by Sarah Rayne
Without a sound, Maelduin turned back to continue his climb up to the edges of the Tanning Pit.
*
The Human torches had long since ceased to burn, but there was sufficient light to see. Maelduin pulled himself over the edges of the Pit, and lay for a moment, summoning his strength. He breathed in the cold air thankfully, seeing that, although it had been perpetually dark in the depths of the Pit, here it was the strange, faintly eerie time that the Humanish called the Purple Hour.
So a day, perhaps two or three days, passed while I was imprisoned down there, and now it is twilight.
Twilight, when creatures not entirely of this world walk …
The two horses were still tethered where he had left them, and Maelduin glanced at Quintus, and nodded in their direction.
‘You can ride, Quintus?’ he said.
‘I have ridden,’ said the Monk. ‘I should be grateful for your company a little longer.’ He looked at Maelduin questioningly, as if he might be saying: I will not ask if I may come with you in your strange quest, but if you invite me, I should accept.
Maelduin studied Quintus, remembering that strange dark shell that he had sensed earlier. Still there? Yes, I think so. But he helped me in the Pit, and I think he would be a strong ally. I could take him with me as far as the Grail Castle at least. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, and remembered the Humanish notion of ‘gaoler’, the guarding of prisoners. Could he leave Quintus as the Prince’s guard? Dare he? But he was already dreadfully aware of time trickling out, and he had no idea of how long the sidh could survive without the music.
He made a swift decision. Nothing must get in the way of restoring Tiarna. Nothing was as important. And so he would make use of Quintus if he could. He looked back at the Prince, who was standing submissively by the silver cage and then turned again to Quintus. ‘I have given my word that I will take that creature to the Grail Castle,’ he said. Quintus’s eyes flickered, and Maelduin felt the sudden stirring of the darkness that clung about the Monk, as if something that had been quiescent was raising its evil head and sniffing the air. A warning note sounded in his mind. Quintus and Coelacanth’s son together? And the Prince has bowed to captivity at my hands again. I think I must be very wary indeed of these two, thought Maelduin.
But Quintus only said, thoughtfully, The Grail Castle is a fearsome place, and difficult to find, I believe.’
Maelduin said very softly, ‘“Ride directly into the setting sun, and in the depths of the night, when the ancient lost enchantments of Ireland stir, on the darkest and most desolate road in the land … ”’ He stopped, and regarded the Monk through eyes that suddenly slanted mischievously.
Quintus said, half to himself, ‘“The darkest and most desolate road in the land …’
‘ … and there you will find the Grail Castle,’ finished Maelduin. ‘So you know the legends.’
‘All Ireland knows the legends,’ said Quintus evenly. And then, in a different voice, ‘Do you know the road? That is — do you know where it is?’
For answer, Maelduin turned and pointed beyond the rearing Moher Cliffs.
‘There is the road,’ he said, and looked back at the Monk, his eyes shining brilliantly in the twilight. ‘It winds through the Moher Cliffs, a little inland, and it is dark and desolate and its galleries and its halls will be filled with the pounding of the seas against the cliffs below. It will be shrouded in the thick sea-mists that creep across the cliffs, and it may be difficult to see it. But that is the road I must take.’ He regarded the Monk with his cool sidh authority. ‘You may take it with me if you wish,’ he said. ‘Although if you do, you must be prepared for danger and also for difficulties.’ If you have the courage, then you may come, said his tone. But it is all one to me.
Quintus said, very calmly, ‘You mistrust me.’
‘A little.’ Maelduin turned back to gaze into the darkening night, beyond the mist-shrouded cliffs. ‘Do you wonder?’
‘No. No, for the darkness of the Black Realm is still within me,’ said Quintus, and then, as Maelduin looked up sharply, ‘We both feel it,’ he said. ‘I am not sure exactly what you are, although I know you are not wholly Human. But you are aware of the darkness, the taint that is within me and that has still to be plucked out by its roots.’ His face was in shadow, the eyes sombre. ‘And yet I have repented, Maelduin,’ he said. ‘I sinned grievously, but I repented, and there in the Pit I was serving my penance.’
‘“Penance”?’
‘The means by which one makes reparation for sins. For crimes.’ Quintus looked at Maelduin. ‘That is why I did not instantly take the escape to freedom that the silver rope offered,’ he said. ‘For I must serve whatever penance is imposed on me.’ His eyes filled with the darkness again. ‘I was sentenced to the Pit —’
‘By Chaos.’
‘The instrument of the sentencing does not matter. It was my punishment, my atoning. We forge our own chains. And if I did not serve the full sentence, then there will be further sufferings ahead,’ he said. ‘The payment can never be avoided. It can sometimes be delayed, but it can never be avoided.’ And then, his expression suddenly shrewd, he said, ‘You should find it easy to understand, Maelduin, for I think you chose to cast this evil being into a dungeon in reparation for a sin you once committed. This is your own penance.’
‘Payment,’ said Maelduin, half to himself, but understanding Quintus. ‘Murmur’s death. And the honour of my people which required it.’
‘That is not so very different. To call a penance payment for a sin is not so very different.’
‘Perhaps not.’ Maelduin was still unable to tell if the Monk was exactly what he purported to be — a creature who had committed great evil while in the thrall of the Lord of Chaos, but who had later repented. I must remember that this is the Black Monk of Torach, he thought. But I think it will be all right. I think I will take the risk. After a moment, he said, ‘Our path lies along there.’ He lifted a hand, pointing. ‘Do you see?’
Quintus narrowed his eyes, following the line of Maelduin’s hand. ‘Yes,’ he said at length, very softly. ‘Yes, I see it.’ And then, almost to himself, ‘So I am to return to the wilderness where Chaos tempted me. I am to see the place of my sinning again. There is an irony in that, I think.’ He paused, and Maelduin felt again the presence of something dark and ancient and threatening deep within the Monk. But he turned his horse about, and set it to the narrow cliff path. On their left, the cliffs fell sharply away, and far below they could hear the sea pounding against the shore. Fine spray rose, shrouding the cliffs and the crags, veiling them in thick, swirling mists. Inland from the cliffs, the Moher Crags rose steeply and starkly; a black outline against the sky. But as Maelduin narrowed his eyes, trying to penetrate the darkness, he saw that further inland were small, winking lights; the huddle of hill farms and cottages, perhaps the occasional flare of lanterns in windows. The tiny lights ought to have given him comfort; he ought to have felt warmed by this evidence of Humanish occupancy, for, he thought, it is only the Humanish that light their windows in the dark night in that fashion …
But for some reason, the lights made him feel colder and more desolate than he had ever felt before. What must it be like to live your life out here, to be so far distant from life and warmth and colour? To know only the dark, craggy cliffs and the pounding of the ocean — surely the most fearsomely lonely sound in the world? — and to live in the endless, swirling sea-mists?
What had Quintus called this place? Ireland’s wilderness.
What kind of creatures lived out here?
*
The Purple Hour was all about them as they left the Tanning Pit behind. Beautiful, thought Maelduin, hearing and seeing and feeling the ancient heady magic of Ireland, the soft, sly whisperings, the scurrying, furry-footed sounds. The feeling of three-cornered faces peering out from the shadows, and the brief vivid glimpses of sly, grinning faces with pointed muzzles and pointed ears … Cloven hoofs and the beating
of wings overhead … The lingering not-entirely-safe enchantments that had been poured into Ireland at the very beginning, before Men could speak and understand one another, before they could walk upright … The Other Ireland, waking and walking …
And this is the hour when the Grail Castle can be reached, thought Maelduin.
I believe I am touching the deepest of Humanish feelings now, he thought as they rode warily along, the narrow path winding sharply upwards and inland. I believe I am experiencing Humanish race-memory. A deep fear closed about him without warning. Am I, then, now able to hear the ancestral echoes and feel the atavistic fears of a people, a race, a species to whom I do not belong? I dare not allow that! thought Maelduin. I must not allow it. For if I am able to reach into the centuries-old memories and fears of the Humanish, then for sure I am becoming too deeply entwined in the ivory cloak and too strongly enmeshed in the silken skin. And that may mean that I shall not be able to rid my true self of them later.
He gave no indication of any of this; he guided the horse along the narrow cliff path, Quintus a little behind him, with the great cage with the Prince strapped firmly to the saddle panniers. The creature had gone willingly into its captivity, eyeing Maelduin from its sly flat eyes with mocking amusement, and Maelduin had known, quite surely, that the cage would not hold the Prince for longer than it wished.
The Moher Cliffs were behind them now, fading into the distance, but thick sea-spray still wreathed the cliff path, obscuring their vision, and clinging to their hair and their eyelashes. Maelduin thought there was still the occasional glimmer of lights from the hill farms farther inland, but the mist played tricks, and it was difficult to be sure. Tiny stunted trees loomed up on the roadside, their skeletal branches resembling long bony fingers that reached and clutched, droplets of moisture clinging to them. Maelduin shivered and drew the woollen cloak more tightly about him. The horses slowed, picking their way cautiously now, and the sound of their hoofs, muffled in the mists, echoed eerily against the cliff walls. Clouds scudded across the darkening skies, and Maelduin, his eyes adjusting to the uncertain light, made out tiny footprints on the ground; the spoor of creatures who pattered through the night, some of them tiny and light, but others larger and hoofed and cloven …
Because the Grail Castle is guarded by every darkness and every prowling, slithering, creeping servant that walks the land by night …
The mist closed in on them, thick, heavy, quenching all sound. Maelduin thought that it was as if there were dozens of eyes within it, listening and watching. But they do not approach us, he thought; they do not challenge us. Because they sense that we carry with us an immense evil and are flinching from it.
When Quintus said, very softly, ‘There are creatures prowling within the shadows and within the mists, but whatever they are, they feel the prisoner’s darkness, and they fear it,’ Maelduin nodded, but thought: is it only the Prince’s darkness they feel? What of the darkness you carry, Monk?
And then they rounded a curve in the road, and there was a sudden break in the cliff face. The mists parted without warning and there — against the scudding skies, rearing against the moonwashed cliffs and partly shrouded in mist — was the Grail Castle.
*
As they approached, they saw that the Castle was made of some kind of rough dark stone, with a square central portion and huge circular towers with battlements and machicolations at each corner. At the centre was a gateway, an opening, deep in shadow where the grille of the portcullis, the great iron gates that rendered the Castle safe, should have been.
But somebody had raised the portcullis, and somebody had lowered the drawbridge.
As if they were expected.
But, as they drew nearer, they saw that the Grail Castle had an empty, desolate air. When they paused at the edge of the narrow drawbridge, they could both see that moss grew thickly over the lower part of the towers, and that several of the windows were broken and gaping, giving them the appearance of huge, yawning eyes that stared endlessly down at the waiting drawbridge, and that watched ceaselessly for any creatures that might approach.
Oh yes, send these two inside, let the gates swallow them, they will do very nicely, they are tasty morsels both … They can add a little more to the legend of the Grail Castle … They can weave a few more dark strands into the lore of this desolate place …
Against his will, Maelduin remembered again the many creatures — some Humanish, some not — who had set out in quest of this place and been lost for all time. He remembered his own father journeying here in Erin’s reign, and maintaining that strange silence ever afterwards.
At his side, Quintus said softly, They tell odd stories of this place,’ He looked up at the towering black shape, his eyes unreadable.
Maelduin said, ‘You know of it?’
‘Every creature who ever lived in Ireland knows of it.’ A shadow fell across his face, and for a moment something red gleamed in his eyes. He said, very softly, ‘There is an immense darkness within those walls.’ He looked back at Maelduin, and Maelduin repressed a shiver. Quintus’s eyes were huge black pits and his face was drained and bloodless.
Maelduin stared at him, and thought: there is something looking out of his eyes that is no longer the quiet, rather interesting creature I met earlier. This is his dark inner self; the being who served Chaos and the Lady of Almhuin, and who plumbed the deepest abysses of Necromancy to serve his lusts.
He still carries the taint of those dark years, thought Maelduin. It still lives.
And whatever is inside the Grail Castle is calling to it.
This is no longer Brother Quintus, a renegade Human from an English monastery.
This is the Black Monk of Torach once again.
Chapter Thirty-six
As they passed under the great square arch of the Castle portcullis, a darkness and a cold, keening desolation fell about them. Maelduin, his every sense alert, felt as if a thick, stifling cloak had been thrown over them. The terrible crushing weight of every exile who had ever been cast into this place pressed down on him.
Niall and the Nine Hostages, condemned by an evil necromancer … The lost Tribes of Ireland, sometimes called the Cruithin, who had vanished from Ireland one night centuries earlier, and had never been seen again … One legend told how they had taken refuge here when their existence was threatened, and had lived for several generations within the darkness of the Castle’s echoing halls. Maelduin remembered the lonely little huddles of light they had seen through the swirling mists. Were they still here, those Lost Peoples, Ireland’s long-ago Cruithin, living still in secrecy in the cliffs and the hills that surrounded the ancient Castle?
Yes, it had its secrets, this place, it had its mysteries, but it kept them to itself, and some of them were terrible and some of them were pitiful, and all of them were woven inextricably into Ireland’s rich tapestry of legend and lore and myth.
And now I am about to add a dark strand to that tapestry, thought Maelduin, glancing back at the caged Prince, and at the set features of the Monk. I am about to imprison here the son of the dread Coelacanth, and I am about to force the creature who wore the guise of the Black Monk of Torach to act as his gaoler.
Could he then escape? Or would he in turn become one of the Grail Castle’s sad, forgotten exiles? The lost sidh Prince, Tiarna’s vanished heir … The thought was like a knife-twist in his vitals.
Moonlight silvered the great hall as he entered, and dust motes swirled in and out of the thin light. Maelduin looked about him, seeing that the hall was a vast, stone-floored place, but feeling with a shock of surprise the gentle scents of old timbers and the faint drifts of lavender and beeswax enfold him. There was the lingering scent of peat, the ghosts of comfortable roaring fires, around which people might have gathered to eat and tell stories and sing songs.
He stood very still just inside the door, and thought: this is a place where people — some of them quite ordinary — have lived and laughed and been sad, and s
hared companionship and work.
And left their mark as firmly as those other poor creatures, Ireland’s exiles, who were flung here for Ireland to forget them. Just as Ireland might one day forget the sidh …
The moonlight filtered in through two narrow, high windows, set on each side of the door. At the far end was a low stone archway, and beyond it Maelduin could see passages leading away from the central hall. Sculleries? Stillrooms?
The floor was strewn with skin rugs of some kind, and to the left a wide, shallow-tread staircase led away from the hall and curved upwards, vanishing into the thick shadows.
On Maelduin’s right was an immense, stone-backed hearth, black with age. Above it, engraved in the stone chimney-breast, were the ancient arms of the Wolfkings.
So this was once a Royal House … thought Maelduin, caught in fascination, feeling the ancient memories close about him. This was once one of the great strongholds of the High Kings of Tara.
And, he thought, we are inside, and nothing has challenged us so far. All that remains is to penetrate to the dungeons and lock the Prince away. His thoughts were sane and practical and ordered. But, just beneath the sanity and the logic and the calm, ran another stratum, another layer that was none of these things.
I am standing in the heart of the fearsome, haunted Castle of every dark legend and every sinister story ever told, and with me are two creatures whom I cannot trust …
And it is night, thought Maelduin, and shivered suddenly. It is the darkest hour of the night, midnight’s arch is above us, we are held fast in the dread lonelinesses of the night’s watches …
He blinked and shook his head, and turned to the task of fetching in the silver cage which held the Fisher Prince, he and Quintus carrying it between them, and setting it on the floor of the great central hall.
‘Will it be safe here?’ said Quintus, frowning.