Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  It was certainly a matter of honour for the Queen to take a lover on Beltane, of course, and speculation as to the identity of this year’s victim ran high. Although, as Sean pointed out, to use the term “victim” was to be rather unkind.

  “Sacrifice?” said someone, not altogether jokingly, and Sean scowled and took himself to a corner of the room, there to plot an entirely new kind of entertainment, in which all of the insolent young men of the Court received their just deserts.

  At one end of the great banqueting table, Conaire of the Eagles was surreptitiously taking bets as to who was going to be sharing Mab’s bed that night; watched — beknownst to him — by Bricriu, who knew very well that Conaire’s true allegiance lay with Cormac, and knew, as well, that Conaire was astute enough to hide this. Bricriu was not so occupied with the thought of a bed partner for his own bed that he could not be fully alert to a spot of intrigue. He would not have objected to swapping the bedding for the intrigue if he had to. He would, in fact, prefer the intrigue, because the bed thing, though pleasant enough, aggravated his indigestion.

  Conaire’s party was generating a good deal of noise over some of the bets that were being placed. Several people had made quite sensible, quite possible nominations for Mab’s choice, but in the main the young men, by now flown with wine and with the anticipation of tomorrow’s feastings, were egging each other on, each bet more outrageous than the last.

  Finally, one of them announced that is was an impossible task Conaire had set them, for didn’t they all know that the only qualification needed to get into the Queen’s bed was the ability to keep it up all night, and at that rate, surely any one of them here present might be a candidate.

  There was a sudden silence.

  Well, mightn’t they? demanded the speaker, suddenly horribly conscious that he had gone out on a limb.

  Well as to that, said the young men, of course anyone could keep it up all night, but there were those among them who happened to know, rather particularly, that Mab actually required a few other qualities in her lovers.

  Really? said several people, leaning forward and preparing to do battle. What sort of qualities?

  Wit. Physical beauty, of course.

  Oh, of course, said a number of scoffing voices.

  Well, said the first speaker, determined now to brazen it out, the Queen would not want a positive monster on her pillow, that might be quite safely assumed. To which several dissidents said: rubbish! the Queen would sleep with a gargoyle if she wanted to. As long as he could keep it up all night, of course.

  Conaire, who had a good deal in common with the exiled Cormac (and was, in fact, some kind of fifth cousin once removed) now entered into the spirit of the thing, and, eyes alight, said with mischief that sure now anyone who had access to the Sorcery Chambers knew how to keep it up all night — how else did old Bolg and the Fox manage? and a shout of laughter went up, causing several of the older courtiers to turn round in their chairs and survey Conaire’s party with a blend of annoyance and envy.

  “The Queen’s eye is on our newcomer,” said Conaire with finality, and threw his coins on to the table. “You’ll see. He’s the type Mab has always had a yen for. Don’t any of you see a resemblance?” Conaire was suddenly serious, and the young men, who did see a resemblance, who had seen it the minute Flynn walked in, lowered their eyes and looked furtively to where Eochaid Bres sat, and hoped he was not listening.

  But when Mab stood up and held out an imperious hand to Flynn, they grinned and nudged one another, and pushed the pile of coins to Conaire’s place.

  “Wit,” said Conaire solemnly. “And physical beauty. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “I hope he can keep it up all night,” was the rejoinder.

  *

  Mab’s bedchamber was like the centre of a rose, soft pink and gold and sweetly perfumed, and Flynn, unused to such splendour, and bewitched by Tara anyway, paused on the threshold and drew in his breath.

  Mab, watching, said softly, “Well, Flynn?”

  “It is quite the most beautiful room I have ever seen,” said Flynn, and turning to her, took her hands, “Forgive me, but I am unused — in my home we have not these splendours.” And he smiled into her eyes, so that Mab remembered a long-ago night when a young man of Flynn’s age had smiled in just that way. And then had hurt her more than any man, and betrayed her and violated everything she believed in. Anger rose in her, but with it a long-buried desire. He is so like Cormac …

  “Come to bed,” she said.

  *

  In Flynn’s world, the world that followed Devastation, the men and women who had survived had made a set of rules and a set of morals that was as different as it was possible to be from the lusty greedy sleep-anywhere ways of the Letheans. They could not perhaps be blamed for it; they had seen their world burn almost to nothing, and stunned and homeless, they had had to set about the rebuilding of a civilization whose values had succeeded in destroying it.

  There should be no more immorality, said those dauntless men and women who crawled up out of the ruins; there should be no more preoccupation with the gratifying of the senses, and there certainly should be no bedding together without some kind of indissoluble commitment. They searched their memories, and came up with the old Bible word fornication. There should be no fornication, said the survivors grimly, and, to give them credit, there was not. Bedding together was a necessary duty, it was not something to be deliberately sought. It was certainly not something to be enjoyed, particularly by ladies, who would find it repulsive. It was something that had to be done, because this sparse new world must have all the brave new inhabitants it could get, and even the Letheans had not found a way of producing children by any other method. But just as the long-dead Victorian age had had its nonconformists, so did this new post-Devastation world.

  Flynn was a nonconformist. He knew the rules, and on the surface he kept them. But in the world of post-Devastation, as in the world of the Victorians, it was not difficult to find out places where pleasure might be taken. And Flynn, in company with other kindred spirits, had not infrequently visited the houses once called brothels or seraglios. He had enjoyed his share of drinking in the wine shops, and then of indulging other senses with the ladies who ran the wine shops, and who were not averse to pleasuring blue-eyed, black-haired young gentlemen who had the charm of the devil …

  Even faced with a lady who had slept with more lovers than she could remember, Flynn grinned and knew himself perfectly capable of meeting her demands.

  And if, at some deeply buried and most secret part of his mind, it occurred to him that in this way he might find out more about Joanna, he managed to keep that thought hidden, and he managed, as well, to quench the memory of Joanna lying alongside him on that last night in Tugaim … He did not precisely think: by doing this, I may learn more about this place and these people, but it occurred to him that it was a way of becoming closer to Tara’s inhabitants. Much closer.

  And so he folded away the sweet precious thoughts of Joanna, whom nothing and no one could ever replace for him, and smiled at Mab, and bent forward to trace the delicate line of her jaw, and saw that she was smiling back at him. He moved his hand lower and slid the silk gown from her shoulders.

  When Mab said softly, “Come to bed, Flynn,” Flynn said at once, “With every pleasure in the world.”

  And went.

  *

  Conaire and his coterie would have given a good deal to know how the newcomer fared in the Queen’s bed. “Even though,” said Conaire firmly, “we are none of us given to prurience, I trust.” He looked rather hard at Sean the Storyteller when he said this, and Sean instantly said he was not, to be sure he was not, and retired to chew over the idea of a poem based on a rejected suitor spying through the keyhole of his lady’s bedchamber as she disported with her new lover.

  But Conaire and the young men would not have been normal if they had not briefly wondered how matters went between Mab and Flynn. They were certai
nly sufficiently human to remember the suggestion made earlier, that the only qualification needed to enter Mab’s bed was the ability to keep it up all night.

  In that, at least, Flynn’s abilities would not have disappointed them.

  *

  Flynn and Mab breakfasted together in her bedchamber, with the morning sun streaming in to turn the honey transparent and make the warm, fresh bread glisten.

  Flynn looked at his companion as she sat carelessly dressed, her hair tousled, her hands cupped about the huge breakfast bowl of mead, as she drank from it hungrily. He recalled the uses those hands had been put to during the night, and involuntarily grinned.

  Without looking up, Mab said, “You did not object to any one of them,” and Flynn jumped, and thought it was rather disconcerting to have all your thoughts read.

  “Not all,” said Mab and reached for the honey.

  “You can read some but not others?” This was interesting, because Flynn had never entirely understood about the Samhailt. He had never understood how it was that some thoughts could be heard or sensed or felt, and some could not.

  Mab said, “Those of us who possess the Samhailt also possess the Ancient Code of Honour which charges us to use it without discourtesy.” She looked at him very straightly. “I could hear your innermost thoughts if I wished it, but it is forbidden for me to do that.”

  Flynn said cautiously, “But is it not sometimes tempting —” and at once Mab silenced him with a shake of her head.

  “No, for that would be to entirely dishonour the Ancient Code.” She regarded him, her head slightly on one side. “No one who has been given the Samhailt would be guilty of misusing it, Flynn.”

  “Forgive me, but — you cannot be sure of that —”

  “I am sure,” said Mab. “The Samhailt is never bestowed on one who would treat it so wantonly.” The smile deepened and became mischievous. “I have been called a wanton sometimes,” said Mab, “but I would never use the Samhailt so.” She reached out and took his hand. “None of us would,” she said. And then, looking at him again with that unblinking slant-eyed stare, “Would you?” said Mab, and without thinking, Flynn said, “No of course not,” and Mab smiled and withdrew her hand, and reached for the honey again.

  Flynn studied her thoughtfully. “You are a very strong lady,” he said.

  “Here at Court? Yes, for the King is my son.”

  “But even if he were not,” said Flynn, “you would still be so. You have authority. You would always stand out in a crowd.”

  “Yes,” said Mab, and Flynn noticed that she did not protest or try to have the compliment embroidered. She would stand out in a crowd, he knew it and so did she, and she did not see any reason to be shy or modest or coy. On an impulse, he asked, “Why have you never stayed with one man?” and thought that in any case what kind of man could possibly keep this remarkable beautiful strong woman for longer than a few nights.

  Mab said, “They would tell you — in the Sun Chamber, or on my own estates in the north — that I am any man’s for the asking.”

  “That,” said Flynn, “is not entirely true.”

  “No. And that is perceptive of you.” They looked at one another, and after a moment, Mab said slowly, “You are rather a remarkable young man, Flynn. I think I only met your like once before in my life.” She took his hand again, and Flynn held his breath, for he sensed she was about to talk to him in a way she did not often do. And despite his impatience to find out about Joanna, and despite the nagging worry, he was fascinated by Mab. She is no longer a young woman, he thought, she is certainly more than twice my age — yes, easily — but she still outshines everyone here at Tara.

  Mab said slowly, “There was once someone …”

  “Your — the King’s father?”

  “Oh no,” said Mab. “Oh no, for that was a union of political advantage, nothing more. I was given to him so that my father could increase his lands. He accepted me so that I might bring to his line the coveted Lionblood. He was a purebred human, you see.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.” Flynn wondered why he had not realised that it was from Mab that Eochaid Bres had inherited the lion strain. It was there, quite plainly. The unblinking green eyes, the sinuous strength. The grace and the curve of her hands. And last night, she was almost purring beneath my hands, he thought, and smiled inwardly, and wondered was it overly vain to be pleased at having made a woman purr. At an even deeper level, he wondered had it been entirely from a wish to know more about Tara that he had gone to Mab’s bed … Perhaps not, thought Flynn, incurably honest. No, perhaps not. Let us admit that I was a little bit bewitched, and let us certainly admit that I was fascinated … Yes, for sure lady, you bewitched me and you fascinated me. But you did not have it all your own way, thought Flynn, watching Mab over the breakfast table. And he smiled, and thought that whatever might happen to them in the future, and however much he was Joanna’s, and would always be Joanna’s, he would never quite forget Mab.

  He thought that the last thought had surfaced, for Mab picked it up, and took his hand and smiled back at him, and said, “But I should not want you to forget, Flynn. That is how it should be. No regrets and no bitternesses. Good memories. In loving you should always give a little of yourself away, and you should always take a little part of the one you have loved.” And then, with sudden vulnerability, “Did you love me last night, Flynn?”

  “Yes.”

  Mab smiled and leaned back, and the feline look touched her face briefly. “And I you,” she said softly, and the hand that held his flexed a little, as if to show its strength. “You will have a good place in my memories, Flynn.”

  “And you in mine, Mab,” and he smiled again, and began to wonder whether he ought not to take her again, like this, across the breakfast table with the honey sticky on the platters and the butter melting, and the breadcrumbs everywhere …

  And then Mab said, “It is strange you should ask about Eochaid’s father, for I have not thought of him for years,” and Flynn felt her mood shift, and knew that he would not, after all, reach for her, and that what had been between them would remain sweet and precious, but would never happen again. He thought: she is about to tell me something about this place, and at once his mind came sharply into focus, and the longing to find Joanna became a physical pain. He leaned forward and looked at Mab very intently, and thought that if he could somehow draw the thoughts from her mind and use them to help him rescue Joanna, he would do so without the least heed to the Code that charged possessors of the Samhailt to use it honourably. Be damned to that if it would find Joanna! thought Flynn, and studied Mab and waited. But although he opened his mind to its fullest extent, and although he could almost feel the Samhailt spinning and quivering between them, he could get nothing from her other than a velvety blackness. Because she had veiled her thoughts from him? Yes, probably.

  Mab said in a distant voice, “Eochaid’s father was a cypher, no more. I did not love him, and he did not love me. But I was the youngest of my line; I was a princess of the Beastline, and I must be given in marriage where it was expedient.” She paused, and the three-cornered smile lifted her lips. “I did not love him,” she said softly, “but I think I have compensated for that since.” Mab smiled, and Flynn smiled with her, and concentrated every shred of his strength on drawing from her whatever she would tell him.

  “It was not time for my House to mate with the Beasts, for the rules governing that are very strict indeed. And it is rarely more often than every fourth or fifth generation that the Ritual is invoked.” She looked at Flynn, seated opposite to her with the morning sun streaming in, and remembered another young man who had also loved her gently and strongly and excitingly, and who had sat with her like this, drinking mead and spreading butter and honey on bread, and touching her hand. Not Flynn, but someone who had been wild and wolfish; someone whose coronation she had come to Court to attend all those years ago … And if I half close my eyes, I can still see him — the Prince of Tara �
�� arrogant and unruly, but so precious to me … Something hot and hurting rose up in her throat, and for the first time for many years she allowed memory its head.

  She had no longer been a young woman when she came to Court for the coronation of the wild young Prince. She had been — thirty-five? Perhaps a little more. No longer very young. Certainly beyond the age for dazzlement by a callow youth.

  Except that Cormac had never been callow.

  The minute she saw him, she had known. That one for me. There had been too many years between them of course — and those years have been strongly lived, she had thought — but even so, she had wanted him.

  The difference in their ages had not mattered. It had never mattered. It had certainly not counted with them on those nights — endless, exciting, frustrating — when they had circled one another, warily sizing each other up. All through the coronation ceremonies and the revels and the long, noisy, colourful feastings, they had watched one another, and the

  Samhailt had quivered almost continuously between them, and they had both known how it would end.

  “I knew I should have him. I knew I must have him. It was like a sickness, an enchantment.” She leaned forward, her face intent. “And for the first time in my life, I was jealous of the pretty pink and white children who came to Court looking for a husband. I was envious to the point of insanity of the girls who were paraded as suitable wives for him. I!” She made a fist of one hand and struck her breast angrily. “I, who had been called the Intoxicating One! Who had once boasted that while I lived there should never be a King crowned in Ireland but he had lain with me.” A pause. “They thought that a good joke, the young men. They said it would become part of the coronation ritual. I did not care. I was imperious and selfish and I did not care what anyone said of me.” Her voice changed. “But I wanted Cormac,” she said softly. “I wanted him more than any man ever before or ever since.” She leaned back and reached for the mead again. “And of course, I got him.”