Free Burying the Shadow by Storm Constantine Page A

Lord Beth of
Metatronim. I feel we should now hear them speak.’ He extended his
hand to indicate the podium to the left of the platform. ‘If you
would grant us your knowledge, my children.’
    It was not an
easy thing to stand and make our way to the podium. We were
conscious of the scepticism among the eloim concerning our actions.
I dared not stare into the seated crowd, afraid I would find the
eyes of Metatron looking back at me. Did he intend to humiliate us
now?
    Both Beth and
I genuflected towards our audience - ever the performers - and took
our places, close together. We had previously decided that I would
be the one to begin our report so, in my clearest voice, I spoke of
the child we had found among the soulscapers and how we had been so
fortunate as to be able to commune with her at such a suggestible
time. I did not mention all the failures we had suffered prior to
that discovery. Warming to the subject, I spoke long of our
opinions of the Tappish child; her potential, her reservoir of
scaping strength. In order to provide an entertaining narrative
deserving of my people, I described the strange city of Taparak,
among the petrified limbs of that ancient forest, the exotic
insects that nudged through the hollow warrens, their nectars and
juices. Then I went on to recount the ritual we had observed. The
throngs were all entranced at this point; I was half-tempted to
turn it into a song.
    Then someone
stood up and raised a hand to speak. I stopped my delivery
immediately; not out of politeness but out of apprehension, because
I thought that person was Metatron. But it was not. Avirzah’e
Tartaruchi had risen to his feet. He was almost directly opposite
to where we stood, quite near the podium, and I could see that
Metatron was only a few seats away from him. Most people had turned
to look at Avirzah’e in attitudes of enquiry, but Metatron looked
straight at us. I could not read his face. Beside me, Beth huffed
in affront.
    ‘You have
reason to interrupt this account?’ the Oriukh asked.
    The Tartaruch
bowed. ‘Forgive me. I crave your permission to speak.’
    The Oriukh
turned to me. ‘Well, Lady Gimel, would you object to
interruption?’
    ‘If the
Tartaruchi throng wish to make an observation, I have no
objection,’ I replied, graciously. In truth, I was furious.
    Avirzah’e
bowed in my direction, perhaps a little too extravagantly to be
sincere. ‘I thank you,’ he said, touching his brow, and then
straightening up. ‘The Lady Gimel speaks beautifully of life beyond
Bochanegra. Perhaps we should all make this journey, for our
education.’ His voice was sweet; an appeasement. It was the
beginning of a tournament.
    I responded, as was
expected, just as sweetly, with an inclination of the head. ‘I
would not presume to direct your education.’
    The Tartaruch
sucked in his cheeks and manipulated his mobile brows into a
quizzical expression. ‘No? But that is not the issue, stimulating
though it might be to discuss. The issue, my kin, is this: the
Metatronim speak of children, pretty quick-wits, still budded on
the stem. Conversely, our affliction waxes swift. Brave though
their plan might be, and perhaps effective in time, I must
emphasise that our problems are immediate. We do not possess the
luxury of being able to wait patiently for the bud to flower.’
Here, he paused, spiked lizard that he is, and stood there showing
off his physical power. His argument was indeed relevant; damn him.
Such a persistent thorn is this Tartaruch princeling, I
thought.
    Beth was not
so philosophical. He made a response, speaking bluntly, and
ignoring the protocol for formal construction. ‘Have you a better
idea then, Tartaruchi?’
    The black
beast enjoyed impaling my brother with his scornful gaze, almost as
much, I’m sure, as he would have enjoyed a more tactile impaling.
‘There are thoughts I have in mind, as it happens,’ he said.
    ‘Such as?’
inquired the Oriukh.
    ‘Well, I, and
others too, believe