by Sarah Rayne
“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 spec
ial 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!”
*
