I call you by your name,,
I call you by the essence of your soul
and you will come.
I see you even now, through the void of
time and space.
I see your face as you see mine.
Be dead to all that has gone before,
be deaf to the world that is no longer yours and give in to me.
PROLOGUE
Hallowed under the moon’s cold beam, a white deer stalks the brittle snow. All is silent and the owls along the lakeshore are watchful.
Graemor lets the sackcloth curtain fall back over the misted pane. The sled tracks that lead to his door will fill with snow before morning and all trace of his night’s journey will be removed. He is numb to the core; his hair wet with melted ice, his clothes are sodden and there is blood on his hands. But this means nothing to him for what he sees before him is the culmination of a lifetime’s work, the summit of his skill: one for mercy, one for sacrifice, one for vengeance.
He treads softly in their presence, piles them with furs and blankets, hangs the black kettle on the hook to boil and stokes the fire till it snaps and sparks.
The wind picks up, blowing down from the moor. It rattles the door and whines at the window, wails like a soul undone.
By firelight the shaman waits for the strangers to wake, watches closely for the flicker of an eye, a moan from parted lips. His cold fingers clasp the tea bowl, and through the steam he observes the rise and fall of their breathing. They are his now and no one will take them from him.
CHAPTER ONE
Olivia stood marooned in the long grass, squinting up at the vast sky and the black ragged bird that circled above her. Its rasping cry hung in the spring air, a rebuke for staying away too long. She watched it with mistrust, following its graceless flight until it disappeared over a swell of land towards Lake Erinor and Graemor’s outstretched arm.
The last strands of orange sun were already smearing the horizon. She tucked loose tendrils of hair under her cap, hitched the conical basket more comfortably over her shoulders and began the slow trudge home. Midges danced around her, nipping at her eyelids and foraging through the thick brown tangles of hair to find the succulent tips of her ears. She let them bite, every itch a sacrifice, every twinge a test of endurance. By evening she would be covered in a fresh crop of unsightly bites, would find security in her ugliness.
The hut was just visible from the top of the swell. A frail line of smoke curled from the chimney, and the door was thrown wide to let in the last of the daylight. The thought of returning to the stifling hut glued her feet to the path. There was no space for her there, no room to think. Even the walls groaned with tension. Graemor filled the cramped house with his presence, his colours, his musky perfume; even the air she breathed seemed stolen. She sucked the sweet-scented dusk into her lungs as if about to drown. At night when the walls closed in she would remember the freedom of the plain, the grass against her bare legs and the breeze tugging at her skirt.
Holker reappeared from nowhere, swooping overhead and scolding. She swiped at him, swearing under her breath. The bird rose up in a clamour and came to rest on the roof of the hut. She wriggled free of the basket and propped it next to the door. It was only half full and most of the leaves so wilted from the heat of the day they would be useless. When he reproached her for her laziness she would look above his head and remember the tiny red-finned fish that had swum into her hands at the river, and the nest of bright blue eggs she had found hidden in the grass. His curses were nothing next to these.
Through the open door she saw the blackened stew pot simmering over the fire, a line of wooden bowls from breakfast still unwashed on the bench and Amaris’s bead box overturned on the mat. As a precaution she peered through the small dusty window to make sure the room was empty. She glanced over the lake. Somewhere around its bank Amaris would be paddling, at peace with herself and the only world she knew. She spotted her among the reeds, a smudge of red on the bank, drying her feet on the threadbare towel they shared. Amaris waved back at her.
“Time for dinner!” Olivia called, uncomfortable with the sound of her own voice in the stillness. She made eating gestures.
When she turned back to the hut Graemor was there, sorting through the contents of the basket.
“What’s this?”
“Sapaya…like you said.”
“You stay away for hours and then bring me this?” He shook it in front of her and let it fall at her feet, a layer of compacted leaves flopped out onto the ground.
“That’s all I could find.”
“Then you should have returned with them while they were fresh, what use are they now?”
She heard the crunch of his boot against the willow weave and watched the basket roll down the slope, saw Amaris dodge it as it passed her.
He gripped her by the arm, “I should throw you out to fend for yourself.”
Olivia glanced over her shoulder to make sure Amaris was out of earshot.
“Do it then.”
Olivia’s journal. Springtime. Athelin.
They call this house ‘Bro’dulshamor’, it means ‘Dwelling under the moor’. Really, it’s just a little cave with a wall built on the front and an iron chimney that sticks up through the grass roof like a miniature turret. It contains two rooms, one at the back, which is Graemor’s, and one at the front, which belongs to us all. The only place that Amaris and I can call our own is the alcove bed with its heavy faded curtain. It’s where we sleep, dress, undress and even wash sometimes. Once the curtain is closed Graemor must respect our privacy. This is an unbreakable law.
There is only one window in the front room of the house and when the sun is not shining brightly, the room is so gloomy we have to open the door just to see what we are doing. Whenever we can, we do our chores outside, sometimes just to escape the blazing fire, which Aurin says is lit all year round, even in the sweltering summer.
From this little window we can see right down to Lake Erinor. ‘Erinor’ means ‘remember not’ and is so called because a thwarted lover once drowned himself in it and left a note in which he wrote ‘sweet lady, remember me not’. Whenever I go down there I think of him floating dead in the water, his beautiful hair splayed out like waterweed, the sun dappling his face. It’s a strange place and full of ghosts. Amaris says there are no such things, but sometimes I can see them moving like grey shadows beneath the water.
To the right of the hut lies the great Omahaan plain, a stretch of wind-lashed grass, waist high, forever moving, forever whispering. Beyond this lies the distant grey line of the forest and behind us, the rough rolling moor. We have no neighbours and the only people we see are Megorah, the housekeeper and Aurin who comes almost every day to teach us the ways of Athelin, bringing books and teaching aids and sometimes little presents too. He gave me this journal. He has been relentless in teaching us the Athelinien language and it’s thanks to him that we can communicate at all.
Graemor oversees the lessons from his corner, a brooding presence we could all do without. How is it possible that these two men are friends? Aurin is good to the core, endlessly patient, gifted with a fair and wholesome countenance, and dark blond hair that falls to his shoulders. His manners are impeccable, and in his striking green eyes I see an upright and noble spirit. Best of all is his ready laugh, something sorely needed in this miserable little hut.
Amaris is the most important person in my life; she is young like me, but is beautiful and has hair the colour of chestnuts. Her eyes are full of lights and when she smiles they sparkle with mischief. She speaks whatever is in her heart; when she is unhappy about a thing everyone knows it because she sees no virtue in suffering in silence.
At first she cried a lot, but now she is more settled, content to be an Athelinien. She remembers nothing of her past, not even her name. I envy her; she is a new creation and can be whoever she wants to be, while I wear my shreds of memory like a suit of rags.
We are both keen to find out about our origins, but Graemor will tell us nothing but lies. I know they are lies because he stares too hard at us and never blinks.
Graemor is tall and lean, with jet black hair past his shoulders, a ridiculous hawk nose protruding from a long thin face, finished off with a smooth black beard on the tip of his chin. The worst thing about him is his eyes; they are large, black, and horribly intense. He wears garish colourful clothes and has a liking for jewellery and other adornments, all of which sit very incongruously with his shamanic fetishes and amulets.
He keeps an ugly black bird named Holker, with mangy wings and one eye. (Graemor wears the other in an amulet round his neck.) It has a perch in the corner near the chimneybreast where it sits spying on us. Graemor has taught it all sorts of tricks and claims it will do his bidding and go wherever he sends it. He whispers sweet nothings in its ear and feeds it titbits from his plate. Megorah says a bird in the house brings bad luck.
Amaris demanded I find at least four good things to say about him and this was all I could come up with:
He is quiet.
He is not lazy.
He tells good stories.
He is accomplished.
Though I say he is accomplished, it does not mean for one minute that I approve of what he does. As far as I’m concerned a shaman only acquires these powers by selling his soul to demons.
Today Aurin showed us a map of Galamis with Athelin drawn clearly at the very centre. He pointed out all sorts of places and lastly, tapped his finger on a dark mass of land to the north and said gravely, “Menfrael, home of the Nephryem, the place where Graemor was born.” That’s how we found out that he is not Athelinien by birth. He is a Nephryem, the most hated race in the whole of Galamis.
And what of me? Three times I was born, once from blood and muscle, held red and wailing to my mother’s breast, then in spirit, released into the life and knowledge of God, and now into fear and confusion.
Every morning greets us with the same baffling questions; who are we, and more importantly, how did we come to be here?
We rise, we bathe, we eat, we cook and clean as if everything were normal, and Graemor says we are lucky to be alive.
Often as I walk the circuit of my little world I am almost crushed beneath its sky. It bears down on me like a coffin lid, squeezing the life out of me, as if the world were just too small for all that I contain. Yavah sustains me. Even here, surrounded by strangers and a host of pointless deities, he is my sure hope and salvation. Yavah is the Athelinien name for the great unknowable, unreachable god who presides over all creation and whom they say is too distant to hear the feeble prayers of men. But I believe this Yavah to be the same God that I know and love, whose eternal son hangs on a cross around my neck.
My life is full of mysteries, questions that cannot be answered, feelings that cannot be explained. At night memories twinkle in the distant black like dying stars, gone before I can grasp them: the bars of a lilting chorus, the sudden glimpse of a different sky, the sour smell of smoke and the scratch of tweed against my skin. I save them all, sifting them for meaning, straining clues from the colours and smells, the sounds and textures. I look for revelation, some ray of light to show me who I am.
These are the things I know for sure; that I live in Athelin with Amaris and the shaman on the banks of Lake Erinor, that Megorah is our housekeeper, and Aurin is our friend. My name is Olivia, a name without meaning, the residue of some other girl whose identity is lost. I will reinvent her, a girl in my own image, and somehow I will make her life matter.
* * *
Amaris had laid out her necklaces on the bed; she had five, the largest and most garish, a gift from Graemor.
“All I need is a blue one now,” she sighed, packing them lovingly back into the box. “Graemor says blue stones are the easiest to come by in Athelin and yet here I am without any. I’ve told him I don’t mind them being common…I just want something to match my blue skirt… none of these will do.”
Olivia watched her from the hump-backed chest by the window, her head on her knees, wondering how it must be to live in a world where dresses and sparkles mattered.
“There’s bits of blue in the painted ones,” she suggested.
Amaris glanced at her with veiled disgust and slid the bead box onto the shelf above her side of the bed and attempted to read a book instead, but there were no pictures and many of the words were still too difficult. Before long she abandoned it. Propping the slice of broken mirror against the alcove wall, she rearranged her hair for the second time that evening, chattering aimlessly, looping glossy skeins over her ears and fixing them with white bone clasps at either side.
Olivia pulled back the thin sackcloth curtain and peeped out. Night had crept in without her realising it, with no moon or stars to break its blackness. There would be owls though, and bats, and a thousand other little creatures flitting to and fro.
Inside the hut a rare peace prevailed. Graemor had retired early and sounds of movement from his room had long ceased.
“Shall I tell you a story, Am?” Olivia asked, “I can make one up.”
Bored with her reflection, Amaris flopped back on the pillows, “Go on then…but no nonsense about ghosts and demons this time.”
Olivia crawled into the wooden alcove beside her and drew the bed curtain across. The candle stump flicked light around the dark carvings, looming shadows across the ceiling. Amaris made the shape of a fox’s head on the wall, opening and closing its mouth in a silent bark.
Olivia turned back the long sleeves of her nightgown and folded her hands together, a perfect parody of the shaman. She began in a low mysterious voice, one finger held aloft for attention.
“Faraway, in a land unknown, there were two maidens held captive by an evil shaman. This shaman had many dark secrets and could conjure orbs of light from the air and wither blossoms with one touch of his hand, and all those who dared look deeply into his eyes were as lost in a pool of lies. The shaman, who was extremely ugly, guarded his captives jealously and would allow no one to see them except for a doting little housekeeper, and one trusted friend who visited him frequently. While this friend was present the shaman was kind and respectful to his captives but as soon as they were alone again he treated them shamefully, ordering them about like slaves and threatening them with all kinds of hideous punishments if they dared to defy him.
The first maiden was young and beautiful, but very foolish; she trusted the shaman and his lies and saw no deceit in him whatever. The second maiden was plain to behold, but she was cannier and saw through his sly smiles and glittering bribes to the cruel black soul within.
Now, the beautiful girl had fallen hopelessly in love with the shaman’s handsome friend and was afraid their love would be discovered. They tried by every means to conceal it, but true love cannot be hidden for long and when the evil shaman found out he was furious and refused to let them ever see each other again and the beautiful girl was punished so badly she wished with all her heart that she had never fallen in love at all….”
“Liv… that’s not fair!”
“Nothing here is fair,” Olivia murmured, “and when he finds out about you and Aurin you’ll see him as he really is…selfish, greedy and evil to the core.”
Amaris clucked and blew out the bedside candle. She reached across Olivia to open the bed curtains again. Only the glow of embers in the fireplace saved the room from complete darkness.
“What are you doing?” Olivia hissed, “We don’t want him prying at us in the night?” She yanked it shut again and settled down beside Amaris in the dark, seeking her hand beneath the covers.
“I’m just worried for you, that’s all, you can’t keep it a secret for ever.”
“Perhaps we won’t have to. Graemor is difficult, I know, but he can be very kind and generous too.”
“You don’t know him like I do…. you don’t feel things.”
They lay in silence for a while, listening to the rain scudding against the window, and the gentle fizz of the logs in the grate. Amaris stifled a yawn and burrowed deeper into the pillow, curling into a shape that forced Olivia further towards the edge of the bed.
“I hope you’re not going to talk in your sleep again, Liv? It’s really annoying.”
“I can’t help dreaming.”
“No, but it keeps me awake…all that whimpering.”
She pulled the covers over her shoulder and within minutes was drifting close to the edge of sleep.
“Do you believe his story?” Olivia asked suddenly, propping herself up on one elbow and looking across at Amaris’ face, eerily featureless in the dark.
“Whose story?”
“Graemor’s, of course!” Olivia clucked, lowering her voice as though he might be eavesdropping. “That he found us wandering in a daze at Fell Tor…that he took us in and saved us?”
Amaris thought for a moment, then shrugged, “I don’t see we have much choice, after all, what other explanation is there? Learn to accept things, Liv…like I do.”
She turned her back, tossing a heavy swathe of hair over both pillows.
Olivia pushed strands of it from her mouth and lay staring up at the dark ceiling. The rain had slowed to a mere drip. She heard the distant anxious hoot of an owl and wondered if Graemor was asleep, or whether he lay gaping into the darkness as she did. Sometimes she heard him moving about his room late into the night, heard his low chanting through the wall. She would strain for every sound, fearing the creak of his door and his stealthy footsteps on the flagstones. But recently it was not the shaman she feared most, but something new and altogether more perplexing.
“Amaris,” she breathed, “do you ever hear things…at night?”
Amaris answered with supreme effort, “Like what?”
Olivia paused, “Like whispering…”
* * *
Morning struggled through the tiny window of Bro’dulshamor. The interior was dark but homely, wood and fabrics infused with incense and smoke, the smell of sourdough bread cooling on the bench. A small fire burned in the grate and above it a black kettle spluttered unattended. Sounds of a whispered squabble filtered through the ancient embroidered bed curtain as Graemor removed the kettle, swearing under his breath as the handle scorched him through the cloth.
“Olivia!” He barked, his stress placed wrongly on the ‘Via’. A tousled brown head peeked out from the curtain, dark eyes simmering with resentment.
“Make tea,” he said, “and serve us the new bread.”
She crawled out, small and dishevelled, hair falling over her face.
“Why always me?”
“Because you’re fit for nothing else.”
She pushed past him to the row of wooden bowls on the mantelpiece and stuffed a handful of dry green leaves into a pot.
“Is my visit inconvenient? I am a little early.”
Olivia turned in surprise; she hadn’t seen Aurin sitting by the window. She shot him an embarrassed smile, “No… of course not, we always look forward to your visits…it’s all we look forward to.”
“Then I must come more often,” he smiled.
At the sound of Aurin’s cheerful voice the curtain flew back and Amaris made her entrance. As always she was immaculate, her long hair brushed to a high gloss, her sultry grey eyes fixed on Aurin. She greeted him confidently, lighting the gloomy hut with her smile. Aurin watched in quiet fascination as she arranged herself on her favourite floor cushion. one eye on the bulging leather bag at his feet.
“I hoped you would come, another day of boredom would have killed me for sure.”
“You have taken an Athelinien name I hear,” he smiled. “I like it…it suits you very well.”
“ It means ‘little flame…Graemor says it’s what he sees in me.”
“If he sees it then it must be so,” Aurin said, and added softly for her ears alone, “I must take care not to get burned.”
Olivia shuffled back and forth, laying out the tea things on the low table in the middle of the room, forever hitching up her long plain skirt so as not to trip. She took perverse pleasure in her shabbiness, never caring that Amaris outshone her. In fact, the more Amaris blossomed, the scruffier Olivia became.
“I think you hide behind those rags on purpose.” Amaris clucked, “I can’t think why. With a little work you might almost be pretty.”
“More than a little work, I think.” Graemor smirked.
Olivia placed a large basket of bread in the centre of the table and sat cross-legged on the floor while Graemor mumbled the food prayer.
“So, you took the king hunting… did you make a man of him?” Graemor grinned, pouring Aurin’s tea.
Aurin rolled his eyes, “He spent most of the day in a world of his own, ended up losing him in the Alvorlands.”
“You should have left him there.”
“He’s certainly not his father’s son.” Aurin sighed, “I hope he won’t come again. He seems to have developed an attachment to me.” He sank his teeth into a honeyed crust and shook his head, “He always was a peculiar sort…a royal misfit and no mistake.”
“Don’t worry,” Graemor said, “they’ll marry him off sooner or later, and then he’ll be too busy to bother with you.”
Tired of being ignored, Amaris fidgeted on her cushion, “What have you got for us today, then? Something interesting I hope.”
“Maps again!” Aurin said, patting the bag, “It’s important that you know where you are in the world.”
“Is it?” Olivia muttered, “I doubt we shall ever see much more than these rough walls.”
“These rough walls have kept you safe and dry through winter,” Graemor said. “You would do well to remember it.”
She swirled the tea in her bowl, watching the green flecks swim across her reflection like freckles. From the side of her eye she watched the shaman’s ring laden hand mopping up the honey spills on his plate with a corner of bread. She thought about hatred and how to best employ it without detriment to the soul.
After breakfast Aurin unrolled a large map, anchoring its four corners with a box of coloured beads, a lump of wood and two heavy goblets. Amaris and Olivia gathered eagerly round the low table while Graemor withdrew to the bench by the fire, busy mending a broken axe.
“This is Athelin,” Aurin announced, sweeping his hand across the map. “Until Graemor gives you leave to see it as it really is, we must be content with this alone…we are here,” he said, pointing to an expanse of grassland, “and there is Lake Erinor, and behind us the moor, you see?”
They craned their necks over the ageing parchment, following his hand as it led them along the forest path to the great Alveri from where he had just come. He smelt of earth and pine. Amaris breathed him in, conjuring up a picture of his very different life among the unknown Atheliniens. Her eyes strayed from the map and roved the crisp clean line of his collar, the smooth skin of his neck, the curling locks of yellow hair.
“Here is the Hashellan,” he continued, “where Graemor conducts his sacred duties. Curses rain down upon all who dare enter it without leave.” He checked their faces for attentiveness and met Amaris’ unblinking eye full on. “Remember this above all else,” he said, “for life without the blessing of the gods is not to be endured.”
Amaris nodded obediently, noticing the intense green of his eyes and the goodness in them. He broke his gaze reluctantly and tapped the centre of the forest.
“And here is the gathering place, outside the Alveri gates. The very heart of Athelin.” He lingered there fondly, relishing every dip and hollow, every ridge and river.
“Tell us more about the Alveri,” Amaris smiled coyly, “is it very different from this place?”
“Very different indeed, why, this is a rat’s nest in comparison.” he laughed.
“It’s a rat’s nest without comparison.” Olivia said, glancing at the shaman over her shoulder, “he thinks it’s a palace.”
Amaris sniggered but stopped abruptly when she saw Aurin’s look of consternation.
“Every man must have a home,” he said gently, “and it is always a blessing to find a happy one.”
Olivia lowered her eyes, shamed by his kindness. “I don’t think it’s happy,” she said, twisting the hem of her skirt, “I think it’s lonely…and miserable.”
“It is perhaps a little isolated,” Aurin conceded, “but it was his own choice. Graemor prefers to live apart from others, and now that spring has come you can see for yourself how lovely its setting is…try to imagine what might have befallen you had he not found you wandering when he did?”
As the lesson drew to its end, Aurin put away his books and maps, his face spreading with a grin.
“And now for your reward!” He said, dipping into his bag and drawing out a silky pale blue shawl embroidered with vines and flowers. He poured it proudly into Amaris’ outstretched hands, relishing her delight. He watched with admiration as she squealed in front of the broken mirror, tying it in various ways until she found the one that flattered her most. Almost as an afterthought he handed Olivia a pretty wooden tea bowl carved with tiny birds and flowers around its rim.
“And now I must go,” he said, rising to his feet, “but tomorrow, at your request, Amaris, we shall learn all about the Alveri and those who live within its ancient walls.”
Amaris covets my bowl, it’s written all over her face, though she tries to hide it. Graemor and Aurin have gone riding leaving us alone at last. We went straight down to the lake. Despite the warm sun, the water was still cold. Amaris swam right into the middle, but I never dare to go deeper than my feet can reach. When we got back, Megorah had made nut cakes and we ate them on the doorstep. I wish we lived here alone, just the three of us; the house is almost pleasant while Graemor is gone. Amaris plaited my hair and reddened my lips with berry paste. I kept it on right up until they returned, then smudged it deliberately across my face until it looked like a horrible rash.
Aurin didn’t stay long, but I saw him touch Amaris’ hand briefly as he left, and I think he passed her a note.
Graemor has filled the hut with odious plumes of smoke and cares nothing for our coughs and splutters. Amaris and I played the secret mimic game, but Amaris soon gave us away by laughing out loud. He hates it when we giggle. It wasn’t long before he stalked into the back room and that was the last we saw of him.
Amaris is asleep, I tried to keep her awake as long as possible but her eyelids were drooping and she was gone in minutes.
I am writing by candlelight, too afraid to quench its flame. As soon as I am alone in the dark they will come.