The Wraeththu Chronicles (48 page)

Hesitating at Terzian's door would have made it too difficult. I knocked once, loudly, and walked right in. My father was sitting at his desk, writing. Two hara stood by the bed, fussing over what lay in it. Terzian looked around as I walked in. It was the first time, that I could remember, that he seemed genuinely pleased to see me. Perhaps, because of that, I was more self-assertive than usual with him.

"Swift," he said. "I was beginning to think I was a pariah in my own house. Has Cobweb sent you?"

I shook my head.

"Come here," he said and I went to him. "You've grown up so much lately," he continued. "Perhaps we still treat you too much as a child."

Oh God, I was thinking, don't get emotional; I couldn't stand it! "What does this

mean?" I asked clearly.

"To Cobweb and me? What does it mean?"

My father bit his lip; not a gesture common to him. "Cobweb is naturally angry," he said.

"We want to know where we stand," I said stiffly.

Terzian laughed. "Oh, I see! Cobweb's told you that now Cal has come back, you and he will be cast aside, perhaps even thrown out of the house, hasn't he?"

I could not answer. Looking at my father's face, I realized that our eviction was probably the least likely thing in the entire world. Terzian touched my shoulder.

"You are my first-born," he said, and that was reassurance enough. "Swift, a long time ago, when Cal was here before . . . and afterwards, I explained to Cobweb how things were. Cobweb is your hostling and my consort and because of that, my people are fond of him. He belongs here, but if it hadn't been for Cal, well, maybe I would have had

other hara in the house to give me sons as well. Cobweb's had it easy; I've spoiled him. There is no reason why his life should change now except that he shall have to learn to share his home."

"And you," I pointed out.

"Yes, that too," Terzian agreed.

I thought to myself, Father, you have no heart.

"Go and look at him, Swift." Terzian stood up and, clamping a firm hand on the back of my neck, half steered, half dragged me over to the bed. I thought, How lucky he has good bones. Starvation has barely marked him.

"Are you sure it's him?" I asked. "I remember him differently."

"It's him," my father said shortly.

Cal's eyes were closed, his head turned to the side. I could see so clearly the long line of his neck, the caress of hair against his cheek, his brow, the dark circles beneath his eyes. I could see his arms, outside the blankets, laid along his sides, smooth as sculpture, his long, sensitive hands. My first impression was unashamedly this: he is made to be touched. I hated him. I remembered a fairy tale that Swithe had once read to me from an old, old book, a man's book, about a magic mirror.

The beautiful witch queen had asked the mirror, "Who is the most beautiful in the land, magic glass?"

And the mirror had always replied, "It is you, Oh Queen." Until one day it had clouded and it had seen someone else, more beautiful still. When the witch had asked the mirror, "Who is the fairest in my husband's kingdom?" it had answered her differently and dark poison had flowered in her heart. Someone else, and here it lay, on my father's bed, and yes, more beautiful still. A Wraeththu child of snow and thorns whom we could not kill, because fairy stories just don't end that way.

The following morning, Cal was moved from my father's room, ironically, back to the very suite that he had occupied once before, with Pellaz. A circle in time; we begin again. Cobweb would not speak to Terzian, except with his eyes, which radiated contempt and fury disguised as pain, and all gatherings of the household became fraught affairs, where silence could be cut with a knife and knives glinted sharply. Gahrazel and I philosophized endlessly about what all of this meant, the complexities of relationships, the capriciousness of feeling.

"Is Cal really evil?" Gahrazel asked me.

I had to admit, "I don't know. We all hate him because he broke my father's heart when he left and yet his staying here was the last thing in the world Cobweb wanted."

"Poor Cal," Gahrazel remarked cynically, "whichever way he turns the path is wrong!"

"We shall really have to wait," I said. "When he has regained his strength, then we may see him as he really is. Then he may try to bring about all the terrible things Cobweb is afraid of."

"But Swift," Gahrazel said, "Does anyone know for sure that Cal was trying to get back to Forever?"

I shrugged. "It does seem rather a coincidence . . . and the talismans, Ithiel did break the circle ..."

That night, Gahrazel went to bed early with a violent headache and I was more or less compelled to spend the evening with Cobweb in the drawing room. By now, his martyred silence was beginning to get on my nerves. Had we been cast out into the wilderness?

No. It seemed to me that my hostling was only driving Terzian farther away from him. His tactics were all wrong; it bored my father, which was perhaps the gravest error. Cobweb was displeased with me because Terzian talked to me at mealtimes, but that was only because he could not talk to Cobweb. Secretly, I thought that Terzian might need Cobweb more now than he had ever done.

On my way up the stairs that night, I heard Terzian and Ithiel talking in the study; low murmuring, the chink of glass. All the lights in the house appeared to have been left on; there were no shadows, anywhere. The corridors upstairs were tense and still, burning brightly. I could always sense the house holding its breath. Now I would go to the enchanted room; there are secrets there, an oracle. . . . Outside the door, I was alert for changes in atmosphere (would it be cold there? A spirit breath?). He lay as I before, inert and splendid, carved from ice, asleep for a hundred years.

Now I was the prince of valour come to wake the sleeping beauty with a kiss. I found myself chanting, "Here is the room, the room of death!" At that time, I am quite sure, I was not wholly rational. I went to his side and said, "And what are you, white beast?"

His eyes opened, his hand shot to my wrist; not the grip of illness. Fathomless power, a sense of timelessness, burned right through me, but he could not have known it. His voice was husky, as if long unused. He said, "Pell, come closer, I have to ... I have to tell you something ..." and fell back on the pillows with a sigh, his eyes rolling upwards.

I ran back to my room, I sat down on the bed, I stood up again and walked to the window. "Must you always sit in darkness, Swift?" I said to myself, but I did not turn on the light. I flopped down, on my back, on the bed; strangely thrilled. In a month's time, it would be my birthday, I realized, wondering where the thought came from. I remembered Moswell telling me that at the growing stage, one of our years was equal to two of man's. I am a twelve-year-old human, I am a six-year-old har, I thought. When the time comes I shall be be fourteen, I shall be seven . . .

That week Gahrazel was confined to his room, afflicted by strange pains. I once heard him whimpering in the night; his room was not far from mine. Swithe told me that Gahrazel's coming of age was upon him, which sounded most unpleasant. "Men grow hair upon their faces, upon their bodies; we are not quite the same," he said. "Your flesh shall become furred with down as you mature," he went on, "beneath your arms, a thicker growth and between your legs, the silky mane that marks you as adult. Don't blush and writhe so, Swift! I am not your father after all."

I wondered what it was that caused Gahrazel pain. Swithe explained that certain internal organs (known as soume-lam) were coming alive, Hexing, preparing themselves for the accommodation of aruna and pearl-hosting. "The phallus, the ouana-lim of Wraeththu, is a complex and wonderful thing, Swift," Swithe said, thankfully with his back to me. "Treat it with respect." (God forbid that I should do otherwise! I thought.) "Of course, some time from now you will be given thorough instruction concerning aruna and procreation," Swithe continued airily, "but if you are ever curious about anything, you can ask me. Of course, by that time, your friend Gahrazel will doubtless be answering all your questions!"

I went to visit Gahrazel in his room and his behavior was manic, more restless than ever. He said he itched unbearably all over and I charitably nibbed his back for him. The skin was taut and hot.

"How does it feel, this change?" I asked.

Gahrazel rubbed his arms, shivering, sweating. "Horrible!" he cried. "Horrible!"

He mentioned terrifying dreams that had been ruining his sleep, dreams about my father. At the time I thought nothing of it. We all have strange dreams occasionally; not all of them are prophetic.

Cobweb, nudged out of his self-indulgent moping, prepared steaming
 
elixirs for Gahrazel to drink, which made him sleep. "I wonder how long this will last?" I wondered.

"Oh, not long," Cobweb answered vaguely, and by that, I guessed he had no idea.

Soon Gahrazel began to feel much better and told me that Terzian had been to see him to arrange for his coming-of-age celebration. "I suppose you're going to spoil my birthday," I complained. "Coming of age and having the lissome Ithiel to court you."

His face changed a little when I said that. I realized he was not quite as confident about his Feybraiha as he liked me to think.

"Will it be alright, do you suppose?" he asked. "I think about it often. It's an invasion and I'm afraid of conquest ..."

"I hope it kills you!" I said and for a moment we stared at each other in silence.

"Is there a fate worse than death?" Gahrazel asked, and we both laughed.

All the snow had melted, the ground outside was dark and rich, green shoots sprouting beneath the trees. But no crows came back to their ragged nests in the high branches. Cal was brought downstairs in the afternoons to sit in the conservatory, which outraged Cobweb and put me off going in there. Terzian would spend an hour with him every day. Once, I crept to the door and eavesdropped on them. Cal said, "What am I doing here?" in a voice that was barely even a whisper, and my father answered, "Must you ask that every day?"

I peeked around the door, hidden in the curtains, and saw my father reach for Cal's hand, but it was snatched away instantly.

"Don't! Cal cried hoarsely. "Not ever!"

"It's alright," Terzian soothed. I was amazed by this reaction.

The idea of Cal fascinated me. He was a creature of mystery. We all presumed that only Terzian knew where Cal had been going, where he came from, when the Varrish patrol had found him. And what Terzian knew he told no-one. Not even Ithiel. Gahrazel was now allowed to spend some hours several times a week in Ithiel's company, under Moswell's watchful eye. I pressed him to drill Ithiel for information, which must have been difficult with Moswell there, but although Ithiel was not loath to divulge what he knew, it wasn't anything we weren't aware of already. One evening, afire with the spirit of rebellion, Gahrazel and I appropriated a decanter of sheh from the dining room and consumed it lustily in the privacy of Gahrazel's bedroom.

"I wish I knew what was going on!" I exclaimed. "He won't let Terzian touch him; I saw!"

Gahrazel was already rather drunk. "Why bother squeezing useless information out of everyone else?" he said. "Why not go straight to the source, the one person who will know. Ask Cal, ask him outright. It's your home too."

"Yes, you're right. Tomorrow then ..."

"What?" Gahrazel snorted. "Tomorrow we have no sheh, tomorrow we are sensible and shy. Do it now!"

Spurred on by a tide of drunken bravery, I cried, "Alright, I will!" and rolled onto the floor.

Leaving Gahrazel giggling helplessly on the bed, I went to look for Cal. Of course, he was penned in his room. That was where they kept him at night. They had even locked him in. I turned the key and went right through the open doorway.

He was lying on the bed, dressed in a heavy, woollen robe. The curtains were drawn, the light dim. Books were scattered around him. We stared at each other for quite some time before I spoke. "What are you doing here?"

He smiled faintly; my voice was slurred. "And what are you doing here?" he replied

"It's my house," I said. "It's my father's house."

"Ah, you are Swift," he said. "I remember you." A dry remark which made me uneasy.

"You did not like me," I accused.

His smile is constant, words move around it. "I was afraid of you."

"Afraid!" I laughed and went to sit next to him. "What are you reading?"

"Tales of the night," he said.

"Why did you come back?"

"I didn't. They brought me back."

"I don't believe you," I said. Until I looked at his eyes, close up, I still felt strong. Now I was a child again. He smelled of smoke and flowers.

"Where's Pellaz?" I asked and he shrugged, bland as a cat!

"I don't remember."

"Where have you been? Why are you ill?"

"Who knows? Who cares? Give me the strongest light and I shall carve an axe for you."

"What?"

"It was in the book."

"Oh." One thing that is remarkable about Cal was that he was so easy to talk to. He appeared to have no side to him, communicating as easily as water running over stones. People did not perplex him and he cared about nothing then.