by Sarah Rayne
It was interesting to hear about the banquet, which had sent the concubines into such a flurry. At least it was something to look forward to: Theo had in fact been getting extremely bored in the Saraigli. A banquet might mean that all kinds of people would come to the Castle, and perhaps there would be someone who would help her to escape and get out of the Dark Realm.
She knew about banquets, although she had not been allowed to attend any, of course, on account of not being old enough. But when Great-grandfather had given banquets, Theo had slipped into the great hall at the Porphyry Palace before the guests assembled, to peep at the sparkling tables, all laid with Great-grandfather’s nicest gold plate; there would usually be huge silver bowls of fruit, from which you could, if you were very careful, steal a handful of berries: perhaps the glossy blackberries that grew along the road to the Palace, or maybe the soft, sharp raspberries. Mamma had usually decorated the tables: there would be rowan at Samain to keep out the evil creatures, and there would be the marvellous nine bronze burners at Beltane, elaborately wrought and burnished by many generations of Beltane fire. You had to keep the sacred fire burning throughout the Palace for the entire festival of Beltane, of course; it was extremely important, although Theo was not sure why.
The banquet tonight was to be a very grand affair. The concubines told one another that Chaos had summoned the heads of all his Armies: one story said he had called in the Fomoire as well, but nobody knew if this was true.
He was going to launch a final and overwhelming attack on the Crimson Lady and take Almhuin Castle for his own, which would mean he would at last rule the whole of the Dark Realm.
‘And then,’ said AnCine, who usually told the concubines what was happening in the Palace, ‘and then he will be strong enough to storm into the Beyond Ireland and rule there as well!’
They all knew that this was well within Chaos’s powers. They listened to the stories while they were gilding their soft, pampered bodies for the banquet, and threading seed pearls or rubies or tiny winking diamonds into their hair and painting their faces. They had to look their very best tonight, they said importantly. They had not really time to think about battles and wars and the Beyond Ireland.
AnCine said it would be an historic evening, and so of course they had all assumed serious expressions at once, because knowing about historic evenings and wars was a grown-up thing and they all wanted to appear very grown-up.
But then Meirdreach came plodding in with the keys to the jewel caskets, and they all forgot about silly boring things like battles and historic events, because it was much more interesting to see inside the jewel-boxes, which they were not normally allowed to do, because Meirdreach and the Reachtaire said that they could not be trusted not to steal the prettiest. They had tossed their heads and affected not to care, but when the boxes were opened, they all clustered about them, asking Meirdreach in their best voices which of the jewels they might have; begging to be given that one — no, that! — trying the effect of pearls against a length of cream satin, or rainbow diamonds on gold damask. Even AnCine liked jewels.
As the hour of the banquet approached, they became very excited indeed, giggling and primping, running to ask Meirdreach which of them was to attend because there was such a lot to do: there were scented baths to be taken, and oils to be rubbed in, and gowns to be chosen. They furrowed their brows over this last, until AnCine reminded them that frowning caused wrinkles.
There was a great deal of trying-on of gowns and silk slippers, and laying-out of paints and powders and perfumes. AnCine tied her red hair up in a new shape, and twined a diadem threaded with rubies through it, but it was discovered that she had appropriated the rubies from Meirdreach’s private cache, and was ordered to give them back by Meirdreach, who said that, in any case, rubies with red hair were vulgar, and she was not having any of them appearing at a banquet looking vulgar.
*
Light flooded the huge banqueting hall, pouring down from the crystal and diamond wall-sconces that had been fashioned for Chaos by the captured salamanders of Fael-Inis’s Fire Country many years earlier. Chaos was known to be rather proud of having enslaved the salamanders — albeit briefly — and his people knew that this streak of pride was one of his very few weaknesses. You might, if you were sufficiently brave or sufficiently foolhardy, almost call it a nearly Humanish weakness, although of course nobody even whispered this, or anything else defamatory about Chaos, on account of the Draoicht Spiaire. This was the ancient and fearsomely strong Spell of Spies, one of the ugliest enchantments ever woven, and which Chaos kept chained and locked behind a massively thick iron door in the depths of the Castle keep. It was unchained and let out every night to prowl the dark corridors of the Castle; it would stand outside bedchamber doors, and sometimes slither through keyholes and down chimneys, so that it could watch exactly what every single creature was doing and hear every single thing that was said. Nobody had ever seen the Draoicht Spiaire, because nobody ever dared to venture out at night, but everyone heard it pattering through the empty halls and sniffing at doors and chuckling greedily to itself over its accumulated knowledge.
There would not be as much revel-making as usual tonight, because the banquet was rather in the nature of a war council. But there would be some, because the Castle of Infinity was famous for its lavish entertainments. This was Misrule’s province, and most people were interested to see what he would come up with, because it was being whispered that Chaos had been displeased with Misrule’s last efforts. One rumour even said he had been threatened with a spell of exile in the Tanning Pit. If that happened, Anarchy might be appointed in Misrule’s place, and opinions were divided as to whether this was a good thing or no, because Anarchy had an original, inventive mind, and would probably come up with some splendidly gory and gruesome entertainments; but say what you liked, he was disgracefully disorganised.
And most people enjoyed Misrule’s masques and dances. He it was who had devised the now-famous Human-baiting, which everyone enjoyed, and then of course he had actually managed to capture some of the sidh’s Uisce, the floss-maned SeaHorses that inhabited Ireland’s wild beautiful western coasts, for the Palace to stage ManHunts across the NightFields. This had proved even more popular than Human-baiting, and Chaos had frequently taken a party of guests out to the NightFields, all of them riding the Uisce, who had been beaten and cowed into submission so that they would carry Chaos’s guests at a good fast pace along the hinterlands of the Realm, to where you could often find a party of lurking Humanish. The Hunting Parties nearly always brought back upwards of a dozen of the creatures for the Castle dungeons. And everyone in Chaos’s Realm knew that, once you had Humanish in your cells, once you had imprisoned them and chained them and manacled them (and sometimes muzzled them), there were any number of uses they could be put to.
*
It was into this fermenting and anticipatory Castle that Rumour, proceeding with extreme caution, came.
The entry was, in fact, far easier and far less attended by suspicion than she had expected.
‘For the banquet, I daresay?’ said the doorkeeper, glancing at her rather carelessly, seeing that she was garbed richly and had about her the aura of power. And hadn’t Himself all manner of strangers coming along up to the Castle tonight, on account of the fine old battle they were all going to mount against the Lady of Almhuin, the black-hearted, traitorous bitch! Necromancers and black sorcerers and all manner of important beings were expected. He’d bathed in the reflected glory of it all, because wasn’t it the finest thing ever to be in the service of the most powerful of all the Dark Lords? He let Rumour in through the gates without thinking very much about it.
*
Rumour stood just inside the immense central portion of the Castle, seeing at once that this was the heart and the life of the Castle. Chaos’s servants were everywhere; they ran and scurried and fetched and carried. Great silver tubs of wine were trundled across the hall, and scullions ran distractedly to and
fro with haunches of venison and carcasses of oxen and sheep for the spits. Huge containers of flowers were carried carefully towards the far end of the hall, and heavy-featured females, whom Rumour at once recognised as being half-Giantesses, were dealing with white linen and damask for the tables, and bales of lavender-scented sheets for guest chambers.
But Rumour, for the moment unnoticed, saw that, with the exception of the half-Giantesses, who were probably laundresses and scrubwomen, Chaos’s servants were a breed of the Rodent-mutants that she and Andrew had encountered in Almhuin.
But it was a subtly different breed from the Almhuinians, and Rumour, her attention momentarily caught, studied them, seeing signs not just of the Rodent strain, but of other, more ancient lineages.
As well as the Rodent-strain, Chaos’s servants showed traces of the ancient sea-creatures, the little-known beings who had lived in Tiarna before the sidh, and long before the nimfeach, and whose origins were so far back that even the name had been lost. But Rumour thought the signs were there in the long, sea-green eyes and in the pale, faintly luminous skins and long-fingered hands.
And there was certainly a vein of Humanish blood and also Giantish, for they moved with an odd blending of Giantish strength and Humanish quickness. Rumour stayed where she was, partly in the shadow cast by the great bastions of the Castle, watching the servants going about their Lord’s business, and began to see, quite clearly, that they possessed, in addition, the unmistakable characteristics of the Cruithin, the little dark elfin people, believed by most to be the first true Irish race, long since lost.
Rumour, torn between fascination and repulsion, recognised that this was a blending of many and diverse creatures, of creatures who were natural and ancient enemies.
They are mutants, she thought, but I do not believe they are natural mutants. This is deliberate and calculated, this is the result of forced mating and planned breeding, controlled by dark, evil magic.
Fear stirred again, but this time it was not simply fear of the powerful necromancer who ruled here. It was a deeper, more ancient fear, the atavistic revulsion and terror of natural laws harnessed and then deliberately warped and distorted.
So the whispers about Chaos’s secret work were true, thought Rumour, staring about her.
Chaos’s servants were the products of the forbidden practise of the Draoicht Roghnacht.
Necromantic race-breeding.
As she stood watching, a thin, rather spindly-legged creature wearing a black cloak and elaborate mask said, very softly, ‘Are you here to assist with the revels, my dear?’ and Rumour turned sharply. She knew at once that at her side was one of Chaos’s foremost henchmen.
The Lord of Misrule.
Dark inHuman eyes glinted behind the slits in the mask, and Rumour was conscious of a cold, sly assessing, as if he might be wondering who and what she was, and whether he could make use of her. ‘I bid you welcome to the Castle of Infinity,’ he said, and his voice had a slightly taunting, but not unfriendly note.
‘Thank you,’ said Rumour carefully.
Misrule regarded her, his head on one side. ‘I think we have never met,’ he said, ‘but I have sent out the call to all creatures who have the subsidiary necromantic degrees of Turmoil and Discord. ‘I think you are one of those creatures.’
Rumour stared at him, understanding that, in the necromantic world, there were degrees and gradings and hierarchies, exactly as there were in the purer magic of sorcery.
Misrule said, in his rather mocking voice, ‘You have a remarkably strong power essence, madame, and I see that it is tinged with the blue of the Scealai.’
The Scealai. The Narrator. The Story-Teller … Rumour thought: so he is able to see that, is he? He is able to see it easily and within minutes of meeting. She felt cold fear touch her skin again, for if the perceptions of these beings were as sharp and as finely honed as all this, she had been fortunate even to get through the Castle gates without being challenged.
But she said, carefully and courteously, ‘You see rightly. I am versed in the art of Story-Telling.’ And then, picking the words as warily as if she were treading on spun sugar, ‘I have the degree of Scealai,’ she said, and although in her world, the ancient Gael word was not utilised, she spoke with perfect truth. The Amaranths had simply called it the Art of the Story-Teller, and Rumour held a very high degree in it.
Misrule was looking at her, clearly waiting for more. Could she possibly bluff him? Dare she? But Rumour had always taken the reckless, the daring way. She eyed the Lord of Misrule with apparent tranquillity and said, ‘I also have a degree in Saturnalia.’
The partly hidden eyes narrowed. ‘Saturnalia? I do not know that,’ said Misrule, and Rumour felt the spun sugar crack. She knew the theory and the history of sorcery as well as any living creature, but her knowledge of the mechanics of necromancy was sparse. It might betray her at any moment.
But she would not turn back now. She said, in a rather contemptuous voice, ‘Indeed? Of course, it is a little obscure. A practice brought from Eastern lands. A feast of wild revelry,’ said Rumour in a surprised, did-you-not-know-that tone. ‘The god of the Saturnalia is sometimes known as Cronus,’ she said, in the extra-kind voice of one addressing an untutored inferior, and Misrule said, glacially, ‘The god Cronus is known to the Lord of this Castle.’
‘Yes, I am sure he is.’ Rumour smiled the most catlike of all her catlike smiles. ‘In the Legends of Prophecy, is not Chaos usurped by Cronus, son of Gaia?’ She moved to the centre of the hall, the silken blue-green robe of the Elven King brushing the floor with a soft, sensuous whisper. ‘In the Prophecies, Cronus is the son of Gaia,’ said Rumour, her voice as soft and as sensuous as her silken gown. ‘Your Lord should beware of any creature approaching this Castle bearing that name.
‘But perhaps Cronus has a female immanence. Perhaps he has a twin, an alter-ego, a doppelganger.’ Again the smile. ‘And so,’ purred Rumour, ‘perhaps you will tell your Lord that it is the Sorceress Saturnalia who has come to his Castle.’
Chapter Forty
Rumour was shown to a large, well-lit bedchamber with a deep soft bed with rich, silver-embroidered hangings. A bright fire glowed in the hearth, its leaping flames reflecting in the copper cans of scented hot water left for her.
The windows were set deeply into the thick ancient stone of the Castle walls, and beneath them was a wide, velvet-covered seat strewn with cushions. Through the half-curtained windows, Rumour could see the NightFields spread out to the west and, beyond them, the stark silhouettes of the Black Mountains. And somewhere in there was the lonely desolate Fortress of Almhuin, with its terrible prisoner and its solitary Guardian. She touched the memory of Andrew, because it was something good and something warm and safe and something to be trusted. While I have that, I can feel safe, and while I have that I can be immune to Chaos’s dark beckoning necromancy. She turned back.
Tonight’s banquet, whatever its purpose, was clearly to be a very grand affair. The guests would undoubtedly be glitteringly clad; there would be silks and velvets and taffetas; rich jewels and scented bodies and elaborate masks and ornate headdresses. I have to take part in it, thought Rumour. I have to go down into the brilliantly lit banqueting hall and mingle with the evil creatures that will undoubtedly assemble there, and I must hope I am not recognised. I think it is the only way to find out where Theodora is.
She grinned suddenly, and turned to the gowns she had brought, selecting, after thought, one of Aillen mac Midha’s most beautiful robes; a soft gauzy gown of palest cream Seirician silk, the cobweb-fine stuff woven in the strange hidden water-caves of Seiricia, the seams bound with pearl and opal. There was a narrow circlet of pure soft silver. Rumour slid into the gown, lacing it so that it fell open across her breasts. Too much? Not enough? She smiled the catsmile, and allowed the laces to part another inch. Exactly right.
Her hair was still very short, but she thought it was not grotesquely so any more. It was like a boy’s cap of hai
r, soft and dark, here and there with reddish lights. But it could be improved on. She unwrapped her small pots and the ivory boxes, and commenced to tip the short dark fronds with glinting silver. She would add a sprinkling of tiny silver stars to her bare shoulders, and perhaps she would sprinkle her breasts with them as well. Should she? She tried the effect, and was pleased. Good. She grinned again and reached for the soft tints of the face-paint, and the vivid colours she sometimes used to outline her eyes. Green eyelashes tonight, and a sprinkling of tiny silver specks to emphasise her cheekbones.
She set the casket containing the sidh’s music carefully in the garde-robe where her gowns and cloaks hung, and murmured a brief spell of protection over it. She thought there was a faint fragrant sigh from it, as if it was unhappy at being consigned to the dark, airless corner, and she thought there was a ripple of soft blue-green light. But she dared not leave it anywhere that it might be seen.
She gave her reflection a last inspection in the long oval looking-glass and, taking a deep breath, left the room to make her way to the banqueting hall of the Lord of Chaos and his dark servants.
*
It took more resolve than she had expected to walk through the Castle in the direction of the music and the sounds of the revelry. In a few minutes, I shall have to enter a room, that will be filled with strangers, every one of them evil, any one of whom may recognise me for an intruder and an imposter.
But I’ll do it, thought Rumour determinedly. I’ll do it, I’ll walk in with my head in the air, and somehow I’ll outwit them.
She found the banqueting hall easily, and there was a thin trickle of confidence at that, as if she was being reminded that she was very used to walking through Castles and finding her way about, and that she was accustomed to taking part in glittering assemblies. She would pretend that this would not be so very different to any of those other banquets and gatherings and revelries.