Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  “And the sorcerers,” they said, sadly, “although they always swear allegiance to whoever occupies the High Throne, have their own loyalties.”

  “The Wolfking could hold their loyalty,” said one of the younger ones, and was instantly shushed.

  They told, as well, about Ireland’s great heroes, of Niall of the Nine Hostages, and they talked, in hushed voices, about the terrible Prison of Hostages, and the Star of the Poets. They related the marvellous legend of Nuadu Airgetlam of the Silver Arm, who had fought the great Battle of Mag Tuired; and they told about the cauldron of the god Dagda, which, if you could find it, ensured that no company, however large, would go unsatisfied. They talked about the Battle for the Trees between Dierdriu and the Morrigna, and about the Beltane revels, which would begin in a few days, and which Amairgen and his companion must surely stay for.

  They told, as well, about the Fál, the great stone penis on the Hill of Tara, which cried aloud under the hand of Ireland’s true destined King.

  “Ah, a fine sight it is to see the Ceremony of the Fál,” said the eldest Councillor, rather wistfully.

  “You have seen it for yourself?” inquired Amairgen, fascinated.

  “Indeed I have, and a grand sight it was,” said the Councillor, whose name was Bolg. “The High King Cormac it was; the great Wolfking, although of course,” said Bolg rather uneasily, “of course, he was not the rightful King, as we all know now.” He sent a wary look to where Eochaid Bres was seated, and several of the others glanced over their shoulders and murmured their agreement.

  “Even so,” said Bolg reminiscently, “that was a fine old ceremony, the day he was made King.” He nodded to himself, and Amairgen waited. “All gathered on the Hill of Tara we were,” said Bolg, his eyes faraway. “All waiting. Someone had persuaded the sidh to come —”

  “Someone had paid them to come, more like,” put in one of the younger Councillors.

  “They’re as greedy as goblins, the sidh” explained another.

  “Well, however it was,” said Bolg, “the sidh were there, just out of sight of course, as they always are, and as we know, it is virtual death and certain madness to look on them anyway, so no one ever does. But they were there all the same, melting in and out of the hillside, just a smudge of cold blue and ice green, but their music was all about us.”

  “You’d forgive the sidh a lot for their music,” said the youngest Councillor.

  “You’d almost forgive them their wantonness,” put in another.

  “Not entirely,” said the first, rather disapprovingly.

  “Anyway, their music was there,” said Bolg firmly, “and all the Court was there.”

  “And the Wolves, don’t forget the wolves,” said the Councillor who had disapproved of the sidh.

  “I’m not forgetting them,” said Bolg crossly. “Of course I’m not.” He turned back to Amairgen. “The Wolves were there, ranged on the far side of the hill. Quiet they were, but very watchful. We were all a bit wary to tell you the truth, for there’s never any knowing which way a wolf will jump, and there was only His Majesty had any control over them.”

  “Do lower your voice, Bolg,” said the youngest Councillor. “Unless of course you want Eochaid Bres or Bricriu to hear.”

  “I’m telling a history,” said Bolg with dignity. “I’m telling a history, and this gentleman is our honoured guest, and if he’s polite enough to listen, I’m polite enough to tell him. And if that’s treason,” said Bolg with sudden spirit, “then it’s time and more that I left Tara and His Majesty found himself a new Chief Councillor. I am Chief Councillor,” he explained to Amairgen anxiously. “It’s quite a responsibility.”

  “I’m sure it is. Do please go on.”

  “Well, we all stood waiting — it was a windy day I recall and I was glad I’d put my woollen underwear on. These younger ones don’t understand the things a cold wind does to a man,” he added confidentially, “but I’d put it on and I was glad of it.

  “So, we all stood waiting, and there was the music, cold and somehow passionate —”

  “Like the sidh themselves,” said the youngest Councillor. “Yes, isn’t there a saying they’d freeze a man’s balls off before he’d time to —”

  “We were all waiting,” said Bolg rather loudly. “The music was all around us, for of course the sidh were ever true servants of the Wolfline. There’s a legend that when Cormac was born they sang him into the world.

  “And so there was the music, and there was the Court, and the Wolves, all waiting, and there was the anticipation. So tremendous it was, that you could very nearly see it. You could have reached out and sliced through it and seen it part before you. And at the centre was the Fál, rearing up out of the ground like a — well, we all know what it’s like and no call for vulgarity.” He glared at the Councillor who had said the sidh would freeze a man’s balls off, and the Councillor squirmed and looked discomfited.

  “The Fál was glowing,” said Bolt. “It glowed and it gave off a kind of strength. We could all feel the magic radiating from it. We could all feel that it was waiting as well.

  “And then, just as we were all thinking we couldn’t bear it a moment longer, that if the King didn’t come soon something would snap and break and we should all die, over the horizon he came. Cormac of the Wolves. The Prince of Tara. Plainly dressed he was — well, he never cared overmuch what he wore, and time and again he’d come into Council looking more like a tinker than a Prince of the Bloodline — but even so, every person present fell to his knees, and the Wolves bowed their heads. Authority, you see. He had it in fullest measure; you obeyed him unquestioningly.

  “Cormac stood watching us, outlined against the sky, his cloak billowing out behind him, his hair ruffled by the wind, and colour whipped across his cheekbones. For a moment there was silence, and then Cormac said, ‘Well gentlemen, shall we begin?’ Because,” said Bolg seriously, “of course it’s a purely masculine affair when a King touches the Fál. They don’t let the women go. It upsets the magic.”

  “What about Dierdriu?” said the Councillor who had liked the sidh’s music. “Dierdriu went to a Ceremony.”

  “And touched the Fál,” said another, and several people hooted rather derisively.

  “Dierdriu hid herself to watch the Ceremony of the Fál when her father was presented to the Stone,” said the first one. “And the legend is that the Fál wouldn’t answer to her father, and there was great consternation, nobody knew what to do.”

  “It had never happened before,” put in another.

  “Or since,” said a third.

  “No, we’ve never had a High Queen since Dierdriu,” said the first Councillor, who was rather finding himself the centre of attention. “But they say that as everyone stood around, trying to think what should be done, Dierdriu came out of hiding, and said that the Fál would accept her, and they must present her to it, and if it didn’t answer her, she’d go into exile at Scáthach forever.”

  “Did it answer to her?” said Amairgen.

  “What? Oh yes,” said Bolg. “Oh yes, they say it cried aloud for nine days and nine nights. They counted. Dear me, they all talked about it for years afterwards, it’s one of our finest legends, you know, although it was a very long time ago. Probably it was a couple of centuries. My word, it’s a good story, though.” He leaned forward confidentially. “And they do say,” he said in a whisper, “they do say it was a remarkable sight to see her kneeling down clasping the Fál. Of course, she would only be quite young at the same time, and I expect she wouldn’t understand the significance of the Fál, that is … hum … its shape.”

  He looked worried, and a few people sniggered, and one said that if half the tales told about Dierdriu were true the chances were she’d have understood it all too well, and somebody else said that if a quarter of the tales were true, she’d have enjoyed it, never mind understanding it, and Bolg frowned.

  “It’s a serious and solemn ritual,” he said repressively. “An
d whatever else you may say about Cormac, you couldn’t say he didn’t perform the ritual properly and with full respect.” He turned back to Amairgen.

  “Cormac made no ceremony,” the Councillor said, “he never did, not of anything, but his presence was ceremony in itself if you know what I mean. He walked to the Stone and lifted his hands above his head. And the music grew stronger and the Wolves growled low in their throats in that restless way they have, and the fur on their necks lifted.

  “And then Cormac grasped the Stone.”

  Bolg stopped and Amairgen leaned forward.

  “And? What happened?”

  “It was the most marvellous sound I ever heard,” whispered Bolg. “The Stone cried, it actually shrieked aloud, so that the sound echoed and spun all about us. On and on it went until you felt it had entered into your head. And then there was a humming sound, and a noise like wings beating on the air, thousands upon thousands of wings, and Cormac just stood there, his expression so serious that for a moment I hardly recognised him, for he’d been a wild boy, and it was rare to see him so grave-faced. And the noise went on and on and no one could hear or think or speak, and no one really wanted to hear or think or speak. We all wanted to drown in the sounds and we all wanted to lay our lives down for Cormac to show how much we loved him.

  “On and on it went, until you thought you’d die of pure delight, for it was a sound so — so comforting. So safe. It said: all is well for I am with you, and it said: you are in my hands and I will never fail you. Several people cried openly, well I did myself, for it was an emotional moment,” said Bolg. “And at last, when Cormac finally let go of the Stone, there was a great sighing and a sense of loss so keen you felt that something had died.

  “And then,” said Bolg matter of factly, lifting his goblet of wine, “and then, you know we all went back to Tara and held a great feast, and I believe the King got drunker than anyone had ever seen him, and the stories they tell about that night — well I wouldn’t repeat them even if I knew any of them which I don’t. But they say there’s never been a night so wild inside these walls. Oh, he was a reckless one.”

  Amairgen said, “And the — the present King? Eochaid Bres? What of his ritual with the Fál? Was that as awe-inspiring?”

  “Well there it is,” said Bolg, his eyes sliding away, and the other Councillors muttered and shuffled their feet. “There’s been no ceremony of the Stone at all since Eochaid came to the throne.”

  “Not the merest whisper of one,” said another.

  “They say the King doesn’t like the old traditions,” said a third.

  “He certainly doesn’t like the Stone of Fál,” put in a fourth, and then looked terrified.

  “It’s not for us to judge,” said Bolg firmly. “If Eochaid Bres wants to change the old ways, then it’s his right and his privilege as High King. We mustn’t question him.” And he reached for his wine again.

  Amairgen, sensing their withdrawal, said quickly, “You are being very courteous to the stranger in your midst, gentlemen, and I find your customs fascinating. I hope we may talk some more.” And then, encouraged by their evident pleasure at his words, said carefully, “It is clear that you are accustomed to travellers and that you always give them hospitality.”

  “As it happens,” said Bolg slowly, “we have few travellers to Tara.”

  “Ah. But those you have are clearly welcome,” said Amairgen. “For is not this a great place of pilgrimage?”

  “Once,” said one of the older Councillors wistfully, “once it was.”

  “Once, all the poets and the musicians and the ballad-makers flocked to Tara.”

  “Once, it was known as the most brilliant Court in the western world.”

  “Men would travel the high seas to come here.”

  “In the days of —”

  “Oh hush,” said Bolg worriedly, and once more glanced furtively over his shoulder.

  “In the days of …?” said Amairgen, lifting his brows, but Bolg said firmly, “We have talked of Cormac quite enough. It is a long time ago. Old men’s gossip, I fear. Tell me, sir, do you play chess at all?”

  *

  Flynn fascinated and repelled by the lady who had sought him out after supper was over. He thought, incredulously: I believe she is attempting to seduce me, and was rather astonished to feel warmth between his legs at the idea. But she is more than twice my age! cried his horrified mind. Was she forty? Forty-two? More? Oh yes. Never mind, said his body, and he found himself leaning nearer to her to hear her speak, for her voice was low and musical, and Flynn wondered, not for the first time, why people were not more aware of the voice as a sexual attraction.

  Mab was watching him, and Flynn thought that he had not been mistaken, she was luring him, and he was at once plunged into hideous doubt, for he had thought himself bound to Joanna, and he had thought himself immune to all others as a result. Yes, Mab was easily twice his age, he could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, he could see that her neck — traitorous area! — was dry and crepe-y looking.

  Mab laughed. She said, “Yes, I am quite twice your age, and probably more. Does it matter?”

  “You heard my thoughts? But is that not forbidden?” said Flynn, alarmed all over again, and remembering that in this odd new world there might exist spies and traps and treasons of all kinds. “I was told it was quite forbidden,” he said firmly, because if you had to declare for one side or the other, you might as well declare for the reigning King. However stupid and ill-fitted for the job he was. And there went another treasonable thought!

  She caught it at once, of course. She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully and said, “The Samhailt is forbidden, for my son the King does not possess it. A question of good manners, you understand? What the King does not have, no other should have either. It makes for awkwardness sometimes. But,” a shrug, a spreading of the slender hands, “to forbid a thing does not necessarily kill it. We both possess the Samhailt, you and I.” And there again was the intimacy, the suggestion that they shared — that they might in the future share — something exciting and unusual and pleasurable. “In any case,” said Mab, “I am not bound by any law my son may choose to make.”

  “But — forgive me, madam,” said Flynn, who had never in his life addressed a lady as madam, but who, chameleonlike, had caught the modes and the manners of these people, “forgive me, but he is the High King.”

  Mab laughed, and Flynn, fascinated and just very slightly enchanted, thought that her laugh was like no one else’s he had ever heard. And with the detached, humorous side of his mind, thought: I believe she is trying to seduce me. Shall I let her? And grinned inwardly, because he was rather intrigued by Mab, and he was certainly attracted by her. And forgive me, Joanna, my darling lovely girl, but never forget that anything I might do in this lady’s bed tonight or tomorrow, or any tomorrow after that, can ever touch my feelings for you.

  “Eochaid Bres is the King because I put him there, Flynn,” Mab said. “He stays the High King because I keep him there.” Amusement lit her eyes, and Flynn smiled into them, and thought: yes, I was not wrong. Well, madam, if that is what you want, I find I am not at all averse. And saw by the blaze in her eyes that she had heard his thought. But he only said, “You were ambitious for your son? That is very admirable.”

  “Not at all,” said Mab and although her voice was cool, her eyes were afire with excitement. “Oh, not at all, Flynn.” She reached for his hand and held it between her own for a moment. “I was ambitious for myself,” said Mab. “And also I was filled with a great desire for vengeance against the man who occupied the High Throne.” She leaned forward, and Flynn caught the warm sandalwood scent of her body. “I was dealt a very great insult,” said Mab, and her eyes were distant now. “He was eighteen, Flynn, and I was —” the smile was mischievous suddenly, “let us say I was considerably older than eighteen.” And Flynn smiled, because it had not mattered how old Mab had been then, and it did not matter how old she was now.
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br />   Mab smiled, and said, “It is quite impossible to describe the man who was High King, Flynn. You would have to know him for yourself. But in those days he was wild and wolvish and arrogant. He may have altered now, although it is only seven years, and I do not know. But then, he was … so remarkable.” She fell silent, and Flynn thought: Cormac! Of course she is talking about Cormac.

  “Of course I am,” said Mab. “But he paid me a supreme discourtesy, you see. I discovered that he had — flouted one of our most Sacred Laws — that of the Bloodline Enchantment.” And, as Flynn looked up questioningly, she said, “No, I cannot say any more. Only that the Bloodline — the Six Ancient Families — are bound by stringent laws if the Lines are to continue. The creation of a Bloodline is so bound about by enchantment and by careful and reasoned decisions, that it is dangerous to step outside those laws.

  “Cormac stepped outside them, Flynn. I was the only one who knew, and I have never told anyone of it. But I exiled him. I led the revolution that sent him to Scáthach all those years ago. I deprived him of the one thing I knew mattered to him more than anything else, Flynn …

  “I deprived him of Tara.”

  *

  Eochaid Bres had enjoyed his evening. He had danced with the wife of the lesser chieftain once or twice — well all right, four times if you wanted to keep tally like a money-lender — and everyone had nodded and smiled and several of the sterner Councillors had looked disapproving, and Eochaid Bres had felt he had acquitted himself rather well. People liked a King they could disapprove of a bit. Of course, everyone remembered Eochaid’s cousin Cormac on these occasions, because Cormac had been quite incorrigible where the ladies of the Court had been concerned. Eochaid dared say that Cormac would have taken the chieftain’s wife to bed with him which was rather shocking. The chieftain would probably not have minded either, which was even more shocking. Wives were not things, pawns to be loaned here and there on a whim. For a moment Eochaid dwelled rather glumly on the thought of wives, because High Kings were expected to marry and beget children to carry on the line. He knew that. He knew how it was done as well; in fact, he had tried it once or twice, although he had not really cared for it very much. Still, if custom had dictated that Eochaid Bres should have taken the chieftain’s wife off to bed that night, he would probably have done it. Custom had not dictated, not unless you counted Cormac’s customs, which Eochaid naturally did not, and Eochaid and the lady had parted circumspectly after four dances. It was probably as well that they had, because Eochaid, after an evening spent in the Sun Chamber’s glare, always felt a bit queasy, and it would not have done to have been sick with a lady present. The story would have flown round the Court, these things always did, and before he knew where he was, Sean the Storyteller would have written a ballad and everyone would have sung it just out of Eochaid’s hearing, and there would have been sneery jokes being bandied back and forth. It would have been altogether mortifying, and Mother would have wrung her hands and indulged in a tantrum and talked about donating her life’s blood. Bricriu would have said, Oh dear, Your Majesty, how very unfortunate, and talked about royal dignity.