by Sarah Rayne
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.
