The Wraiths of Will and Pleasure (5 page)

‘Again, what are you trying to tell us?’ Lianvis said in an even tone that normally sent hara into palpitations of terror.

Chisbet appeared most reluctant to speak. Eventually, he swallowed, and said, ‘We cannot allow creatures of this nature to live.’

Herien uttered a moan of dread.

‘What?’ Rarn cried. ‘Are you telling me to kill my own son?’

‘It is not a son,’ Chisbet said calmly. ‘You must face this. We don’t know exactly how spiritually elevated aruna creates harlings. We don’t know if we always do it right. This is a new and experimental time for us, and as such we must remain objective.’

‘This is a harsh judgement,’ Lianvis said.

‘I will not do it,’ Herien said. ‘I’ll leave the tribe, live in exile. I will not do it.’

‘And I will be with you,’ Rarn said.

‘You cannot,’ Chisbet insisted. ‘Believe me, I am as grieved and sorrowful as you are. I feel as much a part of this young one’s birth as its own hostling. But the truth cannot be ignored, and as healer of this tribe, given shelter by the Kakkahaar when I most needed it, I must be honest with you. These creatures are dangerous. My mentor told me of it. He told me how one tribe allowed such a child to grow up among them and that it was mad. It was an abomination of a creature, full of bitterness and vengeance. In the end, they had to kill it before it killed somehar else.’

‘That is only one child,’ Herien said, surprisingly calm. ‘You don’t know that my harling will be the same. As Rarn said, he might change as he grows. You don’t know. None of us do.’

‘Could it be the host who is responsible?’ Lianvis enquired. ‘Will Herien be able to have normal harlings after this?’

Herien had never heard such a sinister question voiced about himself.

‘Yes,’ Chisbet said. ‘My mentor told me that the har who created the other half-sex had another harling very quickly, who was completely normal. We don’t know what causes this condition, as I said. But for its own sake, the child must be exposed, otherwise we doom it to a life of pain.’

‘I won’t let you do this!’ Herien cried.

Chisbet nodded slowly, acknowledging Herien’s anguish, and his voice, when he spoke, was soft. ‘Herien, you must look upon this as a stillbirth, a terrible circumstance that human women had to deal with throughout history. Know that I will do all in my power to make this painless. I will dose the child with a soothing philtre, so that the moon may take it in peace, out in the wilderness. Its soul must be given this release. It is the only fair and compassionate thing to do. We are not humans, bound up in superstitious fear of physical death. We are Wraeththu. We are strong. We know the soul is eternal and the flesh but a temporary vehicle. If the vehicle is faulty, the soul deserves to find for itself a more suitable vessel.’

‘No,’ Herien said. ‘No.’

Rarn pointed a shaking finger at his harling. ‘How can you look upon this beautiful being and sentence him to death? Are you insane? We are less than human if we do this thing.’

‘Tiahaar,’ Chisbet said to Lianvis. ‘Emotions run high, which is understandable, but you alone are detached and you are our leader. You cannot present this harling to the tribe as a miracle, because it is not. You should not be swayed sentimentally by its appearance. You must be firm on this matter.’

‘Betrayer!’ Herien cried. ‘You are doomed too, Chisbet, doomed by my curse. By all the gods, I hex to you eternity!’ He appealed to Lianvis. ‘Do not listen to him, tiahaar. Allow us to leave the tribe. If all proceeds as Chisbet says, then we will deal with it in our own way, but give us a chance.’

Lianvis tapped his clasped hands against his mouth. He appeared to be deep in thought. ‘The bloodline of the Kakkahaar must be kept pure,’ he said at last. ‘We cannot afford to slip back.’

‘This is barbaric!’ Rarn cried. ‘I can’t believe you’re even giving it consideration!’

But he was appealing to a har who had done terrible things, far worse than exposing a freakish child in the desert. Lianvis did not want the slur of this event to affect his reputation among Wraeththukind. The Kakkahaar were feared and respected, and their livelihood mainly rested upon that. If other tribe leaders had been strong enough to do as their healers had suggested, then so was he. ‘Bring Ulaume to me,’ he said. ‘Let our seer look into this. Then, I will make a decision.’

Ulaume, however, was nowhere to be found, as he was out on one of his meditative excursions in the moonlight. How he would have dealt with the situation will never be known, because he never found out that Lianvis had summoned him. Instead, Persiki, one of the shamans of the high cabal came to Rarn’s pavilion. Like Lianvis, he was a creature who was intimate with the abyss and all its horrors. His morality was moulded wholly by the things that his tribe’s high-ranking hara did together in private rituals, away from the prying eyes of the rank and file. He had taken life many times. He had watched Lianvis murder human children to attain power. He was capable of finer feelings, as was Lianvis himself, but he was also merciless.

Herien did not know much about Persiki, but he did not believe he’d have an ally in him. As Persiki cast grains onto a burning charcoal, and breathed in its fumes in order to enter trance, Herien was planning his escape. He feared Lianvis enough to know that trying to make a run for it would be fruitless. Because Herien was only Aralid, the lowest of Wraeththu castes, he was not yet capable of communication by mind touch to formulate a strategy with Rarn.. But there would have to be an opportunity when he could run. Not here, not now, but soon. The harling breathed against him, as still and silent as a small animal who sensed it was in danger. Remaining motionless, and perhaps invisible, was its only defence.

Persiki had begun to rock upon his heels, his hands braced against his knees. He inhaled deeply and exhaled in a gasp. Then he opened his eyes and stared directly at Herien. ‘You will be blessed, doubly blessed,’ he said.

Herien could not take comfort in those words; he heard a threat behind them. ‘How?’

‘Two harlings, the seeds of a great dynasty among the Kakkahaar. Their names will be commemorated in stone. Their monuments will touch the sky.’

‘Is this one of these legendary harlings?’ Lianvis enquired delicately, indicating the child in Herien’s arms.

Persiki flicked a glance at his leader, like the cold kiss of a serpent’s tongue. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This creature will be exposed in the desert.’

‘Death, then,’ Lianvis said.

Herien could not speak. There were dancing spots of light before his vision. For the first time in years, he felt utterly powerless, more so than when he’d writhed in althaia, the changing, more so than when he’d striven on a bed of birthing.

‘It will be exposed in the desert,’ Persiki said. ‘That’s all I can say.’

‘And will you kill me to achieve this?’ Herien asked.

‘No,’ Persiki said in a flat tone. ‘You will do as you know is right. Give this poor creature to the moon and then go to your pavilion. Hubisag will place a balm over your wound. There will be another harling – two. This is the measure of how important it is to renounce this ill birth. The gods will reward you with two harlings should you have the strength to do what is most unspeakable to you. I swear this in the name of all I stand for and believe in. I would stake my very soul upon it. The creature that sprang from your flesh is not yours to raise.’

Perhaps it was Persiki’s strange choice of words that swayed Herien’s heart, or perhaps it was because Herien knew that whatever he thought, said or did, the harling would be taken from him, in any case. Herien could not tell. But for a moment, a strange feeling, as of being plunged into a cold spring, flooded his body. For a moment, he was bigger than himself and filled with hope and clarity. He had a secret, it had come to him as a divine gift, but he could not voice it. Silently, he handed the harling to Persiki, who held his gaze with steady, knowing eyes. Herien could sense that the breath was stilled in every breast around him. Rarn made a move to retrieve the child, uttering a cry, but Herien stayed his hand.

‘Do what you must,’ he said.

Lianvis exhaled loudly, his hands braced against his knees. ‘You have my respect,’ he said, ‘and will be rewarded.’

‘That is not necessary,’ Herien said, still gazing into Persiki’s shrouded eyes.

‘No!’ Rarn cried, a ragged, heart-breaking sound.

Herien felt calm, and not at all surprised that Rarn could not share what he felt. Rarn wept openly now, caught in the same caul of powerlessness that Herien had felt only moments before. It was possible Herien would never be able to share what he knew with his chesnari, but that did not matter. There were other ways to bind an injury. All that Herien knew was that the only chance his child had was if he surrendered it. If the moon had a destiny for it, it was not death. The child was placid again now, as if it too sensed a crucial decision had been reached.

Go with my blessings
, Herien thought, and was sure, for the first time, his unspoken words were heard by another mind.
Be strong. Be curious. Live.

Ulaume had been roaming around the cold desert nearly all night, and now the light had become grey with the promise of dawn. He felt driven, or hag-ridden, his entire body filled with a compulsion he could not identify. He wanted to scratch himself raw, tear out his hair, scream. The stones beneath his bare feet were sharp and he craved the pain they inflicted. He wanted to leave bloody foot-prints. A coyote was trailing him curiously, as if it thought he might show it something. Twice, he had paused to throw a rock at it, and the animal had loped away for a distance, only to stand and stare after him, before resuming its pursuit. It looked sick, its belly a little distended. Ulaume was not afraid of the animal. He wanted only to say, ‘Go away. I cannot give you anything’, but a coyote could not understand words.

He could not live like this. It had to be resolved. Was the only answer to confide in Lianvis, and perform some ritual to get information? Ulaume balked from doing that. He hugged his torment to himself jealously. He did not want to tell Lianvis about Pellaz, because the thought of Lianvis’ inevitable extreme interest was repugnant. Lianvis would suggest something grotesque, like trying to capture Pell’s spirit, which was so far from the point, it was embarrassing. Ulaume was sure Lianvis was incapable of feeling the true meaning of what had happened, even though he was an experienced magician, perhaps the best. He would make something gross and common out of a rare, unique event. Ulaume could not bear it.

I must leave
, he thought.
That’s it. Leave my tribe. If I live in the desert for a hundred years, alone, perhaps the answers will come to me. If I scour my skin with ashes and eat bitter grasses, if I hardly drink, go mad, howl at the moon, I may be given the truth.

It was then he realised that the coyote behind him was an aspect of himself.

He could not return to the camp for any of his possessions or supplies. Now the decision was made, he must run with it, into the wilderness. If he could not survive, then it was what was meant to be. Somehow, he didn’t think he’d die. Without looking behind, he stopped walking and presently heard the faint sounds that indicated the coyote had almost caught up with him.

‘Go ahead,’ Ulaume said aloud. ‘Find the way.’ Still, he did not move.

After some minutes, he noticed the coyote about thirty feet to his left, but trotting ahead of him. He could see now that it was a female and had clearly recently had cubs, as its teats were engorged. Where were those cubs now?

But that creature is me
, Ulaume thought,
and I am bursting with something, I am hot and sore. This is just a symbol.

He followed it.

Dawn comes like a song to the desert, shedding scarlet notes of light over the distant hills. Shadows are stark and alive with creatures once hidden by the dark. Birds wheel high on wide wings in the purple sky. Like a compass they can guide the traveller, not in a particular direction, but to where there is water or food.

Ulaume saw three carrion birds, known to the Kakkahaar as crag rocs, circling quite low some distance ahead of him. The coyote had increased her pace, perhaps making for a water-hole. The birds flew lower, landing in a showy flap of wings, ungainly on the ground, uttering squawks. When the coyote ran among them, they protested and lumbered around, raising their wings, but they did not take to the air.

Ulaume approached. The crag rocs had found carrion then, and perhaps he could salvage some of it to cook, share it with his shadow-beast. He picked up a couple of rocks. It was possible he could take out one of the birds themselves. But what made Ulaume throw the stones wasn’t the thought of cooked crag roc. It was the fact he heard a soft mewling cry coming from the ground among them. His heart went cold and he ran forward screeching, letting the stones fly from his hands. The coyote, spooked, ran around too, snapping at the air, and the birds rose up in a complaining, clattering flutter.

Ulaume stopped running and looked down. Into a smile. He saw small hands reaching up for him, heard laughter. There wasn’t a mark on the child. Not one. Ulaume hunkered down. Who could have left a child out here? Humans? Surely not. And no Wraeththu would do such a thing. Children were too precious to both species; rare and new in Wraeththu, just rare in humans. Perhaps its parents had been killed, but there was no sign of bodies around, no blood or bones. The child was wrapped in a thin cloth, a piece of white linen that looked as if it had been torn from a sheet. ‘Am I to eat you?’ Ulaume asked it. There was something odd about the child. It wasn’t a baby, yet it was so small. Was it a midget or a dwarf?