by Sarah Rayne
But he thought there was a tumbled charm about it; he liked the latticed windows that looked out over the street and caught the sunlight, and he liked the leaping fire in the hearth and the rows of books that studded the walls. All of this he took in, and then he turned to the young man at the table and at once thought, But this is someone I can trust.
The man at the table said, “Yes, I am a Tyrian and my rooms are very untidy, but it does not affect our dealings.” He regarded his guest. “Please be seated, Fergus, the chairs are cleaner than they appear.”
“You knew my name?” Fergus said.
“The ancient art of the Samhailt is not reserved solely for the Irish,” the young man said. “I wish you would sit down. I cannot conduct business with you if you persist in towering over me.”
Fergus sat facing the table and looked at the young man. “Do you also know why I am here?”
There was a shrug, the spreading of hands in a slightly foreign gesture. “You are from the exiled Court. And wars fought to regain kingdoms are expensive.” He stood up. “Will you drink wine with me? My colleagues will tell you that I cannot conduct business unless I am three parts drunk.”
Slightly against his will, Fergus said, “Can you?”
“You shall judge for yourself.” The Tyrian brought two brimming chalices of wine to the table, and Fergus sipped it, warily at first, and then with enjoyment.
“Yes, it is very good wine,” the young man said. “I buy it by the barrelful from sailors. How much money do you want?”
“You are very direct, sir,” said Fergus.
“My name is Taliesin. I am Tyrian by descent and a money lender by trade.” He leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine, and regarded Fergus. “I am shrewd and intelligent, and it is my business to make money from you. If you leave money with me, I will invest it and you will become richer. If you take money from me, I will make you pay and I will become richer. You have not yet told me how much you want.”
“Twenty thousand royals,” Fergus said, and Taliesin’s brows went up.
But he only said, “That is a very great sum.”
“Beyond your means?”
“No sum is beyond my means. I can find a King’s ransom if I have to. Or,” Taliesin said thoughtfully, “a Queen’s. And they tell me that the sorcerers of Tara are very expensive these days.” He grinned suddenly. “My people are outcasts and pariahs and we are reviled and looked on as thieves and robbers.” The sudden attractive smile lit his face again. “We care for no man and no man cares for us. You should not trust me, Fergus, for I may betray you.”
“I don’t think so,” said Fergus.
“I don’t think so either,” Taliesin said. “What security do you offer for this sum? What is the bond, Fergus?”
Fergus said slowly, “All of the wealth of Tara lies deep in its vaults, and once we regain Tara, we shall be able to pay you many times over.”
“Once with interest will suffice. You still have not told me of the bond.”
“I pledge the Fiana,” said Fergus, watching the other one.
“I see. And if the bond has to be called in? If you fail to regain all the wealth of Tara’s coffers?”
“Then as Head of the Fiana, my life must be forfeit,” said Fergus, and Taliesin’s brows went up again.
“Unusual.”
“Unacceptable?”
“No. If I am not paid, then I may take your life to do with what I wish, yes? Yes, I thought that was what you meant. I daresay there have been odder arrangements. Shall we write the bond in your blood, or will ordinary juice of husks suffice? I suppose that since swine root among husks, that will be appropriate.”
“Then you can lend me the money?” said Fergus, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
Taliesin said, “I can do it, certainly. But even so, I shall have to go to the Elders of the Council.”
“Because it is so large a sum?”
“Because of the bond,” said Taliesin. “More wine?”
*
Grainne and Tybion the Tusk with Fintan and Cermait Honeymouth had set out in the grey light of dawn in search of the Grail Castle. The court had not been very happy for the Queen to be off like this looking for the Cruithin, what with Fergus off to the money lenders and Lugh Longhand to sneak the army onto the mainland to spy on Medoc and Tara. Grainne had listened with her usual gentle courtesy to their various objections. Then she had quietly bade them pack and be ready to leave at dawn, and although she had spoken softly, her eyes had flashed and no one had quite dared say her nay.
And now after a long day in the saddle, they were coming through the shadows to the road that was believed to lead to the Grail Castle. They slowed, and the horses tossed their heads as they moved to the grassy verge. Nobody quite liked to say it, but each was secretly rather afraid of actually setting foot on the road.
Fintan said wasn’t it the longest darkest road you had ever seen, and Tybion the Tusk asked what a grail was exactly.
“Well,” said Fintan, “it’s — well it’s a — dear me, it’s not easy to explain. See now —”
“It’s an object of quest,” Grainne said. “Something precious and priceless and lost.” And Fintan said hadn’t that been the very description he’d been searching his mind for.
“Thank you,” said Tybion. “I see.”
Cermait said you didn’t like the look of the road one bit. “Shadowy,” he said. “And would you look how it snakes away from you,” and Fintan said it ought to be renamed, because to call it the Castle Road was not warning people properly how dark and nasty-looking it really was.
In fact, as they set off again, the road was easily as frightening as they had feared, although none of them could quite have said why.
Grainne was very apprehensive, but she was exhilarated as well. I am fighting for Tara, she was thinking; I am riding out to try to regain what is truly mine. I am out here in the wilds of my land and I am approaching an ancient sinister castle, along a road which most people believe to be haunted by evil dark magic. I am dressed in plain breeches and a leather jerkin, and I have cut off my hair, and nobody knows who I am, and anything could happen to me tonight, thought Grainne. And with the thought, something that she had until now been only dimly aware of, stirred, and then woke in her.
A surge of golden strength, a swift current of glinting courage …
The wolfblood, the ancient enchantment created long ago, by the first sorcerers of all, so that her ancestors could lie with the wolves, and so that the beautiful wild Wolfline could rule Ireland.
The power and the light and the strength of the Wolves of Tara …
She had the impression that the strength was not really hers, but that it was a loan, a gift from the forebears she had never known, who had lain with the Wolves, and that she had held it in trust. It is a loan and a pledge, and it is something I must preserve so that I may hand it on to my heirs …
Heirs. The little slant-eyed boy with dark hair and smooth skin, full of light and fire and life … He did not exist except in her imagination and in her dreams. It was certainly pointless to still feel the ache that could sometimes cut her from breast to womb. Even so — Oh, Fergus, thought Grainne. I wonder where you are now. I wonder if you will succeed. I wonder if you will return. But riding quietly along like this, it was possible to touch, in her mind, Fergus’s parting words, and derive comfort from them.
“Be sure I shall return,” he had said. “Be sure that Ireland will not be lost.” And then with the sweet secret smile she had once traced on his lips with her fingertips in the magical dawn outside Tara, “Nothing that has once been precious can ever be lost, my love,” he had said.
It would never be wholly lost to them, thought Grainne, and then, because to think of Fergus was profitless now, she turned her mind back to their quest, and to her companions.
Tybion the Tusk was happier than he had ever been in his life. He had never been so close to the High Queen before, although he h
ad known all the stories about her; how she was lovely and gentle, and how she was like her famous grandmother, the dazzlingly beautiful Dierdriu. But he had not known that she would have eyes the colour of molten gold that you felt might see into your soul, or a skin like buttermilk, or that she would be so delicate and fragile-looking that you would want to go bounding all over Ireland and tear apart every creature who had ever hurt her. She had cut off her rippling black hair, and the court had all been very shocked — Cathbad the Druid was reported to have wept — but Tybion thought she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
When they stopped for a bite of supper, he gathered apples and rich wild blackberries and simmered them carefully over the fire with a drop of Fintan’s best mead, which was a recipe that had been in his family for generations.
“It is very good,” said Grainne, eating it with enjoyment, and Tybion thought he would gladly have died for her.
He was entranced to be allowed to sit beside her as they ate their supper in the gathering twilight. Fintan had caught several fish earlier in one of the streams, and they grilled these over the fire and found them wholly delicious. Tybion thought that out here, Grainne was closer to the forest creatures and to the wolves whose blood she possessed. He looked at her again and saw, for the first time, the unmistakable traces of wolfishness. This ought to have been faintly sinister but was somehow not. Grainne was beautiful and gentle, and Tybion would have died for her. As they set off again, the long dark road was very quiet.
“It’s too quiet,” said Fintan.
Even Cermait said he wished they knew what was ahead.
“Something nasty,” said Fintan, with gloomy relish.
“Something powerful,” said Cermait. “Can’t you feel it?”
They could all feel it. A heavy dark menace, as if some immense force was summoning all of its strength. Grainne, who had grown up with the sinister legend of the Grail Castle, and who knew that no creature who had ever set out to find it had ever returned, felt a cold dread. It was along this road that the prowling hungry Conablaiche was sometimes seen, and it was along this road that the Lad of the Skins, who scoured the world for human souls, walked abroad with a dripping sack …
Grainne rode quietly along, between Fintan and Cermait, and thought, But why has no one ever been able to reach the Grail Castle? Why is it surrounded with dark enchantments that unfailingly devour those who try to penetrate it?
What is inside the Grail Castle that is so terrible that no one has ever been allowed to look upon it?
And then they rounded the last curve in the road, and there it was.
The Grail Castle.
*
It was like nothing any of them had ever seen, and it was like every nightmare and every dark castle they had ever visualised.
“Black,” said Fintan, staring.
“Massive,” said Cermait.
Tybion, who was a little to the rear, shivered and tried to look away, and Grainne, who was staring at the great grim outline, felt a dreadful heavy coldness.
For inside there is something so nightmarish and so unbearable that it is beyond ordinary comprehension …
The castle was set squarely on a massive jutting rock and it was surrounded by a deep, wide ravine. A rock bridge stretched across to the immense portcullis.
“And it is the only way we can get in,” said Fintan.
“It’s very narrow,” said Cermait.
“Yes, we’ll have to go singly. Who’ll lead the way?”
Tybion said, “I should be happy to go first, ma’am —” but Grainne said, “It is for me to lead you,” and they fell back. As Cermait said in a whisper to Fintan, although you now and then forgot Her Majesty’s ancestry, she had only to tilt her head in just that way, and you remembered.
“Breeding,” said Fintan. And then, “But I don’t like the look of this place.”
None of them liked the look of it. The Grail Castle, sometimes called Scáthach, the Castle of Shadow, reared up before them, its great bulk black and menacing against the sky.
Closer to, it was silent and secretive. Grainne thought it was easy to imagine that all manner of things walked its halls and lurked in its lonely turrets; it was easy to imagine as well that its dungeons housed ancient grisly secrets.
A wind had got up as they neared the great drawbridge, and Tybion said softly, “Your Majesty — ma’am — see there? Lights burning,” and Grainne followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw that on each side of the door were flaming torches, thrust into metal sconces, flickering wildly in the moaning, keening wind, casting eerie shadows on the stone walls.
“Then at least someone is at home,” Grainne said quite calmly, and she thought, Well, at least I do not sound afraid. And she moved forward, aware of the others falling into line behind her, but not really thinking about them; thinking instead of what lay ahead, on entering the castle, and on what they would find.
The Cruithin? After all, would the Cruithin be here? Were Ireland’s lost people for some reason living in hiding in this terrible place? Was that the reason for the shrouding spells?
There was a moment — heart-stopping and fearsome — when the wind blew gently on the torches, so that they flared as if a giant’s breath had been huffed onto them. And there was another moment when the wind swooped about them, so that each had the impression of beating wings overhead.
They dismounted cautiously and tethered their horses to mounting posts in the courtyard.
“Deserted,” said Fintan, as they looked about them. “Wouldn’t it be a fine old joke if after all these years, and after all those legends, the Grail Castle was no more than an empty shell?”
Grainne said softly, “I think we are being watched. From somewhere above.” She scanned the rows of blank windows for movement, but there was nothing.
“I suppose,” said Cermait, “that we’re just going to go up to that door and ask them to let us in.”
“Yes.”
“Ah,” said Cermait, and Grainne smiled, and Tybion moved forward, in case there was anything he could do to help.
But there was no need to pull the immense bell rope, and there was no need to ask anyone to let them in. The drawbridge swung upwards of its own accord, and the doors of the great, dark Grail Castle opened up before them.
As if they were expected.
*
Fergus stood at the corner of the Street of Money Lenders and waited for Taliesin.
Dusk was creeping down the street, shrouding the tall narrow buildings, and Fergus felt, as always, the heady bewitchment of the Purple Hour. He thought that surely, if there was any magic left in Ireland, this was the hour when it would be waking and walking.
He had been listening and watching for Taliesin, but when Taliesin appeared, he jumped, for the Tyrian had come so quietly that Fergus had neither seen nor heard his approach.
“Are you ready, Fergus?” said Taliesin, and he smiled as if he knew he had disconcerted Fergus.
“Where are we going?”
“To the Elders of my people.” He regarded Fergus thoughtfully. “You may be a little surprised at what is ahead.”
“What is ahead?” said Fergus.
“I am not permitted to tell you that.” He paused in a doorway and took out a flask. “Wine?”
“Thank you.” Fergus took the flask. “Is it true that you cannot conduct business unless you are drunk?”
“There are worse things that could be said of a man,” said Taliesin. “Through here, Fergus. It is not very far. Thank you, I will take back my flask.”
They passed down side streets and courtyards, and through a low stone archway, and Taliesin stopped before a tall house with flaring torches on each side of the door.
“Discreet,” said Taliesin, surveying it. “They do not care to draw attention to themselves. I daresay they are right.”
“Do people never come here by chance?”
“No.” He was standing motionless, looking at the s
huttered and darkened windows, and Fergus suddenly received the impression that he was reluctant to go inside. “I am reluctant,” Taliesin said softly. And then, with a shrug, as if it did not matter after all, he pushed open the door. “And,” he said, “we are expected, it seems. Come inside, Fergus.” Inside, the house was clean and cool and austere. Fergus, who knew little of the tastes and fashions of the Eastern lands, rather liked the low, pointed arches and the patterned mosaic floor. The floor was engraved with curious symbols, and he would have liked to inspect them more closely. There were alcoves at intervals, set with strange bronze winged creatures, and beneath each of these was a small flame.
“My people worship strange gods,” said Taliesin, and Fergus could not decide if he was being mocked now.
“And you?”
Taliesin tilted the flask to his lips again. “I worship the red river of life which runs through the veins of no man,” he said. “Through here. We are going below the city. You are entering into another world, Fergus.” The shrewd eyes regarded him. “I believe I have judged you rightly,” he said suddenly. “But if I have not, I am sorry.”
Fergus started to say, “What —” and Taliesin said, “Hush. We are nearly at the central chamber,” and returned to his former disinterested manner. “The stairs are steep. Go warily.”
“What of you?” said Fergus, for Taliesin seemed to move effortlessly downwards.
“I am lent wings by the wine. You should have taken more.” The stairs opened into a large high-ceilinged hall, and Fergus stared about him. He was not especially afraid, but he was certainly intrigued.
“To outsiders, we are very intriguing,” Taliesin said. “It is only when you come to know us — if, that is, we permit you to — that you realise we are in truth thieves and robbers.”
“You do not care very much for your own people,” said Fergus, looking at him.
“I was born into a world where the making of money is the reason for existence and the bread of life,” was the response. “That does not mean that I must care for it.”