by Sarah Rayne
“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 st
irring 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.
