by Sarah Rayne
Maelduin had gone warily to the central, star-shaped chamber, knowing that this would be the heart and the core and the powerhouse, slipping through the courtyard with the creeping shadows, and through the jagged-toothed gate with the massive iron rings. The Dark Evil had been all about him; he had felt the anger of the sentry spells, left there by the Lord of Chaos and his henchmen; he saw them almost materialise: slithering black creatures, low in intelligence but high in cunning.
But he ignored them. He walked calmly through the dim halls and the ebony satin of the Sable Stair, and stretched his mind to its furthest point, reaching for light, feeling for the silver strands, the elusive mesh of the Cadence. The shadows retreated as the light within his mind touched them, and swift exultation rose in Maelduin’s mind. He thought: so it is still there! The cool, elvish light of my people is still within me! I am still my father’s son, and while I can still feel the ice-blues and the frost-greens, I am safe. While I feel that, I can still look upon the Humanish as creatures to hunt, creatures to hound for their souls. I can see them for the absurd beings they are!
And then, hard on the heels of that thought came another: but how involved am I becoming with them? Already he had found himself experiencing sadness at Murmur’s death, wishing to make reparation.
I dare not! thought Maelduin, his eyes flashing turquoise fire. I must look on these creatures as my prey! I must remember how it feels to chase them and swoop on them and drain their souls! There must be no involvements, no sympathies.
He dared not permit Humanish feelings to seep into his mind, for the more the Humanish garb shaled on to him, the harder it would be to return to his natural state. And I could not bear never to see Tiarna again!
The Cadence Tower was silent and secretive. Maelduin seated himself cross-legged at the centre of the star-shaped room, his eyes glittering turquoise slits, his head tilted, as if he was listening for something.
He narrowed his mind to a single, silver point, a speartip, a glinting pinhead of light in the darkness. If I am right, he thought, if I have the strength and the knowledge and the — yes, the perception! — and if the Cadence is truly here, then I shall see it. He would see it irradiating from the silver speck of light; beautiful, powerful, exquisitely wrought, intricate and complex. He did not yet know if he would be able to capture it.
He did not reach it on that first attempt, nor yet the second, nor the third. Despair threatened to cloud his mind, but he pushed it back fiercely, for despair — that terrible desolation of the spirit — could not be permitted.
He spent most of his days in the Tower, seated silent and still in the star-shaped chamber. Despite his resolve, there were times when he found himself beating back hopelessness, and there were times when he almost despaired of reaching the lost Cadence, for he knew it for an elusive, chimerical spell, faithful and loyal once caged, but mischievous and prankish and as transient as the will o’ the wisps that danced across the night marshes, beckoning mockingly to foolish travellers.
He took his place at Cerball’s table each night, grateful for the food and the wine that was always there for him, listening to the discourse of the Amaranths, beginning to find this Humanish custom of gathering together over the evening meal to share and discuss the events of the day rather attractive. They had celebrated the funerary rites for Murmur, and Cerball and the Mugain had courteously invited him to take part.
Maelduin had looked at them both thoughtfully, and had said, gravely, ‘I do not think your people would welcome it.’ And had stolen out of the Palace before dawnlight, leaving them to their strange nine-day ritual, seating himself on the hillside that rose behind the Porphyry Palace, hearing the rather beautiful chants and the singing; seeing the torchlit procession that set out at the Purple Hour with Murmur’s embalmed body in a silver casket. He sent up his own plea for Murmur, calling up strands of light, and weaving them into a thin shining veil to wrap about her soul, chanting a Halcyon that would enfold and protect her with its strength and its tranquillity.
He found the Amaranths interesting and companionable. They made him welcome, and they shared their work with him. They were still trying to reach the child, the Amaranth princess who had been taken by the Lord of Chaos, and they discussed their attempts openly, which Maelduin listened to with absorption.
When Bodb Decht talked of the spell for infiltrating the Rodent Armies, or Cecht and Great-aunt Fuamnach told how they were trying to conjure up the Looking-glass of the Sorceress Reflection, Maelduin thought: but those are enchantments of light, and you are surrounded by such darkness! You will never succeed! And then: do they not feel the darkness? he thought. Do they not sense the stifling, heavy shadows that lie over the Palace?
He wondered if the Amaranths were aware of the growing menace from the Black HeartStealers, and whether he ought to warn them. But he was still unsure about the ways of the Humanish: wars and feuds and battles were a part of their world, and he was aware that Humanish emotions were already seeping into his mind. Unsafe! he thought. I must not! And already he looked forward to the nightly gatherings with more keenness than was safe; to hearing about the progress of their day’s work, to learning whether this spell or that was taking shape; whether they had decided to attempt the difficult summoning of the White Stallion of CuChulainn, or if the Looking-glass of Reflection had materialised.
Several times he found himself wanting to tell them of his own endeavours; of how the Cadence stayed elusively out of his reach, but how he was determined to capture it. It would have been heartening to have talked about it, but he would not do so. Humanish weaknesses! This is my battle and that of my people. I dare not be drawn any deeper into this world.
But when Bodb Decht said to him that they believed their powers to be hampered by a darkness, Maelduin said, carefully, ‘It is a belief within my people that the greatest threat is sometimes from within the ranks of one’s own race.’ And let his eyes move to where the Black HeartStealers were gathered at the far end of the table.
Bodb Decht frowned, and Maelduin, seeing it, was satisfied. For although I do not care what happens to these creatures, they have been hospitable; they have not driven me out and they have accepted my help. He thought it was not in any creed that he should not try to warn them of the uncoiling evil in their midst.
He had found that the best time to pursue the Cadence was the Purple Hour; the magical drowsy time between day and night called dusk, when shadows thickened and there were drifting scents on the air, and the feeling that creatures from other worlds hovered. At these times, he knew the Cadence to be very close, a thread of light on the rim of his vision that would expand and open into the great silver chronicles of the Cadence if he could pin it down.
As the shadows thickened about the dark lonely Tower every night, Maelduin sat on, bending every ounce of his will to calling the Lost Magical Language to him, heedless of fatigue or thirst or hunger, barely aware now of the restricting Humanish cloak of skin and flesh and hair and bones. Every night, the scents of the Purple Hour closed about him, and every night he pursued the flickering lights; until at last he felt the Cadence within his reach. Slowly, stealthily, so gently that Maelduin could not be sure his senses were not tricking him, a glimmer of light began to form on the rim of his vision, a disc of pure, solid silver.
He stayed where he was, not moving, barely breathing. Was this to be the night? Was he about to capture the vagrant Cadence, the Language of Magic created all those centuries ago?
Slowly, with infinite patience, he wrapped his mind about the slivers of light, spinning a cage of enchantment so strong and so bright that after a time he began to see it before him: the bars slender and strong, the vagrant spell inside.
And then finally and at last, strand by exquisite strand, the Cadence began to form. At first there was only the faint glimpse of symbols on the darkness: strange curlicued shapes, scrolls and whorls and half-formed emblems and fragments of inscriptions and incantations, and torn shreds of runic s
igns.
Maelduin thought: it is closer! It is so close that I believe that I could reach out and hold it in my hands!
He knew that he must not. The beautiful fey spell was not a thing of the body; it was ephemeral, a thing of the mind and the spirit. The silver cage he was spinning was as ephemeral as the Cadence itself, but it was the only symbol that could be used. Capture, imprisonment, silver bars and golden cages …
You could not reach out and hold the Cadence in your hands, you could not spread it out before you. You could only conjure it by the force of your understanding, and if you were very lucky, you could harness it and yoke it, so that you could pronounce its beautiful complex patterns in speech, and so open up the door to the entire storehouse of sorcery, and reach every enchantment ever spun.
A key. A door. A gateway into the glittering, shifting, chimerical world of magic.
The light was stronger now, and the patterns were lying, harlequin and beautiful, across the floor, silver and violet and pink and turquoise and gold. The great Chronicles of the Amaranthine sorcerers were unfurling before him, like a series of great, silver-leaved books, the pages studded with live enchantments and breathing spells. On and on they went, reaching back and back into the mists of time, stretching back into the dawn before the world began, when Men walked on all fours like beasts and could understand one another without words … On and on, back into the darkness that existed before the dawn, when ancient magic stalked the world, and Men were unborn … Magic and Enchantment and Bewitchment and Allure and Beckoning and Beguilement …
Maelduin could see the shapes clearly now, he could see the awesome silhouettes and the outlines and the shifting, blurring shapes. The symbols danced and darted all about him, but now he could look on them with understanding. He could decipher the symbols, and pronounce the strange, multi-syllabic incantations, and see them form at his bidding. He thought: I can conjure it all up; I can summon the whole history of magic if I wish.
The entire Tower was suffused with light; it was a soaring, flaming mass of brilliance that was soaking into the blackened and pitted walls, driving back the shadows, lying like a great silver and rose tapestry across the floor at his feet.
And within that tapestry are the dreams of the world and the hopes of Mankind and the skills of the sorcerers, and within it lies the intricate weaving of every spell ever spun and every incantation ever pronounced, and every enchantment ever woven on a Silver Loom … And they are all there for the taking …
I have done it! thought Maelduin, his mind rocketing into purest delight, exultation filling his entire body. I have reached out and captured the Lost Language of Magic.
*
Maelduin walked slowly back to the Porphyry Palace, aching and bruised with exhaustion, but still filled with such deep delight that his tired body ceased to matter. So this was what it felt like to experience deep contentment and immense satisfaction; the all-embracing joy of something fought for and finally achieved.
Above him, dawn was silvering the sky, and he thought: yes, but which dawn? How long was I in the Tower? He was strongly aware of hunger now and of thirst. It would be good to enter the banqueting hall and eat and drink and be in the company of the others again.
I have begun the journey, he thought. I have battled with an immense strength and imposed my will on it. And somewhere within those silken, silver paths I must find a spell to save my people.
And what of the Amaranths? whispered a mischievous voice in his mind. Are you going to simply hand back the Cadence to them?
My father’s gift, thought Maelduin, frowning. Yes, it was my father’s gift, and they should have treated it as the precious thing it was. They should have guarded it. If I took it from them now it would only be what they deserve.
He approached the Palace, and slipped in through a side door. He would go to the room allotted to him, and lie for a time on the bed, letting his mind wander in the half-conscious state that was so refreshing. Perhaps he could ask for food and wine to be brought, or go down to the great, stone-flagged sculleries and fend for himself.
But as he closed the door behind him and turned to mount the stairway that led to the upper floors, he felt, as abruptly as if it was a blow, the angry, struggling darkness inside the Palace.
He stood motionless, his eyes looking upwards, their brilliance filmed with exhaustion, and after a moment, he knew the angry evil for what it was.
A monstrous creature clawing its way into the world. The dark, evil fruit of a terrible rape, tearing at the womb in its hungering desire to be in the world of Men.
The birthing of the Gristlen’s spawn.
*
The Amaranths had tied Laigne down to the bed. Herself of Mugain had done it, with Cecht and Great-aunt Fuamnach. Cerball had wanted to help, but he had been so upset by the sight of Laigne writhing and screaming, and by the thick dark blood oozing out between her thighs, that he had had to be sent out of the room. Great-aunt Fuamnach had said it was better anyway; you did not want to be doing with Men in a birth-chamber, it was not their place. Cerball was please to go away and leave the ladies of the family to get on with the matter.
Laigne’s lips were bitten to shreds and her nails were torn where she had scrabbled weakly at the straps and the lengths of sheet they had used to tie her down. She had flung herself to the floor at one point, clawing at the ground, fighting them off. She had screamed imprecations in an ancient tongue, which nobody had quite followed, but which Great-aunt Fuamnach, frowning, thought was a kind of libation to the Fisher King.
‘He will return for me!’ shrieked Laigne, rearing up, her hair sweat-soaked and rank, the flesh of her face pinched so that her nose jutted out like a snipe’s beak. ‘Coelacanth will come for me!’ she gasped, her voice hoarse with pain and exhaustion, sobbing and struggling.
It was then that they had tied her down, fearful of such insanity, frightened that she would injure herself. It had been a truly appalling thing to do, and the gentle Cecht had had to go away to be sick afterwards, but in the face of such demented torture, there had been nothing else for it.
They had pronounced all of the usual spells, of course; there were any number of soothing balm-enchantments, and a good many had been created precisely for birthing.
But the spells had all failed; Cecht’s potions and infusions had failed. The monster-child was tearing its way out of Laigne’s body, fighting and clawing, and Laigne seemed to be falling deeper and deeper into the terrible, tormented madness. They could see the child heaving within her; a great, lumpish creature, struggling and churning, rippling her distended body from within. Great-aunt Fuamnach, who liked to think she had no trace of squeamishness, found herself likening it to a stunted, warped beast trapped inside a pale sack, punching and squirming to find its way out …
Maelduin had gone quietly and unobtrusively to the room allotted to him. He was drained and exhausted with the final effort of recapturing the Cadence, but he was unable to rest. His body ached with fatigue and his mind was dizzy with exhaustion, but he could feel Laigne’s agony and her terror lacerating his mind and smothering his senses. He had not known that the Humanish must suffer such terrible torments, nor that his mind would be so open to it. Every time Laigne screamed, Maelduin felt white-hot agony sear his mind. Am I becoming more Humanish? he thought in a sudden agony of his own. Am I feeling their pain and their torment, and am I acquiring another layer of Humanish emotion? The tiny sidh-core of him could distance itself from the agony tearing through the Palace; the creature that Maelduin was becoming could not.
He felt a cold horror at what lay ahead, but would not renege on the bargain he had made.
He would take the creature while it was still blind and helpless, and he would embark on the treacherous journey to the legendary fortress whose name had crept into every sinister tale and every dark myth in Ireland’s history.
The Grail Castle.
Chapter Twenty-one
Even though he was dead, Coelacant
h still walked through Rumour’s dreams: evil, monstrous, rearing up to torment her.
She knew he was dead; she had seen his body cold and lifeless in the crystal pool. She had watched him die and she had heard his death throes. But she could not rid herself of the feeling that something of him lived … That somewhere was still the seed, the core, the cold evil that had dwelled in the black void of his soul …
The nimfeach and the Fomoire lay in the sticky web of the Draoicht Suan, sealed into the room with the crystal pools, and Rumour knew they could not reach her. But the nightmares remained, so that she would wake crying, clutching at Andrew.
And every time the nightmares attack me, he is there, she thought. Every time I am afraid, he is with me, calm and gentle and strong. I can lose the nightmares in his arms.
He intrigued her as much now as he had at the beginning. She found herself continually remembering the ancient legend of the Samildanach, the strange, myth-wreathed figure, the Man of Each and Every Art, who would release Ireland from the dark bonds of the necromancers. The one who would return to slay the evil that threatened Ireland …
Legend told how the Samildanach possessed all the gifts and all the graces; how he was poet and scholar and lover and musician and artisan.
And I believe he is all of those, thought Rumour, studying Andrew in the days that followed, as they explored the threatened City of Tiarna, and talked and ate and made love, and regained their strength. I have seen the scholar, for he is certainly learned. As for the lover — oh yes, she had seen the lover: fiercely passionate, and gentle and strong. And within the lover was surely the poet. He had said, ‘I would quote to you every beautiful verse ever penned and every love-poem ever spun had I the learning, but I have not; you will have to take me for what I am, my love.’
