by Sarah Rayne
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 w
ho 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.
