by Sarah Rayne
He had determined that no one should know; that he would become an illusionist, that he would wear false colours to the world, and that the world should never guess what had been done to him.
But he looked at Taliesin very steadily, and said, “It is nothing I did not deserve.” He smiled, and saw Taliesin’s concern, and felt his sympathy. “One day I shall tell you,” said Fergus. “But for now it is too new. Too raw. Perhaps one day quite soon I shall be glad it happened.”
Taliesin said lightly, “I am yours to command, Captain. When you speak, I shall listen.’’ And then, “Tell me, have we far to go to the Grail Castle?”
*
Annabel had spoken truthfully when she had said she was thankful to have left her world behind. She had been instantly and completely enchanted by this strange unknown land where blue and green mists shrouded the forests, and where bewitchments stirred in the air, and where there were magic castles and dark sorcerers and High Kings and Queens who were not entirely human. She had been rather intrigued by the stories of Grainne, and she had certainly been fascinated by the legend of the Lost Enchantment of the Beastline, and the curse placed on Tara at the beginning.
“Tara can never belong to the humans,” Fergus had said in one of their brief rest-stops on the road to the castle. “For that to happen, for a pure-bred human to occupy the Sun Chamber, would mean that Ireland would fall and Tara would crumble.”
And all Ireland will seethe with evil and the skies will darken and the rivers will run with blood … And if the line should ever divide, then the curse will fall upon Tara … if twins should ever be born into the Royal House …
To Annabel, child of the stark barren Future, Fergus’s stories were the stuff that dreams were made on, they were food and drink and sustenance. She drank everything in, and thought that despite the sinister dangers of this strange, enchanted land, she had never been so completely and utterly happy in her life.
She thought they might not get to the Grail Castle at all; she remembered all of the old forbidden fairy stories of her world that told of strange dark castles which disappeared when you got to them, and that housed secrets and spells and prisoners, and that were guarded by briar hedges and thickets which you had to hack your way through. I am living in a fairytale, thought Annabel, and smiled, because the thought was quite the most absurd she had ever had, but it was perfectly true all the same.
When Taliesin said, “Perhaps the Grail Castle does not exist, other than in the minds of people who imagined it,” Annabel looked at him gratefully and knew what he meant.
“It does exist,” said Fergus. And stopped and pointed directly ahead of them. “See?” he said. “It is waiting for us.”
Directly ahead of them was the towering, forbidding bulk of the Grail Castle, rearing against the night sky. And deep within the dark fastness of the halls, a single light was burning.
*
They concentrated on the light. “A good light,” said Fergus, and hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.
“A light to brighten the world,” agreed Taliesin with the utmost courtesy, and Fergus grinned and thought that this journey would have been dull indeed without Taliesin.
“I am friendship itself,” said Taliesin smoothly. “Do we have to cross that narrow bridge to get to the drawbridge?”
“I wouldn’t like to be up here on my own,” said Niall.
“It’s a bit dark,” said Michael’s voice rather quaveringly. “Is anyone at home?”
“I think it’s deserted,” said Fergus. “There isn’t a light after all.”
“Did we imagine the light?”
“Probably.”
Fergus was eyeing the castle with a mixture of misgiving and fascination. His ancestors had called this place Scáthach, the Castle of Shadow, and it had long been used as a place of exile. Fergus knew the castle’s history very well, and now, staring up at it, the dark clouds massing at its rear, he found himself remembering every sad dark story that had ever been told or sung or remembered about Scáthach: Niall of the Nine Hostages, lying chained and desperate with the nine faithful lords; Nuadu Airgetlam of the Silver Arm, forced by the sorcerers to submit to a terrible punishment. And Fergus’s own great-grandfather, the famous wild Cormac, imprisoned by an enchantment, abandoned by his own kind, but served by the loyal Cruithin out here until he was rescued by a human.
Still, thought Fergus, standing very still and surveying the grim bulk ahead of them, still, people have penetrated to the castle and lived, and people have been exiled here and returned. He thought that Grainne would surely have got this far, for the road had been easier and smoother than he had expected. But he thought she was no longer here; the Grail Castle seemed deserted. There were no lights now — Did we imagine that flare? wondered Fergus — and there were no sounds carrying across the dark; no cheerful clatter of crockery from the nearby sculleries, no jingling of harnesses from the stables.
There had only been that solitary light burning … or had it?
Slowly and cautiously, they began to walk across the narrow bridge.
“Don’t look down,” said Conn.
“Why not?”
“It’s a long way if you fall. It’s a moat,” said Conn, “only there’s no water left in it anymore.”
“We ought to be roped together like people climbing a mountain,” said Michael from the rear. “Then if one of you falls, you pull everybody else with you.”
“That’s not the idea.”
“I’ve seen it happen,” said Michael firmly. “You all go slithering and bumping together until you reach the bottom.”
“Well, we don’t want that to happen here,” said Niall. “So if you do fall, we shan’t come slithering and bumping after you and you’ll be left behind.”
“I’d climb back up,” said Michael.
The courtyard was deserted, and the walls of the castle towered above them.
Shut in on all sides, thought Fergus, shivering, and turning up the collar of his cloak.
The windows were in darkness; they were slitted windows, and they were suddenly a bit sly. You felt as if eyes might be watching you, as if somewhere behind the walls there might be watchers. Fergus thought he caught a flicker of movement behind one of the windows, as if someone had dodged back into the shadows.
They crossed the courtyard warily, peering into the stables and the outbuildings, pushing open doors.
“Nowhere is locked,” said Niall, and Fergus said softly, “Oh, no. No, Scáthach was never a prison of locks and keys.”
“What then?”
“It’s a place of exile,” said Fergus. “But the locks are not locks of iron and the bolts are not bolts of steel.” He looked at Taliesin and Annabel. “To be imprisoned here is to be placed under the restraint of a spell,” he said.
“How do people break such a spell?” asked Annabel, and, despite the danger, and despite the great dark castle, was rather pleased to find that she could bring this out as if it was the most natural thing in the world to enquire about the efficacy of spells.
“Spells can be broken,” said Fergus, “but it is difficult.” He looked up at the walls. “Cormac of the Wolves was rescued from his imprisonment by a pure-bred human,” said Fergus. “For the spell placed on him had allowed for that.” He looked at her and said very softly, “The spell that broke Cormac’s exile began something like this: ‘Open locks, to the human’s hand …’” He smiled, and just for a second Annabel shivered, because there had been something very faintly not quite human about him.
But she said, “Oh. Yes, I see,” and wondered whether she did.
The massive studded doors were half open and rays of the blue-tinted twilight lay across the floor. Dust motes danced in and out of the shadows, and they stood for a moment looking through the open door, each of them thinking, Is this right? Dare we enter? And — Should it be so easy? thought Fergus. Annabel, standing between the two men, felt as if it was a massive dark cloud, the immense loneliness a
nd the fears and the strange mixture of sadness and surprised happiness that permeated the castle. She thought that this was a place where people had endured great torment and great isolation, but that it was also a place where people had found a strange content. Surprised by joy, thought Annabel, who had read the forbidden works of the almost-forgotten nineteenth century, and the almost-lost poets of earlier centuries than that even. She stood in the dark, gloomy, old Castle of Shadow, and thought that Wordsworth and Byron and John Donne would certainly have known about dark shadow castles where single lights burned, and where mists swirled and moods and emotions eddied.
They were standing in the great sunken hall, and the boys were moving cautiously about, fascinated and wary, examining the deep stone hearth — “Big enough to roast an ox,” said Conn — and tracing the wolf emblems that were carved into the stone. Fergus stood very still at the exact centre of the hall and felt, without warning, a deep sense of belonging. He thought, So after all, this is my family’s oldest, most myth-laden stronghold. This is the enchanted Castle of the Wolves, the legendary Grail Castle, the Fortress of Shadow, Scáthach, the ancient moated keep that has lived in people’s memories. And he felt his blood stir, and felt, as well, a deep aching sadness, because the magical mystical heritage which had come down to him would end with him. I am a Prince of Tara, he thought, but I can never be acknowledged and I can never acknowledge it. Would the line end with him? He thought it would not, for Grainne would marry and have children. The knowledge hurt, but not as much as it would have done before Fergus’s ordeal in the Prison of Hostages. Even so, I should have liked a son, he thought, and the pain twisted again, and the dark memory of the Prison of Hostages rushed in. He stood very still and fought it down, and knew there would be many days and certainly many nights when he would have to fight this black and bitter despair. Yes, I would have liked a son, thought Fergus.
The boys had been opening doors, forgetting their fears in the castle’s calm, exploring the rooms and the passages that led off the central sunken hall, and Niall and Michael had discovered a huge, stone-flagged scullery.
“With food,” said Michael hopefully. “Quite a lot of food, actually,” and Fergus laughed, and was back in the present again, where there were dark castles to be explored, and enemies to be routed and enchantments to be beaten back, and supper to be cooked and eaten.
The scullery was bright and warm and somehow safe. Bunches of herbs hung from the beams and there were strings of onions and wild garlic, and there were rows of gleaming copper pans on the huge oak dresser. Annabel, peering into cupboards, thought there was surely a great reassurance in the mingled food scents: fresh parsley and chopped onions and newly baked bread and stored apples. The way to store apples properly was to make sure that no one apple ever touched another, otherwise you got bruised skins. But apples had been a great luxury in Annabel’s world. “Eggs!” said one of the boys, opening a cupboard. “A huge dish of them!”
“We’ll cook them,” said Annabel at once, and hoped she could remember how you made things like omelettes and how you scrambled eggs.
Conn and Niall laid a fire of twigs in the range in the corner, and Annabel cooked the eggs carefully, adding a dash of milk and butter, and heaping everyone’s plate with great fluffy spoonfuls of them.
“A feast,” said Taliesin.
Fergus had found bread, which they sliced and spread thickly with butter, and there was half a ham in one of the cupboards, and some dishes of potted meat. Michael brought out the apples. “And I polished them shiny,” he said. “You should always do that with apples.”
There were flagons of cool sharp cider. It was the grandest meal they had had: “Ever since I can remember,” said Conn.
They ate and drank hugely, and forgot about the brooding old castle and managed to forget about the single flaring light they had seen on their approach. Fergus knew that quite soon they would have to leave the security of the scullery and find out if that light had been real; Taliesin, his every sense alert, was thinking that even though no one had yet come out to challenge them, the castle would certainly not be empty. Empty places had a different feel, and the Grail Castle had not felt empty. Somewhere inside the grim old fortress were people, creatures … But I cannot tell how many or what their attitude to us might be, he thought. Annabel, drowsily content, was thinking that it must be almost midnight, and wondering whether the thought of a clock ticking its way to midnight would ever cease to make her shiver, when Taliesin suddenly said, “Listen,” and everyone looked up.
Taliesin looked upwards, his eyes narrowed. And then they all heard it.
Footsteps overhead.
That single flaring light had not been an imagined light. There was someone in the castle with them.
Someone in the castle. Someone inside the great, dark fastness, walking stealthily and carefully. In the dim, dark rooms, perhaps at the end of long echoing galleries, or in the turrets that would be approached by means of narrow winding stairs … somewhere out there, someone was waiting for them. Listening. Perhaps watching them.
Taliesin and Annabel shared a thought: But what kind of creature would not have come out to see who we are and what we want and what we are doing? What kind of creature would have listened to us raiding the sculleries and cooking a meal and drinking cider, and not challenged us?
What kind of creature had its lair at the centre of this dark enchanted castle?
Fergus was on his feet, looking at the boys, and the boys were standing up as well, their eyes bright, their faces expectant. Taliesin, detached as always, thought, They would follow him into hell and back, I believe.
Conn said, “Is it an enemy, Fergus?” and Fergus said, “I don’t know,” and grinned.
“Is it the first of the battles?” said Niall.
“It might be. Afraid?” asked Fergus, still grinning.
“Terrified,” said Niall, and grinned back. “Who’s going to lead the way?”
“I could lead the way,” said Michael from the other end of the table. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Fergus said softly, “At least let us explore a little,” and the boys grinned delightedly, and Michael beamed and was so pleased that he tipped his chair over backwards and had to be picked up off the floor and dusted down.
Fergus was standing in the sunken hall, seeing how the castle was not, even now, entirely in darkness. There was a soft reddish glow from somewhere, and there was still the dusky blue twilight spilling in through the slitted windows on each side of the huge studded door. Where the two lights merged, there was a soft purple hue. Behind him, the scullery was a square of bright warm light and life; there was something comforting about that.
But they must leave the light and they must go into the darkness of the castle to find the creature who lived there, and who had lit that single candle and who walked furtively about at midnight …
When Taliesin said softly, “Shall we explore the entire castle, Fergus?” Fergus said, without taking his eyes from the dark stair at the far end of the hall, “No. Oh, no, we shall never do that.”
“No?”
“It keeps its secrets,” said Fergus. “The legend tells that you might live here for fifty years and never know it all. There will always be an unexpected flight of stairs that you come upon that you have never seen before, or a doorway you have never noticed. There will always be a few places that the castle will never yield to you. And then, just as you have stopped trying to uncover the secrets, the castle will let you in to one of them. But you will never know it all.”
Annabel said, “Shall we then perhaps not be able to find the — the person we heard earlier?” And could not decide if this was a good thing or not.
“I don’t know,” said Fergus, grinning. “Let us see.”
*
A midnight prowl through the enchanted castle. I don’t really believe any of this, thought Annabel, who was in fact believing in it all more fully and more intensely than she had ever believed in anything
in her entire life.
We are creeping through an old, old castle, wreathed about in myth and legend, soaked with the history and the lore of Ireland’s great Heroes and Princes and Warriors. Every tale ever told about this ancient misty world has, at some part, a tale about this place. What had Fergus said as they sat over supper? Every exiled High King of Tara. Every rebel Prince and every outcast and every vagabond King. Ishmael and Hermit and Anchorite: lone wolves, every one … Yes! thought Annabel, feeling the memories come tumbling into her mind, seeing the images clearly and plainly, not knowing, but half guessing, that this was a place where the echoes of the past and the future lingered.
But I don’t really believe it, thought Annabel, following Fergus and the boys up the dark silent stair. Of course, I don’t really believe it. I expect I shall wake up quite soon.
But she did not wake up and she did not really expect to. I don’t want to wake up, thought Annabel. To wake up now would be dreadful. I wonder what we are going to find?
Fergus was leading the way, and Taliesin, falling a little behind, thought it was as if Fergus knew exactly where they were going — some kind of extra sense at work again? And then, as they rounded a corner, and the moonlight slid across the floor, Taliesin saw Fergus tilt his head and listen, and he noticed for the first time the slant of Fergus’s cheekbones, and the way his hair grew flat on his skull, and the narrow flaring eyes.
Taliesin stood very still and stared and thought, After all, Fergus is a Prince of the Royal House. Small wonder that Fergus possessed that complex mixture of authority and courtesy; that he could be imperious and impatient, but he could also be warm and loyal and mischievous. No wonder he knows the way, thought Taliesin, watching Fergus lead them through the empty, shadowed galleries and down twisting stone steps and along moonwashed corridors. He has never been here before — I know he has not — but it is his family’s heritage, this place, and the knowledge is bred in him. I wonder where he is taking us.
Fergus was not conscious of following a definite path, but he found himself moving surely and swiftly through the castle; unhesitatingly choosing left or right as the choice arose, opening doors and descending stairs. The castle was silent now; there were no footsteps, but each of them knew that the owner of the footsteps was still here.