Abrimel laid down his pen and forced himself to return the stare in silence. It was a mistake to let anyhar know you might be afraid of them.
“Is this Galhea?” Diablo asked, his voice strangely accented.
“No,” said Abrimel. “This is Imbrilim. Galhea is some distance north.”
Diablo stared at his hands, flexing his long fingers in a disturbingly determined manner. Abrimel could not help but be relieved this was not Galhea. “Do you have a tribe?” he asked.
Diablo nodded, then got up from the couch, from where he hadn't moved since he'd arrived and began to prowl around the room, examining everything he came across.
“Where are they?” Abrimel persisted.
“Not here,” Diablo answered.
“Were you abandoned? What happened to you?”
“I fell from the spirit path,” Diablo said, “but I had to. I was lost. I had to fall where I could.”
Abrimel remembered the feelings he'd had before he'd found Diablo. He stood up. “You mean the otherlanes?”
Diablo glanced at him blankly then removed a book from a shelf. He opened the book, sniffed it, and then returned it carefully to its place. He did this with several volumes.
“Who are your tribe, Diablo? Where do they live? How do you travel the otherlanes, the spirit path?” Abrimel knew these were too many questions at once, but couldn't help himself. If Diablo had really fallen from the otherlanes it was astounding, because he'd clearly been travelling without a sedu to guide. As far as Abrimel knew, no har could open an otherlanes portal without such help.
“Why?” Diablo asked. “Why do you want to know?” He appeared to be genuinely perplexed by the questions.
“To understand you,” Abrimel said. “It's my job. I study all the different Wraeththu tribes, but I've never met anyhar like you before.”
Diablo merely shrugged. “You can't meet us. We are in Gebaddon.”
Abrimel had to sit down again. “Gebaddon? Are you sure?”
Diablo grinned again. “Yes.”
“Your tribe can travel outside the forest?”
“I do,” Diablo said. “Soon, I will go back.”
It occurred to Abrimel then that his peculiar guest might very well disappear without a moment's warning. “Don't leave yet,” he said. “Talk to me first. I want to know about you.”
“I cannot talk to you,” Diablo said. “We are enemies, whoever you are.”
He was unafraid because now he was fed and had recovered from whatever had happened to him. He had the means to escape whenever he wanted to: that much was obvious. “Why am I an enemy?” Abrimel asked carefully.
“All hara outside Gebaddon are enemies.”
“Do you understand what your being here means to those outside the forest?”
“Yes. It means I must kill you before I leave.”
“Why? Haven't I helped you?”
“My hostling would kill me if I didn't. I would be punished. Nohar must know of us yet.”
It was extremely discomforting to realise that Diablo meant every word he said. He had no doubt he could kill Abrimel whenever he wanted to, and that certainty lent credibility to his threat. Abrimel swallowed with difficulty, because his mouth had gone dry. The urge to fight or flee strained nervously at the threshold of his being. He must not betray fear. “I am not your enemy, Diablo. I am a scholar. Your tribe was imprisoned in Gebaddon. Perhaps that was not a good thing. Perhaps the world should know the truth. You can tell it to me.”
Diablo laughed. “What do you mean?”
Abrimel didn't really know. He'd said it as an act of self-preservation, but then he realised that maybe it wasn't a lie. “I am an outcast too,” he said. “I am the son of Pellaz-har-Aralis, Tigron of Immanion, whose tribe condemned you to exile. I am cast out, as you are; forgotten, as you are. No har shall hear from me that the Varrs have found a tunnel from their prison.”
Diablo stared at Abrimel inscrutably, but Abrimel was sure that beyond the grimy and somewhat imbecilic appearance a sharp mind was busy at work. Eventually, Diablo said, “If what you say is true and you wish to live, there is one thing you can do.”
“Yes?” said Abrimel.
“Return with me to Gebaddon. Speak to my hostling, for he might have a use for you. If you lie, you'll die, or maybe my hostling will have no use for you at all, and you'll still die, but it is your choice. I will kill you here if you prefer.”
Abrimel knew he was being offered something unique. The Varrs had been left to rot in Gebaddon, but it seemed that something quite different had occurred. The scholar in him yearned to probe these secrets. The angry child in him yearned to ally with Pellaz's enemies. But how far did he want to go? If he took this step, there might be no turning back. Did he wish his father, and all that he stood for, dead? But maybe he had no choice. Maybe, if he refused this offer, Diablo would kill him, moving quicker than the eye could see. This har before him was nothing like any har he'd ever seen, and appeared to be second generation like himself, but perhaps in Gebaddon some of the original Varrs survived, individuals more harish than Diablo, with whom it might be possible to communicate properly. He had to ask. "Does Ponclast still live?"
"He is my hostling," Diablo answered.
"Take me to him," Abrimel said.
Diablo held out a hand. "Hold on to me," he said. "Don't let go."
Abrimel took the offered hand. He looked into Diablo's eyes and saw strange lights in their depth. The portal came from within Diablo, from within his eyes. Abrimel was sucked into a vortex of energy. For a brief moment, he feared he would never see the realm of earth again. Then the capacity for thought was smacked from his mind.
The experience of travelling the otherlanes without sedim was not pleasant. To Abrimel it felt as if his skin was scraped from his body, that his bones were crushed. It seem to last an eternity, but then with a great clap of thunder and what felt like a dozen blows to the body with iron bars, Abrimel found himself once again on firm ground, covered in a crust of ice that was already breaking away from him, evaporating like snowflakes on a hot plate. He collapsed against Diablo, still gripping the strange har's long-fingered hand. He couldn't understand how Diablo had managed to open a portal, nor how he could have dragged somehar with them into that vast confusing network of non-reality. How did he find the paths? How did he know where he was going?
For short time, Diablo allowed Abrimel to lean against him, fighting for breath, then pushed him away. "This is Gebaddon," he said.
Abrimel looked around himself, saw the dark twisted trees, the huge growths of pale fungi, the flash of eyes through the undergrowth. They were standing at the mouth of the cave, which was mostly hidden by a thick curtain of tattered ivy, whose leaves were all of different shapes and sizes, few of which resembled a normal ivy leaf.
"Come," Diablo said, lifting aside the foliage. He had not let go of Abrimel's hand, perhaps as a security measure.
Abrimel had heard all the stories of Ponclast, as nearly every second generation har had done. He had imagined the Varr leader as a huge, overtly masculine, barrel-chested sort of har, with a great booming voice and a deep aversion for the feminine side of his being. Therefore, when Abrimel entered the inner chamber of the cave and saw Ponclast for the first time, he was shocked. Ponclast was not a bulky har, but attenuated and pale, almost sylphlike. His hair was a mass of dark rags and tendrils, blending with the rags and tendrils of his crimson robe. The was abnormally thin, his eyes sunk deep in his face. The overall effect, though somewhat unusual, was also strangely aesthetic. Ponclast and his environment were like a painting to illustrate a dark and mysterious tale. There was a tragic and romantic element to his appearance. Engaged in some business with toxic-looking liquids in a row of wooden bowls, he stared at Abrimel long and hard. “What has taken you so long?” he asked, presumably of Diablo. “I expected you back days ago.”
“A problem,” Diablo said.
“And what is this?” Ponclast demanded, ind
icating Abrimel. “Don't tell me the harling hatched and matured in the otherlanes.”
“No pearl,” Diablo said, bowing to his hostling. “Taken.”
Abrimel was suffused by an icy chill: he presaged what was to come.
“What?” Ponclast snapped. “Explain.”
“I did as you asked,” Diablo said. “Cut the har, and the pearl was mine. On the spirit path, he jumped on me. Took the pearl. Filled me with fire. He threw me off the path, and I was lost for a long time.”
Ponclast's mouth was a grim line. “That makes no sense,” he said. “Come here. I'll see for myself.”
Diablo went to Ponclast and before Abrimel's astonished gaze, shared breath with his hostling. The sight was grotesque, not least because of the appearance of the participants. Abrimel swallowed with difficulty. What was he doing here? He must be insane. These hara must be ones who had attacked Caeru.
After what seemed far too long, Ponclast pushed Diablo from him. “Whatever attacked you concealed itself as well as you can. I can only assume parties other than our allies have an interest in the Tigron's spawn. This is unexpected, but no fault of mine or yours.” He stared directly into Abrimel's eyes. “I have no pearl, yet another son of the Tigron stands before me.” He glanced at Diablo. “You have done well, under the circumstances.”
“I am not your enemy,” Abrimel said, although he was no longer sure about that. What he'd heard didn't sound real, but he knew it must be. Somehar had attacked Caeru, and what better candidate than a har with the greatest grudge against the Gelaming?
Ponclast laughed, although his eyes remained cold. “No.” He made an expansive gesture with both arms. “Well, tiahaar, I wish I had lavish accommodation in which to entertain you. As you can see, conditions here are rather less than you are no doubt used to. How can you be of use to me? How can you convince me I can trust you?”
“The pearl you spoke of – it was the one my hostling carried.”
“Yes. It should have been destroyed. Does that bother you?”
“No, it should have been destroyed. I always felt the pearl was wrong. But my hostling...?”
Ponclast did not answer this half-formed question. “Unfortunately, something intervened while Diablo was at work. Somehar, or something, else now has the pearl.”
“Did you mean to kill Caeru?”
“No, he was irrelevant,” Ponclast said, “but if the thought of his death distresses you, you have no right to be standing here.”
Abrimel closed his eyes briefly, felt as if a cloak he had worn since childhood had fallen from his body. It had been heavy, warm and comforting, but restrictive too. “I cast off my parents,” he said. “As they cast me off.”
“What is your function?”
“I work in Imbrilim, the Gelaming enclave. I collect data about the tribes.”
“Not very glamorous,” said Ponclast. “However, I expect you still have many contacts in Immanion.”
“Some.”
Ponclast came toward Abrimel, seeming to glide just above the floor, his robe rustling over dead leaves. He extended a thin white hand and Abrimel saw how clean and perfect it was: the hand of a torturer, perhaps. His touch, on Abrimel's cheek, was cool and dry. “We could have an alliance, you and I,” Ponclast said, “but first you must let me put a seed in you, a seed that, should you betray me, would burst into poison bloom and destroy you.”
“I am in no position to argue,” Abrimel said. “You will not let me leave here without this insurance.”
Ponclast smiled. “You are bright,” he said. “Look upon me, Gelaming. I am not a creature to be desired, to dote on, to worship. I am wrung out, dried and bloodless. I have been drained of life. But I intend to get it all back. Perhaps you will help me.”
He took a few steps back, turned his back. “There is an old human legend,” he said, “that concerned a rite of initiation for warriors and kings. To acquire divine strength, they had to make love to the great goddess of creation. Hardly a tiresome task, you might say. But she manifested to them as a hideous hag. If they could steel themselves to kiss her with passion, to adore her as the most comely of maidens, she would grant them immeasurable powers. I know what I am, tiahaar. The harish equivalent of hag, but lie with me, and perhaps great powers shall also be yours.” He turned back to Abrimel, his expression unfathomable.
Abrimel could not imagine being able to take aruna with this creature. He was interesting to observe, like an exotic and dangerous animal, but certainly no object of desire. Abrimel thought that if he now had to be ouana to save his life, then he must be about to die. Ponclast, however, appeared to pick up on his panicked thoughts.
“Submit to me,” he said, in a dry toneless voice. “It is the way my influence is transferred to you. The story of the hag was a joke. I do not expect passion from you.”
But just for a moment, Abrimel thought, you hoped for it. Easy to dismiss it as a joke after you looked into my eyes.
In such revelations lay advantage.
Chapter Eleven
Many times, Moon considered that Raven had made a big sacrifice in taking aruna with him. There was no doubt that Raven's behaviour changed thereafter. Something had woken up within him too, but it was not a good thing. He seemed tortured. Moon's awakening involved a new awareness of his own body and those of others around him. He would never have believed it possible, but he actually yearned for further contact with Raven. It was obvious this would not happen. Raven avoided him now and even Snake had commented on his strange behaviour.
“I have done this to him,” Moon said.
Snake shook his head. “No, it was done to him a long time ago.”
“What was?”
Snake stared at his son for a few moments, then said, “I cannot tell you his private troubles. But I will say this: the Gelaming were involved.”
For a few days after Snake's first pronouncement that the Tigron of Immanion would come looking for them, Moon had lived in fear. But nothing had happened, and the feelings had faded away. He didn't believe now that they were in any kind of danger. “I feel bad,” Moon said. “I feel I need something.”
Snake continued to stare. “Go to where others gather,” he said. “It is time you should do that.”
For some days, Moon shrank from the idea, for he knew what his father meant. He should forge friendships with other hara. Moon had spent so much time alone, and he knew how the clans regarded Snake and his household, that the prospect of trying to be sociable, never mind anything else, filled him with icy dread. But he could not deny the sensations that raged within him, demanding release and satisfaction. He realised he wasn't like Snake and Raven. He wasn't dead inside.
One evening, he found himself walking towards the harbour and knew he was about to take an irrevocable step. He could hear music playing and the sounds of voices and laughter. It was a different world, one he had never entered. He was not sure how he'd be received by it. He visited the harbour during the day to barter for provisions, but its night time face was something else. It didn't look the same.
Open fronted bars faced the water, their awning hung with lamps. Food vendors cooked their wares in the open air, currency brokers sat in their kiosks, and visitors from further south, mainly traders and trappers, thronged there noisily. Groups of hara sat around fires, some beating out hypnotic rhythms on drums, while others danced, uttering strange cries, their long hair swinging. Nohar took much notice of Moon as he skulked through the crowds, but occasionally a har of the clans would recognise him and stare, or else nudge their companions and point. Moon knew he should perhaps nod in greeting and smile, and that such behaviour might break the ice, but lacked the will to do so. He felt awkward and vulnerable. Eventually, he approached a broker and swapped a few artefacts he'd brought with him from the Reliquary for handful of rough iron coins. This was enough to buy him drinks for the evening, in fact enough for him to drink himself senseless.
As the broker handed over the coins, he narrowed his
eyes and said, “You're Snake Jaguar's harling.”
Moon nodded.
The har continued to inspect him for some moments, then said, “Try the South Wind Inn. Young ones go there.”
“Thanks,” Moon said.
The broker gestured behind him. “That way.”
Moon stumbled off, his face crimson. He knew it was obvious why he was there and the broker's helpful advice only made it worse. He couldn't do this. He should go home.