‘Shut it,’ Nytethorne said to his son, although I could see plainly he was relieved Ember had spoken.
‘Are you here for the market, tiahaara?’ I asked.
‘I’m here to buy arrows,’ Ember said, smirking at me.
I raised my brows. ‘Oh, really? I think you make your own, young har.’
‘He does,’ Nytethorne said.
Beside his hostling, Ember appeared very young and less mysterious than on the other occasions I’d met him. He did not seem to me the har who’d visited my dreams, simply a good-looking youngster, unruly and impertinent. But then, of course, in my eyes Nytethorne now outshone him. Whatever brief spell Ember had cast had dissolved.
‘Care to sit with us?’ Nytethorne asked.
‘Er... well yes, of course.’
‘Ember, get ales,’ he said. ‘I’ll get seats, if they’re to be found.’
To my surprise, Ember obeyed without answering back. Nytethorne put a hand gently upon my waist. ‘Outside,’ he said. ‘There’s a yard.’
I pushed through hara in the direction he’d indicated, eventually emerging into a walled courtyard dominated by an immense and ancient fig tree. Worn stone steps ran up the sides of two walls, no doubt leading to accommodation. In the back wall was an open wooden gate leading to the stables. Flowers bloomed in blackened oak tubs rimed with moss, and there were half a dozen pine tables with benches. Two of these, near the gate, had no occupants. I went to the furthest and sat down. Nytethorne sat opposite me. Wide-fingered fig leaves littered the ground around us; several lay on the table. The air smelled green and slightly damp, despite the heat. ‘This is a pleasant surprise,’ I said.
Nytethorne made a huffing sound and smiled. ‘We come here once a week, sometimes more.’
‘Do you know what the name of the inn means?’
‘The river splits outside the town, very old. Curves like the necks of swans.’
‘Oh, I was hoping for something more... strange.’
Nytethorne took out a pipe from his pocket and began to pack it with smoking materials of some kind. I wondered whether to broach the subject of my investigations, but was reluctant to. I didn’t want to spoil the atmosphere by putting Nytethorne in a defensive mood. But then he said, ‘Got very far?’
‘Taken a few steps,’ I replied.
He put his head to one side, struck tinder for his pipe. ‘And?’
‘Seen a few letters from the early days, and the document that formalised Wyvachi settlement of the land.’
‘What letters?’ Herbal smoke plumed before his face.
‘I don’t want to say, because I’d quite like to spend some sweet moments with you without you getting angry, scared or mulish.’
He huffed out another short laugh. ‘I see.’
We held each other’s gaze for a few moments, then I mustered my courage and said, ‘A har named Malakess, who was a local commander in the early days, wrote to Kinnard on a number of occasions on matters concerning both the Wyvachi and the Whitemanes. Do you suppose Mossamber might have kept similar letters?’
Nytethorne’s teeth tapped on his pipe. His eyes had narrowed. ‘Maybe.’
‘Well, if such letters did still exist, I think it would help my investigations a lot to see them.’
‘Expect it would.’
Behind him I saw Ember emerge from the inn carrying our drinks. His arrival was opportune. I’d said what I had to say.
Making small talk with the Whitemanes that day was one of the most difficult social challenges I’d faced, not least because the obvious things we could discuss were taboo. I couldn’t talk about my work, or Myv, or my investigations into the past. Mentioning their interpretation of the yearly round and their associated beliefs was unthinkable. Even asking about their home might be taken as sinister interrogation. But I wanted to make the most of this coincidental meeting – if not to further my enquiries, then to establish more of a friendship with these distrustful hara. The fact I’d been invited to join them and Ember hadn’t protested said a lot. Perhaps Nytethorne had indeed been open with his family about meeting me, and now this was to be encouraged. So, in desperation for something to talk about, I began to tell them about Jesith and the vineyard. Whether this interested them or not, I can’t say, but they were polite enough to listen with some attention. I mentioned Zeph and Ember said at once: ‘You have a son?’
‘Yes, preposterous as that might sound.’
‘Why that?’ Nytethorne asked.
I shrugged. ‘Well... I don’t think I’m really the parent type.’
Ember laughed at these words. ‘Is he like you?’
‘Not much, no. He’s not a harling anymore.’ No, just an adult I don’t really know.
The thought was unguarded and I sensed Nytethorne pick up on it; the wisp of a comforting feeling brushed against my mind, but he said nothing. However, I liked that he was alert to my thoughts, ready to scan them if they were available to him.
‘You decided to stay here longer,’ Ember said. ‘We didn’t scare you off.’
‘Despite your best efforts, no,’ I replied lightly, taking a sip of my ale. ‘I wonder, Ember... If I’d followed those harlings across the bridge that day, and had come to your domain, what would have happened?’
‘We’d have eaten you!’ His bright, amused eyes told me he still thought I was easy game to be intimidated.
Nytethorne made a sound of annoyance. ‘Don’t be a whelp,’ he said, and cuffed his son round the head. Ember yelped, but then laughed.
‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Believe it or not, I know that wouldn’t have happened.’
‘You didn’t come, though,’ Nytethorne said. ‘Did you?’
‘Would Mossamber welcome me there?’
Nytethorne didn’t answer but Ember said, ‘No. You’ll always be Wyvachi-called to him.’
‘Yet not to you?’
‘Didn’t say that,’ Ember said, taking a drink and looking away from me.
‘Well, thanks for the ale, anyway.’ I raised my glass to them.
‘You returning to Jesith soon?’ Nytethorne asked.
‘I have no immediate plans. My work here isn’t finished.’
‘Still here come Shadetide, watch us roast a har on the bonfire,’ Ember said.
‘What an appealing invitation. I can’t wait.’
‘Might see more than you barter for,’ Nytethorne said, carefully.
‘Really? Shadetide is a long way away.’
There was a silence.
I could sense the fragile camaraderie between us fizzling out, the conversation, such as it was, dying. It was time to go. I’d not had any lunch, but could manage until I reached home. I’d laid some groundwork, I felt, and to prolong this difficult encounter wouldn’t help. I got to my feet. ‘Well, thanks again. Good day to you, tiahaara.’
Nytethorne smiled at me then, in such a way that the skies might’ve opened and rays of glorious colours come streaming down from some far realm that was the essence of bliss. I picked up my shopping bag, and wafted out of the gate into the stableyard beyond.
As I rode home through the searing summer haze, the air alive with floating motes around me, I considered it was perfectly fine to be dazzled by a har, as long as it didn’t descend into sticky, painful situations. Nytethorne could be my muse. He might stay that way if we didn’t end up together. That was unthinkable anyway. We weren’t alike at all.
Once home, I planted my new flowers and did some tidying of the ground around the tower. It didn’t have a garden as such, because nohar had bothered with it, but there was plenty of room for one. In one of the sheds behind the tower, I found some rusted but serviceable gardening tools, so perhaps in the ancient past somehar, or someone, had nurtured this little patch of land.
I mulled over the last of my Reaptide ideas as I worked with the soil. This festival is the second of the harvest festivals, culminating with Smoketide in the month of Harvestmoon. I’d decided that to begin the ritual, partic
ipating hara would meet at The Crowned Stag. From there, everyhar must wander off alone or in small groups, out into the forests and the ancient hills beyond. They must follow streams and the tracks of sheep, until they come across a place where they will commune with Verdiferel. His totem creature is traditionally the white owl who flies by day. Hara should be alert to appearances of this bird. Perhaps Verdiferel himself, in the guise of some mysterious har, might cross your path in the afternoon heat. He might try to trick you, but if you best him will give you knowledge or some other gift. As the sun begins to set, so hara will commune at a pool – the one we’d used for Cuttingtide would be adequate – and there we’d call upon the essence of Verdiferel. White owls would come down from the sky and glide across the hills, conjuring a sweet-smelling ground mist. The hara would stand around the pool, singing one of the songs I’d been working on. I ached to include the swan; it seemed intrinsic. I decided to slip that in and see whether it passed Wyva’s scrutiny. I wouldn’t mention it was silver. The swan could turn into Verdiferel, whose essence we would bind into the water so he could do no harm. But we would offer him gifts instead, the bounty of the land. We would offer him aruna. This thought came unbidden to me, but I realised it was pertinent. Harlings, of course, could not participate in that aspect, but older hara could disappear ghostlike into the landscape to perform this part of the rite. I’d be happy to remain behind to keep an eye on the younger hara.
After this, a feast would be held again at Meadow Mynd and songs would be sung. If Wyva wanted more than this, which admittedly was quite freeform, we could discuss it. It occurred to me then we could have our own book to sit on the shelves beside Flick Har Roselane’s archetypal work. The yearly round of Gwyllion. I was sure Wyva would like that idea.
When I was hungry I put away my tools, and went to prepare dinner. I thought it was about time I visited the Mynd, but only when I was sure everyhar there had eaten dinner. I didn’t want to feel Rinawne’s accusing gaze across a table. But despite that, I was looking forward to having company, being still high on the meeting with Nytethorne and unable to settle to pursuits such as reading or painting.
I was just braiding my hair in preparation to leave when I heard a sonorous knocking on my tower door. That couldn’t be Rinawne, but who else?
I went downstairs, resisting the temptation to ask ‘Who’s there?’ before opening it. This was Gwyllion; nohar wishing me harm would knock.
Nytethorne stood on the step. I was surprised, and yet not. Now was the time to be careful. ‘And so faintly you came tapping – tapping at my door.’ I smiled. ‘Hello, Nytethorne. To what do I owe this pleasure, may I ask?’
‘Nevermore,’ he responded, grinning, but clearly to show me he knew that quote from a very ancient poem.
‘Well, without more preamble, and supposing you bring no dire omens, please come in.’
He walked past me into the tower, looked around, no doubt reminiscing about previous visits.
‘I doubt it’s changed much,’ I said.
He ignored that remark. ‘Brought you something.’
‘Come upstairs.’ I began to head for the stairs, then paused. I went back to the door, removed the key from the hook just beside it and locked it, leaving the key in the lock. Nytethorne gave me a quizzical look. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not a prisoner. It’s just that Wyvachi tend to charge in here without knocking. I’m not sure it’s a good idea any of them see you here.’
‘I understand.’
I took him into the friendly kitchen, feeling the living room would be too intimate, and somewhat imprinted with memories of Rinawne, never mind recollections of Rey for Nytethorne. ‘Would you like tea?’
‘Yes. Please.’ He sat down in what I assumed was the chair he’d always taken at that table. We are such creatures of habit. He had a heavy hessian bag with him, embroidered with stylised willow trees. The work was exquisite.
‘Did one of your hara make that?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘All of it, yes.’
‘Beautiful work.’
‘Grow flax. A lot of it. Make dyes too.’ He smiled and withdrew from the bag a package, bound in fine linen – no doubt also of Whitemane manufacture – which he unwrapped. There were letters, not many, but perhaps more precious than what Rinawne had shown me. ‘You asked,’ he said.
‘I hope it wasn’t difficult... dangerous...’
He shook his head. ‘No. Not under lock and key. Knew where to look. Mossamber keeps things neat, so he can lay hands on anything, any time.’
I couldn’t wait. While the kettle was boiling, I sat down and drew the fragile papers to me greedily. The first one was clearly in response to a missive Mossamber must’ve made to Malakess, after he’d been informed the Wyvachi would be the ruling phyle in the area.
Greetings Mossamber,
Thank you for your letter, which was brought to me this morning. I understand your position on the matter of division of land and power, but trust that with my assistance all can be resolved to a degree of mutual satisfaction. As I’ve said to the Wyvachi, the future of Wraeththu as a whole must be the only consideration, and what will work best for bringing order, routine and stability to your locality.
I know it is difficult to put away human notions so soon after inception, but ask you to step back and consider things impartially. I know also you have suffered, as have countless others in our struggles to establish ourselves and heal this world. Your suffering is no less valid to me than any other har’s in my care.
It is my opinion, and that of my fellow commanders, that Kinnard and Medoc har Wyvachi are the natural leaders in the Gwyllion area and surrounding lands. At one time you were brothers in arms, and I ask you to look into your heart and rediscover that amity you once enjoyed. Remember you share a mutual grief, however you might view it. I shall see to it that the Whitemanes will be given all that they require in order to run their own domain, but under the overall leadership of the Wyvachi.
I consider it my duty not to leave this area until the matter of leadership is settled. I will remain here as arbiter until that occurs.
In blood,
Malakess Har Sulh
First Commander of the West
I wondered how Mossamber had responded to that. Not in a particularly cooperative way, I imagined. There were several more letters, almost repeating the same thing but in different words. Mossamber must’ve questioned everything, the dominion of every corner of land, the division of the tiniest of spoils. I could almost hear Malakess’s patience fraying, as the letters became shorter and more abrupt.
Such as:
My dear Mossamber,
I think we have covered this ground too many times. Kinnard has already agreed that the spring in the copse of Moon’s Acre shall be yours. Please don’t mention this again.
Malakess
And then, when things really were becoming too much for him:
Mossamber,
The thoroughfares throughout the Gwyllion area, excepting the roads to your respective domains, are communally owned and will be maintained by the Gwyllion Assembly, via tithes and labour from the population. I thought this was made clear at our last meeting. It is neither acceptable nor convenient for the Whitemanes to have their own private roads across common land.
It is your choice not to accept a position on the Assembly, when to my mind you should do so. Then you would not have to write to me over these trivial matters but could take part, firsthand, in any discussions and decisions. Please address any further enquiries of this nature to Kinnard har Wyvachi or to the Assembly.
Malakess
But then, as I’d hoped, came the treasure. And because the wound it addressed still rilled with blood, Malakess’s tone was gentle.
My dear Mossamber,
Rest assured I will not take the Wyvachi’s part in this dilemma. I have already informed Kinnard that as Peredur’s chesnari any decisions concerning him are yours, in the absence of him being able to make decisions himself.<
br />
But please be mindful of the fact that Peredur also means a lot to Kinnard and Medoc and those who were incepted with them. Their request is not to slight or anger you, but to assuage the grief they feel themselves. I know it is hard, if not impossible in the rawness of sorrow, to put aside human feelings at this time. This goes for all of you concerned. But as your commander, all I can advise is that you attempt to find release among your hara, the comfort you need. However harsh this might sound, I wish for a swift resolution. His wounds cannot be healed, my friend. You know that and it has to be faced.
I would like to say that in the short time I knew Peredur, I found him to be a profoundly spiritual har, with limitless generosity, wisdom and ability. What befell him was a sore loss to our kind as, like you, I believe he had a wondrous future ahead of him. I can only imagine the pain his fate has caused you. You have a lot of work ahead of you, Mossamber, and have a duty to the hara in your care. You need to mourn before you can take up your life again.
If there is anything you need from me, please ask.
In blood,
Malakess
That was the last letter. After I’d read it, I placed it on the table. Nytethorne had already seen to making the tea – he knew where everything was kept. Now he sat opposite me again, his arms folded on the table top.
‘The wounds must’ve been... very bad,’ I said, ‘if they couldn’t be healed by the hienamas, or Peredur’s own harish body.’
Nytethorne nodded. ‘Very bad,’ he said. ‘Hara heal well, but none can grow back what’s lost.’
I closed my eyes. ‘Dear Aru.’ I knew he wouldn’t give me specific details if I asked. I could tell simply from his demeanour it had cost him to bring these letters to me, and he was uncomfortable revealing what little he had. A part of him hadn’t wanted to do it.
‘Mossamber took him home to die,’ I said. ‘That’s the truth, isn’t it?’
The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel Page 25