Burying the Shadow (11 page)

Part of my
initial training had included a brief examination of the condition
referred to as the Holy Death. Trainees were taught nothing more
than how to recognise Holy victims and, having ascertained that a
person has died from the condition, to leave well alone. The Holy,
or Sacred, Death is a phenomenon found in Khalt and Lansaal, which
had begun to occur - or had at least been recognised - a year or so
before I underwent my scrying rite. Its origins, however, are
indistinct, although the Lans and Khalts swiftly attached religious
meaning to it. Strangely, analytical discussion of the subject was
never encouraged among soulscaping trainees, which naturally
provoked many of us to raise it with our tutors. The Taps are
renowned for their rather iconoclastic tendencies regarding other
people’s beliefs, so it seemed very odd indeed that we should be
discouraged from debating something that should surely be analysed
in detail and understood. Some of us put forward the suggestion
that the Holy Death was caused by a disease, and could, therefore,
be eradicated if time was spent on studying the phenomenon. Others,
myself among them, thought the Deaths were the result of a state of
mind, a willingness to die. Tiji reluctantly conceded that, in her
opinion, it could be both of these things, and more. But she
stressed that humanity needed certain, inexplicable things to
maintain the health of its mindscape; the most experienced of
soulscapers believed the Holy Death to be one of these things. The
only place in the known world that does not produce cases of the
Holy Death is Taparak itself, which surely suggests that the mind
training of the Taps is responsible for their immunity. After all,
even a flower-seller in Taparak can be called upon to scry, if
necessary.

However,
because the condition is so deeply steeped in mystic import, it is
not easy to study it rationally, and Tiji urged most strongly that
we never try to investigate the Holy Deaths abroad. ‘Remember,’ she
said, ‘that, for some, the idea of a virgin being impregnated by a
ray of light and consequently delivering a god-child, is a given,
incontrovertible fact. You also know what can happen to people who
contest this belief! If people believe that the gods have taken one
of their loved ones, they strongly resent scientific interference.
Never
ask to examine a Holy corpse.’

I had this in
mind as the funeral party swayed past. Ushas made no comment to me,
but uttered a benison and flicked a few drops of the orange wine we
were drinking out onto the dust. One of the mourners noticed this
and, seeing our attire and our skin colour, which shrieked Taparak
loudly, came to present us with a purple lily. Ushas accepted this
gracefully and thumbed the woman’s forehead. We were invited to the
wake, but Ushas declined, speaking of early starts in the morning
and fatigue. I was disappointed; some riotous fun might be had
among the pyre trees of Cozca.

Before dawn,
my mother pitched me from my bed. She was already dressed and had
daubed her cheekbones with gold-green pigment to signify her rank
and also that her services were engaged. I had to wear a stripe of
turquoise down my nose to show I was still in training and not to
be petitioned. This irked me. I had wanted to pretend and put on
airs. Still, the day was sweet, fragranced by the fumes of the
resin farms down-wind, the sky clear and limpid. The mules were big
animals, well-muscled and fresh; much more impressive than the
skinny and cantankerous beasts found in Taparak. The journey began
at a brisk trot, the muleteer chanting the rhythm to the mules, as
the passengers jounced up and down in their saddles; those of them
untrained in the art of mulemanship jounced painfully from side to
side as well. By mid-morning, we were halfway down the coast road.
To the right, yellow beaches, tressed with weed, sloped away to the
wrinkling sea. In a hazy distance, the dragon shapes of Bochanegran
vessels, carrying merchandise east, could be seen; their masts
festooned with flags bearing the heraldic devices of the
merchants.

Toinis was
chaos. Being a major port, a religious sanctuary for several of the
most prominent cults, and home of the Trine Colleges of Alchemy,
Astronomy and Word, it was always crammed with people of many
different races. I saw sallow-skinned Bochanegrans, who were mostly
tourists or students, tall, proud, incredibly black Deltan traders
and magi, and even the occasional tow-headed Khalt, who always
looked rather lost and far from home. Ushas, after paying the
muleteer and, upon her entreaty, blessing the mules, dragged me
straight to the docks. We spent quite a time wandering up and down,
looking for the Bochanegran vessel,
Swift Sprite Windheel
,
on which the guild had arranged our passage to Sacramante.

‘I hope there
has been no misunderstanding,’ Ushas muttered, her patience
fraying, as we began our third circuit of the quayside. Eventually,
we resigned ourselves to queuing at the harbourmaster’s booth,
where we might inquire as to the
Windheel’s
whereabouts. I
wanted to wander off and explore, but knew Ushas wouldn’t take it
well. She got bored easily and needed someone to complain to as we
stood in line. Luckily, there was a Lannish family ahead of us, who
had been waiting for three days for passage east to Craienic, and
therefore had more to moan about. Ushas listened attentively to
their complaints, offering advice.

When our turn
came, my mother puffed herself up to a commanding stance and said,
‘Goodman, tell me please where I may locate the Bochanegran vessel,
Swift Sprite Windheel
. She is expecting us.’

The
harbour-master barely looked up, but pointed over our shoulders. We
turned. Through the window, we could see a stately, disdainful,
high-prowed vessel nosing aside lesser boats as she cruised slowly
into dock. The
Windheel
. Perhaps we’d arrived early.

For some
esoteric reason, my body decided it had had enough of sea travel
and adopted nausea for the last stage of our journey. True, a late
spring hastening had risen in the winds, chopping up the sea
beneath the ship into chunks, so that it seemed she bounced through
the waves rather than cleaved through them. Ushas doped me up with
goldpoppy elixir and virtually strapped me into a bunk in our
cabin, while she repaired to the saloon and drank with the other
passengers, or else played Conquer. I had never felt so ill in my
life and guzzled more goldpoppy as soon as signs of alertness
illumined the fuzz in my brain. Thus, by the time we docked at
Sacramante, I was more in the soulscape than reality, and my addled
senses had become so used to the chop of waves, I couldn’t stand on
land, and vomited as soon as I tried to walk. Ushas was annoyed by
this, because she didn’t want me to embarrass her. I was deposited,
rather roughly, in a dockside
orberja
, where I sought once
more the temporary sanctuary of sleep, while Ushas hired a spindly
open carriage to take her to the Carmen Tricante, residence of her
employers.

Later, I was
sent for. A message came from Ushas to inform me that the Tricantes
would not hear of us staying in an
oberja
during our visit,
and that they had offered us the hospitality of their family home.
I sat on the edge of my bed while the
oberja
mistress told
me all this, and wondered how on earth I was going to control my
rebellious stomach in the presence of Sacramantan aristocrats. But,
by the time the Tricante conveyance, complete with haughty,
liveried driver, presented itself in front of the building, I had
bathed myself, eaten, and drunk two carafes of spring water, so was
feeling much more human. The driver carried our belongings outside,
me tripping behind in my best shirt and trousers. It was too warm
to wear my favourite embroidered jacket, but I carried it over my
arm, with the embroidery displayed to good effect. I nodded
graciously at the driver as I climbed daintily into the carriage,
supported by his gloved hand. This was wonderful. The whole of that
visit was filled with such magicks.

Carmen
Tricante was a magnificent villa, situated on a hill above the
harbour, its steeply sloping gardens lush with flowering trees. I
loved the way the house was taller at the front, although even at
the rear it boasted three stories. There was a clutch of young
people resident at the Carmen, two daughters of the house, one a
few years older than I, the other, fortunately, the same age. Only
two weeks parted Liviana’s birthday from mine, and perhaps because
of our astral conjunction, we got along very well from the first
moment we set eyes on each other. There were two female cousins,
both in their late twenties, named Perdina and Voile. I think they
must have been twins; they were attenuated, pallid things, who read
much poetry. Finally, there was a noisy brace of brothers, Zimon
and Almero, who were of the age when life suddenly becomes
hysterical and interesting. Someone who I did not see at first was
the afflicted son of the household, whose name was rarely spoken.
Ushas told me his name was Salyon, and that he was confined to a
small pale room, set high in the Carmen. I do not think that even
she was introduced to the invalid until the next morning.

That first
night, we took supper in the garden, Ushas surrounded by an adoring
court, relating soulscaper anecdotes: me crowded by Liviana, who
never stopped asking questions. Whether it was the effects of the
petal-wine we were the drinking, the fragrant night, the dark-song
of Sacramante carousing the Spring evening, or just the strangeness
of this life so far beyond Taparak, I felt as if I had fallen in
love. My heart soared, my blood screamed in joy; I couldn’t stop
smiling. Feverishly, I extolled the wonders of this magical city to
my hostess. Liviana merely wrinkled her sun-tawny nose, small and
straight as a child’s finger, and said, ‘It’s all so
busy
.
I’d like to live in Taparak. It sounds so
casual
.’

I wondered
what absurdity of fate had cast each of our souls down in the
environment that the other desired. Liviana liked air, she liked
heights, and made me tell her of my life among the dreys.

There is an
atmosphere in Sacramante like nowhere else on Earth. Now, I
understand some of what inspires it but then, as a girl, I was
intoxicated and spellbound by its hectic gaiety, its intimations of
secrets. The city sprawls over a number of hills; wide avenues
sweep down to the sea, and there are hundreds of little alleys,
where cloistered
tavernas
, walled in flowering vines, sell
bizarre and perfumed beverages. Walking through the maze tunnels of
these alleys, you sometimes come upon a cobbled
piazza
,
where entertainers tumble and screech for the benefit of indolent
beauties seated outside the
oberjas
, their dark-vaned fans
aflap. Every day, while my mother probed the soulscape of poor
suffering Salyon, Liviana and I went out into the city. Liviana
wanted to show me everything, on the condition that she could visit
me in Taparak later, when I might repay the favour. I was happy to
comply. We were never out alone, however. Sometimes Livvy’s older
sister, Agnestia, would accompany us, or else we’d have to put up
with the boisterous brothers as escorts. Occasionally, one or both
of the languid cousins might stir themselves to take us out.
Whoever came with us, it always seemed as if we were in a crowd; I
had never laughed so much in my life. There was so much to see, an
almost obscene plenitude of art and culture to sample. The choice
of concerts, plays, and participatory art events being staged each
day was overwhelming. There was something to suit every taste; even
the most outlandish and grotesque.

One evening,
Zimon took us secretly to a hidden
taverna
, deep in the city
labyrinth, where two performers, of exquisite slimness and beauty,
slowly disrobed each other to music, their eyes like polished
quartz. Livvy giggled and nudged me, whispering bawdy, slightly
uncomfortable, remarks, which I tried to ignore. There was a purity
to the performance, a stylish reserve, which provoked only a
feeling of sadness within me. Livvy appeared unmoved by such
undercurrents and accepted the performance at face value, hissing
in delighted embarrassment at the sight of the male’s penis, the
female’s rouged breasts. There was nothing more to it than that; it
was not erotic in any way, but art, purely that; living sculptures,
their planes of vital marble catching the light, dancing with the
light, using it to create new forms. I felt drunk when we went out
into the evening air, although I had sipped only a citrus
cordial.

One morning,
Ushas dashed my hopes of yet another day’s frolicking with the
Tricantes. ‘Today, I want you with me when I work,’ she said.

I felt a
moment’s remorse, because I had almost forgotten why we were there.
We had been in the Carmen for three days; I should have offered to
assist her before, or at least shown an interest in what she was
doing. Liviana was disappointed she would not have my company that
day - it was astounding how well we got on - but understood my
responsibilities without argument. We could perhaps, she suggested,
go out for the evening later.

After
breakfast, Ushas led me to a steep, secluded stairway, which had
banisters of intricately worked beaten iron that curled around on
itself like dried strips of fungus meat. Round windows let in a
blaze of morning light, but as we mounted those stairs, I began to
feel nervous.

Ushas paused
outside a door at the top of the stairs and said, ‘I really want
you to see this, Rayo.’

See what? I
was unnerved. Would it be horrible to look at?

Inside, the
room was very bare; just a bed, a chest of drawers, a chair for the
comfort of those who sat with the invalid, and a small table. An
unconscious boy lay in the bed, beneath a coverlet of white and
gold tapestry. Sunlight fell onto his immobile face, and across the
hands of the servant woman who sat reading a book beside him.
Later, Ushas told me the Tricantes never left Salyon alone. The
servant ducked a curtsy to my mother, put away her book, and left
the room.