Burying the Shadow (7 page)

She fitted
herself into a chair opposite instead. ‘So, are you ready for
news?’

Silent
Vicretia, dear little thing, eased down beside me like a floating
feather. I curled my fingers over her own, but addressed her
sister. ‘Always, Lee, always. So, tell me.’

‘There has
been a riot of suicides among the artisans.’

Yara Sarim,
whose family was in some ways connected with ours, had communicated
with us, directly on our return, and had told us everything. This
was not news, but I feigned interest. ‘Indeed?’

Leda nodded
eagerly. ‘Quite so.’ She counted off on her fingers. ‘Camiel,
Murek, Sasleel - it’s like a disease. And that’s not the worst. Two
years ago - oh, it seems like history now - Lilthia Emim took a
knife to both her parents, her brother and - finally - herself. You
have been wise to keep your distance. Father says it must be an
evil taint from the Strangeling, blowing over the city in the wind
that affects the sensitively composed. Personally, I think it’s a
result of hedonistic excesses and you, dear Gimel, are not prone to
such; neither you nor your brother.’ She frowned. ‘Where is Beth,
incidentally?’

I considered
it politic, under the circumstances, to reinvent his excuse. ‘Oh,
he’s working. Feels guilty being away from the courts for so long,
I expect. He sends his regrets, but may join us for refreshment
later. You will stay for refreshment, of course.’

‘Persuade me
otherwise!’ Leda rolled her eyes. ‘Now, you must tell me of your
travels. It must have been so exciting.’

I pulled a
rueful face. ‘Hardly such. Beth was researching and spent most of
his time sketching. I simply mooched around waiting for him.’

‘But all those
exotic people!’

‘They are not
that exotic beyond civilisation, dear Leda. I found very little to
attract me, I must confess.’

‘You are a
connoisseuse,’ Leda declared, patting herself in congratulation.
‘Nothing but the best for Lady Gimel!’

I could not
help but flinch at that.

After half an
hour or so of further pointless exchanges, I summoned Beth with the
mind-chime, and ordered him to join us. He remonstrated, but I kept
up the chord until he gave in. He could have plump Leda; she would
enjoy it. Beth had been too picky recently, refreshing himself far
too meagrely. I wondered whether he’d damaged himself by all the
gorging he’d indulged in when we’d first arrived in Lansaal, four
years ago. However, sustenance from Leda should restore him
utterly. Me, a sensible refresher, and able to pace my supping,
would lick an aperitif from the sweet flesh of little Vicretia.
Being sensitive, she knew this already, and trembled beneath the
light, cool touch of my hand.

Beth was
magnificent when he came to the solar; his tawny hair polished as
sun-burnished fur, his dark yellow eyes full of shadow-promise.

Leda gurgled
in greed. ‘You are so thin!’ she exclaimed to him.

He flexed his
darling paws in her direction, lacing the fingers. ‘While you,
Mistress Di Corboran, are fat as a festival chicken!’

Cooing, Leda began to
unlace her bodice. Slightly nauseated, I turned to Vicretia and
leaned towards her ear. ‘Your first?’ I whispered.

She nodded,
fearfully, eyes like a doe with one foot bound in a twine-trap.

‘Would you
prefer to retire?’

Again, after a
brief hesitation, during which her eyes flicked to the pouting Leda
and back again, she nodded.

I rose and
held out my hand. Leda was spread out in her chair, her large,
blue-veined breasts exposed, into which my beloved brother had
buried his head. She had her hand in his hair, mewing ecstatically
as his teeth broke the skin above one nipple, as his tongue licked
her, his lips began to suck. I felt a twinge of jealousy and hoped
he would not give in to her demands for copulation, which were sure
to follow. Perhaps leaving them alone gave her an advantage
concerning that, but I had a mind for Vicretia’s comfort, and the
sight of her sister writhing beneath my brother was not
pleasant.

‘Come,’ I
said, and led the bewildered girl from the room.

We sat down in
the conservatory of eager vines that greened the sunlight from
above. Poor Vicretia was pale as a forest flower, trembling
uncontrollably. Yet even in her fear, there was anticipation,
excitement. Not wanting to scare her unduly, I supped delicately at
her wrist - no more than a gnat bite. She lay back against the
trellis, her eyes turned up in her head, moaning softly. I took my
time, but supped little. It was important she should find it
pleasurable, this first time.

Afterwards, I
brought her a cordial of summer fruits, lightly laced with brandy,
for which she was grateful. The intimacy had unlocked her tongue.
‘So strange it felt,’ she said, ‘like floating away.’

‘Is that all?’
I smiled at her.

‘Beautiful,’
she said. ‘I’m flattered you chose me.’

In truth, it was not
me who had chosen her, but her father. He had sent her to us after
all, but I did not mention this. A homecoming gift, a new flavour.
Leone always kept his children long from the sup in order to make
them more intriguing, - sometimes until they were sixteen - but I
was surprised he had kept Vicretia untasted this long. She must
have been all of seventeen years old, and a year is a long time
when your relatives are all satisfied participants of the sup.

‘I prefer a
finer vintage, more delicately flavoured, than Beth,’ I said, to
please her.

‘You did not
hurt me.’

‘No, we never
do. None of us. I’d have thought you knew this.’

She shrugged.
‘The tasted keep their secrets.’

Unable to face
Leda’s flushed bloatedness, I requested her sister to make my
excuses and sent her back to the solar alone. For a while, I
relaxed among the greenery, digesting my refreshment, rolling my
tongue around my mouth to catch the last sweet nuances of Vee’s
flavour. Although at peace, I was full of the awareness that our
lives were changing. The atmosphere in Sacramante, on our return,
had been reminiscent of the paranoia haunting the eloim in Lansaal.
The Sacramantan artisans were scared, and no doubt would expect us
to produce an instant solution.

On the journey
home, I had kept up the contact with our little soulscaper.
Distance did not seem to lessen our link. She interested me
acutely; I was in awe of her active, inventive mind. She had
certainly come to regard Beth and myself in different ways. Beth
was a pleasurable fantasy, but I liked to think she looked upon me
as an imaginary friend. Often, when I looked into her life, I could
hear her speaking to me. She liked to talk about her thoughts and
feelings aloud. I still had not interfered overtly with her
development - there was no need; I just observed. She must be all
of twelve years old by now, but it would still be some time before
she was ready to fulfil the destiny I had planned for her. Some
part of me was resigned to the fact that our designs might yet
fail; some part of me did not care. I was content; the sickness
could not touch me, for contentment was its bane, I’m sure. Beth
though, I worried for. He, like dead Rephaim, was one of those
bright blooms that grow quickly flaccid on the vine, eaten by decay
in an evening’s rain. I thought about the diminished throng of
Favariel Eshahim; it seemed incomprehensible to me that such a
decline could be allowed to occur. Perhaps it signalled that the
time of the eloim was drawing to a close; we had lived upon the
world too long. Perhaps the sickness of despair was an inevitable
symptom of this wasting, and no soulscaper, however well suited to
our needs, could ever save us. I knew this was an attitude I would
have to shed quickly, because it was not one that could be
presented to the eloim elders.

Notice had
come to us - or more accurately had been waiting for us - that a
gathering of the throngs had been called for by the Parzupheim, the
most ancient and exalted of our kind. They were anxious to discover
what Beth and I had achieved in Lansaal and Taparak. Our father,
Metatron, had been ominously silent since our return. I had
expected us to be summoned to the family stronghold in the eastern
atelier court even before we shed our travelling cloaks, but no
word had come from him. His ignorance could only mean he
disapproved of our journey; we had not, after all, consulted with
him about it before we left Sacramante. I knew he would be present
at the gathering, and wondered whether we could expect public
criticism from him.

I sighed into
the vines. It was time I stopped worrying about greater issues, and
applied myself to my personal well being. I needed to organise
myself, emerge from the seclusion of the atelier courts and seek
employment; I needed to perform. What I needed more precisely, of
course, was the adulation I commanded as my fee. As soon as the
throng gathering was over, I would see about securing a part in a
theatrical production. The house of Zamzummim might be a good place
to start looking. Indolence was ejected from my body by a wild
spear of energy; I wanted to leap up immediately and hurry to Oriel
Zamzummim’s court. The feeling was to be savoured, but not indulged
just yet. First, I would wait here for my brother in the
conservatory. Then I would lead him upstairs to bathe away the
stains of florid Leda, and make him pure again. After that, we
would sleep in each other’s arms. Tomorrow I would resume the
normal pattern of my life.

Gimel

‘
Subtle he needs
must be, who could seduce angels…’

Paradise Lost,
Book IX

Beth and I walked
lazily through the cool, evening air, on our way to the gathering
of throngs; two of our house stewards following discretely behind.
Sacramante was in a summer flush, the night thick with heavy
perfume squeezed from the tight flesh of the rose-vines along the
walls. We paused to listen to a travelling
trovadero
,
keening in one of the piazzas. I was recognised there and presented
with a corymbus bloom. In truth, I was glad to be back.

The Castile Edificia
had been built centuries back, on the apex of a gentle hill, whose
toes gripped the slow-moving river to the east. It was a pale,
many-towered building that dominated the skyline of the atelier
courts, constructed of pale stone and hugged by flowering creepers.
Like ourselves, others had chosen to take the walk that evening
and, on the approach way, we came upon a silken clutch of
Hyperachii, strolling arm in arm ahead of us. I was friendly with
one of the males, Jevanael, and released my grip on Beth - who was
trembling with nerves - to go and walk beside him.

‘Avirzah’e
Tartaruchi just drove past,’ he told me, eyes aglow. The
Tartaruchis were, perhaps, the most infamous of eloim throngs, and
undeniably the most compelling. They had a reputation for wildness,
indiscreet supping, and general over-indulgence. They were also
incredibly talented; all their projects were maverick successes.
Consequently, the Tartaruchi throng was one of the most affluent.
Avirzah’e was the favoured scion of this House, a playwright, who
courted heresy between the lines of his works. It was said he kept
twenty lovers satisfied at any one time, but I believed this to be
propaganda he’d put about himself. He was, undeniably, supremely
attractive, with all the irresistible allure of a dangerous animal.
I also had no doubt he had been keenly interested in Beth and
myself for a long time, which we had purposefully not pursued.
Naturally, such selfish reticence angered Avirzah’e, who was used
to all his whims being gratified. The extent of this anger was
beautifully illustrated by the fact that he ignored both Beth and
myself with a chill that verged on offensive. Everyone else in our
community - eloim and human alike - adored Avirzah’e. Beth and I
liked to be different, though I suppose, in some ways, we were
jealous of the Tartaruch prince. As we approached the main entrance
to the Castile, I felt my blood quicken at the thought I would see
Avirzah’e soon. This galled me immensely, and I attempted to banish
my excitement. Comfort was to be found only in thinking he must
feel the same way about us, and resent it as much.

In the
courtyard of the Castile, we passed the sleek carriage of the
Tartaruchis; horses steaming and stamping in their traces. The air
was still full of Avirzah’e’s perfume; an eastern, exotic scent. I
noticed Beth sniff and grimace.

‘Stench of
effluent,’ he said, which made Jevanael laugh.

‘Be prepared
for interrogation,’ he said.

Beth pulled a
face. ‘I wouldn’t have thought Tartaruchi had much interest in this
dilemma. They are undoubtedly immune to the sickness.’

Jevanael shook
his head. ‘You are wrong. A Tartaruch infant burned itself to death
three months back. Taken so young; a terror.’

‘Or an
accident,’ I added. I did not believe a child could yearn for
extinction, let alone grasp the concept of it, but I could
understand the scare it had caused. Because of eloim longevity, and
the scant need to reproduce ourselves, children are rare creatures
among the throngs, and therefore to be cherished.

As I had
expected, and dreaded, our great father, the Metatron, was waiting
for us in the foyer of the Castile. I’m sure my heart actually
stopped beating for a second or two when I first saw him, even
though I had prepared myself for this meeting. Beth reached for my
arm again, as we made a sedate approach. Metatron stood, like a
statue clothed in deep green velvet, among the polished red-marble
columns of the entrance hall, other families giving him a wide
berth. That alone signified he was not in the best of humours. His
glamour never fails to surprise me; it is always as if we are
meeting for the first time. Our human allies claim that eloim grow
only more lovely as they age; Metatron is a testament to that
supposition. An incredibly ancient creature, albeit not so much as
to qualify for a position in the Parzupheim, (although it was no
secret he did much of their work for them), he looked as beautiful
as raw light, that night. His dark hair was confined in a fillet of
titanium; his fingers heavy with old silver rings. At his side,
drooped the languid, sleepy-eyed Tatriel, a consort of his, but not
our parent. Our mother had been travelling away for many years; we
expected not to see her for centuries. As usual when he encountered
us - which was generally by chance - Metatron clawed us with a
penetrating glance and inclined his head. We bowed in respect. Beth
and I had left the family courts many years before; we’d had no yen
for family life, although it had been me who’d instigated the move
to private court. The reason for this was because Metatron had made
it known he wanted another child, and had taken me to his bed
several times. I had no doubt, although it was never mentioned,
that he had chosen me to carry his spawn. Among our family, there
is a facetious legend that Metatron’s children eat their way out of
the womb from within. Having no desire to spawn at that stage of my
life, and even less to be gnawed at in such a grotesque way, I
removed myself discretely from his attention, taking Beth with me.
Sometimes, though, I still regretted my decision. The Parzupheim
decreed who might be allowed to have children, and eloim of high
stature, such as my father, were generally the ones granted the
privilege. Sometimes - and especially so since becoming involved
with Rayojini - I fancied the idea of having a daughter myself.
Also, whatever ambivalent feelings I might have about Metatron, I
respected and admired him greatly, for his beauty and his
intelligence.