by Sarah Rayne
She hesitated over several, dark, rather unobtrusive garments in one comer, thinking that they looked harmless until two creeping, fog-like hands reached for her and an evil chuckle filled the room, so that she shot back to the room’s centre out of their reach.
There were robes where the pouring light suddenly solidified into rather grisly bones that rattled and gibbered and, on the same racks, were robes made of several different kinds of skin. Others were wet and clingy and had pulsing red veins and stringy muscle cords woven into them. It began to seem that the entire storehouse was made up of substances which looked harmless and beautiful on the surface, but which changed and blurred and coalesced as you approached them. Perhaps this was some kind of protection. Perhaps, thought Fenella, the Robemaker had drawn a veil of colour and light over his spells, rather as people covered their favourite gowns or pieces of furniture with dust sheets. And I am disturbing the veils, she thought.
Towards the far end of the chamber there were several robes half hidden by billowing folds of grey clouds, but which seemed to be composed of eyes as she drew nearer. Like a veil lifting … Yes, I was right about that at any rate, thought Fenella. They are veiled, and they are covered by something thin and light-filled and magical. And as I get nearer, the veil dissolves. This is very remarkable.
There was something rather nasty about the robe of woven-together eyes. Would it be for seeing into people’s minds? Perhaps this was part of the Stroicim Inchinn. Fenella stood very still and stared at the Robe, seeing that the lids were closed and that here and there the lashes were matted and sticky-looking.
The Stroicim Inchinn … The thought that this was something that would be more useful than anything else in Ireland formed itself treacherously and slimily in Fenella’s mind.
Because with that, we should be able to hear our enemies’ thoughts and we should be able to tell what everyone else was planning …
The knowledge of how easy it would be to just reach out and take the Robe of Eyes and wear it and be able to see into other people’s deepest thoughts flooded her mind, scaldingly. Fenella gasped and felt the sour bitterness of evil magic touching her and remembered that the Stroicim Inchinn was the most strongly forbidden enchantment of all, and that whatever else they were going to be doing here, they were not going to be dealing with forbidden spells.
But she looked at the robe again and several of the eyes opened and blinked and swivelled in their sockets, as if they had heard her thoughts and were rather amused by them. There was a rather sickening, glutinous sound as the eyes moved, the sort of sound you hear if someone with sore eyes rubs them too hard and they squelch. I’m having nothing to do with it, said Fenella firmly. It’s evil and forbidden and I’m not even thinking about it!
The Robe of Human Hands was probably somewhere here, by the Eyes and the Skins and by the cloak made up of what looked like nail and hair … It must be here, thought Fenella, nearly in despair. It must be here, please let it be here, and please let me find it. Open, locks, to the Human's Hand …
Would Caspar be outside somewhere? Yes, he would certainly not abandon her. There was not really time to think about Caspar and there was not really any energy to spare to think about him, either.
And then she saw it. By itself, half hidden against the far wall, nearly obscured by billowing folds of grey cloud that huffed sweet, damp breath into her face as she approached.
The Robe of Human Hands … the enchantment that would release the prisoners … Yes. It could not by any stretch of the imagination be anything else.
It was not, as Fenella had supposed, a cloak in the way she knew cloaks. It did not have shoulders or long enveloping folds or a hood. It was rather small and it had been hung, quite casually, on a nail protruding from the wall. It was rather like a large belt; you could probably fasten it about your waist and it would sit snugly over your hips. If you pulled an ordinary conventional cloak over it, nobody would even see it.
The hands were not, as Fenella had feared, frightening. They were rather sad; dead-looking, woven and folded and, in places, plaited together. They were rather submissive-looking hands, as if they might be waiting, quite patiently and happily, until someone might need to make use of them. It was quite difficult to believe that there could be any animation in them. It was very difficult, indeed, to believe that they could snap open the cages of the treadmills and free Nuadu and the others.
Open, locks, to the Human's hand … Would it work?
It must, thought Fenella, snatching the spell off the wall and holding it between her hands as she stood at the silver door, waiting for an indication that the Robemaker had gone.
In the end, it was much easier than she had thought to push the silver door open by a few inches and to stand listening, trying to see, trying to hear, trying to feel the lingering dark presence. Had he gone? Yes, thought Fenella, drawing in a huge breath of relief. Yes, he has gone. She was not sure how she could be so certain of this except, perhaps, that there had been a miasma of heaviness, a cold, black diseased feel to the air which was not there now. Yes, the Robemaker had gone.
She pushed the door wider and slipped through into the treadmill chamber again.
Nuadu’s eyes were on her and, as she stood before the giant rotating wheels, she saw amusement in them.
So you have stolen the Robemaker’s spells, have you, Fenella?
Well, thought Fenella, it seems that at least I have found the right spell. At least, Nuadu seems to think I have. I have got that far. But what do I do now? She had not the least idea of what she should do next, other than perhaps to fasten the strange garment about her waist. Would that be right?
Yes, yes, Human Child!
His eyes were dark and brilliant above the cruel red mask and Fenella stood looking at him, seeing how the fireglow poured over his half-naked body, seeing how the silver of his left arm gleamed in the flickering light and was clamped about the horizontal iron bar with as much assurance as that other flesh-and-blood and muscle arm. The dark hair clung to his forehead and his body was flushed and glistening and bathed in the dull crimson glow.
He is caged and caught, thought Fenella, staring at him. He is caged and he is muzzled — and still he is arrogant and defiant and still there is the cynical mockery in his eyes.
Of course there is, Fenella. Would you have me cowed and obedient to Ireland's greatest enemy … ?
Behind her, the other treadmills still turned and clanked and the captive creatures trudged ever on and on, ever forward. Fenella looked over her shoulder at them and saw that they were looking at her with such blind trust and with such faith that cold anger rose in her at the evil Lord who had forced them to his work. I don't think I shall bear it if this does not work, thought Fenella. I don't know how we shall get them out, because they are exhausted and probably they will find it difficult to walk. But somehow we have to do it. She looked back at Nuadu and knew that it had to work. If I have to tear open the cages with my hands, I shall rescue him. I shall rescue all of them!
He caught that at once and his eyes above the mask glittered.
Welly Fenella? Use the spell. Or are we to stand here all day?
Caged and muzzled, but as arrogant, as imperious, as he always was and always will be …
Fenella fastened the garment about her waist, by no means sure that this would be sufficient, expecting it to feel uncomfortable and even grisly. But it was neither of these things. It moulded itself about her waist and it felt warm and rather safe, as if it might be armouring her against the evils in here. She sent a glance to the corners where the shadows still lay, thick and clotted and sinister, but nothing moved.
Fenella turned back to the treadmills and half closed her eyes, the words of the Robemaker still clear in her mind.
Open, locks, to the Human’s hand …
Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys …
The words seemed almost to repeat themselves on to the air and to lie there for a moment, perfectly visible, perfectl
y readable.
Open, locks, to the Human’s hand …
Schism, latches, and sever, turnkeys …
The Hands about her waist moved at once, urging her forward, so that she was standing before the treadmill almost before she realised it. What came next? Yes, of course, the part about bars flying open.
Fly open, bars, dissolve, untie, unchain, unfetter …
Slash and gash and carve and gnaw.
She stopped, because something was happening to the strong steel mesh of the cages. Were they shivering? Razor-sharp shards of light pierced the shadowy red darkness and began to fasten about the metal cages of the treadmills.
Go on, Fenella. Continue the spell … There can not be very much time to us … For if the Robemaker does not return, the Melanisms will surely wake again …
‘Yes,’ said Fenella, gasping.
Pluck the splinters of iron and slice the thews of steel.
Scission and sunder, steal and plunder.
Little curls and wisps of steam were rising as the tough, thick steel dissolved and, as it did so, there was a terrible slowing down of the machinery, a grinding grating noise, as if the cogs were crashing against one another, as if the great engine above them was labouring.
Through the doors Fenella heard a shout go up and the red glow dimmed and wavered, as if a giant hand had doused it.
The great treadmill came to a halting, screeching stop, and the steel cage fell open.
Fenella dropped the Robe of Hands on the ground and Nuadu fell through into freedom and bounded forward and took her in his arms.
It was a hasty, unreal, Council of War they held, a little way into the forest, still dangerously close to the Workshops.
Caspar, who was extremely anxious about the whole thing, had wanted to go deeper into the protection of the Trees, but Fenella had said this was far enough for safety and, anyway, it was as far as most of the freed slaves could get. They would only rest for a brief time and they could keep a sharp lookout for the Robemaker or any of his creatures. They would see and they would hear and they would feel if anything sinister was approaching.
‘Because,’ said Fenella firmly, ‘although Nuadu is unscathed, the rest have been imprisoned for much longer and they cannot walk so very far yet.’ She had looked at Nuadu rather challengingly as she said this, but Nuadu had only smiled as if it did not matter.
And so they had helped the Robemaker’s prisoners as far into the Wolfwood as they could manage, sufficiently far to feel safe, and they had bathed their scarred and blistered feet and hands in a forest stream and sat down to consider what to do next.
There were about a dozen of the slaves, some of them badly wounded, all of them exhausted. They seemed grateful for Fenella’s careful ministrations, but they were bewildered and dazed.
‘There will have been many many more of them,’ said Caspar in an aside to Fenella. ‘Ones we were too late to save.’
‘Yes. What happens to the ones who die?’
‘Fuel for the furnaces,’ said Caspar rather hurriedly.
‘Oh! Yes, of course. I left the — the thing behind,’ said Fenella, rather hurriedly. ‘The spell. Ought I to have — ’ she stopped, because she had been trying to ask whether she ought to go back for it. ‘Ought I to have hung on to it?’ she said at last.
‘I think,’ said Caspar, ‘that it will be temporarily used up. I don’t think it could be used again anyway.’ He looked at her and Fenella said, ‘Thank you,’ because she had been secretly fearing that someone — and probably Nuadu — would say that the spell might be of great help to them and that it would have to be retrieved. I suppose that Nuadu or Caspar would go back, thought Fenella. And looked at Nuadu and thought that she would find it almost more than she could bear to see him go back into the Workshops and have to brave the Melanisms and perhaps encounter the Robemaker. It was difficult to know if Caspar had spoken truthfully, but Fenella thought she would not question what he had said. It was probably a rather cowardly avoidance, but it was what she would do.
The freed slaves sat where they were put, but Fenella and Caspar both saw that their eyes turned involuntarily to Nuadu, as if they regarded him as their leader, as if they might be waiting for him to say what they must do next. Fenella, who was trying not to look too much at Nuadu, understood that the poor, exhausted creatures had been so firmly in the grip of the Robemaker’s dreadful tyranny that they no longer had the power to think and reason and plan.
They were young men; perhaps Fenella’s own age, or perhaps Nuadu’s, but they gazed at Nuadu with the trustfulness of small children. Pity for them sliced through her and, with it, a new and different kind of anger against the Robemaker who had not only taken these young men’s strength and youth, but who had taken their independence as well. But they sat attentively on the forest floor and several of them turned their heads up as if drinking in the forest air and the night scents, and they listened carefully to everything that was said.
Nuadu appeared not to notice any of this; he was curled with his usual careless grace against a tree, sketching out a map on the ground for Caspar to study.
Nuadu leaned forward, his dark eyes brilliant, and Fenella caught herself thinking: oh yes, that was how he looked in the forest! That is what I remember! And then quenched the thoughts at once, in case his strange, disconcerting perception should pick them up.
‘You must all go on to the Forest court,’ said Nuadu. ‘To where the Beastline Lords are raising an army to march on Tara. There you will be looked after and perhaps you can return to your homes.’ He eyed them. ‘But,’ he said, a sudden lifting to his voice, ‘but if you should wish to be avenged on the creature who held you in such terrible captivity, and if you choose to fight for the rightful Wolfking against the Gruagach and the Dark Ireland, you should go to my cousin, Tealtaoich of the Wild Panthers, and make yourself one of his army. He it is who is controlling the attack on Tara. Or so he will tell you,’ said the bastard Wolfprince with a grin.
For a moment there was silence, as if no one quite knew what to make of Nuadu. And then one of the slaves, who was not so badly wounded as the others and who looked to be a little older than the rest, said, rather hesitantly, ‘Sire. That is, Your — ’ And Fenella saw the first twist of real anger on Nuadu’s face.
‘I have no right to that title,’ he said. ‘Remember that.’
‘I am sorry,’ said the young man at once. He frowned, as though he still found it difficult to marshal his thoughts, or even give tongue to them. ‘But, Sir, are you not accompanying us?’ He looked at the others, who all murmured, and said, ‘Yes, we need you, Sir,’ and ‘How else should we go?’
‘I can not accompany you,’ said Nuadu, and now his eyes went to Fenella. ‘There is a task I must complete.’
Caspar looked up and Nuadu said, ‘There is no reason why you should not know.’ In the thin light, Fenella could see little pinpoints of red light dancing in his eyes. ‘The Dark Lords hold my half-brother captive deep within the heart of the Dark Ireland,’ said Nuadu. ‘Until he is rescued, then the High Throne of Tara is vacant.’ His eyes glittered with mockery. ‘And therefore vulnerable to usurpers and adventurers and bastard lines of the Noble Houses of Ireland.’ Utter stillness fell over the freed slaves, as if no one dared even to breathe.
‘Therefore,’ said Nuadu, ‘the Prince must be brought out of the Dark Realm.’ He paused and then said, ‘I must go in and bring him out.’ He looked at Fenella again and appeared to wait.
‘How?’ said Fenella, staring at him.
‘Through one of the Gateways that exist between this world and the Dark Realm. There are a number of them, but I think I must use the most ancient of all.’
Fenella drew breath to ask how this could be done, when Caspar, who had been looking worried, said, ‘Fenella, what about Floy and Snodgrass?’
‘I’m afraid we’ve long since missed them.’
‘Yes, that’s plain,’ said Caspar, frowning.
‘But,’ sa
id Fenella, who had already thought this out, ‘they’ll have gone on to the Fire Court. We’ll just have to continue the journey and meet them there. They’d know we’d do that. It’s what any sensible person would do.’ And thought that, as long as she did not look directly at Nuadu, she could continue with this really very practical discussion about what everybody was going to be doing and who was going where and who was accompanying whom. I’ll concentrate on that, said Fenella to herself. Caspar said, thoughtfully, that somebody ought to go along with the freed slaves. ‘Somebody’s got to get them to safety and to somewhere they can have a bit of a rest and their wounds looked at.’
‘Yes,’ said Nuadu, eyeing Caspar.
‘How would it be if I took them in charge for a while?’ said Caspar, who had seen and interpreted the look. ‘I could make sure they got to the Forest Court; I daresay you could be giving me directions, because we don’t want to be wandering about in the Wolfwood for days. If you could direct me, I’ll take them to your cousin and then be off after Floy and Snodgrass. How would that be?’ said Caspar, who thought that once you had made up your mind to a thing, it was not so bad as you had feared.
‘Excellent,’ said Nuadu crisply and Caspar felt pleased, because wasn’t it a fine thing to be pleasing a Prince of Ireland, never mind that it was only a base-born one? He said, choosing his words with care, ‘About the Dark Ireland, Sir — ?’
‘Well?’ said Nuadu, lifting his brows, so that Fenella thought: arrogance! Something I don’t like! And was not sure whether to be pleased that she had discovered something to dislike, or not.
‘You mentioned the Gateways,’ said Caspar.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes. Well,’ said Caspar, ‘I don’t wish to be speaking out of place, but you aren’t going through a Gateway alone, are you? To fetch the — that is, your half-brother? I don’t wish to be discourteous either, but won’t it be extremely dangerous? Oughtn’t you to have a — ’ He broke off and glanced at Fenella, as if caught out in deception.