Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  Maelduin knew all of this, but as he stood before the Silver Throne, his head bowed in complete obedience, his eyes deliberately hooded, he allowed none of his fear to show. The brilliance that shone from him was subdued, and several of the sidh nearest him thought that he, too, was dying.

  But then Maelduin moved suddenly, and the blue-green light gleamed in his long narrow eyes.

  Delight touched the waiting sidh and with it, hope. He is the Crown Prince, the heir to the Silver Throne, and he will not let us down.

  I cannot let them down, thought Maelduin, standing up very straight. This will be the hardest thing I have ever had to do, but I cannot let them down. But he sent his father a covert glance. How strong was the Elven King?

  Aillen mac Midha had been propped up with silken, ice-blue cushions; he was still clothed in the half-Humanish form he had summoned for his converse with the Gristlen, and this struck fresh fear into the sidh, for the Elven King would never willingly endure the heavy thick skin and the leaden bones of a Human if he could throw it off. Had he sufficient power left?

  Aillen mac Midha seemed to make an immense effort, sitting straight-backed on the silver altar, the silken cushions framing his slight, slender form. The long turquoise eyes opened, and for a brief span of time there was the inhuman, faintly mischievous, faintly contemptuous glint that the Humans feared so greatly. Like this, he was strange and alien, neither quite sidh, nor fully Human.

  He beckoned Maelduin closer with one translucent hand, the nails curved and silver tinted.

  ‘You are ready, my son?’ It was the merest breath of a thought, but every creature present heard it clearly.

  Maelduin, using the thought-forms that all the sidh used, said, ‘Ready, sire,’ and the response was so firm and so strong that a ripple of hope went through the listening sidh.

  Aillen mac Midha regarded Maelduin for a long moment. Without warning and apparently without summoning strength of any kind, he pronounced a string of unfamiliar words, silver-tipped and elusive, lying on the dim Cavern like quicksilver.

  There was the faintest breath of something cold and alien drifting into the Cavern; something slow and ancient and creeping; something that had crawled up out of the oceans when the world was new-born and barren, and something that had once gone on all fours and that had once been finned and gilled, but that had learned to think and reason and speak.

  Something that had been forged in the fires of Eternity and something that had been bestowed on the world when the world itself was still cooling.

  The ancient skincloak of the Humanish.

  With the feeling, there was a stir of sound in the cavern, and several of the sidh looked round.

  At first there was nothing, the silence was heavy and stifling all about them, and they thought they had been mistaken.

  And then it came again, no more than a breath of sound, no stronger than the lightest wind touching the leaves on a drowsy summer’s afternoon.

  Faint, far off chanting.

  The exhausted sidh struggled to hear more fully and, presently, little by little, it came nearer, slowly, inexorably, strongly, until they could hear the words quite plainly.

  ‘O give us skins for dancing in

  And give us veils of Humanish pale.

  Fleeces of fur and silken sin

  Ivory bones for living in.’

  There was a whisper of delight in the Cavern, and Maelduin, standing motionless before the Silver Throne, felt his senses ripple, for he knew that they were hearing one of the oldest enchantments of all; the Humanish spell stolen away by the terrible Fomoire, the skincloak of the Mannish, taken and twisted and warped, and rewoven in the Dark Realm to the Fomoire’s own, evil pattern.

  ‘Give us fur and Humanish hair;

  Silken skins and Mannish vair.

  Skins for dancing, dark and fair;

  Fleece and shale and bones of pale.’

  This was not the deformed, ugly spell that the Fomoire had woven in the Dark Fields of necromancy that they used to call down the writhing, squirming skins of murderers and child-eaters.

  This was the gentle, strong magic of the newly born world; the true spell, bequeathed to the beings who struggled to survive at the very beginning. This was the unspoilt cloak of Man.

  It was flooding their senses, sending them blind, dizzy, reeling. The voices multiplied, thousands upon thousands of times, echoing all about the cavern, singing the strong, rhythmic chant, never once pausing.

  ‘And give us shale of Humanish pale,

  Skins and bones for dancing in.

  Veils of silk and cloaks of sin.

  Hair to stream and limbs to spin.’

  The spell was whirling round them, measured and unfaltering.

  Maelduin stayed where he was, feeling, with every filament of his being, the strong, ancient cloak of Humanish come nearer.

  He did not move, and those nearest to him knew sudden and complete panic: it is not going to work! Several of them glanced uneasily at the barely conscious King, and a terrible thought shaped in their minds:

  The High King no longer possesses the power!

  And then Maelduin turned to look at them, and a strange, unfamiliar glint showed in his eyes, and every one of them saw, quite clearly, the Humanish transformation begin.

  *

  For Maelduin there was a moment of complete and utter awareness, when he felt and knew, with every one of his many senses, that he was sidh, pure and entire. The essence of the cool blue-green creatures who had wrested Tiarna from the long-ago nimfeach flooded his whole being, so that he wanted to soar high above the Silver Cavern, and swoop and dart and fly. He wanted to fall on the Humanish and tear out their senses and their souls for the sidh’s beckoning music. He wanted to reach out and scoop up the beautiful music, and reach down and down into its heart, where the allure and the seduction of the music lived, and then pour it through his hands, as easily as he could pour water.

  He did none of these things. He stayed where he was, not moving, understanding that this sudden, swift awareness of his body must be the beginning of the transformation.

  And then it began.

  *

  It was slow at first; a stealing over him of warmth, a dragging sensation, the feeling of weights being hung on him, so that it would be cumbersome and heavy to move, and slow and lumbering.

  There was a moment of pure panic: I cannot bear it! he thought, and knew that it had to be borne.

  He could feel his body being compressed, cruelly and strongly, and there was a deep, wrenching pain, so that he groaned aloud.

  He was on the ground now, curled tightly into a ball, but the pain closed in and closed down, and the Silver Cavern swam and wavered before his sight.

  A deep solid core was forming throughout his being, and he knew it for the bones of the Humanish: hard and ugly.

  Ivory bones for living in …

  The cloak of Humanish was closing about him more tightly; there was a suffocating, smothering sensation: the shaling of skin.

  Humanish pale … skins for dancing in …

  For a single, absurd instant he thought: but I could never dance like this! I could never leap and dart and swoop and fly through the air! And then he remembered that the Humanish way of dancing was very different to the sidh’s way, and the magnitude of the appalling thing he was about to do closed about him again.

  The blue-green light that had shone from him so brilliantly was dimming. He thought: it is quenching, fading … I believe I am almost a Human. And with the thought, came the knowledge that the iridescence was dissolving into nothing, and that the heavy, dragging, Humanish cloak was closing about him.

  There was a final wrench of agony that ripped through his body and left him gasping and blinded, and with it the terrible feeling that he was anchored to the ground.

  There was a sluggish warmth in his veins, and he thought: Human blood! and remembered about the warm, slow blood of the Humanish.

  But the warmth was not
as repulsive as he had expected; it was slow and gentle, and there was unexpected comfort in it. I shall do it, thought Maelduin. I shall endure it, and I believe it will not be so very bad after all.

  For a brief space, he thought that he had lost all of the finely honed senses of the sidh, that he would no longer feel and experience in the way that the sidh felt and experienced, and the panic clutched him again. I shall lose it all! he thought, and with the thought, became aware for the first time of the steady pulsating inside him.

  The beating of a Human heart …

  There was a soft stirring, deep within his head, and a gentle strength between his thighs, and he paused, exploring these new sensations. A brief grin touched his lips: oh yes, the Humans enjoy one another’s bodies! he thought, and with the thought was aware of a quickening heat and the faint beginnings of an insistent hardness between his thighs. The grin deepened momentarily, and he thought: perhaps after all this is not going to be all bad!

  He stood up, feeling the heaviness and the clumsiness of the Human skin, but feeling, as well, an unexpected strength, and a violent curiosity as to what lay ahead.

  For I am about to enter the world of Men, and I am about to follow their ways and their customs, and speak with them …

  This was intriguing and arousing, but more arousing by far was the knowledge of the reason behind it all; his quest to find the Gristlen and recapture the music of the sidh and save Tiarna.

  He caught the flash of reflection from the silver walls, and turned, briefly aware of hitherto unknown vanity. What do I look like?

  And although he had expected to be repulsed and sickened by the strange creature he had become, he found he was neither of these things.

  Slender and rather pale; yes, that is what I would expect, he thought, studying the image before him. There was a tumble of pale hair, silver-gilt with flashes of golden in it, sleek and shining like a cap …

  Fleece of fur and veil of silk …

  He moved, and the reflection moved with him, slender and supple and graceful.

  Not at all bad, thought Maelduin, and grinned suddenly, seeing his image grin back at him. Yes, not at all bad.

  The eyes were not quite Human, of course. He paused, considering, his head on one side. No, the eyes were not Human in the least. No Human ever had those long, narrow eyes, or that glinting cool colour.

  But taking it all in all, he thought, I believe I shall pass unchallenged.

  And then he was aware that the sidh were making way for him to go out of the Silver Cavern, and through the sea tunnels.

  The time had come for him to enter the world of Men and seek out the Gristlen.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Amaranths had been divided as to what they should do with the Gristlen now that they had finally imprisoned it.

  The Mugain, who could not be doing with creatures from the Dark Realm in any guise, was all for forgetting about the horrid thing altogether and letting it rot where it lay, but not everybody went along with this view.

  ‘Ceremonial execution,’ said Bodb Decht firmly. ‘That’s what the Academy of Sorcerers recommends in these cases.’

  ‘But can you actually kill something from the Dark Realm?’

  ‘We could find out soon enough.’

  Great-aunt Fuamnach thought they ought to talk to it, and find out as much as they could about the Dark Realm. So very little was known, she said, and the Gristlen might be able to give them some useful information. They might find out a good deal about the Dark Realm, and it might help them to rescue Echbel from the Fomoire. They could not be expecting Rumour and the monk to deal with everything. A younger cousin asked, rather hesitantly, whether Echbel mightn’t use sorcery to escape on his own account, but nobody took this seriously, because everyone knew that Echbel had only the sketchiest knowledge of sorcery.

  ‘And,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, occupying the chair nearest to the fire and winding a few puckered skeins of one or two old enchantments, ‘it might give Laigne some comfort, poor dear.’

  The Amaranths nodded, a bit sheepishly, because nobody knew quite the best way to cope with Laigne.

  Laigne lay in her silk-hung bed, and heard the murmurings with sadness. They would none of them admit that Echbel, the dear boy, was in fact far stronger and far more knowledgeable than any of them, she thought. They were jealous of him, of course, so handsome and so clever as he was. Laigne had secretly been hoping (and still hoped) that the Succession Ritual would name Echbel. He would make a fitting Head of the Amaranths. He would rule kindly and firmly and wisely. Laigne would see that he did.

  Curiously, the thing that had given her hope had been the strange, haunting music that she had heard from the Sorcery Chambers. It had drifted up as lightly and as softly as swansdown or snowflakes; it had been as insubstantial as frost-rimmed cobwebs, but Laigne, lying in her bedchamber, had heard it clearly. She had heard its message: follow me and all will be well … Come with me over hill and over dale, and there you will find your heart’s delight …

  Follow me to the source of all joy …

  She would follow the music to its source. She would wait until it was dark and everyone was sleeping, and then she would go quietly and calmly and no one would know.

  There was probably a degree of danger in this of course; Laigne was not so foolish that she did not remember all the soft, seductive beckonings and the gentle, sly lures sent out by creatures of necromantic powers. But this was surely different. This was something soft and pure and good. It promised her her heart’s desire … And Laigne’s heart’s desire was to reach Echbel. She would not disregard the possibility of danger of course, but she would not let it deter her.

  The others thought she was a poor weak creature when it came to sorcery. Great-aunt Fuamnach had been known to look slightingly on her and refer, quite openly, to Laigne’s dash of Human blood from three or four generations back. Laigne paid this no attention: it was extremely vulgar to mention such a thing, and in any case a drop of Human blood could be a remarkable help in sorcery.

  She waited until night had fallen and the Palace was silent, and then she got up from the bed and donned a thin, silk robe. It would have been better to have dressed properly, but nobody would see her.

  The music had long since faded, but Laigne could still hear it deep within her head; she could hear its haunting promise.

  Come to me, Human, come into the heart of the music and I will give you the thing you desire most … I will show you the way to reach your dear one, and it will be a way that you never dreamed existed …

  Echbel! thought Laigne, and slipped through the quiet Palace.

  No one came out to challenge her, and Laigne walked softly through the moonlit galleries and halls, and on down the narrow stone stairway that led to the Sorcery Chambers. Wasn’t it here the music had come from, and wasn’t it here she must go first?

  She stood for a moment in the Sorcery Chambers, the warm scents of raw magic closing about her, the quiet thrumming of the quiescent Looms purring in her ears.

  Here? No, there was nothing here save the slithering gold and scarlet skeins of enchantments, the trickle of something light and silvery spilling from one of the Looms and then dissolving into tiny shards of fight as it reached the ground.

  Not here. Where? Laigne stood very still and whispered the fight, pure words of a Trance Ritual which would open her mind to its fullest extent and allow her to follow the music to its heart. Trance Rituals were perfectly simple, but the others always had to make such a fuss. All you needed was a tranquil mind, which Laigne possessed anyway. Echbel would have made a study of Trance Rituals if he had not been torn from her. He would probably have been a Master.

  She began to move through the Sorcery Chamber, her eyes wide open now and slightly filmed. Trance Rituals were really the easiest thing in sorcery. You had to have a layer of Command and a layer of Compulsion close together. And a layer of Repose and another of Silence. And then you cloaked everything in the pures
t of blues you could conjure up.

  Come further down …

  Yes, it was there! She had heard it, the faintest of stirrings, the lightest of touches on her mind. Not the music, but something that understood the music’s pull. Something that had possessed the music, and something that might help her to reach Echbel. Something that knew.

  It was still calling to her.

  Come further down and closer in …

  The dungeons! thought Laigne. Whatever it is, is in the dungeons! She passed through the door that led beneath the Sorcery Chamber, and down into the ancient, dark foundations of the Porphyry Palace.

  *

  The narrow stone stair curved round sharply, and there was a rope fixed to its sides so that you could hold on while you descended. The steps were damp and slippery and not very clean because the servants never came down here. Laigne would speak sharply to them about that, and would have no patience with their silly tales about occasional demons wandering down from the Looms Chamber above. The Amaranths had never had any truck with demons, or only minor ones anyway.

  The passage leading to the dungeons was cold and lit to eerie life by the flickering wall-sconces. Laigne shivered, pulling the thin robe more closely about her. Through the flimsy silk slippers she could feel the damp stones of the floor, and the slippery lichen that had crept up through the cracks.

  There were only four cells down here: each of them was set back into the thick stone foundations of the Palace, and each one had iron bars which stretched from the roof into the floor. There was a small gate cut out at the centre, and the keys hung on a nail outside, near to the foot of the stone steps. Laigne, treading softly on the cold stone flags, paused and listened. Was she still within hearing of the compulsive silvery voice that promised so much?

  Over here, my dear … Over here … And then, with sudden discordance, But you must come willingly … You must come because you wish to come …