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song. Birds, beasts, insects; all added their voices to the hymn to
nature. Even the trees creaked and rustled their own accompaniments. Porter,
while not sullen, did not seem a har given to light conversation, but even so,
I felt I should start some. Where else but with some information about him?
‘You’re a relative of Wyva’s?’ I asked.
    ‘Not so much,’ he replied. ‘They
took me in.’
    ‘Ah, you lost your family?’
    He expelled a short laugh. ‘In a
fashion.’ I did not perceive bitterness in his words, merely a lack of
interest. ‘I know what it’s like in other places,’ he said. ‘Not all hara have
families like they do round here, like tribes of their own.’
    ‘Mmm, it does seem to prevail in
rural environments,’ I said, feeling the dust of Kyme needed brushing from my
tongue.
    ‘But I like the countryside,’
Porter continued. ‘Don’t think I could be doing with city life.’ He had clearly,
at one point, considered running away, I thought. Perhaps had even tried it,
and disliked what he had found, and had returned.
    ‘There is a very old story about
a town mouse and a country mouse,’ I said. ‘Did you ever hear it?’
    Porter laughed. ‘Rinawne knows
that story,’ he said. ‘Yes, I heard it.’
    ‘Stop,’ I said, putting a hand
on one of Porter’s arms. ‘What’s that?’
    We both stood still, me hardly
breathing.
    ‘What is it, tiahaar?’ Porter
asked softly. ‘What am I looking for?’ He was gazing around himself, his frown
made deep by the light of the lamp.
    ‘Looking? Nothing. I heard...
I’m not sure what it was. A voice, maybe calling, maybe singing... not sure.’
    ‘Learn this soon, tiahaar,’ Porter
said. ‘Every creature of the forest has a weird sound to make, and hara who
don’t live here think mad things about it. A fox screams blue murder. An owl
has a ghost’s lament. The creaky trees are like coffins opening. Learn the
sounds well.’
    ‘Why, might there come a time
when I might need to know the difference between that and a real murder, a real
ghost, a real coffin opening?’
    There was a short silence,
during which Porter regarded me contemplatively. ‘You’re supposed to be a holy
har,’ he said, with the slightest inflection on ‘supposed’. ‘You must know
there is more than one real.’
    ‘Yes, I know that,’ I said.
‘Thank you, Porter. I shall learn the sounds.’
    He brought me to the foot of my
tower, which stood dark and ominous against the night. He waited as I fumbled
with the immense key, and held the light above the lock so I might see better.
I realised I would have to learn about the lock too, so that I might open it,
if I should ever need to, in a hurry. But perhaps I should be like Wyva and
leave my abode unlocked. Would it be safe? From the farm came the cry of hounds,
not one now but what sounded like dozens. Their voices rose and fell in long
ululating moans. Tomorrow, I must go down there and see about ordering produce.
    Porter stood at the threshold
until I had turned on the lights in the stairwell. ‘Thank you for your
company,’ I said, and with these words he seemed satisfied, nodded his head to
me and went back into the dark of the trees.
    Once alone, tiredness fell over
me like a mist. I discarded my clothes quickly and sought the comfort of my
wide bed, leaving a night-light burning in a shallow dish beside me. Shadows
swayed upon the gold-flecked walls, and the swans high on the walls flew about
me in their endless flight, but I felt no malice near, no strangeness, perhaps
only a benign watchfulness, like a har in a chair nearby, ready to watch over
me as I slept.

Chapter Three
     
     
    The morning dripped like pale honey through the
veils of my bedroom curtains. For some minutes I lay half awake in this golden
hue, drowsy, feeling as if a cherished hand had touched my cheek to wake me. I
raised my arms above my head on the pillows, gazed at the ceiling. Patterns
moved there, like water; there must be water