by Unknown
On the night when Calanthe had locked in psychic combat with Thiede, something had happened to the magical barrier surrounding Gebaddon. It didn't break or fade; it remained as strong as ever, and in some areas became even stronger, but something leaked through it and slithered through the warped undergrowth of the forest. It found its way to Ponclast, brooding as usual in a deep cave, where tree roots were like stalactites around him. It came to him like a little bird and landed on his outstretched hand. It was the ability to see through the veil. It was Thiede's destruction and because Thiede had put so much of himself in Gebaddon to keep the exiles at bay, when he transcended the earthly realm, part of his essence went looking for a place to rest, a place called home, where it would feel comfortable. It was unfortunate that Gebaddon was the nearest it could find.
Ponclast felt knowledge enter him like a blade to the throat. For some moments, he was held in stasis, in pain. He witnessed and experienced firsthand some of Thiede's torment, fear and confusion, and didn't know what it was. It could just have been another miserable torture conjured up by the poisoned soil of Gebaddon. But when the sensations subsided and Ponclast lay heaving upon his throne of damp dark boughs, he knew. Thiede was gone. The barrier still stood, but the Teraghasts were somehow changed. Ponclast knew that he might now find a way for a part of them, if only a small insubstantial part, to squeeze through the boundary.
For weeks Ponclast worked in secret upon his plans, trying many, discarding all. Some of his hara, lured in ignorance into his subterranean hive, died during the experiments. He toyed with sending hara into trance, so that they believed they could pass like smoke through the barrier. He performed dark rituals of Grissecon to invoke unmentionable forces into hara's bodies, which might find the barrier no more obstructive than mist. None of these trials worked. He needed something bigger, more daring. And yet he knew he must be subtle. If he acted too quickly or too rashly, the Gelaming would no doubt pick up psychically on his activities. They would be alerted to his newfound freedom, albeit small, and would squash it swiftly. Sometimes Ponclast wondered whether he was dreaming a cruel dream, and that the possibility of justice at last was an illusion. He dreamed often of Terzian, had always done so. In death, Terzian had transformed in Ponclast's mind into a shining angel. Their past disagreements had been forgotten. Terzian was a martyr, a dark saint. He must be avenged. And vengeance could not be taken in prison.
During his experiments, with the smell of blood and singed flesh around him as he meditated, Ponclast prayed so hard to the image of Terzian, he conjured a living thought that appeared to him as a flickering outline of radiance. The tragedy of betrayal poured from this image, the treachery of sons. Ponclast's son, Gahrazel, whom he had fathered in the days when he'd led the Varrs, was long dead. Ponclast himself had ordered Gahrazel to be executed for treason. It was not unreasonable to suppose that Terzian's son, equally traitorous, should suffer in a similar way. When Ponclast, deep in trance, saw Terzian's beautiful image hanging before him in darkness, it seemed that Swift's name was upon his lips. The House of Parasiel must be razed to the ground, its hara expunged without trace. But how could Ponclast achieve this? He was not mad, so under no delusion he had the power to affect outside reality in such a shattering way. Not with the resources at his disposal. Not yet.
“Help me, beloved,” he said to the phantom of Terzian. “Bring me aid.” He cut his wrist and offered blood into a bowl of fire, then he sealed the wound. “Bring it quickly.” He worried that the Gelaming would somehow curb him before he could act.
One night, weeks later, Terzian came to Ponclast in a dream. He carried between his hands a window into the world beyond and through this window Ponclast perceived an astounding thing. The reverberations of the event he witnessed were so strong they made the entire barrier around Gebaddon vibrate and resonate a thousand tones like the strings of untuned harps. They made the barrier glow a deep reddish purple and any Teraghast hara unfortunate enough to be within fifty feet of it were thrown into convulsions. Some of them choked on their own tongues. Ponclast, however, writhing in sleep, saw a different kind of light. He saw a soul comprised of colours the harish eye could not normally perceive. He saw it streak like a comet through the layers of the universe until it splashed into the body of Caeru har Aralis and took possession of the newly formed pearl it found there.
The image of Terzian said nothing, but Ponclast knew regardless that he was being shown this event for a reason. This was no ordinary har that had been conceived. It was, in some ways, an abomination, created too soon and in ignorance. Ponclast thought that if Thiede had been in this place, his etheric servitors would have blocked the soul before it got within twenty layers of earthly reality. They would have sent it back to the centre of creation, and Caeru would have woken the next morning with only a sore body and consuming nausea. He would not have been with pearl. But Thiede was gone, and his protégé, Pellaz, had acted imprudently. He had called into being a kind of demon he lacked the strength or wisdom to control. When hatched, this demon would want to take into itself all that was Thiede. It would surpass in power any that had come before. Gebaddon, to this being, would be a morsel to consume with relish.
Now the image of Terzian spoke. It said, "If you would take for yourself the power of the Aghama, destroy this pearl. Have it brought to you and devour it. Then will the House of Parasiel be given into your hands and your kingdom shall spread across the earth."
Ponclast awoke with this prophecy ringing in his head. He sat upright in his cold bed and stared into the darkness, where no shining spirit hung. Even to a har such as Ponclast, who made the Kakkahaar Lianvis appear only as a benign trickster, the idea of ripping a pearl from its hosting and then devouring it was hardly a prospect to relish. His mouth was rank with the taste of blood. He cared nothing for the Aralisians, and in fact one of his dearest fantasies was to impale the entire family upon poles outside Phaonica, but he also knew that if he concurred with the suggestion that had seeped through to this world, he would be crossing a boundary he had never dared to cross before. He would deliver himself to forces that previously even he had shunned. He knew in his part that he was being offered a calling card from entities he had sensed, but never seen. These beings, ancient and incomprehensible, lurked in the shadows of the ethers. Their creatures fed on the basest of emotional energy. Their concept of creation was destruction, and no living thing, of any plane of existence, possessed of the knowledge to control them. But, if the correct offerings and compromises were made, these beings might well reward a lesser entity for service.
"Yes," he said aloud, his breath steaming on the air.
At once, it felt as if his throat was gripped by a giant invisible hand. Do you know us?
The touch was icy, yet as hot as the core of the earth. It reached inside him like an army of imps, examining every thought in his head. "Help me," Ponclast gasped, "and I will serve you."
We do not obey summons. You did not call us, wretched hermaphroditus. We summon you.
"Yes," Ponclast wheezed. His life was draining away, his body lifted up from the bed.
You will work for us, for it is time. You have been chosen. Work well, and there will be rewards.
Ponclast felt he had nothing to lose. He and his hara were living a half-life, in suffering. They were no longer magnificent or powerful, but mean little phantoms grubbing away at toxic earth. Given the right nourishment, the Teraghasts could become greater than the Varrs had ever been. And if Ponclast had virtually to sell his soul to achieve it, then so be it. "I will do as you ask, willingly and of my own volition."
The unseen hand withdrew and Ponclast slumped back upon the bed. He could perceive a small sphere of deepest black before him, which was visible even within the darkness of the cave. Choose one of your children to be your champion. Bring him to you and mingle your essence with his. Through this, he will be given the gift of flight, the ability to travel the spirit paths between the worlds. This is the first gift and w
ill enable you to realize your first duty. Destroy the child of light.
"I will do this."
Once he had spoken, the sphere of black light shot towards his body and enter it through the solar plexus. There was a dull thud, a sense of being punched, like a stab wound, but nothing more. The invisible presence vanished. Ponclast was sweating from every pore. His body shook as from the throes of deadly fever. He crawled from his bed and drank water from a pool beneath the roots of the tree. He lit some misshapen candles that lay in puddles of ancient grey wax. Then he composed himself for trance.
Ponclast extended his inner sight and cast it like a lurid beam over all of his children. It swung this way and that, pausing to consider, to examine, before eventually moving on. Ultimately, it came to rest upon a particular har, who had just killed a comrade in a moment of pure despair. Ponclast's sight lingered over the har for some moments, then he sent forth a messenger, the hiss and scratch of his inner voice, and he called this son to him.
So Diablo came to the lair of his hostling, whom he had never met. He followed a call that was almost like a scent. He paused often to smell the air as he followed it. He came slinking along the damp noisome passageways, his body stooped close to the ground with wariness. His eyes glowed yellow in the darkness and his hot breath created clouds around his head. Very soon, he crouched before Ponclast in the central chamber.
Ponclast observed this feral imp with interest. He considered that Diablo was a living expression of his own desires. He beckoned with a clean white finger, "Come to me, my son."
He could tell that Diablo's first instinct was to attack, but that he was clever enough to realize such action would be pointless. He could also tell that Diablo was not afraid. Cautiously, Diablo came forward until Ponclast could rest a hand on his son's head. "I have a job for you," he said. "You were born of my body. You are part of me."
Diablo stared at Ponclast with what appeared to be suspicion or disbelief.
"I am your hostling, and we must take aruna together, because I have a gift for you, and that is the only way for me to pass it to you."
Diablo cocked his head to one side and grinned.
To Ponclast, the kindling of arunic energy had nothing to do with desire for feeling. He willed it to manifest and it did. Diablo became soume in the same spirit. It meant nothing greater than if Ponclast had offered him some food or water.
Ponclast could feel an alien energy deep inside him. It flickered like a black flame in his belly, in the place where normally his personal life force glowed white. At the climax of aruna, it poured from him into Diablo, and Diablo growled and shuddered beneath them.
"You have learned something," Ponclast said. "And now you must work to master it."
Diablo whimpered and curled up his body. Black sweat ran over his damp skin. Ponclast gazed upon him, and for a moment remembered Gahrazel, so beautiful and whole. Diablo was hardly of the same calibre, but he would have to suffice. Ponclast extended a hand and laid it on Diablo's shoulder. "Rest," he said. "Tomorrow we shall explore wondrous new territory."
Chapter Seven
Banners of gold were hung in the streets, an air of festival filled the city. The new era had dawned. The Aralisians had put aside all rancour and had conceived an extraordinary and magical pearl. The harling who must eventually come from it would be superior to all others, even to his parents. Surely this meant that all that had happened had been for the greater good. Cal had brought harmony to Phaonica.
Caeru was not so easily convinced. Over the ensuing weeks, he allowed himself to be seen regularly in public as evidence of his condition became noticeable to others. He knew that Pellaz had suggested the idea, then manipulated and coerced his consorts, not because he sought harmony in his domestic sphere, but because he felt threatened. He would reveal to his consorts nothing of his fears, but it was Caeru's belief that Pellaz thought Thiede would come back to them in the child.
The conception itself had not been an easy process for Caeru. He remembered how he'd felt that night in Ferelithia when Pellaz -- for rather their mutual desire -- had opened up a part of himself that was normally sealed shut. It was the cauldron of creation, the secret organ where seed and egg combined, and because -- for the Gelaming -- harish the conception could be achieved only by spiritually elevated aruna, it did not take place entirely in the earthly realm. Caeru had allowed two hara into that secret place; it had torn him apart, and not just in a physical sense. The organ itself had felt as if it had been beaten in submission and it did not close up again as quickly as it should have done. Caeru had felt this inside, and it had been a hideous feeling: not pain exactly, but as if a black hole into another universe had been spiralling inside him and he could have been sucked inside out, right into it. Now, his body had more or less found its balance again, and the pearl was developing as normal, but Caeru felt very different to how he'd felt carrying Abrimel's pearl. This harling seemed to gnaw at his being, to suck out his life: he felt tired and drained. The bizarre aruna that had created the pearl had hurt him greatly and the dull, deep ache never went away. He carried it with him always, along with a sense of heaviness, of being dragged down. He felt no connection with what grew inside him, which was the complete opposite of how he'd felt before. As the weeks passed, he became more anxious, afraid that, between them, they had created some kind of abomination. He could confide nothing of this to Pellaz because, not really to his surprise, the Tigron had not returned to the Tigrina's apartments. Caeru had not seen him alone since that night. Pellaz was occupied with secret plans and had spent too many hours in private discussion with his brother, Terez. Cal visited Caeru regularly, as had become usual, but he too seemed distracted and uneasy. Something was approaching and it seemed that none of them dared speak of it, as if the words alone would conjure up a storm.
Caeru could not even open up to Velaxis, whose only reaction to the conception had been to praise Caeru for his enterprise. Caeru did not enlighten him. He was isolated from everyhar, both emotionally and physically. Cal appeared afraid to touch him again.
The situation had not been helped by the cool reaction to the news by Abrimel. Perhaps it was only to be expected. A formal message of congratulations had come from Imbrilim, which sounded as if it had been put together by a clerical assistant. Abrimel made no mention of visiting home. Caeru missed him badly, perhaps as much as Pellaz missed Thiede. He sent a message himself, asking his son to visit, hoping Abrimel would read between the lines and understand how much his hostling needed his support, but so far Abrimel had not even replied. He was angry because he felt he was being pushed out. Abrimel was a grown har, and the Tigron's son, but the difficulties of his childhood meant he could never feel close to Pellaz. Now, a new son had been conceived, this time in different circumstances. Pellaz, if not the whole of Gelamingkind, would embrace this new harling far more readily than the forgotten embarrassment, who'd turned up on the doorstep of Phaonica with his hostling, and who had not been welcome.
One afternoon, as yet another party of dignitaries from a far country was entertained in Phaonica's court, Caeru said quietly to Cal, "What have we done? I need to talk to you. I feel strange.”
It was a totally inappropriate moment to say such a thing, as they were surrounded by visitors. Pellaz was not present, a situation that had offended some of the dignitaries who felt the Tigron ought to be giving them his attention.
Cal cast Caeru a quick, startled glance and murmured, “I will speak to you later.”
Caeru could tell it was the last thing that Cal wanted to do. Perhaps it was so difficult because what they'd shared that night had been a mutual invasion of mind, body and spirit, far deeper than any har had a right to explore. Caeru now knew things about Cal and Pellaz that he really wished he didn't: the gibbering terrors and insecurities that lurked in the farthest reaches of the mind, the hidden corners where demons were buried. Had Cal really wanted to discover how deeply Pellaz had loved Thiede, and how much he missed him and how he
resented Cal for his banishing? Had Pellaz wanted to know the minutiae of Cal's exploits over the past thirty years? Cal had claimed that Terzian the Varr, for example, had meant little to him. Well, that wasn't true for a start. Many times that night, Caeru had received images of Cal's thoughts of Terzian, as he remembered their time together, when Tyson had been conceived. Cal had felt sad that Terzian was dead. These recollections must have washed over Pellaz like a caustic bath. Of course, the intensity of the experience had dredged old feelings from their graves, but they were like words spoken in anger. They could never be taken back.