storm (75 page)

It was not easy to make friends among hara who were naturally suspicious of strangers, made even more difficult because the Teraghasts were acutely aware of Moon and Tyson's heritage.  The veiled hostility did not appear to affect Cal, as if other hara's opinions of him simply rolled off his skin like sweat.  But then he'd had a lifetime to train himself to ignore the disapproval of others.  “They are mostly stupid,” he told Tyson and Moon.  “Just play up to them, use flattery, bat your eyelashes.  It'll work.  Trust me.”

            Such behaviour did not come naturally to Moon, and Tyson felt like a fraud if he tried to ingratiate himself with the Teraghasts.  Consequently, they spent much time alone.  The Teraghasts were happy to give them work to do, such as rebuilding dwellings and workshops, but come break times, Tyson and Moon always sat apart from the other workers.  They were escorted to and from the workplace and their accommodation, and were always locked in at night, although their rooms, which were at ground level, did have a small walled courtyard they were allowed to use.  Cal was rarely with them during the day, but they didn't know where he went: Ponclast would only see Cal occasionally.  Cal himself was vague concerning his whereabouts.  The Teraghasts were close-lipped about their captives, so Cal hadn't been able to find out much about Azriel and Aleeme.  He had worked out where they were confined, however.  He said that if he asked too many questions, the Teraghasts would guess the truth about his presence in Fulminir, and it would be likely that he and his companions would be put back into more stringent confinement.

            This excuse made sense, but Moon was unsure that the rescue of Aleeme and Azriel was the real reason Cal had brought them there.  Tyson would not hear a bad word against his hostling, but privately Moon wondered whether Cal believed the outcome of any conflict would leave Ponclast in power.  Perhaps Cal simply wanted to be with the winning side when it was all over.

            It soon became clear that Cal had been cultivating a friendship with Kyrotates during his absences from his companions, a strategy that seemed eventually to be paying off – but then who could resist Cal on full power for long?  Kyrotates was an extremely contained and self-disciplined har, but even so, Moon had caught glimpses of him staring at Cal with the unmistakable expression of intense and smouldering desire.  In Moon's opinion, Kyrotates felt confused about it, perhaps wondering where these devastating feelings had come from.  Cal in seduction mode was terrifying.  He was like a primordial goddess of love: unswervable, inexorable and merciless, skulls of his victims swinging from his belt.  One evening he stretched himself beside the cooking fire they'd built in their courtyard and said, “Kyrotates will soon be cooked to perfection, and I intend to consume him with relish.  Then we will have the information we need.”

            Tyson laughed, but Moon felt slightly disgusted.  “Sure he doesn't need longer on slow simmer?” he asked, and could hear the acidity in his own voice.

            “Don't want him to burn,” Cal said lightly.  “Believe me, I know all about this type of cuisine, moonling.  I don't have a taste for charcoal.”

            “But if you don't cook something for long enough,” Moon said, inspired, “then it can poison you.”

            “Yes, the metaphor is fun,” Cal said dryly, “but I think we've got more than enough out of it.”

            “Cobweb thought you'd changed,” Moon said, “but he was wrong.  It was all just an act.  You still use hara as you like.”

            Cal sat up.  “Moon,” he said, in a low voice, “don't be such a prude.  That's very early Cevarro of you!  Why are we here?  I'm just making light of what is actually an unpleasant circumstance.”

            Moon went numb with humiliation.  He wished Tyson wasn’t there.

Ponclast took a great deal of pleasure in observing Cal – the other two barely interested him.  He could see Cal trying to wind himself around Kyrotates' legs like a demanding cat, and he noted with amusement Kyrotates' inept attempts to stumble away from it.  Cal operated on hara with surgical precision: it was a delight to behold.  Ponclast dearly wished he could trust Cal – what an asset he'd be – but he was also realistic.  If anything, Cal was above and beyond any skirmish between the Teraghasts and the Gelaming.  Ponclast knew Cal was not a spy for Immanion, but neither could he be relied upon.  At the most crucial moment, he might jump from your lap and be out the window, to disappear over the rooftops.  A cat is a creature unto itself.

            Cal still did not know about Abrimel: a morsel Ponclast was keeping in reserve.  Abrimel himself had no wish to confront Cal and still thought he should be thrown into a dungeon or killed.  Ponclast realised Abrimel was actually terrified of Cal, although he would not admit it.  The question was: did he fear Cal's judgement?  If that was the case, it would suggest that Abrimel was not wholly free of his Gelaming heritage.  And that was a fact to be mindful of.

            Ponclast knew that Cal was interested in the fate of the Parasilians, simply because he had not yet asked about them.  Aleeme Parasiel had already delivered one pearl for Ponclast, and was currently carrying a second one.  His health had deteriorated, but Ponclast did not care.  Every time he laid eyes on those hara, he saw Swift's face.  He remembered the day that Fulminir had fallen before and Swift's righteous wrath.  When he used his will to open the seal in Aleeme's shuddering body he felt like he was beating Swift about the head.  He had not yet forced himself upon Azriel: he merely made Azriel watch what happened to Aleeme.  Now, he kept the Parasilians apart.  Aleeme was dying.  When he was dead, Azriel could have him back.  Then it would be his turn.

            The Hashmallim had made only one further visit to Fulminir.  Abraxis had manifested spontaneously in front of Ponclast late one night, this tiem alone.  His towering presnce had turned the air in Ponclast's study black.  “Let your enemies come to you,” he said.  “When they arrive, unleash your hara upon them, but selectively.”

            “This is not a good plan,” Ponclast said.  “Fulminir is not fully rebuilt, and it will take months if not years for the work to be completed.  It is not viable as a fortress.  Pellaz har Aralis will bring an army of many thousands.  They will have
sedim
to whom walls will mean nothing.  There are too few of us.  You must give us more assistance.”

            “You will get what you need,” Abraxis said.  “The
teraphim
will deal with the
sedim.
  That is not your concern.  Make one attack, that's all.  Small and swift.  It will not achieve much, but it will be a warning and it will make them think twice about storming this place.  Then you must summon the Tigron.  Are you ready to pitch your will and strength against his?”

            Ponclast was silent for a moment.  “Why am I fighting this war for you?”

            Abraxis narrowed his strange, smoky blue eyes.  “You are fighting a war to reclaim your land and your status among Wraeththukind.  We are offering you assistance.  Your question puzzles me.”

            Ponclast was surprised to hear Abraxis admit he was puzzled, not that for one moment he believed it to be true.  “Why are you offering us assistance?  I think perhaps that we are offering it to you.”

            “We have mutual interests at stake,” Abraxis said.  “Let us simply agree we can help each other.  If we withdraw our assistance now, the Gelaming will crush you.  I hope you are clever enough to know that.”

            “I do know that,” Ponclast said, “but even so some questions I have in my mind are not being answered.  The murky areas concern me.”

            “Let me put my hands upon your new son,” Abraxis said.  “Take this as a gift.”

            Ponclast hesitated only a moment, then went to the crib where his and Abrimel's son lay sleeping.  He was a perfect harling, so unlike all the others Ponclast had created.

            “A beautiful being,” Abraxis said, with uncharacteristic warmth.  “Have you named him?”

            Ponclast was suspicious of this new, strangely sociable aspect of the Hashmal.  “Not yet.  The name has not come to me.”

            “Then allow me to name him for you.  Understand that this is a rare gift indeed.”

            Ponclast held the harling close for some moments, then held him out.  As he watched the Hashmal's enormous hands close around his son, he felt like he had put a seal over the future, over a single path, eclipsing all other possibilities.

            Abraxis' hands began to glow.  He lifted the harling high, staring up at him, and the harling laughed.  “Son of Hermaphroditus, I name you Geburael, creature of strength and power.  May the emanations of the highest spheres penetrate your being.”  He brought the harling close to his face and kissed him.  The newly named Geburael uttered a whimper.

            “Give him back,” Ponclast said.

            The Hashmal did so and when he released the harling from his hands, strings of radiance still hung in the air, from the ends of his fingers to the body of the child.  “Affectionately, you will call him Geb, which is also an ancient name for a god of the earth.”

            The harling pressed himself close to Ponclast, who could feel the tiny heart beating frantically, like a terrified bird's.

            “You live at the foot of the mountains,” said Abraxis, “and even though I come down from the High Place to you, remember nonetheless from whence I come.”

            “I don't know of what you speak,” Ponclast said.

            “You are har, a being of flesh and blood, trapped in a narrow realm.  We are not.  You could not even comprehend us in our natural state, so you are in no position to question or even ponder our movements.”

            “What will happen after Pellaz is defeated?”

            “You will give him to us, and through him we will eat out the hearts of his associates.  Once they are gone, you will ride the spirit paths to Immanion, and the city will offer itself to you.  Be merciful or not, as you see fit.  Instate your consort on his hostling's throne.  Enjoy your realm and forget us.”

            “You have an interest in my son,” Ponclast said.  “I find the prospect of forgetting you somewhat unrealistic.”

            “He is our investment in the future of this realm,” Abraxis said.  “He will not be taken from you, if that is what you fear.  He will carve his own path.”

            Abraxis drew himself to his full height.  “The march has begun.  Soon, the time will come for you to capture the hearts of all hara in this realm.  You will prove to them who has real power.  Be at rest, Ponclast.  Walk in your fields.  Gaze upon the stars.  Be sure they look down upon you.”

            The air flexed as if squeezed by a divine hand and Ponclast was left alone; the only evidence left behind of the Hashmal's presence was a faint aroma of burnt sugar.

            Ponclast kissed his son and walked to the window.  He could see out over the fields beyond Fulminir.  He could see the stars, hard in a cloudless sky.  Geburael reached out his hands to them greedily; a child clutching for pretty, sparkling things.

One evening, Cal did not return to his room at sundown and Tyson and Moon ate in the courtyard alone.  “Kyrotates will be little more than bones soon,” Tyson said.

            Moon rubbed his arms.  That night, the air was chill.  “The season is beginning to turn,” he said.  “I can feel the changing time.”

            “The trees are so heavy,” Tyson murmured, “it is like they become too heavy with life at this time.”