by Sarah Rayne
Deep within his mind, a tiny silver voice stirred, and Fael-Inis’s words ruffled his thoughts.
The means are to handy Wolfprince … Did I not show you the means? You must take the means, or let Ireland be overrun by the Dark Realm …
Ireland, thought Nuadu. Tara, the Shining Citadel, the Bright Palace … my family’s stronghold, which I have never entered.
He did not want it. He had never wanted it. He had willingly embraced the strange half-life of the Wolfwood; he had sought out the company of creatures whom he believed to be like himself: rebels, misfits, outcasts. And yet, he thought, and yet … were they not gratified at finding themselves in proximity to one who possesses a little of the enchanted Wolfblood? Did they not unthinkingly give me homage, and did I not accept that homage as unthinkingly? Have I ever really been free of Tara?
Staring at the grinning, gobbling creatures, seeing beyond them to the dark shape of the necromancer’s stronghold, Nuadu felt the weight of Tara and the weight of all Ireland fall upon him.
After ally I am what I am …
And I promised Aed …
A great cascading wave of something strong and sweet and immensely powerful washed against his mind so that he all but fell.
But it is the power and the light and the strength of the Wolves of Tara, and already I am invoking it, already I am tapping the source of an old old ritual and of an ancient golden strength …
I have already set the magic working, thought Nuadu. There is no turning back now.
There was a blur of movement to the left and Nuadu turned his head and saw, limned on the distant horizon, silhouetted against the lowering skies, the shapes of dozens of lean, sleek creatures, sharp-eyed and pointed-muzzled, their outlines surrounded by nimbuses of fire, alive and glowing and slavering. On the scurrying night wind, came the unmistakable howling.
The Royal Wolves of Tara, waiting for the Wolfprince to summon them …
The golden strength was pouring through Nuadu, and he knew it was to be no longer denied.
And Tara, the Bright Palace, must be saved, and Ireland must be saved. I can no longer turn my back, thought Nuadu. I made a vow to Aed and I must keep that vow. Fael-Inis was right.
He lifted his hands and saw the power and the light and the strength pour forth, and at once the Wolves gave a great howl and bounded forward across the dark domain towards him.
Livid streaks of lightning split the skies as the Wolves fell upon the dark servants of CuRoi. The Harpies screeched and rose at once, flapping their wings, but the Wolves leapt and clawed at them, bringing them down, and falling on them, tearing and lacerating, their white pointed teeth sinking into the Harpies’ half-scale, half-Human hide.
Blood began to spatter the ground, and where there had once been a menacing army, now there was a raging maelstrom of fur and claws and teeth and talons.
The ghouls were shrieking, terrible mournful sounds, and leaping on to the Wolves’ backs, sinking their teeth into the thick neck fur, but the Wolves simply rolled over and dislodged them on to the ground and then turned and savaged them.
Fenella saw two of the Wolves take one of the red-eyed devils between them and tear off its head, tossing the bleeding carcase into the Crimson Fields. The Harpies were hovering, out of the Wolves’ reach now, but screeching their harsh, ugly cries, diving and swooping and then flying upwards again out of reach.
‘But there is a way through now!’ cried Floy, excitedly. ‘See! Over to the left!’
‘Yes!’ Nuadu turned to look at Fenella and Flame and the reckless, brilliant light was in his eyes. ‘Onwards now!’ he cried. ‘The Castle is still sealing! We may yet reach the evil one!’
‘Hurry!’ cried Fenella, gathering up the salamander. ‘Will the Wolves follow?’
‘If I wish it, they will follow me,’ said Nuadu and, just for a fleeting second, there was something in his voice Fenella had never heard before. Imperiousness? She glanced at him, but he laughed, and reached the flesh and blood hand to her. ‘For the moment they will remain here to deal with CuRoi’s evil,’ he said. And then he was turning the salamander’s head about and riding straight at the gap in the battle.
The salamanders went effortlessly through the whirling creatures, heedless of the Wolves and the screeching Harpies and the ghouls and hags. They did not quite fly, but they leapt through the air with a smooth, soaring movement that was so clean and so lovely, that Fenella and Flame, both clinging on for dear life, thought they would never feel the ground again. But then they were no longer in the air; they were pounding up the mountain path, nearing the Castle, and it was still rotating, it was still spinning, with that strange incandescent whirling, and the gates, the great gates through which they must pass were becoming immersed in mist, and at any moment, at any moment …
There was another soaring, flying movement, and they were through the gates, and under the portcullis, and CuRoi’s Castle of Illusions closed about them.
The four of them stood in the immense stone hall which Nuadu and Fenella remembered so well, the salamanders a little to their rear, spreading gentle radiance across the dark shadows.
The immense gates had vanished as they surged through — And we are shut in, thought Fenella. We are shut in with CuRoi and with whatever evil dark powers serve him. She stretched her mind to its utmost, trying to sense, trying to feel CuRoi’s presence.
‘He is here,’ said Nuadu at her side, speaking softly. ‘He is a dark muddied evil, at the Castle’s heart.’ As he spoke, Fenella thought: of course CuRoi is here! And felt, as Nuadu had felt, the waiting malevolence deep in the Castle …
They moved towards the stairway at the far end of the hall, wary and cautious, scanning the shadows as they went.
Floy said, ‘The dungeons are down here?’
‘Yes.’
As they reached the narrow stone stairway, the shadows swirled and thickened and Fenella felt, tugging at the corners of consciousness, the silvery sticky threads of CuRoi’s beckoning.
Come closer, my dear, for there are dreams here you have never imagined, and there are riches here that you have never envisaged …
I’m not listening, said Fenella inside her head. Begone, creature! I won’t listen to you!
They walked cautiously in single file down the narrow worn stone steps, putting out a hand to the wall for balance, as Fenella had done, peering into the dark.
Nuadu was leading the way, with Floy bringing up the rear and the two girls inbetween. As they rounded a curve in the stair, and saw a thick, smeary light fall across the ancient stonework, Floy said very softly, ‘They are not long lit, I think. Then, someone is here.’
Someone is here, Humans, someone is here, and someone is waiting and watching … Peering from the shadowy comers … watching from behind the wall hangings … Did that tapestry stir just then? Was it only the wind? Can you be sure it was only the wind … ?
Fenella set her teeth and pushed the insidious whispering away but, as she did so, Nuadu said, in an ordinary, practical voice, ‘I daresay we may have to fight back a lurking spell or two, you know.’
‘If they are minor ones,’ said Flame, ‘they might not be too hard to get rid of.’ She said this rather hesitantly, but Nuadu stared at her and said, ‘The sorceress’s daughter! Of course.’ And then, very seriously, ‘We need every bit of help we can get, Flame.’
‘I have only a very little knowledge,’ said Flame anxiously, because it would not do for them to be thinking she could hurl spears of light or call up fire demons. ‘But perhaps there might be a protective chant which would help.’ She thought it was not being vain to feel pleased that she could offer some small assistance in this very important and highly dangerous quest. She had contributed nothing at all so far. It would be a marvellous thing if she could just drive back the lurking dark creatures which they all knew were hovering, unseen.
Nuadu said, with sudden formal courtesy, ‘Yes. If you would do that now, please,’ and Flame gathered her though
ts.
It would have to be the strongest ritual she could remember, but it would not have to be a very long one. The Banishing Ritual of Mab might fit very well, because all its images were of shining light which would be a good thing to use down here, and there was mention of the ancient Amaranthine House, and the strong and pure magic of the first sorcerers of all. Yes, she would try that one.
She stood very still and summoned the words, calling up the images that went with them.
By the power of the heartwood Croi Crua Adhmaid
By the light of the Bright Palace of Tara;
By the under-water world of the long-ago City of Tiarna,
By the glittering gates of the Palace beyond the Skies.
Light, thought Flame, her eyes half closed, concentrating. Shining glittering spires and brilliant iridescent seas … The setting sun plunging below the ocean and turning the seas to fire … Spears and shards of white moonlight sliding through the Wolfwood to Croi Crua Adhmaid …
By the ancient shining Amaranthine Tree
By the power of the Well of Segais.
By the Nine Hazels of Wisdom,
Darkness vanish, creeping evil begone.
She opened her eyes and saw at once that the creeping shadows had receded and she felt that the hovering menace had lifted. Floy grinned at her and Flame felt absurdly pleased with herself, even though it had been the simplest of rituals, one she had heard Mother chant if the Wraiths or the White Hags came to the Fire Court and Mother could not be bothered to receive them.
Fenella was fascinated, not only by the ritual, which she thought beautiful and strange, but even more fascinated by the way Flame seemed able to tap some inner source of power.
‘Only a very little,’ said Flame at once, and Fenella realised that Flame had sensed her thoughts.
‘Sufficient to banish whatever was creeping after us, however,’ Fenella said, and smiled Floy’s smile.
Flame thought of saying that it was not actually a very difficult ritual, but decided not to, in case it might sound conceited. She was liking Fenella very much, but it was important to remember that customs and manners might be different outside of the Fire Court. She would try not to do or say anything that might offend anyone. But it had been marvellous that she had been able to pronounce the Ritual of Mab so successfully.
As they reached the foot of the steps, they saw the passage stretching ahead of them, empty and deserted.
‘And the seven chambers,’ said Nuadu softly.
‘Each one more terrifying than the one before,’ said Fenella.
They stood very still and looked at one another.
And then Nuadu said, ‘The room with the Ebony Throne. That is where he is.’
Dark blue light flooded the small stone chamber and, as they stood in the open doorway, they saw that CuRoi was there, a smile just lifting his lips, his head on one side, regarding them. Behind him was the austerely beautiful Ebony Throne, the satiny black wood gleaming gently, the wolfshead carvings standing out.
‘You are well come,’ said CuRoi and, for an instant, so strong was the impression of a genial host, pleased to welcome guests, that they hesitated.
And then Nuadu moved, Floy at his side, and, as they did so, Fenella and Flame both cried out, for the rope-lights so often used by the Robemaker had snaked forward and whipped about Nuadu and CuRoi was drawing him forward.
‘Dear me,’ said CuRoi, chucking a little. ‘Dear me, bastard Wolfprince, did you really expect to walk in unchallenged, and emerge unscathed? How trusting of you.’ He lifted his hand again, almost imperceptibly, and the lights drew Nuadu farther in. Flame, her eyes huge with horror, began to chant the ritual of banishment again, but at once CuRoi flicked out a second rope-light, and Flame gasped and fell.
‘And the mask, also, I believe,’ said CuRoi. ‘For I should not want any distractions.’ Before he had finished speaking, the cruel crimson lights had formed into the mask about Flame’s face. Floy made to move and CuRoi felled him with a third rope-light.
‘And the Wolfprince’s lady also, I think,’ he said, and Fenella was caught and bound as well.
‘Do you know,’ said CuRoi, lifting his hand in a slight under-stated gesture that brought Nuadu even closer, ‘do you know, I had been inclined to view the Robemaker’s little array of spells with very nearly contempt. A minor sorcerer, I had always thought him. How it ill became me to do that! These are very useful.’ Fenella thought he spoke in the slightly absent-minded fashion of someone choosing wares in a market place, or comparing one colour against another.
‘And so now, Nuadu of the Silver Arm,’ said CuRoi, turning back, ‘so now, we are come full circle. You are again in my Castle and you and your friends are in my power. Did you really think to escape me? Did you really think your puny armies, your snarling Wolves and your absurd sidh could vanquish me?’ He smiled at Nuadu again. ‘It will be a fitting end for you to be fed to the Ebony Throne,’ he said. ‘It will be an appropriate death for a bastard prince to die in the terrible embrace of that ancient symbol of kingship. I do like neat endings,’ he said, and again the rope-lights tightened. Nuadu was standing within a foot of the great, blackly gleaming Throne now and his eyes were on it, narrow and glinting.
‘Are you ready to die horribly and slowly, Wolfprince?’ said CuRoi, evil glittering redly in his eyes, the mask ripped from him so that they saw him for what he really was; a churning seething mass of undiluted evil …
‘Well, Nuadu Airgetlam?’ said CuRoi.
Of his own volition, Nuadu walked forward and sat in the chair.
Pure blue light poured on to the massive carved Throne, bathing Nuadu with radiance. The crimson rope-lights and the masks which had held them all spat and shrivelled and then dissolved of their own accord.
Nuadu was smiling, but there was a malicious amusement in his eyes as he regarded CuRoi and his hands were held out, palms upwards, the silver hand of his left arm gleaming gently.
Ireland’s heir … Fenella, staring, thought: of course! Aed made him promise that Ireland would be safe. And in so doing, Aed bequeathed Ireland to Nuadu! thought Fenella, tom between awe and delight.
CuRoi had fallen back the instant Nuadu touched the Ebony Throne. His face was twisted in undiluted hatred, but there was a moment — Fenella had seen it quite clearly — when he had flung up his hands to shield himself from the pure light.
He rallied slightly, and hissed, ‘Imposter! Bastard prince!’
‘Am I?’ said Nuadu softly. ‘Are you sure of that, CuRoi?’ As he spoke, the light fell all about him so that the Throne itself began to glow with an inner radiance. Fenella and the others were suddenly aware that the Castle was rotating.
But it is moving the other way round! thought Fenella confusedly. It is unsealing of its own accord! The evil is dissolving!
CuRoi was still staring at Nuadu. At length, he said, ‘Your brother … ’ and Nuadu smiled.
‘My brother is dead,’ he said, gently. ‘I think you know that. But perhaps you do not know that, before he died, he extracted from me a vow that Ireland would be safe.’ He regarded the necromancer. ‘He bequeathed Ireland to me with his dying breath,’ said Nuadu, softly, and Fenella drew in a delighted gasp. ‘And since he was the hereditary High King,’ said Nuadu, speaking as one explaining something simple to a very stupid child, ‘since he was the Crown Prince, by his bequest Ireland is now mine.’ CuRoi stared at Nuadu, black and bitter hatred in his eyes. ‘Was it a deception after all, Wolfprince?’ he said at last. ‘Your repeated vows that you did not want Tara, that you cared nothing for the Bright Palace? Did they mask a deep and subtle plot?’ He moved closer.
‘I deceived no one,’ said Nuadu. ‘I never wanted Tara. I do not want it now.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But I can not turn my back on it,’ he said. ‘I must take on the mantle of my dead half-brother. I must rout the dark evil of your kind, CuRoi.’ Again the look, pitying yet merciless. ‘I grew up in the Wolfwood,’ said Nuadu. ‘When the King
repudiated his Queen’s bastard, he did so violently. I was born in great secrecy in the ancient Grail Castle, sometimes called Scáthach the Castle of Shadow, but soon after my birth the King ensured that I should be taken into the Wolfwood and left to die.’ He smiled. ‘I did not die,’ he said. ‘I survived, because of my father’s people.’
Floy, listening intently, said very softly, ‘The Wolves.’
‘The Wolves,’ said Nuadu. A smile touched his lips. ‘What else?’ he said.
What else indeed … ?
‘And now, CuRoi,’ said Nuadu, his eyes suddenly remote, ‘you are finished.’ He made a quick gesture, encompassing the slowly moving Castle. ‘Your enchantments are dissolving and light is streaming in to your dark citadel.’ He stood up and walked forward and, as he did so, Floy and the two girls moved to the door, barring the necromancer’s path.
‘I should like to kill you in the way of my father’s people,’ said Nuadu, his eyes on CuRoi. ‘I should like to savage you and mutilate you and fling your bloodied remains to the Harpies that screech outside your castle.’ Fear showed in the necromancer’s face again, and Nuadu laughed.
‘It is too swift an end,’ he said. ‘Instead, I shall follow the ways of the High King Erin who believed in exact forms of justice. The Silver Scales of Justice, which are accredited to him, were taken and corrupted by the Soul Eaters and can never be used for the punishment of evil again. But Erin’s premise still holds. Whatever crop you have sown, you must reap its harvest.’ He stood over CuRoi and, although he was not tall, he seemed to tower over the necromancer.
‘You are about to reap your crop, CuRoi,’ said Nuadu, and the others saw, fearfully and incredibly, the wolf-mask touch his face, the lips thin and the eyes slant and glow.
‘If you were a true Lord of Sorcery, a real and strong scion of the ancient House of Amaranth,’ said Nuadu, ‘you would have withstood our attack.’ He gestured to the other three. ‘Four of us only, and the Wolves,’ he said.