Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  “Of course,” said Flynn, and smiled, and Mab smiled as well.

  “Yes, you understand, don’t you? He could not help himself. He was wild for me; he was beyond reason and beyond logic and I believe he would have done anything in the world to have me. I was — well, let us say fifteen years — his senior but he did not care. He would have sacked cities and toppled empires to have me. And when we finally faced each other with all the barriers down …” Again the shrug. “Oh, it was like a star exploding. Like a forest fire. Like a whirlpool.” She fell silent, and Flynn waited.

  “We stayed together in my rooms,” said Mab. “Time had ceased to exist for us, and the rest of the world had become meaningless. There was nothing for either of us but each other, and there was no world except the world we had found. Food was brought to us, and wine, but in truth we ate little and we drank even less. We were drunk on each other, and we needed no false intoxicants. We were helpless and mindless, and we had forgotten that any other world existed.” She paused again, and Flynn lost in her story thought: when she talks like this I can almost see him. Cormac of the Wolves. The High King.

  “He was one of the most remarkable looking people you might ever see,” said Mab softly, and Flynn knew she had heard his thoughts again. “Dark and slender, but with such strength and with such authority. Patrician and elegant, also, for he came of an old and honourable line, but wild and arrogant and just a little dangerous.” She smiled. “Yes, he was always just a little dangerous. There was always something there — an aura, a flavour — that made you remember he had Wolfblood in his veins. Teeth and claws where other men were soft. But he could be gentle when you least expected it. That was one of his strengths, of course. Weak men do not dare to be gentle.

  “When Cormac entered a room, everyone else appeared colourless. He was alive, he was sizzling with vitality. He was more alive than anyone I have ever known. His Court adored him; they would do anything for him, and they obeyed him unquestioningly. Once I accused him of employing the sorcerers’ arts, but he only laughed at me and said, “There is no sorcery but that which is in the mind, and there is no enchantment but the enchantment of the senses.’” Again there was the pause, the inward-looking expression, and Flynn sat motionless, fascinated and admiring, but just a little jealous as well.

  She caught that at once, of course. Stretching out a hand to him Mab said, “You do not need to be jealous, Flynn. It is only that you have stirred up memories for me. You are so like him … I had thought the memories all safely dead you see. I had certainly thought them firmly buried. But here they are, tumbling out into the light. If you had not so reminded me … You have many of his qualities; strength and gentleness all rolled up together. And arrogance.” She studied him. “Yes, the arrogance is there,” said Mab. “You are of the same mould, you and Cormac.”

  Flynn did not speak, but he had heard the thoughts behind Mab’s carefully selected words, and he had heard the sudden fear of a woman no longer young, seeing old age approach, alarmed by it. He thought: she knows that to relive the loves of youth is an old woman’s pastime. To see the features of a loved one in the face of another is surely the failing of the aged.

  Pity stirred in him for this beautiful aging woman, and he clamped down the emotion at once, for it was not to be thought of that Mab should know of this feeling.

  He believed she had not sensed it; he thought she was still lost in the past, living again the days of the Wolfking’s reign.

  “Go on,” he said at length. “Tell me.” And remembering how she had earlier seemed to convey her own feelings through her skin, he took her hand between his and felt the skin velvet-smooth.

  “The world at last intruded,” said Mab, speaking in a low faraway voice. “We had thought we had escaped it, but of course we had not. No one ever does. And he was the King; there were responsibilities and duties. There were Council Chambers to attend and delegations to receive. There were ceremonies and courtesies and processions, and the King must be at the centre of them all.

  “He did not mind, you understand. He had been bred to be King and these things were a part of his life. He did not question them and I never once saw him impatient with them.”

  She fell silent, and Flynn said tentatively, “You said he dealt you a — a discourtesy. An insult. A blow of some kind.”

  “Yes,” said Mab and smiled again, but this time it was a cat smile, a lion smile, and Flynn felt as if delicately sharpened claws had been drawn down along his spine. He shivered.

  “Oh yes, he dealt me an insult,” said Mab softly, and now there was a lick of pleasure in her voice, so that Flynn thought for all her apparent vulnerability and for all her charm, here was a very formidable opponent: I must be careful not to make an enemy of this one …

  “But I dealt him a greater blow,” said Mab leaning forward, her eyes flaring with triumph. “I dealt him the greatest blow he could ever suffer, Flynn. I deposed him and exiled him and set up my son in his place. For that he will never forgive me.” She sat back and nodded, and there again, startlingly, was the ageing, memory-ridden, rather pitiable creature Flynn had glimpsed earlier.

  He said gently, “Tell me what Cormac did. Will you?”

  Mab said, “I have never told anyone,” and looked suddenly uncertain.

  “It would not matter. I am not of Tara. I am a traveller, a wayfarer. And I shall soon be gone.” Her hand moved uncertainly in his.

  “Yes,” said Mab softly, “yes, you will soon be gone, Flynn. They come and they go, the young men. It is so long …

  “Tell me,” said Flynn, softly, insistently, and at length, Mab lifted her head and looked at him.

  She said slowly, “He violated the most sacred, most ancient of all our laws. The intermingling of the blood of the humans and the beasts.

  “He lay with the she-wolves one night in the forest, and for that I can never forgive him.”

  *

  It was as real to her as if it had only just happened. Another sign of encroaching age? Yes, of course, but she would disregard it. She could ignore it a little longer. She was still the Intoxicating One; she could still get any man she wanted, and the Court still took and made bets over her lovers. While I can still maintain the legend I am safe. I can cheat age a little longer yet.

  But none of the young men she had slept with since had stirred her in the way that Cormac had done; none of them had touched her heart and her soul, though many of them had possessed her body.

  None of them had ever dispelled Cormac’s memory. Could Flynn have done? She looked at him and thought: oh yes, I believe Flynn might just have done. He has the recklessness and the dark arrogance, and oh yes, thought Mab, Flynn might just have done. If only it had not been too late, if only I had never loved Cormac … She had loved Cormac fiercely and wildly, and of course it had been wholly wrong. She had been born too early, or he had been born too late. But she had thought, all those years ago, that it did not matter; they could have toppled the conventions and ruled Ireland together.

  And Ireland would have become truly great.

  She had even thought of the children she would give him; she had seen them all so clearly in her mind, then and since, and there had been nights — many of them — when she had wept for those lost, never-to-be, little ones.

  In the end, she had hated him as violently as she had loved him, and her hatred had kept her alive. For at least I have lived and at least I have loved! she had thought.

  Coming out of the warm, silk-hung, rose bedchamber into the world had been like coming out of a warm drowsy scented bath. She had been a little confused by the harsh noisy world, a little dizzy, like a man faced with strong sunlight after many hours in a dim quiet cell.

  The real world, the world of the Court, had broken through at last; Cormac had torn himself from her side with promises and vows to return.

  “A night — two at the most — and then I will be back.” A swift grin. “Hone your appetite my lady.” And then he was gone wit
h the casualness and the absence of ceremony that characterised him. She had stood at the narrow curtained window of her rooms, watching him ride out of Tara to some minor ceremony or other, attendants in line behind him, the small covey of Wolves, without which he never travelled, bringing up the rear. She had never seen him without at least two Wolves at his heels.

  He had lifted his hand to her window in a salute, and she had smiled, and pride had swept through her, nearly overwhelming her with its intensity. He is mine. And in two nights he will return.

  But the silk-hung bedchamber had become stifling in its emptiness; the fire still burned in the hearth, but it burned for no one, and she remembered how it had danced across the ceiling for them, only the night before, enclosing them in a firelit cave. Outside the window, the Purple Hour was at its deepest now; unbearable for her because she was alone: “For I had sat on the window seat of my room with the night scents drifting in, and I had heard the nightbirds sing the Evening Song, and I had loved it because he was there with me.”

  Towards the evening of the second day, she had gone walking in the forest, uncaring of the dangers that lurked there, knowing herself equal to most forms of attack.

  “The Lionblood was not as pronounced in me as in the men of my family, but it was there. I could have given a good account of myself. Physical attack did not bother me. And sorcery could be fought with more sorcery.

  “I had my own sorcerers, and I knew enough to protect myself from the spells of my enemies.”

  The Purple Hour was creeping over the land, and the forest was an enchanted place at that time of day. She had moved silently among the trees, now and again fancying she could hear them waking — “Although that is something we all fancy at the Purple Hour, and of course they never do wake” — enjoying the deepening shadows. All about her, the forest was coming alive; there were stealthy patterings of feet, and the soft beating of wings on the air. There were glimpses of small woodland creatures that did not venture out by day.

  And then she had come out on to the edge of a clearing and there he had been. “As if I had after all captured a wandering spell and conjured him up for my eyes to feast on.”

  She had felt a huge and surprised joy invade her body and she had made as if to run towards him. And then she had stopped.

  For Cormac was not alone.

  *

  “The rules governing the joining of animals with humans are very strict,” said Mab. “For the balance that must be maintained is a very delicate one. To allow human blood and animal blood to mingle at the wrong generation is not only disastrous, but dangerous. A generation too soon and monsters are brought forth; a generation too late, and the strain can be lost altogether. Both of these have happened, Flynn. Families have been reduced to the plain unalloyed human blood by misjudging the time for the Ritual of the Bloodline; also, dreadful deformities have been created by invoking the Ritual too soon. Hideous creatures who must be incarcerated for their own safety and for the sake of common pity. You look surprised, Flynn. We are a cruel race, but we are not entirely merciless.”

  “No. It was not that. Please go on.” But Flynn was surprised; he was shocked and rather sickened, but he thought: so after all nothing changes so very much.

  Mab said, “Despite the risks, every High King must possess a vein of beastblood within him, for Tara can never be ruled by the humans, otherwise it will die.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “We all know it. A terrible and powerful sorceress once placed a curse on the Royal line, and the curse can only be kept at bay by never having a purebred human on the throne. Always there must be a vein of beastblood. That is the bedrock of all our religions and all our beliefs, and the first High Queen, Dierdriu, appointed the Twelve Judges of the Bloodline. Dierdriu was a pure human, but she knew that the only way to protect Tara from the sorceress’s curse was to ensure that a human never occupied the Sun Chamber.

  “The Sorcerers of Tara created the Enchantment of the Bloodline — the Six Ancient Royal Houses — so that the curse should be kept forever at bay,” said Mab. “They say it was the night that Tara’s history really began, the night of that first Ritual of the Bloodline. They say that the land was so filled with enchantment and strong magic, that if you had by some means been able to look down on Ireland from the skies, you would have seen it thrumming and shimmering wrapped about in its own mysticism, wreathed in spells and alive and alight with bewitchment.”

  She paused, and Flynn said, “Go on.”

  “The sorcerers brought the Enchantment straight from their Looms by torchlit procession across Tara’s Hill,” said Mab. “Past the Fál on the Hill’s summit; through the forests and into the clearing where, so it is said, Ireland’s heart lies.

  “It would have been the Purple Hour, for that is the time of the day when magic is abroad, and they would have wanted to harness the Purple Hour’s own natural forces. They met in the clearing, and the Six Families were there, probably wearing ceremonial robes, although we cannot be sure — the legends vary. But it would have been a solemn and an awesome sight, I think.”

  She fell silent again, and Flynn waited.

  “There has never been a night in Ireland’s history to equal that, I think,” said Mab, “although when the Ritual is invoked now, it is very impressive indeed.”

  “You have seen it?”

  “Once. Yes, once, when it was decreed that the Eagleline should be strengthened.” Mab looked at Flynn. “Dierdriu created the Panel of Judges, so that the weakness or strength of the Bloodline could be properly controlled. The Judges are taken from the wisest and the most honourable of our people; to be one of the Twelve is a hereditary appointment, and the line has been unbroken since Dierdriu’s time. Every family who possesses the Bloodline of the Beasts must appear before the Judges each time a child is born, so that the Bloodline can be constantly measured. If the Judges decide that the Blood is weakening, they may order the Ritual.

  “Or sometimes,” said Mab, “a new Bloodline is created. Perhaps the family’s head has rendered the High King a service, or perhaps a son has distinguished himself in battle. Then the High King may confer the Bloodline. That is the highest honour we have, and it is greatly prized, though seldom bestowed. That is why we have several Houses that we term a lesser nobility. And when the Bloodline is bestowed, the family is permitted to choose its own emblem — that is the Beastline with which it will be joined. The Ritual is performed then, always in the same place. For magic lingers,” said Mab seriously. “Once an enchantment has been performed in a particular place, then the enchantment never quite fades. That is why it is always the clearing which is called Ireland’s heart. It is a place so permeated with magic that it is forbidden to pure humans. But you will know this,” said Mab looking at Flynn.

  And Flynn, remembering nearly too late that he was supposed to be a part of this world, said, “Yes, of course I know it. Go on.”

  “Only the immediate family may attend, although it is also permitted that the Six Ancient Houses can send a representative. There is a procession by torchlight, and the air is heavy and scented. We do not see the Enchantment, for the sorcerers are jealous of their secrets, and rightly so. It would not do for such things to be abused. And so the Enchantment is woven in secret, and brought to the clearing, and the Ritual takes place. But only the Judges may decide. And only the Judges may decide whether it is a girl who will receive the beast seed and give birth, or whether it is a man who will give his seed to the beast. Unplanned lying with the beasts is forbidden, for to do so might result in the birth of those pitiable mutilations which we know of from our historians and our scholars. It is one of our strictest laws, and to flout it is punishable by mutilation and exile.”

  Flynn said, “And that night in the forest —”

  “Yes,” said Mab, and her hand came out to his. “Yes, Cormac violated the law and flouted the most sacred of all our beliefs.” She stared at the past again, and then after a moment began to spea
k, unwillingly at first, and then faster, the words pouring from her as if she was at last able to purge her mind of the bitter memories.

  *

  The light had almost gone when she reached the clearing, but it had not entirely gone. It was possible to recognise the features of a loved one. It was certainly possible to see the clearing for the hallowed place of Ritual: the place that in Dierdriu’s time had been called Ireland’s heart.

  It was also possible to identify the low lean outlines of the creatures there with him. And he had rarely been without at least two in attendance at any given time …

  Cormac was standing in the clearing, clad only in a pair of breeches. His arms and shoulders and his feet were bare, and there was a look on his face that Mab had never seen before.

  “Hungry. Inhuman. Bestial. He looked as if he might rip open an enemy with his bare hands and exult in the blood. He was more wolfish than I have ever seen him before or since. He was so alien; it was as if another being was possessing him. And to see him there like that, in that place …”

  She had been afraid, but she had stayed where she was, hidden by the trees and by the approaching night, unable to leave.

  “I could feel the magic stirring all about us, and I did not know what forces might be abroad. But I had to see. I had to see if I could understand.”

  The Wolves had sensed the change in him, of course. Mab had only before seen them obedient and docile with him. Now they treated him as one of themselves, rolling in the grass at his feet, jumping up to lick his face. As Mab watched, Cormac had knelt and pulled one of the she-wolves close and licked her face in return, and a shiver of pure delight had gone through the animal.

  They leapt at him and pushed him on to the ground, rolling over with him on the forest floor, fur and teeth and skin all blurred together, so that it was impossible to tell which was the human and which the wolves.