by Sarah Rayne
The music tonight was not anything like that played at the banquets. Nor was it anything like the strange, elusive ripples that very occasionally sent shards of cool beauty into the dark Castle and that made the silent Maelduin look up, flashes of turquoise iridescence glinting in his eyes. At those times, the Prince would fly into slavering rage, and hurl himself through the Castle, Quintus at his heels, ransacking the great empty rooms and the echoing galleries, as if he must find the music’s source and destroy it.
But the music always faded of its own accord, as lightly and as regretfully as the insubstantial will o’ the wisps that danced maddeningly across the marshes, and the Prince would shut himself away in his own part of the Castle — sometimes not emerging for weeks — and Quintus would return to the stables where he lived.
The music Theodora heard now was quite different. It was hurtful and intrusive and it was harsh and ugly. And I believe I have heard it before somewhere, she thought, and with the thought came a stirring, something deep within her mind lifting its head and pulling at her memory; and although she tried to remember, although she thought she almost caught the skirts of whisking, vanishing memories, in the end there was nothing.
Because I have only ever lived here, and there was never anything else before that …
The other servants had been disturbed by the music as well. Andrew, who worked in the gardens and mended the Castle’s fabric when it needed it, and acted as scribe and librarian to the Prince, looked up suddenly as it trickled into the stone-flagged scullery. For a remarkable moment, something flared in his eyes that might have been recognition, and this was so interesting that Theo turned round to watch him. After a moment, he said, very softly, ‘Something is approaching.’ And looked across at Theo. ‘You hear it?’
‘Yes. I believe I have heard it before.’ She thought: why have I said that? I cannot have heard it.
Andrew said, ‘I cannot remember …’ and for the first time ever there was anger and impatience in his tone. He looked across to where Maelduin was standing in the stone archway, his hands full of the fruit he had gathered for the night’s banquet, but light shining in his eyes. For a breath-snatching second he was not the pale withdrawn young man who went about his work silently and self-sufficiently, but something slender and shining and eerily beautiful. Theo stared at him.
‘The Dark Realm,’ said Andrew, at her side, and Theo looked back, because although the words meant nothing to her, she had the feeling that they ought to mean something very fearsome indeed. Andrew was frowning, but after a moment the light died from his eyes, and he shook his head impatiently and turned abruptly back to his task of setting out wine-flagons for the banquet. Maelduin stood for a moment longer, and then he too turned back to his work. A veil has come down, thought Theo, watching him. For a few seconds there was something brilliant and strong within both of them, but it has vanished. It is behind a veil again. She shivered and wrapped her arms about her for warmth, which was something you frequently had to do here; the Prince did not care for his Castle to be warm. ‘Fish blood!’ Andrew had once said, smiling his rather sad sweet smile.
But there was no time for any of them to be listening to the strange, hurting music. There was a banquet to be prepared; fires must flare and the lights must burn. Quintus had been sent out into the cliff paths and the crags to bring back prisoners.
Tonight the Prince was entertaining the Fomoire.
*
The opening of the Gateway concerned the people of Moher deeply. No one could deny it any more; everyone had heard it, creaking softly in the half-light of dusk, which was called in parts of Ireland the Purple Hour, and which was believed by many to be a time of magical stirrings and prowling enchantments.
But at Moher, the Purple Hour was a time when evil woke and walked; when the black powers of the Dark Realm seeped through the cracks in the Moher Gateway: the strange, not-quite-Human shapes with stalk-eyes and gobbling, greedy mouths that had been seen these last months, and that stole through the Gateway and slunk down the cliff path before vanishing into the night.
They’d all heard it happen tonight, and they’d heard, for the first time, the distant, terrible music. It was music to make a man want to gather up his loved ones and protect them. And yet there was an unexpectedly rallying quality to it, so that you felt a slow anger kindle, and so that you questioned your loyalties and your courage, and asked yourself, did you really intend to spend your life in hiding and in fear of the Moher Monster?
But it was music heard through a closed door, it was distant and muffled. If the Dark Lords were holding revelry on the other side of the Moher Gateway, it was no concern of anybody’s.
Even so, they found themselves gathering almost without thinking in one of the larger houses, because a man could feel stronger and braver in the company of his friends. There was home-brewed poteen handed round and cider; somebody’s wife had baked brack and somebody else’s wife set a dish of brawn on the table. One or two of them essayed a mild joke, and as the poteen jar went round again, their spirits lifted a little.
And then there was a moment — and no one quite knew how this came about — when the men sprang to their feet, their eyes suddenly alight, and the women hustled the children to their side, and everyone stared at the barred windows and the shuttered, locked doors of the farmhouse kitchen.
Because this time there were more than scuttlings and furtive scurryings coming through the Gateway. This time the music was no longer coming to them through a closed door, because the door was unmistakably opening.
And there could be do doubt about what they were hearing, and there could be no ignoring it either.
Thudding hoofs and clashing armour and pounding marching.
The sound of a fearsome Army pouring through the Moher Gateway.
The door was yawning wide and the Dark Lords were storming into Ireland.
*
Theodora could feel the dark stirring and the harsh, intrusive music seeping through the Castle walls, but she tried not to notice it. She had tried to overlay it with the singing of the Fomoire which echoed all about the banqueting hall.
They had prepared the banquet between them, carrying the food into the hall as they always did; Maelduin and Theo taking the great sides of beef and ham, Andrew bringing the wine. It always seemed to afford the Prince some malicious inner amusement to see that. Occasionally he taunted the crippled Andrew, asking if he had been sampling the wine in secret, and whether it had not fired his ardours. Theodora had noticed that Andrew was never roused to anger or impatience at this; he simply placed the wine before the Prince and retreated to the small, austere room which he had made his own, as Theo had made the brick room off the sculleries hers. He did not say very much at all, other than occasionally to bid Theodora and Maelduin a good morning, or, very rarely, to ask for help with carrying something that was awkward. Theo did not know him very well, but then she did not know either of them very well. Maelduin was courteous and he shared in the work, but he did so rather in the manner of a machine or a puppet, and his inability to speak made him withdrawn. None of them spoke much, now that Theo thought about it.
And the repulsive Quintus was never permitted inside the Castle, other than to take prisoners to the dungeons. Theo had seen the Prince lash out at Quintus once when he had crept into the scullery for warmth one bitter winter night. She had seen Quintus cringe and try to throw up his hands to shield himself, and she had felt, not pity exactly, because no one could feel pity for Quintus. But the way he had cowered had somehow stayed with her, and once or twice she had stolen out to the pitiful place where he slept, taking an extra blanket or a bale of fresh straw; now and then a mug of soup or stew. The sunken eyes in the loathsome face had flickered with something that might have been gratitude, and the cowled head had bowed in acknowledgement of the small kindness. Theo had tried not to think too much about the way that Quintus had bowed his head and been grateful.
When she and Maelduin entered the
hall, carrying the dishes of ham and beef and the casks of warm, spiced wine, the Fomoire were singing one of their sly Hunting songs and several of them were trying out some new steps to their creeping, ugly dance, occasionally stopping to leap up on to the long oaken tables, which had already been set with dishes of crystallised fruits and flagons of the sticky sickly wine that the Prince always gave his guests before a banquet, and which Theo thought extremely unpleasant.
The Prince was seated before the long table, watching the Fomoire, resting his chin on one hand, and Theo repressed a shudder at the sight of him. He was wearing a suit of soft black velvet with the emblem of some ancient House about his shapeless neck, and the gills in his neck were opening and closing. Like this, richly garbed, he was far more sinister, far more menacing and repulsive than in the plain dark breeches and jerkin he normally wore.
‘You are in a haste to leave us tonight, my dear,’ said the Prince in his repellent, glottal voice, his eyes resting on Theodora as she set the dishes down and stood back. He reached out, and a webbed hand curled about Theo’s wrist, pulling her closer. Behind her, Andrew and Maelduin made as if to move, but although it was no more than a hesitant, fearful twitch, the Prince sent out a lashing, glinting spear that knocked them to the floor.
‘Do not meddle, paltry Humanish,’ he said, his eyes suffused with hatred. ‘You know what happens when you meddle. Or must I remind you?’ The flat, pale eyes in their cushions of swollen-looking flesh gleamed with anticipation, and Andrew and Maelduin flinched. Beneath the banqueting table, the Prince’s gristly fin stirred slightly, as if the sudden brief violence had excited him, and Theo bit back a shudder. He looked back at Theo, and as he did so, the Fomoire danced across the floor and stood in a grinning circle about her.
‘Tonight, Master?’ they cried. ‘Tonight? You promised us it would be tonight!’ they cried, and the Prince smiled the terrible flat smile.
‘Tonight,’ he said nodding, and the Fomoire whirled into a delighted Goblin-dance, four of them snatching Theo from her feet and carrying her across the hall and flinging her into the great carven chair at the Prince’s side. Theo felt the breath knocked from her at the unexpectedness of it, but she fought them, because it was quite unspeakably dreadful to be carried along like this. She could feel their little wizened hands digging into her flesh, and she could smell the warm, greasy, meaty stench of them. She struggled again and the Fomoire screeched with mirth.
‘A pretty pigeon,’ they cried, leaping into the air, the cloaks of Human skin flying outwards. ‘See how she wriggles! A lively little one! Let us have her for an hour, Master!’
‘Let us take her skin and wear it, Master!’
‘Such a fair skin.’
‘Such a pale skin.’
‘There never was such a pale, fair, Humanish skin!’ they cried, and linked hands at the centre of the hall, dancing and gibbering with evil glee.
The Prince was still watching Theodora. ‘All these years,’ he said, softly. ‘All these years of watching you and anticipating you …’
‘I have kept you safe, princess,’ he said. ‘You have been safe and secret here, and none has searched for you’ The wide, lipless mouth stretched in a terrible smile. ‘And now, the time has come for me to have you at my side,’ he said softly. ‘The time has come for us to return to the Porphyry Palace’ He broke off, watching her closely. ‘You recognise that?’
‘I am … not sure.’ With the words ‘Porphyry Palace’, there had been a brief flare of something: warmth and comfort; brilliant shining creatures and colourfully garbed people. Laughter and music … ‘I am not sure,’ said Theo again, and the Prince smiled.
‘You will see it soon,’ he said, and his pale, swollen-eyed face swam closer. Theo shrank back in the chair. ‘White-skinned,’ said the Prince, and there was a lick of wet anticipation in his voice. ‘White-skinned and dark haired, and with the Royal Amaranth blood.’
His eyes raked her body and he moved closer. Theo shuddered, and struggled to free her hands from his grasp. There was a dry, rustling sound as the membranous fin began to unfurl, and the Prince shifted slightly in his seat. Theo, caught between fear and panic, saw the fin distend a little more.
‘Perhaps the Fomoire will help to change your opinion of me,’ said the Prince in a guttural whisper, the gills in his neck opening and closing like dreadful, sucking mouths. ‘Perhaps I shall allow them to tie you down before I ravish you, Princess.’
At once the Fomoire leapt high with glee.
‘Tie her down!’
‘Ravish the Princess!’
And then:
‘Anoint the maiden, skin the bride
Peel the skin and keep the hide.
Hair and teeth and bones and fur.
Amaranth skin and Amaranth hair.’
The Prince smiled, as if he found this faintly amusing, as if precocious children had tried to entertain him.
‘For ten years I have kept the Amaranth Princess, the heiress to the great Royal Sorcery House of Ireland,’ he said, in a soft, gloating voice. ‘I have kept you safe, and none has challenged me.
‘And now the waiting is over. Now we shall celebrate the culmination of ten years. Now, here, with the Fomoire who have served me so well.’ The smile lifted his lips again. ‘And if I find you pleasing,’ he said, ‘then perhaps I shall allow the Fomoire to sample you also.’
At once the Fomoire screeched and whirled excitedly about the hall, their claws scrabbling on the stone flags, the skin-cloaks flying wildly.
‘And tomorrow,’ said the Prince ‘tomorrow we march on the Porphyry Palace.’ His eyes narrowed.
‘But tonight is our wedding night,’ he said.
*
The Fomoire leapt and screamed into delighted dancing again, and the two who had borne Theo to the carven chair, pounced on her again, carrying her to the centre of the hall. They laid her down, and two more leapt forward, taking her wrists and ankles. Theo, fighting and clawing, her mind tumbling, felt them stretch her feet apart, and as she sobbed and struggled to get free, she felt their little hard claws ripping the thin gown from her.
Deep within her mind she was aware of Andrew and Maelduin standing at the far end, and she was aware of a flare of something brilliantly blue-green and icily powerful from Maelduin. Would they save her? Could they save her?
But the Fomoire were dancing and jeering all round the hall, their grotesque shadows silhouetted against the dark Castle walls, and the Prince was moving across the floor towards her.
And he is taking his time, thought Theo, staring at him.
He moved slowly, unhurriedly, as if he were savouring the moment, and his expression was flat and calm.
But behind him, the pale, monstrous fin was unfurled; it was distended and erect in obscene lust, framing the squat, black-clad figure.
The Fomoire had been singing as they danced, screeching their grisly Hunting Song, their skin-clad claws ringing out on the huge stone flags of the hall. It seemed to Theodora, that the ancient hall was filled with horrid sly singing and with scrabbling clawed dancing, and with the meaty, grease-soaked odours of the Fomoire.
And then the Prince was standing over her, and there was no doubt about his excitement now: it was blazing from his eyes and it was pulsating from him in thick, grotesque waves. The membranous fin framed him and, as he looked down at her, Theo felt the cold ancient sea-magic of his terrible House enfold her; his breath, tainted with the stench of rotting fish, gusting sickeningly into her face.
As he reached down, the Fomoire ceased their singing and dancing as suddenly as if an order had been given, and came to stand in a circle about her.
Into the abrupt silence came the swelling sound of the cold, painful music that had trickled out of the Gateway and down the cliff path earlier on.
Theo saw the Prince lift his head, listening, and his eyes narrowed in cold anger. The Fomoire turned, their Goblin-faces wary and frowning, and in the same instant Theo saw Andrew and Maelduin half
turn.
The doors to the banqueting hall were flung open, and light and heat and noise poured in.
Through the great arched entrance — glinting evilly, armoured in black, caparisoned in scarlet and gold, steeped in ancient evil — came the Armies of the Lord of Chaos.
Chapter Forty-seven
They came streaming in, black and gleaming, the chariot wheels of Murder’s grisly carriage scudding across the ground, the Rodent Armies swarming forward, with the Almhuinians close behind them. Beyond them the WarMongers were massing, sinister and shadowy, but emanating the fearsome powers they possessed: Mutilation, Agony, Torment, Terror …
The Fisher Prince sprang back from Theodora, his grotesque features contorted with rage, and the sly, red-eyed Rodent Captains surrounded him at once, their thin rat-tails twitching with horrid delight, their narrow, mean faces grinning.
The Fomoire released Theodora at once, and she half ran, half fell across the hall to where Andrew was standing.
Behind the Rodent Armies and the Almhuinians were the repulsive stalk-eyed Spiaireachts, the creatures born of the Draoicht Spiaire, warped, mutant things born of black necromancy. They scuttled into the hall, their brain sacs bulging and quivering, spilling out of their skulls with eagerness. At the sight of them, something raked cruel claws across the surface of Theodora’s mind, stirring at something dark and hurting … I have faced these creatures or something akin to them once before … And I escaped then and I shall escape now, she thought.
In the face of every one of Chaos’s creatures was greed and blood-lust and animal hunger. They came swarming and pouring into the Grail Castle to the sound of the raging, discordant music, and as the music increased, the air became thick and fetid, clotted with old, evil magic and with strong necromancy.