Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  He glanced behind him to where Amairgen was riding quietly in the procession, with Portan at his side. Amairgen would certainly write something splendid and moving and lyrical about today, thought Cormac. He would conjure up the marvellous magical moments, and he would create songs and poems that would live long after him. They would all be created in his head, and Portan would write them all down and so they would be preserved. Cormac, who could remember the dazzling Court of his own father, and the later, lively Court he himself had presided over, thought that it was true that great scholars and poets were nearly always linked in history with the Kings they had served. He would not use the word “serve” in relation to Amairgen, for Amairgen would call no man master, but he thought that in years to come, people would remember that Amairgen had lived in the reign of the Wolfking. Would Amairgen stay at Scáthach? wondered Cormac, and although the memory of his lonely hopeless years inside Scáthach still made him flinch, he thought that Amairgen and Portan would no doubt turn the grim fortress into something warm and welcoming and sunlit.

  Joanna and Flynn rode directly behind Cormac, and Joanna knew a deep happiness.

  “I felt a fraud,” said Flynn afterwards, but Joanna knew that he had been very much moved.

  “And you?” said Flynn.

  “I had come home,” said Joanna very quietly.

  The Cruithin had enjoyed the procession, although Gormgall had nearly wept at the King’s refusal to have any ceremony.

  “The plainest of breeches,” he said. “And all he would wear in the way of regalia was the thin gold circlet of Niall of the Nine Hostages!”

  “And even that he took off the minute he got inside the Palace,” put in Dubhgall.

  The Bloodline had ridden directly behind Flynn, solemn and correct, richly garbed. At the head of them, Cait Fian led CuChulainn’s favourite black mare, caparisoned in the colours of CuChulainn’s line. Sean had written a lament, “The Riderless Horse,” and there was going to be a proper ceremony of remembrance later on, so that they could all render the proper homage to CuChulainn.

  “I wish I hadn’t been so impatient with him before we went into battle,” said Conaire.

  “He’d understand,” said Oscar.

  “I know he would. That’s not the point,” said Conaire.

  Etain had been at Cait Fian’s side, which had momentarily distracted Sean from CuChulainn’s riderless horse. “There’ll be a Declaration there before long,” he said. “And very nice too.”

  Muldooney, bringing up the rear, had found it all rather overwhelming. He knew about Cormac being a king — Dubhgall had explained it to him — but he had not really visualised the homage and the delight of Cormac’s people when their King returned to them. He had certainly never envisaged anything like Tara, because nothing like Tara had ever come his way. He found it, truth to tell, a bit overpowering, and the radiance gave him something of a headache. Still, wasn’t this what they had all fought for — Muldooney had surely not been lacking in courage when it came to the battle! — and wouldn’t they all enjoy it to the full. He joined in the cheers as Cormac rode in through the West Gate, and was later very much delighted to be given an important place at table when they all sat down to a grand feast.

  “But you were a part of it as much as any of us,” said Gormgall, and Muldooney said that this was very true indeed, and would there be a bite more of roast boar, since all that riding in processions and cheering gave a man a fine healthy appetite.

  Seated at the great table in the marble Banqueting Hall Cormac looked across at Joanna and smiled. “Do you recognise it, lady?” he said softly, and Joanna looked about her, at the colours and the light and the dazzling brilliant Court. There was music and laughter and the rich scents of foodstuffs, and the exotic perfumes of the people of the Court. Joanna sat back and looked at it all, and for some reason, Pan’s words came back to her.

  “I am Love and Gaiety and Wine and Laughter and Revelry. And although you will sometimes have to look hard to find me, remember that I am to be found in every world and in every century.”

  I do not see him, thought Joanna, but I believe he is here, all the same. Just as he was there to rescue us from the Miller, and just as he woke the Trees with his beautiful eerie music.

  Cormac was watching her. He said, “It is yours, you know — this place.”

  Medchuarta … the heart and the soul and the centre of Tara. Did I coax this from the sorcerers? wondered Joanna. Did I once live here and did I once die here, and did I rule creatures like this, half human, and unpredictable and wild? In another life and in another world …

  She said carefully, “I think it is no longer mine, Cormac. I think it is yours now.”

  For my task is accomplished, and I must go home …

  The thought came quick like a knife, and — surely this is my home! cried Joanna silently. But she smiled, and said, “Let us talk of other things for tonight.”

  And for a few tomorrows as well, for I cannot yet bear to think of leaving.

  *

  Cormac walked into the Sun Chamber and drew a deep breath. Now I am home. Now I am once more in the place I was born to. Medchuarta. The heart and the soul and the core. He sat on the great gilded throne — the throne that had once belonged to Dierdriu of the Nightcloak and to the great Nuadu Airgetlam, and to Niall of the Nine Hostages. Yes, I am home.

  He waited for the despair and the agonies and the shackles of the years of his exile to fall away; for, thought Cormac, surely this is the place where all will be healed and where all will have been worthwhile.

  But the shackles were still there, like a faint bruise on his mind, and he thought that after all the road back to Tara had been a long and arduous one. Too many losses. Too much pain.

  And I should never have succeeded if Joanna had not been with me.

  He shook himself as if to clear the images, and moved to the door. The guards sprang to attention at once, and Cormac smiled inwardly. Have I missed this? This instant, unthinking obedience? But he knew that he had missed it; it was everything he had been bred to and it was everything that he had grown accustomed to. I do not demand it, neither do I compel it, but still it is there for me, no matter.

  The guards were waiting, looking at him with respect and interest, and at length, Cormac said, “Tell them to bring up the prisoner.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The captain hesitated. “Alone, Sire?”

  Cormac said, “Quite alone. I do not think I shall be in any danger.”

  But all of his senses were alert as he resumed his seat; he thought that there was not truly any danger, but he knew, within himself, that there was danger of a sort. He had loved Mab to the edge of madness; he had been willing to outface them all and place her by his side.

  And together we would have made Ireland great.

  Would they? He was no longer the helplessly romantic boy; he was no longer the young man who had loved Mab and believed that he could outface the world for her sake. And you were greedy, Mab! cried his mind. Once you could have shared it all with me; once I would have given you half my kingdom.

  But you wanted it all, my dear. You wanted the power and the glory, and once you had it, you would have found it empty, for the power is the power of a straw man, and the glory is only the reflection of Tara itself.

  The power and the glory do not work, Mab, unless the people love you.

  And then, as he heard the footsteps approach, panic seized him. He thought: it has been so long. How shall I bear it if she has aged and greyed? How shall I stand it if she is defeated and cowed? He knew that his own soldiers had captured her very quickly indeed; that mad headlong flight had availed her nothing, as Cormac had known it would. He knew that she had not resisted; only that she had submitted to them with arrogance and disdain, they had not even had to chain her.

  And I could not have borne to have seen her chained and defeated.

  A low laugh spilled into the room. “Oh Cormac,” said Mab softly, “how could
you think I would ever be defeated or cowed?” And she stood looking at him from the door.

  Cormac stayed where he was — for I am the Wolfking returned, madam, and I am the High King of all Ireland, and I will have from you the homage I can command!

  He watched her and saw that she was as beautiful as he remembered, and as desirable as he remembered. And saw, as well, with infinite relief, that he no longer wanted her: because I have loved Joanna since then? Yes, perhaps. And perhaps, after all, it was never intended that Mab and I should be together.

  A great gentleness filled him, but he did not yet know it for the gentleness of a still-young man towards an older woman he has ceased to desire. And she is changed, said his mind. She is not aged — impossible! — but the fires do not burn quite so fiercely as they once did.

  At length, he said, “Are you older and wiser, Mab?”

  The reply came promptly. “Neither, Sire.”

  He smiled. “I am glad. Never change, my dear. I should wish to remember you as always young and forever headstrong.”

  Fear showed in her eyes. “I am to be executed?”

  “No.”

  “Ah. It is the traditional punishment …”

  “Yes. And Bricriu will receive it. But after what we were to one another …” This time the pause was painful. Cormac said in a low voice, “I cannot send you out to die, Mab. But I must send you away.”

  This time the silence was much longer, but Cormac waited, watching her. Finally Mab said, “So. It is to be exile.”

  “It will be a luxurious exile, my dear.”

  “Better than the one I condemned you to?”

  “Infinitely better,” said Cormac.

  “You are generous, Sire,” said Mab, her tone bitter.

  Cormac, feeling her pain, said, “Mab, I have no choice! You led the rebellion that deposed me and you instigated it!” He moved from the throne and began to pace the Sun Chamber restlessly. “You placed your son on my throne, and for that I should pronounce the High Execution over you!” He stopped and looked at her. “Only I cannot do it, Mab,” he said in a voice of extreme tenderness. “We missed each other in time, my dear, and now, for Ireland’s sake, you must leave Tara.”

  “What of Eochaid Bres?”

  “He may go with you.”

  She drew in a sharp breath. “Not the High Execution?”

  “No.”

  She studied him. “They will say you are mad.”

  “They have said it more than once in the past.”

  “Am I to be placed under any restraint?”

  “No. You are banished and Eochaid Bres with you. But I make no stipulations.”

  A smile curved her lips. “Oh Cormac,” she said softly, “you may live to wish you had made the pronouncement of Execution after all. How do you know I shall not ride against you again? How do you know I shall not try to take your throne from you a second time?”

  Cormac looked at her, and without warning, a flame kindled in his eyes. “I don’t know it,” he said softly. “Would you do it, Mab? Find some poor ambitious wretch, as you did with Bricriu, and set up a Pretender again? Plunge Ireland into intrigues and civil war again?” He studied her thoughtfully. “Admit it Mab, just between us. Admit that I am the rightful High King.”

  Mab said, “Between us, Cormac, in the privacy of the Sun Chamber, I admit it. Because of what we once were to one another, I admit your right to the Ancient Throne.

  “But I shall never admit it in private again, Cormac. I shall defy you in public and challenge your right to Tara.”

  “And,” said Cormac, watching her, “raise an army against me again?”

  The smile widened. “Wait and see, High King,” said Mab.

  “Wait and see.”

  *

  But if Cormac had missed Mab in time — by ten years? fifteen? — by how much had he missed Joanna? By centuries and by millennia, and by whole worlds, said his mind. For Joanna did not belong in his world, nor he in hers. Losing Joanna now would be the cruellest wrench of them all, but he knew that he would summon the sorcerers to pull aside the Time Curtain, and Joanna and Flynn would go back to their strange harsh world.

  And I shall be left here with nothing.

  You have Tara, said his mind.

  But it will be empty if Joanna is not there with me.

  Or would it? Something at the back of his mind moved forward into the light — and in the light, waited for his consideration. An idea? An intuition? Or something stronger?

  The wolf-smile touched his lips.

  *

  Joanna said, “I cannot bear to leave. Cormac, I cannot.”

  “But you will do so. My dear, you must.”

  Task accomplished … there it was again, an unwanted thought.

  Cormac looked at her, and thought: oh my love, if only you did not have to go. If only I could keep you here with me. But aloud he said, “You will return with Flynn.”

  Flynn … Delight rose in Joanna’s heart. Flynn and the old stone farmhouse … She would walk the hillsides of Tugaim with Flynn, and there would be memories everywhere. There would be the Glowing Lands, and she would look at them and know that just beyond them, on the other side of the sheet of light, lay this ancient enchanted land. Yes, she would be able to feel that Cormac was not so very far away, after all.

  And so when Cormac said again, more firmly this time, “You will go back, Joanna,” she gave a deep sigh and said, “Yes.”

  “It is your place, Human Child,” said Cormac, and Joanna, in sudden agony, thought: he is withdrawing from me. He no longer has use for me, for I have helped him to regain his throne.

  He felt the thought at once, of course, and reached for her hand. “No,” he said. “Never that. But for you — and Flynn — to be out of your own time for too long is dangerous. I cannot explain — perhaps the sorcerers can — but it is very wrong to tamper with time, Joanna. And perhaps there are things in your own world that you must do. Things that await you. Things you are meant to complete there.” He looked at her, his head on one side, and Joanna felt all over again the strange wild beauty that had beckoned to her at Scáthach.

  She said, “To leave you — after all that has been between us —” and Cormac smiled at her very gently.

  “Listen,” he said, “we will roll up the memories, Human Child, and we will store away what we have had, because it can never really be lost to us. And one day, a little way in the future, we will be able to unwrap our memories and lay them out. What we have had will not die because we shall not let it. I shall unwrap the memories of you, not once, but many times in the years ahead, and every memory will be sweet-scented and wholly precious. And in time, I shall be able to enjoy the memories without pain and with deep happiness.” He took her face in his hands. “I shall never regret any of it Joanna,” said Cormac, “and you will never be truly gone from my mind.”

  Joanna leaned against him and felt tears on her cheeks, but she did not think they were her tears.

  “And also,” said Cormac very softly, “also, for you it will be easier. For you will have the child.”

  And then, as Joanna started, and drew back, “Won’t you?” said Cormac.

  Joanna said, “When did you guess?”

  “Am I right?”

  “Yes,” said Joanna in a whisper.

  *

  Flynn sat opposite to Amairgen and Portan in the firelit hall of Scáthach and saw how the leaping flames lit Amairgen’s face to gentle radiance. He thought that for Amairgen this was home now; this was his place.

  But isn’t it my place also? Have I not, also, come home? With the winning of the battle and restoring of Cormac, undreamed-of memories had come alive for Flynn. When Amairgen had said to him, “You are Finn of the Fiana again,” he had not fully believed it; now he did believe it. Now he knew himself alive and charged with an energy and a confidence so great that he felt he could ransack cities and storm citadels and ride out at the head of great armies.

  As I d
id once before in another life and in another world …

  The words hovered unspoken, but Flynn saw Amairgen’s head come up and he saw the sudden awareness in the tilt of Amairgen’s whole body. He thought: something has struck a very deep chord in him, and when Amairgen spoke, he knew he had been right.

  “Finn of the Fiana returned. Yes, I feel it in you more strongly now than ever before.” He leaned forward and without warning, a soft, faint, far-off wind stirred the quiet of Scáthach’s stone hall. Flynn felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, and for a moment the figure of the great warrior Finn was there with them, whipcord-strong, tall and slender and straight. Dierdriu’s champion, the High King’s paladin. Fighter and lover and scholar and leader. And how do I know all that about him? But he did know it, and he heard echoing down the centuries the cries of victory and the sounds of the immense armies of Tara riding out under Finn’s command.

  Flynn blinked and the fire burned up and the figure blurred and then was gone. Flynn was shaken, but he turned to Amairgen, still seated quietly in his corner.

  “Yes it was real,” said Amairgen without moving. “I saw it also, Flynn, not with my outer vision, but with an inner one. And I could not call into being that which had never had existence.”

  Flynn said, “You called up —”

  Amairgen leaned forward and touched Flynn’s forehead. “Finn was your ancestor, Flynn. His blood is still in you, and his memories are still in your heart. I drew on those memories.” He fell silent, and Flynn felt the strength of him and the emotions and the love flow outwards. When Amairgen spoke, Flynn already knew what he was going to say.

  “Do you remember,” said Amairgen, “the night we agreed to go through the Time Curtain, you and I?”

  “Yes,” said Flynn, and he thought: I remember, and nothing, not wild horses, would have stopped me going in after Joanna … And he remembered, as well, the moonlight and the mystery of the night, the aching loneliness for Joanna gone beyond their reach.

  “You placed yourself under my authority then, Flynn. You are still under it.”