The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel (22 page)

What happened to you?
I
said.
Will you tell or show me? Why do hara still fight over you?

In reply, he lifted his hands
slowly to his face and to my revulsion dug out his eyes, held them out to me as
if for inspection. Remembering I must not flinch, I looked at them. They were
stones, hemispherical smooth moonstones that glowed in the darkness. He did not
want me to see his empty sockets, for his hair now hung once more over his
face.

Who blinded you?
I asked.

He shook his head and raised his
hands to his face once more, presumably to replace the stones. He pushed back
his hair again, blinked at me. Though he was blind, he could still weep. I saw
the moist trails upon his ivory cheeks.

I intend to heal the past
,
I told him.
Will you help me?

Now, he shook his head
violently, as if in fear, and despite his blindness turned briefly as if to
glance over his shoulder. He held up his hands to me, to ward me off, and began
to back away into the mist.

Wait,
I said.
Simply
speak with me. I am here to listen.

NO! IT COMES! YSBRYD DRWG!

I could hear sound now, a low
rumbling growl, as if the stones of the earth were angry. Peredur vanished into
the mist and then something was rushing towards me in the place where he had
been: an angry, spiteful entity. I could see its yawning mouth, the black holes
of its eyes, abnormally long clawed fingers, splayed as if to attack.

I got to my feet within the
visualisation.
In the name of the dehar Lunil and all things kind, begone!
I
cried, and made the sign of Lunil in the air before me.

The entity wavered for a second,
then spat out a string of black bile at me, uttered a hideous screech and
spiralled up into the night sky, before vanishing in a flash of red light and a
crack of dull thunder.

I knew it had not retreated
because of my power, but because it had accomplished its task. Peredur was
gone.

Chapter Twelve

When the sounds began, I was reading in my living
room. I’d come home directly after my visit to the Pwll Siôl Lleuad, feeling as
if I’d picked another layer off the scab of buried history, but what had been
revealed to me I wasn’t yet sure. Was there another entity involved apart from
Peredur, or had the second manifestation merely been a different aspect of this
damaged har? Part of his essence clearly reached out to communicate, otherwise
I’d never have seen him helpless at the pool that first time. But perhaps
another part, steeped in the enmity that had been nourished for so long, sought
to banish this less hostile aspect. Only investigating further, on an etheric
level, could tell me more. For now, I needed to rest, before facing whatever
lurked in Meadow Mynd. This I intended to confront the following day. 

I’d borrowed a few books from
Wyva’s library on local folklore and history, written back in the human era,
and decided to spend the rest of the day reading, and making any relevant
notes. The meditation at the pool had exhausted me, more so than I realised,
until I sat down. After dinner, I went to the living room and here curled up on
the sofa, pulling over my legs a fleecy blanket that was draped across the
cushions. I was aware I needed comfort, but not harish comfort. A warm blanket
would do. Wine was on the table before me and books were ready to read. This was
how I planned to spend a lazy evening.

Immersed as I was in the old tales it took me a few
moments to become alert to the noises, which sounded like hara talking outside.
Strange conversation, though. And perhaps... only one voice. I heard soft
laughter, then more words – somewhat angry – then a muted wordless cry. As my
attention was focused upon them, the sounds grew louder, closer. They could
almost be inside the tower.

I kicked off the blanket and stood
up, every nerve tense and alert.

A book was still in my hand – it
was, I remember thinking, my only immediate weapon. There was another short
cry, despairing, echoing, as if bouncing off the cold stone walls of the
stairwell. I had not heard the great door open below, but neither had I locked
it.

I went to the door of the room
and pushed it wide. The stairway was silent, its dim lamps revealing nothing.
If anything was with me in the tower, it must be in the kitchen or the
basement. From the farm, I heard the voice of the hounds rise in an ululating
wave, and then they too fell silent.

Gripping my book, I ventured
cautiously down the stairs, then paused before the kitchen door. Telling myself
I was a powerful creature of magic – and why on earth was I nervous? – I
steeled myself and opened the door, stepped into the room. The atmosphere in
there was electric, the air so dense it could almost be
chewed
.

‘Show yourself,’ I hissed.

‘Don’t be angry again,’ a
wavering, childlike voice murmured. ‘I’m here. I’m here.’

I saw then, huddled on the floor
against the dresser, a quivering form, its arms over its face. My first
instinct was that this was some benighted har who’d wandered into the tower,
somehar ill or peculiar in some way, because it did not in the slightest appear
to be a spectral creature.

‘I’m not angry,’ I said, putting
the book down on the table. ‘Who are you?’

The figure then lowered its arms
and rose sinuously to a stand. ‘Do you not know me, Ysobi?’

I jumped back against the heavy
table so hard it skidded backwards a few inches. I couldn’t speak. I saw a slim
har with long dark hair, dressed in a tunic and trousers of what appeared to
expensive viridian silk. His face was beautiful, his hands as he held them out
to me expressive. I knew him well; he was my nemesis, my undoing. Gesaril. He
could not be here. Did this mean he was dead and I was facing his phantom?

‘This is not your place,’ I
managed to say eventually. ‘You must go.’

Gesaril stretched out his pale
arms, which appeared so horribly real, in a wide gesture as if to embrace,
enfold me. I could see small hairs upon them, a minor scratch above the wrist. Could
he
really
be here? ‘But didn’t you call to me?’ he murmured, tears
spilling down his face. ‘Why must I be blamed for it all? You want my place to
be here.’

‘No,’ I said and drew in a deep
breath. ‘Gesaril, are you now not of this earth? You must answer.’

For a moment, the image of him
wavered, and that was the downfall of the plot. I knew then for certain I was
dealing with a conjured being. ‘You ruined me,’ he said. ‘You pulled me to you,
then cast me away. So much of me died back then, but not all.’

‘Where did we meet the last
time?’ I asked. My heart was beating so fast I could hear it throughout my
entire body, and yet I was angry rather than afraid. Let this fetch answer the
question; of course it wouldn’t be able to.

‘You made me a hated thing,’
said the image of Gesaril in a whining tone.

The last time I’d seen Gesaril
he’d been far from whining. He had virtually cursed me for eternity. What stood
before me had been created locally. This was not a figment of the land, or of
the tower; they were well disposed to me. This came from a har.

‘Get away!’ I cried. ‘In the
name of the mighty dehar, Agave, wielder of the sword of will, I command you to
disperse into the thoughts that formed you!’ I picked up the book and threw it
hard at the figure before me. ‘Be gone!’

And so he was, so swiftly he
might never have been there. The atmosphere in the room was restored, and – I
fancied – almost apologetic, as if the tower had been incapable of preventing
the intrusion but regretted this bitterly.

I patted the table. ‘Be at
rest,’ I told the tower. ‘This disturbance is an insult to both of us. Trust
that I’ll discover its cause.’

Somehar – a Whitemane, and most
likely Ember, or Ember with the help of an older har – had reached into my mind
and drawn information about Gesaril from me, with the intention of using it
against me. I’d been expecting something along these lines since my dream of
Ember on the eve of Cuttingtide and was surprised it had taken him – or
them
– this long. What they’d conjured was a sickening violation, and to me it
seemed petty and spiteful, not the act of somehar
really
wishing to hurt
me. Did this indicate it
was
the youthful Ember behind it?  Or was
Nytethorne responsible? Had he told his family of our earlier meeting? I’d felt
sure he wouldn’t have done, that in some way he wanted my help, even if he
couldn’t voice it, but hara can be deceptive, especially if they deceive
through the medium of a beautiful face. Still, I would not let this go
unchallenged. The nerve of it!

Before going to bed, I set wards
about the tower in every corner, not wishing to have my sleep or dreams
disturbed further. I placed another clock in the bathroom, an old one I’d found
in the basement. No one waited there. Not yet.

The next morning, I woke fizzing with energy and
determination. My dreams must’ve been placid because I remembered none of them,
which was unusual for me. My intention was to confront Nytethorne about the
previous night’s events, and I looked forward to this greatly, still furious at
the intimate intrusion into my mind and past, which I remained convinced was
the work of the Whitemanes. I had no idea whether Nytethorne visited The
Rooting Boar
every day, but as I didn’t relish the thought of
confronting the Whitemanes in their lair, the inn was the only sure way to get
to him. If I had to wait a day or two, so be it. I’d been taking
my
lunch
there until I saw him again. I refused to allow the Whitemane clan to unnerve
me. Until mid-day I’d work on my Reaptide ritual, putting all other thoughts
from my mind. I sensed the tower’s approval of my temper and decisions.

At noon, I was in no mood for
walking, so rode Hercules down to Gwyllion. The pothar in the inn seemed both
surprised and pleased to see me again – perhaps thinking I’d been impressed by
my lunch the previous day. His hostling came through from what was clearly the
kitchen and greeted me warmly. ‘Good day to you, tiahaar. Would you like
lunch?’

‘I would indeed,’ I said. ‘I
enjoyed yesterday’s so much I thought I’d return. The ale was good too.’

‘How about roast chicken? I have
half a dozen already cooked, and the vegetables are done.’

‘That would be perfect.’

Yoslyn spoke to his son, who
then went to prepare my food. As garrulous as I’d remembered he was, Yoslyn
ushered me to a seat beneath one of the front windows, and sat down opposite
me. Today would be busy, he told me, because there was a livestock fayre just
outside the village. I wondered if I should make an effort to be more aware of
these local events, then smiled as I realised it was another thing that showed
I’d decided to stay in Gwyllion longer than I planned.

Yoslyn made conversation while
my meal was prepared by asking the usual questions: how was I getting on with
my work, what did I think of Gwyllion, and so on. He didn’t seem the slightest
inimical to the Wyvachi – or to me – and yet I didn’t remember seeing him or
his son at the Cuttingtide festival, and the fact Nytethorne Whitemane had a
private room here indicated in which direction the inn’s loyalties lay. Still,
if the keephar was prepared to be cordial, I would be so too.

The meal arrived – a plate
heaped with roasted vegetables and half a large roast chicken accompanied by a
pot of homemade relish; enough food to fill two bellies.  As I began to eat, I considered
that Myv’s career choice must now be common knowledge everywhere in the
district, so felt comfortable saying, ‘It seems the village hienama problem
will soon be solved. You’ve heard about Myvyen Wyvachi’s offer to take the job?’

‘Yes!’ said Yoslyn, pouring ale into
a tankard for me from a large earthenware jug his son had brought to us. 
‘Rather a surprise, but makes sense when you think about it.’

I nodded, took the tankard from
him. ‘Myv is rather young, of course, but his enthusiasm makes up for that. As
you said when we first met, the hara around here really want a hienama again.’

Yoslyn took a sip of his drink. ‘You’ll
be teaching him, then?’

‘Yes, for some time.’ I paused.
‘Do you have no dedicated nayati at all here? I mean have you ever had one?’

‘We’ve had several hienamas,’
the keephar said, smiling. ‘Flighty creatures, most of them, more concerned
with burning the incense and plaiting their hair than serious matters, but I
think the local... er... problems you’ve no doubt encountered made living and
working here sour for most of them.’

I nodded again. ‘You mean the
feud between the Whitemanes and the Wyvachi.’

‘Yes. I’m not a har to take
sides, and in all honesty I don’t think many hara in Gwyllion are, but the
conflict has often caused difficulties for hienamas in one way or another, or
so I’ve heard. Most of the original tribe don’t like to speak of the past that
much.’

‘Well, I’m made of stern stuff!’
I said, smiling. ‘Although I do think a locally bred hienama will be best for
Gwyllion. But anyway... a nayati?’

Yoslyn pulled a sour face. ‘In
the old days, at the beginning, hara had little time for being... spiritual.’

‘Were you
there
?’ I
asked, in what I hoped was not too eager a tone.

‘Not right at the start, no. I
came here – what...?’ Yoslyn turned his eyes to the ceiling for a moment and
pondered. ‘Well maybe forty or so years after Wraeththu took control in this
area.’

‘A lot can happen in forty
years.’

‘It can. But to answer your
question, no, we’ve never had a dedicated building. One or two of the hienamas
over the years have sought to use the old church, rededicate it if you like,
but hara weren’t comfortable with it – too many reminders of the human era, and
outworn human beliefs.’

‘I can appreciate that, yet most
religious buildings were constructed on ancient spiritual sites, so they’re not
inappropriate for conversion to nayatis.’

‘True, but prejudices linger.’

I nodded. ‘All too often! I
heard the original bell still lies hidden within the ruins of the church.’

Yoslyn grinned. ‘Allegedly...
and if a day comes when it is raised... well...’ Yoslyn held up his hands,
rolled his eyes in a comical manner.

‘Oh!’ I said. ‘Is there a legend
connected with it? Please tell me if so. I’m collecting stories of the area as
part of my work.’

Yoslyn leaned forward, his arms
resting comfortably on the table. ‘There was an old song, probably invented
round communal fires in the early days. I can’t remember all the words but the
start of it was something like...’ He closed his eyes for a few moments, then
sang softly a wistful melody. ‘“When the silver swan returns to the old domain,
then the bell of Gwyllion will have throat again, but that day will never
birth, for silver swan lies in the earth.”’

My flesh tingled, and even
Yoslyn seemed slightly affected by the song. He shrugged off the wistfulness.
‘Well, it was something like that. There was more to it, but I can’t remember
the rest.’

‘What or who was the silver
swan?’

Yoslyn pulled a face to indicate
he didn’t know. ‘Some tribal emblem, I expect. In this area, every ragged group
unworthy of the word phyle had an animal or bird they venerated. I expect the
song referred to some tatterflits being driven off or slaughtered by rivals,
who knows?’

I retrieved my notebook and pencil
from my coat pocket and wrote down the rhyme before I forgot it – also the word
“tatterflit”, which amused me. The keephar peered at the page as I wrote.
‘Yoslyn,’ I said, ‘I often hear a bell in the evening. Do you know where it’s
rung?’

‘A bell?’ Yoslyn pulled a face.
‘I’ve not heard one.’