Breathe, My Shadow: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel

Chapter One

Aghamasday, 15 Ardourmoon

The house itself was never the problem. Tucked into a mellow suburb of Ferelithia, Inglefey’s design was quirky, with its carved lintels and eaves painted palest red – certainly not pink, but cream with a hint of blood. When Seladris moved into it, as it was a perk of the job he’d taken, he thought the design must have been deliberate, only discovering later it was an old house and had been built during the Human Era. Seladris was a maestera baker and had come to work for Confitteri, the celebrated establishment whose sumptuous confections were sold even in Immanion. In keeping with this, but only coincidentally, Inglefey resembled an elaborate yet tastefully decorated cake.

Seladris arrived at his new home in the early afternoon of a summer’s day. He had never imagined he’d occupy a house so big. Its three stories soared majestically over him. The season had fully bloomed, yet it seemed the aching vividness of spring still throbbed from the trees and flowers. The sky was a clear deep blue and the chimneys of the house stood tall and starkly white against it.

Inside, the house was peaceful; its air seemed to hum languidly. Light fell in mellow bars through the tall windows, which were curtained only with sweeping drapes of dove-grey muslin that hung quiet in the windless day. The floors were mostly bare, here and there mosaiced with rugs of deep auburn, purple and gold. The furniture was old, and while somewhat battered upon the legs or surfaces, possessed an ageless elegance without being fussy. Floral perfume, spiced with an herby undernote filled the air – Seladris could see through the open doors to rooms left and right that bowls of fresh-cut roses, jasmine and honeysuckle had been left for him, garnished with sprigs of thyme.

He felt at once welcomed, protected and comfortable. He put his travelling bag beside the table in the hall, where he found a note advising him the larder had been stocked for his use: this was complimentary, but thereafter he’d be responsible for providing his own supplies. He would be expected at Confitteri at 9 a.m. the following morning. The noted was signed by Veredis har Mith, the owner of the bakery, who Seladris already knew was something of a character and a celebrity of the town.

Seladris put down the note and stood for a moment with closed eyes, soaking up the sun that fell into the hall. He took several deep breaths of the aromatic air, then glanced at himself in the tall, narrow mirror above the table, unsure as always whether or not he liked the tall, narrow har who stared back at him haughtily. His pale hair hung loose over his chest, devoid of style, which might be abnormal in Ferelithia and have to be changed. The light in the hallway flattered him, as if the mirror sought to make him feel at home. Here, you are somehar else... It had been the right decision to take this job. At such an esteemed establishment, known for its unusual sweet delights, he could exercise his creativity with flavours and textures to the full. And in a place such as Inglefey, hurts of the past would fade, be rubbed out, replaced with kinder feelings.

Seladris always found work when he wanted it, as if a dehar guided needy employers to him. He’d been working at a bar further north up the coast, when an acquaintance told him of the position in Ferelithia. Feeling neither hope nor nervousness, Seladris simply wrote and applied for the job, sure – without emotion – he’d get it. He provided a list of references, all of which he knew would praise his abilities. He described his talents without boasting. He sent drawings of confections he’d made, one of them a model of the palace Phaonica in Immanion, all in sculpted cake and sugar paste, along with his cramped construction notes written all around it, the arcana of his art. He’d made nothing like that for some time. He’d taken only what he called invisible jobs – in small cafes, bars, nothing grand, cooking plain food or serving drinks, no art to it. He was in a period of his life where he needed to sink into the surroundings, become unseen. But then, the news of Confitteri. A vague sense of restlessness had been poking at him for time, as if there was something he’d forgotten to do. So he applied for the job. And knew it was time to show himself again.

A reply came within a week from Veredis Har Mith, inviting Seladris to an interview. Several dates were given, but none further than a week away. Seladris arranged to go as soon as possible.

When he arrived, it was not Veredis who interviewed him, but two other hara who told him they were senior managers of the establishment. They did not take him indoors – perhaps guarding the bakery’s secrets until he was officially employed – but spoke to him in a garden where hara might sit to enjoy tea and cakes on warm, sybaritic days. When, Seladris wondered, somewhat mordantly, was Ferelithia not warm and sybaritic? The garden cafe was busy. The interview wasn’t that private. The interviewers were not bakers, certainly not artists, but accountants. They hired him without any fuss and told him a house came with the job. The salary was no more and no less than what Seladris had expected. He thanked the hara and shook hands. Within a week, he’d walked out of his former job and moved south. 

Lunilsday, 16 Ardourmoon

On his first morning at work, Seladris went to receive his orders from Veredis, who occupied a spacious office beyond the display galleries. The entire premises smelled of vanilla, ginger, anise and cinnamon, of lemon, and butter and sage. He walked through the viewing galleries, where remarkable edible sculptures rested upon plinths, spilling marmoreal limbs or swatches of hair, or falls of vine tendrils and blossoms, all fashioned from sugar and paste. Inevitably, he had to pass by various members of staff, which led him to realise his colleagues would take some winning over. They stared at him with suspicion and, in a couple of instances, open resentment. Perhaps they’d expected somehar else to be promoted, somehar they knew.

Veredis sat behind a large desk of the palest bleached ash but stood up when Seladris came into the room. His family must have derived from a multiplicity of human ethnic types. His skin was dark, his lips Olathian full, yet his eyes were orientally poised, and of a rich violet hue. His shock of artfully messed hair was dyed (presumably) deepest indigo. He was of moderate height and extremely thin but possessed the gracefulness to carry this off and not appear merely malnourished. The components of his being complemented each other well, and the results were, Seladris thought, quite arresting.

Seladris took the seat Veredis indicated. After the initial introductions and listening to a repetition of the extent of his duties, which he’d been informed about during his interview, Seladris felt he should mention the attitude of the staff. His impression was that Veredis would not object to this enquiry. Would there be a problem with colleagues?

Veredis sighed through his nose. ‘Their insolence is because I had to fire Plerander, the previous maestera. He was popular among the staff, and I liked the har myself, but I discovered he’d abused my facilities, and stolen from my stocks, to fulfil private commissions.’

‘Oh... I see.’

‘The hara here are still rumbling about it, but they also know I had little choice. He stole from me and had to be punished. Precedents to the contrary cannot be set, for obvious reasons.  His two closest friends were dismissed along with him.’

‘And they... were also popular?’ Seladris asked.

‘Yes,’ Veredis said darkly. ‘Still, I must make it clear I’m particular about these things.  You’ve seen Inglefey. Do you like it?’

‘Yes... of course...’

‘Then don’t I provide sumptuous accommodation?’ Veredis interrupted. ‘And isn’t the salary reasonable?’

There was a pause, during which Seladris realised he was expected to nod and say yes, which he did.

‘I have very high standards,’ Veredis said.

‘Then I look forward to impressing you,’ Seladris responded, smiling. He was, in fact, quite confident about the quality of his work.

Veredis called for his personal assistant to show Seladris around. This was a pale, small creature with watery blue streaks in his platinum hair, which was confined in a thick loose plait. His name was Kizzy. Seladris thought this youthful individual resembled a harling’s drawing of a sprite, but he was affable enough. While Kizzy flitted at his side, Seladris mulled over his interview with Veredis. He thought the har’s displeasure was valid, but he could also tell his new boss was finicky, with a tendency to pettifogging, a har who might take offence easily and be slow to forgive – if at all. However, Seladris was adept at handling difficult types; they did not bother him. He prided himself on his calm, serene nature, which had taken years to perfect after a tempestuous youth, when he’d learned the hard way that a hot temper and flaring emotions were not the best tools with which to fashion an easy life.

While taking the tour of Confitteri’s buildings, Seladris took care to introduce himself to every har, making no mention of the previous maestera, ignoring any mulishness, and smiling pleasantly to all. He made sure to waft through the kitchens and storerooms, exuding an air of unflappability. He would give them no reason to carp or criticise. He undertook a stock-take to familiarise himself with the ingredients favoured here. He met the hara with whom he would work most closely and encouraged them to speak about their own techniques and accomplishments. He examined all the display confections and began thinking about how he might improve upon the designs. In another life, he mused, he might have been a sculptor rather than a baker.

He returned to Veredis’s office for refreshments in the afternoon and reported his thoughts. Already, he had ideas for two confections but asked if he might first take on a commission – a cake already ordered – to demonstrate his prowess.

‘Generally, I’d have you create from your own imagination first,’ Veredis said, ‘to see what you can do, but in this case, very well. Your eagerness and confidence intrigue me. Now, please go home early today. I expect you still have things to unpack and want to get a feel for your new home.’

In fact, Seladris had already arranged, cupboarded and drawered his meagre possessions within the house. The few larger items he cared about had been transported ahead of his arrival in the town. He’d not brought many clothes with him, since he’d decided to restock his wardrobe completely. In any case, the blood would not wash out entirely from certain items.

On his way home, Seladris explored the town, orienting himself to its landmarks. He went to the harbour and walked along the beach but didn’t enjoy it. Perhaps there would be other places more to his liking, where there were fewer or no hara obscuring the landscape and making noises.

Once back home, Seladris made himself a mug of black tea and wandered out into the front garden. Shadey Lane was set high above and behind the town. While Inglefey, situated at the end of the road, had only a small yard at the back and not much more than a patch of lawn at the front, there was space around it. The houses across the street, to the south, were larger, set back, and with longer front gardens, but there was no obvious sign of occupation. To the east, there was a crossroads, so the nearest house was some way off. To the west was a wide empty space, (much larger than that occupied by Inglefey and its modest plot of land), where perhaps another house had once stood, or else, long ago, the land had been planned for a property that had never been built. Now the area was like a miniature wilderness. There was a rough lawn that appeared to have been kept cropped by deer or rabbits. Flowers and shrubs grew in profusion, unkempt and wild. There were tall and ancient trees, one of them a Cedar of Lebanon. To the north came down the old forest, its rumble of dark hills.

Seladris did not care for close relationships with neighbours so appreciated the relative privacy. He’d use the space next door as an extension to his garden. He noticed that a pair of long washing lines had been erected further up the nibbled lawn. Perhaps Plerander had put them up, since there wasn’t much room in Inglefey’s walled back yard for that. He couldn’t see that anyhar living nearby would object; Shadey Lane appeared so quiet. The nearest house to the west was a good two hundred yards away, down the gently sloping road and, from where he stood, he could perceive no activity in or around it. Since the Devastation, Ferelithia had been claimed and renamed by hara. Its population was significantly smaller than that of the throng of humans who had once burgeoned here. One day, all these beautiful old houses might be reclaimed, but for now it appeared many stood empty. Perhaps Ferelithians preferred to live near the centre, by the sea. At Shadey Lane, the northern countryside butted against the order of the town, and in some cases had clearly broken through it. The unused plot next to Inglefey sloped upwards to the north, where trees and shrubs grew thickly. He would explore there soon.

Seladris went inside and prepared a simple early dinner of cold chicken sandwiches and salad. He poured himself a glass of tart white wine. This house was such a luxury to him, he couldn’t decide where to eat, eventually choosing the western sitting-room, where plump and faded old sofas stood around the unlit fireplace. The softly ripened light of the sinking day poured into the room. Again, Seladris perceived an almost inaudible hum, which at one time might have been associated with an electrical appliance buzzing away to itself somewhere in the house. But there was no electricity in Inglefey. While the service had been restored near the town centre, it was not yet available out here. The lamps were oil, and there were candles. The stove in the kitchen was a huge, antique range that once Seladris lit it, would undoubtedly have to be kept compliant with fuel and cosseting, like a domesticated dragon; it provided heating and hot water for the entire house. As a baker, Seladris knew it was essential to establish an almost spiritual relationship with your stove, because they could be capricious. He intended to honour that code and keep his beast sweet, since he expected to work at home in the evenings. But not, of course, for the purpose of trading behind Veredis’s back. 

He sat on – or rather in, as it seemed partially to swallow him with cushions – the sofa opposite the fireplace, the surround of which was wood, intricately carved with patterns of vines and birds. Above the mantlepiece a painting hung on the wall. It was a peculiar picture, Seladris decided, being of a blue leopard, which seemed to have been caught in the act of jumping and twisting – or perhaps it had been flung or was falling from a height. Its face was turned to the viewer, snarling, its claws outstretched from the paws of its flailing limbs. There was no background landscape to provide clues as to the circumstances of the leopard, merely a wash of colours – blues and greens, with the occasional crimson streak – perhaps to represent foliage and flowers. The painting did not look that old – perhaps it had belonged to the sacked maestera, but why would he leave it behind? Unless, of course, he simply didn’t like it. Seladris wasn’t that keen on the picture. It made him feel curiously uneasy. The leopard was long and thin and strangely elastic. It bent in places it should not bend. It was a mottled, deep-turquoise blue, but its gaping mouth was scarlet, the long teeth yellowy-brown. He had a feeling it wasn’t a leopard at all but a symbol of something else. At the weekend, he’d remove it, perhaps swap it with another painting in the house, as he’d noticed there were quite a few to choose from.

That night, Seladris went to his bed and for nearly an hour lay awake listening to the murmur of the house. Outside an owl crooned its ghost song to the darkness.

The bed was comfortable and yet, in the background of Seladris’s senses, there was a smell to it. If he concentrated upon it, tried to identify it, it vanished.

Chapter Two

Aghamasday, 15 Ardourmoon

Meladriel lived in a sprawling, low house named Eko Melosa right next to the sea, on the northern fringe of Ferelithia. Here, the coastal road out of town was always gritty with sand. At high tide, water lapped over the end of Meladriel’s long, sloping garden where it merged with the shore. In summertime, pale little crabs sidled through the flowers. A jetty poked out of the beach beyond the garden, and here a small, green rowing-boat was moored, which either rode the incoming tide, or during the ebb lay on its side in the sand. Long yellow seagrass rustled on the reaching dunes. At low tide the sea went far out, leaving the beach mosaiced with rock pools that were sometimes glorious with the jewels of anemones and vivid green weed that looked like hair, writhing with tiny transparent eels. Meladriel made dioramas to mimic the sea pools and sold them in Ferelithia’s harbour market. He also painted pictures of storms, in which misshapen, slick creatures teemed through the corybantic waves and the drenched rocks looked like tormented faces. He had other professions too, which earned him more. Hara came to him with problems that were difficult to solve.

Meladriel was 68 years old, not counting his human years before inception. He possessed a sinewy beauty and appeared youthful, if rather solemn. In harish terms, of course, he was young. His skin was the colour of an acorn and his eyes were a golden orange. His hair was of many shades, but not dyed, simply streaked by the weathers of the seasons. He wore it in serpentine braids looped around one another, trailing feathery tails like the weed in the sea pools. In Ferelithia he had a reputation for surliness. Hara often wanted compassion and empathy from those they approached for help with delicate situations. Meladriel would not give that. He did his work – to most hara’s satisfaction – but had never advertised his services as a nurse for the emotions. He was not a hienama and didn’t intend to add that practice to his repertoire. Hara must take him as he was or look elsewhere for aid.

It was Pelf’sday and the sea air was restless. Meladriel was in his garden, round the side of the house, where half a dozen beehives stood. His bees knew where best to sup and the honey they manufactured was magical, a confection conjured from the nectar of dune flowers and the tough little heathers that swarmed over the rough land and rocks across the coast road. Meladriel, wearing no protective gauze, hummed as he worked, removing the combs from his hives.

The lives of the bees intrigued him; theirs was, he thought, a brutal existence. The workers drudged themselves to death, exhausted within weeks, replaced by others born of the queen. Thousands upon thousands of workers whose sole purpose was to labour until death. The drones, while leading what appeared to be a leisurely existence, were created only to mate with the queen. And just one of them won that privilege. The rest, once the act was consummated, were worthless, helplessly lingering around the hive, where the workers were no longer inclined to feed them, for they had no purpose in the community. They were left to perish because they could not feed themselves. And the queen? This paragon of bees was fit only to breed and breed, until her beauty was quite worn away. Once she’d used all the seed the victorious drone had placed in her during their aerial coitus, her doom was written. The workers began to nourish up a new queen, and there were no laments for she who had passed. Her function had expired.

So cruel the bees, Meladriel thought, and yet how ordered. The community ran like a machine and from this heartless industry magic was distilled: the honey of the seashore. The name of his home meant ‘House of the Bee Goddess’, adapted from ancient words. He wasn’t arrogant enough to imagine himself a deity of the bees, but he knew they had one. Sometimes, during his devotions to the land and sea, he talked with her.

Meladriel could understand the language of the bees, the music of their wings. Now they told him they must go into their hives. He must leave them, for the Whirling Brightness was rising.

Meladriel felt a shock go through him. Why was the unstorm coming?

He carefully replaced the roof of the hive he’d been working on, took up the leaf-lined pannier of combs and walked swiftly back to his house. The unstorm could take an hour to manifest or be upon you instantly. He had no wish to be caught in its eye, nor even the foul penumbra of its extremities – the grume.

The back door of Meladriel’s house, which was actually on the side of the building, was painted green, dulled by rain and the salty wind. It was hung with glass witch balls, dried swathes of the seaweed named Neptune grass, and old netting, tied together with specific knots of rough rope. The bones of swordfish and large bream were threaded through the net. These items created a threshold ward, across which few fel influences would or could venture. The door led onto a long, low-ceilinged kitchen, which had only one small, badly situated front window that looked out over the garden. The light was insufficient for a room so large, which meant the back part of it was always gloomy in the day. At night, Meladriel would light the dark with lanterns.

From his cupboard, he now took a flagon of honey wine and took a long draught from it, standing before the window. He could perceive the inexorable green-grey darkness over the sea drawing closer. He did not know what conditions provoked an unstorm’s creation. Perhaps these events simply roamed the oceans and coastlines of the earth without cease, phenomena of terror. Not everyhar could see them. For some, those with the most acute senses, an unstorm brought depression, anxiety, often so fleeting as barely to be noticed. Others might be more seriously affected and suffer mood changes for several days. A few, like Meladriel, could see them clearly and what rode in them. These hara might be less affected physically by the phenomenon but were haunted by what they saw.

The oppressive grume undulated over Meladriel’s garden, crushing sunshine in its path. There was no light to an unstorm, no flashes of brilliance, no thrilling roar of thunder. The phenomenon was silent and dull – until its eye was upon you. He could sense it; that throbbing, blinding madness within the heart of the gloom. It inflicted headaches; his skull began to pulse with pain.

‘Get on with it and be done,’ he muttered beneath his breath.

Dank, clotted air fingered round his house, as if seeking ingress, but it could not pass through his wards. The landscape was still, any living thing within the event unable to breathe or blink. It was a living death.

Meladriel perceived a flicker within the grume like myriad fireflies, splinters of light. The pain in his head rose up and roared.

The eye came on, enveloping the house, and within it was the fury of a natural storm condensed. No darkness now but cruel radiance: a light within which no untruth may survive. The eye whirled round, shattered and reformed, blasting the senses of its sole observer. Motes of life flew within it, and those of death. Voices were captured in its frantic motion: a shout, a whisper of love, a curse.

And then, within this vibrating chaos, a shape manifested: he who came from the sea. A hollow har. Little more than a harling in appearance, his skin was bleached and greened by the ocean, with dripping weed for hair and anemone eyes. His body was hung with ripped fishing nets, encrusted with sea urchins and barnacles. He held one finger to his lips, hanging above the ground, amid the warped carnival of light beyond Meladriel’s window. The messenger.

Speak!  Meladriel commanded in his mind.

The apparition did not, or could not, obey. Instead, its skin changed, as if rotting swiftly, colours of decay kaleidoscoping over its surface, until it was blue, mottled with darker shades, almost black in places. Rosettes of rot. Within the maelstrom now were cries – of both victory and pain. There was rough chanting, the hammer of drums, of feet against hard earth.

And then, singing through Meladriel’s brain, the old music. And in his vision of primal dancing, of leaping flame, he saw the Pard Witch, beautiful, proud, demanding. Smiling.

No! Meladriel thought angrily, fragmenting the image in his mind. I deny you. I banish you. He turned his back to the window.

For some moments, the unstorm remained, as if it would never leave, then, suddenly, it was no longer there, had never been.

Meladriel drew in a shuddering breath, took a deep swig of the honey wine. His headache receded slowly, like the turning tide. He could hear his own blood seething like waves in his left ear.

He’d known this time would come, despite all the precautions that had been taken years before. That grim history could only be squashed down for so long; no force was strong enough to hold it forever. A deferred consequence, and now its moment was here. The past was coming back, and the dead would walk again.

Chapter Three

Aghamasday, 15 Ardourmoon

Olivian Grove was a residential area to the east of the town, lazing over the slopes of the sweeping hills. The villas here, once the homes of wealthy human families, were immense and scrupulously restored. High above the shore, their pale marble glittered in the brightness of summer afternoons. Exotic trees from far countries surrounded them, and the entire estate was bordered by olive groves. Ancient shrines were hidden in the hills beyond, where the spirits of the land now frolicked in greater freedom than they’d known for millennia. By night the houses glowed against the hills, soaking up starlight, becoming more beautiful.

In one of these grand old houses, transformed from the lavish residence of a long dead human dynasty into a thriving centre of commerce for a harish family and their vast staff, a harling named Ulien woke up crying. It took some minutes for his prime carehar, Ihrec, to come to his room to see what the matter was.

‘Sssh, Uli,’ said Ihrec, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘Did you have a bad dream?’

‘No! Ulien insisted. ‘Somehar was in the room. They were made of buzzing.’

Ihrec smiled and stroked the harling’s hair with a slender dark hand, whose nails were pale like pearl. ‘We can see strange things in the shadows when we wake up from dreams,’ he said. ‘I’ll sing a warding song so no bad memories can linger.’

And so he did, his low soft voice reaching out into the room, touching everything within it, driving fear away.

Ulien felt the peculiar sense of dread that had gripped him begin to dissipate, even though he could remember it at full strength very clearly. It hadn’t been a dream, but he knew the folly of trying to convince Ihrec of this. His home was as free from horror as it’s possible for a house to get. Even its shadows were tinged with gold.

As his carehar sang, Ulien glanced around the room. Everything seemed in its place. His toys were still. The looking glass was clear. And yet...

Hadn’t there been a mist over the glass, which had made it look old and broken? Hadn’t there been a face behind the mist, looking out?

He remembered a long pale leg stepping out of the glass, and that strange buzzing sound.

Ihrec stroked his face and hair until Ulien began to feel drowsy. Nohar could banish fear like Ihrec. He was very strong.

‘Honey dreams,’ murmured Ihrec, rising so softly from the bed Ulien could not feel his weight lifting from the mattress.

The harling turned onto his side. Any vestige of the disturbing images was fading, because Ihrec had cast them out. As he slipped once more into sleep, Ulien saw Ihrec glide around the room, his long black braids swinging gently as he walked. He made gestures with his narrow hands, sang harder words than before. It made Ulien think of doors being closed and locked, the keys being taken away.

Ulien har Shadolis was seven years old, and little of childhood was left to him. He lived in Velvets, a huge old manse made of golden stone, with his hostling Thazri and his father Kazharn, neither of whom he was particularly close to. In spite of this, his relationship with his parents was warm and cordial. The family of har Shadolis held a high position within Ferelithia, because Ulien’s father was the High Municiphar. It was said that after Kazharn had held his position for seven years, the Municipallion of the town had half-heartedly discussed whether the highest office should be subject to regular election, with different hara taking on the role. But since Kazharn did the job so well, and was respected by all hara in Ferelithia, as well as neighbouring phyles, it seemed a needless bother to replace him. Kazharn was not autocratic and would no doubt have agreed to step down had others wanted him to. But this never happened.

Kazharn was cinnamon-skinned, and his long umber eyes were shaped like almonds, for his human forebears had come from a hot jungled continent of the east. Ulien thought his father was as beautiful as a tiger and equally capable of deadly force. But he had no need to demonstrate his prowess, since being able to fight like a tiger wasn’t needed in Ferelithia now and hadn’t been for a very long time. Shedding his youth, and the hot blood of history, Kazharn had settled down comfortably, like a cat before a fire. He had sheathed his claws and let down his hair, which flowed in waves of black silk down his back. If his purrs sounded occasionally like growls, it was only slightly.

Ulien shared his father’s colouring, but with a faintly lighter shade to his skin. By contrast, his hostling was gilded, like the stone of the house. His hair was the colour of antique gold, very thick and slippery, always escaping any attempt to confine it, but in a deliberately artful way. Thazri enhanced the dwelling of the Municiphar and any function he attended with his chesnari. He was slender and of medium height, favouring the soume side of his nature, yet nevertheless Ulien had always known his hostling was far more dangerous than a tiger. Those who crossed him were banished immediately. There was no forgiving. In a town like Ferelithia, social reputation meant a lot. The withdrawal of Thazri’s favour could feel like exile.

Ulien did not attend a school but was tutored at home by learned hara hired to fill his mind with knowledge. While other harlings were available as companions in Olivian Grove, Ulien was by nature a solitary creature. He played with others when his father decided too long a period had passed since his son had mixed with others his own age, but for Ulien such interaction was a chore rather than a pleasure. It wasn’t that he disliked those designated to be his friends. He simply didn’t enjoy doing things with other harlings. If he had to socialise, it was preferable to do so with his hostling and the mass of sycophants that always surrounded him. Thazri was more sympathetic to Ulien’s desires and contrived to keep his son busy with adults so that Kazharn couldn’t impose social obligations Ulien didn’t like. His favourite times, though, was when he could be alone, out in the grounds of Velvets, where the old hill forests of Almagabra were held in check, existing only in little copses of ancient, forbidding trees. Ulien knew all the trees personally and had named them. He knew their spirits too, even though they were shy and wouldn’t show themselves to his eyes. He knew them in his heart.

LUNILSDAY, 16 ARDOURMOON

On the morning after the strange experience in his bedroom, Ulien had time alone. There was a lesson to be endured after breakfast, but then a glorious stretch of freedom. Later that day, he would go into town with his hostling for lunch but before that lay a few sweet hours in the garden. At breakfast, Ihrec had asked him if he’d slept well after having woken afraid, and Ulien said that he had, although he suspected he’d had some unnerving dreams of which he couldn’t remember the details.

After Ulien’s lesson, Ihrec made sure he was ready to go out later on and told him he mustn’t spoil his clothes in the garden. ‘Don’t go wandering off,’ he said, even though there wasn’t that far to wander until Ulien fetched up against the walled boundaries of his parents’ domain. ‘And no delving in soil. I’ll call you when it’s time to leave.’

As Velvets had been built on a hillside, most of the gardens were sloping but for areas that had been deliberately terraced. As well as the tamed copses of forest trees, there was a yew thicket and a spiky grove of junipers that shivered with presence, ropy grey roots coiling over the ground around them. Old, sacred trees populated natural, open-air temples where they stood in contemplative dignity: terebinth, myrtle, plane and of course olive. Velvets had its farming groves for these species – all of them useful in one way or another – further up the hill behind the house, but the trees in the garden were fugitives. Ulien preferred them to the domesticated creatures higher up.

As was his habit, Ulien patrolled his territory, touching the trees with light, reverent fingers, stooping down to smell the flowers that grew between them. At festival times, the family and their staff would gather in various parts of the garden for seasonal rites. In summertime, the myrtle ruled, being the sacred tree of Kelosanya, dehar of Ferelithia and the patron of frenzied desire. This deity had been created by early settlers, once Ferelithia became a functioning town, because the area was renowned for its restorative properties that touched the soul. In Ferelithia, it was said, nohar could be sad or depressed. The area excited a natural instinct to be possessed by desire, to fall madly in love, if only for a season. Kelosanya, named for kelos, the recklessness inspired by fevered passion, embodied these attributes. The dehar had attendant spirits named kelosi, who sought to reach into the bodies of hara and pinch their hearts with fateful fingers, so they’d fall intractably in love with whoever they next laid their eyes on. Or so the legends went.

Even Ulien knew all the stories were made up and part of the tourist trade of the area, because Thazri had told him that. Still, nohar could deny Ferelithia was a joyous, healing area. Its spirits, while strong and sometimes mischievous, were benign.

Emerging from the yew thicket onto a sloping lawn, Ulien saw a har ahead of him. They were dancing, or at least... making movements that resembled a dance. In the bright light, the figure appeared to shimmer, sometimes to the extent where Ulien wondered if it was really there. He approached the figure slowly, not feeling afraid but slightly apprehensive. Was this a kelos spirit cavorting in the summer haze, waiting to strike? As he drew closer, he became aware of a buzzing sound, and this reminded him of what he thought he’d heard in his room the night before. This isn’t a natural kind of buzzing, he thought, and was on the point of running away, when the figure stopped moving. It stood completely still, its arms by its sides, and stared at him. Then, its upper body leaned forward a little as if to examine him more closely. They were still at least twenty feet away from one another. Thoughts tumbled through Ulien’s mind. This could be some kind of entertainer Thazri had employed for a forthcoming event. It could be a dryadhar, those hara particularly empathic with trees, hired to invigorate the occupants of the grounds. Or... it could be something else entirely.

‘Who are you?’ Ulien asked, quite loudly.

The har laughed. ‘What a pretty little thing you are,’ he said. ‘Whose blood tumbles through your veins, little one?’ He said this in the tone of a creature who might want to find out by tasting the blood.

‘Are you working here?’ Ulien said.

The har came closer and Ulien could see him properly now. Yet his colouring – from his long fair, dusty hair and his olive skin to his somewhat ragged and stained shirt and trousers – seemed strangely faded, like an old painting. There was no denying he was real, however. No spirit could look so solid, surely? The har put his head to one side. ‘Yes. I’m working here.’ He blew a kiss to Ulien. ‘And here you are. I expect we shall meet again, don’t you?’

With these words he turned and ran away, astonishingly swiftly, across the lawn and through a hedge on the far side. For a moment, Ulien could only stand breathless, as if he’d been running himself. He wasn’t sure what had just happened.

After a minute or so, he heard Ihrec calling him impatiently, and headed back towards the house. Why was Ihrec yelling for him now? He met his carehar at the paved fountain area, quite some distance from the back terrace.

‘Where have you been?’ Ihrec demanded. ‘I’ve been calling you for ages. Thazri is now cross as he’s waiting to leave. And as we both know a cross Thazri is not a creature to enjoy.’

As far as Ulien was concerned, he still had plenty of time before lunch. He wasn’t – and couldn’t be – late. ‘Are we going early?’ he asked.

Ihrec blinked. ‘What? No. Have you lost all sense of time, Uli? We should have left ten minutes ago.’

At these words, Ulien threw himself against Ihrec and hugged him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. That was all he could make himself say.

Ulien said nothing to Ihrec about what – or who – he’d seen in the garden. He allowed himself to be led by the hand, almost dragged, to the front of the house. Thazri was preparing to emerge from the front door, surrounded by his personal staff and the closest friends who accompanied him at almost every waking moment. They had serious business to attend to, the first of which would be taking lunch at the most elegant of restaurants in order to view and talk about the other diners. This would be followed by visiting the exclusive shops that catered to the rich of the town, perhaps dropping into a gallery where one of Thazri’s friends had work on display. The group would then pass on to a seafront hostelry where bands would play and Thazri could display himself to what he considered to be lesser elements of the town. Then, with the day folded up and done, the carriage would take them all back to Velvets, where presently dinner would be served.

Such days out, which occurred at least once a week for Ulien, but never more than twice, were relentless in their repetitive nature. Ulien was able to drift into an almost dreamy state, lost in his own thoughts, while Thazri and his court conducted their affairs about the town. At various points, Ulien would be given treats to eat or drink. He looked forward to these moments.

This excursion began like any other. Thazri smiled at Ulien and kissed him, then everyhar went out into the sunlight. After a couple of minutes, Thazri’s carriage came sweeping down on them from the stable block. Ulien loved the golden ponies that drew it. They seemed like kinder versions of Thazri. His hostling’s friends always took care to fuss over him, forever glancing at Thazri to see whether he noticed. They needn’t worry, Ulien thought. Thazri noticed everything. He climbed into the wide carriage, which seated ten hara, squashed next to his hostling.

The carriage driver expelled an ululating whistle and the ponies began to trot down the drive. Ulien especially liked this part of a day out: the ponies lifting their heads, tossing their glorious manes, and their speed picking up as they proceeded to the gates. By the time they passed beneath the arch, it was as if they were flying. Thazri liked to travel fast down the hill.

Once they were only a few yards from leaving the estate, Ulien noticed somehar talking to the house guards at the gates. An overwhelming sweet aroma washed over him. At first he couldn’t identify it, then realised it was the familiar scent of honey. Bees were flying all around the guards and crawled through the hair of the har who was talking to them. Or it seemed that way

‘Who’s that?’ Ulien asked Ihrec, pulling on his carehar’s sleeve. He pointed at the guard house.

‘That’s Lurei and Fenice,’ Ihrec said. ‘You know that.’

‘No, not them,’ Ulien insisted, although by the now the carriage had passed by the guard house. ‘The har with them, with bees in his hair.’

Ihrec laughed. ‘Sweetling, there was nohar with them.’

‘There was.’

‘Well, I couldn’t see anyhar.’

Ulien knew it would be pointless to ask the others about this apparition, since they were all focused on Thazri, who was relating an unflattering story about somehar they all knew. Whatever Ihrec said, Ulien knew he had seen somehar with the guards. The carriage had simply driven past too fast for Ihrec to notice.

Experiencing three strange events within the space of a day was disorientating. Ulien, knowing three to be a magical number, hoped there would not be more of them waiting to happen. Somehow, the experiences blighted the simple pleasures of the day. He couldn’t wait to get home, because he needed to speak to the guards.

Ferelithia was and always had been a party town. Only for a few months of the year was it devoid of tourists seeking a hedonistic retreat. The local inhabitants tended either to be entertainers of some sort, merchants, innkeepers, spiritual teachers or the individuals who worked for such hara.

The town, that day, felt shivery. Not cold, because the air was as warm as it always was at this time of year, but jittery, unsure. Ulien felt light-headed as he walked beside his hostling towards the market. The light became harsh near the harbour, making shadows darker, spikier. Sometimes, he was sure he saw shadows that didn’t appear to belong to anyhar or anything. Sunlight on the restless water glittered starkly. Small boats rocked on the high tide like nervous beasts, bumping into each other, then shying away.

Ulien knew these perceptions must be linked to the other peculiar experiences he’d had. He wished, perhaps for the first time in his life, there was somehar he could talk to about it. Thazri was out of the question, and Ihrec would only soothe him, say it was simply part of growing up. This was annoying, because Ulien knew Ihrec believed in spirits and sought always to appease them. He wore charms of mother of pearl and silver about his left wrist and burned scented oil before bizarre little sculptures in his bedroom. He never spoke of these things to Ulien and only laughed when Ulien tried to ask about them.

As for Kazharn, Ulien knew the only response, should he try to speak with his father, would be a tiger stare, then a change of subject, followed by something mildly threatening, such as the suggestion Ulien spent too little time with other harlings.

So now, Ulien studied the splintering dance of the sea around the boats, and the dismembered shadows that slunk along the narrow lanes leading off from the harbour. He must remember these things.

There was time before dinner to visit the guardhara at the gates. As he approached, Ulien considered that Fenice and Lurei had a very boring job. All they had to do was allow people to come in and go out of the estate. Soon, they would be relieved of duty as the night guard took over.

Lurei noticed the harling approaching and waved. On his patrols, Ulien often passed by the gate and spoke to the guards. Sometimes, they gave him sweets, if they had any. Lurei was Ulien’s favourite of the two since Fenice was often ill-tempered.

‘There was a strange har here earlier,’ Ulien said, even before he reached the guards. ‘Just before lunch. Who was he?’

‘What?’ Lurei said.

‘He was a har who smelled of honey,’ Ulien replied. ‘He had bees in his hair.’

Lurei laughed and Fenice made a scoffing sound. ‘I think I’d remember a har like that,’ Lurei said.

‘I saw him as we drove away,’ Ulien said. ‘He was talking to you. Who was he?’

‘There was nohar,’ Fenice said. ‘The only har who’s passed this gate since lunchtime was the posthar. And he certainly had no bees in his hair.’

Lurei laughed.

Ulien contemplated the two for a moment, thinking they were lying, or playing a trick, but saw they spoke the truth as they knew it.