by Sarah Rayne
He knew the stories, he knew that for many of Ireland’s Kings, the wolfblood had been a warm golden current, a surging powerful strength. The High Queen Grainne, who was sometimes called Grainne the Gentle, had called it the power and the light and the strength of the Wolves of Tara. Her son, who had been the greatly loved Erin the Just, had known it as a source to be tapped and channelled in times of trouble. They had seen it as a golden thing, filled with light, a deep well of power and potency.
But there had been others in the Royal House who had misused the wolf-strength; renegades and wastrels and cheats who had consorted with the Dark Powers and created evil, selfish laws. For them the wolf-strength had been a dark tainted thing.
And I believe that I am one of the dark ones, thought Nuadu …
Now, inside CuRoi’s Citadel, surrounded by the necromancer’s evil forces, he was aware of the dark, sensual pull at his mind and his body. The dark side waking …
He wanted to bound out of the bedchamber and seek out the necromancer, sink his teeth into CuRoi’s soft plump throat … And I should fell him with a single leap, and then I should be at his throat … and the flesh would taste sweet and juicy, and the blood would trickle down over my lips, so that I could lick it …
There was, as there always was, a strong sexual arousal, and he found his mind re-creating Fenella’s sweet innocence in the depths of the twilit Wolfwood, eager and warm and soft. The darkness was in the ascendant then, he thought, but he felt his lips curve into a smile because had it really been only that?
At the thought of Fenella, the warmth surged between his thighs at once and, despite the creeping danger of the necromancer’s Castle, he began to plan how he would go quietly to the adjoining bedchamber. There was a violent and twisted arousal in the thought of making love to his Lady deep within the terrible Black Domain of the necromancers. When all is quiet, I shall do it, he thought. When the Castle is soundly asleep, I shall pad along the corridor and she will be there, Fenella, with the sweet, warm Human-scent that is composed of clean skin and long silky hair and that other, indefinable, Humanish fragrance …
And then he heard the door of Fenella’s room open stealthily and soft, light footsteps go down the hall.
Fenella had not undressed, although the crisp, lavender-scented sheets had been alluring. It would have been a great luxury to slide between the sheets and fall into a deep satisfying sleep. And perhaps Nuadu would come, she thought … Would he?
But it would not do to even lie down, because clearly they would have to be out exploring the Castle for traces of the King’s whereabouts. And so Fenella washed in the hot scented water and dried her face and hands on the thick fluffy towels and felt refreshed and very nearly ready for anything. She heard the Castle grow quieter and felt the dark night of the necromancer’s Realm close about the great Castle.
She would not go to bed, of course, but she would just sit down in the rather comfortable chair that somebody had drawn up before the fire. There was something especially pleasant about sitting before a leaping fire, with no other lights, and looking deep into the flames.
Nuadu had at once understood her idea about offering an exchange of some kind for the imprisoned King. He had joined in and added weight to her suggestions. Fenella did not suppose for a moment that CuRoi would let the King go, unless something extremely powerful and magical was offered in return, but it had bought them time, and it had enabled them to be fairly honest, which had been important because of CuRoi being able to see into their thoughts.
There had been a moment when Nuadu had eyed CuRoi with a sudden thin and hungry look, which Fenella had found unexpected, because she had begun to think that the thin trickle of wolfblood was very thin and that his feelings and emotions were entirely Human.
Now, curled into the deep, soft armchair, with firelight washing over the walls, she thought that perhaps, after all, he was not as Human as she had been thinking. It might be as well to keep this firmly in mind although there was surely no harm in remembering how his hands had felt caressing her body, thought Fenella, rather drowsily. There was probably no harm, either, in remembering how he had felt as he lay close to her, and how his eyes had darkened with passion, and how he had been suddenly and disconcertingly vulnerable … It was the memory of the vulnerability which had stayed with her. It was one of the things she would find it hard to forget when all of this was over.
She was not falling asleep. It was important to remain awake, which was why she was thinking about Nuadu; it was keeping her on the right side of sleep. She stared dreamily into the fire’s depths and discovered, as many another had discovered before her, that if you half closed your eyes, you could see pictures in the flames, all kinds of pictures … There were deep-mouthed caves where goblins and demons might lurk … leaping fire creatures … Fael-Inis’s salamanders … It would be nice to think they would meet Fael-Inis again … It would be better to think that they would find Floy and the brothers. Was Floy all right? But Fenella thought she would have sensed if he was not. She would have felt a sharp, deep loneliness and she would have known. Floy was all right. It was remarkable how she knew, but she did know.
The fire was burning lower now and there were slanting golden eyes peering out from it and a soft heady scent in the room. The fire was hissing very faintly — was it the fire? — and within the hissing was a soft beckoning voice …
Come into the fire, Fenella … Come deeper into the enchantment …
Fenella blinked and sat up a bit straighter and the fire burned steadily.
Come into the magic, Human Child … Surrender to the sweetest bewitchment of all …
Fenella stood up and walked softly out of the room into the dark waiting halls of CuRoi’s Castle.
Chapter Forty-one
Fenella was vaguely aware that to go out into the dark, sealed Castle was to court danger of the most extreme kind, but there had been something so insistent about the fire-voice that it had not seemed possible to ignore it. The idea of an enchantment, some kind of luring, beckoning spell occurred to her only briefly. She was not very familiar with spells at all, but she thought that surely she would have known and guessed if CuRoi was sending out a subtle evil call to her.
In any case, it would be interesting to see more of the Castle. It might even be possible to find out about the King. She would have to be very quiet about it but there could surely not be any danger. The thought of Nuadu just touched her mind and, for an instant, her resolve wavered, because wouldn’t Nuadu think it foolhardy of her to venture out alone? But as she stood, irresolute, the fire-voice enveloped her mind again, so subtle and delicate, that Fenella, unused to enchantments, unfamiliar with bewitchments, fell into its lure a little more strongly. All memory of Nuadu slid away.
She moved stealthily out into the wide gallery outside her bedchamber and stood listening intently, trying to decide whether it would be better to go off to the left or the right. Nothing moved, nothing stirred out here, and Fenella felt her doubts recede. She would have known if CuRoi was somewhere nearby waiting. She would have felt it.
And now it is the Master who calls to you, Fenella … Follow the beckoning, and all will be well …
I’ll be very careful and I’ll be very quiet, thought Fenella, beginning to move stealthily along the corridor. I’ll keep all my wits about me and, if I see anything I don’t like, I’ll scream very loudly indeed. This made her feel considerably better and she fell to deciding which direction to take.
It would plainly be pointless to explore the rooms they had seen earlier; the great stone-flagged hall where the brooms and mops had performed their dance, or the long firelit dining hall. It would be much more sensible to penetrate to the Castle’s heart, to explore the deep, dark, secret rooms. The dungeons.
Fenella had never seen a dungeon, but she knew about them, and she knew that they were always underground, dank, dark, airless. She moved warily along the shadowy halls, ready to scream and leap for cover at the slightest mo
vement, seeing how the occasional tiny breath of wind stirred the hangings. She would quite have liked to stop and examine the hangings more closely, because they looked interesting and might be what the very early Earth-people had called tapestries: embroidered and sewn pictures depicting famous battles or heroic journeys or expeditions.
Ahead of her was a smaller gallery, stone-flagged again, and lit to shadowy life by flaring wall sconces. It had been quiet so far, but now Fenella was becoming aware of whisperings, horrid dark murmurings that swirled and ebbed all about her, rather like the murmurings they had heard when they had walked past the grisly crimson Fields of Blood.
Fillet the Humans, strip their skins …
Fenella whirled about, but the shadows were still and lying thickly in their corners. There was a low, throaty chuckling that seemed to begin in one corner and scuttle across in her path and then trickle away into the walls. But there was nothing to be seen; only the shadows, lying thickly on the ground. The wall sconces dimmed slightly, as if a giant hand might have reached out to snuff them, and then burned up again, as if a giant breath might have huffed on them. There was a rather rancid stench from whatever the torches were made of.
Dripping grease and boiling vat
Melt the blubber, cool the fat.
Hadn’t there once been something written somewhere about evil necromancers who melted down Human fat for their spells? I shan’t remember it, said Fenella very firmly.
Dead Men’s grease and Dead Men’s gut;
Bones to light and marrow to suck.
But CuRoi isn’t that sort of necromancer, said Fenella, even more firmly. He told us he wasn’t. The Fields of Blood are only used by sorcerers who employ crude methods — and whatever else CuRoi might be, he isn’t crude. And so I’m not hearing those grisly murmurings at all. I’ll just go along quietly and carefully and everything will be all right. I’ll take this little stair here, because it winds downwards and probably it leads to the dungeons. Probably, that’s where the King is. CuRoi pretended he never used dungeons but I don’t suppose he was being truthful.
This was rather mixed thinking, but mingled with it was a strong, not-to-be-denied compulsion. Fenella did not quite feel the strong silvery threads that were pulling her firmly through the ancient dark Castle and down the stone steps, and she did not really hear the voice that still whispered to her. She did not know that the essence of a strong, subtle enchantment is that the victim should not realise an enchantment is being woven, and she certainly did not remember that CuRoi was the master weaver of illusions, the greatest necromancer ever to come out of the Dark Realm. She moved on, warily, and fell a little deeper into the dark spider’s-web of the thrumming bewitchment …
The stone steps spiralled quite steeply down. They were worn away at the centre, so that Fenella had to try to walk on the inside of them, close to the wall, which was extremely difficult. The lower she went, the more decayed the stone walls became. There were spreading patches of discoloration and, in places, the stones had been partly eaten and partly nibbled by some kind of creeping mould.
This is very nasty indeed, thought Fenella, treading cautiously, one hand on the wall to steady her balance, trying not to touch the slimy, stained parts. This is very nasty, but it is not actually frightening. I’m not really frightened. Nothing has happened yet. I’ll just go a bit farther on. I’ll go to the bottom of these stairs and then probably I’ll be in the dungeons.
So deeply caught in the glittering sticky mesh of CuRoi’s subtle evil spell was she, that she did not pause to question the danger of it, but walked calmly and firmly forward.
Nuadu stood outside the door of his bedchamber and stretched his every sense to its utmost. Somewhere in the darkness of this fearsome evil Castle Fenella was walking, alone and unprotected. Nuadu did not stop to question why Fenella should have gone out like this without him; it was entirely possible — it was even probable — that CuRoi had in some way called to her, or perhaps tricked her out of her room. And if she was under a spell of CuRoi’s weaving, then she would be in the most severe danger and she must be found and somehow rescued.
A sudden pain twisted Nuadu’s vitals at the thought of Fenella in CuRoi’s cruel plump hands, and he thought: so, my Lady, my love, you have slid under my skin and into my heart, have you? He supposed he ought to be wanting Fenella to be safe and warm and outside of the danger, but he did not. He wanted her here with him, sharing everything there was to share, even though some of it would be fearsome and most of it would be dangerous. They might both die here, tonight, at CuRoi’s hands, but still he wanted her with him.
He moved softly forward, feeling the faint ruffle of awareness that was Fenella’s presence near to the stone steps at the far end of the passage. Down there? Yes, I believe so.
He would have said that he had long since cast off the shackles of what his ancestors might have called chivalry, and he was certainly no gentle or perfect knight. But it suddenly seemed immensely right that he should be prowling through the dark, enchanted Castle, with the shadows shifting eerily about him, intent on rescuing his Lady.
The shadows were thicker as Fenella reached the foot of the stone stairs. From somewhere close by came the faint sound of trickling water, a steady drip-dripping that echoed bleakly and desolately. Fenella, staring about her, thought there was an underlying pain here as well, as if people had lived and perhaps suffered here, and probably died. What was down here? The dungeons? Prisoners? CuRoi’s victims, held chained and manacled?
Standing very still in the dimly lit stone passage, Fenella felt the terrible weight of long-dead agonies and long-dead anguish and fear close about her. So intense was the feeling that the darkness lightened briefly and she glimpsed, for the first time, the silvery snail’s-trail of necromancy which had lured her here. Alarm woke in her mind and with it fear. What am I doing down here! And, more worrying: How did I get here? She looked sharply behind her, but there was nothing to be seen.
But I think I am not alone, and I think that down here is something ancient and sinister and so powerful it is almost beyond Human understanding …
She was at the foot of the steps, standing in a narrow, low-ceilinged corridor. Ahead of her was another of the stone passages, lit by the smeary light of the wall sconces … Human fat and Dead Men’s marrow …
To the left were tiny low doors with pointed arches above them, set deeply into the wall, so low that Fenella, who was not tall, would have had to stoop to enter. Seven doors, each one of them shrouded in shadow, and each of them with a great iron ring-handle. Each one, perhaps, holding the necromancer’s secrets …
Fenella stayed where she was, because, although shreds of the spell still clung to her mind, she was becoming aware of the creeping evil everywhere, and the more she became aware of it, the more the spell dissolved. Surely, she thought, surely you did not, if you were sensible, pry into the dark dungeons in a necromancer’s lair. If you were sensible, what you did was to go in search of someone to pry with you, someone you could trust … The half-memory of Nuadu ruffled the surface of her mind and a few more strands of the dark glistening enchantment fell away. Fenella thought: I am standing at the heart of a necromancer’s ancient, spell-ridden Castle and it is dead of night and I am all alone … Of course he has woven an enchantment over me! How could I have thought he had not!
Fear surged up and she turned back to the stone steps, because she could be up the steps and back inside the warm, firelit room with the door bolted and Nuadu within reach.
But would it be safe and would it be warm and secure? Couldn’t CuRoi simply call to her again, no matter how many bolted doors and no matter how much cosy warm firelight?
And now I’m actually here, thought Fenella, now that I’m confronting these rooms which I suppose are dungeons, I might as well look inside. I might as well see if there is any trace of the King, or if there is any trace of anything at all.
And it would be rather interesting just to see, whispered the sil
very voice, it would be a great adventure to peer into the secrets of the sorcerers …
There’s no one here, said Fenella firmly. It’s perfectly quiet and it’s perfectly safe — and if anyone had been prowling along after me, I should have heard.
I don’t know whether this is one of CuRoi’s horrid subtle spells, or whether it is my own curiosity, thought Fenella, and moved forward to the first of the doors.
The latch lifted easily and the iron ring-handle turned smoothly as if it was frequently used. Then this is no seldom-visited dungeon, thought Fenella. This is no forgotten underground prison-what did they used to call them? an oubliette — where victims rot to death in chains and gyves in the dark.
There was a twisted, rusting wall bracket directly opposite to the door and someone had thrust a flaring torch into it. It was burning strongly, and the thought touched Fenella’s mind that it must have been only just lit and that this might mean that somebody had been down here very recently and that the somebody might still be here, hiding in the shadows, watching, waiting …
She turned the iron ring-handle and pushed wide the door.
Pain screeched inside her head at once. Loud, hurting, white-hot pain tore into her mind, as her sight and her senses were assaulted and lacerated and sent spinning by what lay within.
The room was small, perhaps ten feet square. It was hewn from the solid grey stone of the passage and there were no windows.
Of course not, my dear, for is not this the famous Castle of Illusions, where all the windows and all the doors vanish with the setting of the sun, and where every entrance and every means of egress is sealed … ?
