by Sarah Rayne
“And only Fael-Inis can take us across Time,” said Taliesin. “Yes, of course.”
“But,” Fergus said, “Fael-Inis has not been glimpsed in Ireland for a century or more. It may be an impossible task.” But as he spoke, Fribble, who had been enjoying his ride in the tilt cart, said, “Dear me, I don’t think that’s right, you know. I believe Fael-Inis was last heard of in Dierdriu’s reign, and that’s not so very long ago. Is this the House? It isn’t as long a journey as I thought it would be, after all. I expect they’ll ask us to supper, will they? I always heard that Calatin and his Sons were extremely hospitable.”
Taliesin wanted to know how many Sons they would meet.
“Twenty-seven,” said Fribble. “The magical three times nine it is. All the sorcerers go in for that sort of thing. Myself, I can’t see that it makes any difference, although they say it strengthens an enchantment to include three times nine somewhere. This is a very bad road, isn’t it? I’d better have a drop of wine, to help me over the bumps. Only a thimbleful; I don’t want to arrive roaring drunk. It would create the wrong impression, and I might fall asleep and miss everything.”
As they drew nearer, there was the faint stirring of wind above them and, with it, a low keening note.
“The wind in the trees,” said Taliesin, and he glanced at the other two, and thought, Did they hear that other sound just beyond the sound of the wind? And he listened again and wondered after all whether he had heard anything other than the wind.
The faintest, frailest thread of sound, nothing more … Music, thought Taliesin. Did I in truth hear it? Yes, I believe I did. And so soft and so sweet and so achingly sad that it would melt your soul, and you would follow it into hell and beyond if only it would continue … He turned back to the others and saw that Fergus was standing very still, staring into the dark forest, and there was a look in his eyes that made Taliesin’s skin prickle with fear.
Fergus said, rather uncertainly, “I thought there was something …” and stopped, and Taliesin said with all the force he could muster, “Fergus, there is nothing out there.”
“Yes … music. And — a sound like a child crying —”
Taliesin thought at once, The Lad of the Skins! And at once every grisly legend and every nightmarish tale ever told about the soul-stealing Lad of the Skins flooded his mind.
For the Lad, when he comes, always comes with the chill beckoning music, and with the creeping ancient cold, and with the heart-tearing crying of a lost child in the night …
Cold horror touched him. If the evil, insidious sounds did indeed herald the Lad’s approach, and if Fergus were to fall under his terrible bewitchment, what would happen to them? And in the same moment he knew that if it was the Lad, it would certainly be Fergus he would want, for Fergus was their leader.
Fribble was listening as well, his head on one side. “I can’t hear anything," he said. “Although I’m getting a bit hard of hearing now, of course."
Taliesin’s mind was tumbling with grisly images. He was cold with dread and he thought they must try to seek safety inside Calatin’s house. He took Fergus’s arm, and began to lead him along down the path towards the House of Calatin, and despite the urgency of the moment and the need to somehow get away from the creeping, eerily beautiful music, he was conscious of a small bubble of cynical amusement. Am I to take control of this ill-assorted and surely ill-fated venture? But if the Lad of the Skins was spinning his dark evil about Fergus, Fergus would certainly be unable to lead them. He thought that Fergus was still responding to the beckoning music and the faint far-off crying, and there was nothing for it but to get them to Calatin’s house and safety. And then he thought, I suppose it will be safe in there.
Fribble, who had been scanning the darkness, said, “I can’t hear anything, you know, but I do think we shouldn’t stand out here in the middle of the forest with night coming on." And Taliesin smiled, and said, “You are entirely right, sir. Let us go up to the house, where at least we can be sure of food and warmth and lights and a little human companionship."
Fribble looked sharply at Taliesin and said, “Oh dear, you haven’t been thinking that Calatin is human, have you?"
“What is he?" said Fergus, and Taliesin knew a rush of relief, for Fergus had spoken in what was very nearly a normal voice. Had the faint haunting music withdrawn its hold? I do not believe in any gods at all, thought Taliesin. But if I did, I should be praying to every one of them that it has withdrawn. Aloud, he said, “Tell us about Calatin, Fribble,” and Fribble, who had been gazing at the house, said, “Didn’t you know? Calatin and his Sons are giants. Every one of them.”
*
If it takes courage to approach a sorcerer’s house and request admittance, how much more courage does it take when you have learned that the sorcerers are giants, and when your approach is being made at nightfall through an ancient, listening forest?
Taliesin knew that something deep within the forest was still watching them. He knew that it was following them, creeping along the dark forest path behind them, always just out of sight, so that if you whipped round without warning, it would dodge back into the shadows. He was very nearly certain that it was Fergus that the creature wanted, and he thought that if only they could get Fergus inside Calatin’s house, they might think themselves safe for the moment.
But I do not know whether the creature is good or evil.
The angel from the bottomless pit … Was there any possibility of that? Was there any chance that it was the wild beautiful untamable Fael-Inis? The creature they would have to summon to travel across Time? The rebel angel who rode the Time Chariot and consorted with the fire creatures?
He did not think it was Fael-Inis, for Fael-Inis, when he came to the world of Men, never came furtively and creepingly, with icy evil music, but warmly and glowingly, and with the heat and the fire of the Time Chariot all about him.
It was something darker that was stealing through the forest. Something infinitely sinister. Something hungry that insinuated itself into men’s houses and took their souls …
Probably I am imagining it, thought Taliesin. But he knew that he was not, for he possessed traces of the ancient, almost-extinct Samhailt, the strange elusive power to hear and understand the thoughts of others, and to hear and be aware of the unseen creatures who prowled the world, just out of hearing and just beyond consciousness. But despite all the dangers, he knew that he was alive and alight again.
When Fergus, helping Fribble over the last rough piece of ground, said, “Do you feel at all afraid?” Taliesin smiled in the old mocking way, and said, “I am terror itself, Fergus,” and knew that Fergus knew this was not true.
As they neared the house, they saw that it was much larger than it had first seemed. Taliesin thought it had a lowering appearance. It was built of some kind of dark roughish stone, and there was a steep overhanging roof, and row upon row of narrow windows. But the windows had a blank look to them, as if the rooms behind had been closed up and forgotten. An immense flight of stone steps led up to the house.
“Difficult to climb,” muttered Fribble. “Deep. Well, of course, they’re giant steps.” He sat down and hitched up his robes. “It won’t do to be tripping up,” he said.
They climbed the stone steps carefully. “Each step was at least four feet deep,” said Fribble, dusting himself down as they reached the top. “I wonder how big the giants are.” He examined the massive iron-studded door. “Do you suppose anyone’s at home? I think we ought to ring the bell. Can you reach it? Dear me, it’s rather a long way up. Of course, they’d only be used to other giants as guests. Did somebody say it was supper time? I’m very hungry, aren’t you?”
Taliesin grasped the bell rope and pulled it, and deep within the House of the Giants, a clanging, sonorous bell sounded. It was followed by a moment of most-profound silence and then, from somewhere deep within the great house, they became aware of a slow measured tread approaching.
“Not hopping,” mutt
ered Fribble. “So it won’t be a giant.”
“Is that meant to make us feel better?” said Fergus, and Taliesin, listening, thought that Fergus was sounding more ordinary with every minute. He glanced back into the forest, and thought he caught a scuttling movement deep within the trees, and then was not sure.
The footsteps were on the other side of the door now, and there was a snuffling, as if some huge creature was trying to find the door handle. Taliesin caught the sound of claws ringing out on the floor, and his heart began to pound.
Slowly, inch by inch, the door swung open, and Fergus, who was a little ahead, said very loudly, “We bid you good evening, and have come from the Court of the High Queen of Ireland. We ask for discourse with Calatin and his Sons —”
“And beg for shelter and hospitality,” said Fribble, and then in an aside, “They usually like you to say that.”
There was a pause, as if the creature in the shadows was considering them. Taliesin caught again the sound of claws.
And then a deep, echoing voice said, “Come inside, travellers,” and the door swung open to admit them.
“You are expected,” said the voice, and the three travellers stepped over the threshold, into the House of the Giant Sorcerers.
CHAPTER FIVE
The minute that Grainne and Fintan and Cermait with Tybion stepped inside the Grail Castle, they were conscious of a feeling of great desolation. A shutting out of the light, and a cutting off of hope and warmth and ordinary companionship. It was like waking in the dark of the night —
‘In the terrible loneliness of the night watches, when all sleeps and the world spins on silently and the soul knows the infinite isolation…’
I have never heard those words, thought Grainne, but I know them.
Ahead of them was a stone archway and a flight of steps leading down to a sunken hall. There was firelight and shadowy figures, and there was the sudden hush that falls on a roomful of people when a stranger enters.
Grainne moved towards the archway and stood framed there, looking down at the firelit hall. The light flickered wildly, throwing huge, distorted shadows across the walls, and sending grotesque phantoms and phantasms dancing on the ceiling, and Grainne stood transfixed.
There was a moment — unwished for and never to be forgotten — when shock and horror rose up in her throat, and a terrible sickness threatened to overwhelm her. She fought for control, and the sickness receded, and presently she was able to look without flinching on what was below in the stone hall.
People seated at a long table. No, not people. Creatures. Travesties. Half-humans. Terrible, pitiable beings. Grainne took another step forward.
Creatures neither quite animal nor quite human. Fur and claws and hoofs and snouts. Cloven and webbed and pointed-eared and triangular-featured. Whiskers and skin and hide. Flesh and fur. Parodies. Dreadful, grotesque creatures.
As Grainne stood and looked, unable to speak or move, a pity so immense welled up inside her that she wanted to run down into the red glow of the hall and hold out her hands to the poor pitiful things, gather them to her.
For there was intelligence in the eyes that watched her, and there was understanding and tolerance; a patient acceptance of the cruel fate that had shaped and misshaped and caused these beings to be shut away.
They know what they are.
Grainne turned back to where Tybion and Fintan and Cermait waited by the door, and looked at them very steadily. “Wait here for me.” She thought that for a moment Fintan and Cermait made as if to protest, and Tybion certainly moved, but her voice brooked no argument.
Grainne said in a different, gentler voice, “It is all right. Truly. They will not harm me.” And knew they would not.
Even so, it was harder than she had expected to walk calmly down into the sunken hall with the deep stone hearth and the flagged floor and the flickering wall sconces. Their eyes watched her, and they were the eyes of animals, bright and dark and slanting. Unblinking cats’ eyes, and slitted reptilian eyes, and here and there small birdlike eyes.
And claws and fur, and talons and teeth … Yes, it was all here. Catmasks and eagle eyes and pointed muzzles … Don’t think about it, thought Grainne. Don’t notice it.
She walked in silence to the head of the table and stood looking, and now that she was closer, she could see the evidence of beast and human more clearly. She could see where men or women had been matched with foxes and with eagles and with panthers, and with prowling, growling things, who might sometimes walk on all fours, and sometimes upright like Men …
At the head of the table sat a golden-eyed creature, with the strong features of an eagle or a hawk. He had arms which were nearly but not quite wings, and skin that was nearly but not quite feathered, and there was a hard unblinking look in his eyes as he watched her.
The others had flinched from her gaze, as if they could not endure to be looked on, although the eagle creature sat calmly watching her.
At length, she said softly, “Will you permit me to join you?” and felt a stir of unease go through them.
“I mean you no harm,” Grainne said. And she waited.
The eagle man said, “You honour us, Your Majesty,” and a murmur went round the table.
“You recognise me?”
“The Wolfqueen. Yes, how would we not recognise you?” He gestured to a place at his side. “You are welcome at our table,” he said, “and your companions, also.” And although there was courtesy in his tone, there was no subservience.
She took the seat indicated and sat quietly watching them, waiting, not moving, as deliberately still as she would have been if she was reassuring a nervous horse or dog, and after a time she felt a wary acceptance from them.
The eagle man said, “Will you drink a glass of wine with us, ma’am?” and Grainne saw a small badgerlike girl with a furry snout and soft dark eyes step forward and pour wine.
The wine, when she drank it, was very good, and she sipped it gratefully, feeling it set up a little core of warmth. And slowly, little by little, so gradually that she was hardly aware of it happening, she began to feel a kin with these creatures, and a sense of closeness. At her side, the eagle creature said, very softly, “Do you not know yet who we are, ma’am?” and Grainne turned to look at him and said, “Tell me.”
There was a pause; then, “We are the Royal Houses of Ireland,” he said, and understanding flooded Grainne’s mind.
These were the results of humans mating with Beasts without the protection of the ancient Enchantment.
*
“The enchantment was lost,” said the eagle man, who was called Raynor. “It was lost in the reign of your grandmother.”
“Nobody knows how or why,” said the badger girl who had served the wine.
“But enchantments do die,” said a man with leather-pad paws and the features of a fox.
“But for the Beastline to die out,” said Raynor, his eyes on her, “has been the most dangerous and the most terrible threat ever to touch Ireland. For without the Beastline to rule, Ireland will fall,” he said, and Grainne remembered the old, old prophecy that if Tara should ever be possessed by the humans, then the curse once directed at the first High Queen of all would revive, and the Bright Palace would crumble.
‘And all Ireland will seethe with evil, and the skies will be crimson, and the doors will open to the terrible Forces of the Dark Ireland that forever waits…’
“Forgive me,” said Grainne. “I did not know.”
“Your grandmother kept the knowledge from all but the most trusted of her sorcerers,” said Raynor, and now his eyes held compassion. Grainne remembered how she had marked the lack of subservience, and thought, But of course they are not subservient. They are the Ancient Bloodline, the Beastline that was once the nobility of Ireland. They are the Royal Enchanted Houses of Ireland, but with the enchantment revoked.
The rough magic abjured and the spell wound up … and all your darknesses and all your nightmares dragged pro
testing into the light …
“Dierdriu charged a particular group of sorcerers to work in secret to rediscover, or reweave, the lost spell,” said Raynor. “We believe they are Tyrians, although we are not sure.” He looked down the table. “But since then, those sorcerers have worked ceaselessly. We do not know if they have succeeded, and we do not know if they will ever succeed.” A pause. “We are the results of their attempts, you see.”
“We are the failures,” said the fox man.
“We are failed spells,” said the badger girl sadly, and Grainne stretched out a hand, because there was the dreadful animal tolerance and the patience again, and so wretched was it that she could hardly bear it.
“We are of the same blood as you,” Raynor said steadily.
But you are whole and beautiful, and we are ugly and deformed … The words lay unspoken on the air, but Grainne thought that every person present in the sunken firelit hall heard them clearly.
Grainne said, “How long have you been here?”
“All our lives. We are brought here from the Sorcerers’ Chambers immediately we are born.”
“While we are helpless and blind,” said the badger girl.
“And — looked after?” It was very nearly unbearable to think about the poor pitiful newborn creatures, defenceless and vulnerable, carried here by night, thrown into the dark fastness of this great castle.
“Yes,” said the badger girl softly, “yes, we are well looked after, although it is not part of our beliefs that one person should work for another.” The dark eyes surveyed Grainne. “The Cruithin look after us,” she said. “It is the Cruithin who keep watch on the sorcerers’ attempts to reweave the Lost Enchantment. It is the Cruithin who carry away the sorcerers’ failures.”
“Dierdriu knew that the Cruithin were the only people other than the Tyrians whom she could trust,” said Raynor.
“That is why the Cruithin vanished. That is why they have never been seen in Ireland since Dierdriu’s reign.”