The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel (19 page)

I saw Myv near the fire, dancing
around the flames with Porter and a tumble of harlings from the town, no doubt
his schoolmates. Perhaps he had always been free and at ease among hara of his
own age. To me that night he seemed like any other harling I’d met, carefree
and joyous because he was at a party among friends. He spotted me and gestured
for me to come over, and then asked me to dance with them. I hadn’t drunk
enough to feel comfortable being the only adult cavorting round the fire, so
again made my escape. Myv didn’t insist and turned back to his friends.

As I walked through the crowd that now covered the
lawn of Meadow Mynd, hara called to me in greeting, showered me with blessings
and good wishes. I was reminded wistfully of how I’d never really had that in
Jesith. Even before Jassenah had come into my life, I’d been rather a recluse
because of relationships that had gone sour, and my inability to deal with the
fallout properly. Jass had tried to bring me into the light, and for a while
that had been golden, but this hadn’t lasted. Still, tonight was not the time
for melancholy thoughts. I was here in Gwyllion and life was different.

I wandered into the woodland
beyond the lawns, which comprised mainly aged rhododendron, unquestionably the sovereign
in this part of the garden. Perhaps it had even witnessed the horrors of Meadow
Mynd’s history. The voluptuous blossoms were starting to look past their best,
but they were late-blooming enough to grace the midsummer festival with their
translucent beauty, and also being of a breed that released a faint fragrance
into the air. I inhaled deeply as I walked the narrow path between them,
conscious of the myriad dens of thick stalks and dusty leaves that were
concealed in the heart of the overgrown shrubs. I remembered how I’d used to
play in such hideaways when I’d been a boy. I’d owned a veritable labyrinth of
chambers and tunnels in my grandmother’s garden. Fondly, I reached out and
touched a cluster of the glowing white flowers, bringing them to my face,
taking in their scent. Petals came away in my hands, fell to earth. I was glad
my grandmother had died long before her garden had been made a ruin.

Then a whisper came to me, ‘Such
fond memories, Wyvachi-called.’

Only Whitemanes would address me
as that. I turned quickly, but could see nohar. My heart increased its beat,
preparing to fight or flee. ‘Are you such a coward as to not show yourself?’ I
said, equally softly.

There was a rustling and he came
burrowing out of the dark leaves on the opposite side of the narrow path. He
stood up. The starlight was so bright I could see him clearly, the dust on his
clothes, cobwebs in his hair, the wet gleam of his eyes. He was tall, arrogant,
sneering, yet with the features of a Classical god.

‘I believe I have the honour of
the company of Nytethorne Whitemane,’ I said, bowing.

He laughed, shook his hair as a
horse might shake his mane. ‘So he perceives a difference among us, the
Wyvachi-called.

‘Why are you here?’ I asked.
‘The festival is over. It went well. You can report that.’

Nytethorne ignored my words. He
smiled, and I couldn’t tell what sentiment lay behind it. ‘You grieved for my
blood, my son said.’

And now they have sent you to
continue his work.

I shrugged, more nonchalantly
than I felt. ‘I won’t lie. What I saw last night shocked me, but then I am an
over-civilised and weak har in your eyes. Blood rites do not figure greatly in
my spiritual work.’

‘Strange. Heard you spill blood
quite regularly,’ Nytethorne said, ‘but not the physical kind.’

Again, I bowed. ‘I’m flattered
your family find me important enough to harass, tiahaar, but whatever you’re
plotting won’t work. Unless you’re planning to resort to physical harm,
although Wyva assures me that has never happened between your clans, at least
not – how did he put it? –
intentionally
.’

Nytethorne no longer appeared as
confident as he had. I knew I had scored a point. ‘No, they hurt their own more,’
he said in a hard tone. ‘Ask him about that instead.’

‘Why do you care what I know or
think? It’s been made clear to me you despise me, and I’ve assumed that’s
because of my education and way of life, yet you can’t leave me alone, can you?
Why don’t you just laugh at my
weakness
behind my back? Laugh at how
stupid Wyva was to call me from Kyme, and leave it at that.’

‘Didn’t call you from Kyme, though,
did he?’

My laughter was genuine. I no
longer felt any shred of apprehension. ‘You won’t give up trying to unsettle me,
will you? It’s become a posture, Nytethorne Whitemane. Be civil to me or leave
me be. I’ve no interest in any other kind of interaction between us. And that
goes for all of you. Maintain your ancient hatreds if you must, but don’t
include me in your games.’ I turned to walk back to the party, leave the spy to
dwell upon what I’d said. I didn’t expect him to follow and take hold of my
arm.

‘You know nothing,
Wyvachi-called,’ he murmured, close to my ear. ‘
They
called you into
this. Can’t turn the soil without finding worms. It knows you now. If you think
we control that, you’re mad.’

I shook myself free of him.
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

There was a pause while we held
each other’s gaze, me waiting for Nytethorne’s response. ‘You’ve a leaning to
meddle,’ he said. ‘Gets you noticed. Think you’re quiet? You’re not. You crash
through the forest like a boar. Take heed of it. Learn to be quiet.’

‘Because?’

Nytethorne held my gaze, and it
was difficult not to be influenced by his appearance, the appeal that oozed
from him. ‘He went because he was wise,’ he said slowly.

I was sure at once who he meant.
‘Rey.’ The name came out like a breath.

Nytethorne continued to stare at
me. ‘You be wise and do the same. Let the Wyvachi sacrifice their harling.
Perhaps he’s the one they wait for, but I don’t believe in miracles.’

I realised this har, however
disjointedly, was trying both to warn me and give me information. I also
realised the Whitemanes must have an informant in the Mynd. Nytethorne’s
information was too precise. ‘If Rey went because he was wise,’ I said
carefully, ‘why did he leave his son behind?’

There was a moment’s hesitation.
‘Porter’s never in danger.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of who his father is.’

I blinked. ‘And that would be?’

I knew he wouldn’t answer. He
already regretted revealing too much. ‘No matter,’ I said. ‘Keep your secrets.
But as a har, and a parent yourself, if you have
any
information,
however small, that would protect Myv, you should tell me. He’s only a harling,
not part of your family vendettas. Surely you have the honour to realise that?’

‘
You
protect him,’ Nytethorne
said.

I stared at him, remembering
that brief feeling of being watched earlier, the brush of thought against my
mind. ‘You were in the gardens earlier, weren’t you? You tried to tell me
something.’

‘Nothing more to say!’ And then
he was sprinting away from me down the path, leaping in strangely long strides,
until I could see him no more. He’d had merely the barest trace of a limp and
yet only the night before he’d been shot in the leg. Not even hara usually heal
that quickly.  

Once he’d gone, I was shaken, flooded
with disorientation that I’d managed to keep at bay in his presence. They had
such a
strong
effect, these Whitemanes. It put my former reputation to
shame.

I breathed deeply for a couple
of minutes to calm myself, not wishing to return to the Mynd in a dishevelled
mental state that somehar might notice. Once I felt in control of myself again,
I retraced my path.

There was an ornate gazebo at the edge of the
rhododendrons, and I saw that two hara were seated there. As I drew nearer, it
became clear this was Wyva and Medoc. Something about their postures alerted
me. I could hear no words, and neither of them was on their feet gesticulating,
but all the same I sensed an argument was in progress. And because I needed
information I crept up on them, keeping to the foliage, keeping quiet, until I
could hear them. (Was I following Nytethorne’s advice already?)

‘Wyva, you must protect your
own,’ Medoc was saying. ‘You’ve chosen to remain here, and you must continue to
abide by the rules. Part of that is not challenging the past.’

‘This is our home,’ Wyva said in
a controlled tone. ‘Yes, it was our choice to remain here, while you chose to
depart. But I don’t see why, after all this time, we can’t begin to put aside that
grim history, truly take back what is ours.’

 ‘Because you never can,’ Medoc
replied, his voice sounding genuinely sad. He put a hand against his chest.
‘Wyva, I was
there
. I saw your parents after what happened. The terror
in their hearts, their
souls
. Kinnard should have fled with us. Remaining
here cost him his life and that of his chesnari.’

‘There’s no proof of that... For
Aru’s sake, they didn’t create my pearl then die. They had years of
happiness... Cawr, Gen...’

‘Oh, Wyva!’ Medoc exclaimed.
‘Will you blind yourself to that too?’

There was a silence after these
words, as if Medoc had said something absolutely appalling or out of place. ‘I’m
sorry,’ he said at last. ‘I shouldn’t have used that term.’

Wyva shook his head. ‘My son
wants to be hienama,’ he said in a determined tone. ‘This is a revered role and
if he’s called to it, he should follow the path.’

‘Of course! But not here. It
will turn the soil.’

I was reminded of what Nytethorne
had said.
Can’t turn the soil without finding worms.
What
was
this
family’s secret and how could it still affect the present? Was it merely a
haunting, whether imagined or conjured from damaged minds, or something more?

‘Medoc, part of me knows you are
right,’ Wyva said, still in that smooth, controlled voice that he must have
perfected over the years, ‘but it is
they
who perpetuate our curse. They
feed it, never let it die. Is it right we should simply flee from that, turn
our backs on it? What does that promise for the hara we leave behind? Do we
abandon them to Mossamber Whitemane and his obsessions? Do you really advocate
that?’

Medoc shook his head. ‘No, but...’

‘Somewhere in that house there
is a shrine to Peredur,’ Wyva said before Medoc could continue. He pointed out
towards the river and what lay beyond. ‘And nightly they worship before it, feeding
whatever is left of those dire days.’

‘You have proof of that?’

‘No, but I don’t need it. And in
your heart you know that, too.’

Medoc sighed. He reached out and
clasped Wyva’s shoulder. ‘My heart aches for you,’ he said, ‘and that’s partly
why I’ve stayed away from Meadow Mynd. I know I can’t change anything and I
can’t bear to witness what might happen here, what will continue to happen
until their thirst for revenge, their vision of justice, is quenched.’ He stood
up. ‘If the fire of youth still burned in me, I’d muster an army from both our lands
and lay waste to the domain of Whitemane, unearth whatever cankers its
foundations and banish it. Don’t think I haven’t dreamed of that for nearly a
century. But what is done is done. Kinnard made his choice. He did what he
thought was right. He shot that arrow, and with it sealed the fate of our
family.’

‘Wouldn’t you have done the
same?’

‘Instead of what Mossamber did?’

The question hung in silence.

Wyva shook his head. ‘Mossamber
thought he was liberating a corpse, and what he took was hardly more than that.
You can’t blame my hostling. As you said, you were there.’

Medoc made an impatient gesture
with one hand. ‘Wyva, the rights and wrongs of that are beyond debate now. It
happened, and we can’t change that. But the consequence was that we’d be cursed
if we remained here. Kinnard chose defiance; I chose departure. And perhaps it
seems to you as if things have gone quiet, somehow faded over time, but I swear
that once Myv reaches feybraiha the soil
will
turn. Perhaps it’s already
doing so.
That
is what I must speak out about, no matter how you don’t
want to hear it. I also know you won’t agree with me, but I have to say it to
clear my conscience.’

‘You wouldn’t have come here
tonight if I’d told you about Myv yesterday, would you?’ Wyva said bitterly.

‘Probably not. Our lives are
long, Wyva. In comparison to our human forbears we have few children. For this
reason, you’ve been able to carry on, believing all is well, because relatively
few births occur to defy the malediction.’

‘My hostling fought back. He
protected his family.’

‘A legend,’ Medoc said, ‘wishful
thinking.’

‘And yet this
wishful
thinking
has magically sustained us.’

‘I believe it has, because the
will behind it was strong, but it’s not enough, Wyva. All is
not
well, and
Kinnard’s original fire has flickered out. He’s no longer with you with his
ferocious beliefs, that power he had to protect his own. What you’re proposing
will only open it all up again.’

‘I can’t believe that,’ Wyva
said. ‘My hostling is dead, but so is Peredur. He’s been dead for a century.
All that lives is Mossamber’s hatred, which he’s spread like a disease among
his hara. I don’t and can’t believe there’s anything wrong in standing up
against that. To me, to do otherwise is simply cowardice.’

‘Have you truly forgotten what
happened when your pearl broke open?’ Medoc asked softly.

Wyva paused before answering. ‘No,
but what I saw was with the eyes of a newly-hatched harling. How can I be sure
that the memory is true and not just what my parents told me afterwards?’