Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  This Table, thought Andrew. This Table where they have broken bread and drunk wine. Where they have invoked the help of some omnipotent figure … The Father-God …

  There was a pause as if the Amaranths were listening for the presence of evil, and Andrew felt the intense concentration of Rumour at his side.

  And then came the response.

  ‘For this is the Table of the Dagda where we have eaten the Bread of Life and drunk from the Wine of Purity and we do so in remembrance of the powerful Son of the Gods who once walked in the world of Men.’

  Cerball lifted his own wine chalice and said, ‘We drink in remembrance of the Samildanach, who is the Man of Each and Every Art who will come again into Ireland and free her from the Dark Powers.’

  He lifted his chalice to his lips, and the Amaranths copied him.

  Andrew hesitated, and then reached for his own wine chalice. But as he sipped the strong, rich wine, his mind was in a ferment. He thought: how old is this ceremony? And then, terribly: But how old are the ceremonies of my people? How old is the ceremony of the Blessing, the Eucharist? When did the Last Supper really take place? And who truly presided over it?

  With the sudden seething turmoil, the ancient wise words of the early mission-monks, Augustine and Justus and Paulinus, slid unprompted into his mind:

  ‘For if we put the new wine into the old casks, after a time, the new wine will smell of the cask …’

  They adapted the pagan beliefs and the pagan rituals, thought Andrew, frantically. We knew that they did. So that the people, the peasants and the pagans and the simple, unschooled minds could be converted more easily.

  Yes, but what about that last prayer — The Samildanach who will come again into Ireland and free her from the Dark Powers …

  He thought he ought to have expected it. He ought to have known that fragments of Christianity would have reached pagan Ireland long since. That those fragments would have been absorbed into Celtic heathenism. They are believers without even being aware of it, he thought.

  And then a tiny, treacherous voice said inside his head: but supposing it is the other way round? Supposing the New Learning, the marvellous, pure, clear Teachings, and the Gospels, are simply a new version of Celtic paganism? Paganism retold … Supposing it is we who are being given the new wine in an old cask?

  Cerball had set down the wine chalice and had lifted both his hands. He said, The Benison of the Father-God, the Dagda, is all about us.’

  ‘And with our quest.’

  There was a further moment of silence, and then the Amaranths lifted their heads again, and there was a feeling of: now we can begin! Now we are armoured!

  They went in silent procession down to the ancient Sorcery Chambers.

  *

  Cerball and the Mugain had invited Andrew to accompany them down to the Sorcery Chambers. ‘You would be most welcome,’ said Cerball, who had rather taken to Andrew.

  ‘I shall be unable to further your work,’ said Andrew, hesitating, but the Mugain, who had formed a very favourable opinion of Andrew’s intelligence, said they needed all the wise heads they could get.

  ‘You’ll perhaps have found our rituals interesting?’ he said, and Andrew said in an expressionless voice, ‘Extremely interesting.’

  The Purple Hour of twilight was stealing through the Palace as they descended to the Sorcery Chambers: ‘An hour which is itself laden with magic,’ Cerball had said seriously. ‘It may help to strengthen our endeavours.’

  Andrew had inclined his head, half believing, half not, but deep within his mind he was uneasily aware that Theodora had been inside the Dark Realm for more than a day already; she might already be in the bowels of the Castle of Infinity. The internal battle that Rumour had spoken of: the fight between the necromancers to gain possession of the Amaranth Princess, might already be raging. It was a fearsome thought. Andrew had not been able to forget the way that Theodora had run to him and how she had trusted him, and how he had held her in the Cadence Tower. To one unused to children, or to dependency from any other living soul, Theodora’s instant and complete trust had been a remarkable experience.

  He could not forget, either, that when the Lord of Chaos had held out his hands, Theodora had gone instantly into them.

  ‘Come unto me, little children, for mine is the kingdom …’

  It was something else he dared not explore too deeply.

  Walking quietly behind the procession, Andrew felt himself falling deeper into the sensuous, twilit, pagan world of these people, and for a moment, panic touched his mind. But I cannot stop now! he thought in silent anguish. I cannot pull back now. And this is perhaps the path I must take. Was it? Yes, for if the Black Monk still lived, what more natural than that he would be within the Dark Realm itself? If everything I ever heard about him is true, thought Andrew, then he would surely have been drawn into the dark allure of Chaos and his world.

  He was immensely interested in the great, silver-doored Chambers below the Porphyry Palace, and listened carefully when the Mugain explained that he must remain distanced from the Looms themselves.

  ‘The heat,’ said the Mugain seriously, ‘and the power. Dear me, once the Looms begin to spin, the power is so immense that you could be blasted from the Palace!’ He eyed Andrew anxiously.

  ‘I understand,’ said Andrew. ‘I shall remain by the door.’ The Mugain went off to tell Cerball that you had to say one thing for this new religion: at least it taught its people obedience.

  The great Sorcery Chamber of the Amaranths was one of the most remarkable sights Andrew had ever seen. He stood just inside the great Silver Door with the deeply etched emblems, his eyes adjusting to the light, his senses reeling.

  It was darker than he had expected, rather as if the curtain of night that had fallen outside had somehow slid here as well. Purple and silver shadows lay everywhere, and there was a huge sense of tranquillity, as if the decades and the centuries of study and concentrated thought might have permeated the stones and the bricks. There was the flickering of firelight from somewhere, and as Andrew’s eyes adjusted, he saw that the Sorcery Chambers were long, rather narrow rooms, several chambers opening out of one another, linked by low stone archways, with flaring wall-sconces of pure soft silver. The Looms stood down the sides: huge rearing columns of silver and black, with silken glinting skeins of light weaving in and out of their structures. Formidable, thought Andrew, staring up at them. And also a little frightening.

  He remained quietly watching, seeing the sorcerers move in and out of the Looms; seeing that the firelight came from the far end of the Chamber, from a huge brick structure that looked like a kiln that had been built into the wall. Within it was a leaping fire, burning with red and gold flames, giving out a sharp, pungent scent. Andrew thought: is it applewood? Or fruitwood of some kind? And then was not sure that it was the scent of burning wood at all. Was it the scent of burning magic? But I don’t believe in magic! he cried silently.

  As the sorcerers moved to the Looms, the thin, silken heat increased, and Andrew saw that the sorcerers had changed; subtly and quietly and definitely they had changed.

  How? What had happened to make them different?

  They were all wearing the plain dark cloaks they had worn to enter the Cadence Tower, but these did not make them look insignificant or drab. To Andrew’s eyes, the Amaranths seemed to glow from some inner flame, and their eyes were lit from behind, as if flames had leapt up inside them. He understood that, in donning the cloaks, they had donned the mantles of their calling, and as he leaned forward, he saw that deep within the eyes of each one were tiny twin flames, glittering minuscule tongues of fire, twisting and spiralling.

  The Power Essence, the Sacred Flame of the Dawn Sorcerers, about which the Amaranths had spoken during supper? Or something stronger? (The fire of the Holy Spirit entering the Apostles … ? No!)

  And then Rumour touched the Looms nearest to him, and Andrew forgot about everything else.

  Chapter
Eight

  The light from the rippling green water moved softly across Maelduin’s slender, shining form as he darted along the water tunnels of Tiarna, to the sunken dungeons beneath the Palace.

  He felt the dappled, gently moving light pour about him, and although he was very used to it, it had never lost its power to enchant him.

  Beautiful. My city. I am at home here, he thought. This is my place and this is where I belong. He would spend hours upon hours, unmissed by the others, unlooked-for by them, roaming these closed-in tunnels, with the cool green ocean-light, occasionally hearing the dark, cold echoes of the nimfeach, who had created these Caves and this City at the dawn of time, and who had left a bequest of evil which the sidh, over the centuries, had filtered and polished, until there was no evil, only glowing light and endless music, and shining, soft beauty.

  Maelduin could hear the echoes and he could feel them, and he had never feared them.

  Until now.

  Since the capture of the Gristlen he had felt a stirring of unease; a feeling that something was smearing a sticky, viscous trail through Tiarna. He had not been able to forget how the Gristlen’s eyes had darted slyly back and forth, as if it was assessing the sidh, and he had not been able to forget, either, the sudden cunning alertness when Aillen mac Midha had made that reference to the sidh’s strength being in the music.

  Now, approaching the Gristlen’s dungeon, he felt a ruffle of fear and a prickling warning. Something is wrong …

  He slowed his pace, melting into the rock face of the tunnel, and waited.

  Yes, I am right … There is something here that threatens and menaces …

  He moved on, scanning every crevice and every sliver of stone and rock, his every sense alive and alert. Beneath him was the thick bone-dust of centuries; the soft powdery particles of Humanish victims. Maelduin looked down and icy fingers closed about him.

  In the thick, pale bone-dust were footprints. The marks of some creature’s feet or paws or hoofs. Footprints.

  Then something has walked these tunnels …

  The sidh did not walk; they did not need to. They flew or they simply darted through the air, arrows of blue-green light. Sometimes they swam. But they did not leave footprints.

  The footprints might be from the journey down here to bring the Gristlen into the deep, dank dungeons. Maelduin stayed where he was, considering this. Were they? He half closed his eyes, and recalled how he and Inse had brought the Gristlen down here. They had carried it between them to the dungeons, disliking handling it, but doing so firmly and steadily. Its jointed webbed feet had not touched the ground. Then these prints could not belong to the Gristlen, because no creature imprisoned down here had ever escaped. These were the Fisher King’s own dungeons and he had made them impregnable.

  Could it be the Gristlen? Had it somehow found or forced a way out of the sunken dungeons? Maelduin stayed where he was, considering, feeling, as he always felt, the ancient agonies of the long-ago Fisher King’s prisoners, experiencing the dreadful, helpless despair that had soaked into the cold stones. A terrible emotion, despair. A giving up of all hope, a turning away from light and life.

  He was framing the thought that it was even bleaker than usual down here, when he became aware that the light was changing; it was dimming, becoming colder, danker. There was a greasy look to it.

  Something has happened … Something is happening … I was right …

  He frowned and shook his head, because he knew, quite suddenly, that something had happened and something was continuing to happen. There had been one moment when everything was normal and ordinary and safe, and when Tiarna and the Palace of Nimfeach was secure. And then there had been another moment when evil — something ancient and hungry — had swooped in and swooped down, and Tiarna had become very unsafe indeed.

  Something has come into Tiarna that is cold and menacing and more threatening than anything we have ever known …

  And then he thought: no! No — not something coming in … SOMETHING GOING OUT …

  Something had gone from Tiarna, something magical and strong and precious.

  Maelduin poured forward, a shower of turquoise smoke, and saw that his earlier suspicions had been right. The door of the Gristlen’s dungeon stood open.

  It had done what no other creature had ever done.

  It had escaped from the Fisher King’s dungeons.

  *

  The silver light that had once suffused the entire realm of Tiarna and that had its centre in the great Silver Cavern of the Elven King, was cold and dull. As Maelduin entered the Cavern, he saw that the sidh had already gathered, huddling together, fear in their eyes. He felt, as if it was a physical blow, their anguish and their terror gust outwards.

  Something is happening to our city … What has come amongst us … ? And, from several of the more perceptive ones: what has been taken from us?

  Maelduin thought: yes, they feel it. Of course they do.

  He moved forward, seeing them fall back, hearing the ripple of trust from them. The Prince … He will know what to do …

  But I don’t know, thought Maelduin in sudden anguish. I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know what has happened.

  But he moved with sureness, until he was standing at the centre of the Silver Cavern, facing the great Throne of his father.

  And then he did know, and sick dread closed about him.

  The Elven King was lying at the exact centre of the dais, still clad in the half-Human garb he had adopted to speak with the Gristlen.

  His hands were crossed on his breast, the slender, beautiful fingers twined. But the opaque eyes were closed, and there was a cold, marble pallor to his skin.

  Maelduin moved forward, his eyes on his father’s still form, and felt the others become silent and motionless. No ripple of thought-imagery reached him, and he knew that the sidh were too frightened and too stunned to surround him with their presence.

  I believe my father is dead, he thought. The Elvin King, the near immortal Aillen mac Midha is dead.

  I have no idea what to do … I have no knowledge of what is called death. I think that none of us has any knowledge of it …

  But the King was not quite dead. As Maelduin approached, he saw that the folded wings still moved, as if a creature beneath was breathing, lightly and sweetly; and when he touched his father’s cheek, a tiny spiral of warmth reached him.

  Not dead! He is not dead!

  Not yet, my son … It came as faintly and as intransigent as the rippling water-light on Tiarna’s walls and, as it did so, the sidh stirred uneasily.

  Not dead yet, my people …

  There was the tiniest of movements from the still shuttered features, and Maelduin stood waiting, willing his father to wake and be with them; tensing every nerve-ending.

  For a terrible moment there was a silence so immense and a stillness so complete and an emptiness so vast that Maelduin thought his father had died as they watched.

  And then it came again, as gently and as dimly as a breath of wind in the world above them.

  The creature has taken our soul and our core …

  Maelduin felt the sidh ripple into that fear again, but he stayed where he was, the cold horror engulfing him.

  Our soul and our core.

  Our music …

  The Gristlen has stolen our music, thought Maelduin, and with the thought came bewilderment, for how had the creature known what to do and how had it known where the sidh’s precious enchantments were stored? How had it penetrated to the deepest of the crystal pools so unerringly to snatch up the cool, beautiful music?

  Somehow it did it, thought Maelduin. Somehow it found its way through the labyrinth of tunnels and caves into the world above.

  There was no time to wonder how or why or when.

  Their music had gone, and they were therefore surely doomed.

  Chapter Nine

  Rumour thought that matters were beginning to go a little better. Everyone was working qui
etly and intently at the Looms, and Cerball had gone round distributing Chronicles from Nechtan’s library where they were wanted, trying to keep careful notes of everything everyone was doing. As the Mugain had said, they did not want to find that four of them had all been working independently on the same enchantment.

  Rumour had decided to attempt the summoning of the White Stallion of CuChulainn, the great, mystical, winged horse that could pour itself and its riders through the night sky, and slice through evil as cleanly as a razor through silk. It was an extremely difficult, complex invocation, and Rumour thought it was many centuries since anyone had attempted it. The incantations were rather long, but they were very beautiful, and if they worked, it would be immensely worthwhile.

  She had already woven the threads of light and the pouring fire of dawn, and as soon as they had melded and cooled slightly, she would begin the first of the twenty-seven incantations. Nine times three, one of the strongest of all numbers. Once all three of the stanzas were chanted and the incantation complete, there would be the ancient Beckoning to the Fire Stables, where the White Stallion dwelled.

  Good! thought Rumour, standing back from the Loom, letting the light threads and the fire meld, seeing how they were running smoothly together. Yes, the spell could be left to cool.

  She was not exactly fatigued, because the weaving of spells generated its own marvellous energy. Normally when Rumour was spinning something new or altering something already created, she was crackling with enthusiasm and brimful of such energy that she could work for days without sleeping or resting.

  But there was something — perhaps not fatigue precisely, but a dragging coldness, a dank, insidious chill. Heartcold. Bone-cold. As if I shall never be warm again.

  If she had not known better, she would almost have thought it to be the insidious cold of necromancy. Which was patently absurd. Cerball had pronounced the incantation of the Repudiation very fervently indeed over the wine, because they dared not have anything in the Sorcery Chambers that smelt of necromancy if they were to reach Theodora. And the response of, ‘Let not the evil or the wicked or the maliced-minded come to this Table’ had been particularly strong, Rumour had marked it at the time. It was an immensely old and fearsomely powerful conjuration and Rumour thought that it would have shrivelled the smallest thread of anything tinged with darkness.