The Wraiths of Will and Pleasure (3 page)

Rarn pressed the fingers of one hand against his eyes. His body shuddered with dry sobs. So much to learn. So much. He felt full of love and sadness. He was beginning to understand what it meant to be truly har.

In the pavilion, Chisbet finished off the wound packing and sat back for a moment to admire his work. Herien had still not come round. Chisbet knew he’d done a good job on the stitches; the har would be fine in a few days. He changed the soiled bedding around Herien, made him comfortable, and then turned his attention to the pearl. Gently, he cleaned it. He had seen this happen only once before, among the Unneah, and that event had occasioned more upset than this one. He smiled to himself in recollection. Every har in the tribe had trembled in terror then, as if a plague had come upon them. Chisbet wasn’t distressed by harish birth. He had spoken the truth when he’d called it a miracle. Until you’d seen this, Wraeththu bodies and all their pleasing accessories seemed only like ornaments. This was real and bloody. To Chisbet, it was proof that they were meant to be. New life.

Chisbet shed a few sentimental tears from his remaining eye and then laid the pearl in the curve of Herien’s right arm. The pearl was dark in colour and strangely veined. There was a sense of life moving within it. Chisbet wiped Herien’s brow with a scented damp cloth and Herien opened his eyes. His mouth trembled. He looked so young.

Chisbet stroked his face. ‘You’re fine, my lovely. Fine. All went well. You are a pioneer, you know. You’re blessed.’

‘Where’s Rarn?’ Herien asked in a slurred mumble. He hadn’t yet noticed the pearl.

‘Taking a breath of air,’ Chisbet said. ‘You keep that young one warm now. Cherish it as a mother hen cherishes her clutch.’

Herien glanced down, saw the pearl and went rigid. For a moment, Chisbet was concerned that he’d throw it away from him.

‘That’s yours,’ he said. ‘Part of you. Don’t be afraid.’

Herien laid his head back on the pillows and began to weep, but his fingers flexed gently against the pearl. Chisbet held onto his left hand, squeezing it hard. He sighed. It was tough, growing up.

Rarn did not go back into the pavilion for over an hour. He’d needed time alone to recover, then felt guilty about leaving Herien and steeled himself to return. But whatever horror he had expected still to confront, he found that even during that short time, Herien had recovered considerably. He was now propped up by pillows, sipping a hot drink that Chisbet had made for him.

Rarn stood at the entrance to the bed chamber, feeling awkward and embarrassed. Chisbet winked at him and left the room. Rarn couldn’t think of anything to say. He had a ridiculous fear that Herien would blame him in some way for what had happened, and be angry about it. But Herien looked radiant, if tired.

‘It doesn’t hurt any more,’ Herien said, wonder in his voice. ‘The pain’s just gone, as if it was never there. I can’t believe it. I’m just a bit sore now, that’s all.’

Rarn went to sit beside him. ‘You were female,’ he said. ‘For a time. It looked that way.’

‘We’re all female,’ Herien said, ‘
and
male. Isn’t that the point?’

Rarn grimaced. ‘How easy it is to ignore or forget.’

‘I’ll never forget it again,’ Herien said. ‘I don’t want to now. You should go through this, Rarn. You really should.’

Rarn laughed uncomfortably. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think I can ever forget what you went through. I had a view you didn’t, remember.’

‘But it was worth it. Look.’ Herien drew the covers back and showed Rarn the pearl, held tight against his body. ‘Isn’t it strange? Isn’t it wonderful?’

Rarn stared at the pearl.

‘You can touch it,’ Herien said. ‘You can feel something moving.’

Tentatively, Rarn reached out and laid his hand over the warm sac. The harling protected within it seemed to press against his hand. He glanced into Herien’s eyes and felt faint at the sensation of total union that passed between them. Chisbet was right: this was a miracle.

Herien smiled, and Rarn leaned forward to kiss his brow. ‘You are beautiful,’ Rarn said, ‘beautiful and brave and strong.’

‘I am Wraeththu,’ Herien said. ‘Truly so now.’

Chapter Two

Not too far away from the Kakkahaar camp, across the desert, lay the town of Saltrock, cradled by gaunt mountains, perfumed by acrid aromas that rose from the soda lakes nearby.

On the night that Ulaume danced before the festival fire and Herien delivered the first Kakkahaar pearl, Seel Griselming, the leader of the Saltrock community, and Flick, (who had not elected to take a second name for himself following inception), had invited the shaman of their people, Orien Farnell, round for dinner. Seel was an exotic creature, olive-skinned, with a riot of multi-coloured braids into which were woven ribbons and feathers. Orien was less flamboyant in appearance, a har who moved with grace and whose long tawny hair fought constantly to escape whatever ties sought to constrain it. Flick always felt too young and awkward in the presence of these hara. His skin was pale, and not even exposure to the sun could conjure forth a honeyed sheen. His hair was intensely black, long down his back but cut short to the sides of his head. One day, he supposed, he might become tall and commanding as every other har in Saltrock seemed to be. A well-meaning har had once referred to him as a ‘little imp’ and Flick had yet to get over the remark. He was not Seel’s chesnari, but he was rather more than an employee. Flick himself was never sure exactly what place he occupied in Seel’s life, even more so of late.

But tonight, at least to begin with, all was in harmony. Cutlery and glasses chinked and glinted in candle-light and conversation was cheerful. Orien had come to finalise with Seel arrangements for the approaching solstice festival. The hara who lived in Saltrock came from many different tribes and, as yet, nohar had suggested they give themselves a separate tribal name, although they usually referred to themselves as Sarocks, and other tribes had begun to use this term for them as well. Seel was not concerned with such things, considering himself a creature of action and enterprise. His identity derived from his capabilities and his leadership rather than a label, although it was doubtful the rest of his hara felt that way. Seel, however, kept them too busy to think about it. He wanted to build a functioning Wraeththu town. He wanted order, for hara to fulfil their potential and not just live from day to day like savages. He’d seen enough of that in the north, following his own inception. In his opinion, Wraeththu needed to grow up quickly, because otherwise they might destroy themselves before they found out what they really were. He was very selective about who he allowed into Saltrock and although this had been criticised quite recently by an old friend, Seel still considered he was doing the right thing. Now, he thought of that old friend and raised his glass to the others. ‘A toast,’ he said. ‘To Cal and Pell, wherever they roam.’

‘To Cal and Pell,’ Flick said with enthusiasm.

Orien frowned slightly, then raised his glass silently and clinked it against the others. He took a sip of wine, his expression thoughtful.

Seel cocked his head to one side. ‘To old friends, Orien? Can’t you drink to that?’

Orien smiled rather grimly. ‘I find it hard to drink to Cal. But I don’t like the way that makes me feel.’

‘You don’t like him. Admit it,’ Seel said, pouring more wine into his glass. ‘Don’t feel bad about it. You’re not perfect. You don’t have to be.’

‘Was that a claw showing?’ Orien said.

Seel shrugged. ‘You know how I feel about Cal. He’s hag-ridden by his reputation, and your attitude doesn’t help, because you are respected and therefore you affect other hara’s attitudes too. That’s not fair.’

‘He earned that reputation,’ Orien said mildly.

‘Oh please don’t argue about this again,’ Flick said. ‘I’m sick of hearing it.’

‘Be quiet, we’re not arguing,’ Seel said. ‘You must admit I’m right, Orien.’

Orien put down his glass on the table and moved it around a little. ‘Don’t corner me, Seel. We have to agree to differ over this.’

‘You can’t bear it because he was right about Pell,’ Seel said. ‘He found you out, didn’t he? You’ll never forgive him for that.’

‘And you’ll never forgive him for leaving you,’ Orien said. ‘See, I can show claws too.’

‘Right, that’s it!’ Flick snapped. ‘If you don’t stop this, I’ll pour the rest of the wine down the sink. You’ve been over this ground too many times. Let it go, will you.’

‘I can’t let it go,’ Seel said, fixing Orien with a manic stare. ‘I worry about what’s happening to Pell, and that’s got nothing to do with Cal. I worry that you won’t tell me things. I worry that you’re creating a scapegoat in Cal, because that means something might go wrong. Will you ever tell me the truth?’

‘No,’ Orien said. ‘And as Flick correctly suggested, we should drop this. You know why I can’t speak.’

‘No, I don’t actually,’ Seel insisted, grabbing hold of the wine bottle before Flick could snatch it from him. ‘It’s preyed on my mind for months. I can’t talk to you about it because this great wall of silence goes up. We’re supposed to be friends, but you won’t trust me. If you continue to keep silent, I can only think the worst.’

‘It doesn’t matter what you think,’ Orien said. ‘It won’t change anything.’

‘What are you afraid of? Or should I say “who”?’

At this point, Flick thought, a divine mechanism should intervene: fire from heaven should shoot through a window, or a building should collapse outside. Like Seel, he thought Orien had secrets, but he knew Orien would never reveal them. Nagging him to do so always ended up in argument. Seel should let it drop, but he couldn’t, because he and Cal had a history.

As young humans, Cal and Seel had been lovers and they had believed the only path open to them was to cast off their humanity and become Wraeththu, so they could be together for eternity, in complete harmonious bliss, and all the rest of it. But it hadn’t worked out that way. Being har had driven them apart rather than bound them together. The first tribe they had stumbled across, who had taken them in and performed, in their particularly brutal way, the necessary procedures to change their being, had been Uigenna. Not the best choice, but then they’d not had a choice, only desperation. Seel hadn’t stayed long with them. Essentially, his soul was gentle, whereas Cal’s… well, nobody really knew what comprised Cal’s soul. He’d stayed with the Uigenna though, even when Seel had defected to a less rabid tribe, the Unneah.

Seel had never spoken to Flick in great detail of his early Wraeththu life. Flick knew this was because it embarrassed him as much as it pained him. But Flick did know that things had gone really bad for Cal, so bad that even the Uigenna had cast him out. He’d gone to Seel for sanctuary, but that hadn’t lasted long either. By then, Cal had had a disreputable chesnari in tow called Zackala, a har who’d died a short time afterwards under circumstances of which the details were disturbingly vague.

The first time Flick had met Cal was a couple of years before, when he’d turned up unannounced at Saltrock. Flick had been jealous of Cal on sight, because his was the lithe, sinuous, lazy sort of beauty that enslaved hara’s souls and hearts with no effort whatsoever. It was the kind of beauty that caused trouble, a sort of poison, a narcotic that made you feel good to start with, then sent you spiralling into a gutter, retching your guts out and wishing you’d never had that first taste. He’d had a lovely human boy with him, who he’d stolen – or bewitched – away from a comfortable home and had brought to Saltrock for inception. Even at the time, Flick had thought this act was perhaps not expedient, but just another way to turn the knife in Seel. But Seel, living up to the image he wanted to portray, had been willing to help, or at least had seemed so.

Seel didn’t know that Flick had overheard him telling Orien all about this lovely untouched boy, whose name was Pellaz Cevarro. Seel had said there was something different about him. Privately, Flick wondered whether this was perhaps the fact he could hold Cal’s interest for more than a minute. Seel had tried to for years without success. Had it been a sense of duty or sour envy that had driven Seel to confide in Orien? Flick still did not know. He did know that Orien had been on the lookout for something, or someone. A high-ranking har somewhere had given him instructions, and in Pell, he’d found what he’d been looking for, or thought he had. Seel had implied so to Orien, which had resulted in Orien making contact with a har who’d arrived at Saltrock with supernatural haste to incept Pell himself. This har was Thiede, a legend among Wraeththu, who hadn’t existed long enough to have that many legends.

Thiede was a creature so alien it was impossible to imagine he’d ever been human like the rest of them. He possessed great power and influence, over a race that had little cohesion. It was said that even the Uigenna deferred to him. Thiede had created a destiny for Pell, but no one knew what it was, only that Pell was innocent and ignorant and very possibly in great danger. Now, Flick thought, Seel tortured himself with guilt about it. It was a complex seethe of emotions that didn’t do Seel any good at all. It made him short-tempered during the day and desperate for alcohol and oblivion at night. Flick felt powerless in this situation. He cursed the day Cal had come to Saltrock, even though he’d liked Pell very much and still missed his company. He wished they could all forget about it, because it was over and done, and no har could change the past. Cal and Pell had left Saltrock earlier that year, because Pell had needed to continue his caste training. Orien had sent him to the Kakkahaar, but they’d heard nothing since. The Kakkahaar were dangerous creatures, supposedly steeped in dark magic, but Orien had wanted Pell to go to them. Why? Was it because he knew Pell would need that dark education in order to survive?

While Flick had been immersed in private reverie, Seel had continued to rant at Orien, who sat bland and composed, infuriatingly tolerant. ‘I know how you feel,’ he was saying now, ‘and I’m sorry.’ He glanced at Flick. ‘I think I should leave now.’

‘Thanks,’ Flick said bitterly. He didn’t want to hear the rest of the rant. He knew it all by heart. At least when Orien was present, Seel directed it all at him. ‘I don’t want these ghosts around us,’ Flick said. ‘There’s no point to it. It doesn’t get us anywhere.’

Seel pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and Flick discreetly removed the wine bottle. Orien stood up, fingers splayed against the table top. He stared at Flick as if he didn’t know what to say.

Flick made a dismissive gesture. ‘Get going,’ he said. ‘It’ll be fine.’

Orien nodded, his expression dismal. Flick could tell he hated these confrontations and regretted the worm of suspicion and distrust that had begun to eat away at his close friendship with Seel. Perhaps he should tell the truth, no matter how terrifying or dangerous it might be. At least, it would clear the air and they could face whatever it was together, as a united front.

Orien took his coat from the back of his chair and began to put it on. Silence hung thickly in the room and the candle wax smelled sour. Flick shivered. He felt slightly feverish: it had come upon him suddenly.

Orien appeared to be about to say something, then his eyes glazed over and his body went stiff. Flick glanced round, his skin shrinking against his bones. He was sure Orien could see something in the shadowed corners of the room. ‘What is it?’ he asked quickly.

Orien held his breath, swaying slightly on his feet. Flick realised that he gazed beyond the mundane world. He was looking through a window that neither Seel nor Flick would be able to see. Orien emitted a short strangled sound and clutched blindly for the table to steady himself. His expression was that of naked terror, his eyes still fixed on an impossible distance.

Seel lowered his hands from his eyes, while Flick jumped out of his seat and knocked over his chair.

The air in the room had become chill, in an instant. Something was there with them. Drunkenness dropped from Seel at once – it was plain to see – but before he could do or say anything, Orien fell heavily to the floor.

By the time Flick and Seel reached him, his body was arching in an unnatural way, so that only his head and his heels touched the floor. His hands shook, twisted, over his chest.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Flick cried. ‘What
is
it?’

Seel knelt down, took Orien’s head between his hands. Flick could hear him murmuring: the words of a magical spell or perhaps just of comfort. Orien screamed: it was the most hideous sound Flick had ever heard and he’d heard quite a few nasty screams during other hara’s inceptions. ‘Get me the salad spoon,’ Seel said.

Flick was nonplussed for a moment.

‘Do it! Hurry!’ Seel snapped.

The wooden salad spoon had a long handle. The moment Flick handed it to Seel he realised what he meant to do with it. He forced it between Orien’s teeth to stop him ruining his tongue.

The fit seemed to go on for hours. Other hara were attracted by the screams, which had rung out through the peaceful Saltrock night. It was most likely that they were afraid their leader had been attacked. Flick had to answer the hammering on the front door, let them in. When he returned to the dining room, the air stank. Orien had bitten the salad spoon in half and was now lying on his side in a pool of his own vomit, heaving onto the wooden floor. Flick, responsible for all house-keeping, could not help feeling relieved he’d missed the carpet. Seel stroked Orien’s wet hair back from his face. The hara who’d come into the house stood around in silence, their surprise at finding their competent shaman in such a state palpable in the atmosphere. Eventually, Orien stopped retching and groaned.