The Ghosts of Blood and Innocence (15 page)

Galdra spent a lot of time with Loki, instructing him in Freyhellan lore: that of the sea, the sky and the beasts who rode them. He taught Loki about the winds and the sons of the winds, those capricious elementals who held the fate of ships in their cloudy hands. The attention Galdra showered on him made Loki feel breathless, and somewhat confused. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy or appreciate it: it just felt as if Galdra was running out of time, he had so much to say. Perhaps he was taking the idea of education to heart too earnestly.  All the awkwardness and tension Loki had experienced on his first visit had melted away. He wondered what his parents had said to Galdra to change this. Was it just that Galdra was so flattered by being asked to instruct the Tigrons’ son that he’d forgotten how bad he’d felt? Loki couldn’t convince himself that was the reason.

But still, it would be churlish not to be grateful for all he’d been given. He loved the house where he lived; it had quickly started to feel like home. He enjoyed exploring its rambling garden. The Listeners, Samarchis and Lantovar, were young, second generation hara. Away from Eyra’s watchful eye, they were more disposed to light-heartedness and made easy living companions. They teased Loki constantly about his forthcoming feybraiha rite, but it was good-natured and he didn’t mind it.  

He made friends among the Freyhellans and every day met with Seydir, who was teaching him the language. Seydir would speak to Loki in mind touch, so he understood the meaning, and would then speak the words aloud in Freyhellan. It was easy to learn that way. Loki would look at this har, with whom very soon he would be sharing the most intimate experiences, and somehow it didn’t feel real. Seydir had become a friend very quickly, and on those occasions when they shared breath, Loki could appreciate what delights were in store. Still it seemed some part of him was distant from it, observing from afar. He wondered whether it was because once Seydir had called him darkness. Those words had been like a magical spell. He had not forgotten them.

There is darkness of the sky, darkness of the earth, and then the darkness of the soul, which is the greatest darkness of all. Loki had been conceived in a time of great turmoil; his was an accidental conception among a race where the creation of new life was always planned and preordained. He was an anomaly, and the dark flux of Fulminir’s end, when Ponclast’s unworldly allies had clashed with the
sedim,
when otherness had spilled through like oil from alien realms, had touched his being. Like Darquiel, Loki was no ordinary harling, but he did not know it. He believed he’d been created in the golden light of peace, at war’s end. He did not know that his creation had occurred at the very moment that Pellaz had wished himself dead.

Leaders from all the local phyles of Freyhella converged on Freygard for Loki’s feybraiha. The Aralisians came from Immanion, with several members of the Hegemony, and Parasilians from Galhea in Megalithica. A ritual was held on the beach to mark Loki’s ascension to Ara, first level Kaimana in the magical caste system. There was a feast and the food and drink seemed supernaturally replenished, for it never diminished, no matter how many hara gorged themselves. There were recitals of songs, tales of hara from the north and their mythical meetings with gods. There were races and competitions, in which the Freyhellans demonstrated the agility and intelligence of their horses. Overseeing it all, crowned in flowers and throned like a king, Loki sat beside Seydir, his body newly calm, as if it knew the long wait was over.

Once the sun set, Galdra came to Loki to escort him back to his house. In the night sky that was filled almost obscenely with the starry riches of the heavens, strange lights danced in the north.  As Galdra and Loki walked through the streets, which were quiet, because everyhar was at the party, Galdra asked, ‘You’re not afraid, are you?’

Loki shook his head. ‘No, I’m not afraid.’

‘You seem detached somehow. Do you feel numb?’

‘A bit, yes. So much has happened today.’

Galdra laughed softly. ‘I know, and this is the crowning moment. Come back into it, Loki. You shouldn’t be numb.’

Loki smiled at Galdra and realised then how much he must have grown in the past couple of weeks. He was nearly as tall as Galdra now. At the door to the house, Galdra said, ‘Would you like me to come in with you for a while?’

‘I think I’d prefer to be alone, if that’s all right,’ Loki said.

Galdra stroked his hair. ‘Of course.’ He gripped Loki’s shoulders. ‘I have grown to love you, as I would… my own son. May the spirits shine upon you.’

Inside the house, Loki walked from room to room in the dark. He tried to imagine the immediate future: Seydir’s footsteps on the porch, the sound of the front door opening. He tried to imagine the heat of another body alongside his own, and it didn’t feel real.
It wasn’t real.
Loki mounted the stairs to his bedroom, walking towards the dark feathery shadows at the top landing, where ghosts might huddle and whisper. He realised he didn’t feel excited, frightened or anxious, simply because it wasn’t going to happen. How he knew this, he could not tell, but it was a certainty. He went into the bedroom.

The night sky looked purple through the window. Loki didn’t draw the curtains across it. He undressed and got into bed, then lay on his back staring at the ceiling. The shadows of tree branches outside writhed above him. He could hear the song of the wind, and it seemed that within it were voices from far away, calling. If he got out of bed now, he could open the window and walk a path of starlight into a new world. When Seydir came, nothing would be left of Loki but an impression in the sheets and a faint lingering warmth.

He must have dozed, because he became aware of waking, and that the quality of the light had changed. The wind had dropped and the shadows of tree branches were now a lattice of stillness across the ceiling. How late was it? Seydir was not there. Loki was alarmed. Even though he’d felt that peculiar certainty as he’d ascended the stairs, it now seemed unthinkable that Seydir had not come.

As he thought this, he realised that somehar was sitting in the old wing chair that stood in the far corner of the room. Or perhaps he was mistaken. Loki always threw his clothes there and sometimes didn’t move them for days, so that a pile built up that in darkness resembled harish or monstrous shapes.  He stared at the chair, not quite certain if somehar was staring back at him or not. Then a figure stood up, and he saw for sure that he was not alone.

For a moment, Loki knew pure crystalline terror. It was not the appearance of his as yet unknown visitor, for he could see very little; it was the feeling that came with it, a feeling he could not describe, but it too was a certainty. The figure approached him, and although its progress was not slow, Loki still had time to consider a thousand rushing thoughts. He remembered the feeling that had engulfed him when he’d dreamed of Cal dying and had woken up still thinking the dream had been real. He felt like that now: a terrible inevitability, a crushing reality that turned the world black. He said the name ‘Seydir’ without much hope.

A har he did not know was standing next to his bed. This har had long hair, blacker than the shadows around them. He was dressed in leather: trousers and a jerkin that left his arms bare. His skin shone dully, but not with light. It was like oil shifting over the surface of water. ‘Seydir cannot come,’ he said.

‘And
you
have?’ Loki propped himself up on his elbows. He didn’t know how he was feeling now. A certain normality had re-established itself. There was an explanation.

‘Yes. Don’t be afraid.’

‘Who are you?’ Loki hesitated. ‘I don’t know you. Has Galdra sent you?’

The har sat down on the bed, brushed back his hair with one hand, which made him seem more ordinary. His face was bony, the eyes slightly slanted. He had a look of Pellaz, in a way. Perhaps Loki’s parents had sent this har, at the last moment deciding they did not want a Freyhellan in their son’s bed. ‘I am Skripi,’ he said. It sounded like a Freyhellan name.

‘What happened to Seydir?’

‘I’ve come in his place.’ Skripi smiled then, and in that smile was the promise of the arcane and wondrous. Loki was aware of a connection between them, and even though he felt as if he was in a dream, and there was something most definitely not right about what was happening now, he threw aside his bed quilt in invitation.

Seydir’s body was discovered at first light, when the hara he worked with went out to see to the cattle.  Seydir lay in the byre, between the great living sides of beef, who appeared to be guarding him. His throat had been cut. His eyes stared sightlessly in surprise, and perhaps the image of the one who had killed him was captured in that lifeless stare.

Galdra
was informed at once, and took it upon himself to run without his coat straight to Loki’s house, before the Aralisians got wind of what had happened. He didn’t understand it. Seydir had left the feybraiha celebrations some moments after Galdra had returned from escorting Loki home. Seydir had been in high spirits, but not drunk. There were no enemies in Freygard and not even the most sensitive har had picked up any discomforting ripples in the ethers.

Galdra burst into Loki’s house without knocking, dreading
what he might find, but there were only the Listeners in the kitchen, sleepily drinking coffee. ‘Where’s Loki?’ Galdra demanded.

Samarchis said, ‘What’s wrong?’

And Lantovar said, ‘He hasn’t got up yet. We didn’t disturb them.’

Without further words, Galdra ran for the stairs, leaping up them three at a time. Part of his mind dithered at the threshold like a frightened harling, but his body had no such hesitation and threw the door wide. He took in the rumpled bed, the figure lying on its stomach within it. He strode straight over and hauled back the quilt. Loki raised his head and Galdra’s feeling of relief was so immense, he dropped to his knees and let out a choked cry.

‘Galdra,’ Loki said. His eyes were wide and appeared strangely unfocused.

Galdra
drew Loki into his arms and held him close. He kissed the top of Loki’s head. Loki struggled feebly within his grasp. His breath was sour and his skin felt hot.

‘You’re hurting me.’

Galdra drew away. Loki rolled onto his back and lay there panting. His chest and stomach were covered in small v-shaped cuts. He lay on a crusty film of dried blood.

Samarchis and Lantovar had followed Galdra upstairs. ‘Samarchis, go to the healers’ guild and fetch somehar at once,’ Galdra snapped. ‘Lantovar, summon the Tigrons.’

‘What’s happened?’ Samarchis asked.

‘Go!’ Galdra’s command was a growl.

Left alone with Loki, he knelt beside the bed and took the young har’s hands in his own. ‘Loki, can you remember what happened?’ His voice was steady but behind his words was a scream.

‘Seydir didn’t come,’ Loki said in a slurred voice.

‘Somehar did…’

‘Yes… Skripi…’

‘Can you describe him?’

Loki shook his head. He frowned. ‘I can’t really remember. I feel very strange. Am I supposed to feel like this? I’m so thirsty.’ ‘Just
lie still. I’ll fetch you some water.’ Galdra went down to the kitchen and for some moments leaned against the sink, his mind awhirl. At any moment, Pellaz and Calanthe would arrive. There would be a scene, recriminations, blame. What had happened? There was no har named Skripi in Freygard. The injuries on Loki’s body were bizarre. They were like the bites of a hundred reptile jaws, tiny reptiles. Galdra filled a glass with water and took it back upstairs. Loki had struggled into a sitting position and now leaned against the headboard of the bed staring at his stomach. He touched one of the wounds tentatively then withdrew his hand quickly.

‘Here,’ Galdra handed Loki the glass. ‘Can you hold it?’

‘Yes.’ Loki drank greedily and handed the glass back to Galdra who put it on the bedside table.

‘Something went wrong,’ Loki said. ‘I don’t think that har was supposed to be here. Did you send him?’

Galdra shook his head. ‘No. Did you take aruna together?’

‘Yes. He took me to some very strange places, but I liked them, in a way. It was very good, but all the time I felt I shouldn’t really be doing it. I couldn’t stop myself.’

‘Did he make those cuts on you?’

Loki frowned in a dazed manner. ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. Maybe he took me someplace where it happened.’

‘Your parents will be here soon,’ Galdra said. ‘Try to remember as much as you can.’

Fortunately, the healer arrived before the Aralisians. Galdra left him to examine Loki and went quickly to organise a search of the town for any interlopers, even though he did not believe for a moment that whoever had visited Loki would still be around. What was the motive? Who would kill a har to take his place at a feybraiha? Loki seemed fairly undamaged, despite the cuts, but perhaps he’d been poisoned. Galdra shuddered inside. He heard himself issuing orders in a clipped manner, while his mind asked itself a hundred unanswerable questions. He was not looking forward to a confrontation with the Aralisians.

Pellaz and Cal were already at Loki’s bedside when Galdra returned to the house. He awaited a torrent of accusation, but the Tigrons appeared so concerned for Loki, they were bewildered rather than angry. The healer could not tell what had made the injuries; they were in many ways like bites. There did not appear to be any poison in the wounds.

‘This is deliberate,’ Pellaz said. ‘We must take Loki back to Immanion as soon as possible.’

Galdra could not disagree. What protection could he ensure if an assailant could walk into this house without obstruction?

Loki had been given a potion that had made him fall asleep. His cuts had been dressed, his bedding changed. Galdra indicated that he and the Tigrons should go downstairs to talk.

They went to a small sitting room that overlooked the garden. Here a fire had been built, but to Galdra the air was stuffy rather than simply warm.

Cal sat down next to the fire, in an old padded chair, over which a sheepskin had been draped, while Pellaz leaned against the window sill. He was not comfortable enough to sit down, Galdra thought.