by Sarah Rayne
CuRoi studied her rather intently for a moment, and then said, ‘Oh, life is intended to be amusing.’ He made as if to gather them in. ‘Life is not to be taken seriously,’ he said, and put his head on one side again and smiled and then said, ‘but I am being most remiss. You have travelled far and perhaps fared ill, for the road through this land is not an easy one. You will perhaps take a bite of supper with me and a glass of wine, yes? Oh, do say you will,’ he added, ‘because quite apart from anything else, I should be so interested to hear of your journey. There are many roads here and none of them especially pleasant. You would, perhaps, have to come past the Fields of Blood? Yes, I thought so. Very unpleasant. I hope you did not find it too offensive, my dear?’
‘We assumed that it was necessary in the pursuit of necromancy,’ said Nuadu, silkily.
CuRoi at once said, ‘Oh, not necessary at all. You have been listening to some of the darker tales about us.’ He made a quick, dismissive gesture with one hand. ‘Blood and skin and Human hearts — no, no, that is very basic sorcery. Very crude work. As for the Fields — well, I am afraid that some of my fellow sorcerers are very unthinking in the storing of their raw materials. And that filthy, ragged effigy to frighten away the Harpies? Quite unnecessary. Rather tasteless. Do come this way.’
He led them through to a room on the right of the hall, richly panelled and hung with crimson silk and damask, with emblems and symbols carved into the panelling. A dying fire sulked in the hearth and a long oak table at the centre of the room was sketchily set for some kind of meal.
‘Tsk,’ said CuRoi, pausing in the doorway. ‘Very scanty, this. But I did not know I was to have guests tonight, and we can soon put matters to rights.’ Lifting his hand, he murmured words in that strange cadence again and, at once, the fire spat and roared into life and chalices and plates spun about and, without warning, steaming bowls of soup appeared and platters of crusty bread and bowls of newly churned butter. At the centre of the table, a side of ham appeared, with a gleaming knife ready to carve it and, at the far end, silver bowls of glistening fruit materialised.
CuRoi stood benevolently watching, his plump little hands joined together over the modest swell of his stomach, the thumbs revolving. ‘An easy enough trick,’ he said to Fenella, ‘but one which always impresses guests. Do sit down, both of you, and help yourselves. Sire, the wine is not poisoned, I promise, and you may drink your fill.’
Nuadu did not speak, but his head tilted just fractionally and his eyes narrowed. Fenella received the impression that his ears had pricked, which was patently absurd, but when he spoke, his voice held a silky, bitter note.
‘I believe,’ said Nuadu softly, ‘that you mistake my standing, CuRoi. To address me as Sire, is surely to confuse me with my brother.’ He regarded their host unblinkingly. ‘And my world tells how you are never confused or mistaken,’ he said, and smiled the mocking smile, which appeared to be saying: well? How will you handle that one?
CuRoi returned the stare and Fenella saw that his eyes had become hard and cold.
‘A form of courtesy, no more,’ he said, but some of the former joviality had gone from his voice and Fenella thought his features were suddenly leaner and sharper. It was rather ridiculous to think that the plump geniality had melted a little, but it was what she did think. And wasn’t he known as the Master of Illusions? It was important to remember that. Anything that had happened here might be nothing more than illusion.
‘But,’ said CuRoi, turning to Fenella, ‘you do not eat, my dear,’ and when he said, ‘my dear’, there was such a lick of greed in his voice, that Fenella blinked.
But she smiled and slid into the nearest chair and accepted the bowl of soup that CuRoi handed her and took a slice of bread and some butter and ham and fruit.
CuRoi had seated himself opposite her and was watching her, his chin resting on his hand, to all appearances interested and benign.
The mask is back in place, thought Nuadu, who had seen, as Fenella had seen, the geniality slip, but who, unlike Fenella, had felt and seen what lay beneath.
Nuadu’s every nerve-ending was stretched to its utmost, and he was again calling on the wolf-instincts of his strange mixed blood. He knew that CuRoi was not yet playing one of his subtle, evil games with Fenella, but he thought he might begin to do so quite soon.
He sipped the wine warily and saw that Fenella was apparently composed, that she was, in fact, listening with apparent absorption as CuRoi explained how the belief that the Black Ireland was always dark was erroneous; it had beautiful sunrises and exquisite afternoons and there was great tranquillity at times.
‘And once,’ said CuRoi, in a soft, lulling voice, ‘once we had all the light and all the beauty in Ireland for the asking.’
‘Who put the lights out?’ asked Fenella in a down-to-earth voice and Nuadu felt CuRoi flinch and saw Fenella grin slightly.
But CuRoi only said, rather sadly, ‘I fear there have been greedy rulers here, as there are always greedy rulers in all kingdoms.’ He glanced at Nuadu, and said softly, ‘But your world knows about greedy kings, Sire.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ said Nuadu, and lifted his wine chalice again. He had eaten but sparingly and had only sipped the wine briefly for refreshment. He was not afraid of poison, for it would not be CuRoi’s way to dispose of unwanted guests so crudely. But he was stretching his mind to its utmost limits and he dared not blunt any of his awareness. When CuRoi said, quite amiably, ‘Do tell me how life goes in the other Ireland,’ Nuadu said at once, ‘But are you not fully aware of that?’ and regarded their host with a long, hard look.
‘I have my small powers, it is true,’ said CuRoi. ‘Among them the simple ability to look across the barriers of Time.’
‘That must be very useful,’ said Fenella.
‘It serves a purpose now and then, you know.’ CuRoi smiled benignly at them again and, as he did so, Nuadu felt the white-hot knives of the Stroicim Inchinn slice through his mind and knew, quite surely, that the necromancer was playing with them. He knows exactly why we are here and who we are, thought Nuadu. But I suppose we must play his little game for the moment.
But all the same, he avoided meeting CuRoi’s eyes, because he knew that for the Stroicim Inchinn to be completely effective, it must penetrate the mind through the eyes. And so he kept his glance averted and continued discussing Tara, and sipped the wine and ate sparingly. As CuRoi re-filled Fenella’s wine chalice, Nuadu stole a covert look at the sorcerer and, as he did so, a log fell apart in the hearth and red sparks cascaded across the chimney breast, so that a red glow fell across the upper part of CuRoi’s features.
The eyes of a devil, thought Nuadu. Yes, he has the eyes of a devil. I do not think that any of the stories lied. He recalled how CuRoi was believed to be steeped in what the Eastern Lands called exquisite torture, the torture of the mind … I wonder if he truly has my brother, thought Nuadu.
He looked at Fenella and knew a sudden strong wish to keep her safe from this evil, cruel creature. Was it because she was courageous and possessed of immense strength, and because she had an unquenchable sense of humour? I think that is all it is, he thought. For the moment, I must believe that is all it is. I dare not explore further.
But when CuRoi drew Nuadu back into the conversation, asking about their journey through the Cruachan Caves, Nuadu answered him with instant courtesy.
‘I had always wished to penetrate the Gateway to Hell,’ he said. ‘Since I am popularly believed to have been born there, you understand?’
‘You regard yourself as an outcast,’ said CuRoi, and Nuadu knew at once that, despite his care, the necromancer had been reading his thoughts with supreme ease.
‘It is how the world — my world — regards me,’ said Nuadu.
‘But you are a Wolfprince of the ancient lineage.’
‘Bastard. Tainted stock.’
‘Have you never — forgive me, but is an interesting question — have you never coveted Tara’s Ebony Throne?
’
CuRoi leaned forward, the red glint deep within his eyes again.
Nuadu stared at him, and thought: the Ebony Throne of Tara … the ancient magical Throne created by the High King Erin for Ireland’s true princes … How would it feel to ascend that Throne, knowing that Tara, glittering beautiful Tara was yours, and that Ireland, the blue and green misty Isle of Legend was yours to rule for good or evil … ?
Aloud he said, ‘That would be a futile desire. My family wanted none of me, nor I of them.’
‘And yet,’ pursued CuRoi, thoughtfully, ‘and yet you still attempt to restore your brother, the prince, to Tara.’ He smiled at Nuadu. ‘Come now, let us play this absurd game no more, Sire. You search for the captured prince. We both know it.’
‘You are very direct,’ said Nuadu.
Fenella, who had been listening carefully to the interchange, said, ‘Directness is preferable on such an occasion.’ She looked at CuRoi. ‘We do indeed search for the prince, but we do so in the hope of arranging his release.’ She regarded CuRoi thoughtfully.
Nuadu, not entirely following Fenella’s thoughts, but trusting her instincts, said at once, ‘And you will acknowledge that we are a small enough force to storm citadels or raid dungeons.’
‘Greater wars have been won by little more than subtlety,’ said CuRoi, non-committally.
‘This is not a war,’ said Nuadu. ‘But rather a quest.’
‘And in any world, nothing is obtained entirely free,’ said Fenella. ‘If we could find the prince, we might perhaps discuss terms for his release.’
‘Really, my dear?’ The lick of prurience was back, but there was no question but that CuRoi was intrigued. ‘How might that be?’
Fenella said, ‘Are there not bargains that can be struck? In the world I am descended from there is a history of such things. Of what was called state prisoners being exchanged, one side to another.’
‘Indeed?’ CuRoi sipped his wine, watching Fenella over the chalice rim, the wine casting red shadows across his face. ‘You would be prepared to bargain in that way’
‘My people frequently suffered what they referred to as Cold Wars,’ said Fenella, and, for a moment, she was so rapt in the history of Earth that she almost forgot where they were and to whom they were talking. ‘Wars where violence did not play very much part, but where a great deal of bargaining and pledging went on. Do you know the game of chess? I think it is extremely old?’
‘I do.’
‘The Cold Wars were a little like chess,’ said Fenella. ‘One side ceding a few pawns, the other side trying to gain more than a few. Interesting. Requiring great subtlety and cunning. Usually both sides won. And,’ said Fenella, ‘it is true, you know, that valuable assets can sometimes be given in reciprocation for valuable prisoners. Particularly where prisoners are held as hostages.’
‘Assets? But surely there could be nothing more valuable than the hereditary High King of Ireland.’ CuRoi regarded her rather indulgently. ‘Any unscrupulous sorcerer who had in his power Tara’s Wolfking would never give him up.’
‘Not even if something better were to be offered in recompense? Because,’ said Fenella, as if she was thinking aloud now, ‘because there is not really anything that the King could give to that sorcerer, is there? It is not as if he would have particular powers. But as a pawn-yes,’ said Fenella, still as if she was arguing it out with herself, ‘as a pawn, I should think the sorcerer could regard the King as very valuable indeed.’
‘I cannot think,’ said CuRoi, his eyes never leaving Fenella’s face, ‘of anything in this Ireland or in the other one, that a sorcerer would consider to be of sufficient value to persuade him to give up such a valuable — pawn.’
‘But in such a case,’ said Nuadu, ‘the pawn would, in the end, be valueless. Merely a body lying in a dungeon.’ CuRoi said, amusedly, ‘Oh, were you thinking that the imprisoned King would be lying in a dungeon?’
He regarded Nuadu unblinkingly and Nuadu said, silkily, ‘Not in the least. Whoever has the prince will be far removed from such crude methods as dungeons and manacles.’
‘And,’ put in Fenella, ‘would the King not have been taken for bargaining anyway?’
‘I cannot imagine the kind of bargaining that would interest a High King’s captor,’ said CuRoi.
‘Well,’ said Fenella, half apologetically, ‘I was really thinking of the Soul Eaters.’
Silence fell on the table and Nuadu, feeling the nuances that spun and shivered all about them, sat back and waited.
‘You know of the Soul Eaters?’ said CuRoi at last. And then, ‘Yes, of course. You have traversed the Caverns of Cruachan.’
‘Yes,’ said Fenella. ‘Horrid creatures. But they dwell in a place that is in the other Ireland.’ She glanced from Nuadu to CuRoi. ‘I have that right?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Nuadu, who had been so much enjoying listening to Fenella and picking up her thoughts, that for a few moments he had relaxed his guard. He thought that the rather unexpected, certainly unusual story she was telling about the exchange of prisoners was probably true; and although he could not visualise a war in which armies did not ride out and where people were not slain, he knew that in Fenella’s strange, lost world, these things could well have happened.
‘Soul Eaters,’ said Fenella, buttering another piece of bread, ‘would make a very good exchange for a High King. Always supposing we could discover who it is who actually holds the King, that is.’ She smiled at CuRoi ingenuously.
‘They are powerful beings, the Soul Eaters,’ said CuRoi.
‘Oh yes, but whoever has been able to capture and hold the Wolfking of Ireland would surely be able to control them,’ said Fenella at once.
CuRoi said slowly, ‘It is true that once the creatures had been overpowered, there are enchantments that would bind them and force them into servitude.’ He looked at Fenella with renewed interest and Fenella smiled at him guilelessly. ‘The Robemaker is in thrall to the Soul Eaters,’ said CuRoi. ‘But you would know that.’
‘Ten thousand years of the Wolfkings’ curse?’ said Nuadu.
‘He is something of a fool, the Robemaker,’ said CuRoi. ‘He fell victim to the High King Erin, who pronounced the Curse of Eternal Disease over him. But he has his uses, the Robemaker. I have occasionally trafficked with him.’ He dabbed fastidiously at his lips with a damask napkin. ‘Perhaps we may talk a little more of this on the morrow,’ he said. And then, to Fenella, ‘You have an interesting mind, my dear.’
‘So I have been told,’ said Fenella tranquilly.
‘It is unusual to meet a Human — and even more unusual to meet a Lady who understands about bargaining for captives and about pledges and hostages.’
‘Thank you.’
CuRoi stood up. ‘And now I must remember my manners as host and escort you to your bedchambers,’ he said. ‘For you must be tired after your journey.’
‘You are very hospitable,’ said Nuadu.
‘It is my great pleasure. You will know that my Castle is sealed until dawn, of course?’
‘Of course,’ said Nuadu.
‘A strange custom,’ said Fenella, and CuRoi smiled and said, quite equably, ‘It is safer to seal one’s home against the night creatures that prowl in the Dark Realm. You may hear some of them. But be assured that nothing can get inside my Castle after sunset.’
‘Have you servants?’ asked Fenella looking about her as they moved from the dining hall. ‘Surely for such a vast place … ?’
The red lights gleamed in CuRoi’s eyes again. ‘My servants are better unseen,’ he said. ‘But they are all around us.’
He took Fenella’s arm lightly and led her from the firelit dining hall and across the stone-flagged hall.
As they ascended the curving shadowy stairway, CuRoi said, ‘Are you interested in my Castle, madame?’
‘Old buildings are always interesting,’ said Fenella.
‘Yes.’ The dark eyes regarded her. ‘Perhaps on the morrow yo
u will allow me to show you some of it.’
‘Thank you.’
They moved down the corridor and up a flight of stone stairs that led to another floor and CuRoi showed them into two adjoining bedchambers and, uttering one of the strange, faintly musical commands, caused fires to burn up and copper jugs of hot water, wrapped in soft warm towels, to appear on the washstands.
‘A useful skill,’ he said, eyeing Fenella. ‘And one that ensures my guests’ comfort. But, for now, I shall leave you to your rest.’ He looked at Fenella and again the mask slipped, and something red and glaring and incalculably greedy looked out. ‘We shall meet in the morning,’ said CuRoi, and left them.
Left alone, Nuadu prowled his room restlessly, waiting for the Castle to become quiet, hearing, on a level beyond consciousness, the little settling noises that all old buildings make, the creaking of timbers, the expanding of joints and joists. As he moved about the room, which was richly furnished with dark red hangings of silk, and which had a huge tester bed with a velvet counterpane, he was aware of something dark and vicious waking deep within his mind.
The Wolf stirring …
He had said to Fenella that this evil Realm would almost certainly call to the dark, hidden sides of their natures and now, in this warm, comfortable bedchamber, at the Castle’s heart, with night closing all about, Nuadu was aware of an immense inner darkness. It was something he had felt now and again during his life, this deep, dark hunger, laced with golden strength, but also threaded with cruelty. There had been times during the years when it had woken without warning, when it had raked his senses into violent and voracious passion.
Nearly always, the taking of a woman had slaked the feeling and satisfied the hungers, but it had not always done so, and there had been nights when he had prowled the Wolfwood, stalking the tiny defenceless creatures who lived in the undergrowth … There had been nights when the only thing that could quench the ravening need was to see blood spilled and to feel soaring dominance and to scent the fear of the creature in his snare … For I can hold my prey helpless simply by unveiling the wolflook, simply by staring at it with the slitted unblinking regard of my ancestors, the Wolves of Tara … At such times, he had been more Wolf than Human and, although he had fought it, he had come to accept it as the consequence of his mixed ancestry.
