by Sarah Rayne
Delight was exploding all over her body now and there was the feel of his hand on her breasts, skin against skin — how lovely! — and deep, strong intimacy, the sudden closeness, because the soaring feeling of joy was something they were both sharing, it was like being one half of a whole, it was like completing something that until now had been only a fragment. I am moving along that path now, I have not quite reached the point where it will be impossible to turn back, but I am approaching it …
But just another few steps, she thought. Just a very little farther down the path …
There was a moment when the wolfmask lay across his face again, making it sharper, leaner … Crueller? thought Fenella, tumbling between fear and steadily rising delight.
Never that, Lady, not to you …
Fenella whispered, not wanting to break the delight, ‘You are hearing my thoughts again.’
‘Yes.’ He bent his head and there was the caress of his dark hair against her naked breasts and surely there had never been anything so immensely intimate as this feeling of another’s hair, silky, warm, against your skin …
He moved away then and there was a quick sharp pang, a coldness. But he simply discarded his own clothes, quickly and easily and without the least trace of embarrassment and, for a fleeting instant, Fenella saw him stand over her, the woodland shadows twisting all about him again, so that there could no longer be any doubt about his ancestry.
Half Wolf, thought Fenella, helpless now in purest fascination. Half Wolf and half Human, and I am no longer sure which half is in the ascendant, or whether it is deliberate, or even whether I care anymore …
The Wolf was strongly in his eyes; they were slanting and brilliant. He is no longer Human, thought Fenella, but she could not have looked away from that shining stare if worlds had depended on her doing so.
His body was lean and hard and beautiful and as he lowered himself on to the thick pine needles of the forest floor, to lie alongside her, there again was the curious, abrupt grace that was not the least bit Human.
He parted her legs gently and easily and his arms were about her and she felt his weight, strong and warm and insistent.
There was a brief moment, the span of a heartbeat, when he stopped and looked at her, as if trying to hear her thoughts again, and then she felt the thrust of strong hard masculinity and there was the sensation of falling into a whirling, rainbow-coloured well, more exciting than anything she had ever imagined, stronger and wilder than anything she ever believed could exist … Nuadu was holding her tighter and his face was no longer wolfish but suddenly vulnerable and his eyes were filled with an unexpected longing, as if he might need her desperately and as if, beneath everything, he might be very easily hurt.
Fenella felt her own heart lurch and felt a great melting and a warmth, so that she wanted to wrap her arms tight about him and shut out the pain he had suffered and the bitterness and the deep, aching loneliness …
He was moving strongly against her, but there was a gentleness she had not expected and a helpless need … Something unfamiliar and painful closed about her, because she had expected the strength and the — yes, the passion! — but she had not expected the gentleness or the need.
And then there was the sensation that they were blending into one being now, sharing a single, thudding heart beating deep within one of them … She could hear him breathing faster and there was an urgency now, incredibly laced with fear, as if he was afraid she might suddenly reject him. Fierce protectiveness arose within her, because she could not bear to think how he had been shut out and cast off and how he had lived as an exile, a bastard prince of the royal house …
Nuadu made a sudden convulsive movement and cried out softly and Fenella felt the delight explode and then a gentle, sinking sensation as if they were falling into a huge deep soft bed of feathers …
Nuadu lay watching her, the narrow wolflook still pronounced, but Fenella saw at once that the slightly cynical, slightly bitter mask was back in place, and that there were to be no more glimpses of the loneliness and the vulnerability.
But we shared it, that brief moment of oneness, we shared it, and I saw beyond the mask to the real person, thought Fenella. Does that mean anything, I wonder? Ought I to refer to it? And sat back and waited to see what he would say and what he would do.
‘Well, Human Child,’ said the Wolfprince softly, and Fenella saw that he was smiling at her and that something very gentle had touched his eyes.
She thought: I have known the creature who exists behind the arrogant and cynical prince of the Royal House.
Nuadu was looking at her with his head tilted and there was a sweet and secret smile in his eyes, as if he might be saying: we are centuries and worlds apart, you and I, and perhaps our languages are far apart as well. But still we have met on a level that does not count centuries and we have shared a world where there is no need of language.
There is no need of language …
‘Of course there is not,’ said Nuadu, and Fenella thought: I think he is telling me that what has happened between us is private and special. I’ll have to be very careful about this, she thought, because I daresay that it is not an out-of-the-way thing to happen here. I’ll have to pretend, just a very little, that I’m not in the least awed or dazzled, or even a bit bewitched. I am all of those things, I suppose, but I hadn’t better let him know. Not yet.
The difficulty was that she had no idea what kind of behaviour was normal here, or whether people did this casually. It had seemed natural and right to be made love to in the twilit Wolfwood, but it did not mean that it was natural and right. It would not have been natural or right on Renascia, or at least, so far as Fenella knew, it would not have been.
The fire had burned considerably lower and Snodgrass was jotting down a few notes which Snizort would be glad to have when they got back to the Forest Court. Floy, who had been sitting with his back against a Tree trunk, holding the stem of a wine chalice loosely between his fingers, looked round as Fenella and Nuadu walked back into the firelight. Fenella thought he looked at her rather searchingly. But he only said, ‘We are ready to go on up to Tara now, if you agree?’
Nuadu at once said, ‘Certainly, for the Gruagach will have finished their supper and be at a loss for entertainment. I daresay we shall provide them with some form of interest,’ He regarded Floy tranquilly. ‘Also,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘I believe we — that is the three of us — are now sufficiently in accord for us to protect Fenella if we have to.’
‘Yes?’ said Floy, and Fenella caught the sharpness in his voice.
‘Yes,’ said Nuadu softly, and held Floy’s eyes steadily.
Floy said, slowly and deliberately, ‘I should not like to think that any of us would go unthinkingly into danger, or into anything where there might be hurt,’ and Nuadu smiled the sudden, glinting smile.
‘No one will be hurt,’ he said. ‘That has never been my intention.’ And then, as Floy continued to regard him, ‘You have my word on it, Floy,’ said Nuadu, and Fenella thought that Floy relaxed just a very little and was aware that something had been exchanged between them both; that some kind of question had been asked by Floy and answered, more or less satisfactorily, by Nuadu.
But as they walked warily on down the road, the provisions they had brought carefully packed and distributed between them, Floy hesitated and glanced at her.
‘All right, sibling?’
‘Yes,’ said Fenella. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘I hope so,’ said Floy, and Fenella understood that Floy had guessed what had happened between her and Nuadu and was concerned for her, was concerned about her, and had only been partly reassured by the odd, two-levelled conversation. She started to say something-some kind of reassurance — when Nuadu turned round sharply, and Snodgrass said, ‘What’s that?’
Nuadu said, ‘Footsteps again,’ and tensed, ready to spring.
Before any of them could move, the long, sinister shadow of the Robemaker fell across the fo
rest road, and the necromancer himself was before them.
There was a terrible moment when no one moved and no one spoke. Then Fenella felt Floy tense to spring, exactly as Nuadu had done moments earlier and, in the same instant, heard Nuadu begin to intone the words of the spell that would summon the sidh and knew that Nuadu’s action was the right one, because this dreadful being would never be vanquished by ordinary flesh and blood, daylight strengths.
The Robemaker, if he could be defeated, would not be defeated by physical attack.
But to Floy, still unused to spells and enchantments, physical attack was the only means to hand. The figure before them was repulsive and evil; he could feel the ancient malevolence that emanated from it. The stench of corruption was in his nostrils and in his mouth, strong and sickening, as if the door to a vast charnel house had been pushed ajar. Nausea twisted his stomach, but he tensed his muscles to spring, knowing at one level that this was a necromancer, one of the fearsome Dark Lords, but aware, on another level, that the creature must somehow be vanquished.
He leapt forward on to the hooded shape and, at the same moment, heard Nuadu pronounce the Draoicht Tarrthail.
The Robemaker flung out a hand and a spear of crimson light shot from his fingertips, sending Floy spinning across the ground. Fenella and Snodgrass, standing together helplessly, saw the gleam of white bone within the deep hood, and the malevolent red stare of inward slanting eyes without flesh or skin around them …
The Robemaker lifted his long arm again and the crimson light spat and curled like a whip about Nuadu. Fenella, unbelieving, saw the words of the Draoicht Tarrthail take shape on the air, silvery and delicate, and then melt and blur and run into nothing.
A still-born spell …
The crimson rope of light had snaked about Nuadu’s waist and the Robemaker made a quick, practised movement. At once the rope tightened and started to draw Nuadu nearer to the waiting figure, closer and closer. Nuadu was struggling and snarling and Fenella started to run forward, Snodgrass at her side. Floy, still a little way off, barely conscious from the first bolt of light, had risen to his knees; he was sick and dizzy and he was only vaguely aware of Nuadu’s captivity. There had been a moment when he had been sufficiently close to the Robemaker to catch a glimpse of a terrible, ravaged face, partly eaten away, of ulcerated bone, a gaping cavity where the nose should have been.
As his senses steadied, he saw that the words of the Draoicht Tarrthail were falling and fading and he realised that, in some way, the Robemaker was deflecting the enchantment. Nuadu was held captive, fighting the tangling rope-lights, but they held fast, bit into his skin. Floy saw Fenella tearing at the crimson ropes uselessly and he saw blood well on her hands.
Nuadu said, ‘There is nothing you can do, Lady — ’ And even at such a moment, Floy registered Nuadu’s use of the ancient, courteous title. He calls her ‘Lady’ thought Floy. And then: Later. I’ll think on that later.
He saw at once that Nuadu could do nothing, for the rope-lights were binding him strongly and cruelly and, although he had certainly never seen anything like the Robemaker before, he thought that if they could somehow disable him, they might be able to escape.
He looked about him for a weapon of some kind and snatched up a sharp stone, judging the distance between himself and the Robemaker. Nuadu was pronouncing the Draoicht Tarrthail again, and again the words formed on the night air quite clearly and then, just as clearly, died as the Robemaker dissolved them effortlessly.
And then the Robemaker chuckled and Floy felt a sick dread, because it was the most evil and the most sinister sound he had ever heard. It rang through the dark forest and Fenella thought, and then was sure, that the Trees that had been unfolding and reaching out ever since Miach’s spell, flinched, and drew in their leaves and that their branches dipped suddenly and fearfully.
For that is the terrible sound of the Robemaker, the One who dwells in the Dark Ireland, and who serves the Soul Eaters in the Cavern of Cruachan …
Nuadu was fighting the Robemaker every inch of the way, but slowly, inexorably, step by step, he was being drawn closer to the towering cloaked figure who was standing watching, arms folded, his face still in deep shadow. Floy, his earlier suspicions of Nuadu vanished completely now, drew back his hand to hurl the boulder. As he did so, the Robemaker turned his head towards him, as if to say: do not waste your energy, my poor Human victim, I am a creature of the Dark Ireland, and I dwell in the High Towers of that realm, and I can anticipate your every move with ease …
There was something so repulsive about having your thoughts overlooked by a creature such as this that Floy flinched and then was furious with himself. It did not matter that the Robemaker could hear his thoughts, it did not matter that he would be aware of their revulsion and fear. He flung the sharp-edged stone straight at the hooded face and saw the Robemaker throw up a long bony hand to shield himself. So he is not entirely invincible! thought Floy in triumph and leapt to his feet, ready to spring forward and knock the Robemaker to the ground.
And then the stone struck the gauntletted hand and there was a sickening pulpy sound, as if the hand beneath the black glove was not bone and flesh and muscle at all, but something rotten and soft, like overripe fruit, like diseased meat … The gloved fingers caught and closed about the stone and flung it contemptuously away. There was the evil glitter of eyes from deep within the hood again.
‘Puny Human,’ hissed the Robemaker. ‘Absurd, ineffectual creature to imagine you could so easily overcome me.’
Floy barely heard. He had gathered his strength again and, as the Robemaker hissed his contempt, leapt straight for the creature’s heart. At once, the crimson lights spat and whirled and Floy was momentarily blinded by the brilliance and the dark forest was lit to weird, unnatural life. There was a strong burning sensation; the feeling of white-hot wires penetrating his skin and, for a moment, he thought there was the pungent scent of skin and flesh scorching.
The crimson lights sizzled again and Floy was thrown back several feet. The sky and the Trees and the forest spun wildly all about him.
Fenella had still been trying to free Nuadu but, as Floy was felled, she ran forward at once, helping him to his feet, and the Robemaker laughed again, arms folded, his face still in deep shadow.
‘Ridiculous creatures,’ he said. ‘For although I may don the cloak of flesh and blood and bone when I walk here, in reality I am a Lord of the Dark Realm, and your blows and your stones cannot touch me. I shall not waste my powers on such weaklings.’ The crimson lights faded, and the Robemaker turned back to where Nuadu was still standing helplessly before him, unable to move. But his head was tilted in the characteristic arrogance and his eyes were brilliant with fury. He looked as if he could easily leap at the Robemaker’s throat and tear it out and fling it to the ground.
‘Yes,’ said the Robemaker, watching him, his horrid whispery voice clotted with amusement. ‘Yes, you would like to rip me open and throw my entrails to the jackals, princeling.’
‘I would,’ said Nuadu. ‘And one day I shall do so, filth. Be very sure that one day I shall do so.’
The Robemaker laughed again. ‘The threats of futility, Wolfprince,’ he said and paused, the hidden eyes inspecting Nuadu very thoroughly. ‘So,’ said the Robemaker, a lick of sinister pleasure in his voice, ‘so, I have caught a prize tonight.’ He paused again. ‘One of the greatest prizes I have caught so far,’ he said, and Fenella thought his voice sounded exactly as someone’s voice might sound if there were no muscle surrounding the lips, and no skin over the jaw and probably no lips either …
‘At least allow the Humans to go free,’ said Nuadu.
‘The Humans do not interest me,’ said the Robemaker, still studying Nuadu as if he found him of immense interest. ‘I have very little use for Humans.’ He said the word contemptuously. ‘And you have seen how easily I dealt with them.’ There was a movement inside the dark cloak and a second shaft of crimson light split the twilight and s
naked about Nuadu’s features, fashioning itself into a thin cruel crimson mask that completely concealed the lower part of his face.
‘A precaution,’ said the Robemaker. ‘For although I can continue to dissolve the puny enchantment that would bring the sidh to your aid, I find it tedious to do so. You will wear the Mask of Silence until I choose to remove it, Wolfprince.’
Floy, who was standing with his arm about Fenella now, said, angrily, ‘Where are you taking him?’ and the Robemaker turned to look at Floy with a faint air of surprise.
‘He will be chained in my Workshops, Human, where he will work the treadmills with the others and see to it that the Silver Looms of Enchantment weave without ceasing.’ He studied Floy for a moment. ‘And if you oppose me again, you will be chained with him.’
‘I should kill you first,’ said Floy, his fists curling. ‘I should like to kill you,’ and the Robemaker let out his hissing mirth again.
‘Impossible. You could not get near me. You could not reach me.’
‘Do not be so sure,’ said Floy, and Fenella looked at him, startled, because even though there could surely be nothing that Floy could do, still his words held remarkable confidence.
‘I am sure,’ said the Robemaker. He reached out a black-covered hand and touched Nuadu’s upper face.
Nuadu, unable to speak, hardly able to move for the thin, glittering bonds, jerked his head back from the terrible caress and, in the uncertain light, his eyes above the harsh dark red mask glittered with undiluted hatred.
Fenella was standing with Floy’s arm about her. Seeing Nuadu like this was the worst thing that had happened yet. Even so, she thought, her eyes meeting his, even so, he is not cowed or humbled, and he is not the least bit subservient and, instantly, the thought came back at her: