Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘It has to be a red fox,’ said Feradach at once. ‘Rather rare, my dear Dian Cecht.’

  ‘And also, if it was the Red Foxes last time, to repeat it might not be much good,’ added Eogan.

  It was then that Miach said, a bit unhappily, ‘There’s something you ought to know … a sort of qualifier, a rider.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Ritual can only be chanted over the — the Royal House that has been judged ready to — oh, this is very difficult — ready actually to mate,’ said Miach, getting redder in the face with every minute. ‘If you invoke it over a House that doesn’t need it, it probably won’t have any effect. And we do need it to be effective.’

  ‘Well, who was last pronounced as needing the Ritual?’

  ‘The White Swans,’ said Miach in an expressionless voice, and every head turned to look at Dian Cecht.

  Rather to Snizort’s surprise, Dian Cecht accepted the matter fairly calmly.

  ‘Oh, she’ll like being the centre of attention,’ said Feradach, who had been despatched, with Eogan, to the sidh pool on the Wolfwood’s eastern side, to capture two White Swans. ‘She’ll make a great play of reluctance and false modesty, but she’ll do it.’

  Snizort said, ‘But didn’t she refuse the last time to — that is, I understand that she found the Ritual distasteful … ’

  Feradach grinned. ‘That was Dian Cecht’s way of being different to everyone else,’ he said. ‘The normal thing, the traditional thing, would have been for her simply to submit to the Ritual. We all know it has to be done every fourth or fifth generation or so. It’s purely luck — good or ill depending on your point of view — whether it’s necessary in your own generation. Dian Cecht only refused in order to make a stir at Court.’

  Snizort asked, as delicately as he could, about Miach’s sire.

  ‘Dian Cecht had a rather pallid relationship with one of the lesser sorcerers at Tara,’ said Feradach. ‘That’s how she got Miach into the Academy of Sorcery.’

  ‘Pallid?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you think it would be pallid?’ said Feradach, and Snizort, who had read about these things but had not actually had a great deal of practical experience of them, said, ‘Dear me, yes of course. And so, she will go through with it this time, will she?’

  ‘She’ll be saving Ireland,’ said Feradach with a touch of asperity. ‘Of course she’ll go through with it.’

  ‘And will there be — dear me, this is very difficult — will there be — ah — progeny?’ enquired Snizort, who had not quite liked to ask this of Oisin, but who thought that the slightly more robust Feradach would not mind the question.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Feradach, considering. ‘That’s usually the object of the Ritual, of course. But this time it’s a bit different. We simply want to — well, reinforce the Enchantment I suppose you could call it, strengthen the powers of the Beastline. ‘ His teeth gleamed whitely in a sudden malicious grin. ‘But it would almost serve Dian Cecht right if there was a result of the mating,’ he said.

  Dian Cecht had seated herself a little apart from the remaining Beastline creatures and was gazing soulfully into the depths of the forest. As Snizort approached, she half turned her head.

  ‘I am calming my mind for the ordeal ahead of me,’ she said, in a remote tone and Snizort said he was very sorry if he had disturbed her.

  ‘My life has been nothing but a series of troubles and tragedies,’ said Dian Cecht, turning her enormous black eyes upon him. ‘My House is a doomed House, you see. And although the Ritual will be extremely repulsive to one of my delicate upbringing, I shall not complain, because it is for the saving of Ireland.’ One slender white hand was pressed to her breast. ‘Ah, Ireland, my dear tortured land,’ she said, and Snizort repressed the uncharitable thought that she was overdoing it a bit.

  ‘I have only one fear,’ said Dian Cecht.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It is that my son should not be wounded by my ordeal,’ she said, and Snizort thought, but did not say, that since Miach would be the one chanting the actual Ritual, it was going to be a bit difficult for Miach to avoid doing other than witness the Ritual first-hand. He thought it was not up to him to say this, however.

  ‘Miach is so sensitive,’ said Dian Cecht, with a sad, small smile. ‘Alas, he fatally takes after me.’

  Snizort, greatly daring, said, ‘His father … ’ and Dian Cecht turned her soulful look onto him.

  ‘For a little time he was blessed,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I loved him.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Dear me, of course,’ said Snizort, and took himself off rather hurriedly.

  Miach was running through the Ritual with Oisin and the Oak Naiad. It was, as he had said, a fairly simple matter; he thought he could manage it quite easily. In fact he thought he could manage it without any trouble at all. He was a bit worried about the Swan — and he was very worried indeed about Mother, who ought not to be subjected to this sort of thing. He did not quite say, ‘at her age’, because that would have been disrespectful as well as uncomplimentary, but he thought it.

  Oisin and the Oak Naiad were encouraging. Oisin said that the Ritual was simple, because it had always been intended to be so; the first sorcerers who had woven it on Tara’s great Silver Looms had deliberately made it plain and straightforward so that it could always be kept alive. The Oak Naiad said that the finest and purest sorcery was always remarkably simple.

  ‘It is only a question of the power the sorcerer himself draws down,’ he said, regarding Miach kindly, which Miach thought was the most alarming thing anyone had said yet. But it did not seem to have occurred to any of the Tree Spirits that Miach might fail in the Ritual, and so Miach thought he had better go along with this point of view. He squared his shoulders and flexed his mental muscles experimentally and, without the least warning, fully felt, for the first time since he had started studying sorcery, the strange, silvery stirring. Excitement gripped him and he thought: the enchanted power! So that's what it feels like! Remarkable! I believe I can do it! he thought in delight. I truly believe I can do it. And thought wouldn’t it be the most tremendous thing ever heard of if he invoked the ancient and legendary Ritual of the Beastline and enabled the people of the Court to call up the creatures of the forest and ride on Tara and rout the giants.

  It was nearly dusk when Feradach and Eogan returned and, as they trod through the trees, Snizort and the others saw the pale flutter of white wings and saw the slender, graceful shape of the two White Swans.

  ‘Why two?’ asked Snizort of Oisin.

  ‘Swans mate for life,’ said Oisin, watching them approach. ‘It would have been dangerous to have brought the cob without the pen.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Snizort. And then, ‘Won’t the pen be dreadfully jealous?’

  ‘Miach’s trying to concoct a spell to make her sleep.’

  Miach was, by this time, very busy indeed. He had found a version of the Enchantment of Slumber, the Draoicht Suan which could safely be recited over the pen, and he had also found the opposing enchantment which would dissolve the Draoicht Suan so that they could send the two White Swans back unscathed when it was all over. This was extremely important, because you should not invoke any ritual without being sure you could dissolve it if you had to. Anyone knew that.

  He had drawn a circle at the exact centre of the clearing and he had found the ancient symbols of fertility and also the Hazels of Wisdom of the Tree of Amaranth, which was the root from which the oldest Sorcery House of Ireland sprang. He traced these carefully into the ground and glared at Clumhach who inadvertently smudged one by walking across it.

  They were not going to leave anything to chance, said Miach, because it was very important that they succeeded. Ireland was at stake, he said very solemnly.

  As the Court and Snizort assembled outside the circle, Miach thought that it was a pity he had not been able to don the proper ceremonial robes for the
ritual. The sorcerers under whom he had served at Tara had placed immense importance on the proper robes for each spell-weaving. Miach thought he ought to have been wearing something grand and ornate; scarlet and gold, instead of the plain dark breeches which were only made of homespun, and the very ordinary shirt and jerkin he had donned when they had all fled from Tara that night.

  Dian Cecht stood at the exact centre of the circle which Miach had drawn. She was wearing a thin, silken, white robe with a narrow girdle of gold and her short, caplike hair shone, emphasising the long, slender lines of her neck and shoulders. She looked remote and austere and as if she might already be wreathed about with the strong gentle magic of the Purple Hour. Snizort, who had elected to sit a little removed from the ceremonies so that he could quietly and respectfully record everything, thought that if it had been possible to reach out and pluck the air it would have thrummed and vibrated like a musical instrument.

  An air of solemnity had fallen over the watchers and Snizort, who had not quite known what to expect, saw that their expressions were serious and that there was an air of immense concentration about them. At the culmination of Miach’s ritual chant, they would attempt again to summon the beasts.

  He thought: and if they fail this time … And discovered that the idea of a second failure was something he could hardly bear to contemplate. They would not fail. Of course they would not fail.

  Miach was standing with the Trees directly behind him and, in the fading light, their leafy heads were touched with the violet and blue of the approaching night. It was possible to make out the Tree Spirits here and there; the fall of a Copper Beech’s rippling hair, or the flutter of the Silver Birches’ skittish arms but, in the main, the Tree Spirits stood silently, dissolving into a swathe of gold and indigo and purple.

  Miach looked young and vulnerable and suddenly extremely earnest. Bless my boots, thought Snizort, writing busily, I believe the boy means to succeed. As Miach frowned and lifted his arms, with the palms held upmost in the age-old gesture of supplication, Snizort knew that Miach was determined to succeed beyond all odds. And I do not believe it is purely for the glory of it, he thought. He cares what happens to Tara. They all care, thought Snizort, looking at the rest. They quarrel and taunt one another, but they care very deeply indeed.

  Snizort did not understand Miach’s Ritual Chant, but he had not expected to. Oisin had explained that enchantments were written in what was called the Language of Magic, and that it was a tongue so ancient that no one had ever been able to trace its roots, but it was so immensely powerful that understanding was not really necessary.

  ‘Although the really scholarly sorcerers, the ones who have devoted their lives to its study, probably have some understanding,’ he had said. ‘Miach will not understand it, but it will probably not matter so long as he chants it correctly.’

  Oisin and Tealtaoich were carrying the Swan to the circle’s centre; their faces were intent and absorbed and it seemed to Snizort that the Swan — lovely graceful thing — was lulled by the chant. Miach had sent the pen into a gentle sleep and she had simply folded her wings and sunk to the ground in a fall of silken paleness. But this was the cob, this was the male, suspicious, defensive, albeit subdued. A cold finger of fear, or was it distaste, touched Snizort’s neck.

  But Oisin and Tealtaoich seemed to be managing quite well. They moved with a measured tread — everything seemed to be being done rather slowly — and Miach lifted his hands again and raised his voice. Slowly, slowly, so imperceptibly that it was almost impossible to be sure that it was happening, thin filaments of silver light began to twist and shiver all about him. Dusk was stealing in from the depths of the Wolfwood, fingers of dark creeping shadow, but the silver threads spun and hummed and the vagrant light fell across the forest floor like spun glass. Snizort, realising that even the faint scratching of a quill-pen might distract Miach or disturb the magic, put his notes aside and sat very still, absorbing the sights and the sounds and the scents.

  Dian Cecht had discarded the white silk robe naturally and easily, and was standing completely naked at the clearing’s centre. She was rather thin and her skin was very pale. There was the faintest sheen to it, so that as the silver threads touched her it was easy to imagine that it was not skin, but sleek, smooth down. As Oisin and Tealtaoich approached, she turned towards them.

  The White Swan was watching Dian Cecht from its dark, unblinking eyes, and there was an awareness about it. As Miach lifted his voice again in the ancient chant, the Swan unfurled its wings suddenly and seemed on the point of flight. A stir of fear went through the watchers.

  But the Swan did not take flight. It spread its wings a little wider and a whisper of warm, musklike perfume touched the air. Tealtaoich and Oisin moved back and there was the outline of pale, glossy light as the Swan’s wings were silhouetted against the dark forest.

  The entire forest seemed to wait as if it were suspended and caught on the threads of Miach’s enchantment and a tiny night wind caressed the leaves and whispered about the faces of the watchers.

  The silver threads whirred and hummed more strongly and then the Swan glided effortlessly downwards and folded the waiting Dian Cecht in its massive wings as if it had wrapped a silken white cloak about her …

  At once there was a strong dark stirring in the Wolfwood and Snizort saw that the rest of the Beastline had moved to stand quietly together and that they were facing out towards the forest, their hands held out, their eyes narrowed.

  They were suddenly and disconcertingly less Human. There was the glint of gold in Eogan’s eyes and the sleek ripple of fur on Tealtaoich and Feradach and Oisin. There was an alertness, a sharpening, as if senses and instincts they were not normally aware of had awoken, and as if they could hear things not usually audible and see things not ordinarily visible.

  The Swan was still enfolding Dian Cecht in its immense wings and Dian Cecht was deep in its strange embrace.

  Deep within the Wolfwood, above the rise and fall of Miach’s chanting, there was a stirring, rushing sound; the faint, far-off hum of something singing on the night air, the darting of the blue and green sidh in between the Trees, and the movements of the Trees themselves, green and gold and beautiful and wise.

  And then they all heard it. Scurrying and padding. The sound of creatures not Human approaching the clearing. Hope and delight surged across the clearing and, as it did so, the silver enchantment that Miach was weaving so fast now strengthened and glistened.

  Fora moment, Snizort thought they had been mistaken; that their senses had deceived them into believing what they wanted to hear and see. He frowned and, as he did so, the scuttering and pattering and running came closer.

  Fur and hoofs and paws and wings.

  Slant-eyed creatures with three-cornered faces and creatures with pointed muzzles and pricked ears, with ancient woodland instincts and ancient woodland ancestries.

  There was a beating of wings on the air and, above them, beyond the highest of the Trees, the air was becoming filled with gold and bronze and white.

  The creatures of the Forest finally and at last obeying the ancient summoning, the strong, sensuous luring of the Samhailt …

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Deep within the ruined City of the Giants, Floy and Snodgrass lay helpless and bound, awaiting the arrival of the Geimhreadh.

  They were lying on their backs in the terrible inner chamber of the Frost Giantess, in the cold, echoing, blue-lit lair with the dark waters of the River of the Dead lapping against the walls. Cold green waterlight rippled on the walls and there was a dank, slimy stench on the air. Floy, who had occasionally travelled among the famous Twilight Mountains on Renascia to hunt the Rainbow Ikons, recognised the stench for what it was: decaying water vegetation and fetid fish-breath and trailing viscous, mucus-like plants and gelatinous pale river-creatures with long slithery tails and boneless bodies … Revulsion washed over him and he concentrated his mind on trying to find a way of escape. It was u
nthinkable that they should endure being thrown into the River, to be at the mercy of the half-fish, half-human things they had seen outside Fael-Inis’s Palace of Wildfire.

  At the Geimhreadh’s nod the storm creatures had carried Floy and Snodgrass from the outer room through to the cold, dank inner chamber, laughing and writhing, taunting their two victims, twining more coarse, sticky ropes about their limbs.

  For you shall not escape us now, Humans, you shall not escape the cold, hungry embraces of the Geimhreadh … You will not loosen the bonds that confine you … The Mistress told you of the ropes, Humans, of how they are fashioned from the coarsest hair of her victims … They are the strongest form of bond ever made, Humans.

  The Wraiths shrieked out their mirth again. You are bound by the fibres of sexual bonds, Humans … do you feel the spent seed and the clotted blood on them … ? Do you smell the stale juices and do you feel the shreds of tom skin, Humans … ? Our Mistress has strong appetites, Humans, she is merciless in her desires, and you will be expected to satisfy them all …

  The cold, eerie laughter echoed all about them and the storm creatures swirled high above Floy and Snodgrass, their icicle-features grinning and pointed, their long, sharp fingers reaching out to stroke and prod their victims’ flesh. Their touch was icy and sharp and, although they constantly grinned and darted into the travellers’ faces, they never quite materialised; they were cold, smoke-like beings, neither quite substance nor shadow, but somewhere between the two.

  We are Wraiths, Human morsels. We were born out of the coldness that lives in Men’s hearts and out of the greed that lives in their souls, for greed is the coldest of all the emotions and we are COLD, human travellers, we are cold and ice and we are frozen winter night and bleak winter dawn …

  Floy and Snodgrass struggled and twisted, but the hair ropes held. In each of their minds was the thought that surely the storm creatures would leave before the Geimhreadh approached and surely, then, there would be a chance to escape.