The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel

by Storm Constantine

  I’d borrowed a few books from Wyva’s library on local folklore and history, written back in the human era, and decided to spend the rest of the day reading, and making any relevant notes. The meditation at the pool had exhausted me, more so than I realised, until I sat down. After dinner, I went to the living room and here curled up on the sofa, pulling over my legs a fleecy blanket that was draped across the cushions. I was aware I needed comfort, but not harish comfort. A warm blanket would do. Wine was on the table before me and books were ready to read. This was how I planned to spend a lazy evening.

  Immersed as I was in the old tales it took me a few moments to become alert to the noises, which sounded like hara talking outside. Strange conversation, though. And perhaps... only one voice. I heard soft laughter, then more words – somewhat angry – then a muted wordless cry. As my attention was focused upon them, the sounds grew louder, closer. They could almost be inside the tower.

  I kicked off the blanket and stood up, every nerve tense and alert.

  A book was still in my hand – it was, I remember thinking, my only immediate weapon. There was another short cry, despairing, echoing, as if bouncing off the cold stone walls of the stairwell. I had not heard the great door open below, but neither had I locked it.

  I went to the door of the room and pushed it wide. The stairway was silent, its dim lamps revealing nothing. If anything was with me in the tower, it must be in the kitchen or the basement. From the farm, I heard the voice of the hounds rise in an ululating wave, and then they too fell silent.

  Gripping my book, I ventured cautiously down the stairs, then paused before the kitchen door. Telling myself I was a powerful creature of magic – and why on earth was I nervous? – I steeled myself and opened the door, stepped into the room. The atmosphere in there was electric, the air so dense it could almost be chewed.

  ‘Show yourself,’ I hissed.

  ‘Don’t be angry again,’ a wavering, childlike voice murmured. ‘I’m here. I’m here.’

  I saw then, huddled on the floor against the dresser, a quivering form, its arms over its face. My first instinct was that this was some benighted har who’d wandered into the tower, somehar ill or peculiar in some way, because it did not in the slightest appear to be a spectral creature.

  ‘I’m not angry,’ I said, putting the book down on the table. ‘Who are you?’

  The figure then lowered its arms and rose sinuously to a stand. ‘Do you not know me, Ysobi?’

  I jumped back against the heavy table so hard it skidded backwards a few inches. I couldn’t speak. I saw a slim har with long dark hair, dressed in a tunic and trousers of what appeared to expensive viridian silk. His face was beautiful, his hands as he held them out to me expressive. I knew him well; he was my nemesis, my undoing. Gesaril. He could not be here. Did this mean he was dead and I was facing his phantom?

  ‘This is not your place,’ I managed to say eventually. ‘You must go.’

  Gesaril stretched out his pale arms, which appeared so horribly real, in a wide gesture as if to embrace, enfold me. I could see small hairs upon them, a minor scratch above the wrist. Could he really be here? ‘But didn’t you call to me?’ he murmured, tears spilling down his face. ‘Why must I be blamed for it all? You want my place to be here.’

  ‘No,’ I said and drew in a deep breath. ‘Gesaril, are you now not of this earth? You must answer.’

  For a moment, the image of him wavered, and that was the downfall of the plot. I knew then for certain I was dealing with a conjured being. ‘You ruined me,’ he said. ‘You pulled me to you, then cast me away. So much of me died back then, but not all.’

  ‘Where did we meet the last time?’ I asked. My heart was beating so fast I could hear it throughout my entire body, and yet I was angry rather than afraid. Let this fetch answer the question; of course it wouldn’t be able to.

  ‘You made me a hated thing,’ said the image of Gesaril in a whining tone.

  The last time I’d seen Gesaril he’d been far from whining. He had virtually cursed me for eternity. What stood before me had been created locally. This was not a figment of the land, or of the tower; they were well disposed to me. This came from a har.

  ‘Get away!’ I cried. ‘In the name of the mighty dehar, Agave, wielder of the sword of will, I command you to disperse into the thoughts that formed you!’ I picked up the book and threw it hard at the figure before me. ‘Be gone!’

  And so he was, so swiftly he might never have been there. The atmosphere in the room was restored, and – I fancied – almost apologetic, as if the tower had been incapable of preventing the intrusion but regretted this bitterly.

  I patted the table. ‘Be at rest,’ I told the tower. ‘This disturbance is an insult to both of us. Trust that I’ll discover its cause.’

  Somehar – a Whitemane, and most likely Ember, or Ember with the help of an older har – had reached into my mind and drawn information about Gesaril from me, with the intention of using it against me. I’d been expecting something along these lines since my dream of Ember on the eve of Cuttingtide and was surprised it had taken him – or them – this long. What they’d conjured was a sickening violation, and to me it seemed petty and spiteful, not the act of somehar really wishing to hurt me. Did this indicate it was the youthful Ember behind it? Or was Nytethorne responsible? Had he told his family of our earlier meeting? I’d felt sure he wouldn’t have done, that in some way he wanted my help, even if he couldn’t voice it, but hara can be deceptive, especially if they deceive through the medium of a beautiful face. Still, I would not let this go unchallenged. The nerve of it!

  Before going to bed, I set wards about the tower in every corner, not wishing to have my sleep or dreams disturbed further. I placed another clock in the bathroom, an old one I’d found in the basement. No one waited there. Not yet.

  The next morning, I woke fizzing with energy and determination. My dreams must’ve been placid because I remembered none of them, which was unusual for me. My intention was to confront Nytethorne about the previous night’s events, and I looked forward to this greatly, still furious at the intimate intrusion into my mind and past, which I remained convinced was the work of the Whitemanes. I had no idea whether Nytethorne visited The Rooting Boar every day, but as I didn’t relish the thought of confronting the Whitemanes in their lair, the inn was the only sure way to get to him. If I had to wait a day or two, so be it. I’d been taking my lunch there until I saw him again. I refused to allow the Whitemane clan to unnerve me. Until mid-day I’d work on my Reaptide ritual, putting all other thoughts from my mind. I sensed the tower’s approval of my temper and decisions.

  At noon, I was in no mood for walking, so rode Hercules down to Gwyllion. The pothar in the inn seemed both surprised and pleased to see me again – perhaps thinking I’d been impressed by my lunch the previous day. His hostling came through from what was clearly the kitchen and greeted me warmly. ‘Good day to you, tiahaar. Would you like lunch?’

  ‘I would indeed,’ I said. ‘I enjoyed yesterday’s so much I thought I’d return. The ale was good too.’

  ‘How about roast chicken? I have half a dozen already cooked, and the vegetables are done.’

  ‘That would be perfect.’

  Yoslyn spoke to his son, who then went to prepare my food. As garrulous as I’d remembered he was, Yoslyn ushered me to a seat beneath one of the front windows, and sat down opposite me. Today would be busy, he told me, because there was a livestock fayre just outside the village. I wondered if I should make an effort to be more aware of these local events, then smiled as I realised it was another thing that showed I’d decided to stay in Gwyllion longer than I planned.

  Yoslyn made conversation while my meal was prepared by asking the usual questions: how was I getting on with my work, what did I think of Gwyllion, and so on. He didn’t seem the slightest inimical to the Wyvachi – or to me – and yet I didn’t remember seeing him or his son at the Cuttingtide festival, and the fact Nytethorne W
hitemane had a private room here indicated in which direction the inn’s loyalties lay. Still, if the keephar was prepared to be cordial, I would be so too.

  The meal arrived – a plate heaped with roasted vegetables and half a large roast chicken accompanied by a pot of homemade relish; enough food to fill two bellies. As I began to eat, I considered that Myv’s career choice must now be common knowledge everywhere in the district, so felt comfortable saying, ‘It seems the village hienama problem will soon be solved. You’ve heard about Myvyen Wyvachi’s offer to take the job?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Yoslyn, pouring ale into a tankard for me from a large earthenware jug his son had brought to us. ‘Rather a surprise, but makes sense when you think about it.’

  I nodded, took the tankard from him. ‘Myv is rather young, of course, but his enthusiasm makes up for that. As you said when we first met, the hara around here really want a hienama again.’

  Yoslyn took a sip of his drink. ‘You’ll be teaching him, then?’

  ‘Yes, for some time.’ I paused. ‘Do you have no dedicated nayati at all here? I mean have you ever had one?’

  ‘We’ve had several hienamas,’ the keephar said, smiling. ‘Flighty creatures, most of them, more concerned with burning the incense and plaiting their hair than serious matters, but I think the local... er... problems you’ve no doubt encountered made living and working here sour for most of them.’

  I nodded again. ‘You mean the feud between the Whitemanes and the Wyvachi.’

  ‘Yes. I’m not a har to take sides, and in all honesty I don’t think many hara in Gwyllion are, but the conflict has often caused difficulties for hienamas in one way or another, or so I’ve heard. Most of the original tribe don’t like to speak of the past that much.’

  ‘Well, I’m made of stern stuff!’ I said, smiling. ‘Although I do think a locally bred hienama will be best for Gwyllion. But anyway... a nayati?’

  Yoslyn pulled a sour face. ‘In the old days, at the beginning, hara had little time for being... spiritual.’

  ‘Were you there?’ I asked, in what I hoped was not too eager a tone.

  ‘Not right at the start, no. I came here – what...?’ Yoslyn turned his eyes to the ceiling for a moment and pondered. ‘Well maybe forty or so years after Wraeththu took control in this area.’

  ‘A lot can happen in forty years.’

  ‘It can. But to answer your question, no, we’ve never had a dedicated building. One or two of the hienamas over the years have sought to use the old church, rededicate it if you like, but hara weren’t comfortable with it – too many reminders of the human era, and outworn human beliefs.’

  ‘I can appreciate that, yet most religious buildings were constructed on ancient spiritual sites, so they’re not inappropriate for conversion to nayatis.’

  ‘True, but prejudices linger.’

  I nodded. ‘All too often! I heard the original bell still lies hidden within the ruins of the church.’

  Yoslyn grinned. ‘Allegedly... and if a day comes when it is raised... well...’ Yoslyn held up his hands, rolled his eyes in a comical manner.

  ‘Oh!’ I said. ‘Is there a legend connected with it? Please tell me if so. I’m collecting stories of the area as part of my work.’

  Yoslyn leaned forward, his arms resting comfortably on the table. ‘There was an old song, probably invented round communal fires in the early days. I can’t remember all the words but the start of it was something like...’ He closed his eyes for a few moments, then sang softly a wistful melody. ‘“When the silver swan returns to the old domain, then the bell of Gwyllion will have throat again, but that day will never birth, for silver swan lies in the earth.”’

  My flesh tingled, and even Yoslyn seemed slightly affected by the song. He shrugged off the wistfulness. ‘Well, it was something like that. There was more to it, but I can’t remember the rest.’

  ‘What or who was the silver swan?’

  Yoslyn pulled a face to indicate he didn’t know. ‘Some tribal emblem, I expect. In this area, every ragged group unworthy of the word phyle had an animal or bird they venerated. I expect the song referred to some tatterflits being driven off or slaughtered by rivals, who knows?’

  I retrieved my notebook and pencil from my coat pocket and wrote down the rhyme before I forgot it – also the word “tatterflit”, which amused me. The keephar peered at the page as I wrote. ‘Yoslyn,’ I said, ‘I often hear a bell in the evening. Do you know where it’s rung?’

  ‘A bell?’ Yoslyn pulled a face. ‘I’ve not heard one.’

  ‘Perhaps it can only be heard from the Mynd area,’ I said. ‘No matter. I was just curious.’ I paused. ‘I don’t suppose you know if the Whitemanes have a bell on their estate?’

  ‘Not that I know of. That’s not to say they haven’t.’ Yoslyn paused, then spoke in the most forced casual manner I’d ever heard. ‘I hear you had business with Nytethorne Whitemane yesterday.’

  I looked up. ‘So? Whatever hienamas in the past were like, I won’t take sides in local feuds.’

  Yoslyn regarded me steadily, and I could see a smile somewhere in the depths of his gaze. ‘You here for him again today?’ He took a drink. ‘Not that you are like... previous hienamas.’

  To my great embarrassment I felt my face flame. I was sure the keephar’s words were a reference to Rey and perhaps his relationship with Nytethorne. ‘Do I look flighty to you?’ I snapped.

  Yoslyn raised his hands. ‘Ooh, no offence, tiahaar. Forgive my humour.’ He winked at me. ‘But is the relish perhaps too hot for you? You look burned.’

  I shook my head, smothered a smile, which was almost as embarrassing as the blush. ‘Your sauce is somewhat hot,’ I said dryly.

  Yoslyn laughed heartily. ‘Good luck to you, tiahaar!’ He rose from the table and returned to his duties.

  For a moment I put my face into my hands. No, no, no, no... I must collect myself. Was I incapable of learning from my mistakes?

  As the afternoon rolled on, hara began to arrive at The Boar to eat. There was no sign of Nytethorne, however. I should have asked Yoslyn if he was likely to appear, but now the keephar was busy as the bar room filled up with hara ordering meals. I’d arranged for Rinawne to come over to the tower later on, but decided that while I was in a fighting mood I should instead go to Meadow Mynd and discreetly investigate the phenomenon Rinawne had told me about. Wyva would no doubt insist I stay for dinner and then keep me there far too late, talking, which would make it difficult for Rinawne and I to have time to meet that night. He wouldn’t be pleased, but for now he’d have to put up with the situation. There were more important matters to attend to.

  I’d finished my meal and the hubbub in the inn was now starting to get on my nerves. I thought I might as well leave and go to the Mynd. Confronting Nytethorne would have to wait for another day, hopefully tomorrow. But as I rose, with the intention of going to the bar to pay for my meal, I saw through the window Nytethorne tethering his horse to the rail by the door, where by now many other horses were tethered. I noticed him glance at Hercules, pause. He must have recognised my horse, perhaps because the Whitemanes knew everything they possibly could about me. Did it go through his mind then to untie his mount and ride away? Well, if it did, he decided against it and came into the inn.

  As he reached the bar, he looked around the room, finally finding me amongst the sea of faces. He inclined his head, smiled in a hard, uncertain way. I raised my tankard to him, looked away, out through the window. I was aware my breathing had become fast and shallow and corrected this forcibly.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Nytethorne go to the stairs further down the room. He did not look back at me, and I found his mood difficult to read. Guarded. I waited only a minute or so before following him. The staff here were very busy. I doubted Nytethorne’s lunch would be brought to him immediately. Perhaps he too had been at the fayre.

  After I knocked on his door, Nytethorne opened it to me at once and stared at me in a comp
letely unreadable way.

  ‘Might I come in?’

  ‘Why? Our business was finished yesterday.’

  ‘Was it, now?’ I pushed past him, stood in the centre of the room.

  Nytethorne closed the door, pulled himself to his full height, crossed his arms across his breast. ‘You have more to say?’

  I didn’t answer, but flew across the room and pushed him roughly against the door, one forearm against his throat. He yelped in surprise.

  ‘Listen well, tiahaar,’ I said, pressing my arm hard against him so he could barely breathe. ‘I know your clan’s little games. The show last night was impressive, but not for one moment was I deceived. Kindly inform Mossamber of this.’

  ‘Release me!’ Nytethorne gasped. ‘No idea what you’re saying.’ He struggled, yet strangely did not retaliate. I’m sure he could have fought me off if he’d wanted to.

  ‘You think I’m an idiot!’ I said, but released the pressure a little. ‘I’m not weak, Nytethorne. The horrors of the abyss have beaten on the doors of my mind many a time in the past. Whitemane theatrics can’t touch me.’

  ‘Ysobi,’ he said, with difficulty. ‘Let go. Tell me what you mean. If I know anything, won’t hold it from you.’

  I lowered my arm, moved away, but reluctantly. I felt as if I wanted to beat him senseless.

  He stared at me. ‘What happened last night?’