The Wraeththu Chronicles

by Storm Constantine

  So, they had found us. And so soon. They had been with us in the forest, they had watched us in the water, they had waited by our fire.

  "You are wet," Arahal said with a laugh, flicking my hair. I could see his aura, all the colors of strength, yet they spoke like us, smiled like us. "Calanthe, you were expected," he said to Cal, with the slightest of coolness. Cal was still clutching my shoulders as if his life depended on it. I knew he had drawn blood.

  "He is different," he blurted. "He ... his hair is different." The Gelaming looked puzzled for a moment. I had no idea what Cal was talking about.

  "Oh, you mean ... I wouldn't know," Arahal said. He shook his head and then glanced quickly behind him. "It must have been some time ago, Calanthe."

  "It was."

  Cal withdrew his nails from my skin with a sigh. I wanted to crumple; I don't know how I managed not to. My fingers strayed to my shoulders, encountering moist warmth. It may have been sweat.

  "Just wait here a moment, please," Arahal told us. "We would like you to accompany us back to our headquarters, where members of our Hegemony are anxious to meet you." He made it sound like a request, but it was clear we had little choice. I could see them packing up our belongings, stifling our fire. Leef still stood between two Gelaming, now staring at the ground. He no longer struggled.

  "Who was it, Cal?" I asked, in a voice that seemed to come from some distance away. "The one by the fire. Who was it? Was it Pell?"

  Cal laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Don't be stupid, Swift! Another ghost, that's all. One that has haunted me for some years, one that I have been waiting for ..."

  Something from the past then. I knelt on the grass, my hands on my shoulders, and I could feel it rushing in. The inescapable, the inevitable, a focus of time. It has always been here, I thought. Someone has always

  known this would happen, and yet I didn't know. How could I not have guessed, not imagined? Not enough magic within me, not enough hope .. . I looked for him; Cal's ghost. It would have been easier if he'd had no substance. It is hard to look at him directly. I could see that he'd been tempered by fire, by all the elements until the blade of his spirit was made deadly. His hair was smoother than the others.' He was not so tall. He must have felt my scrutiny. I saw him pause, as if in irritation or regret, before he turned to look at me. He had almond-shaped eyes. I could not see the color; I never would. He was something of Cobweb, something of Cal, something, even, of Pellaz. I could tell he did not want to look at me; there was no smile, his brow was furrowed.

  Cal's voice came to me with bitterness. "Just witchery, Swift, that's all. Don't let it get under your skin. He's so sincere, and his bland sincerity can dry the blood in your veins . . ."

  "But who?" I asked, and my toes and fingers were numb. He turned away from us and his hair swung like silk. It was more than beauty. It was waking up and realizing there are things in the world so far from us, yet we yearn for them so, even before we've seen them, and when, if we're lucky, we finally do see them, it is a torment, because they are like smoke or fantasy, it is pain; you resent that they exist, yet they are your life, so far ...

  Cal made a choking sound behind me. "Same old magic!"

  "His name?"

  "His name is Seel," he said.

  The Gelaming had given their camp a name: Imbrilirn. It was only an hour's ride from the forest. When we reached it, we found that it was more than just a camp, it was a city of canopies and gauze and soft lights. We heard distant, lilting music and the air was full of the scent of flowers. A fragment of Heaven, here on Earth.

  On the way there, Arahal rode beside us, making desultory attempts at conversation, seeking to dispel any uneasiness, while knowing instinctively that he probably couldn't, as yet. However, out of the three of us, only Leef looked truly worried. These people were his enemies, more than they were Cal's or mine. He had sought them once before, with the Vanish army, his head full of anger and a thirst for blood. Now they had found him and he feared their justice. Cal kept a constant stare directed at the back of Seel's head, where he rode some way in front of us. "I want to get my hands on him!" he said out loud, and it was impossible to guess exactly what he meant by that. Seel must have heard him, but he did not look round or even move farther away from us.

  "What do you want of me?" I asked Arahal, hoping to divert his somewhat affronted attention from Cal.

  "You sound weary," he answered. "After the forest, you must rest. The real answers can wait. Time has little meaning here."

  We rode through billowing avenues of silk, shadows gliding at the edgeof our vision. I saw hara who looked like gods and there was primaeval light in their eyes. Encompassed by fragrance, I was happy. It felt like happiness, anyway. A kind of relief. I wanted to laugh or weep or shout. It did not matter that tiredness had crept over me so deeply that I was at the point of hysteria, I had found the Gelaming and I thought that they were all that I'd imagined them to be. Hail, Ofaniel, angel of the moon, here on earth, riding a pale horse just ahead of us.

  Arahal touched my arm, his knee touched my own as he brought his horse up against mine. I looked at him and his face was indistinct, but I knew he was smiling.

  "Not far," he said. "You are yet young . . ." Gelaming always speak like that when they get the chance. Imbrilim was usually noisy at night. The dark seems to bring the Gelaming to life. I had thought them to be an austere race of people, grave-faced and full of ponderous thoughts. Now all I could hear was music and laughter and hara calling to each other. I had never seen an army camp, but I would never have imagined one to be like this. Even Galhea was never like this. We came to a pavilion of pale, green muslin, a soft glow showing from within. Most of our escort rode on ahead, but about half a dozen hara remained with Arahal to help us from our horses and take away our luggage. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I began to feel faint. I think it was more the effects of the forest aggravating my exhaustion than shock at finding the Gelaming. Arahal murmured an order and two hara supported me as we passed under the muslin canopy into the pavilion. The room within was spacious and furnished graciously. We were led directly into the sleeping chamber beyond.

  The next thing I remember was opening my eyes to find myself lying on a soft, low couch. Hands supported my head and offered me something warm to drink from a cup. It tasted of honeyed milk and alcohol. I don't know how long I'd been unconscious, but my clothes had been taken away and I was covered by a thin blanket that was surprisingly warm.

  Arahal came and looked at me. "It is important that you rest now, Swift," he said. The effects of the drink I'd been given were gently making their way through my blood; I could barely keep my eyes open. Thiede's people. I thought that angels stroked my face. I could hear prayers whispered in a language I had never heard before, but that I could still understand. Drifting on the edge of sleep, I sensed several hara come in from outside, bringing night coolness with them. One of them said, "Is the Tigron coming here now?"

  "I don't think so," another answered. "I've heard he will send the Tigrina."

  "Ah, such a neat sidestep. Our Tigron delays the inevitable, I feel!" I recognized that voice. It had spoken to me always, in my dreams, in my soul.

  "Perhaps, Seel, perhaps . . . though a more charitable mind than yours might think that the Tigron only wishes to consider other people's feelings. These hara have been through a lot. You are too harsh."

  "Too harsh! I know him. I know Cal too. They are both too strong for that!"

  "Be quiet, both of you!" another voice warned. "The pure-born is yet awake."

  I could not open my eyes, I was drugged by fragrance, yet I felt him lean over me, almost feeling his hair brush my face. The angel with almond-shaped eyes, force beating out, that was stifled anger; stifled because he was a stranger to anger. He did not speak, I wished I was Cobweb, mystical, lovely and deadly; a creature to inspire, but I was just Swift, bedraggled, unkempt and unremarkable. When he stood up, it was like warmth and light moving away. A voice
said, "You are prepared to fight, I can tell."

  "Arahal, I was born fighting!"

  I could hear them still talking as they left us. Someone extinguished a lump and there was only darkness behind my eyes. I slept. When I woke, I would remember every word of that conversation, and remember it for the rest of my life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Nor shall ye have faith . . .

  Bewilderment envelope the observer,

  The patriarch vanishes Like fodder into aqueous entrails.

  Is it mapped out for us from the start, our destiny? Does the supernatural agent who charts our life create us equal to our discoveries? Leef had once said to me that troubles were always relative. I had come to view inner strength in the same way. There is always something stronger than ourselves, no matter how brightly burns the flame of confidence and power. There is always something stronger, something waiting to damn us for our weakness. Around every corner of the forest another monster lurks in wait for us; sometimes we can laugh at its feebleness. It appears horrible, but its substance is tissue-thin. It can be torn. The worst monsters we encounter have the faces of angels and the grace of devils flirting among the cold flames of hell. They can destroy us, merely because they scorch our souls unintentionally. Face such a creature and reason trickles out like blood from a cut vein. Is it decided before we are born whom we must love?Filtered light falling through the floating gauze woke me with the softest of caresses. Beyond a curtain, lifted by fragrant morning breeze, I could see Cal and Leef curled up together on a low couch, childlike in the temporary innocence of sleep. Clothes had been laid out for us, new ones, essentially Gelaming in design. There was scented water and a bowl for washing; a mirror condemned me with brutal honesty. I had known myself once. Now I seemed physically a stranger. My hair and my eyes lacked luster; my skin no longer seemed to fit me properly. Facing myself caused me pain. I threw a cloth over the mirror and walked out, through the gauze, under the canopy, into the light.

  They had come as strangers, as invaders; strange to our land, unmistakably foreign in their height, their dignity, their dress and their supple grace. Gelaming: God's children.

  To this end men had struggled in agony across the face of the earth for millennia, sterile millennia. This was the goal toward which all threads of survival had strained. No-one had known it. Those that had guessed were madmen; unheeded, derided. For that mistake, mankind had been swamped. To an outsider, such as myself during those first few days, Gelaming perfection seems almost an obscenity, something

  that cannot be, yet something that I felt the need to stare at until I was sure I could only go

  blind. To me, it seemed that all their blemishes of character and spirit had been polished away. I found myself wondering how they could possibly exist comfortably when they had nothing left to strive toward, no inner struggle, no contest. I should have looked deeper, but that did not come until later. As I walked among them that first day, I felt no fear, for the inspiration of terror holds no pleasure for Gelaming. It is merely another weapon, to be used only when the occasion truly merits it. They barely looked at me. To them, I was just another refugee, wandering wide-eyed among the angels.

  Imbrilim was the size of a small town, and full of life. By day all the swaying canopies were held back and as I walked through the avenues of pavilions, I could see right into them. It was apparent that there were several places where all the inhabitants of Imbrilim went to eat. These seemed open for business all day, so it was rare that anyone took meals in their own pavilions. All this was paid for by the Hegemony of Immanion; the only things that hara had to pay for themselves were narcotics and alcohol. Tents for the consumption of beverages were set apart from those serving meals. Everywhere, the flags and pennants of Immanion flapped lazily in the breeze. Their symbols were the double-headed axe, the scarab and two serpents entwined around a sword. All these signified the two-in-one; hermaphroditism. Above a huge pavilion of purple and gold (which I later learned belonged to the Hegemony) shivered the black and silver banner of the Tigron; a lion with a fish's tail shimmering against a dark ground. I lost myself entirely, but I couldn't stop walking.

  Arahal sought me out. He found me eventually by the horses, corraled on the boundaries of Imbrilim. They were snowy creatures of myth, whose feet danced with the ache for wings. I reached toward them, my hand like Ivory, and a dozen blue-black noses blew warmth upon my skin. They absorbed me and turned their heads to look at me properly. One tossed his snowy mane and threw up his head, nickering softly. That was Arahal coming; they knew him.

  "I have never ceased to marvel at their magnificence," he said.

  I was too intimidated to speak. I could only smile in a way I'd not smiled since I could still climb comfortably onto Cobweb's lap.

  Arahal insisted on taking me on a tour of Imbrilim; we passed many things that I'd already seen, but he explained a lot to me about the way the Gelaming conducted their daily lives. He pointed out a magnificent construction of sparkling white muslin. "That is where we remember the Aghama," he said.

  "Aghama?" I queried. It sounded like an event.

  'The first Wraeththu," Arahal explained.

  I had no idea what he meant. Yet another area of my education so sadly neglected. It was strange that I had never wondered about it, really. After all, Wraeththu must have come from somewhere. Now I learned the truth of our wondrous genesis. We had sprung from one mutant; born to a human female, a hermaphrodite child, whose special talents were seen by his parents as freakish abnormalities. Through his blood, he had created the new race; Wraeththu. To his people he had become the Aghama, revered almost as a god. I had known nothing of this, not even Cobweb had ever mentioned anything about this shadowy, part-mythological figure of the Aghama.

  Arahal did not seem surprised. To him, Varrs were nothing but godless barbarians. He was prepared to educate me and took me inside the Fane of the Aghama. It was barely furnished; just a few polished benches before a table on which stood maybe a dozen slim, lit tapers. There was no representation of the first Wraeththu, either in paint or stone. "We come here to think, to remember," Arahal told me.

  "Remember what?" I asked.

  "Our beginning," he replied, and in such a somber tone, I shrank from further queries.

  Out in the sunlight, I remember wondering aloud, "What am I doing here?" Arahal only

  smiled. I recalled Cal once asking that question of my father, and Terzian's reply,

  "Must you ask that every day?" I don't think Cal had ever truly known the answer; now

  I felt my own question was doomed to the same fate.

  Arahal said, "Megalithica. ... It is a grand name. The hara that shall come to rule

  here will be equal in stature and their sons will possess the wisdom of the

  generations."

  What generations? As Arahal walked beside me, glowing with an inner light of pride, I thought about how the Gelaming had plucked their culture, even their cities, from the air and imbued it with a luster of centuries. It was a lie. Their culture was still damp from its birthing, yet they talked as if they had owned the earth a thousand years. It had taken men so long to step away from the creatures of the forest and the plain, up from the slime, the first discovery of fire and shelter. Perhaps they had stepped too far, too far to get back, and their isolation had shriveled them ... perhaps. Wraeththu are animals; they are not men, they will not call themselves human. I could say to myself, "I am an animal," and see something shining in the dark, powerful, sleek and close to the earth. My eyes can light up and my teeth are sharp enough to kill, yet now, it seems, I must fold away my fangs and claws and learn to lie down with the lamb whose flesh is so tempting. Gelaming taught me: there is no murder, just negative impulses to scorch the soul and a temporary destruction of flesh. The soul will always return. Only the murderer ultimately suffers from the act of killing. I wondered why they wished to educate me, what use I was to serve them, but my questions were sidestepped. Arahal would
say to me, "Do you not want to be full of feelings that are smooth and straight? Don't you want to be able to see around corners? We can help you to speak in colors, to see the pattern of sounds that are other hara's thoughts. This is the true mutation!" Mutation: change. It seems my childhood fears would surface once again.

  If they had come to Galhea, the Gelaming would never have killed us, or even sent us away from our homes, as we'd feared. We would just have been smothered quietly, our bewilderment soothed, the knives taken from our hands. Their conquering power was not violence, but no less effective because of it. We had been so wrong about them, and my father had ridden toward this without knowing. If he was with the Gelaming, I was sure he must be dead. If his body still lived, the Terzian I had known (and the one I had not) would be quenched from the fire in his eyes. Whatever I had learned about him, I had enough mercy within me to hope that he had truly died, and in the only way he'd have been proud of fighting.