Wolfking The Omnibus: Books 1-4

by Sarah Rayne

  Are you being so arrogant, so insufferably proud as to think you are in the mould of a saint?

  The sin of Pride. There it was, clear as a curse. And he had not even seen it. He had been striving for something that was beyond his reach and out of his grasp.

  For I am no saint.

  *

  He was never aware, afterwards, of returning to the cavern with the crystal fountains, of moving to the silken couch, of lying once again next to her, the press of her body curving into his, naturally, softly, making them almost one creature.

  Her arms closed about him, gratefully, warmly, and he was no longer fighting the sweet, sensual singing of his blood: he was almost drowning in the soaring joy.

  She peeled the robe from him and he felt her hands against his skin; soft, caressing, at once soothing and exciting. She moved closer, her breasts against him, and desire, so long banked down, flared out of all control.

  He no longer thought of such sweetness as mortal sin. He no longer thought: for this I may burn forever, but: this is the woman I love, and I shall do so for always.

  He wanted to know every part of her, every separate bone, every shred of skin, eyes, flesh, lips … The eternal fire would be no punishment for this, for even its searing heat could never match the fire that was scalding his body now … And I believe I shall not care if Hell opens and its flames consume me for ever, he thought.

  There was the feeling that he was fusing with the one creature who understood him, the one living creature with whom he could share everything and for whom he would do anything in the world.

  He paused only once, as her hands reached for his manhood, and a low groan was forced from him, for he had never before known a woman’s touch there, and it was exquisite, it was beyond any emotion he had ever imagined. He looked down at Rumour and saw that her eyes were half closed with longing, and that her skin was glowing with desire. But even with his control snapped and with the restraints of years gone, he paused, remembering how Coelacanth had savaged her, hesitant.

  She understood his hesitation at once, for she said, ‘Andrew, I am aching with desire for you.’

  ‘But there could be pain …’ He stopped, conscious of ignorance, and Rumour pulled him closer and kissed him, not gently, not even lovingly, but savagely, as if she had been driven to the brink of endurance. Her lips were warm and soft, and she tasted of wine and love, and the last vestige of Andrew’s control dissolved. He moved to her, trembling, feeling the sweet, sinless warmth.

  His last conscious thought was that he no longer knew whether he was forsaking his god, or whether his god was forsaking him, but that he had ceased to care.

  Chapter Eighteen

  To leave Tiarna was the hardest thing Maelduin had ever had to do. To walk like this through the dark, whispering tunnels, in the strange, bone-filled garb and the pale skincloak of the Humanish, and somehow enter their alien world, filled him with dismay.

  But there had been no other way. The Elven King had been helpless, beyond their reach, and the sidh were ailing and fading. Maelduin and Inse and two of the others had carried Aillen mac Midha to the great Silver Throne in the ice-blue cavern of the Seomhra. Maelduin had seen Inse begin to shiver and miss his way, as if he could no longer see properly, and he had known that the darkness was quenching Inse, as it was quenching them all.

  And I have only escaped it because my father pronounced over me the ancient Humanish Enchantment, and I carry the flesh and the skin and the warm Human blood now.

  There were still unexplored territories about his new self; feelings, emotions, pain, pleasure, fear. He could feel them all, one level below conscious thought, and it was a strange, rather alarming knowledge that, before his quest to find the sidh’s music was over, he might have known some of these feelings. And passion? said a tiny silver voice. Will you know the passion of the Humanish? Will you take their women in the way of their strange love-making? His thoughts formed no answer, but a smile curved his lips.

  Before he left Tiarna, he went to the crystal pools of the sidh’s library, in search of the nimfeach’s priceless marvellous maps, so that he might find his way through the tunnels and into the world of Men. There was a bad moment there as he realised he could no longer dive into the pools, arrow-straight, his slender, glinting body making scarcely a ripple on the surface. He could no longer swim at his leisure below the water, searching in the ancient, carefully preserved spells for this enchantment or that.

  But he had managed it; he had discarded the thin silk robe he had donned after the Enchantment, and he had plunged into the pool naked, feeling, with a shock, the extreme coldness of the water, remembering in the same instant that Humanish blood was warmer than the chill faery blood of the sidh.

  There was unaccustomed pain from having to hold his breath for so long, and having to come back to the surface many times to fill his lungs with air and to rest, and he found that Humanish sight became blurred under water.

  It was a tedious, long-drawn-out exercise, for there were many pools to search, but at length he found the maps, locked deep into a silver cage with the curiously wrought doors that showed it to be of nimfeach crafting.

  He had pushed from his mind the strong feeling that dark forces were closing in on Tiarna; it was absurd to think that the minute he left, Tiarna’s enemies would pour in, and it was illogical to imagine that they had been there all along, waiting, watching, wanting just such an opportunity as this to wreak their vengeance. He went at once, leaving the Palace, his movements swift and graceful, not entirely quite Humanish, although he did not realise this; despite the strong Enchantment, he had still traces of the sidh’s cool, sensuous bewitchment.

  His feet, lightly shod in thin hide of roe deer, made prints in the bone-dust that had thickened on the tunnel floors over the centuries, and the soft cambric shirt and pale leather jerkin and breeches felt heavy. But this was Humanish garb, this was how they dressed and how they travelled. He must become accustomed. He had taken a last look at his reflection, in the rippling silver walls of the fountain room, and he had thought: yes, I believe I am not ill pleased! And then he had put the thought from him, for it did not matter so much how he looked, only that the Humanish would not question him too closely. Only by being accepted into their world could he find out about the Gristlen and the sidh’s music.

  Several layers below conscious thought, he was aware that it was the shining citadels of the Humanish that drew him, rather than their forests and their villages and the hill-farms. The palaces and the castles and the great legend-haunted fortresses of the High Kings …

  The Grail Castle, sometimes called Scathach, the Shadow Place, only accessible by means of a long dark road and a dark dangerous journey from which not all travellers returned …

  The Dun na nGed on the banks of the Boyne River, built by Domnall, who had so feared the ancient Curse of Tara that he would not live there. Maelduin knew of the Curse, he knew that the High Kings held it at bay only by the strongest and most intricate magic, but the Curse still lived, for no curse that had been properly pronounced could ever be destroyed.

  And what of Tara itself, the seat of every High King and Queen of Ireland? The legendary glowing Bright Palace, the Shining Citadel, raised from the rock by the Amaranth sorcerers for the first High Queen of all, the beautiful, mischievous Dierdriu. Tara, so close in design to his beloved Palace of Nimfeach, that Maelduin had always thought he would surely feel at home there. He would like to see Tara.

  And the Porphyry Palace of the House of Amaranth. A mischievous grin touched his lips. The Porphyry Palace, the home of the Royal Sorcerers, the Amaranths, the magical line who had served every High King and Queen, and who could trace their lineage to the long-ago Dawn Sorcerers, when Tara was no more than bare rock and the magic yet to be spun; to the days when Ireland was still inhabited by the small, elfin Cruithin race, and when Coelacanth still ruled in Tiarna …

  It might be very interesting indeed to visit the Porphyry Palace, a
nd to see the Cadence Tower, the great dark Tur Baibeil created from a clever blend of sorcery and architecture, whose building had resulted in the loss of the Cadence, the sidh’s magical gift to the Amaranths … The sidh did not fully understand what had happened, for the Amaranths could be secretive, but they knew that the Cadence, given to the Amaranths so long ago, could no longer be reached by the sorcerers.

  If Maelduin could somehow recover the Cadence, it might assist him in his search for the sidh’s music. The Amaranths had lost it, but Maelduin thought it would still form at the bidding of one with sufficient understanding of it. And he understood the Ancient Language of Magic as well as he understood Tiarna’s shining halls.

  The grin became very slightly malicious.

  Why should he not enter the ancient, spell-ridden Tower, and reanimate the Cadence and reclaim it for his people?

  Why not indeed?

  *

  It felt strange and unexpected to find himself approaching a world where night and day were sharply delineated, and where dusk fell in great purple and violet swathes over the land, spattering the skies with stars. Maelduin, used to the gentle fading of the Tiarnan days into a soft half-night, walked cautiously forwards to where the tunnels widened, remembering as he walked the countless times he had poured along these tunnels with the other sidh, sometimes bringing a Humanish whose senses would be stolen and poured into the music, occasionally bringing a raw length of magic from the sorcerers.

  And sometimes we paid for the magic, and sometimes we did not, he thought, and there was a bitter knowledge in that memory, for had not the sidh been repaid in their own coin now? Their most precious possession of all had been taken; the Gristlen had vanished, and with it the music of Tiarna.

  He came fully out of the tunnels, into the strange soft twilight that the Humanish called the Purple Hour, and which was laden with its own strong, gentle magic, and saw, directly ahead of him, the pale, lilac-tinged turrets and the soaring crenellations and the mist-wreathed spires of the beautiful ancient seat of the Royal Sorcerers of Ireland.

  The Porphyry Palace of the Amaranth sorcerers.

  *

  Cerball was always ready to extend a welcome to unexpected guests, even when they came at such an awkward time as this. And as well as it being awkward, it cost money. Another place at the table meant another mouth to be fed, and Cerball was already finding the entertaining of the entire Amaranth clan more expensive than he had bargained for. But it could not be avoided; Nechtan had established a tradition of lavish hospitality, and it had to be maintained, unless you wanted to be branded as a miser. Cerball was many things, but miserly was not one of them.

  So he made Maelduin welcome, thinking that, although it was all adding to the bills, this rather unusual-looking young man would be an interesting addition to the company. And Cerball would be glad to have any kind of diversion to take his mind from Theodora and Echbel, and from the really very awkward matter of Laigne.

  But there was not, of course, anything so very extraordinary about the fact that Laigne was expecting a child. There ought not to be any need for concern.

  But Cerball was very concerned indeed. He went about the Palace wearing a bothered look, because wasn’t there something extremely worrying about it; and, if he was honest, wasn’t it just the smallest bit sinister? He did not quite like to come out and tell people that he had not shared his lady’s bed for rather a long time; Laigne did not care much for that kind of thing, and Cerball, while he could enjoy the company of the saucy young cousins and the giddy young nieces who came to the Porphyry Palace, was not overly fond of it himself lately.

  Laigne had presented the information about the child to him a few days before Maelduin’s arrival, using the most fadeaway of all her fadeaway voices, lying on her bed in a darkened room, a soothing draught of camomile tea at her hand and a length of cobweb-fine Draiocht Suan on her pillow, left by the conscientious Cecht.

  Too tiresome, she had said, her face turned to the wall. Too tiresome and really almost embarrassing. She did not, of course, say, ‘At my age,’ but Cerball knew that everyone else was going to say it for her. In his hearing or out of it.

  They had all had to be told. There had not been any way out of it; the Mugain had already said hadn’t they all better be staying on a while, so that they could pool their strengths and continue to bombard the Dark Realm with spells to reach Theodora and Echbel. His lady had supported this — ‘Saving servants’ wages and food bills at Mugain,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach — and Cerball had not been able to think of a polite way of asking them to please all go home. It was very heartening to think that his family were rallying round him, of course; Cerball admitted to being very heartened indeed. The trouble was that there were so many of them. At the last count, there had been forty-five people sitting down to a light midday repast (which had still taken two hours to consume and consisted of five courses), and there would have been more than that if several cousins on the distaff side had not become so involved in a new idea to reach Theo and Echbel that they had forgotten the time and missed the meal altogether. Cerball began to wake up at the unreasonable hour of the First Dawn Song, with a steady parade of mounting bills for food, wine, table-linen, firewood, and laundry marching past his eyes. He felt it tactless, as well, of a young cousin of Rumour’s to start a discussion on an increase in Partholon’s Pence, which apparently involved an exact head-count of people in your house several times a year. The more people you were found to be housing, the higher your Pence. Cerball listened to this glumly. He had previously been feeling quite warmly disposed to the cousin, whose name was Murmur, and who had large, soulful eyes, but clearly his feelings had been misplaced.

  Still, since he must needs continue to extend hospitality towards the entire House of Amaranth for an unspecified time, they had to know about Laigne. It was not something you could hide, or not for very long. Cerball had made the announcement directly after they had all finished eating supper, and had felt sheepish and extremely silly. (He had also had to remember not to look at Murmur while he made his speech, because it could have been distinctly embarrassing in view of certain recent exchanges between them.)

  There had been a moment of startled silence, and everyone had glanced at one another uneasily. And then the Mugain had risen to the occasion, and said wasn’t this the grandest news, and wouldn’t they all drink to the newest scion of their House (which necessitated ordering up three more flagons of best tawnyfire wine to refill everyone’s chalice, because you could not be drinking the health of anything in inferior stuff)? Herself said that, in the light of this, they must certainly stay, because hadn’t somebody to be supervising the scullery staff? And everyone drank to the health of the unborn Amaranthine, and several people drank to it more than once, which meant yet another round of tawnyfire, and it was all extremely depressing.

  Cerball was glad that nobody had made any bawdy remarks (which would have been embarrassing) and that nobody had congratulated him (which would have been inaccurate). He was very glad indeed that it did not seem to have occurred to any of them that the announcement had come sinisterly soon after poorest Laigne’s quite dreadful experience at the Gristlen’s hands.

  *

  It had occurred to every single soul at the table, of course. People had got together as soon as possible, congregating in worried clusters, posting the youngest apprentice sorcerers to keep watch in case Cerball should come along and hear them talking about him. It was probably a good thing that Cerball had not thought for himself that the unborn child might be the Gristlen’s.

  The Mugains had called a proper, sensible meeting of the older Amaranths in the Tapestry Room, because this was the sort of thing you should do in such an ominous situation. They had drunk some more of the tawnyfire wine, just to help them along, but they had held a responsible and solemn discussion despite this.

  The Arca Dubhs had declined to attend the Mugains’ meeting, because wasn’t Himself of Mugain always taking the
running of the entire clan on his shoulders and him with no more right to do so than the stable cat. The Arca Dubhs had long since thought that their own branch had the better claim to the Porphyry Throne, and in fact had expended a great deal of time and energy grooming Iarbonel Soothsayer for the Ritual at the Well. It had been extremely annoying when their plans had been spoiled. They commandeered the winter dining-hall, which meant they could quite openly order up a bit of a noonday banquet just to help them think, and told one another that if Laigne, poor soul, was to give birth to the Gristlen’s son, it would be a very good reason to depose Cerball’s branch of the family. You could not be having that sort of creature born into Ireland’s Royal Sorcery House. They became quite animated, and drew up plans for taking over the Porphyry Palace and manning the battlements, and sending Cerball and Laigne into exile.

  Bodb Decht and several cousins held a learned and scholarly meeting in Nechtan’s manuscript room, where they became sidetracked from their original purpose by the discovery on one of the dustier shelves of a hitherto unknown spell of Nechtan’s composing, about infiltrating the barracks of the Dark Lords’ armies, Almhuin itself.

  Several ladies, under the aegis of Great-aunt Fuamnach, got together in Laigne’s still-room under pretext of brewing some soothing potions, but in reality picked over the more sanguine details of what might occur at the birth. Poor Laigne had never been strong to begin with, of course (that very undesirable strain of Human blood!), and she was certainly not as young as she had once been. They brewed up one or two infusions of chamomile tea and some mugwort broth, and enjoyed themselves hugely.

  And while the Mugains had done a good deal of tablethumping (which had made the wine flagons jump and dance), and the Arca Dubhs had spilt mushroom soup on the best table-linen and eaten the last of the pressed duck; while Great-aunt Fuamnach’s coterie had clashed with Bodb Decht’s scholars over who should have the use of the Book of Medicinal Herbs and Potions Gathered at the Dark Midnight, in the end they had all come to pretty much the same conclusion.