The Shades of Time and Memory

by Storm Constantine

  Snake's body went rigid. “You must go,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Although nohar else knew it, the devastation in the otherlanes was not a deliberate ploy. It was merely a side effect. Ponclast's unseen allies ripped the barrier to shreds and their violent presence in this reality shook the fibres of the otherlanes into chaos. At the moment when the barrier around Gebaddon finally crumpled and fell, and Ponclast's Teraghasts burst out like black blood from an infected wound, the whole of creation screamed. The ethers went into convulsions and entities on every strand of the web of wyrd were made aware that a cataclysmic event had occurred. For some, it was of no more import than of hearing an explosion in a distant place, while for others it meant the end of everything.

  Ponclast rode a golden horse, which was kin to the sedim, though of darker substance, despite its radiant appearance. The beast was son of the teraphim, and before him all sedim would tremble. Ponclast's mount carried him overland to the ruins of Fulminir, where once the worst of Varr atrocities had taken place. It was no longer a blasted patch of scorched earth, spiked by shattered towers. The green had poured over it, slowly and inexorably, and now flowers bloomed among the tumbled masonry. To Ponclast, this seemed both fitting and just. It represented just how much the Gelaming could not contain living essence. The monument to their enemies, which they'd intended to let stand as a warning to all those who might oppose them in the future, was now a garden, its harsh lines softened. Ponclast too had changed.

  He rode alone to his old home, leaving his hara in the outer courts, and found that much of it still stood, although several of its halls stood open to the air and young trees grew upon the stairways. As he rode the teraph through this place, Ponclast heard no ghosts of screams and combat. He heard only the song of birds. It was, in fact, quite peaceful.

  He found for himself an intact room, which would be his headquarters. It had to be fairly comfortable because here he could continue to deliver pearls – or at least the one he still carried. It might be that procreation must be stalled for a time, while other matters pressed upon his attention, but the pearl he held within him now was special. He realised he cared about it, something he'd never felt before. It was also Abrimel's child.

  The seduction of Abrimel har Aralis had not been as difficult as Ponclast had feared. Over time, the Gelaming had got used to Ponclast's appearance; Diablo had carried him to Gebaddon at least once a week, sometimes more. For some time, Ponclast had merely talked to Abrimel, flattered him discretely, encouraged him to speak his heart. One night, as they'd consumed wine that Abrimel had brought with him from Imbrilim, they had ventured into the scarred territory of Abrimel's childhood. He could remember in distressing detail the Tigron's cruelty to Caeru. He remembered his terror when Pellaz had shouted and his even greater fear of the violent energy that had poured from his father's body. Ponclast gently nudged him to deeper revelations, and eventually Abrimel put his face in his hands. At that moment, Ponclast furled an arm about his shoulders. “Pellaz har Aralis will regret what he did to you, this I promise.”

  Abrimel had looked up at him then. “Whatever has been done to you, you are more beautiful than my father.”

  “I know what I am,” Ponclast said, “but that will change also. Before I met you, I rarely considered my appearance, but now it is important to me.”

  “You have shown me more kindness than any other har,” Abrimel said. “I know what you are, through and through, and it does not matter.” With these words, he took Ponclast's face between his hands and shared breath with him.

  Ponclast pulled Abrimel back until they lay on the cold floor. He almost swooned as Abrimel carefully opened the crimson robe and covered his starved body with kisses. Each kiss was a gift of life. Ponclast felt as if he was filling out, regaining himself, with every caress.

  “There is no part of you I will not taste,” Abrimel said, somewhat drunk.

  “There is not,” Ponclast agreed. “The deepest secrets of my being are yours.”

  It was a pleasure to guide Abrimel to the moment of creation, so different from all other occasions when Ponclast had kindled new life within him. Abrimel was no ravaged being, like the sorry Teraghasts, but a vital healthy har in prime condition, mentally alert and emotionally susceptible. For the first time, Ponclast understood some of what he had once despised in other hara. For the first time, the father of the pearl was important, wanted and needed. The pearl would be very different to any that Ponclast had borne before. The harling within it would not hatch to be twisted and warped. It would be pure and perfect, with a heart as fierce as an angel. It warmed Ponclast greatly to know that the Tigron's own blood went against him, but there were also other benefits. Abrimel truly saw beauty in Ponclast. Because of this, the Tigron's son was more prized by Ponclast than he'd every guess.

  Now Ponclast called for another of his sons, who he also treasured, but for different reasons. He called psychically to Diablo.

  Diablo came quickly to his hostling's private room, even though he had not set foot in Fulminir before. He knelt at Ponclast's side to be caressed, for this was one of the few pleasures in Diablo's life.

  “Was your mission in Galhea successful?” Ponclast asked, knowing he did not really have to ask. The episode with the Aralisian pearl had been a glitch, because other forces had been involved.

  “Yes,” Diablo said.

  “Was our merchandise damaged?”

  “Hardly at all. A little. I did as you said.”

  “Who have you brought for me?”

  “Two. One is a son of Parasiel, of Swift the Betrayer.”

  “You have excelled yourself. Who is the other?”

  “His consort, who is from afar. I smelled his blood and it is strange. It carries the taint of the serpent.”

  “That's interesting,” said Ponclast. “There's a tribe of serpent hara, my sweet, and they are called the Colurastes. They are rarely seen by others. The Kakkahaar leader, Lianvis, owned one once. I wonder if I'm to be equally fortunate.”

  “I do not know these names,” said Diablo.

  “You will,” Ponclast said. “I see I must educate you.” He lifted Diablo's sharp chin in his hand, gazed into his son's dark eyes. “You must relearn yourselves, all of you, my children. You must not be grovelling imps but proud warriors. You must learn to stand tall. I have neglected you.”

  “I will do as you ask,” said Diablo.

  “Good,” said Ponclast. “Bathe yourself. I have another job for you.”

  Diablo appeared somewhat confused.

  “Immerse yourself naked in water,” Ponclast said, “for some time.”

  “I will,” said Diablo.

  “Return to me just before sundown. I have something to attend to. After that, I will view the prisoners.”

  Once Diablo had left, Ponclast composed himself in a meditative state to deliver the pearl he carried. It was slightly before term, but he had a need to rid himself of it now, because he had to be at his most agile. It fought him a little, because it was not ready to leave its nest of warmth and safety, but he knew these last few days were merely a luxury to it. If it learned early the harsh reality of existence, it could only be of benefit to its development. Ponclast squatted on the dirty floor and focused his entire being on expelling the pearl. When it fell, eventually, into his hands, some fresh blood came with it, but not enough to worry about. Ponclast held the pearl close to his breast while he concentrated upon healing himself. He closed ripped blood vessels, soothed torn flesh, gazing inside himself as a surgeon might do, but using only his mind.

  For nearly an hour he sat gazing into space, the pearl still held close in bloodied hands, thinking about how much work he had to do. Fulminir must be rebuilt, but not as it had been before. If he was to take on the Gelaming and their fawning allies, then he must meet them on equal terms. He would create for himself forces like theirs, but seen through a dark mirror. His own allies would help him.

  The terap
h had remained with him throughout the birth, an immense yet immobile presence in the shadows of the room. It had come to Ponclast only minutes before Gebaddon had been breached. Ponclast realised he must forge a relationship with this creature. “You are Golab,” Ponclast said to the teraph. “I name you so.”

  The teraph stamped and came forward, head hanging low, its hooves thudding heavily aaginst the old wood floor. It nosed at the pearl, its lips tickling Ponclast's hands. Its breath was warm. Ponclast remembered the instruction that the blue child had given to him: do not attempt to contact us again. He could not heed it. They had sent the teraph and breached the magical barrier around Gebaddon, but this was not nearly enough.

  “I have little time,” Ponclast said to the teraph. “The hara from the old days are crippled by memory, and those of the new are ignorant creatures. Help me shape them, Golab. You have seen with your own eyes the state of things here. If my request is justified, go to your masters and bring me aid.”

  The teraph lifted its beautiful head and shook its mane. It made a chewing sound, as any normal horse would make. Then before Ponclast's eyes, it opened a portal and went into it, leaving only a chill breeze behind.

  At the appointed time, Diablo returned to the room of his hostling. Ponclast had already wrapped the pearl in a drape he'd torn down and now it was incubating in a corner of the room. Ponclast showed it to Diablo. “I appoint you as guardian of your brother,” he said. “Every night you will sleep with this pearl, warming it with your body. When it hatches, you must put the life of the harling within it before your own. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are our hara gathered?”

  “In the outer courts of this citadel,” said Diablo. “They are preparing food and await your presence.”

  “Bring two of them to me immediately. They must guard the pearl while we are at our business.”

  “I will.”

  “Choose well.”

  Diablo ducked his head and slipped from the room. Ponclast could not hear him going down the stairs. He smiled.

  The Parsic prisoners were confined in another room of the citadel and, as Diablo had said, were not too damaged. They had fought against their captor so Diablo had been forced to spill a little blood, but their injuries were not serious: a slashed arm, a shallow wound to the belly.

  Ponclast stood before them and was pleased to note they were defiant and uncowed. It brought no pleasure to Ponclast's heart to torture a beaten har. They might be disorientated after Diablo had dragged them, without the agency of sedim, through some of the darker back alleys of the otherlanes, but at least they were in possession of their senses. “Do you know who I am?” he asked them.

  They stared back at him, silent, wrapped in each other's arms. They were afraid, but somehow determined, not yet resigned.

  “I am Ponclast. You might know this name. Which of you is the highson of Terzian?”

  Again, he was met only with furious silence.

  “I can find out very easily,” Ponclast said. “You might as well tell me. Why bring needless pain to yourself? I am being courteous, for the sake of your highfather's blood.”

  “I am Azriel Parasiel,” one of them said.

  “And this is your chesnari, is it not?” Ponclast asked, gently nudging the other har with his foot. “Are you Colurastes, har? You don't have the look of them, although I am advised you carry the serpent taint.”

  “I am Aleeme har Sarestes,” said the har, “half Colurastes.”

  “Thank you for being so compliant,” Ponclast said. He fixed Azriel with an unblinking stare. “This serpent har will be taken to my quarters. If you wish to ensure his relative safety, you will be co-operative.”

  “If you intend harm to our tribe, we are prepared to die before we'll co-operate,” Azriel said.

  Ponclast was not deceived. He could tell that Azriel did not want to die, but also that he and his chesnari had discussed their circumstances while they'd been left alone. They felt they should do the noble thing and sacrifice themselves, but they did not have the courage to take their own lives.

  “You have no choice,” Ponclast said. “Believe me, death is the least of your worries. You might be surprised at how quickly you'll want to co-operate, should I decide to persuade you.”

  “You are insane,” Azriel said. “The Gelaming will crush you.”

  “Your gauche opinions are endearing. I almost wish, for you sake, that they were realistic. But they're not.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Aleeme asked.

  “You? I will use you to create a new strain of har. Have you borne a pearl before, Colurastes?”

  “No!” Aleeme spat. “And you cannot make me do that, no matter how much pain you inflict on me. You should know that. It is beyond me.”

  “Actually, it is not,” Ponclast said. “As you will learn. I prefer to carry the pearls of my sons myself, but that condition will be inconvenient to me for some time. Therefore, I shall have to create new hostlings.”

  “That is not possible!” Azriel said. “Pearls cannot be created in hate.”

  Ponclast laughed harshly. “You think not? You should know your own tribe was once very familiar with the process of creating pearls on demand. You've not heard of the Varrish pearl farm, I take it?”

  “Oh, we know of that abomination, Ponclast,” Azriel replied. “We also know how the Varrs abandoned their breeding slaves to starvation once the Gelaming declared war in this country. It was not a farm, it was a pit of torture.”

  “Hardly that,” Ponclast said. “The hostlings there were reared for their vocation. Also, though I have no need to justify myself to you, we had no choice but to abandon our workers. At the time, our forces were being massacred.” He paused a moment before continuing. “You know, it amuses me greatly the way you refer so scathingly to 'Varrs'. You are one yourself, no matter what fancy title your father chooses to plaster over the past. Perhaps you too would make good breeding stock, Azriel Parasiel.”

  “You are obscene!” Azriel cried.

  “No, simply realistic. I do not view the world through a comfortable rosy glow, Parsic, and do you know why? I have been confined in hell for years. Your father, lapdog of Thiede that he is, saw to that. But now Thiede is no more and I am freed from my prison. It's difficult to be sentimental after such an ordeal. Harlings are a resource, not romantic expressions. Your highfather knew this also, as you will come to know it.”

  “You killed your own son,” Azriel said. “If you were in hell, you created it yourself.”

  “I have many sons now,” Ponclast said mildly. “Loyal ones. They are legion. Believe it. When your father comes for you, my sons will tear his body into a thousand pieces, so small they will be impossible to devour and dogs will lick up his blood.”

  Azriel uttered a growl and spat at Ponclast, the spittle striking his robe at the knees. “Hmm,” Ponclast said, “for that affront, I bestow a new honour upon you. I will allow you to witness just how easily your beloved chesnari can create pearls in hate.” He inclined his head to his captives and left them to their grief.

  Satisfied with the interview, Ponclast went to his hara, who were gathered around fires in the sprawling outer courts of the citadel. Before he made his presence known, he spent a few moments observing them. They were underfed, having sustained themselves only with the poisoned fruits of Gebaddon for many years, but even so they were fit, as they'd spent most of their time fighting amongst themselves. Now, it seemed, they had rediscovered how to be of one mind, and for those of second generation, a new way of living was being revealed. So few of them though, merely six hundred at most. Their strength would have to be as swift-striking assassins, rather than ordinary troops. Ponclast needed more hara, and even if he had a thousand hostlings bearing pearls for him, the harlings would grow too slowly to be of use in the foreseeable future. Subjugation might be the only way. How many hara of Megalithica were truly happy with Gelaming rule? It could be that once Po
nclast obtained a few victories, in particular the conquest of Galhea, some Parsics might cast off the shackles they wore and regard themselves as Varrs once more. And what of the Uigenna? Where were the remnants of his greatest allies? Had the Gelaming destroyed them all or was there another Gebaddon somewhere, waiting for his liberating hand? Now, he gazed upon his ramshackle army, clad in rags, with their bones poking through their skins, and had to fight hard to dispel the sinking sensation that gripped his belly. They were all he had. They would have to suffice.

  He stepped out of the shadow of an archway and stood before his hara, at the head of a short flight of steps. The hara all turned their heads towards him and went silent. Ponclast saw the need in their eyes for reassurance and promise. He held out his arms to them.

  “Welcome, hara of the Varrs, to your freedom. You have cast off the chains that bound you. You can remember without fear the glories of the past and look forward to greater victories. Those who enslaved us will feel the force of retribution. The scavengers will be gutted in their beds, for you will strike swiftly and in silence.”