by Sarah Rayne
“But they have long since vanished from Ireland, Fergus, and it may be that I will be the last Queen to have seen them and heard them. There is a legend that says they will return when the Lost Prince of Tara appears, and that it is he alone whom they will serve. But,” said Dierdriu, “that is only one of many legends, and people have always talked of a great and mighty ruler who will appear from the ranks of the ordinary people and lead Ireland to greatness.”
The Lost Prince … Ireland’s once and future King …
“I wept on the night the sidh were last seen at Tara,” said Dierdriu, “for I knew that they could only sing for one of you, and that there could only be one ruler. I knew that these might well be the sidh’s last days, and I knew as well that I must find the courage and the strength to send one of you away.”
Fergus said, “But why? I don’t understand any of this,” and Dierdriu closed her eyes and leaned back, so that Fergus suddenly thought, After all, she is no longer young. No longer the wild young Wolfqueen who rode into battle with the armies of all Ireland at her back, and who took and discarded lovers at will. She is no longer young, thought Fergus, and pity stirred in him, and with it a thread of forgiveness. When he said, “Tell me,” his voice was very much gentler than it had yet been.
Dierdriu sat up a little straighter. “What I am about to tell you is known to only a handful of people,” she said.
“Certainly it is not known outside of the Bright Palace, and equally certainly it is not known outside of the innermost Council Chambers. It is something that is passed on down the generations, from each High King or Queen to the direct heir.” She paused, and appeared to select her next words carefully. “As a Prince of Tara, you are, after all, entitled to be told, but as a Prince of Tara, you must promise, solemnly and absolutely, that you will never, no matter the circumstances, reveal what I am about to tell you.”
“I do promise,” said Fergus, and Dierdriu looked at him very intently.
“Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, you mean it.” And then, leaning closer to him, “I should know if you did not mean it,” she said. “You understand that?”
“Yes,” said Fergus. “We are of the same line you and I, ma’am, and although I have not the ancient Samhailt, I understand it. You may trust me.”
Dierdriu said, “You know the ancient curse laid on Tara at the beginning of her history?” and looked at him and waited, and Fergus said, half to himself, “‘If Tara should ever belong to a pure-bred human, then it will fall into ruin, and the Bright Palace will be no more …’”
“‘… and all Ireland will seethe with evil, and the skies will darken, and the rivers will run with blood.’ Yes,” said Dierdriu, “of course you know. All Ireland knows.
“But what you do not know, what very few people know, is that there is more.
“When the first High Queen cheated the curse by creating the Enchantment of the Bloodline,” said Dierdriu, “the sorceress is said to have turned back and made a curious prophecy.” Her eyes were slitted in the gathering dusk, but her voice was clear. “‘You may think to deflect the curse,’ said the sorceress, ‘and for a while you will do so, for your sorcerers are powerful, and the Enchantment they have woven will endure. Half-humans will rule Ireland for many centuries. But one day your line will divide, and it is then that the magical Beastblood will fade, and you will find you can no longer strengthen it by lying with the creatures of the forest. It is then that Tara will belong to the humans.’
“‘The Line will divide,’” said Dierdriu, looking at Fergus. “Divide. The sorceress could see into the future, and she could see how her curse might again fall on us.”
Fergus said, “The Line will divide …?” and looked at Dierdriu, not understanding, and Dierdriu said, “Twins, Fergus. If ever twins are born into the Royal House, then the Enchantment of the Beastline will lose its potency, and the curse will revive. Enchantments can die, Fergus, but curses can not. They can only be set aside for a time.
“Eighteen or so years ago, my dear, you and Grainne were born in this room in the Sun Chamber of Tara. Twins. And from that day, the ancient curse has been waking.
“We did everything we could,” said Dierdriu, pacing the room again. “We summoned the sorcerers, and we sat long nights in Council, for we knew that we dare not wait until it was time for the Ritual of the Beastline to take place; we had to know long before that if the birth of twins into the Royal House had truly damaged the Enchantment.
“And we did know,” said Dierdriu, her face haggard and old now. “The sorcerers knew at once. I do not understand the finer points of sorcery,” said the Wolfqueen, and a brief, suddenly youthful grin lifted her lips, “but I know a little. They permitted me to go down into Tara’s Sorcery Chambers for this. I was there when they took the Enchantment of the Beastline and laid it across the Silver Loom, and I was there as it fell to shreds in their hands. Have you ever seen a dead enchantment, Fergus? No, of course you have not. It is the most painful thing in the world. It was dead, shrivelled, blown to dust, exactly as the sorceress had said it would be, centuries earlier. The ancient curse was reviving …
“And so we separated you,” said Dierdriu, and now there was an immense sadness in her eyes. “We decided that you must be brought up apart from one another. The sorcerers believed that that would weaken the strong kinship that would exist between you.” And then, seeing his expression, “Oh, my dearest boy, forgive me —”
“It does not matter. Go on,” said Fergus. And then, as something else occurred to him, “Was that, then, the only time that twins had ever been born to the Wolfline?”
“No,” said Dierdriu, but now she spoke so softly that Fergus had to move closer to hear her. “No. Once before, twins were born.”
“What happened?”
“They were separated, but they were separated so fully and so completely, and so soon after their birth, that the threat withdrew.”
“How —”
“The Time Travellers took one of them,” said Dierdriu, and it seemed to Fergus that an old, never-quite-healed agony was in her voice now. “They took the boy-child, and no one in Ireland ever knew what happened to him.” And then, with an abrupt gesture, “But it was a very long time ago, and I do not know the details, for I was never told. And all who knew are dead now.” Again the shadow was in her eyes, and Fergus, who would have wished to know more of this, felt her retreat a little from him.
But he only said quietly, “Go on.”
“The Panel of Judges was summoned, to decide which of you had the stronger vein of wolfblood,” said Dierdriu. “That was believed important, for with the Enchantment useless, we knew that we had to keep the Wolfline alive for as long as we could. We had to give the sorcerers time to find the Enchantment or weave a new one. The adjudging of the beastblood is something else I do not fully understand,” said Dierdriu, “but it is a little to do with the eyes, and a little to do with the movements … And with other things I have never meddled in.”
Fergus said, “And so I was sent away and Grainne was permitted to remain at Tara.”
“Yes.” Dierdriu’s eyes fixed on him. “Yes, we sent you away, Fergus, but I know now that we did not send you far enough.” She reached for his hand. “Forgive me for that. But you were of my blood, and I had already lost so much —”
“Yes?” Fergus held his breath; he thought, Now will she tell me of my parents?
But Dierdriu only said, “And so you went away, and Grainne stayed, and when you came back to Tara, first as a soldier in the Fiana and then as its head, I could not bear to send you away again, Fergus.” And then, softly, “And indeed, the damage was done by that time. Why should you not take a high place in the home of your ancestors?”
“Why not indeed?” said Fergus lightly.
Dierdriu looked at him very directly. “When we sent you away, Fergus, you were a babe, no more than a few days old.”
“Yes?”
“The secret was kept in the way mos
t secrets are kept, which is to say that although the truth did not get out, something got out. Something that became woven into the legend and the myth of the day,” said Dierdriu.
She looked at him again, the golden wolfeyes hard and unblinking, and Fergus, staring, said, “The Lost Prince —”
“Yes. Your banishment from Tara began the legend, Fergus. You were Tara’s Lost Prince.”
*
Tara’s Lost Prince. The abandoned Wolfchild sent away, made an outcast, given into the care of the humans.
Fergus, lying sleepless and alone in the Prison of Hostages, could still feel the pain and the bewilderment, and the terrible knowledge that he, who loved Ireland beyond measure, had been a part of her doom.
Because I was born twin to Grainne … because the Royal Line must never divide …
Even so, thought Fergus, staring up at the light, even so, there is something Dierdriu did not tell me.
My parents. She did not tell me that.
It was something that had puzzled him during all his years at Court, and it was something that had stayed with him. Who had they been, those poor tragic people who had brought forth the twins who were to fulfil the sorceress’s prophecy? How had they felt? How did it feel to know that you were the instrument and the cause of something so enormously and comprehensively dreadful?
Had it been Dierdriu’s son? Or a daughter? Strange, thought Fergus, turning restlessly and trying to escape the light, strange that throughout all Court history and throughout all Court gossip (and gossip at Tara had ever been lively), that no one has ever referred to Dierdriu’s child, to the heir to Tara who disappeared. No one has ever spoken of the child who must have been born to Dierdriu, and who had given birth to himself and Grainne.
Why not? thought Fergus. And then — She called me the Lost Prince, but supposing there is another Lost Prince?
CHAPTER TEN
Grainne explored the Grail Castle tirelessly. She could feel the enchantments of the ancient legend-haunted stronghold lying on the air everywhere, but she thought, Even so, I believe this is not a place of sadness.
“You will never quite discover all of the castle,” said Raynor. “For it keeps its secrets.”
“Secrets?” She thought he looked at her rather searchingly, and she held her breath, for surely there would be strange untold stories about this place, and surely he would know of them? But he only said, “It was raised from the rock by the first High Kings, and it is filled with rather strange magic. It does not obey the same laws as other dwellings.”
Grainne, feeling the castle’s subtle spells close about her, wanted to know everything; she wanted to find out all there was to find out about this dark fortress. At times she stole out from her bedchamber after nightfall, and stood listening to the night rustlings and the soft settling of the old timbers. Sometimes there were footsteps: not frightening, certainly not threatening, but purposeful and efficient, as if the owner was going quietly and efficiently about some routine task.
Sometimes she lay awake, feeling the castle sleeping all about her, hearing the little sighing sounds as beams settled into place, or the wind as it soughed beneath the eaves, or moaned in and out of battlements and turrets.
At such times, she heard the footsteps, and at such times, she half sat up, and listened. More than once she moved to go in pursuit, but she never quite did.
But she thought that if only she knew the right words,
or if only she had the power, she could summon the enchantments, and lay bare the secrets and understand this place. There are immense and terrible secrets here, she thought.
As Tara’s Crown Princess and then as its High Queen, she knew something of the castle’s history. She knew about Cormac of the Wolves, her great-grandfather, who had been exiled here for five years, and she knew about the others as well: Niall of the Nine Hostages, caught and chained and kept prisoner with nine faithful Lords until he broke out and regained the Throne. Nuadu Airgetlam, Nuadu of the Silver Arm, who had lost his left arm in a battle and been driven from the Bright Palace by the fearsome Gruagach. But Nuadu had returned; he had been made whole by the Court Sorcerer, and he, also, had regained his Throne.
Grainne thought it was strange that she had never before realised how many Kings of Ireland had been exiled and had later returned. Shall I return? Or shall I go down in history as the High Queen who lost Tara for always? She could not let it happen. She would rally the creatures of this castle, and the Cruithin, and drive out Medoc and beat back the Dark Ireland. And Grainne smiled briefly, because it was certainly possible that these thoughts were flowing outwards and being absorbed by the ancient stones. Perhaps she, also, was leaving a few secrets and a few memories behind.
And the castle was not entirely made up of sadness and shadows. There were sudden patches of light that you came out on to when you least expected it. You might walk down some sombre corridors and gaze upon dim, seldom-used halls, and you might run your hand across the scarred surfaces of the old walls, and then, without the least warning, you would find yourself in a sun-drenched quadrangle, or a courtyard where gentians grew or mountain ash flared. You came across patches of happiness here, just as you came across patches of colour.
When Grainne said rather diffidently to Raynor, “People have been happy here, I think,” he said at once, “Yes, there is happiness here.” And then, with one of his sudden, gentle smiles, “But it is necessary to look quite deeply for it, Your Majesty. And it is necessary for us to hide it as well.”
“More secrets?” said Grainne, willing him to unfold. But he only said, “Where people perceive happiness, ma’am, they will ask questions,” and he retreated again behind a courteous mask.
“You hide so much here,” said Grainne.
“Because it is necessary. Because we do not wish the world to look upon us.” He regarded her. “The Cruithin have a little of the old magic,” he said, “and the castle itself has its own.” He looked at her with his piercing stare, and Grainne, who had begun to understand a little of the castle’s strangeness, said tentatively, “The happiness within is not apparent from without.”
“It is not intended to be,” said Raynor. “The castle wishes to keep its secrets. The Cruithin have” — a pause — “the Cruithin have harnessed some of its darkness,” said Raynor. “And they have thrown it outwards.”
“It is very forbidding on approach.”
“Yes,” said Raynor softly. “Oh, yes, it is very forbidding on approach.” And, looking at her, “That is the inner darkness turned outwards. You understand why.”
The castle was forbidding and dark on approach because its occupants wished to keep intruders out. This was interesting and a new idea, and Grainne would have liked to know more. But Raynor only said, quite politely, “There are many such castles in Ireland, ma’am. There are many enchantments which have been woven into dwellings and which need only to be harnessed. It is only that people have lost the secret.” People have lost the secret … But it must be found, thought Grainne. Somehow I must find it again …
Raynor and his people had made Grainne and the others very welcome. There had been no ceremony about any of it, for ceremony of any kind seemed to be something that they did not embrace. But there was an acceptance, and a you-are-one-of-us that Grainne found restful.
The Beastline were interested in all she could tell them of Tara and of the exiled Court. They listened and asked a great many questions, but Grainne thought the questions were those of curious children, mentally exploring a fabled land … We shall never go there, we shall never dare to go there, but all the same, we like to hear of it. We like to think about the might-have-beens. And Grainne, who had her own might-have-beens, understood, and tried to make her stories of the Bright Palace interesting and amusing, and tried to minimise the rigours and the heartaches of exile on Innisfree.
And if she told them of her world, they, in turn, made her free in theirs. They each had their appointed tasks, and their place in the runnin
g of the castle, and Grainne, unused to being included in such ordinary daily tasks, felt it enfold her gently and naturally.
Rinnal, the fox man, showed her the garden where they grew their own vegetables and fruit. “For,” he said, “everything we eat we must provide for ourselves. Over there is our herb garden, and here are some fruit trees, from which we are cultivating a new strain. We think they will be ready next year, and we are looking forward to tasting the fruit.”
Two of the younger ones rather shyly explained about the workings of the creamery. “Butter and cheese,” they said, and Grainne was pleased that she understood the machinery, and even managed to churn quite an acceptable pat of butter, which the two Beastline creatures at once stamped with a wooden mould on which was carved, in reverse, the outline of a castle.
Bee, the girl with a badger’s furry snout and soft dark eyes, showed her the great sculleries where they all took turns to prepare the food. “All of us, even Raynor,” she said, and smiled. “Although he is not the best of our cooks, ma’am. But sometimes he prepares a dish of what we call Cais Breac — that is lake fish cooked in wine, with our own herb cheese. Quite delicious. We eat that when there is something to celebrate.”
“Raynor is your leader?” asked Grainne.
“In as much as we acknowledge a leader,” said Bee, regarding Grainne thoughtfully. “He is the strongest, you see,” she said. “I do not mean physically, although he is strong physically.”
“Mentally,” said Grainne, half to herself, and at once Bee said, “Yes. Yes, you do understand. I thought you would.” And Grainne was struck all over again by the complete lack of subservience of these creatures.
“When we falter,” said Bee, peering into a huge simmering cauldron of something that smelled savoury and good, “it is always Raynor who helps us. It is to him we go when we need support. Sometimes, you see, it is difficult for us.”