storm (47 page)

            Diablo smiled.  “The way they are now, the spirit paths are perfect for me.  They're like Gebaddon.  Their darkness and strangeness are known to me.”

            Ponclast reached out and stroked his son's arm.  “Still, be quick and be careful.”

            “I will go now.”

            “You should eat first.”

            “Abrimel can feed me.  He has better food than we have here.  I'll bring something back for you to eat, before anything else.”

Diablo made so many trips to Imbrilim, transporting goods that Abrimel had collected as discretely as possible, it wasn't until the late afternoon that Abrimel himself arrived in Fulminir.  Ponclast had spent the day talking with his hara, all of whom had recovered from their ordeal of the previous night.  Their enthusiasm for life had been rekindled, as had their self-belief.  Kyrotates came to Ponclast and said, “I was wrong to doubt you.  Forgive me.”

            “Then trust me in future,” Ponclast said.

            His hara did not want to be Varrs again; in their pride and anger, they wanted to remain Teraghasts.  Let the Gelaming and their allies know that they were not as strong and all-powerful as they believed themselves to be.  Let them know that the victims of Gebaddon were free and transformed.

            As he walked among his hara, Ponclast observed their animated discussions with amusement and affection, occasionally offering his own remarks, before passing on to the next group.  They were like harlings who had just been given their hearts' desires.  In no way did he want to quash that zeal.  For today, he'd let them celebrate.  Some of them went out into the countryside to round up animal stock.  There were many feral herds of sheep, cattle and horses nearby, some from earlier human farmsteads but several, no doubt, from Fulminir itself, when the Gelaming had razed its farms.  Other Teraghasts set about clearing living quarters and inspecting the water supplies.  There was much work to be done, and they did it independently of Ponclast's command.  They had come home at last.

            Ponclast dressed himself in Gelaming attire that Diablo had brought for him.  He found a long belted robe of supple crimson velvet, which he presumed Abrimel had procured for him specially.  He brushed out his hair with a carved wooden hairbrush that bore the insignia of the Aralisians.  His heart hammered in anticipation.  He felt exhilarated, yet nervous.

            Abrimel came to him at sundown.  Diablo left him at the door to his hostling's chamber and departed.  Abrimel stared at Ponclast without words.  He looked almost sorrowful.

            “Speak,” Ponclast said at last.  Was he deluding himself and was now more of a monster than he'd ever been?

            “How can I speak?” Abrimel said.  His eyes shimmered with unshed tears.  “I should fall to my knees before you.”

            Ponclast went to him and took him in his arms.  “You helped make me,” he said.  “You gave me hope.  Our pearl is born.  Come, see it.”

            He took Abrimel to the alcove where the pearl lay in its nest.  Abrimel reached out and let his hand hover over it.  “Can we ever be happy?” he asked.  “Will we be granted that privilege?  Will we see our son growing up?  Will there be summer days and laughter?  Will there be peace in our world?”

            “Bree,” Ponclast said softly.  “We'll have those things.  Do not fear.”

            “It has to be different this time,” Abrimel said.  “Then, perhaps we'll deserve them.”

            “What do you mean?” Ponclast asked sharply.

            “You
know,
” Abrimel said.  “Fulminir's dark history.  Many oppose the empire of the Gelaming, but the Gelaming are clever.  They present themselves as light and good.  The Varrs were not.  What was found in this place...”  He shook his head.  “It cannot be that way again.  Not if you want victory.”

            “You know nothing.  The Gelaming did many unspeakable things that hara don't know about.  Their methods were simply different from mine.”

            “It's what hara see that matters,” Abrimel said.  “You know exactly what I'm saying.  Don't deny it.”

            “I never lied or deceived,” Ponclast said.  “Perhaps that's a talent I should adopt.”  He laughed bitterly.  “The Parsics sneer at the idea of Varrish breeding facilities, but what were you, Bree, other than a planned strategic birth?”

            “I was an accident,” Abrimel said.

            Ponclast raised his eyebrows.  “Really?  You believe that?  There are no accidental conceptions among hara.  Think about it.  Think about Azriel har Parasiel also.  Before Thiede sealed me into Gebaddon, he told me how he'd arranged for Swift the Betrayer to breed with some Gelaming minion.”

            “Azriel was presented differently to the world,” Abrimel said.  “Thiede acted so carefully, so manipulatively, that Azriel was conceived in love and desire.  The end result was the same.  Think about
that.
”

            Ponclast nodded.  “I see your meaning.”  He kissed Abrimel's cheek.  “You give me good counsel.  Thank you.”

            Abrimel was silent for a moment, then put his hands upon Ponclast's shoulders.  “Am I your consort?”

            “In every way,” Ponclast said.

            “Take the blood bond with me,” Abrimel said.  “I feel strongly we should do that.”

            “In some ways, I am traditional,” Ponclast said carefully.  “A blood bond is insoluble.”

            “It must be done,” Abrimel said.  “Some of your hara will be suspicious of me.  I must prove I am one of them.  If needs be, I'll cast off my Aralisian birth before every har in this citadel.”

            “Appearances aside,” Ponclast said, “is this what you want, personally?”

            “Before you, I have never loved,” Abrimel said.  “It
is
what I want.”  He smiled.  “My place is here, with you.  I won't stay in Imbrilim for much longer.”

            “I need you there, Bree.  You must report to me on whatever you hear of the Gelaming's plans.”

            Abrimel took a deep breath through his nose.  “I don't belong there.”

            “I know, and as soon as we know what action the Tigron plans to take, you'll move here permanently.”

            “Very well.  I'll stay there for now.  I have my dreams to sustain me.”

            Ponclast took Abrimel's face in his hands.  “You are of my heart,” he said.  “The ceremony will be a formality.  We are already bonded in blood.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Cobweb had always known he was a creature of intuition and insight, even before he was har.  When his flesh shivered in a particular way, when the stars in the night sky seemed harder and brighter than usual, and a dead crow was found beneath the cedars by the lake, he knew something bad, something life-shaping, was about to take place.  He had never imagined his instincts could fail him, that his forewarning system might not work.

            After Azriel and Aleeme were taken, nothing happened for several weeks.  Seel went to Imbrilim, and while he was away, the channels in the ether opened again, much as they'd been before, albeit with cloudy pockets of scrambled information and upsetting glimpses of things so strange there were no words to describe them.  Sometimes, a bank of murk stole through the channels, making communication difficult or impossible for days, but there were clear days too.  A message came from Seel to say that the Gelaming were indeed aware of the problem, were not taking it lightly, and that the Tigron had summoned a Council of Tribes in Immanion.  The Gelaming
sedim
were still having trouble accessing the otherlanes as freely as they were used to, but at least Immanion was once again in contact with its settlement in Megalithica.  Arahal was on alert and was preparing for the worst.  Ponclast's name had already been associated with the events, and now it had been proposed that he had been responsible for the attack on the Tigrina.  He might also have taken Cal in the way that Azriel and Aleeme had been taken.  The Gelaming had sent agents to Gebaddon, but they had yet to report back on their findings, because they'd had to travel overland rather than through the otherlanes.  The enemy had a name, but as yet there was no hard proof the name was correct.

            Cobweb could tell that Swift was suffering far more than he revealed to his family.  Swift feared for Seel, he feared for his son, he feared for Aleeme, he feared for Cal.  Nohar dared conjecture what might be happening now to those who had vanished.  If Ponclast was involved, the possibilities were too dire to contemplate.

            Swift said only one thing to his hostling, “If it is true, if the Varrs have escaped Gebaddon, they will not have forgotten who put them there.”

            Cobweb had placed one hand upon his son's shoulder in comfort.  He was only too well aware of that fact.  “Azriel and Aleeme are not dead,” he said.  “I am sure of it.”

            It might be that Ponclast was mustering his forces, or perhaps he was incapable of doing more than he had already done, but Cobweb could not help but feel that they were being played with.  The silence, stretching interminably into the hot reaches of the balmy summer, was intolerable.  It was worse than attack.  It was worse than the more terrible of news.

            When news finally came, it was not on a windy, moaning night or a miserable morning when rain slashed the earth turning everything grey, it was on a motionless afternoon, with sunlight the colour of honey splashing against the walls of
Forever. 
A horse came galloping up the curving driveway from Galhea, its hectic sweating rush totally inappropriate on such a glorious afternoon.  Its rider urged it madly into the sleepy yard behind the house, where horses rested their chins on stable doors and flies looped drunkenly round their eyes.

            Cobweb, who was painting in the garden, watched the horse approach.  He put down his brush, set aside the creamy white parchment he was working on, and went with purpose back to the house.  By the time he reached the stable yard, Swift, who happened to be home at the time, was already out there.  Cobweb saw a shuddering har hanging in Swift's rather stiff-limbed hold.  He heard Swift barking questions, but could not hear the words.

            “What is it?” Cobweb asked, and his own voice seemed to come from another world.  He already knew.

            Swift released the messenger into the hold of two of his staff who had followed him out of the house.  “Amber Ridge has been attacked,” he said.

            This was a Parsic settlement some miles south of Galhea.  “By what?” Cobweb asked.

            “By shadows,” Swift answered, “shadows with knives.”

            “What?”

            Swift did not answer.  He was already walking back into the house, calling orders to the rapidly expanding group around him.

            Cobweb soon stood alone in the peaceful afternoon, while a groom led the shuddering horse to a stable for water and a blanket.  He looked up at the sky, though his vision was blurred, but all that drifted there were tame clouds, not a single black bird scrawled against them.