by Sarah Rayne
“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 be
lieve 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 Apocal
ypse 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.”
