by Sarah Rayne
At length, Fenella said, in very nearly a whisper, ‘Thank you, Trees,’ and there was a ripple of awareness from the Trees and a soft rustling of the trailing leaf-hair.
‘Is there nothing we can do to — to save you?’ said Fenella, and saw the wise ancient eyes regarding her.
‘Nothing, Human Creatures,’ said the Larch at last, in a warm, timbery sort of voice. ‘We shall die in the Robemaker’s fires.’
‘Can’t you simply — escape from your — your Tree homes?’ asked Fenella, unsure whether she understood the principle of all this, but hoping she had conveyed her meaning.
‘We are bound to our heartwood Trees in death,’ said the Larch. ‘We are the Robemaker’s victims.’ Its head bowed over.
‘But you must enter the Robemaker’s Storeroom of Spells, and free the Prince,’ said one of the others — Fenella thought it was a cypress. ‘He will lead your armies against the Dark Lords.’
‘If you can do that, then perhaps others will not be sacrificed and tortured and become soul-less,’ said a third.
‘Yes,’ said Fenella, who had not really been thinking in terms of armies and battles quite so definitely as this. But she said, very firmly, ‘Yes, we will do it.’
She eyed Caspar: ‘All right?’
‘Yes,’ said Caspar, who was not really all right, but who was not going to admit to it. ‘A bit muddied and splattered,’ he said.
‘Yes. But we’ll attend to that later,’ said Fenella, who was also muddied and streaked with the oozing matter.
She looked round. The Melanisms seemed to have retreated into their dark comers again, but Fenella had the feeling that they were simply mustering their strength again; they had been baulked of their prey and they had retired. But they would slither out again, and they would probably do so quite quickly. They had not very much time.
‘We’d better be quick,’ said Fenella to Caspar, taking his arm. ‘Hurry up — did we manage to get the silver door open?’
As they moved cautiously towards it, Fenella saw that it had opened for them just the smallest sliver and that beyond it were shards of light.
They pushed the silver door open warily and Fenella stepped forward. The door swung to behind them, shutting out some of the noise of the treadmills, but it did not quite close. ‘And we’d better make sure that it doesn’t,’ said Caspar, moving back to prop the door open with a stone. ‘We don’t want to find ourselves locked in here, that would be extremely nasty. You’d be forever wondering what might come at you from the shadows. I suppose the Melanisms have gone, have they? They aren’t slithering around in here?’
‘I don’t think so. But we’d better hurry up.’
They both glanced behind them and then moved into the coloured shadows of the necromancer’s storeroom.
Chapter Twenty-eight
They were in a rather long, quite narrow chamber, lined with shelves and with long racks with poles. And suspended from each pole …
‘Oh!’ said Fenella and stood still and clasped her hands together, and for a moment forgot entirely about being in danger in the house of an ancient and evil sorcerer.
Because from each pole there hung a robe, and each robe was of a different hue, and every robe was of a different consistency.
‘The Robes of Enchantment,’ said Caspar in an awed voice. ‘The necromancer’s wardrobe of spells.’
The Robes shimmered and gleamed and reflected the dim light. Each one glowed with its own prismatic brilliance and each one was soaked in pure, living colour, in rainbow light, in fluid iridescence. Fenella’s first thought was that the Robes were the most beautiful things she had ever seen. Her second was that although they might be beautiful, they were not all good. There was a darkness, a sinister menace clinging to some of them, as if simply to touch them might call up dreadful visions and evil forces.
Caspar was explaining in a hushed voice that they were looking at the Robemaker’s stocks of enchantments. ‘The Robes of Spells,’ he said. ‘People consult him. And they say he will fashion any spell so long as someone will pay him enough.’
‘Pay?’
‘Living bodies. Living souls,’ said Caspar rather hurriedly, as if he thought it might be dangerous to say things like this aloud. ‘Bodies for fuel, souls for offering to the Soul Eaters. They say he has traded with the Soul Eaters for centuries, although I don’t know why. Nasty!
Let’s not think about it. Fenella, we should try to find something — ’
‘Yes.’ But Fenella still stood, drinking in the wild, glorious kaleidoscope of colours, seeing the marvellous chequerwork of form and shape. Surely, oh surely, there would be something here that would rescue Nuadu and the other poor creatures … ‘Only,’ she said aloud, ‘only, we do not really know what we are looking for.’
Caspar was moving forward, frowning, inspecting the robes as he passed them, occasionally reaching out a hand to touch a fold of colour. Fenella saw, with a thrill of horror, that as his hand went through the colours, the robes shivered as if they were not made of plain cloth, but of some living, breathing substance.
Music and colour and the secrets of Men; the innermost desires of the heart and sunlight and twilight and hopes and dreams … All here, thought Fenella, walking cautiously in Caspar’s wake. Yes, all here. I can feel them all, thought Fenella. Music and colours and dreams and hopes … Oh yes. And she thought: but evil longings and greedy desires and black sour emotions, as well. She put out a wary hand and felt her fingers sink into the softness of a robe made of albescent whiteness, pouring ivory and soft, glinting pearl. Something good. Something pure and hopeful and silken. Perhaps a love potion? But the one next to it was veined with crimson and dull purple and, as Fenella touched it, she was instantly aware of a stinging pain, a boiling of hot sourness. She took her hand away at once.
Caspar was studying falls and swathes of crimson and gold. ‘Something nasty these, I should think,’ he said. ‘Can you feel it?’ And Fenella, coming to stand beside him, did feel it. She touched it warily and again there was the hot, dark heat, the feeling of suffocation closing about her, the surging upwards of bitter scalding liquid, as if she had drunk something that was too hot which was laced with a bitter and evil drug.
The heavy darkness seemed to hover above the deep magentas and purples and damson-hued gowns and, as they moved on again, to where the paler, gentler robes were hanging, the feeling passed.
‘We can differentiate the evil from the good,’ said Fenella, frowning. ‘But we don’t know what any of them mean!’ she said. ‘Oh Caspar, this is going to be impossible.’
‘Well, we’ll think,’ said Caspar. ‘See now, if the crimsons and the purples are evil — ’
‘Yes, very evil,’ put in Fenella.
‘Then the paler ones must be good.’
‘Does it follow?’ said Fenella. ‘And also, can we be sure that the Robemaker would ever weave a good enchantment at all?’
She regarded Caspar and Caspar, to whom this had not occurred, looked more worried than ever. But he said, thoughtfully, that he believed the Robemaker would weave anything so long as he was paid sufficiently highly.
‘All right. And,’ said Fenella, studying the robes and frowning, ‘would it matter if we used a — an evil spell to rescue Nuadu and the others? Would it hurt anyone?’ But Caspar, who had only the sketchiest knowledge of these matters, did not know.
‘Well, could we try one or two?’ said Fenella. ‘Could we simply take an armful out to the treadmills and put them on and see what happened? Would the Melanisms leave us alone for long enough, I wonder, or would the Robes themselves keep the Melanisms at bay? This is much more difficult than I thought it would be. But we can’t get so close to freeing Nuadu and fail now.’ She reached out for a pale, beautiful robe that seemed to be a continual pour of colour, like a mountain river with the sun shining on it and, as she did so, there was a whisper of sound behind them. Fenella whipped round and saw a long and terrible shadow fall across the floor.
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br /> The Robemaker was in the room with them.
Fenella had been standing towards the back of the Robe-room, half hidden by the racks of shimmering robes, but Caspar had been in the centre of the room, midway between two of the racks. As the Robemaker’s shadow fell blackly across the floor, Fenella ducked behind the nearest rack, but Caspar, caught without hope of concealment, simply turned and made the briefest of bows.
‘Good morning to you, Sir Enchanter,’ he said, and Fenella, crouched behind folds upon folds of living colour, half suffocated, heard at once, that he had put on a slightly simple voice. Hope sprang up in her, because if Caspar could make the Robemaker believe that he was merely foolish and not an intruder, they might have a chance. It was rather a good device and one which Fenella admitted to herself she would not thought that Caspar was capable of thinking up so quickly.
‘Good day,’ said the Robemaker and Fenella suppressed a shudder, because it was the hissing, whispering voice she remembered from the forest road earlier.
‘I have sought you for many a long day,’ said Caspar, cheerfully, pursuing the rather frail ploy he had thought up earlier in case of precisely this eventuality. ‘Yes, I have sought you,’ he said, nodding, half to himself, ‘for they tell me you are quite the best there is.’ He regarded the Robemaker and Fenella, peeping out cautiously, saw him smile a bit vacantly at the hooded figure. ‘And,’ went on Caspar, ‘I do need the best. That is very important.’
‘Who are you?’ The Robemaker had not closed the door, but he had pushed it to a little. The red light from the treadmill chamber spilled across the floor. ‘And how did you get in?’
‘Well,’ said Caspar, and then glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure no one was listening, ‘well, the truth of it is, that I work for the Gruagach. As a procurer,’ he said, and tucked his chins into his neck solemnly and put on an expression that said: and that is a reasonable thing for a man to do, of course.
‘I am not in the way of trafficking with Humans, but I know of the Gruagach,’ said the Robemaker, standing very still. ‘You do not answer my other question, Human.’
‘Oh, about getting in,’ said Caspar, and chuckled to himself. ‘Well, to tell you the truth, Sir Enchanter, I met one of your nasty, wriggling creatures on the way in.’
‘Yes?’ said the Robemaker, and Fenella held her breath, because this, surely, was a trap.
‘It inspected me,’ said Caspar, sounding as if he had found this amusing. ‘It took a look at me and then melted away into the shadows. I daresay,’ he added, in a confidential tone, ‘that it could see I was no enemy.’
‘Go on,’ said the Robemaker, and Fenella dared to hope again.
‘The Gruagach sent me here,’ began Caspar, and stopped, and then went on with more assurance, ‘they sent me along to see if you can provide a — well, I don’t know what you’d call it really. A spell of some kind for the King. Is that possible? Dear me, do you know, Sir, I had no idea this would be so difficult.’ He frowned and chewed his lower lip quite naturally and Fenella, hardly daring to breathe, saw that the Robemaker appeared to be listening.
‘The King,’ said Caspar, having apparently thought matters over, ‘is wishful to marry Flame. I daresay you’ll know of her, will you?’
‘Daughter of the sorceress Reflection and the creature Fael-Inis,’ said the Robemaker, and a sneer had crept into his voice. ‘I know of the Gruagach King’s plans and I know of the charlatan Fael-Inis.’
‘Is he a charlatan?’ asked Caspar, apparently interested in this. ‘Well, of course you’d know about that, far more than I would.’
‘He is an illusionist, no more. As for Reflection — ’ The cloaked figure made a quick movement. ‘A dilettante. A dabbler in magic. A greedy, grasping, lascivious creature.’
‘Still,’ said Caspar, ‘Inchbad is quite wishful to secure her daughter’s hand in marriage. The blending of two territories, so they tell me. I don’t understand, really. Well, I don’t need to understand.’ He eyed the Robemaker with wide, ingenuous eyes, and beamed. ‘But the thing is, Reflection is being rather — well, very greedy about the Marriage Settlement,’ went on Caspar, feeling that he was doing really rather well with this random blending of truth and fiction. ‘And she has locked Flame up until an agreement is reached.’
‘Daughters need to be whipped into line anyway,’ said the Robemaker rather dismissively. ‘And Reflection was ever over-reaching.’
‘Yes, but you see,’ said Caspar, feeling his way cautiously now, ‘you see, Inchbad would like to talk to Flame himself. And he — that is, he and Goibniu, thought that if we asked you — well, consulted you — you might provide a spell to get her free,’ said Caspar. And stood very still and waited — and prayed to every god he had ever heard of that the Robemaker would not utilise the dread Stroicim Inchinn and read into his mind. He thought the tale was reasonably plausible. Well, it was the best he had been able to come up with and, if it was not sufficient, he could not think what else he could do. Had the mention of the Melanisms lulled the Robemaker’s suspicions? Surely a person who had not been caught and killed by the Melanisms could be considered to have been inspected and found harmless.
The Robemaker was standing with his head bowed, sunk in thought. At length, he said, ‘And the fee? The price your masters will pay?’ Caspar managed not to breathe a huge sigh of relief, because this sounded very promising indeed.
He grinned rather slyly, and said, ‘We all know your fee, Sir. And the Gruagach will pay very well.’ He managed to achieve what was nearly a knowing wink. ‘The dungeons at Tara are always filled with Humans. That,’ said Caspar, managing to inject a note of pride into his voice, ‘that is my responsibility, you know.’
‘I do know,’ said the Robemaker. ‘I have heard of you, Master Procurer, and I know every one of your duties.’
‘Good,’ said Caspar, meaning it, and Fenella, still curled into her uncomfortable comer, crossed her fingers and tried not to disturb the shining folds of the Robes all about her.
‘It can be done,’ said the Robemaker. ‘But I should require — we will say six Humans.’ He did not say this as if he was asking Caspar as if six Humans might be possible or even negotiable. He simply said it. My fee. Take it or leave it.
Caspar at once said, ‘Certainly.’ And beamed again.
‘You will bring them here to me at the fall of the Purple Hour.’ Again, it was a flat statement.
‘I don’t-yes, I could do that,’ said Caspar, who could not do it at all, but could see that there was no other answer to be given.
‘And then, in return, you shall be given the Robe of Human Hands.’ Malevolent amusement gleamed from the shadowed eyes. ‘You will know of the spell, perhaps? The incantation that must be chanted with the wearing of the Robe? Open, locks, to the Human’s hand … ’ He stopped and Fenella repeated the words in her mind.
‘I see. Well, no, I don’t know it as it happens,’ said Caspar. ‘Could you — would you mind just — running over them for me. I don’t remember things too well,’ he added apologetically. ‘And so if you could — ’
For answer, the Robemaker lifted his arms out so that the great black cloak fanned out giving him the outline of a massive bat or a creature of prey.
Open, locks, to the Human’s hand …
Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys …
Fly open, bars, dissolve, untie, unchain, unfetter …
Slash and gash and carve and gnaw.
Pluck the splinters of irony and slice the thews of steel.
Scission and sunder, steal and plunder.
He lowered his arms and folded them, then stood regarding Caspar.
‘Thank you,’ said Caspar. ‘Yes, I think I can remember that.’
The Robemaker inclined his head and turned to open the silver door again, holding out one robed hand to indicate that Caspar should precede him. ‘The Purple Hour,’ said the Robemaker. ‘And six Humans.’
Caspar went out and the Robemaker follow
ed, closing the silver door.
Fenella emerged from her comer only after the footsteps had died away and she was as sure as she could be that there was no danger of the Robemaker returning.
And I am not really sure of it at all, she thought, standing up and looking about her. I daresay he doesn’t even need to walk. He can probably simply appear. Materialise where he likes.
She would not think about it. She would try to find the Robe of Human Hands, which sounded rather horrid, but which would surely release Nuadu and the others. She would concentrate on remembering the incantation: Open, locks, to the Human’s hand …
And I won’t think, said Fenella, even for an instant, that the Robe might not be here, that the Robemaker might need to return to weave it on the great Silver Looms. How long did it take to weave a spell? It has to be here already, thought Fenella, trying to quiet the frantic thudding of her heart. I’ll make a proper search, and I’ll listen very hard, so that I can hear if the Robemaker comes back.
She would start nearest to the door and work her way along the jostling, glistening, pouring swathes of colours. She would be quick and quiet and efficient and she would not miss a one.
The Robe of Human Hands …
It was not, after all, quite so difficult to allot a vague identity to the Robes. The dark red and damson robes were heavy and stifling and they could not possibly be what she was looking for.
There were clusters of robes that seemed to pulsate and breathe, and there were others that slithered sinuously and rather nastily when she approached. There were rainbow clumps of raw colour which sizzled and suddenly coiled into snakelike forms as she approached and lifted serpentine heads to hiss at her; there were pouring cascades of things that had appeared to be silk or velvet, but which were molten gold when she got nearer and made her remember Fael-Inis and the cascading River and the salamanders. Was there something here that would help them? But when she reached out a hesitant hand, the heat from the liquid was so intense that she could not get any nearer to it. Even if this was the Robe they wanted, they would not be able to touch it!