andrew? A taint on the air.’

‘Yes. Then a battle is being fought somewhere.’ He took her arm. ‘We should go on,’ he said, and thought: we should go on, because something ancient and evil is uncoiling here. The clinging mists are hiding peering eyes and reaching bony fingers …

As they struggled up the narrow, winding path, Rumour supported by Andrew’s arm, the path twisted around to the left, and Andrew saw something that the sheer mountain face had hidden from them until now. He paused, letting Rumour take the weight from her injured foot, and pointed.

‘What is —’

‘Lights,’ said Andrew. ‘A little cluster of lights, about a third of the way up the mountainside.’

‘Houses? A mountain village of some kind?’ And then, in a different, sharper voice, ‘Almhuin?’ said Rumour.

‘I suppose it must be.’ But Andrew thought that the lights had a rather warm, friendly look to them. He found himself remembering his own world, where travellers, pilgrims, wayfarers of all kinds were welcomed and given food and shelter. Perhaps the lights indicated a mountain village of some kind, where there might be ordinary people, Humans, who would allow them to rest, so that Rumour could pronounce the healing spell over her damaged foot.

The mountain was becoming darker. Several of the Harpies had flown in the direction of the blood-tainted battle, but a number were still hovering, a little distance away, their cold, greedy eyes glinting in the red light from the skies.

‘If we stop for longer than a few minutes, they will be upon us,’ said Rumour. ‘They know I am wounded and unable to fight.’

‘Yes.’ It tore at Andrew’s heart to force her on, but there was no choice. They must reach somewhere where they could rest.

The mountain was alive with strange, prowling movements; stealthy, furtive, creeping rustlings that seemed to come from out of the swirling mists above them. Andrew thought it was exactly as if a lair had been disturbed, and as if the beast that had its nest there had woken and was prowling and sniffing and scenting Humans … Was the Crimson Lady, the Beast of Almhuin, already watching their approach, and was she already eyeing them with her greedy lips smiling, and curving her voracious predator’s talons as she savoured their capture … ?

Andrew tightened his hold on the limping Rumour, wrapping the black, fur-lined cloak she had donned for the journey more tightly about her, glad to think that at least she was protected from the cold, sour wind that blew into their faces. He still wore the plain robe of his Order, and although it was not as warm as Rumour’s cloak, still it was good, strong wool. He touched the crucifix that hung at his waist, almost without realising it.

The lights were not as far up the mountainside as it had seemed; they were quite close. It would not take long to reach them.

Rumour was plainly in a good deal of pain, but she had not complained. Andrew glanced about him, seeing that it was much darker, feeling the cold wind increase. If Rumour had not been injured, they would have been through the mountain by now and Almhuin would be behind them.

As they rounded a curve in the narrow mountain path, several pairs of red eyes peered at them from deep within a crevice in the mountainside. Andrew drew a deep breath, and lifted Rumour in his arms, ignoring her protests. He carried her past the crevice, and there was a brief spiral of delight that he had done so without showing any fear. But Rumour was clearly unable to go much further, and so we have to risk stopping in this place! thought Andrew. He pushed from his mind the knowledge that this was Almhuin, and that they were now deep inside the war-torn Dark Realm, and they were in the terrible mountain realm of the Crimson Lady.

Rumour was angry at the misfortune that had injured her foot, and she was trying to think of a way of avoiding Almhuin. She had tried several times already to call up the power, the flickering Amaranth flame that would summon the healing enchantment, but every time she attempted it, the pain smothered her strength. But there had been a brief shoot of delight at finding the power still with her. She thought: so Coelacanth did not kill it!

The beckoning lights of Almhuin were warm, but they were sinister. Rumour thought there would be some kind of mountain village, a little self-sufficient community that would have grown up around the Castle, because although some of the Lady’s people would live inside her Citadel, there would be others that would not: cooks and scullions and smiths and masons and their families. She found herself remembering, all over again, the tales of how the Lady sent her creatures out into the hill farms and the mountain passes in search of prey, for the Crimson Lady’s bathhouses must always be kept stocked. This was a daunting thought, but, like Andrew, she could see no other path for them to take. At least I am still able to touch the power, she thought, with a spiral of confidence.

The skies were still black and heavy overhead, but as they climbed higher, Andrew still carrying Rumour but beginning to lag, jagged lightning began to vein the skies again.

‘As if the skies are tearing,’ said Rumour fascinated. ‘As if they are bleeding. But this time there is no sound.’

‘Should we be wary of it?’

‘I think we should not look directly at it,’ said Rumour, and Andrew remembered how she had shielded her eyes earlier. ‘Any sort of light here is sure to be spurious.’ She glanced at him. ‘This is the Dark Realm, remember. The Black Ireland. Any form of light must be evil. Normal, harmless light could not live.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘They do not have night as we know it,’ said Rumour. ‘But there will always be a time when it is darker.’

As the track wound upwards, the mountain face on each side of them, the jagged scarlet tears widened, and sluggish red light oozed out. The path became lit to eerie life, and a malevolent crimson glow bathed the black crags and the granite mountain faces.

Through the strange livid tears, they glimpsed crimson-eyed stallions, gleaming black steeds, pouring across the skies, their riders thin, ravaged-looking beings with wild, streaming hair and clutching hands. They crouched low over their mounts, and Rumour and Andrew caught, very faintly, the screeching of their eldritch laughter.

‘The Lord of Chaos summoning his armies,’ said Rumour, softly. ‘I believe they are the WarMongers, riding the NightMares.’ She looked at Andrew, her eyes fearful. ‘Chaos is indeed a Master,’ she said. ‘For if he can call up the WarMongers, then he is unrivalled in this world.’

They went on, keeping their eyes downwards, determinedly not looking up at the red-soaked skies with their eerie dark armies, climbing the path doggedly.

Behind them they could see the spreading carpet of the Dark Realm; when Andrew stopped to rest, keeping careful watch on the Harpies, Rumour drew his attention to a large fortress on what they thought was the northern boundary, set apart. There were several towers and a massive central portion made of gleaming black stone.

‘Chaos’s Castle of Infinity?’ said Andrew, leaning back against the rock face, and looking to where she indicated.

‘I think it could be. It is the largest and it is set apart from the others. That is what I would expect of him.’

‘It is where the NightMares were riding,’ said Andrew.

‘Yes.’

The NightMares had vanished now, swallowed up in the dense, swirling skies, and Andrew looked carefully at the great black fortress, trying to fix its position in his mind, thinking that Theodora could be somewhere within those grim, sheer walls, deep in the ancient black vaults. They must reach it as soon as they could.

‘I believe I could walk a little,’ said Rumour, trying her weight on her injured foot. ‘Yes. And it is not so very far. If I lean on your arm … Yes, that is not so uncomfortable.’

‘I would rather carry you.’

‘I would rather try to walk.’

They eyed one another, and Andrew made an abrupt gesture of submission, and thought: after all, we are almost in the village.

‘Also,’ said Rumour softly, ‘it may serve to deceive those creatures behind us.’

The mountain path wound upwards, and thick red light still lay across their path. And then it curved sharply to the right, and Rumour stopped, and clutched Andrew’s arm, and pointed.

Directly ahead of them, set half into the mountain, was a cluster of tiny houses with deep, low roofs and tiny, square windows. Lights shone from the windows, and there was a small cobbled square with two or three tiny streets leading off it.

And, rearing up against the mountain, seeming to be built half into it, was a great dark fortress with twin turrets and a central portcullis and narrow, slitlike windows.

The Castle of the Crimson Lady. The Mountain Fortress of the Beithioch.

Almhuin.

*

It reared over them, seeming to overhang the little mountain village with its cobbled square and friendly huddle of buildings.

Almhuin, the sinister Mountain Fortress. The grim rearing stronghold that guarded their way into the Dark Realm itself. The lair of the Crimson Lady, the Beast of Almhuin who scoured the Mountains of the Dark Ireland for prey to drain of their blood, so that she might bathe her white limbs and slake her terrible thirst … The necromancess who had once been Chaos’s paramour, but who now seemed to be his enemy.

I could wish I knew none of her legend, thought Rumour, leaning against Andrew, and feeling the pain tear through her crushed instep again. How did they live, these poor people out here in the shadow of Almhuin? How did they live, knowing that the Lady nightly held her gruesome revelries? Did they live in constant and abject terror? Or was it the other way entirely?

Perhaps they entered into the Lady’s grisly appetites, and perhaps they served her, not because they were forced to, but because they enjoyed it.

‘Someone has been quaffed tonight …’ Rumour could not remember when she had first heard the grisly expression, and she did not know by whom it had been coined. Had there once been a fearsome necromancer about whom it had been said? The Erl-King, was it?

They moved forward, Andrew carrying Rumour again, keeping to the shadows, seeing the yellow squares of light lying across the cobbled streets of the tiny mountain village.

Andrew paused, and looked about him, scanning the mountainside. ‘The road leads out of Almhuin as well as into it,’ he said. ‘Do you see? Almhuin is clustered about the mountain path itself. If we can once get this place behind us, we would be able to walk straight through the Mountains to the centre of the Dark Realm.’

‘And so to Chaos’s Castle of Infinity,’ said Rumour, nodding.

‘But first there is Almhuin to be traversed. I think we must approach someone here — perhaps enter the inn over there — and rest,’ said Andrew. ‘Perhaps we have to stay here for the night, or what passes for night here. And then we must go on.’

‘It is possible that the Lady and her servants are so involved in the battles that they are not thinking of victims for the bathhouses,’ said Rumour, looking at Andrew hopefully, and Andrew said, blandly, ‘It is a useful thing, a war,’ and Rumour grinned, and was glad that he had a dry sense of humour, this strange monk.

‘I had not until I knew you,’ said Andrew softly. ‘I had thought life a serious and a solemn thing.’ Rumour looked at him sharply, because although she had been able to hear a little of his thoughts, this was the first time he had heard hers.

But he simply grinned at her, his teeth very white in the darkness, and Rumour studied him, and saw how his hair had grown a little since their first meeting, and how it tumbled over his brow, dark and untidy. He had not shaved since they left the Porphyry Palace, and a dark, silky beard framed his face now, emphasising the lean, strong bones, making him look altogether tougher, harder, more worldly. She thought: I wonder whether any of your Order would know you in this moment, Brother Andrew? I wonder if I know you, even. I can barely see the gentle, serious young monk who ate and drank so sparingly and who eschewed the pleasures of the flesh … All I can see is a rather reckless young man who has already vanquished one fearsome enemy, and who looks as if he might almost enjoy vanquishing another … and who makes love with gentle, fierce passion, and has begun to find humour in danger. And who is even now regarding the terrible Fortress of Almhuin with a speculative light in his eyes. I believe he would almost welcome an encounter with the Lady of this place, thought Rumour, torn between exasperation and admiration.

The mountain village was larger than they had thought. There was a central square, with an iron pump and a well: ‘Spring water from beneath the mountain,’ said Rumour. There were two or three narrow streets leading away from the square, and little huddles of houses. Looking out on to the cobbled square were buildings which plainly carried on trades of various kinds: they picked out a blacksmith’s with a forge and benches, and a bakeshop and tiny wine shop, which Andrew had pointed out earlier.

‘So they are permitted a little relaxation, these people of Almhuin,’ murmured Rumour, her eyes on the inn.

‘So it seems. That, Lady, is where we must seek sanctuary.’

‘Yes.’ Rumour was finding the little village reassuringly ordinary. There was something normal and everyday about a place that had a forge and a village pump, and that had a rather friendly-looking inn with a brightly painted sign over its door. The bakeshop had jutting bow windows, with a display of wares: crusty loaves and gingerbread men and dark, rich fruit cakes. Next to it was what looked to be a sempstress’s, with bales of silk and velvet and swathes of lace arranged colourfully.

They looked across at the square of yellow light that shone from the inn’s windows and, as they did so, someone walked across the window, and a hand — an ordinary white Human hand — unlatched the window and pushed it open to the night. To Andrew and Rumour there was suddenly something heart-warmingly reassuring about the normality of a person who could reach out and open the window of an over-heated room to let in the cool night air.

With the opening of the window, the scents of food drifted out to them: roasting meats and newly baked bread and simmering soup, and they heard a shout of laughter followed by derisory cheering, as if somebody within the room might have told a good joke, or perhaps as if a game of some kind had been in progress, and somebody had scored an unexpected point. There was a brief burst of music, and several voices raised in a snatch of song.

At length Andrew said, ‘It sounds very ordinary and normal.’

‘Yes.’ Rumour frowned. ‘But we have to think of a story to tell them. They will surely ask us. What could we say?’

‘Are there not quests of any kind here?’ Andrew was thinking of the pilgrimages made by his Order; of the arduous but rewarding journeys several of the monks had made to the Eastern Lands to learn more of their Founder. Would there not be pilgrimages here? Dark pilgrimages, but still involving journeys?

‘I don’t know,’ said Rumour, when Andrew asked this. ‘But a pilgrimage, by its very nature, is an arduous and long undertaking. The Crimson Lady and her people would not comprehend the concept of hardship in return for reward.’ She frowned, thinking.

‘Could we simply say we are in pursuit of the Gristlen who has stolen an enchantment from our people?’ said Andrew, thinking that the closer they could keep to the truth, the less chance there would be of being caught. He was rather horrified to discover that he was having less regard for truth itself than for a credible tale. But he said, ‘I believe we could tell them that and be believed.’

Rumour said, slowly, ‘I think you are right. And Gristlens are outcasts in any world. They are sometimes spoken of as the damned of the Black Ireland.’

‘They would surely know that here. If we told how we had been cheated by one, and said we were seeking to be revenged on it; and that you had been injured by a rockfall …’ He stopped and looked at her. ‘Your injured foot would be more than sufficient reason for our seeking shelter,’ he said.

Rumour grinned suddenly, and Andrew saw again the reckless, extravagant creature who had dazzled him in the Porphyry Palace.

But she only said, ‘Trust a monk to find a truthful solution, Andrew. I should certainly have spun an elaborate web of deceit.’

‘And been caught out the sooner,’ said Andrew.

‘Yes, but I should have had fun spinning it,’ said Rumour. And then, sobering, ‘But you are right, Andrew. We should keep our story simple and near to the truth if we can.’ She looked across at the tiny inn. ‘There are lights in the windows,’ said Rumour. ‘And there is food and wine, and there are people. All I need is an hour or so to quench the pain, and then I could pronounce the healing spell. And it is a quiet, gentle spell; I think no one would even hear it.’ She studied the tiny, low-roofed building, and the familiar glint of humour showed. ‘Of course, I have never before been in such a humble place,’ said Rumour. ‘And after the splendours of Tara and the Porphyry Palace it is very modest …’

She grinned at him, and Andrew said, thoughtfully, ‘I have never been in a wine shop of any kind,’ and sent her a sudden, sweet smile that said: but I should rather like to experience it. ‘Shall we go in, Lady?’ he said.

Chapter Twenty-three

The people of Almhuin were not altogether unaccustomed to seeing strangers in their mountain village, but it was a rare occurrence. Travellers shunned Almhuin — the Almhuinians knew why, of course. The Lady’s ways and her appetites were well known, and even better known were her revelries.

Better not to admit to too much, they said, glancing at one another from the corners of their eyes and grinning. Better to simply do the work you were assigned; shoeing horses, baking bread for the Castle, laundering, maintaining the Castle’s fabric. It was nothing to do with outsiders what else they might do for the Lady, and what other needs they might help her to satisfy.

And it was all of it work which put food on your table and clothes on your back. Since the War, times had been prosperous. The Lady had martialled her Armies. Just as Chaos — they would no longer give him the courtesy of calling him Lord of Chaos — just as Chaos had called up the WarMongers and the NightMare Stallions, so the Lady had summoned the Rodent Armies: the ancient, half-vermin creatures who dwelled in the Caves of Cruachan, but who would serve any master who would pay them enough. They had been Chaos’s servants for a very long time, said the Almhuinians proudly; although the Lady had not lured them all to fight for her, she had lured a very great many of them. Those of the Rodents who still swore allegiance to Chaos and his henchmen could soon be dealt with.

Almhuin had done pretty well out of the Rodent Armies. There had been the feeding of them and the housing — a whole section of the Castle had been turned into barracks for them before the immense Battle of the NightFields had been fought. There had been the fashioning of armour for it, which had been very profitable indeed. Halberds and spears and breastplates and javelins. Silver and black helmets with the Lady’s emblem etched deeply into them had been the design, which the Almhuinians had thought very tasteful. There were places within the Army for the Almhuinians as well, for the younger ones who had a taste for blood and fighting, as who in Almhuin had not? You did not grow up in the Lady’s service without learning about the dark pleasures of pain and torture … And although this was a War of Necromancy, and although black powerful sorcery was being used, the Lady and her opponents had not been able to do without plain, ordinary broadsword battles. Most of the younger men had ridden out, either on the march to Chaos’s Castle of Infinity, or in the Battle of the NightFields itself. Very nasty, that had been, with the Fomoire riding for Chaos, galloping hard across the battlefield on the NightMare Stallions, and summoning up the creatures of people’s nightmares as they went. The outcome had been indecisive, neither side managing to claim total victory, but it had been a fine battle. It had set the tone for the entire war. Fierce and bloody and merciless.

Chaos’s Armies had used the ancient magical NightCloak of Ireland’s first High Queen to call up the NightMares, of course: it was one of the Dark Lord’s most jealously guarded possessions, and it had taken many years of intrigue and scheming to acquire it. That was how he had been able to call up the NightMare Stallions: fearsome and strong creatures that trailed with them the terrible aura of the NightMare Domain they inhabited. They had ridden into the fray, dozens of them drawing the NightMares across the battlefield, and hundreds of people from both sides had been slain and left to die in their own gore and that of their comrades.

And now the Lady wanted the Amaranth Princess whom Chaos had brought out of the Other Ireland. She wanted the pure Dawn Flame of Sorcery that the child possessed, and she would stop at nothing to get it. She was using every spell and every strength she possessed, but she had not been able to compete with the NightCloak, and Chaos still held the Princess deep within the Castle of Infinity.

And so there would be no more revelries at Almhuin with Chaos the honoured guest, and the Lady presiding over the banqueting tables. There would be no more nights with the villagers cudgelling their wits to think up new ways of entertaining Chaos and his train.

But the Lady was generous to those who served her faithfully. She was gracious and benevolent to those of her people who scoured the Mountains for lone travellers, and who sometimes even slipped through the Gateways into the Other Ireland to bring back plump young maidens for her. As for the war, hadn’t she already bestowed honours on those of her people who had ridden out in the great siege on the Castle of Infinity and been wounded in the battle? Hadn’t she sent down money and the deeds to land for the families of those who had been slain fighting for her against the Lord of Chaos and his henchmen? She was a fearsome and powerful necromancer, their Lady, and terrible tales were whispered about her in the Other Ireland. But she looked after her own, and when you had wives, children, perhaps elderly parents to look to, it was a grand thing to have your own bit of land and a house on it.

The war had made extra work, of course. The Lady must still have her victims; she must still have her plump, fair young virgins to tease and torture (yes, and do other things to!) and finally to suspend from the great black hooks in the bathhouses. They dug one another in the ribs and said, slyly, hadn’t there been nights when the Lady had thought she had true untouched virgins gushing their fluids over her limbs, but hadn’t she been very much mistaken! It was a hard old life if you couldn’t relieve your own needs on the Lady’s victims at times. A man on Castle night duty got ragingly frustrated watching the Lady work off her passions on the poor pretty fools that they captured for her; best just take one or two of them for yourself before the Lady’s attentions rendered the poor creatures so mutilated that they were scarcely recognisable as Humans at all. Not that the Almhuinians differentiated particularly between Humans and other creatures. If Humans couldn’t be found, (and occasionally there was a shortage), the Lady had been known to make do with young deer or the silken-skinned panthers that sometimes roamed the mountains.

And when you had a frustration on you the size of a gatepost, where was the difference between Human and beast? You could strap down a panther or a deer and ply your stalk between its rear quarters as easily as a Human. You could still steal along to one of the Lady’s cells and bring out the manacles and the muzzles. Panthers fought and bit, but deer were gentler, apt to freeze into immobility in fear. Humans screamed and struggled and implored to be set free, which could be a good game, because you could pretend to bargain, and see their gratitude. It was a game that could be played indefinitely before you finally did whatever you wanted to. Every creature was different. It all made for interest.

*

It had made for great interest when the Summoning had come from the Other Ireland. To begin with, opinions had been divided as to the wisdom of answering it, especially with their own War here to be fought. But Black Aed, whose wife was said to be an illegitimate descendant of Medoc himself, and who therefore ought to be able to judge such things, had said it sounded perfectly genuine. A matter of a rebellion, so Aed’s wife believed; a mutiny within the Porphyry Palace itself, and the rebels wanting a little dark assistance.

‘Necromancy?’ said one or two people suspiciously, because there was no use pretending that any of them had a shred of power between them. Fighting and serving and spying, that was what the Almhuinians did, and very thoroughly too! But they had not a smidgen of necromancy anywhere in them, and it would not have done to say they had. These things had to be made clear at the outset.

But it had appeared that it was the Black HeartStealers who were wanting assistance, and as Black Aed had said, didn’t they all know perfectly well that the Black HeartStealers had their own necromancy? They simply wanted a show of force, he said. A smallish but strongish Army to lead against the Amaranths. The leader of the Black Hearts, who as they all knew was the Fer Caille, was prepared to pay extremely well, said Aed, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together suggestively, and people said, oh well, if it was only fighting that was wanted, they could very likely get through a Gateway and help out a bit. So long as it was understood that they were properly paid.

Black Aed cracked his knuckle-joints happily, and told everyone they would all do very nicely out of this, what with the Black HeartStealers being such a very prosperous branch of the Royal Sorcery House. They were an actual branch of the Amaranths, a bastard branch, added Black Aed’s wife, sniggering; and everyone chuckled slyly, because didn’t they all know exactly what she meant: a necromancer had somewhere or other inter-married with the Black HeartStealers, and infiltrated a vein of dark sorcery into the line. And very nice too.

As Diarmuit, the innkeeper, had pointed out, wasn’t it high time that they sneaked a few of their own kind in to rule the Amaranths? And wouldn’t it be the Amaranths’ own fault if they were soundly and roundly beaten and driven from the Porphyry Palace? Old-fashioned in their ways, said Diarmuit wisely; old-fashioned and narrow-minded. It would be a fine thing to have their own Black HeartStealers serving the High King, he said with one of his sly, gravelly chuckles, and everyone had chuckled with him and agreed.

And so there was plenty to discuss on the night that the Lady sent over the Blinding Lightning, and told them all to stay safely indoors. There was the progress of their own War to chart, and whether or not Chaos could be beaten, and if not, whether the Almhuinians might not be better to change sides altogether because you had to watch your own interests.

They had taken shelter in the inn, because you might as well have a bit of company and a bite of supper while necromantic forces were rampaging across the skies outside; they were engaged in drawing up a bit of a list of the younger ones who could be spared to send through a Gateway in answer to the Black Hearts’ summons, and debating the merits of using the Moher Gateway, which was guarded by the Flesh-eating Trolls, as against the tunnels of Tiarna, which were guarded by the sidh, when the two travellers came into the inn.

This was intriguing, because most travellers who had to pass through Almhuin scuttled through the streets without stopping. But these two — a dark-haired, bearded young man and a lady — seemed not to care or perhaps not to know about the Lady’s legend. They came quite openly into the inn, the lady limping from an injury to her foot, coming up to the tables where the wine flagons and the bite of food that was always available were all set out.

They asked for wine; ‘And if you could provide us with a bite of supper, we should be grateful,’ said the young man.

‘We will pay you well,’ said his companion, and people looked up at the sound of her voice, because it was a soft, rather attractive voice.

They were served with wine — very good wine they would find it — and bowls of steaming soup with newly baked bread and wedges of creamy-yellow cheese, and slices of roast beef. There was a dab of freshly made horseradish to go with the beef.

‘A feast,’ said the young man to his companion, carrying the food to a table by the fire. ‘We thank you, good sir.’

He was dressed a bit oddly, and several of the villagers found that they were made uncomfortable by the carved symbol he wore at his waist, to the extent that they could not look directly at it; but the two strangers sat quietly enough, drinking their wine and supping their food. The pinched, cold look faded from the lady’s face after a while, and she looked about her with interest.

Glances were exchanged, because would she be a good one to take up to the Castle? She would be no maiden, of course — a man with half an eye could see that — but still, she might provide their Lady with an hour or so’s pleasure. As for the man — yes, he would do for the Lady’s bed. He would die during the night, of course, but so did all the Lady’s guests die. They glanced at one another, and one of them produced the thin ivory sticks, one much shorter than the other, that were used for deciding who should undertake various tasks. Whoever drew the short stick would engage the travellers in conversation and allay their suspicions. It was an old tried method, and no one had ever questioned it. They could not let the travellers see the drawing of the sticks, but weren’t they very used to hiding this ploy under cover of dice-throwing?

Rumour and Andrew had found the inn reassuringly ordinary. It was a somewhat larger room than it had appeared from outside; it was long and low-ceilinged, and there were perhaps eight or ten round wooden tables, with stools standing around them. Andrew thought there were far more people here than they had expected: at each table were seated three or four men, and at most of the tables, wine was being drunk, and games involving dice and carved wooden figures were in progress. There was a thick, faintly sour smell of spilt wine, and a warm, slightly greasy feel in the air.

But still, thought Andrew, looking round, still it is a welcome refuge. Rumour can rest and with God’s will she can heal her foot.

He helped Rumour to sit by the fire, and sat next to her, looking with interest at the Almhuinians who were drinking and engaged in their gambling games and their dice-throwing. Rumour’s face was already less pinched and the lines of pain were smoothing out, and Andrew was immensely relieved, because he had thought that perhaps the darkness here would smother her attempts to pronounce the spell, as the darkness churned by the Fomoire in the Cadence Tower had smothered the Amaranths’.

But Rumour, schooled by the wily Nechtan in a great many levels of sorcery, knew that one of the first and most basic principles of magic of any kind was to be able to recognise the scents and the feel of necromancy, and to assess its potential menace. She recognised, in the rather stifling heat of the inn, and in the thickness of the air, that strong, ancient evil dwelled here, but she recognised as well that none of these people were able to harness any power on their own account. Good! thought Rumour. Then I should be able to heal my foot without their powers quenching the healing spell.

The pain was already easing. Andrew had drawn up an unused stool for her to rest it on, and had quietly and unobtrusively bound it with a linen napkin he had requested from the innkeeper. The pain trickled away, and at length Rumour murmured the gentle words of the healing spell, the Draiocht Cneasaim. She felt it form in her mind, and for a brief instant it hovered on the air, light and transient, but unmistakably there. Rumour held her breath, waiting to see if the Almhuinians should see it, but they were all engrossed in their dice-throwing and their talk, and no one looked round. So far so good, thought Rumour, and felt the caress of the spell on her bruised foot already lifting the pain and restoring the torn flesh.

The food was very good. Rumour, eating hungrily, studied the inhabitants of the inn, and saw the faint traces of an ancient and malevolent ancestry in them; the narrow, slitlike eyes, the sharp features, the curving hands. And for all their powerful muscles, they had narrow, sloping shoulders, and an unmistakable, rather repulsive, boneless look. As if it might be more natural to them to slither and dart and scuttle across the ground … Rodent blood! thought Rumour with an inward shudder. It is only a thin vein, but is there. They have the blood of rats and weasels and jackals and stoats. It is from very far back, but it is there. She remembered how some of the Rodent Armies had inter-married with Humans over the centuries, and how, although the Dark Lords had carefully preserved the dark, evil strain of the first Rodent Creatures for fighting and guarding, mutant strains had evolved. I think we are seeing one of those mutant strains now, thought Rumour. I think we shall have to be very careful.

But they had been made welcome by the innkeeper, whose name was Diarmuit, and who appeared to find nothing unusual about them; and whose tone was exactly that of a genial host, wanting to put unexpected guests at ease.

*

It was generally agreed in the inn that Diarmuit had done a very neat job of work on the two travellers.

Diarmuit said, modestly, that it came of practice, and of working sensibly together. They’d worked together tonight, he said, nodding his head portentously. It had been easy enough to just slip the draught into the flagon of wine, and then to take it across to the travellers’ table, as nice as could be. And he had resisted the temptation to pour the wine into chalices, said Diarmuit, because that might have aroused their suspicions.

No suspicions had been aroused. Andrew and Rumour, tired from their journey, had already been lulled by the warmth of the fire and the good food. Andrew had poured two chalicefuls of the wine, and they had drunk it gratefully. And then they had slipped into drugged unconsciousness as swiftly and as easily as the Almhuinians could have wished.

And with them drugged and helpless, it was the easiest thing you’d ever know for Black Aed to just tap them on the head, so that they slid to the floor without giving the smallest trouble. And even that had to be judged, because too hard a tap and you’d killed your victim, and the Lady would have flown into a towering rage if that had happened! Alive they had to be, with blood running warmly and richly in them.

But all had been well; the travellers were only stunned. The Lady would be pleased with them tonight. Diarmuit and Black Aed and a couple of the others tied Andrew and Rumour hand and foot.

The Lady would be very pleased indeed, and doubtless she would reward her people in her customary generous fashion. The deep dungeons of Almhuin would be open tonight, and those of them who were on Castle duty tomorrow night would be kept busy.

Someone would be quaffed …

It was all in a night’s work.

Chapter Twenty-four

The Black HeartStealers, under the aegis of their leader, the Fer Caille, met with Iarbonel Soothsayer and the Arca Dubhs in a small, rather dark panelled chamber in the cold east wing of the Palace.

The Fer Caille had summoned them in secret, and as soon as they were all in the chamber, sealed the doors against any of the other Amaranths who might be prowling.

They won’t come here,’ said Iarbonel. ‘They’re too taken up with Laigne and the birth.’

‘Fortunate,’ murmured another, and several of the Black Hearts laughed rather gloatingly, because wasn’t this going to be the smoothest rebellion in the entire history of the Amaranth House. Before long the Black HeartStealers would ascend the Purple Throne; they would head the Royal Sorcery House and take precedence over every other sorcerer in Ireland.

‘Even so, it is as well to be sure that we shall not be overheard.’ The Fer Caille moved slowly round the room, studying each of the plotters in turn, his huge, dense shadow falling over them. Several of the Arca Dubhs, who had wavered a bit about joining in, remembered with unease the stories of the Fer Caille’s ancestry. He was a towering creature, broad-shouldered and with a brutish cast of countenance. He had the small, mean eyes of all who possessed Giantish blood, and the coarse, brutal mouth of the ogre-people. He did not often smile, but when he did, he showed tiny, stumplike teeth. The Arca Dubhs shivered and thought that you might say what you liked: it was as well to be very wary indeed of those with Giantish blood in them.

But if Cerball and the rest were to be driven out and new ways brought in, somebody had to lead. The Arca Dubhs murmured this to one another, because while none of them had wanted actually to instigate the rebellion, they were all agreeable to following somebody else. It had been explained to them that Cerball and the Mugains and even Bodb Decht were becoming too old and set in their ways. Why, you could not so much as whisper a spell that had even a sliver of darkness in it without incurring their anger these days. And, said the Black HeartStealers persuasively, didn’t any sorcerer of scholarship know that you had occasionally to make use of the blacker side of enchantry, and shouldn’t any sorcerer with any decent power be able to control it?

What was wanted was younger blood heading the House, they said firmly. Younger blood and newer, more exciting ideas. The Arca Dubhs had been rather flattered to be thought of as being sorcerers of scholarship and power. They were not as a rule greatly given to excitement, which was apt to be exhausting, but they told one another that you had to see the force of the argument. And wasn’t it an enormous compliment to be invited to take part in this really very important plot? They would make history, they said, pleased.

Two of the Black HeartStealers had murmured a Sealing Incantation over the doors, and as the words fell on the air, there was a sudden spiralling of dark, greasy smoke. The sorcerers averted their eyes, recognising the whiff of necromancy, and Iarbonel Soothsayer started to say that surely the utilising of necromancy for a minor door-sealing was a waste of energy, but the Fer Caille looked across at him, his eyes cold and hard, and Iarbonel found the words dying at birth.

The Fer Caille explained how he had called them together to tell them that the Dark Summoning put out earlier had been effective.

‘It has worked very well,’ he said. ‘We reached the mountain community of Almhuin, deep in the Sliabh Ciardhubh.’ He looked at them, and waited.

‘The Crimson Lady’s people?’ asked an Area Dubh, a bit uncertainly.

‘Yes.’ The Fer Caille turned his huge stare inquiringly on the Area Dubh who had spoken, and waited, as if inviting a challenge. No one spoke, and after a moment he said, ‘The Almhuinians themselves — at least a section of them — have answered our Summoning.’

‘They will help our cause?’

‘Oh yes. And,’ said the Fer Caille, a sudden, rather evil relish in his voice, ‘they will help us to squash these die-hards. And they are the most savage, most vicious fighters in the entire Dark Realm.’

A sudden silence fell, and at last, one of the Arca Dubhs said, ‘It’s a mutant branch, of course,’ as if this made it more acceptable. He looked round him a bit doubtfully, because none of the Arca Dubhs had expected the involvement of Almhuin. Most of them had visualised a quite peaceful, almost cosy little fight, more of an argument really, at the end of which Cerball and the Mugains would go into comfortable retirement and the Arca Dubhs themselves would be given lucrative posts in the Palace. They’d seen themselves being invited along to Tara to advise the High King now and again. It would all have been perfectly amicable.

‘They might be mutants, but they have the strongest traits of all sides,’ said a Black HeartStealer instantly, and the Arca Dubhs began to look even more worried.

‘Oh yes.’

The Fer Caille said, ‘The Almhuinian Armies are already armed and accoutred, ready for our final call. They are waiting within the shadow of the Gateway inside the Cadence Tower.’

‘So close?’ murmured the Area Dubh who had been doubtful about the Almhuinians.

‘Yes. They would normally have selected one of the other Gateways to enter — perhaps the Moher Gateway, although that would have meant passing dangerously close to the Pit of the Dark Lords, which is in the keeping of the Flesh-eating Trolls. The Gateway in the Cadence Tower was the easiest and the nearest.’

‘And next?’ asked Iarbonel.

‘And next,’ said the Fer Caille with a throaty chuckle, ‘next, we shall let them in. And then, by the bones and the blood of my ancestors, we shall sweep aside these ineffectual creatures who hold this Palace, and take the Amaranth Throne for ourselves.’ He looked round at them, and the Area Dubh who had said that the Almhuins were mutants, asked what about the Succession Ritual? You could not ignore something so ancient and so powerful as that.

‘We do not ignore it,’ said the Fer Caille in his huge voice. ‘But rituals can be adjusted.’ He grinned slyly. ‘Rituals can be forced to obey the one who invokes them,’ he said, and the Arca Dubhs all began to feel very worried indeed.

The Fer Caille turned back to the waiting BlackHeart Stealers. ‘So,’ he said, his voice thick with relish, ‘so, my friends, do you permit me to call up our Armies? The Crimson Armies of Almhuinian? The Rodent descendants who will ride as our combatants? Who will fall on these paltry half-magicians and drive them out?’

A cry of assent went up, and the Arca Dubhs added their voices a bit raggedly. They had been rather shocked to hear the Fer Caille dismiss Cerball as a ‘magician’, which was, of course, the greatest insult you could deal anybody. But it was too late to back out now.

The Fer Caille moved to the centre of the small chamber, and raised his hands above his head. The shadows surrounding him reared up, and as he began to intone the dread lines of the Dark Summoning, the ancient and malevolent Beckoning, the shadows shrouded him so that he became a great solid column of blackness.

The Black HeartStealers and the Arca Dubhs made a circle about him, linking hands, joining their voices with his in the last and most powerful stanza of the Summoning. The light became tinged with crimson, and thick, fetid evil began to form like a vapour in the chamber.

Iarbonel Soothsayer, at the centre of it all, nodded to himself, and thought they’d made a wise move in throwing in their lot with the Fer Caille and his people. They would open the Cadence Gateway to let in the Almhuinians.

The Black HeartStealers would have ascended the Purple Throne of Porphyry Palace before the night was out.

*

Laigne was weakening. The Amaranth ladies around her bed saw it and heard it and felt it. She was flailing helplessly at the bonds that still held her down, but they were poor, weak struggles, and her screams of agony had faded into pitiful, mewling cries, as if the poor soul had barely the breath left in her lungs. Cecht, unable to bear the sight of Laigne’s thin hands plucking feverishly at the leather thongs, bent to untie her, ‘For,’ she said, ‘she can no longer hurt herself; she has not the strength left. And it is only merciful,’ said Cecht, angry tears starting to her eyes.

The Gristlen’s child was moving frenziedly beneath the distended body, struggling in its birth throes.

‘It is huge,’ murmured Great-aunt Fuamnach. ‘It will surely kill her.’

Herself of Mugain said, rather tartly, that the creature was like to split Laigne in twain, but she said it quietly because there was no sense in distressing their poor cousin any further.

‘Although I believe she is beyond hearing now,’ said Cecht, bending to mop the pouring rivulets of sweat from Laigne’s face, seeing, as she did so, that the skin was taking on a waxen look. Laigne was no longer moving; only the beast inside her was moving, making the great swollen mound ripple and heave with sinister life.

‘Try the balm again,’ suggested Great-aunt Fuamnach, and Cecht turned to the little side-table, where they had arranged the jars and boxes and flagons.

Herself of Mugain said, urgently, ‘No, wait. Something is happening.’

A ridge was appearing in Laigne’s swollen body now, as if the creature inside was pushing at the womb in which it was enclosed. There was a sharp look to the ridge, as if the pressure from within was being exerted by something pointed … A long fingernail. A claw … As they watched, appalled, a thin line of dark, sluggish blood appeared where the skin was splitting open.

‘It is tearing its way out,’ said Cecht. ‘This is dreadful. It is ripping her open from inside. Cannot we … ?’ And stopped as the tear gaped open, like a hideous dark wound.

The skin of Laigne’s swollen body began to split, not neatly and cleanly, but jaggedly, the skin parting only with difficulty. There was a sickening glutinous sound, and dark blood welled up and trickled down over her white body, staining the bed. Laigne moaned and moved restlessly, but seemed barely aware of what was happening any longer.

Within the opening, they could make out a thick membranous sac, smeared and clotted with blood and birth fluid, heaving and pulsating with horrid life. The point of a claw was protruding from the birth sac, a horrid, hard, grey claw, slicing and tearing at the thick membrane that enclosed it. There was a rather terrible efficiency about it, as if the creature knew that it must cut its way out.

The sac burst open, spattering thick yellowish fluid over the bed, and the Gristlen’s monster-child started to clamber out of the torn, blood-slimed womb.

Its eyes were matted and closed, the lids crusted with blood and pus. It could not have known, in any sentient way, what it did, but it was struggling out of the dark, soundless womb into the world. It was struggling and fighting; its upper half was already freed, and it was pushing back the lips of the gaping wound in Laigne’s body, heedless of the fearsome mutilations it was inflicting.

And then it was out; it had heaved itself out, and there was a terrible sticky sucking as the birth sac collapsed into a wrinkled pouch. Laigne gave a little sigh, and then was still.

‘Dead,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, softly. ‘Poor soul.’

The creature crouched on the bed, shaking its head to rid itself of the slimed blood and the thick, discharged fluids, so that they dripped to the floor in curdled ropes of gore. Its hands came up in a flailing motion, rubbing at its eyes, trying to wipe away the clotting mucus and blood. Strings and gobbets of semiliquid blood hung from its claws and its face, slopping down on to its body. Its hair was matted and wet, plastered to its head with dark blood.

It turned its head from side to side, and its flailing hands seemed to be searching for something, and this blind seeking movement was at once piteous and terrible. It was as if something alien and monstrous had been flung into a cold hostile world and was trying, in its sightless, newly born state, to seek assurance.

But beneath that, the Amaranths could see that there was calculating intelligence in its movements; it knew what it had to do to make itself ready for the world. Once its eyes were open, it would be sighted, it would not be blind and helpless in the manner of most newly-born things, it would not make those pitiful, searching gestures to where the dead Laigne lay …

It would be alive and sentient and rampant; there would be cold intelligence in the eyes, and there would be the undiluted evil and the raging greed of its sire in its cold, black soul …

The Gristlen’s seed, the foul spawn of the dark, evil creature who had dwelled in the noisome Tanning Pits, was in the room with them.

*

The three Amaranth ladies instinctively murmured a brief Ritual of Protection, and Great-aunt Fuamnach sketched the outline of the great Amaranthine Star before them.

Even like this, smeared and still partly blind from the thick dark blood and the pus-like matter, the Gristlen’s monster-child was the most evil thing any of them had ever encountered.

There was a deep overhanging brow, shadowing the eyes and almost obscuring them. The eyes struggled to open, and for a moment there was bewilderment and incomprehension in them. The creature turned again to Laigne’s body, reaching out with its hands, and the horrified watchers saw understanding dawn in its face.

She is dead and I am alone to fight these creatures before I have the power …

And then it seemed to gather huge strength into itself, and now its eyes shone with cold malevolence. It turned back to the room, and such bitter fury poured from it that for a moment it shone on the dark room, a baleful, crimson stream. Cecht, directly in line, felt it scorch her eyes, and flung up a hand to shield herself, falling back against the wall.

‘Cecht? Child, are you all right?’

Cecht said, ‘Yes. Yes, only dazzled.’ And put out a hand to pull herself up.

‘Anger,’ muttered Great-aunt Fuamnach, helping Cecht to her feet with one hand, and grasping her hazel wand more tightly with the other. ‘A nasty thing to fight, anger. But we’ll see what we can do.’ She lifted the hazel wand, and set a shaft of pure light sizzling through the air.

The creature lifted one claw-tipped hand, almost without looking, and deflected the light easily and carelessly, splintering it in mid-flight, so that tiny shards of glittering white fell to the ground.

‘Strong,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, shaking her head. ‘By all the gods, it’s strong. Cecht, child, are you sure you are all right?’

‘Yes.’ Cecht was bruised and a bit dizzy by the shaft of fury that had seemed to spit from the creature’s eyes. The scorching light had stayed on her vision, playing tricks with it, as if she had been staring into the bright noon sun. Blinded by the Gristlen’s spawn? Oh no! Aloud, she said, ‘But I think we must send for the others …’

‘Of course we must,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach. ‘Mugain, what are you thinking of?’ and Herself of Mugain muttered something and scurried from the room at once, banging the door behind her.

‘Coward,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, turning back to the bed. ‘Still, I daresay we can’t blame her! Please the gods she’ll bring the Tiarnan. Now, child, is there anything we can do to render this monster harmless for a time?’

But they both knew there would be little either of them could do by themselves. The creature was watching them; it was crouching on the bed, naked and still wet. From time to time it made a scuttling, circling movement on the bed, like an animal burrowing out a nest, and its hands plucked at the blood-drenched bed-gown of the dead woman who had given it birth, as if trying to wake her.

They could make out the creature’s features more clearly now. There was a flat, slash-like mouth, wide and lipless, rather horridly reminiscent of a sea creature. But its body was not hairless; there was a thatch of dark hair, coarse and ragged, and beneath it, they could see small ears, flat to the creature’s skull.

Cecht, who had never before encountered Corrupt Evil, was trying not to be afraid, but the Gristlen’s son was the most repulsive thing she had ever seen. It was the blending of ordinary Humanish blood and ordinary Humanish features with something that was not Humanish at all, that made Cecht’s skin creep with horror. She thought: it has ordinary ears, and although its nose is flat and wide-nostrilled, that is not so very inHuman. And it has eyes and lips and hair, it has arms and legs and bones and muscles …

But there was no neck; the creature’s jowls widened and sloped outwards until they joined the shoulders, and Great-aunt Fuamnach, who was sharp-sighted, said in a low voice, ‘Fins. Gills. Do you see? In its neck at the sides.’

‘Yes. Horrid.’

Great-aunt Fuamnach was becoming extremely angry at the way in which this bloodied morsel of repulsive life was able to send out its waves of fury and the billowing Corrupt Evil of the ancient Dark Realm. She pronounced again the Protective Ritual, this time snatching up her hazel wand, using it to trace the Amaranth Star on the floor around the bed. The creature was plainly gaining strength now; it darted at the constricting circle, and punched a hole through it with one taloned hand, and a low, throaty chuckle, glutinous and mocking, filled the room.

‘It is able to deflect everything we do,’ said Cecht, her eyes wide with horror.

‘We shall do better when the others arrive. That fool Mugain has had time to gather up the entire Palace by this time.’

‘Don’t take your eyes from it,’ said Cecht in a low, urgent voice, because it would be the most unbearable thing ever if the creature slid from the bed, and darted into hiding somewhere while they were not watching. It would be rather like having lost track of a particularly huge, particularly loathsome spider in your bedroom, or a slithering, writhing snake … Only it would be a million times worse.

‘I don’t intend to take my eyes from it,’ retorted Great-aunt Fuamnach.

They could see that its body was nearly shapeless and faintly scaled. But, thought Cecht, it is difficult to tell if it is scale or Humanish skin. Perhaps it was a blending of the two. Yes. Humanish and fish-creature. Disgusting. Between its thighs was a thicker sprinkling of scales, and large, perfectly formed genitals; the penis, barbed like a fletched arrow, hung down pendulously.

And then it moved slightly in the bed, a horrid, sudden, slithering movement, its muscles bunching and rippling, and they saw that at the base of its spine was a triangular shape, a tightly furled membranous structure, pale and cold-looking. A fin.

The two Amaranthine ladies looked at one another in horror, and then Cecht said, very softly, ‘Coelacanth.’ And then, ‘Coelacanth’s spawn,’ she said.

Great-aunt Fuamnach was watching the creature closely. When she spoke, there was a note of fear in her voice that no one had ever heard there before. But she said, ‘I believe so.’

The Fisher King’s seed. Then the Gristlen must have been Coelacanth himself,’ whispered Cecht. ‘Coelacanth thrown into the Pit of the Dark Lords and left for centuries until he became a Gristlen.’

‘Yes. He must have somehow incurred the wrath of the other Dark Lords,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, staring.

‘This is his heir. This is the Fisher Prince,’ said Cecht, horrified, and at once the creature turned its terrible head to regard her, as if it had heard and understood. Its eyes were cold and filled with an implacable, soulless evil.

Cecht shuddered and stepped back, but Great-aunt Fuamnach stood her ground.

‘Is the Star holding it?’ whispered Cecht.

‘We will hope so.’ Great-aunt Fuamnach regarded the Fisher Prince grimly. ‘But we dare not lose any time in caging it. I hope that fool Mugain has the sense to bring the Tiarnan,’ she said again. ‘He’s the only one who can deal with this.’

Cecht said, carefully, ‘Can we do anything for Laigne?’

‘She is dead,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach. And then, because she was a merciful soul at heart, murmured, ‘Poor thing,’ but because she was also Great-aunt Fuamnach, spared a thought for Cerball’s pocket, which was going to be sorely stretched by yet another death.

They could hear people coming along the corridor now, and it was suddenly immensely comforting to hear voices and footsteps and doors slamming.

The door was flung open, and Cerball, with the Mugain and Bodb Decht at his side, stood on the threshhold. Behind them was Maelduin, slender and silent.

There was a moment when the newcomers stood horrified, frozen into uncertainty, each of them recognising, as Cecht and Great-aunt Fuamnach had done, that this was the spawn of the terrible Fisher King, the son of Coelacanth himself.

And then Maelduin moved forward, and the others fell back silently. Night had crept into the bedchamber without anyone realising, and as Maelduin moved across the room, he moved through dark, creeping shadows that lay thickly across the floor, and stole out towards him as he moved. But he paid them no heed; he simply moved silently forward, across the shadow-splashed floor, and as he approached the bed, the Amaranths saw that everywhere he trod was a faint sprinkling of cool, silver light. His eyes, brilliant blue-green pools of colour, shone as he eyed the thing on the bed, and a whisper of fear ruffled the surface of the silent room.

The creature was watching Maelduin’s approach; it was eyeing him from the corners of his eyes: sly, furtive, gleeful, as if it knew it could not be attacked physically.

Come and get me, Tiarnan Prince …

Light poured outwards from Maelduin’s slender form now, and he stood motionless and alone, eyeing the terrible thing that squatted in the drying blood and the pools of foul-smelling fluids.

The others did not know it, but his courage almost broke, for he saw, as they had seen, that this was indeed the Fisher King’s creature, the child of Coelacanth, forced upon the poor Amaranth lady who lay dead. The sidh had driven Coelacanth out of Tiarna, but only the Elven King himself and Maelduin, the Crown Prince, knew how close-run the battle had been, and how nearly Coelacanth had overpowered the sidh’s Armies.

And Coelacanth had vowed to one day return …

He summoned up every ounce of resolve, and reached far down into his mind, plumbing memory’s depths, down and down, until he felt his mind close about the living silver veins and the cords and the glittering pure strands that would harness and yoke the Cadence.

For a moment, the fear threatened to quench his strength; he thought: I cannot do it! I have forfeited the elven garb and donned the cloak of the Humanish. I no longer have the power!

But he beat the fear down and began the searching, the reaching out, the reaching down that would enable him to control the Cadence.

The Cadence was like the crystal pools of Tiarna, where the cool sea-magic of the nimfeach was stored. He would see it like that and he would force it to submit to him. A great library, an endless storehouse of spells and enchantments, each one catalogued and referenced and indexed … All I have to do is grasp the Cadence and bend and force it to my will. He half closed his eyes, his mind a single, vivid stream of concentration.

It was within his grasp. Maelduin felt his mind strongly in control; he felt it spinning and darting through the immense magical library of the Cadence; the library that did not consist of vellum chronicles and shelves of manuscripts or cupboards filled with documents, but that was filled with every enchantment and every spell ever written or created or spun …

And then it was before him, opening up to his inner vision, the silver scrolls, the great tapestry of magic, the lore and the wisdom and the knowledge culled by every sorcerer who ever lived … Maelduin felt himself submerged in it, he felt it closing over his head, so that the beauty and the strength and the ancient wisdom was soaking into his skin, drenching his eyes, obscuring his sight …

And then it was there. The incantation that would not destroy the creature, but that would certainly cage it. The ancient pure Sea Ritual. The great far-reaching enchantment spun by the beings who had inhabited the seas and the oceans of the world; who had built Tiarna before the sidh, before even the nimfeach.

For the nimfeach were themselves usurpers and despoilers, just as the sidh, in their turn, were the same …

He saw that it had no formal name, that it had been known only as the Sea Ritual. But it was the long-ago incantation; it was the enchantment that Aillen mac Midha had used to drive out the nimfeach centuries ago. It had vanquished Coelacanth and it would vanquish Coelacanth’s son …

Maelduin stayed where he was, completely still, his face colourless, his hair silver gilt, only his eyes showing colour, two narrow slits of brilliance. To the watchers it seemed that a gentle radiance began to enfold him, and for a moment there was the faint outline of slender, iridescent bodies, silver and blue and green, shimmering with the cool sea-magic of the fabled City of Tiarna …

Maelduin was no longer aware of the dark bedchamber. He was immersed in the great marvellous Language of Enchantment. It was all about him, so that he could see the words, the symbols, the silhouettes of the incantation forming; the Cadence was unrolling its wisdom at his feet like a great silken carpet: ice-blue, silver-green, the outlines tipped with silver, strengthened with gold and ivory. Great soaring curlicues of turquoise and pearl were woven into it, all of it within his understanding now, all of it waiting for him to call it into being, so that the dark, monstrous being, the Fisher Prince, could be imprisoned …

Yes! thought Maelduin, his mind soaring. Yes! This is the one that will cage the creature, and this is the one that will imprison it! With the knowledge, he glimpsed the first faint forming of the immense silver cage, the Sea Ritual created when the world was still cooling …

The creature on the bed reared up, its face hideously distorted with blind rage. Its muscles bunched and rippled as it braced itself to spring, but for the first time it hesitated, and the watching Amaranths saw the faint glimmer of the Star sketched by Great-aunt Fuamnach earlier, and knew that, frail as the protection was, it was quenching the creature’s powers a little.

Maelduin held out his arms, the palms turned upwards, and pronounced the beautiful, fearsome words of the Sea Ritual.

There was a howl of black bitter rage from the creature, and the repulsive membranous fin unfurled and distended. Its eyes spat the baleful light again, but Maelduin was encased in the soft radiance of his people, and in the pouring silver silhouettes of the Sea Ritual, and the red glare faltered and died.

The shimmering shapes moved — forming, solidifying, glistening on the air — until they were a silver cage, the bars strong and brilliant, the cage itself doorless, invincible …

There was the deep echoing reverberation of a great door being closed somewhere above their heads, and another howl of fury came from the creature. The Amaranths blinked and put up their hands to shield their senses from the sight and the sound, for the silver bars, strong and transient though they were, shone so brightly that it made your eyes ache to look at them for too long.

But the creature was caged. The Gristlen’s spawn, Coelacanth’s evil seed, the monstrous Fisher Prince who had killed Laigne in its entry into the world, was penned inside the silver cage of the ancient Sea Ritual.

And from here, it must be taken to the deepest darkest dungeon in the bowels of Ireland’s ancient haunted fortress.

The Grail Castle.

Chapter Twenty-five

Bodb Decht had found a tinder box and gone across to the lamps; now squares of glad yellow light flooded the room.

Maelduin was white and drained; there was no colour in him anywhere now, for even his eyes were the colour of the ocean with grey dull skies above it.

He said, in a rather faraway voice, ‘The creature will be safe for a time. But it must be taken — to the place we agreed — at once.’

‘You will do that?’ said Cerball.

‘I will do that,’ said Maelduin, and looked at Cerball in surprise, as if he might be saying: but that was the promise. That was what we agreed.

‘We shall make horses ready for you,’ said Cerball. ‘And provisions for the journey.’

‘Thank you.’ Maelduin had not moved, but as he stood framed in the window, the dying light of the day behind him, the candleglow touching his hair, he was suddenly and sharply remote from them. Cerball found himself remembering that this was the Crown Prince of Tiarna, the heir to the sidh kingdom, and that he came from the same world and perhaps even the same ancient roots as Coelacanth.

And he will have with him Coelacanth’s spawn …

I suppose we are right, thought Cerball, staring at Maelduin. I suppose it is all right to let these two creatures come together.

But he could see no other way; and when Maelduin reached for the silver cage, he was conscious of a flood of thankfulness.

The cage was lighter than Maelduin had expected; he lifted it cautiously at first, and then with assurance. He crossed the room, and then paused and, setting down the cage carefully, he moved back to the bed where Laigne lay, and murmured a string of words in a cool, unfamiliar tongue.

Cerball said, ‘What is …’ and Maelduin looked across the bed at him.

‘The words of an ancient sidh Halcyon,’ he said. ‘They will bring peace and balm to your lady on her journey to the Place Beneath the Ocean Roof.’

And without waiting, he slipped out into the vast corridors of the Palace, the silver cage tightly in his grip.

It was then that the Mugain said, ‘Listen.’

‘What?’

‘I hear something …’

‘It’s only the others in the Looms Chamber,’ said Bodb Decht, uncertainly. ‘We’re directly above the Looms Chambers here, aren’t we.’ And then, suddenly unsure, ‘Or is it only that?’

‘Perhaps travellers have arrived,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach.

Cecht and Bodb Decht had gone to the windows; Cecht was thinking that of course they would see only the normal reassuring arrival of travellers; pilgrims of some kind, perhaps.

But there were no travellers below. They could see the moon-washed courtyard clearly. There were no cries of ‘Welcome, good sirs!’ or shouted instructions to stable their horses, to bring out lights, to please to come along inside for a bite of supper and a firkin of wine. There was none of the jostle and bustle, the rather friendly sounds that always filled the large cobbled courtyard when travellers arrived at the Palace.

There were solid dark shapes lining the courtyard, standing sentinel around its edges. At first they all thought that they were shadows, nothing more. Cerball drew breath to make some reassuring remark, although he did not know what it would have been.

And then, quite suddenly, the shadows were no longer ordinary or harmless; they were creatures, beings; silent, motionless figures standing in the shadows, waiting …

There was the glint of spears and the glitter of javelins, and of black armour …

And eyes, dozens of pairs of sly red eyes …

‘Red eyes,’ said Bodb Decht. ‘Whatever they are, they are not Humanish.’

‘The Rodent Armies?’ whispered Cecht, her eyes huge with fear.

‘I don’t know.’ The Mugain was trying to see down into the courtyard. ‘Bless my boots, I don’t like the look of this.’

‘How did they get in?’ demanded Great-aunt Fuamnach.

‘That is easy,’ said the Mugain rather grimly. ‘Someone has let them in.’

He looked at the others, and Cerball, staring, said, ‘A rebellion.’

‘Yes. Someone inside this Palace has mounted a mutiny. Someone inside this Palace has sent out a Beckoning to the Dark Ireland. And the Dark Ireland has answered. The forces of the necromancers are waiting outside.’

*

Cerball had ordered them down into the central hall at once. ‘All of us!’ he gasped. ‘Find everyone! Don’t miss a single one!’

‘Everyone into the central hall!’ cried the Mugain. ‘That’s the place to put up a fight!’

Great-aunt Fuamnach stumped along gamely in his wake, because if there was going to be a battle, she was not going to miss it. Cecht took her arm, which was kind of the child but not necessary; her legs had not yet failed her.

The Mugain was importantly directing everyone to spread the word as fully as ever possible. No corner of the Palace was to be missed. He had sent everyone scurrying hither and yon, he said, coming up to Cerball, puffing a bit with the exertion of it all. But he thought no one had been missed.

The great central hall was immense; it was a hundred and fifty feet long and eighty feet wide, and it took up almost a whole quarter of the entire ground floor. When the Palace had been built for the long-ago Amaranths who had served the first High Kings and Queens, its architects who designed it, and its builders who raised it, had visualised the central hall as the great heart of the Palace: the nub and the cornerstone. The pity was that the vast gatherings and the great and splendid pageants of those days were no longer practical. Sorcerers these days liked to have their own castles, their own dwellings, no matter how modest. And there was not the money to entertain on such a lavish scale any longer.

The hall was paved with marble and white alabaster; there were doors leading from it, several of them only going down into sculleries and pantries and wine cellars, but four great iron-studded doors with pointed arches leading directly into each of the Palace’s four wings. As the Amaranths came tumbling and running in from all parts of the Palace, Cerball, who was trying to make an overall plan, thought that here they would have four routes of escape. And was at once angry with himself, because they were not going to need an escape route, they were going to beat back these marauders. He spared a thought for Laigne, poor dead soul, for whom they had not yet been able to render any of the proper funerary rites, and for whom he, Cerball, had not even been able to grieve properly. To his credit, he did not even remember that this would be the third set of ceremonies in a row, and that funerary rites were expensive.

‘But there are so few of us!’ cried Bodb Decht, standing in the hall and looking round, dismayed. ‘We cannot possibly fight with only this number!’

‘Does anyone know what we’re fighting?’ demanded Great-aunt Fuamnach.

‘The Mugain thinks they’re Almhuinians,’ said Bodb Decht, and Great-aunt Fuamnach compressed her lips disapprovingly, because it was no more than you would expect to be attacked by Almhuinian gutter-sweepings.

The Amaranths bunched together on the south side of the hall, just beneath the Star Ceiling, directly in line with the great arched entrance that led out to the portcullis and the main Palace gates. Cerball had said, and everyone had agreed, that the Almhuinians, when they came, would surely come this way.

‘We must form a line so that they cannot break through,’ he said. ‘A straight, solid line, right across the hall. That way we should be able to force them back the way they came.’

‘Yes. And we must arm ourselves,’ said the Mugain firmly, because hadn’t one of the Elders to take proper charge of all this, and he was not letting Cerball appropriate all the authority. ‘See now, there’re some swords and cutlasses — somebody brought them from the armoury — oh it was you, Bodb Decht, well, it was very quick thinking. Hand them round, and sharp about it.’

‘We’ll range ourselves here with the west wing at our back,’ said Cerball, who had not been thinking about being authoritative, and was still trying to map out a plan that would meet all contingencies. ‘That way, if we have to retreat, we can do so into the west wing, and we can seal it.’

‘And then what?’ demanded Great-aunt Fuamnach.

‘Well, and then we …’ Cerball stopped and looked worried.

‘I say we fight tooth and nail before we even think of a retreat,’ put in a younger brother of Cecht’s, who had never seen a battle, and who was truth to tell rather relishing being involved in this one. ‘We ought to be thinking about fighting and winning,’ he added, somewhat belligerently.

‘But we aren’t fighters!’ cried Cerball in cross frustration. ‘We aren’t trained in fighting!’ He glanced back at the door to the west wing, as if to reassure himself that it was still there.

‘We can fight them with sorcery!’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, who had planted herself firmly at the forefront of them all, and was already drawing out circles and diagrams on the floor in front of them with her hazel wand. ‘What’s wrong with using sorcery as weapons! It’s been done before, and it can be done again!’

‘Yes, what about the Sorcery Wars with the Tyrians?’ cried Cecht’s brother, who had been named after Calatin, the famous hero of the Amaranth Sorcery Wars, and had consequently read his ancestor’s remarkable Memoirs. ‘Didn’t we win then!’

‘Did we?’

‘Of course we won!’ cried Calatin. ‘And very thoroughly as well. What we did once, we can do again!’

‘That’s the spirit!’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach. ‘My word, I never thought to see you so lily-livered, Cerball! That boy’s right, I always said that branch of the family had guts. Almhuinians! We’ll see how far Almhuinians can get,’ she said fiercely. ‘By the gods, those miserable creatures shan’t prevail against the House of Amaranth! Now then, Cerball! Where’s your fighting spirit!’

A rather ragged cheer went up at this, and everyone began to hurriedly assemble spells and enchantments. There were a great many that could be used against an enemy when you came to think about it. And as Calatin said, these were beatable enemies; they were not the grim, darkness-soaked Fomoire. They might have come out of the Dark Ireland, but so far as anyone knew, they had no actual necromancy of their own. There would be no sorcery to deal with.

‘If we lay a good strong wall of sorcery,’ said the Mugain gleefully, ‘they’ll never be able to penetrate it. That’ll be the thing to do. Now form a line right across the hall, with the west wing to our back — just in case — yes, that’s right. Facing the south entrance, the south entrance, I said. That’s better. Quickly now, or they’ll be upon us!

‘And now for the spells,’ he said. ‘Have we decided what we’re using, does anyone know?’

‘Swamplands at the edges, I thought,’ said Cerball, and several people looked at him approvingly, because wasn’t this a very good idea indeed. They could fairly easily create a belt of Swamplands, strong thirsty Quicksands, across the entire breadth of the hall, so that when the Almhuinians attacked, the leading ones would certainly be trapped by it, and sucked down.

‘Very good,’ said the Mugain, who was not going to allow the control of this very important event slip from his grasp. ‘And then, Cerball, if you and I are here to control the Swamplands, and Bodb Decht and Calatin are stationed there —’

‘With a stock of Lightning Bolts?’ asked Calatin hopefully, because you might as well have a bit of noise and excitement if you were fighting a battle.

‘Yes, that’s a good idea, you can direct them straight into the centre. What else?’

Several of the younger sorcerers who, like Calatin, enjoyed a bit of colour and fizz, suggested that the Twisting Fire Columns were always an effective deterrent, and were at once detailed to the centre. The air began to sizzle and hum, and the Fire Columns began to form, directly behind the belt of Swamplands which Cerball and the Mugain were creating across the length of the hall.

‘And Great-aunt Fuamnach and the rest of the ladies could spin the Web of Mab,’ said Bodb Decht, eyeing the defences critically. ‘Just behind the Fire Columns, so that it will trap any of them who manage to get through.’

‘Yes, we ought to take some prisoners if we can.’

‘We’ll take them all right,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, who did not know what things were coming to when the ancient magical stronghold of Ireland’s Royal Sorcerers could be invaded in such an impudent fashion. She marshalled her ladies at once, telling them to fan out directly behind the Twisting Fire, and not to get singed. ‘You’ll all know the incantation for Mab’s Web,’ she said, glaring at two fifteen-year-old nieces of Rumour, twins, who were looking alarmed. ‘Remember to work together, so that the Web joins up properly. We don’t want any gaps in it,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, stumping down the line. ‘Strong and thick, that’s what we want. My word, we’ll tie the wretches up and fling them into the dungeons!’

‘Anything else?’ asked Cerball. ‘What about a NightMare Spell?’

‘Isn’t that a bit — well, strong?’ said Herself of Mugain, who found the NightMare Spell — which summoned the creatures of your adversary’s nightmares (and sometimes your own) — very nasty. ‘We are only fighting Humans. Well, nearly Humans.’ The Mugain remembered that the Academy was rather severe these days about people using NightMare Spells against Humans, and Cerball, who had forgotten this for the moment, said, ‘Yes, all right. We’ll keep that in reserve.’

‘And for the NightMare Spell to be truly effective, you’d really need the NightCloak,’ put in Bodb Decht, rather wistfully. ‘You can’t really do much in the way of nightmares without the NightCloak.’

‘Yes, and that’s long since lost to us.’

They could hear the scufflings and the scurryings more loudly now, and as they turned from their various tasks, several people caught, quite plainly, the sound of the portcullis being raised.

‘Raised?’ said Cerball, looking across at Bodb Decht. ‘How have they done that?’

‘Does it matter? They’ll be with us at any minute. Stand firm!’

It was then that the Mugain, who, satisfied with the defences they had created, turned to make a quick count of everyone present. It would not do to find later that someone had been left forgotten in a pantry somewhere, or maybe the lone north tower, which people were apt to retreat to in order to harness a bit of star power which could be useful in spinning the odd spell. He strode up and down, seeing that everyone was working well; the Fire Columns were burning strongly, and ready to be sent gusting out at the Almhuinians, and the Web of Mab had formed very nicely indeed. And although he did not know, not to the last person, how many people ought to be there, he knew pretty quickly that there were some people who were not there at all.

He said, in a stricken voice, ‘Cerball. The Black HeartStealers are missing,’ and several of the Amaranths looked round.

‘So they are,’ said a voice, worriedly.

‘And,’ said another voice, ‘the Arca Dubhs.’

Nobody was especially concerned about the Arca Dubhs’ absence, but everyone was very concerned indeed about the Black HeartStealers’.

A sudden silence fell. People began to remember how the Fer Caille and his family had several times been seen brewing up very darkspells, and how a number of the Black Hearts had been spotted more than once going furtively off to the abandoned east wing of the Palace, and the absence of these two leading branches of the family began to assume sinister proportions.

It was Bodb Decht who said, ‘So it is a mutiny. We were right.’

‘Surely not,’ said Cerball, because sometimes if you said a thing strongly enough it became fact. ‘I won’t believe it,’ he added for good measure.

‘I will,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach grimly. ‘I always said no good would come of inviting the Fer Caille and his family, and now we see.’ She glared at Cerball. ‘We’ll be under the rule of the Black HeartStealers before dawn if we aren’t careful, mark my words.’

‘Listen,’ said Cecht, lifting a hand.

‘What is it?’

‘They’re coming.’

They could all hear it now; since the portcullis had risen protestingly and screamingly, they could hear stronger, more definite movements within the Palace confines.

‘Marching,’ said Herself of Mugain, white-faced.

It was the soft, inexorable marching of feet that were nearly but not quite Human; the swishing of arms and hands that were not Rodent, but that possessed a thin trickle of cold, sly, Rodent blood. The feeling of a terrible darkness closing in …

There was a moment when absolute stillness held them in its grip; when the defensive enchantments spun and shimmered and spat; when the intricate Web of Mab, carefully spun by the ladies, glistened and caught the moonlight that silvered the floor, and glinted red from the Fire Columns and the Lightning Bolts.

And then there was another moment when the stillness was shattered, and they heard the marching — suddenly and shockingly close now — and felt the evil darkness approaching the hall.

And then they were there. The sly evil Almhuinians were with them, crowding through the arched entrance, leaping and darting, pointed swords held aloft, daggers and knives and wicked fletched arrows, shiny with poison, ready to fire.

They led the attack. They came storming across the great hall, their black armour gleaming, their eyes sly inside their visors.

Directly behind them were the Black HeartStealers, led by the Fer Caille, his huge shape towering over the rest. He brandished an immense sword, but the Amaranths saw at once that the air all round him was thick with necromancy, and veined with crimson and horrid pulsating strings of viscousness, and knew that the sword was unnecessary. The Fer Caille had called down a great dark cloud of malevolence; those at the front of the Amaranth line could already see the vapour of Simple Evil forming.

Cerball said, very softly to Bodb Decht, ‘He has already gone over to the Other Ireland.’

‘Yes. This is terrible.’ Bodb Decht was staring at the Fer Caille, the Simple Evil as clear to him as it had been to Cerball.

‘Can we beat them?’

‘I don’t know.’

But further along, the younger Amaranths were already piling into the battle, and if they had seen the clouds of Simple Evil already about their opponents’ heads, they paid scant heed.

Calatin directed half a dozen of the Lightning Bolts straight at the centre of the Almhuinians. There was a sizzling sound as the Fire streaked forward, leaving scorch marks on the marble floor as it went, and a cheer went up. Calatin’s little band flung four more Bolts after it, and several of the others were sending out knife-tipped spears of pure white light, which they had brewed as back-ups to the Lightning.

The leading Almhuinians fell, burned and injured, a dreadful acrid stench of hot steel billowing out. They rolled over, clawing at the hasps of their breastplates, shrieking and writhing. Howls of pain were filling the great hall, but the Almhuinians were already recovering, and the uninjured were re-forming and holding their spears and javelins ready.

‘They are coming at us again!’ cried Calatin. ‘Again! Hurry!’

The Almhuinians ran in a solid block straight at the waiting Amaranths, and as they did so, the heaving, turgid Swamplands slopped into life. The six Almhuinians leading the charge fell at once, sinking knee-deep and then waist-deep into the oozing mires. They threw up their hands, their swords clattering harmlessly to the ground, and the Amaranths heard the Swamps begin the horrid, inexorable, sucking, lapping sounds.

The Almhuinians struggled and screamed for help, but the Swamplands were too strong. They heaved with grisly life, and the sucking took on a sudden, dreadful intelligence. The nearest Almhuinian was screaming, terrible trapped-hare screams, as the slopping, semi-liquid mud bubbled over his voice. He threw his head back, and with the one hand that was still free, tried desperately to reach his companions.

‘Help m-e-e-e —’

For answer, the Swamplands lapped over his face, in slabby waves, and there was a choking, mucus-filled scream. The other Almhuinians hesitated, watching their colleague’s struggle, hearing his screams, seeing that the other five were already floundering, shoulder-deep in the glutinous mud.

And then the Fer Caille effortlessly and very nearly contemptuously reached up into the thick cloud of vapour over his head and pulled down a twisting mucus-like string, which he spun and whirled about his head.

The white substance solidified almost immediately, and the Fer Caille, chuckling throatily and evilly, cast it across the surface of the Swamps, and flung out a hand, pointing.

‘See, my friends! We can with ease form a bridge across the puny defences of these charlatans! Across the bridge and slay the weak-kneed creatures who would rule Ireland!’

‘Kill them all!’ cried the Almhuinians, rushing forward, the Black HeartStealers and the Arca Dubhs in their wake. ‘Kill the paltry magicians!’

‘How dare they!’ cried Cerball, his face scarlet with rage. ‘How dare they call us magicians!’

But there was no time to think; the Almhuinians and the traitorous Black HeartStealers poured forward across the white, pulsating bridge, formed from the Fer Caille’s necromancy. As they did so, the Fer Caille himself, together with Iarbonel, hurled more of the thick smothering whiteness straight on to the Fire Columns. There was a furious hissing sound, and spirals of evil-smelling grey smoke rose.

‘As for the Web of Mab you have striven to create,’ cried the Fer Caille, ‘that is easily dealt with!’ As he spoke, three of the Black HeartStealers to his right flung sizzling knives and red-glinting spears at the web, slicing it to shreds instantly.

‘The Porphyry Palace is within our reach!’ cried Iarbonel. ‘Fall on them! Slay them if you must!’

The Almhuinians were already across the defences, and falling on Calatin and his group of friends, recognising that these were the strongest physically, stabbing them with their knives and spears. The air became tainted with the stench of spilled blood, and through the thick acrid smoke that had doused the Fire Columns, Cerball and the Mugain could both see that several of the Amaranths had already fallen. Cerball looked round wildly; Great-aunt Fuamnach was standing her ground, the famous hazel wand brandishing in the air. Light spat forth, and one of the Almhuinians fell, wounded in the shoulder. The hall was a seething cauldron of fire and whirling smoke and darting, hissing knives and swords. Clouds of thick, mucus-like vapour poured down from the ceiling, opening to rain down stringy clots of blood straight on to the Amaranths. Several of the Almhuinians were still struggling in the belt of Swampland, and several more lay shrivelled and dead, burned by the Fire Columns earlier.

Cerball thought: we can beat them if we can call up other spells! But to do that we must be able to concentrate.

Raising his voice above the shouting and the screams and the hissing spitting daggers, he cried, ‘Get back! All of you! Into the west wing!’ And turning, pulled wide the great studded door.

At once a howl of triumph went up from the Black HeartStealers and the Arca Dubhs. The Almhuinians surged forward towards the retreating sorcerers, screeching their glee.

‘Cowards! Defeatists! Craven creatures!’ They bounded across the great blood-spattered, smoke-filled hall, unsheathing their swords, aiming longbows and crossbows, beginning to swing fearsome broadswords and cutlasses.

Cerball, pushing his people frantically to safety through the door, glanced back at them. Calatin and a couple of his friends were covering their retreat, inching backwards to the studded door, facing the on-coming Almhuinians, their own swords striking out. Calatin snatched a spear of light from the air, and hurled it into the midst of the dark Armies, where it splintered and sent dazzling shards of light flying. The Almhuinians hesitated, and Calatin and his friends flung several more. The Fer Caille deflected them this time, and Cerball knew that, although Calatin had bought them a few precious minutes to escape, there was no more time now. They must barricade themselves in the west wing; they must combine their strengths and call up something so awesome and so overpowering that it would sweep these adversaries away once and for all.

He began to push the last few people through, shouting to them to be quick, for they dared not let these creatures follow them. He saw Great-aunt Fuamnach and the twins station themselves in the doorway just inside, hidden from the Almhuinians’ sight, and saw the great purple and silver Seals of the Amaranthine House of Sorcery begin to form. He half pushed the last of his people through, and saw the Seals fly to the door at once, tiny tongues of flame shooting from them as they covered the lock and the frame and the hinges … He watched for a moment, and was satisfied. No crack, no sliver of egress or ingress showed. Not even the tiniest thread of enchantment could slip through from outside, and the Seals were invincible. The only person who could break the Amaranth Seal once it was properly in place was the person who had created it.

As they mounted the stairs, they heard from over their heads the immensely comforting sound of gates closing and bolts being driven home.

The Seals of the ancient Amaranthine House of Sorcery locking into place.

Cerball waited just long enough to draw the ordinary iron and steel bolts across the door, and to turn the key in the lock. He turned to regard the Amaranths, who were standing uncertainly at the foot of the stone stairway. At the head of the stairs was the ancient west wing unused these two centuries past, but as safe a refuge as any they would find anywhere.

In the dim light the sorcerers were pale, and several of them were wounded. Cerball quickly counted them. Twenty-seven, including himself. Then eight? ten? were lying dead outside. He spared a brief thought for them. But there were twenty-seven here. Twenty-seven. The mystical three times nine. Not as bad as it might have been. The number would help to strengthen any enchantments they might weave.

Bodb Decht was unharmed, as was Cecht and Great-aunt Fuamnach. Calatin had a knife-slash across one cheekbone, and the twins were wounded, but only slightly. The Mugains, dusty and dishevelled, were here. Several others. It could have been much worse.

But they were barricaded inside the west wing, and their numbers were severely depleted.

And outside the door were the Almhuinian Armies of the Beastwoman of the Dark Realm, and the traitor Fer Caille and his people.

Chapter Twenty-six

Maelduin stood in the shadowy courtyard and saw and felt the creeping darkness of the Almhuinian Armies.

Advancing on the Amaranths. Exactly as I guessed, he thought.

There was a moment when his resolve wavered; he looked about him and thought: perhaps I should stay here. Perhaps there is something I could do to help. And with the thought came a derisive, silvery voice, somewhere deep inside him.

Help the Humanish … ?

I suppose not, thought Maelduin. And it is not part of my mission to do so. But he found himself remembering how the Amaranths had been friendly and welcoming; how they had invited him in and given him a place at their table and been unfailingly hospitable. Even after Murmur’s death, the vow he had made to free them from the Gristlen’s creature had been courteously discussed, as if there might be another way, and then, when it was apparent that there was not, as courteously accepted. But there had been reluctance in their acceptance. They were concerned for me and I ought to help them.

He was uneasily aware that he was becoming bound to this Humanish world, and to this vast Amaranthine Palace — and I dare not! he thought. I dare not acquire any more Humanish emotions and Humanish thoughts. Already there are too many.

And the thicker the carapace, the harder it will be to return …

The harder to return. Yes. That was a better way to think. Of course he would return, of course he would re-enter Tiarna and restore his people. Already there was the Cadence, harnessed lightly to his mind. Even if the music was beyond his reach, somewhere in the vast storehouse of magical knowledge, there would be a spell, an enchantment, a bewitchment that would free the sidh and allow them to live again.

He slipped unseen through a tiny side door, ivy-covered and set deep into the thick walls of the Palace. Cerball had talked of a horse, provisions for the journey, but Cerball and all of them would be caught up with the dark adversaries that had slunk in. Maelduin thought he could find the stables for himself from here. He glanced down at the creature in the cage, and saw that it was somnolent, curled into a dark mass in one corner. Maelduin hesitated. Could he simply kill it now? Could he plunge a knife into its black heart?

With the framing of the thought, the thing uncoiled at once, and a clawed hand came snaking through the bars, raking at Maelduin’s hand. Blood poured out, spattering the cage, and the creature grinned and leaned close to the bars. Blood touched its jowls, and it licked, savouring, grinning. Maelduin, his arm stinging with white-hot pain, stared down at the caged being.

His senses were swimming, and he put out a hand to the wall for support. So this was Humanish pain, this was wounding, bleeding, hurting. He mopped the blood as best he could, using the cambric shirt he had donned in Tiarna, seeing it become wet and stained.

‘I would put an arrow through your heart if I could,’ said Maelduin, very softly, and the sly flat eyes regarded him, red amusement within them.

You know me for a near-immortal, sidh Prince …

Maelduin said, ‘We shall see,’ and moved towards the stables. For the moment the creature was imprisoned; the cool, elvish spell of the Sea Ritual held it. For the moment, he was safe.

But it is growing stronger with every hour … It is feeding on the darkness from the Almhuinian armies, and it is gaining sustenance from the battle that must be imminent …

And if there should be bloodshed, it will feed from that, also …

The stables were directly ahead of him, and although he had never entered them, he knew that within them were the great strong beasts the Humanish used for travelling.

He entered cautiously, unused to such a place, and felt the scents of horse and leather and straw close about him, with unexpectedly comforting warmth. He placed the silver cage carefully on the ground, and stood eyeing the creatures in the stalls. Could he take one? Could he control one?

I have to try, he thought. For on foot I should be vulnerable and prey to anything that cared to attack me. I should be at the mercy of every prowling danger. I have to try to use one of these beasts as the Humanish use them.

He moved forward.

*

In the end it was easier than he thought. He had no knowledge of the methods of saddling and bridling, although at home in Tiarna he had sometimes harnessed and ridden the Uisce, the silken-skinned, floss-maned sea-horses that occasionally romped and danced on Tiarna’s shores. He had used the thin silken cords that were spun in the caves of Seiricia by strange, little-known beings who lived in a twilight world, but whose silk and spiderweb gauze and wafer-thin lace was sought by eager pilgrims.

The sidh had traded for the Seirician’s exquisite and costly spinnings; using them to embellish the Silver Cavern of Aillen mac Midha, or for the garments and robes that must needs be donned along with the Humanish spell.

And now, Maelduin, used only to the pale flosslike threads and the smooth silken skeins, must somehow handle thick leather straps for his mount, and cumbersome steel trappings.

He thought he managed it well. To begin with the horses shied from him, their eyes rolling back so that the whites showed. Maelduin murmured the Halcyon he had used earlier, and then thought: but perhaps it is the blood they scent. He glanced down at his torn arm, and saw that it was drying over, but that blood still soaked his shirt.

He rinsed his arm carefully, using a bucket of water left in the adjoining room. There were Humanish clothes here as well; shirts and breeches and leather jerkins. Maelduin took one of the shirts and donned it and slid into a pair of soft warm boots. There was a thick woollen cloak which could be slung about his shoulders.

In a room adjoining the stables (tack room, did they call it?), he found harnesses and saddles. The horses were quiet now, regarding him with interest, and he managed to lead the nearest one out, and fasten a saddle and bridle to it. The buckles and the straps gave him a little trouble — although it is only a question of plain sense, he thought — but in the end, he did it.

There were saddlebags with panniers, clearly intended for transporting food and provisions. Very good, he had no provisions that he could take, but he had his prisoner. He led out a second horse, and found it easier, this time, to fasten on the pannier. Then he fastened the cage firmly to the pannier, and pulled a square of blanket over it. If he must ride the dark sinister road to the Grail Castle, then he must. But I should infinitely prefer to do so without the Fisher Prince’s baleful stare on me, he thought.

*

It was generally believed in Ireland that the road to Grail Castle, the fearsome, myth-shrouded stronghold of legend, was almost impossible to find.

Tales were told about it the length and breadth of the land, for wasn’t there something altogether fine about a dark fortress that everyone had heard of, but that no one had ever seen? It was a well-known fact that no one who ever attempted to journey along the dark, eerie road to the Grail Castle ever returned. People went boldly off on quests and adventures, but none of them came back to tell the tale.

If you were really clever (or especially imaginative), you could weave a few extra strands of your own on to the existing tales. It was not telling an untruth to do that, it was only making the tale a little bit better. And although nobody ever came out and said so, making a tale — any tale — a little bit better was meat and drink to the Irish.

But the legends that clung to the Grail Castle needed little embellishment. There were the solemn and severe tales of the many prisoners who had been cast into its grim fastness, and who had sat out the dreary years of exile in its vast dark halls. Maelduin, who knew the stories as well as he knew the silver and green tunnels of Tiarna, knew that he was riding towards a place of great and ancient magic. The Grail Castle had been old when Ireland was young; it had been raised when Tara was still only barren rock, and it kept its secrets. Some people believed that it was Tara’s dark underside, just as the Black Realm was Ireland’s dark underside.

Maelduin’s father had visited it once, many centuries earlier; he had said little about it, other than that it had been a place of shadows and strange, lingering echoes, but the story of what happened to him there had never been told. Maelduin caught himself thinking that this was surely odd in itself, for the sidh loved to foregather in the Silver Cavern on feasts and at festivals, and tell stories, sometimes scooping up sparkling handfuls of music from the crystal pools and setting it to the tales there and then. There were many stories of many journeys in the land of the Humanish, but there was not a one of the Elven King’s sojourn in the Grail Castle.

I do not even know if I can find it, thought Maelduin. The ancient belief was that you must ride directly into the setting sun, but other sources said you rode away from it. Many tales said it could only be found in the depths of the night, when the ancient lost enchantments of Ireland stirred, and when prowling evils walked abroad.

Maelduin, riding warily along, keeping the Porphyry Palace behind him, delved far down into memory, and the words of his father were strongly in his mind.

‘The Grail Castle is the Humanish place of suffering. It is used for exiles and outcasts and failed spells … There are many strange things to be found there, and many strange Guardians on its road to challenge and trap the unwary …

‘And the road that leads Men to it is the darkest and the most desolate place in all Ireland …’

The darkest and the most desolate place in all Ireland …

A rather grim smile touched Maelduin’s lips, for he knew precisely where his father meant. The Ireland of the Humanish was a remarkable place; a place of fields and villages, and remote settlements where traces of almost extinct races still lived: a place where there were ancient forests, with blue and purple shadows stealing through the trees at twilight, and soft prowling enchantments … And soaring mountains, veined with tiny trickling streams, and studded here and there with the fortresses of Ireland’s warrior lords and chieftains … And marvellous awe-inspiring coastlines, where the ocean lashed against the rocks, and where there was nothing to be seen for miles other than glinting, rippling sea, and shining, endless sky …

The coastline where the ocean lashed against the rocks …

Ireland’s dazzlingly beautiful western rim, where once the Twelve Tribes of Gaillimh had ruled, and where Maelduin had frequently darted and swooped joyously, skimming the surface of the water, sparkling and iridescent in the sun’s reflection on the sea.

And where there were lonely forbidding crags and cliffs that were said to be the haunt of strange, evil creatures and where, according to an ancient belief, there had once been a Gateway into the Dark Realm.

The loneliest place in all Ireland.

The Cliffs of Moher.

*

The day was dying, and the sun was sinking into the ocean on Ireland’s desolate, beautiful western coast, as Maelduin neared his journey’s end.

He had stopped to rest several times, unsure of how far or for how long the horses could travel. They had passed through several clusters of houses, through sparsely populated villages and along narrow forest paths, where the ancient trees fringed the road. Lovely! thought Maelduin, drinking in the sights and the scents and the sounds of this Humanish world. He thought that the vivid greens of the forest and the fields, and the deep rich blues of the small streams and lakes were no longer so garish. Ireland is mellower out here, he thought; far more beautiful than ever I realised. And then, in sudden fear, he thought: or is it that my vision is becoming more Humanish?

He pushed the thought from him at once, and rode on, noting the road, guiding the horses due west all the time.

When the noonday sun was high above, he stopped at a farmhouse, and asked if he might beg a crust of bread and perhaps a drink. The farmer’s wife brought him a meat-filled pasty, together with a pitcher of creamy, still-warm milk, and a dish of pears, sweet and wine-scented.

‘You are generous,’ said Maelduin, and at once heard the thought that formed in her mind: and could be even more generous to one such as yourself …

He considered her briefly, but he knew he dared not turn aside from his quest. And he had not forgotten the ill-fated Murmur, he had not forgotten the sudden cold desolation, the feeling of a life draining away. I should not like to experience that feeling again, he thought. I should not like to cause another death. And I must do nothing that would draw attention to me.

He ate the pasty and drank the milk, and bade the lady farewell, and did not notice that his first emotion had been to avoid sadness and death; and that it was only afterwards that he had thought of the danger to himself.

The sun was setting into the sea as he finally approached the great sea-washed, sun-drenched edge of Ireland’s west coast. As he turned his mount’s head towards the blazing light, he saw for the first time the great, towering shapes of the Moher Cliffs, silhouetted sharply and blackly against the horizon. The narrow roadway sloped sharply upwards, so that he must approach them from below. Fiery light from the dying sun poured in between the great rocks, laying fingers of brilliance across the road. The horses’ manes were turned to molten gold in the blaze, and Maelduin felt as if he was riding into the centre of an immense fire. He thought that he was surely going in the right direction — ride directly into the setting sun — and he felt confidence well up inside him.

I am riding into the setting sun, I am following the oldest, most enduring story ever told about the Grail Castle. I am surely on the right road. I shall cage this monster, and then I shall return to my people.

Ahead of him, the skies were washed in the fiery sunset, so that it was as if the entire western edge of Ireland was burning. He reined in his horse, and sat motionless for a moment, seeing the great swathes of flame and pink and crimson pouring across the skies, turning the ocean to a river of dazzling brilliance. Beautiful and awe-inspiring. And how often had he flown recklessly through that fire-drenched ocean, chasing the shrieking seagulls, leading the other sidh, all of them gleefully hunting the Humanish.

And now the Humanish are my friends, and I am seeing the dying sun from the ground, and I am chained and manacled in Humanish skin and bones and flesh.

He touched the horse’s flanks lightly to move it onwards again, for the sun was slipping down into the ocean, and night would soon be creeping over the great stark Cliffs.

The road continued to climb, and as the two horses climbed with it, Maelduin heard the ocean roaring and tasted the sharp clean scent of the pounding waves. At the summit of the incline, straight ahead of him, were the great Moher Cliffs, standing sentinel to Ireland’s western edge. He could not see beyond them, but at any minute, he thought, I will reach the crest of the hill, and I will stand on the summit of the Cliffs, and I shall look out over the endless ocean.

And somewhere there will be the Grail Castle.

He looked back yet again to be sure that the other horse was still with him. Yes. It followed faithfully and steadily, the silver cage securely strapped to its pannier. Maelduin turned back to the road, thinking that he had come this far without incident, thinking that after all it had not been so very hard a task!

The great crags seemed to be leaning forward towards him now, and he saw that, at their exact centre, standing directly in his path, were two vast columns, great black pillars, either natural or Man-made, he did not know which, starkly outlined against the glow of the setting sun.

The disused Gateway to the Dark Realm.

The pillars tapered towards their summit, and at the tip of each of them was an eyelet, a round fissure, through which the dying light streamed, giving the pillars an eerie appearance of sight. I could easily believe that those are single eyes, and that they are watching me, thought Maelduin. I could very easily imagine that they are giants, cyclopic ogres, twin colossi standing guard to the dark inner world of that Other Ireland …

He gave himself a shake, and looked back at the columns of stone. Nothing but hard, dark rock, immense stone pillars with some kind of freak formation at the tip. But he felt, as if it were a physical coldness, the shadows of the pillars fall across his path; and he felt as well the trickling, seeping, draining feeling of evil quite close by. An icy wind stirred the air, and blew dank, sour breath in his face, as if an ancient tomb had been unsealed. In the cage behind him, he heard the Fisher Prince uncoil, and he heard the scrape of its claws against the silver bars of its cage. So it also sensed and smelt the ancient evil, did it? Maelduin shivered and drew the woollen cloak more tightly about him. I am on the edges of the necromancers’ Realm, I am approaching a Gateway to the Black Domain, and the sun is sinking, and night is falling all about me …

And only in the darkest depths of the night can the Grail Castle on its lonely, desolate road, be found …

He rode on, occasionally glancing back to where the second horse followed faithfully, and as he rode, he felt the night begin to wake.

The depths of the night, when the ancient lost enchantments of Ireland stir, and when prowling evils walk abroad …

He could feel the old enchantments all about him as he guided his horse on to the narrow path that led to the Cliffs, but they were no longer the soft woodland enchantments that lived in Ireland’s heart and that stirred the depths of the ancient forests or walked abroad in the magical Purple Hour of twilight.

These were the dark, warped creatures of necromancy; the twisted, grotesque beings that patrolled the boundaries and that were sometimes glimpsed in the deepest thickets of the night. I can feel them and I can scent them, thought Maelduin, his every nerve stretched to its furthest point. There was a thickening in the air, the fleeting vision of something — several somethings? — darting ahead; not quite on all fours, but not quite walking upright either. There was the beating of wings overhead several times, the soft, insidious sounds of slithering boneless creatures, or claw-footed beasts with slavering jaws and hungry muzzles …

The Dark Ireland waking and walking close by … Yes, I believe that I am very close to one of the Gateways now.

He was not afraid. He was curious and fascinated; in his mind he touched the glistening, silver-tipped Cadence and felt himself protected. He feared no creature; for, he thought, I believe that nothing in this Humanish world could kill me.

As he drew nearer, the great black columns were framed against the sky, and he saw that, just in front of them, a thin reddish vapour rose into the air, tainting it, as if blood were oozing from a wound, or as if someone — several someones — were sitting round a fire. His mind at once conjured up an image of a group of people talking quietly, perhaps cooking a meal over the fire, the shadows gathering beyond the leaping warmth, but the circle of light safe and bright and friendly. Perhaps they would invite him to share their fire and their supper. And then he thought: but what kind of people would make camp out here in the lee of the Moher Cliffs, on the very threshold of the Dark Ireland … ?

As he neared the light, he saw that it lay over the road and the foot of the great black stone pillars, and that it seemed almost to be a dull phosphorescence, a faintly luminous glow that was escaping from the crags and the boulders and the sudden jagged quarries out here. Not a fire after all. Or is it? thought Maelduin. It had the feeling of fire; there was a dry, rather evil-smelling heat to it.

He reined in his horse and remained motionless, trying to identify the light, feeling the harsh dry heat quite strongly now, thinking that perhaps the phosphorescence might be coming from the earth’s core; a cavern or a chasm of some kind.

Behind him on the second horse, the monster-creature was peering through the silver cage, his clawed hands curled about the bars, his flat, evil eyes fixed unblinkingly on the glow. Maelduin felt something inside him spark a warning, for if the monster-creature was attracted by the lights, then they must have a sinister meaning.

A quarry. Some kind of natural crater. An abyss. Or a chasm.

Or a pit.

As they rounded a curve in the road, Maelduin saw directly ahead of him, yawning redly and evilly in the light of the dying sun, the great smooth-sided abyss, with thick, fetid smoke rising slowly from its depths.

The Tanning Pit of the Dark Lords.

*

He recognised it at once, for the tales told about it were many and vivid. The great Chasm, the Pit, where servants of the Dark Lords who displeased or injured them were summarily flung to bake slowly in the hard, dry heat. The terrible gaping abyss where the unfortunate wretches who incurred the necromancers’ wrath and transgressed their laws were chained and manacled to the hard rock. Where they were left to dry and wither, to tan and harden until their outer coverings became thick and horny and scaly; covered with the crusted carapace that branded them for what they were.

Gristlens … Many of them once perhaps necromancers of some power and some standing in the Black Ireland. Disgraced, outlawed Dark Lords. And this is their place of punishment.

Maelduin dismounted and tethered both horses to a jutting piece of rock. The silver cage he covered with the blanket, so that the creature should not see what lay ahead. He felt the waves of hatred emanate outwards from it as he did so, and he felt, as well, angry red fire spit from its eyes; and although he paid this no heed, he thought: it senses what is ahead and it wants to see.

He moved forward warily, feeling even at this distance the harsh heat belching out, brushing his skin and making his eyes dry and gritty.

And the prisoners condemned to be chained to the Pit’s bottom must dwell there for decades, perhaps centuries even. Maelduin thought: what did they do to deserve such a sentence? In the evil world where they dwelled, what was their offence that they must be cast into this place, and left to flay and shrivel and acquire the repulsive appearance of Gristlens?

He walked forward, padding soft-footed, silent as a shadow, a slender, colourless figure blending with the moonlight; only his eyes a vivid, glowing colour. The light from the Pit fell about him, clothing him in golden fire and, as he drew closer, he saw that around the Pit’s edges were flambeaux, huge flaring torches that were thrust into the ground at regular intervals. The flames leapt and danced, sending out eerie, flickering shadows, so that for a moment he could believe that strange, distorted beings cavorted and pranced in silent and unholy glee around the Pit’s rim.

But as he drew closer, he saw that it was only the leaping flames; that nothing moved in the shadows beyond the flambeaux. He stood still, his mind working furiously, studying the torches. They glistened with nearly colourless grease of some kind; there was a sickening meaty scent to them which made his stomach lift with revulsion. He thought: Humanish flesh! I can smell that it is Humanish flesh! And knew the torches to be fuelled by the remains of Humanish bodies, torn into pieces, impaled on stakes and lit so that the wretches in the Pit might see their grisly surroundings.

The smoke stung his eyes, and for a moment his sight blurred and wavered. He blinked hard, unused to such a feeling, and brushed a hand across his eyes. At once tears ran down his face, stinging slightly; unfamiliar, but unexpectedly cleansing. He moved forward, making out details more clearly now.

The edges of the Pit were blackened and scorched; here and there they were charred, and cracked from the endless dry heat from below. Maelduin moved as delicately and as fastidiously as a cat, testing every inch of the ground before putting his weight down, aware that at any minute the ground might crumble and fall away, sending him plummeting helplessly into the abyss.

The stench was stronger here. He looked up at the glowing torches, and saw that he had been right. Humanish torsos; stumps of Humanish limbs. Dreadful, bloodied fragments of bodies, some more complete than others, impaled on the stakes. Several had the heads still attached, so that the necks lolled and the dead, sightless eyes rolled. Maelduin, remembering the physical content of the Humanish, thought: the eyes will be cooking. Poaching. And tried not to think that it was entirely possible that the victims had not been completely dead when they were impaled. How would it feel to be caught and forced down on to sharp stakes, to feel your skin split and your bowels tear, and to know that you were to be burned alive; that you were nothing but faggots for the fire; that your flesh was about to be lit to provide eerie light for the prisoners of the Pit?

Without warning, a tiny voice on the edge of his mind said: Lit? And who lit them? And then — not who, what?

Fear uncoiled deep at the base of his stomach: a cold, curdling fear that sent out icy tendrils despite the belching heat. The spikes were quite tall, they were at least six feet high. Six feet high … To reach up and impale the grisly kindling on to them would only be possible for something that was seven or eight feet tall.

What, in the normal Humanish world, was eight feet tall?

There was movement on the edge of his vision, a rather horrid lumbering movement, as if something — several somethings — might be creeping towards him. There was the pale blur of something, neither quite skin nor fur, and the glimpse of a twisted, stunted body. Maelduin narrowed his eyes, but the shape eluded him. He thought: Giants! Or perhaps half-Giants! Yes, the size was about right. Eight or nine feet tall. But Giants did not move in quite such creeping, stealthy fashion. They were huge and brutish, but they were not very clever. They were certainly not stealthy or creeping. What, then?

Maelduin glanced uneasily behind him. The horses were tethered to the rock, the one still bearing its firmly tied burden. He thought: I could be on their backs and away into the darkness. Safe.

But ahead of him was the Grail Castle, and he was bound by his word as Crown Prince of Tiarna to take the Fisher Prince to it and imprison him there.

Even, said the scoffing, silvery voice within him, even if it means crossing the Tanning Pit of the Dark Lords? Even if it means braving whatever creatures lurk out there in the shadows?

Even then.

Deep in his mind, he touched the silver-tipped Cadence, and felt it respond, as if he had twitched lightly on a thin, shining thread. Every enchantment ever spun or written or imagined …

He walked to the edge of the vast, sinister abyss, the greasy, meaty scent of the burning flesh almost overpowering him, but moving until he was midway between two of the torches, looking into the shadows beyond the firelight, searching the darkness for whatever moved there.

The shadows stirred, and six lumbering creatures, with blood-smeared maws, huge, leather-pad hands, and with great, heavy faces with thick jowls, moved out of the shadows.

Flesh-eating Trolls.

Chapter Twenty-seven

The Trolls surrounded Maelduin at once, standing in a circle looking down at him. There were six of them, and they all had the large, lopsided, slightly lumpish faces of their kind, rather as if their faces had been poured into a mould, but had slipped, or as if a giant hand had been wiped over the surface of their features, smearing the wet clay before it had properly hardened.

Their skins were thick-looking and pallid, but their jowls were bulbous and darker than the rest of their faces, as if the blood of the victims they ate had collected there, and coagulated in a heavy, dark pool. Their skin was rather coarse, and in places it thickened into matted, bristly fur. Their hands were enormous paws, covered with greasy-looking fur, the palms hard and leathery, the claws crusted with dirt.

All the better to tear my flesh with …

Maelduin reached for the Cadence in his mind again, and felt it near him, cool and silvery and obedient. Yes. All right. I can defeat these creatures if I am watchful and if I do not allow them to read my thoughts. I can defeat them if I do not permit fear to enter my mind or my heart. Fear would cloud his concentration, and send the Cadence out of his reach. And fear was a Humanish emotion.

The Trolls were grinning down at him, showing tiny, stump-like teeth. Their feet were bare, the soles horny and leathery, with thick, rather dirty claw-tipped toes, and they were dressed alike in leather breeches with square aprons with deep pockets, from which protruded the handles of hammers and chisels and knives. Labourers, thought Maelduin. Manual workers. They are the labourers of the Dark Lords. The artisans. Probably not very intelligent, and certainly brutish and coarse-natured.

‘Here’s a tasty morsel,’ said one, eyeing Maelduin and smacking its thick, blubbery lips with relish.

‘Wouldn’t make three bites,’ said the second, contemptuously. ‘Throw it on to a spike, I says. Let it burn over the Pit.’

‘Fillet it for its rib-bones,’ said a third. ‘I likes a nice juicy rib-bone to gnaw.’

‘Suck its marrow and then fling it into the Pit to let the Gristlens play with it.’

‘That’s a waste of good ManFlesh.’

They had rough, coarse voices, as if their lungs were filled with gravel, and as if they might have rather revolting coughing fits when they first awoke from slumber. Maelduin, who found them brutish and repulsive, but who knew himself outpowered physically, eyed them calmly, and said in a cool, silvery voice, ‘Good sirs, may I not express a preference for the method of my own death?’ and the Trolls looked at him in surprise as if he had interrupted a serious and important discussion, and ought to have known better.

‘We don’t let Humans choose their death,’ said the one who had spoken first.

‘We lets them roast slowly,’ said the second, moving to stand over Maelduin, so that Maelduin could smell the onion-tainted breath and the stale body juices.

‘Or we minces ’em.’ The third licked his greasy lips and reached out to pinch Maelduin’s arm with his great paw. ‘This one’d mince well,’ he said. ‘I likes minced Human.’

‘Rib-bones,’ put in the fourth. ‘Fillet it, I says, and suck its rib-bones, and then let the Gristlen have it.’

‘And what about the fire?’ The first pointed with a hairy, muscular arm to the stakes at the edges of the Pit. ‘We’re bound to keep the fire going all through the night.’

‘And through the day.’

A sudden silence fell, and Maelduin, watching through half-closed eyes, saw that the mention of day had disconcerted them. He searched his mind. Was there an escape here? Were Trolls somehow threatened by daylight?

But then the first, who appeared to be some kind of leader, said, ‘At any rate, we’ll bring it to the cave, chaps. And then we’ll see whether it’s worth filleting. It’s a long job, filleting a Human, and it’s not one as you’d want to undertake lightly.’ ‘We’ll light the fire and we’ll take a look,’ said another, nodding; and he reached out to the nearest of the stakes that lit the Tanning Pit, plucking a burning gobbet of flesh. ‘Bring it up then, chaps. It’ll squirm and be off into the night if we don’t watch it. They’re cunning, Humans. I knows all about Humans.’ The Troll leered rather horribly at Maelduin, and tapped the side of its lumpish nose in a knowledgeable gesture.

‘Bring a bit of meat from the stakes while we’re about it,’ said the leader. ‘Just a bit, mind.’ He turned to watch as two of them reached up to the partly charred bodies. ‘Be sure there’s enough left to burn through tomorrow’s daylight.’

‘Leg bones here,’ said one, producing one of the sharp knives.

‘And good meaty flesh over here,’ said the other. ‘We’ll have us a bit of supper out of this.’

‘Leave enough for tomorrow’s light,’ said the leader again, and the Trolls glared at him.

‘We knows there’s got to be enough to burn,’ said the nearest. ‘We knows as there’s got to be enough to burn all night and all day,’ it added, and Maelduin, listening with every fibre of his being, thought: then they are unable to replenish the torches during daylight.

The Trolls lumbered back carrying their grisly feast carefully, distributing gobbets of partly cooked meat, the hot fat running down over their hands and darkening the thick, matted fur.

‘Plenty for all,’ said one, grinning. ‘And maybe more to come when this one’s cooked.’ He eyed Maelduin greedily.

For the moment Maelduin could see no escape. The Cadence was within his grasp, but to study it, to search it, to find a spell that would help him, he would have to concentrate. He could not do so here, like this. For the moment he must let the Trolls take him, and hope to outwit them by some ordinary Humanish means. But as they half dragged, half carried him around the edges of the fearsome Pit, their horrid, greasy-fur, stale-food stench in his nostrils, he felt fear uncoil again, and knew himself in the grip of the one Humanish emotion he had thought he could avoid. Fear: one of the destructive ones …

The Trolls were carrying him to their cave. As they moved, they held aloft the burning torch of flesh they had taken from the stake. The light fell eerily across the ground, red and flickering, casting huge, lumbering Troll-shadows.

The cave was set part-way into one of the rearing black columns. Maelduin looked up and saw that the red glow of the setting sun was no longer filtering through the single eyelet near the top of the column. Night, black and thick with malevolence, closed about the desolate Moher Cliffs, and the ocean lashed against the rocks far below.

The Trolls threw their prisoner on to the ground at the back of the cave. Maelduin lay motionless, letting the Trolls believe him to be subdued. But he studied the cave through half-closed eyes, seeing that it had a hard earth floor scattered with bones — some brittle and sapless, as if they might have been sucked dry — and coarse hanks of hair. There was a tiny pile of glinting gold coins, spilling out of a drawstring canvas bag in one corner, and in another he glimpsed a cache of silver chalices and goblets. So they were venal, these great, misshapen beings, were they? Could he in some way bargain with them for his freedom?

The Trolls had set light to a bundle of kindling lying ready in the cave’s mouth. They cast the grisly torch from the Pit’s edge into the centre, and at once flames, scarlet and yellow, burned up, crackling and spitting. A greasy stench rose on the air, and Maelduin thought: Humanish fat! They will have no compunction about roasting me, or impaling me to add light to the Tanning Pit. What did they say earlier? Something about keeping it properly lit. Are they in some kind of bondage to the Dark Realm to do so, I wonder? And surely I did not imagine their fear of daylight. He glanced up at the sky, and saw that the moon had risen, and that dark clouds scudded across the sky behind it. The night had only just begun. He turned his attention back to the Trolls, who had seated themselves round the fire at the cave’s mouth, avidly devouring the hunks of half-charred Human flesh brought from the Pit, tearing gobbets of flesh with their claws and gnawing at the bones.

‘Over-cooked,’ said the leader, grease dribbling down over his chin. ‘You don’t want to over-cook ManFlesh. It gives you wind.’

‘I likes it over-cooked,’ said another, sucking the end of a protruding thigh bone from his portion.

‘Dries the juices,’ said a third. ‘Where’s the swipes? Nothing like a mug of swipes to wash down over-cooked ManFlesh.’

‘I can’t abide it over-cooked,’ said the leader, reaching out a great paw and lifting a massive wineskin. He drank deeply, wiping his lips on the back of his hand, and then belched loudly, his mouth open, so that the warm, half-digested stench of cooked meat gusted nauseatingly into Maelduin’s face.

The Trolls finished their supper, and flung the gnawed bones and pieces of gristle into the fire’s depths. The leader stirred the fire, and the others leaned forward, wiping their paws on the front of their leather aprons, and then resting their great heavy chins moodily on their hands.

‘Now,’ said the leader with the air of one preparing to make a decision, ‘what’ll us do with it?’

Maelduin was half in and half out of the flickering firelight. The Trolls were suddenly not quite so stupid-looking: their meaty faces held a sly intelligence, and there was a glinting cunning in the little eyes.

‘I says mince it,’ repeated the Troll who liked minced Human. ‘It’ll go much farther. There’ll be a taste for everyone.’

‘If we adds a bit of the roast meat from the torches at the Pit, it’d go even further,’ agreed another. ‘There was plenty left. If we takes a morsel from each of them it wouldn’t harm the light.’

‘But the light’s a bit dim,’ said the one next to him. ‘And we’re here to keep it burning.’

‘We ought to use this one for light,’ said the leader uneasily, looking across at the torches around the Pit. ‘They’re burning very low, those Humans. Flimsy things they were. That light’ll never last through tomorrow’s daylight.’ He picked his teeth with one claw, glowering.

‘Let’s take this one to the Pit and see what light it’d give,’ suggested another. ‘Then if we decides to eat it, we can say as we considered using it as light. We can say as we thought about it, but it didn’t burn.’ He grinned knowingly at the others. ‘That’d sound loyal,’ he said. ‘It’d be in keeping with the bargain. ‘

This was thought a good idea. The Trolls nodded to one another, pleased, and two of them lumbered over to where Maelduin lay.

‘Off to the fire with it,’ they said. ‘See if it’ll light the Pit and the Gristlens, and if it won’t, why, then we’ll have it for ourselves.’ They stood looking down at Maelduin, their paws resting on their hips, grinning.

‘I says we ought to have it for ourselves anyway. It was us as caught it, wasn’t it?’

‘It was that. But the light’s got to burn without ever going out. That’s his orders — Chaos’s.’

Maelduin had become very still. As the Trolls bent over, he felt the nauseating, grease-tainted stench of them close about him, and saw the blood-heavy faces loom closer. Two of them lifted him and carried him out of the cave, towards the torchlit Pit, and Maelduin, his stomach churning from the stench of them, fought to remain calm. Their bristly paws scratched his skin and tore his flesh, and pain — Humanish pain — lacerated him.

But when they set him on the ground and stood before him grinning, he said, very coolly, ‘I see from the possessions in your cave that you are fond of silver and gold.’

The Trolls looked at one another, and then the leader said, suspiciously, ‘What if we are?’

Maelduin said, softly, ‘I could pay you well for my freedom.’

‘O-ho,’ said the Trolls, digging one another in the ribs. ‘O-ho, here’s one as likes to bargain.’

‘We knows about bargains,’ said the leader, cunningly. ‘We made a good bargain with the Lord of Chaos, we did.’ He hooked his meaty thumbs in the bib of his apron and rocked knowingly on his huge feet.

Maelduin seated himself cross-legged on the ground, the livid torchlights of the great Pit behind him, and felt the Cadence swirl silver-gilt on the outskirts of his mind. His mind was working furiously and he was horridly aware that physically he was no match for these creatures. They would overpower him before he could summon the Cadence. Could he keep them talking? How many hours until dawn?

He was barely aware of the Humanish cloak and the cumbersome Humanish bones; for the moment he was all sidh, cold-blooded and merciless and filled with the unearthly allure of his people.

Cool, strong power flooded his mind, and if it was not quite the incisive, sea-sorcerous essence of Tiarna, it was sufficiently akin to it to be of use.

And I must make it of use! he thought angrily.

He fixed the Troll leader with his eyes, and said in a soft, caressing voice, Tell me about the bargain you made with the Lord of Chaos.’

*

The Trolls seemed not averse to telling their story. The leader said, warningly they were not to be fooled; Maelduin was to understand that. There was to be no sneaking away under cover of some kind of story-spinning.

‘But we likes to tell a story,’ he added. ‘We’re good at telling stories.’

‘We’re known for it,’ added another.

‘This ain’t a trap, is it?’ demanded a third suddenly, and Maelduin said at once, ‘I do not try to trap you. But if you will tell me a little of yourselves, in turn I will tell you of my own world.’ He fixed them with his narrow eyes. ‘You do not know what I am?’ he said softly. ‘No, I see you do not. But you must believe that, if you tell the Lord of Chaos how you have caught the Crown Prince of the sidh, he will be extremely pleased with you. Your standing would be vastly increased with him.’

‘A sidh, are you?’ said the Trolls, and rubbed their paws together, pleased. ‘And the Crown Prince. We’d like to hear about that.’

‘We’d like our standing increased.’

‘I will tell you with pleasure,’ said Maelduin. ‘But in return you must first tell me of your world and of how you come to be here. It is the age-old law,’ he said, lowering his voice to a soft, persuasive allure. ‘A story for a story. And I should not wish to offend against that law.’

The Trolls said at once that they knew all about that. ‘We don’t offend against age-old laws,’ said the leader, looking very wise.

‘And we’d like to hear about a sidh,’ put in another, greedily.

‘He’d like to know as well — Chaos.’

‘We’d like to burn a sidh,’ added one, smiling horridly to show its teeth, wet and shiny with greed.

‘But you ain’t to try to escape,’ repeated the leader, thrusting his huge lumpen face close to Maelduin’s. ‘There’s to be no sneaking away into the darkness.’

‘We’d catch you if you did,’ said a second. ‘And we’d make you pay for it.’

‘There’s games can be played with Humans.’

‘I understand,’ said Maelduin, his heart pounding, but still using the silvery, persuasive voice that his father had sometimes used when dealing with Humanish travellers; hearing with sudden joy that deep within it was a faint, sweet echo of the sidh’s music itself. So, after all, something of it lingers. And although it was not the music, there was a thread, a vein of its essence. Not good, but better than nothing.

He sat perfectly still on the ground, cross-legged and straight-backed, his hands resting lightly on the insides of his thighs. The glow from the Pit fell about him like a crimson-tinged mantle, turning his hair to molten gold. His eyes were thin, glittering slits of colour. The Trolls watched him uneasily, but when he said again, Tell me of your Guardianship of the Pit,’ they glanced at one another and then nodded and seated themselves on the ground in a half circle around him. As the leader began to speak, over their heads, the moon rose to its zenith.

Dawn was many hours away.

*

It was important to keep holding on to the tenuous reins of the perilously frail bewitchment that held the Trolls. Maelduin knew that, if his concentration slipped, even for a second, the Trolls would look up and look round and the thin spell would shatter.

But for the moment I have them! he thought exultantly. For the moment they are thinking only of talking to me. He sent a covert glance to the skies. How much time had passed? He thought it must be several hours, although his perceptions of the Humanish methods of measuring time were still uncertain.

As a sidh he would have held the Trolls until dawn with ease. He would have scooped up his people’s music and thrown out twining, blue-green threads to entrap the creatures. He could have surrounded the Trolls with any number of different sorcerous chains, and escaped into the night with supreme ease.

But as a Humanish he must rely almost solely on his wits. His body, the pale-cloaked, ivory-boned, Humanish body, was already feeling the strain. His legs were beginning to ache from sitting absolutely still, and his mind was tiring too. To his left, the Fisher Prince moved uneasily inside the Silver Cage, but Maelduin dared spare it no attention. He heard it make one of its circling movements, and there was a light, scraping sound as it explored the confines of its prison again, before curling back into a corner of the cage.

The Trolls were telling the story of their Guardianship of the Pit, pouring it out, interrupting one another like ill-mannered children, telling the tale clumsily and inarticulately. Maelduin, his mind concentrating on keeping the light fragile threads spun from the music’s echoes, caught a jumble of facts.

It seemed that there had been some kind of encounter with Chaos himself, followed by meetings with Chaos’s henchmen.

‘Because you don’t do these things in the flick of a bat’s wing,’ said the leader, solemnly. ‘Us knew that.’

‘Of course not.’

‘The Guardianship of the Pit,’ said the leader, staring at Maelduin from his small, mean eyes, ‘that’s what we was given. And an honour it was to be chosen,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the slight figure silhouetted against the Pit’s fiery light.

Maelduin did not move but, as the Troll spoke, his eyes flicked to the sky. No thread of light broke the blackness, and a tiny wind ruffled the surface of the ground, stirring the dry, fetid scents of the Pit. I am not sure if I can do this, he thought in sudden panic.

The Troll was explaining how they had talked with Chaos, trying in a clumsy, childlike way to make it sound as if Chaos had sought them out and beseeched them to help him. But the one who liked minced Human was contradicting him loudly.

‘We was captured,’ it said, leaning forward and pushing aside the leader. ‘Captured and given a choice: the Lord of Chaos’s nasty Castle or the guarding of the Pit.’ Its little eyes glowed redly. ‘And we all know what’s done to them as gets imprisoned in the Castle of Infinity!’ it added slyly. ‘Worked on. Bred on to unnatural creatures.’ It slid a hand between its huge, greasy thighs and rubbed itself suggestively with a finger and thumb, grinning. ‘Your juices taken from you and fed to Goblins and Giants,’ it said.

‘Fed while they’re still warm,’ added another.

‘Mixed with snakes and rats and worms,’ said a third, shuddering.

Maelduin was dizzy with the effort of forcing the Trolls to talk, but at these words his mind sharpened. ‘That is what Chaos does?’ he said. ‘Inter-breeding between species?’

‘He don’t call it that,’ said the Troll. ‘He gives it a long name — necromantic race-breeding, or some such. Us don’t bother with it.’ He leaned forward and jabbed a horny finger at Maelduin. ‘But when we was caught by Chaos’s servants — yes we was, Lumpkin, no point in making it sound otherways — when we was caught, we was given a choice. Have your juices taken from you or guard the Pit. And I ain’t letting no necromancers take my juices,’ said the Troll aggrievedly.

‘Unnatural,’ said Lumpkin.

‘Painful, I heard.’

‘I heard they do it with hollow needles until you’re sucked dry.’

‘I heard that as well.’

‘So,’ said Maelduin, keeping his voice deliberately low and caressing, ‘so you chose the Guardianship of the Pit. That was a very good bargain indeed, I think.’

The Trolls looked wise. ‘Trolls don’t make bad bargains,’ said Lumpkin. ‘People thinks Trolls’re stupid, but we knows what we knows.’ It made the familiar gesture of tapping the side of its nose. ‘The guarding of the Pit and the patrolling of the Moher Gate,’ it said. ‘That’s what we was given. There was no Guardian, see, on account of the Black Monk having offending Chaos.’ He shook his head. ‘Reckless, that. Nobody offends Chaos and lives to walk free.’

‘The Black Monk had the guarding of the Pit and the Moher Gateway,’ explained one of the others, eager to add his mite to the story.

‘For years it was —’

‘He thought he could challenge Chaos and win.’ The Troll shook its head sadly.

‘And so we agreed as we’d do it,’ went on Lumpkin. ‘And it’s an important task.’

‘Chaos couldn’t do without us,’ put in another.

‘Even if he didn’t get our juices,’ said the one who had told about Chaos’s necromantic race-breeding.

The Trolls leered. ‘We keeps our juices to ourselves,’ they said, nodding their misshapen heads.

Maelduin stole another glance at the sky. Was there the faintest lightening, over to the east? He was beginning to doubt his ability to keep the Trolls’ attention for much longer; his mind was becoming blurred and his muscles were locking into painful, cramping agony.

But I must! Only a very little longer! They must be kept here until the sun rises!

Help came from an unexpected quarter. Just as he thought he must give in to the waves of sick exhaustion, he felt a ripple of strength, and something cold and bloodless and ancient lay across his mind, bolstering it up, pouring cool sea-sorcery into it. He thought: the Fisher Prince! and glanced at the Silver Cage.

Yes, the Prince was at the front of the cage, hands curled about the bars, the cold, colourless eyes fixed unblinkingly on Maelduin. Maelduin at once understood that the Prince wanted him to escape these creatures: it was possessed of tremendous power, but it was still too young to fend for itself. It needs me! he thought, and derived a surprised strength from the thought.

He fixed the Trolls with his slanting eyes and said, ‘What of the Gristlens? Have you the guarding of them, also?’ and for the first time saw the cobweb-strands of his frail enchantment shiver on the darkness. Still holding! And now I may learn something of Coelacanth, who escaped from the Pit!

‘It’s part of our task, guarding the Gristlens,’ said the Trolls, proudly.

‘They … do not escape?’

‘Oh no,’ said the Trolls, shaking their heads solemnly so that the blood-filled jowls quivered. ‘We never lets them escape.’

But Maelduin saw them steal uneasy glances at one another. He said carefully, ‘And if ever one did escape, there would be nowhere for it to run to? You would catch it at once?’

‘After it and fling it back,’ they agreed, nodding firmly.

‘Unless —’

‘Yes?’

‘Unless it might escape by daylight,’ said Lumpkin. ‘We can’t be responsible for what happens by daylight.’

‘He knows that — Chaos.’

‘It was all part of the bargain.’

‘We can’t be out in daylight, see. Anyone knows Trolls can’t be out in daylight.’

Maelduin felt the sudden unease stir their slow, coarse minds, and knew they had remembered the menace of daylight again. At any minute they would look up at the sky. He spoke swiftly, not giving them time to think. ‘Tell me of the Court of the Dark Lords?’ he said. ‘The pronouncing of the punishment for the banished ones.’

‘Well it’s …’ the Troll leader stopped and frowned. A look of fear crept over his face, and now Maelduin dared to glance up, and saw that across the eastern skies a thin finger of pale grey light was appearing; ephemeral and transient, and so faint that for a moment Maelduin thought he had imagined it.

The Troll said, in a voice thick and gravelly with fear, ‘Getting on for dawn, chaps.’ He pointed to the sky. ‘Time to be back into the cave.’

Maelduin summoned his last shreds of strength. Leaning forward, he said, ‘You must tell me of the punished necromancers who are flung to the Pit,’ and saw terror and indecision in their faces. The leader began to lumber to his feet, and in the slowly breaking dawn, Maelduin could see immense spiders’ webs, like the skeletons of bats or octopuses crawling across the Trolls’ faces. The nearest shuddered and put up a bristly paw, as if to brush off a huge, smothering hand, and the others moved to him.

‘Dawn,’ said Lumpkin, and turned the mean little eyes on Maelduin. ‘And us out in it if we aren’t careful! And that’s responsible!’ He pointed to Maelduin. ‘Get it now, chaps!’

‘Impale it afore it has chance to run!’

‘Afore the light gets to us! Make haste!’

Maelduin no longer thought about whether he could summon power. He no longer thought about being tired and cramped and almost drained. He felt the Fisher Prince pouring cold, piscine strength into his mind, and for a glorious, soaring moment, the Humanish mantle wavered and dimmed, and the sidh was in the ascendant, arrogant and imperious.

And I am the Crown Prince of Tiarna, and I will devour you as I have devoured countless others! There was a moment when he almost thought he could have soared above them, as once he had soared above the Humanish, swooping about their heads and then closing in on them and tearing out their coarse, sluggish souls.

Above their heads, the first rose and gold streaks of dawn flooded the eastern sky, veining it with the pure, pale colours of the new day. As the light fell across the rearing black pillars, the Trolls bellowed and fell back, throwing up their great paws to shield their eyes, and Maelduin thought exultantly: I have done it! Dawnlight!

He sprang to his feet, the cool sea-essence filling him up, reaching joyously for the shining pages of the Cadence, hurling pure shards of scalding light across the ground.

The Trolls were bellowing in agony, rolling over and over, clutching and tearing at their faces. As Maelduin stood watching, torn between exultation and horror, he saw that, as the light fell upon them, it burned them, so that their thick skin bubbled and boiled, forming hundreds upon hundreds of tiny, sizzling blisters. A dreadful stench of singed bristle and hide began to taint the plain.

The Trolls’ tallowy skin was melting and, as they clutched their faces, Maelduin saw that the thick flesh was running between their fingers like candle grease. They screamed and writhed, rolling over and over on the ground. Lumpkin was trying to crawl back into the cave, blinded by his own melting, runny skin, groping his way along the ground, dripping thick, oily flesh as he went. Maelduin shuddered and stepped back, and Lumpkin, sightless and deaf, dragged himself nearer to the cave by some still-alert instinct. Maelduin thought: he is smelling his way back to his lair! and was sickened and appalled.

The Trolls were almost dead. Two of them made a final huge effort, struggling to their feet and lumbering across the ground, their faces dissolving and melting and trickling over their bodies to lie in great, evil-smelling pools on the ground. They flailed wildly at the air, bellowing their torment, cursing and screeching for help.

And then the nearest of them, as if by the same instinct that had driven Lumpkin, turned suddenly and staggered straight at Maelduin, his head lowered as if to charge. Maelduin moved, but the Troll made a sudden sideways lunge, and toppled forward.

Maelduin was knocked from his feet at once. He felt himself rolling across the ground, away from the dying Trolls, spinning and sliding, unable to stop himself.

And then the ground was suddenly uneven and dryly hot, and he knew himself to be on the very brink of the Pit. There was a moment when he clawed at the ground, for he could not fall, he must not fall …

The ground, dry and baked, crumbled and fell away, and Maelduin tumbled helplessly into the Tanning Pit of the necromancers.

Chapter Twenty-eight

The Almhuinians were feeling extremely pleased with themselves. It said a good deal for the people of Almhuin when a proper fighting force, a strong, dark force could be sent out to give aid and lend strength to people as important as the Black Heart Stealers.

They had been pleased to hear that the Royal Amaranth House was to be overthrown. They all remembered that the Black HeartStealers had been the guests of the Lady a few months ago, and that there’d been a certain closeness between the Lady and the Fer Caille at the time. It had not lasted very long, because the Fer Caille, although a worthy enough bed-partner, it was thought, had not fully shared the Lady’s appetites for fresh warm blood, or not as fully as she would have liked.

But they were all hoping that he would succeed, and that the Amaranths would be killed and vanquished. It would be a grand thing altogether if the Royal Sorcery House could be in the hands of strong necromancers.

And it did your heart good to see your sons and nephews and grandsons — and the sons and nephews and grandsons of all your friends — so eager to fight against the Amaranths, and so aroused by the thought of killing and pain. Chaos’s people had said, rather contemptuously, that the blood was running thin; the Rodent strain was disappearing and the Almhuinians were becoming Humanish, but this was a complete untruth. The Almhuinians could kill and maim as viciously as ever, and they could certainly steal into an enemy’s Palace at dead of night, and slit his throat while he slept. Becoming Humanish indeed! said the Almhuinians crossly, and spread a few sly stories about Chaos’s own people by way of revenge.

The young ones would see a good bit of the Other Ireland during the mutiny, and a nasty pallid place they would find it. But it would broaden their outlook, and it would all help to spread the force of the Dark Lords. It was true that the Almhuinians did not want to spread Chaos’s force at the moment, on account of him being on the other side, but you had to take a broader view at such times.

Sending off the young men had been an important event. You could not let your sons and grandsons present themselves to important people like the Black HeartStealers without due preparation. They would go fully armoured and properly prepared, and the village would turn out to send them off.

They had a bit of a procession by way of farewell, only very quietly because of the War, but a procession all the same. They had been sure to march past the Castle, because the Lady had been very interested in their venture. She had sent down a message commending her people for answering the Black HeartStealers’ Summons so promptly. The Almhuinians must do all they could in the way of spying and creeping into the Porphyry Palace by night, she had said. They might consider infiltrating the Palace while the Amaranths slept, and creeping into their bedchambers and slitting their throats. She would expect them to return victorious, and bathed in the warm blood of the accursed Amaranths, she said, a lick of relish in her voice. She had even sent down two spells which they could take with them, and which would help them to vanquish any sentry enchantments the Amaranths might have posted.

With all this going on, it had been several nights before they got properly around to dealing with the two prisoners taken in Diarmuit’s tavern. Presently they would be taken up to the Castle in the tilt cart, but they were safe enough for the moment. They were tightly tied up, although Black Aed and Diarmuit had been careful not to draw blood because the Lady couldn’t bear not to be the first one to draw blood from a prisoner. But they were bound securely; their food was drugged to stop them escaping, and they would not harm for keeping for a day or so. In fact it added to the enjoyment to keep them for a while; it gave everyone a good feeling, a feeling of power and sexual arousal, to think of the two of them lying down there in the dark cellar, knowing the death that awaited them.

Diarmuit visited them and took them a bite of food and pannikins of water: the Lady would not have liked her victims to become dried out, and the Almhuinians would not have liked the Lady’s wrath if such a thing had been allowed to happen. Diarmuit would remind them what was ahead for them each time he took their food and water down, and Black Aed’s wife would have judged the drugging to a nicety. Enough to drain their strength and prevent them from fighting or escaping, not enough to cloud their senses and make them unaware of what was ahead.

Diarmuit and Black Aed believed one of the prisoners, the female, to be an Amaranth sorceress of quite a high degree, which was extremely gratifying. They’d all enjoy seeing her humiliated. Black Aed’s wife was preparing the food very carefully indeed this time, because they were not going to risk any nasty Amaranthine spells being furtively spun. The very thought of pale, pure, Amaranth magic in Almhuin was enough to make most people feel ill. Properly drugged the creature must be, and her companion as well. They’d mistrusted the both of them the minute they’d entered the inn, and although they’d all spotted Rumour for what she was, most people had also been made very uneasy indeed by the strange symbol Andrew wore at his waist. Aed had said, and everyone had agreed, that the horrid thing should be removed and summarily burned at the first opportunity, but the really remarkable thing had been that, when they went tiptoeing into the shed later that night, the prisoners lying drugged and helpless, not a one of them had been able to bring himself to touch the symbol. Clearly it was a focus for power of some immense strength. The Almhuinians wanted nothing to do with it. They tiptoed out again, and told one another that, if the Lady wanted to destroy the nasty thing, she would have to do so herself.

The two would be taken in the traditional procession to the Castle, of course, but it would have to be a rather quiet procession. If they were to go marching up and down the mountainside carrying flaring torches, they would all be an easy target for the Harpies, and they would certainly be sitting ducks for the screeching vultures whom everyone knew, quite positively, to be in Chaos’s pay. The Almhuinians naturally had a few spies inside Chaos’s Castle, but spying was a two-way affair. Chaos would have his own people watching Almhuin, and whatever else you might say about his people, you had to admit that they were efficient.

And so, although they all talked wistfully of the grand days before the War when, not only would there be torches, but the singing of several Dark Chaunts to accompany a prisoner’s last journey, everyone would be sensible. The two prisoners would be taken quietly and unobtrusively to the Castle, under cover of a moonless night, using the small tilt cart. To be sure, it was a sad old day not to be having the usual ceremonies, but doubtless the prisoners would not know any difference. If you were going to your death, it would not matter to you whether you went to it quietly and inconspicuously, or whether you went with the full panoply of Almhuinian ceremony and the full complement of Chaunts echoing in your ears.

All the same, it was rather a pity …

*

Andrew had prayed for strength in the dark, low-ceilinged cellar, kneeling on the dusty, bare floorboards, reaching for the strength and the love and the deep inner consciousness of power that had never yet failed him. But he knew how perilous their situation was, and he knew that the only help would be from within themselves. There could be no flaming swords splitting the skies, or fiery-lined clouds descending to the earth to disgorge warriors with heavenly strengths.

Rumour, curled like a cat in the far corner, slept an uneasy, drugged slumber. They had both eaten hungrily of the food that the Almhuinians had brought, and although Andrew had felt only dizzy and drowsy, Rumour had been violently sick within a couple of hours, choking and retching miserably.

‘Poisoned,’ she said, gasping and blinded by the tears that streamed down her face.

‘No.’ It tore Andrew apart to see her like this, but he was so firmly chained that he could not get near to her. He said, ‘It is not their intention to kill us.’

‘You think not?’ Rumour sat back, exhausted and drained, and regarded him from eyes made huge by the dark smudges beneath them, her face white and pinched but the wry irony still discernible in her voice.

‘They will not dare to kill us, Rumour.’

Rumour stared at him, and then said, ‘Of course. They have to keep us for the Crimson Lady.’

‘I am afraid so.’

‘Well,’ said Rumour, leaning back against the cellar wall tiredly, ‘whatever they intend for us, I do not care for this place.’ She looked about her and managed to dredge up a grimace of disparagement.

The cellar was a small, dry place, boarded with planks of wood that had an ancient dry smell to them, and lined with great sour-smelling wineskins and barrels of ale. There was a trapdoor in the ceiling; a square hatch, just large enough for a man to climb through. When Diarmuit brought their supper, he had pulled the hatch back and let down a narrow, iron ladder. Andrew had watched carefully how this was done, thinking there might be some way to overpower the innkeeper, but Diarmuit did not come near enough. He simply placed the food at the foot of the ladder, and then pushed it across until it was within their reach, using a hooked pole.

The cellar seemed to be used as a storeroom of some kind. Near to the ceiling, beyond their reach, were shelves on which were stored huge wheels of cheese wrapped in muslin and waxed paper. Close by the cheeses were huge smoked hams and flitches of bacon.

Andrew regarded the smoked hams and the bacon and cheese, and then glanced involuntarily into the dusty corners of the cellar, thinking that surely there would be vermin in such a place, and thinking as well that to encounter rats in their present helpless state would have been unbearable.

But I do not think there are any rats down here, he thought, and at once Rumour said, ‘Of course there are not, Andrew. The rats are upstairs, waiting to pounce on us.’

Andrew said, softly, ‘Your sense of humour is still with you then, madame.’

‘The last thing I shall lose,’ said Rumour, but her voice was blurred and her eyes were sunken and dull. She looked exhausted, and Andrew caught himself thinking that their captors might have administered stronger doses of the drug to Rumour with the idea of preventing her from calling up sorcerous forces to defeat them.

Rumour said, ‘I am not defeated, Andrew. It is only that the darkness in this place is so stifling … I have tried to call up the power …’ For the first time there was a break in her voice. ‘I have tried, so hard,’ she said, and there was such humility in her voice, such contrition, as if she was asking for his forgiveness, or as if she had failed, that Andrew felt as if a giant hand had squeezed the breath from him.

He said, very gently: ‘Rumour, we will get out of here. I promise it with everything I ever held dear. On the body and soul of my own God, I promise it.’ He looked at her across the ill-lit cellar, trying to pour strength into her and trying to pour hope in as well. He knew the danger of despair; the monks had called it accidie, and had believed it to be the most grievous and the most dangerous of all sins. Once you gave way to despair, real black, lonely despair, you had given up hope of anything and everything. You had stopped trusting God. They must continue to hope and they must continue to believe that they would escape from Almhuin.

‘Do you feel your God may have forsaken you, Andrew?’ said Rumour softly, and at once he turned.

‘No!’ His eyes met hers, but in his mind a cold serpent of memory uncoiled, and he remembered the agonised bitterness of the dying Christ, who had cried aloud to a God whom he thought had forsaken him. But I will not think like that! said Andrew in silent anger. I will not accuse God of forsaking me! I will believe and I will trust!

‘But perhaps he seems …’ Rumour paused, searching for words that would not be offensive. ‘He seems very far away,’ she said, the hint of a question in her voice.

‘He is not a god like your gods,’ said Andrew.

‘He will not fight the battle for us?’

‘He will not. You understand.’ Of course you do, said his expression. Aloud, he said, ‘He would not send warriors into the world to lead us against enemies, or armies to fight for us. He would expect the strength to come from us.’

‘I do understand,’ said Rumour. ‘Not completely. But a little.’ She looked at him, and thought: but for all that, your God has sent help, Andrew. He has imbued you with something that I am very sure you did not possess when you came to the Porphyry Palace. You are no longer the gentle, ascetic monk, the pale, unassuming young man who supped so quietly with the Amaranths, and who listened so politely as we chanted our rituals. I think he has gone for ever, thought Rumour. And in his place is a fiery-eyed adversary, a thin, dark-haired young man with a lean hard body and a burning anger.

She studied him, caught momentarily in fascination, and thought that even the black woollen robe no longer gave him the cool aloofness he had once possessed. He is awake and alive and he is feeling, thought Rumour, still curled into the dusty cellar corner. I suppose I did that. I suppose I tore aside the armour he had so carefully built up and made him live and hurt and care. But what was beneath the armour is infinitely stronger and infinitely more human. I wonder if his God finds him better like this? I wonder if I am indeed seeing the Samildanach reborn, she thought with a thrill that was half fear and half delight.

The sickness from the drugged food had been disgusting and humiliating. Sickness was something you hid, something you dealt with alone. You certainly did not inflict it on a lover. But it could not be helped, and since it could not be helped, she would try to turn it into something to smile at. It was important to remain brave and flippant, to find lightness in any situation, because these were the things that armoured you against the world. Rumour was aware of reaching for bravery and flippancy, rather in the way she might have reached for a gown appropriate to an occasion. The simile amused her, and with the amusement came a thin vein of courage that was no longer a pretence, but almost the real thing. She managed to dash cold water on to her face from the tin cup left for them, and to rinse her mouth. The water was cold and pure and untainted by any drug, and Rumour began to feel better. And if I had hair that I could brush out, I should feel ready to face anything! she thought. But she sat up determinedly, and said, ‘You have to admit, Andrew, that I could not be accused of showing a false picture of myself to you. You have seen me in every conceivable humiliation now.’ And thought that, if this was not quite her old mocking carelessness, it was not a bad attempt.

Andrew said, very gently, ‘None of it matters, of course.’

‘No.’ She looked at him, waiting, and after a moment, Andrew said:

‘Love is not a matter of silken gowns and perfumed bodies,’ and Rumour smiled the old smile, the cat smile that said: now I have made you admit it! And felt considerably better, because after all she was not so beaten by the Almhuinians; she could still present the glittering image; she could still look across at Andrew and feel the swift, secret delight at loving and being loved. They would get through this and they would find a way to escape.

After the first makeshift meal, she had left the food untouched, but Andrew, who had already wrestled with this one, said, ‘I believe the food is only lightly drugged. And you should eat a very little if you could.’

‘To retain strength for escape?’ Rumour was glad to hear that her voice sounded as much mocking as questioning.

‘Yes,’ said Andrew, seriously.

‘Very well.’ She regarded the food disdainfully. ‘It is quite disgusting, of course. I am not accustomed to plain bread and cheese. But I will get through the ordeal.’ She leaned forward, her eyes glowing. ‘When I was very small, Andrew — perhaps Theodora’s age — Nechtan once taught me that the best way to get through an ordeal was to visualise something that existed beyond the ordeal. On the other side of it. Something pleasant and familiar that you knew without doubt would happen after the ordeal was over.’

‘Yes?’ He smiled slightly, thinking that for all her dazzling extravagances, she was possessed of an unexpected ingenuousness at times.

Rumour said, ‘It was the best advice ever, but then Nechtan was the wisest, wiliest man I ever knew.’ She smiled in the dim cellar. ‘The thing you look forward to, the thing that you know lies beyond the ordeal can be something quite small. Perhaps as small as a favourite meal for supper. But the trick is to look beyond. To look forward to that favourite dish. Or perhaps to the playing of a new song.’ She looked at him, waiting for his reaction, thinking, as she had thought in Tiarna: and if he does not understand, or if he ridicules, the feeling I have for him will surely weaken. But let him understand, thought Rumour, and was surprised at the vehemence of her plea.

Andrew said, ‘My Order — that is, my religion — requires many hours of fasting and prayer. At the beginning, during the years of what are called novitiate, there is the scourging of one’s own flesh.’

He paused, and Rumour said cautiously, ‘To subdue the appetites of the flesh?’

‘Yes.’ Andrew frowned. ‘I found it immensely difficult,’ he said after a moment. ‘The scourge is a light whip with several knotted ends, and the novices had to apply it to their own bodies once every week for as long as it took to chant the Miserere — that is a prayer we find of particular strength. To me, such self-inflicted pain was a needless humiliation and a — a degradation.’ He sent her the sudden, sweet smile. ‘Also it was unnecessary,’ he said. ‘For then the lures of the flesh did not trouble me.

‘But I did it. I was obedient. But in order to get through it, I would set my mind on what always followed the scourging and the chanting of the Miserere.’

‘Which was?’

Andrew’s thin face lightened into the sudden smile again. ‘The one good midday meal of the week,’ he said. ‘Roast beef.’

Rumour laughed, because of course he had understood. She said, ‘Well, for now I am looking beyond this place, and I am looking beyond our visit to the Crimson Lady’s fortress.’ She leaned forward again, hugging her knees, the iron manacles dragging against the floor. ‘I am looking forward to being inside my own castle,’ she said. ‘To ordering up a banquet — roast swan and baked goose. Almond pudding and crystallised fruits piled high on silver dishes. And wine: the richest, sweetest, the most expensive wine there is. I shall believe it will happen, that banquet, and that is how I shall endure what is ahead of us.’

‘A banquet on the other side,’ said Andrew softly.

‘Yes.’ She leaned back against the cellar wall. ‘Will you be there with me, Andrew?’ she said, quietly. ‘Will you share that banquet?’

Andrew drew breath to answer, to say that they would share it — they would eat the rich food together and drink the strong, sweet wine — when a sound from above made them both look up sharply.

Footsteps came across the room over their heads, and the trap door was lifted and the iron ladder let down. Diarmuit, followed by Black Aed and some half a dozen of the others, climbed down into the cellar and stood grinning at them.

Rumour, staring, thought: of course they are Rodents. I never really doubted it, but down here, with barely any light, it is very obvious indeed. Rats and weasels and stoats. They are enjoying our captivity and what they believe is our humiliation. They are gloating. Horrid creatures! thought Rumour, and a tiny spurt of anger spiralled inside her, stinging her into renewed life. How dare they treat us like this! she thought, and waited, and there again was the anger, and the rushing strength with it. That is interesting, she thought. Anger is a — a reviving emotion. I shall remember that, she thought, and being Rumour, tucked the knowledge away until it might be of some use.

Diarmuit and the others clambered down the narrow ladder, and stood in the small cellar, eyeing their prisoners avidly. In the dimness their eyes glinted redly and their teeth were sharper, their features narrower, more vicious. Rumour was aware of the thick feral stench emanating from them.

As they pulled her roughly to her feet, one of them pressed her against him, so that she could feel the hard stalk of arousal between his thin thighs, and she shuddered in revulsion, because there was something so coarse, so unclean about feeling the swollen desire of a creature you found completely repulsive. The Almhuinian grinned at her, his teeth gleaming wetly, and thrust a hand into the bodice of her gown, fingering her breasts. Rumour turned her head away and struggled and the Almhuinian laughed gloatingly.

‘Modest, Madame Sorceress? Perhaps you will prefer the embraces of the Lady? For she is not particular whether she explores the flesh of men or women.’

The sick feeling and the slight dizziness left by the drugged food were not a deterrent to a show of courage. Rumour took a deep breath, and reached again for the core of anger, and found that it enabled her to stand firm and send the Almhuinian a haughty stare.

‘I am selective in my choice of lovers,’ she said, and Andrew heard with something approaching delight that it was once more the arrogant, I-am-beyond-the-law tone that had intrigued him from the beginning. Rumour continued icily, ‘I do not permit Rodent Creatures to touch me. Remove your hands, or I shall shrivel your phallus where it hangs.’

The Almhuinians laughed and nudged one another. ‘We’d like to see you try,’ said Diarmuit, and Andrew looked up, hearing the derisive, challenging note, knowing at once that Rumour would certainly make some attempt to meet the challenge.

‘The Lady has Almhuin wrapped safely in the Girdle of Gold,’ said one of them. ‘Nothing ever got past the Girdle of Gold.’

‘Did it not?’ said Rumour, and her eyes glinted.

Black Aed, who was watching and listening, hooked his hands in his belt and looked at the others. ‘She’s a haughty BitchHuman, this one,’ he said. ‘Shall we take her to the Castle now, or shall we — enjoy her ourselves first?’

‘Enjoy her first!’ cried the others, and at once formed a circle about her.

‘And Searbhan to have first taste!’ cried Diarmuit, and the Almhuinian who had grasped Rumour and fingered her breasts, chuckled lasciviously and moved forward.

‘And we’ll untie her,’ he said, and nodded to Diarmuit to do so. ‘Less restricting,’ said Searbhan, his voice thick with lust.

Rumour had backed away from the evil, greedy creatures, but Diarmuit untied the ropes that had bound her ankles, and unlocked the iron gyves that had tethered her arms to the wall, and then pulled her forward. The Almhuinians stood in a circle about her, grinning and nudging one another suggestively.

‘One at a time, remember,’ said Black Aed, already beginning to unbuckle his iron-studded belt. ‘And no tearing of her white skin, or we’ll have the Lady’s anger to contend with.’

‘Onwards then. Searbhan,’ cried another. ‘Or shall we warm her for you?’

‘I can do my own warming, friend,’ said the ugly, black-visaged Searbhan, unbuttoning his breeches and easing them downwards over his thin, hairy thighs. He eyed Rumour, who let her eyes wander over his body and then laughed contemptuously.

‘Weakling,’ she said. ‘I had thought you were proper men here in Almhuin. You will have to produce better flesh than that to satisfy me, milksops. I have been accustomed to quality in my lovers.’ She directed her gaze between Searbhan’s legs. ‘Also to quantity,’ said Rumour in a silken purr. She turned her back disdainfully, and Andrew, watching his every chance to help, wanted to hug her for her cool contemptuousness of these horrid, sly creatures.

Searbhan said, angrily, ‘You’ll regret those words, Madame Sorceress,’ and reached out to pull her to him. Rumour felt the hard, bony fingers dig into her skin, and the anger welled up again, swirling through her entire body.

She thought: how dare this weasel-faced Rodent speak to me thus! How dare these evil, ugly things humiliate us both and taunt us with their absurd puny necromancy! And although she knew, in the corners of her mind, that they were inside the fearsome Dark Realm and that they were in the dread Almhuin itself, still her mind sought and closed about a strong and vicious spell, just a little dark, read and learned in secrecy when she was studying at the Academy, tucked away in her mind, because you never knew … You never knew when a lover, a partner, a Human, might become importunate …

And if any spell would work in this dark, evil place, it would be a spell tinged with a little necromantic malice …

She seized on the incantation with delight — I knew I should need it one day! — and whirled about to face the weasel-featured Searbhan. With her eyes flashing angrily, she pronounced in a furious voice, a string of syllables in an ancient, ugly tongue.

A huge, whirling blackness reared up from nowhere, and the cellar was suddenly filled with the evillest, most gloating chuckling Andrew had ever heard. He shivered, and pulled his woollen robe more closely about him.

‘I am the Collector,’ said the chuckling, clotted voice. ‘I wear the phalluses of my victims about my waist … I collect lumps of flesh,’ it said. ‘I take them.’

There was the fleeting impression of an impossibly tall, skeletal-thin man, dark and cavernous-featured, with hands that reached and clutched. It darted across the cellar, its hands outstretched, the nails glinting, and closed about Searbhan’s groin.

He staggered back, flailing desperately at the air, trying to fight off the shadowy figure, screaming in pain and fear. As he fell against the far wall, his legs were suddenly forced wide apart, and blood and urine and thick, nearly colourless fluid spurted out, soaking his breeches and running down his legs to puddle on the floor. Shreds of pinkish skin and flesh tore in bloodied tatters and the greedy, chuckling laugh filled the cellar again.

‘A new piece for my collection,’ whispered the voice. ‘I have nothing from the Rodent descendants of Almhuin. I thank you, Madame Amaranth.’ The huge dark shape bent over, in the act of stringing a lump of pale, bloodied flesh on to a massive belt.

The Collector seemed to turn his huge head towards Rumour. ‘Madame Amaranth, I am indebted,’ he said in a soft, satisfied voice.

‘The indebtedness is entirely mine,’ responded Rumour with amused courtesy, and the Collector gave his fearsome laugh again.

‘There are few of your kind who know how to summon me,’ he said. ‘But I am always there for those who pronounce the incantation. Remember it, madame.’

‘I will remember it,’ said Rumour, and the Collector made another of his courtly bows, and vanished.

Rumour turned to face the Almhuinians. ‘Well?’ she said softly and challengingly. ‘Would any other creature care to make the attempt to rape me?’

‘What did you do?’ said Diarmuit, as two of the others went to help the sobbing, moaning Searbhan.

‘Summoned the Collector,’ said Rumour coldly. ‘As you saw.’

‘That is necromancy,’ said Black Aed.

‘Yes?’ What about it? said her tone. ‘I did warn you,’ said Rumour. ‘And it was a fitting punishment.’ The malicious grin lit her face. ‘Well, gentlemen?’ said Rumour. ‘Are there any more who would like to challenge me? The Collector will certainly return if I call. He will not be so very far off yet.’

And then Black Aed moved forward, Diarmuit and several more at his side, twisting Rumour’s arms painfully behind her back. Rumour felt the pain instantly cloud her strength, and knew herself unable to summon any kind of power. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying aloud with the pain, and concentrated on maintaining a cool disdain.

‘Into the tilt cart with them both,’ said Black Aed. ‘And then take them to the Castle.

‘We’ll let the Lady have her way with these two.’

Chapter Twenty-nine

The skies were heavy and dark and streaked with menace as the tilt cart jolted its way up the mountain path towards the Castle.

The Almhuinians seemed uneasy and Andrew, listening and watching for any chance that might present itself, realised that they were afraid of being seen.

When Black Aed said, ‘Watch for the Harpies now,’ and Diarmuit replied, ‘Nasty spying things,’ Andrew knew he had been right; these creatures were engaged in War; they were fearful of spies.

They could hear, very faintly, the sounds of a battle somewhere beneath them. Andrew caught the thudding of hoofbeats, and several times the darkness was split by livid flashes of light. Once Black Aed halted and pointed to the east, where a line of what Andrew guessed to be more of the WarMongers were galloping hard through the night towards the Castle of Infinity. The manes of their gleaming stallions streamed out wildly in the night wind, and their ravaged silhouettes were black and menacing against the sky.

The path was steep and narrow and there was the feeling that you could travel this way for many cold, dark nights without meeting a single soul. As they went deeper into the mountains, the two prisoners felt a sour wind gust in their faces. The sounds of the faraway battle faded, and as it did so Andrew felt Rumour shiver, and understood that, compared with the wild desolation of the mountains, there had been something very nearly cosy about the noise and the clash of a battle being fought.

And then the Almhuinians pulled the tilt cart across the last rough patch of ground, and there was a sudden break in the great rearing mountain walls ahead of them. Directly ahead of them, set half into the mountain itself, was the Crimson Lady’s Citadel, the Mountain Fortress of the Beast Woman of Almhuin.

*

The immense shadow of the evil Fortress fell across the cart, and Rumour shivered again and pulled her cloak about her, staring up at the rearing Citadel, her eyes huge.

The great Stronghold of the Crimson Lady had been hewn from massive black stones, rough and pitted and harsh, with here and there pale, blind growths crusting the surface.

As they drew nearer, Rumour, still feeling sick from the drugged food, felt a creeping coldness steal over her. The evil that emanated from the Castle was Complex Evil at its strongest; it was noisome and filled with pulsating malevolence. Rumour could smell it and feel it and taste it; it struck at her senses with the wincing pain of raw flesh being scraped by a knife.

There was something dark and ageless and hungering about the jagged-toothed turrets and the black crouching bulk. Rumour thought: this is a place of pain, a Citadel of agony … A torture house, seen through a darkling glass, silhouetted against crimson-streaked skies.

It was immense. Between the huge, rearing turrets with the narrow slitted windows was a long, low, central portion, which Andrew thought might have once been a keep, but which Rumour identified as being probably the ceremonious halls and banqueting chambers.

The Almhuinians had paused and, on the still air, the two captives heard the sound of the drawbridge being lowered, followed by the unmistakable winching up of the portcullis gates, with a slow, and rather dreadful inexorability.

The Crimson Lady’s gates opening to let us in …

The drawbridge stretched before them, bridging the deep chasm that surrounded the castle, and the portcullis was raised to its highest point. Black Aed looked down at his prisoners, and said in a voice of satisfaction, ‘Almhuin. The Fortress of the Lady.’

‘It is not quite what I expected,’ said Andrew in a thoughtful tone, and Rumour at once said:

‘It is certainly not what I am accustomed to.’ And regarded Black Aed haughtily.

Black Aed grinned, and in the darkness his teeth showed white and feral, but Diarmuit who had been watching the sky nervously, pointed suddenly upwards. ‘Harpies,’ he said. ‘See? Over to the west.’

‘Yes.’ Black Aed followed Diarmuit’s pointing finger. ‘And the sound of more WarMongers,’ he said, and Andrew and Rumour both thought he looked very slightly fearful. But he turned back, and said, ‘Chaos and his people were ever watchful. We’d best get these two inside.’ He stood for a moment longer, scanning the dark mountainside, and Rumour, half lying against the cart’s sides, caught the flicker of a movement deep within the creeping shadows. WarMongers? No! thought Rumour, her senses alerted. Something much stealthier.

She looked up sharply, trying to see, trying to feel, aware of a new menace. Chaos’s people? Spies? The Almhuinians appeared to have heard nothing other than the thudding hoofbeats, and Rumour guessed that they did not possess sufficient perception. They could see and hear things that were intended to be seen and heard, but they were unaware of sly, creeping darknesses. But I feel them, and I see them. And then: could we turn this to our advantage? she thought. Does Andrew feel them? And sent him a quick glance from beneath her lashes, and knew that for all Andrew’s truly remarkable perception and for all his sensitivity, he had not heard anything. Then it is up to me, thought Rumour, and hard on the heels of that thought came another: am I beginning to depend on him? Or is it that his strength is simply increasing?

The Almhuinians were pulling the cart on to the drawbridge which was extended across the deep, dark moat. Directly ahead, the gateway at the centre of the Castle-keep yawned, the iron grille of the portcullis raised to its highest point.

And we must pass under that portcullis … We must enter the Castle of the Crimson Lady, the pain-filled Citadel of the Beithioch. It reeks of old dark necromancy, and it is soaked in the agony of its victims, thought Rumour. And we are being taken into its bowels.

The cart bumped and jolted forward, its wheels reverberating hollowly on the wooden planks of the drawbridge. Rumour looked back, but there was only the dark mountain, and the stretch of drawbridge they had already covered. There was no sound, save the trundling of the cart’s wheels, and the firm, light tread of their captors. Nothing stirred in the darkness.

But as they were pulled towards the waiting portcullis, into the shadow of the immense Fortress, she caught the sound she had heard earlier. Soft light, furtive footsteps creeping towards the Castle behind them … Something — perhaps several somethings — stealing along behind them.

Chaos’s spies following them into the grisly lair of the BeastWoman of the Mountains … ?

The iron grille of the portcullis was ahead of them, huge and black and menacing; as the cart passed into the clotted darkness beneath the drawbridge, Rumour felt the suffocating, smothering darkness of Almhuin descend over her head, so that for a moment she could hardly breathe.

Behind them the drawbridge was lifted, clanking upwards on its immense iron chains and crashing home, and the portcullis was lowered.

And so we are shut in … We are shut in with one of the most evil necromancers ever known, thought Rumour, sick with horror and fear. We are shut inside the Castle of Almhuin.

But if I am right, she thought, trying to see about her, if I am right we are not entirely alone. There is another enemy here with us. I feel that there is.

Something followed us, and something stole stealthily along the drawbridge after us, and slipped under the portcullis. And now that something is inside the Castle with us …

They were shut inside the Citadel of the Crimson Lady of Almhuin. And it seemed likely that, shut in with them, were the dark, evil servants of the Lord of Chaos.

*

The portcullis did not open into a courtyard or a quadrangle as they had expected, but into the central portion of the Castle itself. They were in a stone chamber, with narrow windows set high up, criss-crossed with thin strips of lead. Slivers of crimson-tinged twilight lay across the uneven stone floor, and dust motes danced in and out of it, showing up the decaying interior of the Castle.

Great swathes of dark red velvet drapes covered sections of the walls, but the velvet was worn and rubbed, and in places it hung in threads. There was a dry, musty smell, and the smothering feeling of stale air and dirt, and as the tilt cart was pushed forward, there was the pattering of mice scuttling away beneath the hangings.

The Almhuinians moved purposefully about the stone hall, lighting branched candle-holders and setting them in front of several oval mirrors with damp-spotted silver surfaces and tarnished rims. But each candle was reflected in the mirrors a dozen times over, so that the hall was illuminated to a great flickering cavern filled with tiny, glowing flames. The shadows receded and Rumour thought with a start of surprise: this is a place of decay and dust, but once it must have been very beautiful.

Immense silken tapestries hung between the mouldering velvet, all of them dimmed with extreme age, damp stains obscuring most of the depicted stories. But in some of them it was possible to make out crouching Beast-Humans bending over the mutilated remains of prey, their jowls blood-smeared, fangs jutting down from curled-back lips.

Beneath the tapestries were long oak tables and settles, black with age, the cushions on the settles crumbling, the silver plate and the gold chalices and platters on the tables tarnished and dull. The wall-hangings stirred with the entrance of so many people, and a dry, fetid breath of air gusted outwards.

Black Aed and three of the others pulled the two prisoners out of the cart, tipping them on to the uneven stone floor and untying their ankles.

‘No tricks,’ said Black Aed. ‘No attempts to escape.’

‘They won’t escape,’ said Diarmuit. ‘We’ve left their wrists bound. And even if they do try, they’ll be caught and brought back.’

Rumour and Andrew, both conscious of slow agony in their ankles as the blood began to flow again, stood up and looked round, trying to take in as much as they could. Rumour thought: yes, it once was extremely lovely here. But something came in and tainted it. She could smell the smothering stench of decay and age, but stronger by far was the sour taint of Complex Evil, of a strength and a quality Rumour had never encountered. She thought: was it the Crimson Lady’s evil that tainted this place? Or is it simply that it has seen centuries of agony?

At the far end of the hall was a small raised area, set with a high-backed chair draped in black velvet. Rumour saw that woven into the velvet was the ancient and terrible symbol of the Northern sorcerers: the race of malevolent necromancers whose beginnings were so old that no one knew now whence they had sprung.

Behind the dais was an immense, almost intact tapestry depicting a long table set for some kind of meal. At the centre, seated in a high-backed chair, was a slender, dark-haired man with a cruel, beautiful mouth and high flaring cheekbones. Twelve guests sat with him, ranged along the table, most of them apparently engaged in eating and drinking, but all of them clearly subservient to the cruelly beautiful man. At the table’s centre was a platter of what Andrew recognised as unleavened bread, and he saw that the dark man was holding up a golden chalice brimming with blood. Over his head was twisted a symbol of crimson and gold and ebony, and black rays, irradiating outwards, had been woven into the fabric about his head.

Rumour said, very softly, The Last Feast of the Casca Dubh. Medoc holding the Revel of the Twelve Necromancers on the night before he entered the True Ireland and was slain.’

At her side, Andrew said, ‘Dubh is darkness or blackness, I think. But what is Casca?’

‘The Passing Over,’ said Rumour, her eyes on the beautiful, cruel creature who presided over the sinister revelry. ‘That is the Dark Passing Over, Andrew. The terrible underside of the Banishment Ritual you heard in the Porphyry Palace.’

‘Yes. Beautiful. Then this is the Passing Over, not of the Darkness but of the Light,’ said Andrew, softly, and behind them, Diarmuit said, The plea that the Light will not cross the threshold of the necromancers.’

‘A good plea,’ put in Black Aed, chuckling hoarsely.

‘The reverse side of our Ritual,’ said Rumour, and Andrew, staring at the darkly beautiful revelry said, almost to himself, The Dark Passover. The evil mirror image of the Paschal Supper. The old wine that has been in the cask for so many centuries that it can never be completely drained.’

‘Medoc is lifting the chalice of blood so that his Twelve Lords may drink it in memory of him,’ said Rumour. The legend is that he knew at that feast he would be vanquished on the morrow.’

‘And that he wanted to leave his House a Ritual that would ensure that his work and his word would live on,’ said Aed.

‘We still celebrate that Ritual today,’ said Diarmuit, and a soft voice from behind them said,

‘“Take ye and drink, for this is my blood”.’

Rumour and Andrew wheeled sharply round.

The Crimson Lady stood watching them from the doorway.

*

She was smaller than either of them had been visualising, and far more beautiful than they had expected. Andrew, staring, thought they had been expecting a towering, menacing being, and he found himself taken aback by this slender, graceful creature. She wore a dark cloak with a hood, but the hood was thrown back, and as the light from the flickering torches fell across her face, he saw that she was pale-skinned, and that her face was a perfect oval.

‘Of course I am beautiful, Human,’ said the Lady, moving to stand before him. ‘It is the blood and the juice and the sap of Humans that makes me so.’ She smiled, and it was a smile of such perfection that Andrew blinked.

Her skin was as smooth as ivory. Andrew thought it was like pale, pure alabaster, or soft, polished silk. But it is made so by bathing in Human blood and Human juices, he thought, sickened. Beneath that truly remarkable beauty is a loathsome, evil thing. As the Lady moved to stand before him and reached out to touch his face, he felt his skin shrivel with the coldness of her hand. The sleeve of her robe had fallen back, revealing a velvety white arm, with a wrist so fragile and so delicate that Andrew almost believed he could reach out and snap it in two between his hands.

She had black silken hair coiled into a jewelled snood, so that her features stood out sharply, a pure, clear cameo. There was a high, pale forehead — and there is learning there, thought Andrew, staring. There is scholarship. This is no untutored peasant.

‘You are perceptive,’ said the Crimson Lady to Rumour. ‘You have recognised not only the emblem on my Throne, but also the famous depiction of Medoc’s Last Feast.’

‘Who would not recognise it?’ said Rumour at once. ‘The legend is well known. And your evil House is also well known, madame.’ She looked straight at the Crimson Lady. ‘The Northern necromancers, who swore a vow to destroy Ireland and possess Tara. But none of you have ever been able to make good that vow,’ said Rumour.

‘You think that, do you?’

‘You are still here,’ said Rumour. ‘And Tara and the Porphyry Palace of the Amaranths are still in the hands of their rightful owners.’

‘But not for very much longer,’ said the Lady. She studied Rumour. ‘But you recognise my House correctly,’ she said. ‘I am a daughter of that old and powerful House.’

‘I believe you to be the last of your line, madame,’ said Rumour, and Andrew realised that she was according the creature the courtesy of one sorceress addressing another.

The Crimson Lady said, ‘I am the descendant of the Erl-King of ancient days, and as such the head of my House. I am the descendant of Medoc, the dark, evil, beautiful Medoc who so nearly gained Tara, but who was vanquished by a Human.’ She looked at Andrew suddenly. ‘For that I have a deep and abiding hatred for Humans,’ she said. ‘I have vowed to rid my Realm of all Humans.’ There was a lick of pleasure in her voice now, and Andrew and Rumour both felt icy fingers of fear touch them.

She looked back at Andrew, her eyes holding his, and Andrew felt as if he had been plunged, neck-deep, into an icy lake of dark, evil water. ‘I am versed in many arts, Human,’ said the Crimson Lady, softly. ‘We shall shortly explore some of them, together.’ Her eyes held his and Andrew, unable to look away, felt himself drowning, smothered … With an immense effort, he dragged his eyes away.

But I am right, he thought. The power is there. The eyes have it. They were huge swirling pools of blackness, twin lakes of evil, of pitch, of charred jet. A man might drown in those eyes and know himself suffocated by foul, ancient darkness.

O, but I shall smother you with other things first, Human creature …

Andrew looked up, startled, and saw that the Crimson Lady was smiling, a terrible smile, hungry and brutal and filled with greedy anticipation.

For someone will be quaffed tonight …

Her lips were wide and sensuous, dark red and livid against the whiteness of her skin. Andrew thought inconsequentially: I wonder, does she paint them, or are they naturally that colour? The smile was that of a predator, scenting and sighting its prey, hungering for blood. Tiny, even white teeth, razor sharp, gleamed in the dimness. How would it feel to be bitten by them … ? Incredibly Andrew felt a stirring of hard, crude desire. He beat it down at once, horrified and repelled, and drawing his eyes away with an immense effort, he said quite coolly, ‘We are interested in your Castle, madame.’ And heard, with relief, that his voice was calm and unruffled.

‘There are more interesting parts of the Castle than this,’ said the Lady. She studied Andrew with the detached air of one who studies a strange beast or an insect recently caught and caged. ‘All of them are now imbued with Complex Evil at its strongest,’ she said, and then, to Rumour, ‘I think you have already felt that.’

‘Yes. But then,’ said Rumour, her tone as bland as buttermilk, ‘but then, madame, I hold an extremely high degree in the Theory of Sorcery. I could not possibly miss or mistake the level of Complex Evil that encloses this Castle. I could not mistake the density of Profane Evil at the outer edges.’

The Crimson Lady said, very sharply, ‘That is either the statement of a fool or a very clever sorceress,’ and for answer, Rumour said:

‘The level of Complex Evil is Demonolatrous and the density is Vulpicide. It is well beyond the Magenta Boundary of Slaughterous, close to the Cannibalistic Vortex at the centre.

‘As for the Profane Evil, that is Tyrannical, which I should expect of you. But there is an outer crust of Abyss-Mal.’ She paused, and Andrew heard that she gave the last word a rather strange emphasis. Abyss-Mal: an evil from the Abyss …

Rumour said, as if bored with the entire subject now, ‘And there is a layer of Eclectic Evil to the degree of Virulence, which, as you know, is not quite so high as Vulpicide, but still very high indeed.’ She regarded their captor. ‘Shall I continue?’

The Crimson Lady said, ‘In my Realm, we would call that boasting, Madame Amaranth.’

‘Oh, in mine also.’ Rumour smiled contemptuously. ‘But then in my world, I am already known to be boastful and extravagant and immodest. I see no reason to change simply because I am visiting your world, madame.’

The Lady turned back to Andrew. ‘For a monk, you keep strange company,’ she said.

‘So I understand,’ said Andrew in a tranquil, that-is-my-business tone.

The Lady shrugged. ‘Your absurd word-games will not save either of you, of course,’ she said. ‘And presently, I shall enjoy showing you my Castle. The slaughterhouses and the sheds. The dungeons deep beneath the Castle-keep …’ The hungry smile touched her red lips again. ‘After all,’ said the Lady, ‘you are within my world, and you are in my power. There is no escape, you know.’ She studied them. ‘Once a prisoner is shut away in those deep dungeons, he would be for ever lost to the world.’ She leaned closer. ‘Shall I shut you both away? In a windowless, lightless cell? There are many such here. There are many halls in my Fortress …’

And many mansions in my Father’s House …

Andrew thought: I must maintain a calm exterior. I must preserve a feeling of disdain. Rumour is treating the creature with such contempt, and I must match that. Above all, I must not let either of them guess that her voice — beautiful, sensual — rakes at deeply buried senses, and at longings so secret, I had not known, until now, that I possessed them …

How would it feel to lie with this beautiful, evil creature, and feel her teeth and taste the blood …

The Lady had moved away a little, the silken skirts of her cloak brushing the floor in a whisper of sound. ‘You will see it all, Human Monk and Amaranth Sorceress,’ she said, and the dark eyes flickered back to Rumour. ‘I believe you know some of the legends, madame,’ said the Crimson Lady politely.

‘Yes. I know also that it is told how, within this Castle, are rooms, dungeons, each one containing a worse torment than the last,’ said Rumour. She regarded the other. ‘I have always felt that rather obvious, but I daresay that having practised necromancy for so long, you are running out of new ideas.’ Poor burnt-out soul, said her tone.

The Crimson Lady drew back and hissed faintly. ‘You shall pay dearly for that, BitchAmaranth,’ she said, her voice sibilant and filled with hatred.

‘Dear me, how tedious,’ said Rumour at once, and the Lady turned back to Andrew.

The smile curved her lips again, and she said, ‘When I have done with the Amaranth Bitch, I shall introduce you to the pleasures of extreme pain.’

The taste of blood, Human …

‘You will be a worthy partner for a night for my bed,’ she said softly. ‘And when once you have tasted blood, when once you have felt it cascading over your naked limbs, you will know it for the sweetest, most potent wine you have ever taken.’ She studied him again, and Andrew stared back. The Lady said, ‘The line between pain and pleasure is a very fine one. Perhaps you have already found that? Perhaps you have already experienced arousal when flagellating yourself in your lonely, monkish cell.’

Scourging the flesh with the Miserere chanting all about your ears …

‘I am afraid you are going to be disappointed in my response, madame,’ said Andrew, with immaculate courtesy tinged with apology, and something dark and serpentine flickered in the Lady’s eyes.

She said, very softly, ‘I do not think so.’ She was standing directly in front of him, and Andrew felt the cold, sour evil billowing out from the creature, as if the door to an ice-house had been opened. She leaned nearer, so that Andrew smelt the fetid stench of her breath, and knew it must come from the constant imbibing of warm blood.

‘You will never destroy me,’ hissed the Crimson Lady, ‘although before we are done, you may wish to.’ For a moment, her great black eyes seemed to distend, so that Andrew had the sensation of falling down a deep, dark well.

The Lady stood back, regarding them both, and then, turning to the waiting Almhuinians, said, ‘They will do very well for a night’s pleasure. Take them to the slaughterhouses.

‘Make ready the silver troughs.’

*

The Almhuinians took their two prisoners through echoing galleries and narrow stone passages. Black Aed led the way, holding the torch aloft in the darkness, and Diarmuit and the other Almhuinians walked close behind, their knives unsheathed. Andrew knew that any attempt to escape would be useless. Their captors were armed and watchful, the tunnels narrow and dim. He glanced at Rumour, seeing that her eyes were in shadow and unreadable, but that her expression was calm, even rather disdainful. He saw her twitch the skirts of her cloak aside from a thick patch of dust at their feet, and grimace in disgust.

‘Keep moving,’ said Diarmuit harshly, and Rumour stopped and turned round to regard him, and said, in a faintly surprised voice:

‘You cannot expect me to walk through this filth? In slippers?’

‘You’ll endure far worse presently,’ said Diarmuit, and Rumour sighed, and said in a low, confiding tone to Andrew, ‘Do you know, I had always heard that the Crimson Lady was much more particular than this. Really, it goes to show that gossip is not to be trusted, because who would have thought that Almhuin would be so disgustingly dirty.’ She sent Andrew one of her sudden grins, and said, with a shrug, ‘But then of course, she is one of the Northern necromancers and they were never overly fastidious.’

‘Were they not?’ said Andrew, as if he found this interesting.

‘Oh my dear, disgracefully unclean.’ Rumour glanced back at Diarmuit, and leaning closer to Andrew, said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘They do say that after the Erl-King died — at the hands of a Human, naturally …’

‘Naturally.’

‘ … his entire Citadel had to be burned down, because no one would live in it.’

Andrew would have given all of his sparse possessions to have got Rumour away; he would gladly have rendered homage to any god who would take her back to the Porphyry Palace, even if he himself had to be left behind to face the Lady of Almhuin. But he was boundlessly grateful for her air of flippancy and her reckless, challenging bravery in front of these creatures.

For, he thought, I cannot be sure if I would have shown such courage without her. I cannot be sure if I could have faced the Crimson Lady so contemptuously and with such disdain.

The Crimson Lady, who would rake and stir up a man’s deeply hidden desires until he was bursting his skin with longing, and who would draw him across the thin line, the first threadline that separates pain from pleasure …

Pain … The scourging that had sometimes aroused a crude, throbbing lust … So strong, so hard that sometimes the only relief was to commit the sin of Onan … The spilling of the seed, scalding and sinful, shameful but exquisite … How had she known about that?

The stone passage widened, and there was the feeling of something ahead, waiting, watching … Something that had hungering black eyes and greedy, clutching hands, and that might already be seated on a black throne, with an immense silver chalice held in place, waiting to catch the gleanings from the bodies of the two new prisoners …

For someone will be quaffed tonight …

Yes, but before that, that someone will have been drawn down a dark and terrible path … How would it feel to lie alongside that alabaster skin, to feel its coldness drawing the throbbing heat from your own, to feel the icy flesh surround your desperate passion …

Andrew tugged angrily at the ropes around his wrists, and felt a stinging pain. With the sharp, scraping pain, the insidious pull on his mind ceased, and he knew his thoughts his own again. He thought: she is trying to bewitch me! The creature is sending out some kind of dark seduction, some kind of evil beckoning. She is spinning black necromancy about my mind! And he glanced at Rumour, and remembered how, in the Cavern of the Segais Well, Rumour had, just for a moment, stared at the Lord of Chaos, her eyes wide and dark. Yes, Rumour would understand about the evil, beautiful allure.

Rumour was not thinking about the Crimson Lady’s possible powers over Andrew. She had seen, for a fleeting moment that the creature was attracted to him, of course, and she had known that the Lady would almost certainly send out the Dark Beckoning to him, more or less as a routine. The Amaranth Charter forbade the Dark Beckoning of course but everyone had used it at one time or another. Rumour herself had woven her own version of it, but she had spun into it as many Enchantments of Light as possible, and her Lures had always been soaring, joyous things, filled with light and love and washed with music and wine and firelight.

She thought that Andrew was strong enough to resist the Crimson Lady’s dark, evil Lure. He might succumb briefly, but he would almost certainly recognise the Beckoning for what it was, and he would throw it off. And after all, thought Rumour, her mind going fleetingly back to that moment when she had responded so strongly and so shamefully to Chaos; after all, who am I to criticise, or even mind if he does respond to it? She glanced at him in the ill-lit passage, and knew an overwhelming gratitude that he was with her, and that his strength and his belief that they would escape flowed out ceaselessly. She thought: without Andrew, I could certainly not have faced the Crimson Lady as — as insolently as I did earlier.

Directly ahead of them was a massive double door, studded with iron nails, and with huge iron ring-handles. Black Aed reached to open them; they swung to with a soft, well-oiled whisper of sound.

‘Frequently used,’ he said, grinning the rat-grin at Andrew and standing back, holding the torch aloft for them to see. ‘Frequently used and carefully looked after. The Lady would not wish this place to be neglected.’

‘Indeed? Then how very sad she does not apply the same rules to the rest of her Castle,’ said Rumour, standing on one foot and then the other to inspect the soles of her slippers, and frowning.

‘Onwards,’ said Diarmuit angrily, pushing them forward. And there, ahead of them, was the place which every person in Ireland, the true, real Ireland, feared and spoke of in whispers. There, waiting for them, was the nightmare sanctum, the grisly temple of blood raised by the last daughter of the Northern necromancers …

The Lady of Almhuin’s slaughterhouse.

Chapter Thirty

It was larger than they had expected, and it was shadowy and dim, so that to begin with they could only make out crouching shapes, formless, sinister outlines. And then Black Aed moved forward, holding up the torch to the rusted wall-brackets, and flames leapt up, vivid orange and scarlet, illuminating the slaughterhouse to grisly life. A warm, faintly meaty scent hung on the air.

As the light steadied, they saw that at the far end of the chamber were four stone tables, oblong in shape — Human in shape, thought Andrew. The tables were waist-high, and set on thick, dark plinths engraved with symbols and runic hieroglyphs. Around the edges were culverts, deep narrow channels with drainholes at each comer, and at each of the tables’ corners lay iron gyves and manacles with long, snakelike chains hanging down.

At the sides of the chamber were deep stone troughs, each one placed directly beneath one of the evil-smelling wall-sconces. Andrew thought they were a little like the huge drinking troughs used for horses, but Rumour, whose eyes were still adjusting to the flickering torchlight, thought they bore a sinister resemblance to stone coffins. Each one was partly sunk into the floor, with stone steps, worn away at the centre, leading down.

The sunken blood-baths.

The symbols used on the tables were carved around the edges of the baths, and Rumour recognised them as belonging to the House of Medoc and the Erl-King. In her own terrible world, this creature is royalty of a very high order indeed, thought Rumour, with a cold trickle of fear.

The windows of the slaughterhouse were barred, but, as Andrew had seen earlier, they looked directly on to the bleak northern face of the Black Mountains. So that no matter what agonies were inflicted on you, no matter what mutilations you suffered, no one would see and no one would hear …

The roof was low and intersected by massive rafters, blackened with age and centuries of candlesmoke. Protruding from the central beam was a row of huge black iron hooks, glinting in the flickering torchlight. Butcher-hooks, thought Andrew, shuddering inwardly. At the room’s centre was a small, square platform some three feet from the ground. Steps led up to it, and a silver barrel, rather like a huge elaborate water-butt, with several small pipes protruding from its base, stood on the platform beneath the hooks. A gigantic earthenware jug stood close by.

Andrew, who had for a time been responsible for the fabric and the upkeep of his monastery, saw that the pipes ran from the silver butt along the floor to the stone troughs, and understood that their purpose was to discharge whatever fluids collected in the silver butt directly into the sunken troughs.

Set against the inner wall, facing the barred windows, was a squat iron brazier, cauldron-shaped but fashioned from thick iron, and resting on elaborately carved iron legs. Black Aed moved to it, holding a flaring torch to heat the bricks inside, and Rumour, remembering the whispered tales of the Lady’s methods of torture, felt a sick dread clutch her.

They could both feel the rising heat from the Almhuinians now, and with it, a feral scent, dry and warm, as if thick, unclean fur were standing before a furnace. Rumour felt a stir of sexual heat from their captors, and knew that the Rodent side of them was strongly and grotesquely aroused by what was ahead.

A door at the far end of the chamber was flung open, and the Crimson Lady, clad only in a thin scarlet silk wrap, stood before them.

*

The Crimson Lady moved forwards with a slow, snakelike grace, the wrap falling open to reveal pale, marbled flesh. Her hair was still drawn back from her white brow, but the snood was gone, and her hair cascaded over her shoulders in sinuous black coils. Her eyes were on the two prisoners and, as she approached them, her fingers curved in a predatory fashion, the great burning-pitch eyes unblinking. ‘So you are in my Temple at last, Humans,’ she said, softly.

‘We had little choice, madame,’ said Andrew.

‘We would certainly not have chosen to be here,’ said Rumour.

The deep hungry eyes flickered. ‘You are insolent,’ said the Lady. And then, turning to Andrew, ‘But you, Human, have a certain courtesy. I find it to my liking.’ Her eyes raked him. ‘I believe I shall enjoy you,’ said the Lady, her voice clotted and thick. ‘I shall find immense pleasure in your body and, at the end, when you are exhausted and begging for mercy, I shall enjoy seeing your agonies cross the line to the greatest sensuality you have ever known.’ She glanced briefly at Rumour. ‘Did you think this posturing Amaranth creature, this charlatan had given you pleasure?’ she said, her voice filled with amused disdain. ‘Did you think she had brought you to the peaks of fulfilment?’ She reached out a cold, long-fingered white hand and traced the lines of Andrew’s face. ‘Yes, you are lean and firmly muscled,’ she said, half to herself. ‘And I shall take you to the peaks of agony and the exquisite heights of the purest pain in the world. And when you have scaled those peaks with me, then I shall permit you to die so that my beauty will survive. And your death will be a whisper of sheerest delight to your exhausted body.’

Andrew said, quite calmly, ‘An interesting fate, madame.’

‘How tedious to have to continually feed beauty,’ said Rumour, bored.

There was the flicker of acknowledgement in the black eyes, as if the Lady might be relishing this interchange, and certainly as if she might be finding both Andrew and Rumour of more than usual interest. But she stepped back, turning her gaze on to Black Aed and Diarmuit and the waiting Almhuinians.

‘I see you are already excited by the thought of the blood and the pain ahead,’ said the Crimson Lady, in her soft, harsh voice. ‘I see that your bodies are already hardening and ripening with anticipation.’ She moved to stand before them. ‘Perhaps I shall permit you to play a more active part this time. Perhaps I shall even take one or two of you to my bed later,’ she said, and at once a low groaning murmur stirred the Almhuinians, and they glanced at one another from the corners of their eyes.

The Lady laughed, flinging back her head, so that the dark hair caressed the white flesh of her shoulders. ‘First,’ she said, ‘we must show these two prisoners what is ahead, for anticipation was ever a part of pleasure.’ She moved amongst them, studying each of them intently, coming to stop before Black Aed. A sudden hush fell on the Almhuinians, and Andrew and Rumour both felt their senses alerted, for something was about to happen, something unexpected, thought Rumour, and felt Andrew’s awareness. Was this the moment for them to stage an escape? A diversion?

The Lady was staring at Black Aed, and there was such black fury in her eyes that he flinched.

‘You have failed me,’ said the Crimson Lady, and her voice was suddenly cold and hard, and filled with such authority that the Almhuinians flinched. Black Aed stayed where he was, transfixed by the staring, pit-like black eyes.

‘You permitted that Amaranth creature to harness sorcery while she was in your keeping,’ said the Lady. ‘You permitted her to summon the Collector.’

‘It was not —’

‘Be silent, rat,’ said the Lady, and although she did not say it very loudly, or even very aggressively, Black Aed was at once still. But Rumour could see that his eyes were shifting uneasily, as if he were searching the chamber for a means of escape.

‘You are kept by me to ensure a supply of prisoners,’ said the Lady, and now she was standing very close to him. ‘You are kept very well by me to do that, Black Aed,’ she said. ‘And yet you sat drinking and carousing while that Amaranth creature laid her plans. And one of your number was killed by her sorcery,’ said the Lady, and from the waiting Almhuinians, there was a murmur of ‘Searbhan’.

‘Yes, Searbhan. His manhood torn from him to adorn the Collector’s hoard. And now dead of his wounds. Simply for trying to spear the Amaranth.’

She looked at Black Aed again, who said, ‘It was — we had not expected —’

‘I keep you to expect,’ said the Lady. ‘I pay you to expect. And the summoning of the Collector was a very obvious ploy.’ She glanced contemptuously at Rumour, who grinned and said:

‘But it worked.’

The Lady’s eyes flickered with anger, but she turned back to Black Aed.

He had stood his ground. He eyed the Crimson Lady and said, ‘Searbhan ought not to have approached the Amaranth. It is not permitted that we should tamper with your prisoners.’ He said it in a cringing, unctuous way, as if he was reminding the Lady how slavishly they obeyed her laws, but his face was the colour of tallow and a faint sheen of sweat stood out on his brow.

‘Absurd mutant-creature,’ said the Lady in a tone of cold fury. ‘Did you truly imagine I did not know your little ways?’ She glanced back at the others. ‘Did you all believe me to be ignorant of your rutting and your crude, brutish lusts?’ She walked slowly round them, looking deeply into each narrow, rattish face as she did so. ‘Of course you sample my prey before it reaches me,’ she said. ‘All of you do so.’ She regarded them, her face white with fury, her eyes blazing such power that Andrew and Rumour felt the icy chill brush them. ‘Did you truly think I did not know of it?’ she said, and Diarmuit, whom Andrew had already seen to be the bravest of these people said, ‘Ma’am, the virgins are never —’

‘I know the virgins are never touched,’ said the Lady at once, turning back to face Diarmuit. ‘I feel them to be sure that they have not been touched before I embark on their torture.’ A rather terrible smile touched the sensuous lips briefly. ‘That is one of my pleasures,’ she said. ‘For once I have felt that the maiden’s veil is still between their thighs, I have other uses for them.’ She glanced across at Rumour. ‘Virgins’ blood was ever potent for many spells,’ said the Crimson Lady, and Andrew heard with horror, that she spoke in a suddenly crisp, businesslike voice, rather as one craftsman to another; rather as if she was saying: and of course, you will understand about that.

Rumour said, in an uninterested voice, ‘I have heard that it is so. I have never needed to have recourse to such crude methods.’

The Lady only smiled, as if she were amused by Rumour’s disdain. She turned back to Black Aed, who stood silently before her.

‘You tremble,’ said the Lady, eyeing him. ‘And you will tremble. You are going to suffer, Black Aed, and I am going to enjoy seeing you suffer.’ She gestured impatiently to the other Almhuinians.

The stone table first,’ said the Crimson Lady. ‘For the mood is on me to play a little before the final grand feast.’ She glanced back at Rumour and Andrew. ‘In your world, you would perhaps say — an appetiser, I think?’

‘No, we would not say anything of the kind,’ said Rumour, and the Lady smiled again and turned back to the Almhuinians. Andrew saw that they were waiting to obey their Lady, that no matter the atrocities they were called on to assist in, they would obey her instantly and unquestioningly. He thought: but surely between them they could overpower her? Surely they will make some attempt at rescuing one of their own people? And saw that they would not, and that whatever the Crimson Lady told them to do would be done.

‘Strap him down well,’ said the Lady, lifting one slender white hand to indicate the nearest of the stone tables. ‘Strap him down well.’ She paused, deliberately.

‘And then heat the pokers.’

*

Black Aed fought every inch of the way. The Almhuinians leapt on him, instantly obedient as Andrew had foreseen, dragging him to the nearest of the stone tables. He kicked and clawed at them, his eyes bolting from his head, showing red in the flickering torchlight, his face hardly human now, but that of a cornered rat, baring its teeth.

At one point, he half broke from his captors and flung himself across the room, scrabbling at the closed door, only to be caught and dragged by his feet across the floor, his head scraping harshly against the rough surface, clawing and grasping at the stone flags as he was dragged, trying to gain purchase, his fingernails tearing backwards, so that his fingers were bloodied, nailless stumps. He was lifted to the stone table by four of the Almhuinians — four people who had once been his friends and his companions, or even his kin, thought Andrew.

‘Face downwards,’ said the Crimson Lady, standing at the table’s head, her face lit to evil life, her arms crossed on her breast. ‘Face downwards, and spread his legs.’

Black Aed was thrust on to the stone table top, and the gyves were snapped tightly and cruelly about his wrists and ankles. He writhed and threw himself against their restraints, shrieking in terror, cursing and threatening.

But he is caught, thought Rumour, unable to look away. The gyves are holding fast, and he is caught.

A rat caught in the trap …

At the centre of the room, Diarmuit had placed a slender, wicked-looking iron rod into the centre of the brazier, and the scent of hot iron filled the room.

The Lady slipped the thin robe from her shoulders, and let it fall to the ground in a whisper of silk. She stood before them, naked and slender and beautiful, and for a moment, the great evil eyes were turned to Andrew, and the strong beckoning stirred in their depths.

Andrew felt the flicker of arousal again, and stared at her angrily, understanding that she was throwing out her seductive lures, but for the moment, helpless against them.

Did I not tell you, Human, that I should take you to the peaks of the darkest and most sensual pleasures of all … ?

With an immense effort, Andrew dragged his eyes away from the great black eyes, and the Lady said, in an amused voice, ‘Afraid, Monk? Let us see how you fare when it is your turn to face the hooks and the razors. When it is your turn to be strung from the iron hooks so that I may feel your warm, pulsating blood caressing my skin.’ She stopped, breathing fast as if she had been running, and shook her head slightly like an animal coming out of water.

‘The rod, ma’am,’ said Diarmuit softly, and she turned back, taking the rod from him, using a thick velvet pad to hold it. She lifted it up, so that they could all see the thin, smooth steel shivering with heat, white-hot from the brazier, and the smile touched her lips again; avid, sexual, greedy … Andrew felt again that treacherous stirring. What would it feel like to inflict pain, to bestow screaming agony on another living creature … ? You would know yourself to be possessed of such power … He stared at the Lady, and felt his mind spiral downwards into crimson swirling desires and deep, dark passions, and then, without the least warning, Rumour’s thoughts pierced the smothering evil: Close your mind to her, Andrew, for she is casting the Beckoning Darkness about you … Andrew felt something cool and clean touch his mind, rather like a shower of rain on an autumn morning, he felt the insidious lure release its hold, and with the feeling, came a deep gratitude to Rumour, who understood and sympathised, and who had managed to break through the darkness and brush the surface of his mind in that cool, gentle way.

Black Aed was spreadeagled on the table, and his captors had peeled his shirt and breeches from his body. Andrew and Rumour saw that, although his body was covered with pale, more or less ordinary Human skin, along his spine was a band, a stripe, a striae of thick, bristly fur, dark brown and coarse. As Aed struggled again, Andrew saw that Aed’s spine extended approximately six inches outwards from his body, jutting over his buttocks, making a rudimentary tail.

The Lady approached softly and sinuously, the heated rod held firmly in her right hand. Black Aed flung a terrified glance over his shoulder, and his body sagged suddenly.

The Lady nodded to the two Almhuinians who stood at Aed’s head, and they leaned forward, silently, forcing his thighs wide, so that the embryo tail jutted rather horridly upwards. The Lady pushed it aside impatiently, and Andrew and Rumour saw that it was not bone, as they had thought, but a gristly, fibrous growth. Rumour found herself trying to decide whether this made Black Aed more Humanish and therefore more pitiable, or more Rodent-like, and thus evil and repulsive. She shook her head angrily, because there was no time to be feeling sorry for these evil beings. They had to think of themselves; of getting away and finding Chaos’s Castle of Infinity, and reaching Theodora. She glanced to the doors, but three Almhuinians were standing guard, and one of them caught Rumour’s eye and grinned knowingly, shaking his head.

There will be no escape from this place. Amaranthine …

Black Aed was sobbing, his head and his face pressed into the rough surface of the table. His nose and chin were grazed and bleeding from having been dragged across the floor, and the tips of his fingers were in bloodied rags from where he had fought to avoid being dragged to the stone table. He still flailed helplessly against the gyves that were about his wrists, but his legs were held firm and immovable by his captors.

The Crimson Lady stood savouring her prey, and then nodded to the Almhuinians holding the prisoner’s legs. At once they jerked his thighs apart, and two of them moved to pull open his buttocks.

In a single clean movement, the Crimson Lady thrust the white-hot iron rod down between Black Aed’s thighs; and as it rested there, lying against his skin, there was the terrible sound of skin scorching and flesh searing. Black Aed was screaming — dreadful, trapped-hare screams — and Andrew saw the Lady throw back her head and shiver with anticipation. A frown of concentrating ecstasy touch her brow now, and, still holding the fibrous, gristly tail out of the way, she grasped the rod more firmly, and slid the tip inside Black Aed’s gaping anus.

A truly dreadful shriek rent the air, and there was a faint hissing sound, as if water had gushed on to the hot iron. Runnels of urine trickled between Aed’s thighs, hissing and bubbling. Tiny droplets of moisture ran down his legs, leaving a thin trail of scarlet, blistering flesh, and the Lady laughed contemptuously.

‘The creature cannot even hold its water in the face of a little pain!’ she shouted, and her eyes were blazing madly now, flecks of bloodied spittle on her lips. ‘See how its filth and its excretions are boiling within its miserable carcass! An inch of the heated iron — no more! — and it is writhing in agony! Puny being! Weakling! I am better without such cowards to serve me!’

Black Aed was sobbing, his face was contorted in such agony, that Andrew made an involuntary movement and then was still.

‘And now,’ said the Crimson Lady, stepping back, and surveying her victim, ‘and now, to the hook with him.’ She gestured imperiously to Diarmuit, and the Almhuinians sprang forward, unfastening the gyves and the manacles, dragging the moaning, shivering Aed from the stone table.

‘To the hook!’ screamed the Crimson Lady, stretching out a pointing finger, and the Almhuinians began dragging the barely conscious Aed across the floor. Andrew, his mind reeling with horror, saw for the first time that thin, iron-runged ladders were embedded into the walls, and that the Almhuinians were swarming up them, hauling Aed with them. They moved easily and agilely, and although they all wore leather shoes or boots, there was the impression that their toes curled like thin claws around the ladder’s rungs.

They dragged Aed up carelessly, scraping his already mutilated body against the iron rungs, and at once the Lady screamed in anguish, ‘Do not let him bleed! Preserve the blood!’

The Almhuinians reached the top, and crawled along the thick, wide rafters. There was the soft creaking of ancient, well-seasoned wood, and Andrew saw that the rafters were easily four feet in width, and that the Almhuinians were able to drag Aed along with them. They neared the centre and knelt there, lowering Aed over the edge.

‘Carefully!’ screamed the Crimson Lady, suddenly. ‘Do not spill any more of his blood!’

The Almhuinians had lowered Aed and they were holding him by his arms now. His chin was resting on the hook, its point against the bony ridge of his jaw. Aed’s eyes were bolting from his head with terror, and he was still struggling, but the Almhuinians held him firmly and he was helpless.

The Lady was watching avidly, her fists clenched and her eyes blazing with inHuman excitement. Thin fingers of colour painted her white face, and Andrew felt the treacherous ripple of admiration stir the surface of his awareness again. He thought: she is caught in the grip of her evil hunger, but like this I believe she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen!

‘Position the cask!’ said the Crimson Lady, her voice suddenly urgent, as if she could scarcely contain her hunger. ‘Do it!’

She bounded forward, moving like a great cat, and as the Almhuinians dragged the immense silver butt directly beneath the moaning, writhing Aed, she held out her hands and they lifted her into it. Diarmuit reached for the huge earthenware jug and stood watching Aed.

‘And now,’ said the Crimson Lady, her voice languorous and sensual, ‘impale him. But do it slowly. Let him feel the caress of the cold iron in his cowardly mouth. Let him feel it biting into his bones and his teeth.’

There was a moment when no one moved, and a sudden waiting silence descended on the slaughterhouse. Rumour thought: is this the moment to reach for a spell? Something filled with light? Something made up of slicing knives and white hot spears? Would the Collector come again, and if so, would he be a match for her?

The Lady had thrown back her head, and her eyes were fixed on the dangling figure of Aed directly above her. The lower part of her body was hidden by the silver cask, but her nipples stood out hard and erect, and her eyes were avid.

‘Impale him!’ she screamed frenziedly, and ran her flattened hands over her body with such absorbed sensuality that Rumour shuddered.

‘Drive the hook into the creature’s cowardly flesh!’ cried the Crimson Lady. ‘Make him dance on air! Do it! Do it!’

Aed was fighting again, struggling to break free, but the Almhuinians held him. He began to jerk convulsively with terror, his legs kicking and writhing.

‘The dance of the hanged-man!’ screamed the Lady triumphantly. ‘See him dance! See the fool dance on air! Impale him! Now!’

The Almhuinians lifted Aed several inches, the muscles in their stringy arms bulging. And then, with dreadful precision, they brought his jaw down on the hook. There was a wet, splintering crunch and Aed jerked convulsively, an animal grunt of agony bursting from him. Blood and spittle gushed from his mouth, and the point of the hook burst through his nose bone, jutting out of the centre of his face so that, from below, it appeared that his nose had been replaced by the great black hook.

His body sagged, and he moaned with thick, grunting sounds. Rumour, sickened, realised that his mouth was shattered and that he was screaming through his nose. Blood, flecked with splinters of bone and teeth, trickled down over his chin.

The Lady stared up at him with the hungry intensity of a lover. ‘And now let us have the traitor’s blood!’ she cried. ‘Let us have every drop and every trickle and every ounce and every tear-drop of moisture in his puny body! Now! Now, when he is poised between pleasure and pain! Slit his veins! Shed his juices! Quickly! Do it! Or must I slaughter more of you! Do it!’ And then, with unmistakable lust clotting her voice, ‘Let me feel the blood,’ she said, and her voice lingered on the word.

But the Almhuinians were already reaching down, the razors held out. Their eyes glinted redly in the dim light and, for a moment, it was not Humans who crouched along the ceiling beams, but huge rats, red-eyed and feral. At the Lady’s side, Diarmuit stood with the great earthenware jug.

‘Open his veins!’ screeched the Lady. ‘Open his veins! Or must I twist your manhoods from their roots and force them into your cowardly throats! Let me feel the blood, Rodent-mutants!’ And then, in a different voice, ‘But do it slowly to begin with. Let it fall slowly, like a caress. Now!’

The Almhuinians reached forward, and held Aed’s arms up, the razors glinting redly.

‘The blood,’ screeched the Crimson Lady, and as the razors sliced into Aed’s flesh, blood and juices and terrible fluids began to gush.

The Lady threw back her head, the veins standing out in her neck like cords, and the blood began to splash on to her. It came in a thin, steady flow, spattering over her white skin, running into her hair and over her face. Her tongue came out, licking at the terrible fluids, and her eyes were half closed in evil ecstasy. With the palms of her hands, she caressed her naked body, stroking the skin, sliding her hands between her thighs. Black Aed moaned and struggled, and there was the sound of tearing flesh and muscle as the hook, embedded in his jaw and his face, shifted a little. He grunted agonisedly through the shattered bones of his nose again.

Diarmuit, his expression absorbed, held out the jug, and as more of the gore ran down, there was the sound of it dripping into the jug’s cavernous depths. He held it aloft, and poured it with a slow steady trickle over the writhing, blood-drenched figure of the Lady.

‘He is draining,’ she cried. ‘Let me have all his juices! He is a paltry specimen of manhood, but I will have it all nevertheless! Be ready to slit him again!’

She reached her slender white arms upwards, and the Almhuinians wielded the glinting razors again. Blood ran into the Lady’s cupped waiting hands and slopped over, and she cried out in obscene ecstasy.

‘The remainder!’ cried the Lady. ‘Drain the traitor of everything!’ As she spoke, the Almhuinians plied the razors for the last time, slicing with grisly expertise at the pulsing veins in Aed’s neck. Blood sprayed outwards, a thick, gore-filled fountain, and the Lady moaned in dreadful pleasure, catching the flow and smearing it into her limbs. Her white body was clotted with gore, and her hair was matted and slick with the fresh, warm blood — and she is dangerously and soul-scaldingly beautiful, thought Andrew. Even as he framed the thought, the Lady turned and regarded him through eyes that were slitted with dreadful ecstasy. Her lips curved in a hungry smile.

And you will be the next one, Human …

Black Aed’s body had sagged; it was turning slowly and swinging, exactly as a carcass of a slaughtered animal will hang in a meat-safe. Great livid bruises had appeared on his skin, and the last drains of blood trickled out now, clotted droplets splashing on to the Lady’s shoulders.

He is raining blood on her, thought Andrew, still caught in the evil fascination, unable to tear his eyes away. This is her god, her worship, this is the thing she believes keeps her beautiful and young. And perhaps it does.

The Lady was gesturing to the Almhuinians who held Andrew.

‘And now, Human,’ she said, her voice purring with anticipation, ‘and now, you see a little of my pleasures.’ She glanced to Diarmuit and the others. ‘This one interests me,’ said the Crimson Lady. ‘His body draws me.’ She raked Andrew with her eyes. ‘Lean and strong,’ she said, softly. ‘Muscular. Strong arms and powerful thighs.’ She leapt from the blood-butt, as agile as a panther, and moved to stand in front of him. Blood dripped from her, smearing the stone floor, and Rumour saw that blood had collected under her fingernails and toenails, and that her scalp was crusted with drying gore.

The Crimson Lady was standing close to Andrew, and her bloodied hands were caressing his body, her eyes holding his, her whole bearing one of terrible and evil beauty. Rumour thought: of course he is caught in thrall. Of course he is feeling his body respond. He cannot do otherwise. That is the terrible allure possessed by the necromancers of the House of Medoc, she thought, and knew that, although she had reached him earlier, Andrew was helpless in the Lady’s allure now.

‘Strong and lean and hard,’ whispered the Lady, her blood-smeared body pressed against Andrew’s. ‘Pure Humanish blood. Untainted Humanish sap and Humanish juice.’ She opened her eyes and deliberately ran her hands over him, caressing his thighs. ‘Oh, monk, I am going to enjoy you,’ she said. ‘I am going to enjoy your agony, and then I am going to enjoy seeing it cross over to the most exquisite agony of all.’ She stepped back and nodded to the Almhuinians. ‘Strap him down,’ she said.

Chapter Thirty-one

Rumour’s mind was working furiously.

She knew that she was hovering perilously on the brink of throwing herself on the Crimson Lady’s mercy, begging her to spare them, certainly begging her to spare Andrew.

Could I? she thought, watching him being carried to the centre of the room and strapped to the stone couch. There was the cold, cruel snapping of the gyves as the metal slid home. Could I ask the creature’s mercy, promise her some kind of evil pleasure? thought Rumour. Offer my own flesh for her to satisfy her horrid lusts? Her skin crawled at the thought, but she would have done it save for one sure thing: the Crimson Lady would accept her offer, would use her in a dozen warped, twisted ways, and at the end would still slaughter Andrew. She will not give him up, thought Rumour.

Diarmuit and the others had strapped Andrew to the table they had used for Black Aed, and two of them had moved to Rumour, not chaining her in any way, but twisting her arms behind her back so that she could not move. But she could see that Andrew had been forced to lie amidst the half-dried gore and blood, and the expelled urine from Aed’s body. A deep anger kindled and she thought: I will outwit this one! Somehow I will do it!

The Lady waited until Andrew was manacled, but there was an impatient glitter in her eyes, and Diarmuit’s people, glancing at her uneasily from the corners of their eyes, worked quickly. The instant they finished, she leapt forward, as quickly and as suddenly as an uncoiled spring, and leaned over the table, her eyes raking Andrew’s body, her fingers curving in a predatory gesture. Her hair was matted from Aed’s blood and her eyes were wild. There was barely any trace of the icily beautiful creature who had confronted them on their arrival, this was the creature beneath the thin veneer of culture, and it was a creature red in tooth and claw.

The Lady took a razor from one of the Almhuinians, and her movements were slower now, deliberate and studied. She held the razor aloft in her left hand, her eyes glittering, the other hand stroking her white, blood-spattered body in a monstrous, self-indulgent caress.

Andrew’s dark woollen robe had been torn from him, and Rumour could see that the gyves were cutting cruelly into his wrists and ankles. Tiny bubbles of blood welled to the surface, and at once the Lady bent over, licking them, savouring the taste, her tangled, crusted hair brushing Andrew’s bare skin. Rumour saw him flinch, and remembered with sharp poignancy how the silken swing of a lover’s hair against bare skin was one of the most intimate and joyous sensations of love-making. She felt a cold sickness at seeing this parody of something soft and precious and loving being inflicted on Andrew.

The Crimson Lady padded silently round the table again, her eyes never leaving Andrew’s body. She is savouring him, thought Rumour, struggling uselessly against her captors, feeling their hard, bony fingers digging into her flesh. She cast a quick look back at the door through which they had entered, listening for the soft footfalls of Chaos’s people. Did I imagine it after all? If they would only come, thought Rumour in anguish; if they would only come pouring down on their Lord’s enemies, I believe we should be able to escape. But although she thought there was a faint stirring of something beyond the double iron framed doors, the shadows remained quiescent, and there was nothing in the chamber with them, save the soft padding of the Lady’s bare feet, and the harsh struggles of Andrew, manacled and chained on the stone.

At last the Crimson Lady moved to stand over him, her eyes glittering with lust and hunger, her hands still reddened from the blood of Black Aed, her lips slicked and red with Andrew’s own blood. She reached for the great earthenware jug, still spattered with Black Aed’s blood, and positioned it beneath the table, directly under one of the drainholes, lining it up with such absorption and such minute attention to its exact placement that Rumour had to choke back a scream of frustration and anger. As if sensing this, the Lady turned and sent Rumour a thin, hungry smile, with something dreadfully intimate in it, as if she believed that Rumour might understand and enter into this fearsome bloodlust. Rumour looked away, as if bored, and the Lady smiled, and said, very softly, ‘Someone will be quaffed tonight. Oh yes, Amaranth sorceress, I know what they say of me.’

‘I suppose,’ re-joined Rumour, sounding as if the matter was of scant interest, ‘that it is better to be known for something — even the quaffing of Humanish blood — rather than not to be known at all.’ She studied the Lady. ‘But for your warped tastes,’ said Rumour, ‘you would probably live in obscurity. Unheard of. Rather sad,’ said Rumour and, looking across at Andrew, said in the coolest of all her cool voices, ‘We should try to be kind to her, Andrew, for this is really the poor soul’s only claim to fame.’

The Lady stared at Rumour, and Rumour felt the icy darkness uncoiling deep in the creature’s mind. At length the Lady said, ‘You will pay very dearly for that remark, Amaranthine,’ and Rumour said at once, ‘But I seldom pay my debts, madame. You should know that I seldom pay for anything.’ And smiled blandly.

The Crimson Lady looked at Rumour for a moment longer, and Rumour felt a stir of triumph, for she thought she had succeeded in disconcerting the Lady very slightly. If I could somehow throw her off balance, she thought, I believe I could quench the smothering darkness and reach power of some kind. If only Chaos’s spies would come swarming in.

The Lady was reaching out to caress Andrew’s skin, stroking the inner part of his thigh. Rumour felt fury sweep her mind, because there must surely be some way to defeat this evil creature, there must be something she could do. To summon a dark power would be better than nothing, and here of all places, a dark power would be easy to summon.

A dark power …

Of course.

Rumour did not hesitate. She flung back her head, and in a ringing voice, pronounced the ancient, distorted incantation that she had used in Diarmuit’s tavern cellar.

As if in answer, the slopping liquid chuckling reverberated around the room, and Rumour knew she had reached him again.

The Collector.

*

He materialised almost at once, the huge black shadow falling half across the chamber, the remembered stench of old blood and ancient evil gusting in their faces. The Almhuinians fell back fearfully, and Rumour twisted from their grasp, laughing in delighted triumph.

‘See your victim, Master Collector!’ she cried, pointing to the Crimson Lady. ‘Take whatever you will of her!’ And as the Lady turned, a snarl twisting her beautiful, cruel features, ‘The biter is about to be bitten, madame!’ cried Rumour.

The Lady fixed her black eyes on the hovering shadowy outline. ‘You are not unknown to me, sir,’ she said, and the Collector gave vent to his terrible laugh again. The torches flared, and although the light did not quite reveal his whole body, it seemed to alight on portions of it in turn, never quite revealing the whole, but almost appearing to say: see, here is one grisly aspect, and here another; showing the great slung belt with the grisly gobbets of flesh and the pieces of his victims’ bodies: phalluses and hanging, sagging breasts … The necklace of eyes and teeth … The bracelets of bloodied hair and the glimpse of his cloak hem, plaited with the glistening, still wet ropes of pale intestines, bowels …

Rumour shuddered, but the Crimson Lady was moving towards the huge, loping silhouette, her eyes blazing with strong emotion.

‘The Collector,’ she said, in a purring, sensual whisper. ‘Bailitheoir …’

The Collector’s huge head came round, and for an instant the torches flickered, showing a gaping, yawning face, a face stretched into an impossible elongated shape, tallow-pale and the edges indistinct, but with great black chasms where the eyes should have been. In his soft, dark voice, the Collector said, ‘You know my name,’ and there was a different, sharper quality to it now, as if he might be suddenly interested.

The Crimson Lady had come to kneel before him, her hands upraised with the palms uppermost. ‘Who of my House does not?’ she said. ‘The Collector, whose name in the ancient Gael is Bailitheoir. The one who takes the gleanings of the Humanish bodies. The one who permits corners and fragments of his dark self to be glimpsed, but never the whole.’ With the words, the great shadowy cloak stirred, and Rumour caught the edges of torn-apart lips, dozens upon dozens of them, and wide-open, silently screaming mouths behind.

The Lady smiled, as if she, also, had seen this and understood it to be a response from the shadowy entity. She said, ‘No living creature has ever beheld you in your entirety, Bailitheoir. And you value your privacy. But you are well come, sir,’ she said.

Rumour strode forward, her cloak brushing the stone floor angrily. ‘This creature is my servant!’ she cried. ‘Called up by my sorcery and my strength! He will answer to me!’

‘But,’ said the Crimson Lady, her eyes still on Bailitheoir, ‘but if he should find himself in accord with one who springs from the same root …’ She paused, and her eyes swivelled to Rumour, mockery in her expression. ‘If he should find himself faced with one who may be kin to him, one who could strike a very profitable bargain with him,’ she said, ‘then his allegiance might very well turn.’ The dark eyes rested on Rumour and the amusement was there again. ‘You did not think of that when you summoned him?’ said the Lady. ‘I see you did not. Well, I had heard you were a gambler, madame, and now I know it to be so.’

‘The Summoning was clear!’ cried Rumour angrily. ‘He is answerable to me!’ She whirled around to the dim outline of Bailitheoir. ‘Tear this creature’s head from her shoulders and wear it for a trophy!’ she cried. ‘I command you to do it! By every ancient law of sorcery and by every Chronicle of Enchantry you are bound to obey me!’ She stopped, breathing hard, and from behind caught a movement, as Andrew struggled helplessly against the iron gyves of the table. If Andrew could somehow be freed, together they might flee from this dreadful place …

The Crimson Lady was reaching out to stroke the Collector’s swirling, indistinct cloak. ‘I could give you so much, Bailitheoir,’ she said, her voice heavy with sexual promise. ‘We could share in the pain and the blood. Join me at my banquets, and take what I do not need. Rule at my side.’

The Collector appeared to be sunk in thought. He dipped his great head to Rumour, and said, ‘You summoned me, madame,’ and the courtliness that Rumour remembered was in his voice.

‘I summoned you, and by the ancient law of sorcery you must obey me,’ said Rumour again. ‘Tear that creature into collops!’

Unexpectedly the Lady laughed. ‘A terrible choice!’ she cried. ‘You are caught between the law and the promise of far more than that puny Amaranth can give!’ She moved to the shadowy outline again, and lifted one slender arm almost negligently. ‘Serve me,’ she said, softly. The Collector turned his great head, and Rumour saw, as clearly as any manifesting curse, the Dark Beckoning, the seductive lure of necromancy spin outwards and curl about the Collector’s head.

‘Ride with me against the Lord of Chaos,’ said the Crimson Lady in a soft voice. ‘Join with me in battle against him, and together we will vanquish him and rule unchallenged.’ She paused, and the tip of her tongue came out to lick her full red lips. The Collector remained silent and motionless, but Rumour felt him listening.

‘And then it would be all ours, Bailitheoir,’ said the Lady, and now the rising note of sexual hunger was in her voice. ‘The NightFields with their bloody harvests and the sprawling piles of rotting carcasses. The gore-soaked Crimson Lakes, and the Black Pits of Ireland’s ancient, fire-drenched Hell: Ifreann itself.’

The Collector said in a quiet, breathy whisper, ‘But you have a servant, madame. All the Dark Realm knows of your servant,’ and the Crimson Lady made a quick, dismissive gesture.

‘There was a fool who served me,’ she said. ‘A Human who fell for a time into my vassalage. He was weak and gullible.’

‘And?’ Rumour, watching carefully, saw that the Collector was listening with absorption. Across the room, Andrew turned his head.

‘He betrayed me as Humans always betray in the end. I discovered that he was prepared to sell his services to any in the Dark Realm who would gratify his needs. He was serving Chaos at the same time as he was pretending to serve me. And no man in this Realm can serve two masters,’ she said, her brow drawn down.

‘Or two mistresses,’ said Bailitheoir softly. ‘So you cast him out, madame,’ he said, and the Crimson Lady smiled, remembering.

‘I cast him out,’ she said. ‘Into the howling night of the Dark Realm, where Humans are constantly at the mercy of the Harpies and the Crones and the roaming WarMongers. I have had many pleasurable nights imagining what his fate was.’ She looked up at the towering shadow standing over her. ‘That was when I issued the ancient challenge of War to Chaos, who had tried to steal one of my people.’

Rumour drew in a quick breath of understanding, because after all it was not Theodora who had caused this War of Necromancy, but simply the revenge of Almhuin’s Lady. Her eyes met Andrew’s, and she saw that he also had understood.

‘What became of the Human?’ said the Collector, and Rumour saw Andrew’s eyes fixed with intensity on the Crimson Lady.

But she said, ‘I have no idea. If he survived out there, he may have fallen into the thrall of some lesser necromancer. He may even have managed to reach the Castle of Infinity. But he is of no account. Once I discovered his disloyalty, I had no further use for him.’ She fixed her great black eyes on the Collector. ‘So you see,’ she said in a soft, purring voice, ‘you see, Bailitheoir, apart from the rat-mutants, I am alone. And to those who give me their loyalty, I am generous. Since the Wars there are many rich gleanings for such as you.’

Bailitheoir said, thoughtfully, ‘The corpses of battle.’

‘Yes. Chaos’s people.’

‘You are able to overpower him in battle?’

‘Certainly,’ said the Crimson Lady. ‘Our Armies have met and fought several times now. The famous Battle of the NightFields was my greatest victory. But the War is not yet entirely won.’

‘No?’

‘Chaos still lives,’ she said, coldly. ‘And so there must be many more battles. A quarter of all the prisoners we take could be yours.’

The Collector’s teeth gleamed with sudden predatory hunger. ‘Not enough, madame. Half.’

The Crimson Lady hesitated, and then said, ‘As you will. Half. You drive a hard bargain, Master Collector. But to have you with me will be worth it.’

The Collector bowed his head again. ‘It is my pleasure, madame,’ he said. And then, turning to where Andrew lay, ‘Shall we attend to the first of our shared victims?’ he said, and the Crimson Lady laughed, throwing back her head.

*

The Almhuinians had again sprung to Rumour’s side, holding her captive. She struggled and raked her mind for a means of escape, but they held her firmly, their hands digging into her like tiny claws.

The Crimson Lady stood behind the stone table, the blurred figure of Bailitheoir with her. She looked directly at Rumour, malevolent triumph gleaming in her eyes, and Rumour glared. When the Lady spoke, her voice was a silken purr. ‘You gambled on summoning and controlling a dark power, Madame Amaranth,’ she said. ‘And in the manner of all gamblers, you must occasionally lose.’ She looked down at the helpless Andrew and smiled. ‘You have lost, madame. He is mine.’

Rumour looked up furiously at the towering figure beside her, and it seemed to her that the two of them conferred, Bailitheoir’s massive blurred head bending over, his outline so blurred that at times it seemed that the Lady slid inside the dark shadow of his body. The two of them looking down at Andrew, touching, stroking … Rumour saw the Lady’s hand slide insinuatingly between Andrew’s thighs, and bit her lip in rage.

Then the Collector spoke, and it was the courteous, cultured tones that Rumour remembered. ‘I shall remove his legs,’ he said. ‘That will be of immense interest to me, for with a little dark sorcery, I may then walk with the tread of the Humanish. I may prowl the world of Men at will, in search of further prey.’

The Crimson Lady silently held up the razor, but there was a curdling of the shadows as Bailitheoir declined it.

‘Of knives and razors and Humanish weapons I have no need,’ he said, and turned to the table.

Rumour saw Andrew’s shiver, and she saw the shadows surrounding Bailitheoir thicken, and the sudden silver glint of dozens of tiny, vicious teeth.

The Lady flung herself beneath the table, writhing in an ecstasy of anticipation; and as the Collector raised his head, Rumour glimpsed the stretched wide mouth now, the rows of teeth smothered in blood. And then he descended on Andrew’s helpless body, a great smothering cloud of evil, and for a brief instant, Rumour saw the outline of his face again, and saw how the black glistening hair swung outwards, framing his head in a black aureole.

The Collector buried his face in Andrew’s flesh, and Rumour thought: he is biting through Andrew’s leg … He is eating it!

She knew the exact moment when the eerie core of teeth tore into Andrew. She was concentrating so furiously that she thought she almost felt the pain in her own flesh: a tearing, a wrenching, agony of unbelievable intensity …

Andrew’s skin had taken on a waxen quality, and Rumour knew that he must be held in a vice of mind-shattering agony. Blood poured from his leg, and when Bailitheoir raised his head, the barely glimpsed jowls blood-smeared, she saw deep within the gaping wound the white glint of bone. A groan broke from Andrew and he writhed against the gyves, his head threshing from side to side. The Collector moved again, this time shaking his head from side to side as a dog shakes a rat to subdue it. Rumour fought down the rising nausea, because she would not be sick, she would not be so weak … And very soon it will be me on that couch! she thought, her eyes huge with fear.

‘Humanish blood,’ cried the Lady. ‘Humanish blood, pure and clear arid undiluted.’ She smeared the dripping blood into her skin a further time, her eyes half closed with dreadful delight.

The Collector was chuckling evilly, but now it was a thick, clotted chuckling, and Rumour knew his mouth was filled with the fresh warm blood. Despite her resolve, her stomach lurched, and she thought: he is severing his leg. He is doing it slowly … I cannot bear it! thought Rumour. If I am to save him — if I am to save either of us, I must move! She braced herself, ready to throw off the Almhuinians, drawing in a deep breath and reaching desperately for the shining, Amaranthine power, even the thinnest vein of it … There must be a chink in these creatures’ dark carapaces! If only I could find it, I believe I could save us both! Her mind touched on and rejected a dozen enchantments. To defeat the Crimson Lady and her servants, she must use a spell that would turn the darkness upside down and inside out.

From deep within the Castle came the sound of light, soft feet, dancing and whirling, approaching the blood-smeared chamber. And over the sound, the unmistakable chanting of a grisly Hunting Song.

‘O give us skins for murdering in Cloaks of pale and Humanish shale.’

The Fomoire were in the Castle with them.

The great double doors to the slaughterhouse burst open, and the baleful red light that Rumour remembered so vividly streamed in. Silhouetted against it were the grinning, capering figures of the Fomoire, their cloaks of Humanish skin flying wildly about them, their tiny goblin faces grinning wickedly and lasciviously through the slits.

‘O give us skins of Humanish thin Husks to hide our evil in.

Murderers’ cloaks and child-eaters’ hair.

Robes of hide and fur and vair.’

They streamed forward, malevolently triumphant, and the Almhuinians fell back, clearly terrified, plainly unable or unprepared to fight the evil goblin creatures from Chaos’s dark Armies. The Fomoire came swarming forward, filling the blood-tainted slaughterhouse with their own terrible darkness, dancing and shrieking with malicious glee, chanting their grisly Hunting Song.

‘Fleeces of crimson, blood-soaked skin;

Pelts with trims of silken sin.

Give us fur and Humanish hair,

Rodent cloaks and rattish fur.’

They surrounded the Crimson Lady and the Almhuinians, leaping and jeering, their wizened claws reaching out, grabbing the razors and the thin iron rods and the knives from the cowering Almhuinians.

‘Spies!’ screeched the Lady, falling back against the stone table and staring up at them with distended eyes. ‘Spies and snooping, prying vermin! Chaos’s evil, sneaking spies!’

‘Rats and jackals and bloodied fur,’ shrieked the Fomoire.

‘Paws and claws and whiskers and hair.

Hides of Rodent and weasels’ skin,

Husks to hide our true selves in’.

The Collector jerked back from his grisly work and, whirling about, melted into the swirling shadows in a vortex of blood-tainted darkness. At once, the Lady gave a howl of fury, and turned this way and that, her huge eyes blazing with fury.

‘Coward! Back to my side and help me fight! Bailitheoir! I command you!’

‘Bailitheoir is not to be commanded, madame!’ cried Rumour. ‘The biter is bitten indeed!’

From the whirlpool of crimson-streaked darkness, there was a breath of a whisper, a soft polite murmur. ‘I do not fight for my prey, madame … Farewell …’ And then he was gone in truth, leaving only drops of dark blood splashing to the floor where he had been.

The Fomoire fell on the Crimson Lady, dragging her by her hair to the stone tables, shouting their glee, their empty-eyed heads lolling and jerking, the skins of several of them falling back, exposing their horrid wizened pates and their evil, shrunken, goblin faces. On the stone table, Andrew was barely conscious, blood pouring from the dreadful gaping wound in his leg, his skin waxen and grey. There are probably no more than a few minutes left if I am to save him! thought Rumour frantically.

The Lady was still trying to fight the Fomoire back. She was screeching and hurling imprecations at them, and Rumour thought that, if ever there was a moment to rescue Andrew and get out of Almhuin Castle, then this was the moment.

The Almhuinians were penned in the circle by the leaping, cavorting Fomoire, and the others were closing in on the Lady, their glinting, inward-slanting eyes avid.

‘Weaklings!’ cried the Lady, on her feet now, facing them with her eyes wild, her naked body caked with the blood of her victims. ‘Goblins, creatures of ancient filth and earth! Does your Master think to insult me by sending such puny creatures against me! Get from my Castle!’ She hit out at them again, but the Fomoire leapt and darted, grinning and jeering.

‘No power!’ they cried. ‘The Crimson Lady of Almhuin cannot even call up a spell to protect herself!’ And then, with one of their abrupt changes of direction, ‘Get the Rodent one down, chaps!’ they shrieked. ‘There’s a creature up there with a good skin!’

‘A skin of Rodent fur!’

‘We’ll sew the veins!’

‘We’ll sew the nose!’

‘And then we’ll hang it to cure!’

‘Rodent fur, chaps!’

‘Rats and jackals and bloodied fur,

Hides of Rat and weasels’ fur

Paws and claws and whiskers and hair.

Coats of hide and murderers’ vair.’

They swarmed up the ladders and across the beams to where Black Aed’s body still hung, swinging slightly in the movements from below, the head drooping, the huge black hook still protruding through his shattered nose.

The Lady was cowering in a corner, and Rumour stood for a moment, summoning courage, reaching for strength, knowing that even as she stood there, Andrew was bleeding to death, and knowing with a terrible clarity that there was barely any time left.

And then the Fomoire lowered Aed’s drained body, and began their strange Chaunt, the Chaunt that had marked the entry of Chaos into the Cadence Tower; and with the words, Rumour felt light exploding within her mind, and knew, in that instant, what to do.

The Fomoire were singing the fearsome Chaunt mockingly.

‘Carpet the world in Human misery,

Strew thick the harvest of the creatures of night.

Lay down the gleanings of the soul eaters.

Kill the veil of the world of light.’

Rumour knew the Chaunt as well as she knew any other incantation, for it ran like a sticky black snails’ trail of evil through every Book of Magic Lore, and every Sorcery Chronicle ever written. The Entry of the Dark Lords … Unutterably ancient and immeasurably potent.

The words fell on the air as if they were tangible things, a creeping dark slime entering the castle.

But for every darkness, there is light, thought Rumour. For every dark spell, there is a counter-spell. The age-old law.

And they are pronouncing the Chaunt of the Entry of the Dark Lords, and there is a counter-spell, and I know that counter-spell. It was the original Chaunt, the true and dazzlingly beautiful incantation written and spun for the first Amaranth sorcerers by the sidh, bestowed on them by Aillen mac Midha. And I know it! thought Rumour, exultantly. I can pronounce the Chaunt as it was written and as it was planned before the Fomoire stole it away and warped it to their own evil ends. It was the chink in the dark armour of Almhuin that she had tried so desperately to discover. And I have discovered it! she thought. A great surge of confidence filled her, and the Amaranth light, the ancient pure flame of her ancestors, streamed into her mind.

She moved to the centre of the chamber, and lifted her arms above her head, palms upwards in the age-old gesture that reached for the power, that harnessed it and turned it into pure living magic.

‘O give us skins for dancing in

And give us veils of Humanish pale.

Fleeces of fur and silken skin

Ivory bones for living in.’

And this time the power was there. As if a door had opened and permitted the ingress of a sliver of light from another room, the marvellous mystical power began to flood her mind.

It was a slow trickle at first; it came to her in rivulets and thin runnels, glittering and silken-smooth. But as she reached for it and seized it to weave into the Chaunt, it intensified, until it was a pouring torrent, a huge, almost overwhelming fountain of cascading light.

But I must be quick! thought Rumour. I must be quick, for I do not think there is very much time left if I am to save Andrew! The door is open, but I must be sure that it is pushed wide. But the Fomoire were already falling back, screeching in furious pain, their clawed hands scrabbling frantically at the air in front of them, as if blinding white light was swooping at them. They tumbled backwards, falling over one another, shrieking and wailing.

‘The light, the Chaunt of Light!’

‘The creature knows it!’

‘It will kill the Darkness!’

‘Slay the Amaranthine!’

‘Slay her and skin her!’

‘Take her fleece for the Lord of Chaos and his henchmen!’

‘You dare not touch me!’ cried Rumour, confidence filling her whole body, because she had forced open the door, she had let in the light and the strength and the power. She felt it streaming about her like a shimmering mantle, and when she flung out her hand, light sizzled and spat from the ends of her fingers.

‘You dare not even approach me, evil, snooping creatures!’ cried Rumour, and even at such a moment, she felt a tiny inner spurt of amusement at the sheer extravagance of the gesture. ‘Back to your lord!’ cried Rumour in ringing tones, and thought: well, if you can’t be dramatic at times like this, I don’t know when you can be!

‘Back and report your failure, Goblin spies!’ cried Rumour, and although it would be too much to have said she was enjoying herself, she was aware of a sudden relish and an uplifting of her spirits.

‘Back to your wretched Master, and tell him that you were vanquished by an Amaranth!’ shouted Rumour, thinking she might as well bring out all the rhetoric while she was about it.

The Fomoire squeaked and shouted in shrill and angry fear, but they were already tumbling across the floor, scuttling and scrabbling, climbing over one another in their haste to be out of the reach of the sorceress who had been able to defeat their Chaunt.

The Almhuinians were huddled against the far wall, trembling and cowering, and Diarmuit was fumbling with the door handles. As the Fomoire reached them, the door fell open, and Almhuinians and Fomoire tumbled through it in a seething, frightened mass of skin and fur and claws and flying skin-cloaks.

Silence fell over the slaughterhouse, and Rumour saw with infinite thankfulness that Andrew had revived a little, and had even managed to half raise himself, and reach down to press the wadded folds of his woollen robe to the terrible wound. Blood still flowed, but it had slowed to a sluggish trickle now.

Rumour looked at the Crimson Lady. ‘So, madame,’ she said, softly, ‘it seems that we are evenly matched at last.’

The Lady was on her feet, thrusting bloodied fingers through her tangled hair, combing it roughly into place. When she addressed Rumour, a semblance of the former cold authority had fallen about her.

‘We would never be evenly matched, Amaranth,’ said the Lady in a cold, contemptuous tone. ‘My powers are greater and darker and more ancient than anything you could ever hope to summon.’

Rumour said, rather as if it was a matter of minor importance, ‘Oh, I don’t think so, you know. Although it is a pity you did not make use of your ancestry, madame. I find it sad that the last of such an ancient line could not even turn back the Fomoire. I find it heart-warming that you cannot deflect this!’ cried Rumour, and flung a spear of light straight at the Lady, aiming it so precisely that it fell within a foot of where the Lady stood, following it with another, and then another, lining them exactly and deliberately, until the Lady was fenced in by dozens of spears of white, hurting light. She flinched and cowered, covering her eyes with her hands, her face contorted with pain.

‘A small revenge,’ said Rumour. ‘But it will serve for the moment. It will prevent you from being a nuisance to me while I see what has to be done here.’

‘How dare you refer to me so slightingly!’ cried the Lady, but she eyed the glinting light warily, and Rumour saw that she avoided looking at it directly.

‘Well, madame?’ she said. ‘Do you still say we are not evenly matched?’ And without waiting for an answer, went to where Andrew still lay, his face grey and his eyes closed, blood still seeping out from under the makeshift dressing.

At first Rumour thought that, despite his valiant effort to staunch the blood earlier, he was dead, and such cold desolation closed about her that the blood-smeared slaughterhouse and the caged creature blurred before her eyes. And then she remembered that dead men do not bleed, and saw that a tiny pulse was beating at the base of his throat.

Horridly conscious of ignorance, she pushed the gaping edges of the wound together, and bound it about with the makeshift wadding he had already managed to fashion from his robe. She thought it might be possible to effect a stronger healing, with sorcery, but it was one of the few magical arts of which she had little knowledge. And I cannot do anything here with that creature glaring! thought Rumour. Practical ordinary help first, and then she would think about magical aid.

Although she could not move him yet, she could surely make him more comfortable. She dragged off her own cloak and threw it over him, for although the bleeding was lessening he was icy cold and his flesh had taken on a grey pallor. As she did so, his eyes fluttered open, and although they were pain-filled and blurred, they were aware.

He said, in a thread of a voice, ‘Rumour …’

‘I am here and the Lady is caged,’ said Rumour at once. ‘And you are safe, Andrew, and I shall heal your wound.’

She thought he whispered a thank-you, and then his eyes closed again and Rumour thought: well, I suppose he will gain strength from unconsciousness. At least while he sleeps, he will be free from pain. She glanced back to the Crimson Lady, but the creature was still held inside the light spears. Safe so far, thought Rumour, looking about her. But I believe I shall have to leave him here to get linen and water to bind his leg. Can I leave him? I think I have no choice. I cannot move him as he is. But she pronounced a further enchantment before she did so, this time surrounding Andrew with light for protection, drawing gratefully on the power that was still obedient to her summons.

And then she went from the terrible slaughterhouse with its stench of spilled blood and its taint of ancient evil, out into the dank coldness of the Castle.

*

If there had been a sunrise it would have been so much better. Rumour prowled through the great silent Castle cautiously, hating the darkness and the thick shrouding shadows, fearful of every creature that she disturbed and that went scuttling or slithering out of the wavering light of her flaring torch.

She thought that the knowledge that there would never be a dawn here made the desolate night a truly dreadful thing to endure. If I could know that there would be a sunrise in this terrible place, thought Rumour, prowling warily through the dark Castle, I believe I could explore with a better heart. It was a futile hope, of course. This was the Black Ireland where there was only endless night and perpetual dark.

She searched the Castle cautiously and swiftly, disliking the great empty rooms and the crimson-swathed chambers that reeked of dirt and decay; finding it necessary to summon every shred of courage to push open doors and venture into deserted and dusty wings that had plainly been disused for many years. The stench of ancient malevolence pervaded the whole Castle, so that Rumour felt sick. She thought, half amused, half fearful, that she might be hard put to it to call up any light, any powers out here, but she put the thought from her at once, because there was no time to be having doubts, there was only time to get Andrew out from the slaughterhouse, and imprison the Crimson Lady properly, and go on to find Theodora.

At last she found a small, relatively dry room near to the portcullis entrance, which was warmer and cleaner than the rest, and which she thought was not as heavily tainted with evil. There was a small stone hearth where a fire could be laid, and a pallet bed near by. Perhaps a porter’s room? It was surprisingly easy to imagine this Castle humming with life, peopled by servants, nightly revels held in the great banqueting hall. The dungeons would be filled, and the banquets would be grisly, bloody feasts, for this was a necromancer’s citadel. But Rumour could see beauty in the carved plaster mouldings, and in the oak panelling in some of the rooms, and the crystal windows that must once have looked out over flower gardens and fountains and terraces.

The small porter’s room would do very well. It was close to the slaughterhouse, on the ground floor, and there was bedding in a cupboard at the side of the stone hearth. Rumour set light to the fire before she went back for Andrew, thinking that at least here they could be warm and dry and safe for a time.

She bound Andrew’s mutilated leg as well as she could, packing it with wads of tightly folded linen from the hearth cupboard knowing that this was crude and inexpert, but knowing of nothing else that could be done. And then she turned back to the Crimson Lady.

She had reinforced the light cage at regular intervals, not daring to leave the creature for more than an hour at a time.

‘For,’ said Rumour, regarding her captive, ‘although I think your powers are weak, and although I think you have built your reputation purely on your ability to coerce those poor weaklings of Almhuinians, still I do not trust you.’

The Crimson Lady snarled and lunged out at Rumour, but the spears of light held firm, and she flinched, nursing her hand as if she might have burnt it.

Rumour said, in a voice suddenly cold and stem, ‘For the moment, you are held, madame. For the moment you are under my enchantment, and you cannot escape. But we will devise something a little stronger presently, I think. We will ensure that you are imprisoned properly.’ And went back to Andrew.

‘I cannot carry you, Andrew, but I can act as a crutch,’ said Rumour, nearly in tears of frustration at her physical weakness.

‘I should not have let you carry me anyway,’ he said, but his voice was blurred with pain, and sweat poured down his face as he held on to Rumour and slid agonisingly down from the table.

The Lady jeered and laughed from behind the light spears, hurling curses at them as they went.

‘Useless,’ said Rumour to Andrew in a conversational tone designed to reach the creature. ‘Do you know, Andrew, she has no real powers at all?’

‘Has she not?’ said Andrew, valiantly joining in the game, suppressing the cries of pain that welled up inside him, certainly suppressing the almost overwhelming need to simply curl into a tight ball of agony and let his mind slip into pain-free oblivion again.

‘Nothing but a charlatan,’ said Rumour, in one of her confiding whispers, and sent Andrew a sudden grin.

Andrew was dizzy, half blinded with pain and shivering with cold, but he managed to say, ‘Then there is little to worry about.’

‘Nothing in the world to worry about,’ said Rumour. ‘We are nearly at the door now, and there is a fire laid and a bed of rugs made up for you.’

‘Yes?’ Andrew’s consciousness was slipping away again, but they must get away from this dreadful place, they must find a refuge for a few hours where they could consider what to do next. Rumour was showing such extraordinary courage and strength that the least Andrew could do was try to match it. He was grateful for her courage, and he was immeasurably thankful for the wry humour she was managing to dredge up. He found himself reaching for and holding on to her matter-of-fact tone. She had said there was warmth and a bed: he would reach it somehow.

Between them they managed to cross the stone hall; but they had to stop many times, and by the time they reached the little room, Andrew’s skin had again taken on the frightening grey pallor, and Rumour was trembling and aching in every bone. Andrew staggered and put out a hand to the wall to right himself, and then fell forward, unconscious again. Rumour, sobbing with exhaustion now, bent down and curved her hands under his arms, pulling him across to the makeshift bed. The fire had burned up and the flames were casting leaping shadows on the dingy stone walls. But it is rather cosy, thought Rumour determinedly; it is small and warm and I believe we can be safe here.

She pulled the unconscious Andrew on to the pallet, and arranged the fur rugs over him, and then, straightening up, took a burning twist of wood from the fire, and reached up to light the wall-torches on each side of the chimney breast. I suppose that is Humanish flesh in the sconces, thought Rumour. But the poor creatures were long since beyond their pain, and they needed light and warmth if they were to survive. This was no time to start being squeamish. But whoever you were, forgive me, she murmured silently.

Andrew was lying under the pile of cloaks and fur rugs, and Rumour stood looking down at him, seeing that the dreadful pallor had receded a little, hearing that he was breathing evenly and gently. She would go back to the slaughterhouse several times to reinforce the spears of light that held the Crimson Lady captive. She thought they would hold the creature for a few hours — and when we have both rested, we can discuss what to do with her, she thought, her mind already considering several spells of imprisonment. Yes, there would surely be something. But I must have a respite, she thought; if I am to break through the darkness again, I must rest, even for an hour or two. I reached the light earlier, but I think it has drained my strength. She paused, remembering how it had felt to force open that door and feel the light begin to trickle through and despite the dangers, a smile touched her lips.

But Andrew was maimed and mutilated, and even with Rumour’s help he would be unable to travel for several weeks. She was angrily aware that she knew only the most basic of healing spells. She would try them anyway but she knew that Andrew would be physically unable to cope with the dangers ahead. And Rumour knew that the greatest of all those dangers would certainly be Chaos’s Castle of Infinity.

She crawled, shivering and exhausted, under the fur rugs beside him, inexpressibly thankful for a brief respite before she need return to the slaughterhouse. But as she slipped over the edges into sleep, she knew that she might very well be forced to continue the journey to Chaos’s castle alone.

And leave Andrew here in Almhuin.

Chapter Thirty-two

Deep within the old west wing of the Porphyry Palace, the Amaranths were holding a Council of War.

They had Sealed the doors, and then they had gone in hasty procession through the great deserted wing, pronouncing the Sealing Enchantment around all of the windows as well. As Great-aunt Fuamnach said, traitors within your midst were nasty things to have, but when those traitors had thrown in their lot with the Almhuinians, you had to be prepared for anything.

‘And don’t you think,’ said Bodb Decht, ‘that we ought to post look-outs? Just in case?’

Cerball thought this very sensible, and detailed Cecht and the twins to keep watch. You could not be too careful.

The younger Amaranths would have quite liked to explore this disused part of the Palace, because nobody in living memory (which was quite a long time for people such as the Mugains) had ever been here. But, as the Mugain himself said, they really had not the time to be going off on expeditions. They had to discuss this matter of the Almhuinians and the Black HeartStealers trying to take over the Palace, and they had to think what they were going to do about it.

Cecht had found a small pantry, with a few casks of wine which was excellent news, and somebody else had discovered sacks of flour and wheat and some jars of honey and dried fruit which they might be glad of, but the Mugain said they could not be giving their minds over to eating and drinking just now. Not but what they mightn’t be very glad of the stuff presently, of course, and come to think of it, there was no reason not to fetch in the wine.

Herself said she might dredge up a bit of a Scullery Spell to fire the ovens, always supposing that there were ovens. They’d be glad of a bite to eat, said Herself, at which several people, to whom it had not occurred that the sojourn in the west wing would need to be other than a couple of hours, or an afternoon at most, looked startled.

The Mugain unbunged the wine-casks on the grounds that you needed a bit of sustenance when there was a battle to be fought, and directed everyone to assemble in the long, rather dusty gallery at the centre of the wing.

It was very dusty indeed. Great-aunt Fuamnach tutted with disapproval, and fetched over a length of curtain to sweep the dirt, because you could not summon proper sorcery in such a disarray.

But there was a long oak table, with chairs drawn up to it, and there was room for them all to sit down; even the twins, who were fetched up from their posts as look-outs, and who had not until now been considered far enough into their apprenticeships to be included in family conferences. As Cerball said, this was no time to be excluding the younger ones; even the rawest of them might have an idea to contribute. And if they couldn’t trust their own Seals to keep out the Fer Caille for a half-hour, then they were none of them fit to hold any rank in the Academy at all! said Cerball, looking quite fierce. The twins, round-eyed at being in such important company, sat very quietly in case anyone remembered that they had only reached the degree of Artisan, and made them leave.

Cerball took the chair at the head of the table — ‘But the Mugain has taken the one at the foot,’ said Calatin, grinning.

Cerball was not thinking about authority or about being at the head of the table. He was wrestling with himself over what they should do. He thought that the only way in which they could overpower the Fer Caille and the Black HeartStealers was to summon something ancient and powerful, and something that they could be very sure would defeat the Fer Caille.

But something that might be beyond their power to control once they had summoned it …

Bodb Decht was talking about the NightMare Spell, and saying wasn’t it the only way to drive back the Armies? He looked round the table, his thin scholarly face unusually brighteyed, and Cerball saw the others react with mingled doubt and excitement.

Cecht said, ‘But do we know the NightMare Spell?’

‘Yes, nobody’s pronounced it for — well, a very long time,’ said Herself, who did not hold with NightMares, nasty unpredictable things: and further along the table, Great-aunt Fuamnach nodded in agreement. You did not want NightMares rampaging about all over the place and getting out of control.

‘And surely,’ put in the Mugain, ‘we’d need the NightCloak to invoke the Spell fully. Wouldn’t we?’ He looked at the others for confirmation of this.

‘I always heard that only a pure bred Human could wear the NightCloak anyway,’ said Herself.

‘Well it doesn’t matter because we haven’t got the NightCloak.’

‘It was lost to the High Kings — oh, centuries ago.’

‘Like a lot of other things,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach sourly.

Cerball cleared his throat nervously, and everyone turned to look at him.

‘Yes?’ said the Mugain. ‘Have you got an idea?’

‘Out with it if you have,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach. ‘Battles have been lost before now by folks dithering.’

Cerball said, ‘The NightCloak is certainly in the hands of the Black Ireland, but it is possible that we — that we might be able to invoke one of the other great enchantments. Something that might turn back the Fer Caille once and for all.’ He relapsed into silence, chewing worriedly at his lower lip, and everyone stared at him.

‘What did you have in mind?’ said the Mugain.

‘Well,’ said Cerball, beginning to wish he had not spoken, but going on doggedly. ‘Well, for instance the — the opening of the Temple of the Dagda.’

There was a rather startled silence. Cerball thought: well, I’ve said it. I can’t unsay it. I suppose they all think I’m a bit unhinged. Laigne’s death and Echbel’s capture by the Fomoire, and Theodora being taken by the Lord of Chaos. It’s enough to unhinge anyone. But he eyed them and said, ‘If we could open up the Temple, we should bring the gods down into Ireland.’

‘Which would certainly drive back those miserable wretches below,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach.

‘Yes, but to open the Temple of the Dagda,’ said Bodb Decht, ‘would require the Key.’

‘Yes.’

‘But it’s lost,’ said Bodb Decht, staring at Cerball.

‘Would opening the Temple really bring the Dagda storming out?’ demanded Calatin, hopefully.

‘Well that’s what they say,’ said the Mugain, sounding doubtful.

‘Out from the Temple of Eternal Fire? And the — what do they call them? — the Men of Art as well? The lesser gods?’

‘Danaan the Mother-god …’ began someone.

‘Brigit the Poetess …’ put in somebody else.

‘Neit the God of Battle and Manannan mac Lir the Pilot …’

‘Ruad Rofessa, the Lord of Great Knowledge …’

‘Ruad’s another name for the Dagda: he isn’t a separate god.’

‘Are you sure? I thought —’

‘Look here,’ said the Mugain, who felt that matters were getting out of hand. ‘Look here, this is all speculation. We haven’t got the Key any more than we’ve got the NightCloak. We can’t possibly force open the Temple.’

‘We could try,’ said Calatin hopefully.

‘No, no, it’s impossible. We’d be shrivelled in an instant — well, we’d very likely be shrivelled anyway, even if we had the Key, which we haven’t.’

‘The Key was stolen by the Dark Lords,’ said Herself of Mugain, in a surprised, doesn’t-everybody-know-that voice. ‘During Grainne’s rule, wasn’t it?’

‘I heard it was Erin’s.’

‘No, that isn’t right, it was much earlier, because —’

Cerball cleared his throat again and they all looked up. Cerball said, ‘The Key isn’t lost.’ And, as they turned to stare at him, ‘We’ve got it,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘It’s here with us. In the west wing.’

*

It had been one of the secrets that Nechtan had preserved jealously and had only disclosed to Cerball on his deathbed.

‘And I’m only telling you now because there ought to be two of you knowing about it,’ he had said, glaring at Cerball from under his bushy brows.

‘Two of us?’

‘That minx Rumour coaxed the story out of me,’ Nechtan had said irritably.

‘Yes, she’d coax anything out of anybody,’ Cerball had said, half to himself, and Nechtan had at once reared up and said that Rumour was worth a dozen of any of them.

‘She’ll surprise all of you one day,’ Nechtan had added, and Cerball forbore to tell Nechtan that Rumour had surprised them already; she had surprised them all very much. The thought that Rumour might have gone into the Dark Ireland as much for Nechtan’s sake as for Theodora’s crossed his mind.

But now, seated at the long dusty oak table in the deserted west wing, Cerball looked round at the assembled Amaranths and thought: well, we have lost nearly everything that matters. Nechtan is dead, and Laigne. Echbel and Theodora are somewhere inside the Dark Realm. And, so far as we can know, the young monk and Rumour are in there with them. I wonder if Rumour did do it for Nechtan, he thought again.

But there was no time to spare for speculation; if the Fer Caille and his people took the Palace, the Amaranths would be truly exiled. We shall have lost everything, thought Cerball. I’m not the selected head — I don’t want to be. But somebody’s got to make these decisions and, since it has to be me, I’ll probably be the one to get blamed if the Black HeartStealers take the Palace. I’ll go down in history as the Amaranth sorcerer who lost his people everything, thought Cerball glumly. Well there’s nothing else for it; it’ll have to be the Key. Oh dear. We’ll have to try to open the Dagda’s Temple. He found himself remembering all of the things ever told or written about the great Father-god who was believed to be the Lord of life and death. Fearsome and all-powerful. Able to deal out death with one end of his staff and restore life with the other. Oh dear, thought Cerball, again.

Nechtan had been dying when he had passed on the secret to Cerball, but he had not been incoherent or astray in his wits.

‘I schemed and plotted for many years to regain the Key for the Wolfkings,’ he had said to Cerball in the flickering candlelight of the deathchamber. ‘And when I finally got it out of the Dark Realm, I hid it away.’ He had glared at Cerball. ‘And now I’ll have to pass the secret on to you for safe-keeping,’ he had said, rather grudgingly.

‘I schemed and plotted,’ Nechtan had said again, and a dry, papery chuckle had broken from him. Cerball had thought: yes, and enjoyed doing it! and Nechtan had at once said, ‘Of course I enjoyed it. Meat and drink and the breath of life, dear boy, and don’t be forgetting it!’

Cerball had known vaguely the history of the legendary Key to the Dagda’s Temple, of course. It was one of the most strongly magical possessions in Ireland, ranking alongside the NightCloak itself.

The legend told how the Keys had been given by the sorcerers to the first High Queen of all, in the days when Tara, the Bright Palace, the Shining Citadel of Ireland’s Royal House, had been raised from the rock.

‘Our ancestors,’ said Nechtan, grinning unexpectedly. ‘The first Royal sorcerers. They presented the Key of the Dagda’s Temple to the Royal House. There was a very famous set of injunctions given with it, although of course the exact words have long since been lost.’

Cerball said, ‘Something about building the House of Ireland on a rock, was it?’

Nechtan shot him a piercing look from beneath his bushy brows. ‘So you did pay attention to some things, after all, did you? Yes. The High Queen was commanded to build Tara as the seat of Ireland’s rulers, and to preserve it as the rock for the True Ireland, so that the Gates of the Dark Realm should never prevail against it.

‘But of course,’ continued Nechtan, ‘the Wolfkings lost Key. Well, they’re good rulers on the whole, the Wolfkings, but now and then you get a rogue, a strug. I mention no names,’ said Nechtan so virtuously that Cerball thought you might easily be pardoned for forgetting that the rascally old sinner had been responsible for spreading some of the juiciest scandals about the Wolfkings for nearly an entire century.

‘I mention no names, but the High King Erin had a cousin,’ said Nechtan darkly.

‘What did —’

‘Never mind the details,’ said Nechtan, so hurriedly that Cerball suspected him of having forgotten most of them. ‘We’ll just say the Key was lost,’ he said. ‘It got into the hands of the necromancers and the Dark Lords — well, it would, of course. Aren’t they for ever on the prowl for the best and the strongest of our treasures? Shocking state of affairs.’ He coughed and turned a bit white, and Cerball remembered that, rascally old sinner though Nechtan might be, he was on his deathbed; so he poured a chaliceful of wine, which Nechtan supped gratefully.

‘I got the Key back,’ said Nechtan, grinning reminiscently. ‘I got it back, but I —’ He shot a suspicious look at Cerball, as if wondering how far to trust him. ‘I kept it,’ he finished baldly.

‘You kept it?’

‘I did.’

‘The most ancient heirloom of Tara? You didn’t return it to the High King?’

‘I don’t know why I have to be interrogated as if I was no more than a pup apprentice sorcerer,’ said Nechtan, crossly. ‘Nobody ever knew I got it back — it was a commission from the High King Erin. He called me to Tara, and asked me to regain it, and so I did. Eventually.’ He chuckled the dry chuckle again. ‘My word, it took some scheming and some intrigue, and a great many years of spell-spinning. And by the time I finally got it out of the Dark Realm, Erin had long since gone to the Place Beneath the Ocean Roof. So I thought: why hand it back? Nobody at Tara knew I had been working to regain it. And by that time there were sons and grandsons of that cousin skulking around the High Throne,’ said Nechtan virtuously. ‘People you wouldn’t trust from here to that window. And I didn’t want the Key getting back into the hands of the necromancers.’ He eyed Cerball beadily. ‘I knew if it was kept here, in the Porphyry Palace, it’d be safe. On hand if it were ever wanted …’

*

‘It’s here in the west wing,’ said Cerball again, facing the astounded Amaranths rather defiantly. ‘We’ve had it for — well, I don’t know how long we’ve had it, but it’s here, and I think we ought to use it now.’ He looked round the table. ‘I think we ought to try to open up the Temple, and call the Dagda.’

Bodb Decht said, carefully, ‘Of course, we don’t want to know why it’s here or how it got here, Cerball —’

‘I wouldn’t mind knowing,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach.

‘The question is whether we should use it, and whether we dare use it,’ finished Bodb Decht.

‘Why can’t we use it?’ demanded Calatin, who found the whole idea of the legendary Temple of Dagda so utterly enthralling that he had forgotten to drink the wine placed before him by Cecht.

‘I didn’t mean we oughtn’t to use it, I meant we ought to be very careful.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, because they’re tricky things, gods,’ said Bodb Decht, a bit uneasily. ‘You never quite know how they’ll react.’

‘Yes, but look here,’ said the Mugain, ‘if the Keys were given to Tara in the beginning, with the command to — what was it again?’

‘Build the House of Ireland on the rock of Tara, so that it would prevail against the Gates of the Dark Realm,’ said Cerball. ‘At least, that’s as near as I can remember.’

‘It’s near enough,’ said the Mugain, frowning. ‘If that was the command, then surely it meant that the Dagda was on the side of the True Ireland.’

‘He’s always been regarded as a good god,’ said Bodb Decht, slowly and thoughtfully.

‘The Father-god,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, nodding.

Cecht said the Druids had held the Dagda in very high regard.

‘So they did,’ said Cerball.

‘They called him the Draidecht,’ said one of the twins, speaking rather nervously for the first time, but sure of her facts, because hadn’t they just been studying this part of Amaranth history for their Artisan level degree?

‘If the Dark Lords got their hands on the Key —’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach.

‘They stole it,’ said Cerball, who felt himself to be on rather thin ice over the entire thing. ‘They wouldn’t have bought it.’

‘If the Dark Lords got their hands on it,’ continued Great-aunt Fuamnach, who could not be doing with folk who interrupted when you were about to say something important, ‘that means they thought they could make use of it.’ She rapped the floor with her hazel stick. ‘Why didn’t they do so? Why didn’t they open the Temple?’

There was a thoughtful silence. ‘You know,’ said Cerball, ‘that’s quite right. They must have believed they could force open the Temple, or they’d never have taken the Key in the first place. But it wasn’t any use. It couldn’t have been. They were never able to open the Temple. We’d have heard about it.’

‘My word, I should hope we would,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach.

‘And the fact that they didn’t use it rather suggests that they couldn’t,’ said Bodb Decht.

‘They’d certainly have tried to use it, the black-hearted scoundrels,’ cried the Mugain, who was becoming very fired up at the idea of the Dark Lords, impudent creatures, getting their nasty hands on Ireland’s ancient magical treasurers.

‘Yes, of course they would,’ said Bodb Decht. ‘But they didn’t succeed. They didn’t open up the Temple. The Dagda wouldn’t respond to their spells —’

‘Because he isn’t on their side,’ finished Calatin, beaming.

‘I think we could be sure of that,’ said Bodb Decht.

‘Of course the Dagda isn’t on the side of the Dark Lords,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, impatiently. ‘I never heard of such a thing!’ She glared at Bodb Decht, who said quite mildly that he was only pursuing a logical line of reasoning.

‘Logic my bottom,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, and Herself of Mugain frowned and wished Great-aunt Fuamnach would not be so coarse.

‘Well, I say we find the Key and invoke the spell at once!’ cried Calatin, on his feet, his chair pushed impatiently backwards. ‘Find it and open up the Temple, and let loose the wrath of the Dagda and the — the lesser gods on those traitors downstairs! Neit the God of Battle, and the rest!’ He looked round, and several people called out in agreement. The younger ones stood up excitedly, but looked to Cerball and the Mugain for permission, because there was a strong ritual of respect in the family, and it would have been extremely impolite to have gone dashing off through the west wing in search of the Key before the Elders of the party had given the scheme their blessing.

Bodb Decht said, ‘We do know where it is, do we, Cerball?’ and Cerball, who had been pulling worriedly at his lower lip, said, ‘Well, there’s the problem. I haven’t the smallest idea.’

*

But in the end it was easy. They simply searched each of the rooms in turn. The twins were once more detailed to keep a watch on what was happening below, and to make a round of all windows and doors to be sure that the Seals were holding.

‘The search will be easy, because there’s hardly any furniture in here,’ said Calatin, who had been told to cover the rooms at the top of the wing, and was being very important about it.

‘I expect Cerball moved all the best stuff into the main part of the Palace,’ put in somebody else.

‘And there aren’t all that many rooms to search.’

They made a careful list, and divided into three groups.

Cerball, leading the Mugains and Cecht round the central portion of the wing, stopped once or twice to listen to the sounds below.

‘Are they breaking the Seals?’ asked Cecht.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Amaranthine Seals are unbreakable,’ said the Mugain firmly.

‘We can’t be sure of that, not with the Fer Caille there.’

‘The twins will tell us if they start to dissolve.’

‘Even so, I don’t think we ought to waste any time,’ said Cerball, rather nervously, because he was becoming aware of an unease, a feeling that eyes were peering out from the shadowy corners of the empty rooms. He remembered that there were a great many enchantments which could send rather repulsive, but amorphous creatures into an enemy’s camp as spies. There was a particularly loathsome one called the Draoicht Spiaire which meant, quite literally, the Enchantment of Spying, and which the Lord of Chaos was supposed to own and keep chained and muzzled in his dungeons, and only let out at night. Supposing the Black HeartStealers and the Arca Dubhs had summoned something similar to Chaos’s Spiaire? He moved more quickly, opening doors, scanning cupboards and chests.

In the end he found the Key himself, which rather pleased him. It was lying quite neatly and quite quietly in an ancient oak chest that had stood beneath a window of the corridor overlooking the south courtyard, and had lain in the streaming sunlight of centuries, and soaked up the warmth and the scents of several generations of Amaranths. Lovely, thought Cerball, reaching out to touch the blackened surface of the chest, liking the smoothness that centuries of usage had given it, and the elaborate carving with the Amaranthine symbols of the Tree of Fertility and the Hazel Wands.

The chest was quite small, perhaps the size of a jewel coffer, and Cerball carried it back to the long gallery, and set it on the table and opened the lid.

‘Be careful,’ said Herself of Mugain, who was not at all happy about getting involved with gods and ancient mystical Temples.

‘Oh, do hush. Has somebody fetched those twins? They oughtn’t to miss this. It’s an historic moment,’ said Cerball firmly.

The twins came pattering up the stairs, bright-eyed and out of breath, to report that the Seals were all secure, with the exception, they said rather worriedly, of the Seal at the door leading out into the banqueting hall.

‘It’s a bit fuzzy at the edges.’

‘Calatin, go and reinforce it.’

‘Can I just see the Key first?’

‘Well, all right, but don’t lose any time.’ Cerball glanced uneasily in the direction of the stair that led to the main Palace.

And then Cerball and the Mugain between them lifted out the ancient legendary Key to the Temple of the Gods, and a great stillness fell upon the long, dusty gallery. Cecht, who was seated next to Cerball, thought that even the little stirring winds outside ceased, as if they, too, were listening and watching.

The Key to the Temple of the Dagda, the all-powerful Father-god of all the gods. The Lord of Great Knowledge, the Draidecht of the druids of Ireland. The father of Brigit the Poetess and Dian Cecht the Sage for whom their own Cecht had been named … And of the two sons, Neit the God of Battle, and Manannan mac Lir the Pilot …

Dare we use it? thought Cerball. Dare we call them?

The Key lay before them, shining with its own inner radiance. It was much larger than they had imagined, although most of them had not known what to imagine. But it was easily the length of a man’s arm, and half as wide. There was a thick shaft etched with ancient symbols: ‘The Symbol of Eternal Life, and the Symbol of the Tree of Knowledge and of Good and Evil,’ whispered Bodb Decht. At the narrow end of the shaft were the symbols for light and strength, and at the other end, the handpiece was shaped like the winged fruit of sycamore and ash, inlaid with turquoise and firestones.

The Key to the Temple of the Dagda. The ancient, most magical gift ever bestowed on Tara’s Royal House, given by the sorcerers to the Wolfkings and their descendants, with the exhorted promise that they would build Ireland, the True Ireland, on the rock of Tara, and guard her against the Dark Realm for all time …

Bestowed on the first High Queen of Ireland, handed down to her descendants, and rescued from the Dark Realm by Nechtan.

‘Well,’ said Cerball, reluctant to break the silence, but knowing that somebody had to do so, ‘well, now that we’ve found it, we have to decide whether we dare use it.’

‘Do we know the spell to use it?’ asked the Mugain.

‘I know a spell that might work,’ said Bodb Decht, rather doubtfully. ‘But I don’t know if it would be the right one.’

The Amaranths looked at one another dismayed, and Cerball started to say that they would simply have to try every spell that seemed to them appropriate until they hit on the right one, when there was the sound of breaking glass and drawing back of bolts, and the scampering of feet below.

The Fer Caille and his armies had broken through the Seals, and were swarming through the ancient west wing towards them.

Chapter Thirty-three

There was no time to think and no time to plan. The Fer Caille and his followers were inside the west wing, and with them came the fetid stench of old evil magic and the clotted aura of necromancy.

‘Re-Seal the doors!’ shouted Herself of Mugain frantically.

‘It’s too late!’ cried Bodb Decht, who was already at the door, Calatin behind. ‘They’re already here!’

The gallery door was pushed contemptuously in, crashing back against the wall. The Fer Caille, huge and grinning and surrounded by his followers, stood on the threshold. Behind him were the Black Heart Stealers, and the Arca Dubhs stood with Iarbonel Soothsayer and the uninjured Almhuinians, who were armoured and accoutred, their narrow, mean eyes glinting through their dark visors.

From the corner of his eye, Cerball saw Calatin inching forward, but even as he did so, one of the Almhuinians flung a spear effortlessly, and Calatin was knocked back, falling helplessly to the ground, his left arm hanging at an awkward angle. Anger welled up in Cerball, and with it came a surge of power. He felt, for the first time, the immense, locked-in power of the great golden Key.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the force, the strength, the ancient and undying Amaranth stream bequeathed on his ancestors, which flowed like a great silver river in the veins of every member of his House. I think I can do it, thought Cerball with sudden astonishment. And then, with terrified entreaty: let me do it! Let me force open the doors of the Great Temple of the Dagda, because if I can only do this one thing, then perhaps after all I am not so unworthy of the name of my House …

He felt the power stream into his hands, scalding and fierce. Help us … thought Cerball, concentrating his mind on the single, shining thought. Help ns to drive back the Dark Ireland …

The great Key seemed to shiver and hum with life, and there was a searing heat from it, so that Cerball dropped it at once, and saw it slide a little way across the floor, and then stop at the centre, its shining, silken shaft pointing towards the east, glowing with fiery light.

The Fer Caille and his people drew back instantly, and the Almhuinians began to shriek in fear and to scrabble for the door to the stairs.

There was the distant sound of humming, of some immense force whirring and spinning over their heads. The Almhuinians, who had not reached the door, fell back on the floor, cowering there with their hands flung up over their darkly visored faces for protection.

Light was pouring into the dusty gallery; soft, glowing light, flame-tinted and pure, and the Amaranths moved back, the Key’s irradiating light directly before them. Through it they could see the Fer Caille and his followers cowering by the door.

‘Beyond the light,’ thought Cerball, seeing how the glow illuminated their faces, showing up the fear, but showing, as well, the twisted evil and the sly eyes.

The Fer Caille was standing in the doorway, a massive, brutish figure, his wide greedy mouth closed in a hard line, his small mean eyes flickering with a mixture of fury and terror.

There was a moment, searingly beautiful and very nearly blinding, when the pure flame-light lit the entire gallery, so that every object in it was silhouetted in sharp black relief. The Amaranths, clustered together at the centre, saw deep within the fiery light the massive outline of a glittering Temple; a shining, Golden Palace, so immense and so beautiful, but so mystical and so transient that they fell back in awe.

There was the sound of bolts being thrown back, and for a moment Cerball thought that more of the Seals were dissolving. And then he realised that it was nothing to do with the Seals; at the centre of the great Temple, massive, elaborate double doors were opening slowly, and rays of light were pouring outwards.

The Opening of the Temple of the Gods …

A great stillness fell over the gallery, and with it a feeling that they stood on the brink of some unguessed-at world, or as if they might have been ripped out of the Porphyry Palace altogether, and were on the edge of undreamed-of forces. But also as if they might also be within reach of silent blessed wells of tranquillity and of deep and ancient wisdoms that far transcended the sentient world. Cecht and the twins, standing with the wounded Calatin, the four of them holding hands for courage, felt suddenly helplessly young and shamefully unlearned.

There is so much you will never know on your side of the barriers, mortal creatures …

There was a brief, never-to-be-forgotten moment when they all saw, quite plainly, the wise, implacable features of a being who dwelled deep within the ancient mystical Temple; a being somehow composed of the fire and the fight, but somehow Humanish as well. There was an agelessness about him, and there was the aura of every eternal legend and every undying myth …

As the fight increased, they saw, quite clearly, wise slanting eyes that saw into Men’s souls and read their innermost thoughts, and that understood Men’s frailties and pettinesses as well as their kindnesses and their generosities. There was the feeling of immeasurable understanding and compassion, but there was the feeling as well of avenging anger and cold and dispassionate judging.

And then fire burned up more brilliantly, enveloping the wise, solemn eyes, and the doors began to move to a close again, and as the Amaranths flinched in the blinding heat and the fierce fight, the Dagda’s face wavered and blurred, and finally dissolved.

In the last flicker of the dying flames, darkly silhouetted against the fight, there appeared the figures of two slender young men, the taller clad in glinting golden armour, with a breastplate bearing licking tongues of fire. His hair was not ordinary hair that moved and became dishevelled or tousled, but a solid gold cap of carven curls sculptured to his head and clustering over his brow. His companion wore a silken robe of grey-green, and his skin had a pearly, luminous sheen, rather as if moisture clung to it. He had eyes the colour of the ocean on a dull day, and shining grey-green hair that rippled like thin water.

The Dagda had not come in response to their summons.

But he had sent two of his sons.

Neit the God of Battle, and Manannan mac Lir the Pilot.

*

The Fer Caille and his followers fell back at once, tumbling over one another in their haste to get down the stairs and out of the west wing and to some kind of safety.

The Amaranths could hear them running for cover, the Almhuinians shrieking and squealing — ‘Like the mutant-rats they are!’ thought Cerball, still bewildered and torn between triumph and fear. The Black HeartStealers were pounding down the stairs and along the corridors with their great, heavy tread, and they could hear the Arca Dubhs hurrying along in their wake.

Neit stood watching them go, his back to the dazed Amaranths, the golden armour gleaming, and a spear held in his right hand. Manannan mac Lir had turned to survey the Amaranths, and grinned suddenly and rather humanly at Cecht.

The God of Battle and the Pilot …

Cerball thought: I suppose it is up to me to say something. And tried to remember what was the correct way to greet a couple of gods, and glared at the Mugain, who might have been thought to know these things, but who was being no help at all, and was in fact staring at the two creatures with his mouth open.

Neit turned back into the gallery and strode to Cerball, holding out both his hands.

‘You are the Amaranth leader,’ he said, throwing back his head, so that the golden sculptured curls caught the light. His voice was strong and rich. It was the sort of voice you would instantly trust, and the sort of voice that made you feel, quite suddenly, that things could be put right after all.

Manannan mac Lir had followed his brother, but he seemed to be more interested in studying the female Amaranths rather than thinking about reassuring anybody about anything. In fact, so far from making them all feel safer, there was a glint in Manannan mac Lir’s cool, clear eyes that made Cerball a bit uneasy. He remembered that the younger gods had sometimes rather carnal appetites, and hoped there was not going to be one of those awkward situations where their guests invoked some kind of godlike privilege which might place everybody in an embarrassing situation.

Great-aunt Fuamnach said in a loud whisper, ‘Cerball — the Welcoming Speech of Erin,’ and Cerball, who had by this time realised that the Welcoming Speech of Erin was the correct protocol, but who could not remember how it started, turned round to glare.

Neit appeared not to notice any of this. He was looking down at him — Cerball thought he must be quite seven feet tall, although he was not in the least bit Giantish — and smiling. It was probably coincidence that he had positioned himself directly under the central torchlights, so that the glow fell across his sculpted hair and made it shine like newly minted coins.

Manannan mac Lir had moved to where Cecht and the twins were watching, huge-eyed, and was inspecting them with deep interest.

Neit said in a rich, strong voice, ‘Well, Amaranths? You called to us to rout the Dark Armies. And we have come in answer to your call. We are here.’

‘And Neit’s presence makes everything all right,’ said Manannan mac Lir, and his voice was low and faintly mocking. He sounded as if he might be rather enjoying himself. He sounded, in fact, as if he enjoyed most things. He said, ‘Neit has only to arrive, and all will be put right. He will tell you so himself, I daresay.’

‘We — welcome you both,’ said Cerball at length, having abandoned any attempt to remember the Welcoming Speech of Erin. The Mugain, standing next to him, said, ‘Indeed we do, and are grateful to you for answering our call,’ because Cerball was not going to have all the glory when it came to welcoming a pair of gods. If the Mugain had been able to recall the Welcoming Speech he would certainly have delivered it, and in proper oratorial style, too! As it was, he added his welcome to Cerball’s, and sent a covert glance to Manannan mac Lir. They might have to have a word with Cecht, who was blushing and lowering her eyes. And those twins — saucy baggages! — were giggling in a way which suggested they had more in common with their Aunt Rumour than had been hitherto suspected. The Mugain remembered that that branch of the family had never been noted for its high moral tone.

Neit said, ‘May we be seated?’ and without waiting for an answer, strode to the long oak table, his head flung back as if he were breasting a great ocean. Manannan mac Lir followed, looking amused. They sat down, Neit using smooth, fluid movements, and arranging his bronzed limbs gracefully, Manannan mac Lir simply curling carelessly into the nearest chair.

Neit said, ‘This is perhaps a little overbearing of us, to sit before we are invited, but —’

‘But gods have no manners,’ said Manannan mac Lir.

‘We have simply walked into your Palace — although not uninvited, of course — and taken over,’ said Neit. ‘Ah, we know better than to do that, I should hope.’

‘Even though we have been quite appallingly brought up, we have a modicum of good manners,’ said Manannan mac Lir.

‘Manannan was appallingly brought up because he was the youngest of us all, and the youngest of any family is always spoiled,’ said Neit in an indulgent voice. ‘Do not concern yourselves; I shall not allow him to offend you.’

‘I’m not spoiled,’ said Manannan at once.

‘Nonsense, Dian Cecht spoiled you from the time you entered the world. Not that it mattered to me,’ said Neit, laughing slightly as if such an idea was absurd.

‘Dian Cecht might have spoiled me just the smallest bit, but Brigit certainly spoiled you,’ said Manannan at once.

‘Can I help it if I am the sort of god that people like to write poetry to? My sister Brigit is the Goddess of Poetry,’ he added in an aside to Cerball, who said, ‘Um, so I understand.’

Neit repositioned himself, and it suddenly struck Cerball that he was in fact arranging his pose so that they should be presented with his profile. He glanced at the young man and thought: well, I daresay he is alarmingly handsome.

‘I am the beauty of the gods,’ said Neit, at once very grave. ‘It is a great responsibility. I take it very seriously.’

‘He does not like to offend his thousands of worshippers,’ said Manannan, in a voice so devoid of expression that every person present knew that Manannan was baiting his brother. ‘It would never do for them to hear that he had been splashed by the mud of a carriage for instance. Or become bedraggled by rain …’

‘There is not a soul who has ever seen me mud-splashed or bedraggled,’ said Neit, smiling in a rather superior fashion. ‘I cannot bear dirt in any form.’

‘Even when we ducked you in the fishpond? I remember —’

‘Manannan will have his little joke,’ said Neit very crossly indeed. ‘And we waste time.’ He turned back to the Amaranths, who were listening round-eyed to this interchange, and he smiled so dazzlingly that even Great-aunt Fuamnach, who liked to tell people that she had never been one to be misled by a fair face and well-formed body, blinked.

Cerball, who felt that the situation was slipping out of his control, asked if they might discuss the matter of their attackers.

‘Ah!’ said Neit, richly, sitting up and eyeing them all with a flashing look, ‘A war council, is it? I was about to suggest such a thing myself.’

‘My brother is very good at war councils,’ murmured Manannan.

‘I am even better at fighting wars,’ said Neit instantly. ‘Now, what is your battle?’ he said in a businesslike voice, and the Amaranths had the impression that he might be shuffling papers together and thumbing through a sheaf of possible strategies.

Manannan said, ‘Oh really, Neit, anyone with half an eye can see that there are traitors in this rather fetching Palace.’ He leaned back in his chair and looked round him with approval. ‘Very nice,’ he said, and then, to the twins, ‘I expect you’ll show me over the rest of it, will you? I like Palaces.’

The Mugain, who felt that some kind of explanation was called for, said that they were in fact fighting their own kith and kin, and it was to the shame and the disgrace of them all.

‘Oh, every family has the odd rogue gene,’ said Manannan mac Lir, and grinned mischievously round the table. ‘I could tell you —’

The Mugain felt it was time to intervene. He did not altogether trust Manannan mac Lir (in fact now that he came to think about it, he recalled hearing a few rather colourful stories about him) and so he said firmly that oughtn’t they all to be concentrating on the situation. ‘Aren’t those black-hearted traitors away downstairs plotting up fresh evil?’ he demanded.

‘Are they?’ said Manannan. ‘Dear me, I suppose they are. Shall I find out what they have in mind for you?’

‘I don’t think it … How?’ demanded Cerball.

‘Easy,’ said Manannan, standing up and grinning. There was a brief spurt of light, and the impression of a great swirling wave of grey-green ocean and Manannan vanished.

Neit said, pettishly, ‘He only does that for effect.’

‘Really?’

‘Our father used to punish him when he was small to try to stop him from showing off all the time.’

‘Yes?’ Nobody dared to ask what form the Dagda’s punishment might have taken, although everybody would have liked to know.

‘It did absolutely no good at all,’ said Neit. ‘And of course my sisters thoroughly spoiled him.’ He glanced towards the door, and said, ‘And d’you see he’s back with us already,’ and as the words were said, Manannan mac Lir reappeared inside the door and walked thoughtfully back to his seat at the table.

‘Well?’ said Cerball, leaning forward anxiously.

‘Well,’ said Manannan mac Lir, ‘your adversaries are below.’

‘Dear me, anyone could have told that!’ said Neit scornfully.

‘Anyone with any sense would not be sitting up here studying maps and drawing up strategies,’ retorted Manannan. ‘It’ll be the Battle against the King of the Marshes again if you aren’t careful.’

There was a rather nasty silence. Then Neit said, very haughtily indeed, ‘I suppose I may be allowed one single small failure in a lifetime.’ And then, to the Amaranths, ‘I was betrayed by a lady,’ he said. ‘It is something that can happen to anyone, and I assure you that it is the only time I have ever —’

The Mugain and Great-aunt Fuamnach both said in a single voice, ‘What is happening below?’ and Manannan eyed them both thoughtfully.

‘I am afraid they are invoking a very great force to send against us.’

The Amaranths looked at him and waited.

Neit tossed his head back and said, ‘Oh, we can deal with very great forces, you know. I shall fling them to the jackals.’

Manannan said in an expressionless voice, ‘The Fer Caille has in his possession one of the most fearsome weapons ever to come into Ireland. And I am afraid he plans to use it against you.’

Cerball started to say, ‘What is it?’ but knew, in the same moment, what Manannan mac Lir was about to say.

Manannan said, ‘They have the NightCloak of the first High Queen of Ireland. And they are going to summon the NightMares and the WarMongers.’

Chapter Thirty-four

Maelduin lay at the bottom of the Tanning Pit of the necromancers, the grisly light from the Human torches above casting its eerie red glow, his senses blurred and his mind tumbling.

His perceptions were still hazy, but his mind was clearing. He lay where he had fallen, every bone bruised, every muscle wracked, stinging with the pain of a dozen lacerations. He thought he might be bleeding, but he was not sure, and then he remembered that in any case he did not know what it felt like to bleed.

I escaped the Trolls, he thought. I outwitted them and they are dead.

But I am on the floor of the gaping abyss, the terrible Pit of the necromancers. And in every tale ever told, in every legend ever recounted, no creature has ever escaped from the Pit.

He felt black despair threaten, and then a tiny, silvery voice deep within him said: the Gristlen escaped.

A small shoot of hope unfolded, and he thought: yes, of course. The Fisher King was here, Coelacanth was cast into the Pit by the Dark Lords, and he escaped; he dragged his foul body down to Tiarna and stole the music of the sidh.

If Coelacanth could escape, so can I.

He sat up cautiously, looking about him, seeing that he had fallen on the edges of the Pit’s floor, half against one of the steep, baked-rock walls. He could feel the heat, dreadful dry waves of it glowing somewhere beneath him, so that when he stood up, a bit shakily, finding it necessary to put out a hand to the rock wall for support, he felt the burning heat penetrating the soles of his boots. The cold silvery sidh-blood that still ran deep in his veins flinched in pain, and Maelduin thought: I don’t think I can bear this. And remembered that it had to be borne.

The grisly torches, thrust into the ground above him, burned strongly, lighting the Pit to vivid, terrible life. Maelduin stayed where he was, his senses clearing, aware that he was not badly hurt, simply bruised and jolted and scraped.

The Pit was larger than he had expected. He had no knowledge of the Humanish’s methods of judging size or distance or a room’s dimensions, but he thought that the Pit was much larger than the great banqueting hall in the Porphyry Palace, and it was certainly larger even than Tiarna’s massive Silver Cavern.

At the far side, almost directly opposite him, was an expanse of boiling heat, a bubbling, oily, crimson-streaked lake that surged and eddied angrily. Its shores were crusted with black embers, glowing coals vomited by the molten fires.

Maelduin stared at it, and into his mind slid the ancient sidh Chaunt.

The vast unbottom’d pit

The flaming furnace and the parched pavements;

The beds of fire and the flames of revenge.

The brimstone sea of boiling fire where blows the dragons’ breath and the ogres’ delight;

Where the Dark Lords’ wrath burns for ever.

Where the Gristlens have their nest

And spawn their kind.

The sidh had sung the Chaunt mischievously to the Humanish they had hunted, for although it was not one of their Hunting Songs, they had sometimes used it to taunt the fleeing Humanish victims. And now I am in the unbottom’d Pit itself, though Maelduin. Now I am in the Gristlens’ nest, and I can see no way of escaping.

The Gristlens’ nest … The dark and foul abyss where all must eventually acquire the repulsive hides and the warped features and the deformed, fibrous muscles …

Maelduin looked down at the slender limbs and the ivory-pale skin with the faint sheen to it. Humanish cloak …

Fleeces of fur and silken skin Ivory bones for living in …

I fought against it, he thought; I fought against it but in the end I endured it. Now I think I do not want to be shrivelled and darkened by the Pit’s fearsome heat, and I do not want to be warped and deformed.

There was an acrid stench of old evil and ancient, heavy sorcery, and, overlaying it all, were the terrible, warm-meat scents of the burning gobbets of Humanish flesh at the Pit’s edges.

The light from the torches burned strongly, the dull red glow sending leaping, prowling silhouettes across the baked rock-face, so that he could see everything plainly.

Red-tinted waves formed on the lake’s surface, washing angrily against the ash-crusted shores, dashing their glinting moisture on to the blackened banks. Maelduin thought: so that is the brimstone sea, that is the boiling lake of legend, and here, all around me, are the parched pavements and the beds of fire …

Blown on by dragon’s breath …

The floor of the Pit was not entirely flat. It undulated and sloped sharply, and there were mounds and rocks and protruding crags. The grisly light cast weird shadows so that, for a moment, Maelduin saw not boulders and crags, but crouching beasts, the silent guards of the necromancers, glowing red eyes within the crags, lips parted in grinning greed …

And then the light waned slightly, and after all they were only rocks, formations of the crags.

At the foot of the crags were gashes in the floor, gaping chasms, as if someone had been digging down into the rock. Maelduin studied this, trying to understand their purpose.

Someone had been digging … Why? Who?

He could see the Pit’s occupants quite plainly now. In the flickering red light he could see them with cruel clarity: dreadful creatures; warped, distorted beings that toiled endlessly to and fro, their misshapen heads bowed in patient acceptance of their terrible existence, their great, unnaturally developed muscles lifting and carrying and hammering as they laboured ceaselessly at the tasks assigned to them by the Dark Lords they had offended.

The damn’d ones who incurred the wrath of the necromancers …

The Black Abyss, where accursed slaves drudge for infinity …

The Dark Lords had dungeons deep within their evil fortresses; dank cells and underground stone chambers where they imprisoned their victims and satisfied their dark lusts.

But the dungeons were for the Humanish. The Pit was for the creatures of the Dark Realm itself.

Maelduin thought: and so I am here with the Black Domain’s traitors and with its outcasts. Murderers and child-eaters and creatures so foul that they have even been dishonoured by their own kind. And almost certainly some of them will have been necromancers who transgressed the laws of the Black Ireland.

He could see that there were at least twenty of the creatures here with him. They were all in different stages of transformation, but they were all acquiring the unmistakable carapace of Gristlens. Their skins were becoming blackened and dried, leathery from the harsh, endless heat. Several of them still had ordinary, pale, Humanish flesh, but others were already completely covered by the dark fibrous skin that Maelduin remembered. It had crept over them, inch by dreadful inch, until it had covered them entirely. They were chained and manacled; they dragged their chains as they worked, huge, clanking iron and steel gyves protruding from cruel bracelets clamped about their feet and wrists. They could walk and they could wield the hammers and the axes and chisels, but they could take only short, shambling steps, and when they swung the great axes over their heads, the manacles about their wrists kept their hands closely and painfully together.

Their faces had all acquired the repulsive ugliness of their kind. The skin had shrivelled and dried around their lips, contracting so that the lips were pulled back in a snarl, giving them long-toothed, sneering grins. Their eyes bulged and Maelduin thought: the heat is drawing their eyes from the sockets, and heating the jellylike mass until it is nearly boiling. Sick repulsion closed about him; his own eyes already felt sore and gritty from endless dry warmth. He blinked and felt for the second time Humanish tears, salty and stinging.

Each one toiled at what Maelduin thought must be a set task; most of them wielded instruments which were unfamiliar to Maelduin, but which he recognised as being for Humanish quarrying and pit-labour. There were great heavy-headed, T-shaped weapons, which the prisoners swung above their heads, and then buried deep in the Pit’s floor, chipping away doggedly at the rock face.

Several of the Gristlens wheeled tiny, box-shaped carts which ran on minuscule wheels, and which were piled with the rough, unhewn rocks. They trudged to and fro, tipping the boulders into careful piles at the other end of the Pit, returning to refill their carts. It seemed to Maelduin rather pointless; and then he realised with a sick pity that there was indeed no aim and no purpose in what they did: this was part of the Dark Lords’ fiendish plan, that the creatures should toil endlessly and meaninglessly.

The creatures paid Maelduin no heed, and he thought that they would be accustomed to seeing new victims flung down here from time to time. Probably they would simply wait for him to find his place with them: presumably soon I shall be expected to toil and labour and drudge alongside them. This was a truly terrible thought, but alongside it ran a far worse one: before long, I may be grateful for the companionship even of these creatures, and I may be thankful to have a task to work at, no matter how pointless.

He was forming in his mind words of greeting to them, knowing that he must make an approach, trying to decide the best way to do it, when a voice, quite close to him, said, ‘I would not bid you well come, sir, but I would acknowledge your presence here. You are come to a harsh and unforgiving world.’

Maelduin turned sharply, and saw, seated on a rock near to him, a tall, thin Humanish, clad in a dark robe of some kind, with a hood which was pulled up, shadowing his face. Maelduin received the impression of thin, ravaged features and dark, ragged hair, and of eyes of a burning intensity. He tilted his head, trying to see more, listening for the essence of this unexpected being. He thought: he is certainly Humanish, but there is something clinging to him that is not in the least Humanish. Something that he was not born with, but that he has acquired and that he is trying to slough off; a skin not of scale, but of darkness, is it? He half closed his eyes, and felt, with those extra senses, the shell and the crust of evil which this unexpected figure wore. It is cracked in places, and in places he has managed to shed it, thought Maelduin. But it is still there. This is a strange one. This is something I have never before encountered.

But he seated himself cross-legged on the ground and regarded the robed man with his brilliant turquoise eyes, and said, very courteously, ‘I am grateful for your words, sir.’ He studied the other covertly, seeing that there was little outward sign that the dry, acrid heat was affecting him so far, seeing that he had still the pale, soft, Humanish skin, and that the eyes had not yet been made bulbous, but were deeply set and intensely black. Then he has not been here for so very long, thought Maelduin.

The robed figure seemed to sense Maelduin’s thoughts; he said, ‘You are right; I have been here for a short time as time is measured here. The heat has not yet begun its devilish work on me.’ He held out his hand, and Maelduin saw that, although it was dry-looking and slightly puckered with the heat, it had not taken on the hard, gristly fibrousness of the others.

He said, ‘It is — generous of you to speak to me.’ And waited, his every sense stretched to learn as much as he could.

The robed Humanish said, ‘I am glad to have a fellow being to speak with, for I have nothing to say to these other creatures, nor they to me.’ And then, as Maelduin made to speak, he said at once, ‘I see, of course, that you are not a Human, but I think you are close to being a Human. And I have been without Human companionship for a very long time.’

‘Yes?’ Maelduin’s interest was caught, but he was wary. He said, ‘These Gristlen-creatures are not Human at all, I think?’

‘Many of them are what are called mongrels; partly Human, but also partly necromancer or beast.’ The man’s eyes flickered over the Gristlens. ‘In the world I once lived in, it would be said that they have the worst of their mixed ancestry, and nothing of the best of it. I think that several possess Giantish blood or snake blood. It is possible, here and there, to tell the ancestry. You see that they are not completely alike.’ He pointed to one wrapped in a leaden cloak who had a brutish, snout-like face, the nubs of horns protruding from its skull and a dry membranous tail. That one I would guess to be a descendant of the Harpies,’ he said. ‘Perhaps an alliance between a Harpy and an Almhuinian Rodent-mutant.’ He indicated one of the hod-carriers. ‘And that one has the flat fish-eyes and the rudimentary gills of one of the nimfeach, although there is a trace of Humanish blood.’

‘The ancestry is clearer in some than in others,’ said Maelduin, as if there was nothing other than this on his mind.

‘The Pit eventually douses all individuality,’ said the man. ‘When the transformation is complete, it is difficult to tell one from another. Do you see there?’ Again he pointed, and Maelduin saw that, seated a little apart from the rest, were four or five creatures who were so devoid of Humanish or any other trait that it was impossible to tell what they might once have been. They were completely encased in the terrible scaly hides formed by the Pit’s constant heat. Only their eyes showed in their distorted, snout-like faces, pale and so bulbous that Maelduin saw that the eye-stalks behind had become visible. They had the huge-jointed knuckles and hulking shoulders he remembered, and they sat by themselves, their legs drawn up, the knees on a level with their shoulders. They had not the patient acceptance of the creatures who toiled at the meaningless quarrying work, but there was a sly furtiveness about them, as if they might be engaged in some mean intrigue. Maelduin felt a shudder of repulsion laced with apprehension at the sight of them.

At his side, the robed man said softly, ‘You do right to feel fear, friend. They are the rulers down here.’ His eyes rested on them. ‘There is little order here,’ he said. ‘But what there is is ordered by those.’

‘Elders,’ said Maelduin, half to himself.

‘Yes.’ The man shot him an approving look. ‘In every community there will be those who serve and those who rule.’

Maelduin said, ‘You are very knowledgeable about this place.’ He looked at the other one, and the man said, as if in response, ‘I am what you could call a pure Human. And there is little else to do here, unless I wish to carry the meaningless loads of rock or pointlessly quarry the endless stones. Or enter into the sly plots of those creatures who set themselves apart.’ He glanced at Maelduin, and Maelduin said, half to himself:

‘So it is a part of their punishment to have no proper work.’ The man studied Maelduin thoughtfully. ‘It is perceptive of you to have understood.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Have you also seen that some wear steel muzzles over the lower part of their faces? And that others must carry on their shoulders cloaks fashioned from iron sheets?’

‘I have seen it,’ said Maelduin. ‘The muzzles are to prevent speech, perhaps?’

‘Yes, those are the ones who betrayed the Dark Lords by speech. The cloaks are for those who allowed Human prisoners to escape from the dungeons of the Black Citadels.’

‘To remind them of restriction,’ said Maelduin softly. ‘Yes, I see.’

The man sent Maelduin another of his sidelong glances. ‘There are other impositions which are not instantly apparent,’ he said. ‘Some of them have had hands struck off or noses cut out. Several have been deprived of their sexual organs for daring to vent their lusts on Chaos’s harem women.’

‘Yes?’ Maelduin stayed where he was, sensing the man’s need to talk, but watching the slowly moving Gristlens, seeing more vividly than ever now the chains and leaden cloaks; seeing as well that several of them wore spiked iron helmets clamped about their heads, and that dark, old blood was caked about the rims.

‘Those are the most damned of all,’ said the other, following Maelduin’s line of vision. ‘For they are the ones who offended against the Dark Lords in thought.’

‘The Samhailt?’ said Maelduin, startled.

‘Its dark side. In the True Ireland it is known as the Stroicim Inchinn.’ He looked to Maelduin to make sure that Maelduin understood, and Maelduin said, softly, ‘Yes, I know of it.’

‘The Dark Lords ruled that their servants might not summon it, but many risked this Pit to do so. In the eyes of the necromancers, the acquiring of the Stroicim Inchinn by those unworthy of it — that is, unworthy in their eyes, you understand — is one of the gravest offences of them all. The prisoners are forced to wear the spiked helmets about their skulls so that their thinking shall be restricted.’ He fell silent, and Maelduin waited. Presently, the man said, ‘And now you are wondering about my own transgression.’

‘If you wish to talk about it, then I should listen; it is not a part of my beliefs that I should pry,’ said Maelduin, and the man smiled rather wryly.

‘A good creed,’ he said. And then, ‘Perhaps I can tell you.’ He frowned, and Maelduin did not move. Presently the man said, ‘I am here because I once served the Dark Lord of Chaos as a Guardian of one of the Gates between the Black Realm and the True Ireland.’ He paused, and Maelduin said, ‘You have dwelled in the True Ireland? The Ireland of Tara and of ordinary Men and Women?’ And waited, because no true servant of the Dark Lords would ever genuinely acknowledge the True Ireland.

‘I was once a part of it,’ said the man, and there was a deep, aching sadness in his voice. ‘I was part of the True Ireland, although I was never inside Tara, and I only once saw the High King.’ He stopped, and Maelduin relaxed very slightly, for he had heard the wistfulness in the man’s voice, and he knew that one who was still in thrall to the Dark Lords would not have spoken thus.

‘I lived there,’ said the man, ‘and I served a far better Lord there than any who ever ruled in the Black Domain.’ He lifted his head and the deep hood fell back a little. Maelduin saw his thin face was ravaged and marked with some inner suffering.

He said, ‘Tell me how you are called. For if we are to be —’ he glanced about them — ‘if we are to be companions here, we should know one another’s names.’ This was something the Humanish did, this exchanging of names. It was one of their small rituals and important to them. And I do not know that I disagree with it, thought Maelduin. There is comfort, the sense of touching another’s mind, and of greeting in the giving and receiving of a name.

The robed man said, ‘In the world I come from, and within the community where I lived, I was known as Brother Quintus.’

‘Yes?’

The dark eyes looked at Maelduin, and something so pain-filled showed there that Maelduin felt a wrenching in his own vitals.

‘But inside the Dark Domain,’ said the man, ‘I was called the Black Monk of Torach.’

*

The Black Monk of Torach. The dark and menacing figure who had served the Lord of Chaos and the Crimson Lady of Almhuin. Who had prowled the hinterlands between the True Ireland and the Dark Realm, trawling for victims for the evil ones whom he served.

Even in their underwater caves and in the secret heart of Tiarna, the sidh had heard of the Black Monk. It was told how, if you approached one of the Gateways — perhaps the magical hidden one in the heart of the Wolfwood, or the most ancient of them all deep within the Cruachan Caves — you would feel the dense black shadow of the hooded and cowled figure fall about you, and then, before you could slip through and find yourself in the Dark Realm, the thick blackness would fall about you, smothering you, choking you, so that you could feel the stifling evil driving the breath from your body. You would die before you could get through the Gateway and reach the necromancers’ lairs, and it would be a slow and painful death.

Here is here with me, thought Maelduin, staring. This is the Black Monk himself. But why is he here? What has his offence been?

Quintus seemed to hear this. He said, ‘I came to the Dark Realm because of lust and greed. It is as simple as that. I served evil masters and I performed many terrible tasks for them. All to satisfy my own needs.’ He studied Maelduin, his head on one side, and Maelduin said, carefully, ‘I think that lust and greed are not unusual traits.’

‘They were forbidden by my creed,’ said Quintus. ‘The One I served permitted neither lust nor greed.’

‘That is surely a harsh Master.’

A light kindled in Quintus’s eyes. ‘It is a new creed,’ he said. ‘But it is the Truth which I, with my brethren, had sworn to bring from England so that all would see the Light.’

He regarded Maelduin from out of his deeply set eyes, and Maelduin said, ‘Light and Truth are always good things to follow.’

‘Oh yes. And in the beginning — in the days when I first came to Ireland, it was the message I preached. Love and hope and redemption.’ The sunken eyes shone with unexpected ardency, and then Quintus’s eyes flickered to Maelduin, as if looking to see how this would be taken.

Maelduin thought: he would have me believe he has repented of his sojourn in the Dark Realm, and returned to those beliefs. I think perhaps he may even have done so. But I am not entirely sure. And I certainly do not trust him. Aloud he said, ‘What happened?’

Quintus said, ‘I preached fervently and determinedly in every town I came to, and in every settlement and every cluster of cottages I found. Perhaps I was a little too insistent, a little too forceful. Perhaps I was even arrogant. “This is what you must believe.” Yes, I said that to the wild, pagan Irish.’

He glanced at Maelduin again, and Maelduin said, softly, ‘They will always listen to a good story, the Irish. They will always tell one, as well. But their beliefs are very deep-rooted. Your task would not have been an easy one.’

‘You are very courteous,’ said Quintus, eyeing Maelduin. ‘Perhaps it was a little like that.’ He paused. ‘At length my preaching came to the ears of the Dark Lords.’

‘And they sent out … something to stop you? Something to prevent you spreading the new religion? Yes, of course they would,’ said Maelduin, thoughtfully. ‘They would have been very quick to destroy anything that was tinged with light and hope.’ He looked at Quintus. ‘What did they do?’

‘They sent the highest of their dark evil Order,’ said Quintus, bitterly. ‘They sent the Lord of Chaos himself.’

There was a brief silence. Then Maelduin said, ‘They must have accounted you a very serious threat. They must have been afraid that your beliefs would spread and take root. And so Chaos confronted you?’

Quintus leaned back against the harsh rock face, his eyes suddenly distant. He said, ‘Yes. He brought me to the Moher Cliffs.’

‘Yes.’

‘The wildest, most desolate place in all Ireland,’ said Quintus. ‘A wilderness, but a beautiful wilderness. Chaos faced me here. At first he tried to mock my faith, saying that if the One I worshipped was so strong, then I should cast myself from the cliffs and into the raging seas below and see if He would protect me.’ Again the pause. ‘When I declined to put my God to such a ridiculous test, Chaos changed his attack. He turned about, and stood with his back to the raging oceans and the sea-lashed cliffs. It was twilight,’ said Quintus, his eyes far away. The blue-tinted dusk was stealing over everything, but the sun had not quite set. It was a remarkable sight …

‘He indicated the land before us,’ said Quintus after a moment. ‘He gestured to the rolling fields and the mountains and the dark, misty forests. I remember how the blue and green twilight lay everywhere, so that it was as if all Ireland were at our feet, and it was as if all Ireland were shrouded in ancient magic and pagan myth. He said — and I believe I can repeat the words exactly — he said, “Look on the beauty of Ireland, Monk. Look on the power and the glory. All of that is yours if you will leave your God and swear your allegiance to me.’” Quintus stopped abruptly, and Maelduin had the feeling that the monk was not only repeating words said to him by Chaos, but words that had been said to someone else a very long time ago.

But that time the offer was turned down …

As if in response, Quintus said, ‘I had not the strength of mind to turn it down. So beautiful. All Ireland … I had lived in the austere, celibate world of an English monastery. You cannot know what it meant …’

Maelduin said, ‘I understand a little. And so you fell under the thrall of the Lord of Chaos, as many others before you have done, and doubtless many after will do.’

‘Yes,’ said Quintus. ‘And he was so dark and yet so beautiful … Surely one of the most powerful necromancers ever known. Yes, I accepted. He appointed me as his Gatekeeper; he vouchsafed to me the Enchantment he had taken from the ancient Isle of Torach so that I could use it in his service. A dark, coiled thing it was. But so powerful. He taught me how to use it, and I used it cruelly. For many years I lived in great sin.’

‘Yes?’ ‘Sin’ was not a very familiar word to Maelduin, but he understood Quintus’s meaning.

‘I served Chaos faithfully in the beginning,’ said Quintus, the burnt-out eyes staring straight ahead, so that despite the dry heat of the Pit, Maelduin shivered at the fierce pain in them. ‘I kept faith with him. Every Human creature who tried to penetrate the Dark Realm, I caught and offered up to him for his terrible work.’

‘Necromantic race-breeding,’ said Maelduin, half to himself, remembering the Trolls’ story.

‘Yes. Yes, that was his quest,’ said Quintus. ‘But there came a time when I turned my back on Chaos.’

‘The rewards he had promised you turned out to be empty?’

‘Yes. I cannot even plead that I sickened of what I did. Chaos had promised such gratification; every sense to be satisfied. I had practised the celibacy required by my Order for so long … But there was no satisfaction and no gratification,’ said Quintus. ‘The bodies of the women he flung to me gave me no pleasure. He had cheated me.’

‘It is the way of all necromancers,’ said Maelduin, softly.

‘I began to barter with the other necromancers,’ said Quintus. ‘If Chaos would not give me what he had promised, I vowed I would serve those who would. And because I had lived in the Dark Realm for many years by then, I was deemed a valuable servant. There was no dearth of necromancers prepared to take me into their dark citadels. But because I had lived alongside the blood-lusts of Chaos and his people, those blood-lusts were burning within me and I craved true gratification.’ He sent Maelduin another of his sideways looks. ‘The sweet, sensuous pleasures of warm, fresh blood,’ he said, very softly. ‘The taking of life, the feeling when the life-force gushes out … ‘

He stopped, and Maelduin said, ‘And so you decided that, of them all, you would serve the BeastWoman of Almhuin.’

‘Yes.

‘The Enchantment found on the Isle of Torach was a subtle one,’ said Quintus. ‘It smothered and stifled, but it left the victim’s blood warm and pulsing,’ he said, and Maelduin heard the sudden lick of prurience in the Monk’s voice. Quintus said, ‘Warm and fresh. Living blood. And the Lady of Almhuin Castle was ever greedy for fresh, warm blood. And I was greedy for it, also. And so for a time, I served both Chaos and the Crimson Lady.’

Maelduin said, ‘And it was that that caused the schism between them?’

‘Yes.’ Quintus looked back at Maelduin. ‘I gambled and I lost,’ he said. ‘The Crimson Lady flung me out. She turned me into the terrible Dark Realm, to live or die as the fates decreed. And Chaos also flung me out.’

‘Into the Pit,’ said Maelduin.

‘Yes. He would not, any more than the Lady of Almhuin, permit a traitor, a double-dealer, to go free. He summoned his dark brethren, and I was brought before the Dark Council of the Twelve.’

‘And sentenced to banishment to the Pit.’ Maelduin sought for the right words, the Humanish words. ‘For treachery against Chaos,’ he said. ‘For disloyalty to him.’

Quintus, his eyes dark and pain-filled, said, ‘Yes.’ He turned his intense stare on Maelduin. ‘According to his lights, Chaos was fair,’ he said. ‘He is …’ A small smile touched his lips. ‘He is a gentleman,’ said Quintus. ‘He abides by the rules of his kind. I was a traitor, and it was a traitor’s punishment he would have pronounced.

‘Perhaps he would have banished me here anyway, but perhaps he would only have flung me into some miserable dungeon.’ Light glowed in the Monk’s eyes. ‘But at the end, I humiliated them,’ he said. ‘I stood before the Dark Council at the heart of the Castle of Infinity, and I remembered the teachings of my own Leader. I remembered the gentle goodness and the final sufferings of the One whose creed I had once followed.’ A flicker of anguish passed over his face. ‘I was reclaimed by the One True Religion,’ he said. ‘And, facing them all, I renounced the Dark Ireland and all its beliefs; there before the most powerful necromancers ever known.’ A brief smile touched his thin face. ‘I did so loudly and ringingly,’ he said, ‘as I should have done when Chaos first tempted me on the Moher Cliffs. I repudiated the Dark Ireland once and for all, and proclaimed my undying allegiance to the Nazarene. I tore Chaos’s wickedness to shreds before his people, and flung his darkness, and that of his henchmen and his evil brethren, in his face.’ He looked at Maelduin, and wry amusement touched his lips. ‘You understand, perhaps, why I was cast into the Pit.’ ‘You humiliated him,’ said Maelduin, studying the Monk. ‘That took extreme courage, I think.’

The man said, ‘You have not heard of my Master?’

‘The … Nazarene? No.’ Maelduin would have liked to hear of this new austere religion which was being brought into Ireland, and which had apparently given Quintus such extraordinary courage. He knew, in a vague way, that it preached ascetism and fasting and long hours of silence, but little more. It occurred to him, rather bitterly, that at least there would be time to spare for him to talk with Quintus and learn about his beliefs.

And while I sit here and learn of the world’s religions and the new teachings, Tiarna will surely die … Anguish pierced him again, but he beat it down, and turned back with courtesy to listen to the ending of Quintus’s strange story.

Quintus said, ‘He had extreme courage and immense fortitude, my Master. He believed what he believed, and did not allow anything to sway him. Perhaps we shall talk more of him. But I have told you my story.’ He looked at Maelduin more fully and, as he did so, Maelduin felt the man shed a little more of the dark crusted shell that he carried. When Quintus said, ‘Will you tell me, in turn, how you come to be cast into this place?’ Maelduin, still unsure how far to trust Quintus, said, lightly, ‘Oh, I simply fell into it.’ And, despite his fear, and despite his deep inner horror at being trapped in the fearsome Pit, he grinned at the Monk. ‘A mistake,’ he said. ‘I encountered a band of Trolls who would have minced me for their supper. I outwitted them, but in the fight I rolled over the Pit’s edge.’ He stood up and looked about him and, as he did so, he heard a slithering movement above him.

A shower of stones came hurtling down from the Pit’s edges, and the Gristlens stopped in their work and turned to look.

Against the red-lit sky, sharply limned by the evil fight of the Human torches, a monstrous outline was staring down into the Pit. The torches flickered wildly, and the sickly warm-meat odours gusted downwards.

In the glowing firelight, Maelduin saw the deformed outline of a squat, evil being with a flat, noseless face and slyly intelligent eyes set askew in its head. At his side, Quintus made as if to speak, and then was silent, and Maelduin felt the sudden fear course through the man’s body. Behind them, a low growling sound of angry fear came from the watching Gristlens, and Maelduin sensed the sudden concerted movement of the six who sat apart.

The dark, misshapen silhouette at the Pit’s rim moved then, flinging a webbed-footed leg over the edges and beginning to clamber down the steep sides.

The Fisher Prince, the monster-spawn of Coelacanth, had escaped from the silver cage and was descending into the Tanning Pit.

Chapter Thirty-five

The creature was descending easily, seeming to find footholes and crevices to cling to the steep rock face. The red torchlight cast its thick, clotted light over the creature as it moved, showing it for the dreadful warped monster that Maelduin had seen in the Amaranths’ Palace. As it moved, he had the eerie impression of something boneless wriggling its way down the Pit’s walls, and he remembered the legends of Coelacanth’s ancestry, and that Coelacanth was believed to be part-fish, part-snake, part-worm. This was unmistakably Coelacanth’s spawn: loathsome, unutterably evil. And yet, try as he might, he could not think of it as other than the son of the Fisher King, and therefore a Prince of a Royal House …

As the light burned up, Maelduin and Quintus saw that the creature was using a thin silver rope, which it had clearly fastened to something — perhaps a jutting rock — beyond the Pit’s edges.

Maelduin stared at it and felt a tremor of fear again. He thought: it is using a rope. It is only a few days old, but it has had the intelligence and the cunning to do that. A silver rope. Then it must have somehow made use of the silver bars and the silver lights I caged it with. I bound it with one of the Cadence’s enchantments of captivity, thought Maelduin, but it has broken out, and it has snapped the bars and fashioned a rope from them.

It has escaped with ease and it is coming to fetch me.

The Prince was nearing the floor of the Pit, and Maelduin saw that evil amusement was glinting in its flat, ugly eyes. He thought: it scents my fear! It smells it! It finds it amusing that I am prey to Humanish emotions. Deep within his mind he sought for the silver threads that would summon the Cadence, and the fear deepened as he felt the thin, elusive strands slide from his mind’s grasp.

So that, also, is beyond my reach. Panic tore at him, great, scarlet, clawlike rents, and for a moment, his cool sidh mind spun out of control. And then Quintus’s mind brushed him lightly, unlooked-for and unexpected, but filled with such resolute courage that his own mind steadied.

The Gristlens were watching the Prince’s descent with silent concentration. Maelduin could smell the dry, sour stench gusting forward as they moved from their work, and stood at the Pit’s centre.

The Prince — I cannot think of it otherwise! thought Maelduin — was still climbing steadily downwards, its webbed hands curling about the rope with apparent ease, its gristly feet searching out footholds in the rock face. The membranous fin that protruded from its spine was darkly limned in the glowing torchlight.

At Maelduin’s side, Quintus said softly, ‘Dear God, what is it? Maelduin, what is it?’

‘A son of the Gristlen,’ said Maelduin. ‘Of a creature that once dwelled in the Pit, but found its way into the True Ireland.’

Coelacanth’s Prince, evil and malignant beyond belief …

‘A mutant,’ said Maelduin, ‘born of a rape inflicted on a …’ He stopped and amended his next words. ‘Inflicted on a lady of one of Ireland’s noble Houses,’ he said.

Quintus said, ‘Its kin recognise it.’

‘Yes.’ Maelduin looked back once more to where the Gristlens were standing in a silent mass, their pale, bulbous eyes watching the Prince unblinkingly. ‘They will certainly try to use the rope,’ he said. ‘They will try to escape.’

‘Oh yes.’ Quintus looked back at the watching Gristlens, and Maelduin received the impression of a sudden strength uncoiling in the Monk, as if he might be tensing his muscles to fight. But he only said, ‘Is the creature coming to join its kindred?’

‘No,’ said Maelduin, in an expressionless voice. ‘No. It is coming for me.’ He looked at Quintus. ‘It needs me,’ he said. ‘It cannot fend for itself in the world yet, and it needs a protector. I caged it, but has broken out, and it is coming to find me.’

As the words were said, the Fisher Prince reached the floor of the Pit and turned to look at Maelduin again. Maelduin knew he had been right.

I can still get it to the Grail Castle, he thought with a surge of hope. It is going to bargain with me: if I will agree to take it to the Grail Castle, it will get me out of the Pit. It knows that inside the Grail Castle it will be safe from the world until it is sufficiently strong to venture out. And once it is there, I shall be free of it. I shall have paid my debt, and shall be free to pursue the music or explore the Cadence for a way to save Tiarna.

He moved to the foot of the steep Pit walls, and grasped the waiting rope that would take him out the Pit. As he did so, there was movement behind him. He half turned, and saw that the Gristlens were moving forward, their eyes fixed on the rope, the manacles dragging and scraping across the hard rock floor.

Quintus had moved to shield Maelduin, but his voice was low and urgent. ‘They are going to attack you! If they get past that creature, they have a means to escape! The rope is a way out! You have to go quickly!’

Maelduin had already swung himself upwards using the rope, feeling it cool and easy to grasp. He began the ascent, and as he did so, he caught a movement from behind. He turned back and saw that the Gristlens were creeping towards him, their leering faces sly, their great, swollen-jointed hands lifted as if to strike, the thick iron manacles held out threateningly. Several of them glanced uneasily at the Prince, who was standing silent and still by the rope end, but they came on relentlessly.

Quintus was facing them, standing below Maelduin, his back pressed against the rock walls. Maelduin thought: I cannot leave him behind! I cannot leave him to be torn apart by these creatures!

He leaned down, and cried, ‘Quintus! After me! Take the rope and begin climbing! Quickly!’ and at once, Quintus reached for the rope, and swung upwards at Maelduin’s heels. Maelduin had the brief, vivid awareness that Quintus had had no thought for his own escape, that his mind had been wholly on facing the Gristlens, fighting them off if necessary to allow Maelduin to climb out.

They were several feet above the Pit’s floor now, and Maelduin could feel his wrists — Humanish bones and muscles and skin! — aching almost intolerably with the strain, when the Gristlens moved again. Maelduin and Quintus both stopped, and the Gristlens surged forward towards the motionless figure of the Fisher Prince, their faces leering, their horrid, bulbous eyes avid and their long-toothed snarls more pronounced. The six Elders stood back, not joining in, not moving, but Maelduin and Quintus, from their precarious position, shared a thought: it was they who incited the others! They are the strongest!

The Gristlens moved to the Prince, their great hands reaching for him, their lips curling back, their misshapen teeth gleaming wetly. A low growling of greed and bloodlust broke from them, and then they moved as one towards the Prince, holding out the gyves and the manacles threateningly. There was a moment, the span of a heartbeat, a breathspace, when the black heaving mass of dark leathery bodies and reaching hands and clawing fingers engulfed the Prince as the creatures of the Dark Lords’ Tanning Pit fought to reach the silver rope. Maelduin, still clinging to the rope several feet above the ground, thought: it will be slain by its own kind! They will tear it to pieces and then they will swarm up the rope and out into the world! He stayed where he was, his feet finding a crevice for support, his eyes never leaving the fighting, clawing throng below him.

And then the small, slithering shape of the Fisher Prince detached itself, stepping back from the angry Gristlens with apparent ease; its cold eyes regarded its attackers, and the pale, membranous fin lashed angrily at its legs. The Gristlens turned, and seemed to draw in breath, as if gathering themselves for a final concerted rush at this evil creature who was barring their way to freedom.

The Prince stood waiting, watching its attackers move towards it, silent and menacing; and a twisted smile lifted its lips.

But the Gristlens crept forward, their eyes wary, but inching closer, fanning out as they came, to surround the one who was trying to prevent them from reaching the rope that would lead to freedom.

Maelduin could see that the nearest of them wore one of the cruel mesh muzzles, and that it had a thin sly face above the muzzle, and the huge flat ears and high pointed skull of one possessing the black and evil blood of Goblins. Its fingers were not webbed like most of the others, but long and fleshless, with huge burrlike knuckles and joints and long, pointed nails. Goblin blood for certain.

As the Goblin-Gristlen reached the Prince and swung the manacles it wore above its head, the Prince stepped easily and neatly aside and, reaching out, tore the muzzle from the Gristlen’s face contemptuously. A howl of dreadful agony rent the night, and bright red blood, speckled with fragments of white bone, covered the Gristlen’s jowls. Maelduin, unable to look away, saw that the muzzle must have been somehow fused into the creature’s jaw, so that it had been a part of its flesh and its bone. In ripping it away, the lower part of the Gristlen’s face had been ripped away also.

The Gristlen fell back, its bony Goblin-fingers covering its mutilated face, screeching with agony, blood and teeth covering its hands. Its moans had a dreadful guttural tone, but as it stumbled away, the Prince turned to the one who stood behind it and smiled. Maelduin saw that the second Gristlen wore a spiked iron helmet, and that the nubs of hard black horns protruded through the iron. It had a cruel, evil intelligence and a furtive look to it. As it moved forward, Maelduin saw that it had pointed features and that its lips were curling back in a snarl, revealing the tiny, needle-sharp teeth of a Rodent. A thin boneless tail slithered behind it, but the tip had become jagged and shrunken and mummified with the Pit’s relentless heat.

The Gristlen was advancing on the Prince warily, its eyes bulging. It lifted both hands above its head, so that the chains that bound them clanked and grated, and Maelduin saw that instead of hands, it had huge, leather-palmed paws, covered on the backs with black matted hide. Its neck and shoulder muscles rippled as it tensed to strike the Prince, but even as it did so, the Prince reached out again, chuckling contemptuously, and with one webbed hand, and a single horizontal stroke, sliced the helmet from the creature’s head.

The Gristlen fell back instantly, clutching at its forehead and its eyes, braying in agony; in the thick, smeary light, Maelduin saw that the top of its skull had been sliced completely away, exactly as if it had been an egg, so that its brainpan was exposed. The Gristlen fell sprawlingly on to the ground, howling. Its long jointed legs scrabbled helplessly at the ground, and its tail twitched and curled. Thick grey brain matter, streaked with oozing, glutinous fluid, spilled and bubbled out of its skull and ran down into its eyes. It howled again and rolled on to its back, drawing up its knees, writhing in purest agony, bringing up its paws as it tried to wipe its eyes free.

Maelduin, sickened and horrified, felt his stomach lifting with nausea, and a tiny part of his mind recognised that his feelings were almost wholly Humanish; he ought not to be feeling sickened, and he certainly ought not to be feeling pity.

The Fisher Prince moved forward, and stood regarding the Gristlens, as if inviting more of them to pit themselves against him. The six Elders glanced furtively at one another and remained motionless, but a smaller Gristlen crept towards the waiting Prince. It wore a thick, dull breastplate of black iron about its upper body, and had short, sticklike arms and legs, so that it had the appearance of a monstrous beetle.

The armoured Gristlen stood its ground, and malevolence glinted in its pale eyes. The Prince turned from its scrutiny of Maelduin, and eyed the Gristlen thoughtfully. It did not move, but the other Gristlens backed away from it.

The armoured Gristlen was moving forward with a scuttling, creeping gait which increased its likeness to a huge, upright insect. The Prince stayed where he was, and the Gristlen began to grin, showing tiny, stumplike teeth in double rows.

All the better to rip you apart …

The Prince moved then, bounding forward, cleaving the air with his monstrous body, landing on the Gristlen’s chest, clamping tightly about the upper part of the repulsive torso. The Gristlen fell back, pushing vainly at the thing that had fastened on to it, trying to dislodge it. It fell back, and the Prince fell with it, limpetlike, levering at the breastplate with sharp questing fingers.

There was a wet, sucking noise, and the sound of rib-bones snapping. The iron breastplate came away with the Gristlen’s ribcage; the ribs gleaming wetly, spattered with blood, with slopping kidneys and liver and bile-filled sacs still adhering to it. Blood spurted upwards in a thick, dark fountain, and the other Gristlens fell back, cowering and moaning, flinging their clawed and webbed and leathery hands up to protect themselves.

The Fisher Prince stood directly in the fountain’s fall, the dark, evil blood showering over it, the fragments of skin and bone and glistening wet entrails adhering to its face and arms and skin.

And then he stepped back from the dying, partly eviscerated creature at his feet, and turned his eyes upwards, sending the cold, evil, compelling light directly on to Maelduin.

Without a sound, Maelduin turned back to continue his climb up to the edges of the Tanning Pit.

*

The Human torches had long since ceased to burn, but there was sufficient light to see. Maelduin pulled himself over the edges of the Pit, and lay for a moment, summoning his strength. He breathed in the cold air thankfully, seeing that, although it had been perpetually dark in the depths of the Pit, here it was the strange, faintly eerie time that the Humanish called the Purple Hour.

So a day, perhaps two or three days, passed while I was imprisoned down there, and now it is twilight.

Twilight, when creatures not entirely of this world walk …

The two horses were still tethered where he had left them, and Maelduin glanced at Quintus, and nodded in their direction.

‘You can ride, Quintus?’ he said.

‘I have ridden,’ said the Monk. ‘I should be grateful for your company a little longer.’ He looked at Maelduin questioningly, as if he might be saying: I will not ask if I may come with you in your strange quest, but if you invite me, I should accept.

Maelduin studied Quintus, remembering that strange dark shell that he had sensed earlier. Still there? Yes, I think so. But he helped me in the Pit, and I think he would be a strong ally. I could take him with me as far as the Grail Castle at least. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, and remembered the Humanish notion of ‘gaoler’, the guarding of prisoners. Could he leave Quintus as the Prince’s guard? Dare he? But he was already dreadfully aware of time trickling out, and he had no idea of how long the sidh could survive without the music.

He made a swift decision. Nothing must get in the way of restoring Tiarna. Nothing was as important. And so he would make use of Quintus if he could. He looked back at the Prince, who was standing submissively by the silver cage and then turned again to Quintus. ‘I have given my word that I will take that creature to the Grail Castle,’ he said. Quintus’s eyes flickered, and Maelduin felt the sudden stirring of the darkness that clung about the Monk, as if something that had been quiescent was raising its evil head and sniffing the air. A warning note sounded in his mind. Quintus and Coelacanth’s son together? And the Prince has bowed to captivity at my hands again. I think I must be very wary indeed of these two, thought Maelduin.

But Quintus only said, thoughtfully, The Grail Castle is a fearsome place, and difficult to find, I believe.’

Maelduin said very softly, ‘“Ride directly into the setting sun, and in the depths of the night, when the ancient lost enchantments of Ireland stir, on the darkest and most desolate road in the land … ”’ He stopped, and regarded the Monk through eyes that suddenly slanted mischievously.

Quintus said, half to himself, ‘“The darkest and most desolate road in the land …’

‘ … and there you will find the Grail Castle,’ finished Maelduin. ‘So you know the legends.’

‘All Ireland knows the legends,’ said Quintus evenly. And then, in a different voice, ‘Do you know the road? That is — do you know where it is?’

For answer, Maelduin turned and pointed beyond the rearing Moher Cliffs.

‘There is the road,’ he said, and looked back at the Monk, his eyes shining brilliantly in the twilight. ‘It winds through the Moher Cliffs, a little inland, and it is dark and desolate and its galleries and its halls will be filled with the pounding of the seas against the cliffs below. It will be shrouded in the thick sea-mists that creep across the cliffs, and it may be difficult to see it. But that is the road I must take.’ He regarded the Monk with his cool sidh authority. ‘You may take it with me if you wish,’ he said. ‘Although if you do, you must be prepared for danger and also for difficulties.’ If you have the courage, then you may come, said his tone. But it is all one to me.

Quintus said, very calmly, ‘You mistrust me.’

‘A little.’ Maelduin turned back to gaze into the darkening night, beyond the mist-shrouded cliffs. ‘Do you wonder?’

‘No. No, for the darkness of the Black Realm is still within me,’ said Quintus, and then, as Maelduin looked up sharply, ‘We both feel it,’ he said. ‘I am not sure exactly what you are, although I know you are not wholly Human. But you are aware of the darkness, the taint that is within me and that has still to be plucked out by its roots.’ His face was in shadow, the eyes sombre. ‘And yet I have repented, Maelduin,’ he said. ‘I sinned grievously, but I repented, and there in the Pit I was serving my penance.’

‘“Penance”?’

‘The means by which one makes reparation for sins. For crimes.’ Quintus looked at Maelduin. ‘That is why I did not instantly take the escape to freedom that the silver rope offered,’ he said. ‘For I must serve whatever penance is imposed on me.’ His eyes filled with the darkness again. ‘I was sentenced to the Pit —’

‘By Chaos.’

‘The instrument of the sentencing does not matter. It was my punishment, my atoning. We forge our own chains. And if I did not serve the full sentence, then there will be further sufferings ahead,’ he said. ‘The payment can never be avoided. It can sometimes be delayed, but it can never be avoided.’ And then, his expression suddenly shrewd, he said, ‘You should find it easy to understand, Maelduin, for I think you chose to cast this evil being into a dungeon in reparation for a sin you once committed. This is your own penance.’

‘Payment,’ said Maelduin, half to himself, but understanding Quintus. ‘Murmur’s death. And the honour of my people which required it.’

‘That is not so very different. To call a penance payment for a sin is not so very different.’

‘Perhaps not.’ Maelduin was still unable to tell if the Monk was exactly what he purported to be — a creature who had committed great evil while in the thrall of the Lord of Chaos, but who had later repented. I must remember that this is the Black Monk of Torach, he thought. But I think it will be all right. I think I will take the risk. After a moment, he said, ‘Our path lies along there.’ He lifted a hand, pointing. ‘Do you see?’

Quintus narrowed his eyes, following the line of Maelduin’s hand. ‘Yes,’ he said at length, very softly. ‘Yes, I see it.’ And then, almost to himself, ‘So I am to return to the wilderness where Chaos tempted me. I am to see the place of my sinning again. There is an irony in that, I think.’ He paused, and Maelduin felt again the presence of something dark and ancient and threatening deep within the Monk. But he turned his horse about, and set it to the narrow cliff path. On their left, the cliffs fell sharply away, and far below they could hear the sea pounding against the shore. Fine spray rose, shrouding the cliffs and the crags, veiling them in thick, swirling mists. Inland from the cliffs, the Moher Crags rose steeply and starkly; a black outline against the sky. But as Maelduin narrowed his eyes, trying to penetrate the darkness, he saw that further inland were small, winking lights; the huddle of hill farms and cottages, perhaps the occasional flare of lanterns in windows. The tiny lights ought to have given him comfort; he ought to have felt warmed by this evidence of Humanish occupancy, for, he thought, it is only the Humanish that light their windows in the dark night in that fashion …

But for some reason, the lights made him feel colder and more desolate than he had ever felt before. What must it be like to live your life out here, to be so far distant from life and warmth and colour? To know only the dark, craggy cliffs and the pounding of the ocean — surely the most fearsomely lonely sound in the world? — and to live in the endless, swirling sea-mists?

What had Quintus called this place? Ireland’s wilderness.

What kind of creatures lived out here?

*

The Purple Hour was all about them as they left the Tanning Pit behind. Beautiful, thought Maelduin, hearing and seeing and feeling the ancient heady magic of Ireland, the soft, sly whisperings, the scurrying, furry-footed sounds. The feeling of three-cornered faces peering out from the shadows, and the brief vivid glimpses of sly, grinning faces with pointed muzzles and pointed ears … Cloven hoofs and the beating of wings overhead … The lingering not-entirely-safe enchantments that had been poured into Ireland at the very beginning, before Men could speak and understand one another, before they could walk upright … The Other Ireland, waking and walking …

And this is the hour when the Grail Castle can be reached, thought Maelduin.

I believe I am touching the deepest of Humanish feelings now, he thought as they rode warily along, the narrow path winding sharply upwards and inland. I believe I am experiencing Humanish race-memory. A deep fear closed about him without warning. Am I, then, now able to hear the ancestral echoes and feel the atavistic fears of a people, a race, a species to whom I do not belong? I dare not allow that! thought Maelduin. I must not allow it. For if I am able to reach into the centuries-old memories and fears of the Humanish, then for sure I am becoming too deeply entwined in the ivory cloak and too strongly enmeshed in the silken skin. And that may mean that I shall not be able to rid my true self of them later.

He gave no indication of any of this; he guided the horse along the narrow cliff path, Quintus a little behind him, with the great cage with the Prince strapped firmly to the saddle panniers. The creature had gone willingly into its captivity, eyeing Maelduin from its sly flat eyes with mocking amusement, and Maelduin had known, quite surely, that the cage would not hold the Prince for longer than it wished.

The Moher Cliffs were behind them now, fading into the distance, but thick sea-spray still wreathed the cliff path, obscuring their vision, and clinging to their hair and their eyelashes. Maelduin thought there was still the occasional glimmer of lights from the hill farms farther inland, but the mist played tricks, and it was difficult to be sure. Tiny stunted trees loomed up on the roadside, their skeletal branches resembling long bony fingers that reached and clutched, droplets of moisture clinging to them. Maelduin shivered and drew the woollen cloak more tightly about him. The horses slowed, picking their way cautiously now, and the sound of their hoofs, muffled in the mists, echoed eerily against the cliff walls. Clouds scudded across the darkening skies, and Maelduin, his eyes adjusting to the uncertain light, made out tiny footprints on the ground; the spoor of creatures who pattered through the night, some of them tiny and light, but others larger and hoofed and cloven …

Because the Grail Castle is guarded by every darkness and every prowling, slithering, creeping servant that walks the land by night …

The mist closed in on them, thick, heavy, quenching all sound. Maelduin thought that it was as if there were dozens of eyes within it, listening and watching. But they do not approach us, he thought; they do not challenge us. Because they sense that we carry with us an immense evil and are flinching from it.

When Quintus said, very softly, ‘There are creatures prowling within the shadows and within the mists, but whatever they are, they feel the prisoner’s darkness, and they fear it,’ Maelduin nodded, but thought: is it only the Prince’s darkness they feel? What of the darkness you carry, Monk?

And then they rounded a curve in the road, and there was a sudden break in the cliff face. The mists parted without warning and there — against the scudding skies, rearing against the moonwashed cliffs and partly shrouded in mist — was the Grail Castle.

*

As they approached, they saw that the Castle was made of some kind of rough dark stone, with a square central portion and huge circular towers with battlements and machicolations at each corner. At the centre was a gateway, an opening, deep in shadow where the grille of the portcullis, the great iron gates that rendered the Castle safe, should have been.

But somebody had raised the portcullis, and somebody had lowered the drawbridge.

As if they were expected.

But, as they drew nearer, they saw that the Grail Castle had an empty, desolate air. When they paused at the edge of the narrow drawbridge, they could both see that moss grew thickly over the lower part of the towers, and that several of the windows were broken and gaping, giving them the appearance of huge, yawning eyes that stared endlessly down at the waiting drawbridge, and that watched ceaselessly for any creatures that might approach.

Oh yes, send these two inside, let the gates swallow them, they will do very nicely, they are tasty morsels both … They can add a little more to the legend of the Grail Castle … They can weave a few more dark strands into the lore of this desolate place …

Against his will, Maelduin remembered again the many creatures — some Humanish, some not — who had set out in quest of this place and been lost for all time. He remembered his own father journeying here in Erin’s reign, and maintaining that strange silence ever afterwards.

At his side, Quintus said softly, They tell odd stories of this place,’ He looked up at the towering black shape, his eyes unreadable.

Maelduin said, ‘You know of it?’

‘Every creature who ever lived in Ireland knows of it.’ A shadow fell across his face, and for a moment something red gleamed in his eyes. He said, very softly, ‘There is an immense darkness within those walls.’ He looked back at Maelduin, and Maelduin repressed a shiver. Quintus’s eyes were huge black pits and his face was drained and bloodless.

Maelduin stared at him, and thought: there is something looking out of his eyes that is no longer the quiet, rather interesting creature I met earlier. This is his dark inner self; the being who served Chaos and the Lady of Almhuin, and who plumbed the deepest abysses of Necromancy to serve his lusts.

He still carries the taint of those dark years, thought Maelduin. It still lives.

And whatever is inside the Grail Castle is calling to it.

This is no longer Brother Quintus, a renegade Human from an English monastery.

This is the Black Monk of Torach once again.

Chapter Thirty-six

As they passed under the great square arch of the Castle portcullis, a darkness and a cold, keening desolation fell about them. Maelduin, his every sense alert, felt as if a thick, stifling cloak had been thrown over them. The terrible crushing weight of every exile who had ever been cast into this place pressed down on him.

Niall and the Nine Hostages, condemned by an evil necromancer … The lost Tribes of Ireland, sometimes called the Cruithin, who had vanished from Ireland one night centuries earlier, and had never been seen again … One legend told how they had taken refuge here when their existence was threatened, and had lived for several generations within the darkness of the Castle’s echoing halls. Maelduin remembered the lonely little huddles of light they had seen through the swirling mists. Were they still here, those Lost Peoples, Ireland’s long-ago Cruithin, living still in secrecy in the cliffs and the hills that surrounded the ancient Castle?

Yes, it had its secrets, this place, it had its mysteries, but it kept them to itself, and some of them were terrible and some of them were pitiful, and all of them were woven inextricably into Ireland’s rich tapestry of legend and lore and myth.

And now I am about to add a dark strand to that tapestry, thought Maelduin, glancing back at the caged Prince, and at the set features of the Monk. I am about to imprison here the son of the dread Coelacanth, and I am about to force the creature who wore the guise of the Black Monk of Torach to act as his gaoler.

Could he then escape? Or would he in turn become one of the Grail Castle’s sad, forgotten exiles? The lost sidh Prince, Tiarna’s vanished heir … The thought was like a knife-twist in his vitals.

Moonlight silvered the great hall as he entered, and dust motes swirled in and out of the thin light. Maelduin looked about him, seeing that the hall was a vast, stone-floored place, but feeling with a shock of surprise the gentle scents of old timbers and the faint drifts of lavender and beeswax enfold him. There was the lingering scent of peat, the ghosts of comfortable roaring fires, around which people might have gathered to eat and tell stories and sing songs.

He stood very still just inside the door, and thought: this is a place where people — some of them quite ordinary — have lived and laughed and been sad, and shared companionship and work.

And left their mark as firmly as those other poor creatures, Ireland’s exiles, who were flung here for Ireland to forget them. Just as Ireland might one day forget the sidh …

The moonlight filtered in through two narrow, high windows, set on each side of the door. At the far end was a low stone archway, and beyond it Maelduin could see passages leading away from the central hall. Sculleries? Stillrooms?

The floor was strewn with skin rugs of some kind, and to the left a wide, shallow-tread staircase led away from the hall and curved upwards, vanishing into the thick shadows.

On Maelduin’s right was an immense, stone-backed hearth, black with age. Above it, engraved in the stone chimney-breast, were the ancient arms of the Wolfkings.

So this was once a Royal House … thought Maelduin, caught in fascination, feeling the ancient memories close about him. This was once one of the great strongholds of the High Kings of Tara.

And, he thought, we are inside, and nothing has challenged us so far. All that remains is to penetrate to the dungeons and lock the Prince away. His thoughts were sane and practical and ordered. But, just beneath the sanity and the logic and the calm, ran another stratum, another layer that was none of these things.

I am standing in the heart of the fearsome, haunted Castle of every dark legend and every sinister story ever told, and with me are two creatures whom I cannot trust …

And it is night, thought Maelduin, and shivered suddenly. It is the darkest hour of the night, midnight’s arch is above us, we are held fast in the dread lonelinesses of the night’s watches …

He blinked and shook his head, and turned to the task of fetching in the silver cage which held the Fisher Prince, he and Quintus carrying it between them, and setting it on the floor of the great central hall.

‘Will it be safe here?’ said Quintus, frowning.

‘I have no idea.’ Maelduin was already moving across the floor to the archways that led to the rest of the Castle. ‘But the sooner we cast it into the dungeons, the better.’

‘Through here?’ said Quintus, following him.

‘It is somewhere to start.’

The shadows seemed to reach out as they moved warily out of the moon-washed hall with its strange echoes and its drifting memories. Maelduin trod slowly, waiting for the faint luminosity that still glimmered softly from his skin to show them their way. As he did so, he felt memory slip, and he was again in the Silver Cavern of Tiarna, enduring the fearsome, bone-wrenching agonies that had been a part of the Ritual of the Humanish. He had glanced down at his slender limbs, and seen the faint phosphorescence and had grinned: so there is something that even the Ritual cannot quench …

Now, standing with the Monk in the dark vastness of the ancient, deserted Castle, there was no luminosity, no faint glimmer of phosphorescence. No light at all. There was no light …

Then I am closer to the line dividing Humanish from sidh than is safe. Panic brushed him with icy fingers. I am so close to the line that I no longer have the light! And then: perhaps the line has already been crossed …

He thrust the thought from him, and began to move purposefully along the dark passage, Quintus at his side. They had reached some kind of intersection — Maelduin thought they might be nearing the sculleries which would be lower than the hall for coolness — when a movement from the hall stopped them. Maelduin felt ice form at the pit of his stomach, and there was a moment when he wanted to run away. I could be out of here, I could be astride the horse, and out into the night! I could be inside Tiarna and trying to shed the Humanish cloak, the ivory bones …

And then he remembered that Tiarna was dying, that it might already be dead, and that he was bound to the world of the

Humanish for as long as it took to regain the sidh’s ancient music. He struggled for mastery, but within the space of time it had taken the thoughts to tumble through his mind, Quintus had turned and was already running back to the stone hall, towards the source of the sound. Maelduin thought: for all his sinister history, he does not lack courage. He followed the Monk quickly, trying not to notice the dense blackness of the shadows, trying not to remember that once he could have lifted a hand and seen the faint shimmer of elvish light.

At the centre of the hall, the cloth that Maelduin had used to cover the cage had been thrown back, and the cage itself lay in sticks of gleaming light across the floor. Broken. Discarded.

‘Then the creature has escaped,’ said Maelduin very softly, and turned to rake the shadows.

‘I am here, sidh Prince …’

Maelduin stood very still, and felt the cold horror trickling down his spine again, for although the Prince was speaking aloud, and although the speech was comprehensible, although it was ordinary Humanish speech, the words were clumsy and pronounced in a brutal, ugly manner.

Maelduin saw again the birth-chamber at the Porphyry Palace; the monster-Prince’s flat lips, the gills in its neck, the jaw that was neither quite Humanish nor piscine.

It was not shaped for Humanish speech …

He remembered how one of the terrible legends surrounding Coelacanth told how he had had to learn Humanish speech from the necromancers before he could enter the Humanish world.

And this is Coelacanth’s son …

‘You thought to imprison me, Maelduin,’ said the voice, and Maelduin heard more clearly this time how it was struggling to form the words and the syllables; how it was using a method of communication that was unnatural to it. He found himself thinking of Humanish deformities: of cleft palates and roofless mouths and of empty, gaping gullets that could not close properly on the clumsy homespun mechanics of Humanish speech.

He stayed where he was, Quintus at his side, both of them trying to penetrate the shadows. Maelduin caught a slithering movement near to the stair. Over there? Yes!

‘Do not try to touch me,’ said the Prince, and now the slurring had faded a little. It is already learning how to make itself understood, thought Maelduin, and remembered, with horror, that Coelacanth had spent months — perhaps years — in studying Humanish speech. Coelacanth’s spawn was learning it in minutes.

‘Do not try to injure me,’ said the Prince again, and as they stood, motionless, it moved from the shadows, and stood in the shifting, thin moonlight, its evil eyes malevolent. Maelduin saw that the membranous fin was spread out behind it, erect; grotesque in one so young.

‘Young only in Humanish time,’ said the Prince, and Maelduin heard with a shudder how it could not quite manage the y of young, how its flat mouth and jawless face did not close properly over the m in time.

The creature moved forward across the stone floor with its slithering gait, and as Quintus stepped towards it, it rounded on him, the gills in its neck opening and closing.

‘Do not approach me, Monk,’ it said, hissing faintly. ‘Do not approach me, or I shall call down the chains that bound you to the Dark Lords.’ It studied Quintus, and the evil amusement bubbled from its tone. ‘Shall I call them down, Monk?’ it said. ‘It would amuse me to do so, I think.’

Maelduin thought: it has still not quite mastered it. It still cannot quite reproduce Humanish speech.

‘But I am learning, sidh, I am learning,’ said the slurred deformed voice. ‘I shall learn a little each day. I shall learn as my father did, until I can walk unchallenged amongst the Humanish.’ Its eyes slewed back to Quintus. ‘But while I am learning,’ said the Fisher Prince, ‘I must be served.’ It fixed Quintus with its baleful glare.

Quintus backed away, and Maelduin caught the swift movement as the monk threw up a hand to deflect the creature’s icy malevolence.

‘You are accustomed to serving,’ said the Prince, and now its voice dripped with a horrid, phlegmy note. Maelduin, sickened, thought: it is striving for the pitch of Humanish.

‘You are accustomed to serving,’ said the Prince again. ‘That will suit me very well.’ It moved again, and Maelduin saw it lift its webbed hands upwards. Almost before it had completed the gesture, great heavy black chains, immense manacles and gyves, had formed from the clustering shadows and slithered across the floor to Quintus.

The Monk fell back, his face distorted, but the chains coiled about his ankles, and so heavy and so cruelly thick were they that he sank to his knees, unable to stand for the dragging weight. There was the hiss of metal, and tiny spirals of smoke rose from the iron where the chains had fused.

‘Chained,’ said the Prince, its thick, slurry voice licking the word with pleasure. ‘Chained by the ancient forgings of the nimfeach to do my pleasure. A good spell.’ It pointed to the doors through which they had entered, its webbed hands making a flapping sound. ‘Out to the stables, Monk, and make ready the trappings of your servitude.’

‘My servitude …’ Quintus’s face was drained of every vestige of colour and his eyes were deep black pits.

The Fisher Prince said, ‘I shall need victims to feed on. Prey. Humanish prey. Warm fresh blood and tender young flesh to devour. Whole, unspoiled bodies.’ Its monstrous, lipless fishmouth stretched open, and the flat eyes gleamed. ‘You will become adept again,’ said the Prince. ‘You served the Lord of Chaos and the Lady of Almhuin, and now you will serve me.’ It moved closer to Quintus. ‘And my appetites are large, Monk,’ it said in a slimy, insinuating whisper, the sibilants hissing again.

Quintus said in a low voice, ‘I will never serve you, filth.’

The Prince did not move, but the repulsive mouth opened again in a gulping, swallowing motion. The gills in its neck gaped, revealing slimy white under-flesh.

‘Your Teacher,’ hissed the Prince, ‘the upstart Nazarene, whom you revere so highly, knew of many lessons and many punishments. And amongst the meaningless writings of his people, is recorded a punishment used many times by the old gods.’ The creature paused and Maelduin heard how it was curling its loathsome tongue more agilely about the unfamiliar cadences of speech now.

With the thought, the knowledge of the real Cadence slipped into his mind, and he sought for the gentle silver radiance. But even as he did so, the remembrance of how his own inner radiance had dimmed in the dark passages flooded his mind, and he thought: I cannot! The light has dimmed!

The Prince was still studying Quintus. ‘You know the pronouncement, perhaps?’ it said. ‘It is one that my father used against those whom he wished to snare into serving him. It bound even the nimfeach themselves at one time.’ And then, as Quintus stared unflinchingly back, the creature whispered in its clotted voice, the words of the old and terrible malediction.

‘“They shall be accursed, and they shall be afflicted with a terrible burning in their privily parts, so that they shall be forced to douse them in the cooling bodies of women … but there will be no relief for them … And sores and buboes shall fester them so that all shall shrink from them … Cancers and blisters shall festoon their bodies … And they shall crawl the earth like the lowest, laidliest worms …’

Before the Prince had finished speaking, the black chains coiled like thick black snakes, dragging Quintus down to the cold stone of the floor, so that he was lying on his front. Maelduin, horrified, saw sudden pain twist his face, and something very like despair flood his dark eyes.

‘A burning, Monk,’ said the Prince, its face distorted with evil glee. ‘Does it hurt? Does it burn and itch? Do you ache for the embrace of women? But what of the rest of the curse? What of the final, subtle, exquisite agony?’

In the thin light that still silvered the floor, Quintus’s pale skin began to bubble and split as if a great heat was bursting it open. Thick fluid oozed out, and then ceased, and instantly the split skin began to dry and to crust over with ugly scabs, leprous and so utterly repulsive that Maelduin, who had thought himself armoured against most things, felt his stomach churn with nausea He watched, helplessly, as Quintus tried to stand.

They shall crawl the earth like laidly worms …

Laidly worms, thought Maelduin, staring at the squirming, struggling thing that was Quintus. The Prince has made of him a repulsive worm, and he will be forced to crawl like this, he will be forced to endure those evil, suppurating sores, and the terrible burning desires until the creature chooses to release him.

‘That is to ensure you do not cheat me,’ hissed the Prince. ‘To ensure that, even if you try to despoil the creatures you snare for me, they will recoil from you. And now go out and find the trappings of your servitude, Monk. Go out and make your bed where you may, and find, if you will, creatures who will not shudder from you, even in the darkest night. Satiate your hungers where you can.’ The short squat figure seemed to tower above them suddenly. ‘But bring me Humanish victims!’ screeched the Prince, its slurry voice out of control now, spittle flying from the flat, piscine jaw. ‘Bring me the beasts of the ocean so that I may satiate my lusts! Bring me creatures that I may devour slowly. Creatures whose juices I can suck and in whose blood I can wallow.’ The gulping mouth opened and closed again, but the webbed hand moved impatiently, indicating the oaken doors. ‘Begone from my sight, foul thing, and be about my work!’ it cried and, as it did so, Quintus gathered the great black chains up, and half crawled, half scuttled across the moon-washed stone flags, and into the dark night outside.

*

There was a long silence. Maelduin’s eyes were fixed on the Prince and his mind was churning.

The Prince was grinning, the fish-eyes resting on Maelduin with piercing malignancy. Maelduin knew at once that it possessed the Stroicim Inchinn, the forbidden dark underside of the Samhailt, which enabled the possessor to claw into the mind of an enemy, to tear out deeply buried thoughts and emotions, and to plant alien thoughts and emotions in their stead. The Prince had not needed to acquire it slowly and painfully as most of the Dark Lords did; he had been born knowing it, he would have inherited the knowledge from his terrible sire.

He lowered his eyes at once, but it was too late; he could already feel the cold pincers of the Stroicim Inchinn probing deep into his mind, searching out his weaknesses …

Your will is mine, sidh Prince … Your will must bend to mine, son of the Elven King …

Maelduin struggled against the dark, overwhelming tide of the creature’s mind. It was like plunging breast-deep into an icy cold river, it was like falling fathoms down into a dark, bottomless well, it was every dark, desolate thing ever felt or sensed or feared …

Old, evil darkness, creeping from its hole …

I am drowning in the creature’s darkness, thought Maelduin, fighting desperately, clawing upwards for a shred of light, a sliver of moonglow, a thin, tenuous thread of the Cadence.

… ancient, terrible blackness stealing over its prey …

Through the dark mist that was obscuring his vision, Maelduin was aware that the great fish maw was gaping again, stretching impossibly wide, gusting the sickening stench of rotting fish and decaying flesh into his nostrils. It loomed nearer and nearer, and he thought: he is eating my mind! He is leaving my body, but he is eating my mind …

He was aware of his mind, his being, the tiny core that was ineluctably himself, being drawn nearer and nearer into that thick, lipless mouth, and he clutched desperately at the Cadence.

I am the Crown Prince … You will never send me into the darkness …

But the light was far from him now; it was beyond his reach, behind the spiked darkness of the Fisher Prince’s evil powers.

There was a final wrenching, a moment of such complete agony at the core of his being, that he heard himself cry out.

The darkness closed about him and awareness drained away.

Chapter Thirty-seven

The Amaranths thought it was just as well that they had found wine and provisions in the west wing, because their sojourn there was beginning to seem as if it might be much longer than any of them had anticipated.

They had marshalled their forces in readiness for the attack by the Fer Caille and the Black HeartStealers seriously and efficiently. They had held a hasty discussion, with everyone seated round the long table in the west wing, because it was as well to be prepared for every eventuality, and it was as well to have some kind of battle plan. They had all looked expectantly at Neit and Manannan mac Lir, because wasn’t this the whole point of having them there. As Cerball said, they could probably have worked out a plan on their own account, but they did not want to be impolite to their important guests.

Herself of Mugain said that, if their important guests could find a way to defeat the NightCloak, it would be the first time in Ireland’s history, and they were all wasting their time, but nobody paid this much attention. As Great-aunt Fuamnach pointed out, they could not just sit up here in the west wing — nasty dusty place — with their hands folded, with black evil rampaging about below. She glared at Herself as she said this, and demanded of Cerball what was to be done. Cerball, who was beginning to feel beleaguered on all sides, said it behoved them all to put up a show of bravery, and the Mugain tucked in his chins and looked wise and said to his way of thinking, they’d be needing to put up a bit of a fight for themselves, what did Bodb Decht and Cerball think?

‘Well, our two guests do not appear to be contributing a very great deal,’ said Bodb Decht cautiously.

‘They aren’t contributing at all,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach.

‘It’s a difficult situation,’ put in Cerball.

‘Very.’

None of them quite liked to say that the two gods were being of no help at all, and that the invoking of the ancient and precious Ritual of the Key had been pretty much of a useless exercise.

The Mugain had remembered a spell to call up the Four Winds. ‘See now, couldn’t we try that? That would cause some havoc.’

‘If only we had the Cadence,’ groaned Cerball.

‘Well, we haven’t. We’ll make do with our own knowledge. Let’s think now, do we need the Incantation of the Storm, or is it the Tempest Runes?’

Calatin and the younger cousins were planning on a concerted rush! ‘Off down the stairs and lay about them with our swords,’ said Calatin, brandishing his own sword by way of illustration, but doing it a bit awkwardly because of his injured arm.

‘There will be time for that when we have turned back the NightMares,’ said Neit, smiling at Calatin rather indulgently. ‘When you are a little better versed in these things, you will understand about wars. First things first, young sir,’ he added, and Calatin, who had been all ready to accord Neit a wholly uncritical admiration, turned bright red and stared at the floor.

And then Cecht, who had been standing near to the door, held up a hand and said, ‘Listen.’

‘What is it?’

‘I can’t hear anything. What’s going on …’

‘Oh do hush, Cecht thinks something’s starting to happen.’

‘Well, tell those noisy cousins of Calatin to stop chanting battle cries.’

Great-aunt Fuamnach thumped the floor with her stick to stop the younger cousins from chanting things like, ‘Death to the invaders’ and ‘Drown them in boiling oil’ and ‘Ireland for the Amaranths’. Calatin had even remembered an old battle song of some long-ago warrior called CuChulainn, and was rehearsing it with the twins. You could go very valiantly into a battle with a good rousing war song.

But they all fell silent, and Bodb Decht, going quickly to where Cecht stood still listening intently, said, in a low voice, ‘There’s something creeping up the stairs.’

*

Something creeping up the stairs. Something slithery and slimy, and something that flopped wetly and squirmed and then sniffed at the door into the gallery. But something that had rattling claws as well, and was scratching at the closed and Sealed door leading into the gallery. The Amaranths held their breath, and waited.

Calatin said, very softly, ‘If it’s an ordinary mortal force we can kill it,’ and at his side, the Mugain said, ‘And if it’s a nasty spell of some kind, we can blast it with lightning bolts.’

‘Cerball and the Mugain are calling up the Four Winds.’

‘If they can remember the Incantation.’

The creeping, slithering thing was fumbling at the door-latch now, and there was a nauseating stench of old blood and rotting meat and vegetation that has turned slimy and brackish.

Neit was standing at the centre of the room, his eyes on the door, a tiny frown creasing his brow. Cerball, who had left the Mugain to finish the Incantation to the Four Winds, thought: I suppose he does know about battles and wars, does he? and at once, Manannan mac Lir, who was standing next to him, said very softly:

‘Do not be too sure of it, my friend.’ And then, as Cerball looked up sharply, ‘He does rely rather heavily on his reputation, you know,’ said Manannan blandly.

Cerball said, ‘But he was sent to us — you were both sent to us when we used the Key …’

‘Oh, that.’ Manannan’s eyes went to Neit. ‘The truth is that our father is usually so glad to get rid of any of us for a time that he sends us down here willy-nilly whenever anyone calls for help. And then goes off on his own ploys,’ he added. ‘And you wouldn’t believe some of the things he —’

‘But the Key …’ said Cerball, so aghast that he broke in on Manannan’s words, which he would not normally have done, on account of Manannan being a God and one of the Dagda’s sons to boot. ‘We had the legendary Key to the Dagda’s Temple —’

‘And very nice too,’ said Manannan approvingly, as if they were discussing a possible supper dish. He glanced at Cerball mischievously. ‘There are a number of such things, of course,’ he said. ‘Keys to unlock doors, and Mirrors and Forest Pools to be stared into. All of them are supposed to summon my family, although I don’t know that any one of them works above another when you come down to it. And then of course there’re Golden Horns to be blown — my sisters were always very rude about those, because for all Neit’s golden strength and muscular build, and for all he would have you believe otherwise, he is very poorly endowed.’

‘Ah. Indeed?’

‘Oh yes. I’m the one our father sends if there’s any wooing to be done,’ said Manannan, puffing out his chest a bit, and Cerball, who felt the situation sliding from his grasp all over again, looked worriedly to where the Mugain was determinedly chanting the Tempest Runes.

It was Calatin who said, in an urgent cry, ‘It’s opening the door! The thing outside, it’s opening the door!’ He looked round. ‘To arms, everyone!’

‘Death to the Black HeartStealers!’ cried the cousins, and Calatin brandished his sword again, his face set and his eyes shining with excitement.

‘Destruction to Ireland’s enemies!’

‘Confusion to the Dark Realm!’ shouted the twins.

‘The Four Winds’ Spell!’ cried Cerball. ‘Mugain, what —’

But there was no time to remember the Spell to the Four Winds, and there was no use in relying on it, even if the Mugain had been anywhere near finishing it.

The door to the disused gallery was pushed open very slowly. It inched its way open, with the tortuous creaking of seldom-used hinges. A wavering, blurry light slid into the gallery, and a huge amorphous shadow fell across the floor. Cecht and the twins, standing together, grasped one another’s hands, and Great-aunt Fuamnach took a firmer grasp on her stick.

Slowly, with a crawling, groping movement, a great jagged-nailed hand slid around the edges of the door, the fingers curling about the edge of the wood, the movement horridly copied by the black shadow. In the deep darkness beyond the door, there was the rasp of clawed feet, and then, above that, the sound of hoarse breathing.

Something in the hall … Something fearsome and monstrous standing in the dark shadows watching them and awaiting its chance to burst through the door and get them …

The shadow of the thing lay blackly across the gallery floor, crepitating slightly, stumplike protuberances sprouting from its upper half, as if it were trying to grow rudimentary arms.

Cerball, standing with the Mugain and Bodb Decht, Calatin and the younger ones with them, stared at the black void with horrified expressions and pounding hearts. What had the Fer Caille sent to them? What was standing there in the shadows, listening and watching, … ?

No one moved. Everyone stared helplessly at the blackened, horny nails of the monstrous hand that had crept round it, and at the bloated-looking skin of the thick, fleshy fingers.

At last Cerball, who could not bear it any longer, said, ‘If there is anything there, come out and fight!’ And was pleased to hear that his voice sounded really rather fierce.

‘Come out and fight the Royal Amaranth Sorcerers,’ he added, and was just thinking that this sounded even better, when Bodb Decht said, ‘I don’t think there’s anything there at all.’

‘But it’s —’

‘Don’t you understand? It’s beginning,’ said Bodb Decht. ‘It’s part of the NightMares.’

Cerball started to say, ‘Oh, but …’ and stopped.

Great-aunt Fuamnach said, ‘Well something’s climbed those stairs, whether it’s a NightMare or a plain ordinary demon.’

‘Yes, but whatever’s there isn’t anything temporal,’ said Bodb Decht. And then, in a worried voice, ‘Or is it?’

A dreadful throaty chuckle came from beyond the door and Cerball, firmly grasping what little courage he had left, took a step closer to the door and said, ‘Who are you?’

There was a brief silence, and then they heard the hoarse chuckling and the harsh, difficult breathing again. And then, ‘I am Tromlui, a Servant of the NightCloak,’ said a throaty, whispering voice that made Cecht and the twins jump back.

‘When a sorcerer with sufficient power invokes the Cloak’s forces, then I am woken …’ The gloating chuckle broke from it again.

Bodb Decht said, half to himself, ‘Tromlui, meaning “a nightmare creature” …’ and they heard Tromlui’s quickened, excited breathing again.

‘Yes, Amaranth, that is what I am,

‘I am every NightMare you have ever encountered … Every dark slithering beast and every horned creature you have ever feared … Every slimed, loathsome reptile, and every squirming giant worm …

‘I carry the seeds of each and every race within me. I am Giant and Hobgoblin and serpent and snake … I am the faceless Ogre who chased you across the blood-red landscape, and I am the huge clanking machinery with the Humanish face that will waddle across the bedchamber to gobble you up …

‘Fear I am, and terror also, and every distortion and every warped being that has ever haunted your dreams, so that you woke drenched in sweat, reaching thankfully for the night candle so that its light would chase away the shadows and its warmth would dry the cold fear on your bodies …’

There was a pause, and again came the wheezing, wet-lung breathing, and the clotted laughter.

‘But supposing you awoke and I was still there?’ whispered Tromlui, and the blurred shadow palpitated again with evil amusement.

‘Supposing you fought your way out of your terror-ridden slumbers, and found that I was still with you? Crouching in the shadows, slithering beneath the bed-covers … The dark cloak you have hung in your cupboard that will suddenly rear up to smother you … The gown you have laid on the chair-back that will gather up its folds and glide noiselessly to strangle you …’

‘A lot of rot,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach loudly, and thumped the floor with her stick.

‘Of course it is. See now —’

‘Are you sure I am not with you now?’ said Tromlui, its snuffling, bubbling breathing seeming to creep nearer. ‘Are you sure that I do not already lurk unseen in the corners of the room, peering at you, ready to pounce? Perhaps I have an axe already dripping with blood, or perhaps I have a razor to slash your pretty Humanish flesh to tatters … I like Humanish flesh,’ said the wheezing, phlegmy voice, and Cecht and the twins shuddered.

‘Pay it no attention,’ directed Cerball. ‘Nasty whispery thing.’

‘Why doesn’t it come out into the open and fight honestly?’ demanded the Mugain.

‘I shall come,’ whispered the creature. ‘I shall certainly come, my dears …’ it went on. ‘And when I do, I shall fold the pretty little Amaranth ladies in my embrace.’ The greed clotted its voice. ‘Ripe for my embraces,’ it said. ‘Perhaps I shall creep into their beds when it is dark and the Humanish world sleeps, and perhaps I shall press my noseless face to theirs, and push my skinless body close to their warm, soft flesh …’

Cecht and the twins gasped, and clutched one another’s hands, and Calatin took a firmer grip on his sword.

The Mugain said, very loudly, to the room in general, ‘I don’t think we believe in any of this, do we? The NightCloak was always on the side of the True Ireland. I don’t give much credence to it serving the necromancers.’

‘That’s quite right,’ said Cerball, gamely backing the Mugain, but still casting worried glances to the half-open door. ‘I’ve never even heard of Tromlui,’ he said firmly.

‘One of the northern lot, I shouldn’t wonder,’ put in Great-aunt Fuamnach, as if this dealt with Tromlui and there was nothing more to worry about. ‘I daresay we could banish it in a gnat’s eyeblink. Bodb Decht?’

Bodb Decht said, ‘The NightCloak was created by the first Amaranths for Ireland’s first Queen, and as such has always been used by those practising only pure sorcery.’

Great-aunt Fuamnach had started to say that this disposed of Tromlui, when the creature laughed derisively. The Amaranths heard at once that the throaty, snuffling note had vanished, and that now it was the hungry and over-powering laugh of the nearly-extinct Giantish race.

‘I did tell you, Amaranths, that I possessed the blood of all the races,’ it said, and now its words were impossibly loud, magnified a dozen times. ‘Perhaps I shall summon my Giantish blood, and my Ogre-ish appetites,’ it blared. ‘Perhaps I shall scent the blood of Humans and crush them in my great fists and pound their bones for my bread …’

Cecht, who was standing with her arms about the twins, thought it was the kind of laugh that said: o-ho and ha-ha, here is Manflesh and here are Humans for the supper table. It was the kind of sinister laugh that made you think of things like seven-league boots, that could stride across the land and catch you no matter how fast you ran, or of coarse, Ogreish faces that leered and smacked their lips in anticipation of eating you, and of huge Giantish fists that came down and crushed your bones in their hands …

And then the dreadful hoarse whispering died away, and the thick grotesque shadow became very still. Cecht thought: it has not gone, it is still there, watching and listening, but its attention has been diverted. And could not decide whether to be glad about this, or afraid of what might have caught Tromlui’s attention sufficiently strongly.

The Mugain, who happened to be nearest to the windows, caught a flicker of movement from down in the courtyard, and turned at once.

‘What is it?’ said Cerball, half turning to see. ‘What have you seen?’

The Mugain said, in a whisper, ‘There’s something down there in the courtyard.’

‘What sort of something?’

‘I don’t know.’

Calatin walked determinedly across to the window, deliberately turning his back on the partly open door, and clambered on to the window-seat to look down, because although he was actually extremely frightened of the unseen creature’s whispering (huge, clanking gobbling machinery, it had said, and Calatin had felt rather sick), he was not going to let anyone know he was frightened.

In fact, several people had followed him to the windows, which was remarkably comforting, and were beside him staring down into the shadowy courtyard directly below.

‘I can hear hoofbeats,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, who liked to let everyone know that her hearing was as sharp as ever it had been.

‘Muffled hoofbeats,’ said the Mugain.

‘As if the hoofs are covered with a thick cloth.’

‘Or as if they are cloven,’ said Bodb Decht, his face suddenly white.

Cloven hoofs … Dark shadowy beasts pouring through the night towards the Porphyry Palace, pounding the ground with cloven hoofs.

Cerball said, ‘What’s that?’

‘Where?’

‘Over there.’ He pointed to the far corners of the courtyard, where a low stone arch led out to the surrounding countryside. ‘There’s something moving out there,’ he said. ‘It’s —’

‘It’s horses,’ said Bodb Decht in a whisper. ‘Dozens of them. Black rearing stallions with red eyes and cloven hoofs.’

They’re each pulling a chariot,’ said Calatin, staring in horrified fascination.

Bodb Decht said, ‘And in each of the chariots is something dark and shapeless …’ He turned sharply as the thick chuckle of Tromlui sounded from behind the door again.

‘So unlearned you are, Amaranths … You are seeing the Beasts of the NightCloak bringing with them my brethren …’

Bodb Decht said in a voice from which the breath had been driven, ‘The NightMare Stallions. And they are bringing the creatures of the NightMares with them.’

*

They were pouring into the courtyard, their slanting red eyes glinting in the shadows, their skins gleaming like polished ebony. They were sinisterly beautiful and darkly menacing, and they dragged with them the foul miasma of the terrible Black Ireland.

The NightMare Stallions, answering the summoning of the legendary NightCloak of the High Queens of Ireland …

Each one drew a black chariot with huge, viciously spiked wheels, and the Dark Star of Necromancy glinted on their prows. The wheels of each chariot were clogged and fouled with gobbets of blood and with trailing, slimed skeins of flesh and mangled bones.

The Mugain said softly, ‘The NightMares are said to gallop across the fields of battle carrying death and mutilation with them. Whoever can enlist them as allies is believed fortunate.’ He stared down at the massing stallions. ‘They can call up not only the Lord of Chaos’s henchmen, but the lesser creatures of war,’ he said, and at his side, Bodb Decht said, ‘Chaos’s henchmen: Murder, Anarchy and Misrule.’

‘Yes. But also there are Mutilation and Agony and Spite and … I forget them all,’ said the Mugain.

‘Torment, Thirst, Starvation,’ said Cerball, frowning in an effort of memory.

‘And Loss and Despair, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. And there’re several more as well. The NightMares draw them to the battlefields. They’ll be down there now,’ said Cerball, his eyes still on the courtyard.

Neit pushed back a lock of hair with one hand and said, ‘Oh, I have met those ones many times.’

‘And defeated them, brother dear?’ inquired Manannan mac Lir sweetly.

‘They’re nasty creatures.’ Great-aunt Fuamnach could not be doing with such things. ‘WarMongers we used to call them in my younger days. Now then, Cerball, those things are rampaging through the courtyard.’ She eyed Cerball and the Mugain sternly. ‘They’ll be inside the Palace at any minute. What are we doing about them?’

The Stallions were beneath the windows of the west wing now, smoke pouring from their flared nostrils, the fetid stench rising like poisonous fumes from a swamp. They tossed their heads, so that the silver and black harnesses rang out coldly on the night air, and their cloven hoofs stamped the ground impatiently.

The Amaranths could not see the occupants of the chariots fully, but as they stood looking down, they caught glimpses of terrible and fearsome beings.

Giants and Ogres with brutish, greedy faces and coarse red lips … Squat stubby lumps of metal and iron that would waddle after their victims, their steel-trap mouths snapping hungrily, their grinding, threshing machinery whirring and gobbling. All the better to mince you with …

In the far chariots, they could see horrendous mutilations, creatures with their skulls split and with eyes dangling on the ends of bright red strings. Creatures with their skins bubbling and festering with plague and disease and filth. Others with their skulls sliced off at the top, so that their exposed brains pulsated and heaved …

‘The NightMares,’ said Bodb Decht, leaning over as far as he could. ‘They have not quite solidified, but they are there in their embryo forms.’ He glanced back and saw the twins shudder. ‘Nasty,’ he said gently. ‘But we shall find a way to beat them.’

The chariots were forming themselves into a circle, and they could see that several of them held creeping snakes with serpents’ heads, and cauldrons of turbulent oil that would boil and ferment over the sides, scalding any who went near. Close by were huge spiders with the heads of Men, and scaly-skinned, batlike reptiles with great gristly jointed legs and arms.

At the far side of the circle of dark chariots, they could see thin grey beings, skin-covered skeletons with hungry, reaching fingers and empty eyes.

‘The WarMongers,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach grimly.

‘Mutilation and Torment and Hunger and Thirst,’ said Cerball.

‘Yes. Present on every battlefield.’ Bodb Decht was looking very solemn. ‘Not only has the Fer Caille summoned the NightMares, he has also summoned the creatures of war.’ He stepped back from the window and regarded the Amaranths sternly. ‘I don’t think we can fight against this,’ he said. ‘The Fer Caille and his followers are sending the strongest forces of the Dark Realm against us. He is determined to take the Amaranth Palace at all costs.’

There was a moment of terrible silence. Then Cerball said, ‘You are not — surely you are not suggesting surrender?’

‘I hope he is not!’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach at once. ‘Surrender! Well, you’ll do so over my dead body, Cerball!’ She stumped across the room and sat down at thee table, glaring.

Cerball said, ‘Of course we do not surrender. Only …’ He sent a desperate look to Neit and Manannan mac Lir, who had taken no part in the rush to the window, but had stayed within the room.

‘Yes, but you know, I don’t think we can fight those things,’ said the Mugain, and paid no heed to his lady who tutted crossly, and wished that Himself would not show such defeatism. ‘We should be overpowered in minutes,’ said the Mugain. ‘I am only being practical,’ he added, and Herself sniffed and remembered that her dear mother had frequently said that the Mugains possessed a lily-livered streak.

Cerball turned angrily to Neit and Manannan mac Lir. ‘Do something!’ he cried, flinging out his hands. ‘We called on you for help! Help us!’

‘They are at the main entrance,’ said Calatin suddenly. ‘Listen — can’t you hear them? Cerball, Mugain — we can’t simply stand here and wait for them to come pouring in …’ He grasped his sword and strode to the door, and at once the terrible black mass that was Tromlui’s shadow lurched menacingly. There was the sound of grinding machinery, a rhythmic, clanking, grating sound, and Calatin turned rather pale, and fell back as if he had been struck.

Cerball was looking at the two gods. ‘Help us,’ he said.

‘Yes, but we cannot fight the creatures of the NightCloak!’ said Neit, and then, rallying, said, ‘Even I cannot do so. Those things are the brethren of Tromlui! They possess black sorcery of the strongest kind!’

Great-aunt Fuamnach started to say that Gods of War who were afeared of Tromlui, whoever he might be, were neither use nor ornament to folk, but Cerball, who was back at the window, said, ‘They are searching for a way in! All of you! Look!’

The terrible black stallions, the fearsome NightMares of the Dark Realm, were rearing up, pawing the air with their wicked split hoofs, whinnying derisively. They turned about, their silken black manes rippling behind them, the dark chariots with their grisly burdens sending sparks shooting from their huge wheels. The horrified Amaranths saw the dripping, ravaged creatures begin to emerge from the depths of the black chariots, and swarm across the stones of the courtyard.

‘The Four Winds’ Spell!’ cried Calatin. ‘Mugain …’

‘It will be useless,’ said Manannan mac Lir, his eyes on the terrible creatures below. ‘Already Tromlui has broken the Seals. You are at the creatures’ mercy.’

The NightMares were shrieking in triumph now, the disease-ridden faces of the WarMongers avid and greedy. The maimed and mutilated creatures who were spilling from the chariots were leaping on to the backs of the Human-visaged spiders, bridling the creeping snakes and serpents, clinging to their backs and forcing them to carry their grisly burdens into the Palace. The creatures that Great-aunt Fuamnach had identified as WarMongers were running and scuttling across the ground, several of them swarming straight up the sheer Palace walls, climbing easily and swiftly. From the half-open door, Tromlui chuckled, and there was the sound of clawed, leathery hands being rubbed together.

‘All the better to eat you, my dears …’

The Amaranths stared at each other, knowing that it could be only minutes before they would be facing the NightMares and the fearsome WarMongers. Tromlui’s great black shadow swelled and crepitated with malicious anticipation, and the twins, standing with Cecht and Calatin, clung together, white-faced.

‘Tromlui is taking shape,’ whispered Cecht. ‘The NightMare Stallions are giving him strength and life.’

‘All the better to embrace you, my dear,’ came the throaty whisper, and there was the sudden sound of claws scratching on the timbers of the floor outside the gallery.

‘There must be something we can do!’ cried Cerball, staring about him in anguish. ‘There must be something!’

Neit said, ‘There might be a way …’ And glanced at his brother, who said impatiently, ‘Oh get on with it, Neit, and let us be rid of these disgusting creatures!’

‘What can you do!’ cried Cerball. ‘If there is something you can do, then do it at once!’

‘Yes, he always drags out the anticipation. I remember the King of the Marshes —’

‘I am thinking of a plan,’ said Neit, disdainfully.

‘Can we not simply deny the creatures’ existences?’ said Cecht, suddenly. ‘If we simply refuse to believe in them … They are only NightMares,’ said Cecht angrily. ‘Not real at all.’

‘Yes, surely they can exist only if we believe in their existence,’ said the Mugain.

‘The WarMongers are real,’ said Manannan mac Lir. ‘Mutilation and Spite and Agony …’

Bodb Decht said, slowly, ‘If we could put ourselves beyond their reach …’

‘How?’ said Neit, and even in the heat of the moment, the Amaranths shared the thought that Neit was really rather stupid.

‘By sending themselves into a deep slumber of course,’ said Manannan mac Lir impatiently. ‘Dear me, I should have thought that even you would have thought of that, Neit!’ He turned to Cerball and the Mugain. ‘I believe you have the answer,’ he said, and his eyes were suddenly bright.

Cecht said, very softly, ‘The gods help those who help themselves,’ and Manannan shot her an approving look.

‘Precisely, my dear,’ he said. And then, turning back to Cerball and Bodb Decht, ‘It’s the only way you’ll defeat them,’ he said, and now his voice was authoritative. ‘Don’t wait for that fool.’ He indicated Neit contemptuously. ‘If you do, it’ll be the Battle against the King of the Marshes all over again.’

Bodb Decht said, ‘The Draoicht Suan —’

‘Yes,’ Manannan looked at them. ‘The Enchantment of Deepest Slumber. Swift and simple. And an enchantment so light-filled, that the Fer Caille and his armies will never dissolve it.’

‘In any case, the Draoicht Suan can only be dissolved by those who spin it,’ put in Cerball.

‘Yes,’ said Manannan. ‘Do it,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way! You can each direct the spell to one another. And once inside the Suan, once properly inside it, you’ll be beyond the reach of the NightMares and Tromlui.’

Cecht said, ‘But the Draoicht Suan is so strong that we shall all succumb to it as soon as it is pronounced …’

‘Yes?’

‘That means there will be no one left awake to dissolve the spell when the danger has passed.’ She looked at them, her eyes huge and fearful.

‘But we can’t leave anyone awake,’ said Cerball. ‘Anyone left unenchanted by the Suan would be horribly vulnerable. Whoever we left would quite certainly be killed and his soul taken into the Dark Realm for Chaos.’

‘I volunteer to die,’ said Calatin promptly, and was told by Great-aunt Fuamnach to be quiet and not to be foolish.

‘We shan’t leave anyone to die,’ said Cerball. ‘We have to put ourselves beyond the reach of the Nightmares and the Warmongers. We have to lock ourselves inside a light-filled sleep of our own spinning. Because,’ he said, looking very solemn, ‘we know that the NightMares will never penetrate the Draoicht Suan. We shall have to pronounce it and take our chance on the rest.’

‘But once we’re inside the Enchantment it could be days — years even — before we awake.’

‘Then,’ said Cerball, rather grimly, ‘we shall simply have to stay asleep for years.’ His eyes went over them all. ‘Is everyone here? There’s no time to lose now. Ready?’

The Mugain said, ‘Who knows the incantation best?’

‘We all know it.’ Cerball looked round. ‘I think we should all pronounce it. It’ll be stronger that way.’

‘And therefore deeper.’

‘Exactly. And if we form a circle, we can each of us direct it to the person in front of us.’

‘Are we ready?’ said Cerball again, and raised his hand. ‘Exactly in unison now.’

The Amaranths moved silently into a circle, their palms raised upwards, their faces intent.

And then Cerball brought his hand down, and the gentle, strong chant of the ancient Draoicht Suan flooded the disused west wing.

Chapter Thirty-eight

It was only when Andrew had finally fallen into a deep, calm slumber, and Rumour was sure that she had managed to quench the pain, that she summoned every ounce of her strength and descended to Almhuin’s bath-house once more.

The Lady had not moved since Rumour had caged her; she had simply crouched in her cage, the blood-caked hair tousled and curtaining her face. But now, as Rumour entered, and as the torchlight fell across the blood-smeared stone flags, she looked up, snarling and trying to strike out at Rumour with bloodied, talon-tipped hands.

Rumour stood in the centre of the room and regarded the creature. She saw that there was already a film over the Lady’s great pit-like eyes, and understood at once that the light was already quenching this creature who had for so long served darkness. The knowledge lent her extra strength, and she was able to stand before the creature calmly.

‘Well, madame,’ said Rumour. ‘It seems that the time has come to make your imprisonment a little more secure.’

For answer, the Lady spat and sprang at the bars, her long pale fingers curling about them.

‘Useless,’ said Rumour crisply. ‘My sorcery is too strong for you. The bars of light will hold.’ She studied the creature. ‘I am considered to be really rather good, you know,’ said Rumour.

‘You are considered to be the whore of the Amaranth House,’ said the Lady in a voice of icy fury.

‘Am I really? Now that pleases me enormously.’ Rumour moved round the room thoughtfully. ‘I do think it is gratifying to know that one’s reputation has preceded one. You, on the other hand, are really hardly known at all outside your Realm, are you? It’s such a pity, my dear, because I do think you could have had quite a useful career if you had not been so vain.’

‘Chaos will send his Armies against you,’ snarled the Lady. The Fomoire will already have returned to his Castle to report that Almhuin is in the hands of an Amaranth. And,’ she said, with sudden vicious hatred, ‘he will certainly know which Amaranth.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Rumour at once, but a swift, small smile lifted her lips. Of course Chaos would know which Amaranth. He would be furiously angry that the Fomoire had not taken the Almhuin Citadel, but he might also be intrigued. And I almost believe I can handle Chaos, thought Rumour. At the moment I believe I could take on the entire Dark Realm and win.

Because I forced open the door to the light, and that door is still ajar …

She turned back to the snarling creature with the tangled, matted hair and smeared white skin. ‘There is nothing for it,’ said Rumour in a bored tone. ‘It is really quite stultifyingly tedious, but I am afraid there is only one thing I can do with you.’

The Lady glanced slyly at Rumour from the corners of her eyes, and Rumour felt the animal fear emanating from her. At length, she said, ‘Well?’

Rumour smiled rather pityingly. ‘I am going to brick you up in the dungeons and leave you for ever in the dark,’ she said.

*

For ever in the dark. To be bricked up, to be shut away for ever in a tiny lightless, windowless cell, without hope of reprieve, without even the sound of another voice. A truly terrible fate, thought Rumour. I can scarcely believe I said it.

But I will do it.

The Dark Realm had little light, of course; it had no day and no dawn and no sun. But there was light of a kind here. It was told how the Dark Lords enjoyed their dissolute, flame-lit banquets, and how, when they travelled in the Black Domain, they did so by the lights of hundreds of flambeaux carried by servants. And Rumour had already seen that Almhuin was well provided with wall-sconces. Yes, the Lady served the dark powers, she exulted in darkness itself, but she would not find it an easy punishment to bear.

Bricked up and left in the dark for ever …

There must be no possibility of a rescue. The sentence must last until the creature died. It must be immutable. It would have been better to have killed her outright, but Rumour knew she had not sufficient strength. She knew that she had overcome massive forces simply to cage the creature; to end her life and render up her soul would require the strongest, purest sorcery ever spun. Rumour thought if she had had with her the entire House of Amaranth, they might have managed it. The slaying of the necromancess … Yes, together, their several strengths combined, they would surely have been victorious.

And all the time, beneath the cool logic and the cold planning, ran a seething anger. Why should the creature not be made to suffer for what she has done to Andrew and all those other poor wretches? Why should she be accorded a swift, painless ending … ?

She left the slaughterhouse and went quickly down the narrow curving steps that led to Almhuin’s dank dungeons, wrapping her cloak about her, but feeling how it still dragged in the seeping moisture of the stone floors and brushed against the crumbling walls with their thick crusting of lichen. Horrid! thought Rumour, shuddering. But she began to play the old, childish game again, that was not really childish and was not quite a game, of looking beyond.

Look beyond. When I am out of here — when Andrew and I are both out of here — I shall he for several hours in a deep scented bath with every expensive perfume and every sensuous oil I can find.

When I am in my own Castle again, I shall hold a tremendous banquet with every exotic food and every potent wine I can think of.

There was no light down here and she held aloft the flambeau, seeing with a shudder how it showed up the creeping mould and the pale fungal growths on the walls.

Somewhere close by, water was dripping steadily, echoing bleakly and coldly in the enclosed stone tunnels. Rumour shivered and held the flambeau up, trying not to see how tiny scuttling things ran away from the rays of light, or how there were stagnant pools of moisture on the floor.

Don’t notice it. Don’t see it. Think about hot scented baths and thick fluffy towels, and velvet robes and silken underthings that slither over your skin with a soft, sensuous whisper …

The dripping of water was exactly the sort of thing that would prey on your mind and fray your nerves. Drip-drip-drip … It was better to ignore it. It was better to look forward to the silks and the perfumes … A deep soft bed with a fire burning and silver wine carafes with diamond-bright chalices set out. Two chalices, of course, thought Rumour, the corners of her lips lifting in a sudden, mischievous smile. There was no point in scented baths and perfumed silks and firelit bedchambers if you were not going to share them with a lover … Oh Andrew, my love, there must a way to get you of this terrible place.

She thought she was directly beneath the keep now. She had stayed in innumerable Castles throughout Ireland, sometimes as a guest, sometimes as a business arrangement when a sorceress was required; occasionally clandestinely, when the Lady of the Castle was away, and the Castle Lord engaging in a little dilettante dalliance. She had many times slipped quietly through dark galleries and halls, sometimes with a torch to see the way, sometimes not. And she knew that the general layout of such places varied very little.

Even so, there was something overwhelming about knowing that the immense weight of a great dark Castle was directly over your head. Rumour lifted the flaring torch cautiously, and saw that above her were the curved, undressed stones of the tunnel roof, but that here and there were huge joists, great iron rivets and groynes.

The smallest of the cell-like dungeons was at the far end of the long narrow passage; it was very small and very cold and very dark. Rumour stood surveying it, frowning a little, holding the flambeau up to see the solid stone floor and the thick walls. How large? She paced it carefully. Four paces its length; three paces its width. Enough for the creature to lie flat if she wanted to. I am inflicting a terrible revenge, thought Rumour, and for a moment, standing there in the dank, foul-smelling cell, with only the thin torchlight, her resolve wavered.

And then: but the creature wounded Andrew! she thought angrily. She wounded him, and she would have killed him slowly and agonisingly. She has done so to countless others. Let her suffer! thought Rumour in silent fury.

The door was narrow and very low; Rumour had had to bend almost double to get through. She thought it would be fairly easy to block it up. There had been a partly crumbled and collapsed section of wall further back. She could move the bricks and the stones; there was actually a brief and very easy Spell of Labour that would do it for her. She would force the evil creature down here, keeping her inside the cage of light, and she would fling her into this cell, and she would have the Spell of Labour ready and waiting. And then, once the tiny door was bricked up, and the creature helpless, the bars of light could be withdrawn. Rumour stood in the tunnel, considering.

Was she then going to leave the creature to die of hunger and thirst and madness in the dark? Could she do it?

But if she was not to die, then someone would have to remain in the Castle as Gaoler. Someone would have to be here to pass the creature food and water through a hatch.

Who?

*

Andrew said, ‘She must not be left to die. Punishment if you will, but she must be allowed the opportunity to repent of the evil.’ He sat hunched over the fire in the small stone room, his face haggard and white with pain, but his eyes sensible.

Rumour had found the Lady’s sculleries — grim, vaulted chambers below the great dining hall — and had brought up a cask of good red wine which they had heated over the fire, together with wedges of some kind of dark rye bread, and a wheel of rich, ripe cheese and a spicy preserve to go with it. There was a dish of velvet-skinned plums.

Andrew cupped his hands gratefully about the silver wine chalice, feeling the warmth soak into his skin. His mind was still reeling from what had happened to him, and he knew that there would still be days of pain for him: he knew he had been so severely wounded by the one called Bailitheoir that he might never walk normally again. Lamed. Mutilated.

But I am alive, he thought, rallying. I am alive and I am whole. I am surviving, and Rumour is surviving with me. We shall beat this Dark Land and Theodora will be safe. And I believe I am drawing nearer to the Black Monk, he thought. He served the Crimson Lady for a time, she told Bailitheoir so. I am nearer to fulfilling the quest for my Order, he thought, and derived an unexpected comfort from this. As Rumour had been able to look beyond Almhuin to the scented baths and lavish banquets of her own Castle, Andrew found himself looking beyond it to the resuming of his quest; the taking back of the traitor of his Order.

Near to the fire, Rumour was getting out food. She had even brought up the Lady’s silver table utensils and squares of white linen for napkins. Through the pain that still gnawed, Andrew found himself smiling as she bent over the small task, because it was so very like her to remember knives and forks and linen, and to choose the best.

Without turning round, Rumour said, ‘There is no reason for us to live in an uncivilised fashion, Andrew.’

‘Of course not.’ Andrew accepted the plate she handed to him, and reached for a sharp knife to slice the bread for them. Rumour sat facing him, the warm glow from the wine in her own chalice casting a deep rich shadow over her face.

She said, in a level voice, ‘I intend to take the Lady down to the dungeons presently, and pronounce the spell that will cause her to bricked up for ever.’ She looked at him, not precisely asking for his view on this, not quite asking for his permission, but certainly waiting for his reactions.

Andrew said, ‘And then? Afterwards?’

Rumour met his eyes straightly. ‘She will be left for ever in the dark,’ she said. ‘There will be no light, no sound, no companionship for her ever again.’ She looked at him very directly, and her expression said that she did not care. ‘It is a fitting punishment,’ she said, aloud, but even to her own ears there was a defiance in her tone which should not have been necessary. Am I convinced that what I intend is right? thought Rumour. I suppose I cannot be, or I would have done it hours ago while Andrew slept. She touched, in her mind, the spells that could be used; simple Enchantments of Labour and Construction — what were called Artisan Enchantments — that would do the work and that would not be in the least quenched by the darkness of Almhuin.

Andrew’s eyes were thoughtful, and Rumour waited. At length he set down his wine and, leaning forward, took her hand. ‘My dear love,’ he said, ‘you cannot do it.’

‘Yes, I can do it.’ Rumour put up her chin challengingly. ‘No. The creature cannot be left to die like that.’

‘She is unutterably evil.’ But Rumour had known for several hours that she could not leave the Crimson Lady to die.

‘Revenge belongs not to us,’ said Andrew.

‘More of your Leader’s tenets?’ The defiance was still there, but Rumour could hear that it rang false.

Andrew said gently, ‘There may come a time when even this one will repent of her evil. If that should happen, then she should be allowed to —’

‘Pay her debts? Make reparation? Andrew, this is the Crimson Lady!’ And already she has helped to mutilate you …

If Andrew caught the thought, he gave no indication. He had picked up his wine chalice again, and was sipping it slowly, his eyes shadowed and unreadable. He said, very gently, ‘It is not permissible that any creature should take the life of another.’

‘You killed Coelacanth.’

‘And you killed Searbhan. And each time it was in defence of my life and yours!’

‘It is permissible to kill in self-defence, but not mete out just punishment? I do not understand these teachings you follow!’ said Rumour in angry frustration. ‘I do not understand your rules!’

‘I do not understand them either,’ said Andrew quietly.

‘Do you ever question?’

‘Constantly.’ His hand tightened about her. ‘I did not understand the beliefs of your people,’ he said.

‘And yet you paid them a surface, more than a surface courtesy,’ said Rumour, staring at him.

‘Of course. I think that my way is right,’ said Andrew. ‘I believe it is. But I do not know that it is, not with absolute certainty.’ He looked at her, his eyes suddenly filled with self-doubt. ‘For all my deep convictions, I cannot help occasionally wondering —’

‘Whether the other ways, the old ways, the ways of the ancient Ireland might be the true ones after all?’ whispered Rumour.

‘Yes. It is difficult for me to explain, but they seem to share the same roots and the same bases. There are so many parallels. You have the Samildanach —’

‘The Man of Each and Every Art who will come humbly and quietly, but who will fling wide the doors that will let light into the Dark Ireland.’ Rumour smiled softly. ‘I have always loved that belief,’ she said. ‘I have always found such comfort in the thought that perhaps one day the Dark Realm will be for ever vanquished.’

‘We have a similar belief,’ said Andrew, watching her. ‘But we believe that He has already entered the world.’

‘Was it … humbly and quietly?’

‘Yes.’ He looked at her. ‘Yes, it was very humbly and very modestly. During His life, He endured immense suffering. But He was a healer of extraordinary powers, and also he was a very remarkable …’ He paused. ‘I think you would say “orator”,’ he said, and Rumour nodded, for the concept of one who could exercise charisma over a listening throng was not unknown to her.

She said, thoughtfully, ‘They say that when Chaos calls his people to gather together in the great open square outside his Castle, and addresses them standing in Murder’s Chariot, such are his powers of oration, that the people would follow him into Hell if he asked.’

Andrew, remembering Chaos’s dark, strong beauty, understood this at once. He grinned suddenly, and said, ‘Quite aside from the many similarities, your people’s beliefs are deeply interesting.’

‘The Samildanach?’

‘Yes.’ Andrew reached for her hand. ‘We may hold differing beliefs,’ he said. ‘And it is true that I have always questioned some of my religion’s ways. But I know without having to question it that you must not leave the Beithioch to die. If you had slain her in a fight, or if I had, that would have been —’

‘Permissible?’

‘Acceptable,’ said Andrew.

A small detached part of Rumour’s mind noted that he had said: you must not leave her to die, and not: you must not punish her. She said, ‘You cannot stop me.’

‘I can.’

They stared at one another. Rumour thought, with sudden terror: is this a measure of his love for me? That the instant I conflict with his strange beliefs, he chooses those beliefs and not me? She put the thought from her, for she would not be so small-minded as to ask or expect him to choose her above something that mattered to him so deeply. But all the same, she felt a sudden deep pain.

At length, she said, ‘If the creature is not to die, she must have a Keeper. Someone must be here to pass food and water to her. Someone who will not allow her to escape.’

‘Yes.’

‘But that is not possible,’ said Rumour, knowing already that it was very possible, that it was pre-ordained and that the decision had already been made.

Andrew said, ‘I will do it.’

*

He was horrified and afraid, but he knew there was no other way. For I, also, must serve my penance, he might have said. I also must pay a debt for the sweet stolen nights and the golden forbidden slaking of my desires.

I also must make my mea culpa to my Lord, and sit out the time of my penance.

A soft voice inside his mind said: and share your penance with the Beithioch, the BeastWoman inside the fearsome Almhuin Castle? Roam these halls and dwell at the heart of this terrible Fortress, where evil still stalks the darkness?

Yes.

And what of Rumour? said the insidious voice. What of the strange exotic creature who has already risked so much for you, and who has been unfailingly courageous, and unflaggingly high-spirited?

Already I have wounded her, he thought. By making the decision to remain here, to guard the evil creature of this Castle, I am deliberately putting her from me. A tiny spiral of agony threaded through his mind. But it could not have been otherwise! he thought. I cannot be other than I am. Against his will, the words of his Teacher and Leader, the gentle Nazarene carpenter, echoed across his mind’s surface … I am what I am …

Aloud he said, ‘There is the question of my lameness.’ And was pleased that he had been able to refer to it quite normally and quite lightly. Lameness. Yes. It was an acceptable word. He touched the stout ash branch that Rumour had found to assist him in walking and that stood nearby. ‘I would slow you down,’ said Andrew, watching her, seeing how the firelight fell across her face, lighting the planes. Shall I ever forget her? Do I ever want to forget her? But he said, ‘You must go on to Chaos’s

Castle of Infinity, as we planned. There will surely be horses in the stables — it would be a swift enough journey if you could ride.’ He paused and then went on, in a different, anguished voice. ‘I think my heart will be torn from me when you do,’ he said simply, and felt at once that the warmth flooded her body again, and understood that a deep, lonely coldness had been encasing her.

She said, ‘But I have to go?’ And at once, ‘Yes, of course I have to. There is still Theodora.’ She looked at him. ‘I vowed I would find Theodora for Nechtan,’ she said. ‘I cannot go back on that. And Nechtan would have said —’ she paused, and a sudden smile curved her lips — ‘Nechtan would have wanted it,’ said Rumour softly. ‘He would have said the danger ought not to count.’

‘It ought not.’ Andrew was remembering the small, slight child who had turned to him with such trust but who had glared at Chaos, and who had sought in her mind for some way to defeat him. Yes, he could not let Theodora down. ‘I would be an encumbrance,’ he said. ‘We both know it. Alone, you will do better. There will be danger, but you will be less vulnerable without me.’

He eyed her steadily and, after a moment, Rumour said softly, ‘Very well. Will you come with me now to imprison the creature below?’

‘Yes. All right.’ Andrew reached for the ash branch. He hesitated for a moment, and Rumour turned in the doorway.

Andrew said, ‘Bring the bread and wine.’

*

The Enchantment of Silver Bars had held strongly and well. ‘Although I did not expect it to do otherwise,’ said Rumour.

‘You can summon the — the power again?’ asked Andrew as she raised her hands in the gesture he had come to know.

‘The Lady is caged,’ said Rumour. ‘And therefore I am able to touch a little of the power again.’ She looked at him. ‘The door to the light is still ajar.’

She murmured a brief incantation, and at once, silver reins materialised in her hands and slid across the room, to loop about the bars of the cage. Rumour moved slowly towards the door, drawing the silken reins with her, and the silver-barred cage moved with her, gently and easily. At once, the Lady let out a terrible animal howl and threw herself against the bars, reaching between them with her blood-stained hands, clawing at her captors. Andrew thought: she knows what we are about to do. She is struggling to get free. And then, with the framing of the thought, came another: but she is not using necromancy to do so … She cannot match her power against Rumour’s. He knew a brief spurt of pride in Rumour, who could outclass this creature who had wielded such power.

Rumour paid the Lady no attention, but her face was white, and her lips were set in a rather grim line. Andrew thought: it is hurting her to do this. She hates the Crimson Lady, and she will carry out the sentence she has decided on. But is still causing her anguish.

Rumour was moving carefully out into the darkened halls, the silver skeins shimmering behind her, sprinkling their quicksilver light across the floor. Andrew followed, awkwardly and painfully, but finding that the ash stick was surprisingly strong. The rather thin healing spells that Rumour had managed to summon had dispelled much of the pain, but even so, he was trembling and soaked in sweat as they reached the narrow walled stair leading down to the dungeons. Rumour had not looked back, and Andrew could feel that her entire mind, her whole will was concentrating on drawing the cage with its snarling, lashing victim down the narrow tunnels. He stayed where he was, regaining his strength, trying to push back the pain that was sending spears of agony through his leg.

He had thought they would have to fumble their way through the dark, for Rumour’s hands were both occupied with the silver cords, and Andrew’s right hand leaned heavily on the stick, while his left was occupied with the flagon of wine and the bread which they had packed into a small drawstring bag. Neither of them had been able to carry any kind of light. There had been a moment when Andrew had thought: am I really doing this? Is it a madman’s whim? But he knew it was not; he knew he must bring his own beliefs and his own strengths to bear against the creeping evil of Almhuin Castle.

The silken skeins and the glinting bars of the cage shed a soft radiance of their own as they moved through the shadows. Andrew thought that Rumour pronounced a spell of some kind, and that the shadows had flinched back from it, but he could not be sure.

He found himself trying to feel pity for the caged and doomed Lady of Almhuin. But I have only hatred, he thought, and wondered if this would fade with the passing of time. Would he come to feel compassion for his malevolent prisoner? I should try to do so, he thought, and then, in sudden fear: but how long shall I be here? How long is the term of the Lady’s imprisonment to be?

They had reached the small, dark cell, and Rumour drew on the silver cords again, pulling them with her hands, drawing the cage through the narrow, low door carefully, until it stood at the centre of the tiny stone room. Andrew, watching from the passage, felt a terrible dark coldness descend about him. How did it feel to be caged like this, to know that in a few minutes you would be sealed away from the world, bricked up for the rest of your life, with no human companionship, no light, no sound … Only the twice-or thrice-daily ritual of bread and water being pushed through a tiny hatch. Shall I weaken? he wondered. In time, shall I find myself bringing better food, perhaps even wine? Shall I finally enter into discourse with the creature?

For you, also, will be friendless, surrounded by silence, perpetually alone, Human Monk …

He closed his mind at once, understanding that the Lady was reaching for his inmost thoughts, that she was snaking her dark evil seductions about his consciousness, as she had done in the fearsome slaughterhouses. I dare not let that happen! he thought. I must perform this dreadful task boldly and unthinkingly. But even as the thought formed, his mind was racing ahead, to the days and months and years when all there would be for him would be the wearisome journey here to send in food and water, perhaps a blanket if it was cold. Would he find himself falling prey to pity for her at those times?

And you may be glad of another living creature to talk with, Human Monk, for Almhuin is a cold and lonely place, and there will be none of your kind here …

I shall walk the land and try to grow things, thought Andrew with silent determination. I shall find solace in mending and renewing. He remembered the satisfaction he had felt in the monks’ house when a wall had had to be rebuilt, or a roof mended. And there would be prayer … The observance of the rituals of his house. He thought that, although he no longer had any notion of time, he could draw up a chart, what the monks had called a calendar, with the feast-days marked. Yes. Perhaps he could write a little, telling the story once again of the great Leader whose beliefs he followed, perhaps even telling a little of the story of his brotherhood. The idea fired him; he remembered how his Order had contained several monks gifted in the making of illuminated manuscripts, lovely painted books chronicling the events of the day and the miracles of Christ.

I could do that, thought Andrew, fixing his mind on the idea in an endeavour to shut out the terrible swirling evil of the Castle. I could write the story of this battle, perhaps. There would be more than enough to occupy him. And one day this terrible task will somehow be ended, and I shall be on the other side of it. I shall have returned to the world and I shall have found and reclaimed the Black Monk.

He took no part in the brief ritual which Rumour performed, although he listened attentively to the short incantation — ‘The Spell of Labour,’ said Rumour. He thought it interesting, as he thought all other religious rituals interesting, and for the first time he found himself able to differentiate between some of syllables, recognising that they were rather terse and abrupt, comparing them to the gentle, light-filled chant that Rumour had used to create the silken reins.

The bricks and the undressed stones were obedient to Rumour’s chanting; they had tumbled forward, and begun to lay themselves in a neat serried row, one atop another, so that a fourth wall to the tiny dank cell was forming. Soon she will know nothing but the impenetrable blackness of that cell, thought Andrew. Soon she will have no sound, no sense of closeness to the world … She will never see or hear anything ever again, only the faint rasp of the hatch opening as food is pushed through to her. In time she will become blind and deaf, and the only one of her senses left to her will be that of smell, and with that she will eternally smell the dank sourness of the tomb and of her own bodily excretions …

He thought: and in her own world she is a Lady of a Royal House! and felt fear close about him once more, for he could not and he dared not show any shred of pity for the creature.

As Rumour’s voice rose and fell in the chant that was so eerily familiar, Andrew found his voice murmuring, almost of its own volition, the joyous words of the Te Deum.

‘We praise thee, O God … To thee all Angels cry aloud … the Heavens and all the Powers therein … Cherubim and Seraphim cry …’

His voice mingled with Rumour’s, both seeming to touch the soft, pure notes of praise and entreaty and worship together. But beneath the ordered layers of prayer, Andrew thought: am I lending my strengths to paganism? Is paganism buttressing Christianity? Or is this the common ground? The meeting of the two worlds, Christianity blending with paganism at last …

The Lady of Almhuin was crouching behind the silver bars of the cage, black hatred burning in her terrible eyes, and Rumour stepped back, and chanted the ancient spell that invoked the Amaranth Seals. As they began to form, great purple and silver crests with licking curlicues of flame, Andrew moved forward, unhooking the small ebony wood crucifix from about his waist. Without pausing in her own incantation, Rumour handed him the bread and wine.

*

And now their voices mingled more strongly and more evocatively than before: Andrew’s rising and falling in the warm, comforting rhythms of Christianity, Rumour’s in a lighter, more musical chant.

The common ground. The two beliefs, one so new it had barely made its mark yet; the other immeasurably ancient, its genesis lost in the dark that existed before Time dawned. Blending and mingling, running from one mind to the other, until it was impossible to know where one began and the other ended.

Two streams of wine joining to make one …

When Andrew reached the part that he always thought of as the heart and the core and the great living centre of his religion, he felt the answering response from Rumour.

‘“This is my Body which is given for you … This is my Blood of the New Testament, which is shed for you … ”’

In the same moment, they heard the fiery sounds of the great Amaranth Seals fusing over the cell door and, from within, a terrible shriek that rent the air with agony.

Andrew stepped forward and wedged the crucifix between the tightly layered bricks and, as he did so, a small, pale face with great burning-pitch eyes appeared framed in the tiny hatch opening.

‘You will pay dearly for this, Human Monk and Amaranth Sorceress …’ Maniacal laughter exploded in the quiet dungeons, and Andrew fell back, feeling vicious hatred slice his mind.

Rumour caught him as he fell against the far wall, but he stood unaided, the ash stick supporting him. There was a moment when he silently regarded the prisoner, black eyes meeting grey, and then with Rumour at his side, they went from the unbroken darkness and the lonely dungeons, clinging to one another for warmth and comfort.

*

Rumour moved closer to the leaping fire they had kindled in the small stone room. She said, ‘Andrew, you will have to be extremely careful of this one. She would kill us and eat our hearts if she could get out.’

‘Yes.’ Yes, for she will reach for my mind, and there may be limes when I shall be lonely or despairing, and in need of the sound of another creature’s voice … And she would be learned in the legend and the lore of this strange, evil Realm, said the tiny treacherous voice within his mind. She would surely know much of its history, and all of it would make interesting hearing …

He shut his mind to the slithering, treacherous thoughts, and passed Rumour the chalice of wine.

‘I am aware of the dangers,’ he said, sipping the hot, fragrant wine gratefully. ‘I shall be on my guard.’

Rumour’s eyes were shadowed and her face was drawn as she stared into the leaping flames. But she only said, ‘You will be able to construct a hatch over the opening in the bricks?’

‘Yes.’ They had left the opening deliberately, so that food and water could be passed through. It was a small oblong aperture, perhaps eight inches square, near to the ceiling, and Andrew considered it, glad to concentrate on the practicalities of the situation. He said, ‘Once my wound has healed a little more, I believe I could fit a small door with hinges.’ His mind sped on, thinking that there must a stout lock, strong spring-hinges that opened outwards only; planning how he could pass food and water through with a long hooked pole, rather like the one the Almhuinians had used in Diarmuit’s cellar.

‘Once a hatch is in place,’ said Rumour, ‘the cage can be withdrawn. But until then, it will hold her.’ She looked at him, her face serious in the fire glow. ‘Your ritual — your prayer — was very powerful. I could feel the power and the strength.’

The power and the glory and the strength … Andrew smiled and thought: yes, of course, that is what I shall hold on to. That is what will give me the courage to endure this task.

He said, ‘I was adding the beliefs of my people to the beliefs of your people,’ and smiled at her.

‘I think that this is something both our gods would unite over,’ said Rumour seriously.

‘Yes.’

‘She seemed to recognise the symbol of your Leader. The wooden carved emblem you left.’

‘There may have been other travellers who passed through here,’ said Andrew. ‘Or she may simply have recognised it as a symbol of light.’ He leaned back, grateful for the wine and the fire, trying to visualise a pattern, a shape to the formless time that lay ahead of him.

As Guardian to the Crimson Lady, the BeastWoman, Almhuin’s necromancess …

He could not be sure that she would not work some terrible dark seduction. He could not be sure that he would be able to resist it if she did.

*

Rumour said, ‘No emotional farewells, Andrew. I cannot bear it. Let me simply go, let me just saddle one of the Lady’s horses and ride away. Let it be as if I am simply going into another room.’

‘If you wish.’ He handed her the small casket containing the sidh’s music. ‘You will return it to Tiarna?’

‘Of course.’

They looked at one another. ‘I shall await your return, Lady,’ said Andrew at length.

‘In my world,’ said Rumour, ‘there was once an expression which has now fallen into disuse. But its meaning is still potent.’ She reached out and touched his face, tracing her fingers lightly across his eyes. ‘You will be in my thoughts for a part of every day, Andrew,’ she said very softly.

Thank you.’ He looked at her. ‘In my world, in my religion, we also have an expression,’ he said. ‘It is that you will be in my prayers every day,’ said Andrew.

‘That is … more than I could wish for,’ said Rumour, and bit her lip so hard that it bled, because she would not cry, she would not …

He took her face between his hands then, and stared down at it very intently, as if he was trying to learn her, as if he wanted to imprint her face on his memory for ever.

Only that I shall never forget you, my love, you will always he with me, you will always be a part of me, even when I cannot recall your face …

Rumour, fighting back the tears — stupid, emotional, she would not give way — stared at him, and saw how far removed he was now from the gentle, ascetic monk. His eyes burned with a fervour and a belief in what he was about to do in Almhuin, and Rumour recognised fully, at last, that he must make his peace with his strange God and he must make the reparation he believed was necessary.

But you no longer wear the mien of an ascetic or a celibate, she thought. The passion that swept us so fiercely has left its mark. It is there in your eyes, my love, and in the curve of your lips …

I wonder if your brethren would recognise you, Andrew, thought Rumour. I wonder if you would recognise yourself, even. He still wore the black robe of his house, but he had grown thinner, and beneath it his body was as lean and as hard as whipcord. Only the ash stick, propped close at hand, betrayed the terrible mutilation that the Crimson Lady had inflicted on him. His dark hair tumbled about his brow; his eyes were glowing and filled with passion — whether for me or for his strange, self-imposed hermitry I cannot tell, thought Rumour. But this is no true hermit, this is no austere pietist or anchorite. This is a fiery-eyed man of the real world, an activist, a militant, a player rather than a watcher. A Man of Each and Every Art …

I wonder how long Almhuin will contain him, thought Rumour.

She thought that he heard none of this. She stayed where she was, holding his eyes steadily, trying to imprint his face on her mind, as he had done with hers … You will always be a part of me, even when I cannot recall your features; and in the end was beyond caring about the ridiculous tears that had spilled over, and that were pouring down her cheeks.

She went then, running out to where the laden horses waited in the courtyard, running from him before he could stop her, before her stupid, senseless emotions betrayed her completely, out into the dark world that waited, and on to the lowering mountains that girdled Chaos’s Castle of Infinity.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Rumour approached the Castle of Infinity, riding one of the Crimson Lady’s gleaming black stallions. She led a second, which bore the robes she had brought out of Tiarna and the precious cask containing the sidh’s music.

As she drew nearer the great, gleaming Fortress, she saw that it was not dark and sombre and forbidding as she had expected, but shining and sleek. ‘And extremely well looked after,’ thought Rumour, whose own Castle of the Starlit Night had always been carefully maintained, but at considerable expense.

It was so vast as to be almost a small township, set within high walls; gold-tipped gates led up to its central entrance, and glinting diamond chippings shone from its hundreds of windows.

Rumour thought: somewhere inside there is Theodora. She touched her mount’s flanks and rode on towards the entrance.

She had expected to be questioned, and she had certainly expected to be barred from entering. She had evolved a rather sketchy plan, deliberately not making it too precise, because anything might lie ahead and she must be prepared to adapt to the moment.

But she had donned the most dazzling of all the dazzling outfits she had brought out of Aillen mac Midha’s store of robes, and she was wearing a shining blue-green robe of pure, soft silk, with a sleeveless garment, a little like a surcoat, of midnight blue velvet over it. After deliberation she had donned only the plainest of headdresses: a thin circlet of silver studded with sapphires.

‘Plain but good,’ she had said to Andrew before that last soulsearing farewell. ‘I do not wish to be taken for a second-rate sorceress, you understand. If Chaos accepts me, he will be accepting me as an enemy; but I will at least be an equal enemy.’

Riding up to the Castle gates, she derived confidence from the plain but good headdress and the slither of silk against her skin. I am tipped with silver and wrapped in the gown of the sidh High King, and I have a whole store of enchantments at my beck. And if you welcome me, Chaos, Lord of the Dark Realm, then you will welcome me as a very high-ranking sorceress indeed.

She approached the entrance with her head high and a look of faint boredom. They might repel her and they might imprison her, but they certainly would not ignore her.

*

Inside the Castle of Infinity, the great banqueting hall was laid for one of the Lord of Chaos’s immense elaborate feasts. Gold plate glistened the length of the huge banqueting table, and every place was set with pure golden chalices, and ruby-studded eating implements. The deep red jewel flowers, grown and tended in the Saraigli, where Chaos’s concubines were kept, glowed brightly at every place.

There had been some competition over the picking of the flowers. The concubines had all wanted to have the arranging of them, because wasn’t it a known fact that Chaos noticed these things, and wasn’t the whole point of being in the Saraigli to get noticed? They had all drawn sketches of how the tables could be arranged, and what colours could be used. They had thought the designs very imaginative, and had asked Meirdreach, who oversaw the Saraigli, please to be sure to present them to the Reachtaire who held sway in the Castle kitchens and dining halls. The Reachtaire would be glad to have such good ideas.

Several of them, who thought that food should be arranged prettily and temptingly, had thought up ideas and decorations for the food itself. There were all kinds of things that could be done, they said, very busy with the thin paints they had coaxed out of Meirdreach, anxiously consulting with the Reachtaire’s servants as to whether there would be lobster or crab, which you could not do a great deal with, or whether it might be Twilight Fish and salmonidae, which could be made to look very attractive indeed.

One or two of the concubines had affected to disdain such slavish attempts to attract Chaos’s attention, and had turned their attention to the selecting of gowns and jewels and to the perfuming of their pampered bodies for the banquet.

‘As if they think they are already selected to attend,’ said Meirdreach, grumpily. She stood at the centre of the warm-scented rooms, and glowered at them, arms akimbo. The concubines sighed for poorest Meirdreach, who was fat and grey-haired and had the tiniest strain of Giantish blood in her, poor soul. You could see it in the incipient beard and in the thick coarse hair and you could hear it in the flat, heavy tread. They tried to be sympathetic because it must be a shocking thing to have to be seen abroad looking like Meirdreach. AnCine, who had been fourteen when she came to the Saraigli and had therefore seen a bit more of the world than the others, whispered that Meirdreach had certain unwholesome appetites. If you wanted to get to Chaos’s bed, you might first have to go to Meirdreach’s, said AnCine, and the concubines had listened round-eyed, but opinions had been divided as to whether it was true or simply one of AnCine’s lurid stories.

But when Meirdreach said they would not all be going to the banquet, her chins wobbled crossly, and the concubines did not know where to look for fear of giggling. ‘Don’t think that more than one of you will go,’ said Meirdreach, regarding them all grimly. ‘Have you understood that, you bed-cats?’

They all said they had, and nudged one another and whispered behind their hands that Meirdreach was stouter than ever, and that a new sprouting of black hairs had grown from her chins. They curled up on their silken couches and velvet beds, and eyed their own sleek bodies and shining hair with pleased complacency.

AnCine said loudly, wouldn’t Meirdreach be plotting and intriguing away on her own account, and maybe soliciting her nasty favours from those of the Saraigli who were that way inclined. Some people, said AnCine, tossing back her long hair, would do anything at all to get a place at Chaos’s table for the evening.

This was extremely bold of AnCine, and the concubines had looked uneasily at one another in case there should be a row. You had to be careful about that, because rows sometimes led to fights, and fights usually meant disarranged hair or even scratched faces.

Meirdreach said that was as maybe, but hadn’t she the running of the Saraigli, nasty thankless task it was, nobody need think it was a sinecure, and hadn’t Chaos himself given her the complete controlling of it?

The concubines did not know what a sinecure was. They giggled together after Meirdreach had stumped off and said that, as for the suggestion that only one of them would be on display at the banquet, pooh! didn’t they all of them know perfectly well that the Lord of Chaos was easily capable of dealing with eight or ten of them in one night!

AnCine said that Meirdreach was a Leispiach and the concubines shrieked at such daring, but wished AnCine would not use such a word in front of the little one.

AnCine did not care. ‘She will learn what a Leispiach is if she is in Meirdreach’s hands for very long,’ she said, and picked up a hand-mirror to study her reflection. Hadn’t there been the suspicion of a spot forming that morning; you could not be having a spot with a grand banquet ahead of you and Chaos’s eye to be caught.

The concubines had made rather a pet of the little girl that their Lord had brought back with him from the Beyond Ireland. She was a pretty little creature with her huge dark eyes and soft white skin. It was rather like having a kitten or a baby. Something to stroke and pet and dress up. They fed her with sugared fruits and devised games for her, and tried the effect of scarlet ribbons — no, emerald green! — in her hair.

She had very nice manners. She listened to their stories of how they had all come to the Saraigli with polite interest, occasionally asking questions, not saying very much about her own world.

The concubines liked to tell the stories of how they had come to the Castle of Infinity. They all told Theodora, taking it in turns, listening quite politely to the others, but in reality only waiting for their own turn. They held little secret feasts of their own, bribing the Reachtaire’s servants to smuggle in extra food and flagons of rich, syrupy wine; and they giggled a great deal, and peeped out of the tiny high windows, standing on chairs to reach, making sure that no horrid guards were lurking below and listening.

They were mostly daughters of chieftains whose lands lay on the hinterlands between the two Irelands, where allegiances were apt to become a bit blurred. Most of them had been captured or sold when they were very young indeed. Theo thought it was probably a bit uncharitable to think that they did not seem to have grown up.

Their lives consisted of perfuming their bodies and painting their faces and learning the small, rather useless skills which they remembered or had devised, and which might make Chaos notice them. They taught one another the skills because, between them, they had really rather a great deal of accomplishments, they said, tossing their hair vainly.

‘Some of us have secret skills,’ said AnCine, whom Theodora found the most interesting of all the concubines. It was AnCine who had called Meirdreach the bad name. AnCine had long red hair and soft white skin, and had once spent three nights in a row with the Lord of Chaos, which the other concubines regarded with awe, because wasn’t that more than anyone else in the Saraigli had ever done?

Theodora tried very hard to be quiet and polite to them all, because Mamma had said that this was something you should always do. You never knew when you might be glad that you had been polite and gracious, said Mamma. Even when it was the oddest of people, you had to remember that you were a daughter of the House of Amaranth and therefore required to behave well at all times. Great-grandfather, putting it a bit differently, had said with a chuckle that you never knew when you might need to make use of somebody.

So Theo had been polite and quiet; she had listened attentively to the stories that the concubines told, and she had thanked them when they included her in their little feasts, and when they gave her hair ribbons (which she thought made her look like a dressed-up doll, but which it would have been very impolite to refuse) and fed her with the sickly sugared berries and the sweet sticky cordials they liked to sip from jewel-encrusted chalices.

She had not said anything about the Porphyry Palace, and she had especially not said anything about being an Amaranth. She was unsure how the concubines would feel about her being an Amaranth, and stolen away solely on account of it, and so she pretended that she had lived in a quite ordinary place with a quite ordinary family. This was telling lies, which was not something you ought to do, but it was a lot safer than the truth.

It was interesting to hear about the banquet, which had sent the concubines into such a flurry. At least it was something to look forward to: Theo had in fact been getting extremely bored in the Saraigli. A banquet might mean that all kinds of people would come to the Castle, and perhaps there would be someone who would help her to escape and get out of the Dark Realm.

She knew about banquets, although she had not been allowed to attend any, of course, on account of not being old enough. But when Great-grandfather had given banquets, Theo had slipped into the great hall at the Porphyry Palace before the guests assembled, to peep at the sparkling tables, all laid with Great-grandfather’s nicest gold plate; there would usually be huge silver bowls of fruit, from which you could, if you were very careful, steal a handful of berries: perhaps the glossy blackberries that grew along the road to the Palace, or maybe the soft, sharp raspberries. Mamma had usually decorated the tables: there would be rowan at Samain to keep out the evil creatures, and there would be the marvellous nine bronze burners at Beltane, elaborately wrought and burnished by many generations of Beltane fire. You had to keep the sacred fire burning throughout the Palace for the entire festival of Beltane, of course; it was extremely important, although Theo was not sure why.

The banquet tonight was to be a very grand affair. The concubines told one another that Chaos had summoned the heads of all his Armies: one story said he had called in the Fomoire as well, but nobody knew if this was true.

He was going to launch a final and overwhelming attack on the Crimson Lady and take Almhuin Castle for his own, which would mean he would at last rule the whole of the Dark Realm.

‘And then,’ said AnCine, who usually told the concubines what was happening in the Palace, ‘and then he will be strong enough to storm into the Beyond Ireland and rule there as well!’

They all knew that this was well within Chaos’s powers. They listened to the stories while they were gilding their soft, pampered bodies for the banquet, and threading seed pearls or rubies or tiny winking diamonds into their hair and painting their faces. They had to look their very best tonight, they said importantly. They had not really time to think about battles and wars and the Beyond Ireland.

AnCine said it would be an historic evening, and so of course they had all assumed serious expressions at once, because knowing about historic evenings and wars was a grown-up thing and they all wanted to appear very grown-up.

But then Meirdreach came plodding in with the keys to the jewel caskets, and they all forgot about silly boring things like battles and historic events, because it was much more interesting to see inside the jewel-boxes, which they were not normally allowed to do, because Meirdreach and the Reachtaire said that they could not be trusted not to steal the prettiest. They had tossed their heads and affected not to care, but when the boxes were opened, they all clustered about them, asking Meirdreach in their best voices which of the jewels they might have; begging to be given that one — no, that! — trying the effect of pearls against a length of cream satin, or rainbow diamonds on gold damask. Even AnCine liked jewels.

As the hour of the banquet approached, they became very excited indeed, giggling and primping, running to ask Meirdreach which of them was to attend because there was such a lot to do: there were scented baths to be taken, and oils to be rubbed in, and gowns to be chosen. They furrowed their brows over this last, until AnCine reminded them that frowning caused wrinkles.

There was a great deal of trying-on of gowns and silk slippers, and laying-out of paints and powders and perfumes. AnCine tied her red hair up in a new shape, and twined a diadem threaded with rubies through it, but it was discovered that she had appropriated the rubies from Meirdreach’s private cache, and was ordered to give them back by Meirdreach, who said that, in any case, rubies with red hair were vulgar, and she was not having any of them appearing at a banquet looking vulgar.

*

Light flooded the huge banqueting hall, pouring down from the crystal and diamond wall-sconces that had been fashioned for Chaos by the captured salamanders of Fael-Inis’s Fire Country many years earlier. Chaos was known to be rather proud of having enslaved the salamanders — albeit briefly — and his people knew that this streak of pride was one of his very few weaknesses. You might, if you were sufficiently brave or sufficiently foolhardy, almost call it a nearly Humanish weakness, although of course nobody even whispered this, or anything else defamatory about Chaos, on account of the Draoicht Spiaire. This was the ancient and fearsomely strong Spell of Spies, one of the ugliest enchantments ever woven, and which Chaos kept chained and locked behind a massively thick iron door in the depths of the Castle keep. It was unchained and let out every night to prowl the dark corridors of the Castle; it would stand outside bedchamber doors, and sometimes slither through keyholes and down chimneys, so that it could watch exactly what every single creature was doing and hear every single thing that was said. Nobody had ever seen the Draoicht Spiaire, because nobody ever dared to venture out at night, but everyone heard it pattering through the empty halls and sniffing at doors and chuckling greedily to itself over its accumulated knowledge.

There would not be as much revel-making as usual tonight, because the banquet was rather in the nature of a war council. But there would be some, because the Castle of Infinity was famous for its lavish entertainments. This was Misrule’s province, and most people were interested to see what he would come up with, because it was being whispered that Chaos had been displeased with Misrule’s last efforts. One rumour even said he had been threatened with a spell of exile in the Tanning Pit. If that happened, Anarchy might be appointed in Misrule’s place, and opinions were divided as to whether this was a good thing or no, because Anarchy had an original, inventive mind, and would probably come up with some splendidly gory and gruesome entertainments; but say what you liked, he was disgracefully disorganised.

And most people enjoyed Misrule’s masques and dances. He it was who had devised the now-famous Human-baiting, which everyone enjoyed, and then of course he had actually managed to capture some of the sidh’s Uisce, the floss-maned SeaHorses that inhabited Ireland’s wild beautiful western coasts, for the Palace to stage ManHunts across the NightFields. This had proved even more popular than Human-baiting, and Chaos had frequently taken a party of guests out to the NightFields, all of them riding the Uisce, who had been beaten and cowed into submission so that they would carry Chaos’s guests at a good fast pace along the hinterlands of the Realm, to where you could often find a party of lurking Humanish. The Hunting Parties nearly always brought back upwards of a dozen of the creatures for the Castle dungeons. And everyone in Chaos’s Realm knew that, once you had Humanish in your cells, once you had imprisoned them and chained them and manacled them (and sometimes muzzled them), there were any number of uses they could be put to.

*

It was into this fermenting and anticipatory Castle that Rumour, proceeding with extreme caution, came.

The entry was, in fact, far easier and far less attended by suspicion than she had expected.

‘For the banquet, I daresay?’ said the doorkeeper, glancing at her rather carelessly, seeing that she was garbed richly and had about her the aura of power. And hadn’t Himself all manner of strangers coming along up to the Castle tonight, on account of the fine old battle they were all going to mount against the Lady of Almhuin, the black-hearted, traitorous bitch! Necromancers and black sorcerers and all manner of important beings were expected. He’d bathed in the reflected glory of it all, because wasn’t it the finest thing ever to be in the service of the most powerful of all the Dark Lords? He let Rumour in through the gates without thinking very much about it.

*

Rumour stood just inside the immense central portion of the Castle, seeing at once that this was the heart and the life of the Castle. Chaos’s servants were everywhere; they ran and scurried and fetched and carried. Great silver tubs of wine were trundled across the hall, and scullions ran distractedly to and fro with haunches of venison and carcasses of oxen and sheep for the spits. Huge containers of flowers were carried carefully towards the far end of the hall, and heavy-featured females, whom Rumour at once recognised as being half-Giantesses, were dealing with white linen and damask for the tables, and bales of lavender-scented sheets for guest chambers.

But Rumour, for the moment unnoticed, saw that, with the exception of the half-Giantesses, who were probably laundresses and scrubwomen, Chaos’s servants were a breed of the Rodent-mutants that she and Andrew had encountered in Almhuin.

But it was a subtly different breed from the Almhuinians, and Rumour, her attention momentarily caught, studied them, seeing signs not just of the Rodent strain, but of other, more ancient lineages.

As well as the Rodent-strain, Chaos’s servants showed traces of the ancient sea-creatures, the little-known beings who had lived in Tiarna before the sidh, and long before the nimfeach, and whose origins were so far back that even the name had been lost. But Rumour thought the signs were there in the long, sea-green eyes and in the pale, faintly luminous skins and long-fingered hands.

And there was certainly a vein of Humanish blood and also Giantish, for they moved with an odd blending of Giantish strength and Humanish quickness. Rumour stayed where she was, partly in the shadow cast by the great bastions of the Castle, watching the servants going about their Lord’s business, and began to see, quite clearly, that they possessed, in addition, the unmistakable characteristics of the Cruithin, the little dark elfin people, believed by most to be the first true Irish race, long since lost.

Rumour, torn between fascination and repulsion, recognised that this was a blending of many and diverse creatures, of creatures who were natural and ancient enemies.

They are mutants, she thought, but I do not believe they are natural mutants. This is deliberate and calculated, this is the result of forced mating and planned breeding, controlled by dark, evil magic.

Fear stirred again, but this time it was not simply fear of the powerful necromancer who ruled here. It was a deeper, more ancient fear, the atavistic revulsion and terror of natural laws harnessed and then deliberately warped and distorted.

So the whispers about Chaos’s secret work were true, thought Rumour, staring about her.

Chaos’s servants were the products of the forbidden practise of the Draoicht Roghnacht.

Necromantic race-breeding.

As she stood watching, a thin, rather spindly-legged creature wearing a black cloak and elaborate mask said, very softly, ‘Are you here to assist with the revels, my dear?’ and Rumour turned sharply. She knew at once that at her side was one of Chaos’s foremost henchmen.

The Lord of Misrule.

Dark inHuman eyes glinted behind the slits in the mask, and Rumour was conscious of a cold, sly assessing, as if he might be wondering who and what she was, and whether he could make use of her. ‘I bid you welcome to the Castle of Infinity,’ he said, and his voice had a slightly taunting, but not unfriendly note.

‘Thank you,’ said Rumour carefully.

Misrule regarded her, his head on one side. ‘I think we have never met,’ he said, ‘but I have sent out the call to all creatures who have the subsidiary necromantic degrees of Turmoil and Discord. ‘I think you are one of those creatures.’

Rumour stared at him, understanding that, in the necromantic world, there were degrees and gradings and hierarchies, exactly as there were in the purer magic of sorcery.

Misrule said, in his rather mocking voice, ‘You have a remarkably strong power essence, madame, and I see that it is tinged with the blue of the Scealai.’

The Scealai. The Narrator. The Story-Teller … Rumour thought: so he is able to see that, is he? He is able to see it easily and within minutes of meeting. She felt cold fear touch her skin again, for if the perceptions of these beings were as sharp and as finely honed as all this, she had been fortunate even to get through the Castle gates without being challenged.

But she said, carefully and courteously, ‘You see rightly. I am versed in the art of Story-Telling.’ And then, picking the words as warily as if she were treading on spun sugar, ‘I have the degree of Scealai,’ she said, and although in her world, the ancient Gael word was not utilised, she spoke with perfect truth. The Amaranths had simply called it the Art of the Story-Teller, and Rumour held a very high degree in it.

Misrule was looking at her, clearly waiting for more. Could she possibly bluff him? Dare she? But Rumour had always taken the reckless, the daring way. She eyed the Lord of Misrule with apparent tranquillity and said, ‘I also have a degree in Saturnalia.’

The partly hidden eyes narrowed. ‘Saturnalia? I do not know that,’ said Misrule, and Rumour felt the spun sugar crack. She knew the theory and the history of sorcery as well as any living creature, but her knowledge of the mechanics of necromancy was sparse. It might betray her at any moment.

But she would not turn back now. She said, in a rather contemptuous voice, ‘Indeed? Of course, it is a little obscure. A practice brought from Eastern lands. A feast of wild revelry,’ said Rumour in a surprised, did-you-not-know-that tone. ‘The god of the Saturnalia is sometimes known as Cronus,’ she said, in the extra-kind voice of one addressing an untutored inferior, and Misrule said, glacially, ‘The god Cronus is known to the Lord of this Castle.’

‘Yes, I am sure he is.’ Rumour smiled the most catlike of all her catlike smiles. ‘In the Legends of Prophecy, is not Chaos usurped by Cronus, son of Gaia?’ She moved to the centre of the hall, the silken blue-green robe of the Elven King brushing the floor with a soft, sensuous whisper. ‘In the Prophecies, Cronus is the son of Gaia,’ said Rumour, her voice as soft and as sensuous as her silken gown. ‘Your Lord should beware of any creature approaching this Castle bearing that name.

‘But perhaps Cronus has a female immanence. Perhaps he has a twin, an alter-ego, a doppelganger.’ Again the smile. ‘And so,’ purred Rumour, ‘perhaps you will tell your Lord that it is the Sorceress Saturnalia who has come to his Castle.’

Chapter Forty

Rumour was shown to a large, well-lit bedchamber with a deep soft bed with rich, silver-embroidered hangings. A bright fire glowed in the hearth, its leaping flames reflecting in the copper cans of scented hot water left for her.

The windows were set deeply into the thick ancient stone of the Castle walls, and beneath them was a wide, velvet-covered seat strewn with cushions. Through the half-curtained windows, Rumour could see the NightFields spread out to the west and, beyond them, the stark silhouettes of the Black Mountains. And somewhere in there was the lonely desolate Fortress of Almhuin, with its terrible prisoner and its solitary Guardian. She touched the memory of Andrew, because it was something good and something warm and safe and something to be trusted. While I have that, I can feel safe, and while I have that I can be immune to Chaos’s dark beckoning necromancy. She turned back.

Tonight’s banquet, whatever its purpose, was clearly to be a very grand affair. The guests would undoubtedly be glitteringly clad; there would be silks and velvets and taffetas; rich jewels and scented bodies and elaborate masks and ornate headdresses. I have to take part in it, thought Rumour. I have to go down into the brilliantly lit banqueting hall and mingle with the evil creatures that will undoubtedly assemble there, and I must hope I am not recognised. I think it is the only way to find out where Theodora is.

She grinned suddenly, and turned to the gowns she had brought, selecting, after thought, one of Aillen mac Midha’s most beautiful robes; a soft gauzy gown of palest cream Seirician silk, the cobweb-fine stuff woven in the strange hidden water-caves of Seiricia, the seams bound with pearl and opal. There was a narrow circlet of pure soft silver. Rumour slid into the gown, lacing it so that it fell open across her breasts. Too much? Not enough? She smiled the catsmile, and allowed the laces to part another inch. Exactly right.

Her hair was still very short, but she thought it was not grotesquely so any more. It was like a boy’s cap of hair, soft and dark, here and there with reddish lights. But it could be improved on. She unwrapped her small pots and the ivory boxes, and commenced to tip the short dark fronds with glinting silver. She would add a sprinkling of tiny silver stars to her bare shoulders, and perhaps she would sprinkle her breasts with them as well. Should she? She tried the effect, and was pleased. Good. She grinned again and reached for the soft tints of the face-paint, and the vivid colours she sometimes used to outline her eyes. Green eyelashes tonight, and a sprinkling of tiny silver specks to emphasise her cheekbones.

She set the casket containing the sidh’s music carefully in the garde-robe where her gowns and cloaks hung, and murmured a brief spell of protection over it. She thought there was a faint fragrant sigh from it, as if it was unhappy at being consigned to the dark, airless corner, and she thought there was a ripple of soft blue-green light. But she dared not leave it anywhere that it might be seen.

She gave her reflection a last inspection in the long oval looking-glass and, taking a deep breath, left the room to make her way to the banqueting hall of the Lord of Chaos and his dark servants.

*

It took more resolve than she had expected to walk through the Castle in the direction of the music and the sounds of the revelry. In a few minutes, I shall have to enter a room, that will be filled with strangers, every one of them evil, any one of whom may recognise me for an intruder and an imposter.

But I’ll do it, thought Rumour determinedly. I’ll do it, I’ll walk in with my head in the air, and somehow I’ll outwit them.

She found the banqueting hall easily, and there was a thin trickle of confidence at that, as if she was being reminded that she was very used to walking through Castles and finding her way about, and that she was accustomed to taking part in glittering assemblies. She would pretend that this would not be so very different to any of those other banquets and gatherings and revelries.

But she paused outside the great double doors, summoning every ounce of courage, feeling the palms of her hands wet with nervous perspiration. This would be the most dangerous part yet.

The Lord of Chaos’s guests were assembled in the huge brilliantly lit hall; the long tables were set with a sumptuous feast. Deferential servants stood ready to serve wine from immense silver tubs. Musicians were grouped on the dais at the far end, and the strange, faintly discordant music, which Rumour knew must be the dark strains created to assist the necromancers in their evil magic, spun and shivered about the hall.

Rumour knew she was in the presence of the greatest and the most evil necromancers ever gathered together under one roof. The beautiful hall was thick with the dark, swirling forces of necromancy, and suffocating waves of every one of the Seven Evils closed about her. Behind her, the door swung to with a little click, and Rumour knew a moment of panic. I am shut in with them. I am shut in with creatures who will certainly fall on me if they recognise me for an intruder. Don’t think about it. Look about you as if looking for friends and acquaintances. Appear slightly disdainful.

She took another deep breath, and stood looking about her.

Misrule, with Anarchy and Murder, stood at the far end of the hall. Misrule was wearing a solid gold mask, shaped into the likeness of a fire demon, studded with rubies. His eyes, red and sly, glinted through the slits, and beneath it his thin, rather frail looking body was clad in scarlet and black robes. Between his thighs was slung a narrow golden belt with its centre thickening into a huge jutting phallus, solid gold and monstrously lifelike, resting over his own genitals. On his feet were black boots laced with silver, with heels studded with rubies.

Murder wore his swirling crimson cloak and a black, deep-brimmed hat that shadowed his face. He did not appear to speak, only to watch and listen, but Rumour caught a glimpse of cold, merciless eyes and felt a cold shiver of fear. Anarchy was dressed as if for war, in black chainmail, with a breastplate engraved with Chaos’s emblem. A white velvet cloak was slung negligently from his shoulders, and Rumour could see that it was spattered with blood and streaked with gore. But Anarchy’s eyes were bright and alert; he was studying the guests in a lively fashion, as if he found them interesting and wanted to know them better.

Rumour was unexpectedly drawn to Anarchy. She found his air of bright interest attractive, and she found his extreme youth endearing. Murder was cold and sinister; he would stand silently and watchfully inside a room, watching his victim from under the deep shadow cast by the wide-brimmed slouch hat. And Misrule looked shallow and vain. But Anarchy would probably tumble headfirst into all manner of ill-judged battles and unwise rebellions. You could very easily visualise him rampaging through towns and cities and across battlefields, calling to rebels and dissidents, overturning laws and rulers and toppling governments. He would be lively and reckless and enthusiastic, and Rumour liked enthusiasts.

Among the guests were armoured and visor’d soldiers, and Rumour recognised them as being Captains of the ancient lineage of Rodent Armies, probably summoned by Chaos from the dread Caves of Cruachan, where they guarded one of the most ancient Gateways between the two Irelands. As they moved and mingled with the guests, she saw with a shiver of revulsion that many of them had slithering, boneless tails, which some of them had hung over their left forearms, rather as a soldier will accoutre himself with a dress sword if attending a very formal event. Beneath the black visors and helmets were the nightmare lumpish blending of jackals and rats and stoats and weasels with Humans, so that whiskers and feral teeth and snouts mingled grotesquely with Humanish lips and nostrils and ears.

Many of the silk-and satin-garbed Lords wore on their breasts the legendary Silver Star of Medoc, and again, Rumour received the impression of a military gathering, where all badges of honour or valour must be displayed.

The females were richly clad, but they were nearly all thin, ravaged-faced creatures; rapacious and avid, their lips painted the colour of blood, their faces alabaster-white and their eyes huge dark pits. Rumour remembered how the Crimson Lady had possessed exactly those dark, abyss-like eyes, and understood that the greeds and the lusts that male necromancers turned outwards, turned inwards for the females. The hungers had corrupted their powers, and they had become so dependent on the dark, lustful side of their craft, that they perpetually craved blood or sexual gratification. She knew a brief anger at the poor-spirited necromancesses who had allowed the power to master them instead of mastering the power.

Several of the females had five snakes coiled in their hair, for the snake is one of the highest servants of the necromantic Houses. The snakes were moribund and turgid, but Rumour saw the occasional flicker of a thin, forked tongue or the gleam of a basilisk eye, and knew it would not take very much to waken them. Some of the necromancesses had tiny black Goblin-creatures walking at their heels, many of them carrying the satin and velvet trains of their mistresses’ gowns, sometimes simply holding golden, jewel-encrusted pouches which would probably hold mirrors and brushes and salves and pomades. Rumour glanced at these tiny, ugly train-bearers warily, knowing the limited but sometimes vicious powers of those who possessed Goblin-blood, but she saw at once that the creatures were stunted wizened beings, probably deliberately starved and made to sleep in cramped dark cupboards by the rapacious necromancesses, who would use them for grotesque sexual relief.

The Dark Royalty of the Black Ireland, all gathered together for the Lord of Chaos’s fearsome War Banquet …

The musicians suddenly struck a harsh cacophony of notes, and a stir of anticipation brushed the company. Heads turned, conversation stilled, and the scarlet velvet curtains at the back of the banqueting hall rippled from the movement of an unseen creature, and the cold, unmelodious music rose to a massive crescendo.

Rumour felt the cold fear twist her stomach again, because this was it, this was the moment when he would appear — the moment when she could be caught.

The Lord of the Castle, the Suzerain of the Dark Ireland was about to appear …

The curtains parted with a whisper of sound, and he was there. Chaos, the legendary dark sorcerer, the most powerful necromancer of them all.

Chaos, who had held the Black Domain firmly and impregnably against all assault for two centuries, who had waged war on the terrible Crimson Lady of Almhuin in the grisly, blood-soaked NightFields, and who commanded instant obedience and total allegiance, and hunted Men for sport and roasted their carcasses for torchlight …

And who., by the Well of Segais, had spun the Dark Lure over Rumour and evoked that swift, never-to-be-admitted response …

*

Rumour had thought that they would all be summoned to sit at the long tables, in order to partake of the dazzling array of dishes and to drink the wine and the spiced punch, but this did not seem to be the custom here.

There was no move to the tables, no announcement or request that the guests seat themselves. As Chaos stood framed by the scarlet velvet hangings, a slender, darkly garbed figure with slanting, glowing eyes, the guests sank on to their left knees in some kind of obeisance. Rumour, watching covertly, copied them. She would acknowledge no creature master, although she would be respectful to the Amaranth Head, but she dare not do anything to draw attention to herself.

As Chaos moved down from the dais, several of what Rumour thought would be Elders of some kind — cold-eyed, cruel-looking necromancers — moved to his side, and with them the Captains of the Rodent Army. As if this was a signal, the waiting servants began to move about the hall, each of them bearing platters of food which they offered to the grouped guests. There was roast venison and oxen and green goose and pressed duck; other dishes held portions of baked lakefish and salmonidae and ingot fish. Two of the servants were carving several sucking pigs and the foetus of young cows, which Rumour knew was considered a great delicacy, but which she did not care for very much. A side-table bore huge silver dishes of sugared fruits and honey cakes and confections of rose petals and tansies and elaborate concoctions made from pounded chestnuts and cream. Six of the servants stood beside the immense silver tubs, ladling wine into exquisite silver and gold chalices, which they handed to the guests.

Rumour thought it was an unusual, but rather interesting arrangement. She watched carefully to see what was done, and saw that, as the servants moved to and fro with the platters, they handed small silver bowls to each of the guests. The guests then simply helped themselves to portions of whatever they chose, eating and drinking and talking, and then moving on to other groups.

In fact, thought Rumour, momentarily intrigued, it was an extremely sensible way of giving a banquet, for it meant it was possible to move about and meet and talk with as many guests as you liked. She began to play the ‘look-beyond’ game again. If I get out of this alive, I shall give just such a feast. She visualised her own star-shaped banqueting hall inside her Castle of the Starlit Night, and saw how tables could be set in the points of the stars, and how guests could move about comfortably. A new fashion.

She moved slowly and quite composedly through the necromancers, smiling and nodding as she did so, as if she were entirely at home and as if she had a perfect right to be here.

But all the while her heart was racing, and from the corners of her eyes, she was watching Chaos and the small group that stood with him. Elder necromancers: not rulers exactly, but perhaps Dark Lords who had attained some kind of higher power? Yes. And the Rodent Captains — six of them, were there? — were being deferential, and Chaos was listening to them, his head tilted courteously.

War talk, thought Rumour, sipping her wine. Battle talk. I believe that this banquet is something to do with the War between Chaos and the Crimson Lady. And with the framing of the thought came another: but if that is so, then Chaos does not yet know that the Crimson Lady has been imprisoned in her own fortress! Dare I believe that? thought Rumour. Did the Fomoire after all not return here to tell their tale? But why not? And knew the answer at once: the Fomoire had been beaten — Rumour herself had beaten them — and they would not dare to face Chaos with such an admission.

This was unexpectedly heartening, because it made Chaos seem less all-powerful than he had previously seemed. But Rumour thought she dared not believe in it too wholeheartedly.

But it was plain that the Rodent Captains were here to plan a battle. Rumour watched them under cover of taking a further portion of the food, and saw that they were all looking very serious. So whatever they are planning is something important, and probably something they have not yet attempted in this war. Could it be the storming of Almhuin? Cold fear gripped her, and she thought: but Andrew is still there! He is alone and he is lame in that great dark Fortress!

Anarchy and Murder stood together, Anarchy laughing and drinking wine as fast as his chalice was filled by the silent servants, eyeing the females rather leeringly and calling out ribald jokes to the males. But Murder said very little; he stood wrapped in his crimson cloak, the slouch hat pulled over his face, eating and drinking sparingly. Once the deep sunken eyes seemed to meet Rumour’s, and she tensed her muscles, waiting for the shout, the pointing finger that would unmask her, but Murder’s eyes slid over her and passed on. Rumour, her every muscle aching with the tension of fear, drew in a breath of relief.

Misrule was everywhere, peering at people’s plates to see what was being eaten, whipping up the musicians to provide louder music, occasionally leaping on to the table to caper amidst the wine-flagons and the silver dishes and the arrangements of flowers and bowls of fruit. Everywhere he went, a crackle of laughter broke out and a buzz of alert conversation, and Rumour saw that, despite the deep and serious nature of Chaos’s conversation, the necromancer’s eyes frequently turned towards Misrule, as if he was watching that Misrule did not miss any opportunity to entertain the guests.

As she turned back to where Chaos stood with the four Dark Lords and the Rodent Captains, Misrule darted suddenly to the centre of the room, and flung up his hands, calling for the guests’ attention.

‘For, my friends,’ he said, ‘we have a little amusement devised for your pleasure now.’ The mischievous eyes behind the slanting golden mask gleamed with malicious mirth, and Rumour moved to the far wall, where she could be partly concealed by a fall of gold brocade that swathed a window.

Misrule said, still in his light mocking voice, ‘My alter ego, Murder, is arranging for better lights for us, friends,’ and at once an amused cheer went up, and Rumour, guessing what lay ahead, felt cold horror clutch the pit of her stomach. Misrule flung out a hand, pointing to the thick wooden spikes standing around the hall, each one nearly eight feet in height, its end set into a heavy-looking base of what Rumour thought was beaten copper, or perhaps even solid gold. As she stared, not daring to move lest she should be spotted as an interloper, the doors at the far end were flung open, and Murder, now clad in a black cloak that brushed the floor, stood there, with behind him six chained and manacled Humans, bedraggled and dirty, their bones showing through the skimpy rags that clung to them, their eyes pale and bewildered by the sudden brilliant light of the banqueting hall after their dark, windowless dungeons.

Rumour glanced round, seeking a way to create a diversion that would enable the prisoners to break free, but knowing that they would almost certainly have been kept in the Castle dungeons for so long that their wits would be dulled and their strength so feeble that all alertness would long since have deserted them, and that they would be incapable of grasping at any sudden opportunity.

And then she saw that, surrounding the prisoners, leaping and whirling, the horrid slit Humanish skins flying wildly, were the Fomoire.

*

The necromancers and their attendants moved back, leaving the centre of the floor clear. A hum of pleased anticipation went up.

Misrule was dancing around the edges of the room now, the golden mask glinting cruelly, the ruby heels of his shoes sending out sparks of baleful red light. Rumour, still partly concealed by the curtain, saw that he was dancing nimbly and agilely beneath each of the rearing wooden stakes, and that, as he did so, the sparks from his ruby heels collected and coagulated, until a tiny pool of crimson formed; thick, viscous fluid that coiled and swirled and sent up tiny hissing spirals of smoke. Within the smoke there appeared glowing coals, black as ebony, but emitting such fierce heat that the necromancers drew back.

Rumour heard someone say, ‘Misrule has made sure of the heat tonight,’ and another answer, ‘Can you blame him? We all remember the time when the Humanish had to be set alight from the wall-torches, and how long it took for them to burn up.’

The heat glowed in fierce pools of molten brilliance, and Murder moved forward, the prisoners shuffling after him in horrid obedience, the Fomoire prodding them, leaping and jeering, singing their terrible Hunting Song.

‘Give us fire to burn the hair

Flames to light the Humanish vair.

Give us heat and glowing meat;

Sparks and flames and smoke and fire.’

They pushed the prisoners forward, jabbing with their long, bony fingers, their wizened faces just visible through the Humanish cloaks, the mean little eyes gleaming with malevolence.

Misrule stood at the centre of the room, his hands on his hips, and Murder stalked forward and stood beneath the first of the stakes. He looked round at the watching throng, and the smallest of smiles touched his thin lips. Rumour thought that it was if he were saying: ah, you puny creatures, you laugh and cavort with Misrule, but it is I who can command your full attention now! It flickered on her mind that there might be jealousy between Chaos’s three henchmen, and there might certainly be rivalry, and for a moment she wondered if this was something she could use.

The Fomoire had reached for one prisoner’s chains, skittering excitedly across the floor on all fours, the empty-eyed skulls of their cloaks jerked backwards as they did so. They began to drag the prisoner forward and, as they did so, the crimson pool of fire created by Misrule flared up, washing the scene to eerie glowing horror. The prisoner, who had seemed bewildered and barely aware of his surroundings, looked up as the monstrous shadow of the stake fell over him, and terrible comprehension dawned in his eyes. At once he screamed and jerked away, trying to free himself. The Fomoire shrieked gleefully, and four of them bent down in front of him, seizing the slithering iron chains that trailed from his legs, hauling him forward to the waiting stake and the leaping flames.

The swirling crimson pool flared up again, and as the flames licked the base of the stake, a scent of burning wood drifted across the banqueting hall. Rumour, who had sat before innumerable blazing fires stoked high with applewood and pearwood, found it unbearable that such beautiful and evocative scents should be so horribly mixed in with such grisliness and such pitiless torture.

The prisoner was at the foot of the stake now; the leaping flames were before him, and he was screaming like a trapped hare.

Anarchy, who was standing in a semi-drunken state nearby, lifted his wine chalice and shouted, ‘Misrule has neglected to sew the prisoners’ mouths again!’

‘Shame on him!’ cried the necromancers, and low chuckles broke from them.

Misrule grinned and capered around the circle of the watchers, holding out the jutting golden phallus, thrusting it obscenely at the females.

‘Let the Humanish squeal!’ he cried. ‘Let us hear them squeal and smell them roast!’

Murder was standing directly behind the wickedly sharp stake, the black cloak wrapped about him, the deep-brimmed hat pulled over his eyes. The flames leapt higher, illuminating his silent watchful figure, black against fiery red, and Rumour shivered, knowing that, although Misrule might be vain and malicious and Anarchy feckless and shallow, Murder was far and away the most evil of Chaos’s henchmen.

Misrule was urging the Fomoire on, dancing around the watching guests, starting up little chants and rhythms wherever he went. Rumour heard the low murmur of sound begin, and swell, and mount to fill the entire, red-lit hall.

‘Burn the Humanish … Burn them … Burn them …’

The entire banqueting hall was echoing with the rhythmic chanting now.

‘Burn them … Burn them …’

Misrule leapt and capered, laughing and darting, holding out the jutting golden phallus again, and presently, above the steady chanting, Rumour heard another refrain start up.

‘Feed the flames, appease the fire;

Boil the skins and scorch the hair.

Catch the juices, poach the eyes,

Burst the veins and crisp the hides.’

The Fomoire had started it, but now the necromancers were joining in, and the terrible grisly words rose to a painful, deafening pitch.

The guests were swaying with the steady, rhythmic chanting, and Rumour heard the sexual note in their voices. Several of them were pulling up their robes and caressing their swelling organs, and from where she stood, Rumour could see that most of the men possessed the unmistakable barbed penises of all who harness the true Darkness.

A low cry came from the necromancesses, and they pounced at once, their ravaged faces hungry, reaching out, clawing and tearing their gowns aside, exposing withered bodies, empty hanging breasts, fleshless thighs.

They are eaten up with their own hungers, thought Rumour, staring in sick disgust. They are burnt up with their unnatural lusts and desires.

Several of the necromancesses had forced the Dark Lords to the floor, and had leapt to straddle them, forcing the monstrous organs between their thighs, moaning and panting.

Misrule shrieked with delight, and began his capering dance again, and Anarchy flung the wine chalice on to the floor, and plunged into the centre of the heaving, writhing melee.

Murder and the Fomoire had lifted the screaming Humanish prisoner high, and were chaining him to the stake. When they stepped back, the flames from Misrule’s molten pools leapt, engulfing the screaming prisoner, and the truly terrible scent of roasting meat filled the banqueting hall.

From his stance at the far end, the Lord of Chaos stood alone, watching his people as they moaned and writhed in obscene ecstasy. The light from the roasting Humanish burned upwards, making him a creature of dark fire, beautiful and sinister and evil beyond belief. He moved to the back of the dais, and seated himself on a black carven throne, high-backed and lined with ebony velvet. Rumour looked at him, and instantly dragged her eyes away, because even at this distance, he would see that she was not of his people.

The second prisoner was being chained to the next stake now, and his hair had already caught fire, so that the stench of its burning was tainting the hall. The first one was still screaming, but the flames were engulfing his body, and all that was visible of him now was his face, splitting open with the heat, emitting the thin, colourless fluid from just beneath the skin, which ran into the flames with grisly, crackling noises.

Rumour thought: and he will burn slowly, they will all burn slowly, their agony will be long drawn-out, for the necromancers want the light for their repulsive couplings.

As she framed the thought, the Fomoire dragged out the next two prisoners, and Murder again moved into place.

It was then, at the moment when Rumour had been least expecting it, that the Lord of Chaos turned his dark, glowing eyes upon her, and said, ‘Stop. All of you. We have an enemy in our midst.’

*

At once the quality of the revelries altered. The Fomoire scurried backwards, and Misrule and Anarchy turned to regard their Master.

The necromancers and their partners stood up, their robes still disarrayed, some of them partly naked, some of them completely so. From a great distance, Rumour was aware that the first prisoner had sagged on the wooden stake, and that his screams had stopped, but that the second one was still writhing, although his cries were growing weaker.

She moved forward, the thin pale-as-floss gown whispering across the floor as she walked. There was a murmur from the necromancers and the Rodent Captains, and Rumour understood that the agony and the flames had cast over them all a cloak of such unbridled lechery and such rampant hunger that they were still held fast in its grip. Red lust showed in the faces of the necromancers, and also — Rumour shuddered inwardly — in the faces of the females. The Goblin-creatures who attended some of the necromancesses scampered out to her, and tugged on the hem of her gown, chuckling with evil glee as they did so.

Rumour was standing before Chaos now, a little below him, so that he looked down on her. Anger rose within her, and she thought: I may be caught and exposed, but I will not allow this evil creature to look down on me as if I am of no account at all!

With the searing anger came courage, and she walked calmly to stand on the dais beside him and regarded him straightly.

She thought that a gleam of appreciation showed in the dark, glowing eyes, but he only said, ‘You are welcome, madame, even though I think you are unexpected.’

Rumour said, ‘Indeed? Did you not, then, believe I should one day come in answer to your beckoning, Chaos?’ and saw the dark eyes gleam again.

‘You are here in answer to no beckoning of mine, Rumour,’ he said. ‘But since you are here …’ He looked down to where Misrule was listening. ‘Since you are here,’ said Chaos, ‘I believe we shall ask you to provide a little entertainment.’

Rumour stared at him and thought: he is going to burn me! He is going to order Murder and the Fomoire to chain me to one of the stakes, as they have already chained two of their prisoners. And then they will let me burn, and they will continue to satisfy their evil lusts in the light of my burning body! Shall I scream as those poor wretches screamed? She was dimly aware that the second prisoner had sagged into a charred mass, and that his screams had ceased. But before he does that, he is going to force me to spin something for these obscene creatures’ amusement.

Misrule said, ‘Master, she is a Scealai,’ and Rumour heard with disgust the sycophantic note in his voice. ‘I believed her to be one of the guests …’

Chaos did not speak, but he turned on Misrule a look of such searing contempt that Rumour saw Misrule fall back and fling up his hands to shield his eyes. A low murmur came from the listening necromancers, and several of them began to look uneasy.

Chaos turned back to Rumour. ‘You are here to rescue the Amaranth Princess. We both know it.’ He made a brief gesture with one hand. ‘Therefore I cannot allow you to escape,’ he said with a note of what Rumour could almost have believed to be regret. She understood at once that Chaos rather admired her, but that he could not afford to let her live. She must be summarily put to death, here, before all of his subjects, so that they should see his might and his merciless dealings with spies and enemies.

Chaos said, softly, ‘You are right, my dear, of course you must die. But you know, I believe it would add a touch of refinement to your torture to delay it a little.’ His eyes went thoughtfully to the waiting stakes. ‘Not necessarily the flames of course,’ said Chaos, as if considering the matter carefully. There are several other punishments I can order for you.’ The dark eyes hardened suddenly. ‘You should know that I do not care very much for intruders here, Madame Amaranth,’ he said, and now there was no faintly amused respect and no rather grudging admiration. This was premier Lord of the terrible Dark Ireland; the pitiless necromancer who consorted with the darkness and could summon whatever black sorcery he wished.

‘But since you have chosen to risk my anger and my punishment, then let us play the charade a little longer,’ said Chaos. He gestured to the banqueting hall, still lit by the dying flames from the stakes, the breathless anticipation of the guests so strong that Rumour could feel it gusting towards her.

‘It is a pity,’ he said softly, ‘that you did not choose to serve me in other ways, Rumour.’ His eyes slid over her body and, despite her resolve, Rumour felt the treacherous stirrings again. How would it be, how would it feel to lie alongside this slender, cruel, beautiful being, to see his face twist not with cruel, cold authority, but with passion and longing …

Chaos smiled again, as if perfectly aware of her thoughts. ‘Only think what we could have been together, my dear,’ he said, and now it was the dangerous soft voice of the seducer. He looked at her, and Rumour understood him again. He was offering her her freedom …

If you will bow your head and embrace my dark world …

‘No,’ said Rumour, very softly. ‘I shall never do that, Chaos.’

‘You could share it all,’ he said. ‘The power and the might and the glory.’

‘No,’ said Rumour again, and their eyes met and locked.

Then Chaos said, dismissively, ‘A pity. Misrule was deceived into believing you came here to make part of the entertainments,’ he said. ‘He is a gullible fool and he will pay dearly for his mistake.’ As he spoke, he flung, almost negligently, a sizzling tongue of flame in Misrule’s direction. Misrule screeched with anger and fear, but the flame had reached him, and curled about his waist a thin lash of white-hot fire. Misrule screamed and tore at the fire, his fingers blistering and bubbling from its furious heat, the flesh charring almost instantly. He fell back, rolling over and over in agony now, and Rumour saw with sick horror that the fire-lash that circled his waist was burning through his flesh, cutting him in half …

The necromancers had moved back, their faces uneasy now. Misrule was rolling on the ground, still frantically trying to claw the fire-lash from his body. His nails were black and smoking, and there was a terrible stench of burning. He writhed frantically, screaming arid begging for mercy, but the fire had bitten deep into his flesh now. He arched his back, trying to throw it off, and Rumour saw that blood and bone showed and that the flesh was being neatly sawn through; that there were no jagged-edged wounds, only a clean severing, a slicing in twain.

He knew what was happening. Through the golden mask his eyes were fiery red now, and starting from his head. He threw himself back once again, his head cracking against the hard floor, his body arching once more, so that it rested on the tip of his head and his heels, his neck muscles straining and standing out.

And then, quite suddenly, he looked down at his body, and the watchers saw that the fire-lash had almost succeeded in its grisly work; there was the glint of blood-soaked rib-bones, the dark gleam of liver and the wet purple sac of entrails beginning to spill out over the floor …

Misrule gave one final scream and fell to the floor, blood seeping from the two halves of his body. His hands scrabbled feebly at the ground, as if still trying to reach the dais and plead for forgiveness. His feet in the dazzling, ruby-heeled boots were twitching, as if trying to show that they still had the power to dance and leap.

There was a choking, bubbling cough, and blood — thick dark blood — dribbled from the slits in the golden mask.

Silence fell on the banqueting hall.

‘A fool and a creature of no judgement,’ said Chaos dismissively. And then, to the Fomoire, ‘Remove it.’ The Fomoire leapt at once, dragging the two halves of Misrule’s body across the floor, leaving smeary trails of blood as they did so.

Rumour found herself wondering, with sharp irrelevancy, whether they would use Misrule’s skin, and then, as she felt Chaos’s eyes on her again, turned back to him.

‘And now,’ said Chaos, smiling thinly, ‘now, Rumour, it is your turn to entertain us.’ He moved back to seat himself on the black, velvet-lined throne.

*

Rumour thought: oh, why not do the thing in full? Why not summon up the most dazzling, most extravagant enchantment I can think of? And why not do it with such style and such elegance that it will have these horrid greedy necromancers and these stupid hungering necromancesses speechless with admiration?

And that may give me time to formulate a plan to escape them.

She stepped forward, allowing the front of her gown to slide open a little further as she did so. As she moved, the skirts parted to show the soft gleam of slender thighs and narrow ankles. Rumour moved down from the dais, and walked to the centre of the hall, seeing that Chaos’s guests moved back at once.

She stood at the centre of the great banqueting hall, feeling how thickly it was tainted from the lusts and the greeds of the company, feeling as well that it was smeared and clotted with the bewildered death agonies of the two prisoners, and Misrule’s final, terrible torment, knowing that none of it must matter to her now.

For she must spin something that would dazzle and capture; she must blind these creatures, render them helpless, deaf — lifeless, if only it were possible — so that she could escape and reach Theodora.

For I will not die at these creatures’ hands!

As she lifted her hands to call down the power, her mind was racing. What should it be? Chaos would certainly dissolve at birth anything that would be harmful; he would take a warped delight in watching her try to summon the Enchantment of Slumber, or aggressive spells of knives or fire or lightning that would injure his guests.

Nothing so crude! thought Rumour, turning slowly to regard the waiting necromancers, seeing that anticipation glittered in their eyes, that they were all regarding her with the red lust again. They had already dismissed Chaos’s terrible vengeance on Misrule; they were avid for the revelries again, and it would not take very much to make them tear off the flimsy silk gown and slake their hungers on her helpless body. And although, said a tiny unquenched part of her, although I could cope with the males, I think I must really draw the line at the females and the Rodents!

The sudden wry irony made her feel instantly better. She thought: I am at the centre of Chaos’s Castle; I may well be within yards of Theo and I may be within inches of a nasty death. But for now everyone is looking at me: it is my moment of power, and I must, I absolutely must dazzle them!

The power was there, waiting, shimmering, easily and fluidly obedient to her summons. Whatever she summoned would materialise within seconds. What should it be?

What?

And then a tiny smile curved her lips, and as she looked round at the silent watching necromancers and the Rodent Captains, and at Murder and Anarchy, she thought: well, of course there is only one enchantment I can use! Of course there is only one that will dazzle and bewitch them, and that will show them that I am easily as powerful as they are, and that may even give me the chance to escape!

The beautiful rich spell she had woven herself over so many years, that had never been completed, that never would be completed, because its story would never be told, it had no end …

The glittering, iridescent enchantment that she could conjure so easily, and that would unroll and unfold its immense shimmering pageantry and its brilliant, compelling magic, with pouring rivers of molten gold and silver strands and incandescent blues and greens, and blazing oriflames of scarlet and orange and tawny.

The Unfinished Spell.

The Enchanted Tapestry of the Amaranths.

*

It formed at her bidding almost instantly, and although Rumour was concentrating on keeping the silvered symbols of the Enchantment firmly before her inner eye, she heard the ripple of admiration that went through the hall. She thought: I was right, I was right to suspect they had not so very much power, these creatures! How easy it is to dazzle them!

The stories were spilling over now, beautiful and enthralling and magical; each one a precious piece of history, each one a page of the chronicles of Ireland; of sorcery, of necromancy, of battles and intrigues and usurpings; invasions and Wars and Golden Reigns and Evil Tyrannies … The Wolfkings and the Druids and the sidh, and the strange, half-Human beasts who had ruled from Tara, all pouring out and marching past, whirling about the heads of the Dark Lords with lambent light and flaring colour.

Rumour stood at the centre, the pageantry all about her, glittering and shining, dazzling in a hall that had been dazzling to begin with; a marvellous chiaroscuro, a shifting, blurring kaleidoscope not only of light, but also of elusive sounds and vagrant scents, and the marvellous woodland magic and the deep mountain sorcery, and the glittering intrigue of the Courts of the High Kings. The lovers and the poets and the warrior Queens of Ireland; the fighters and the traitors and the courtiers … The lost loves and the forbidden passions and the strange spells and the lingering curses that ran through Ireland’s great and wonderful history in glittering threads of scarlet and gold, and in coursing rivers of twilit sorcery and dawn-filled magic …

There was unwilling respect in every face now; the necromancers were staring and Chaos was watching from the black throne, his eyes unreadable.

Rumour thought: if there is a moment when I can run from the hall and try to reach Theo, then surely this is the moment! Strength coursed through her, and she thought: this is the moment, now, when they are all dazzled, and when the brilliance is blurring their vision and their senses. She lifted a hand again, causing the pouring swathes of brilliance to spiral upwards, gathering the Enchantment up as she would have gathered up a glittering ball of thread, seeing the tumble of the marvellous tapestry whirling about in a maelstrom of rainbow beauty.

And then she stepped back, and slipped out through the doors of the hall.

Chapter Forty-one

The concubines did not know what to do. They had been waiting for AnCine to return from the banquet, because of course, AnCine had been chosen to attend: they had all known that she would be. But she had promised to tell them all about it, and so they were going to sit up, just as they did when one of them was sent to Chaos, so that they could hear all about it.

She had looked very nice indeed. They had all helped, running to and fro to fetch scented water and oil for her bath and trying the effect of tawny brown — no yellow! — for her gown and cloak. It had all been so exciting.

Most of them had actually been a bit relieved not to have been chosen to attend the banquet, because there were to be all manner of important people there, and it might have been difficult to know what to say to them. AnCine said it was easy, but the concubines did not think it was easy at all. It was all very well for AnCine, who had spent three nights in a row with Chaos, and who, moreover, had been all of fourteen when she was brought to the Saraigli, and could therefore be considered more worldly than most of them.

It had been quite a long time after the banquet had started (they had been able to hear the music and the revelries so they knew), that a complete stranger had stepped into the Saraigli and stood looking at them.

This was not something that anyone could ever remember happening before. The Saraigli was not a place where people simply stepped in. It was secret and safe; it was not kept locked because it did not need to be locked; everyone in Chaos’s service knew that it was death — and a slow, bad death — to enter the Saraigli illicitly.

And so the only people who came to it were Meirdreach and the Reachtaire and his servants. Chaos did not come, of course, he simply sent a message to Meirdreach that he would be wanting one of them for the night, and Meirdreach chose who would go, and whoever it was was escorted by two servants to the velvet-hung bedchamber.

But here was a slender, silk-clad figure standing just inside the door, looking at them with a small, friendly smile. The concubines glanced uneasily at one another, because they had no idea what to do. The intruder was very beautifully dressed, they could not help seeing that. The pale ivory gown was of the finest silk, and the tiny pearls were of a very high quality. They all knew the difference between good jewels and inferior ones, of course. They could not help wondering how ever the stranger had the courage to wear her hair in such a short, stark fashion, although most of them were already trying to visualise how the shape would look on their own hair. And they noted the sprinkling of silver stars, which was certainly something different and new, and something they might all like to copy, and also the carefully painted silver tips to the short hair. You might even use gold paint, or — this would be very daring — turquoise or emerald-green. They began to feel interested.

Rumour had understood instantly that these were Chaos’s sequestered women; his harem, the sheltered, pampered creatures, one or two of whom he would occasionally summon to his bed, but most of whom might never even see him. She thought that this rather odd custom of imprisoning pretty brainless creatures for random, unthinking sexual gratification, had originated in one of the Eastern lands, and she looked at the twenty or so concubines, and felt anger at the Lord of this Castle who had condemned them to such useless, narrow lives.

But this was almost surely where Chaos would have put Theodora, and so she moved purposefully forward.

‘Please do not be afraid,’ said Rumour in a low, urgent voice. ‘I do not wish any of you any harm.’ She saw them glance at one another, and understood that the making of decisions, the shouldering of responsibility was wholly outside their experience.

‘I shall not hurt you,’ said Rumour, trying again. ‘I understand that you are — are not permitted to receive guests, and I promise you that no one need know I was ever here.’ She studied them. ‘But I must take the child,’ she said. ‘The Princess.’ And saw fearful comprehension dawn in their eyes. ‘If she is here,’ said Rumour, glancing behind her at the half-closed door, ‘you must let me take her.’ And saw at once from their expressions that Theo was indeed here, and knew a rush of gratitude so vast that for a moment the room swam before her sight. She had been almost sure, she had been sure, but there had always been the faint chance that Theo was somewhere else entirely, shut away, used in some monstrous fashion …

The concubines did not know what to do. They withdrew a little, chattering anxiously. They did not want to call for Meirdreach; you never knew what Meirdreach might do, and in any case, she was probably spying on the banquet.

On the whole, they were rather inclined to believe that Rumour was a friend. Also, people who could think up such remarkable ways of dressing and wearing their hair ought not to be dismissed without a hearing. They reached this conclusion, and felt rather pleased with themselves, because it seemed to be very sensible. One or two of them said that Rumour might even be somebody extremely important, and therefore they would be glad, later, if they had obeyed her, although several said: no, they must be careful, she might be an enemy of Chaos after all. But since they had no idea what they should do if Rumour was an enemy, they found this point of view very worrying, and decided to ignore it.

And then, without the least warning, without anyone being aware of it, the inner doors to the sleeping chambers were pushed rather hesitantly open, and Theodora, the dear, pretty little creature they had all enjoyed dressing up and petting and devising games for, stood on the threshold, her dark eyes huge in her little pointed face, a trace of colour touching her high cheekbones.

Theodora said, in a whisper, ‘Rumour — I knew you would come!’ and straightaway launched herself across the room into Rumour’s arms.

*

Theo had known all along that someone would come to get her. Of course they would not leave her here inside the horrid Dark Realm, and of course they would somehow come in and rescue her. She had dreamt about it happening nearly every night, only sometimes the dreams had got muddled, and she had been glad to wake up, because they had been all about dreadful things happening in the Porphyry Palace, and about Mama and Papa being threatened and harmed, and the rest of the Amaranths in some dreadful danger.

But here was Rumour, her beautiful and dazzling Cousin Rumour, smiling at her with the remembered amusement, as if they might be sharing some kind of delightful secret, and here was one of Rumour’s marvellous, extravagant gowns. As Rumour’s arms closed about her, Theo could smell the beautiful expensive scents her cousin always used, and feel the silken brush of her skin. She would not cry, because it would have been very childish, and anyway, there would not be time for anything like that. But for the first time since the Fomoire had broken through the Gateway in the Well of Segais and carried her into the Dark Ireland, Theo began to feel safe.

The concubines were in a flurry of excitement, because hadn’t the decision been made for them, with the dear loving child clasped in her aunt’s arms, was it? Ah, her cousin — well, in any event, it was all very affecting.

They bustled about importantly, eager to help, and it all began to be rather exciting. The cousin must be offered refreshments before her journey, they said, remembering their manners; three of them running for the wine-flagons, two more for the little sweet cakes they had baked by themselves only the day before.

But Theo’s cousin said, no, they must not trouble themselves, because there was not really time for such things, and so the concubines next bethought themselves of warm clothes for the journey. Theodora could not possibly go out of the Saraigli clad only in her sleeping things, they said, shocked. They fetched the little store of things the child had used while she had been here, and they opened the cupboards where they hung their best gowns, and found her a warm, fur-lined cloak and the dearest little red boots.

Rumour, frantic to get Theo away before the necromancers burst out of the banqueting hall, but knowing they must pacify these pretty, frivolous creatures, accepted the cloaks and the slippers, and also the cambric shirts and breeches, which, said the concubines giggling behind their hands, had been left behind by the Reachtaire’s men, although they did not know how that had happened!

Rumour said, ‘You are extremely generous, and we will bid you farewell now,’ and the concubines at once looked alarmed, because they had not realised that the unknown lady would actually be leaving at once, and it would be quite dreadfully dangerous to go prowling along the corridors and the empty halls by night.

‘Why?’ said Rumour, who was wrapping Theo in the cloak and helping her to lace up the red boots.

The concubines glanced uneasily at one another, and finally mustered up the courage to explain about the Draoicht Spiaire, the fearsome Enchantment of Spying that Chaos would by now have let loose to prowl the Castle. Rumour thought: so that is why he allowed me to go! That is why he did not order his minions to come in search of me after I left the banqueting hall! That is why I have been inside this place for the last half-hour without hearing Chaos’s servants, or Chaos himself, coming to find me! Chaos had known that the Spiaire was loose, or perhaps he had ordered it to be let loose. He knew it would find Rumour as she crept through the deserted halls and galleries of the Castle. This was a rather daunting thought, but they could not let it stop them. The Spiaire would have to be faced.

She looked round at the pretty, empty-headed creatures of the Saraigliy and said, very gently, ‘The Draoicht Spiaire is certainly a formidable thing to confront, but nevertheless it must be faced. And you have been more helpful than I had looked for. We cannot thank you sufficiently,’ she said, and Theo at once said:

‘You have all been so very kind, and I do wish you …’ She paused, unsure of the correct, the polite expression. ‘I do wish you all happiness,’ she said, and the concubines sighed, because the dear child had such pretty manners, and they would all miss her so much, they did not know what they would do when she had gone.

Rumour had been wondering, should she offer them something by way of thanks for their kindnesses to Theo? She had no jewels on her, which was probably the one thing they would appreciate. Was there something she could spin for them, something quick and easy but dazzling that would appeal to their light, shallow minds?

Stepping back, she lifted her hands, palms upwards, to harness power. ‘We have not very much time,’ she said, ‘but I think there is time for me to make you a small gift to show my gratitude for the way you have cared for my cousin.’ She smiled at them. ‘It will only be very little, because there is not time for anything more, but it would please me if you would accept it,’ said Rumour, and Theo gazed up at her admiringly, because this was her marvellous cousin, this was the famous Amaranth sorceress who had dined with the High Kings, and had dozens of lovers, and who could take her place at the high table when the Amaranths gave their splendid banquets, and make all the important people smile and relax and enjoy themselves. Theo was immensely proud of Rumour who was speaking in exactly the right way to these ladies, who were a bit silly but who had been kind to her.

Rumour had reached down a brief, rather garish Spell of Seduction, scarlet and gold phallus-shapes etched clearly against a pale swathe of gauze. She thought it was exactly the sort of colourful, slightly obvious thing that the concubines might like, and she coiled it into thin silken folds, and presented it to them.

‘With my heartfelt gratitude,’ she said, and the concubines thanked her, twittering excitedly over the unexpected gift, telling her how they would store it away carefully, and use it very often, and how no one should ever guess they had it.

‘As for the escape of Theodora,’ said Rumour, ‘I think if you simply say you woke up this morning and found she was gone, your story will be believed.’

The concubines had in fact been quite worried about this, but Rumour’s suggestion at once found favour. They said, very seriously, that they would all go to bed the minute she left, they would close their eyes very tightly, and they would pretend that they had not heard a thing.

‘You will be believed,’ said Rumour, with certainty, because no one could possibly suspect these empty-headed little creatures of any kind of intrigue.

She looked down at the expectant-eyed Theodora, and smiled. ‘Well, little one?’ she said. ‘Are you ready to brave the Droaicht Spiaire with me?’

But Theo would have braved anything in the whole world with Rumour at her side. She at once said, ‘Oh yes!’ and together they went through the doors and out into the vast Castle.

*

Theo had thought that the journey through the deserted Castle would be the most frightening thing you could imagine. She held Rumour’s hand, although she was careful not to hold it too tightly because of not letting Rumour know how frightened she really was.

It was important to show Rumour that she was not a silly baby, no better than the concubines. Theo thought she might have begun to get a bit impatient with the concubines if she had had to stay locked into the Saraigli for much longer. She explained this to Rumour as they walked cautiously through the Castle, not whispering, because whisperings were full of hisses and people could sometimes hear you very clearly indeed if you whispered and hissed, but speaking in an extra-quiet voice.

Rumour listened, and Theo, momentarily diverted, remembered that this had been one of Rumour’s best qualities: she listened to you, really listened, not just pretend or polite listening.

Rumour seemed to want to know all about the Saraigli. She asked quite a lot of questions, some of which Theo did not see the point of, but all of which she answered, because of not being a nuisance or impolite. She explained that they had come into the Dark Realm through the Moher Gateway, which had been quite frightening really on account of it being near to the Tanning Pit, but which you might, if you looked at it all sensibly, describe as a new experience, especially if you had not seen that part of Ireland before. Theo had not seen it, and she had been astonished at the dark beauty of the Moher Cliffs and at the dazzling splendour of the endless oceans that pounded and lashed Ireland’s west coast.

Rumour asked if Theo had been in the Saraigli for all of the time she had been here, and Theo said, ‘Oh yes,’ only that it had been dreadfully boring, on account of never seeing anyone except the concubines, and not being allowed even to go outside for a walk.

Rumour said, her voice carefully expressionless, ‘Did you not see Chaos or any of his servants at all?’ and Theo explained about Meirdreach, whom they had all giggled over, and about the Reachtaire, who sometimes came into the Saraigli with sugared fruits or little sweet buns for them all, and who was very fat and smooth-skinned and loved a little gossip with them all.

Rumour said, in a sympathetic voice, ‘Horridly boring,’ and Theo was glad that Rumour understood.

They had reached Rumour’s bedchamber now, and it was all safe and very nearly normal, and Theo was beginning to think that it was all turning into a very good adventure. The bedchamber was faintly scented with Rumour’s perfume, which Theo had noticed all Rumour’s bedchambers were. She had sometimes gone into Rumour’s bedchamber at the Porphyry Palace, after Rumour had gone back to her own Starlit Night Castle, just for the pleasure of being enfolded in Rumour’s beautiful, elusive fragrance and the lingering essences she always left, even when she had only been in a room for a few hours.

They managed to fold some things into a large bag shaped like a box, with tapestry patterns on the outside, and Rumour said they must be very careful indeed to take it with them, no matter what might threaten them, because there were some very precious things indeed inside. Theo touched the tapestry box-bag, and looked up at Rumour, because she had felt at once that there was something deeply magical inside it.

‘There is,’ said Rumour. ‘That is why we must take it out with us at all costs.’ She grinned at Theo. ‘I have brought that with me out of the Porphyry Palace, through Tiarna, and even out of the fortress of Almhuin,’ she said.

‘Almhuin?’ Theo had heard Almhuin mentioned in a general way.

Rumour said, ‘Andrew is at Almhuin, Theo,’ and saw the sudden pleasure in the child’s face.

‘Waiting for us?’

‘I hope so,’ said Rumour, and something that Theo had never seen shone in Rumour’s eyes for a moment. ‘Yes, I hope so.’

*

Theo thought the journey through the Castle began to be frightening as soon as they stepped out of Rumour’s bedchamber. The shadows crept forward at once, so that you could almost imagine they were alive and waiting for you. Theodora stared at them and came up with the word, ‘menacing’. The shadows were menacing, and the whole Castle was menacing; it crawled and shivered with dark things you could not see, although you knew they were there, and it throbbed and hummed and whispered with secret, peering creatures. Theodora cautiously drew Rumour’s attention to this, and Rumour said at once, ‘Yes, I know. I hear it all. Don’t worry,’ and Theo was instantly comforted, because if Rumour could hear and feel the dark slithery things and say, ‘Don’t worry’, in that very ordinary voice, then probably there was not very much to worry about. Probably whatever the things were, Rumour could deal with them quite easily.

They moved onwards, hand in hand. Rumour was not the sort of person you would mind holding hands with at a moment like this, although Theo would not have done it with anyone else, because she would not have let anyone else know she was beginning to be very frightened indeed. But Rumour would understand all this.

There was a moment when all that they were hearing were whisperings and slitherings and rustlings, and then there was another, quite separate moment, when the sounds had coalesced into something very much more definite and something very sinister.

The scuttling of clawed feet.

Theo felt Rumour’s hand tighten about hers, and then — this was extremely odd — Rumour silently passed the square, tapestry-patterned bag to Theo, and slid the strap over Theo’s neck. Theo did not understand why Rumour had done this, but clearly it would not do to ask, and so she simply took the bag, which was not very heavy, and tried not to know that the clawed feet were quite close now.

They were quite near to the central hall. Theo could see the lights from the banqueting hall filtering up to them. The scuttling thing was still following them, chuckling, as if it knew they were within its reach, and as if it were relishing the knowledge. Whatever it was going to do to them when it caught them was something it would greatly enjoy …

To keep moving at Rumour’s side with the scuttling, clawed footed creature stalking them, was the worst thing Theo had ever had to do. She thought she was only able to do it because Rumour seemed to expect that she could.

They reached a small, galleried landing with heavy wooden balustrades and a wide, curving stair that led to the lower part of the Castle. Flaring wall-sconces and flambeaux gave out a flickering red radiance, and there were narrow leaded windows, through which thin slivers of light crept.

At the centre of the gallery was a monstrous, bulbous-eyed thing, shell-backed, but with its soft under-body somehow made up of licking, sucking tongues and gaping, toothless maws and writhing, wriggling, wormlike brain sacs.

The Draoicht Spiaire.

Chaos’s dark and hungry Spell of Spies.

*

Theo and Rumour stopped at once, and Theo felt the thought slice her mind from Rumour: it has not been following us at all, it has been waiting for us … And knew in the same instant that the Draoicht Spiaire must be an immensely powerful and strongly necromantic spell.

The Draoicht Spiaire was formed a little like a huge crab or a lobster. Theo, who had sometimes been allowed to watch the cooks at the Porphyry Palace preparing for a banquet, had seen them cast lobsters live into vats of boiling water, or crack open the shells of the small, well-fleshed crabs that had been caught on Ireland’s coasts, scooping out the soft, bright red meat beneath. She had not really liked watching, and she did not really like shell-backed creatures that scuttled and darted and waved their stalklike eyes at you.

The Draoicht Spiaire was exactly like a monstrous lobster or a crab. The hard shell, the carapace that covered it, was like a monstrous inverted saucer; it was shiny and veined with thin black ducts, all of them pulsating, as if black blood coursed through it, which might be true, because Great-grandfather Nechtan had always said that demons had black blood …

Beneath the great, black-veined shell was the creature’s soft body, made up of writhing, slopping mouths and tongues for the telling of secrets, and huge, deformed ears for the hearing of them … And worst of all, it had dozens of tiny, wriggling, wormlike sacs that were its brains, and that would absorb the terrible secrets of its victims and store the sucked-out thoughts and the small private longings and desires and ambitions and fears and plans …

It had small, jointed legs — Theo thought there were four of them, although there might have been more. It was so dreadful that she could not look very closely. But as it moved, there was the hard sound of claws ringing out on the timber floors, and as it watched them, it scratched the ground as if excited. Long pincer-like arms came out from its body, jointed very nearly like elbows, but ending in huge, wickedly sharp claws that made scissor motions, snipping the air. They would scoop you up effortlessly, and they would squeeze you between the great talons until you were mangled to a pulp …

Theo gulped and tried to remember that they were going to defeat this thing, Rumour would defeat it, because she was strong and clever and it was impossible that she could ever be vanquished.

Stalks protruded from the Draoicht Spiaire’s carapace, with swivelling searching eyes like glutinous globes at the ends. There were dozens of these stalk-eyes, rearing up on bright red, gristly-looking antennae, waving and peering.

The hundred eyes of the monster that never sleeps …

The creature was the height of a Man; its shell was on a level with Rumour’s eyes, and it was as wide as a wide-sized bed. It was crouching in front of them, the stalks that supported its eyes waving as it studied them, the lipless, toothless mouths wet and greedy, the repulsive brain sacs wriggling and squirming.

As it crouched, watching them, its body crepitating with horrid relish, there was a really terrible moment when Theo felt Rumour’s courage hesitate. This was so truly remarkable that she looked up at Rumour, and saw that her face was whiter than Theo could ever remember seeing it, and that her eyes were huge with fear.

But then Rumour moved; she approached the horrid, scuttling, crablike thing, and said, quite calmly and quietly, ‘You will allow us to pass, if you please.’ And stood her ground, and waited.

The Draoicht Spiaire gave its monstrous chuckle, and its eyes swivelled on the glistening, scarlet stalks. It inspected Rumour, the eyes moving up and down her body, and smacked its repulsive lips as it did so, and reaching out with its elongated pincer-arms.

‘A tasty morsel of gossip for my Master,’ it said, and its voice was as repulsive as the rest of it: thick and gloating, so that you knew it would be able to see all your secrets and all the private thoughts and hopes and all the silly small nastinesses, and it would spread them out in the light and chuckle over them, and perhaps ponder on how it could use them to make you feel ashamed.

Rumour walked towards the Spiaire, holding her hands upwards, the palms turned outwards; as she neared it, it said, in its evil, clogged voice that came from not just one of its many slopping mouths but all of them, ‘You are brave, Sorceress, to approach me of your own volition.’

Rumour said, softly, ‘I am curious to know more of you, for I think we have never had dealings with one another, you and I.’

The Draiocht Spiaire snickered. ‘You employ gentler servants than you would find here, Madame Rumour,’ it said. ‘Although it is true that we have sometimes had a little in common.’

‘You know my name,’ said Rumour, as if she was holding a perfectly ordinary conversation with a perfectly ordinary person she had only just met.

‘Who does not know of the Amaranth sorceress, Rumour?’ said the Draoicht Spiaire. ‘Who does not know the lady who boasts that she has had a hundred lovers.’ It moved a little closer, with its grotesque, scuttling movement, its small legs scrabbling at the ground. From where she was standing, Theo could smell its stench: rotting meat and bad fish.

Rumour appeared not to notice it. She stayed where she was, her head tilted, as if she was finding it all of immense interest, and as if she had not noticed the truly sickening stench. The creature reared up a little, waving its short forelegs as it did so, and they saw the squirming underside of the shell with monstrous clarity. It gave its fearsome chuckle.

‘You would like to see a few of my secrets?’ it said. ‘You would like me to show you the things I suck from my victims and keep inside until they may be of use?’

Rumour said, quite normally and politely, ‘I am always interested in sorcery,’ and the Draoicht Spiaire chuckled again.

It reared up even further, the pale flesh palpitating with evil inner life. The brain sacs were at the centre, grey lumpish organs that writhed with a life of their own. As Rumour and Theo watched, the Draoicht Spiaire began to retch and vomit, and several of the repulsive grey membranous sacs opened and spewed out the most remarkable river of fluids and lights and fragments that Theo had ever seen.

Green, slimy runnels of bile, and puddles of crimson gore with tiny bony claws in them; slopping yellow creaminesses, curdled and sour-looking like milk that has turned … Here and there were tiny black and silver lights that winked and coruscated and half swum, half scuttled in and out of the viscous fluids … Theo gulped and pushed a clenched fist into her mouth.

Rumour stood her ground, and Theo understood that they must somehow get past the Spiaire; they could not turn back, because behind them were the chambers and the galleries and the halls of Chaos’s people. They must somehow get past this creature and down to the central hall and out and away.

Rumour was looking at the grisly kaleidoscope that had spurted from the Draoicht Spiaire, and she said, very softly, ‘The bounty of the gods … All there.’

‘All there, Sorceress,’ said the creature, and Theo heard that its voice was phlegmy and mucoid, exactly as it would have been if it had just been very sick in the ordinary way, from eating too much or from tainted food.

‘All there,’ echoed Rumour. ‘The green bile of jealousy, and the scarlet gobs of lust …’

‘And the brittle ivory bones of ambition, and the crimson-tipped claws of hatred,’ chuckled the Draoicht Spiaire. ‘There is the purple and black of despair-can you see that, Madame Sorceress?"

The horrid bulbous eyes swivelled, and Rumour said softly, ‘I see it, but the emotion called despair is not something I recognise,’ and Theo looked at her because there was suddenly something wistful and something quite unbearably sad in Rumour’s voice, as if she might be remembering something that somebody had once said to her, and as if the memory was infinitely precious and overwhelmingly sad.

‘There is the yellow blood of cowardice,’ said the creature. ‘And the scattering, quicksilver Goblins of treachery, for all those who turn traitor have fallen prey to the quicksilver Goblins …’

Rumour said, still in the same distant tone, ‘I see it all.’ And still she did not move, still she stayed where she was, beneath the monstrous necromantic creature who had spewed out the secret torments and the yearnings and the thoughts of its victims.

‘Room for more of them now,’ it said at once, and Theo saw that several of the brain membranes had collapsed and were shrunken and withered. ‘All the more room to suck you dry, Sorceress,’ said the Draoicht Spiaire, and it reared up again, its hundred eyes swivelling and moving, making sickening, glutinous sounds as they did so.

Rumour was standing directly beneath it; it was towering above her, the grinning, mumbling mouths making sucking sounds, as if they were relishing what was ahead; the squirming, collapsed brain sacs becoming agitated.

For they scent food, Sorceress, they scent the desires and the secrets and fears and the ambitions and the plots you have in your mind … They will eat your mind, Sorceress, and your mind will be forever stored in my brains; and I have many brains, Sorceress. I have as many brains as I have eyes to spy with and ears to hear with and lips to whisper secrets to my master with …

It was closing in, it was lowering its shell, and at any minute, at any minute, it would come down on Rumour who was standing limned against the grisly shape.

Rumour was not afraid; she was wary and watchful, but she was caught in the grip of an exhilaration, because she would far rather face an enemy head-on like this and try to pit her strength against it, than to creep through the dark waiting for something to pounce.

At moments of extreme danger, the mind moves with extraordinary speed and clarity, and Rumour’s mind moved like a shard of quicksilver now.

Like Theo, she had seen that they must get past the Spiaire; there was no other way to reach the central hall and the great double doors that led outside.

All her life, Rumour had taken the reckless option. Faced with different courses of action, she had always chosen the audacious way, and sometimes it had worked and sometimes it had not, She was a gambler, a risk-taker and an adventuress.

She would not change now. She would take a huge gamble, an immense risk, and if she was lucky and if the gods were with her, she would talk and bluff and defy her way out of this danger, as she had talked her way out of others.

Because sometimes it worked …

But Theodora must be kept safe.

She eyed the Draoicht Spiaire, and saw that its slopping, gaping mouths were already dripping and dribbling with anticipation, and she shuddered inwardly.

Could the thing be traded with? An offer — some kind of bargain for their safety? And then: could we simply appear to trade with it while I distract its attention?

Trade with what?

And then she remembered how the Spiaire had said, ‘Who does not know the lady who boasts a hundred lovers,’ and how lascivious greed had clotted its voice, and she felt the gamblers’ exhilaration rush through her, because she would try it; she would risk everything on this one desperate chance …

The Spiaire was edging closer, and Rumour saw that it was tensing the gristly, fibrous muscles of its legs, ready to scuttle forwards. Its wavering stalk-eyes peered and grinned, and there was a soft wet squelching sound as they opened and closed.

At any minute it would rear back, and the pincer-like arms would reach for her …

She stood directly in its path and said, loudly and clearly, ‘Draoicht Spiaire. I offer you the ancient Bargain of the Saturnalia,’ and saw at once that she had the creature’s attention.

It said in its thick mucoid voice, ‘I know of the Saturnalia Revelry. But tell me of the Bargain,’ and Rumour heard the question in its voice. Confidence surged into her, because she had succeeded in perplexing it and in holding its attention. She said, ‘I am surprised you do not know of the custom of exchanging gifts to mark the Saturnalia.’ And inched further along the corridor, pushing Theodora before her. Had Theo still the tapestry box? Yes. And the child was understanding, she was moving step by cautious step nearer the stair. Good! thought Rumour. If I can keep the Spiaire’s attention, Theo can get to the stair without it looking round at her. And with luck I can follow her!

She said, in a soft, coaxing voice that would have instantly raised suspicion in the minds of any one of the older Amaranths, ‘Saturnalia is the ancient Winter Solstice at which revelry and unbridled licentiousness takes place.’

‘I know it,’ said the Spiaire, and its stalk-eyes swelled with horrid lust.

Rumour caught the flicker of a movement from Theo as she edged nearer to the stair. But she kept her eyes fixed on the Spiaire, and said, ‘There are Twelve Days of Revelry, and during those Twelve Days, gifts are exchanged.’ And paused, and touched, deep in her mind, the memory of Andrew telling her of how his strange beliefs had allotted the pagan Saturnalia Feasting as their Leader’s birth into the world, and how they celebrated it by exchanging small gifts. Even at this moment of extreme terror she sent up a brief murmur of gratitude to Andrew and to his predecessors who had so cunningly woven the ancient feast into the new belief.

‘I will exchange with you in the way of the Saturnalia now,’ said Rumour.

‘Well?’ It had not moved, but its eyes were full of prurient greed, and Rumour shuddered inwardly. But she said:

‘If you will give us both safe passage through the Castle, I will give you every sexual experience, every moment of physical delight I have ever had.’ She paused. ‘And there have been many of them,’ said Rumour, her voice low and caressing.

The creature laughed. ‘Puny creature,’ it said. ‘I can take them all and devour you, Amaranth.’ It tensed its gristly legs to spring, but Rumour caught a gleam of speculation in its eyes, and thought: exactly as I guessed! It will not bargain, but I have caught its attention. She stood back and said, ‘But can you take them like this, filth! Can you unroll them like a carpet before your master!’ And, lifting her hands, reached for the dazzling skeins that had made up the Tapestry, her own special Spell, the Enchantment she had spun over the years, and with which she had dazzled the necromancers in the banqueting hall.

The memories poured out at once, streaming down from the creeping darknesses above their heads, lighting the shadowy gallery to brilliance, a silken, light-filled carpet that cascaded down to the bare oak floor and unfurled at their feet, perfuming the air with wine and music and passion and firelight … Every lover taken and enjoyed, every sweet, sensual, perfumed night, every shred of soaring delight and mischievous seduction and heady desire.

The remarkable swathes of brilliant passion and love and desire lay at their feet like a great glossy pool of shifting rainbow silk. The Spiaire stared down, its eyes quivering with greed. Beneath the shell, the shrunken brainsacs stirred and began to swell.

‘Yours!’ cried Rumour, her eyes shining with defiance and recklessness, flinging out her hands to point. ‘All yours, Spiaire, to spread at the feet of the Lord of Chaos! To unroll for his pleasure, instead of spewing them up in a torrent of noisome filth!’

She held the creature’s unblinking stare, and felt the beginnings of a great empty coldness. The memories draining, she thought. And I have yielded up so much … Every night of love, every afternoon of passion … And Andrew? said a tiny silvery voice. Have you yielded up the memories of Andrew?

No! cried Rumour in silent agony. No, let me keep that! Let me keep the sweetness and the gentle passion. And then, with an inward submissiveness: but if that is what is needed, then I will yield that also.

The Spiaire was staring down at the passion-threaded swathes of living colour and the rainbow pools of delight, and Rumour thought: now! Now, while it is licking its lips over the devouring of everything, and while it is dazzled and ripening with its horrid lust!

Theo was almost at the stair, and Rumour drew in a breath of thankfulness for the child who had understood what to do without being told. The Draoicht Spiaire was bending over the silken, pouring tapestry, its stalk-eyes quivering, its tongues sucking and lapping at the precious carpet of memories, occasionally pausing and shaking itself, as if savouring its strange feast.

If ever there was a moment to follow Theo, if ever there was a moment when the creature would be off its guard, then this surely was the moment. Now! thought Rumour, and felt the soaring exhilaration fill her up as she moved in Theo’s wake.

She was within ten paces of the stair when she felt the fetid, bad-fish stench close about her. The Draoicht Spiaire caught her easily, its pincers scooping her into a gristly, repulsive embrace, the brainsacs opening like blind feeding creatures, ready to suck her mind.

*

The pain was far worse, much more intense than she could have believed possible. It was the worst pain there could ever be in the entire world: a great, screaming scarlet sheet of blood blinding her; a suffocating black cloud crushing her lungs. The thing’s claws were fastened about her and she felt the sharp agony of bones splintering.

I have failed. I have failed because I gambled, and sometimes the gamble works, and sometimes it does not …

She could feel the obscene excitement from the Draoicht Spiaire, and there was a terrible sound, a thick, swallowing sound as the brain sacs fastened on to her.

*

It was important not to give way to fear. It was important to remember that this had been her own choice, her reckless gamble … She had tried to distract the Spiaire and she had failed. Because sometimes it works and sometimes it does not …

But Theo will be safe. Theo and the music …

The Spiaire gave its clotted mucoid chuckle, and pulled her closer, and she saw the slopping mouths gape again.

And then it began. The slow steady stream of her life. All of the lovely nights, all of the lovers: all of the different men … Some of them gentle or passionate; some of them humble, or worshipping, or arrogant …

All of the moonlit nights seen through a heady blur of wine and music and delight; all of the drowsy scented afternoons, when to be between silken sheets with the curtains closed against the world was the most marvellous thing in the world … All of the snow-crusted months of winter when you could build up a fire that would burn all the night so that you could lie entwined on the floor before it, wrapped in thick, warm rugs, drinking wine, eating exotic foods, making love until you slept, exhausted, in your lover’s arms.

And Andrew. Oh, let it not take Andrew! cried her mind, and then, with sudden calm: but it can never wipe out Andrew. The knowledge and the memory of Andrew and of what he was and what they had shared gave her unexpected strength, and although her face was contorted with pain, she managed to turn her head until she was looking at Theo, and she managed to say, in a clear calm voice, ‘Theo, run. Go now. Down the stairs and away …’ The pincers closed a little more tightly, and Rumour felt the warm wetness of blood soaking her gown. She gasped and her words shut off abruptly.

Theo was huddled against the wall, her eyes huge with fear. She whispered, ‘No, I can’t leave you …’ and at once Rumour said in a choked, agonised voice:

‘You must. Otherwise it will all have been for nothing —’ The words were bitten off again, but Theo had understood. She had understood that, so far from being a marvellous adventure, Rumour had suffered dangers and terrible perils to get into Chaos’s Castle, and that if one of them did not escape, it would all have been worthless. She began cautiously to inch towards the top stair, keeping her back to the wall, her eyes never leaving the Draoicht Spiaire.

The horrid pulsating sacs were swelling, like water-bags filling up, and Rumour was struggling. Thin weak shards of light touched the darkness about her head, and Theo knew that Rumour was trying to call up power, something that would defeat Chaos’s monstrous servant.

But it was too late. Rumour’s skin was taking on a pale, waxen look, and her eyes were becoming unfocused. Theo knew that this last reckless gamble had failed. Rumour had tried to distract the Spiaire, she had tried to feed its horrid hungers with her own memories, and it had not worked.

And now the crablike monster was sucking Rumour of everything; all the secrets and all the innermost wishes and thoughts, and all the yearnings Rumour had ever harboured, and all the good feelings and the bad, and the nice ones and the generous ones and the cross thoughts and the impatient ones. Everything. Chaos would know everything about her when this creature spewed its filth up for him. And Rumour would die. She might already be dead. And if I do not escape, thought Theo, in silent anguish, she will have died for nothing.

The wriggling membranes of brains were bloated and distended now, and Theo felt nausea rising in her throat, because that was Rumour, it was the real true Rumour, the one who might have taken too many lovers and who might sometimes have been extravagant and reckless and improvident, but who had also been unfailingly kind and ceaselessly generous, and who had never turned her back on a friend or failed to help a victim of ill-luck.

The Draoicht Spiaire flung Rumour contemptuously to the floor, as if it had drained every ounce of interest from her and every shred of feeling. It was fat and greasy-looking, swollen and grotesque with the new things it had learned about its latest victim. Rumour lay on the floor, her pale gown soaked in blood, but looking so small and frail that Theo knew she was dead; she had been sucked dry of every shred of life she possessed.

She had been moving slowly, going on tiptoe, thinking that any sudden movement would alert the creature’s attention. She had not quite reached the stair, but she had nearly done so when it turned away from the broken body of Rumour and fixed its wavering eyes on her.

It lumbered to its feet, and Theo saw with incredulity that it had lost some of its sly, sharp cunning. It was slow and dazed; it floundered, scrabbling at the floor, lurching across the gallery, dragging its bloated body with it, rather as an immensely fat man might move after eating a huge meal. Theo understood at once that the creature had eaten greedily of Rumour’s secrets; it had gobbled them down and it had stored them in its repulsive wormy brains and for the moment it was distended and bloated.

I can outrun it! thought Theo, gulping in a huge breath and tensing her muscles. Like that it will never catch me! She grasped Rumour’s tapestry box, and for the sliver of an instant, she thought something rippled from the box, and that a pure sliver of light slid from it and lay across the floor, gentle and pale and shimmering with cool beauty. The Draoicht Spiaire made a strange retching sound and hesitated, and in that moment, Theo tumbled down the stair, her heart pounding, her hair flying, beyond worrying about being silent, because she must reach the doors, she must get out into the night.

Her feet barely seemed to touch the floor, and she half ran, half fell into the great central hall. Just beyond it was the spill of light from the banquet, and she could hear harsh, discordant music and the screeches and the laughter of the Dark Lords. So they are still feasting! thought Theodora. Good!

There was no time to think of what was behind her; no time to wonder if the evil enchantment would be able to gather its strength to reach her. There was no time to wonder, either, if the doors to the banqueting hall would suddenly be thrown open, and Chaos and his servants would come pouring out.

But the great central hall was deserted, and Theo stood for a moment to get her breath, trying to decide if it was a trap.

Chaos would be thinking that the Draoicht Spiaire would have overcome Rumour — and it did! thought Theo, miserably. Would he have ordered it to take them both?

But Chaos could not know yet that Rumour had got Theo out of the Saraigli.

Therefore there was no time to lose. She stole silently across the darkened hall, and out through the great doors, and into the perpetual night of the necromancers’ Realm.

But she had no idea of where she should go.

And then, without warning, she remembered what Rumour had said about Andrew being in Almhuin, and she remembered as well how Rumour’s eyes had softened in that special remembering way.

That’s where I’ll go! thought Theo with a rush of relief.

I’ll go to Andrew.

I’ll go to Almhuin.

Chapter Forty-two

Andrew thought it was remarkable how he had slipped into life inside the Castle, and it was extraordinary how accustomed he had become to the twice-daily journey down to the bricked-up cell.

He had fashioned the tiny hatch through which he would pass food and water to the Crimson Lady easily enough, setting to work as soon as Rumour had gone, knowing that there would be solace in hard exhausting labour. He had tried to follow her in his mind, sending out prayers and pleas for her safety. She had thought her journey would take two or three days to complete, and in the four days after her departure, he had kept her fixed firmly in his mind and in his prayers. She would smile the slightly mocking smile at the idea of him praying for her, but she would understand.

He found logs and timber in one of the Castle stables, together with implements for sawing and honing and shaping. He thought these were not part of the Lady’s torture machines, but ordinary, everyday workmen’s tools, probably used for the maintenance of the Castle in the days when Almhuin must have been a huge, bustling community, a small world within itself.

And now it was empty and desolate, and the only beings who inhabited it were the evil creature who was bricked up in its bowels, and the crippled monk who must perforce limp his maimed way about its echoing halls and cavernous rooms.

He had made his living place in the stone room where he and Rumour had taken sanctuary, liking the idea of Rumour’s presence which he felt still lingering there; liking the notion of sleeping each night on the pile of rugs and furskins. It would be less lonely to lie with a fire blazing in the small hearth, turning the grey stone walls to copper red, with the faint scent of

Rumour’s extravagant, sensuous perfumes still clinging to the fur coverings. It drove back the dark desolation, for Almhuin Castle was silent and deserted now; even the villagers had been frightened away by the Fomoire, and they no longer travelled the narrow track with their tilt cart. Andrew knew he would not have been able to cope with the Almhuinians, but in the days following Rumour’s departure, there were times when he stood at the Castle’s great front elevations, framed in the iron-toothed portcullis, and stared down the mountain track to the lights of the strange, mountain community. He could see, quite clearly, the tiny yellow squares of light from Almhuin: the wine shop and the forge and the bakeshop. But he was grateful that the Almhuinians stayed in their homes and that they left him to his own devices in the great deserted Fortress, with only the evil, hungering thing in the dungeons for company.

She had not tried to escape during those first days, and Andrew had turned his attention to making for himself a small island of comfort in the tainted stronghold. His maimed leg still pained him, but Rumour’s healing spells had caused the jagged wound to close neatly and cleanly, and he thought the pain was not as great as it would have been otherwise. He could cope with the pain.

He worked hard at becoming more dexterous, and at manipulating the stout ash stick. He would not allow himself to become prey to despair, and he would not allow the pain to quench his faith. In the dark watches of the solitary hours, he sometimes wondered whether this was the punishment for the sweet, sensual hours in Rumour’s arms, and whether this was the yoke of his sin. Brief black anger surged up in him, but with the bitterness came the memory of Brother Stephen’s words: ‘God’s wrath is not in haste to smite, nor does it linger,’ and he remembered, as well, how their Leader had taught, not the harsh vengeance of eye for eye, tooth for tooth, but a gentler, more understanding creed of resisting evil.

Whoever smite thee on the right cheek, turn to him the other also … Resist evil …

Had he done that when he had preserved the Crimson Lady’s life? He thought: I condemned her to a living death, but I did not force death on her. And I share her sentence with her, and surely there is my true punishment.

He had no way of telling how long the stark sentence might last but, in the accepting of it, he began to find an unlooked-for calm. Because I am offering my penance for the sin that never once seemed sinful? Because I am working my own retribution? Perhaps.

And what of the task set by Brother Stephen in that other world and in that other life? I must never lose sight of it, thought Andrew, hobbling about the great, dark Castle. But he knew he had not lost sight of it at all; he knew that when this self-imposed hermitry was over, he would go out into the world again, and he would renew his search for the Black Monk.

Curiously, he had felt himself to be closer to the Monk in Almhuin Castle than at any other time since setting out on this perilous, unexpected journey. He thought it was surely only because he knew the Monk had been here, that he had served Almhuin’s Crimson Lady, but the feeling persisted, and almost without being aware of it, Andrew began to feel that the Monk was closer at hand than he realised.

He explored the Castle cautiously but unflinchingly, knowing that he could not rest comfortably until he had looked into every room and every gallery to be certain that nothing walked here, but aware beneath this that he was searching for a trace of the Monk’s habitation.

But there was nothing. If the Black Monk of Torach had ever walked these halls, he had left behind no imprint. Everywhere Andrew could feel the echoes of lingering agonies, but he pushed them back determinedly. And I will try to bring light and goodness into this dark Fortress, he thought, and then was amused and scornful of so arrogant a thought. Almhuin was soaked in the evil of many centuries and countless generations; how should one man dispel all that!

The stone room was already a refuge; it had begun to feel familiar each time he entered it, and he was grateful for this small island of comfort in the midst of the immense emptiness.

He had found the kitchens — huge grim vaults — and the wine-store and the still rooms. A man must eat, no matter how much he intends to fast and pray, and Andrew, peering into deep cupboards and storerooms, found sacks of flour and wheat; crocks of various preserves, jams and fruits all labelled in a thin, clear hand. Almhuin might have been under the sway of an evil and blood-hungry mistress, but at some time — and not so long ago — it had had a provident and careful cellarer.

Andrew found sides of smoked hams and flitches of bacon, and strings of drying herbs hanging from the blackened rafters of the kitchens. In the beginning, his stomach closed with nausea at the thought of eating the Crimson Lady’s food, but after a time, sanity and common sense prevailed. He thought: those were perfectly ordinary pigs, probably slaughtered in Almhuin to make smoked ham and bacon, that is normal wheat and flour which can be baked into loaves; this is fruit preserve, very similar to the apple and damson preserve we made in the monastery, and in those stone jars is plain honey. The barrels stacked beneath the settle hold nothing other than ordinary soused herrings and mackerel. And a man must eat.

There were casks of dark, sensuous wine, and of heady, fiery fluid tasting of poppies and cherries. Standing on a cool marble settle were small stoppered flagons of a beverage which Andrew had never before encountered, which tasted of apples and which he found wholly delicious.

From the stone-flagged kitchens, a tiny flight of steps led up to a small, square garden, and Andrew, manoeuvring with care, but growing nimbler by the day, saw with delight that herbs grew here: lemon thyme and sweet-scented basil and mint and parsley. A small patch of ground had been planted with vegetables: there were recognisable peas and beans, ruffled heads of kale and sturdy cabbages. God’s bounty. He would survive.

After several failures, he discovered how to fire the massive iron range in the sculleries, using the logs stacked up outside, and felt absurdly pleased when he managed to make a simmering pot of soup out of a knuckle of bacon, with beans and onions and chopped cabbage. He ate it seated in his small room, and felt its normal everyday taste put new heart into him.

To begin with, the Lady was surly. When Andrew made his conscientious visits to take food and water, she was silent and withdrawn, so that he wondered at first if she had after all died. By standing on a small block of wood, using the ash crutch for support, he managed to peer into the dark oblong of the cell. For a moment he thought she was not there, and he fumbled awkwardly for a light, managing to balance his weight while he held it aloft.

As the tiny flame leapt upwards in the dry stale air, her face suddenly swam into his vision, impossibly close, no more than eighteen inches from him, so that he knew she must be standing on something just inside the cell, pressing against the newly laid bricks, perhaps hanging on to the shelf of brick made by the hatch. Her face was lit from below by the flame, giving her the look of a fiery devil, and her eyes were huge dark pits of hungry evil, staring at him. There was a dreadful moment when they both stood, their eyes locked; Andrew, appalled, felt a sudden surge of hot strong lust between his thighs. The great black eyes smiled, and one white, crimson-tipped hand came up into the fight, as if the Lady was reaching for him.

Andrew gasped and fell backwards, missing his balance, crashing to the ground with a sound that was deafening and heart-stopping in the silent dungeons.

From inside the cell, he heard the deep, throaty chuckle of her laughter, and as he pulled himself upright again, it occurred to him that it had been the satisfied laughter of a creature who has laid a very careful plan, and seen the plan work.

So she is plotting against me already, and I am alone and defenceless in this evil Fortress.

*

Theodora had gone to the jutting, low-roofed stable block on the Castle’s western side, which was taking a hugely enormous risk, but which was worth taking, because the journey to Almhuin would be much quicker and much easier if she had a horse to ride.

It was important to concentrate on being silent and stealthy. If she reached the stables she would begin to feel safer. She would play the portent game, which was not quite a game, but something she had discovered could sometimes harness a helpful power. It was something she had thought up by herself, and she had never told anyone about it, in case of being laughed at, and anyway, it did not work absolutely every time. Theo bit her lip at the memory of Rumour who had said, ‘Sometimes these things work and sometimes they do not.’ She would not think about Rumour yet, because she dared not.

The idea was to acquire a good omen for whatever you were doing, and you could only acquire an omen by building up portents. The more portents you could build up, the better your chances of a good omen.

The first portent would be reaching the stone archway that led through to the stables without anyone seeing her. Once she had achieved that, the second could be getting across to the iron gateway that opened on to the stable yard, and the third had better be for the gateway to be unlocked. The fourth could be for the gate not to squeak. After that, she would see what still had to be overcome. Also, she was not very sure of the way to the stables, except that you went through the stone archway. She would be able to think up more portents as she went.

She tiptoed forward, hardly daring to breathe, and as the shadow of the stone arch fell across her, she drew a breath of relief. She had earned one portent; now she could go on to the second.

This was actually quite an easy one, nearly a cheat, because it was not very far to walk, and there were deep thick shadows to hide in. But the gate was unlocked and, as it swung silently and easily open, Theo breathed another sigh of relief. Four portents. Nearly halfway to a very good omen indeed.

Skirting the great walls of the Castle, Theo added portents as she went. You could not cheat, each portent had to be a definite step forward in your quest. Across the stable yard, dodging the light that beamed from a window unexpectedly (part of the sculleries?), gained a fifth, and managing to cross an unlit patch of cobbled yard was a sixth.

And then the stables were ahead of her, and she could have two more portents by the stable doors being unlocked and by nobody challenging her. The ninth portent would be actually getting inside.

And then she was across the yard, and she was inside the stables, and nobody had challenged her, and she had earned nine whole portents, which meant a very good omen indeed.

The stables were warm and had the friendly smell of the stables in the Porphyry Palace. Theo stood just inside the door for a moment, not making any abrupt movements, because this was something you always had to do, even when you had earned a good nine-portent omen. Horses could be alarmed by the sudden presence of a stranger. It would not do to have got this far and then cause a stampede which would bring everybody running out.

The horses were all rather big. They were much bigger than she had expected. Theo stared up at them in dismay, because she could not possibly ride any of these. She would never saddle or bridle them. Surely there were smaller horses, surely there were not just these huge, fiery-eyed stallions with their black, gleaming flanks and their ebony and jet manes and tails? A tiny voice inside her head said that, when Chaos rode out, he did so caparisoned in scarlet and armoured in black, and that he rode the NightMare Stallions. Theo looked at the black horses with fresh alarm, but these could not possibly be NightMare Stallions, because NightMare Stallions only came if somebody very powerful summoned them. They were magic and bad magic at that. Everyone knew it. These would just be ordinary marching horses.

Only, thought Theo, worried, I don’t think I can ride any of them. She would have to walk. She would have to walk all the way to Almhuin, and it would be dark and difficult and it would be a very long way. She was not quite sure how long it would take. When they were packing Rumour’s things in the bedchamber, Rumour had said something about several days’ journey, and Theo remembered that, when Chaos brought her through the Gateway, once inside the Dark Realm, they had had to travel across the terrible, War-torn countryside, making three or four camps on the way. Chaos’s night-camps had not been quite like anybody else’s; they had involved pointy-roofed, silk-hung structures which the concubines had told her were called ‘pavilions’, and there had been elaborate meals prepared by Chaos’s servants who had been waiting for him just within the dark Gateway. Theo had tried to count the days of the journey to Chaos’s Castle to find out how big the Dark Realm was, but it had been difficult, because of there not being any proper night or any real dawn.

And then, quite without warning, she saw the small sleek creatures at the far end of the stables, in a little part by themselves. Delight leapt in her, because after all the portent game that was not a game had worked. Surely, oh surely she could take one of these? She approached them cautiously, seeing that they were smaller and gentler than the others; seeing that they had manes of pale silk that waved gently as if a tiny wind were ruffling them, and how they had hoofs of silver and coats of ivory satin. Theo stood looking at them, and then, quite suddenly, she knew what they were.

The Uisce. The sleek beautiful sea-horses that the sidh rode, that were said to have borne Aillen mac Midha, the Elven King, into the world of the Humanish in a long-ago century. The Uisce, forced by Chaos into the service of the necromancers.

Theo went forward cautiously, seeing that there were four of the beautiful gentle creatures, not daring to think she could call them to her side, but thinking she must try.

They watched her approach, their cool, slanting eyes wary, and Theo understood that the Uisce would be held in thrall by Chaos’s evil spells, and that they would almost certainly have been ridden cruelly and hard by him and his guests. Would they obey her now? How strong was the spell that Chaos had used?

Theodora, growing up in the Porphyry Palace, curled into the warm, firelit corner of Nechtan’s workroom, had absorbed a remarkable amount of knowledge. Papa had said indulgently that she had a magpie mind, collecting all kinds of snippets and tag-ends of information, and probably none of it of any use.

But as Theo stood silently in the dark stables, she delved down into her mind, into the magpie assortment of spells and enchantments and bewitchments and lures, because out of all the spells she had heard Great-grandfather chant, out of all the enchantments she had listened to him recite, there had to be something that she could remember that would bring the Uisce to her side, and that would make it possible for her to ride them quietly and inconspicuously out of the Castle and on to Almhuin.

And then she knew exactly the right thing. A Halcyon — what was sometimes called an Ailcin in the old Gael tongue. A Halcyon was gentle and calming, but it also had woven into it a rather strong command of authority, which impelled its victim to obey.

She would try it. You had to say it very quietly and very softly, and you had to paint it in light, soft, cobweb colours, soft blues and greens and pinks. Theo would think about the underwater City of Tiarna, which no living Human had ever seen, but which was said to be the most beautiful place in any world ever, silver and blue and turquoise and filled with soft, pure iridescence.

She whispered the incantation of the Halcyon, enjoying the silky feel of the words, liking the way they formed fragile, spun-glass patterns on the air, grateful that the darkness of this place was not smothering it in the way the Draoicht Spiaire had smothered Rumour’s spells.

The Uisce were coming towards her, their beautiful heads bowed in submission, their pale manes rippling gently. Theo thought they were the most beautiful creatures she had ever seen.

The first Uisce stood before her, and bowed its sleek, soft head, as if to say: you have thrown about us the compulsion of the ancient Ailcin, and therefore we are yours to command. Hope surged up in her for the first time, because if she could ride these lovely, gentle, light-filled creatures across the Dark Realm, she could surely reach Almhuin and Andrew.

She thought she could find Almhuin Castle quite easily. You could see the Mountains even from inside Chaos’s Castle; it was a great jagged range, like jutting-up black teeth. There would surely not be more than one path leading into the Mountains and there would surely not be more than one Fortress.

She would have to take food and something to drink for the journey. You could not be knocking on people’s doors inside the Dark Ireland for these things, like the gypsies and the tinkers did at home. This was the realm of the fearsome necromancers, and you did not know who might come prowling and lurching to the door in answer to your knock. But this was rather a daunting thought, and so Theo put it from her, and looked instead to see was there any kind of food out here that she could put in Rumour’s tapestry box-bag.

Above the stables was a kind of loft which you climbed into by a narrow ladder. Theo remembered that there had been a similar arrangement in the Porphyry Palace and that it was where stable hands lived and slept so that they could be near to the horses. Where people lived, there was nearly always food.

She clambered up gingerly, listening all the while for the sounds that would mean Chaos had discovered her escape. It was probably being a bit foolish to linger even this long, but there was no point in setting off on a journey of several days without proper provisions. You might die of hunger and thirst on the way. And there, in a corner, was a kind of larder cupboard with a mesh covering. Inside were some wedges of rather stale bread, a crock of potted meat and a round of honey cakes. She packed as much as she could into the bag. There was a small milk churn; Theo carefully emptied out one of the small corked wine-flagons that had been in Rumour’s bag, and filled it with milk.

And then she was climbing on to the Uisce’s back, and looping the tapestry bag around her neck again, which would be the safest way to carry it.

Theodora wound her fingers tightly in the silken strands of the Uisce’s mane, and they rode out through the doors of the Castle of Infinity and into the waiting night.

*

It was unexpectedly comfortable on the Uisce’s back, and it felt rather safe and friendly to be able to glance back and see the other three following. It was almost as if she was leading a tiny army of her own like this.

The Uisce did not quite shine in the darkness, but there was a soft, cool radiance from them. Theo thought that, wherever their hoofs touched the ground, they left a sprinkling of tiny, glinting light flecks. Lovely! she thought in delight. We are cutting a swathe through the darkness of this horrid place! And then remembered that it would be better not to attract too much attention to them, and guided the Uisce into the deep shadows that fringed the highroad, so that they would not be seen.

Once they were fairly clear of the Castle of Infinity, and the night had closed safely and darkly about them, Theo slipped from the Uisce’s back, because it might be politer not to assume they would carry her all the time. She felt quite safe walking between them.

The red boots that the concubines had given her were rather fun. When you walked, you could see your feet quite clearly, even in the horrid, swirling darkness of the Black Realm. They were a nice, clear red: a strong, vivid cherry, and you could stomp them down on the ground as you walked. Theo felt very nearly brave simply by wearing them. They would reach Andrew and Andrew would know what they ought to do. In a world that suddenly and unbearably did not contain Rumour,

Theo was clinging to the memory of Andrew. She had discovered that, if she concentrated very hard on Andrew, and on reaching him, she could very nearly shut out the terrible memory of Rumour being dead at the Draoicht Spiaire’s hands. She understood that Rumour had died because she had taken one last huge gamble against the Spiaire, and that the gamble had failed. It was precisely how anybody who knew Rumour would have expected her to die.

Because sometimes it works and sometimes it does not … Theo could hear Rumour saying it.

The Realm of the necromancers, Ireland’s fearsome and grisly underworld, was silent and deserted. Theo had heard the whispers about the War that raged outside Chaos’s Castle, and she had half expected to find herself encountering battles and terrible marching Armies, or perhaps bands of prowling sentry spells. But either Chaos’s enemies and Chaos himself were mustering their forces for a fresh attack somewhere, or the War was over.

Theo, clinging to the silken floss of the Uisce’s mane, wondered who had won the War if it was over, and thought that the Dark Realm was exactly how you would expect a land to look after a huge War had rampaged across it. Everywhere were burned-out buildings; empty, ravaged turrets with gaping windows like eyeless sockets, great scorched fields. Here and there, the highway was pitted as if scalding liquid had been poured across it, and the trees were leafless; horrid, skeletal outlines that waved their black branches as if they were greedy hands that would reach down to pluck Theo from the Uisce’s back. To the east was a sinister shimmer of crimson, as if something that was the colour of blood — something that might actually be blood — was tainting the dark, smothery skies. It was all very grim and very terrible, but there was no means of knowing if the Dark Realm was always like this on account of being the land of the Dark Lords, or if it was on account of the War or if it was something else entirely.

When they stopped, the Uisce did not sleep, but simply formed a protective square about Theo so that she could rest. It was not what you would choose, to go to sleep in the open countryside of the Dark Realm, where anything at all might come prowling out at you, but it could not be helped. Theo rested when she felt tired, and ate the bread and the potted meat and drank the milk gratefully, and offered some of it to the Uisce, who shook their glossy heads as if politely refusing.

The Castle of Infinity was behind her; if she looked back, she could still see its spires and its towers, and the turrets, but it was fading into the distance. But it was quite a long way away now. She could no longer see the little jutting wing with the warm lights that was the Saraigli. It felt odd and a bit lonely to be out here and remember the time she had spent there. It had all been rather boring, but Theo would not have minded being bored just now because it was cold and dark and very scary out here.

And ahead of her was Almhuin.

*

She had not been entirely sure about Almhuin. She had heard the stories told by the concubines, partly giggling, partly fearful. They had clutched one another and shrieked in terrified delight, and told how the Crimson Lady sent her servants out into the mountain passes and the townships of the Dark Realm in search of prey. Theo, listening round-eyed, had thought that Almhuin must be the most terrible place of all the terrible places in the Black Ireland.

But Rumour had smiled softly and secretly at the mention of Almhuin; and she had told Theo, quite positively, that Andrew was there. Theo had guessed that Rumour had intended to return to him.

Almhuin was directly in front of her; the Black Mountains were enclosing her now, dark and silent and forbidding. Mountains were rather frightening because you did not know what might lurk and creep inside them. But at least she was hidden from view. If Chaos and his people came hurtling across the grim, burned-out countryside, they would not be able to see her.

And then they rounded a curve in the path and there, ahead of her, was the great bulk of Almhuin Castle, its huge sprawling shadow falling across the path, quenching a little of the Uisce’s light. Theo guided the Uisce carefully along the last stretch of the road and straight to the Castle’s centre, because you always entered a Castle at its centre.

As she neared the portcullis, she was holding very firmly to the thought that Andrew was here. Rumour had said he was, and Rumour was somebody you could trust. Theo would trust her, she would ride up to the Castle, right up to the rather horrid-looking gap at the centre, which would be the portcullis, and she would go inside and Andrew would be there.

Even so, it took a very great amount of bravery to approach the terrible Fortress. It was important not to remember the tales about the Crimson Lady who bathed in people’s blood. Probably they were not even true. It was important to remember that Andrew was going to be here and that she had trusted Rumour and she trusted Andrew, and everything would be all right.

The darkness of Almhuin closed about her the minute she rode under its portcullis. A tiny, whispery voice inside her head said: so at last, little girl, you are inside the BeastWoman’s Citadel, which was horrid. Theo slid from the Uisce’s glossy back, and stood a bit uncertainly in the shadowy hall, where Andrew and Rumour, surrounded by their Almhuinian captors, had stood; she felt, as they had felt, the thick, fetid evil.

At the far end of the hall was a movement, an unexpected, rather shuffling movement, and a wavering light appeared. Theo gasped, and began to move backwards, away from the light and the person who was walking so oddly towards her.

Theo shrank back, feeling the silken warmth of the Uisce’s flanks and, as she did so, the light bobbed nearer, and quite suddenly, in that minute, it was filled with strength and friendship and hope.

Andrew, leaning heavily on the ash crutch, stood in the archway, and Theo sobbed and flew across the stone hall into his arms.

Chapter Forty-three

Having Theodora with him inside the Castle afforded Andrew more delight than he would have thought possible.

They had gone at once into the little, firelit stone room, and Andrew had piled logs on to the fire and drawn the child nearer to it. There was a flagon of wine which he mixed with water, and there was the remains of his noonday meal — good, strong broth he had made that morning, which could be reheated over the trivet on the fire.

Theo found these small, homely actions friendly and unexpectedly comforting. She drank the soup and sipped cautiously at the watered-down wine, and looked at Andrew who was exactly as she remembered, except that something had wounded his leg so that he had to walk leaning on a stick. She gulped in a deep breath, because here at last was something that had not changed, and something that was safe and real and that could be trusted. Andrew would know what to do.

She managed to explain about Rumour, and although her voice came out a bit wobbly, she told the tale properly and clearly, as Rumour would have wanted it told; how Rumour had taken her out of the Saraigli and how they had stolen through the great shadowy Castle of Infinity. How the Draoicht Spiaire had stalked them, and confronted them. And how Rumour had entered into that last, remarkable gamble.

Andrew listened intently, his eyes never leaving Theo’s small, absorbed face. Once he said, ‘So she died as she lived, in a blaze of extravagant defiance.’ And turned away for a moment, pretending to mend the fire which did not need mending, because the pity of it and the loss of it and the terrible gaping wound it had inflicted on him must not show. Somehow he must endure this.

Rumour is dead. And I do not think I shall bear it.

But it had to be borne, somehow it had to be borne, because life had to go on, and there were still tasks to be undertaken. There was Theodora to be thought of now.

He took the child in his arms, feeling her small body wracked with sobs now, feeling his own tears mingle with hers. He held her to him, trying to infuse her with warmth, but knowing that he was himself cold with a deep, lonely coldness that was not physical.

Bone-cold. Heart-cold. I shall never be warm again.

As he prepared a bed for the child, and as he made his nightly vigil around the Castle, lighting the wall-torches in the great hall, building up the fire in the stone room, the cold stayed with him. And there was an ache, a deep, bruised agony that would somehow have to be faced and would have to be overcome.

Never to see her again. Never to hear her voice, never to breathe in the special skin-scent of her. Never to look up and see her watching him with that amused mockery.

My dear and only love, shall I ever forget? And then, beneath the agony: shall I ever want to forget?

*

With the coming of Theodora, Andrew tried to fill the days even more. There were times when he knew he must try to return her to her people; when he knew it was selfish to keep her with him.

But to have sent her to find her own way back to the Porphyry Palace was clearly out of the question, and Andrew knew himself not yet sufficiently recovered from the mutilation inflicted on him by Bailitheoir to go with her. To travel back the way he and Rumour had come — through the Black Mountains and the caves that surrounded the sidh’s dying City — he would have to be sure of repelling the creatures that would certainly be lying in wait.

And there is the prisoner of this Castle, said a tiny, treacherous voice in his mind. You took the task on your shoulders and you cannot leave her to die, alone and in the dark.

And so Andrew and Theodora entered into a strange halfworld, where time seemed to blur, and where the pattern of their days took on a surprisingly gentle, healing rhythm. Several times Andrew tried to ask about Rumour’s death: had she given Theodora anything at the last? Had there been any message? But each time he began to frame the questions the white frightened look closed down over the child’s face, and Andrew understood that Rumour’s death at the hands of the Draiocht Spiaire had been so truly appalling that Theodora was still unable to face it. And so, because it would have been cruel to have pressed her, Andrew let it go. To himself he thought that the sulk’s music had probably perished with Rumour.

Andrew tried to keep a count of the days, drawing a chart which they marked each night when they retired to the fire-washed stone room. He thought this would be difficult, for there was no recognisable night in the Dark Realm, and no day. But after a time, they became aware of a pattern in the hours; a time when the darkness became shot with purple, and when the brooding silence that surrounded Almhuin seemed to thicken and ferment with clotted malevolence. At that hour, with Theo safely tucked up in the small bed, Andrew would go out into the hall to where the squared pattern made by the portcullis fell sharply across the floor, and reach up to light the wall-sconces, so that light always burned here. For, if I can at least give some light to this dark fortress, I shall feel that I am fighting back the shades of the necromancers’ night …

He did not quite frame the thought that it would have been unbearable to lie in the stone room with the smothering darkness all about them, and the terrible prisoner in the Castle’s bowels.

He discovered the library early on, and experienced a delighted familiarity in the shelves of manuscripts and vellum chronicles, and in the leather-topped tables, at which a man might work and study. There was a square copper log-box, and Andrew stocked it with logs so that he could work here for as long as the mood took him, without needing to go out to the low-roofed wood-store that abutted the kitchens, in order to replenish the fire.

There was an unlooked-for joy in teaching Theodora. The child had a quick intelligence and an instinctive understanding that made the little lessons he devised a delight to them both. Andrew, with memories of his own schooling, devised small lessons for her; figuring and counting and simple exercises in logic. He set her to write accounts of incidents in her childhood inside the Porphyry Palace. He smiled a little at the vivid word-pictures she painted of the Amaranths, many of whom he recognised from his stay, and the matter-of-fact way in which she described the spinning of spells on the huge Sorcery Looms.

In turn, he recounted to her the gentler stories of the Gospel, concentrating on the promise-filled New Testament, with its messages of light and hope; omitting the dark, sometimes jealous god of Genesis and Ecclesiastes.

Theo, curled up by the fire in the little stone room, exactly as once she had curled up in Nechtan’s sorcery-filled workroom, was interested in everything and fascinated by it all. When Andrew told of the rather mild revelries held in his monastery to mark the Christmas feasts, Theo was able to tell, in turn, about the Saturnalia and the Twelve Days of Revelry. And what Andrew referred to as a rebirth, which he called Easter, was very like a worshipping of one of the goddesses of Spring, whose name was Eostre, and whose festival Great-grandfather had always liked to mark. Spring was a time of rebirth everywhere, said Theo. Things you had thought dead — plants and flowers — began to grow and flower again. Birds were born in spring, and animals. She explained it seriously, careful to pronounce the unfamiliar word ‘Easter’ exactly as Andrew pronounced it, grasping the idea of somebody dying so that the somebody could be born again at such a time.

When Andrew touched, very carefully, on the legend of the Samildanach, Theo sat up, her eyes bright, and said, ‘Then that is your Leader also? Yes of course! I see it now! The two stories are almost exactly the same!’

By now their days, far from being empty and formless, were becoming very full. For Andrew there was beginning to be comfort and healing in the steady pattern. The hours that he had identified as mornings were spent in preparation of food for that day: perhaps the baking of a loaf or the selecting of vegetables. There was an unexpected interest in trying to vary the ingredients of the soup; in using cabbage and carrots and beans one day, sliced bacon and peas and onions the next.

They ate the soup with wedges of bread baked in the vast iron range. They had several failures, but eventually they achieved crisp warm loaves which were wholly delicious. Theodora experimented with sweet loaves, because it was nice to finish your supper with something sweet. She chopped preserved fruit, standing on a chair to reach the huge, scrubbed table in the scullery, and tipped the fruit into the dough, stirring in spoonfuls of melted honey, or ginger from the large stone jars on the settle. There was ripe fruit from the small orchard behind the courtyard as well: pears and apples that scented the stone room, and the glossy blackberries that grew wild.

The chart counted off the days, and Andrew identified, as nearly as he could, Sabbath days, feast days, and days of fasting. On the days that Andrew had selected for fast days, he made sure that Theo ate properly, but for himself he took only plain vegetables, and a cup of waters

But on every seventh day, they made a small festivity of their noonday meal, and Theo was let to have a few sips of the apple wine diluted with water. They finished their meal with a bowl each of preserved fruit from the huge, shady larder, sweetened with honey. Andrew, watching Theo’s small solemn face, made his libation to his God quietly and devoutly, letting the child join in or not, as she chose.

He found jobs of work to do around the Castle; mending and repairing, which he rather enjoyed. As with the modest attempts at cooking, he found it satisfying to restore life to something which had been broken, just as he found pleasure in carving wood, or tilling a patch of ground in preparation for the sewing of seeds. As he worked, he murmured prayers, remembering how the brothers had believed that continual prayer sanctified, knowing that Almhuin was so steeped in evil that there would probably be no effect, but liking the idea anyway.

There were the gentle silken Uisce to be groomed and fed. Andrew and Theo had housed them in the stables, and they went out each morning. They dared not exercise them on the mountain path, because of being seen by the Almhuinians in the village below, but Theo took them around the courtyard and talked to them. This was not absolutely satisfactory for anybody, but it was the best they could do.

After the midday meal, they worked in the huge library, Theo applying herself diligently to her simple lessons, Andrew sorting and reading and trying to catalogue the tumble of books and manuscripts. He liked the scent of leather that lingered here, and he felt little evil in this room, as if the Crimson Lady might not have used it much. The great library became their study place, as the stone room was their rest place.

Rumour’s memory was constantly with him, and sometimes his longing for her was so fierce that it became a physical ache, and he thought he must surely look up and see her watching him. I have nothing left of her, he thought. Given that the music, the sidh’s enchantment that we fought to preserve, has gone.

But there was only himself and Theodora; the creature in the dungeons was quiescent and silent; nothing moved in Almhuin Castle, save the shadows, and there was no one inside the great Fortress save a monk and a child and the silent, evil creature bricked up in the Castle’s bowels.

*

Andrew was taking what he thought of as his usual night-time vigil; each evening before supper he lit the flambeaux in the great hall, making sure that the portcullis was lowered. Now I am shut in and the Dark Powers are shut out! My house is secure and nothing can creep in while I sleep!

He never descended to the dungeons once darkness had thickened; he went to the Lady’s cell twice daily, keeping to the hours he had delineated as being daylight, always making sure that Theodora was occupied either in the stone room or the library at these times. He knew it was senseless to believe that these two places were not as strongly permeated with the Lady’s evil, but he did feel it. He thought of Theodora as being safe in those rooms.

It did not seem as dark tonight. Andrew stood framed in the portcullis, looking out over the mountain path, seeing the lights of Almhuin and then looking across to the east, where he could make out the ravaged skyline of the Dark Lords’ Citadels, and there, arrogant and untouched above them all, the Castle of Infinity. It was as he was narrowing his eyes to sharpen the Castle’s silhouette, that he became aware of a long thread of lights, strung out across the dark landscape of the Black Ireland. Moving lights. The lights of travellers.

He stood for a moment watching, seeing that they were coming towards the Castle. Fear warred with disbelief, and ice formed at the pit of his stomach. The lights were not sparse pinpoints signifying three or four travellers; Andrew had seen that on a few occasions, and although it had always been an uneasy reminder of how vulnerable he was, he had not thought that many people would venture up to the Crimson Lady’s Castle.

But this was a long procession, a huge caravan, a great mass of people, moving with precision and purpose, lit by the flames of hundreds of flaring torches.

An Army.

Very faintly, so distantly that at first Andrew thought his hearing had misled him, came the sounds of cold, discordant music. He stayed where he was, straining his hearing, and presently the music formed into its own discordant, rather sinister patterns.

The music of necromancy. Andrew felt a sick fear, for the music conjured up visions and images of people marching to War, of Armies being mobilised and, behind it and beneath it all, a grim, dark purpose.

For a moment, he thought that the Army, whatever it was, whoever led it, could have nothing to do with Almhuin, for Almhuin’s Lady was vanquished and caged, and Almhuin’s fangs had been drawn.

And then, with sudden terrible clarity, he thought: but Chaos does not know that. Chaos believes she still rules here. And by the Lady’s own admission to the strange, shadow-being called the Collector, Chaos and the Crimson Lady are most viciously at War.

This was Chaos’s concerted attack. His newest, perhaps his greatest assault on the Lady who had plotted against him, and who had stolen away the Black Monk from his service.

Chaos was marching on Almhuin. The might and the power and the necromantic strengths of the Dark Lords were directed on to the Castle.

*

‘We have to leave,’ said Andrew, taking Theo’s small hands in his and looking down at her as they stood in the stone room. ‘We have to leave at once, and we have to go swiftly and silently.’

They stared at one another, both of them loath to forsake the tenuous security of the small world they had created; neither wanting to venture into the dark night of the Black Realm.

It had not occurred to Theo that Chaos and his people would march on Almhuin. She thought she should have thought about it, but they had been so comfortable here together, and it had been so interesting to hear about Andrew’s religion, and to work at the lessons and bake bread and tend the little walled garden. She asked, in a rather small voice, if Chaos was chasing her, but Andrew at once said, No, Chaos would almost certainly be wanting to take the Crimson Lady’s Castle for his own — perhaps to use as some kind of base for mounting an attack on the True Ireland. He was not coming specifically for Theodora, said Andrew, he thought they could be sure about that.

This was unexpectedly comforting, because Theo would not want Chaos to count her so important that he would send out hundreds of people to capture her. It was nice if people counted you as important, but not if they were necromancers.

‘But we have to escape, Theodora, and we have to somehow find our way back.’

‘To the Palace.’ This would be absolutely the best thing that could happen, and Theo looked hopefully at Andrew when she said it.

‘Yes, to the Palace.’ He could not bend down to look at her directly because of being crippled, but he still looked deeply into her eyes, as if he might be trying to speak to her with his mind. As if he might be saying of course we shall escape and of course we can get home. This was what Rumour would have done and thought and said, and Theo began to feel better. They would leave Almhuin at once, and they would outrun Chaos’s Armies. Armies were clumsy things; they could not move very quickly because they were so many of them. They were cumbersome.

But if they took the Uisce, if they rode them as Theo had ridden them when she ran from the Castle of Infinity, they might get away. Theo, tumbling a few things hastily into a satchel, snatched up Rumour’s tapestry box-bag, which had been thrust into the back of the cupboard and which Theo had almost forgotten about, but was exactly the right thing to take with you on a hasty journey. She dared to hope they would escape.

Andrew’s mind was in a tumult. He had spared only the most fleeting of considerations for his prisoner, below in the dungeons. This was Chaos’s Army that was marching on them, this was the might and the power of the Dark Lords, and they could not possibly fight it. There was no choice to make between guarding the Crimson Lady and saving Theodora from Chaos.

But to his surprise, part of him rebelled at the idea of running away. Stay and fight the evil creatures! said a voice inside him he had not known he possessed. Stay and vanquish the Dark Lards!

He thought that, if he had not been so crippled, and if Rumour had been with him, he might have listened to the voice, for the idea of beating back the necromancers was a seductive one.

For a moment, Rumour was with him; smiling the slant-eyed smile, making wild, extravagant plans that might work and might not.

For an unreal but marvellous moment, Andrew wondered whether he could do it. And then he remembered that Theodora’s safety was paramount, and he remembered that Almhuin was permeated with centimes of evil, and that Chaos and his people had at their beck every dark enchantment and every evil spell ever known. And I am lame, he thought angrily. I cannot be so arrogant as to think I could oppose Chaos.

He paused only long enough to fling randomly snatched food into one of the satchels that Theo had brought from the sculleries, and to scoop up the papers he had been working on in the firelit library that day. He knew a twist of wry humour at that: am I then so much a scholar that I should count these things precious at such a moment! But he knew that the manuscripts and the diaries were infinitely precious, and that if they could be saved, they would be of immense value to the Amaranths.

The necromantic music was closer; both Andrew and Theo could hear it plainly now, a horrid raking at the senses, a dragging, jeering rhythm. As it drew nearer, there was a steady thrumming, a pulsating whirring, as if something dark and evil and immensely powerful was being spun.

When Andrew looked at Theo and said, ‘Ready?’ Theo at once said, ‘Yes, ready,’ because even like this, even thin and ravaged-faced, hobbling a bit awkwardly on a stick, Andrew was a person you would want to obey promptly.

As they went quickly through the great stone hall towards the stables, Theo looked up at Andrew, and saw that although he moved awkwardly, leaning on the ash stick, and frowning as if he might be in some pain, he was no longer the ragged, unkempt creature who had lived here, inside Almhuin, and fought Almhuin’s terrible darkness. Neither was he the gentle, patient young man who had come to the Porphyry Palace, and tried to help when the Fomoire had come tumbling out of the Cadence Tower.

This was a fiery-eyed young man, strong and fearless, angry at having to run from a battle, angry because he was impatient of hypocrisy and intolerant of selfishness and because he would have liked to turn about and face Chaos and his horrid Armies. This was someone who might very well sweep aside the crowding darkness of the Black Ireland from sheer anger, purely because it was a nuisance and a petty irritation, and rather as if it was simply not worth bothering with.

It ought to have been faintly sinister, this sudden discovery that another person was looking out of Andrew’s eyes, but there was nothing in the least sinister about the sudden glowing look he gave her, or the way in which he seemed taller and broader and very powerful indeed. It was a little as if there was a side to him that he thought he ought not to show to the world. It is the hidden Andrew I am seeing, she thought, and felt pleased all over again, because people only showed their hidden selves to you if they trusted you very much.

The thin pale light from the Uisce touched his face as they rode cautiously across the courtyard, and Theo knew that she was safe, because she was riding with someone who might very well sweep away the darkness and brush aside the creeping evil …

Someone who would cut a swathe of light through the Dark Realm, and force open the Gateways into the Real Ireland …

As the Armies of the Dark Lord of Chaos swarmed up the mountain path towards them, the Uisce shortened their stride and plunged forward into the deep darkness of the necromantic night.

*

The radiance of the Uisce surrounded them as they soared through the night, Chaos’s terrible Armies and the Fortress of the BeastWoman still below them on the mountain path. Andrew, clinging to the silk-floss mane of his mount, Theodora at his side, and the other two Uisce at their heels, thought: we are breaking out of the Dark Realm. We are riding hard towards a Gateway and soon, very soon, we will be across the boundaries and on to the hinterlands, and safe.

We are cutting a swathe of light through the Dark Realm, …

The thought was with him only for the briefest of instants, and then his breath was snatched from him by the night wind in his face, and his senses were turned upside-down by the sheer speed of the sea-horses, the creatures that Chaos had stolen from the magical underwater city and forced to carry his guests across the evil, blood-soaked NightFields of his Realm.

Andrew could feel the pouring delight of the Uisce as the dark thralldom lifted, and he could feel, as well, the rainbow iridescence all about them, like a cloak, like a carapace, like a shield of purest brilliance, so that it must surely force open the Gateway into the True Ireland.

The Samildanach forcing open the Gates …

It is not my strength, and it is not my brilliance, he thought. But it is being lent to me. I can use it.

Theodora’s eyes were shining and her cheeks were flushed with delight. Her dark hair streamed out behind her, and Andrew felt again the warm surge of protectiveness that he had felt in the Cadence Tower so long ago — another life, had it been?

Behind them, Chaos’s armies were rushing towards Almhuin, the torchlight from their flambeaux spiralling into the darkness, lighting it to angry red life, the cold, evil music flooding the darkness. Almhuin was becoming bathed in the eerie glow of the torches, the black rearing towers and the jagged-toothed turrets sharply limned against the skies. Andrew reined in his mount and turned its head about for a moment, looking back at the Armies with their glinting armour and their thin black spears. He could see the Lord of Chaos quite clearly, and he could see the great churning millwheels of Murder’s grim chariot, blood-spattered and menacing.

Far below them, in the huddle of houses that were the Almhuinians’ homes, lights were shining and people were scurrying about. Andrew and Theodora watched for a moment and, as they did so, a thin line of brave little torches appeared as the villagers started up the mountain track in defence of their Lady’s Fortress. Andrew thought: so in the end they will be loyal; they will fight Chaos’s people and try to save Almhuin. He spared a thought for the tiny, bricked-up cell with the single, terrible prisoner. Would Chaos find the Lady of Almhuin? And if he did not, what would happen to her?

Alone in the dark for ever, condemned to die of hunger and thirst and madness without a single creature for comfort …

But I had no choice.

And then they turned away, knowing that they must flee from Almhuin if they were to survive.

Theodora said, suddenly, ‘The Moher Gateway!’ And pointed, and there before them was the great outline of the Gateway, black and gleaming, rearing up against the black skies of the Dark Ireland.

Andrew said, ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, that is the only thing it can be.’ Theo knew this was true. ‘There are only three Gateways left: the Well of Segais, where Chaos brought me and where you followed. The Cruachan Cavern, deep in the Wolfwood, and the Gateway of the Moher Cliffs.’ She pointed, and, as she brought her hand up, a faint shard of cool light irradiated it. ‘If you look, you can see the Cliffs of Moher beyond it,’ said Theo, and excitement rose in her voice.

Always look beyond … For a moment, Rumour’s cool amused voice was with them both. Andrew thought: dear God, if only we had the sidh’s music! That would slice through the darkness for us!

‘Can we get through?’ he said.

‘I think we can.’ Theo pointed again. ‘See? The Gateway is open.’

But Andrew paused, reining in the Uisce, remembering Rumour’s words and the warnings of the Amaranths, remembering that it was said to be the most difficult thing in the world for Humans to force open the great, mystical Gateways. Rumour and the Amaranths had believed that the sidh, s music could take them down through the Well of Segais and force the Gate open — but we have nothing that will help us now, he thought.

And then he knew that, after all, they did have something. They had the soft, strong, pure radiance of the sea-horses, the gentle glowing iridescence of the sleek, beautiful creatures whom Theodora had rescued from Chaos’s dark thrall, and who had poured through the Dark Realm, sprinkling light where they went. Without warning, confidence, absolute and complete, surged up in him. He felt the strange brush of the creature called the Samildanach once more; he felt the sweet breath of that other One who had promised to return and who had vowed to cut a swathe through the darkness, and to force open the Gateways into the Real Ireland.

His strength is being lent to me …

They could both see the dark crags and they could hear the lashing of the ocean against the wild western coast of Ireland. The skies were dark and black clouds scudded across them, but it was the darkness of ordinary night, a darkness that would presently yield to dawnlight … Dawnlight, thought Andrew with sudden joy. The coming of the morning after the long, evil night of the necromancers …

Theo, at his side, felt his sudden, soaring delight, and understood that they were nearly home; this was what she had thought about and planned for and imagined all those nights inside the Saraigli. This was the home-coming, and soon she would reach the Porphyry Palace, because soon they would be in Ireland again, the real True Ireland, the Ireland of blue mists and purple dusks, and deep forests where twilight slanted through the trees, and where the dawns were rose and gold, washing the tips of the Morning Mountains to such beauty that it hurt your eyes to see it …

Andrew turned the Uisce’s heads about, and together they rode straight at the Gateway.

*

The Uisce streamed joyfully forwards, and the great shadow of the Moher Gateway fell across their path, no longer forbidding and menacing, but simply and cleanly a Gateway: a door through which to pass from one place to another.

There was the sensation of swimming cleanly and swiftly through great, stagnant pools of evil and smothering clouds of malignancy; and, for the space of a heartbeat, the shadow of the Gateway was all about them. But then they were through it, the Uisce’s silken heads breasting a great, wine-dark sea, and the clotted evil and the darkness was falling from them, as if they were coming up from a dark, foul lake.

There was a moment — breath-taking, awe-inspiring — when they both saw ahead of them a thin crescent arc, a ribbon of rainbow light, as if a dark sun were sinking and yielding to a rose and gold horizon.

A sunset seen from beneath, thought Andrew, and drew in a deep breath, and felt the cold night air fill his lungs. He thought: yes, this is the real world, I can smell it and hear it and I can feel it. Beautiful.

Night had fallen, true night, laden with purple mists and dusky, twilit fragrances. Ahead of them were the storm-lashed Moher Cliffs, stark and forbidding, thrusting up out of the ground, and wreathed in their own ancient magic. A little to their right, weaving slightly inland, was the cliff path, and as they turned the heads about, they both saw above them the huge, rearing bulk of the Grail Castle.

Theodora reached out to Andrew’s arm, and he felt her fingers close about his wrist in fear.

‘There’s something lying in the shadows over there,’ she said.

‘And it’s waiting for us.’

The exhilarating delight that Andrew had been experiencing shut off as abruptly as if a lid had been clapped down over it, and he felt the Uisce shiver beneath him.

Something dark and formless, something that crawled on its belly and that was held in dark and terrible bondage to whatever lived inside the Grail Castle. Something that was soaked in old dark evil and that served a malevolent, hungering master … I can feel that it is all of those things! thought Andrew, staring at the crawling shadow in silent apprehension.

The shape moved then, slithering and scuttling, and Andrew heard Theodora bite back a gasp of terror. He thought: but it is only an animal, some kind of beast that scuttles and crawls, perhaps a large weasel or a stoat. He thought the shape had the nearly-boneless appearance of a large snake or a huge, thick worm, and then he thought that it was exactly as if a man-sized serpent had donned a cloak and a hood, and his skin crawled with revulsion.

Quintus, helpless against the Fisher Prince’s curse, obedient to the thralldom that held him, reared up in front of them and stood blocking their way. The Uisce whickered in fear and Andrew felt the pain and fright from them.

There was the impression of dark, swirling robes, a great black cowl pulled down to shadow the creature’s face. There was the sudden stifling miasma of old evil …

‘Follow me, wayfarers,’ said the Black Monk in a soft, beckoning voice, and in the same instant, Andrew and Theodora felt the terrible dark web of the ancient Enchantment of the Isle of Torach spin and whirl sickeningly and dizzyingly above them, and then descend in a great dark cloak of unknowing.

Chapter Forty-four

The Almhuinians had not gone straightaway to the Castle when Chaos’s Armies marched through the mountains and up to the great Stronghold that had dominated their lives for so long. They had not done so, because it did not do to be hasty.

They were not precisely short on courage, they said, holding a rather furtive meeting in Diarmuit’s cellar. And it was not that they jibbed at facing the Lord of Chaos and his henchmen, because they would take on Chaos, yes and Murder, Misrule and Anarchy with him! they said, sinking determined draughts from the tankards of apple wine served out by Diarmuit.

But if there was going to be some kind of final decisive battle: if the simmering hatred between Chaos and Almhuin’s Lady was about to erupt into a scalding explosion of necromantic savagery, the Castle was no place for any of them for the time being. Best to keep clear until it was seen which way the wind was blowing, and which wind it actually was. Best to be practical and efficient.

But caution allowed, this was precisely the time when their spying skills might be profitably utilised. There was no reason why a couple of spies could not be sent up to the Castle. There was no reason why one or two of them could not slink in the shadows and listen and watch and find out what was happening. And they all knew the Castle; they knew where you could conceal yourself, and where you could hear and see. Somebody suggested that Diarmuit’s elder son and Black Aed’s boy be sent. It would be good to give the younger ones a chance. And it would be the best way to discover what was going on.

Because once they knew who was holding the Castle, and who had beaten whom, they could decide where their best advantage lay.

*

Diarmuit’s elder son and Black Aed’s boy arrived back, a little out of breath but glowing with achievement. There was not hide nor hair nor whisker of the Crimson Lady, they said. She had vanished from the Castle as if she had never been there.

‘Not even Chaos knows where she is,’ said Black Aed’s son.

‘And Chaos has taken the Castle over,’ said Diarmuit’s son.

‘The soldiers are quartered in the keep and Chaos’s Lords are holding a huge banquet in the hall of the tapestries.’

And so their best advantage lay with Chaos. It was clear-cut and unequivocal. It was maybe not so very surprising when you looked at it sensibly, because most of them agreed that the Crimson Lady had been becoming something of a twice-told tale lately. She was burned out, getting beyond her best. Only look at how she had vented her rage on poor Black Aed. It was small wonder that Chaos had been able to vanquish her with such apparent ease. Diarmuit asked was there no sign of the Lady at all: were they sure she had not been flung into one of her own dungeons or maybe trussed and chained to provide entertainment for Chaos’s people?

But the two sons, who had performed this very important grown-up mission seriously and thoroughly, said, No, nothing like that. Simply the Lady was nowhere to be found. Yes, they were quite sure; they had listened to the soldiers talking about it, and they had even heard Anarchy refer to the Lady’s absence: ‘The bird has flown,’ he had said, and he had sounded very regretful as if he had been looking forward to a confrontation.

Whatever had happened to Almhuin’s Lady, everyone was agreed that the thing to do now was to swear allegiance to the Lord of Chaos, and that as quickly as possible. Any creature found still loyal to the Lady would be very summarily dealt with! they said, nodding wisely. No one wanted to find himself at the wrong end of Chaos’s wrath, and no one wanted to find himself being crushed to death beneath the millwheels of Murder’s chariot. Everyone in Almhuin knew the tales of the entertainments that Misrule devised for his Lord, and no one wanted to end up roasting on one of Misrule’s spikes (with, or without his mouth sewn up) simply to give extra light to the revels inside the Castle of Infinity!

And so, when Diarmuit said they would just go along and offer their services to Chaos and his people, everyone thought this a splendid idea.

*

Even so, it felt odd and a bit uncomfortable to make their way along the steep mountain path, just as they had done so many times in the past. Ahead of them, the great mountain stronghold of Almhuin looked exactly as it had always looked; it was rather disconcerting to know that it was no longer the dwelling of the Lady whom they had served for so long.

They were admitted to the Castle by the strange, silent servants, and they were received with apparent courtesy by Chaos himself, who was seated in the great central hall, with the remains of a banquet on the massive oak table, exactly as the two boys had reported. Candles burned in the tarnished holders, shedding soft light on the decaying tapestries, the rotting velvet drapes, crumbling panelling and the stonework. The immense depiction of the famous Dark Passing Over hung directly behind his chair, and for a brief space the Almhuinians had the eerie impression that the tapestry had come to life and that they were seeing a living enactment of the historic night when the necromancers had gathered about Medoc to sup with him before his death and defeat.

Chaos’s people were seated at the table, with Murder and Anarchy on each side of him. They would be the foremost necromantic Lords, of course, which Chaos would have brought with him to vanquish the Lady. They would not be as powerful as Chaos, but they would have to be reckoned with. The silent servants stood in the shadows, blending rather sinisterly with the Twelve Tapestries that hung around the hall, and had come to be known as the Twelve Stories of the Lady of Pain. The Almhuinians paid the tapestries scant attention, because they had seen them innumerable times, but they glanced uneasily at the servants, because didn’t everyone know the kind of people who served Chaos? Unnaturally bred creatures they were, raised from strong necromancy, born from the Draoicht Roghnacht. You could admire and revere a Dark Lord capable of such things; the Almhuinians did admire and revere him, and they were perfectly prepared to offer their allegiance to him. But they did not much like the results of the Roghnacht.

Chaos greeted them courteously, and asked, in his soft, cultured voice, the purpose of their visit.

The Almhuinians had sorted this out before leaving the village. You could not have upwards of a dozen people all talking at once, and so two of them had been selected by the drawing of the ivory sticks. The two were, in fact, Diarmuit himself, who had long since discovered a way of rigging the stick-drawing ritual, and Black Aed’s wife, who had naturally been very upset at Aed’s death, but who was very pleased to forget her grief for a while and join in such an important event. And so it was these two who moved to stand before Chaos, leaving the others grouped worriedly by the door.

Chaos watched their approach, his narrow, dark eyes unreadable, his long slender fingers curled about the stem of his wine chalice. He was accoutred for a battle, in the gleaming black armour of his House, with a scarlet velvet cloak thrown negligently about his shoulders, and the Silver Star of Medoc glinting on his breast. Diarmuit and Aed’s wife thought he must have arrayed himself for a battle against the Crimson Lady. But there were no signs that a battle had been fought, let alone won, which was puzzling. Had Chaos, then, been victorious so easily and so swiftly? What had happened to the Lady?

But it would not do to ask, and so they stood respectfully before him, seeing that on his left, Murder sat silent and fearsome in the swirling black cloak, his face and his eyes in shadow. Anarchy sprawled in the chair at his right, a look of determined alertness on his slightly immature face, rather as if he was hoping people were watching him and seeing how intelligent and how deeply involved in everything he was. Diarmuit and Aed’s wife had never seen Anarchy, and they were surprised at how extremely young he was.

But when Chaos asked their business, Diarmuit, who had prepared a bit of a speech, spoke out firmly, explaining how they’d come to offer their services and their fealty to the Lord of Chaos and his people. They hadn’t the necromantic powers, said Diarmuit (it had been felt as well to emphasise this from the beginning), but they had other skills which could be of use. They had the knowledge of fighting, and the experience of spying, and the inherited skills of creeping up on enemies in the dark and infiltrating their castles. All good, useful skills in a battle. And they’d be honoured, said Diarmuit, they’d be honoured and proud if Chaos would take them into his Armies and allow them to fight on his side …

There was a moment of profound silence, and the other Almhuinians looked furtively at one another, because although Diarmuit’s speech had sounded very good indeed (the use of the word ‘fealty’ had been a master-stroke), no one had moved or spoken all through it, and no one was moving or speaking now. Chaos remained seated, resting his chin lightly on one hand, his entire pose gracefully relaxed, his face pale, his eyes deep, burning pits. The burning gaze of those eyes was a bit uncomfortable, truth to tell.

And then Chaos said, in his soft, gentlemanly voice, ‘So, you are prepared to desert your Lady are you? Now that I find immensely interesting,’ and the Almhuinians thought that, put like that, it sounded a bit unpleasant.

But Black Aed’s wife said, ‘She was never our Lady, sir. And we prefer to be on the winning side,’ and the Almhuinians glanced at one another, because Chaos would be pleased at such a grand bit of flattery.

And it seemed that he was, because he was smiling, although one or two of them could not help thinking it was actually a rather cold, malice-filled smile. But he said, softly, ‘I am honoured by the allegiance and the fealty of your people,’ and the Almhuinians were pleased that he’d picked that one up, because didn’t it show Chaos that he wouldn’t be dealing with unschooled peasants but creatures of some learning and refinement.

‘Your willingness to follow whichever Master will give you the most does you credit,’ said Chaos, and at his feet Anarchy let out a hoot of rude mirth. The Dark Lords smiled in a slightly sinister fashion, as if they found the Almhuinians amusing, but for all the wrong reasons.

‘I believe,’ said Chaos slowly, ‘that I could make use of you.’ He studied them in turn, and the thin, cold smile touched his lips again. Anarchy gave vent to another raucous laugh, as if he were trying to indicate that he knew something that nobody else did.

Diarmuit made bold to ask whether there was a battle ahead, and Chaos said, ‘Since I hold Almhuin Castle, there is nothing left within this Realm for me to conquer. The entire Dark Ireland is mine.’

‘And with the timely removal of Almhuin’s Lady,’ said Anarchy, jeeringly, ‘the way is apparently clear. If, that is, we were so foolish as to trust to it.’ He made a rude gesture at the Almhuinians with the glinting curved knife he wore at his belt, which was shaped like a huge phallus, but which had a very sharp tip.

‘The disappearance of the Lady,’ said Chaos in his soft voice, which Diarmuit had suddenly realised was sounding very menacing indeed, ‘is the most interesting thing of all. You knew that she was no longer here?’ said Chaos. ‘Yes, I see that you did know.’

‘And we should all like to know how the snivelling rats knew,’ said Anarchy.

There was an awkward pause, and then Diarmuit said, ‘We did know she had gone, sir,’ because wasn’t it as well to let Chaos think they had their own sources for information. ‘But we don’t know how,’ he added firmly.

‘Of course they know,’ said Anarchy, impatiently. ‘Sire, I told you. There is only one way she could have escaped, and that is if she was smuggled out.’ He glared at the Almhuinians. ‘I would not trust those turncoats an inch,’ he said. ‘They’ve got the Crimson Lady away into hiding somewhere, and just as they think you’ve been fooled into relaxing your guard, she’ll be at your throat! And they’ll be at her side! Rats!’ said Anarchy in a voice of loathing, and bounded out of his chair towards Diarmuit and Aed’s wife. But Murder was there in a silent slither of darkness, one dark, gloved hand hooking about Anarchy’s neck, pushing him into his chair again. Anarchy subsided with a bad grace, and when Murder released him, refilled his wine chalice and sat glowering at them over its rim.

Chaos had ignored Anarchy and Murder’s quelling of him, rather in the way of ignoring a rude child who has been subdued. He leaned forward, and said in his soft voice, ‘Let us return to how I intend to use you,’ and the Almhuinians looked uneasily at one another, because they had not liked the way that Chaos had said ‘use’.

‘You will perhaps know of my work?’ said Chaos, his eyes dark and unfathomable, and the Almhuinians glanced uneasily at one another, because didn’t the whole of the Dark Realm know of Chaos’s manipulations and tamperings, and the blending of warring peoples and of alien strains. They hoped they were sufficiently open-minded about these things, but didn’t it give you a shuddering grue to think of Goblins breeding from Giants, or Humans breeding from snakes. Say what you liked, it was unnatural.

But it was politic to appear interested, and so Diarmuit said, ‘Indeed we do know …’ and, uncertain as to how Chaos ought to be addressed, added, ‘sir’, which, as Aed’s wife had said, was pretty much a general term of courtesy and should be acceptable. ‘And have always found them of interest,’ added Diarmuit for good measure.

Chaos appeared amused. He said, ‘That is very gratifying. And since you have come to offer your fealty to me, and in such a courteous and prompt fashion, I have no doubt that you will not object to returning with me to my Castle, to assist in the — ah — furtherance of my work.’ He paused and, at his feet, Anarchy laughed again, with an immature, unbroken, boy’s laugh.

‘I believe I shall need only the females,’ said Chaos, apparently considering the matter carefully. He looked up and something harsh and cruel shone from his eyes. ‘Although we shall take you all.’

‘Take us?’ said Diarmuit. ‘As prisoners?’

‘Oh, my prisoners can be made very comfortable,’ said Chaos, in an amused voice, but there was a red gleam in his eyes that made Diarmuit and Aed’s wife glance uneasily at one another. ‘And your females will enjoy helping in my work.’

He stood up. ‘But prisoners you will be,’ he said, and his lips were suddenly thinned into a cruel, cold line. ‘You will work in my service until I have satisfied myself as to your true allegiance.’ He nodded to the darkly accoutred Captains, and instantly a dozen of them sprang forward, surrounding the Almhuinians, their swords drawn and poised to strike.

Diarmuit was by now very worried indeed, but he said with as much courage as he could muster, ‘And could we know, sir, what might be required of us? Within your service?’

Chaos studied Diarmuit, and now it was the icy appraisal of a superior species studying an infinitely lower one. At length he said, ‘Within the Beyond Ireland, somewhere inside the Realm of the High Kings and the Amaranth sorcerers, has been born a creature who poses a great threat to me. He is the only creature who can hinder my march to absolute power, and he is the only one who can truly challenge my complete possession of both Irelands.’ He paused, and his eyes blurred, as if he were looking beyond the candlelit hall and the long banqueting table. He said, in a soft voice filled with hatred, ‘The Fisher Prince. Coelacanth’s spawn.’

There was a sudden silence and, despite the menacing guards, the Almhuinians looked at one another, because this was the first any of them had heard of Coelacanth having a son.

Chaos said, half to himself, ‘He should never have been born. If I had known in time, I would have murdered the creature before it drew breath.’ He paused, frowning, and then said, ‘But somehow he has clawed his way into the world. Somehow he was begotten on to an Amaranth Lady, and somehow he was gestated and given his warped and grotesque birth. It was Coelacanth’s final and greatest revenge. His son to enter the world …’ A red gleam shone from his eyes, and his fists curled into predator’s claws. At his side, Murder made an abrupt movement, and Chaos seemed to recall himself.

He said, ‘As yet I know little about the creature, other than that he was taken from the birth chamber to a place of concealment. That much my people have been able to discover.’ Anger flared in his eyes, but it was normal impatience now. ‘They have not been able to find out where he is hidden,’ said Chaos, and his eyes fell coldly upon Anarchy.

‘I have searched and I have sent out spells, sire,’ said Anarchy in a whining, it-isn’t-my-fault voice. ‘But there are so many ancient fortresses and so many isolated strongholds: Ireland is thick with them,’ he said sulkily.

‘You failed,’ said Chaos, coldly. ‘There will be one more chance for you, and if you fail that time, you will be fed to the WarMongers.’ Anarchy slumped sullenly in his chair, hunching his shoulders pettishly, although he sent a nervous glance to Chaos and hot, embarrassed colour stained his cheeks. Chaos turned back to the Almhuinians. ‘And since my people have been unsuccessful in finding the Prince,’ he said, ‘I must look for better methods and better servants.’

‘You must find spies,’ said Diarmuit, staring.

‘I must find spies.’ He studied Diarmuit with interest. ‘That is astute of you,’ he said, and stood up, seeming to tower over the great hall. At once the Rodent Captains snapped to attention, thrusting the huddled Almhuinians forward. Murder was on his feet also, and Anarchy sprang up, his sulk forgotten.

The spies I send into the Beyond Ireland to find the Prince must not be recognisable as creatures from this Realm,’ said Chaos. ‘I could use you …’ Again there was the appraising look, as if the Almhuinians were insects to be dissected. ‘Oh yes, I can use you,’ he said. ‘But I cannot use you as you are now. Once beyond the Gateway you would be instantly recognised for Almhuinians, and you would be taken and imprisoned. Perhaps you would be executed. Any value you had as spies would be ended.’ A frown touched his eyes. ‘I do not make the mistake of underestimating the Beyond Ireland,’ he said. ‘The High King is very strong, and he has for advisers and sorcerers the Amaranths. And the Amaranths are the strongest and the finest sorcerers in all Ireland.’ A thin, secret amusement touched his lips suddenly. ‘But I am stronger,’ he said, and he was no longer courteously explaining a battle plan to underlings; he was suddenly the unchallenged Overlord of his Domain; the greatest necromancer throughout the entire Black Ireland.

‘And so I must perforce create a new species for the work.’ He looked very straightly at them. ‘As Almhuinians, you have in your veins the blood of spies. Yes?’

Diarmuit spoke up again, saying how they’d always been known for their skill in spying, in creeping into castles and strongholds and houses, listening at keyholes, peering through chinks in windows. ‘We have centuries of spying in our blood,’ he said, proudly. ‘It is our trade.’

‘Ah,’ said Chaos, as if this pleased him. ‘That is precisely what I understood. Generations of spies. Then I have a good foundation to work from.’

‘A — foundation?’ said Diarmuit, and everyone looked worried.

Chaos smiled at Diarmuit, but his eyes flickered over the female Almhuinians. ‘Necromantic race breeding,’ he said softly, and a shudder went through the Almhuinians. If Chaos saw it or felt it, he gave no indication. He said, ‘Any enchantment must be created on a firm foundation. A strong base that will stand up to assault. It is precisely the same principle as building a castle or even a cottage. If the foundation is not firm and suitable, then the castle or the cottage will become unsafe.’ He paused, appearing to arrange his thoughts.

‘In my Castle,’ he said, after a moment, ‘deep within the Castle of Infinity, dwells one of the most fearsome and one of the cleverest enchantments I have ever spun.’ He paused, and no one moved or spoke. ‘It took many years and much study, and many of my enemies have tried to steal it away from me.’

There was a pause, and the Almhuinians, guessing what was coming, shifted their feet uneasily.

‘But it remains in my possession,’ said Chaos, softy. ‘It roams my Castle whilst my people are sleeping, and it hears their secrets and it listens to their intrigues, and it spies out their plots. And then it brings them to me.’ He looked round the hall, and a ripple of disquiet went through the Almhuinians, because everyone knew that Chaos was referring to the Draoicht Spiaire, the hungering thing that swallowed and then regurgitated its victims’ thoughts and secrets and memories.

‘The Draoicht Spiaire is one of my most valuable enchantments,’ said Chaos. ‘But because of its extreme ferocity, it cannot be unchained during the normal hours of working and feasting and living.’ The frown twisted his face again. ‘It is the creature’s only weakness,’ he said. ‘Its bloodlust. Its hunger not only for the minds and the secrets and the intrigues of its victims, but for their bodies.

‘And so because of that, I cannot send the Draoicht Spiaire into the Beyond Ireland to spy for me as I would wish. It would assuredly find the Prince, but it would serve its own greeds as well. It would slaughter and mutilate as the need took it, and since it has hot the slyness to resist capture, it would become useless to me.

‘It needs — we will say — tempering,’ he said. ‘It needs a little Humanish or perhaps Rodent blood in with its essence. It needs to be blended with creatures who have the slyness to remain unseen and unheard, and the cunning to creep into castles and strongholds and listen unheard and pry unseen.’ The smile became very faintly malicious. ‘I believe I have quoted you more or less accurately, sir,’ he said to Diarmuit.

‘I — yes.’

The results of a blending of the Spiaire with — let us say, an Almhuinian — would be very interesting,’ said Chaos. The issue of such a mingling would be unparalleled for spying and cunning and stealth.’ He appeared to consider. ‘So far, I have blended the blood of Goblins with Giants, and the blood of Rodent creatures with Humans,’ said Chaos. ‘And there have been several other mutant strains that I have created. All immensely interesting. But for the purpose of discovering the Prince’s whereabouts, I shall create a new race,’ he said. ‘A race born of a necromantically controlled mating between Almhuinian females and the Draoicht Spiaire who lies muzzled and chained in my dungeons.’ He smiled at them. That is how I shall use you,’ he said. ‘I am going to feed you to the Spiaire. You are going to breed from it.

‘It may take some time,’ he said. ‘For there will be the conception and the birthing. There will be the growing up of the spawn. Also, there may need to be several attempts before the blending of the two bloods is balanced correctly.

‘But however long it takes,’ said Chaos, ‘Coelacanth’s son will still be waiting for me. If it takes ten years to produce the race I require, I shall wait ten years.

‘Several lifetimes would not be too long for me to wait to find the Prince and kill him. For only then can I realise my dream. Only then can I ride unchallenged into Ireland and take it for my own.’

*

And so they set out for the Castle of Infinity, the Almhuinians unsure of what they had talked themselves into, but telling one another that you could not lightly ignore the wishes of the Overlord of the whole Dark Realm. You could not ignore, either, the fact that the Rodent Armies, under the direction of two of the Captains, had surrounded the Almhuinians and brandished their swords, and had really made it rather awkward for the Almhuinians to refuse to go in procession to Chaos’s Castle of Infinity, there to await his bidding.

Prisoners, said several of them crossly. They were no more than Chaos’s prisoners.

But in the end, everyone had fallen into line with as good a grace as possible, and had told one another that anyway wasn’t this what they had intended?

They made their preparations for the journey swiftly, scurrying about the Castle to gather up things that might be needed: swords from the Castle armoury, spurs and chainmail cloaks and helmets.

Several times they felt the Lady’s presence with them, and so strong was it that they looked around, half expecting to see her standing in the shadows. They even began to hear her voice, raised in one of the frantic rages that they knew so well, and the sounds seemed so real, that they found themselves stopping their tasks and listening.

But there was only the scrabbling of something from the dungeons — a rat or a weasel probably. Although just for a few minutes it had sounded eerily like the scratching of Human nails against bricks.

The Almhuinians paid it no attention. The Castle had ever had its share of ghosts, and it had always been overrun with rats. A few more made little difference. In any case, they were leaving it all behind them.

They were leaving the Castle to the ghosts and the rats and weasels and to the dark memories …

And to the single living creature bricked up in the dungeons and left to die in the dark …

Chapter Forty-five

The people of Moher always knew when the Prince was hungering for new victims, and when he was planning one of his grisly revels. There was a feeling, a scent, an essence. A dark brooding that seeped through the thick stones of the Grail Castle, and was borne on the wind into the farmhouses and the spinners’ workshops and the butteries and the crofters’ cottages.

There was no longer any pleasure in farming the rather sparse land around the Castle, and there was no longer the innocent delight in making your living out of the little cottage crafts: wool-spinning and weaving and wood-carving. There was no longer any tranquillity or any pride in living in the shadow of Ireland’s ancient, myth-drenched Fortress.

When twilight stole over the cliffs, and the great oceans that lashed the shores turned black and cold, the people of Moher double-locked their doors and huddled round their firesides. You did not, if you valued your life, venture out after dark any longer; you stayed by your own hearth, and you listened for the shuffling of the creature Quintus coming along the narrow street, oozing the poison of the sores inflicted by the Prince all those years ago. You heard him and you smelt him and you prayed to whatever god you held dearest that he would not sniff at your keyhole and peer through the chink in the curtain and demand your daughter or your wife or your sister for the Fisher Prince.

But that did not happen so very often and, in the main, Moher itself had remained safe. The Prince had not often fouled his own doorstep, it was said, with one of the uneasy laughs that were all the Moher farmers could allow themselves these days.

The tales spread with the years, of course, and there were many gallant young men who came to Moher; reckless, eager eyed adventurers who had pledged themselves to discover the Grail Castle of legend. There were many boastful boys who wanted the glory of having slain the Moher Monster. It hurt to hear the terrible expression; it hurt the people who had been proud of their small community, and who had enjoyed their work and taken love and care over it, whether it had been tilling the sparse land or farming the sheep, or simply spinning the rugs and the cloaks out of the fine, soft wool that the Moher sheep grew against the creeping sea mists. They had enjoyed their happy, uneventful lives, they had helped one another when times were hard, and they had enjoyed welcoming travellers and hearing the tales of their journeyings.

They welcomed travellers and pilgrims no longer, for travellers were grist to the Prince’s sinister appetites; they were caught by the prowling Quintus, they were smothered by the terrible Enchantment of Torach, and thrown into the Castle dungeons, there to await the Prince’s pleasure, or even, of latter years, the Fomoire’s. It had been a terrible day when the Prince had enslaved the Fomoire.

Sometimes the prisoners would be brought up to the great hall, where the Prince would hold sinister revelries and dark, gruesome banquets with the Fomoire in attendance, and where the light would be provided by the burning of the prisoners themselves, impaled on spikes and set afire. At one time it had been one of the Prince’s pleasures to hold races between his prisoners, to decide which should be burned and which should be given to the Fomoire.

But the banquets were less frequent now, the Fomoire’s Hunting Songs were not so often heard echoing eerily down the dark cliff paths. The Prince had taken to creeping down to the dungeons by himself, rutting and killing and mutilating the poor chained wretches with his own hands, bellowing like a bull in lust as he did so, using the victims’ bodies in a dozen terrible ways, until finally his evil lusts were satiated.

His dark appetites had grown and his powers had increased with the years. The people of Moher were unsure as to how many years the Prince had been in their midst, because you did not count the years or the months of an oppression, you simply lived through them. But they could remember the day when Quintus had caught the child who had come through the Moher Gateway, because it had been the night when the strange, icily beautiful music had shivered briefly on the air, and the Prince had howled with such rage that the villagers had trembled in their cottages, and had not dared venture out for several days. He had rampaged about the countryside, the cringing Quintus at his heels, roaring with unbridled fury and lust and then falling on such unwary travellers as Quintus had been able to snare for him.

That had been the last time any living thing had come through the Gateway, although there were occasionally whispers of chinks of dark, smeary light showing, and there had even been murmurs lately of strange, slinking creatures being glimpsed: ugly things that walked upright like Humans, but that had an odd, scuttling gait, and eyes that protruded from their heads on stalks. But these were the kind of rumours that always echoed about Ireland’s dark Gateways.

No one knew what the Prince had finally done to the child, although the young man who had been with her was still at the Castle, toiling rather taciturnly in the gardens alongside the strange, silent Maelduin, who had been with the Prince ever since anyone could remember. The people of Moher guessed that the Prince took a cruel delight in being served by these two, for both were mutilated: the thin dark-haired Andrew was crippled and walked everywhere leaning heavily on a stout ash crutch, and Maelduin was known to be a mute.

But no one knew what the Prince had done with the child.

*

Deep within the Castle of Infinity, the Lord of Chaos eyed Murder and Anarchy, and pushed towards them the plans drawn up for the final great battle: the storming of the Grail Castle and the taking of the Beyond Ireland.

Murder studied the plans, his eyes in shadow, no trace of emotion showing on his face. He did not speak, but there was immense concentration in his expression.

Anarchy read them noisily, flipping pages over with a rustling sound, turning back to verify a point, showily making notes, frowning and then grinning, poring over a plan of Tara’s interior, counting up the number of fighting forces listed. At length he looked up at Chaos, who sat quietly in his chair at the head of the table, and grinned.

‘At last, sir,’ he said, in his light, undeveloped voice. ‘At last we are ready to take the Beyond Ireland.’ He drained his tankard of wine, belched, and reached again for the flagon that stood at the table’s centre.

Chaos said, with immaculate courtesy, ‘I am glad that my plans find favour with you. You will be expected to play a leading part.’ And so you had better be properly prepared, said his tone.

‘I’ll be there,’ said Anarchy, grinning. ‘Villages to burn and towns to raze! Humans for the slaying and females for the taking! I’ll dance on their dying carcasses and cause the streets to run with their blood!’

Chaos regarded Anarchy coldly. ‘You do not improve with the years,’ he said. ‘You are as selfish and egocentric as ever you were. You do not change.’

‘I do not wish to change,’ said Anarchy, sprawling back in his chair. ‘Nor do you wish me to. By being selfish and egocentric, I serve your needs very well.’

Murder said, in his cold, passionless voice, ‘You are confident that the plans will succeed, sir? And that you can slay Coelacanth’s spawn?’

‘I cannot slay him,’ said Chaos, and a tiny frown appeared in his eyes. ‘Only the Samildanach can slay those who issue from the line of the nimfeach.’ He reached for his own wine, which had been poured by one of the silent servants into a ruby-encrusted chalice. ‘You know it as I know it. That is why I have hesitated so long. That is why this plan has been so many years in the birthing.’

‘I thought it was all a legend,’ said Anarchy, a bit sulkily. ‘The Samildanach. Who believes that old legend now?’

‘It is very far from being disbelieved,’ said Chaos, sternly. ‘The Samildanach once walked abroad, preaching his accursed doctrines. It is certain that he lived.’

‘And may live again,’ put in Murder, softly.

‘The Draoicht Spiaireachts, the sons of the Spiaire that we sent through the Moher Gateway, believe that he does live again. Within the Grail Castle, under a Veil of Unknowing, is a young man who may very well wear the Samildanach’s mantle.’ The dark eyes rested on Murder. ‘He does not know it, but the marks were upon him. And we all know that the mark of the Samildanach cannot be mistaken.’

‘The Man of Each and Every Art,’ said Murder, half to himself.

‘Yes. And if it is true — if we find that the Samildanach does indeed walk the world again — it will be your task to kill him.’ Murder inclined his head, and Chaos said, rather sharply, ‘Do not waste time on bloody battles, if you please. There is to be no feeding of individual appetites and no sating of individual lusts. The time for that will come later.’

‘You are generous, sire,’ said Murder in a remote voice.

‘We have waited long enough for this,’ said Anarchy, petulantly.

‘You may have — you may both have all the blood and all the slaughter you want. But first this creature — if in truth he is the Samildanach reborn — must be killed. There must be no opportunity for him to fight us. There must be no mistake.’

‘But,’ said Anarchy, pleased to have found a flaw, ‘if we dispose of the Samildanach, we shall not be able to deal with Coelacanth’s son. We cannot kill Coelacanth’s line. Only the Samildanach himself can do that. You said so.’ He sent Chaos an impudent grin, rather in the manner of a rude child who has scored a point.

‘The Samildanach will not be killed until he, in turn, has slain the Fisher Prince,’ said Murder coldly and contemptuously. ‘We shall permit him to live until he has done that, and then we shall kill him.’ Really, you are very stupid, said his tone. He turned away from Anarchy and said to Chaos, ‘What of the Princess, sir? It is almost ten years. If she lives, she will be a beauty by this time.’

Chaos looked back at Murder. ‘Whoever weds the Princess of the Amaranths will hold very strong power in Ireland,’ he said. ‘If the Prince still has her, then I should expect him to take her into his bed. It is what Coelacanth would have done.’ His lips curved in a sudden smile. ‘It will be interesting to see if the son resembles the father,’ he said. ‘I fought Coelacanth and won. I banished him to the Pit. But I shall enjoy fighting his spawn.’ Murder said, ‘If the Princess is inside the Grail Castle, what will you do?’

‘She will be brought back here,’ said Chaos. ‘After we have forced the Samildanach to kill the Fisher Prince and after Murder has slain the Samildanach.’

‘If the Amaranth Princess still lives, she will lie in my bed on the night we take Ireland.’ The thin, cold smile touched his lips. ‘As I always intended her to,’ said the Lord of Chaos.

*

The concubines hung as far as they dared over the ledge of the Saraigli to watch the procession set out. They did not normally like Wars and battles — horrid dull things! — but Meirdreach had said they must know what was going on, because if Chaos was to invade the Beyond Ireland it might affect them all.

They had understood this, and they thought that after all they might like to watch a procession, which would be something out of the ordinary. And then AnCine had told them that they could all please themselves, she was going to sit on the window-ledge and cheer the Army on its way. She was a vulgar, loud creature, and growing coarser with the years, but if she was going to drape herself on the window-ledge and cheer the Army, the other concubines were going to do so as well.

They spent the entire morning getting ready, running anxiously to the window at intervals to be sure that the procession was not already assembling, and then scurrying back to the looking-glass or the bathhouse, selecting gowns that would compete with AnCine’s scarlet, trying out the effect of threads of silver gilt. It was a time when you wanted to look your best. There had been a fashion some years earlier for very short hair, tipped with silver and gold; several of the older concubines still wore their hair in this way, in imitation of some long-ago sorceress who had visited the Castle and made the Saraigli the now-famous present of the Enchantment of Seduction. The concubines still giggled over this, and told one another that Chaos would not know what had happened when they were summoned to his bedchamber with the Seduction Enchantment draped about them! It had been used a number of times, and Chaos had never suspected. The younger, newly arrived concubines listened to tales about the Seduction Enchantment enviously, because it was interesting to hear about things that had happened so long ago. But they tossed their long flowing locks with self-admiration, and looked disparagingly on the ugly, short hair of their elders, and wondered how anyone could wear her hair in such an unbecoming style, never mind if fifty famous sorceresses had set a fashion.

The procession was assembling at last, and the concubines squealed in excitement, pushing one another aside to get a prominent place at the two large windows, glaring at AnCine — who had been there for quite half the morning, and very vulgar it had looked too — but telling each other that you had to be charitable, because it must be years since she had been summoned to Chaos’s bed!

‘Better to have been summoned in the past than never to be summoned at all,’ said AnCine, who thought the younger concubines pert and showy.

At the head of the procession rode Anarchy, very splendid in a new suit of glinting gold armour, astride a pure white stallion. The concubines nudged one another and said wouldn’t the armour be splashed and muddied before the day was out, and would you look at the huge gold phallus Anarchy had strung about his middle and arranged to hang over his genitals, the big show-off!

But Anarchy was to lead the procession through the Moher Gateway, riding at the head of the Rodent Captains.

They were there, of course, their black armour glinting, their visors lowered so that all you could see of them was their narrow red eyes. Nasty things, Rodent people! said the concubines, and giggled all over again, because they’d smuggled a Rodent Captain into the Saraigli one night, and hadn’t the vain, boastful creature vowed to take a turn with every one of them, but hadn’t his strength run out at the seventh, weakling that he’d been! It was to be hoped the Rodents fought better than they attended a lady! said the concubines daringly, and screeched with mirth at their own wit.

The Rodent Armies were massing behind the Captains, and a remarkable and very splendid display they all made. The poor, pale creatures of the Beyond Ireland would be sent running and tumbling into hiding at the very sight of them! The Almhuinians, brought out of the Crimson Lady’s domain all those years ago, marched with the Army. You could not precisely admire them; they were sly, furtive-looking creatures, but they were believed to be expert in all kinds of Warfare. They had not mixed much with Chaos’s people; the women had been thrust into the Saraigli when they first came, and several of the older concubines could remember how they had all sulked for days over it. The Almhuinian women had been sly and miserly with their possessions, and had thought themselves above the concubines on account of the mating with the Draoicht Spiaire, which had gone on for several months, and which the concubines had shuddered daintily over. But the Saraigli had been an unhappy place for a time, and Meirdreach had had her work cut out to keep them all from falling into scratching, biting, hair-pulling fights.

The WarMongers were on the edges of the procession, their fearsome chariots behind them. You could never quite make out which was which, but the concubines shivered and remembered that the WarMongers had names like Agony and Torment and Mutilation and Despair, and that they were cruel, pitiless fighters.

There had been a time when the Fomoire would have been there, of course, dancing and leaping in glee, screeching their Hunting Songs; but the Fomoire had long since gone from Chaos’s service, and there had been a rumour — five years ago had it been? — that they had been seen within the Grail Castle itself.

At the centre of the procession were the nine Draoicht Spiaireacht, the strange creatures spawned on the long-ago night when Chaos had invoked the now nearly legendary spell that had been woven into the Dark Realm’s myths and lore. The blending of a spell; actually a living creation of pure necromancy and strong black sorcery with the Humanish, it had been. Tales were still being told around firesides of Chaos’s supreme temerity and his remarkable powers at actually breeding between the Draoicht Spiaire and nine of the Almhuinian females. Those concubines who were sufficiently old enough to have been in the Saraigli on the night it had happened, and then later, when the screams of the Almhuinians in their birth agonies had rent the Palace asunder, pointed them out. The Spiaireacht were sinister, ugly creatures; they were so nearly Humanish, so nearly Almhuinian, that they might almost pass unnoticed in an ill-lit room, or on a shadowy road. They had arms, legs, a torso, a head with rather fibrous hair sprouting. They each had a normal face, with eyes and a nose.

But the eyes protruded on stalks, and swivelled and peered, and the lips were fleshless and mumbling and evil, and there was not only one mouth, but several, some of them gaping and grinning from the creatures’ rather thick necks, all arranged one atop the other, some of them opening from the creatures’ chests. And although the pale, fibrous hair looked reasonably normal, beneath it there was no hard, bony skull, no rounded bone to protect the brain.

The brain …

Beneath the thatches of strong, coarse hair, were dozens of tiny writhing brain sacs, normally a greyish, nearly colourless hue, but reddening and swelling when the creatures had sucked out a secret or an intrigue or a plot. The concubines, suddenly silent, stared at the Spiaireachts, and remembered the tales of how they had come slinking back to report to Chaos after scouring the Beyond Ireland, and how those very brain sacs had been so swollen with knowledge and so throbbing with gleaned secrets and plans and intrigues, that they had bulged out of the Spiaireachts’ heads, and spilled over on to their foreheads like slopping bags of warm fluid. Horrid! said the concubines, daintily repelled by such nastiness, and turned with thankfulness to where Chaos himself, with the most powerful necromancers of the Realm at his heels, was walking out of the Castle to take his place at the centre of his armies.

There was a burst of necromantic music — grand, stirring stuff — from the musicians who would march with the Armies, and Chaos sprang astride the gleaming black stallion that had been held for him. There was a moment when the Captains and Murder and Anarchy waited for the signal, and there was a moment when the scarlet and black pennants of the Rodent Armies fluttered in the breeze. A good moment, a moment to anticipate the victory that lay ahead. The concubines would look forward to Chaos’s return after his victory, because everyone knew that winning a good, strong victory gave the victor an arousal that might last for days. They giggled and told one another to look out for a lively time when Chaos returned!

The music poured out, stirring and strong, and the Lord of Chaos, from his position on the black stallion high above the rest, surveyed his Armies. And then he raised his hand to Anarchy and the Captains, and the Army marched forth.

To kill the Samildanach and possess Ireland.

Chapter Forty-six

The first thing to penetrate Theodora’s mind was the music. It was not really very loud, but it was an irritant; something you would want to brush away, blot out. It impinged on your mind when you were preparing for the banquet to be held in the great firelit hall, and it was dark and disturbing. Theo, trying not to hear it, was nevertheless aware that within its core dwelt pain and evil darkness and obscene lusts. It was not in the least like the other music that was occasionally heard inside the Castle — perhaps when the Prince held one of his grisly revels, when the doors of the immense banqueting hall would be firmly shut by the silent young man who shared the scullery tasks with Theodora.

At those times Theodora tried to shut her ears, because the music would mingle with the screams of pain and the pleas for mercy from the Prince’s victims. The sounds would drift into the sculleries where Theodora worked for most of the time, and even out to the small, ill-lit room where she slept, and which she had tried to make comfortable by dragging in a pallet bed and filling it with fresh straw, and by arranging jars of field flowers, and the sharply scented herbs that grew in the Castle herb gardens. During the warm weather, the little room would be scented with lemon verbena and rosemary and sometimes with night stocks if any could be found. Theodora would lie, trying to sleep, enjoying the scents but trying to shut out the sly, rollicking music of the feasting, because the prisoners brought up from the dungeons by Quintus would all die slowly and dreadfully; they would die there in the great stone hall as she listened; and it was unbearable and terrible and there was nothing any of them could do about it, because the Prince was too powerful. Theodora had once seen a couple of prisoners — travellers they had been — try to overpower him, but they had been felled instantly; the Prince had only to look at them and they had simply shrivelled where they stood; their skins had dried and wizened until they were tiny, mummified old men.

The music tonight was not anything like that played at the banquets. Nor was it anything like the strange, elusive ripples that very occasionally sent shards of cool beauty into the dark Castle and that made the silent Maelduin look up, flashes of turquoise iridescence glinting in his eyes. At those times, the Prince would fly into slavering rage, and hurl himself through the Castle, Quintus at his heels, ransacking the great empty rooms and the echoing galleries, as if he must find the music’s source and destroy it.

But the music always faded of its own accord, as lightly and as regretfully as the insubstantial will o’ the wisps that danced maddeningly across the marshes, and the Prince would shut himself away in his own part of the Castle — sometimes not emerging for weeks — and Quintus would return to the stables where he lived.

The music Theodora heard now was quite different. It was hurtful and intrusive and it was harsh and ugly. And I believe I have heard it before somewhere, she thought, and with the thought came a stirring, something deep within her mind lifting its head and pulling at her memory; and although she tried to remember, although she thought she almost caught the skirts of whisking, vanishing memories, in the end there was nothing.

Because I have only ever lived here, and there was never anything else before that …

The other servants had been disturbed by the music as well. Andrew, who worked in the gardens and mended the Castle’s fabric when it needed it, and acted as scribe and librarian to the Prince, looked up suddenly as it trickled into the stone-flagged scullery. For a remarkable moment, something flared in his eyes that might have been recognition, and this was so interesting that Theo turned round to watch him. After a moment, he said, very softly, ‘Something is approaching.’ And looked across at Theo. ‘You hear it?’

‘Yes. I believe I have heard it before.’ She thought: why have I said that? I cannot have heard it.

Andrew said, ‘I cannot remember …’ and for the first time ever there was anger and impatience in his tone. He looked across to where Maelduin was standing in the stone archway, his hands full of the fruit he had gathered for the night’s banquet, but light shining in his eyes. For a breath-snatching second he was not the pale withdrawn young man who went about his work silently and self-sufficiently, but something slender and shining and eerily beautiful. Theo stared at him.

‘The Dark Realm,’ said Andrew, at her side, and Theo looked back, because although the words meant nothing to her, she had the feeling that they ought to mean something very fearsome indeed. Andrew was frowning, but after a moment the light died from his eyes, and he shook his head impatiently and turned abruptly back to his task of setting out wine-flagons for the banquet. Maelduin stood for a moment longer, and then he too turned back to his work. A veil has come down, thought Theo, watching him. For a few seconds there was something brilliant and strong within both of them, but it has vanished. It is behind a veil again. She shivered and wrapped her arms about her for warmth, which was something you frequently had to do here; the Prince did not care for his Castle to be warm. ‘Fish blood!’ Andrew had once said, smiling his rather sad sweet smile.

But there was no time for any of them to be listening to the strange, hurting music. There was a banquet to be prepared; fires must flare and the lights must burn. Quintus had been sent out into the cliff paths and the crags to bring back prisoners.

Tonight the Prince was entertaining the Fomoire.

*

The opening of the Gateway concerned the people of Moher deeply. No one could deny it any more; everyone had heard it, creaking softly in the half-light of dusk, which was called in parts of Ireland the Purple Hour, and which was believed by many to be a time of magical stirrings and prowling enchantments.

But at Moher, the Purple Hour was a time when evil woke and walked; when the black powers of the Dark Realm seeped through the cracks in the Moher Gateway: the strange, not-quite-Human shapes with stalk-eyes and gobbling, greedy mouths that had been seen these last months, and that stole through the Gateway and slunk down the cliff path before vanishing into the night.

They’d all heard it happen tonight, and they’d heard, for the first time, the distant, terrible music. It was music to make a man want to gather up his loved ones and protect them. And yet there was an unexpectedly rallying quality to it, so that you felt a slow anger kindle, and so that you questioned your loyalties and your courage, and asked yourself, did you really intend to spend your life in hiding and in fear of the Moher Monster?

But it was music heard through a closed door, it was distant and muffled. If the Dark Lords were holding revelry on the other side of the Moher Gateway, it was no concern of anybody’s.

Even so, they found themselves gathering almost without thinking in one of the larger houses, because a man could feel stronger and braver in the company of his friends. There was home-brewed poteen handed round and cider; somebody’s wife had baked brack and somebody else’s wife set a dish of brawn on the table. One or two of them essayed a mild joke, and as the poteen jar went round again, their spirits lifted a little.

And then there was a moment — and no one quite knew how this came about — when the men sprang to their feet, their eyes suddenly alight, and the women hustled the children to their side, and everyone stared at the barred windows and the shuttered, locked doors of the farmhouse kitchen.

Because this time there were more than scuttlings and furtive scurryings coming through the Gateway. This time the music was no longer coming to them through a closed door, because the door was unmistakably opening.

And there could be do doubt about what they were hearing, and there could be no ignoring it either.

Thudding hoofs and clashing armour and pounding marching.

The sound of a fearsome Army pouring through the Moher Gateway.

The door was yawning wide and the Dark Lords were storming into Ireland.

*

Theodora could feel the dark stirring and the harsh, intrusive music seeping through the Castle walls, but she tried not to notice it. She had tried to overlay it with the singing of the Fomoire which echoed all about the banqueting hall.

They had prepared the banquet between them, carrying the food into the hall as they always did; Maelduin and Theo taking the great sides of beef and ham, Andrew bringing the wine. It always seemed to afford the Prince some malicious inner amusement to see that. Occasionally he taunted the crippled Andrew, asking if he had been sampling the wine in secret, and whether it had not fired his ardours. Theodora had noticed that Andrew was never roused to anger or impatience at this; he simply placed the wine before the Prince and retreated to the small, austere room which he had made his own, as Theo had made the brick room off the sculleries hers. He did not say very much at all, other than occasionally to bid Theodora and Maelduin a good morning, or, very rarely, to ask for help with carrying something that was awkward. Theo did not know him very well, but then she did not know either of them very well. Maelduin was courteous and he shared in the work, but he did so rather in the manner of a machine or a puppet, and his inability to speak made him withdrawn. None of them spoke much, now that Theo thought about it.

And the repulsive Quintus was never permitted inside the Castle, other than to take prisoners to the dungeons. Theo had seen the Prince lash out at Quintus once when he had crept into the scullery for warmth one bitter winter night. She had seen Quintus cringe and try to throw up his hands to shield himself, and she had felt, not pity exactly, because no one could feel pity for Quintus. But the way he had cowered had somehow stayed with her, and once or twice she had stolen out to the pitiful place where he slept, taking an extra blanket or a bale of fresh straw; now and then a mug of soup or stew. The sunken eyes in the loathsome face had flickered with something that might have been gratitude, and the cowled head had bowed in acknowledgement of the small kindness. Theo had tried not to think too much about the way that Quintus had bowed his head and been grateful.

When she and Maelduin entered the hall, carrying the dishes of ham and beef and the casks of warm, spiced wine, the Fomoire were singing one of their sly Hunting songs and several of them were trying out some new steps to their creeping, ugly dance, occasionally stopping to leap up on to the long oaken tables, which had already been set with dishes of crystallised fruits and flagons of the sticky sickly wine that the Prince always gave his guests before a banquet, and which Theo thought extremely unpleasant.

The Prince was seated before the long table, watching the Fomoire, resting his chin on one hand, and Theo repressed a shudder at the sight of him. He was wearing a suit of soft black velvet with the emblem of some ancient House about his shapeless neck, and the gills in his neck were opening and closing. Like this, richly garbed, he was far more sinister, far more menacing and repulsive than in the plain dark breeches and jerkin he normally wore.

‘You are in a haste to leave us tonight, my dear,’ said the Prince in his repellent, glottal voice, his eyes resting on Theodora as she set the dishes down and stood back. He reached out, and a webbed hand curled about Theo’s wrist, pulling her closer. Behind her, Andrew and Maelduin made as if to move, but although it was no more than a hesitant, fearful twitch, the Prince sent out a lashing, glinting spear that knocked them to the floor.

‘Do not meddle, paltry Humanish,’ he said, his eyes suffused with hatred. ‘You know what happens when you meddle. Or must I remind you?’ The flat, pale eyes in their cushions of swollen-looking flesh gleamed with anticipation, and Andrew and Maelduin flinched. Beneath the banqueting table, the Prince’s gristly fin stirred slightly, as if the sudden brief violence had excited him, and Theo bit back a shudder. He looked back at Theo, and as he did so, the Fomoire danced across the floor and stood in a grinning circle about her.

‘Tonight, Master?’ they cried. ‘Tonight? You promised us it would be tonight!’ they cried, and the Prince smiled the terrible flat smile.

‘Tonight,’ he said nodding, and the Fomoire whirled into a delighted Goblin-dance, four of them snatching Theo from her feet and carrying her across the hall and flinging her into the great carven chair at the Prince’s side. Theo felt the breath knocked from her at the unexpectedness of it, but she fought them, because it was quite unspeakably dreadful to be carried along like this. She could feel their little wizened hands digging into her flesh, and she could smell the warm, greasy, meaty stench of them. She struggled again and the Fomoire screeched with mirth.

‘A pretty pigeon,’ they cried, leaping into the air, the cloaks of Human skin flying outwards. ‘See how she wriggles! A lively little one! Let us have her for an hour, Master!’

‘Let us take her skin and wear it, Master!’

‘Such a fair skin.’

‘Such a pale skin.’

‘There never was such a pale, fair, Humanish skin!’ they cried, and linked hands at the centre of the hall, dancing and gibbering with evil glee.

The Prince was still watching Theodora. ‘All these years,’ he said, softly. ‘All these years of watching you and anticipating you …’

‘I have kept you safe, princess,’ he said. ‘You have been safe and secret here, and none has searched for you’ The wide, lipless mouth stretched in a terrible smile. ‘And now, the time has come for me to have you at my side,’ he said softly. ‘The time has come for us to return to the Porphyry Palace’ He broke off, watching her closely. ‘You recognise that?’

‘I am … not sure.’ With the words ‘Porphyry Palace’, there had been a brief flare of something: warmth and comfort; brilliant shining creatures and colourfully garbed people. Laughter and music … ‘I am not sure,’ said Theo again, and the Prince smiled.

‘You will see it soon,’ he said, and his pale, swollen-eyed face swam closer. Theo shrank back in the chair. ‘White-skinned,’ said the Prince, and there was a lick of wet anticipation in his voice. ‘White-skinned and dark haired, and with the Royal Amaranth blood.’

His eyes raked her body and he moved closer. Theo shuddered, and struggled to free her hands from his grasp. There was a dry, rustling sound as the membranous fin began to unfurl, and the Prince shifted slightly in his seat. Theo, caught between fear and panic, saw the fin distend a little more.

‘Perhaps the Fomoire will help to change your opinion of me,’ said the Prince in a guttural whisper, the gills in his neck opening and closing like dreadful, sucking mouths. ‘Perhaps I shall allow them to tie you down before I ravish you, Princess.’

At once the Fomoire leapt high with glee.

‘Tie her down!’

‘Ravish the Princess!’

And then:

‘Anoint the maiden, skin the bride

Peel the skin and keep the hide.

Hair and teeth and bones and fur.

Amaranth skin and Amaranth hair.’

The Prince smiled, as if he found this faintly amusing, as if precocious children had tried to entertain him.

‘For ten years I have kept the Amaranth Princess, the heiress to the great Royal Sorcery House of Ireland,’ he said, in a soft, gloating voice. ‘I have kept you safe, and none has challenged me.

‘And now the waiting is over. Now we shall celebrate the culmination of ten years. Now, here, with the Fomoire who have served me so well.’ The smile lifted his lips again. ‘And if I find you pleasing,’ he said, ‘then perhaps I shall allow the Fomoire to sample you also.’

At once the Fomoire screeched and whirled excitedly about the hall, their claws scrabbling on the stone flags, the skin-cloaks flying wildly.

‘And tomorrow,’ said the Prince ‘tomorrow we march on the Porphyry Palace.’ His eyes narrowed.

‘But tonight is our wedding night,’ he said.

*

The Fomoire leapt and screamed into delighted dancing again, and the two who had borne Theo to the carven chair, pounced on her again, carrying her to the centre of the hall. They laid her down, and two more leapt forward, taking her wrists and ankles. Theo, fighting and clawing, her mind tumbling, felt them stretch her feet apart, and as she sobbed and struggled to get free, she felt their little hard claws ripping the thin gown from her.

Deep within her mind she was aware of Andrew and Maelduin standing at the far end, and she was aware of a flare of something brilliantly blue-green and icily powerful from Maelduin. Would they save her? Could they save her?

But the Fomoire were dancing and jeering all round the hall, their grotesque shadows silhouetted against the dark Castle walls, and the Prince was moving across the floor towards her.

And he is taking his time, thought Theo, staring at him.

He moved slowly, unhurriedly, as if he were savouring the moment, and his expression was flat and calm.

But behind him, the pale, monstrous fin was unfurled; it was distended and erect in obscene lust, framing the squat, black-clad figure.

The Fomoire had been singing as they danced, screeching their grisly Hunting Song, their skin-clad claws ringing out on the huge stone flags of the hall. It seemed to Theodora, that the ancient hall was filled with horrid sly singing and with scrabbling clawed dancing, and with the meaty, grease-soaked odours of the Fomoire.

And then the Prince was standing over her, and there was no doubt about his excitement now: it was blazing from his eyes and it was pulsating from him in thick, grotesque waves. The membranous fin framed him and, as he looked down at her, Theo felt the cold ancient sea-magic of his terrible House enfold her; his breath, tainted with the stench of rotting fish, gusting sickeningly into her face.

As he reached down, the Fomoire ceased their singing and dancing as suddenly as if an order had been given, and came to stand in a circle about her.

Into the abrupt silence came the swelling sound of the cold, painful music that had trickled out of the Gateway and down the cliff path earlier on.

Theo saw the Prince lift his head, listening, and his eyes narrowed in cold anger. The Fomoire turned, their Goblin-faces wary and frowning, and in the same instant Theo saw Andrew and Maelduin half turn.

The doors to the banqueting hall were flung open, and light and heat and noise poured in.

Through the great arched entrance — glinting evilly, armoured in black, caparisoned in scarlet and gold, steeped in ancient evil — came the Armies of the Lord of Chaos.

Chapter Forty-seven

They came streaming in, black and gleaming, the chariot wheels of Murder’s grisly carriage scudding across the ground, the Rodent Armies swarming forward, with the Almhuinians close behind them. Beyond them the WarMongers were massing, sinister and shadowy, but emanating the fearsome powers they possessed: Mutilation, Agony, Torment, Terror …

The Fisher Prince sprang back from Theodora, his grotesque features contorted with rage, and the sly, red-eyed Rodent Captains surrounded him at once, their thin rat-tails twitching with horrid delight, their narrow, mean faces grinning.

The Fomoire released Theodora at once, and she half ran, half fell across the hall to where Andrew was standing.

Behind the Rodent Armies and the Almhuinians were the repulsive stalk-eyed Spiaireachts, the creatures born of the Draoicht Spiaire, warped, mutant things born of black necromancy. They scuttled into the hall, their brain sacs bulging and quivering, spilling out of their skulls with eagerness. At the sight of them, something raked cruel claws across the surface of Theodora’s mind, stirring at something dark and hurting … I have faced these creatures or something akin to them once before … And I escaped then and I shall escape now, she thought.

In the face of every one of Chaos’s creatures was greed and blood-lust and animal hunger. They came swarming and pouring into the Grail Castle to the sound of the raging, discordant music, and as the music increased, the air became thick and fetid, clotted with old, evil magic and with strong necromancy.

As the music fell about them, Theo stared and, quite suddenly, in a single, glorious blaze of understanding, felt lights explode inside her head and memories start to open up. She thought, with surging delight: I remember. So overpowering, so breath-taking was the knowledge and the emotion, that for a moment she could not move; she stayed where she was, staring at the rushing Armies, and thought: of course! Memory uncurled further, its edges sharp and fragrant and fresh, and Theodora thought: these are the evil creatures I ran from, through the darkness of Chaos’s Realm, on the Uisce, with Andrew.

Andrew …

As she turned, he was with her, his arms coming about her, the warmth and the immediate feeling of safety he always gave her instantly there.

‘You remember —’

‘I remember,’ he said softly. ‘But there is no time to think of it now, Theodora.’

Theodora … The gentle, courteously careful pronunciation of her name enfolded Theo with the old love and protection, as sweet as the flurry of a summer’s breeze stirring a scented night-forest.

‘No time to think of it,’ repeated Andrew. ‘For these are Chaos’s Armies.’ And even though he was horrified and appalled at the might and the force of the Dark Armies, his own mind was singing and the memories and the understanding was pouring into him, as if he was being filled to overflowing with sweet, precious life once more.

Theo was dizzy, her mind was tumbling as layer after layer of memory rolled back, but Andrew was right; there was no time for remembering, there was no time for questioning … Chaos’s Armies were in the Castle, the might of the Dark Ireland was before them and they must fight for their lives. She glanced across the hall, and saw the strange, silent Maelduin watching, the light blazing from his eyes, as if he, also, were remembering, as if he, also, had been dragged out of an enchantment by the crashing music and the pounding hoofs of the Armies. As if he, in turn, were seeing the memories and the images unravelling, and as if he, also, were emerging from the half-light of the years in the Grail Castle.

A Veil is tearing, thought Theodora. That is exactly how it feels. A thick misty Veil has been shrouding us, but now it is being blown away, and we are seeing and we are hearing and we are remembering; not all at once, not in a bewildering, dazzling cascade, but a little at a time. Snatches, glimpses, like a flaring torch illuminating first one and then another chapter of our lives. Despite the danger, and despite the rampaging creatures in the Castle, she wanted to hold on to the moment, because it was so surgingly marvellous and so tremendously beautiful to see and to feel everything — your whole life — come tumbling back to you.

The Prince was on his feet, the Fomoire running to his side. The Fomoire were leaping and jeering, their cloaks flying outwards, screeching imprecations at the Dark Armies, but the Prince barely moved, and hardly seemed to look at the creatures invading his lair.

And then he raised one of his webbed hands, and something spun outwards and scissored through the air. There was a sudden, sizzling, slicing sound, and the heads of every single one of the Rodent Captains were scythed from their bodies in a single clean sweep, as if a giant invisible scimitar had sliced straight across them. Blood and gore spouted from the neck-stumps and gushed over the floor, and the ranks of Rodent soldiers hesitated and glanced at one another, disconcerted by such remarkable power.

But the Almhuinians and the Spiaireachts were before them, jeering at such squeamishness, wading through the squelching, slopping blood, raising their spears, encircling the pale, squat figure of the Prince. The Spiaireachts scurried forward, and Theodora saw that their armour was not ordinary silver or iron or metal, but hard shell, thick, crusted bone, that grew over their backs. Lights exploded in her mind, and the memories came tumbling and flooding all over again — painful, hurting, but marvellously, blessedly familiar. She thought: the creature in Chaos’s Castle! The horrid Enchantment of Spies that killed Rumour! These are its creatures! And even in the midst of such fear and such tumult, knew a sudden, terrible pain for Rumour who had died — and I had forgotten! thought Theo with agony.

The Fomoire leapt for the Almhuinians, linking hands and dancing, pointing with their bony fingers, producing the razors and the slicing tools they used for their grisly skinning work.

‘Humanish skins, lads,’ they shouted.

‘Cloaks for the peeling and fat for the roasting!’

‘Heat the fires, lads, warm the cages!’

‘To work, lads, to work!’

The Almhuinians struck out, wounding a couple of them, but the rest closed in, whirling and dancing, jabbing at the Almhuinians’ legs with their tiny, wicked knives, here and there drawing blood.

Andrew had stood with Theodora, holding her to him, feeling, as she had felt, the gentle, marvellous tumbling of memories, understanding as the light flickered on the lost years of his life, what had happened. We were the victims of an enchantment … A long, terrible spell that blanked our minds and our memories … He stared at the turmoil and the fighting in the hall, but for a breath space of time he did not think: we are at the centre of one of the greatest and bloodiest battles in Ireland’s history, but: how long has this creature held us in bondage! Anger flared, a deep, slow-burning anger that threatened to engulf him. He glanced to where the Prince was standing, a little removed, the flat, pale eyes watchful and unblinking, and cold rage filled his mind.

That is the evil creature whose sire hurt Rumour, who has kept Theodora chained in this Castle, so that she was unaware even of who she is … He has made her work like a scullion, he has taunted her and jibed as he taunted and jibed me, and he has taken pleasure from it …

He felt the fingers of both hands curl as he watched the Prince, and he began to calculate how he could be across the hall, dodging a path through the fighting and the seething, boiling mass, and be at the creature’s throat.

For, man of peace that I am, I should like to tear the creature’s throat out and gouge out its eyes and stamp on them …

And then, as he tensed his muscles to move, he became aware that the music had faded, and that a silence had descended on the hall. Every head turned to the open doorway; in every face now was eagerness, avidity, a strange, dark adoration tinged with terror.

The doors were still open to their widest extent, so that it was possible to see the night sky with the scudding black clouds, and to see quite clearly the crags and the cliffs of the Moher coastline. Andrew caught, very faintly, the sound of the ocean hurling itself against the cliffs, and quite suddenly this was a clean, strong sound; something natural and good, something that was a part of the real world. Something that had no part to play in evil Dark Lords, and in grisly, repulsive sea-kings who came from strange, tainted worlds and stole people’s minds and their memories.

And then, without the least sound, he was standing framed in the great doorway, a slender, almost slight figure, wrapped in the scarlet velvet cloak, the Silver Star of his sinister profession on his breast.

The evil Dark Lord who claimed descent from the House of Medoc. The arrogant, beautiful Lord of Chaos, surveying his new Domain … The greatest necromancer ever known, ready to enter and claim Ireland.

A power so tremendous radiated from him that Andrew and Theodora both flinched. Andrew felt a tremor go through Theo’s slight form, and she made a quick movement, as if she would have liked to shield her eyes. The anger that had surged up earlier swirled and flowed, and with it came the whisper, the flurry of that other presence, that strange, alien strength and fury that had been there once before, many years ago, when Andrew had faced Coelacanth …

The mantle of the Samildanach descending once again …

The Lord of Chaos stood motionless for a moment, only his eyes alive, scouring the hall, finally coming to rest on the grotesque, evil figure of the Prince. Light showed in Chaos’s eyes, and with it recognition, rather as if he had entered the hall at the invitation of an unknown host, and now sought that host to make him his compliments. He walked forward, slowly, unhurriedly, as graceful and as fastidious as a cat, and the Dark Lords moved into the hall behind him, standing grouped together near the door.

As Chaos came to a stop before the Prince, Andrew thought it was as if two immense protagonists were facing one another. He thought: this is surely one of the most momentous occasions in all of Ireland’s history. And through the fear and the tumultuous array of emotions, through the still-churning memories and the bitterness of what had been done to him, even beyond the agony he was feeling for Theodora and her safety, a strange thought formed itself: it would be a pity if this was never properly set down for all Ireland to know of it …

Chaos was studying the Prince. He said in his soft, cultured voice, ‘I make you my obeisance, Son of Coelacanth,’ and the Prince said, in his harsh, warped tones, ‘And I, yours, Lord of Chaos.’

But Andrew, listening very intently, thought that there was a faint uneasiness in the Prince’s voice, rather as if he had encountered something he had not expected to encounter, or as if he might have underestimated the strength of this particular adversary.

Chaos felt it as well. When he spoke again, it was in a stronger, much more amused voice. ‘You did not expect me?’ he said, and glanced about him. ‘I see you did not. I see you were too engrossed in your own affairs to hear my approach. The marriage with the Amaranth Princess? How fortunate for me.’

‘You do not need the caprices of fortune to lend you strength,’ said the Prince coldly.

‘I do not disdain Fortune’s favours, however,’ said Chaos, and the amused note was more noticeable now. Andrew heard it with something that was very nearly relief, because people do not allow amusement into their voices unless they are feeling very sure of themselves. And if we have to choose, I believe I would rather by far be at the mercy of Chaos than the Prince, he thought. For Chaos is at least some sort of gentleman …

The Fisher Prince said, ‘So you know my ancestry, Lord of Chaos?’

‘Certainly.’ Chaos was regarding the other with the slightly indulgent, very nearly fatherly mien of one who is meeting the very young son of an old friend. Andrew thought it was almost as if Chaos were saying, Ah, so this is Coelacanth’s boy, is it? How very interesting. Let us see how he has turned out and if he has his sire’s looks or his sire’s intelligence. Against the elegant and sophisticated Chaos, the Fisher Prince suddenly seemed gauche and unlicked.

Sent into the world scarce half made-up …

‘I knew Coelacanth rather well,’ said Chaos, walking round the hall as if he might be planning on how he would arrange it when he had taken it. He turned round sharply, and the scarlet velvet cloak billowed with a whisper of sound. ‘It was I who condemned him to the Tanning Pit,’ he said.

‘I am aware of that,’ said the Prince, the flat fish-eyes never leaving Chaos’s dark, slender figure.

‘And … have sworn to be avenged on me as a consequence?’ Andrew thought there was no doubt about the amusement now. Chaos said, softly, and quite courteously, ‘Then perhaps you would care to try your strength against mine, Prince? Perhaps you would like to fling your half-formed powers against the breeding and the generations and the centuries of scholarship I have inherited.’ He paused, his eyes resting on the other with indulgence and pity. ‘I am an aristocrat, you know,’ said Chaos. ‘I have studied and read and learned for more years, more centuries, than you will ever count.’ His voice held a purring tolerance, as if he might be saying: and as an aristocratic I am in honour bound to treat you with a degree of courtesy, no matter what I may secretly feel. I am a Lord of my Realm, while you are a monster, a mongrel-thing, bred on to a part-Human, spawned out of a brutal rape. And I can deflect anything you care to summon …

The Prince did not summon anything, he seemed almost to shrink before Chaos’s dark force. Andrew caught the flicker of movement on the edges of his vision, and turned to see the Fomoire creeping backwards. He thought: they see it. They see that their Prince is being defeated and that Chaos is the stronger. Will they change sides and give their allegiance back to Chaos?

And then the Prince whirled about. He seemed to tower to thrice his former size, and the monstrous fin that had curled about his webbed feet erected in a single, repulsive movement and enclosed him; and in the same moment, malignant power streamed outwards from him: a cold, pouring vapour that hit Chaos full on.

Chaos half fell, the streaming cold light all about him. A white rim formed on his armour, and ice outlined his head.

The Prince gave his glottal laugh. ‘You condemned my sire to the heat of the Tanning Tit, charlatan!’ he screeched. ‘But I condemn you to the cold and the frozen ice of the Petrified Forests!’ He moved closer to Chaos, and stood looking down at the necromancer, his flat, ugly face stretched in a lipless smile. ‘How does it feel, Chaos,’ said the Fisher Prince in a hissing whisper, ‘how does it feel to have the blood in your body becoming solid, and your heart encased in ice? To know that you are hardening into brittleness.’ He leaned nearer. ‘Presently, your bones will be so brittle that they will splinter even as you breathe,’ he said. ‘You will be a Man of Ice. And very soon now your eyes will solidify. How will you feel when that happens? And how does it feel to experience this!’ cried the Prince, and with the flick of one hand, sent a second blast of icy vapour at Chaos’s face.

At once the air surrounding Chaos became blue-tinged, and the Almhuinians and the Rodent soldiers, who had been unsheathing their swords, backed away.

Chaos was fighting the ice sheets, but Andrew could see that they were too strong for him. Twice he lifted a hand to slice away the ice with fire spears and with cascades of pouring flames, and both times the Fisher Prince’s ice doused it instantly.

The Dark Lords had not moved, but Andrew saw that, at the centre of their small group, twisting fire columns were forming, and knew that they were preparing to fight the Prince for their Lord’s freedom.

The Prince glanced contemptuously in their direction and, raising a hand in a negligent gesture, caused the ice to pour forward again, encasing them. The Dark Lords shrieked and fell back, scrabbling at the thick, cold air, screaming in fear and pain.

Chaos’s face was pure white, and his eyes were glazed. Andrew, struggling to free his hands from the cords, saw that the necromancer’s eyes had suddenly taken on a hard look, a glazed, fixed look. He remembered the Prince’s words, and understood that the liquid part of Chaos’s eyes was freezing into solid globes. Chaos’s eyes were turning into two spheres of ice in his head, and in another moment, in another moment …

The Prince sent out his evil, bubbling laugh again, the gaping fins at the side of his neck opening and closing. Bending down, he struck Chaos hard across his eyes, and at once there was a dreadful, cracking, shattering sound.

Chaos fell writhing on the ground, terrible agony in his movements, both hands flung upwards to shield his eyes. As he did so, there was the sound of his bones splintering and shattering, and he curled in agony on the ground.

But there had been a split second when his eyes had been uncovered, and in that second, Andrew had seen that they had cracked; they had smashed and crazed into a hundred tiny shards, exactly as thin pottery would craze, or as fragile glass might shatter.

The Fisher Prince had left Chaos sightless and in unremitting agony …

The Dark Lords were screaming and trying to reach the door, tumbling over one another in their haste to escape the fate that had befallen their Master. But Andrew could see that each of them now had the staring white orbs, the immovable solid eyeballs. The Prince struck at them again, and Andrew heard once more the grisly shattering of their eyes, and as they fell, moaning in agony, he heard their bones smash like thin glass.

Chaos’s armies had retreated, the Almhuinians slightly wounded from the Fomoire, the Rodent soldiers looking nervous. Cowardly at heart! thought Andrew. Is this the moment when I can somehow break free? On the other side of the hall, the Fomoire crouched low on the ground, rather like children making a circle to play some secret game. In the shadows, he saw the silent, strange Maelduin, who had shared their long captivity, move forward, his eyes glinting. But I cannot be sure of that one, thought Andrew. He was never in my memory and he was never in my life. I have no knowledge of his allegiances or of who he is. It is up to me.

And sure, there would never be a better moment. Chaos and his Lords were blinded and dying; the Rodent Captains were dead. If I can but get across the hall, he thought, and with the thought, reached for and felt the strength of that other one, that unknown creature who was not unknown at all, and felt the strength uncoil a little.

As he did so, lights exploded at the far end of the hall, and the doors of the Grail Castle were once more flung wide.

The people of Moher, brandishing home-made weapons, their faces set and determined, erupted into the hall and fell on the Almhuinians and the Rodent soldiers.

*

Now Andrew did not hesitate. The power was pouring through him, light-filled, ancient, but so brimful of beauty and strength and dawn magic that for a moment his vision blurred and wavered.

The people of the Moher Cliffs were laying about the Rodent creatures and the Almhuinians, spearing them with their rather makeshift weapons, but inflicting a good deal of damage. Andrew saw them kill several Rodent soldiers, and there were certainly six or seven Almhuinians bleeding and badly wounded on the floor.

But the Fomoire had recovered themselves, and they were advancing on the Moher army. They were tiptoeing forward in their horrid, exaggerated parody of naughty children trying not to be seen. Andrew looked across the hall, and saw that the Prince was standing watching the furore, sinister amusement on his face. Chaos lay at his feet — Dead? thought Andrew, and knew at once that Chaos was not dead. He was maimed, he was sightless, his bones were shattered, but he was not dead. And which of them do I attack? thought Andrew in sudden agony. Which of them should be disabled first?

And instantly came the answer: the Prince, for the Prince is far and away the more powerful of the two.

The strength was filling him up, exactly as it had done in Tiarna when he faced Coelacanth. Now, facing Coelacanth’s son, he could almost see the power and the force of the legendary Samildanach, he could feel it: pouring blue light forming the shape of a cloak, enclosing him with its ancient strength and its long-ago power.

It is not my strength and it is not my power, as it was not when I killed this creature’s sire. But it is vouchsafed to me and it is somehow filled with light and love and hope and I must use it …

For a moment the famous beautiful words of the One he served were all about him: I am the light of the world … And so walk while ye have the light, lest the darkness come upon ye …

I have the light, thought Andrew. For a breath space of time I have the light: the light of the world … Take it and grasp it firmly, for there will never be such another moment as this one …

The Samildanach, the Man of Each and Every Art who will cut a swathe of light through the darkness and drive back the Black Realm forever …

I don’t understand it, thought Andrew wildly, and at once came the answer as it had come before: You do not need to …

He did not need to understand. He needed only to turn it outwards, this soaring, pouring light, this immense, marvellous force.

The light of the world …

He moved forward, using the ash stick that was always with him, but moving swiftly to stand before the monstrous spawn of the Fisher King, Coelacanth’s son, the light-filled essence all about him. He was briefly aware that Theodora was nearby, and there was a sudden warm, pouring comfort from her, but there was a strength from another also … Andrew caught, on the edges of his vision, a blur of blue and green, the sudden, almost-blinding flash of a creature who had been enclosed in a Humanish carapace, but who was somehow composed not of Human skin and bones and hair, but of soaring, silken sleekness and mischievous, brilliant eyes, and the cool sea-magic of a close, secret race …

Slay the Prince, Humanish Monk, and I will deal with the other one …

Maelduin shot across the hall, a pouring, darting silhouette, and although Andrew was not conscious of having moved, he was standing before the Prince, and the evil, ugly thing was regarding him with contempt and amusement.

‘So you think to challenge me, Humanish Monk,’ said the glottal voice, softly. ‘You think to pit your puny strength and your paltry powers against me.’

Andrew regarded him for a moment, and when at last he spoke, his voice was stronger and sharper; it was filled with pouring golden light and soaring anger and with every strong emotion ever felt or dreamed or imagined. It was a voice unmistakably and beautifully Irish, the pure, lovely Irish of long-dead peoples: of the Cruithin who had spoken the untainted golden speech that had been in Ireland before Tara was raised from the rock; of the silver-tongued druids who had understood about harnessing light in everything they did, and had carried that light into their own, jealously guarded language; of the Celtae and the ancient race of Pretani and Qreteni who had traded with the East and been known as tribes of a misty blue and green northern isle; of the Lagin of the south and the Veneti of the north, and every other forgotten lost race of Ireland …

He stood before the Fisher Prince, and said, in the soft, ancient language, ‘Regard once more the Samildanach, Coelacanth,’ and saw fear, pure and undiluted, leap into the Prince’s eyes. ‘You remember the vow I once took to slay you and your House?’ he said. ‘I am here to make live that vow, Coelacanth.’ And with the words, leapt at the creature’s throat, exactly as he had done with its sire in Tiarna.

The Prince fell back, throwing up his hands, and the two of them crashed to the floor. Andrew’s hands were digging into the Prince’s thick, scaled neck, his thumbs were gouging deep inside the gills, choking the monstrous thing, shutting off its air, throttling the evil, tainted life out of it …

Light filled the great hall of the Grail Castle, and with it a silver, scaldingly beautiful music, gentle and pure and so lovely you would gladly die if only it would never stop, and so unearthly that you would be afraid to see it take shape …

Maelduin stopped in his tracks and half turned his head, and an expression of the purest joy shone from his eyes. He seized a Rodent Captain’s sword, and shot arrow-straight across the hall in a whirl of turquoise and silver and with the brief, blurred impression of a wingless dragonfly.

He fell on the blinded and dying Lord of Chaos and, lifting the sword aloft, buried it deep in the necromancer’s heart.

Chapter Forty-eight

Andrew moved slowly and warily through the silent Grail Castle, and felt the weight of its age and the heaviness of its memories descend about him. He thought it was not absurd to think that the Veil of Unknowing had smothered the Castle as well as its prisoners, and that with the slaying of the Monster who had for ten years dwelled within it, the memories and the legends were tumbling back through the vast halls and the immense galleries.

And I have completed my task, he thought. I have completed both my tasks: for Theodora will be safe, and I have slain the Monster of the Grail Castle, and ended the tainted House of Coelacanth, the Fisher King. I killed the creature, thought Andrew, exactly as I killed his sire.

And with the memory of that other killing, for a sudden, sweet moment, Rumour was with him again, and he could feel the cool ruffle of mockery and the soft, amused irony. Remembering me with sadness, Andrew? Remembering me as a part of the battles and the struggles and the deprivations?

And of course it was not how she would have wanted to be remembered. She would have wanted to be remembered with happiness. Music and wine and firelight and laughter … All the good things … Andrew paused in his slow search of the great, dark Fortress, and felt the beginnings of a smile lift his lips. She was gone, of course, that wilful, extravagant creature, and he would never see her this side of eternity …

But perhaps she was not completely gone from him. Perhaps he would hear the echo of her laughter, and perhaps he would remember her reckless bravery and her dauntless humour. Perhaps he would be able to remember her with happiness in time.

It is how I should wish you to remember, Andrew …

It was how anyone you had loved would wish you to remember.

The Samildanach’s mantle had left him as swiftly as it had come, and Andrew had fallen back from the Prince’s threshing, dying body, covered in the sour black blood that had spurted from its gills and its mouth. Andrew had staggered away from it, choking and shuddering. But Maelduin had not hesitated. He had plunged the sword into the helpless body of Chaos, again and again, before whipping round and setting about the Dark Lords. The eerily lit hall had become a place of gore and terror and dying agonies; it had echoed to the screams of the Rodent soldiers and the Almhuinians, and the eldritch squealing of the escaping Fomoire.

And then Maelduin had stood up and Andrew had seen that a brilliant, mischievous light shone in his eyes, so that they were glowing, slanting pools of colour, turquoise-blue jewels that gave his face such eerie beauty that Andrew wondered how he could ever have believed the boy to be Human.

Maelduin said, very softly, ‘We will fling the carcass of this evil one into the ocean, and it will return to its people if that is the gods’ wish.’ And there had been such radiance pouring outwards from him that Andrew and Theodora had both blinked, and Theodora had stared at Maelduin with sudden understanding, and the light had fallen about her small, heart-shaped face, making it so purely lovely that Andrew had felt a deep, secret pain twist his heart. He thought: she is dazzled by him. And in the same moment, had understood completely; for he too was dazzled by Maelduin.

And my task is ended, he had thought again. Theodora will be safe, the Dark Ones are dead, and I have found Quintus.

Quintus.

He had gone then, leaving the two of them together, seeking out Quintus, finally coming upon him in a kind of outhouse, perhaps a part of an old stable block.

‘You have lived — here?’ said Andrew, pausing in the doorway, seeing the dirt that was ingrained into the floor and the walls, seeing the bed of straw, the mean, sparse furniture: a straight-backed chair and a small deal table. It was cold and draughty, and what little light there was filtered uneasily through a thickly grimed window high up in the outer wall. So

Quintus had lived here, thought Andrew, he had lived here for all these years, the Fisher Prince’s dreadful curse eating his flesh, helpless beneath it, seeing himself become a thing of such loathing that people could hardly bear to look at him, feeling himself grow into the repulsive, vile creature that had terrorised the surrounding countryside.

‘You have lived here?’ said Andrew again, and this time did not try to keep the horror and the disgust from his voice.

Quintus was seated quietly on the straw, the dark cowl folded about him, but his eyes calm and steady. Andrew saw that, although the Monk’s skin was still raw and in patches still seeping blood, the Fisher Prince’s fearsome curse had receded a little. This was no longer the foul, suppurating creature that had crawled at the behest of the Prince and cast the black net of Torach about its prey. Andrew understood now that Quintus had lived alongside the Prince’s servants with full knowledge, and with complete understanding. Had it been easier for Quintus to know and understand what was being done to him? Or worse? Quintus had been spoken of as an outstanding Brother in the Order; he had possessed intelligence and sensitivity and he had had a deep appreciation of beautiful things. Was that one of the reasons he had fallen prey to the dark allure of the necromancers? He remembered the adage that the devil chooses the best when he scours the world for prey, and he understood that the devil, the Dark Lords, the necromancers of the Black Ireland had done just that when they had lured Quintus to this terrible thralldom.

Andrew was torn between compassion and anger against one who had succumbed to so much evil and who had sinned so deeply and caused such terror and such bloodshed. But even as the thought formed, a tiny voice inside him said, very quietly: but you too have sinned, Andrew. You too broke the vows you made and fell victim to temptation.

You too put another before your god. It is not for you to pronounce sentence or make judgement. And Quintus has surely made reparation.

Andrew stared at the quiet figure before him, and thought: but can I be sure that the evil has gone? Can I believe that Quintus has finally and for all time routed the black core, that the evil centre is gone? Dare I trust him?

Quintus said in a quiet voice, an exhausted, drained voice, ‘I do not know if you can trust me, Andrew, because I do not yet know if I can trust myself.’ He looked around the dim, dirt-encrusted room, and a deep and bitter agony filled his eyes. ‘I have tried to tear out the black evil that Chaos recognised in me, and that the Fisher Prince harnessed. I struggled to pluck it out in the depths of the Dark Lords’ Pit! I thought I had succeeded!’ cried Quintus in anguish, and torment flared in his eyes again. ‘I thought I was paying the debt, serving my penance. I have tried, Andrew,’ said Quintus very quietly. ‘May God forgive me, I have tried.’

Andrew, hardly daring to breathe, said, very gently, ‘But — you feel that you may not have succeeded?’ And waited, and presently Quintus said, ‘I feel I may not have succeeded.’ He lifted his head and looked directly at Andrew. ‘Help me,’ he said.

There was no other course of action open to him, of course. There was nothing to do but accept the weight of this new responsibility. Could he do it? Could he bring this tormented, tortured creature back to the ways of the Order? Could he snatch Quintus from the brink of the dark abyss on which he still — Andrew could feel it — hesitated?

He stood in the ancient quadrangle, bounded on all sides by the great Stronghold, and looked about him. A place of immense sadness and of brooding secrecy. But, for all that, a place where happiness had once flourished and, God willing, could flourish again.

He felt, as if it were a tangible thing, the sufferings and the torments and the despairing lonelinesses of the place, but he felt, as well, a hidden joy here. There had been happiness and contentment inside these walls; there had been years of scholarship and study, times when the Castle had been revered and sought-out, times when pilgrims and searchers after truth had travelled to it with eagerness and delight.

His mind went to the immense, book-lined room at the Castle’s western side, where surely a man — several men — could work and study and be at one with God. With sudden, startled delight, Andrew saw how the Castle was a place where a community, a small cloister, a whole Order could grow and flourish; where devout men could work and learn and imbue the old stones and the ancient bricks with tranquillity and prayer and calm.

And spread God’s word and Christ’s way of life into Ireland.

Just as Andrew had always intended.

*

Theodora sat curled into a deep, velvet-covered chair in the warm, firelit book room of the Castle, her eyes fixed on the slender, graceful figure of Maelduin, her cheeks flushed with delight and with the fire’s heat.

Maelduin regarded her thoughtfully, his head on one side. He was seated cross-legged on the floor before the fire, and the firelight was cascading over his slight, slender form, washing him with its soft radiance. Theodora thought she had never seen anything so utterly beautiful and so entirely inHuman as this creature of firelight and strange, subtle nuances and glinting, turquoise eyes.

But she only said, ‘Your world of Tiarna is spun into so many of our stories and so many of our legends, and yet no one from my world has ever seen it.’

‘And yet we have been together, working alongside each other, for ten years,’ said Maelduin.

‘Yes. The Veil of Unknowing.’ It still made Theo shudder when she thought how they had all lived unknowingly and unseeingly for so long under the Prince’s evil. But it did not do any good to look back. All you could do was look forward, and so she said, ‘Tell me about your world.’ And sipped the wine they were sharing, and watched the firelight play on his slender form, and felt the shadows of the Fisher Prince roll back a little further.

‘We guard our world,’ said Maelduin. ‘Particularly we guard it from the Humanish.’ He smiled at her, and Theo thought: his voice is like molten silver, or the pouring, sweet-scented fire rivers of the Mome Mountains …

Maelduin leaned forward, so that the light fell across the planes of his face, making it mysterious and unearthly. He said, very softly, ‘Tiarna is a place of soft, gentle radiance and rippling, silver water-light. But you would recognise it instantly, Princess.’

‘I — would I?’

‘Yes. For Tiarna is Tara’s heart-image, it is the Bright Citadel, the Shining Palace of the nimfeach who stole the sorcerer-architects’ designs for Tara and copied them.’ There was the glint of cool amusement again. ‘While it lived,’ said Maelduin, ‘before Coelacanth stole the music, Tiarna was filled with the elegant magic of my people and with the flowing, beckoning music created from Men’s souls and their senses.’

While it lived …

Theodora said, carefully, ‘You make it sound so beautiful.’

‘It is beautiful,’ said Maelduin, and Theo thought: and he will return to it all. Yes, of course he will. He will find a way to restore his people to life and he will return to it. Perhaps I could help him, or perhaps the Amaranths could. But I can have no part in his world, she thought. I can have no part in his world nor he in mine. He is a sidh, a cool, elvish creature of mischievous enchantments and gentle, fey music, and he is Tiarna’s Crown Prince …

And the ancient faery sidhblood could never mingle with the Amaranth Flame …

Maelduin said, very softly, ‘Will you come with me to Tiarna, Princess?’ and Theo looked up, because there had been something so intimate in his voice, and something so — what had he called his music? — so beckoning, that it was impossible not to feel its allure.

She stared at him and felt an entirely different delight, and knew that it would happen, he would take her there, and she would see for herself the shining, secret world, the heart-image of Tara, stolen all those, centuries ago, the Tiarnan Palace that lay through the ancient water tunnels and beyond the Silver Caves where the only light was the rippling water-light of the oceans …

When your people and mine are restored …

Maelduin thought: this remarkable creature is the most extraordinarily beautiful Humanish I shall ever know. She is fragile and slender, but beneath it all she is stronger than any Humanish I have ever seen. And her hair is like a raven’s wing, and when she laughs, her eyes glow, so that I can see the dark flame of the Amaranth power. I believe she has the power essence of the entire sorcerous House of Amaranths all rolled up into one …

He stood up and held out his hands, and Theodora stood up with him and felt the coolness of his skin against hers as his hands enfolded her own.

‘Come with me now,’ said Maelduin, his eyes glowing. ‘Come with me to find the lost music.’

*

The music …

As they went hand in hand through the Castle, Maelduin was listening and feeling and reaching out for that flurry of cool, elvish singing that had thrummed on the air just before he had killed the Lord of Chaos. He was strongly aware of Theodora at his side, and he was aware, as well, of the warmth and the strength of the ancient Amaranth Flame glowing within her. Sudden delight surged up in him, and he thought: together we would be invincible, she and I … The sea-magic of the sidh and the Sacred Flame of the Dawn Sorcerers …

Could it be done? Could I find a way?

But he thrust the thought from him, and turned his entire concentration towards the light, silvery thread that he could feel somewhere at the heart of this dark, Humanish stronghold. For it is somewhere here. I know it and I sense it and I feel it. And I will not leave this place until I have found it …

The Grail Castle must have hidden and harboured many secrets in its time, but Maelduin thought there could never have been so strange a secret kept here as the sidh’s music, stolen all those years ago by Coelacanth, searched for by Coelacanth’s son — yes of course! thought Maelduin, remembering, as Theodora was remembering, how sometimes at dusk the music had sung quietly to itself, and how the Fisher Prince at those times had rampaged through the Castle, tearing down hangings and ripping aside panelling. He heard it and he felt it and he feared it. But he never managed to find it, thought Maelduin. It hid from him throughout all those years. But it will not hide from me now.

For I am the Crown Prince of Tiarna and it will answer my summons …

The old imperiousness was still with him, and as he stood at the Castle’s centre, he felt the ruffle of cool beauty brush his mind.

Yes, it is here and it is safe!

There was a moment when it was all about him, swooping joyously everywhere, assaulting his senses and drenching him in its soft, seductive bewitchment. He could feel it breaking out of the Veil cast over the Castle by the Prince, just as the Prince’s servants had broken out. He could feel it thrusting upwards out of the smothering evil, its beauty unquenched, its power no longer trammelled.

Theodora, standing at Maelduin’s side, her senses spinning with delight at the music’s allure, looked about her, and knew, quite suddenly, where the music was …

Because I brought it out of the Dark Realm when I broke through the Moher Gateway with Andrew and the Uisce. And then, with painful understanding: it was the sidh’s music that Rumour gave to me! she thought. Rumour knew … And for a brief space, Rumour was with her, the amused mockery that had been Rumour’s stock-in-trade, the faint disdain that had characterised her, but also the warmth and the generosity that had run like a rich river beneath.

Rumour had saved the music for the sidh.

Theodora turned to Maelduin, her face glowing, and said, ‘I know where the music is.’

*

They stood together on the Castle steps, the Uisce waiting obediently for them, their few possessions packed, and there was nothing more to be said to the two who would remain, except, ‘Farewell.’

Can I say it? thought Theo, staring at Andrew. Can I do it? Can I truly ride away with Maelduin, and bid farewell to this strange, thin-faced monk with haunted eyes and a sweet, sudden smile?

And who has within him the living seeds of an old, old legend, and who slaughtered Coelacanth and Coelacanth’s terrible son?

The Samildanach who would come into Ireland when Ireland least expected it, and who would come modestly and quietly, but who would cut a swathe of light through the Dark Lands …

And then, quite suddenly, it did not matter about making correct speeches, or about pretending to be brave, or struggling not to cry, or even about saying they would remember one another. It did not matter, because it would not be farewell. They would be together again in the future — not once, but many times. And so it was simply, ‘Until the next time we are together.’ Wasn’t there a phrase for it, something in ancient Gael, or Qretani or Cruithin?

And then Andrew, the golden strength of the Samildanach shining in his eyes, said, the unfamiliar lilt in his voice again, ‘Beannacht leatgo bhfeicfidh me aris thu.’ And smiled.

Theo said softly, ‘Until we meet again.’

‘Yes.’ He held out his arms and Theo went into them.

‘When you come back, Princess, I shall be here.’

That said it all, thought Theo. Goodbye until we meet again. And when you come back, I shall be here …

Yes, he would be here in this dark old Castle, which might not be dark any more, because Andrew would fill it with gentle, scholarly learning, and with his strange, rather beautiful prayers and rituals, and with the soft rhythmic singing of his Order. He would work with Quintus — a quiet, pale, shadow of a man now — and they would both mingle with the people of Moher, the shy, courageous farmers and hillside people who had so bravely stormed the Castle and helped to slay Chaos and the Fisher Prince. And in time, perhaps others of their beliefs would join them. Moher with its stark, awe-inspiring beauty could once more become a place of pilgrimage, as it had been in Ireland’s Golden Age.

It would happen. And I can leave him knowing it will happen, thought Theodora, and as Maelduin helped her to mount the Uisce, despite the pain of leaving Andrew, there was a sudden spiral of excitement, because all Ireland was stretching out before them, and the light was shining from the Uisce, and Theodora felt the joy well up all over again. Because we are going home, we are going home, and although I do not know what may have happened during the dark years of my enslavement, I am returning to the Porphyry Palace of the Amaranths.

As they rode out of the Grail Castle, she could see the faint light irradiating from Maelduin, so that it was as if he was sprinkling cool, elvish light across the countryside. She thought: I should never forget that he is not in the least Humanish, and I shall never forget that he is from the strange sea world of the sidh …

Because, although he walks with ordinary Humanish tread, and although he wears the plain garb of a Humanish traveller, in reality he is a creature that once had a silken, iridescent shape that darted like a will o’ the wisp through the Wolfwood and hunted the Humanish for sport. And once he was so shiningly beautiful that it would have been certain madness and sure death to look on him …

And the cool sidh could never mingle with the Dawn Flame of the Amaranths.

At her side, Maelduin, watching her covertly, understanding her feelings, thought: within her eyes is the thin bright flame of the ancient Amaranth power, and at her beck are the spells and the enchantments, and all the inherited learning and force of Ireland’s Royal Sorcerers; the magical, mystical enchantments from the far-away days when Tara was created by the sorcerer-architects who poured magic into the land as easily as if they were pouring water from one jug to another. And she is the hereditary ruler of her House … A smile curved his lips, and the light that shone in his slanting eyes was not entirely cool any longer.

She will brook no interference; she will have her own ideas and she will have her own ways, and she will be strong and she will depend on no one.

But I believe that, between us, we could rule both worlds, he thought. Between us, we could do it …

Could I do it? he thought suddenly. Could I really abandon Tiarna and my people? Embrace the world of the Humanish, not just for a time, but for ever?

It had never been done. But that did not mean it could not be done.

The grin touched his lips again. Because if I can do it, he thought, if I can but restore my people and return to them the stolen music, if I can find a way to wear the Humanish Enchantment for ever, then together Theodora and I could blend two magical peoples and make Ireland far stronger and far greater than ever in her history …

The grin deepened, and together they rode into the sunlight, the Crown Prince of the ancient underwater empire of Tiarna, shining with the gentle sea magic of his people; and, at his side, the Amaranth sorceress, the exiled heiress, the captive Princess, returning to Ireland’s Royal House.

Both of them going home.

Epilogue

The legendary Tapestry Enchantment, later called the Unfinished Spell, and later still called, quite inaccurately, Amaranthian Nights, was not added to until several years after the sorceress Rumour’s death.

They had all been so busy, said the Amaranths firmly, emerging blinking into the world again. When you had been under the Draoicht Suan for so many years, never mind how planned it might have been, there was a great deal to be done when you came out of it. There were stray enemies still to be dealt with, and there was the re-Sealing of all the Gateways. Neit and Manannan mac Lir had taught them a useful spell or two for that, they said, and might, perhaps, be pardoned for allowing a note of pride to creep into their voices when they referred to this camaraderie with a brace of gods. And then, of course, there had to be a proper ceremony for Theodora to take her Solemn Vows. All these things took time and energy. They also took money, although Cerball did not say this, or at least not more than once a week.

And so the Tapestry Enchantment lay, for many years, not entirely forgotten, but ignored, until the Amaranth, Theodora, studying the Cadence with delight, rediscovered it and ordered it to be spun for the occasion of her wedding, and the entertainment of the wedding guests.

And so the Silver Looms of Theodora’s great-grandfather, Nechtan, were powered, so that Theodora might add her own story to her cousin’s marvellous, mystical spell.

The Enchantment had lost nothing in the keeping, for Rumour, the most extravagant, certainly the most brilliant of all the brilliant Amaranths, had spun it thoroughly and well, and it had been protected by the silver-tipped pages of the Cadence. It had not lost any of its power to charm; when it was unrolled by Theodora in the banqueting hall of the Porphyry Palace before the assembled guests, it was as dazzlingly beautiful and as enthralling as it had been on the long-ago night that Rumour had summoned it for the Lord of Chaos’s dark banquet.

Theodora came to stand at the Enchantment’s pouring centre, and in front of them all, spun effortlessly and immaculately her own chapter to add to her aunt’s magical Tapestry.

It was a chapter that told of how she and the sidh Prince had ridden into the heart of the slumbering Porphyry Palace, and how they had had to break through the thickthorn hedges and the wild briars that had grown up around it. It told of how they had walked together, hand in hand through the silent Palace, Maelduin sprinkling the cool, elvish light of his people, Theodora chanting the awakening spell that would dissolve the gossamer cords of the Draoicht Suan.

It told of Theodora’s own sojourn inside the Dark Realm and, later, the strange, Veiled years in the legendary Grail Castle …

It told of the intricate, intensely powerful enchantment finally spun by the sidh: the pure, beautiful Cloak of Humanish that Maelduin had donned and that had enabled him to live in the Humanish world as easily and as naturally as he also lived in Tiarna, under the Elven King’s strong, but occasionally tolerant rule.

But best of all, it told, in whirling blue and green, in silver-threaded, light-filled beauty, of how Theodora had travelled to Tiarna, the first Amaranth ever to be permitted entry. And of how she and the Prince had gone to the Silver Cavern, the precious beautiful music of the sidh held between them, and had laid it before the Elven King.

And for a moment, for a spell-binding, breath-taking moment, within the great silver and gold and crimson pageantry of the Tapestry, the entire chiaroscuro vision unfolded.

The soaringly beautiful Silver Cavern, with the immense glacier rocks, and the smudges of blue and green, and the occasional glimpse of huge, iridescent wings …

And then the change: the colours seeping gradually, imperceptibly into the pale rock walls as the sidh were drawn back, the threads of turquoise veining the pale air, the silver and ivory and pearl becoming bathed in pure jewel colours …

And then, on the edges of hearing, on the outermost rim of perception, the tiniest stir of sound, the merest thread of something moving, something ruffling the still surface … Music, fragile and brittle and achingly sweet, creeping into the Cavern, lying on the air in soft, cobweb strands.

And then the final and scaldingly beautiful awakening of the sidh; the joyful sound of wings, hundreds of them beating on the air, until the Silver Cavern was a whirling kaleidoscopic maelstrom: blues and greens and purples and turquoises and indigos; the cool sea-colours of the ancient magical sidh; Maelduin’s people, the strange creatures who hunted the Humanish for sport and stole away their senses, but who were also bound by fierce ties to Ireland’s Royal Houses, and would never fail to answer a summons for help …

And Theodora at the centre of it, Maelduin at her side, in the midst of the shining, joyful whirlpool; while, on the great Silver Throne of the nimfeach, at last, after the years of his own dark bondage, the Elven King opened his eyes and looked straight at them.

And if, in the end, Maelduin never became quite entirely Humanish, there were very few people in Ireland who would have wanted him to. And if Theodora never quite lost the habit of laughing during solemn ceremonies, there were very few people who would have wanted her to be any different either.

As Rumour had once said, ‘If you cannot be remembered with a smile, then it is better not to be remembered at all.’

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sarah Rayne is the daughter of an Irish actor.  She began writing in her teens, and after a convent education, which included writing plays for the Lower Third to perform, embarked on a variety of jobs.  She is also the author of a number of acclaimed psychological thrillers and contemporary horror books, as well as a haunted house series.

www.sarahrayne.co.uk