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  He didn't understand. All he wanted was the contact, acceptance, harmony. At this moment, he must hardly dare to believe this was happening. “You feel good, Rue. You always did.”

  Caeru stopped moving and buried his face in Pell's hair. His body trembled and presently Pellaz felt Caeru's tears trickling down his neck. This couldn't be cruel. Pellaz wouldn't allow that to happen. He saw Cal come into the room, and move to the side of the bed, his head tilted to one side. He appeared amused, if somewhat puzzled.

  “We are going to create something bigger than all of us,” Pellaz said softly. “It might be our strongest defence.”

  “Against what?”

  “I don't know yet, but I will.”

  Cal sat down on the bed, put a hand on the back of Caeru's head, which he had not raised. “Are you talking of a pearl, a harling?”

  “Yes, born of our three beings.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “We won't know until we try,”

  Caeru had gone utterly still.

  “Will you do this, Rue?” Pellaz asked. “Will you host this pearl?”

  Caeru's voice was muffled by Pell's hair. “I see darkness,” he said. “I see fear, and it has a face.”

  “I will protect you. Trust me.”

  Caeru raised his head. “I will do this thing,” he said, “but not to create whatever it is you wish to create. Understand why I will do this thing.”

  “I do,” Pellaz said, “but I can make you no promises. Live fully in this moment. It is real, whatever happens.”

  Chapter Five

  The Gelaming enclave of Imbrilim in Megalithica had begun its life as a camp for refugees fleeing Varrish and Uigenna atrocities. Now, it was an expanding town in its own right, the centre of Gelaming power in that country. Following Cal's arrival in Almagabra, Abrimel har Aralis, son of the Tigron, had applied for a position in Imbrilim. Pellaz had granted this request, no doubt without pausing even for a moment to reflect upon his son's possible motived in wanting to leave Immanion. Abrimel wished he didn't care about it, but even after so long, his father's indifference to him still possessed the power to wound deeply. All his life, he had suffered on his hostling's behalf, perhaps the only har alive who knew the extent of Caeru's pain, which he hid beneath the brittle, snipping exterior that prowled the intrigue-soaked salons of Immanion, armed with a razor tongue and a shield of cold disdain. Abrimel had hated the idea of Calanthe with the same ferocity that Caeru had, and steadfastly refused to accept Cal as part of the family. It was obscene, and Abrimel was astounded that the Hegemony had been so accommodating and had passively accepted Thiede's murder, because that was what Abrimel believed had happened. Everyhar knew Cal's history. It was a joke that he had become joint Tigron in Immanion. As for Caeru, Abrimel was disappointed that his hostling had not been more hostile to Cal. Caeru might utter bitchy remarks about the new Tigron, but the fact was they took dinner together nearly every evening, and Abrimel had noticed how Caeru perked up near the hour when Cal was due. The possible scenarios that could blossom from these meetings were too nauseating to consider. Thinking about the whole sorry situation made Abrimel so furious he had to break things around him. There was no way he could remain in Immanion, because, if he did, he knew he'd do something he'd bitterly regret and which would ruin his life.

  Now, he had found a kind of peace in Megalithica. In Imbrilim, he had status. He was the representative of the Aralisians on Megalithican soil. He had a job, supervising the collection of data about the various tribes that had established themselves in the country. He saw himself as a historian: facts were were calm, beautiful things. He enjoyed writing them down in a neat hand upon clean white pages.

  The news came in the evening, at the hour when neither day nor night holds sway, but the soft grey twilight of the veil between the worlds. Abrimel, working alone in his office, accompanied only by his two cats and an especially fine wine from the West Coast, felt the shiver in his flesh when an otherlanes portal opened up beyond the town. He did raise his head from his work, because arrivals of Almagabran hara were a regular occurrence. It was rare their visits concerned him. But that night, a knock came upon his door and Abrimel had to put down his pen. He lifted a cat from his lap and went to answer the door himself, because none of his staff were at home. He found Velaxis at the threshold and for a moment, his heart was stilled. “What is it?” he demanded, afraid something had happened to Caeru.

  “May I come in, tiahaar?” Velaxis enquired delicately.

  Abrimel stood aside. “Yes, yes, of course. Why are you here?”

  “I bring news,” Velaxis answered, stepping into the house. “Where are your manners, Abrimel? Aren't you at least going to conduct me to a comfortable room and ply me with fine liquor?”

  “What news?” Abrimel asked. Velaxis had not visited him in Imbrilim before.

  “Caeru carries a pearl. You are to have a brother.”

  Abrimel stared at Velaxis for some moments. “What?”

  “You must be pleased. After all, this is a most unlikely event.”

  “Who is the father?”

  Velaxis laughed. “Pellaz, of course. Oh, and I believe Calanthe also.”

  Abrimel slammed the front door. “That is not possible.”

  “The Aralisians work miracles. I have pondered minutely the mechanics of how they achieved it. It makes me feel quite breathless.”

  Abrimel leaned upon the door and closed his eyes for a few seconds. He visualised his hostling and saw him as a young, stupid, gullible, starstruck har, who deserved everything he got. Abrimel, by contrast, felt a thousand years old, a sagacious hermit weighed down by the knowledge of the universe. “How could you let this happen?” he asked Velaxis. “You influence him more than any other. How did this happen?”

  Velaxis sauntered up the hall. He opened a door, looked in, found a cold, dark dining room and closed the door. “The usual way, I imagine,” he said. “Where is your sitting room, Bree? Do I have to find it myself?”

  Abrimel took Velaxis into his office and grudgingly shared the wine. His mind was a whirl. He could not believe what he'd heard. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, more than once.

  “Absolutely,” Velaxis replied. “There is no doubt. Rue has been shattered by the experience – but not, it has to be said, in an undesirable way. He has suffered a few unpleasant side effects. The details, really, are too gross to relate.”

  “One unpleasant side effect being that he and my father are reconciled.”

  Velaxis gave him a measured stare. “There has, inevitably, been some degree of reconciliation. I would have thought you'd be pleased for him.”

  “This is Calanthe's doing.”

  “Naturally. He has been doing quite a lot. Now a har of his blood will be part of the Aralisian dynasty. It is fortunate you are the first-born.”

  “It is all irrelevant. I will never be Tigron. Our life-spans will see to that. Or if I am, it will be in some far distant time, and I too shall be very old. I expect one of my great highchildren can look forward to the honour of inheriting Pell's crown, such as it is. A young har should take it.”

  “You've been thinking about this, haven't you?”

  Abrimel shrugged. “I thought about it a lot once. It has little meaning to me now.”

  Velaxis swirled his wine around in its glass. He stared into it. “Perhaps you should think some more.”

  “Keep me out of it.”

  “If something should happen to Pellaz, to his consorts...” Velaxis raised his shoulders eloquently. “Well, as it stands, a harling of the triumvirate's combined essence might well be seen as the obvious heir.”

  “Nothing will happen to Pellaz. He is too strong. He can outwit any foes.”

  “Some said that of Thiede.”

  Abrimel stared at Velaxis, speechless.

  Velaxis put down his glass, and leaned forward in his seat to take Abrimel's hands in his own. “I am very fond of Rue,” he said. “I helped raise y
ou, and you are like a son to me. All I ask is that you remain aware, that's all. There are different factions. No matter how much you might want to hide away in exile, Bree, you are important to some hara. You might have no choice about becoming involved.”

  “Tell me what you know.”

  Velaxis released Abrimel's hands. “There is nothing to tell, as yet. But there are changes afoot. It does not involve the Hegemony. I don't know who or what it involves, but I can sense it in my blood.”

  “You're lying.”

  “I suggested to Rue he should become close to Cal. He took my advice, and now this has happened. That, for some reason, I did not foresee.”

  “Are you an enemy of my father's?”

  “No, no. I am no har's enemy, but neither am I their ally. I am loyal only to myself, and in that I am the most honest har alive. I'm not asking you to trust me, Bree. That is not necessary. Just remain alert and aware. Keep informed. Don't make any bad decisions.”

  Abrimel uttered a sound like a growl. “Rue is a fool. He's learned nothing. He's still in Ferelithia with stars in his eyes.”

  “That might well be true,” Velaxis said. “Aren't you going to send him a message of congratulations? I could deliver it for you.”

  “I could wring his neck.”

  “A short message will do. I can dictate it for you. I think that politically you would be wise to send it.”

  “Do as you see fit. I don't care.”

  Velaxis sighed. “Bree, you are Aralisian, and Pell's son, no matter how much either of you try to forget that fact. You isolate yourself deliberately, when you could be one of the Gelaming's brightest stars. Skulking over here in Imbrilim is probably not your best course of action.”

  “I cannot be part of a travesty. I will not accept that Uigenna lickspit as Tigron.”

  “He is not that bad. It could have been far worse.”

  Abrimel laughed harshly. “Could it? If I think about what's happened, I fill with black dread. It was just a beginning, and no matter how many of you in Immanion try to delude yourselves to the contrary, it will end badly. Wraeththu is headless without Thiede. Headless and sightless.”

  Velaxis helped himself to more of the wine. “But perhaps also free.” He smiled. “The wine is good here. That alone might convince a har to stay. Get paper and a pen. You will now write to your hostling.”

  Chapter Six

  Diablo was so mean, it wasn't a joke he was named for the old devil. If you came across him in the dark, you'd be forgiven for thinking he was made entirely of black sticks, the remains of charred cooking embers or a forest fire, even though his skin was the mottled faded yellow of old leaves. He saw the spirits of the trees, those who were part of nature and those who weren't. He could move quickly, like a black whip or a tongue of smoke. Up close, his eyes were too big and his chin too pointed, a legacy of the weird subtle energies that coursed through the landscape of his birth. This was the Forest of Gebaddon, quite some distance south of the territory of Galhea, in Megalithica. Weirdness soaked the soil, rising up as mist sometimes, warping plants and animals alike, and also the hara who were condemned to live there. Diablo was both young and old: young in that he had lived the equivalent of only twenty years on this earth (although, where he came from, time was not quite the tick-tock discipline it was in other areas); and old because he had never been young. From the moment he'd poked his twiggy fingers through the cracked shell of his pearl, followed by his head on its too long neck, he had been ancient as time itself. He was an outsider in a community of outsiders, where the drudgery of existence held no charm and it was mandatory to hold every other living being in contempt.

  The elders of his tribe spoke of dispossession, of exile and torment. They railed against invisible oppressors that existed beyond the pulsating membrane that comprised the edge of their world. If they spoke of a time to come when they would claw back all that had been taken from them, it was not in a spirit of hope. All they wanted was revenge and if anything existed beyond that, it wasn't worth thinking about. Given the chance, they'd rid the world of Wraeththu and humans alike. In their time, they'd already done quite a lot to further that aim.

  Diablo had not been conceived in love. He did not know who his hostling or his father was, as he'd hatched in a bed of pearls, far from warm harish bodies, smothered in damp autumn leaves. An older har, whose job was to supervise hatchings, had taken care of his physical needs, told him where to forage for food and so on, but Diablo had never been held close in another's arms, never heard the soft whisperings of affection with which hostlings normally shower their offspring. When other harlings had hatched beside him, they'd fought amongst themselves fiercely for possession of particular feeding and resting areas. It was not unknown for harlings to kill one another in these battles over territory. They were, in fact, regarded as hardly more than dangerous animals by the older hara of the tribe, who would beat them off with sticks if they dared to approach an inviting campfire at night. When they were ready for feybraiha, the harlings would sit and howl like young wolves on the tall grey rocks outside the rough settlements of adults. Hearing his call, hara would come to them, shut them up with the contact they craved so desperately, and if the essence of their physical exchanges did not inspire spiritual passion, awareness and insight, it at least dampened their ferocity. The harlings, tamed by what could hardly be called aruna, could now be taken into the main body of the tribe and soon most of them even forgot where the hatching grounds were.

  Many years before, a coalition of Gelaming and what eventually had become Parasiel had stormed the Varr capital of Fulminir in the cold north of Megalithica. Here, the Varr leader, Ponclast, had made his stand against the forces that opposed him. Ponclast's right hand har, Terzian of Galhea, had not been quite dead then, but certainly in Gelaming captivity. One of those who had led the assault on Fulminir was Terzian's son, Swift. Perhaps the Fulminiric Varrs, when they'd realised this, thought Swift had been seduced by power and wealth, or else by the har who the Gelaming had given to him as consort, Seel Griselming. Perhaps they thought Swift was more like his father than Swift would ever have dared to think. Others might not even have believed their eyes. But whatever the Fulminiric Varrs had thought, Gelaming and the Parsics, who had confined the conquered hara to their strange hell in Gebaddon, who had no idea what the consequences of this exile would be. They were no longer Varrs, but Teraghasts, a forgotten tribe, sealed away, disposed of without actually having had to be killed. Nohar had really considered what would happen to them after the magical seals had been set across their boundaries, and not even the most paranoid ever believed they would start breeding. Although enlightened hara might talk of how harlings could be conceived only in love, this was not true. They could be conceived in many different emotions, if the intention and determination was strong enough.

  Thiede had once said that the remnants of Ponclast's tribe might find enlightenment in the Forest of Gebaddon, but he'd never really cared about it. He'd known he was strong enough to confine them and that was all that mattered. If he ever thought about them in the years after the rout of Fulminir, it was only to consider briefly whether he should have had them slaughtered after all. To be fair, he and his allies had had to witness firsthand the atrocities these hara had been capable of, and the only thing the victors had cared about in the aftermath of that trauma was ridding the world of such a degenerate strain immediately. The defeated Varrs were beyond rehabilitation and couldn't even be domesticated.

  Because Swift had led the forces that conquered them, and because the typical Teraghast memory was very long and accurate, the name of Parasiel was a curse. Even though the name had not been even been imagined by the time the last incantation had been uttered at the edge of Gebaddon, it had somehow found its way in through chinks and cracks, carried on the wind, in seeds, in dreams. If you spat and hissed the word, it could have a very strong power of its own. It was chanted often, in the hope that all the spite, hatred and resentment would so
mehow filter through the barrier that the Gelaming had constructed, fly across the landscape and reach into the heart of We Dwell in Forever like the black spores of disease. Fortunately, the Parasilians had long forgotten their abandoned brothered, and as the best part of a curse is the victim knowing about it, the worst hexes simply slid off the barrier, or if they found their way through had transformed into nothing more than the whisper of a whining ghost by the time they reached Galhea.

  Ponclast, the erstwhile lord of Fulminir had changed very much. Perhaps some of those changes would have pleased Thiede, because Ponclast was no longer a har masquerading as a man. He had slid into the darkest corners of his feminine aspects while maintaining the steely resolve of his masculine traits. His body was long and thin, the skin very white. His black hair hung down his back in a strangely glistening flag, as if it was wet, yet it rarely was. He dressed in tattered robes of darkest crimson, but kept his fingernails very short and neat. It was important to him, in spite of everything, to have clean hands. Because he was har, he possessed a freakish kind of beauty, but it would never inspire poetry in another har's heart, even though it might arouse some exceedingly dark prayers. He concealed himself, for the most part, in an underground lair which was his hive. In this place, hara of the tribe came to him and learned about how harlings did not have to be conceived in love. Ponclast, like a monstrous queen bee, was fecund. Most harlings of the tribe came from his body. There were very few moments when he was not with pearl and because he was so long and thin, the sight of him in this condition was not pleasant. His children were like the bursting boils of his hatred. They tumbled from him twisted up and snarling in their pearls, sustained, as was their hostling, by feelings of injustice and bitterness, which in Ponclast's case were very focused indeed.