Burying the Shadow (14 page)

‘Excuse me,
Livvy,’ I said, ‘but I have to speak to Ushas.’

‘What?’
Liviana turned in irritation from her spectator sport, reluctant to
drag her eyes away, even for a moment. People were now queuing up
to tell the leading actors, and the author of the play, just how
wonderful they were; a fact I was sure they were quite confident of
already. Liviana, her family being a patron of Sarim, hoped to
sidle up to Hadith and thus impose on the haughty, sneering Caspar.
She was welcome to this behaviour; I wanted no part of it.

Liviana did
not protest as I moved away. I no longer found the crowd
intimidating, but rather pathetic; they too were just cavorting
imps and demons on a stage. Ushas stood out because of her poise.
She was standing among the fronds of an ornamental tree, as if
backing away from the man who was leaning towards her earnestly,
his mouth moving quickly in animated speech. Sensing me approach
(it really was as if we were the only two sentient beings in the
room), she raised her head towards me and, with a smile, shaped a
direct thought-form and tranced it in my direction. Its touch was
muzzy in that riot of busy egos, and without the strengthening
effect of scry-fume, but I felt it faintly. Someone else, however,
had felt it too.

Even as I
raised my foot to walk to my mother’s side, an imminence of query
surrounded me; an unmistakeable intrusion in my mind. Ushas had
turned back to her companion; she did not sense it. Sweat broke out
on the back of my neck. What was this? I had never experienced such
a positive touch outside of a working situation or a scrying rite.
I quickly looked around, seeking the predator, but everyone was
smiling, talking, laughing, pawing each other, intent on the
artisans and each other. Could there be another soulscaper here,
someone who had rashly filled their pipe with a scaping mix, which
was now affecting me? Or were some Sacramantans making illicit use
of Tappish mixes? Neither of these explanations was impossible.
Many Taps came to Sacramante after all, and I was well aware of how
our scaping mixes could sometimes escape Tappish control.

With a mental
shrug, I composed myself, cleared my mind of transmissive thoughts
and wriggled over to the ornamental tree. People peeled away in
front of me, talking feverishly, merely shuffling their feet to
avoid the incursion into their space.

Then I saw
them.

I saw them as
a dark heart to sizzling brightness; gibbering, yapping fools all
around. From the very first instant, I knew I was looking at people
very different to everyone else in the room. One was male, one
female, and they stood very close together; smiling politely,
nodding their heads, slowly blinking in response to whatever
inanity was being directed at them. I felt a great empathy with
them, perhaps because they looked as unimpressed with the
proceedings as I was. Artisans, clearly, but who? I had
unconsciously edged closer, until I stood at the edge of the crowd
around them. A thought nagged in my head, as if I should be
reminded of someone, but wasn’t. I saw Zimon Tricante, just in
front of me, craning over the shoulders of taller people ahead of
him. I pushed up behind him and tugged at his arm.

‘Zimon, who
are those people?’

He gripped my
arm, his hot, damp face radiant with pleasure. ’Metatronim, Rayo,’
he replied. ‘
The
Metatronim.’

Metatronim.
The name was familiar. Of course, the actress: Gimel. On stage, she
had been a withered drab, but now... Obviously my assumptions about
the makeup must have been correct. Her white skin fairly glowed as
if lit by some inner fire. Her lips were the colour of red wine,
purple in the shadows, and her eyes, like a cat’s, were oblique and
dark. She wore a black robe; her obsidian hair slung over one
shoulder in a thick rope of plait. By her side, taller, but only
just, the man was her twin in all but the colour of his hair. He
was obviously the brother, Beth, who had designed the sets for the
play. I had never seen such magnificent people, and their
magnificence came from inside them, I could tell, an innate beauty
that eclipsed the self-conscious loveliness of Kalkydra and his
kind. Although I wanted them to notice me, I had no inclination
whatsoever to thrust myself forward with Zimon and try to speak
with them. I did not want the Metatronim to equate me with all the
others in the room. And yet, in some strange way, I felt as if the
actress and her brother were well aware of my presence, even though
they never looked in my direction once. The fact that I was a
foreigner, and also that I was unaffected by the glamour of the
occasion, must have been noticed. Perhaps they could tell I was a
soulscaper. Perhaps Hadith had told these people that the Tricantes
had soulscapers staying with them, and the Metatronims had seen me
with Zimon or Liviana. Perhaps.... Perhaps... It was a fantasy. In
the morning, I would doubt these feelings. They would not have
noticed me at all.

The ride home
was a fitting end to the evening. Everyone was intoxicated in one
way or another; songs were begun, rhythms clapped, even the stately
Tricante matron joining in the fun. My mood of detached aloofness
faded, and I was drawn into the atmosphere of it, although my heart
was curled around the delicious memory of seeing the Metatronims.
There was something special about them - special only to me. From
the moment I saw them, I’d felt a deep sense of recognition, some
tugging within me as if I’d met them before yet forgotten when and
how. I was filled with an excitement that eclipsed even the
feelings I’d had after meeting Hadith Sarim. I dared to hope I
could meet them again, before Ushas and I returned to Taparak.

I had a
strange dream. What an understatement that is, and yet, how
accurate. In the carriage home, I had questioned Livvy about the
Metatronims; she didn’t have much information. I learned their
especial patrons were the Di Corboran family, who had considerable
influence at the court of the Kaliph and owned over a hundred
massive vineyards throughout the Bochanegran Empire. The
Metatronims mixed in high circles. As to where they lived, Livvy
did not know. I realised that people living outside the atelier
district knew very little of what went on in there.

‘Who are the
artisans?’ I asked her, as we got out of the carriage at the back
of the Carmen. ‘They are foreigners, aren’t they?’

‘What makes
you say that?’ Livvy asked, quite sharply.

‘It is
obvious; they look different to Bochanegrans. They
are
different! Where do they come from?’

‘Well, they
do
come from a far land, I suppose. I think they were driven
out a long, long time ago. They have no country now. But Sacramante
is their home; all artisans are under the patronage of the Kaliph
and her family.’

‘Why are they
shut away from the rest of the city so?’

‘They aren’t,
Rayo!’ Livvy snapped. ‘I don’t think you should ask questions with
such a tone in your voice! I suppose they have their own customs
and way of life. Like you said, they
are
foreigners! We just
accept what comes out of the atelier courts, and are grateful for
it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I
said. ‘I didn’t mean to sound rude. Livvy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can we visit
the atelier of the Metatronims?’

She laughed,
shook her head. ‘No, Rayo, no! We are not patrons of theirs.’

I still did
not understand how this patronage business worked, but how
disappointing! Still wrestling with thoughts of how I might connive
a meeting with the Metatronims (perhaps I could enlist the help of
Zimon, who undoubtedly shared my enthusiasm), I went up to my room,
and gratefully unbound myself from the clothes Livvy had lent to
me. I lay in the moonlight, still full of excitement, reliving the
moment when I had first seen Gimel and her brother, and extending
the memory into fantasy, imagining they had called to me, drawn me
to them. ‘Who are you?’ they asked. ‘We have to know!’ I imagined
they took me home with them, and all the while, I sparkled with wit
and repartee; in my mind, transformed into an older version of
myself. I sat in a carriage beside Beth Metatronim, knowing I could
look at him whenever I wanted to and therefore sweetly torturing
myself by not doing so. Gimel, I talked to, but her brother was a
silent presence beside me, his thigh pressed against my own. I
could not really understand the powerful sensations these people
had invoked within me. I did not feel like sleeping and turned
restlessly in my bed, replaying my fantasies, adding detail with
each repetition, which led me nearer to when I would reach their
house and be taken inside. I wanted to reserve fantasies beyond
this point for a later time; more exquisite torture. Half of me
wanted to leap out of bed and dance and run and shout. Half of me
was exhausted. I must have fallen asleep eventually, because that
was when he came to me.

I opened my
eyes, and my room was in darkness. The moon had slid across the
sky. Everything was very still. I peered into the shadows, a little
unnerved. From the very first instant, I felt I was not alone. As a
soulscaper, I had already been trained to deal with such feelings,
knowing that the majority of them stemmed from the inner landscape
exuding thought forms into reality. It is quite a common occurrence
when woken from deep sleep. We are taught to examine these things
objectively. I sat up in the bed, and took a few calming breaths,
willing whatever I had conjured forth to manifest itself more
clearly.

He was sitting
in a chair at the end of the bed, taking shape from the pale tumble
of silk, which was the petticoat of the dress I had discarded
earlier. As I stared, he stood up; I could discern the wet gleam of
dark jewels upon his breast. He did not speak, but somehow glided
towards me, as if
through
the bed itself. I was not afraid;
only fascinated, confident that he was my own creation. He curled
up beside my legs, like a great cat, staring at me from dark
sockets. Impulsively, I reached to touch him, even though I knew
such action would evaporate his fragile corporeality. My hand
touched silky hair, felt the hardness of skull beneath. I pulled
away, gasping, drawing up my knees. This was too real. He made a
soft sound, perhaps a laugh, and slithered up towards me. I could
not move, perhaps, deep inside, did not even want to. ‘Heart’s
desire,’ he whispered and put his mouth against my own. I felt his
teeth against my lower lip, felt a sharp pain. No! Vainly, I tried
to expel this vision from my consciousness, but my heart was
beating too fast; I was in too much of a panic. It happened very
quickly after that, and I cannot (perhaps do not wish to) remember
the details. I know that he bit my face, very hard, and as he bit,
a greater pain convulsed my body. I could not believe what was
happening. His body was heavy upon me. Did I cry out? I don’t know.
All I do know is that I woke up gasping and panting, throwing
myself up from the bed, my body covered in sweat. My loins tingled
in a strange, half-pleasurable, half-painful way. Dream or reality?
I still don’t know which. But I was aware, in my heart, that
illusion or not, I was no longer virgin in this body, and that Beth
Metatronim was responsible for it.

Next morning,
I was in a daze. My mother was absent from breakfast, as there had
been an emergency with Salyon in the night. Apparently, he had come
out of his trance and had screamed until his throat bled. Only the
strongest of Ushas’ potions could calm him. Still, it was progress.
Wherever the soul-essence of Salyon had once fled to, it now firmly
inhabited his flesh once more, albeit unhappily. Soon, we would be
able to leave. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts that day,
prompting Livvy to wonder whether I was sickening for
something.

Who are the
artisans? Who
are
they? This question flapped around my
brain like a trapped bird. I wanted to tell Livvy about the dream,
but at the same time, savoured the secret of it. It had been so
real, and yet cautious investigation of my body in daylight
revealed no injury or sign of invasion.

Eventually,
because I had become tearful, I sought out my mother in Salyon’s
room. The boy was lying with his eyes open this time; his face a
mask of despair. I wondered whether consciousness was an
improvement. Ushas was talking to him in a low voice; I recognised
the intonation of encouragement and nurturing. She turned when I
entered the room and cried, ‘Rayo, what’s the matter!’ I just ran
into her waiting arms and sobbed my heart out. When I had purged
myself, I pulled away, wiping my face with my sleeve. Salyon’s eyes
were looking right at me, right into me, I felt.

‘What’s
wrong,’ Ushas was still asking, squeezing my arm.

Behind her,
the boy raised a stick-like arm from the bed. He beckoned me to
him. Puzzled, Ushas let me go, and watched as I leaned towards her
client. I don’t know why I felt so compelled to obey his request;
Salyon repulsed me. His appearance was horrific and he smelled of
death. Shakily, he lifted his fingers to touch my face where I had
been bitten in the dream. His fingers were dry and hot. I raised a
hand defensively, paused, and then he slipped his fingers into my
own. I squeezed him hard, felt the brittle bones grind in their
tissue of desiccated flesh. It was instinctual; all of it. Somehow,
he gave me peace. I leaned down and kissed his brow, the skin like
paper beneath my lips. ‘You will be well,’ I said.

‘Rayo?’ Ushas
murmured behind me.

‘I had a
dream, a horrible dream,’ I said, and looked back at the boy on the
bed. He closed his eyes slowly and managed a weak smile. If
stronger, he would have nodded, I’m sure of it. ’It’s alright now.’
I slid my fingers out of Salyon’s hold, feeling immensely calm.
Somehow, he had sealed my experience within me; I would never speak
of it to anyone. I was sure he knew exactly what I had experienced
in the night, as strongly as if he’d spoken to me aloud. In some
way, he had experienced it too, and had been shocked out of his
coma. The significance of what happened in that room was not
revealed to me for a long, long time.