by Sarah Rayne
Her first feeling was of relief. Not human! After all it is not human! Some poor animal, some poor travesty that has been imprisoned for its own safety and the safety of others. Some living breathing thing that has succumbed to insanity, or been born that way, and which the Beastline and the Cruithin have taken care of. Not human.
She moved nearer, heedless of Raynor’s warning hand on her arm, not exactly pushing him from her, but summoning, without realising, the authority and the remoteness that had come down to her; certainly assuming the unconscious imperiousness that she had never known shone from her, and that was shining from her now in the dim, moonlit cell. Raynor, more closely attuned to her now than he would have believed possible, felt the strength and the sudden arrogance and the automatic shouldering of a burden, and knew that it was this quality, this mastery, that set her so much apart.
The creature in the far corner was watching Grainne’s approach from sly, slit-like eyes. As Grainne drew closer, a dry hand, the back covered with teethmarks as if it had been gnawed, came up and, with an abrupt gesture, pushed back the mat of hair that half covered the face.
Horror coursed through Grainne, so that for a moment the stone room tilted all about her.
Human, fettered and chained, with a mat of coarse brown hair, with sly, utterly mad eyes, but human. This is unbearable.
The creature was dressed plainly and simply. Some kind of loose gown, thought Grainne. But nearly in rags. Torn and stained and ripped. Here and there clawed. Anger flared, for surely they could have dressed the poor thing better.
The bright brown eyes were intent on Grainne now and, without warning, a new alertness came over the figure. It had been half sitting in the corner; now it seemed to crouch, as if ready to spring forward. Its chains slithered across the stone floor again, and there was a breathspace when Grainne thought it cowered.
Raynor made a warning movement, but the creature was before him, and in the uncertain light they could see the gleam of moonlight on bare sinewy thighs, which quivered with strength and intent to spring …
As Grainne stood, unable to move, bars of moonlight fell across the creature’s face, and the planes of its features, the angle of its bones, seemed to melt and dissolve into one another. The eyes narrowed even more and became inverted and reddish; the mouth thinned and slavered; there was the white gleam of teeth, pointed and dripping with saliva …
And then it sprang, the dreadful face a mask of blazing fury, the eyes fiery with hatred. The mouth was a mouth no longer, but a muzzle, a pointed snarling maw with snapping teeth that would certainly rend human flesh to shreds, with a lolling red tongue that would snake out and lick the blood and the marrow …
Grainne fell back as the creature lunged, and there was a furious yelp followed by a long-drawn-out howl as the iron chains held and jerked the creature back. But the nails that were nearly but not quite claws had reached Grainne, and a burning, lacerating pain sliced through her shoulder. She staggered and half fell and, as Raynor caught her, the wolf creature gave a howl of triumph and fell back on its haunches, making a scuttling, circling movement as a cat will make a nest for itself before sleeping. A cat. Or a dog or a fox.
Or a wolf …
Grainne, sick and dizzy from the pain in her shoulder, said, in a voice she did not recognise as her own, “Who is she?”
Raynor’s hand closed about hers. Then he said, very gently indeed, “Her name is Maeve. She is the only daughter of Dierdriu, and the rightful High Queen of Ireland.”
And as Grainne stared at him, horror and comprehension dawning in her eyes, he said in a voice of extreme tenderness, “And she is your mother, Grainne.
“But she has been caged inside the Grail Castle for the last twenty years.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Raynor’s room was a refuge and a haven. Grainne sat huddled before the fire, her torn shoulder bathed and dressed, her arms wrapped about her, shivering. Raynor had tipped a basket of logs on to the fire, and warmth and light were washing over the room. But — shall I ever be warm again? thought Grainne. Shall I ever be able to shut out the sight and the sound?
Raynor had fetched wine from a corner cupboard, and was heating it with a thin iron rod which had been resting in the fire’s embers. Grainne took the hot fragrant wine gratefully, and cupped her hands about the goblet for warmth. When she said, “Tell me. Tell me everything,” she saw his eyes soften and knew that he would surely tell her all there was to know.
“It is not my story,” said Raynor, speaking slowly now, “and although I know it, the Cruithin will know the whole.”
Yes, the Cruithin would certainly know. Loyal to the death, hiding the shameful secrets of Ireland’s Royal House.
“Your mother was born to Dierdriu,” said Raynor, “in the days when Ireland’s Golden Age was at its height. It was a marvellous time, I think. Tara was the finest, the most glittering Court in the western world. Your greatgrandfather, Cormac, had made it so, and Dierdriu, his daughter, continued the tradition. People travelled from remote lands just to be a part of it, for no one was ever turned from the door. Your great-grandfather was the most remarkable High King Ireland has ever known, Grainne; he liked to listen to the talk of people from other cultures, and he liked to learn about other lands.” He smiled at her. “In a way, he is still with us,” said Raynor, “for Ireland has never forgotten him, and never will.”
“True immortality,” said Grainne in a whisper.
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“Dierdriu was betrothed to a northern Chieftain,” said Raynor. “There was no mystery about it, but there was no particular distinction, either. It was as suitable a match as any could be for Ireland’s heiress.” He smiled briefly. “And they say that everyone knew that Dierdriu would never be faithful to one man. I think no one expected her to be. Also, the Beastline Enchantment was still so strong that it was not judged necessary for the Ritual to be invoked and the ceremonial mating with the Wolves to take place. Perhaps it was not thought important who Dierdriu married.”
Grainne said, “It is very carefully and very strictly planned, that Ritual.”
“The marriage took place, and a child was born,” said Raynor. “They called her Maeve, for a long-ago lady of the north. Shortly afterwards, the Chieftain was killed in a battle, and although there was a time of mourning, it was probably not very great. The marriage had been a business arrangement, nothing more.”
Grainne said, “Yes. I understand.”
“The little girl grew up at Tara,” said Raynor. “She was pretty and loved, and she was biddable and sweet-natured. If she had not quite the fire and the golden glow of her ancestors, nobody remarked it. They would certainly have noticed it, but there are other qualities useful to a sovereign. It was thought that with strong, carefully chosen ministers, she would do well enough when the time came.” He paused, and sipped his wine, staring into the fire’s depths.
“In time, the pretty, biddable girl began to be sought in marriage. She was fifteen, sixteen. She was a prize to be won. She might have had anyone she chose,” said Raynor, and a shadow seemed to fall across his face. “She might have married any of the Chieftains or the Lords who came to Tara, or the foreign Princes, for all knew that Ireland went with her.
“But she disliked them. She was not perhaps very courageous, which was unexpected in one of her ancestry. She was nervous of all men, and preferred to be with the women of the Court. Everyone said it would pass, and everyone still smiled tolerantly on the pretty, amenable child.
“It did not pass. She began to hide away when State banquets were in progress. She ran away from feasts and ceremonies. People began to worry. How could one so shy and so timid rule Ireland after Dierdriu was gone?
“And then one night,” said Raynor, his eyes unreadable now, “one night there was a great banquet for Samain, and that was the night that Medoc first came to Tara.
“No one knew him,” said Raynor, “no one recognised him, and for
that the gate-keepers and the sentries must take great blame. They should have penetrated his disguise and they should have alerted the Royal guards and the Fiana and every sorcerer in the Palace so that he could be driven out.
“But Medoc is clever, Grainne. He is called, and with reason, the dark, cruel, beautiful one. He knows exactly how to present himself in the light best calculated to deceive. And it is true that no one ever expected him to walk openly and directly up to Tara and request admittance at the Western Gate.
“But that is what he did, and since he was garbed as a traveller, in a plain dark cloak with a pack on his back, no one thought very much about it. Cormac’s hospitality was famous, and no one was ever turned away.
“Medoc was not turned away,” said Raynor, sipping the wine, his expression absorbed. “He was asked in with his companion.”
Grainne looked up. “His companion? But in all of the legends, Medoc travels alone.”
Raynor said, “He had with him a young boy, little more than a child, it seemed. A child with huge dark hungry eyes, and ragged black hair. And a sack on his back.”
Silence. And then Grainne said, “The Lad of the Skins.”
“Yes. The Lad is one of Medoc’s most devoted servants.”
“Two of Ireland’s greatest enemies …”
“Yes. They were invited in, and given a place at the Samain feastings, and they took part in the revelries and the banquets. It is said that they were friendly and ready to be pleased by everything. Medoc talked interestingly and learnedly, and finally, little by little, the entire Sun Chamber fell silent and sat listening to him. He held them in thrall.” Raynor paused. “He has many gifts, Medoc, and he has at his beck a wardrobe of enchantments. For this time, he was a charming, rather scholarly traveller. Not young. A pilgrim. The Lad was his attendant — perhaps his son. He fooled them all. And no one was expecting him.”
No one had been expecting him …
“The Samain revelries were reaching their height,” said Raynor, his voice faraway now. “The feasting would go on for seven days. All the banqueting tables had been placed carefully, with full consideration to the dangers that abound on Samain. But,” he said, looking at her, “you would know far more of that.”
“Samain is the one night of the year when the Bright Palace is vulnerable. It is the night when demons walk and when every evil in the world is abroad. Also,” said Grainne, “there is a belief that at Samain the sidh sometimes return. They vanished from Ireland during my great-grandfather’s time, but on the night of Samain, the gateways between their world and ours open of their own accord, and they come back. They are the most purely magical beings ever known, the sidh, and they covet the bodies of humans. Their king is Aillen mac Midha, and in the past he would sit at the foot of the Palace ramparts, slender, and blue-green, and with the chill faery blood of all the sidh in his veins. If his creatures capture a human, they will steal one of the human’s senses — his sight, hearing, sense of smell, sense of touch, taste. There are terrible stories of how men have had their eyes torn from their sockets, or their tongue ripped from the roots by the sidh. And although they have not been seen in Ireland for many years, sometimes they are heard. But despite their greed,” said Grainne seriously, “they have always been loyal to the Wolfline. It is said that when a High King or Queen is born, if the child is Ireland’s true heir, they will sing him into the world and they will weave a spell of protectiveness.”
She stared into the depths of the fire, and Raynor said, “Tell me of Samain. Make me see it,” and Grainne turned back.
“They light the Druidical Fires. That is a ceremony in itself. There is a procession to the Plain of the Fál, to the great bonfire, and there is a chant in the Ancient Lost Language. No one understands that now, but we still use it. And there are banquets and rituals and revelries.” She put out a hand to him. “And one day you will see it all, and one day you will share it with me,” said Grainne.
“Perhaps.”
“Oh, yes. But tell me of Samain when Medoc came to Tara.”
“The feastings had drawn to a close,” said Raynor. “And the Court was about to assemble for the procession to the Plain. It was then that Medoc acted. They say he walked to the centre of the Sun Chamber, and that as he did so, the disguise fell from him, and everyone saw him for what he really was. The dark, evil, beautiful one. The most powerful Lord of the Dark Ireland. He stood at the centre of the Sun Chamber, and a terrible hush fell.
“Dierdriu was on her feet, summoning the Fiana and the Palace guard, but although they came running, it was already too late. Medoc had begun to spin the Draoicht Suany, the ancient and powerful Enchantment of Slumber. It spun and shivered on the air, and the threads and the filaments began to descend on the Court, covering them with the strong powerful magic. They were helpless, and Medoc had them at his mercy.
“He stood watching them,” said Raynor, “and it was as if he was searching for something. At last his gaze came to rest on Maeve, and his eyes widened, and a smile curved his lips. The Princess was powerless; when he beckoned to her, she went to him like a lamb.” Raynor’s hand came out to Grainne. “She would not have been able to resist him,” he said. “For he is dark and beautiful and possessed of all the attractions when he wishes …
“He swirled his black necromancer’s cloak about her, and he carried her from the Sun Chamber and out through the great doors, and out into the night and none could stop him. He carried her out of the Manor of Tara, and across the Plain of the Fál, and through the Forest of Darkness. There is a folklore that is closely guarded amongst the villages on the edge of the Forest,” said Raynor. “A handed-down tale of how a vast yawning chasm opened once in the sky over the Forest of Darkness; of how the people in that part of Ireland saw a glimpse of the true world of the Dark Ireland: the fiery furnaces where the manacles and the chains of evil are forged; the towering Black Looms of the necromancers; dark evil citadels and huge screeching night-crows and ravens; the silhouettes of wraiths and banshees and hags. For a few terrible moments they saw it all, and cowered, covering their eyes. And then there was a screech of triumph as the doors closed and the dreadful mirror-world claimed their Dark Lord and his victim.
“The Court was left trapped in the Draoicht Suan,” said Raynor, staring into the depths of the fire, his eyes lit not from without but from within. “Dierdriu and the courtiers slept all of the time the Princess was held captive inside the Dark Ireland. No one could dissolve the Draoicht Suan. Medoc had spun it truly and well, and they remained as Medoc and the Lad had left them, seated at the banqueting hall, apparently dead.
“Tara’s doors were closed,” said Raynor, “and somehow the secret was kept. The sorcerers worked long and hard to break the Enchantment but they could not, and the Sun Chamber became a grim and sinister place, where the High Queen and the Court slept a timeless sleep. Great brier hedges grew up around the Palace, and for many months Ireland had no ruler.”
“Who ruled?” asked Grainne.
“Those who had not been in the banqueting hall banded together and created an Emergency Council.”
“Did the people not know?”
“Tara has always been remote,” said Raynor without expression, and at once Grainne thought, And that is not a good thing! Those who govern should be close to those they rule.
“After many months had passed,” said Raynor, “they say that the chasm was wrenched open from within, and the gaping hole appeared in the sky over the Forest of Darkness. The villagers close to it believed that the Dark Ireland was about to ride into the world, but only Medoc rode out, astride a coal-black horse, with Maeve thrown across the saddle before him. He rode leisurely through the Forest, and across the Plain of the Fál, and finally along the avenue of trees that leads to Tara. He carried her into the Sun Chamber, and stood eyeing the sleeping Court with amusement. They say,” said Raynor thoughtfully, “that Medoc, of all the necromancers, has a sense of humour. And he found amusement in the slumbering
Court. As he watched them, he released the spell, and they began to rouse, and when at last he turned to Dierdriu, she was awake and listening to him.
“‘Madam,’ said Medoc, ‘you see that I have returned what I took. She is yours for as long as you care to keep her. But Tara is mine, and will soon be mine completely. One day, quite soon I shall ride back into your Palace, and I shall reign in your place.’
“He vanished then,” said Raynor, “and with his going, the last vestiges of the Draoicht Suan vanished. And although there are even today people who know what happened, you will find no one who will speak of it. There are many secrets your House has kept, Grainne.”
Many secrets … Myself and Fergus, thought Grainne. Yes, for sure that was one of the closest secrets of all.
“What happened to — my mother?” she said at last.
Raynor stared into the fire for a long while. At last, he said, “That is something no one can be entirely sure of. But she had lived inside the Dark Realm for many months, she had been forced to see the terrible creatures that hold sway there, and she had been at Medoc’s mercy for all of that time. And the creatures of the Dark Ireland, Grainne, are soulless and cruel and evil beyond your comprehension. Their powers are subtle and strong, and they have the knowledge to wake in the minds of their victims that which would be better left unwoken.” He turned from the fire to regard her, and Grainne saw the leaping flames reflected in his eyes, hundreds of pinpoints of light. “Your mother was of the Wolfline,” said Raynor. “She was a direct descendant of the High Kings and Queens who had submitted to the sorcery of the Beastline, and lain with the wolves, and given birth to the Royal House.