The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel

by Storm Constantine

  Of all the rooms in the tower, here was where the resident could make his mark. The other spaces were filled with furniture and decorations of Wyva’s choice, but here, apart from the carpet, the blinds and the very basics of furnishings, it was waiting for a personality to imprint itself. My few books would do little to fill the empty shelves, and I’d brought no ritual paraphernalia with me, but I would enjoy foraging in the forests and fields around me for items to adorn the vacant shrines. Perhaps Wyva wouldn’t mind me borrowing books for these forlorn shelves.

  For a moment, I was taken back to my old home; how I’d loved it. I remembered the pleasure of teaching, and not simply the obvious parts of it that later I was condemned for. Perhaps some vile spirit had lived in me once, but it was hard to remember. That was like looking back at a different life, a dream. I hadn’t meant to be vile, certainly, but I knew I’d been cruel. What had driven me to that? It had driven me almost to my own death, a taint maybe of human life, a shred of sickness inside, shrieking and throwing itself against the walls like a maddened creature locked in a dark space. It was dead. It had to be dead. Now.

  Standing there, in the opulent glow of that room in waiting, with the mellow sunlight of late afternoon making narrow paths of light through the trees, I felt I had somehow come home again. I was scornful of the past and everyhar in it. Here, I might live once more. Here, I might be respected and loved as a trusted friend. In Jesith, even my son had been taken from me by my history. When he looked at me, it was through the eyes of the stories he’d heard, half wary, half pitying, but with very little love.

  Again, as in the nether regions of the tower, I bowed to the room and said aloud, ‘Let us be of service to one another.’

  Chapter Two

  Before I went back to Meadow Mynd, I investigated the small collection of buildings that clustered some distance from the foot of the tower. There were two stables, one of course containing Hercules, and several sheds where coal or wood might be stored. There was a run for chickens; eggs on my doorstep would be agreeable. I’d ask about procuring a few birds of my own.

  The forest spread below me; an archetypal magical landscape. So many rich hues. Perhaps I would paint it. And then, from the murmuring depths, came a thin skein of song, utterly beautiful. I would have liked it to be the voice of some magical being, but it was most likely that of a har walking home through the trees. Who wouldn’t be inspired to sing in such a place as this? I couldn’t make out the words, and the song wasn’t melancholy, but there was a sweet wistfulness to it, like the memory of pain, when it no longer hurts but is faintly remembered. Tears came to my eyes but did not fall. I listened to the wondrous song, gazing through a fabulous watery glimmer that rendered the scene around me into a hazy mist of colours. Perfect.

  I decided to walk to the Mynd rather than ride, so as to immerse myself more in the landscape. Approaching the house along the path through the trees was like walking towards the start of a fairy tale. The sun had made bronze of the light and already a lamp of welcome gleamed above the porch. Lights were many in the lower windows, while the occasional dim glow from higher casements suggested further tales to me: the strange harling Myv in his room, reluctant to come downstairs, perhaps with a harried carehar pleading with him to behave, suppressing the urge to slap and drag. Perhaps another room concealed a brooding relative, or a pair of lovers, one of whom is chesna with another har waiting in the room below. Perhaps there was a dim-lit room that had no har in it at all but for memories, a sigh, a shadow across the window.

  Smiling at these fancies, I went to the front door and found, as Wyva had earlier indicated, that it stood wide open. Surely they would close it at night? I ventured inside, glancing into the drawing room on my right where Rinawne had taken me earlier. Dimly lit, it was empty of living presences. I noticed now what Rinawne had mentioned; how low the ceilings were. In large old houses of earlier human eras, the tendency had been for space and height, perhaps as a mark of affluence. Here, the house seemed to hug itself, with its narrow passages and dark corners, although I could appreciate how it could create a more homely and informal atmosphere than somewhere grand and spacious.

  A grey, rough-coated hound came into the stone-floored hall ahead of me, from somewhere deeper in the shadows of the house. He or she regarded me curiously for some moments before padding off. I thought I might as well follow the animal, and indeed it led me into a room where four hara were gathered. One of them was Wyva. The dog went up to him and pressed its head against his thigh. He caressed the creature, at the same time noticing me at the threshold. ‘Tiahaar Ysobi, welcome,’ he said. ‘Please, come in.’

  All the hara turned to look at me. Two were clearly close relatives of Wyva’s, perhaps brothers, or even his hostling or father. It is difficult to tell a har’s age from his face. Only when they speak can the years be sensed. The other was young, awkward and blond-haired, and had blunter features than his companions. While the three older hara stood together, drinking wine, this younger one was hunched on a chair before the fireplace, hands thrust between his knees, his lower legs splayed. He must be at least five years past feybraiha, I decided, yet still itchy in his skin.

  I inclined my head to the company and came forward. They all greeted me affably enough.

  ‘This isn’t everyhar,’ Wyva said, ‘and you might meet more of us later, but for now I’d like to present to you my brothers, Gen and Cawr.’ Wyva handed to me a glass of red wine, which I took.

  ‘Welcome,’ said the har named as Cawr. He was more robust-looking than Wyva, fuller of face, whereas Gen, his sibling, looked to be all the cheat that Yoslyn had hinted at. His face was narrow, his eyes a little slanted, his smile that of a satyr. Yet for all that, the good-natured spark in his eyes did not suggest a har of evil character, simply a tricky one.

  ‘I’ve been settling into my tower,’ I said. ‘An amazing place.’

  Wyva smiled warmly. ‘Glad you like it, but I guessed you would from the moment I met you. I love the old place, and make sure it’s coddled and loved.’

  ‘I can see that,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve been long awaited,’ said Gen, grinning. ‘I don’t know how much time you’ve set aside for research and writing, but brace yourself for an inundation of requests for chesna-bonds, harling naming and festivals for every possible excuse. I hope you’re good at stretching time.’

  ‘I took a course in it at Kyme,’ I said.

  Gen laughed. ‘Being able to duplicate yourself might also be of use.’

  ‘My skills in that are rusty.’

  Wyva appeared a trifle uncomfortable with this mildly flirty exchange. ‘Everyhar knows why Tiahaar Ysobi is here with us,’ he said stiffly. ‘Anything else we receive from him is a bonus.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Gen said, taking a drink of his wine. His eyes never left my own. I would have to take care with this one.

  Before anything else could be said, Rinawne appeared at the doorway, in what can only be described as a ‘grand entrance’. His thick curling hair was starred with small white flowers, his costume of tunic and trousers fashioned from flowing cream fabric. His eyes seemed to blaze from his wide pale face. And at his side was the changeling creature, Myv. He did not appear shy or even sullen, only rather not there.

  ‘Greetings, harakin,’ drawled Rinawne. He raised a hand to them.

  I watched for signs of dislike in the Wyva-clan, or discomfort, but there appeared to be none. They greeted Rinawne pleasantly and easily enough. I did notice, though, their eyes skim over the harling, as if they didn’t want to dwell on him too long. Nohar greeted him and he said nothing.

  ‘You must be Myv,’ I said to him.

  He looked at me with disinterest, but was trained enough to say, ‘Hello.’

  The harling had a look of Rinawne about him, the wider, high-cheekboned face, the thick dark tumbling hair. ‘Easy to see your hostling in you,’ I said.

  The harling grimaced. ‘No, he’s not in me. No.’

>   Rinawne laughed lightly. ‘Wyva is his hostling, tiahaar.’

  I reddened at the mistake. Because Rinawne was dressed in flowing garments and had a flamboyant air, I’d judged him to be soume-prevalent and therefore typical hostling material. I should have known better, and was glad my chesnari and son had not been here to witness it, since it was the kind of thing they loved to scold me about. ‘Forgive me,’ I said, bowing my head. Fortunately, it appeared the Wyvachi siblings had recommenced their conversation and had not noticed my gaffe. The young har set apart, however, was grinning at me. Myv went over to him and squeezed beside him on the chair.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Rinawne said. ‘You’re not the first to come to that conclusion, nor will be the last. Myv spends most of his time with me, so the bond does appear at first glance to be like that of hostling and harling.’

  I was grateful for his graciousness. ‘I’ve fallen in love with the tower,’ I said. ‘The ritual room is marvellous. It makes me eager to start work here.’

  ‘I can take you to a few interesting local sites tomorrow, if you like,’ Rinawne said. ‘Tell you a few stories along the way, get you started.’ He smiled.

  ‘Thank you.’ I had planned to roam around alone, but the prospect of hearing tales appealed to me.

  Several more hara joined our company. Introductions were made, but the names didn’t remain in my memory that night. Modryn, the chesnari of Cawr arrived, but no more harlings. Two hara from the town made an appearance, to whom I was introduced. They were members of the Gwyllion Assembly, a town council. One of these hara was Selyf, a tall scholarly-looking individual, who was the keephar of an inn named The Crowned Stag. ‘I hope we will see you there,’ he said. The other was a farmer named Tryskyr who, second to Wyva, owned the most land in the area.

  After around half an hour spent in formal conversation, none of which I found particularly interesting, a househar announced that dinner was ready and the company surged towards the dining room further into the house. Here, a coven of candles burned in ornate candelabra placed upon the table, augmented by the glow of a round moon that flew in through the uncurtained windows and alighted upon every surface like a silver bird. I was aware of a strange sense of imminence as I took my seat next to Wyva, who sat at the head of the table. Rinawne commanded the other end of the board, with Myv beside him, fidgeting.

  ‘No suggestion the Whitemanes were going to send somehar here to meet tiahaar Ysobi?’ Cawr said to Wyva, in a sarcastic tone. A househar glided ghostlike around the table dispensing soup from a silver cauldron held by a silent harling at his side.

  Wyva grunted, pulled a sour face briefly. ‘I’d expect to see the sky turn upside down before that.’

  ‘You never know,’ Gen said. ‘They have their whims. At the very least, you’d expect them to be curious. They weren’t that averse to Rey, despite his close connection to us.’

  Wyva made a noise of irritation. ‘Nohar knows what motivates or interests them, really.’

  ‘The Whitemanes are local oddities,’ Rinawne explained to me. ‘Many of the hara around here believe them to be half-breeds, half fey. I suspect simply a strange inception, way back in their past that has spread an unearthly taint throughout their kind.’

  ‘They like to think they own the most land in the area,’ Tryskyr added. ‘While Wyva is the har in charge of Gwyllion and its environs, the Whitemanes are... something else. They don’t seek power exactly, but they do have influence.’

  ‘They’re an old family,’ Wyva said. ‘Their roots go back as far as ours, but... they have a strange way with them. I doubt you’ll come into contact with them much, Ysobi.’

  ‘They are being made to sound more interesting than they are,’ Gen put in. He poured wine into his glass, reached over to fill mine. I wondered whether a househar was supposed to do that, and whether Gen was impatient, couldn’t wait, wanted a drink. ‘The Whitemanes are eccentrics, as are many of the families in these parts, in one way or another. History has bequeathed us a strange legacy. We are far different from the humans who came before us, yet in some ways not that changed. We have our alliances and our feuds.’

  ‘There are some who question the original imperative hara had to cast off human heritage entirely,’ I said carefully. ‘While others still insist it was essential. You’ll find many discussions about it around academic tables from Kyme to Immanion.’

  ‘You must’ve been to both those cities,’ Rinawne said, and as I glanced at him, I saw in his eyes a veiled warning not to pursue the line of conversation that had been started.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ I said. ‘Kyme is far smaller than Immanion, of course, but to me more intriguing. Immanion is glorious, as you might expect, like a fabulous and sensuous dehar bathing in the crystal ocean.’

  ‘That sounds more like my kind of place,’ Rinawne said, smiling. ‘Warmth, sea, opulence, rather than sneaky little corners and dark little streets full of beady-eyed hara clutching dusty books.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve been to Kyme, then,’ I said, and everyhar around the table laughed, Rinawne louder than all of them.

  There were other morsels served to me that night, along with the exquisite dishes; the small titbits that comprise the truth of a har’s nature. These things are naturally revealed slowly. Even when you meet a har who seems to want to pour his life story over you like glue at the first meeting, that is not the truth. The truth is precious, guarded, and is hoarded long before being presented to you to taste. Some truths fall from a har’s back like feathers from wings he doesn’t know he has. You pick them up in his wake, gaze at them, see the stories there.

  I came from that meal feeling I knew at least something about the collective nature of Wyva’s tribe. They were affable, fairly simple in outlook, undeniably old-fashioned in some of their adherence to archaic human customs. They seemed on the whole fair-minded, and most of Gen’s trickiness was an act. I sensed that a nervousness lurked beneath his surface bravado. Wyva projected mildness, but I sensed steel within him. He would not tolerate what he perceived to be wrongdoing. The mildness would fall from him then. Perhaps he could be terrifying. Cawr struck me as somewhat pettifogging, too attached to meaningless detail. I hadn’t been surprised to learn he was responsible for the estate’s accounts; he was perfect for that task. But Cawr had also a great generosity of spirit that was almost palpable. He was far kinder than his brothers. Cawr’s chesnari, Modryn, was a contained creature who didn’t add much to the conversation that night. He did tell me, however, that he ran the local school. ‘Kyme has been good to us,’ he said. ‘They sent me a cartload of books when I asked for assistance.’ He smiled at Cawr. ‘And he is another benefit of my coming here.’ Cawr smiled widely in return. Clearly, they were very happy with one another. Rinawne was, perhaps deliberately on his part, still something of a mystery. Was he bored, restless, resigned, content, mischievous, cruel, sweet, mystical, pragmatic? Perhaps all of these things. I could tell the harling irritated him sometimes, but he never showed it overtly.

  Nohar else around the table took notice of Myv but for the younger, rather awkward har who seemed like an outsider. His name, I learned, was Porter har Goudy, which I found delightful. It was like the name of a character from an ancient story, somehar who should live in a leaning, turreted house in a place like Kyme. He was simply introduced to me by his name, not by his connection to the family. This was not offered and I sensed I should not ask. Yet. Porter whispered with Myv. They seemed to be playing incomprehensible, secret games with each other. When Porter spoke to him, Myv turned his head at once, looked the other har right in the eye. Rinawne, I sensed, was grateful for this rapport.

  I didn’t pay that much attention to the two hara from the Assembly, not because they were unremarkable particularly, but because there was much else to occupy my thoughts. They were more interested in seeking Wyva’s favour than talking to me, in any case.

  After dinner, the company moved to the drawing room, where Rinawne had entertained me earlie
r in the day. Here, a huge fire frolicked in the wide hearth, and a selection of drinks was laid out waiting for us. Around midnight, Rinawne made a discreet signal, and everyhar in the room knew at once it was time for our party to break up. I felt slightly fuzzy-headed, because all the local wines and liqueurs Wyva had insisted I try had been strong.

  ‘You must not stagger through the forest alone,’ Rinawne announced to me. ‘And since our other guests take a different road, Porter can guide you.’

  I expected some small protest from Porter, if only a grunt or a sullen expression, but he merely nodded and said, ‘I’ll fetch a lamp.’

  While the har was doing this, Wyva said to me, ‘I hope you enjoyed this evening, tiahaar.’

  ‘Very much,’ I answered, truthfully. ‘Both the food and the company were excellent.’

  This flattery pleased Wyva, which was useful to know.

  Porter returned with his lamp, and also my coat, which I’d left in the hallway. After saying my goodbyes, I followed the young har out into the night. The moon had fallen somewhat by now, but the night was full of song. Birds, beasts, insects; all added their voices to the hymn to nature. Even the trees creaked and rustled their own accompaniments. Porter, while not sullen, did not seem a har given to light conversation, but even so, I felt I should start some. Where else but with some information about him? ‘You’re a relative of Wyva’s?’ I asked.