by Sarah Rayne
The Court had dispersed, going quietly away in twos and threes, going to their beds — quite often to other people’s beds — and the sorcerers had taken their leave of Cormac, bowing gravely, and returning to the great Sorcery Chambers below the Bright Palace. Cormac had thought: an enchantment to bring her to my bed? And laughed inwardly, for no such enchantment would be necessary. Mab would be his tonight, as surely as the dawn would touch the Sun Chamber to rose and gold life tomorrow morning. And shall I be hers in turn? I do not think I shall ever want another woman quite as much as I want this one.
They were alone now, seated at the vast banqueting table, the Sun Chamber dimming into its own purple and lilac twilight. It had been the curious half time between daylight and the Purple Hour, and Cormac, his mind still alight and alive had felt the air heavy with twilight magic. He had studied Mab, and thought: she is not in the least beautiful. I am not sure if she is not ugly, but I have never known anyone like her. She will spoil me for any other woman.
She had caught that, of course, for the Samhailt was strong between them now, and Cormac’s desire was white-hot.
Mab had laughed. She said, “A pity to waste so much energy on the Mindsong, Sire. Should we not put it to better use?” And then she had stood up and held out her hands.
And I nearly took her there, he thought, stirring restlessly in the dark cave. I nearly swept aside the remains of the banquet and forced her back on to the table and pushed aside her gown and did it to her there.
Somehow he had contained himself, and somehow he had walked with her to her bedchamber, hands interlocked, her skin cool and soft and intimate against his.
He smiled. So cool we were, so in command. But when we reached her bedchamber …
It had been like the bursting of a dam. His desire had reached scalding point and she had caught his mood at once, and they had flown at one another, like animals, tearing aside clothes, biting and clawing. Her teeth, her hands, her lips had been everywhere; his nails had torn her skin and she had arched her back like a cat and cried out, pulling him closer. A lioness aroused and hungry …
He had taken her again and again, quite unable to help himself, slaking his hunger over and over. Neither of them had slept until daylight, when the servants, who always knew what went on, had tactfully left trays of breakfast outside the door. There had been fresh warm bread and honey and fruit, and they had fallen on the food ravenously, and then Cormac had pulled her back into bed.
“Again, Sire?” And there had been the amusement, the intimacy, the look that said of course you are going to do it again, and of course I am going to enjoy it.
I was very nearly exhausted, I was rubbed and raw, but still I took her that last time.
And there had been a tired triumph, for just for a fleeting second, Mab’s eyes had widened in surprise, and Cormac had thought: she believed I was spent. The knowledge sent the heat between his legs again, and the respect in Mab’s eyes had lent him one final surge of energy.
He had slipped from her bed at last, and stood looking down at her, seeing her body as slender and as unmarked as a young girl’s. Impossible to think she was twenty years his senior, and that those twenty years had been strongly lived. But — I could tame her, thought Cormac. I could subdue her and master her and together we could make Tara into something so truly great that its splendour will echo down the years. Every other empire and every other kingdom ever planned, ever conquered, ever dreamed about, would pale in comparison.
For a while he had believed it could be; he had been prepared to outface the Councillors and the Court; he had been ready to defy convention and set her beside him. And if there should be a child … His own blood stirred at the thought. Yes, we could make something exceptional, Mab and I. Children of light and fire and strength. Little elfinfaced girls with Mab’s dark hair and wayward eyes and curving smile. Boys with the Wolf strain in them, tempered with the human part of me. And Ireland would be always and forever great.
His mind filled with brilliant images, his body drugged and replete, the morning sun streaming into his own bedchamber, Cormac had slept.
*
When he awoke, the bright warm bedchamber of Tara had vanished and he was again in the Miller’s cage, cold and numb, thirsty and hungry, and the despair that engulfed him was like a huge black, iron band. See how I can douse your dreams, Wolfking. You may slip in and out of reality, and you may dream of your triumphs and your splendours and your lost kingdom, but I am here waiting for you. I am Despair and Anguish and Loss of Hope. I am going to triumph and you have no escape.
He thought that some sound from above had pulled him back to his surroundings, and he lay listening. Yes, there was a faint noise from somewhere over his head, a rather hesitant, rather cautious sound. Footsteps coming nearer.
Cormac was not the least bit afraid; the footsteps were too light and too wary for them to belong to Morrigan and her sisters, and in any case, Morrigan did not need footsteps. She could vanish and reappear wherever she chose. And the footsteps certainly did not belong to the Miller, for the Miller, when he finally came, would come stamping out to the cages, sniffing the air for the smell of human blood, and tying his leather apron. They said he wore boots which could stride seven leagues in one pace, and that he could smell the blood of humans at fifty paces …
Cormac, his every sense alert, knew that the footsteps, soft and gentle, did not belong to the Miller, and a great hope welled up inside him. He half sat up, leaning against the far wall, his eyes fixed on the direction of the stairs.
There was a flicker of candlelight, a whisper of silk, and Joanna, clad in Dierdriu’s cloak, came into the cellars.
*
He cried then, as he had not done earlier, tears streaming down his face, unable to speak, his hands gripping Joanna’s through the bars of the cage, knowing he must be hurting her, unable to help himself.
She was quite dreadfully pale and her hair was tousled and there was a terrible knowledge in her eyes, so that he thought: oh yes, Morrigan has used her. And he wanted to fold her in his arms and ensure that nothing would ever hurt her again, and at the same time wanted to tear down the bars of his cage and go bounding up the stairs to Morrigan, to claw and rip and lacerate the creature.
At length, Joanna said softly, “You must let me go. At any minute they will be here — and I have not the keys to release you —”
“I thought you were dead!” Damn! he thought: cannot I even trust my own voice now?
Joanna smiled, and said, “Nearly. But I am here. And I have the cloak.” As she spoke, there was a whisper of silk and Cormac and Joanna both felt their senses stir and a tremendous sense of adventure began to fill them. Cormac thought: to come face to face with the Miller is surely the greatest adventure of them all. And why should we not somehow defeat him? The power and the confidence that had filled him on the day of his coronation poured into him, and he stood for a moment, unmoving, feeling it flow into his veins.
And Joanna thought: why should we not defeat the Miller? We have got this far without being killed. I have injured Morrigan and disabled her. And I have the Night-cloak. Aloud, she said, “What of Gormgall and Dubhgall?”
“Somewhere here. We were separated. But I am sure they are still alive. I can feel them still alive. And we can —” He stopped and lifted his head, looking towards the stair, and in the uncertain light, Joanna saw him tilt his head, listening.
“What is it?”
Cormac said, “Someone’s coming.”
“Morrigan?”
“No. Listen. Cannot you feel?”
And then Joanna did feel. Footsteps. Great hungry heavy footsteps somewhere above them. A pounding and a thundering that made your bones shiver and froze your marrow. Seven league boots and a voracious bloodlust. Something evil this way comes …
Cormac, his eyes on her, said softly, “If you go now, you can escape. Up the stairs and out into the night. You would be a little dark shadow slipping out of the house, and
no one would see you. You could be over the hills and far away. Cait Fian would help you.”
And Joanna smiled, and said, “Don’t be absurd,” and Cormac smiled back, and the golden glow of power surged even higher.
“Then you must hide. You must snuff the candle and conceal yourself and watch your every opportunity. Use the cloak. Quickly now. He is coming nearer.”
There was not really a proper hiding place in the dungeons, but Joanna scurried into a corner where the shadows were thickest, and where a jutting stone half-wall gave a little concealment. The cloak fell silently about her, and settled into close dark folds. There was nothing to do now but wait and seize whatever opportunity presented itself.
She could see the dungeons quite clearly from here. She could see the faint shape that was Cormac, and now she could hear the Miller’s approach. Great heavy footsteps coming nearer. And then, without warning, a great booming voice, a terrible deep-chested roar that made Joanna want to clap her hands over her ears, and certainly made her want to turn and run.
“Where is the human child who injured my mistress, and where is the Wolfking who snapped at my servants? Mince and stew and roast, and someone will be devoured tomorrow night — oh yes, my poor scuttling humans, someone will be devoured.
“Hoho and aha, where are you? We’ll polish the platters and we’ll shine the goblets. We’ll hone the knives and set the millwheels grinding, for there’s nothing my master likes so well as his bread made with the flour of human bones. And I shall find you out, my little ones, I shall scoop you up and you will be devoured and you will be quaffed.”
Joanna was both burning hot and icy cold now, with fear and excitement and anticipation.
To confront the Miller is surely the greatest adventure yet …
Yes, and to die will be the greatest adventure of all …
Where had that thought come from? Something written long ago, or something not yet written? A faint dying echo of some thought not yet born? Or — and this was very sinister indeed — or something inside the house with them? Was it Morrigan stirring in the darkness, unable yet to use her full strength to damage them, but working on their minds? I won’t listen, said Joanna firmly.
She pressed her burning cheek against the cold stone. I don’t want to die. Don’t let these creatures harm us. Don’t let them kill us. Let us outwit them. Don’t let us have come this far only to die. Let us escape to Gallan. Gallan! She thought, and delight unfolded at once. Yes, they would get to Gallan, somehow they would. Don’t let us end up on silver platters and in golden goblets.
Yes but, to die will be the greatest adventure of them all … “I won’t listen!” said Joanna and closed her mind to everything except the Miller’s approach and how they might outwit him.
The footsteps were shaking the dungeons now, and the floor was vibrating beneath their feet. There was a booming voice from above, and from her stone alcove, Joanna saw a thick smeary light spill down the stairs. The Miller was coming; he was nearly here. She hugged the cloak about her —
Oh Dierdriu if you would help me, then help me now! — and the light came nearer. Joanna saw Cormac tense and saw his muscles bunch and ripple, a wolf ready to spring. She thought: he will leap straight for the Miller’s throat, and felt a great rush of exhilaration. The greatest adventure would not be dying, but living: triumphing over the Miller. She straightened up and caught the flash of a thought from Cormac, and for the first time she saw the Samhailt form: a thin pure shaft of light, so brilliant that it sliced across the darkness, so dazzling that it stayed on the edges of Joanna’s vision long after it had died. With the seeing came the receiving-courage, Joanna! This is the greatest adventure so far! She drew a deep breath, and fixed her eyes on the descending light.
Round the curve in the stairway, into the cold dank dungeons, there came a figure so terrible, so nightmarish, and yet so dreadfully familiar, that Joanna nearly cried out, and had to thrust a fist into her mouth to stifle the sound. She thought: I have never seen him. I have never imagined him. But I know him and I recognise him, and he is the embodiment of all the fears I knew as a child, and he is the nightmares I fled from through countless slumbers.
Her many-times ancestors, who had lived through the age called Victorian, would have known the Miller instantly; the Edwardians and the early second-Elizabethans would have recognised him as well, for it was the children of those eras who had been given to read the quite staggeringly unsuitable fairy tales of Austrian and German and Middle-European origin, and it was in those dark and frightening stories that the Giant Miller of Muileann had his place.
Race-memory awoke in Joanna again, as it had awoken on the night she approached Scáthach, and a primitive fear filled her. She knew nothing of Gargantua or Goliath; she had certainly never heard of Brobdingnag nor Blunderbore, nor of Pantagruel the ever-thirsty, nor Cyclops the angry-eyed. And yet she did know these creatures, not with her eyes or with her mind, but with her heart and with her blood. Huddled into her corner, ancestral memory reared up to torment her; it raced through her veins, until the fearsome tales gathered by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm and Hans Andersen, illustrated with the brilliant grisly perception of Arthur Rackham, tumbled into her mind. She was a child in a clean white pinafore, her hair plaited, seated before the nursery fire, and she was turning the pages of her storybook slowly and fearfully, because at any moment would come the picture of him, and she could feel the thick linen feel of the paper, and she could smell the slightly musty, slightly foxed smell of the book … it had been grandmamma’s and grandmamma had said you must treat it carefully because it was quite old and you were only let to look at it on Sundays as a special treat, and you had to say thank you to grandmamma and pretend you were pleased, and not let grandmamma know how much you were frightened of the terrible figure of the Giant …
Joanna blinked and swayed and the dungeon closed about her again.
Standing in the cold greasy light from his lantern was the Miller of Muileann. Fifteen feet high and massive, with a huge brute-like shape. He wore a leather apron and a jerkin and leather boots rolled down at the tops. He carried a cleaver and a great wooden club, and his hands were huge meaty hams hanging from his sides. His face was brutish and possessed of a sly greedy cunning. His eyes were small and piglike, and evil, and his nose was bulbous. There was a thatch of hair and a coarse redness about him, and Joanna felt again the unfamiliar pinafore and plaits and the thick dampsmelling storybook that grandmamma always brought out as a treat on Sunday afternoons …
There was a rumbling laugh, a sound fetched up from the bowels of hell, and Joanna shuddered and pressed back into her corner. Light streamed into Cormac’s cell and the shadow of the Miller fell across the stonework.
Cormac did not waver; “So, Miller, you have come.”
“To prepare you for my Master’s table, Wolfking. My Master is partial to a morsel of wolfmeat.” The dark bulk bent over. “And so am I, Wolfking. A choice bone to gnaw on. A little well-flavoured broth spiced with wolfblood. Are you ready to feel your bones ground to pulp between my millwheels? Shall we begin?”
Cormac did not flinch. He said steadily, “Quite ready, Miller,” and in that moment Joanna acted.
*
She had stood motionless, her senses shaken and her mind reeling at the sight of the Miller, but on his first words, she had thought: after all he is only ordinary flesh and blood. Giant flesh and giant blood, but there is no magic in him. There are no vile ancient arts in his veins. He can be defeated, thought Joanna. He can be defeated by ordinary human trickery and by the ancient enchantment of the High Queen Dierdriu. She felt the cloak tremble with eagerness, like an animal will quiver to be let off a leash.
All right, said Joanna silently, and taking a tight hold of the Nightcloak’s soft folds, she closed her eyes and dredged up every ounce and shred of concentration.
Dierdriu … Help us … Send down your nightmares … call up your dreams … Help us …
For a moment th
ere was the most profound silence that Joanna had ever known, and a terrible doubt assailed her. Was the cloak useless? A burnt-out shell? And — fearful notion! — did I burn out its powers when I called upon it that night in the cave with Cormac? Was that the last flicker of a dying magic?
And then, in the uncertain light, Joanna saw the Miller turn his head as if he had caught a sound, and strength and hope returned to her. There is something, an immense fear, in him. Something he knows about, and something that he only acknowledges in his dreams. And she was at once afraid, for what kind of monster, what dread being summoned from the fast keep of the world of dreams could strike fear in the terrible Miller of Muileann? Had they called up the Miller’s adversary only to find it their adversary as well?
And then into the dungeons, appearing from nowhere at all, came the slight figure of a young man, curiously and unfamiliarly dressed. His face was both beautiful and cruel, and his eyes were hard and golden like a cat’s. In his hand he held a set of reed pipes, and as Joanna and Cormac stared, he seated himself cross-legged on a stone bench, and lifting the pipes to his lips, began to play.
Rats streamed into the dungeons …
The effect on the Miller was instantaneous and absolute. He fell back from the cage and threw up a hand to shield his eyes. There was fear and horror and disbelief on his face, and Joanna, not understanding, still concentrating on the cloak’s power for all she was worth, moved out of her corner to see better.
The music was filling the dungeon now, and the young man was still seated, very straight-backed, the pipes still held to his lips. His eyes watched the scene before him emotionlessly, and there was a flicker of contemptuous amusement as if he might be thinking: Lord what fools these mortals be! His hair curled tightly to his head, and his skin had the pale faintly translucent quality of one who is unwell or unreal, or not quite human. His music was soft and cool, but beneath it all, ran an insidious command: Follow me!