The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel (18 page)

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 was 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.

‘Glory of the season to you, tiahaar,’
Medoc said, his family echoing his sentiments in a respectful chorus.

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.’

‘Unfortunately, that is so,’ I
said.

‘But our knowledge of the past,
and all that we witnessed, shouldn’t be lost,’ he continued. ‘Perhaps we
are
tainted by it, but to forget what happened is to make yourself vulnerable. And
old mistakes can be repeated. At least, that’s what I think.’ He paused for a
moment and gazed around him. ‘Wyva has done well here. The hara are happy, the
house stands proud. But there is blood beneath this soil, Ysobi har Jesith, and
it has a memory. Just be mindful of that.’

I inclined my head. ‘I
understand.’

Again, he patted my shoulder.
‘Enough of the past. Let’s rejoice in mendings and happy hours for the future.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

We had reached the company.
Several hara of the Gwyllion Assembly had clustered around Gen and Cawr – rather
protectively, I thought. Conversation was cordial, yet a little stilted,
perhaps to be expected under the circumstances. I took the opportunity to drift
away from the family gathering.