Sammael did not share my apprehension. It seemed that, since we had conjoined, his interest in eloim welfare had been rekindled. He burned with vitality, and an energy that needed release in activity. Believing Metatron’s anger to be a very real possibility, I could do nothing but imagine a hundred frightful humiliating scenes. My pride balked at the thought of Sammael witnessing me being chastised by my father.
I instructed Ramiz to prepare our best carriage, and to place hot bottles beneath the cushions for Sammael’s comfort. While that was being attended to, I dressed myself in a formal black gown and painted my face into a mask of composure. My mood swayed between a desire to weep and a cool, steely anger. I would never forgive Metatron if he embarrassed me.
Sammael was familiar with the Metatronim stronghold. As the carriage bowled along the afternoon streets, with their mellow pall of low sunlight, he told me stories about when the atelier courts had been built. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing towards the House of Sarim. ‘The stone is dark now, and not so stark in its lines. I can remember the raw white blocks standing in the sun, waiting to be assembled.’
I touched his shoulder. ‘See there, between the poplars, the ocean.’
He smiled. ‘The ocean! One day perhaps...’
‘I will take you to the harbour.’
‘Is it safe for eloim to walk the streets in Sacramante now?’ I wondered whether he was mocking me.
‘The situation has cooled down, I believe... for a while, at least. But I wouldn’t be surprised if other, similar incidents to the Mervantes crisis don’t arise, unless something is done.’
He gripped my hand. ‘We shall try,’ he said. ‘We shall certainly try.’
I did not introduce Sammael to anyone when we entered the House of Metatronim. A male servant let us in, casting suspicious glances at my companion. I was told Metatron was expecting me; I would be shown into his presence without delay. The servant looked at me enquiringly, which I took to mean he wanted Sammael’s name in order to announce him.
I peeled off my gloves and said, ‘Well, we had better make haste, then!’
The servant bowed and led the way.
Metatron was in his library - a vast cavern of a room, lined with books he never read. When his servant opened the door, he was standing in the middle of the carpet, as if he had been interrupted in pacing up and down. He looked a little wild, but that might have been the effects of travelling abroad with the Harkasites. I stood in the doorway, partially concealing my companion, although he towered over my head.
‘Father,’ I said. ‘I am gratified to find you well after your journey.’
Metatron opened his mouth to speak to me and then realised I was not alone. For a few moments, he stared hard at Sammael, who then edged past me into the room.
‘Metatron,’ he said carefully.
Just for a few brief seconds, I saw an expression of outrage cross my father’s face. He recognised Sammael instantly, and I realised his first thought was not one of surprise or alarm, but simply that there might be a challenge to his authority within the throngs. I had never seen Metatron so transparent in his feelings. ‘Sammael?’ he said.
‘In flesh and blood.’ Sammael knew what he was thinking.
‘I am...’ Metatron shook his head, and then laughed delightedly. He held out his arms and marched over to embrace Sammael warmly. It was a performance of which I myself would have been very proud.
‘You!’ he said. ‘I should have known!’ He looked at me rather dangerously over Sammael’s shoulder.
Sammael returned Metatron’s embrace patiently. ‘Before you ask, your daughter Gimel is responsible for my presence here.’
‘Is she?’
I winced, curling up my toes within my boots. ‘There was no alternative Metatron,’ I said. ‘Many things have occurred since you left Sacramante.’
‘Then perhaps I should have returned sooner.’
‘You have returned at exactly the right time,’ Sammael said. ‘I left my tower only this morning.’
Metatron released Sammael from his arms and stood back to examine him. He sighed, shook his head and then smiled warmly. I was relieved to realise it was a genuine smile. ‘Well, this is a shock, but, other than that, I am very glad to see you, Sammael. Sometimes, I did think about you when I was alone out there. I even considered visiting you myself when all this trouble started.’
Sammael shrugged awkwardly. ‘I have shirked my responsibilities perhaps, but you seem to have managed well enough without me.’
‘I feel you are being just a little too kind,’ Metatron replied smoothly. ‘You must be able to see for yourself what a mess we are in. I doubt whether you’d be here otherwise.’
‘The situation was inevitable,’ Sammael said. ‘You can hardly blame yourself - or anyone else.’
Metatron nodded thoughtfully. Then, he asked us to sit down and summoned a servant to furnish us with brandy. There was a distinct coolness between my father and me. I suspected the heated recriminations would come later, but at least it didn’t seem as if he intended to upbraid me in front of Sammael. I could see now that he was really unable to; any reprimand of my behaviour would be plainly insulting. It would make it too obvious my father didn’t want Sammael around again in any circumstance, no matter how dire.
‘So what precipitated your return to Sacramante?’ I asked. ‘Had you learned all that it was possible to learn?’
Metatron grimaced. ‘I would not say that, but I have uncovered certain information.’ He grinned at me in a feral manner. ‘At the time, I felt it was vital to discuss this information with you, Gimel, before I took action on it. I had no idea you were taking such responsibilities upon yourself as braving the Tower of Bale.’ His face softened, but it did not convince me that his feelings had. ‘I am ashamed that you were forced to adopt these measures alone. I should have been with you.’
‘I managed perfectly well,’ I said.
‘So it would appear,’ Metatron said, in a silky voice. ‘And how is Beth?’
I dropped my eyes. ‘He is well...’
‘I did warn you.’
I looked up. ‘He is well!’
Metatron shrugged. ‘As you please. Now, I will tell you the story of my travels.’
Without further reference to my brother, he began to speak of how the Harkasites had dispersed into Khalt to gather information. Metatron had been disturbed by all the peculiar phenomena they had discovered. ‘I thought at first it was some Tartaruchi conspiracy,’ he said, ‘but later, realised it was not. The Tartaruchis have nothing to do with it. But there is undeniably an eloim influence at work.’
‘Then who?’ I asked. ‘Loners, or members of foreign throngs?’ I did not think that was very likely. What I had seen of foreign eloim in the past suggested they would be too paranoid to adopt threatening behaviour.
Metatron shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that. It took me a while to work out who, and even now I am not wholly sure. It is too incredible.’ He looked at Sammael in a challenging manner. ‘Have you any idea what I’m getting at?’
Sammael narrowed his eyes. ‘Where did your search lead you?’
‘Across Khalt. There is no doubt that the phenomena originated in the west. Ultimately, I concluded they originated in the Strangeling.’
‘How did you draw this conclusion?’
‘It was obvious, really. Too obvious to be considered at first. New belief systems - not Bochanegran in origin - are spreading across the land like a disease. We found wretched humans who had been inefficiently supped, leaving them neither quite dead nor properly alive. We found evidence of mutant births - meddlings with human souls. Paranormal events. Spirits... plenty of spirits. Some of the nomads had seen them; blades of light the size of a man, was how they described them. Also, Harkasites travelling into the Strangeling reported humans who offered them the sup. This is a relatively new phenomenon, thankfully, but not one that has been engendered by legends of our past alone. Now, Sammael, can you guess t
he conclusion I have drawn?’
Sammael was frowning. He nodded slowly. ‘I think so.’
‘Then let us see if our suppositions concur.’
‘Well, if I’m correct, it refers back to something I began to speak to your daughter about earlier,’ Sammael said.
‘What?’ I asked sharply, trying to remember what he might mean.
He looked at me. ‘Remember, we talked a little about the ancients, the very old eloim?’
‘What do you mean? I don’t understand. You talked of death, or near death transformation. Are you suggesting these dying eloim are now stalking the plains of Khalt?’ I laughed, and was distressed to recognise a note of hysteria in that laughter.
‘That is rather too provocative a way to put it,’ Metatron said. ‘But, in some respects, the evidence points that way.’
‘This is preposterous!’ I cried. ‘How could these ancient eloim get out of Sacramante? Someone would have noticed.’
‘They are not in Sacramante,’ Sammael said bluntly.
‘Not in Sacramante?’ I appealed to my father. ‘What is he talking about? Those eloim live in the family strongholds. You told me that.’
‘I don’t think I did,’ Metatron said gently. ‘However, the truth is something we keep from the younger members of our families, since there is little need for them to know. The truth is painful.’
‘I must hear it,’ I said.
‘Gimel,’ Sammael said to me. ‘You know we are not native to this world, and also that, in many ways, we have never changed enough to belong here fully. In our old world, when the eloim reached a certain stage of their spiritual development, they moved on to another realm, another sphere of existence, another reality. However, the path to that new state of being lies through the world we were expelled from - we cannot reach it any other way - which means that we are trapped here on Earth. The oldest eloim are caught in a half-state between spirit and flesh. They become different in mind and body and, as such, can no longer live among the rest of us.’
‘Why not?’ I demanded. ‘How different do they become?’
Sammael glanced at Metatron, who reached out to touch my shoulder. ‘Quite often, there is mental disturbance, very similar in some respects to the senility found in humans. Also, they become less corporeal, eventually shedding their desiccating flesh altogether. The ancient eloim are risks to our security. Because their minds are addled, they might wander out into Sacramante itself. You don’t need me to tell you how humans would react to that!’
‘So what does happen to these ancients, then?’ I asked. ’Where do they go?’ I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know.
‘A place was found where they could rest peacefully,’ Sammael said, ‘in the hope that one day our circumstances would change, and they might then pass on to their next phase. At present, all of them are confined within the land known as the Strangeling.’
‘The Strangeling!’ I was amazed. It was only a ruin. What comfort could there be in such a place for these suffering spirits. I could not believe it.
‘Yes,’ Sammael said. ‘It is quite true. There is a fallen city there called Ykhey, which has strong connections with, or lingering fragrances of, our lost world. The old ones are taken there for their own comfort until...’ He looked at Metatron. ‘Well, I was going to say until a way can be found to facilitate their passing from this world, but I suspect that has not been a pressing issue with eloimkind in general. I suspect the old ones are simply packed off to the Strangeling and forgotten.’
‘The ancients become listless,’ Metatron said, ‘and it was thought they had no desire - or energy - to move around in the world.’
‘Now, it would seem, the consequences of that blithe oversight will have to be attended to,’ Sammael said.
Metatron looked abashed. ‘Your criticism is well-founded, Sammael.’
‘I am not criticising anyone, Metatron. Our position always has been insupportable. What else could we have done? Still, if prowling old eloim are causing the anomalies in Khalt, I am relieved it is only them. There could have been other, far more dangerous, reasons for the phenomena we’ve observed. All you have to decide now is what you’re going to do about it.’
‘The phenomena in Khalt hardly explain the eloim suicides here, or the fact that humanity is beginning to view us with suspicion,’ I said.
Metatron nodded. ‘I would agree - to a point. However, we cannot tell how the activities of the ancient eloim might affect the fabric of our reality. There might be a connection, or there might not. Sadly, there is only one way to find out. I shall have to confront the ancients themselves. At least I have some ideas to act upon now.’
Sammael nodded. ‘That would seem sensible.’
Metatron rubbed his face and nodded. ‘I wanted to return the Harkasites to Sacramante before I confronted the ancients. The Khalts have had enough scares from my sinister riders to last them a lifetime!’ He smiled uneasily.
‘Wise of you,’ Sammael said. ‘I take it you don’t intend to have Harkasites in the party you’re leading to the Strangeling, then?’
Metatron frowned. ‘There’ll be no party. I shall go alone.’
Sammael pulled a quizzical face. ‘Oh? Don’t you think that would be rather dangerous? We have no way of anticipating into what the ancients might have evolved. You must not face them alone, Metatron. You are too valuable to our people. I, at least, shall travel with you.’
‘You? Are you up to the journey?’ Metatron asked sharply. ’I did not intend to travel by carriage.’
‘If I have forgotten how to ride a horse,’ Sammael said, looking rather pointedly at me, ‘I am sure it is a skill that I will remember after a little practice. As for being out in the open, that is something I will have to conquer my fear of.’
‘Well, if you are sure...’ Metatron sounded far from sure.
‘Quite sure,’ Sammael said lightly. ‘And I also think we should take at least one Harkasite with us for protection. If I may be so bold, I suggest you choose Pahadron, who is undoubtedly the strongest and the most terrifying. We might need his especial talent in Ykhey.’
‘Pahadron,’ Metatron repeated, his dry tone suggesting he disagreed with the choice. ‘If you insist.’
Sammael smiled. ‘I created the Harkasites, Metatron, and am perfectly capable of controlling them.’
Metatron’s face twitched at the rebuke. ‘I would not presume to suggest otherwise! It’s just that you have been... away... for so long. I hope you won’t overstretch your strength by travelling.’
‘So do I!’ Sammael said, grinning widely. I realised I was witnessing the unprecedented sight of my father being teased. Metatron grunted and stood up to replenish the brandy glasses.
Sammael glanced at me. ‘Queen of Eloim,’ he mouthed silently. It was a cue.
I knew that, at this point, he expected me to offer to accompany them to the Strangeling. In my heart, I knew I would end up doing so anyway, but the idea of the ancient eloim made me feel physically sick. I did not want to admit those decayed beings, exiled to a wasteland, existed. The implication of the necessity for their removal from Sacramante was enough to turn my stomach. It was wonderful news that Metatron might have found the source of our problems, but I could not feel relieved about that. All I could think of were the images this information had conjured within my mind. Suddenly, I had been presented with an unimaginably ugly possibility for my own future, never mind anyone else’s.
‘Sammael’ I said. ‘I need to know more about the ancient eloim. At what age can an individual expect to begin this... transformation? How long does it take to happen?’
‘Let us just say that all my original followers - all those who came through to this world with me - are undoubtedly in the Strangeling by now,’ Sammael said. ‘Metatron here probably has a good while left to him before the dissolution - a couple of centuries - the Parzupheim perhaps less. I would expect for them to begin transforming within the next fifty or sixty years. As for you…�
� He touched my knee reassuringly with bunched knuckles. ‘Gimel, you are just a child. It is too far away for you to worry about.’
My skin was crawling as if with a fever; I felt hot and cold by turn. ‘And there are really no Metatronim ancients in this house at all?’ I asked Metatron, across the room. ‘Not even your own father?’
Metatron shook his head as he replaced the stopper in the brandy flask, watching me gravely. I had never met my grandfather; I had been told he’d become ascetic before my birth.
‘The original Metatron was with me from the first,’ Sammael said, as an interesting snippet of historical trivia. I was appalled how the pair of them just seemed to accept the situation. Even Metatron who, within a couple of short centuries, could expect to meet the same grisly fate!
‘This is disgusting!’ I cried. ‘What happens to the old ones? How does it begin? Does their flesh begin to decay in some way? What is it like when they lose their minds?’ It seemed obvious to me that merely the awareness of the change would drive an eloim insane. Just the idea of it had pushed me close to becoming hysterical. We have no place for the Dark Brother in our society; no. We have a place for something even more dreadful, and what would his name be: the Dust Brother, the Brother of Powdery Shrouds?
‘As to how badly their sanity is impaired, it is difficult to determine,’ Metatron said, sitting down again, and handing me a glass. ‘Because it becomes very hard to communicate with them. As for their corporeal forms, they simply change; they become more like spirits. Until now, we believed that there was very little in this world they could relate to.’
‘Then why do you think they are responsible for the phenomena in Khalt?’ I asked. ‘From the description you have given me, I find it hard to believe they would even want to prey on humans! Why would pure spirits need sustenance?’
‘Gimel, it is because we need answers to these questions that I - that we - are going to the Strangeling,’ Metatron said impatiently.
Burying the Shadow Page 37
