by Sarah Rayne
*
‘It’s here in the west wing,’ said Cerball again, facing the astounded Amaranths rather defiantly. ‘We’ve had it for — well, I don’t know how long we’ve had it, but it’s here, and I think we ought to use it now.’ He looked round the table. ‘I think we ought to try to open up the Temple, and call the Dagda.’
Bodb Decht said, carefully, ‘Of course, we don’t want to know why it’s here or how it got here, Cerball —’
‘I wouldn’t mind knowing,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach.
‘The question is whether we should use it, and whether we dare use it,’ finished Bodb Decht.
‘Why can’t we use it?’ demanded Calatin, who found the whole idea of the legendary Temple of Dagda so utterly enthralling that he had forgotten to drink the wine placed before him by Cecht.
‘I didn’t mean we oughtn’t to use it, I meant we ought to be very careful.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, because they’re tricky things, gods,’ said Bodb Decht, a bit uneasily. ‘You never quite know how they’ll react.’
‘Yes, but look here,’ said the Mugain, ‘if the Keys were given to Tara in the beginning, with the command to — what was it again?’
‘Build the House of Ireland on the rock of Tara, so that it would prevail against the Gates of the Dark Realm,’ said Cerball. ‘At least, that’s as near as I can remember.’
‘It’s near enough,’ said the Mugain, frowning. ‘If that was the command, then surely it meant that the Dagda was on the side of the True Ireland.’
‘He’s always been regarded as a good god,’ said Bodb Decht, slowly and thoughtfully.
‘The Father-god,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, nodding.
Cecht said the Druids had held the Dagda in very high regard.
‘So they did,’ said Cerball.
‘They called him the Draidecht,’ said one of the twins, speaking rather nervously for the first time, but sure of her facts, because hadn’t they just been studying this part of Amaranth history for their Artisan level degree?
‘If the Dark Lords got their hands on the Key —’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach.
‘They stole it,’ said Cerball, who felt himself to be on rather thin ice over the entire thing. ‘They wouldn’t have bought it.’
‘If the Dark Lords got their hands on it,’ continued Great-aunt Fuamnach, who could not be doing with folk who interrupted when you were about to say something important, ‘that means they thought they could make use of it.’ She rapped the floor with her hazel stick. ‘Why didn’t they do so? Why didn’t they open the Temple?’
There was a thoughtful silence. ‘You know,’ said Cerball, ‘that’s quite right. They must have believed they could force open the Temple, or they’d never have taken the Key in the first place. But it wasn’t any use. It couldn’t have been. They were never able to open the Temple. We’d have heard about it.’
‘My word, I should hope we would,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach.
‘And the fact that they didn’t use it rather suggests that they couldn’t,’ said Bodb Decht.
‘They’d certainly have tried to use it, the black-hearted scoundrels,’ cried the Mugain, who was becoming very fired up at the idea of the Dark Lords, impudent creatures, getting their nasty hands on Ireland’s ancient magical treasurers.
‘Yes, of course they would,’ said Bodb Decht. ‘But they didn’t succeed. They didn’t open up the Temple. The Dagda wouldn’t respond to their spells —’
‘Because he isn’t on their side,’ finished Calatin, beaming.
‘I think we could be sure of that,’ said Bodb Decht.
‘Of course the Dagda isn’t on the side of the Dark Lords,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, impatiently. ‘I never heard of such a thing!’ She glared at Bodb Decht, who said quite mildly that he was only pursuing a logical line of reasoning.
‘Logic my bottom,’ said Great-aunt Fuamnach, and Herself of Mugain frowned and wished Great-aunt Fuamnach would not be so coarse.
‘Well, I say we find the Key and invoke the spell at once!’ cried Calatin, on his feet, his chair pushed impatiently backwards. ‘Find it and open up the Temple, and let loose the wrath of the Dagda and the — the lesser gods on those traitors downstairs! Neit the God of Battle, and the rest!’ He looked round, and several people called out in agreement. The younger ones stood up excitedly, but looked to Cerball and the Mugain for permission, because there was a strong ritual of respect in the family, and it would have been extremely impolite to have gone dashing off through the west wing in search of the Key before the Elders of the party had given the scheme their blessing.
Bodb Decht said, ‘We do know where it is, do we, Cerball?’ and Cerball, who had been pulling worriedly at his lower lip, said, ‘Well, there’s the problem. I haven’t the smallest idea.’
*
But in the end it was easy. They simply searched each of the rooms in turn. The twins were once more detailed to keep a watch on what was happening below, and to make a round of all windows and doors to be sure that the Seals were holding.
‘The search will be easy, because there’s hardly any furniture in here,’ said Calatin, who had been told to cover the rooms at the top of the wing, and was being very important about it.
‘I expect Cerball moved all the best stuff into the main part of the Palace,’ put in somebody else.
‘And there aren’t all that many rooms to search.’
They made a careful list, and divided into three groups.
Cerball, leading the Mugains and Cecht round the central portion of the wing, stopped once or twice to listen to the sounds below.
‘Are they breaking the Seals?’ asked Cecht.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Amaranthine Seals are unbreakable,’ said the Mugain firmly.
‘We can’t be sure of that, not with the Fer Caille there.’
‘The twins will tell us if they start to dissolve.’
‘Even so, I don’t think we ought to waste any time,’ said Cerball, rather nervously, because he was becoming aware of an unease, a feeling that eyes were peering out from the shadowy corners of the empty rooms. He remembered that there were a great many enchantments which could send rather repulsive, but amorphous creatures into an enemy’s camp as spies. There was a particularly loathsome one called the Draoicht Spiaire which meant, quite literally, the Enchantment of Spying, and which the Lord of Chaos was supposed to own and keep chained and muzzled in his dungeons, and only let out at night. Supposing the Black HeartStealers and the Arca Dubhs had summoned something similar to Chaos’s Spiaire? He moved more quickly, opening doors, scanning cupboards and chests.
In the end he found the Key himself, which rather pleased him. It was lying quite neatly and quite quietly in an ancient oak chest that had stood beneath a window of the corridor overlooking the south courtyard, and had lain in the streaming sunlight of centuries, and soaked up the warmth and the scents of several generations of Amaranths. Lovely, thought Cerball, reaching out to touch the blackened surface of the chest, liking the smoothness that centuries of usage had given it, and the elaborate carving with the Amaranthine symbols of the Tree of Fertility and the Hazel Wands.
The chest was quite small, perhaps the size of a jewel coffer, and Cerball carried it back to the long gallery, and set it on the table and opened the lid.
‘Be careful,’ said Herself of Mugain, who was not at all happy about getting involved with gods and ancient mystical Temples.
‘Oh, do hush. Has somebody fetched those twins? They oughtn’t to miss this. It’s an historic moment,’ said Cerball firmly.
The twins came pattering up the stairs, bright-eyed and out of breath, to report that the Seals were all secure, with the exception, they said rather worriedly, of the Seal at the door leading out into the banqueting hall.
‘It’s a bit fuzzy at the edges.’
‘Calatin, go and reinforce it.’
‘Can I just see the Key first?’
And then Cerball and the Mugain between them lifted out the ancient legendary Key to the Temple of the Gods, and a great stillness fell upon the long, dusty gallery. Cecht, who was seated next to Cerball, thought that even the little stirring winds outside ceased, as if they, too, were listening and watching.
The Key to the Temple of the Dagda, the all-powerful Father-god of all the gods. The Lord of Great Knowledge, the Draidecht of the druids of Ireland. The father of Brigit the Poetess and Dian Cecht the Sage for whom their own Cecht had been named … And of the two sons, Neit the God of Battle, and Manannan mac Lir the Pilot …
Dare we use it? thought Cerball. Dare we call them?
The Key lay before them, shining with its own inner radiance. It was much larger than they had imagined, although most of them had not known what to imagine. But it was easily the length of a man’s arm, and half as wide. There was a thick shaft etched with ancient symbols: ‘The Symbol of Eternal Life, and the Symbol of the Tree of Knowledge and of Good and Evil,’ whispered Bodb Decht. At the narrow end of the shaft were the symbols for light and strength, and at the other end, the handpiece was shaped like the winged fruit of sycamore and ash, inlaid with turquoise and firestones.
The Key to the Temple of the Dagda. The ancient, most magical gift ever bestowed on Tara’s Royal House, given by the sorcerers to the Wolfkings and their descendants, with the exhorted promise that they would build Ireland, the True Ireland, on the rock of Tara, and guard her against the Dark Realm for all time …
Bestowed on the first High Queen of Ireland, handed down to her descendants, and rescued from the Dark Realm by Nechtan.
‘Well,’ said Cerball, reluctant to break the silence, but knowing that somebody had to do so, ‘well, now that we’ve found it, we have to decide whether we dare use it.’
‘Do we know the spell to use it?’ asked the Mugain.
‘I know a spell that might work,’ said Bodb Decht, rather doubtfully. ‘But I don’t know if it would be the right one.’
The Amaranths looked at one another dismayed, and Cerball started to say that they would simply have to try every spell that seemed to them appropriate until they hit on the right one, when there was the sound of breaking glass and drawing back of bolts, and the scampering of feet below.
The Fer Caille and his armies had broken through the Seals, and were swarming through the ancient west wing towards them.
Chapter Thirty-three
There was no time to think and no time to plan. The Fer Caille and his followers were inside the west wing, and with them came the fetid stench of old evil magic and the clotted aura of necromancy.
‘Re-Seal the doors!’ shouted Herself of Mugain frantically.
‘It’s too late!’ cried Bodb Decht, who was already at the door, Calatin behind. ‘They’re already here!’
The gallery door was pushed contemptuously in, crashing back against the wall. The Fer Caille, huge and grinning and surrounded by his followers, stood on the threshold. Behind him were the Black Heart Stealers, and the Arca Dubhs stood with Iarbonel Soothsayer and the uninjured Almhuinians, who were armoured and accoutred, their narrow, mean eyes glinting through their dark visors.
From the corner of his eye, Cerball saw Calatin inching forward, but even as he did so, one of the Almhuinians flung a spear effortlessly, and Calatin was knocked back, falling helplessly to the ground, his left arm hanging at an awkward angle. Anger welled up in Cerball, and with it came a surge of power. He felt, for the first time, the immense, locked-in power of the great golden Key.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on the force, the strength, the ancient and undying Amaranth stream bequeathed on his ancestors, which flowed like a great silver river in the veins of every member of his House. I think I can do it, thought Cerball with sudden astonishment. And then, with terrified entreaty: let me do it! Let me force open the doors of the Great Temple of the Dagda, because if I can only do this one thing, then perhaps after all I am not so unworthy of the name of my House …
He felt the power stream into his hands, scalding and fierce. Help us … thought Cerball, concentrating his mind on the single, shining thought. Help ns to drive back the Dark Ireland …
The great Key seemed to shiver and hum with life, and there was a searing heat from it, so that Cerball dropped it at once, and saw it slide a little way across the floor, and then stop at the centre, its shining, silken shaft pointing towards the east, glowing with fiery light.
The Fer Caille and his people drew back instantly, and the Almhuinians began to shriek in fear and to scrabble for the door to the stairs.
There was the distant sound of humming, of some immense force whirring and spinning over their heads. The Almhuinians, who had not reached the door, fell back on the floor, cowering there with their hands flung up over their darkly visored faces for protection.
Light was pouring into the dusty gallery; soft, glowing light, flame-tinted and pure, and the Amaranths moved back, the Key’s irradiating light directly before them. Through it they could see the Fer Caille and his followers cowering by the door.
‘Beyond the light,’ thought Cerball, seeing how the glow illuminated their faces, showing up the fear, but showing, as well, the twisted evil and the sly eyes.
The Fer Caille was standing in the doorway, a massive, brutish figure, his wide greedy mouth closed in a hard line, his small mean eyes flickering with a mixture of fury and terror.
There was a moment, searingly beautiful and very nearly blinding, when the pure flame-light lit the entire gallery, so that every object in it was silhouetted in sharp black relief. The Amaranths, clustered together at the centre, saw deep within the fiery light the massive outline of a glittering Temple; a shining, Golden Palace, so immense and so beautiful, but so mystical and so transient that they fell back in awe.
There was the sound of bolts being thrown back, and for a moment Cerball thought that more of the Seals were dissolving. And then he realised that it was nothing to do with the Seals; at the centre of the great Temple, massive, elaborate double doors were opening slowly, and rays of light were pouring outwards.
The Opening of the Temple of the Gods …
A great stillness fell over the gallery, and with it a feeling that they stood on the brink of some unguessed-at world, or as if they might have been ripped out of the Porphyry Palace altogether, and were on the edge of undreamed-of forces. But also as if they might also be within reach of silent blessed wells of tranquillity and of deep and ancient wisdoms that far transcended the sentient world. Cecht and the twins, standing with the wounded Calatin, the four of them holding hands for courage, felt suddenly helplessly young and shamefully unlearned.
There is so much you will never know on your side of the barriers, mortal creatures …
There was a brief, never-to-be-forgotten moment when they all saw, quite plainly, the wise, implacable features of a being who dwelled deep within the ancient mystical Temple; a being somehow composed of the fire and the fight, but somehow Humanish as well. There was an agelessness about him, and there was the aura of every eternal legend and every undying myth …
As the fight increased, they saw, quite clearly, wise slanting eyes that saw into Men’s souls and read their innermost thoughts, and that understood Men’s frailties and pettinesses as well as their kindnesses and their generosities. There was the feeling of immeasurable understanding and compassion, but there was the feeling as well of avenging anger and cold and dispassionate judging.
And then fire burned up more brilliantly, enveloping the wise, solemn eyes, and the doors began to move to a close again, and as the Amaranths flinched in the blinding heat and the fierce fight, the Dagda’s face wavered and blurred, and finally dissolved.
In the last flicker of the dying flames, darkly silhouetted against the fight, there appeared the figures of two slender
young men, the taller clad in glinting golden armour, with a breastplate bearing licking tongues of fire. His hair was not ordinary hair that moved and became dishevelled or tousled, but a solid gold cap of carven curls sculptured to his head and clustering over his brow. His companion wore a silken robe of grey-green, and his skin had a pearly, luminous sheen, rather as if moisture clung to it. He had eyes the colour of the ocean on a dull day, and shining grey-green hair that rippled like thin water.
The Dagda had not come in response to their summons.
But he had sent two of his sons.
Neit the God of Battle, and Manannan mac Lir the Pilot.
*
The Fer Caille and his followers fell back at once, tumbling over one another in their haste to get down the stairs and out of the west wing and to some kind of safety.
The Amaranths could hear them running for cover, the Almhuinians shrieking and squealing — ‘Like the mutant-rats they are!’ thought Cerball, still bewildered and torn between triumph and fear. The Black HeartStealers were pounding down the stairs and along the corridors with their great, heavy tread, and they could hear the Arca Dubhs hurrying along in their wake.
Neit stood watching them go, his back to the dazed Amaranths, the golden armour gleaming, and a spear held in his right hand. Manannan mac Lir had turned to survey the Amaranths, and grinned suddenly and rather humanly at Cecht.
The God of Battle and the Pilot …
Cerball thought: I suppose it is up to me to say something. And tried to remember what was the correct way to greet a couple of gods, and glared at the Mugain, who might have been thought to know these things, but who was being no help at all, and was in fact staring at the two creatures with his mouth open.
Neit turned back into the gallery and strode to Cerball, holding out both his hands.
‘You are the Amaranth leader,’ he said, throwing back his head, so that the golden sculptured curls caught the light. His voice was strong and rich. It was the sort of voice you would instantly trust, and the sort of voice that made you feel, quite suddenly, that things could be put right after all.