Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  *

  Fergus and Taliesin were never afterwards aware of having moved out of the Chamber of Looms. Fergus had the impression of the immense Silver Door swinging open before them, and of the fierce heat suddenly fading, and Taliesin was aware of moving between the other two. And I believe that Fergus has laid down the spell, he thought vaguely.

  The sounds of the Chariot drew them irresistibly down to the great square hall, and they could see that the shadows had crept back into the corners, as if they were being forced there by strong pure light.

  Strong pure light … And it is coming towards us, thought Fergus. It is coming through the forest towards us.

  Fael-Inis, the rebel angel, the nearly immortal being who could travel through and across and beyond Time, was answering the summons.

  There was a moment, terrible, never to be forgotten, when they waited, fearing the Chariot would not stop. Fergus thought that if that happened, they would not know how to bear it, for he knew that all the stories told of how Fael-Inis was a wild, elusive, fly-by-night creature. The spell, half-formed as it had been, might not be strong enough, and if it failed, there would be no second chance.

  The music was coming steadily nearer, it was reaching out to them, and so sweet was it, so brimful of a beckoning and a potency, that they stood still and let it wash over them, and in each, a deep inner chord was touched.

  For Fribble, it was a simple matter of peace and tranquillity, and the freedom to return to the Tara of the Wolfline, and to read and study and teach.

  For Taliesin it was freedom also, but a very different and a much more complex freedom. He felt the music engulf him, and he felt the boredoms and the dissatisfactions slough away, and he saw, more clearly than he had ever seen before, that all that was needed to break from the narrow Tyrian world of money that must earn more money, and of clients that must be appeased, was the courage to do it. As simple as that. And I was already branded by the Elders as a rebel. He stayed quietly where he was, but he could still feel the strong beautiful music coursing through him, and he could feel the courage and the strength and the awakening. And after all this, how could I ever return to the Street of Money Lenders?

  As for Fergus, he felt his heartbeats slow to a warm sensuous joy, and desire stirred within his mind, so that the dark hall blurred. Six years dissolved, and he was back in that misty dawn in the woodlands surrounding Tara, and Grainne was running to meet him, her eyes on fire with love and longing, her hands outstretched towards him. He thought, Oh, yes, my lady, my love, this is all of it for you, all I am doing and all I am about to do, it is all of it for you, and there will never be another.

  She is not for me, nor I for her. But I can give her back her kingdom. I can give her back Ireland.

  The Chariot was coming directly towards the house now, and they could see the golden glow and the tongues of flame.

  And the creatures drawing the Chariot, thought Fergus, staring through the deep windows that framed the door, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Six — or is it eight? Or more? He narrowed his eyes, and thought he could just discern the beasts’ shapes now. Strange, half-formed creatures, with arched necks, and patrician faces and glossy flanks. Like light made liquid. Like melting rainbows. He had the fancy that if he reached out to touch them, his hand would sink through them. For they have no substance, and no reality; they are like the unfashioned spells, they are creatures of dreams and legends … He remembered the legends of the Fire Mountains, and of the beasts of fire and light and speed, who possessed the ability to travel at such immense speeds that Time ceased to matter.

  For if you have the power and the light, you can cheat Time …

  The Chariot was outside the house now, and there was a warm sweet fragrance and a sensual stirring. Fergus and Taliesin both thought that the trees sighed and murmured, and the grass whispered, and all about them was an awareness, a feeling that something tremendous was about to happen.

  And then the door opened, softly and easily, and he was there, framed against the dark forest, golden and glowing, bathed in radiance, more beautiful than anything they had ever seen, more alien than anything they had ever encountered.

  Fael-Inis — the rebel angel — the strange, wild, defiant creature who had turned his back on the grim and terrible battle at the beginning of the world, when the heavens had been rent asunder and a brilliant overreaching angel had mutinied and been cast out … Lucifer, Son of the Morning, summoning his followers and leading the First Great Rebellion of Heaven, but failing to gain his victory, certainly failing to master Fael-Inis, the creature of fire and speed.

  He was smaller than they had expected, and slender and fine-boned. But there was an immense power and a great strength, and there was an arrogance as well. Taliesin, his eyes never leaving Fael-Inis’s face, thought, A prince among princes. He is imperious and mischievous and exotic. I believe he has defied everything there is to defy, thought Taliesin. He saw the Beginning, the Creation, and he is the one who declined to play a part in Lucifer’s Fall. Dare we trust him? thought Taliesin.

  Fael-Inis was studying them, wholly at ease, leaning against the door post, arms folded, head on one side. His skin was translucent and golden, and his hair was red-gold, tumbling about his narrow skull like silk. But his eyes — Oh, yes, it is in his eyes, thought Taliesin.

  The eyes had it. Slanting and molten and all-seeing. Impossible ever to think him human once you had seen his eyes.

  Fael-Inis said, “Well, Mortals?” and his voice was as soft and as golden as the rest of him. “You called to me. I am here.” He moved nearer, and studied them, and a smile lifted his face, and it was a smile that said, And now let us take the world by the ears and turn it upside down. Let us challenge the gods, and take what we will. The rebel angel …

  Taliesin said warily, “We welcome you,” and the grin widened. “Can you help us?”

  At once Fael-Inis replied, “Yes, I can help you. But there will be a price, you know.” He looked at them thoughtfully. “It is always as well to know the price.” The smile slid out again, tip-tilted and beckoning. “But I can help you, Mortals. I can take you on the fire tongues of Time into the Far Future, and there we will defy the Apocalypse and turn back the Four Horsemen.” He grinned, and Fergus thought, He is enjoying this, and Fael-Inis looked at Fergus, and said, “But of course I am enjoying it.” He smiled gently, and said, “You will have to trust me, of course,” and moved closer. “Will you do it, Mortals? Will you risk your lives and your minds and your souls to ride with me in the Time Chariot? You will have to pledge to me your sanity, and perhaps your lives to come. Will you do that, Mortals, for it is certain that you have other lives still to live?”

  The quality of his smile changed, and he held out his hands to them, and suddenly the mischief was gone, and he seemed younger and more honest and very strong. “I will take you,” he said, “for there is a mission to fulfill. But first we will talk together, and before that we will eat.”

  He led the way to the sculleries as naturally and as familiarly as if he had been doing such things for years. “For I am substantial and I can feel hunger and pain and passion and anguish,” he said. “And I am extraordinarily hungry tonight.” He moved about the stone-flagged scullery, peering into cupboards and pantries, selecting plates and cups. “I am the rebel from the seraphic hierarchy,” he said, looking at them from the corners of his eyes, “but I am sometimes very human indeed. We shall eat a huge supper together, and certainly we shall drink wine, for without wine there is no feast.”

  Fribble, who had been investigating the contents of an immense bread bin, turned round at this and beamed, and said, “I am very glad to hear you say that, sir,” and Fael-Inis smiled at Fribble, and said, “But wine is the water of life. Wine and music are as necessary to life as food and water. In some cultures, I am known as a god of music and wine and love.”

  He looked at them, his head tilted, and Taliesin said softly, “Pan. The shepherd god,” and Fael-Inis turn
ed rather sharply and something very different crept into his eyes. But he only said, “I have many names, and many guises.”

  “Can we trust you?” said Taliesin, and Fael-Inis said, “Yes, for today you can trust me.”

  “You know what is ahead,” said Taliesin.

  “Yes, I know. ‘Plague, War, Famine, and Death … they shall stalk the earth, and after their coming, the Beast Apocalypse shall ride into the world …’ Perhaps we can turn them back, and perhaps we can not. But we will try.” He studied them. “Your descendants will burn the world and destroy civilization unless we can stop them,” he said, and then his face softened. “But they should not be wholly blamed,” he said, and standing in the cold scullery, he said a curious thing.

  “They should not be blamed, for it is the sins of their fathers that are visited on them.”

  A sudden coldness washed over the three travellers, and Fael-Inis, watching them, said softly, “You see? Each of us is responsible in some measure for events. Your sins will echo down the corridors of Time, and it may be that your descendants will be destroyed as a result. It is not fair,” he said gently. “But who said that life was intended to be fair?”

  Fergus said slowly, “But surely we did all we could …”

  “There is always a little more that each of us can give,” said Fael-Inis. “We can always take ourselves a little further than we realise.”

  “That is sometimes very hard,” said Taliesin.

  “Who told you that life was intended to be easy?” said Fael-Inis, and smiled suddenly, and returned to his task of slicing the beef. “The first Herald is already in the Far Future,” he said. “Plague. The people go in constant fear and try to protect themselves by having little contact with one another.” He reached for another knife and tested its sharpness thoughtfully. “In some measure they are to blame,” he said, “for the Conablaiche, in its guise of the Conail, could not have sowed such evil if the soil had not been fertile.” He raised his eyes. “Medoc has let it be thought that the Conablaiche rode the Time Chariot, and escaped into the Future at my hands,” said Fael-Inis, and grinned suddenly. “Medoc will pay heavily for that one,” he said, and the three travellers instantly felt a deep trust and an immense confidence. It will be all right. We shall succeed.

  Fergus said carefully, “Do you know anything of the Far Future?” and Fael-Inis regarded him.

  “The world of the Future, the world we shall travel to, has seen the greatest and the most remarkable sexual freedom ever known,” he said. “Your descendants observed no restraints. They took their pleasure where they would and with whom they wished. Men with men, frequently. Women with women. The gratification of their lusts has become the meaning of their existence.” The eyes became mischievous. “The gratification of the senses is a thing of delight,” said the rebel angel. “But the people of the Far Future took it far beyond that. Now they dare not lie with anyone lest they contract a terrible and incurable disease.”

  “That is the Plague?” said Fergus hesitantly.

  “They do not call it Plague. They have another name for it. But it is Plague all the same. And it is deadly.” Taliesin said, “What of the Second Herald? Famine?” “Famine is nearly there, even as we speak. The world we shall go to is overcrowded. There is no longer sufficient food.” He looked at them. “The poorer countries suffer terrible privations. Children die for want of a sip of water, or a mouthful of bread.” He turned back to the supper they were preparing. “To the children of the Future, this would be a feast beyond their wildest imaginings,” he said. And then his mood shifted yet again, and the golden light danced in his eyes. “Did we find the wine?” said the rebel angel. “Oh, good. Shall we go up to the banqueting hall? The chairs will be a bit large, but we shall be able to make ourselves reasonably comfortable.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  They ate in the banqueting hall at the farthest end of the table from the motionless Calatin.

  “He cannot hear us, of course,” said Fael-Inis. “His body sleeps the sleep of all whose souls are held captive inside the Prison of Hostages.”

  Fergus said, “Has anyone ever returned from the Prison of Hostages?” and Fael-Inis regarded him thoughtfully.

  “It can be done,” he said evasively. “But a very high price has to be paid.”

  “A soul for a soul,” said Taliesin softly, and Fael-Inis turned his strange inhuman eyes onto him.

  “You have understanding,” he said at length. “Yes, that is the immutable law. Measure for measure. Have we honey in that dish? Thank you.”

  Fergus said, “But — would anyone offer his own soul to free another?”

  “Would you?” said Fael-Inis with one of his direct looks, and Fergus, thinking of the terrible finality of the Prison of Hostages, said, “No. No I suppose I would not.”

  “You have to love someone very greatly and very selflessly to make such a sacrifice,” said Fael-Inis, and Taliesin looked up, because there had been something unexpectedly gentle in Fael-Inis’s tone. But Fael-Inis was concentrating on spreading honey onto a wedge of bread, and seemed not to notice.

  “What must we do to travel with you?” asked Taliesin, and for a moment Fael-Inis did not reply. Then, “I cannot take you with me without the sorcerers’ help,” he said.

  “But —”

  “I cannot,” he said. “You are Mortal, and you would die in the Time Fire. It is white hot. It is so fiery that you would shrivel instantly. The heat you encountered inside the Chamber of Looms is as nothing compared to the heat of the Time Fire.”

  “Then —”

  “You must be given the sorcerers’ protection,” he said. “It is a spell which Calatin will know.”

  “But Calatin is lost to us,” said Fergus.

  “Is he?”

  “Well, his soul is in pawn.”

  “That is rather different.”

  “And the Sons are all dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “Butchered by the Conablaiche.”

  “The Conablaiche takes what it will. It will have offered their hearts to Crom Croich, and Crom Croich will be surfeited. For the moment, that is,” said Fael-Inis, “for he is a greedy god, Crom Croich, and he will soon require more.”

  “The slaughter of the first-born boys,” said Fergus slowly.

  “Yes,” said Fael-Inis, eyeing Fergus again. “Medoc will revive that, for it fits well with his fear of the Wolfprince, whose birth has been prophesied. He will send the Conablaiche to kill every male child in Ireland,” said Fael-Inis, “for he believes that in that way, he will kill the child who will one day rise up to challenge him.”

  “But,” said Fergus, leaning forward, his eyes absorbed, “surely that is just a legend?”

  “Is it?” said Fael-Inis.

  “Well, it’s a very old story at any rate,” said Fergus.

  “Is it?” said Fael-Inis, the golden eyes glowing and piercing, so that Fergus felt as if Fael-Inis was seeing into his mind.

  Fribble, who had been eating his supper with industrious pleasure, said, “I never heard that story until lately, you know. The lost Wolfprince — dear me, there’s a very evocative ring to it, don’t you think? And, of course, Medoc would be sure to know if there was such a child in Ireland. He has his sources,” said Fribble. “Well, don’t we all. But Medoc’s servants are nasty creatures. I daresay he’s used the Guardians more than once,” he added, eating cheese with composure.

  Taliesin said, “But no such child has been born —” and Fael-Inis grinned at him.

  “For all your surface cynicism, you are very innocent,” he said. “Have you never heard of bastard lines? Of children born and hidden away? Medoc believes that a child exists somewhere in secrecy, and that it possesses the ancient wolf-blood.”

  Fribble, still eating his cheese, said, “And the legend has never said a legitimate child.”

  “I should like to believe the legend,” said Fergus slowly. “But I don’t think I can, you know.”

 
; “No?” said Fael-Inis. “And yet six years ago the music of the sidh was heard in Ireland again, Fergus.”

  The sidh, the strange, cold, faery race, who would steal up to the gates of Tara and sing the Wolfline into the world …

  “But,” said Fael-Inis, “for the moment we are concerned with the Conablaiche, and with turning back the First Herald. Plague … Calatin will be able to weave the spell that will protect you from the fire of the Time Chariot.”

  “You are saying we must wake Calatin?” said Taliesin.

  “Yes.” Fael-Inis continued to eat his supper. “He is not dead,” he said and smiled at them.

  “But to wake Calatin,” said Fergus, “then a soul must be given in return.”

  “Yes,” said Fael-Inis, and it seemed to Taliesin that he watched Fergus very intently now. “The supreme sacrifice,” he said softly. “One of you must be prepared to lose his soul in exchange for that of Calatin.

  “And since the only one who can cage a Mortal soul and carry it to the Prison of Hostages is the Lad of the Skins, we must call him up.” He stood up and light streamed from him.

  Taliesin had not thought it would be possible for the darkness surrounding the House to deepen, but it deepened in those minutes after Fael-Inis made his pronouncement. He knew that the darkness had not really changed, that it was because of the strength of the light within, and that it was because of Fael-Inis’s radiance.

  The brightest of all the angels before the Fall … Son of the Morning … But no, that had been that other one, the wicked, overreaching Lucifer. Yes, but this creature would have known him, this one had been there, he had seen the Creation and the Fall … Do I believe any of this? wondered Taliesin. How does any of this square with the teachings of my own people? And he thought that it did square, that there was a common root, a matrix of beliefs. Even so — are we being manipulated? he thought. And then, Are we being bewitched?

  Fael-Inis caught the thought at once, of course, and the slanting eyes rested on Taliesin with amusement. “You have an enquiring mind, Mortal,” he said. “But you may be at ease. I was there, and I did see, and were I to tell you, your Mortal mind could not comprehend.” Suddenly he looked remote, and there was an aching sadness about him. “It was all lost to us,” he said, half to himself. “All of the beauty and all of the love. We might have had it all, had it not been for that One.”