The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel (3 page)

‘This is my favourite room,’
Rinawne said, running the fingers of one hand lightly over the wall by the
door. ‘I like light and air, and believe me a great deal of the Mynd was dark
and gloom when I first came here. The house sort of
squats,
I think. Its
ceilings are low, so you have to curb its liking for dreariness. I was allowed
to make a few changes only to certain rooms.’

I nodded, at first unsure of
what to say to that. ‘Old places can be gloomy.’ I wondered then how Rinawne
and Wyva had met, what circumstances had thrown them together. I had not so far
detected any great passion between them, and yet they did have a son, so at one
time things must have been different.

‘I won’t show you to the top
room,’ Rinawne said, somewhat mischievously. ‘I’ll let you find that for
yourself. There’s a spare bedroom beneath it, in case you should ever have
guests, but it’s fairly plain to look at in comparison to the rest of the
chambers.’

‘What does the name mean, Dŵr
Alarch?’

‘The Swan Tower,’ Rinawne
replied. ‘I believe it’s always been called that.’ He smiled. ‘Come to the
house around 6.30, and meet everyhar.
That
will be an experience for
you!’

‘That daunting?’

Rinawne shook his head, grinning.
‘No, they are an interesting bunch, a host of stories all bundled together.
You’ll enjoy it. I expect Wyva will ask some of the town assembly hara along as
well. They’ll be curious about you.’

I ducked my head. ‘I’ll look
forward to it.’

‘Until later, then.’ Rinawne
swept a bow to me. ‘Enjoy exploring.’

And with that, he was gone, as
suddenly as a phantom, but for the light patter of his feet upon the cold
stairway, and I was alone in the silence of my new home.

Before investigating the top
room – and I was aware of relishing the delay – I decided to make myself some
tea and unpack my belongings and supplies. As I descended the spiral stairs I
was aware of the hum of the place, its non-silence that had no sound. I had no
doubt that it was sentient, watching me. A spirit of place was gauging whether
I’d fit in.

Rinawne had been lavish with the
supplies and I quickly filled the cupboards and cold store with produce. I put
my belongings in the bedroom, the clothes, the three books, and my meagre
toiletries in the bathroom. I felt these few items were all I possessed, that
I’d left nothing behind. I’d lost my interest in
things
some years
before. A lot of the time my life felt like I was acting, waiting for the play
to finish, somewhat tired with it. Perhaps this landscape would revive me,
intrigue me with its mysteries. Perhaps I would learn to trust again, not least
in myself.

I made my tea and poured a
second cup for the spirit of the tower. I was not yet sure completely where its
heart lay, but decided to put my offering in the living room. However, as I
stepped beyond the kitchen door into the cold breath of the stairwell, the
basement called to me strongly, so I went down there instead. The door was
stiff in its frame and required my shoulder to open it. Inside, the air smelled
strangely hot, and of metal. There was a monstrous boiler in there, a fairly
compact muttering generator, and a series of ancient wide and shallow sinks;
presumably, the laundry area Rinawne had referred to. There was a small toilet
room with more antique fittings, and a narrow window misted over with spider
webs and caked dust, above a window sill drifted with dead flies. Clearly, care
of the tower did not extend greatly into this lower area. Still, it was here
the tower wanted me to leave the tea, so I did, on a wide wooden table near the
sinks. I bowed to the room. ‘Let us be of service to one another,’ I said, and
went back upstairs.

I sat for thirty minutes or so,
half drowsing, gazing out over the landscape through the long windows of the
kitchen. Whatever phantoms might lurk within the stones of this place, the
atmosphere was benign, comfortable. A dog was barking down at the farm, in a
curious gulping, endless way. I did not like the sound of that; it was mean and
hostile. Mostly likely a guardian creature to be avoided.

Then it was time to visit the
topmost room, find out if it would welcome me. Out into the gelid stairway
again, fancying my breath actually misted the air, although I’m sure it could
not really have done, and on up the twisting stone gullet to the top of the
tower. When I opened the door to the highest room, a waft of old incense
drifted out, reminding me strongly of my original home in Jesith, the resins I
used to burn there. The floor was again pale wood, polished to a satin sheen,
and covered mostly by a thick crimson carpet that was patterned with black
geometric designs. There were several altars or shrines around the walls, all
of them empty, as were the two bookcases that lay between them. The windows
here had no drapes, but there were blinds that could be lowered over them. I
gazed up at the glass dome above and saw this too could be robed. The blinds
that cleverly moulded themselves to its shape were cobalt blue and decorated
with white stars, some of which were quartz sewn into the stiffened fabric.
Stars, real or not, were available at all times here.

Of all the rooms in the tower,
here was where the resident could make his mark. The other spaces were filled
with furniture and decorations of Wyva’s choice, but here, apart from the
carpet, the blinds and the very basics of furnishings, it was waiting for a
personality to imprint itself. My few books would do little to fill the empty
shelves, and I’d brought no ritual paraphernalia with me, but I would enjoy
foraging in the forests and fields around me for items to adorn the vacant
shrines. Perhaps Wyva wouldn’t mind me borrowing books for these forlorn
shelves.

For a moment, I was taken back
to my old home; how I’d loved it. I remembered the pleasure of teaching, and
not simply the obvious parts of it that later I was condemned for. Perhaps some
vile spirit had lived in me once, but it was hard to remember. That was like
looking back at a different life, a dream. I hadn’t meant to be vile,
certainly, but I knew I’d been cruel. What had driven me to that? It had driven
me almost to my own death, a taint maybe of human life, a shred of sickness
inside, shrieking and throwing itself against the walls like a maddened
creature locked in a dark space. It was dead. It had to be dead. Now.

Standing there, in the opulent
glow of that room in waiting, with the mellow sunlight of late afternoon making
narrow paths of light through the trees, I felt I had somehow come home again.
I was scornful of the past and everyhar in it. Here, I might live once more.
Here, I might be respected and loved as a trusted friend. In Jesith, even my
son had been taken from me by my history. When he looked at me, it was through
the eyes of the stories he’d heard, half wary, half pitying, but with very
little love.

Again, as in the nether regions
of the tower, I bowed to the room and said aloud, ‘Let us be of service to one
another.’

Chapter Two

Before I went back to Meadow Mynd, I investigated
the small collection of buildings that clustered some distance from the foot of
the tower. There were two stables, one of course containing Hercules, and
several sheds where coal or wood might be stored. There was a run for chickens;
eggs on my doorstep would be agreeable. I’d ask about procuring a few birds of
my own.

The forest spread below me; an
archetypal magical landscape. So many rich hues. Perhaps I would paint it. And
then, from the murmuring depths, came a thin skein of song, utterly beautiful.
I would have liked it to be the voice of some magical being, but it was most
likely that of a har walking home through the trees. Who wouldn’t be inspired
to sing in such a place as this? I couldn’t make out the words, and the song
wasn’t melancholy, but there was a sweet wistfulness to it, like the memory of
pain, when it no longer hurts but is faintly remembered. Tears came to my eyes
but did not fall. I listened to the wondrous song, gazing through a fabulous
watery glimmer that rendered the scene around me into a hazy mist of colours.
Perfect.

I decided to walk to the Mynd rather than ride, so
as to immerse myself more in the landscape. Approaching the house along the
path through the trees was like walking towards the start of a fairy tale. The
sun had made bronze of the light and already a lamp of welcome gleamed above
the porch. Lights were many in the lower windows, while the occasional dim glow
from higher casements suggested further tales to me: the strange harling Myv in
his room, reluctant to come downstairs, perhaps with a harried carehar pleading
with him to behave, suppressing the urge to slap and drag. Perhaps another room
concealed a brooding relative, or a pair of lovers, one of whom is chesna with
another har waiting in the room below. Perhaps there was a dim-lit room that had
no har in it at all but for memories, a sigh, a shadow across the window.

Smiling at these fancies, I went
to the front door and found, as Wyva had earlier indicated, that it stood wide
open. Surely they would close it at night? I ventured inside, glancing into the
drawing room on my right where Rinawne had taken me earlier. Dimly lit, it was
empty of living presences. I noticed now what Rinawne had mentioned; how low
the ceilings were. In large old houses of earlier human eras, the tendency had
been for space and height, perhaps as a mark of affluence. Here, the house
seemed to hug itself, with its narrow passages and dark corners, although I
could appreciate how it could create a more homely and informal atmosphere than
somewhere grand and spacious.

A grey, rough-coated hound came
into the stone-floored hall ahead of me, from somewhere deeper in the shadows
of the house. He or she regarded me curiously for some moments before padding
off. I thought I might as well follow the animal, and indeed it led me into a
room where four hara were gathered. One of them was Wyva. The dog went up to
him and pressed its head against his thigh. He caressed the creature, at the
same time noticing me at the threshold. ‘Tiahaar Ysobi, welcome,’ he said.
‘Please, come in.’

All the hara turned to look at
me. Two were clearly close relatives of Wyva’s, perhaps brothers, or even his
hostling or father. It is difficult to tell a har’s age from his face. Only
when they speak can the years be sensed. The other was young, awkward and
blond-haired, and had blunter features than his companions. While the three older
hara stood together, drinking wine, this younger one was hunched on a chair
before the fireplace, hands thrust between his knees, his lower legs splayed. He
must be at least five years past feybraiha, I decided, yet still itchy in his
skin.

I inclined my head to the
company and came forward. They all greeted me affably enough.

‘This isn’t everyhar,’ Wyva
said, ‘and you might meet more of us later, but for now I’d like to present to
you my brothers, Gen and Cawr.’ Wyva handed to me a glass of red wine, which I
took.

‘Welcome,’ said the har named as
Cawr. He was more robust-looking than Wyva, fuller of face, whereas Gen, his
sibling, looked to be all the cheat that Yoslyn had hinted at. His face was
narrow, his eyes a little slanted, his smile that of a satyr. Yet for all that,
the good-natured spark in his eyes did not suggest a har of evil character,
simply a tricky one.

‘I’ve been settling into my
tower,’ I said. ‘An amazing place.’

Wyva smiled warmly. ‘Glad you
like it, but I guessed you would from the moment I met you. I love the old
place, and make sure it’s coddled and loved.’

‘I can see that,’ I said.

‘You’ve been long awaited,’ said
Gen, grinning. ‘I don’t know how much time you’ve set aside for research and
writing, but brace yourself for an inundation of requests for chesna-bonds,
harling naming and festivals for every possible excuse. I hope you’re good at
stretching time.’

‘I took a course in it at Kyme,’
I said.

Gen laughed. ‘Being able to
duplicate yourself might also be of use.’

‘My skills in that are rusty.’

Wyva appeared a trifle
uncomfortable with this mildly flirty exchange. ‘Everyhar knows why Tiahaar
Ysobi is here with us,’ he said stiffly. ‘Anything else we receive from him is
a bonus.’

‘I’m sure,’ Gen said, taking a
drink of his wine. His eyes never left my own.  I would have to take care with
this one.

Before anything else could be
said, Rinawne appeared at the doorway, in what can only be described as a
‘grand entrance’. His thick curling hair was starred with small white flowers,
his costume of tunic and trousers fashioned from flowing cream fabric. His eyes
seemed to blaze from his wide pale face. And at his side was the changeling
creature, Myv. He did not appear shy or even sullen, only rather
not there
.

‘Greetings, harakin,’ drawled
Rinawne. He raised a hand to them.

I watched for signs of dislike
in the Wyva-clan, or discomfort, but there appeared to be none. They greeted
Rinawne pleasantly and easily enough. I did notice, though, their eyes skim
over the harling, as if they didn’t want to dwell on him too long. Nohar
greeted him and he said nothing.

‘You must be Myv,’ I said to him.

He looked at me with disinterest,
but was trained enough to say, ‘Hello.’

The harling had a look of
Rinawne about him, the wider, high-cheekboned face, the thick dark tumbling
hair. ‘Easy to see your hostling in you,’ I said.

The harling grimaced. ‘No, he’s
not in me. No.’

Rinawne laughed lightly. ‘Wyva
is his hostling, tiahaar.’

I reddened at the mistake.
Because Rinawne was dressed in flowing garments and had a flamboyant air, I’d
judged him to be soume-prevalent and therefore typical hostling material. I
should have known better, and was glad my chesnari and son had not been here to
witness it, since it was the kind of thing they loved to scold me about.
‘Forgive me,’ I said, bowing my head. Fortunately, it appeared the Wyvachi
siblings had recommenced their conversation and had not noticed my gaffe. The
young har set apart, however, was grinning at me. Myv went over to him and
squeezed beside him on the chair.

‘Don’t worry,’ Rinawne said.
‘You’re not the first to come to that conclusion, nor will be the last. Myv
spends most of his time with me, so the bond does appear at first glance to be
like that of hostling and harling.’

I was grateful for his
graciousness. ‘I’ve fallen in love with the tower,’ I said. ‘The ritual room is
marvellous. It makes me eager to start work here.’

‘I can take you to a few
interesting local sites tomorrow, if you like,’ Rinawne said. ‘Tell you a few
stories along the way, get you started.’ He smiled.

‘Thank you.’ I had planned to
roam around alone, but the prospect of hearing tales appealed to me.

Several more hara joined our
company. Introductions were made, but the names didn’t remain in my memory that
night. Modryn, the chesnari of Cawr arrived, but no more harlings. Two hara
from the town made an appearance, to whom I was introduced. They were members
of the Gwyllion Assembly, a town council. One of these hara was Selyf, a tall
scholarly-looking individual, who was the keephar of an inn named The Crowned
Stag
.
‘I hope we will see you there,’ he said. The other was a farmer
named Tryskyr who, second to Wyva, owned the most land in the area.  

After around half an hour spent
in formal conversation, none of which I found particularly interesting, a
househar announced that dinner was ready and the company surged towards the dining
room further into the house. Here, a coven of candles burned in ornate
candelabra placed upon the table, augmented by the glow of a round moon that
flew in through the uncurtained windows and alighted upon every surface like a
silver bird. I was aware of a strange sense of imminence as I took my seat next
to Wyva, who sat at the head of the table. Rinawne commanded the other end of
the board, with Myv beside him, fidgeting.

‘No suggestion the Whitemanes were
going to send somehar here to meet tiahaar Ysobi?’ Cawr said to Wyva, in a
sarcastic tone. A househar glided ghostlike around the table dispensing soup
from a silver cauldron held by a silent harling at his side.

Wyva grunted, pulled a sour face
briefly. ‘I’d expect to see the sky turn upside down before that.’

‘You never know,’ Gen said. ‘They
have their whims. At the very least, you’d expect them to be curious. They
weren’t that averse to Rey, despite his close connection to us.’

Wyva made a noise of irritation.
‘Nohar knows what motivates or interests them, really.’

‘The Whitemanes are local
oddities,’ Rinawne explained to me. ‘Many of the hara around here believe them
to be half-breeds, half fey. I suspect simply a strange inception, way back in
their past that has spread an unearthly taint throughout their kind.’

‘They like to think they own the
most land in the area,’ Tryskyr added. ‘While Wyva is the har in charge of
Gwyllion and its environs, the Whitemanes are... something else. They don’t
seek power exactly, but they do have influence.’

‘They’re an old family,’ Wyva
said. ‘Their roots go back as far as ours, but... they have a strange way with
them. I doubt you’ll come into contact with them much, Ysobi.’

‘They are being made to sound
more interesting than they are,’ Gen put in. He poured wine into his glass,
reached over to fill mine. I wondered whether a househar was supposed to do
that, and whether Gen was impatient, couldn’t wait, wanted a drink. ‘The
Whitemanes are eccentrics, as are many of the families in these parts, in one
way or another. History has bequeathed us a strange legacy. We are far
different from the humans who came before us, yet in some ways not that
changed. We have our alliances
and
our feuds.’

‘There are some who question the
original imperative hara had to cast off human heritage entirely,’ I said
carefully. ‘While others still insist it was essential. You’ll find many
discussions about it around academic tables from Kyme to Immanion.’

‘You must’ve been to both those
cities,’ Rinawne said, and as I glanced at him, I saw in his eyes a veiled
warning not to pursue the line of conversation that had been started.

‘Yes, I have,’ I said. ‘Kyme is
far smaller than Immanion, of course, but to me more intriguing. Immanion is glorious,
as you might expect, like a fabulous and sensuous dehar bathing in the crystal
ocean.’

‘That sounds more like my kind
of place,’ Rinawne said, smiling. ‘Warmth, sea, opulence, rather than sneaky
little corners and dark little streets full of beady-eyed hara clutching dusty
books.’

‘Ah, you’ve been to Kyme, then,’
I said, and everyhar around the table laughed, Rinawne louder than all of them.

There were other morsels served
to me that night, along with the exquisite dishes; the small titbits that
comprise the truth of a har’s nature. These things are naturally revealed
slowly. Even when you meet a har who seems to want to pour his life story over
you like glue at the first meeting, that is not the truth. The truth is
precious, guarded, and is hoarded long before being presented to you to taste.
Some truths fall from a har’s back like feathers from wings he doesn’t know he
has. You pick them up in his wake, gaze at them, see the stories there.

I came from that meal feeling I
knew at least something about the collective nature of Wyva’s tribe. They were
affable, fairly simple in outlook, undeniably old-fashioned in some of their
adherence to archaic human customs. They seemed on the whole fair-minded, and
most of Gen’s trickiness was an act. I sensed that a nervousness lurked beneath
his surface bravado. Wyva projected mildness, but I sensed steel within him. He
would not tolerate what he perceived to be wrongdoing. The mildness would fall
from him then. Perhaps he could be terrifying. Cawr struck me as somewhat
pettifogging, too attached to meaningless detail. I hadn’t been surprised to
learn he was responsible for the estate’s accounts; he was perfect for that
task. But Cawr had also a great generosity of spirit that was almost palpable.
He was far kinder than his brothers. Cawr’s chesnari, Modryn, was a contained
creature who didn’t add much to the conversation that night. He did tell me,
however, that he ran the local school. ‘Kyme has been good to us,’ he said.
‘They sent me a cartload of books when I asked for assistance.’ He smiled at
Cawr. ‘And
he
is another benefit of my coming here.’ Cawr smiled widely
in return. Clearly, they were very happy with one another. Rinawne was, perhaps
deliberately on his part, still something of a mystery. Was he bored, restless,
resigned, content, mischievous, cruel, sweet, mystical, pragmatic? Perhaps all
of these things. I could tell the harling irritated him sometimes, but he never
showed it overtly.