‘Don’t look so sombre,’ Rinawne said. ‘Everything was fine last night. Wyva probably hasn’t seen his hura since he was a harling. His parents are gone, old feuds hopefully forgotten – mostly. Medoc has no reason not to re-establish relations with Wyva and his brothers. This should have been broached before.’ He touched my shoulder. ‘I feel it’s you who’s somehow brought about this change.’
‘Don’t blame me for everything.’
Rinawne laughed heartily. ‘Blame? I was talking about gratitude.’
Later in the afternoon, after hours of niggling unease, I made a decision and asked Wyva if I could speak to him in private. He took me into the library, as he always tended to do when we needed to talk, away from the hubbub of the house and garden. ‘You have something to say, Ys? You seem troubled. I hope all the arrangements are to your liking.’
‘Of course,’ I replied, ‘I’m amazed at the extent of them! No, it’s not that, Wyva, and I don’t want to blow dark smoke over the excitement, but I must ask you this: will your estate be secure tonight?’
‘What by Aru do you mean?’ Wyva appeared shocked, almost angry.
I rubbed the nape of my neck, embarrassed. ‘Rinawne told me about your hurakin coming here and well... I saw some odd proceedings in the forest last night. The Whitemanes. I hate to mention them, but I have to. What I saw... It’s hard to explain, but when Rinawne told me your news I could only feel apprehension. I wouldn’t want the Whitemanes spoiling your reunion with your family.’
Now Wyva laughed, apparently relieved. ‘Oh, Ys, you’re such a worrier! They wouldn’t dare. But yes, as you mention it, I had planned to have hara patrolling our perimeter and the woods close to the house, just as a precaution. Prying eyes I could do without, and they might be tempted to spy, knowing – as they certainly will – that the first of your festival rites will take place tonight. Mossamber wouldn’t be joyful if he learned Wyverns were present on this soil.’ He paused. ‘What exactly did you see last night?’
I shook my head. ‘Only the dehara know really, but I witnessed their enactment of the Cuttingtide story, or part of it. I saw a running har brought down with arrows within the forest. He wasn’t killed, or didn’t appear to be. The Whitemanes carried him off, whooping like maniacs, like blood-maddened hara from the first days of our kind. To be perfectly honest with you, the sight completely shook me up.’
Wyva clasped my shoulders. ‘Indeed. Bad memories revived. This is the problem with the Whitemanes, you see. They are...’ He sighed, dropped his hands from me. ‘Well, there’s no other word but primitive. It’s why I can’t negotiate with them properly, why they want to maintain the bad blood between our families. I didn’t want to say too much for fear you’d think I was exaggerating the problem, but now you’ve seen for yourself, and I need say no more. Stay away from them, Ys. You might think us Wyvachi live in the past, but the Whitemanes haven’t changed since the first of them were incepted!’
‘Did you know they... that their rites could be bloody?’
Wyva’s mouth twitched a little. I could almost smell his distaste of the Whitemanes. ‘Naturally, hara have seen things over the years. Rumours, even reports, have come to me. Mossamber isn’t exactly discreet in these matters. Yes, I’ve heard before that they enact the Arotahar stories quite literally sometimes, although as you surmised I doubt what you saw was murder. Their ceremonies are known to be... visceral. I’m sorry to say it, but I believe that’s why some local hara are drawn to the Whitemane festivals. Perhaps in some hara the germs of our creation and the memories of the first days are not that far from the surface.’
‘I agree, especially so for first generation.’ I paused, then had to ask, ‘So how will the Whitemanes feel about Myv?’
Wyva uttered a scoffing sound. ‘They will not care. Neither will they respect or acknowledge Myv’s position in the community. As with everything to do with us, they’ll ignore or spit on it. But if you’re worried for Myv’s safety, don’t be. Barbaric though the Whitemanes might seem, they’ve never physically harmed any of us.’
‘Never?’
Wyva dropped his gaze from mine. ‘Well, let’s just say not through bad intention.’
This was the trouble with life in Gwyllion. The moment one mystery seemed solved, another oozed out. Was it possible to harm a har with good intention?
The celebrations would begin in the village of Gwyllion itself, at The Crowned Stag. Here, Selyf and his staff would distribute hot spiced wine to everyhar who gathered there. I walked the path to the inn with the family around 7.30 in the evening. The hurakin would not arrive until later, once the ritual itself was over and everyhar had convened at Meadow Mynd for the nightlong celebrations.
Myv was excited, the most animated I’d seen him. Rinawne had dressed him in a moss-green robe and he wore a crown woven of early summer flowers and ivy, tendrils of which trailed artfully down his back. Wyva carried the procession torch, as yet unlit, which would be handed to his son for the ritual lighting. Everyhar associated with Meadow Mynd walked with us; Cawr and his chesnari Modryn, Porter Goudy, all the househara and those who tended the fields and gardens, who cared for the animals. Gen was allowed to ride, because of his healing injury. Dillory, the cook, began to sing a soft, lilting song, which I did not know, but gradually everyhar joined in, hardly more than a chorus of whispers. The notes conjured shivers along my skin, they were so beautiful. I was reminded of the song I’d heard drifting from the woodland on the evening when I’d first arrived. Perhaps it had been Dillory singing then too, down amid the trees below the tower, gathering herbs among the roots.
Now, bat shadows stitched across the early evening sky where the star of Lunil blazed alone in triumph. The lush foliage of the towering trees to either side of the path was almost wanton in its heaviness. The canopy of the oncoming night, of the earth, was ripe with the scents of nature, the forest lawns, night-blooming flowers. Even the dung of animals added another essential perfume. And we, in procession along the road, voices murmuring in song. The glory of this shared experience seduced me to tears. In the dusk, it was Wyva who reached for my hand, not Rinawne. I glanced at him through a film of water, squeezed his fingers. He smiled at me, with his eyes, his whole face, his whole being. He is a good leader of hara, I thought, more sure of it then than at any other moment before or since.
Hara were already gathered at The Stag, and stood in groups, drinking the hot wine. The scent of spices dominated the air. When the Meadow Mynd troupe reached the yard, everyhar cried ‘Astale, Myvyen!’ Yes, the news was widely known.
Myv clearly didn’t know whether to be delighted or embarrassed by this greeting, which is how the dehara themselves are saluted during ceremonies. I saw Porter push him forwards with a hand to the back. Myv performed an exaggerated bow. The assembly clapped their hands and Selyf approached with his assistants and trays of drinks for us.
I noticed that protective wards hung plentifully from the eaves of The Stag, and that warding symbols had been woven into the Cuttingtide garlands that adorned the doors and windows. The hara of Gwyllion, clearly, were taking no chances this night.
Wyva gave a short speech on our reasons to be grateful for what life had given us, the bounty of the land, the gifts the dehara had imparted to all. I think he could have uttered a list of his tasks to do the next day and everyhar would still have listened in rapt attention, their eyes misty. At the end of it, Wyva gestured to his son, who stood at his side, and said, ‘And perhaps the best gift we have this season is a hienama in making, my son...’ he glanced at Rinawne, ‘...our son, who has offered himself, even at this tender age, for the role. Thank you, Myv. May the dehara guide your path. May the stars welcome you along their highways.’
The crowd uttered similar sentiments, and then it was, of course, Myv’s duty to say something, as the hara called for him to do so. We should really have prepared him for this possibility, but he seemed comfortable with the attention. ‘I will do my best,’ he said. That wa
s all, but it was obvious he meant it.
Looking at him, I knew then that his feybraiha would come upon him in the following year. I knew that Porter would be the har to guide him through it and beyond. Whether they ever became chesna did not matter. There was a closeness between them that would endure through life, however far apart physically they might become. I also knew that Myv’s decision would bring him closer to his hostling, who had feared his own dark history had somehow blighted his harling’s life. This fear had caused the distance between them. I could see it as if it was written on the night air in letters of glowing mist. I hoped Wyva took recent events as proof that Myv was fine, untainted; he was separate from whatever darkness hid in the past and must remain so.
Then the moment came to light the torch.
An atmosphere of expectant calm fell over the entire group gathered outside the inn. Unspoken, the commencement of the ceremony had been felt, creeping upon us like a soft evening mist. Hara gathered around me in a circle, and I spoke the ritual words to bid farewell to the dehara of the previous season, Feyrani and Elisin, and to invite Shadolan and Morterrius into our reality to preside until the next festival. I drew the signs of the Cuttingtide dehara upon the air. Then I led the gathering in a short meditation, visualising Morterrius rising from the soil of the forest, blossoming as the flowers of the deepwoods did, voluptuous and luminous. His name, at this point of the ceremony, seemed incongruous, for there was nothing of death about him. We would walk with him through the woodland, our feet conjuring growth where we trod, to his appointed tryst with Shadolan; once his son, soon to be his doom.
After these preliminaries, Selyf handed me a flaming brand and with this I lit Myv’s torch. ‘Walk with the dehara,’ I said, ‘and we will follow you.’
Dillory began to hum a bittersweet tune, and this time his assistants, Fush and Barly, accompanied him. Presently, the whole company joined in harmony as we set off from The Crowned Stag. I had written two songs for the ceremony, because I knew that hara liked to sing at festivals. The first, a soft lament, would be sung at the forest glade I had chosen.
Presently, Myv veered off the path and led us towards this glade. While I joined in the flowing chant, I was alert for presences around us, both physical and etheric. I assumed Wyva had stationed security hara some distance off. I had no idea whether the Whitemanes were capable of harassing or even attacking a large group of hara in the midst of a spiritual ceremony, but I feared it. Seeing them in their full savagery the previous night made it seem all too likely.
As we went deeper among the trees, where the forest’s breath was almost audible in the darkness, I thought again of my dream visitation the night before: Ember Whitemane standing in my doorway with his hair hanging down, his body smeared with the mud of the forest, perhaps even the blood of his hostling. I willed my mind away from such thoughts, concentrated upon the melody drifting around me like mist. The Whitemanes wanted me to think this way. They wanted me to be mesmerised, bewitched. Or was this all in my imagination, the product of my own fears and weaknesses? Cuttingtide was the time to rid oneself of delusions; I must abide by that. I must remember how I’d felt before I’d stumbled upon that forest lawn last night.
We came to the oak grove and here Myv stuck the torch in the mossy soil. Other hara, appointed by Wyva for the task, glided quietly around the edge of our circle, lighting small lamps to glow in a ring around us. As they did so, I spoke softly, but audible to all, for I am trained to speak that way.
‘This is the time when the light draws away from us. Although the winter season is far in our future, we know the light is dying from this night forth, until the next solstice is upon us and light is renewed. Joyous yet melancholy are the days of high summer, when the earth dances in finery to the very edge of night. Astale, Shadolan! Astale, Morterrius! Reveal to us the secrets of the season, of life and death, rebirth and eternity. Astale!’
I led the hara in a visualisation of the dehara, similar in essence to the barbaric rite of the Whitemanes, but also different. Morterrius became the white hind that soared through the forest, her feet barely touching the ground. Shadolan, the archetypal hunter, pursued the hind and, with a single arrow, brought her down. But instead of collapsing to the ground to breathe her last, the hind transformed into a storm of white petals, which slowly became red as they fluttered to earth. The flower. The blood. Yet insubstantial as mist. (Nytethorne’s fingers moving feebly on the deer-cropped grass. No!) Shadolan stood in a confetti of petals, his golden eyes luminous as those of a wolf. Now he was alone, the hunter in the forest. But instead of sending him off, brooding to some distant cave, I had him come to us, to stand before us. We sought his blessing and his counsel.
Everyhar sat upon the night-damp ground and I began to sing the first of my songs, the lament for Morterrius that was also a song of strength. Our dehar had not died but was simply transformed, to continue the cycle until he was born again. This was the way of our world, our home; the continual cycle we call Arotahar.
As the song died away, I allowed everyhar some minutes to commune privately with the landscape and Shadolan himself. The forest around us was full of subtle noise, but none of it was unnatural. I sensed no prying eyes, no slinking threat.
Then it was time to return to Meadow Mynd for the final parts of the rite and to partake of the feast that lay waiting. Dillory began to sing brighter songs and everyhar joined in as before. There was a sense of release around us, perhaps even relief. However it’s dressed up, there’s no escaping the fact that Cuttingtide revolves around Shadolan’s slaughter of Morterrius, and what this symbolises. It is in nohar’s interest to ignore the realities of existence, no matter how long our lives. Tragedy and accident can befall anyhar, and while the harish body is far more adept at healing itself than the human form had been, some injuries are beyond healing. This is what Cuttingtide reminds us, among its other messages. Now hara had faced that and could put it away in their minds for another year. There was no reason to dwell upon the darker aspects of the festival any longer. But as we walked, laughing and singing our way to the Mynd, I heard beneath the celebrations that distant bell once more. It seemed so close and yet not close at all, chiming from some distant spire.
Everyhar gathered on the spreading lawns of Meadow Mynd and before we fell upon the food, Wyva began the passing of the ritual cup. Everyhar was to make a toast, and as so many were gathered there, this took some time. However, most elected to say simply ‘to the dehara’ or ‘to the season’ before taking a sip from the continually replenished cup. Only a few felt moved to utter longer toasts, and even these were not that prolonged. The rite was concluded, I sang the final song, hara joining in as they learned the tune.
The last strains of the song died away, but still seemed to throb upon the air. At that moment, almost as if they’d been waiting, hidden among the trees until the ceremonial aspect of the festival was concluded, the Wyverns cantered their horses onto the lawn. In the torchlight, I could see that there were five of them, led by a har on an exquisite palomino mare – a mount I’d have considered the Whitemanes might favour, seeing as the horses I’d seen of theirs had been showy. The har dismounted and Wyva went up to him immediately, embraced him. This must be Medoc har Wyvern. Wyva turned and beckoned to me, even before introducing Myv or any of his other relatives. I went forward and bowed my head. ‘Tiahaara, best of the season to you.’
‘This is Ysobi har Jesith,’ Wyva said proudly, ‘who is working with us at the moment in a spiritual sense. He won’t allow us to call him our hienama but...’ Wyva grinned and slapped my back, ‘he is, in all but name.’
‘I’m not ready to rush off,’ I said, hoping that would suffice.
‘This is my hura, Medoc,’ Wyva said. Medoc was slightly taller than him, and slightly broader, but the resemblance was obvious. ‘His chesnari, Thraine, his sons Ysgaw and Wenyf, his high-harling Persys.’ I nodded to these hara, who were disturbingly similar and all looked to be the same age.
Rinawne had appeared, beautiful in his ceremonial costume, small white flowers like stars in his hair. After formal greetings, he gestured for the Wyverns to follow him to the tables. There, I could see Cawr and Modryn standing rather uncomfortably, with Gen in a chair beside them, equally uncomfortable, as if they were unsure how to take this revelation of relatives.
As we strolled to the food, Medoc hung back a pace or two to speak with me. ‘So you are here as a teacher?’ he asked. ‘It’s clear you’re not local.’ His tone held no hostility in it, merely a question.
‘In a way,’ I said, aware I must be careful of my answer. ‘Gwyllion’s last hienama opted for – shall we say – a monastic kind of life, which left the community without spiritual guidance. Wyva asked the hara in Kyme for assistance.’ I assumed Medoc was worldly enough to know of Kyme and its functions. ‘I’m here primarily to create a seasonal system for the Wyvachi, the first festival of which we celebrated tonight. But if I’m needed to teach, then of course I’ll attend to that also.’
‘Wenyf is our hienama,’ Medoc said. ‘One of my sons. He wasn’t trained in Kyme, but he’s a natural for it. I don’t think any community should be without a har on the priestly path, do you?’
‘Absolutely. We are part teacher, part physician, part advisor and... well, part whatever else might be needed from time to time.’
Medoc laughed, patted my shoulder. ‘Indeed. I see you’ve worked long at your path. You are first generation, yes?’
Nowadays, that wasn’t considered a polite question exactly. ‘Yes,’ I answered, holding his gaze steadily.
He rolled his eyes. ‘I apologise. I meant no offence.’ He touched his own chest. ‘I’m first generation too, of course, but I’m under no illusion how pureborns regard us sometimes. And sometimes that regard is justified.’
The Moonshawl Page 16