The Defiler (21 page)

"All is as it should be, sister," the ebony-skinned woman said, bowing deeply to the druid. "Well met, Lord of the Trees."

"Well met, Sister Luna," Myrrdin matched her bow. He bowed in turn to the remaining women. "Sister Helios, Sister Solis, you are, as ever, a pleasure for my eyes."

"Save your flattery, friend Myrrdin. We will tend to your friend."

"My thanks, sisters."

"And mine," Ukko piped up, pushing forwards to wrap Sister Luna in a suffocating embrace. He buried his face in the folds of her shift, sniffing deeply and savouring the fragrance of her femininity before he leaned back and looked up at her warm smile. His grin grew wider still. "Now, someone mentioned something about food? I don't mind telling you, I am starving. All this heroing works up an appetite."

A few minutes later, Sister Helios returned with a makeshift stretcher.

The women carried Sláine between them.

"Tell me, Myrrdin," Leanan said, "his spirit, is it in this place, or in the realm of the living?"

"He is on the far shore battling with the beasts of the Night Bringer's hunt."

The woman inclined her head, "There is a story here, I sense."

"A ballad, perhaps. The Lay of Sláine Mac Roth, son of the Sessair, champion of Danu."

"He is touched by the Goddess?" She broke away from him, resentment robbing beauty from her eyes.

"He is, but that does not change anything, sister. He needs the healing of your house. He has made the ultimate sacrifice for his people, his life in return for nothing more than a glimmer of hope for the women and children of his home."

"It changes everything, druid, do not be so naïve. Finvarra will not welcome the intrusion of her aspects upon his prison."

"He will bear it though, and we will leave. There is no need of conflict."

"Would you take her mocking you so, Myrrdin? He is trapped here, in this no life, and it is her doing. By any reckoning he is an old man. He is tired. He harbours a deep and abiding hatred for those who robbed him of his destiny."

"He would have died on that field if it wasn't for me, Leanan. You know that."

"And so does he, Myrrdin. That was his destiny, to die and earn immortality. He is a proud man. You robbed him of it, always so eager to please that damned Goddess of yours. Now he knows no death, true, but he knows no life either. The wounds inside his mind fester even though wounds in his flesh don't. That is more punishment than you could ever imagine. One day perhaps he will repay that gift. Perhaps then you can judge him, but not before. Think on this, Lord of the Trees: centuries of hatred burn within the Wounded King, Myrrdin, and you are the focus of all that anger. Tread softly around him."

"The events of the world gather momentum, Leanan. Destinies shaped centuries before are being fulfilled even as we walk along this beach. There is much I know, more I do not, but I suspect Finvarra's exile nears an end."

"You mean to end his life? Is that why you brought death to our door?"

"He is safe from me, my lady. You have my word."

"What good is that? We trusted you once, and the Glass House was our reward. You cannot pretend you do not know the extent of the geas the Morrigan placed upon our sanctuary, to exist outside the boundaries of life and death, and yet you bring to us the one thing that could bring mortality here and simply expect us to heal your precious champion, no matter what the cost to us?"

"I did not think..."

"No, Myrrdin, you did not, not then, and not now. I was wrong when I said this place was our curse. You are our curse, my pretty one. It was always you."

"The Land of the Young is dying, Leanan. Day by day, acre by acre. Sláine is her only hope. The hopes of centuries are converging around him; it is not about me, not about what I want."

"That excuses nothing, druid. All things have their season, you of all people should know that. It is the way of life. If it is her time to die, so be it, the things we call gods die. We will tend him, even though doing so may damn us, Myrrdin. Perhaps then we will finally be free of this paradise."

The Glass House perched like some giant predator atop the summit of the island's solitary mountain crag, its shadow leering down over Ynys Afallach.

At first it seemed as though a second sun hung low in the sky; the facets of the huge crystalline construction caught and reflected and refracted so much light it ached to look at it. The Glass House blinded the pilgrims to the island - but that had always been its intent, to inspire reverence and awe, humbling the mendicants that had the temerity to approach.

Even in the shadow of the great structure, Ukko was forced to shield his eyes when he looked upon the sheer majesty of the Wounded King's palace. It was a brilliant trick of the long sweeping arched construction that allowed the Glass House to be between the anvil of the sun and the eye of the beholder no matter when they approached it.

Ukko counted seventeen spires, each, despite the bleached nature of the sun and the moon, suffused with a subtle variant of the visible spectrum, rose and lavender bleeding into topaz and azure. Each spire resembled either talon or fang; there were no smooth edges or polished curves. They were jagged spikes driven into - or rising out of - the crag. Each angle amplified the intensity of the light, in turn serving to mask some other facet of the incredible building.

Still, the nearer they were the more details of the Glass House became apparent, the coronets and embrasures and hanging gables that leant the façade its predatory mien taking shape within the glare reflecting off its hundreds of angled surfaces. The windows were like wounds in its glass skin, raw shadows that marred the perfection of its face, the huge doors a gaping maw into its glass heart.

To the left of the main house was a lake, to the right an orchard fruiting with rich ruby-red apples. The path to the house wound between the two, a tongue of well-trodden dirt. Thorns and ivy grew on either side of the path, though closer to the house they were trimmed back and shaped into topiaries and hedges. The topiaries resembled creatures, giants rooted to the landscape. The hedges themselves had been cultivated to grow along the lines of an elaborate maze. White flowers grew within the variegated green walls, flaunting their imperfection with a splash of light here and there. Wherever the tendrils of reflection from the Glass House failed to reach the landscape they returned to the drab greys and shades of black of the Annfwyn. It was as though the house itself breathed life into the island, setting it apart from everything else on this side of the mists.

To Ukko it felt as though every one of the maze monsters scrutinised their approach.

He did not like it, not one bit.

There was no air within the Glass House; that was the first thing Ukko noticed, even though it wasn't exactly true. There was air, but it was dead air, stale, breathed. It lent the place the eerie quality of a mausoleum.

He shivered as he crossed the threshold, chewing on his lip.

"Nice place," he muttered. For all its majesty he couldn't have meant it less.

They entered a wide reception hall with passageways leading off to the left, right and straight ahead, as well as two staircases cut into the glass wall on either side of the passage ahead of them, and a huge broad stairway to the left. Leanan ushered them towards the stairway. They followed her up onto one of the countless galleries within the Glass House, while the sisters bore Sláine's stretcher towards the hospice, hidden away somewhere else within the huge edifice. Her shadow stretched out behind her. Ukko touched the wall, trailing his curious fingers along the glass: it felt cold, like ice. There were no torches or oil lamps or other sources of light that he could see, and yet it was as bright within the Glass House as it was without - brighter even, suffused with the amplified light of the sun. He was left with the unnerving impression that it never grew dark within the Wounded King's palace - rather that Finvarra had somehow suspended the no-time of this place even more thoroughly than it already was, leaving them in the middle of one unending day.

"Sister Urian will see to your needs, friend Ukko," Leanan said, snapping him out of his reverie. Ukko looked up from his fingers to see a big-titted vision of beauty smiling at him, the gentling touch of her hand on his arm banishing all doubts he had. He followed her down the passage to an opulent bed chamber, not even noticing that Myrrdin had been led away by Leanan in the opposite direction. Even the most primitive of his instincts were quelled by the sensation of Urian's hand lingering on his cheek, drawing him into the chamber.

The centre of the room was dominated by an enormous crystal bathtub overflowing with soapy suds and steam. The heat coming off the water leant the room an almost lethargic feel. Ukko followed the Sister of Preiddeu into the chamber, enjoying the gentle sashay of her hips beneath the thin white shift, and the way certain creases clung to her body. It was mesmeric. Condensation from the heat peppered the walls. Sweat dripped from his brow into his eyes.

Urian took his hand and guided him towards the tub, then as she pressed him up against it, let her fingers pick over the strings tying his shirt and unravel them slowly. He stared at her fingers, then beneath her fingers at the swell of her breasts pressing against him. She followed the direction of his eyes and smiled; it was a smile that was every bit as predatory as that of the Night Bringer's hellhounds. She lifted his arms and drew the shirt up over his head. A distant alarm went off in the back of Ukko's mind but her lips suckling at the warmth of the vein in his throat stifled it into silence almost as soon as it was chimed. He sighed, lost in the heat of her nearness. Urian reached down for the string cinching his filthy britches. His breath hitched in his throat as she untied the string and loosened the button. His britches fell around his ankles.

"I thought it was food, bath, bed, not that I am complaining or anything, I've walked on three different worlds since I last had me some lovin', I'm just saying the woman on the beach promised food."

Urian smiled and pulled her simple white shift up over her head, standing naked before him.

"All right, forget food, I think I died and went to a far, far better place," and a moment later, as she took him in her hand, bringing him back to life with her swift sure strokes, "I think I love you."

Without a word, Urian pushed his shoulders back, unbalancing Ukko and gently guiding him into the water. He lost himself in the heat and the wet beneath the confidence of her touch as she enveloped him more completely than the water ever could.

The water sloshed around his chest. He tasted the soap as her movement splashed the suds up into his mouth. He didn't fight it. He luxuriated in the experience. Ukko closed his eyes, savouring the rush of sensations, all thoughts of Sláine and Myrrdin banished from his mind as her lips closed on his and her breasts pressed up against him, the suds squirming between them. He felt the heat of her sex, more intense than the water, on his legs, then up, on his stomach. Between hungry wet kisses, her hands clutching either side of his head, legs wrapped around his waist, Ukko broke away, threw his head back and laughed: "You know, I wasn't kidding when I said I was starving before."

NINE

Leanan Sidhe led Myrrdin to a second door, two storeys above Ukko's.

They didn't speak despite the fact that both harboured a hundred questions close to their breast. Indeed, the Glass House was silent bar the shuffle of their soft footsteps. Myrrdin had no liking for the place, nor, truth be told, its fey inhabitants. For all their undeniable beauty, and their uncanny resemblance to his people, their strange ways betrayed them: the Sidhe were far from human.

Where humans were driven by immeasurable instincts, both rational and irrational, as often likely to succumb to some long-buried primal urge as they were to rise above it, the Sidhe were by contrast a simple people. They were capable of great kindness when it suited, and the most calculating of treacheries when kindness fell short.

There was no concept of friendship, only fealty.

Power rested in a cradle open only to a few chosen ones, and those around it, drawn to it, craved it and killed for it. The game of kings was brutal in the extreme. Only the most ruthless survived to rule, those that failed in their ambitions were cut down, their threat removed. That was the price of disloyalty. And yet the Sidhe fell into one of two patterns of existence; they served their lord or schemed to betray him. There was no middle ground. Strength was admired, feared and worshipped, even envied, weakness despised.

A male child of the Sidhe faced a life of conflict, treachery and betrayal from the moment it drew its first breath. There was no room for a mother's love, no room for games and the fripperies of life. There was no easy camaraderie of youth. But then the life they were being prepared for had no such luxury. It was a life of strength and weakness: the extremes. Those who failed to live up to the demands of the Sidhe were culled, keeping the clans strong. Many of their young died before their thirteenth birthday, many more died after it, when they were sent out to complete the Isolation. It was a vision quest, a survivalist rite of passage: twelve lunar cycles alone in the harshest of landscapes, forced to fend for themselves until their true name came to them, hunted by the youngest hunters of the clans. To survive the Isolation was to be welcomed into the familial home of the clan, returned with an adult name, forged by the worst of the world. To be captured meant death and shame, not only for the child but for the mother and father who raised it, because it was their seed that failed the clan.

It was strength that mattered, nothing more.

The females of the species were no less twisted by the demands of their society; they were bred to serve their men, to seduce and destroy, weeding out other kinds of weakness to maintain the purity of the bloodline.

And Finvarra had been their king, the greatest of them, before the wound that brought him low, before his imprisonment here in this limbo, denied the noble death his reign demanded, and instead forced to live with the knowledge of his own failure - constantly reminded of his weakness, the wound refusing to whiten - because of Myrrdin's meddling. The Wounded King had had centuries for his grief to fester into a deep and abiding despair, the despair into hatred. The druid didn't bother trying to fool himself; there would be no warm welcome for an old friend here.