by Sarah Rayne
They were in a massive domed cavern, with strange rock formations which bore curious carvings. There were none of the bronze wall sconces down here, for there was no need of light. The entire cavern was bathed in a strong, prismatic glow and there was a sudden solid heat, as if the door to an immense furnace had been opened, and they were standing directly in front of it.
Above them was the rock ceiling and all about them were the ancient cavern walls with their strange images of beasts and half-Humans and symbols that might have been magical and might have been powerful, or that might have been simply the recording of events of the Deep Past. Beneath their feet the floor was hard and, here and there, it was cracked as if the heat had slowly baked it over the centuries, causing it to contract and split.
Directly in front of them was the cascading fire of the legendary River of Time.
Fael-Inis moved forward and stood alone, a slender figure silhouetted against the rushing torrents of flame.
He does not fear it in the least, thought Flame. And then, Or does he?
If Fael-Inis feared it, he gave no sign. He stood, looking deep into the River for a while, as if he might be seeing things in it that the others could not see and, just for a moment, Flame thought she could see them as well …
Leaping unicorn shapes, rearing, prancing, winged beings who lived in the fires and who guarded Time and sometimes rescued lost travellers who had strayed or were pushed or fell into the echoing emptinesses that existed between the past and the present and the future … Slant-eyed faces and knowing three-cornered smiles, and beings who were so wholly magical and so completely lacking in Human blood that they would never be seen abroad in the world of Men …
And then Fael-Inis turned and held out his arms and smiled. And a deep and contented sigh went through the watchers, for now, at last, it was the warm smile of the companion and the guide and the creature who loved mankind and understood about its weaknesses and its frailties and who loved mankind not in spite of these failings, but because of them.
Fael-Inis, the rebel angel, the creature of fire and light and speed … Flame, unable to take her eyes from him, felt something harsh and painful close about her heart, because this was how she had always pictured him, exactly like this … The rebel angel, the wild, reckless being of fire and light, bathed in the leaping flames of the immortal River of Time, holding out his hands to the world …
And then Fael-Inis moved and the light changed and he was no longer other worldly. He was very nearly mortal — and he was holding out his hands.
Together, Flame and Floy moved forward.
Chapter Fifty
The ceremonial entry into Tara of Nuadu Airgetlam, Nuadu of the Silver Arm, the rebel Wolfprince who had been flung from the Royal House by the King, and lived in the Wolfwood, was a glittering and joyful event.
And although Nuadu had asked that there should be as little ceremony as possible, ceremony was there, nevertheless. It was in the crowds who flocked to Tara, and it was in the delight of the people who came from their villages and their farms and their towns, to cheer the procession and drink wine and dance in the streets. It was in the solemn procession of the Royal Wolves, who walked before the High King as he made the triumphal entry to Tara, the Bright Palace of his ancestors, the luminescent fortress of his predecessors.
He rode with the Lady who would take her place as his Queen, and everyone cheered, because wasn’t it traditional, wasn’t it historical, wasn’t it right that the Wolfking should have a Human as consort? They cheered very loudly indeed for Fenella, who had already ridden down into the villages and the townships and had talked with them and wanted to know about them and hear how they worked and what they did, and about their families and their ways. A lovely, generous lady, they said, cheering for her all over again as she rode at Nuadu’s side. A Lady for the people.
Behind Nuadu and Fenella came the ceremonial black-covered bier of the dead Aed, Nuadu’s half-brother, and at this, the people instantly sank to their knees in silent homage to the young man who had suffered at the hands of CuRoi and his creatures, and who had died of his torments at last knowing himself to be free. The bier had been given the premier place in the procession which was only right, but the people told one another that wasn’t it altogether grand to see that their new King was adhering to the proper formalities and the old traditions.
Behind the solitary horse with its sad carriage, was the beautiful fey creature who was Fael-Inis’s daughter. Half sorceress, half fire-creature, said the watchers suddenly hushed, certainly delighted. A soft radiance was all about her, but she was smiling and at her side was the thin-faced dark-haired young man Floy, who had slain the Frost Giantess and the Robemaker and ridden at the King’s side in the marvellous storming of the Castle of Illusions. It had been rumoured that the King was to confer some very high honour on Floy — the Noble WolfOrder of Cormac had been mentioned-which was no more than he deserved — and it had been announced, that very morning, that he was also to be given the command of the King’s Fiana, the ancient honourable soldiery who had the guarding of the Royal Castles.
The Beastline creatures came next, each one wearing the insignia of his or her House, as was correct for such an historic occasion. With them, were the Tree Spirits, one representative for each Tree: Oak and Elm and Ash and Copper Beech and Holly and Poplar and Silver Birch. One for each, beautiful and wild and filled with the ancient woodland magic. You had to be wary of Trees, of course, but it was altogether grand that they were awake and very right and proper that they should be here.
Behind the Trees walked the two brothers, Snizort and Snodgrass, whom most people thought a bit odd but whom everyone had found to be surprisingly interesting to talk to. It was thought they had been appointed as the King’s official ollam, and that chronicles were already being prepared about the newest chapter in Ireland’s history. Caspar was with them and Miach, and everyone reminded each other of the important part in the battle these two had played. Wasn’t it altogether grand to see an ordinary person such as Caspar helping to defeat the giants in the most casual way imaginable?
The Gnomes brought up the rear and as the ceremonial line neared Tara’s Western Gate the watching people suddenly stopped cheering and throwing flowers. Nuadu felt the silence and the anticipation fall upon the entire procession, because this was it, this was the moment they had all been waiting for. The Wolfking entering Tara …
As they passed under the pale, shining archway and into the embrace of the immense Palace, Nuadu looked up at the soaring turrets and the glistening spires, at the pale beautiful stonework, soaked with the magical prismatic colour that had been woven into Tara at the very beginning, and that could only be quenched by the forces of the Dark Realm.
Journey’s end …
For a moment, he felt the weight of Tara fall about him and there was a terrible instant when he wanted to push it away and say: I am not worthy! Let me go, and let me not have to take up this burden, this weight, this responsibility! Let me go back to the forest shadows and to the ancient twilight magic of the Wolfwood.
But the call of his blood was too strong; he had summoned the Wolves and seen them answer; he had hurled the power and the light and the strength of the Royal Wolves at the malevolent dark forces, and he had taken his place on the enchanted Ebony Throne of Erin.
And the Throne had accepted him …
So this is it, thought Nuadu, moving ahead on his own, feeling the others fall back and stand silently watching. This is it, the moment when I take up the mantle, when I shoulder the weight of Tara’s future and honour the vow to Aed. When I enter the place of my mother’s noble house. The moment when all Ireland is mine.
All Ireland is mine …
It broke within him then, a soaring fountain of the purest delight he had ever known, almost overwhelming in its force, certainly painful in its intensity.
I am Ireland's rightful King and Ireland is mine by blood and by battle and by inheritance … I am a Pri
nce of a Royal House and I have fought for Ireland, and Ireland is mine. I am coming home …
The darkness rolled back and finally and at last he saw Tara for what it was; not a place of stifling weight and heavy dragging responsibilities and fearsome bondage, but …
A place of light and space and radiance and joy. And Fenella would be with him …
The wolfsmile lifted his lips as he moved forward to where the Ebony Throne waited.
Sorceress
Chapter One
Theodora had stolen downstairs soon after the banquet began, and had gone quietly along the passages that led to Great-grandfather’s Chamber of the Sorcery Looms.
She would quite have liked to be present at the banquet, but probably it would be boring, with everyone falling out and some people falling asleep. Father would glumly count up how much wine was being consumed, and Mother would count the silver after the Mugains had left the table, and everybody else would count Rumour’s newest tally of gowns. Rumour, who was Theo’s cousin, was supposed to be reckless and extravagant, and also something called ‘wanton’, which sounded bad but fun; people like Herself of Mugain and Great-aunt Fuamnach murmured things about Rumour behind their hands which Theo was not supposed to hear, on account of being only six and a half. But Theo liked Rumour best of all the Amaranths. She liked the way that Rumour smiled as if she found people amusing and life great fun, and she liked the way Rumour told marvellous stories, and the way she wore dazzling silk gowns and unexpected headdresses. Theo suspected that Rumour did it just because people expected it. ‘My dear, I have a reputation to keep up,’ Rumour might have said, winking at Theo on the side no one could see.
To get to the Chamber of the Looms you had to go along dark and rather gusty corridors. They were dark because Mother said she was not going to spend good money on lighting the passages, especially since no one but Nechtan ever used them. Theodora was strictly forbidden to use the passages on her own; Mother had thinned her lips in the way she did when she was displeased, and had said, ‘Spies and renegades from you know where.’ Father had looked solemn and said, ‘You never knew what you might find prowling about’, and Theodora was pleased not to go there by herself.
‘You know where’ meant the Dark Ireland, Theo knew that. It was very important — well, it was vital really — that you did not let any of the creatures from the evil bad Dark Ireland get in to the Palace.
But Great-grandfather Nechtan had spun all kinds of good strong enchantments to keep the Dark Ireland out, and so long as you were very quiet and so long as you were very stealthy, you could go along the passages and reach the Looms Chamber and be perfectly safe.
She would be perfectly safe now. She had taken a candle in a silver bracket, because of the darkness. As she went along, it flickered in the horrid, whispery winds and threw huge shadows on the walls. She did not mind the shadows, or not very much, because she had seen them before. They were roaming enchantments; spells that had somehow slid away from the Looms. They were nearly always friendly, and they would talk to Theodora in the Ancient Language of Cadence, which was the magical tongue of sorcery. Hardly anybody could speak in Cadence these days because it had been lost to the Amaranths during the terrible Wars, but Theodora could follow it a little, because Great-grandfather sometimes lapsed into it when he was angry or excited, and Theo had listened without him being aware of it, and also she had picked up a bit from the enchantments. Sometimes the enchantments were lost and confused, and had to be shown the way back to the Looms and put with their friends.
The shadow tonight was not very friendly-looking. It was following her, tiptoeing along after her, holding up huge, grotesque hands that looked as if they were poised to catch her up.
Theo took a deep breath and walked a bit faster. Probably it was nothing to worry about. Probably it was simply one of the horrid dark enchantments that Great-grandfather had spun for the High King and the Court to help keep out the necromancers of the Dark Ireland and the Human-greedy Fomoire.
Theodora knew all about the Fomoire and the Dark Ireland, because Great-grandfather had often talked to her about it: sometimes chuckling to himself as he stirred something that was bubbling over a fire, or measuring a skein of thread that would be woven into a spell; but sometimes looking very solemn indeed. Theodora would curl up in the chimney-corner of the workroom, which was the best place in all Ireland, and listen, her cheeks flushed from the fire, her eyes shining, watching the tall, robed figure that moved between the Looms and in and out of the rows of vellum-bound books that were the famous Amaranth Chronicles.
‘The Dark Ireland,’ said Great-grandfather, fixing Theodora with his long brilliant Amaranth eyes, and gesturing with his slender white Amaranth hands, ‘is fearsome and evil and malevolent, Theodora, and when you are old enough you will take the Solemn Vow to keep it from the true Ireland at all costs.’
Theodora would take the Vow when she was eighteen, which was what all Amaranths did, but she would not take it in the Language of Cadence, because of it having been lost, which was rather a pity.
‘Has it been lost?’ said Great-grandfather, his expression suddenly amused. ‘Has it indeed been lost? Well, they may think so if they wish. You and I know better, little one.’
And then, just as Theodora would have liked to know more about the Lost Language of Sorcery, and why it had been lost and who had lost it and how, Great-grandfather would be off again, telling Theo all the stories. He would tell about the terrible wicked Dark Lords, who had come rampaging out of the Dark Realm in the past, and who had tried to take Ireland for their own. He would tell about the defeat of the Fomoire, and also about the truly dreadful Fisher King, who had been driven back by the Amaranths themselves at the very end of the Wars, but whose dying curse had been that he would one day return, and that his spawn would destroy their House for ever.
‘But he was defeated,’ said Great-grandfather, frowning. ‘The Fisher King was defeated,’ he said, and Theo looked up because it had sounded as if Great-grandfather was talking to himself for a moment, and in that same moment there had been something in his voice that had been unsure.
‘They were all defeated,’ said Nechtan a little louder, and Theo remained silent, because she knew that even though the Fomoire and the Fisher King had been vanquished, there were others who had not.
Nechtan said, very softly, ‘They were all defeated save for two,’ and Theo inched nearer to the fire and whispered the words that came next.
‘They were all defeated save the Lord of Chaos and his Lady …’
It was important not to think too much now about how Great-grandfather had enjoyed weaving his enchantments, and thinking up new ways of keeping the creatures of the Dark Ireland at bay for the High King. Great-grandfather was dying upstairs — Mother had been annoyed, and had compressed her lips all over again, and said, ‘Dying, and without the slightest warning!’ — and all of the family had gathered to find out who Great-grandfather’s successor would be.
It was important not to think about the Dark Lords as well, especially when you were stealing along to the Chamber of the Looms, where you were not supposed to be in the first place, and when everyone else in the Porphyry Palace was upstairs in the marble hall, feeding and drinking and trying to decipher the ancient Ritual of Succession. Theodora would not think about it. She especially would not think about the Fomoire and their caves where they kept Humans, and fattened them for their skins.
She scurried down the last bit of passage and through the Silver Door.
Behind her, the shadow loped its grotesque way forward.
*
The great Sorcery Chamber of the Silver Looms, where the dying Nechtan had woven his strong magic, hummed with nascent bewitchments and shimmered with glinting rainbow iridescence. Theodora felt the warmth and the scents and the enchantment-laden shadows close about her, and it was familiar and comforting and safe after the horrid gusty passages with the lurking shadows.
There were the warm s
cents of ancient magic and frequently spun bewitchments, and just beneath the surface was the faint ebbing and flowing of something dark and secretive.
Theo stood for a long time just inside the door, waiting for her eyes to adjust. There was a soft spill of radiance from the Looms, and from the tumbling raw magic that lay all anyhow at the feet of the giant Looms, waiting to be formed into spells. The unhewn spells gleamed as Theo moved cautiously nearer; they sent spears of rainbow light across the floor, so that there were harlequin patterns at the Chamber centre, crimson and purple and pink. It was very quiet now, and Theo could hear the live magic stirring.
The live magic stirring …
There was a moment when everything was normal and familiar and friendly, and then — she was not sure how it happened — there was another moment when nothing was normal and everything was sinister and creeping and threatening. Theo, her skin prickling with sudden apprehension, stretched her every instinct to its fullest point.
There is something evil in here …
The Silver Door swung shut behind her with a satisfied little click, and Theo turned. In the same moment, the shadows clotted and coalesced and slithered nearer, making a black creeping river between her and the door.
There is something in here and I am shut in with it …
The Looms towered above her, black and silver and ivory, their feet embedded in the ground, but their heads and arms seeming to reach out to the source of their power. If you looked at them through half-closed eyes, you could nearly imagine that they were massive giants, with great legs buried in the floor, and immense shoulders and arms reaching up, their blank faces turned to the skies, far beyond the Porphyry Palace, far into some infinity.
Theo could hear the power in them; she could see it and she could feel it. A dull thrumming on the air. And there was gentle sly movement everywhere, the occasional darting of a silver thread, or the pouring of a skein of brilliant crimson across the floor. Magic is alive, Great-grandfather had said. It is alive, just as we are alive, so you cannot expect it to stay exactly where it is put.
