by Sarah Rayne
But it is a river of pure fire, thought Fenella in delight. A River of Fire and Light …
It was a surging, pouring mass of licking, rearing flames, of hissing, molten gold that glinted and rippled and sent out a sweet, warm scent. Floy, who was nearest to the edge, stared down into the fiery depths and knew a brief, rather terrible, compulsion to plunge into the great fast-flowing fire. What it would be like to bathe in the flames, to feel them caress your skin and engulf your body … ? Would it be marvellous or would it be unbearable? Would you die instantly or become immortal?
Fenella, who was as much fascinated by the thin light cascading over the cavern walls as by the great river, was thinking that standing here was rather like being inside a fiery waterfall, and then that it was like standing beneath a gentle torrent of warm, soft rain, only that neither of these seemed quite right. Perhaps it was more like standing near a thin curtain that was made not from silk or cotton, or even beads, but of pure rippling flames that would not burn you but that might, perhaps, do other things to you …
And then a voice, quite close by, said, ‘The Eternal Fire will not burn you, but you should certainly not go into it without the proper preparation.’
They turned at once, sharply and swiftly, and saw, quite clearly, the figure of a slender, fire-washed young man seated on a rock, his eyes upon them.
It was another of those heart-stopping, breath-squeezing moments. For a moment no one spoke and then Fenella found herself moving forward.
‘The Fire will not burn you,’ said the young man again, and there was a sudden glint of gentle irony. ‘But to bathe there unwisely may cause you to lose your souls and render them ineligible for entry to whatever Heaven you may believe in.’ He regarded them thoughtfully with glowing narrow eyes, set slantwise in delicately boned features. He was slender and silky and the light fell all about him, so that he seemed to be not altogether flesh and blood, but somehow composed of the fire and the light and the fast-moving river.
And his hair is not hair, but molten gold, thought Fenella, fascinated and entranced, and just a bit frightened as well.
Floy said, cautiously, ‘Will you tell us where we are?’ and the figure appeared to consider this carefully.
‘In general, you are in the Fire Country that is my domain,’ he said. ‘I may allow you to penetrate to the inner halls of my country and, then again, I may not. It remains to be seen. Below us is the Fire River, which flows nine times round my country, and which is thought by many to bestow the gift of immortality on those who are brave enough to venture into it.’
‘Does it?’ said Floy.
‘I have no idea,’ said the young man, unfolding himself from the rocky ledge. ‘Since I am not mortal, it does not have any effect on me.’ He regarded them thoughtfully. ‘Tell me,’ he said, apparently studying them with interest, ‘tell me, Humans, did you lose your way?’
There was a rather disconcerted silence, because nobody quite knew how to answer this.
Floy said, ‘We thought to escape — ’ and stopped. But again, the young man divined their thoughts. ‘From the Angry Sun?’ he said, and smiled, and Fenella caught her breath, because it was a smile of such brilliance and such pure and undiluted mischief that it seemed to reach out and embrace them.
Floy said, ‘It wasn’t a Sun at all — ’ And stopped, and again the young man seemed to understand.
‘The Dark Lodestar,’ he said, softly. ‘But it is a Sun, Mortals. For all its boiling darkness, and for all its black allure, it was once a Sun, and will be so again. And there are many worlds who see its other side, who glimpse its glowing inner selfblazing in their skies. In that incarnation it is often regarded as a portent for good. But for you it showed its dark other self and perhaps it sucked your world into its core.’ He looked at them, his head on one side, and appeared to wait for them to speak.
Fenella said, ‘Have we escaped it?’
‘It is possible,’ said the young man, thoughtfully. ‘Yes, it is quite possible. I have sometimes met other travellers who have fled from the Angry Sun and tumbled into the Time Corridor and lost their way. For within the vortex of the Black Lodestar, Time ceases to exist and worlds may converge. But I do not make a habit of rescuing people who have become lost, you understand.’ He said this as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and Floy, staring, said, ‘Well, of course not.’
‘However, occasionally it is necessary.’ He inspected them. ‘To blunder about in the Time Corridor is dangerous and unwise. But perhaps your Chariot lost its way?’ He did not say any of this as if he was being reproachful, or even as if he was questioning their right to be in his domain, or even as if he thought them inefficient to be lost at all. He simply said it as one interested in a perfectly possible occurrence.
‘We didn’t actually intend to travel anywhere at all,’ said Floy.
‘We were sheltering,’ said Fenella, and the young man regarded her with amusement.
‘I see,’ he said, and moved towards them, walking rather fastidiously like a cat. They saw that his skin was the colour of pale amber and his eyes were like topazes. He was rather slight and certainly slender, but the four travellers would not have dreamed, even for a second, of believing him weak or fragile.
‘I am neither,’ he said, at once, sounding amused. ‘If you spring an attack on me, I shall fell you in an instant. If you try to cheat me, I shall know and treat you suitably. And if,’ he said, his eyes suddenly glowing and dangerous, ‘if you lie to me, you will regret it through many lives.’
Snizort, who had been at the back, said, ‘I think we ought to introduce ourselves, don’t you? It’s only polite. And we are trespassing, after all. It’s his country. He said so.’
‘We’re from Renascia,’ began Snodgrass firmly, as if this explained everything, and the young man inclined his head gravely, as if, thought Fenella, he knew all about Renascia.
That, and many things besides, Human …
Floy put out a hand to draw Fenella forward. He introduced her and then Snodgrass and Snizort, with himself last.
The slender young man listened gravely and repeated their names politely. He nodded with complete courtesy. ‘You are well come,’ he said, and waited for more.
‘Well,’ said Floy, ‘we should perhaps explain why we are here — ’ And stopped, because they were not really sure why they were here, or how they had got here, or even where‘here’was.
But the young man was smiling, as if he understood them perfectly easily.
‘You are not the first Humans to become lost in this way,’ he said. ‘There have been others before you and there will certainly be others after you. There will be many of your race who will be brought to me, for the salamanders are ever watchful for those who fall into the Angry Sun’s depths. Perhaps you encountered them?’
‘Golden-eyed beings in the Fire?’ asked Fenella, hopefully, and the young man smiled at her again, as if he rather liked her.
But he only said, ‘The salamanders are, in sort, guardians of the Time Corridor. And they carry with them their own fire.’
‘You said we had come through a Time Corridor,’ said Floy, not quite sure of his ground.
‘Certainly you have, just as many of your ancestors, the Earth-people did.’ He smiled. ‘And since Time is now so old, the fabric has become a little frayed here and there. There are tears in Time, mortals, just as there are tears in silk or hide.’ He regarded him with his head on one side.
‘Yes. I see,’ said Floy, carefully, and the young man laughed.
‘It is the truth, Mortal. And many of your ancestors have known of it. Many of them have tried to penetrate the Time Corridor and journey through the Curtain. A few have succeeded, but most have not. Most were taken and devoured and their souls held captive in the River of the Dead. That is why the salamanders patrol the Corridor, to help the lost ones.
‘There are greedy beings abroad, Humans. Life is not all like your pleasant, untroubled existence on your small fr
iendly Renascia. There are creatures who prowl the worlds searching for prey. There are Lords of the Dark Realm who would seek out your soul and devour it.’
He studied them again, as if, thought Fenella, he was learning them. And because she wanted to hear him speak again, she said, ‘Would you tell us who you are, please?’
There was a pause, as if he was considering this. Then, ‘I am Fael-Inis,’ he said. ‘And in this world I am known as the rider of the salamanders, the being who can cross time, who can call up the Time Fire.’ He smiled and again it was the tip-tilted mischievous smile. ‘They will tell you — those ones who believe they understand such things — that I am the rebel of the seraphic hierarchy,’ said Fael-Inis.
Snizort drew in his breath and said, in what was not quite a whisper, ‘Fael-Inis, the Rebel Angel. Dear me, that’s a very old legend.’
‘I am not quite on the side of either heaven or hell, you know,’ said Fael-Inis, and the golden eyes were thoughtful. ‘That was never proven. So you should beware of me.’ And then, ‘But I think these are unfamiliar concepts to you?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Floy.
‘Early Earth myths,’ said Snizort knowledgeably.
‘Myths, are they?’ said Fael-Inis, moving so close that they could see the light that seemed constantly to irradiate from him. ‘Are you so sure?’ he said softly, and Fenella shivered because, just for a moment, the idea of heaven and hell, strange beyond-the-skies dwellings where you might go after you were dead, and where you might fare extremely well, or rather dreadfully, seemed strongly and sinisterly close.
‘But,’ said Fael-Inis, with one of his sudden switches of mood, ‘you are guests to this world and let us say I am your host.’ He held out his hands to them. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘I am not really safe to know, but I can be extremely well mannered if I choose. And for the moment, I do choose it.’ He grinned. ‘And to those who trust me, I can be a strong friend. For now, you will be tired and hungry after your journey and, although my manners are strange,’ he said, ‘my hospitality is not.’
Snodgrass, who enjoyed his food, remarked in an aside to Snizort that, whatever else you might say, you had to admit that they were not faring so badly thus far. ‘We’d be grateful for a bite of food, sir,’ he said.
Fael-Inis studied them again and smiled. ‘Then come with me to my Palace of Wildfire,’ he said, softly. ‘Where the Time Fires warm every chamber and where the River of Time flows nine times nine about the walls.’ He sent them the sudden, mischievous grin. ‘In any case,’ he said, ‘it is certain that when the salamanders rescued you, their light was seen in the skies. It is possible, even, that the dazzling underside of the Black Lodestar was seen, also. Already, there may be hunting parties out scavenging for you.’
‘Hunting?’ said Snodgrass, suspiciously.
‘Scavenging?’ said Floy, and Fael-Inis turned to regard them.
‘Certainly,’ he said, and now there was amusement in his voice. ‘Have you never heard of creatures who hunt Men for sport … ? You have travelled through the Time Curtain and you were rescued by the salamanders. To do so, they would have sent their brilliance and their fire blazing across the skies. Your arrival will already be known. It is certain you will meet the creatures who hunt Men.’ And then, turning away, ‘Come with me, Mortals,’ he said.
Chapter Seven
The Giants of Gruagach had been very interested indeed in the news that the brilliant fire of the Angry Sun had been seen again in the skies.
As Inchbad, who was the Gruagach King, said, the Angry Sun nearly always meant Humans, and Humans were something the Gruagach Giants were very interested in indeed.
The appearance of the Angry Sun was not something that happened very often. Inchbad thought it had not happened for at least a century, but Goibniu, who was Inchbad’s Chancellor, said, ‘Oh no, Your Majesty, it was far longer than that.’
It did not really matter how long it had been since the Sun, which some people in Ireland called the Feargach Grian, had been seen; the Giants would send out search parties instantly, so that any stray Humans could be captured and brought back and roasted in the Fidchell. They had not celebrated the Fidchell for many a long night, said Goibniu, pleased.
And who was to know but that the Feargach Grian might not be here to mark the arrival of the new Golden Age for Ireland, said Goibniu, in his usual unctuous fashion. The legends all told how it frequently heralded the birth of great and talented leaders, or the rising of brilliant rulers. And since they had left Gruagach and driven out the High King of Tara and taken up residence in the great Palace of Tara, Ireland had been ruled better and more strongly, said Goibniu. Certainly it had been ruled in accordance with the Gruagach’s ways.
He did not, naturally, refer to the fact that the Gruagach had actually been more or less driven out of their city by the terrible Frost Giants, because this would have been very tactless, and might have suggested to some of the younger giants that the Gruagach could not defend their own city. He merely reminded everyone of how the Gruagach (under Goibniu’s direction, of course) had stormed Ireland and driven out the High King and taken up residence in the legendary Bright Palace with no more ado than the squashing of a recalcitrant Human.
This was the sort of thing that Inchbad liked to hear, because when the idea of storming Tara and taking over the Ireland of the Humans had first been put to him by Goibniu and some of the others, he had been doubtful. He remembered that he had questioned whether they really wanted a Human stronghold and a Human land to rule; they all of them knew how sly and subtle and cunning Humans could be, he had said; had they all forgotten the dozens of stories, well hundreds really, of how their ancestors had been outwitted by Humans? Beanstalks and seven league boots, said Inchbad darkly, and had to be talked to for a very long time before he had agreed to it. But of course, something had had to be done, because Gruagach was in the hands of the terrible Frost Giants and their leader, the evil and dread Geimhreadh was already building herself a Court in Inchbad’s own state rooms and spinning her wicked, cold magic. It was extremely humiliating to be defeated by a giantess, never mind how old and how powerful she might be and how long she might have led the Frost Giants. Inchbad was not going to let people think he had been bested by a giantess, not if he had to turn Ireland upside-down and topple any number of High Kings.
They had put about really a rather good story. Gruagach in ruins, they had said, solemnly and sadly. The entire City crumbling into the most dreadful disrepair; Inchbad’s own castle actually with a leaking roof, and you could not get the drains cleaned out for an emperor’s ransom. It had worked very nicely. Inchbad had to admit that it had worked well, because here they were, safely inside Tara, which they were all finding very comfortable indeed, and the High King and his sons hardly more than a memory.
Inchbad began to think that, after all, it had all been worthwhile. And of course, in the end, it had been much easier than any of them had thought. That had been Goibniu’s doing — Inchbad would admit that freely. Goibniu had fallen into discussion with a very clever Human (well, part Human) called the Robemaker, who seemed to know all about the Frost Giants and the Geimhreadh, and who had been the greatest help imaginable. Inchbad suspected the Robemaker of actually being a sorcerer, if not a necromancer, and he had been a bit dubious, because they all knew where trafficking with necromancers led. But Goibniu had said no, the Robemaker was simply a nice old gentleman who had dabbled a little in the old pure magic of Ireland and been able to weave the good and gentle enchantment which had rendered the entire Gruagach party invisible and inaudible until they were inside Tara.
Inchbad had said, ‘Oh, I see,’ and thought that, after all, perhaps it had been all right. And, after all, here they all were, inside Tara, inside the Bright Palace of legend, the glittering Shining City where every High King of Ireland had dwelled, and the Angry Sun had already appeared in the skies which people would see as a sign, and the Gruagach were ruling Ireland, and so far no
Humans had even challenged them, never mind outwitted them. Probably no Humans would even dare approach the Western Gate.
It was over the Western Gate that the Feargach Grian had been seen. The doorkeeper had seen lights in the sky, over to the east just before supper, and come running to tell everyone about it. A sign, he said solemnly, his huge stupid face awed; surely a sign that something very momentous indeed was about to happen. Wouldn’t they all come along to see?
They went along that very minute, or at least quite soon afterwards, because you could not always just stop what you were doing, and several people had been in the stool room, because the kitchens had served onion broth for noon-day dinner, and it had been a bit strong. But they all went along to the topmost turret because, as Inchbad pointed out, you should not miss seeing things which might herald the arrival of a few Humans, never mind it being probably historic and very likely portentous as well. He was rather pleased to be able to use a word like portentous, which was not the sort of word he would normally have known about, only that Goibniu had explained it to him.
And off they all went with a lot of shouting and pounding along the halls (which made the crystal windows rattle something terrible) and cries of ‘Last one up the stairs is a cod’s head’, and ‘What about a game of Catch the Mutton Bone on the battlements’, and ‘While we’re about it, let’s de-bag the doorkeeper’.
The doorkeeper paid this no heed, because he was used to the ways of Inchbad’s Court. He unlocked all the doors and took them up to the northern turret, which made one or two of them glance over their shoulders, because of it having once been the favourite haunt of the previous High Kings. Inchbad had once seen (or thought he had seen) the ghost of the long-ago Cormac of the Wolves who, some people said, had been the greatest King Ireland had ever known. But since Inchbad was apt to be short-sighted and had, as well, drunk rather a lot of mulled wine at supper that night, nobody had ever given much credence to the story, except for Inchbad himself, who still repeated it at intervals.