by Sarah Rayne
“The Mutants always screech,” said the girl. “But it is true; they will be serving supper soon.”
“Tell us your name,” said Flynn kindly.
“It is Portan.”
Ah,” said Amairgen. “And your real name, my dear?”
A smile touched her lips. “In my family, I was called Maura. But names change inside the Gealtacht. I am always called Portan. It is an old Gael word, meaning —”
“The spider-crab,” said Amairgen, gently. “This way, and let us be as quiet as we can.”
*
It was rather like having an obedient child, having Portan with them. She did not speak very much, but both men were strongly conscious of an unquestioning fidelity. Once she halted and sniffed the dusk; once she said, “I had forgotten how large the world was,” but for most of the journey back down the hill, she said nothing, padding easily and silently at their side, usually on all six limbs, but occasionally raising up a little.
When they stopped, halfway down, she curled at Flynn’s feet and accepted the food they shared out; watching them eat, copying how they did so with a faithfulness that Flynn found moving. He gave her the remains of the chicken, and peeled and sectioned an apple for her.
“This is a feast,” said Portan. “I had forgotten there were such things.”
“How long have you been in the Gealtacht?”
“Many years. I am not sure.”
She appeared to possess the unusual gift of being able to live for the moment, and to be only too able to forget the years in the House of Mutants.
“But my family I do not forget,” she said, and there was an ache of longing in her voice now. “I do not forget how I was taken to the House by nightfall and left there on the doorstep to be found or to die, as the gods chose. I do not forget that I cried and clung to my father and begged not to be left there.” A tiny pause. “It was a terrible time,” said Portan.
“Your family abandoned you?”
“It is how it should be,” said Portan. “But it was hard, sometimes. And I should have liked to see my mother again.”
Flynn said carefully, “But there is surely nothing shameful about having a Mutant born into the family —”
“Oh yes, it is a very shameful thing,” said Portan, and there was no trace of bitterness in her voice. “People do not wish to admit that we still exist, you see. They do not like it known that they cannot breed normal healthy children. And my father was an important man. It would not have done. But I missed my mother,” she said, and now there was such wistfulness in her voice, that Flynn felt his eyes burn with unshed tears.
Portan smiled up at him. “But I was luckier than most,” she said. “I was not disabled by my deformities, and they learned that I was not insane like so many were.”
She had been entrusted with small tasks; carrying food, cleaning. “There were several of us who could do such things. They did not lock us in. And it made for a friendship between us.” She laid down the remains of the chicken. “We had to wait on those who had us in their care,” she said. “And in the summer we were made to attend to the gardens. That I enjoyed — to see the food growing — there is a satisfaction in that. But mainly I was alone.”
“What did you do?”
“I waited,” she said. “And I hoped,” and Flynn, liking her and admiring her, was suddenly reminded of a trustful animal, abandoned by its master, but still watching the door for that master’s return.
He smiled and reached out to take her hand. “I am glad you came with us, Portan,” he told her.
“I hope I will be able to do what you want,” said Portan.
Flynn hoped so as well.
CHAPTER FIVE
Joanna awoke to bright sunlight pouring in through the half-curtained windows of her bedchamber, and was hazily aware of a warm contented drowsiness.
And then, quite suddenly, of something else.
I am not alone.
Delight tinged with apprehension washed over her, and she turned her head across the deep soft bed and saw him.
He was still asleep, sprawled across the bed in unconscious grace — animal grace, thought Joanna, fascinated and terrified: I have lain with a wolf. And she knew only an immense, heart-stopping joy.
She lay quietly, watching him, the bed soft and warm, memories of the previous night flooding back.
They had sat before the fire talking, drinking wine; Cormac’s eyes had been hard and slanting, golden in the firelight, and Joanna had thought: I believe he is in some way casting an enchantment on me, frowning, because the concept of such a thing was alien. Even so — I believe he is she thought, and discovered a wish to be enchanted wholly and forever. All about them, the great Castle of Shadow settled into silence, and through the deep slit-like windows the winking lights of the forest dwellers went out one by one. They might have been the only people left in the world …
*
“We are the only people,” said her companion softly, and Joanna jumped, because for a moment she had forgotten his trick of picking up a thought. Would he then know everything she thought?
“Not your deepest thoughts,” he said, and smiled.
“Those of us who possess the Samhailt are charged to use it honourably.” He took her hand. “I possess it, because I could not be a Prince of Tara unless I did. But I must never probe too deeply.” He held her hand a little more firmly. “Are you thinking, Human Child, that I have drawn you into my lair and kept you there for my own purposes?” The cool, sharp wolf nails of his hand dug into her skin. He moved so that he was seated on the floor, in front of the great hearth, and his face and his limbs were bathed in the red light from the fire.
“Joanna, I am aching with desire for you,” he said, and Joanna felt the delight and the fear run all over her. For an instant, the memory of Muldooney’s fat soft body against hers swam into her mind, and for a truly terrible moment, the memory of Flynn’s grey eyes and wide mobile mouth was there as well. But, “I am aching with desire,” he said, and his face and his voice were like no one’s Joanna had ever met in her life, and the reality of Flynn and Muldooney and that other world that she might never see again, was slipping away.
Cormac said softly, “There has been one who misused you, Human Child. You may forget him. And there has been one who loved you. You may forget him, also.” He pulled her down to the floor beside him, and his face was close to hers, and she could smell the warm golden wolf scent of him, and desire cut through her from breast to womb, so fiercely and so sweetly that the room tilted and spun.
“I have the strength of Men to love you, Joanna, and I have the strength of Beasts, as well. I can love you like a human, Joanna, but I can love you like a wolf too. Your purebred humans could never love you like I can, Joanna.”
He had risen and was looking down at her, and so beautiful and so strange was he that Joanna felt dizzy and sick, and was filled with delight and fear, and wished to wake up and find it all a dream, and wanted it to go on for ever.
“Contrary child,” said Cormac gently, and pulled her to her feet, and drawing her close, kissed her slowly and lingeringly, his lips open and warm and tasting of wine and love. Joanna leaned against him, she thought she could not have stood by herself anyway by this time, and she felt the strong thighs and hips, and the powerful shoulders, and felt as well, the hard hot masculine arousal between his legs.
“You see?” said Cormac softly. “You feel?” He slid the fur-trimmed robe from his shoulders, and stood naked before the flickering fire, and Joanna drew in a breath, and thought: beautiful! Animal and frightening, but so beautiful a creature that no one could resist him. Is he going to do to me what Muldooney tried to do and failed?
“I shall hurt you,” said Cormac softly, and Joanna knew he had sensed her fear. “But you will not mind.”
He reached for the robe she wore and slid it from her shoulders, his sharp nails brushing her skin, leaving rivulets of pleasure wherever they touched.
“Ever sin
ce you walked into my castle I have wanted you,” he said.
Come inside, my dear … all the better to seduce you … Joanna had never heard the old nursery stories; she had never absorbed, as children of an earlier age had, the primeval fear of wolves; of soft caressing voices that soothed and excited all in one; of slender and beautiful young men who were not quite what they appeared to be. To a child from the age known as Lethe, Cormac’s behaviour and his words would have been sinister indeed; a Lethe child would have remembered that creatures with wolf blood in them had a way of suddenly changing, so that evil, hungry beings looked out of their eyes; that creatures with wolf blood in them had a taste for human flesh and human skin. All the better to eat you with, my dear … But a child of the Lethe age would never have found itself in this situation either, and even then, would not have believed in it, for the Letheans, whatever else they may have done, had found a way to solve the world’s problems. They knew, or thought they knew, the solution to all the mysteries and they thought that their science had drawn aside all the veils, so that their knowledge had penetrated the dark secrets of the world. But perhaps, as well as all of this, they had lost something. Perhaps they had lost the sense of wonder. They had certainly lost the belief in magic and in other worlds.
And so, Joanna, child of an austere, destroyed world but child also of an age who had known the Apocalypse and who therefore knew that anything in the world was possible, believed in this remarkable enchanted world and fell a little deeper into Cormac’s bewitchment. She sat and listened and looked, and allowed herself to be seduced very fully, very completely.
Once lost, she was lost indeed. There was no thought of Flynn left in her mind, for Cormac was already spinning about her an old, old enchantment. There was absolutely no thought of Muldooney with his soft fat body and the obscene things he had done to her.
Cormac’s hands on her body felt like nothing she had ever imagined; when he drew her hands down between his thighs so that she felt the strong dark tangle of hair and the warm hard arousal of his body, she did not think — I am betraying Flynn — for she had no memory of Flynn left. She pulled Cormac closer, exploring him, cupping him between her hands, trembling with pleasure when the warm silky seed began to spill on to her hands. There was nothing left in the world but this warm, fire-lit room and this lithe lean being who was sending her body spinning into such delight that she thought she would surely faint.
He laid her on the floor, the soft skin rugs beneath her, and lowered himself on to her so that she felt his gentle weight, and smelt again the dark golden wolf scent. As he entered her, smoothly and strongly and yet somehow gently, she cried out, and there was a dark sweet flood of joy that came spinning outwards until it engulfed her entire body. She did not see Cormac’s sideways glance at her, and she did not feel the satisfaction that coursed through his mind. She thought only: I am being loved by a wolf! And the pleasure soared.
Dawn was streaking the skies when he at last carried her up to his bedchamber and laid her on the great soft bed. He sent for warm wine and poured it for her, and drank with her, sharing the wine chalice, smiling at her, his eyes unfathomable, his mouth tender.
And I loved it all, she thought, stretching now, watching the sun travel slowly across the floor. At her side, Cormac slept still, sprawled with that peculiar grace, dark hair falling across his eyes. Joanna turned in the bed and watched him, and there was no memory left of another young man who had lain at her side, and who had dark hair that fell untidily across his brow, and who had loved her certainly as strongly and as passionately as Cormac.
*
A thought, once voiced aloud, sometimes makes you realise with a shock that the thought has been there for a long time.
When Cormac said, “Come with me to Tara,” Joanna stopped short in the middle of eating her breakfast, and thought: he has planned this. He has intended all along to wage war on the usurper, Eochaid Bres and on Eochaid’s mother. He has known all along he will do it, and he has known since last night that he will take me with him.
“I have known for longer than that, Human Child,” said Cormac. “I have known ever since I was cast out of Tara, that I could only be released from Scáthach by a human. I have been waiting for you.”
Joanna stared at him, round-eyed, and he smiled and reached for her hand in the gesture that was becoming familiar.
“Scáthach is not a prison with bars and locks,” said Cormac. “For were you not able to turn the handle and walk in?
“It is a prison of enchantment. For when I was driven from Tara, the sorcerers wove the spell that would keep me here.” He smiled at her. “But my people believe in the strength of purebred humans,” he said, “and I have always known that it would be a human who would release me.”
He made a quick gesture with one hand. “Legend says it was a purebred human — Dierdriu of the Nightcloak — who was Tara’s first High Queen. And although the High Throne must never be occupied by a human, we know that it is the humans who are the Kingmakers.” He leaned closer. “It is only with your help that I shall break out of Scáthach, and it is only with your help that I shall regain Tara, Joanna.”
A Kingmaker. A purebred human. Joanna thought: it all sounds too far-fetched. But she could not but be stirred by it all.
She could not but respond to him.
“Help me,” said Cormac softly, his skin warm against hers. “Come to Tara with me.”
“To — wage war?”
“Yes. On Eochaid Bres and his Councillors. On Bricriu of the Poison Tongue, and on Eochaid’s mother. I cannot let them give Tara into the power of the Erl-King, Joanna. I dare not. Ireland would run with blood, and the skies would be forever dark.” His eyes were glowing with unnatural life now, and Joanna could not look away. “Come with me, Joanna. Ride at my side, at the head of my armies. Be with me when we turn back the Dark Magic. Help me to defeat them all.” His eyes held hers. “Well?”
Joanna thought, confusedly, I do not trust him. Do I? But I do not think I can deny him. She said, a little breathlessly, “Would it work? Could you walk from here?”
“If you were with me I could.”
“Your exile would be ended?”
“Yes.”
“Then,” said Joanna, “then I will do it.”
“You will come with me?”
“Yes.”
“It will be dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“You will not mind?”
“Yes,” said Joanna. “Yes, I shall mind.”
“Remarkable child.” He released her hand. “Very well, then. But you must leave me now. You must leave me, for I am going down into the depths of Scáthach to send out the Mindsong.”
“To your — your supporters?”
“To the Wolves,” said Cormac, and smiled. “And if the Wolves answer my call, then I shall know that my exile is over. I shall know that you have broken the enchantment that held me here, Joanna.”
*
In the bright morning, the forest was a very different place indeed. Joanna walked delightedly across the narrow bridge and skirted the trees.
There was delight everywhere.
Because I am happy? Because of what happened last night? I don’t love him, thought Joanna, seating herself against a massive oak and leaning her head back. At least, I don’t think I do. But I think I must follow him. I think I must ride at his side, as he has asked me to, and release him from the years of exile. And I think I must stay with him until he regains his kingdom. I suppose I ought to be afraid, thought Joanna, not in the least afraid at all. I certainly ought to worry about returning to Tugaim.
But if, when he awakes, he finds himself still in possession of that rose …? I believe I should be forever homesick for this place, she thought. Have I then truly fallen asleep and dreamed I have gone to Paradise? And if so, how shall I bear it when I do wake up?
I have fallen through a chink in Time, a half-open door, but I feel as if I was never meant to be anywher
e else.
She leaned back lazily, watching the branches high above her. I could stay here forever, thought Joanna sleepily, and frowned, because there was some very good reason why she should not stay here, and there was some very good reason why she should not want to stay here. Something she had left behind? Someone she had left behind? Her family? But they would not miss her. They would make a grand show of being grief-stricken at her disappearance; her father would certainly turn all of Tugaim upside-down to find her, but he would not really mind.
Muldooney would not mind either, although he would be annoyed because he would be made to appear silly. Joanna smiled, because the thought of Muldooney, flabby obscene person, being made to look silly was rather pleasant. But he would not miss her.
Wasn’t there someone else … Joanna frowned, because there was certainly someone on the edges of her vision, someone she ought to remember more strongly than the rest of them. Someone who ought to mean rather a lot to her.
It was no use. The face, the person, the memory had slithered from her grasp.
And probably I dreamt it, thought Joanna, blinking sleepily in the warm sunlight, falling a little deeper into enchantment. Yes, for sure it had been a dream.
She did not know that she was indeed more than halfway to being bewitched, or that she was caught in a gentle strong magic spun by her wolf-lover from the moment she had entered Scáthach.
But Cormac, with the inherited power of the Samhailt running through his veins, had been able to reach into Joanna’s mind, far beyond the ancient code that bound those who possessed the Mindsong. It was utterly and absolutely forbidden, of course, for it was decreed that those who had the art must never overlook the deepest thoughts of another without their consent, and until now, Cormac had used the Samhailt honourably and carefully.
But the years inside Scáthach had wearied him; he ached for Tara, and he knew a great sense of fear when he thought of Eochaid Bres being manipulated by the greedy unscrupulous men of the Court. The human child, Joanna, must be bound to him utterly and for as long as it took him to regain Tara, and for that time there could be no divided loyalties. And so he had taken her hand and he had reached into her mind, and he had seen the image of Flynn that Joanna carried with her. There had been a surprising twinge of jealousy as well: she is mine! he had thought fiercely, and then he had summoned an old, old enchantment that would blur Joanna’s memories of Flynn. Joanna must belong to him completely. The belief that the humans were the Kingmakers was bred in him, and the sidh with their unearthly chill music had long lain in wait on the edges of the Time Curtain. They had brought him Joanna, and she would ride at the head of the Wolves with him.