Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  He could remember how his father had said that he need bow his head to no man in Ireland, save the High Queen, and he could remember how he had laughed, and said to be sure he would call no man master, and certainly no woman either. He had been wildly ambitious and intensely purposeful; he had been sure of his own worth, and determined to succeed.

  It had been the confidence of ignorance, of course, but he had not known it then, for who at eighteen recognises such a thing? He had been ready to defy the conventions and take on the world — and win! he thought. Yes, I was ready to fight the world and win. If you intend to climb a mountain, you do not look at the foothills and worry; you keep your eyes fixed on the summit, and that way, if you are very lucky and very determined, you may achieve it.

  The summit. He had achieved it more easily and more quickly than ever he had expected.

  “Charm,” had said the tolerant, smiling on the young Fergus, prepared to accept him for what he was, but, “Arrogant,” said the older, more cynical courtiers. And, “Favouritism,” said yet others, who remembered how the High Queen Dierdriu had ever an eye to dark-haired, blue-eyed young men who smiled with charm and impudence, and who could woo birds from trees and noble ladies into bed.

  It had not been charm alone, and it certainly had not been favouritism that had taken Fergus on his upward journey.

  Dierdriu had been kind, certainly. She had smiled on the new young courtier, and she had helped him, and he had been fascinated by her, for although she was ageing, there were still easily discernible traces of the famous beauty who had led armies into battle and lovers into bed; who had brought Ireland to the brink of something so truly great that its fame would echo down the centuries.

  Dierdriu had maintained the legend begun by the first Wolfkings, but her granddaughter would create a new legend altogether.

  Grainne. Barely eighteen, wide-eyed and a little awestruck by the Court; receptive and responsive.

  The Crown Princess, the future High Queen, beautiful and untried, and more desirable than any woman Fergus had ever seen before or since.

  But she is not for me nor I for her.

  He thought she had not known of his feelings, until the night of the receiving of new candidates into the Fiana, at which Fergus, as its head, must preside.

  It was an ancient and rather solemn ritual, the admitting of young men of good family into Ireland’s small and carefully chosen band of warriors. The Fianaigheacht said, “Only the very highest in the land may enter.”

  Fergus had questioned this, because his own father had been an ordinary townsman, one of the small landowners near to Tara. Well-to-do in an unassuming way; certainly respected. “But of the people,” Fergus was to say with unconscious arrogance. “Not of Ireland’s nobility.” Why then had his father made that curious statement: “You need bow your head to no man in Ireland save the High King or Queen.”?

  The candidates had strength and stamina and charm, and Fergus, presiding over the banquet, watching them perform feats of skill and endurance and strength, smiled. He would accept all of them; presently he would cross the floor to where they would stand, and he would bestow acceptance on them.

  He had started to move across the Sun Chamber, and a hush had fallen, for at such a ceremony, as the Fiana’s head, Fergus commanded absolute obeisance. And then he had turned his head and seen that Grainne was watching him, and a sudden, surprised joy unfolded within his heart, for there was such desire in her eyes that lights exploded inside his head, and he wanted to stand still and savour the moment. He wanted to drink it and touch it and explore it, for, he thought, surely there can be nothing so magical as the moment when you know, beyond all question, that the woman you desire desires you in return.

  He had turned it aside, of course, for the Court was waiting. But the knowledge had lain beneath his thoughts, a warm, secret spring of joy. If I beckon, she will come!

  Performing the ritualistic Acceptance almost without thinking about it, he had seen, quite clearly, the two paths down which he could travel. He thought, We are still safe, she and I. I have not yet taken the step. I have not yet beckoned to her so that she will come running to me, so that I shall lie with her today and tonight and tomorrow, and for a great many tomorrows. He was aware of the immense arrogance of this, but he knew he had not mistaken that long, steady look. If I beckon, she will certainly come to me! he thought, and his mind whirled, so that for a moment he barely saw the waiting Fiana candidates and the glittering Sun Chamber.

  Or should he turn desire aside and pretend that there had never been that brief, blinding flare of longing between them? Should he take the honourable path, the virtuous path? Should he bank down desire and quench the longing, so that in the end desire would die and longing would shrivel and life would go on very much as before …

  He had waited for her in the forests that fringed Tara, his mind filled with light and hope, his body more fiercely aware than ever it had been in his entire life. He felt as if he was about to take his first woman, and as he stood beneath the trees, watching her running towards him, Fergus felt himself trembling. He could not move, and he thought he probably could not speak either. He thought, I believe that this is how I shall remember her when it is over, as over it will surely be sooner or later. This is the image, the picture, the memory I shall fold away, so that somewhere in the future, somewhere on the other side of the pain I know awaits, I shall be able to unfold the memory and I shall never quite lose her.

  If I can lie with her once, thought Fergus, if I can taste the sweetness, if I can possess her just once, she will be forever mine …

  He had caught her in his arms, and there had been a soaring delight, an exchange of joy, wordless, mindless, stronger and infinitely sweeter than anything he had ever known. She clung to him, and his mouth found hers, and she tasted as fresh and as new as the morning, and desire had exploded within him, and he thought that after all he had been wrong: once would never be sufficient, he wanted her for always, he wanted to be with her, to share everything with her.

  Share Tara? said a small treacherous voice he had not known he possessed. Would you share Tara if it was offered?

  The thought slid serpent-like into his mind, and he thought, To share Tara. Oh, yes, to be with her and be at her side. Oh, yes, I could do that.

  And my son would rule Ireland.

  For a moment he had seen it clearly; himself and Grainne in the Sun Chamber; he had seen as well the child, the darkhaired creature of life and light and mischief … Grainne’s son and mine … A sweet, deep pain closed about his manhood, and it was then that desire rocketed out of control, and he felt himself become as hard and as high as the beech trees that stood sentinel to Tara’s western avenue …

  Grainne arched her back like a cat, and Fergus began to peel the thin robe from her shoulders, kissing her bare skin, feeling her response, feeling the swing of her hair against his shoulders and chest, and exulting in it, for there is something so intimate and so wholly precious about the feel of a loved one’s hair against your skin …

  There had been a moment when he sat back and looked at her, naked and submissive in the grass, and his heart started to sing and his mind spun into a dazzling vision of what might be … because we can only ever be a might-have-been, my dear love … that little boy with dark mischievous eyes, slender and supple, and Ireland’s future Prince …

  Fergus had been so intensely aware of every separate part of her that it had been a pain and a torment. He had wanted to take each part — eyes, skin, hair, bones — and he had wanted to scoop her up and hold her between his hands and never release her again.

  Passion had swept in then, and he had entered her, unable to help himself, clinging to her as she had earlier clung to him, and although he had been gentler than he had ever been with any other woman, she had cried out, and her face had twisted with pain, and Fergus had felt blood on his thighs.

  And although I was sharing the pain with her, still I was exulting, because I had m
ade her mine, and what I had had and what I had taken, no man ever in the world could have of her.

  White-hot heat coursed through him, and with it came the rare, precious fusing of mind and body, so that her thoughts and her emotions flowed out to him, and his to her … we were truly one on that morning, thought Fergus. We were swept into the bitter-sweet dream, and there would be no going back, but on that morning we were truly one.

  *

  The dream had turned sooner than he had thought. Alone, in the eternal light of his timeless Prison, Fergus winced away from the memories, and then, with sudden resolve, turned about and faced them. For memories are the only things I can ever have of you now, my sweet, lovely girl …

  He remembered every single one of the stolen meetings; how he had gone to her bedchamber by night, how she had come into the warm drowsy afternoons to find him, when everyone was busy about something and no one knew where anyone was and she would not be missed. He had been lost to all sense of preservation, both for himself and for Grainne.

  The summons had come within a week. “The High Queen will receive you in the Sun Chamber,” and Fergus had known at once what was ahead.

  But he had been unafraid, although a tremor had gone through him as he entered the great Sun Chamber and found Dierdriu alone and waiting for him. He paused in the doorway, because it was rare to see the High Queen without at least a dozen courtiers; certainly he had never seen the Sun Chamber like this, bathed in the glow from the dying day, alive with the strong, pure magic of the Purple Hour, the huge crystal windows that looked out over all Ireland ablaze with light. He thought that Dierdriu was outwardly calm, but that, in reality, she was not, as he was not. She turned and regarded him, and after a moment walked slowly and deliberately to the Ancient Throne of Niall of the Nine Hostages and seated herself on it. In the fading light, her eyes were yellow-gold and gleaming, and Fergus thought, Wolf-eyes! and saw Dierdriu smile, for she had picked that one up with ease. Of course she did, thought Fergus. Was not the Samhailt, the ancient art of hearing the thoughts of others, bestowed on the Royal line long ago?

  But Dierdriu only smiled at him, and Fergus saw that it was the cruel, charming smile of her ancestors, who had lain with the wolves. She said, “Do you find it strange to see the Sun Chamber so empty, Captain?” and Fergus thought, Oho! she is calling me Captain. Then we are to be formal, are we!

  He said mildly, “I am accustomed to seeing it filled with people, ma’am.” And waited for her to make the next move.

  But she only said, “I am often here alone at this hour.”

  “Why have you sent for me, ma’am?”

  Dierdriu regarded him thoughtfully. “We shall not play games,” she said. “You have transgressed the law.”

  “Yes?” Fergus put up his chin. “We all of us do that at some time or other.” You do, said his tone.

  The smile deepened. “Oh, Fergus,” said Dierdriu softly, “you will have to curb that rebellious arrogance if ever you are truly to serve Ireland.”

  Fergus felt a surge of real anger now, because how dare she treat him as an inferior, how dare she speak to him as if he was no more than one of her serfs, a possession, a pawn, a thing.

  Dierdriu said, “You cannot have her, you know.” Fergus looked up, because for all Dierdriu’s hubris, he had not expected her to be so suddenly direct. He drew breath to speak, and Dierdriu said, “Shall I tell you why you cannot?”

  “You do not need to,” said Fergus, his eyes holding the golden ones. “She is a Princess of Tara.” And thought, Let us leave it there, Dierdriu. Let us not say what we both know to be true. Let us pretend that it is only that Grainne is too far above me, and let us continue the pretence, for I do not think I can bear it any other way.

  Dierdriu said, “Yes, she is a Princess of Ireland,” and looked at him and waited.

  “She is of the old pure Wolfline,” said Fergus, meeting her eyes. “And that line must never be defiled or sullied.”

  “Yes,” said Dierdriu, and stood up and came over to him. “But there is something else, Fergus.” And now her expression was softer, gentler, the yellow glint in her eyes dimmed.

  “She is your sister,” said Dierdriu.

  Fergus heard his own voice break the silence that followed. “I know.”

  *

  He had known for longer than he could remember. He could not remember a time when he had not known. Perhaps he had been told when he was first taken to Court. Perhaps he had guessed, without being told. “Remember,” said the man who had reared him, “remember that you need bow your head to no one save the High King.” And he had looked at Fergus rather sadly when he said this.

  “Of course he did,” said Dierdriu. “For to him you were a changeling, you were a malartan. Grafted-on stock. He reared you, but he could never have understood you.”

  No one ever has. Fergus did not say it, but he thought that Dierdriu would hear the cry, and he thought, as well, that she would also have experienced the immense lonelinesses, the sudden fierce panics, because it was inevitable that when you were a creature not quite human, you would instinctively look for your own kind.

  And there are no others left of the old enchanted Beastline …

  Only there had been. There had been Grainne. Was that all it had been? Like recognising like? The call of kinship? Oh, no, my love, for to believe that is to deny anything and everything we were to one another.

  Dierdriu was still seated on the High Throne, watching him, and Fergus knew a quick anticipation, and thought, Is she about to tell me the truth about my birth? and was both intrigued and apprehensive, for he had never been told anything of his true parents.

  Dierdriu said, “I am not going to tell you that, Fergus,” and there was a wariness in her tone now, so that Fergus looked up, startled. “It is not a story that bears telling. But you may know that hearts were broken and minds were splintered.” She looked at him. “If the truth had ever become known, Tara would have fallen.”

  The old, old curse revived, and the Bright Palace threatened? The Dark Ireland waking?

  “You were taken away,” said Dierdriu, “into safety. You were given into the care of people who reared you well.”

  Made into a changeling. Cast out by my own kind … A Wolfchild abandoned, put out to humans … The thought was instantly and fiercely hurtful.

  “No,” said Dierdriu. “You were put into safety, Fergus. Your safety.”

  “And Tara’s?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Tara’s also. That was of paramount importance. We all knew it. We all knew that Ireland must not fall under the power of the Dark Lords.”

  So it was the Dark Ireland you feared, madam …

  “I have always feared the Dark Ireland,” said Dierdriu, and her eyes were huge now, and looking on a terrible possibility. “My ancestors — yes, Fergus, your ancestors also-waged endless battles to keep the Bright Palace and to beat back the necromancers and the dark sorcerers from that other Ireland. And if the truth of your conception had been discovered —”

  “Why will you not tell me?”

  “It would do no good,” said Dierdriu again. “And once you knew, you would wish you did not.”

  “But we are — Grainne and I — we are full brother and sister?”

  “Yes.” The light had shifted in the Sun Chamber now, and Fergus saw that Dierdriu’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Oh, yes, my dear, you are full siblings.” And then, reaching out to touch his arm, “I would that it were otherwise, Fergus.”

  Fergus did not speak. He thought he need not have asked the question, and he wished he had not asked it. For while I did not know, there was still some hope. Because half kin might have been acceptable …

  Pain sliced through him, and a terrible cold desolation. Then I must let you go, my love, and after all there is nothing anywhere ever, and there is no one in the entire world …

  Dierdriu said gently, “Had you been half siblings, something might have been permitted. As i
t was, there was nothing anyone could do.”

  “Full brother and sister.”

  “You are twins,” said Dierdriu, “born within the hour. You were born here in the Sun Chamber, Fergus.” She stood up and began to pace the floor. “Twins,” said Dierdriu, “one of Nature’s cruellest twists, Fergus.” She stood framed in the great crystal window, her eyes on the plains and the rolling fields and the forests below Tara. “What was done was done for Ireland,” said Dierdriu. “You must believe that.”

  Fergus said in a clear, hard voice, “Why am I not in Grainne’s place? Why is she the Crown Princess, while I am only her Captain?”

  Dierdriu paused and then turned to look at him. “Yes,” she said at last. “Of course you would wonder about that.” And came again to seat herself on the High Throne. “You are a Prince of Tara, Fergus. It is your inheritance and your birthright, and although we may appear to have taken that from you, we have not really done so.” She frowned, and Fergus waited. “On the night you were born,” said Dierdriu, “the Wolves were restless in the forests, and there was the sound, very faintly, of the sidh singing at Tara’s gates.” She glanced at him. “The sidh have not been seen in Ireland since my own father’s day, but they are still here, Fergus. The most purely magical creatures in all Ireland. No one has ever looked on them and lived to tell of it, for they are greedy for the souls of humans. But when a High King or Queen is born, they have always come up to Tara’s gates, and sung him — or her — into the world. And although it is almost certain death to look on them, Fergus, I stole out of the Palace that night, and I saw the green and blue smoke that indicates their presence, and I saw, just for a moment, the Elven King, Aillen mac Midha, seated cross-legged on the ground. I heard the cold faery music.” She paused again, her eyes faraway now. “The music of the sidh is the most remarkable thing you would ever hear,” said Dierdriu. “Cold and inhuman and filled with their strange faery enchantment. It is said that there is a spell within the music, and that they always spin it for the true heir, and that it protects that heir throughout his life.