More Than Mortal (34 page)

Authors: Mick Farren

BOOK: More Than Mortal

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“Welcome, Master Victor Renquist of California. Welcome to Fenrior and all it has to offer. Come down and meet the Seven Stars.”

A slight salute with his cane, and Renquist started down, halting one step above where the lady from the high table was standing. He bowed low, taking a proffered hand in a white kid glove and kissing it. “Madame, I fear you have the better of me.”

The lady smiled. He noticed she wore a ring over the glove, with a diamond worth a not particularly modest
fortune. “No need to fear, Master Renquist. I am the Lady Gethsemany.”

The only word for her was radiant. Her face was both timeless and ageless, knowing and wise, but strangely neutral in that it was neither cruel nor compassionate, simply and wholly confident in her unquestioned authority and power of total command. She seemed like something unique among nosferatu: one who was always courteous because she never needed to be otherwise. Renquist imagined she could send men and women to their deaths without so much as raising her voice. Up close the dress she wore was revealed to be of the finest silk, translucent in that it hinted at but didn’t quite reveal the slender white body beneath. It was enhanced by a wide silver collar engraved with both runes and flame script from which hung shining pendant diamonds almost as large as the one on her hand. On her head was a silver crown set with more diamondlike spikes of ice crystal.

The crown and the way all appeared to bend to her will suggested that Gethsemany could only be Fenrior’s first consort, but Renquist had no idea how the Lord Fenrior conducted his relationships. Were the Seven Stars his brides, his consorts, his hunting partners, his concubines, or was their multiple association more distinctively original in its patterns and complexities? Renquist had no easy way of finding out, but he imagined, if he kept his senses alert, he would discover at least some of the answers in the fullness of the night. From Gethsemany he moved on to the female with the purple hair, and like Gethsemany, she, too, extended her hand to be kissed. As Victor leaned forward, he couldn’t help but note the intricate fastening on her leather dress and the way it accentuated her ample cleavage. “Welcome, Victor. I’m Theda.”

“I’m charmed.”

Where Gethsemany was ethereal, Theda was fully of the flesh, sensual and, Renquist suspected, greedy and
infantile when the mood took her. But he didn’t doubt that she could also be a ready and probably extreme source of risky amusement should the occasion arise. Theda indicated the pony girl who was next in the line. “This is Cyrce. She can’t speak for herself, she has a bit between her teeth.”

“I’m enchanted to meet you, Cyrce.”

Cyrce snorted and nodded her head, carrying the equine pantomime to its logical conclusion, but Renquist saw a calculation in her eyes. She was no oppressed victim, and her current costume and restraint—and even the stinging cuts she received from Theda’s switch—had to be part of a long and continuing game in which she was a more than willing and totally equal participant. He would not even attempt to divine what went on between Theda and Cyrce. Back at the colony, he had Dahlia and Imogene, whose behavior frequently challenged even the most distorted concepts of reality. He had never truly worked them out, and he wasn’t about to delve for instant explanations of another pair of equally bizarre females.

“Fratri in sanguinem,
Master Renquist, I am Lithbet.”

Lithbet, in the scarlet ball gown, had no fangs, but instead wore what could only be described as an extended thimble on the little finger of her right hand. Wrought from what looked to be steel set in a spiral basketwork of gold, it ended in a small but undoubtedly efficient blade, which he could only suppose she used on her prey. As Renquist kissed her hand, she folded the device back against her palm to avoid stabbing him in the cheek.

“I met Cynara once, a very long time ago. I can only offer my condolences.”

“Thank you. I still greatly miss her.”

Lithbet’s voice was soft and with the trace of an accent, perhaps from Georgia or Tennessee. He wasn’t sure, and he wondered how she had managed to make her way to the north of Scotland. He would have thought
the climate too cold and the manners too rough to suit a Dixie peach. Cynara had been in the South during the War Between the States, and since Lithbet’s costume came from approximately the same period, he wondered if they might have encountered each other in Confederate Richmond or Atlanta. He didn’t have time to ask, though. He was now being moved down the line quite quickly, and Gethsemany, Theda, and Cyrce were descending the stairs behind him creating the ingredients of a small procession.

“I’m Starr.”

Starr could easily have been a dancer on the television show
Shindig.
A young Goldie Hawn with makeup so heavily and uniformly applied it masked all behind a blank cartoon of sexuality. White lips, white stockings, a short, bleached, Vidal Sassoon haircut—even her eyes were hidden behind small circular opalescent psychedelic glasses. Starr was giving absolutely nothing away.

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The blank mask hardly smiled. “Groovy.”

Groovy?
How long was it since he’d heard that word used with any seriousness?

The warnor-maid was tough as nails, and, although protocol decreed she greet Renquist cordially, her look told him she regarded his presence at the castle as little more than an unwanted intrusion. She plainly didn’t require her hand kissed. “Goneril.”

“Right.”

That just left the figure in the cowl. Even standing right in front of her, the hood was pulled so far forward, her face was still invisible to Renquist. The only clue to the mood or nature of the supposed Craft-worker was the voice, and it was cold, neutral, and not even speaking English.
“Ei kur azkak, fratri in sanguinem.”

Presented with both the Old Speech and Latin, Renquist could only bow low and respond in kind.
“Ei kur azkak kia ante malada, sorori in sanguinem.”

With a whole new menu of puzzling questions nagging
at his mind, Renquist allowed himself to be ushered on down the stone steps. Gethsemany walked beside him, and the rest of the Seven Stars closed behind them like an honor guard. Every eye in the Great Hall was on him, but he found it hard to read the humor of the assembled nosferatu. He had hardly anticipated being greeted with riotous applause, and he’d expected the prevailing atmosphere to be one of curiosity tinged with suspicion. Such would have been the way of it even in a small enclave of the undead. At this unprecedentedly large gathering, everything had to be on a greatly enhanced level. Yet Renquist sensed something else. The interest the crowd in the hall showed in him was somehow related to something larger. He knew his having been lifted by Gallowglass was connected with the waking of Taliesin, but was the whole gathering a part of the Merlin’s return? If that was the case, then Fenrior had known the secret of the burial mount at Morton Downs for much longer than Columbine and her friends, and Renquist should regret having allowed himself to brought into this situation by anyone as shallow, vain, and uninformed as Columbine Dashwood. On the other hand, if Columbine hadn’t contacted him, he would never have known about any of this, and no matter what the ultimate outcome, he would not have wished to miss the awakening of Merlin and the spectacle of an Urshu walking the Earth—under any circumstances.

In addition to the speculation and curiosity his arrival seemed to have triggered, Renquist could also sense a strong element of hostility. Most of this seemed to come from Fenrior’s Highland bully boys. It was really only to be expected. Violent and tightly knit communities were instinctively wary of outsiders, and wariness could all too readily turn into furious, claymore-swinging hatred given the required but easy provocation. When a sudden eruption of laughter came from a section of one of the lower tables occupied by Duncanon and his cronies, Renquist knew it had been triggered by some derogatory
remark about him. Before he had time to react, though, further mirth was quelled with a look from Gethsemany, which, if nothing else, indicated the extent of her authority. Gallowglass had been unable to command such instant obedience from Duncanon with nothing more than a look.

The Lady Gethsemany took Renquist by the arm. “You’re being seated at the high table.”

“I’m honored, my lady.”

Gethsemany looked amused. It was the first time Renquist had seen her express a real and spontaneous emotion, and for a brief moment, she ceased to be ethereal and looked almost down-to-earth. “Don’t be too honored. You are quite near the end of the high table, I’m afraid. Next to Shaggy Lachlan, who occupies his place primarily because he’s the oldest of the swordbearers in the clan. There was some dispute about you being at the high table at all, you being—to put it delicately—hardly here of your own accord.”

“I’m sure Shaggy Lachlan will be entertaining company.”

Gethsemany laughed. “No, he won’t. First he’ll get your measure by trying to scare you, and then he’ll fall asleep.” She hesitated and then delivered a warning. “Don’t overdo the courtly diplomacy, Victor. This place has its rough and dangerous side.”

“Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ve already seen some of that.”

Gethsemany nodded. “Yes, I suppose you have. Did anyone warn you about the whisky?”

“Gallowglass.”

“Yes, he would. He has his puritan streak.”

Gethsemany returned to her place on the left of Fenrior’s empty seat, and Renquist took his debated seat next to venerable Shaggy, who had fought at Flodden. He had expected all of the Seven Stars to have places at the high table, but this didn’t seem to be the case. Goneril returned to her whisky-swilling Highlanders. Theda and Cyrce went back to mingling with the more
socially flamboyant. Starr did take a place at the opposite end of the high table from Renquist and Lachlan, and then immediately proceeded to look bored. The one move that took him completely by surprise was that of the hooded Craft-worker who had not given her name. After his formal entrance, she had moved to where the four of her coven were still keeping their own company, but only stayed with them for what seemed to be a fast and whispered discussion. When that was concluded, she hurried to the high table, and, to Renquist’s amazement, seated herself to the right of Fenrior’s throne. The indication was that she had equal power to that of the Lady Gethsemany, and Fenrior had what in human terms would constitute a witch occupying a crucial place in his inner circle.

Before Renquist could consider what this latest development might mean and how it might affect him, Shaggy Lachlan grunted. “So ye be Renquist, aye?”

“I’m Renquist.”

Shaggy Lachlan’s face was completely covered with tattoos, abstract Celtic swirls and spirals. About the only skin that didn’t carry the blue and magenta ink was the long grey scar that ran from his hairline, past his left eye, down his cheek, then continued down his throat, and was finally hidden by the greasy leather tunic under his plaid. Renquist could only imagine Lachlan must have been close to cleaved in half when Fenrior had saved him. The combination of the scar and that he looked at least sixty years old led Renquist to suppose no time had been available for cosmetic adjustment when bringing the dying and bleeding man through the Change.

“Strangers don’t find too warm a welcome round these parts.”

Renquist responded without expression. “Everyone has been very courteous so far.”

“Tha’s because ye bin moonin’ wi’ th’ woman.”

Apparently no one had told Shaggy how Renquist had
come to be there. “Ye’re fra’ th’ south, I ken?”

“I’m from the United States. California to be precise, but before that—”

Shaggy didn’t seem overly interested in before that. “Th’ Americas, hey? Well, tha’ll no save ye.”

“Save me from what?”

“Like as no one o’ th’ lads’ll call ye oot a’fore th’ death o’ th’ night.”

Before either could say more, a young serving thrall in garlands crushed by the embraces of Highlanders high on microfungi placed bottles of whisky in front of both Shaggy and Renquist. As the newcomer, Renquist also received a pewter mug. Shaggy pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth. “’Tis a dark bottle so i’ din’a look ugly when i’s half empty.”

He splashed the scotch into his own pot until it was at least half full, guzzled a quantity, and then nodded to Renquist. “Ye better get some o’ yon down you, lad. It’ll stiffen ye when they come t’ take ye head.”

Renquist realized he was being subjected to peer pressure, but when the peer pressure comes from a five-hundred-year-old, bad-tempered, broadsword-killer Scotsman, it can be very persuasive. He knew, when both Gallowglass and Gethsemany had warned him about the whisky, sooner or later, he would sample it, if for no other reason than, with nearly a millennium behind him, new and novel experiences were not so common or easy to come by. “Microfungi?”

“Tha’s wha’ they say.”

The intoxication took a minute or so to reach his brain, but when it did, it hit hard. “Damn me!”

“This is y’ first time?”

Renquist gasped out the single word. “Yes.”

“An’ ye’re feelin’ i’?”

“Oh, yes, I’m feeling it, all right.”