The Wraiths of Will and Pleasure - By Storm Constantine Page 0,92

chest. ‘Aruhani, come forth to me. Give strength to my hands that I shall be strong, that I may keep the dead within my power.’

He then took up the bowl of blood and spilled it over the earth. Black blood. Slick and shining, like the blood down the stairs, as ancient as the hand print over the doorframe, as sweet as the smell in the Nayati that morning, when the sun came through the windows in precise perfect rays and a white arm dangled down. Flick swallowed thickly. He must not think this, he mustn’t. The images would be too terrible. Aruhani was with him, but the dehar was not a creature of sweetness. He had fangs and claws and his shadow was long. Flick closed his eyes again. He had to speak. His hands dangled between his knees.

‘I conjure you, creature of darkness. I summon you, creature of spirit. I summon and call you forth from the abode of darkness. I evoke you from your resting-place in the caves of the earth. I summon your eyes to behold the brightness of my fire, which is the fire of life. I evoke you from your resting-place. I summon your ears to hear my words. Come forth, dead spirit, who might speak with me. Come forth in the name of Aruhani, dehar of life and death, whose word binds you. I command you to come forth.’

He could hear the crackle of the fire, smell the sage, mixed with the scent of burning charcoal. He could taste blood in the back of his throat, so he must open his eyes now. He must.

Orien sat on the other side of the fire, smiling mildly. His tawny hair escaped his braid in soft tendrils, as it always had. He did not appear remotely dead. Flick was so surprised he scrabbled backwards, and yet wasn’t this what he’d worked for and believed in? Did he trust himself so little?

Orien put his head to one side, but said nothing. There was a sadness in his eyes, which Flick thought might be pity.

‘Speak!’ Flick managed to say. From this moment, his entire life had changed. He should be driven insane by what he saw before him, but it wasn’t frightening at all. That was the strangest thing. Perhaps Itzama had fed him some drug and he hadn’t realised it.

‘You have come a long way,’ Orien said.

‘Not as far as you,’ Flick said. ‘Can you remember, Orien? Can you remember what happened?’

‘You were nearly there, but the diversion was perfect. The last of the human tribes called the shaman here, but they went away and you found him.’

‘What do you mean? Itzama?’

‘The people of this land were a very ancient race. When Wraeththu came, the wisest among them called upon an ancestor of strong magic to aid them. They called him forth from the past, they danced the spirit dance to call him. But they were driven away before he came, so he had no purpose, until you.’

‘Itzama isn’t a ghost, but he isn’t exactly real either,’ Flick said, to himself rather than Orien. ‘He is never around during the day. Where does he go?’

‘You cannot see an ancestor spirit in sunlight,’ Orien said. ‘There is a purpose to everything. You must go back. You carve the words from stone, but they already exist in stone. Aruhani is a stone book in the library that no one ever wrote before. You have written him and read him. He has taken your mentor, Itzama, back into himself, to release him from his bondage to this world. He has served the dehara in giving you his knowledge.’

‘Has he been taken already?’

‘It is time now for what will happen next.’

‘Orien, do you know me?’

‘You missed the message, in the air, in the clouds. You walked passed it. But it is time now. There is something to be brought forth, but it is in need of nurturing. It is a secret, hidden. One of many, but this one is yours, even if it is not yours alone.’

He looked beautiful, serene as he’d ever been, but Flick knew that Orien could not really see him. Orien was only a perfect shadow. He could never be again. He wasn’t answering questions; he was a spirit with a message, no more than an image programmed by the energy of a god. But perhaps there were some questions he would answer, namely the ones Flick was supposed to ask. ‘Should I go back to Saltrock, or