by Sarah Rayne
Taliesin had time to hope they were not walking into a trap, and Annabel had glanced to see that the boys were all still with them, when Fergus stopped abruptly, and they saw that they were standing at the head of a narrow stairway that went downwards, with the steps worn away at the centre, as if generations upon generations had trodden down them. There was a thin rope linked into the stone wall.
Fergus stopped, staring down the stairway, and Taliesin, who was still watching him closely, thought, Yes, he can see in the dark. And felt a strange shiver, for there was something uncanny about a being not entirely human, a being that was partly wolf.
They could feel the oppressiveness of the castle over their heads, and they could feel as well the despair and the fear that hung here. Annabel thought, Something dreadful has taken place in this part of the castle, and several of the smaller boys shivered and looked uncertain.
Then Fergus said, “There’s someone coming,” and a bobbing light appeared, coming slowly up the stone stairs.
It was the worst moment yet. Annabel was frightened, but she was also intrigued. She thought she could not have moved if she had wanted to.
The footsteps were light and quick; they were quite ordinary footsteps. They certainly did not seem to be the footsteps of some ancient sinister being who lurked in deep dungeons. They were normal footsteps, thought Annabel. They belonged to someone who was performing an ordinary, everyday task, and not troubling to be particularly quiet or furtive.
The light was bobbing as if it was a lantern which somebody was carrying. It was just a bit lower than it would have been if an ordinary-sized man had been carrying it. And then it rounded the corner, and a small dark person stood looking at them, and Fergus and Taliesin both saw that it was a Cruithin, and knew a sudden, swift delight, for the Cruithin had been gone from Ireland for so long. So, thought Fergus, with deep contentment, so they are still here, are they? And moved forward at once.
The Cruithin, who had stopped when he saw them, said, rather warily, “I suppose you’ve come to take the prisoner, have you?” And then moved nearer, his eyes on Fergus. Taliesin saw a look in which disbelief and purest joy both warred for mastery, and thought, He is seeing something that he finds so wonderful that he scarcely dare believe it. And looked back at Fergus and waited.
The Cruithin said in a voice of delighted reverence, “Sire. Forgive me.”
And fell to his knees.
This place had awoken the wolfblood in Fergus; Taliesin and Annabel found it fascinating.
The outlawed Wolfprince … Tara’s heir …
“No,” said Fergus, as they sat once more round the long scrubbed table in the scullery, the Cruithin, whose name was Mongan, seated with them. “No, I was never Tara’s heir.” He looked at them, and Taliesin saw the sadness in his face. “I was never Tara’s heir,” said Fergus again, “and I shall never be its High King.” He looked round the table and saw them all listening intently. I have to say it some time, thought Fergus, and drew a deep breath. “To rule Ireland is my sister’s right,” he said, and in the same moment felt the sudden lifting of an immense and terrible weight. I believe I am free. I believe I am beyond the storm, through the tempest. My sister. I can say it without pain now.
Mongan said, “Begging your pardon, Sire, and if it isn’t speaking out of turn, which I hope you know I’d never do —”
“Yes?”
“Your sister, that is, Her Majesty the Princess,” said Mongan, and stopped again, and looked at Fergus.
“Well?”
“She is not the Queen,” said Mongan. “She is not Ireland’s High Queen.”
“I don’t —”
“The High Queen is here,” said Mongan. “She has been here for the last twenty years.” He looked at Fergus directly. “Your mother is here, Sire,” he said.
*
My mother. Fergus stood in the larger-than-expected stone room, and felt, as Grainne had felt, the pity and the waste and the dreadful bitterness of it. This creature, this poor pitiable creature to be High Queen of Ireland, to be the one with the right to occupy the Ancient High Throne, to rule from the glittering Sun Chamber.
He had left the others outside, for he had known, quite surely, that this was something he must face alone.
“You should be careful, Sire,” said Mongan. “She — the lady is subject to sudden changes of mood.”
But Fergus had stepped quietly across the threshold, and stood absorbing the emotions that lay on the air.
She saw him before he saw her. She was silent and still in a deep shadowed corner of the far room, her eyes hard and unblinking through the tangle of hair. As Fergus searched the shadows with his eyes, her hands curled into a predator’s gesture, and the slight movement caused the chains to slither on the stone floor.
Fergus turned at once, saw her, and felt the horror rise up in his throat. Worse than I had believed possible. A thousand times worse than I could have imagined. And then: She is a wolf, he thought with dread. She is a ravening, slavering thing of the Dark Ireland. I can smell that she is, he thought, and as the thought formed, he saw the red glint and caught the white gleam of teeth already salivating with hunger. But he moved closer, seeing that she was chained, thinking that he would be able to judge the length of the chains, and move back if she sprang forward.
And then, without the least warning, she spoke.
“I shall not spring at you.”
The voice, the inflection, the timbre, was dreadfully and shockingly Grainne’s, and Fergus stood, unable to speak. And then, with a mental effort that came from outside himself, he said softly, “Why will you not?”
The thin lips drew back in a brief smile. “I shall save you,” said Ireland’s true Queen.
“For what?” The hairs were lifting on the back of Fergus’s neck; he could feel the coalescing of the air and he knew it for the gathering madness of the creature before him.
“The lady is subject to sudden changes of mood,” Mongan had said, eyeing Fergus uneasily.
“I shall save you for my Master,” she said, and grinned and licked her lips suddenly with a long red tongue.
Staying where he was, Fergus said, “Tell me your name,” and waited, and saw the characteristic narrowing of the eyes again, the sudden tilt of the head. Oh, yes, she is so nearly a wolf that there is hardly any human feeling in her.
“In that Realm where I am the chosen one of the Dark Lord,” she said, “and where I reign each night, I am called Damnaithe.”
She paused and regarded Fergus, and Fergus said softly, “Damnaithe. The damned one.”
“You have the Gaelic, then.”
“A very little.”
“But in your world,” she said with sudden contempt, “I was once known as Maeve.”
Fergus studied her. “You do not care for what you call my world.”
Damnaithe said, “Once someone has entered the Realm of the Dark Lord, and been made free of it, your world is narrow and colourless and vapid.”
Fergus lowered himself cautiously to the floor, and sat looking at her. After a moment, he said, “You have been there often? To the Realm of the Dark Lord?”
Her head came up at that, and something triumphant gleamed in the hard, inhuman eyes. “I was taken there twenty years ago,” she said. “The Gateway was opened and I was taken by him.”
Fergus said carefully, “But since then …” and saw the terrible smile slide out again.
“I am taken there by him" said Damnaithe softly. “He comes for me and takes me from this place of nothingness. Every night, after they have left me alone, he enters by the secret Gateway, and carries me with him to his Dark Domain.”
Fergus had just time to think, Of course she is mad beyond recall, but even so, she is convinced that she speaks truly, when Damnaithe turned her head and lifted one arm and pointed.
“You see?” she said, her eyes gleaming in the light from the wall torches. “He is approaching.”
As Fergus followed her pointing
hand, the darkness became tinged with crimson, and the oblong shadow of a huge door fell across the cell. Malevolent red light poured in, and as the shadow door began slowly to open, Fergus became aware of a dark figure, clad in a swirling black cloak, watching them.
Medoc.
*
The inside of the stone cell was glowing with the crimson light, and Medoc was framed in the great doorway. Fergus had time to think, the Door to the Dark Ireland! And it is opening! And then Medoc had moved out of the framing doorway and the red light beyond it, and was in the cell with them.
He strode to where Damnaithe was stretching out her arms eagerly, his cloak billowing out behind him, and scooped her up, running his hands down over her body. Fergus, unable to look away, had the brief impression that it was as if Medoc was renewing some spell spun a long time ago. For the space of a heartbeat, he glimpsed a thin, sticky, silver web curling about Damnaithe’s ravaged body, and then he saw her arch her back and shiver with sensuous delight, and a look of slavish adoration come into her face. Her eyes slid round to where Fergus was still half crouched on the stone floor.
“Did you think me mad?” said Damnaithe, her voice blurred with exultant lust now. “They all think me mad, you know.” She moved away from the dark-clad creature. “I was never mad,” said Damnaithe softly. And then, turning back, “And if I was, then I was glad to be so,” she said.
Medoc had not spoken, and he had barely moved, but Fergus felt as if it was a tangible thing, the power and the authority and the — yes, and the beauty! — that flowed outwards from him. He ignored Damnaithe now, his eyes were on Fergus, and Fergus felt Medoc draw the thoughts from his mind as easily as if he had reached out a hand and plucked them. Medoc smiled; he said softly, “Yes, Fergus, I am the dark, cruel, beautiful one. The legends and the tales do not lie.” And smiled. “Have I not bequeathed a little of that to you, my son?” he said, and Fergus, his senses reeling, his mind plunged into a turmoil of half memories and half suspicions, stared, and then said, in a whisper, “You?”
“I, Fergus.” He moved gracefully across the room, and Damnaithe’s eyes followed him jealously. “I fathered you, you and your ill-starred sister,” he said. “Did you never guess that? Did you never suspect that you were conceived in my Dark Palace, in the necromancer’s lair?” He stopped, and Damnaithe said, in a gloating whisper, “The Dark Palace …”
“I seeded this creature there,” said Medoc, his eyes like burning coals now. “I caused this creature to spawn you and your sister, Fergus, there in that other Ireland you tried so long to fight.” He studied him. “You half guessed many times,” said Medoc. “So many times, when there was a dark sensuous pull at your soul, or when you were aware of the beckoning of all of the shadow beings, and all of the evil undersides of men’s natures. So many times you were aware of the darkness within you.” He moved closer.
“Did you think, Fergus,” said Medoc softly, “did you really think, when the Tyrians took you into their Sorcery Chambers, that it was your desires that made you such a willing lover for the she-wolf?” He smiled, and Fergus blinked, because it was a smile of such cold evil, and yet a smile of such infinite beauty.
“That was my bequest to you, Fergus,” said Medoc. “It was my darkness and my legacy to you.” He studied Fergus. “And that being so,” said Medoc gently, “what a very great pity that the sorcerers’ work was to no avail.”
Fergus said, carefully, “It failed?”
“Oh, yes,” said Medoc, and smiled the catsmile again. “My son, you did not think I should allow a vagabond group of Eastern money lenders to re-create Ireland’s strongest and most magical enchantment? How innocent you are, Fergus. I have long since drawn the Cloak of Failure about their absurd attempts.”
“I failed,” said Fergus, half to himself. “They trusted me and I trusted them, and still between us, we failed.”
And so after all, I shall never give Ireland an heir …
“My powers are more widely reaching than you ever knew,” said Medoc. “And in the end, you will have to admit it, you know.” He paused, and then said in his beautiful silken voice, “But you are a Prince of the Dark Ireland, Fergus, just as much as you are a Prince of this colourless world. You should not forget that.”
“And yet,” said Fergus coldly, “it seems that for all you call it colourless, you still covet our world, Medoc.”
“I covet it all,” said Medoc and Fergus caught the sudden greed in his voice. “And I will have it all, my dear. You will see that. I, and this creature whom your Cruithin servants believe mad, but who is not mad in the least.”
Damnaithe was at Medoc’s side now, her chains just barely stretching from the iron rings that embedded them into the wall. “I played the part well, Medoc,” she said softly. “No one ever guessed,” and Medoc turned to smile the cold dazzling smile and said, in a voice that poured over the cell like liquid silver, “You have served me satisfactorily, my dear,” and Fergus saw Damnaithe shiver again with catlike pleasure.
“Are you ready to come with me to Tara, Damnaithe?” he said. “Tara, the Bright Palace that once was yours, and will be so again. For the Last Battle of all?”
“Ready,” breathed Damnaithe, and her voice was filled with such extreme servility that Fergus, who had been disliking her immensely, felt a sudden pity. To be held in such thrall to this evil enchanter …
“She would not have it otherwise,” said Medoc at once, his eyes on Fergus. “For she has dwelled in the Mansions of the Dark Ireland, and she has walked in the enchanted night-fields, and she has supped at the cauldron of necromancy.” He turned to smile at Damnaithe. “And now she is ready to reign over your world and to turn Tara into the Court of Demons and of Endless Darkness,” he said. “I have tutored her for many years, and now she is ready.” Again the smile. “When Dierdriu had your mother brought here, she believed that she was hiding her from me,” said Medoc. “She believed that the Cruithin would keep her safe.” This time the smile was the smile of a cat playing with its prey. “And although the Cruithin tended her, and fed her and looked after her, they never guessed that I could still reach her.” He looked at Damnaithe. “Once she had dwelled in my Realm,” he said, “once I had taught her the ways of that world, and made known to her the Twelve Lords who serve me, she could never have lived fully in your world again.”
“Lust,” said Damnaithe, smiling at him with dreadful appetite. “Perversion. Jealousy. Depravity. Are they with us yet, Master?”
“They are waiting for us at Tara,” said Medoc, and Fergus knew that they both spoke of the Twelve Lords of Darkness.
“You will meet them, Fergus,” said Medoc, and the red light that surrounded him dimmed a little. He stepped back and, as he did so, he held out his hands to Damnaithe. “Your new kingdom is waiting, my dear,” he said, and now his voice was so filled with a caress, it was so deliberately seductive, that Fergus blinked beneath its dark allure. He shook his head to clear it, because just for a fleeting instant he, too, had felt the pull of the enchanted nightfields and the dark mansions of Medoc’s Realm …
Medoc knew at once. He turned back to Fergus and smiled deliberately and with full understanding. “You would be welcome in my world, my son,” he said softly, “and far more than I have ever been welcome in yours.”
Fergus said loudly, “You will not succeed, Medoc.”
“We shall see. My lady and I will certainly vanquish the army your sister has raised.”
“My —” Fergus stopped, but a sudden hope had welled up within him. So Grainne had been here, she was still fighting. She was still safe.
“She has woken the Beastline,” said Medoc. “She has unlocked the ancient Enchantment you had believed lost.” Fergus said slowly, “So she has broken your Cloak of Failure, has she, Medoc?” and saw the narrow dark eyes show red sparks of fury.
But Medoc only said, “She has called up the beasts of the forests and the fields, and she believes herself ready to ride against me.” He held
Damnaithe against him, and Damnaithe writhed in ecstasy, her head thrown back. “Grainne will not succeed,” said Medoc. “I am the ruler of the Dark Ireland, the Ancient and Powerful Realm, and my powers are far greater than any of you has ever imagined. My armies will beat yours and my sorcery will swallow you whole. Tara will never be yours, Fergus. I shall fling wide the Doors that have for so long been closed between our two worlds, and my creatures will pour into Ireland and devour it.” He was moving back, and Fergus, knowing that he was about to retreat into his Dark Realm, taking Damnaithe with him, tensed his muscles ready to spring on Medoc and disable him.
At once Medoc held up his left hand, and Fergus was caught and held, so that he was unable to move.
“Do not be absurd, Fergus,” said Medoc. “You would like to slay me. But I am protected; I am a sorcerer, with the blood of the first Amaranths, and you would not get near enough to inflict even a scratch. Do you truly suppose I should venture even this far without first ensuring my safety?” He smiled, and held up his other hand, and at once a shower of something that was not quite fluid but not quite solid poured across the cell, crimson and gold and with the colours flowing in and out of one another. “I have an armour against this world,” said Medoc and, turning his back on Fergus, he snapped with ease the chains that had held Damnaithe. For a moment the two of them stood limned against the evil red light, framed in the half-open doorway. Fergus, still trapped in the spell that Medoc had thrown out, strained his eyes, and caught fleeting glimpses of dark towers and barren landscapes, of brooding turrets and lonely mountains. The Dark Ireland …
“We shall defeat you, Medoc,” he said softly. “Be sure that we shall defeat you.”
“You cannot.” The eyes were mocking now. “Your puny armies and your pitiful half-beasts can never defeat the might of my creatures.
