The Tower

Ponclast brings Lianvis back to Fulminir. Out of his element in the cold north, Lianvis grows to fear the dark hallways and their unknown inhabitants. Anyhar can tell the tower holds secrets. But just how dark are they?
A gothic novel set in the Wraeththu universe.
Lianvis written by Madeira, Ponclast and Terzian written by Jarad.

Chapter 1: Gateway

Notes:

“An ego, wounded to the point of annulment, barricaded and untouchable, cowers somewhere, nowhere, at no other place than the one that cannot be found. Where objects are concerned he delegates phantoms, ghosts, "false cards": a stream of spurious egos and for that very reason spurious objects, seeming egos that confront undesirable objects. Separation exists, and so does language, even brilliantly at times, with apparently remarkable intellectual realizations. But no current flows—it is a pure and simple splitting, an abyss without any possible means of conveyance between its two edges. No subject, no object: petrification on one side, falsehood on the other.
“Letting current flow into such a "fortified castle" amounts to causing desire to rise."
-Julia Kristeva, "Powers of Horror," p. 47

Chapter Text

TERZIAN

The sky above Fulminir was overcast, with clouds stained red from the fires of industry. Against that bloody sky the tower loomed, stabbing towards heaven. Banners flapped haughtily in the wind, Varr colors unfurling and snapping back on themselves again.

Snow lay heavily on the ground, and our horses sank in it almost to the knee.

I rode at the right hand of Ponclast. His body– black uniform, proud pale silhouette– blocked my view of Lianvis, on his left. That was just as well; I had no desire to look at him. The left side, closest to the heart, I thought, and my chest ached.

Ponclast turned his face away from me to speak to his other companion. “Isn’t it magnificent, Viss?”

I could barely make out Lianvis’ reply, so soft was it, muffled by the layers of scarves and furs in which he’d wrapped himself: “Yes, Lorda.” It sounded like his teeth were chattering.

Weak, I thought disgustedly. It burned me up that Ponclast was wasting his time on somehar so fragile. “Only a warrior can love a warrior,” Ponclast told me all the time. It was how he kept me hooked, twisted ‘round his fingers. I could’ve been in Galhea right then, with Cal. Maybe I would’ve been, if I hadn’t believed Ponclast and his nonsense about soldierly bonds. Now here I was, with him, and he only had eyes for this hothouse flower that was rapidly wilting in the Northern winter.

Before us, the great gates of Fulminir slid open, wrought-iron topped with razor wire parting to let us pass. Upon the spikes, nestled among the thorny silver twines, were mounted several severed heads. They belonged to the defectors, whose flight had prompted our return. The cold had kept them from decay, though the harsh wind and other elements had done them few favors. The faces were partially obscured by snow and ice, like a fuzzy growth of mold. I glanced sideways at Ponclast to see if he was pleased. Indeed, his beautiful lips curved into a small smile.

From within the walls, we could hear the military orchestra striking up his favorite march. We rode towards the noise, through the gates, into the vast courtyard. Varrs stood in formation, lining our path on either side. All saluted as we passed. Ponclast and I returned the gesture, as was only gracious.

The vast doors of the tower itself swung outward. Varrish harlings came pouring out, dressed in vibrant colors, flowers in their hair. They carried palm fronds and bright bunches of roses, red and white. They poured towards us in choreographed chaos, a spectacle of innocent, pure vitality. We reined up as they thronged around us. Two blond babes, rosy-cheeked and holding hands, skipped ahead of the crowd. Just as they were almost upon us, they broke apart. One ran to Ponclast, one to me. They stood on tiptoe to present us with laurel crowns, chubby hands reaching up towards us, tiny bodies vibrating with excitement at their own ceremonial importance.

“For you, Lordra!” chirped the child as I leaned down to accept his bounty. I smiled as warmly as I could and ruffled his downy gold hair. Ponclast went further, swinging his child up onto the saddle to receive a magnanimous kiss on the cheek. A cheer erupted from the crowd and echoed ‘round the courtyard.

The children dispersed. Stable hands came close on their heels. We dismounted and allowed them to relieve us of our horses. I caught my first real glimpse of Lianvis in hours– he was clutching a rose bouquet, looking wan and dazed. There was already frost upon the flowers.

Ponclast unburdened himself of the squirming child and gallantly offered Lianvis his arm. Lianvis leaned upon it heavily and let himself be guided up the broad steps to the double doors. I followed a few paces behind. A sour taste was in my mouth.

Inside Fulminir there waited the warmth of roaring fires, and the dazzling brightness of a thousand smokey oil lights. The hallways echoed with talk, and laughter, and the ring of hobnailed boots on stone. Serving hara took our overcoats and unwrapped Lianvis from his fur. He tried to clutch at it with fragile fingers, shivering in his thin robe. Between all those fireplaces it was plenty hot for me– in fact, I longed to loosen my collar– but apparently not hot enough for a har who thrived in the desert heat. He must be some kind of reptile , I thought dispassionately. His blood is cold.

Then I remembered how he had felt under me, around me. Not so cold then.

I bent and murmured in his ear, “Need a ouana to warm you up?”

Lianvis turned and stared at me wildly, as if he hadn’t understood. His lips were dry from the cold, and they cracked as they parted to speak. A little bead of blood appeared on his lower lip. Noticing, he licked it nervously away and closed his mouth again without saying anything.

All right, I thought grudgingly, I suppose I can still see his appeal.

Ponclast’s head swiveled around. He saw me standing close to Lianvis. His brows drew down, and he fixed me with a cold, warning stare. Part of me wanted to provoke him, to push the limits and see what happened. He hadn’t touched me in weeks. I’d take a beating, if it was all I could get. But no, he was too smart for that. If I angered him he’d probably just ignore me more studiously, freeze me out even further.

I stepped away from his property.

LIANVIS

As we approached Fulminir, Ponclast leaned close to me and murmured, “You come here a free har, but you shall leave here, if you ever leave, a bride,” a sentence that sent an icy chill down my spine even as my heart thrilled at his words.

The place was a vast structure of metal and stone, something built by men and marked irrevocably by war, a fortress, a tomb. It kept what was inside in, and what was outside out. It was a place of clear boundaries in a way, and yet a place beyond all boundaries. So in we rode, to be greeted by a juxtaposition of violence and saccharine displays of sentiment. Harlings with laurel wreaths for the conquering heroes. I rode alongside, but there were no laurels for me. A soume’s laurels are a veil I suppose…. So I’d be getting mine soon enough.

I could feel Terzian’s hatred, his rage at having been made to watch that midnight in the temple, when I had been the one to crown his Lordra with the rank of true Nahir-Nuri. Of course he would be crude. I could truly see the benefits of Ponclast’s protection in this place. He was at the top of the pile, there was no superior who’s insult I would have to bear provided I remained at his side. Not even an equal who it might be unwise to offend. I was the closest thing to that, and it felt far safer under his protection than standing on my own, especially here. After all, no matter my position, Varrs looked at me like I was meat. There was something about this world, the sense of being constantly the object of potentially threatening desire, and yet safe under his protection that was… piquant in a way, the erotic equivilent of being inside during a snowstorm.

I drifted towards Ponclast, in spite of his being further than I liked from the fire. He was talking to a har who surprised me. He wore the leathers of a Varr warrior, but his red-brown hair was worn long, hanging loose to his waist. He was as lovely as any average har, but no legendary beauty… he might have been more appealing if he’d darkened his rather too pale lashes, but he didn’t seem the type to mind. He radiated something with which I was intimately familiar, power and the hunger for more… but not too much, just enough to be good at staying close to a har like Ponclast. Too wise to aim for that higher rung.

His gaze swept over me appraisingly. I was suddenly over-conscious of my chapped lips, and the fact that I had not been given time to attend to my appearance before being swept into this revelry. I touched my hair and moved closer to my lover, and safety.

I couldn’t tell his opinion. Did he find me desirable like so many ouana-Varr, while being too wise to show it? Was he jealous? I looked at him more closely. His features were familiar, and then it struck me.

Gharazel. Here was either a brother or a hostling, no other degree of relation could explain so strong a resemblance.

“Vashti,” said Ponclast smoothly, slipping an arm ‘round my waist, “this is Lianvis. Lianvis, this is Vashti, an expert in… breeding stock.”

Terzian had drifted over in time to hear that remark, and grinned.

“That’s right. Say, Vashti, what’s your verdict on him? A good bearer?”

Vashti looked at him, and I could tell he truly wished Terzian hadn’t spoken, but he concealed his irritation well enough.

“I would not venture to state an opinion on so illustrious a personage as Tiahaar Lianvis Har Kakkahaar, Lordra,” he said smoothly.

“No, I think we’d both welcome your expertise on the matter,” cut in Ponclast.

Vashti looked me over, now somewhat obviously uncomfortable. He cleared his throat.

“Such an… adept has knowledge beyond my ken, Lordra, but based on what I do know, I should say he would do quite well.”

Ponclast seemed pleased at the answer, and I think I could have sworn I saw a look of something like resentment on Vashti’s face. As well there might be, perhaps he had once thought to be where I now stood, though I couldn’t see his desire for the position as anything but mercenary. He would have gained by such an arrangement, I did not. I couldn’t picture this har who wore leathers to attend the Archon fulfilling the role of Varrish consort with any of the grace the position called for. Too… I hated to admit it, but far too harrish to pass muster, harrish in the intermingled, undifferentiated way that made most Varr so uncomfortable.

“Thank you,” I replied, bowing my head graciously as I could. He still scrutinized me closely.

A stunning har whose long raven hair flowed in a silken waterfall down a slender form draped in crimson robes swept over. Now there was a har who looked like a proper consort. He smiled warmly at me.

“Tiahaar Kakkahaar I presume,” he said in a voice as lovely as his face.

“Yes,” I agreed, “and you?”

“Sashtri, Averen’s consort… is he still with your hara?” he asked, a flash of something on his exquisite features, fear. I could understand that fear, Averen’s absence was one thing, but if he were to fail to return… well that would be quite another. Averen seemed kind, gentle even, for a Varr, especially for a Varr of the upper echelons. Sashtri was clearly a clever har, and aware of how blessed he was in terms of a partner.

“Yes, he’s a quick study and learning much,” I commented, finding myself with the curious impulse to relieve his worries, of course, it was simply the intelligent thing to do. It cost me nothing, and it might help me win an ally.

“I am gratified to hear it, tiahaar,” he said with a dazzling smile. I glanced at Ponclast, as if to assure myself I was doing right.

TERZIAN

I watched him flee to his protector, golden hair gleaming in the torchlight, steps as light and graceful as any real varrish soume; but when I realized who Ponclast was conversing with, I could not help following.

Phrases like cat fight came to mind, though Vashti wasn’t really as feline as all that. Still, it ought to be a good show: the hostling of Ponclast’s heir confronts the usurper. It was an archetypical battle, the wife versus the mistress. I did what I could to throw gasoline on the fire. Vashti, slick little sycophant that he is, recovered quickly from my curveball, but that didn’t matter. I watched the two of them settle into a steadily smoldering mutual hatred, and I was pleased.

This lovely little scene was interrupted by Sashtri ex machina. He and Lianvis commenced fluttering prettily at each other in true soume style. Vashti nodded to me, as if cordially. I could see in his eyes that he wanted to kill me, but he could do nothing. I was too high up in the pile, above even him.

I smirked back at him, and raised a wine glass as if in toast. To you, Vashti, and to the charms and carnal talents of your exquisite son. Historically I’m not the best at mind-touch, but whatever the Kakkahaar did to me must have worked. Vashti jerked visibly.

I knocked back some wine, and continued to stare at him, letting him understand as fully as possible what I did with Gahrazel. Here’s to his mouth and his ‘lam and his tight little ass. You must be the best breeding stock of all, Vashti, to have produced such a beauty.

Vashti’s face was expressionless. He is nothing to me. I barely know the child. I did my duty, that is all. His mind- touch was clear and cold.

You did your duty superbly, and to the letter, I sent back, yet now the archon spurns you. Warm my bed tonight, Vashti. I’ll show you the appreciation you deserve.

Vashti’s chin lifted. Thank you. I’ll consider it, he sent back icily.

And then I felt Ponclast’s looming presence at my back, and remembered that it is possible to eavesdrop even on such silent conversations, especially if one happens to be Nahir Nuri.

“Terzian,” said the archon softly in my ear, “Let’s take a walk.” His tone was light and pleasant, so I knew I was in for it. A shiver of fear and of anticipation raced down my spine.

“Yes, Lordra,” I murmured.

He strode from the great hall, out into the corridor. I followed him. Our booted footsteps rang against the marble floors and echoed off the high ceilings. The area was deserted; we passed nohar else save for a servant with a food cart who ducked his head and hurried deferentially past.

When he disappeared around the bend, Ponclast grabbed me by the throat and pushed me against the wall. I wheezed and grabbed at his hand, trying to pry away his fingers, but it was of no avail. Ponclast is startlingly tall even for a har, and has devoted himself to building strength of every kind. Since his recent caste ascension, he seemed to have gotten even stronger. He hoisted me deftly, one-armed, sliding my back up the wall until I was forced onto my toes. He did it like it was nothing, like I weighed nothing and meant even less to him.

Beneath my uniform, my ‘lam spasmed and a trail of warm yaloe traveled down my thigh.

“Mercy, Lordra,” I managed to choke. The way he held me wasn’t fully cutting off my oxygen, it was just putting a hell of a lot of pressure on my trachea. I feared my windpipe might collapse if he didn’t stop.

He snorted softly through his nose. Mercy? He didn’t know the meaning of the word. His face was grim and expressionless as he continued to push up. My toes left the floor; I now dangled supported only by his crushing hand. Airflow was definitely impeded now. My vision began to go dark.

Abruptly, he released me. I fell at his feet, gulping in oxygen. His gleaming tall boots were directly in front of my face; I hoped he might kick me.

He did not. “Terzian,” he said, “you’re up to childish, soume tricks, trying to provoke me to get my attention. It’s unattractive, and it won’t work.”

“I’m sorry, Lordra,” I murmured. My face had flushed in shame, responding to his censorious tone, although I didn’t fully grasp the words. I was intoxicated with being at his feet. I bowed my head to kiss the toe of his boot.

He stepped back with a grunt of annoyance and disgust. Denied the object of my worship, I slumped against the floor. It hurt, to have him reject my devotion, far worse than if he’d ground me under his heel.

“Enough of that,” he snapped. “Listen carefully. I will not give you what you want. If you persist in annoying me, I will turn you over to Lianvis.”

My head jerked up, I pushed myself up to my knees. “Lordra!” I protested. My face was burning with humiliation and rage.

Ponclast looked down his nose at me. “Yes,” he said, “I thought that might get through. And after all, why shouldn’t I? He’s had you before, and we all know it.”

I was silent, caught before fury, fear and undeniable arousal. The thought of letting that fawning soume creature play ouana with me was nauseating, but the fact that Ponclast could decree it, that it would happen if he so wished, made my head reel with sick desire. Lordra, I am yours, I thought, and hoped he was listening, More truly yours than all the rest. I am your champion, your most devoted vassal. I fight for you, I bleed for you, someday I’ll likely die for you. I am in agony waiting for you to take what is yours.

Ponclast was unmoved and unmovable. “Hara like Viss and Vashti find my favor because they try to be pleasing,” he said. “You could take a lesson from them.”

I stood, fuming. “I’m sorry, Lordra. I didn’t realize you wanted me to become a simpering soume.” I’d thought he wanted a har with some spirit to break. The idea that he wanted me perfectly docile made me like him less.

He cuffed me on the side of the head. “I want you to be ouana. Rise above this, Terzian. Stop letting desire control you. Show some fortitude, and I might find you appealing again.”

With this he turned on his heel and stalked off, his gloved hands clasped firmly behind his back. I adored and hated him, with his perfect poise. In that moment, I had the thought that he was everything I should be but was not. I was less than a fleck of dust on his boots.

And he was right– I could never become as he was, as I should be, by pathetically chasing after him.

But how could I help myself?

PONCLAST

The Archon appeared perfectly composed as he strode back into the great hall. In spite of long travel, he was immaculate. The flecks of snow had melted from his uniform, vanishing without a trace. He looked unreal, not like a being of flesh and blood so much as an image from propaganda, a head on a coin.

There was no need to announce his return. The whole assemblage picked up on his presence. It was as immediately palpable to all as a brightening of the lights or a drop in temperature. The archon moved toward the high dining table, and without any other sign being given, all others promptly seated themselves for dinner. They knew their assigned places by heart; nohar had any question as to where he belonged.

Only Lianvis hesitated, unsure of himself. It did not take long for his place to become evident– an empty chair at Ponclast’s left hand could only have been for him. Terzian was seated on the right, and Vashti further down. By process of elimination, there was only one spot at the high table where the archon of Kakkahaar could belong.

He settled himself beside Ponclast, awkward in the stiff, high-backed dining chair. He’d had no time to change for dinner, and so was not looking his best, but it was Varrish custom to feed returning travelers promptly. The cold climate and harsh terrain demanded it. It was rare to see a bedraggled soume at table, but that was only because soume-hara seldom undertook such journeys. Lianvis’ appearance would be, for now, excused– not that he had any way of knowing that.

Ponclast sipped his wine and made conversation with his officials as the meal was brought in. Serving hara rolled in the repast on brushed steel carts. The first course was a tartare of thinly sliced hearts, dressed in a delicate citric sauce. The taste of human organs was no longer novel to the Varrs, and they tucked in as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A soup course followed, rich and heavily spiced, with golden pieces of potato and chunks of tender meat–possibly pork–swimming in the fragrant broth. A brief pause for digestion followed, and then the massive roasts were trundled in, carcasses roasted to a turn, with crisp fingers at the ends of arms trussed back, skins crackled and oozing with fat, eyes blackened and gleaming red apples thrust between teeth. The meat smelled, and tasted, delicious. Har was a rarer delicacy than human, having a subtle herbal note more akin to lamb than pork. The honey brine in which the flesh had been submerged rendered it even more meltingly tender and flavorful.

Ponclast accepted the large carving knife that a serving har handed him, and prepared to ritualistically make the first cut. “Which of the traitors was this?” He asked idly.

The serving har ducked his head. “This was First Lieutenant Phoebus, Lordra.”

Ponclast nodded. “Phoebus,” he pronounced, as if tasting the name. “I don’t think I ever met him.”

With a half shrug, he cut into the carcass. Cheers erupted around the hall. Here and there, hara who had known the defector hid a tear, but they wisely cheered just the same.

Ponclast, with a small cruel smile, pulled the roasted apple from the dead mouth and bit into it.

LIANVIS

At table I watched as the dishes came out. That the flesh was that of humans did not shock me, we had tasted such in Oomar, and occasionally at home; but when I saw that Harrish flesh was also on the menu, it took an effort on my part not to shudder slightly. Still, it was all delicious. I ate gratefully, watching the others and making polite conversation when it was called for. It was interesting to watch Ponclast in his natural environment, to see the way he talked to his hara, kept them aware of his presence and power. He was charming, a leader who made himself loved as well as feared, at least by those who didn’t get close enough to see the pure ice beneath the personable veneer. I ate. It was not the first time I had consumed the flesh of a har, it was the casualness of the act I found peculiar. Among the Kakkahaar such a thing was an occasion, a ritual. Having a har at a feast… as a piece of propaganda, felt somehow crass.

Still, it was delicious, beautifully prepared and exquisitely cooked. I savored the traitor's flesh and wondered if this would be my fate if I were untrue. I felt a hand on my thigh, sliding up, teasing as he talked to one of his generals, not even glancing over at me as he did it. I thought of what he’d said just before we entered Fulminir. When would that be? Surely he didn’t intend to do it publicly, not now, not in the midst of a war, not when my authority over my hara was so desperately needed. Such a match would inevitably cause strife, make hara ask questions about the succession, about the two cultures…. about all sorts of things I didn’t have good answers for. Still I thrilled at the idea. Surrendering to him seemed such a triumph, especially now somehow, now that I saw the barbaric splendor of this, his home, a dark and frigid labyrinth… not so different from his heart, I thought.

I allowed myself to look at him then, to appreciate the beauty of his profile and think of what it was that drew me so to him. He was charismatic of course, his very presence was magnetic, compelling. Physically he was exquisite, and aruna with him was unparalleled for all its violence, but it was more than that. His ruthlessness in the pursuit of power was like my own. His courage and even his blood lust, so unlike the Jarad I had known and loved in Oomar, spoke to me. His flair for the dramatic, his love of spectacle and knowledge of how to use it to good effect… I felt a kinship to him. His very ouana-ness, as he’d described it earlier in our relationship, made me want to serve him as his helpmate, but it felt like more than that somehow. More than ouana and soume, it was about him . Him, whose sufferings I knew better than almost any har. Not even Terzian had seen the surgery he’d needed when I’d first brought him back to Oomar. Terzian might have seen the founding of Varr, but I had known the before, had seen and felt what Jarad had gone through for myself as if it had happened to me. I had seen the birth of Ponclast, had perhaps even been midwife to his coming. I wanted to sit at his feet, and ask him to tell me of his life since we had parted, and the last of Jarad had died. I doubted he would tell me such things, at least not in the way I wanted, but perhaps… perhaps someday when he got into a good or sentimental mood.

TERZIAN

I saw the look on Lianvis’s face, and recognized it, because, although I had never been so soume or saccharine, my own had worn a variation of the same. Still, for all that besotted adoration, didn’t Ponclast see the danger of a har like Lianvis? A witch. A seductress. Even now, looking up at Ponclast as if he was all love and sweetness, he was a serpent.

Did he trust him? Did he love him? I hated him. I didn’t envy him. How could I? The soft clinging vine way he wrapped himself around Ponclast was everything I despised. I’d thought it was everything Ponclast despised, too.

Never had I, or anyhar at Fulminir, known Ponclast to waste so much time on a soume. Of course he had his harem of hostlings, but they were playthings, not companions. Based on what I had seen– and I’d seen quite a bit more than most hara, having privileged access to the archon’s bedchamber– he barely spoke to them, and rarely knew their names.

We’d used some of them together in tandem, or sometimes he’d summon a whore for each of us. Every now and then he sent for one just for me, usually after he’d exhausted himself in my use. On those occasions he’d sit back in his easy chair, smoking, and watch with a small smile as I reclaimed my ouanahood. That was my reward when I’d pleased him particularly well, or when he’d degraded me especially. I appreciated it. It was his way of letting me put myself back together.

The point is that soumes were not people to Ponclast. They were merely the stage on which he and I enacted our prowess. None of his favorites had ever been soume– not I, and not cold, correct Vashti, who I think attracted Ponclast’s notice mainly by his unusual androgyny. He was by far the least ouana of Ponclast’s companions, and even he wore leathers.

I had believed, as many Varrs believed, that Ponclast loved warriors above all. It was a little eccentric, with almost a whiff of human homosexuality, but it was excusable since he fathered sons aplenty and showed not a shred of effeminacy. In a way, it felt most right. He made preferring ouanas seem like the most ouana thing in the world. The army was his true love. It was his bride, as the church had been the bride of Christ.

I wondered if he realized that. I wondered if he knew what a dangerous game he played. If Ponclast took a queen, the entire military would instinctively feel that har to be a rival.

Or was I wrong, and merely projecting my own bitterness?

I sipped at my wine, and scanned the faces of the hara at the table. General Creed was taken with Lianvis– he was quite attentive to the Kakkahaar, albeit in a chaste way that could not raise Ponclast’s ire. That could only be because Creed saw Lianvis’s occult power as a military asset, since the General was never taken with anything else. The other generals and high-ranking officers looked warier. I saw more of my feelings reflected on their faces, and knew I was not alone.

I glanced at Ponclast to see whether he noticed the tension. If he did, he displayed no visible signs.

Sometimes he is dangerously indifferent to what others think of him. It is a virtue he takes to a fault.

I needed him to look at me.

“The traitor is delicious,” I remarked. “I’m almost glad he defected.”

It was a risky comment, but if nothing else, I was still attuned to Ponclast’s sense of humor. He laughed. It was sweet to make him laugh, and for a second, my heart eased.

“Even the enemies of Varr can be made to serve a purpose.” He spoke loudly enough for the whole table to hear, but his head was turned towards Lianvis. I simmered, foiled.

“If only as meat,” I said. “Waste not, want not.”

Ponclast did not turn, but Creed grinned at me. “Words to live by. Consuming our foes is practical as well as ritualistic,” he explained, now addressing Lianvis as well. “It lets Varrish units travel lighter. We don’t waste so much weight on rations.”

“And hunger can be quite motivational,” Ponclast added drily. “The soldier who does not triumph does not eat. They fight harder for their dinners.”

The Kakkahaar was the uncontested center of attention. There was no hope of drawing focus away from him– neither Ponclast’s or anyhar elses. How long was this state of affairs to last? Would I spend days, weeks, or months eclipsed by Lianvis’s slim shadow?

Disgusted, I turned away. In doing so, my eyes met Vashti’s across the table. He pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, and gave me a barely perceptible nod. The expression on his face mirrored mine. He was feeling what I felt– almost all of it, anyway. He did not love Ponclast, and never had, but he loved his position and he saw it slipping from him.

My body relaxed slightly. Here, perhaps, was an unlikely ally.

I raised my cup to him in silent toast, and drained it to the dregs.

Chapter 2: The Chymical Wedding

Chapter Text

PONCLAST

Varrish feasts can be lengthy affairs, sometimes lasting till daybreak. Given their long journey, however, the guests of honor were within their rights to excuse themselves after a mere two hours. At the end of this socially prescribed period, Ponclast rose. The whole hall rose with him, and remained standing, fists pressed to their hearts in salute, until he, with Lianvis and Terzian in tow, made his exit.

The archon led the way along the corridor towards an elevator. He walked with his spine straight and his gloved hands clasped behind his back. The peaked leather cap on his head added a few inches to his already considerable height. Lianvis and Terzian trailed along behind him.

“Where to now, Lordra?” Terzian asked, as they reached the lift.

Ponclast touched a button to summon it, then turned and leaned elegantly against the marble wall. His chin was tilted slightly up, the better to look down his nose at Viss and Terzian. His smile was enigmatic.

“We will retire to my chambers for a little while,” he said. “Lianvis needs to freshen up. I want coffee, and a cigar.”

The way he was regarding Terzian– lazily, from under lowered eyelids– was extremely ambiguous. His gaze held infinite possibilities but no promises.

A chime announced the elevator’s arrival. Ponclast turned, breaking his bewitching gaze. Terzian blinked dazedly, and followed his Lordra into the elevator. Lianvis was close behind.

The elevator’s interior had an antiquated appearance, with gilt mirrors flanked by red velvet drapes. The contraption itself was relatively new, dating from just before the collapse. They went up, up and up, ascending swiftly. Lianvis looked a little green. It had been a long while since he’d ridden in one of these, and dinner had been rich and heavy.

“Vomiting after a Varrish feast is traditional,” Ponclast remarked to him, not unkindly. “Try to wait until we reach my suite, so you can use the commode.”

Lianvis nodded weakly, and covered his mouth with a delicate hand.

The lift chimed again. The chrome doors slid open, revealing another corridor. It looked much the same as the ones on the ground floor, only a little narrower. It had the same chessboard marble floor, the same cold, stone walls. The decor was a mix of neo-classical and medievalist pretensions. Decorative suits of armor stood at intervals, interspersed with the occasional bit of pseudo-Grecian statuary. Tapestries shivered in the draft.

They had not far to walk. The broad double doors to Ponclast’s suite stood nearly opposite the elevator. Ponclast threw them wide, with dramatic flair.

“Welcome to my home.” He spoke without turning, but he could only have been addressing Lianvis. Terzian had been here many times before.

They had entered a sitting room of cavernous proportions. Its furnishings seemed too sparse for its size, although what furniture there was, was large and heavy. Toward the far wall stood a writing desk of carved mahogany. Its surface was scrupulously neat, all papers locked away. It bore only a writing stylus, an ink pot, and a plain vase containing a single white rose. A leather armchair faced it. It was an antique, placed on rollers for the archon’s convenience.

To the right as one entered was a massive fireplace, its mantle higher than Lianvis was tall. Two leather easy chairs and a low coffee table were arranged before it, on an animal hide carpet. It was the only rug in the room, the rest of the floor left utterly bare. On the coffee table were a steel ashtray and a human skull. An antique globe stood on a pedestal nearby.

On the opposite wall stood a large liquor cabinet. It was flanked by two huge bookcases, tall enough that rolling ladders were attached to enable access to the highest shelves. One of the cases held books, the other was entirely occupied by vinyl records. In the center of the room was an ornate pedestal bearing a turntable and a graceful brass gramophone-style amplifier.

A huge oil portrait of Ponclast hung over the mantle. He had posed for it in that same room, at that very same writing desk, which gave the picture an odd, reflexive quality. The fact that it was just a bit larger than lifesize made it still more unsettling. It was however an excellent likeness, painted by a skillful hand– a technically beautiful work of art, which nonetheless gave the impression of immense ugliness.

“Plenty of space,” said Ponclast, as he took a seat in one of the easy chairs. “Which is fortunate, as you’ll soon see.” Nonchalantly, he tugged on a silken cord hanging beside a mantel. Somewhere a bell rang. That done, he snapped his fingers at Terzian. “Fetch me a cigar and a cognac. Viss, what are you drinking?”

“Might I have a cup of tea?” Lianvis asked plaintively.

Ponclast laughed. “Two cognacs then, and whatever you’re having, Terzian.” Nevertheless, he rang the bell again, giving several short tugs this time to relay the request for tea to his staff.

Looking surly, Terzian went to pour the drinks. Lianvis drifted over towards the free chair, but Ponclast caught his wrist and tugged him into his lap. There, perforce, Lianvis sat perched, and suffered himself to be absently petted. Terzian returned soon after, balancing three cognacs and two cigars. The former he set on the table. Of the latter, he placed one in his own mouth, and one between Ponclast’s playfully snapping teeth.

“Light me,” the archon ordered around the cigar, and Terian dutifully flicked open a steel lighter to render the service.

The doors creaked open. A caravan of serving hara entered. The first carried a tray heavy with elegant coffee service. The second was similarly burdened, only with a tea tray instead.

They were followed by four hara rolling in a massive gilt vanity. It was a monstrous thing, a riot of carved scrollwork from which prisms dangled, with a tremendous mirror in the center.

“Where would you like it, Lordra?” asked one of the servants. He sounded breathless from exertion.

Ponclast gestured with his cigar. “Over there, by the bookcase.”

Obediently, the domestics trundled the behemoth into place, and positioned a matching stool in front of it.

“Perfect,” said Ponclast. “How do you like that, Viss?”

The serving hara placed taper candles in the sconces built in on either side of the mirror. Once lit, their glow reflected eerily off the glass, giving the impression of two fiery eyes. The vanity took on an ominous, sentient air, as if it had been awakened.

Lianvis swallowed a gulp of tea. “It’s… beautiful, Lordra. Thank you.”

Terzian was looking sour. No doubt he’d processed the implication. This feminine object being brought into Ponclast’s masculine sanctum could mean only one thing: Lianvis would be staying in the archon’s suite.

The servants, their tasks complete, disappeared as if by evaporation. Two more hara now stepped into the room. These were not dressed like domestics. These were soume-Varrs, richly adorned, their hair elaborately dressed, their faces painted to lurid perfection. They stepped forward, approaching the fire at a deferential gait. Ponclast shooed Lianvis off his lap and into their arms.

“These are to be your attendants for your stay. Draw a bath,” he ordered the soume-hara, “And make him ready.”

The soumes nodded, and hustled Viss into the bathroom. Ponclast and Terzian turned back toward the fire as if nothing extraordinary had transpired, and focused their attention on coffee, drinks and cigars.

LIANVIS

I was still slightly unwell as the attendants led me away to the bathroom. They turned away politely as I put my fingers down my throat to be sick into the toilet. I didn't want to spend this night bilious, so it was better to vomit and get it over with than spend the rest of the evening uncomfortable with that unhallowed meal like lead in my belly. It was oddly cleansing somehow, bringing up that vile mass of liquor and harrish flesh. The way they'd turned away somehow said I wasn't the first to do such a thing in this clean, marble tiled room, gagging and retching until my stomach stopped clenching and I was empty. One of them ran and got me a fresh cup of tea, which I sipped gratefully after being stripped and stepping into the steaming clawfoot tub. The place was impressive, terrifying and awful and beautiful… and yet somehow also, just a little bit, the sort of place a teenage boy who's listened to a lot of Cannibal Corpse would dream up as a fantasy of power; but that sort of place, if writ across the face of the world in solid black stone… is impressive. It says something that the fantasy does not.

I had made a mistake in coming here. As bad as it had been in the desert, I hadn't been alone. Even at Forever, deep in Varrish territory, there had been hara of my tribe with me. Now I was truly alone, and I was afraid. I had been swept up in the tide of emotion stirred up by my rescue. I had allowed myself to be carried off by the wicked prince on his dark horse, and now I was in the tower, the castle, the stronghold where his magic was far stronger than mine. For the first time, I realized that now, even if I had managed to make myself want to, I could not defend myself. Not with him and his hara all around, not with him true Nahir-Nuri.

One of the attendants put a soothing hand on my shoulder, seeing the fear on my face.

"I'm sorry," was all he said.

I gave him a smile that was perhaps weaker than I would have liked. "It's quite alright, I'm glad to be here," I said, as much to convince myself as him.

They washed me thoroughly, and in spite of my anxiety, it did feel good to get free of the grime and dust travel inevitably entails, now in these days where cars on highways are but a distant memory.

My hair was deep conditioned and carefully combed out, and I was scrubbed and rubbed and generally fussed over, until I was sleek and well-groomed as a contented cat, but without the contentment. We spoke little; they seemed a touch afraid of me as they worked. When at last my bath had finished I looked in the mirror and saw a har who looked very young again, the fear and unsurity showing in my eyes as they wrapped me in some gauzy confection before bringing me back into the next room, and guiding me wordlessly towards that heavy baroque vanity. I would not even be allowed to do this myself here.

TERZIAN

As the attendants shepherded the little tart into the bathroom to hose him down, my heart lightened. At last we are alone. It felt like it had been months.

I sipped my cognac, and moistened my lips, staring at him hungrily over the rim of my glass. I can’t describe the sort of desire he made me feel. With a beautiful soume, lust was quite simple: I saw, I conquered, I came. Soumes are prone to creating complications, Ag knows, but not about the sex. Even if they played hard to get, even if they stretched out the journey, the destination was always the same.

With Ponclast, I never knew into what dark place he might take me. I was afraid of him– yes, afraid! I would’ve been a fool not to be. I couldn’t even be ashamed of it. That fear was quite healthy and reasonable. The part I was ashamed of was the way my fear deepened and flavored my lust.

I would make a move. I had to. We had very little time, and I was starving for him.

Decided, I stood and sauntered over to him, noticing that my hips swayed more than usual. I couldn’t help it. It was the way I got with him. I could feel the petals of my lam rubbing together in their wetness as I made my way over, a secret sealed tightly beneath my leather.

I laid my cigar on the ashtray, then sank to my knees before him.

“Lordra,” I murmured, and tried to lean my head against his leather-clad knee.

He batted me away irritably. “Get up, Terzian. It’s not the time or place.”

I pulled back my head, but did not rise. My blood was pumping fast. I felt desperate. We’d had so short a time together– primarily between when the alliance was announced and when the Kakkahaar came to Galhea, and a little bit after, before he went to the desert. It seemed both like nothing, and like a lifetime. The encounters had been frequent and intense. At first, he’d been as ravenous for me as I was for him, although he tried to hide it. He hid it perfectly in front of others. But any time we were alone he seized the chance, seized me, tore off my clothes and made me his again. He’d introduced me to positions and perversions I’d never imagined. At first I’d thought myself unwilling, dreaded being caught alone by him, but even then I’d wanted it too.

And now? I was past pretending I didn’t want it, past dignity, past even caring what he thought of me. None of that mattered as long as he used me.

“Please, Lordra.” Was this breathy gasp my voice? “Please give me something, anything.” My fingers crept to his fly, beseechingly. “I’ll harden you for your whore,” I volunteered, shocking myself. What had he done to me?

Ponclast dealt me a backhand to the face. I reeled, my cheek stinging, my heart singing with delight. That was more than he’d touched me in days. I would take it. Besides, it was his usual style of foreplay. I gazed up through watering eyes, in hope and adoration.

“Would you have the soumes come out and see you at my service?” His voice was amused, his face was hard to read.

I was silent. I didn’t even care. I knew I should. I knew I would have deep regrets later if that happened. But my mouth and my cunt were watering for him, my ears still ringing from the blow.

His lips twisted in contempt. “Turns you on, does it?” He asked. His booted foot swung out; he kicked me away. I fell back but stayed on the floor, groveling.

“Terzian.” His voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper. I had to lean forward a little to hear him. “If you do not get on your feet this instant, I will bind you to my bed and let Lianvis give you what you’re begging for.”

I was off that floor as swiftly as if it were hot coals, before I could even think about whether he’d really do any such thing. Would he? It would disrupt his project with Lianvis, taint the thing he was making him into. Then again, Ponclast in a rage might do almost anything.

“Yes, Lordra,” I said stiffly. Tears pricked my eyes.

Ponclast sighed and sat back, his cold fury dissolving into equally icy scorn. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” he said. “There’s two perfectly good soumes for you to have the pick of, and here you are making eyes at me.”

I lowered my gaze and stared at my boots, buried in the hide of the carpet. “There’s an itch they can’t scratch, Lordra.”

He did not comment, only clicked his tongue disgustedly.

Behind me, the bathroom door opened, and my window of opportunity closed. It was over, my chance lost. I clenched my jaw, straightened my collar, and sat down again. The leather chair pressed against my leather trousers which pressed thin cotton briefs against my aching ‘lam. I did my best to ignore all that, and try to look interested in the trifecta of soume beauties that were now entering the room.

Lianvis, face bare, drifted along in white gauze ahead of his two attendants. I studied them, trying to recall their names. Ponclast had so many in his harem that I sometimes doubted whether he managed to use them all. They were like a wine collection, I supposed. They’d keep, and he’d get to them eventually. These two were new to me. They looked fresh-faced and well fed, so either they were breeding stock or they’d managed to stay on his good side so far.

“Fresh meat?” I asked Ponclast lightly.

He laughed softly. “Not entirely fresh. The second-to-last shipment from Vashti.”

He’d had them already, then. That meant I was probably allowed to ask.

“Mind if I inspect the merchandise?”

“You dog,” he said dispassionately. “Go ahead.”

He was covering for me, but also strong-arming me into covering for myself. I appreciated and resented that in equal measure.

“Thank you, Lordra,” I said, rising.

I made my way over to the vanity, where the soumes had sat Lianvis down. They were going to work on his face. I didn’t understand why it was a two-har job, although a mean and dishonest comment about what a mug like that might require rose easily to mind. I tried not to look at my hated rival, and instead prowled around the two concubines who stood, slightly stooped, attending to their project.

“Nothing tawdry,” Ponclast instructed, from where he sat. “Make him look like a virgin bride.”

“Yes, Lordra,” chorused the soumes, and quickly wiped away their work so far to start fresh.

I drew closer. They sensed me behind them– their backs stiffened, but they did not pause in the labor or lift their heads. One was a redhead, one was a brunette. No other blondes to compete with Lianvis– or me, I thought sourly. The redhead seemed more appealing at the moment. I put my hands on his waist, then slid them down to cup his ass.

He gasped softly, but did not falter.

“Don’t let yourself be distracted,” I purred in his ear. “You are performing the will of the archon.”

The whore barely twitched. Lianvis did, however– I caught a glimpse of his wide, frightened eyes in the mirror. His movement caused a streak of makeup to go stray.

“Lordra,” I said lazily, “This whore’s hand slipped.” I met Lianvis’ gaze in the reflection as I spoke. Let him realize that another har was about to pay for his skittishness.

“Give him correction, then.” Ponclast’s voice was without tone. “But do not take too long. I want Lianvis ready as soon as possible.”

“He can keep working while I do it,” I replied. “He won’t slip again, if he knows what’s good for him.”

The redhead was breathing fast, but trying to keep it quiet. I’d thought it was going to take awhile to get me ouana, but as it turned out, his fear was all I needed. I freed my lim with one hand. The other, I slid under his skirts. In the mirror I could see him biting his lip, but he stayed quiet; and though his body shook, the tremors did not reach his hands. I sawed my fingers in and out of him roughly, at first mainly aiming to hurt him, but eventually finding a sikra to focus on. With my free hand, I’d begun to pump my ‘lim. It didn’t take either of us long. I decorated the back of his dress just a few seconds before he gushed down his legs, liquid hitting the bare floor with a loud, humiliating splatter.

“Done, Lordra,” I said laconically, resheathing myself. Glancing in the mirror, I was pleased to see that Lianvis looked quite spooked. Good. Let him think about it. Let him begin to realize what a soume’s position in Fulminir really was. He’d had no idea how good they had it in Galhea.

I turned my back on the soume ritual and walked back to the fire, there to nurse my drink, my cigar, and my enmity.

LIANVIS

I could practically smell the lust and resentment rolling off Terzian, leather and 'lam, but when I heard his intent and saw him going after the redhead, the har who'd been kind to me, I winced a bit. I was sorry for my transgression. I steadied my breathing. I wouldn't let him see my regret or my fear. Instead, I tried to focus on the word “bride” though the “virgin” part of that statement made me thoroughly uncomfortable. I could be his whore, his lover, his consort, but could I be… that? In the end I ended up looking soft, doe eyed rather than feline with winter roses and ropes of pearls in my hair. Pearls for fertility. Pearls for tears, I thought absently, unsure where I’d picked up that particular superstition. Pearls for the agony of birth. My glossy lips, moisturized and scrubbed until the chapping induced by the wind had vanished. I was prey. Nothing about me spoke of the predator, no slinking desert lynx. I was wide eyed, soft and meant to be run down and brought to ground.

I wanted to straighten up and raise my chin, look down my nose at the world and find the regal queen in myself, if not the archon, the arch-mage, but I knew that I could not. That was not the har Ponclast wanted me to be, not tonight, and so I kept my eyes downcast even as I kept my back straight.

Ponclast walked over to inspect me, touching a lock of my hair, which had been curled and pinned half-up with dexterous fingers. He turned my face this way and that, and nodded.

“Very suitable,” he said. “Clean up your mess,” he added to the redhead, “and you may go.”

Terzian smirked.

“Use your hair,” he added, his tone nasty.

The redhead nodded, the pained look barely noticeable on his face before he covered it with pleasant neutrality again. He bent, loosening his coppery mane to soak up the liquid on the floor, and doing a passable job of it. Terzian gave him a kick while he was down for good measure, and then waved them both out, impatiently as if they were his.

Playing the lord to soothe his ego, I thought.

Ponclast took me by the elbow and led me to his bedroom. It was not so different from his suite at Forever– the familiar heavy dark furniture, the sturdy steel attachment points bolted here and there. The walls were half paneled in ebony, the rest done in dark paper. It was a decadent room, lusher than the almost ascetic sitting room, and yet it had the same icy chill that filled the rest of his apartments. It was harsh for all its luxury.

He released my arm and gave me a look that said to stay where I was, close to a full length mirror with a heavy wood frame.

“Terzian, bring me what you find in the small closet,” he ordered. I hardly noticed. I was a doll, a thing, a toy. I was frozen with some sort of fear I had never quite known before. I felt homesick, and alone at sea. Even if I had never found my voice to call out, there had always been someone who would have come if I had called, and I hadn’t realized until then how much of a difference that had made.

TERZIAN

My moment with the redhead had not taken the edge off my lust, and it had been only a momentary distraction from the bleakness of my situation.

“Yes, Lordra,” I said curtly, and went to the armoire he had indicated. As I prepared to open its doors, I wondered, again, why I was here. I was a third wheel, plainly not wanted; yet for reasons of his own, Ponclast insisted I remain. Was it just his cruelty? Did he need me for anything at all, or was he just rubbing my face in it?

When I opened the armoire and saw what hung inside, I began to understand– instinctively, if not rationally. My heart rate accelerated and I gripped the doors hard, knuckles whitening, to prevent myself from shredding the fragile garment before me.

It was a wedding dress, and unmistakably so, though cut for a harrish body. The neck plunged in a deep V down nearly to the waistline, hanging suspended from thin straps. The skirt was cut narrow, to cling to the body, and terminated in a long train. The ivory material was entirely sheer, with beaded flowers strategically placed over the crotch, and less tactically distributed down the skirt. I could just see him in it already, the way his golden-toned skin would show through at the hips and thighs. There was a matching veil, of course, affixed to a little diamond tiara, and dainty little high-heeled sandals. A jewelry box sat below, doubtless holding more treasures for the blushing bride.

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, then gathered it all up as best as I could and brought it over to lay it out on the bed.

“Do you want me to dress him, Lordra?” I asked in a dead voice.

His brows drew down. “No. Why?”

I cleared my throat to fight down my rancor. “It’s supposed to be bad luck, for you to see him in this.”

He looked at me strangely, searchingly, as if assessing my obedience. He was pleased with me, for he smiled. Good service is rewarded, he purred in my head, and I shivered. Aloud he said, “I believe I’ll take my chances. Go wait in the sitting room.”

I nodded and excused myself. My heart was pounding. I hated this, but I understood what was required of me. I also understood now why he’d withheld from me so long and so completely. He needed my cooperation on this, for some reason– insisted on it. He would have it; and soon, I would have what was coming to me.

LIANVIS

When I saw the dress, I understood. He meant to do this tonight. It was a beautiful obscene thing. I could tell it would suit me. I could already see how it would make me look, and so I submitted to being dressed, sliding into the garment that left so little to the imagination, and having his nimble fingers button the two or so buttons that fastened I knew not what, for the back plunged even lower than the front.

Gold stiletto sandals, the veil settled on my elaborate coiffure, and I was nearly complete, but first he produced a pair of diamond bracelets and a necklace. Each was lovely, the large, clear stones jaw-dropping for their fire and brilliance, but the most notable aspect was that they were obviously intended to bind. Each ornament locked for one thing, and I could tell there was magic in them to make these seemingly fragile items as sturdy as steel. As they were fastened on me, I felt myself further drawn further into the black heart of Fulminir.

When he had finished, he turned me to face the mirror. I did make a beautiful bride, an idol of ivory and gold, glittering with gems. I was a thing of beauty, another object to add to his collection. I was touchably untouchable, something utterly accessible, but only to him. The skirts had been weighted by the beadwork to make everything drape just so. I felt radiant, and also as if I were not myself. No Lianvis Har Kakkahaar would not wear such a thing, things as scandalous, quite obviously, but never in ivory, never anything so… obvious in its intent to show ownership.

I turned to look at him. “Lordra– tonight?”

I knew I must have seemed afraid, because he touched the bare small of my back and murmured his “Yes,” against my throat.

The bouquet was in the refrigerator in his bar in the sitting room, gardenias and white roses with ivy in a glorious cascade. It was beautiful, it matched the flowers woven into my hair and the trailing art nouveau drape of my veil.

I wasn’t quite sure how to read Terzian’s face when he stood, and turned to look at me.

TERZIAN

He was beautiful, all right. I didn’t care. I could hardly see him, I was looking at Ponclast. There was a prideful glow to his face, a lustful heat in his eyes that I had seen there many times before, but now it wasn’t for me. He was so splendid he made my heart ache, every little detail about him– the width of his shoulders, the shape of his jaw, the perfectly crisp edge of his hair at the nape of his neck. For me, Ponclast in his uniform far outshone Lianvis in that fancy gown.

I had a lump in my throat that wouldn’t go away. I didn’t want to be where Lianvis was. Ag knows I’d never dreamed of being a bride. I realized, with a pang, that I had dreamed of being his best man– best harr, I suppose. Now here I was, something of that nature, but this was nothing like my fantasy. The way I’d imagined it, he would’ve been taking some suitable consort, for politics and not passion. I would’ve stood beside him proudly, basking in his reflected radiance and in the honor he’d given me. Then there would be the wedding night, and our lewd and merciless dissection of it over drinks later, and soon enough he’d be back in my bed.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I didn’t want it, not like this.

PONCLAST

Ponclast wasted a few more moments running his gloves over the tactilely interesting dress on an even more tactilely interesting body, then stepped back. He regarded his companions as if surveying his troops. He must have judged them fit for battle, because he nodded.

He glanced at the clock on the mantel; the face read three.

“It’s the Devil’s hour,” he observed. “It is time.”

He strode toward the double doors and flung them open, though not without a quick glance up and down the corridor. It was deserted, as he required. He beckoned Lianvis and Terzian to follow him into the elevator.

They went down only one floor. To access it, Ponclast had to use a special key which he drew from his pocket. This level had been closed, at his orders. Nohar had been here since the servants had cleaned it and sealed it this morning. It appeared identical to the floors above and below– the checkerboard floors stretching along the same dark halls all around the building’s vast perimeter. The only difference was the utter lack of light. No lamps or candles had been left lit in the morning, as they would’ve burned out by now. Ponclast snatched a candelabra from a console table across the way, and Terzian fished out his lighter to ignite the tapers. With this in hand, the archon proceeded.

This time, they had a long way to walk. Their destination lay at the far east of the structure. They traversed half the width of the tower, turned a corner, and walked another half-distance. Like Ponclast’s suite, the room he sought now was centrally located, but against another wall.

At last, they stood outside another set of double doors. These were inlaid with stained glass. A faint light glowed from within– candles were always lit in the chapel, and these were long-burning. Ponclast lifted his chin and smiled as he threw the doors open.

The chapel was small and underused, but it was kept clean and ready in case any Varr might be suddenly gripped by religious fervor. The sacred images of men had been removed. The spot above the altar where a crucifix had once hung had been left discolored when the cross was taken down. A Varr banner now hung in its place, to hide the ugly shadow of the Nazarene. There were no other icons, as the Varrs had no gods. There was however a shrine in a corner holding remembrances of the dead, including photos or small portraits, where such had been available. The large central altar was bare, save for a row of flickering pillar candles and a charcoal incense burner.

Ponclast took a tight grip on Lianvis’s wrist, and approached the altar, drawing his intended inexorably along with him. He took a long look at the Varr banner above, as if fortifying himself by its contemplation. Then he bent his head and blew on the coals in the burner. Their hidden fire glowed to life, illuminating his face demonically from below. He heaped resin incense upon them, and copal-scented smoke poured forth in billows.

“Terzian,” said Ponclast, “Come near. You are here as a witness.”

Terzian murmured “Lordra” and approached along the aisle, the ring of his boots echoing around the vaulted ceiling of the chapel. To the Varrish ear, it was a sound more beautiful than any wedding processional.

Ponclast turned to Lianvis. He was silent, trembling like a delicate bird. His eyes gazed up at Ponclast, filled with love and entreaty and fear. Ponclast’s only response was a sharp inhale of breath, and a tightening of his grip on Lianvis’s wrist.

He turned to face forward again, as if towards an imaginary priest– but he spoke the priest’s part.

“I, Ponclast har Varr, do take thee, Lianvis har Kakkahaar, to be my lawful consort, to have and keep, to rule and command, in war and in peace, in victory or defeat, that not even death may us part.”

He was silent for a moment, then exhaled slowly and turned to Lianvis. “Do you, Lianvis har Kakkahaar, take me to be your lawful master– to love, honor and obey, in war and in peace, in victory or in defeat, that not even death may free you?”

Lianvis’ eyes were brimming with tears. Pain and rapture were at war on his features. He turned his face away, and for a moment it seemed he might try to wrench his wrist from Ponclast’s hold. But then his shoulders dropped, and he whispered, “I do.”

Ponclast placed a hand on his cheek, and turned his head to face him. “Again,” he commanded.

“I do.” Lianvis managed it a little louder this time, and almost smiled as he spoke.

Ponclast held his arm and his gaze a moment longer, then let go. He stripped the gloves from his hands, laying them fastidiously upon the altar, and then drew the dagger from his belt. He made a long cut across his palm, then grabbed Lianvis’ hand and did the same. His pained gasp seemed to give Ponclast pleasure, for his lips curved in a cruel smile. He clasped their hands together, forcing the blood to mingle, his eyes blazing with strange fervor as he watched Lianvis’ face.

“By the power vested in me as Archon of Varr,” he declaimed, “I now pronounce us bound in blood.” With a sardonic smile he added, “I may kiss the bride.”

The candles seemed to flare brighter as Ponclast took Viss’s face between his hands, smearing a scarlet trail across his cheek, and crushed their lips together in a suffocating kiss.

LIANVIS

“I do” the words that sealed my fate in this church dedicated to Varrishness. We married in his temple because mine had been destroyed raising him to his present state. It was appropriate somehow. He destroyed my temple when I lifted him to the heights of power in it, and he destroyed me in his temple when he raised or lowered me to… this. Blood and blood, the bond was made. I could feel him now, some connection forged by this second inception. “I do, Lordra,” and that kiss that stole my breath and left me with the taste of blood in my mouth. I remembered then why I was here, although it was true that I was afraid. I loved him with a passionate, agonizing intensity and I was grateful.

“Thank you,” I said softly after he had pulled away.

He snapped his fingers, and Terzian approached the altar, producing a jewelry box from some pocket. Ponclast took it and opened it, revealing a set of rings. For me, a red diamond, an absurd rarity. The stone was massive, at least 6 carats and flanked by orange sapphires which glittered exquisitely in the candle light. Along with this went a ring of rubies and further padparadscha to complete the set. For him, there was a simple band set with a polished black stone.

“To remind you of me,” he said as he lifted my hand to place the first ring on my finger, “and to remind you of your vows,” he added as he slid the second ring on top. “To remind you of your place,” he said, as he took out his ring. It was a thick band of black metal, and its stone… its stone had once been a piece of my temple. It had been cut and polished, and yet I knew it as I knew my own face.

I swallowed. He placed it in my bleeding palm.

“You will give this to me,” he said, and held out his hand. Not for me to place on his finger, but for him to take and put on himself. It seemed right somehow.

“With this ring, I pledge myself to you,” I said softly, because I knew that was what it meant. The look on his face as he put it on made me shudder.

This all made the world seem to shift on its axis. I belonged to this place now. Suddenly this place was my home. Suddenly this place was my prison more surely than ever.

“Don’t you want to kiss the bride?” Ponclast asked Terzian.

He looked me up and down, judging me and Ponclast’s intent. Did he want him to give me a chaste receiving-line peck on the cheek? A ribald dip and a grope?

Terzian looked at me awkwardly for a moment, before stepping forward to kiss my cheek and murmur congratulations with ill-concealed venom in his voice.

“Not like that, a proper kiss,” said Ponclast, slapping Terzian’s back in an act of ‘good-natured’ sadism I recognized from hume men.

And so he kissed me again, bending me back, gripping me firmly. His tongue in my mouth, I could taste the liquor there. When he’d finished, we both looked to Ponclast, checking for his approval. He looked impassive, but nodded, before unzipping his fly.

“Good. Now kiss the groom,” he said, with an icy matter-of-factness that seemed more dangerous than any rage.

TERZIAN

I hated him. I adored him. I wanted to kill him and I would die for him. This was the cruelest thing he had ever done to me, yet I was more than ready.

I want to my knees, glaring up at him defiantly. He looked down his nose at me, his eyes gleaming with joyous malice. A growl came from my throat. He cuffed me on the side of the head to subdue me.

“Open, boy ,” he ordered, his voice full of disdain.

I melted, even as my vision blackened with fury. I parted my lips and reached for his shaft. I’d offered to prepare him for Lianvis, but for this purpose I was clearly redundant. He was already fully hard and straining up towards his belly. Maybe in a way I had got him ready. Maybe looking at me, knowing he was going to do this to me, was what made him throb like that. The thought was cold comfort.

I took the head in my mouth– rounded and fleshy as a cock, with petals and tendrils like an exotic flower. They probed at my hard palate, tickled as they slid into the back of my throat. He tasted like salt and iron, like blood. His blood is already in me, I thought furiously as I gagged. He gave it to me first. I was his before he even thought of you, Viss.

His gloved fingers fisted in my hair, yanking my forehead towards his belly, grinding my nose into his pubes, and forcing his shaft down around some bend he’d never managed to force it past before. It seemed to have closed my windpipe. I could feel the pressure of blood pounding in my head as I struggled, retching violently but unable to dislodge him from the depths of my throat. Still gripping my hair so tightly that I thought it would tear out and take my scalp with it, he drove a fist into my temple. My body went slack. I would’ve collapsed to the floor if he hadn’t been holding me up.

Yes, I thought, Please Lordra, fuck me, use me.

Then he yanked me back off him. His ‘lim sprang from my hungry mouth, smacking into my cheek as it bounced free, and he flung me down onto the floor. There I sprawled, limp as a used tissue, and just as helpless as he stepped over me and towards Lianvis and the altar.

LIANVIS

I had known they did this, but it was quite different seeing it. He was brutal with Terzian, but not the same way he was with me. There was only one time when he’d struck me with a closed fist, and that hadn’t been to ‘roon me.

I found myself aroused by the distinction. Vive la différence, I thought absently. He turned his gaze to me as he had his hand fastened in Terzian’s hair, and the heat in his eyes made me melt a little. I felt almost as if I might get double-flower, soume for Ponclast and ouana at the sight of Terzian on his knees like that. He’d been enjoyable when I’d had him last, a good natured, profoundly normal har, enjoying a standard erotic romp, nothing deep or complicated, just easy and perfectly satisfying for what it was. Now… now Ponclast had made him into something else entirely. Here was a beaten dog made vicious, yet still following at his Master’s heels. His perversion excited me. The very wrongness of it all. I tried desperately to repress the oncoming ouana state, but the obscene noises, suction and gagging left me helplessly hard even as yaloe dripped down my thighs in that scanty gown.

Perhaps it was the blood that told him, but again, he turned his head. Seeing my state, he shoved Terzian off, and came to me. He swept everything off the altar, sending a clatter of metal ringing through the room, and then he lifted me onto it.

He cupped my cheek, fingers sliding into my hair as he shoved up my skirt. It was almost a tender gesture, but I winced remembering the last time he’d seen my ‘lim. To my surprise he ignored it, simply shoving his fingers into my bare, soaking ‘lam.

“My rose,” he purred, dragging back my head and savaging my throat with his teeth, “my bride.”

I melted, legs wrapping round his waist. I was hungry for him, starved for his skin against mine, though I got little enough of that with him dressed as he was, still in his leathers. I reached for him, fingers scrabbling for some purchase, some place to feel him, unmediated but for where we were joined at the hips. I settled for throwing my arms about his neck, and arching up to be closer. I wanted his lips on mine, needed them. This felt like the antidote to the fear I had felt since entering Fulminir. Even when he pinned my wrists to the altar, driving into me with a force that made me scream in exquisite agony, I could not help needing him.

PONCLAST

When he raised his head and saw Viss shrinking back against the altar, gripping it for support, knees trembling and his ‘lim straining against the imprisoning gown, he wasted no time in casting off Terzian like so much trash. He approached Lianvis with the stride of a predator, fire in his eyes. A murmured word of endearment was all that was necessary to subdue him, but Ponclast employed force anyway, savaging him with rough hands and rougher teeth.

When he swept the candles from the altar, they were plunged into partial darkness. Coals from the censer smoldered at Ponclast’s feet, and he crushed one heedlessly beneath a booted heel as he manhandled Viss onto the altar. In the dim, the luminescence of his ‘lim was more marked. Red and black flames seemed to move beneath its velvety skin, picking out the details of the cruelly curved phallus. Viss’s pulsed with pink and gold, and his blossoming ‘lam beneath as well, its floral appearance adding lewd significance to the words “my rose.”

Ponclast plunged his weapon home and Viss cried out, arching. That first thrust equaled consummation, with that alone the pact was truly sealed. Naturally, Ponclast did not stop at that. His face wore a savage grin as he tore into Viss again and again, saliva glinting between his teeth.

The claiming was brutal to begin with, but swiftly descended into sheer barbarity. Lianvis moaned and writhed and clung to his neck, hands melting against his shoulders. In response, Ponclast tore them away and pinned them to the altar. This positioning lasted only a few seconds until the archon grabbed the diamond necklace and gave it a harsh twist, pulling it tight around Lianvis’ throat. It was a vicious ligature– the stones and their settings cut into flesh like barbed wire, and pricks of blood appeared upon the exquisite neck. At this sudden violence Lianvis actually started to struggle, his eyes bulging first from fear and then from lack of oxygen. As a blood vessel burst in white sclera, Ponclast only smiled and jerked the chain tighter. Lianvis’s fists beat ineffectually against his chest, then dropped abruptly as consciousness began to leave his body. Ponclast allowed the chain to slacken for a moment, just long enough for Viss to weakly stir, then pulled it taut again. Viss’s head, which had lifted, fell back against the stone with a hard smack. It was several moments before he moved again.

During this time, Ponclast released the diamonds but did not slow in his thrusting. His hands were everywhere, tearing at the fragile dress. Seed pearls ripped loose from their stitching, scattered across the altar and rolled across the floor to join the discarded bridal bouquet. A gown that cost more money than most hara would ever see throughout their lifetimes was destroyed with a few vicious tugs.

Lianvis lay limp and naked in the ruin of his wedding dress. Ponclast grabbed a mass of his long blond hair and ground it across his face, as if to hide a countenance he hated. When Viss revived with a startled gasp, he involuntarily sucked strands of it into his mouth, which left him spluttering. He tried to lift a hand to push it away, but Ponclast grabbed his wrist and twisted it cruelly.

Viss made a noise that sounded like a sob.

“Beg me to stop,” Ponclast spat. A vein was standing out in his forehead, and sweat was pouring down his face. In the harsh shadows, he looked evil, almost ugly.

“Lordra, please,” Viss whimpered, “Not like this, not tonight.”

Ponclast dealt him a slap across the face that sent his head lolling to one side.

“Tonight of all nights,” he snarled. “Please me, bitch. It is your station.”

Viss managed to shake back some of the hair from his face. His gaze was almost defiant.

“I want you,” he whispered. “I want this.”

Ponclast slapped him again, a backhand this time, sending Viss’s head snapping to the other side.

Tears were pouring down Lianvis’ face, strands of hair sticking to them. “I love you,” he choked.

Ponclast laughed harshly, without delight. He leaned down closer to Viss, almost as if he might kiss him.

“Don’t bore me,” he growled, inches from his face.

Viss stared up at him wild-eyed for a moment, then started to struggle ferociously, clawing at Ponclast’s face. One of his nails gouged a scarlet line along the archon’s jaw. Ponclast grunted in obvious pleasure, and pinned the frantic hands, though with less ease than ever before. Trapped, Lianvis twisted, legs kicking, torquing his body from side to side in desperate attempts to be free. All his efforts amounted only to writhing on Ponclast’s ‘lim, which prompted loud, self-satisfied groans from the archon.

“Good,” Ponclast sneered, “You’re beginning to interest me.”

“Get off of me!” Viss shrieked. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

Ponclast pressed his body closer, crushing Lianvis beneath his full weight. His leather creaked as he continued to thrust, slower now, a gloating, torturous pace.

Lianvis continued his litany of protests, voice quickly growing hoarse from strain. “Let me go! Get your goddamn whore out of here, get out of me, let me go!” His whole body was shaking with pain and exhaustion, his struggles growing weaker in spite of himself. “I’m a fool to love you!” He cried out bitterly.

Ponclast’s eyes glowed like embers. His face was a mask of religious ecstasy.

Viss glared up at him, face flushed and tear-streaked. “I’m fucking serious, I don’t want your ‘lim covered in that fawning faggot’s slobber inside me!”

Ponclast chuckled appreciatively. “This whore has a filthy mouth. Would you like to stop it, Terzian?”

Lianvis snapped his teeth.

“I’m enjoying the show from where I am, Lordra,” said Terzian drily.

“Coward!” Viss snarled.

“I like my fingers,” Terzian blandly returned.

“I bet you like that little Uigenna whore’s better!” Viss spat.

“Who, Cal?” Terzian snorted. “He’s having my pearl.”

Ponclast froze for a second, and his shoulders stiffened. Then he redoubled his thrusts, ramming his hips too hard and fast to permit Viss to form words. The litany of outrage tapered off into a single high, sustained mewl of pain. It changed into a shriek of furious, unwilling pleasure as Ponclast shifted angles, and sent his ouana-tongue into the seventh sikra.

Lianvis jerked in his arms, and his face went pale with terror.

“Lordra, no.” The magnitude of his fear had turned his voice strangely calm, though hysteria still wavered at the edges. “Lordra, please, please no.”

Ponclast’s eyes were closed in bliss. “Lianvis, yes,” he purred.

They were past the point of no return anyway. There was no stopping it, if it Ponclast had possessed the slightest inclination to stop. Both climaxed, gushing into and over each other. It was a drawn out, bestial orgasm on both sides, Ponclast biting down hard onto Viss’s shoulder, Lianvis screaming his throat raw to bear it. The small life was planted. It took root. The pearl would come. It was a certainty long before the last spasms had faded.

Ponclast collapsed on top of Lianvis, whose struggles had subsided, although his sobs had not.

“That was the best performance of your career, my sweet,” the archon murmured in his bride’s ear, and sweetly kissed his neck. “Nohar can satisfy me like you can.” This last was spoken loudly enough for Terzian to hear.

Lianvis’s sobs cut off suddenly in a breathy, elated laugh. He buried his face in Ponclast’s shoulder, nuzzling against the leather. “I am yours,” he repeated, “I am yours.”

Ponclast gave his still-imprisoned wrists a squeeze. “You are mine,” he affirmed, and his tone was almost warm.

LIANVIS

It was agony. I hated it. I hated it because I knew it would please Terzian and I couldn’t stand the thought of him being relieved on that day of all days, and so for that petty jealousy I attempted to defy my Lordra, my Master, my Ponclast.

It turned out I had but to stoop to conquer, although I had not known that until we had finished. I had not known whether I wanted him off or wanted him happy, or if I just wanted one or the other and it didn’t matter which.

I had him. I had his pearl. I had his words “nohar can satisfy me like you can,” a balm to my wretched soul. I hoped those words would echo in Terzian’s head every time he and Ponclast fucked for the rest of time. I knew they would echo in mine. I laughed, although the tears did not stop. I laughed because life sparked within me, and this time it was his.

Chapter 3: A Tangled Web

Chapter Text

TERZIAN

I woke with a pounding hangover. It was only seven AM–I have difficulty not waking with the sun, no matter what I’ve done the night before. Temperament and years of military discipline have conspired to make me a compulsive early riser.

The sunlight pouring through the crack in the drapes hit my eyeballs like acid. I moaned in pathetic misery and managed to knock over the bottle on the nightstand that I’d been groping for. It pitched to the floor and shattered. The air filled with the inviting scent of liquor which I now could not drink.

I groaned again and sat up, rubbing my head. Even after that travesty of a wedding, Ponclast hadn’t been done. He’d insisted I accompany him and Viss back to his suite– their suite– for a nightcap. It didn’t take long, fortunately, but I had to stand there and toast to him and his new bride, and murmur polite congratulations. Then he threw me out on my ass so they could go cuddle. I drank more when I got back to my rooms, enough to knock me out so that I could get a whole two hours of sleep.

Sitting there with cottonmouth and a headache, I reflected bitterly on how I’d humiliated myself. I’d fallen to my knees for the bastard, worshiped him shamelessly in front of his chosen, and what had I gotten out of the bargain? I’d got sore knees and called a faggot by his bitch, that’s what.

I don’t care how high and mighty he thinks he is. He’s gonna have to do something different, and soon, if he doesn’t want a coup on his hands.

As if I’d summoned him with the thought, I heard a familiar knock at my door. Two sharp raps, each sending a shooting pain through my sensitive head. It could only be him. Nohar else would be disturbing me this ag-damn early. Nohar else would have the gall.

I stayed mutinously silent. I could pretend to be asleep. It wouldn’t fool him, but maybe he’d find the decency to leave me alone. I couldn’t quiet my thoughts, however, which ran along luridly traitorous lines. To hell with having his head on a spike, I’d have his bound body on my bed. I’d force that tight frigid ‘lam of his wide open, and I’d make him like it. I’d keep him squeezing out my pearls. I’d grow his hair long and parade him naked in front of all of Fulminir and let every har he’d ever pissed off have a turn at him. Not at his ‘lam, that would be mine; but as he’d made sure to tell me so many times, a whore has other holes to use.

Another knock. This one, somehow, had a sardonic character. I gave up and went to the door, just as I was– dishevelled, unshowered and naked.

There he stood, impeccable and smirking at me.

“Good morning, ” he said, his eyes travelling lewdly over my body.

Without further preamble, he looped his arm around my waist, pressed his lips to mine, and steered me back into the room. He shut the door by slamming me back against it. I whimpered in pain, but my mouth opened under his just the same, welcoming his probing tongue.

After a moment, he broke the kiss and placed his hands on my head. Cool energy flowed through them into my aching skull. I clenched my jaw, resenting his presumption in interrupting my misery, but in a few moments I felt remarkably better. Not only was the pain gone, but I felt fresh and energised, as if I’d had a full night’s sleep.

“There,” he said, ruffling my hair. “Good as new.” He stopped abruptly, his gaze sharpening. “You should cut this. It’s getting long.”

It was barely three inches at the top, if that. I pulled away from him like a sulky child. He laughed softly.

“Come here,” he said, drawing me over toward the window. “Let me look at you.”

He pulled back the curtain so the sun shone fully on me. “You with your east facing windows,” he chided. “You wouldn’t have such trouble sleeping in if you didn’t keep choosing these rooms.”

He was silent for a moment, regarding me intently. He didn’t say I was beautiful in the sunlight, but I read it on his face. He reached out and cupped my chin, turning my head from side to side.

“Get on the bed,” he said.

I stubbornly stayed put.

“Terzian,” he said, a note of warning in his tone. Was there something else there? Hurt? Or was I imagining it? I had to be. He had no heart.

“I had your blood first,” I said.

His brows lifted. “I haven’t forgotten.”

He wasn’t even flesh and blood. He was made of ice and stone.

I spluttered and made an inchoate gesture with my hands. “How could you do this?”

“You have two consorts,” he observed. “Why are you sulking?”

“I haven’t blood bonded with either of them!”

“What’s stopping you?” He sat down casually on my rumpled bed. His tone was one of mild curiosity.

You, I wanted to scream at him. You stopped me when you marked me first.

“A blood bond is between two hara,” I managed thickly. “It is sacred and inviolable. It cannot be broken.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “It is between two hara. I have one with you, and now I have one with Viss.”

I was silent. I felt exhausted again. There was no point fencing with him. He always got his way.

“Get over here,” he said, a little edge to his voice now. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

He’d missed me. He’d denied himself by denying me. I’d known that, but now it was confirmed. That was all it took, really. I didn’t move yet, but I felt myself sinking back under his spell.

I watched as if hypnotised as he stood and undressed. That splendid body emerged in the sunlight, long graceful muscles in his legs and arms, sweeping curves of shoulders and pecs. His wrists and ankles were surprisingly slim. I felt drawn again, as I sometimes did, to that forbidden woman in him. I could not have it, I knew I could not. That part of him I worshipped from afar, like a knight who wears a lady’s favour but will never touch her.

Bare and magnificent, he stood with open arms. “Come,” he said a third time, and it was the charm. I went to him.

He wrapped me in his embrace, kissed me deeply, touched me everywhere. I was half-soume, half-ouana, my body confused by what it wanted. To my surprise, he reached down and wrapped a hand around my shaft even as his fingers teased my folds. I tensed, startled.

“Keep your weapon out,” he murmured against my neck. “I’m not offended.”

I felt bashful about having him touch my ‘lim, shy as a virginal teenage boy. If he said it was alright, I wasn’t about to argue. I closed my eyes and submitted. Under his touch, I grew to full hardness and slickness. He was erect, and the heat of his shaft brushed against mine. I gasped at the new sensation, and threw back my head. This had been worth waiting for.

He pushed me down on the bed, and then he was on top of me and in me. I parted for him easily. He pinned me down, thrusting lazily. We were body to body, his hard belly pressed against my throbbing ‘lim. I moaned like a girl for him, and grunted like a boy. Our breaths mingled, carrying images sweeter and brighter than usual– green fields swept by the wind, water sparkling in the sun.

Eventually he broke the kiss, shoved my legs up to my shoulders, and began to fuck me briskly. My rigid ‘lim was pointing at my face, and I realized what he’d intended all along. “Stroke it,” he ordered, and I did, because it wouldn’t be aruna with Ponclast without some degradation. I couldn’t help grinning anyway. My ‘lam was squeezing him shamelessly, and his eyes were narrowed with anticipation as I jerked my ‘lim for him. The aren hit me in the face just before he came in me. I came again, from my ‘lam this time, an odd divided orgasm in two acts.

He rolled onto his side, fishing in his discarded uniform for smokes. I lay there with my cum on my face and his cum oozing out of my hole, happy as a pig in shit.

“Still say no one can satisfy you the way he can, Lordra?” I couldn’t resist asking.

He laughed.

“Don’t pay too much attention to what I say to the soume,” he said. “You know you have to lie to them.”

It wasn’t until after he left that it occurred to me to wonder if I was included in that category.

LIANVIS

I awoke sore, but tended to my own hurts. Ponclast had left the bed before I stirred, but his pillow still smelled like him. I nuzzled into it. He was gone, and I knew where. I didn’t mind. I was still the victor even if he had to toss the curr a few scraps. I was happy. It wasn’t long before my attendants appeared. The redhead was called Glory and the brunette was Veta, they appeared more at ease with the ouanahara out of the room.

“You’re an archon?” said Veta curiously, tilting his head to the side.

“You know perfectly well he is, Vet, don’t be foolish,” said Glory sharply.

“Yes, but I’ve never seen an archon who looked like…”

“That’s because you’ve only seen one archon, don’t be rude. I’m sorry, he’s second generation you see,” explained Glory with a shake of his lovely head.

“Well but I mean he’s… well you know… he’s– soume, isn’t he?”

“He’s not Varr, other tribes don’t– well it doesn’t matter, he’s sharing Ponclast’s bed so he’s soume here and now at least.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer the question. Was I still an archon? Here? Now? After what had happened? Had not all my worldly goods become his after our bond? No, not yet, I could not allow myself to be fully subsumed just yet. We had a war to win.

“I am an archon, and by Varrish standards, I suppose I would be considered a soume-har,” I said, mustering all the dignity I could. Even if our union was secret for the moment, I was Ponclast’s consort. I would need to conduct myself as was appropriate for my station. I gazed for the moment at the ring on my finger. It was good luck, I supposed that wedding rings are not a harrish custom, and that I wore so many anyway that the bauble would not be noticed, except for its beauty and extravagance.

I breakfasted lightly as I had not much appetite. I had seen the way hara looked at me the night before. I would need to prove myself. Show myself as great an ally to their glorious leader as any of them. For I did love him. I loved him and loved him without thought of my place or position, so long as I was at his side.

I gazed into the mirror. I looked as I always had, though perhaps a bit pale, but the winter and last night’s blood loss could do that. For a moment I had the unsettling impression though that the face in the glass was not my own. I drew back instinctively and the wave Veta was attempting to pin in place came loose. I think I gasped softly.

“Are you alright, tiahaar?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said, “I only got a chill, goose walking over my grave,” I added with a laugh that sounded perhaps more nervous than I would have preferred, “anyway, can you tell me– I know that many of Ponclast’s generals have consorts, who among them are some of the– how shall I put this? Most beloved? Who do hara think of when they think ‘oh now that’s the sort of har a Varrish consort should be’?” I asked.

Glory looked up, his dark eyes inspecting me closely, trying to read my motivations on my face before answering.

“Oh that’s easy, hara like Sashtri, Cobweb, Sable, and Elvinné,” he said brightly, thinking of them. I had gotten somewhat to know Cobweb and had met Sashtri briefly the previous night. I would need to meet the others; get to know them; learn just what it was that made them so beloved. I thought of Cobweb, the consummate host, beautiful, a loving hostling, always at Terzian’s side, even with Cal about.

Oh the perfect parallel, I was just as much a thorn in Terzian’s side as Cal was in Cobweb’s. I wondered if he appreciated the irony of the analogy. I doubted it. Terzian wasn’t the sort of har who noticed things like that, and if he did notice I doubted even more that he would care.

“I want you to make me look like a proper Varrish soume then,” I said, and they nodded. I wondered vaguely if Ponclast had given them instructions in advance and they’d do what he said no matter what I told them to do. As it was, I ended up looking not dissimilar to how I had at home while under Ponclast’s eye. The gown was of peacock blue silk, cut on the bias so that it clung rather seductively to my body, with diaphanous layers of silk chiffon to give it a rather classical flavor, over it went a sable mantle that I clutched gratefully about me against the winter chill. My hair was allowed to hang in loose waves under a veil of a blue-green to match the blue of the gown on top of which went a fillet of gold with further gems hanging to each side of my face, and flowers creating almost the effect of a halo.

I was lovely, regal and yet also inviting, seductive. Veta and Glory smiled, admiring their handiwork.

“Going to have the ouana’s fighting over you looking like that,” said Glory, clearly pleased with himself, “not that they wouldn’t have in any case, Tiahaar, seeing as you are quite lovely, but now you really do look proper Varr.”

And he was right, I did, and it suited me. I made a good one. Once I was ready I glanced between my pair of attendants.

“I was brought, you know, to aid in Ponclast’s magical training, but as he appears to be– occupied, I’m not quite sure what to do with myself,” I said with an airy laugh that did not sound at all like my own.

“Well, I suppose then you’re free to do as you like, Tiahaar,” said Glory, as Veta began to tidy away the evidence of their various operations upon my person. It was funny to see myself here, the servants doing their duties with all the elegance and efficiency of long practice, and myself like a wealthy hume woman of long ago, attended upon.

“Do you happen to know what Ponclast is about today?”

“Working, I would imagine, he thinks of little else,” said Glory.

“And inspecting the harl–” started Vet, but Glory gave him a look that shut his mouth.

Visiting the harling. Which harling? My harling? He hadn’t mentioned him. But of course… there must be many harlings in Fulminir. But the harling. Which harling was that? Fulminir was just the sort of place for such things, mysteries. Perhaps it almost amused me to think of it then. In daylight, having slept in his apartments, I was less afraid. Less ground down by that sense of having made a mistake that had haunted me so the night before.

I pretended I hadn’t heard. I suspected that saying too much or overhearing another saying too much was an offense that could be punished rather harshly, and Glory had already suffered for my sake. I did not want to turn them against me. They could be allies if I were careful, and acted well. “Would you like to stay with me, and perhaps take tea?” I suggested. Wondering what currency might be used to buy favor in such a world. “And fetch me a cigarette, perhaps?”

“Cigarette?” asked Glory, arching his graceful titian eyebrows, “in here?”

He sounded as if I’d suggested smoking in an armory full of high explosives.

“Ponclast has his cigars in here,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but he’s ouana,” said Veta as if that explained everything.

“It’s not… a lot of ouanas don’t like it when a soume smokes,” explained Glory, “even with a holder, which is just nonsense, but there it is.”

He looked as if he felt a bit daring for even stating such a thought. I considered the problem. I could simply not smoke for the time being. I was after all, with pearl, and although it did seem that harrish physiology was not affected by tobacco the same way humans had been, we had not been around long enough to be really sure. I decided that on that account, if not on account of Varrish custom, I could avoid cigarettes for the time being. So with that decided I revisited the first portion of the question.

“But tea? We are allowed tea, aren’t we?”

“Coffee is more usual, but yes,” said Glory, and Veta nodded as if to show he had as full and proper an understanding of the rules as his companion. And so I rang for tea. It was funny ringing for things. I was quite used to having servants, but ringing for them felt archaic and yet also so very much more… technological and impersonal then merely sending out a mind touch or issuing a call as I was used to. Servants one didn’t see, whose names one didn’t know, were peculiar somehow to me.

The meal came, scones, cake, pretty little sandwiches, and fresh ripe peaches in the midst of winter, quite a luxury. Not the sort of thing I would have expected from Varrish kitchens, but I suppose cuisine intended for soumes was allowed to be more dainty.

“Peaches out of season, I suppose I must be quite a favored guest,” I said, with a laugh.

“Peaches out of season, silk sheets… Fulminir has many luxuries,” agreed Glory, though his gaze flickered away from me.

“But not just luxuries?” I replied, and he froze for a moment, and Vet nearly dropped his scone.

Glory recovered quickly and laughed.

“Well of course, it’s a military barracks as well, isn’t it?” he said lightly, it was just as I was about to respond that I heard the ring of hobnailed boots on stone, and the others froze. Ponclast entered and they set down their half finished cups of tea and bobbed little bows before fleeing. He looked almost amused at their fear.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your little tea party, but it’s probably for the best,” he said, eyes raking over me. He must have found my appearance acceptable, for he nodded abstractedly, giving me a pat on the cheek, before going over his desk and burying himself in reports. I summoned somehar to take away the dishes and bring Ponclast lunch. He hardly seemed to notice the gesture, but he ate the lunch. I knew instinctively not to interrupt him. If he wanted me, he would retrieve me. Otherwise, to intrude on him would simply irritate him. I would prove myself a worthwhile consort, as I would prove to the whole of Varr that I was a valuable ally and precisely the sort of har worthy of their archon. I would be good. Oh I would be very good.

I occupied myself with sketching. I recalled Cobweb indulged in painting and so I thought this quiet pursuit might be seen as suitable. I had always enjoyed drawing, but had had little time for it for the past several years, occupied with my duties as archon and so the leisure afforded me by these new restrictions felt like a luxury. So I sat with charcoal pencils and a sketchbook and drew the face I loved and feared, the father of the child I carried. I was out of practice and so it took me several tries, pages rendered useless and thrown on the fire, before I captured a good likeness.

Eventually he got up and came over to me, seeing what I was doing he laughed, but not unkindly.

“You’re like a schoolgirl drawing the boy she likes,” he said with amusement, “It’s not bad though. I didn’t know you could draw.”

“I haven’t really had time in years, but… back at the beginning of Kakkahaar there was a har who’d gone to art school and he taught me a little.”

An expression passed briefly over his features. It vanished too quickly for identification but I fancied it seemed almost as if it had been wistful. I examined him closely, looking for some trace of it, but it was gone like the shadow of a passing cloud.

“In any case, we’re meeting with Azvith, put your things away,” he said, gesturing to my drawing materials. I nodded and tidied away the pencils, chalk, and sketchbook at once, before checking my reflection in the mirror. I had not gotten charcoal dust on myself, and everything was as it should be. I was still a vision of soume perfection.

PONCLAST

He led Lianvis briskly through Fulminir’s halls, his strides long and decisive. Lianvis, in his skirts, struggled to keep up, but Ponclast did not slow for him. Dire purpose was in his every movement.

They rode an elevator up several floors, then took a long, narrow flight of stairs. Fulminir gave the impression, at first glance, of being laid out with military precision, its floor plan a sensible grid, but the higher one ascended, the more this order broke down. At this altitude the impression was more of a labyrinth. To reach Ponclast’s destination required not only the elevator, the stairs, and the traversing of several short corridors, but also a second, smaller elevator that had no access to the floor below. When they stepped out of this, there was only one more hall to navigate before they stood at the door.

It swung open from within, revealing the Kakkahaar Azvith. He had not adopted Varrish fashions, and still wore his sand-colored desert robes.

“Tiahaara,” he greeted unctuously, then did a little double-take at Lianvis. “My archon, I nearly mistook you for a Varr!”

Ponclast made a little moue. “‘Lordras’ would be a more appropriate form of address from you to us, Azvith.”

Azvith bowed. “My apologies, Lordras,” he murmured.

Ponclast brushed past him into the room. It was a small meeting chamber, which due to its relative inaccessibility was rarely used. Ponclast mainly employed it when he wanted extra privacy. It was furnished with a long mahogany table, several velvet-cushioned chairs, and little else. An assortment of maps hung on the walls. Above the single window hung a screen which could be rolled down to receive images from an antiquated projector near the door.

Seated already at the table was Vashti. Lianvis and Asvith settled themselves as well. Ponclast remained standing. He paced to the window and stood looking out, for a moment, at the winter landscape, his hands clasped behind his back beneath his ramrod spine. Then he drew his cigar from his pocket, lit it, and drew a puff.

“I’ve received a visitation,” he said, his back still to them. “Azvith already knows of this.”

He paused, as if uncertain, for once, how to proceed.

“It was a spirit,” he resumed, “Not a spirit of the dead. A shade of the future, and I think, of one not yet born or made.”

He finally turned, and his features were stiff and suffused with a strange excitement, his eyes gleaming with a hint of madness.

“He told me many things,” he said. “Things I believe we may use to gain the advantage against the Gelaming. He was conceived in a special way, his power enhanced somehow. Created from my seed as a weapon of war.” He gestured to Azvith. “Relay the insights you shared with me earlier, after the spirit fled.”

Azvith rose, clearing his throat. “As I conveyed to the eminent Ponclast,” he said, “I could detect a mingled essence within this being. He was harr, but not entirely. Some part of him– and not a small part– hails from the regions beyond. I believe an alien essence was bonded somehow to his soul.”

Ponclast nodded impatiently. “The encounter with this being was brief, but we learned much. Enough, we trust, to reverse engineer it.”

His eyes rested briefly, almost imperceptibly, upon Lianvis’s belly.

LIANVIS

Oh I knew Azvith. I knew him and his experiments far too well. This would not be without casualties, and he and I were both perfectly aware of that. My jaw tightened. Ponclast spoke of his own seed, but this harling. Our harling was not to be the subject of his experiments. I refused to allow that. I placed an arm almost protectively across my flat stomach. The idea had merit though, it could just be possible that some benefit could be gained by creating these… creatures? Would it be right to still call such a thing a har still? I couldn’t know yet of course, it remained to be seen. I wished sorely I had been there for the visitation, had gotten to feel the presence first hand rather than having to hear about it like this.

Azvith tilted his head languidly to the side, seeming pleased with his new importance.

“I believe, Lordras,” he said, straightening up, and taking on his best air of gravity, “that I do have some ideas that may help us to move in the direction desired. It may be… expensive in some ways, I will need test subjects… many of them, and equipment.”

I could see the wheels turning behind his golden eyes. This was exactly the kind of project that suited him and his particular nature. One that required the full power of his considerable intelligence, with the creativity and ruthlessness he possessed in equal measure.

“Vashti will sort out your test subjects. I expect you’re looking for very fertile harra,” said Ponclast. He was looking at Azvith intently, as if trying to determine his motives for cooperation– what it was that had a hold on him about the project, because he seemed almost as thrilled about it as Ponclast himself.

PONCLAST

The meeting adjourned in short order. There had been little else of relevance to say– Ponclast had given orders for Vashti to work closely with Azvith on the project, and for Averen to be recalled from the desert so that he might resume his duties in scouting for suitable hostlings. Nohar argued with him, or challenged his plans. Short meetings are a perk of supreme power.

As the four hara walked from the room, Ponclast, his mind clearly set on their course of action, was already rapping out orders.

“Azvith, see my head of domestic staff to help you requisition a suitable suite for your work. Vashti, you will accompany me to the hostlings’ wing; I want to look over our current stock to consider them for the project.”

Vashti nodded tightly, and Azvith excused himself with a bow and a murmur of “yes, Lordra.”

“What shall I do?” asked Lianvis.

Ponclast looked at him, but his gaze seemed somehow to pass through him. “Go dress for dinner. We shall have dancing tonight.”

With this, he turned away and started down the corridor with Vashti.

“Lordra!” Lianvis’ cry arrested him mid-stride.

He turned, brows drawn irritably down. “Yes?”

“I do not know the way down,” Lianvis said, a bit pathetically.

Vashti simpered. Ponclast smirked.

“Surely an adept like you can manage to navigate Fulminir,” he said coolly.

With that, he turned on his heel, and he and Vashti moved off once more, their retreating backs vanishing through a door and down a flight of stairs.

LIANVIS

And with that he left me, and I was alone. I considered the situation and then decided that it would be best to go in the direction I had seen Vashti and Ponclast heading. After all, the lower floors were not such a warren of passageways and staircases and unexpected doors. I might be able to manage there, or at least find somehar to guide me back to my chambers, and so I followed. I gave them a bit of time to gain a lead on me. I did not want, after all, to seem to be dogging his heels, as much as I might have wanted to. The walls in this section were bare stone, and weak winter sunlight filtered in from the narrow windows with their reinforced glass. I shuddered. It felt as if there were eyes on me somewhere, and yet I could see no presence. I listened for thoughts, and heard only the low distant murmur of far off hara. I turned a corner I thought I remembered, and found myself at the barred door of a cell. It was dark, and I could not see properly but I had the awful sense of something moving within. I turned and fled back down the hall and up towards the hall with the meeting room. I opened a door at random and went through, it was a disused sitting room, filled with the ghostly shapes of furniture draped in dust covers. I shook my head and tried to think logically about this. I would just have to retrace my steps. I could have sworn the staircase Ponclast took with Vashti was the one we had come up.

I went out into the hall, and looked for any sign of which way we went, but it seemed not to resemble at all the hallway where we had come to have our meeting not a half hour before. I looked at the doors, and cursed myself for closing the meeting room door behind me. I went along the passage, opening doors, hoping to find confirmation that this was the correct corridor. Had the floor been of this gleaming black tile? I thought I remembered wood. For all Fulminir’s size it was not endless. If I walked, I would eventually have to end up somewhere, wouldn’t I?

I started off back in the direction of those stairs. Surely, one of the doors in the hall that lead to that eerie little cell would have to be the right door, so I went. I looked out the window, trying to orient myself by the position of the sun. I figured myself to be on the Eastern side of the tower by the shadows cast by the afternoon sun. Ponclast’s apartments faced north. I opened another door, and thankfully found a set of winding stairs down. They had a metal railing and looked like something one might find in an old apartment building. I descended, the story below had a door marked with a glowing exit sign, but it was locked. I sighed. It would be locked. There was a potted plant beside it, and a receptacle for cigarette butts. I descended further, the next story seemed to be disused guest bedrooms, with cherrywood furniture and a lot of crests from the country that came before. They had the impersonal feeling of hotel rooms, though the whisper of harrish thoughts seemed to be getting louder. I was getting closer then.

Further along and I came to a locked security door. I heard a thought from behind it “Ag help me, Ag save the harling.”

I tried for a mind touch, and felt a harrish consciousness which when it felt mine closed off, leaving nothing but the impression of terror.

I put my ear to the door, and heard nothing. It was too thick. I knocked. I made calls with my mind but there was no response.

So after waiting a bit longer just in case, I turned and walked down the hall in the other direction. Through another door and down a short flight of stairs I seemed to find myself somewhere inhabited. A tall har with light brown hair dressed in leathers looked me up and down with an obvious smirk.

“Are you lost?” he asked, letting his eyes wander over my body in a way calculated to make me uncomfortable.

I felt like a rabbit frozen under a predator’s eyes.

“Yes,” I said, “I’m looking for the archon’s suite.”

“That’s yes Tiahaar to you,” he said, “you must be new.”

I stiffened.

“No, tiahaar, it’s not, I am Lianvis har Kakkahaar,” I replied sharply, “surely you’ve heard of me.”

He snorted. “And I’m the Aghama,” he replied, before calling out “Rove, come and look what I found, a little lost hostling with delusions of grandeur!”

Another har appeared, he was a bit shorter, with hair of that shade of almost transparent blonde one sees now and then.

“Well hullo there,” he said with a low whistle and a nasty grin, “perhaps we ought to show him why hostling’s ought to stay with their guards and not wander.”

The first har reached for me, and I was preparing to defend myself magically when a familiar voice rang out.

“Rove, Wagner, what are you idiots doing out here, I gave you time for a smoke break, not a tea party.”

“I found a lost lam’ out of his quarters, Lordra,” said Wagner, gesturing to me with his free hand, “We were just deciding how best to discipline him.”

Terzian saw me, and I could see a moment of utter disappointment in his underlings pass over his features before they set firmly in anger.

“That’s Lianvis , shit-for-brains.”

Wagner blanched.

“He said he was, but he’s not dressed like a Kakkahaar, are you sure?”

Terzian with a look of indescribable irritation lifted the har’s hat off his head and smacked him across the face with it as one might smack a dog with a newspaper.

“Yes, I’m fucking sure, I’ve only known him since Oomar,” he replied. “Both of you are on head duty for the rest of the week. If that’s the worst flak you catch for this, thank your lucky stars, because I’ll have to report you to the archon.”

The two soldiers swallowed and muttered “Yes, Lordra.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” Terzian spat, “You’re dismissed.”

The Varrs marched off down the hallway. With a sigh, Terzian turned to me. “Tiahaar Lianvis, I… do apologize for this… incident,” he said in a stiff but much gentler tone.

I had mostly recovered myself by then and nodded.

“It’s quite alright, nothing I couldn’t have handled,” I replied, before taking a deep breath in and adding “however, I am a bit lost. The Archon had a meeting on the 12th floor, and left me to find my own way back.”

If that was the way average Varrish soldiers were going to receive me, I decided it was best to swallow my pride and ask for assistance. Terzian, afterall, couldn’t do anything to me without provoking Ponclast’s rage, and even a har like him couldn’t be as slow as all that

TERZIAN

I’d been looking forward to at least half a day of not thinking about Lianvis, before inevitably bumping into him at tonight’s formal function. Evidently, even that had been too much to hope for. Where did Ponclast get off on letting his soume wander around Fulminir? You’d think he’d have the sense to keep his bitch on a leash in this place. Now because of him, two good soldiers were liable to lose their heads. Sure, they’d acted like assholes, but they were assets to their unit, and Viss shouldn’t have been sashaying around where he didn’t belong.

“I’ll escort you back,” I said tiredly.

“Thank you, tiahaar,” said Lianvis courteously.

I gritted my teeth. He’d seen me on my knees with a mouth full of ‘lim. It felt a little late for ‘tiahaar.’

“Come on,” I snapped, my own civility fraying.

He wasn’t that far from his goal, if only he’d known it. The main lifts reached up to this floor. I guided him to the elevator.

“I don’t know what Ponclast’s playing at,” I muttered as the doors closed behind us, “Letting you wander around alone. This place is a maze.”

“Complete with minotaurs, apparently,” Lianvis remarked.

The reference was not completely lost on me, but I did think it was pretentious.

“Where did he go off to?” I asked.

“The hostling’s wing, I believe,” Lianvis answered delicately.

“Ah.” That answered all of my questions. There were many reasons he wouldn’t bring Lianvis along for that, and none at all that he would. I smiled bitterly to myself. I don’t think Lianvis understood our Ponclast’s appetites yet, not fully. Not the way I did.

The elevator ding ed. We stepped out into the hall. The doors to Ponclast’s suite stood across from us.

“Well,” I said drily, “This is where we part. I’ll see you at dinner, tiahaar.”

I started for the still open door of the elevator, but his voice stopped me before I reached it.

“No, please. Come in for a moment.”

What fresh hell was this? In the time it took him to speak, and me to wonder, the elevator doors had closed again. I watched the numbers light as the descended floors, summoned, it seemed, all the way to the lowest sublevel.

“He might not like that,” I said in a neutral tone.

“He trusts you,” said Lianvis simply.

I blew out a breath. So, I was considered no threat to the archon’s soume. I didn’t find that flattering.

“Fine,” I said.

He opened the doors and gracefully gestured for me to come in. I walked into that room I had loved, where I had spent so many hours with Ponclast, which had now been polluted by this foreign essence. There, over that desk right there, was where he’d first taken me. It had remained one of his favorite spots to have me. I felt like the prints of my palms should’ve been burned into the top of that desk. Ag knows I’d scrubbed traces of its reddish wood stain off my hands enough times. Had he taken Lianvis there yet? Or was that too crass for a soume? Did Lianvis merit silk sheets and bindings of satin ribbon?

My eyes drifted to the big gold vanity. That thing was an eyesore. Everything in this room was in perfect harmony with everything else. Each object in this place had been fastidiously selected by Ponclast himself, to serve his purposes and to please his eye. Everything except for that fussy, baroque monstrosity. That had been chosen to please and serve another har. Ponclast had compromised his own rigid aesthetic tastes to make Lianvis happy. It killed me to see it. Did the little bitch even realize?

I would never want him to do that for me. I would hate him to ever be any less himself.

“What’ll you drink?” I asked, or rather demanded, striding to the liquor cabinet.

“Mezcal,” said Lianvis.

I raised my eyebrows, but hunted around until I found it and poured just the same. Ponclast had it, of course, but it wasn’t a big favorite at Fulminir. It was shoved way in the back, and I had to rummage around long enough that Lianvis started making polite soume noises about “if it’s not too much trouble,” which I found more annoying than gracious. Remembering last night, I briefly considered refraining from poisoning myself too potently this early in the evening, and then, with a shrug, poured myself straight vodka anyway. Why play at being civil, or, indeed, civilized?

I brought the drinks over to the fire, by which Lianvis was huddled. I set them down on the table with two loud clinks, and lit my cigar.

“Well?” I asked around a puff. “What do you want?”

LIANVIS

I was curled up by the fire, feet tucked under me. He didn’t like me. Of course he didn’t. I didn’t much like him either, but if we kept going like this, our squabbling would just irritate the object of both our affections and we’d lose the prize we were fighting over in the midst of battle, so I swallowed my pride. I would have to do this carefully. I wanted seem to be tipping my hand to him a bit, because in a way I was, and I could tell he needed a bit of an ego stroke to go with it, but I had to do it just right.

I pushed back my hair, and looked at him.

“I wanted to thank you… for what you did, I appreciate it, especially given our history,” I said, gaze flicking down, lashes against cheeks for a moment. Pretty but not too pretty. He didn’t trust soumes, but if I’d sprawled like a boy and leaned forward to level with him, I would have been showing my true colors, and proving all my soume wiles were just an act, I wasn’t a real soume.

“And I wanted to apologize for last night, I was being a cunt, and I’m sorry,” I did feel almost bad for him. We weren’t entirely different after all. We both loved the same har, and I could afford to be generous. I was his consort. I was having his pearl. We had been bonded in blood.

“I’m– I’m glad he has a har like you, someone on his side the way you are. He’s better off for your presence and support.”

Terzian watched me with a blank expression as I spoke, and sat there staring at me without moving for several seconds after I finished. Then he stood abruptly, and leaned down his hands on the arms of my chair, trapping me.

“I just want to make one thing clear,” he said, “You soume bitch. I am proud to serve my Lordra, and I don’t care what you or anyhar else thinks of it. Go ahead and laugh and call me a faggot. It doesn’t matter. If Ponclast wants me to suffer, I suffer. If he wants me humiliated, then humiliated I will be. If he says ‘face down, ass up Terzian,’ I do it on the double. On the day he wants me dead, I will die. I’m with him out there on the front lines. I’m the one who covers him when we’re under fire.” He pushed himself up off the arms of my chair and straightened his back, looking down at me with righteous fire in his eyesI . “You’re damn right he’s better off with me.”

I kept myself steady. I knew it all already, or most of it. In some ways it almost made it easier. His mad fanatical devotion to Ponclast as an avatar of Varrishness itself. It made whatever they had seem… oddly impersonal in some way.

“I find that very admirable, Tiahaar,” I said, looking up at him, “I really can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for protecting him as you do.”

Terzian’s mouth twisted, almost sadly. He picked up his glass, but did not drink from it. “As if he needs protecting, except maybe from himself. And no har can do that.” He laughed, and gave me a grin that was all sadness and no humor. “You know what he’s doing right now, Viss? He’s off in the hostlings’ quarters dutifully impregnating some concubine who leaves him cold, all to prove he doesn’t belong to either of us.”

I watched him, feeling something between sympathy and pity.

“I know,” I said, and in a way I had. He had said ‘his seed’ after all. I returned his bitter smile. “I think that’s one of the reasons why I could apologize to you… the way he is. He can find his way into one’s heart though, can’t he? Even if he has none of his own.” I turned my glass in my hands, letting the light shine through the clear smokey spirit and make the crystal glitter.

“He has a great heart,” Terzian objected, seeming oddly offended. “It’s hard and strong and full of passion. The heart of a Varr warrior.”

“Yes of course, but such a heart is not for us,” I said, “not for any other individual har. He can live in ours, but we cannot live in his.”

He looked at me surprised.

“I think you may understand better than I thought,” he said, looking at me consideringly.

I shrugged, and sipped my drink.

“I try,” I said, “That– that was all I needed to say. Thank you for speaking with me.”

He finished his drink and took his leave. I washed the glasses and summoned my serving hara. I think I remember the clock on the mantle reading around 3:30 by then. Glory and Veta came in with a profusion of garment bags.

Tonight was to be my proper introduction to Fulminir society, those who had just come in from travel were allowed a day of respite before inspection began in earnest, and so my attendants and I all understood how crucial it was I make a good impression.

TERZIAN

It was funny to think I might have misjudged Lianvis. Hearing him like that he sounded almost like a real soume, the kind of soume that would make Varr proud, and he was going to have a son. If Gahrazel was so exquisite with the rather plain Vashti for a hostling, I could only imagine the charms the product of Ponclast’s union with a beauty like Lianvis would possess.

Which of course, led me to wondering about my harling, my lost second son. What had Ponclast done with that pearl? Was it alive? The pearl would have to have hatched by now. He could be here, in Fulminir and I’d never know. Would Ponclast have left my son among the Kakkahaar? Was my son among those barbarians? I couldn’t let it get to me.

My first clenched. How dare Ponclast be angry that I’d fathered a son with Cal? He’d taken a child away from me. I deserved to have another. But he couldn’t even let me have that in peace. I knew he’d impregnated Lianvis on their accursed wedding night, and I knew he’d done it spitefully, impulsively, in response to my equally spiteful and impulsive words.

What a tangled web we weave, of blood and aren.

Chapter 4: The Feast of Blood

Chapter Text

PONCLAST

The hostlings’ quarters were an odd place, a high-security prison with powder-pink chaises and diaphanous draperies. Ponclast rarely visited it. Soumes were usually brought to him, plucked from the comfort of their golden cage like plump birds destined for slaughter.

As he stepped into the pastel, perfumed surroundings, his expression registered immediate distaste. For all its velvety opulence, the soumes’ suite was drearily dark. The soft, pale colors did little to lighten the place, instead seeming grayish and drab in the perpetual dim. The concubines reclined listlessly on couches and window seats, perfectly coiffed, immaculately made-up and as lifeless as mannequins. They watched him and Vashti with wary, feline eyes, and did not speak.

“Did you have anyhar in mind, Vashti?” Ponclast asked.

Vashti pursed his lips. “A few may be decent prospects, Lordra.”

Ponclast’s eyes swept disinterestedly over the exquisite flesh on display. “Summon them; what I see here fails to inspire.”

Vashti turned to Nethenya, the overseer of the hostlings– a har who’d gained his position by being more useful and loyal than he was erotically appealing to the archon.

“Bring me Irsa and Revna,” Vashti commanded.

Ponclast leaned against a wall and smoked while he waited. He seemed peculiarly reticent to touch the furnishings or venture further into the room. The soumes watched him from under their painted eyelids with hatred and fear that no amount of cosmetics could disguise, but looked away quickly if his glance fellon them.

Nethenya was back with two tall hara, rather strapping for soumes. They were both blonde and fleshy, reminiscent of hearty milkmaids. Ponclast laughed aloud when he saw them.

“What coarse creatures,” he remarked to Vashti, his eyes gleaming with mean-spirited merriment. “Well, they certainly look strong enough. I can see why you thought of them.”

The pair of soumes curtsied and murmured “Lordra.” They were almost identical, in coloring, build and face.

“Twins?” Ponclast asked idly.

Vashti nodded.

The archon smiled grimly. “All the better. With one I’ll try it the old-fashioned way. The second we’ll reserve for whatever Azvith dreams up.”

His gloved hand shot out and caught one of them by the arm– whether it was Irsa or Revna, he neither knew nor cared. He was a lot to grab onto, a solid weight to shift, but Ponclast was stronger. The soume stumbled forward and fell to his knees.

“Nethenya, find us a room,” Ponclast ordered.

Nethenya ducked his head and led the way along a short corridor. The soume quarters seemed to be mostly corridors somehow– even the parlor at the front of the suite was strangely narrow and lined with too many doors.

“Here, Lordra,” said Nethenya, stopping at a door which looked the same as all the rest.

Ponclast nodded curt thanks, flung open the door, and then flung his chosen prey through it.

The room was small, almost claustrophobic. It was occupied mainly by a bed and a vanity, both of which were pink and white and resembled wedding cakes. It looked like the room of a spoiled little girl. Irsa or Revna sprawled against the bedside, where Ponclast had thrown him, his cheek leaning against the mattress, his fingers clutching the ivory coverlet. He did not move.

Ponclast studied him coldly for a moment, then unzipped his fly.

~~Why are you doing this? You don’t need it. You don’t even want it. You’re doing it just because you can.~~

“Get on the bed,” he said.

The soume complied, drying his tears on his delicate sleeve. Ponclast pushed up the concubine’s skirt, under which he wore nothing, and parted the voluptuous thighs. Leather-sheathed fingers spread pink flesh without enthusiasm.

~~Terzian in the morning, Lianvis at night, and this in between. You’re never satisfied, are you? Of course not. Nothing less than what happened can satisfy you ever again.~~

~~Close your eyes and think of Varr, I guess. Or tell yourself you’re thinking of it. We all know you’re thinking only of yourself.~~

Ponclast clenched his jaw, aimed his weapon, and slid it home.

LIANVIS

Once Glory and Veta had finished and declared my appearance perfect, guaranteed to impress all in attendance, they left me. So there I waited, alone, in the gown that had been brought for me. The bodice was utterly encrusted with what I first took to be rhinestones, but upon closer inspection were the genuine article, diamonds perfectly cut so that their fire and brilliance was quite breathtaking. The dress was a shade of dusty rose with a corseted waist and full draping sheer sleeves. The full flowing skirts, made of layers of that same gauzy material, were dotted with stones arranged in twining floral patterns. They spread around me in graceful folds. With that went delicate sandals with straps like rose vines, and over the top went an ivory mink wrap. My face was painted in shades of rose, burgundy and gold, my nails manicured. My hair was pinned partially back from my face, the rest cascading down my back in a profusion of loose curls, and topped with a headpiece of diamond and pearls. Of course, there had to be pearls, to remind them all of my fertility. I was a powerful har and could host powerful sons.

The coolness of the silk lining against my skin was pleasant, and the weight of it was oddly comforting. It grounded me, and the corset and petticoats that supported the full skirt provided a sort of frame that made it easier to wear. The sensation of my bare legs with the scrap of lace covering my nether regions beneath that elaborate gown was strangely erotic, as if playing this role titilated me in itself. I smoothed the dress over my body, feeling the cold hard stones under my hands. That part did not invite touch, and yet… for the right pair of hands the entire thing would be so easy to take off.

I am his, I thought again, everything about me shows it.

But that was not yet for others to know. I was Lianvis Har Kakkahaar, desert rose, an archon in my own right, a worthy ally and the ideal match for their archon. This could not be like it had been at Forever, where they had learned to like but not respect me. That had been a test run. I had been learning what it was to be soume. Now I understood better, and could use the rules to my advantage. I hoped Ponclast would be pleased.

Please him well, gilded serpent, came a voice in my ear. I started and turned but found no one there. Some spirit then? I extended my senses, feeling in the ethers for some trace of it, but it had gone. A shiver ran down my spine, though it shouldn’t have. Of course Fulminir was a haunted place, and ghosts should hold no terror for me, adept that I was. With Ponclast’s permission I would ward these apartments, seal them against the wandering shades that infested the place.

PONCLAST

He returned to his suite with a mere hour to spare before dinner. The double doors swung shut with a loud bang as he entered. Lianvis started. Ponclast hardly spared him a glance, but headed directly into his bathroom.

There, he divested himself of his uniform with practiced efficiency, neatly folding each piece, and stepped under the shower. The stainless steel head was massive, mounted directly above on the ceiling, and it deluged him in a scalding stream. He spent a long time under it, his eyes closed, steam billowing around his magnificent body.

At length he turned the shower off and stepped out, drying briskly before wrapping himself in a crisp white robe. He stepped into the bedroom and clothed himself in a fresh uniform. His short hair was already dry; he set his cap on it without hesitation. Tonight, he added his medals, a glittering array of enamel and steel that crowded across his breast. A scarlet half-cape attached to his left epaulet. He chose an even higher pair of boots, with spurs attached. They were designed to be decorative, but were still quite functional, and sharp. Lianvis would have to watch his step as they danced.

He strode to the mirror to examine himself. Cold, gray eyes stared inscrutably back at him. He lifted his chin, gave a small nod, and finally returned to the parlor.

Lianvis was perched on the edge of a chair, wrapped in his snowy mink. The diamonds on his gown caught the firelight. So did those on his wrists and at his throat– he was wearing the wedding set again.

Ponclast smiled slightly, and approached with a measured stride, boots ringing and spurs clanking. He plucked up Lianvis’s hand from his lap, and gave it a kiss. Then he stiffened.

“You realize you can’t wear that in public,” he said sharply, in reference to the glittering rubies on Viss’s left ring finger.

Lianvis blinked. “I can’t wear what, Lordra?”

“Don’t be stupid, Viss.” Ponclast tugged the wedding set from his finger and deposited the rings in his breast pocket.

“The rings? Are you worried someone will think–”

“We can’t afford to take chances. Good Ag, were you wearing those all day?” he demanded.

“I thought you wanted me to, generally among humes it was considered suspicious at best to remove one’s wedding ring, but I won’t wear them if you’d rather I didn’t. I just thought that as it’s not customary among hara…”

“Don’t think,” Ponclast snapped, “It seems not to be your strong suit today.”

“I’m sorry, Lordra,” replied Lianvis, eyes downcast.

Ponclast sighed, and took his hands, raising him to his feet. He pulled Lianvis into his arms and gave him a quick conciliatory peck and grope.

“Forgive me. It’s an important night. I don’t need any surprises.” He patted the pocket wherein the rings lay. “They’re safe, and there’s no need for me to take off mine.” He held up his gloved left hand with a smile to make his point.

“Thank you, Lordra. I’ll just go find something else in my jewelry box, as I suspect an absence on my hands may be more conspicuous than a presence,” said Lianvis wryly, a comment which drew a chuckle from Ponclast. Viss’s hands were indeed heavily bejeweled, not even his thumbs left bare.

Once Viss had located a substitute ring, Ponclast offered him his arm.

“Finally ready? We should go down. It is not for the archon of Varr to be fashionably late.”

Lianvis took his arm, and they swept from the suite.

LIANVIS

The way his cologne mingled with my perfume, leather and incense blending with the cool air, seemed to create a sort of dreamy haze. I could almost have thought we floated towards the grand staircase but for the clink and jingle of Ponclast’s boots upon the floor. When we came into view the crowd raised their glasses, bursting into a cheer. The view from above was almost dizzying, the room lit softly by flickering candlelight, painting the gathered hara in shades of black and gold, flame reflected in the dull shine of the officer’s leather uniforms, and bringing life to the cold jewels which adorned their consorts. The stairs were given a spotlight, and music came from somewhere, playing us in on the notes of what I presumed must be some Varrish anthem. I waved and smiled, the way politicians wives had on TV when I was a child a lifetime ago.

At the base of the stairs there were more cherubic Varrish harlings to present me with a bouquet of posies and for me to bend down and kiss, and for Ponclast to lift jovially into the air in a show of paternal good will. Flashbulbs again, for some Varrish paper I could only presume. I made sure I was charming, turning the full force of my attention on each har I met with, greeting them, making sure to remember names and details about each, complimenting the ouanas on military achievements I had learned of from my attendants, and the soumes on their attire or children.

I felt as if I breathed for the first time since we had entered. This wasn’t so hard. It was the same everywhere to some extent. Learn the correct compliments to give, pay attention to whoever it is you’re talking to, make them feel interesting and important, and then move on. I was careful of course, keeping myself relatively quiet compared to Ponclast, letting him do most of the talking. I did not want to seem not to know my place. There were a few hara who seemed less easily won over, but they were by far the minority. I would have to keep them in mind, but the night seemed overall to be likely to be a resounding success.

I listened for unguarded thoughts.

I would have thought he’d be oilier, more underhand, but he seems a simple, good-natured sort of har.

When’s dinner? Ag, what was I thinking skipping lunch?

Vashti’s got to be raging, serves him right, never liked him and his whole neither fish nor fowl bit.

What was I thinking when I ran away from home? They probably would have come anyway… but maybe, maybe… I want my mother and Lissy.

When did we get so formal? I remember when the Varrish anthem was a Slayer song most of us kind of remembered. We had fun then. I hate this shit. Better food though, and the creature comforts are nice.

Mostly banal, nothing overtly treasonous or terribly interesting that I could pick out of general background noise of harrish chatter. I sipped my drink, and looked for familiar faces.

Creed had brought home his trophy from the desert, and the delicate har looked a mixture of terrified and murderous at his side. Pretty as he was, he seemed thoroughly out of place in the gathering. He had that hard eyed fighter’s stare. He reminded me of one of those pretty little crustpunk girls who would confess to stabbing someone if you got her drunk enough, and not all the silk and polish in the world could hide it if he didn’t want it hidden. Perhaps Creed found it appealing.

Terzian was alone. Glory had informed me that he “never brings Cobweb up to Fulminir, which is probably for the best. I wouldn’t leave Galhea either if I lived there and in such a nice position, but I do wish I could see him. I’d like for him to sign my autograph book.”

And of course, even Terzian had the sense not to bring Cal into that powder keg of intrigue.

I turned to Ponclast and found him looking over towards a door in the southern wall.

PONCLAST

A psychic disturbance had entered the room, strong enough to draw the attention of all who could feel such things, which among the Varr was precious few. Ponclast turned toward the southern door, through which a breathless har had stumbled. He was Kakkahaar, dressed in dusty traveling robes, wholly out of place in the glittering surroundings. From his mind came a diffident yet desperate call.

Archons, I bring news. You may wish to hear it in private.

Ponclast glanced at Viss.

“Stay here,” he muttered, “Let me handle it. Tonight you’ll be missed more than I.”

He crossed the room with swift strides. The Kakkahaar had melted back out of view, into the shadows beyond the doorway. Ponclast found him in the gallery beyond. The Kakkahaar was leaning heavily against a column. He looked wan and exhausted, and was clutching his side as though he had been wounded. He did not even attempt to stand up straight in Ponclast’s presence.

“Tiahaar Varr,” he greeted in a hoarse voice. “Is tiahaar Lianvis not with you?”

Ponclast brushed the question aside with an impatient gesture. “Tonight is his debut in Fulminir; he could not get away without making a scene. This had better be important.” His glare seemed as though it would nail the Kakkahaar to the pillar behind him.

The Kakkahaar nodded weakly. “Regrettably, Lordra, it is of the utmost importance.” He drew a shaky breath and tried to brace himself better against his support. “Forgive me– a human took a shot at me along the way.”

There was a rusty stain on the side of his robe, with brighter red oozing through. Ponclast appeared unmoved by his obvious predicament. “Out with it, then.”

The Kakkahaar was growing paler by the moment. “A traveler came to us claiming that the Gelaming had landed in Megalithica,” he managed. “Our seers confirmed it. They are here, on our shores, Lordra.”

Ponclast sucked in a breath. “Where?” he demanded.

“Far south,” the Kakkahaar gasped. “Past Unneah territory.”

His eyes rolled back, and he slumped down the pillar. Ponclast caught him and hoisted his arm over his own shoulder to hold him up.

“I’ll summon a healer for you,” he said curtly. “Thank you for your service.”

He supported the barely conscious har over to a long marble bench, where he lay him down, then put out a mental call for medical assistance. He did not wait for it to arrive, but headed immediately back to the party.

TERZIAN

I stood swilling drinks with Creed and Dion, and watched Lianvis flit about the room making himself effortlessly loved by all. His jeweled gown fit him perfectly, and I idled away the minutes trying to guess how much of the treasury Ponclast had blown on Lianvis’s wardrobe. The Kakkahaar was radiant, basking in all the attention. His hair was pulled back from his face, but left loose down his back– elegant, but still touchable. I was imagining strangling him with it when I heard Ponclast’s voice at my shoulder.

“Terzian. I need you now.”

His tone made me shudder; yet it was not that tone, the one that let me know exactly what he needed me for. No, this was darker. For all that he sounded calm, there was a grim note in his voice. I knew immediately that this was dire, and concerning matters of state.

“Yes, Lordra,” I said, and came with him.

He drew me into an alcove. I looked around us dubiously, thinking it not quite private enough to discuss anything classified; but Ponclast made a sign with his hand and we seemed suddenly surrounded by a bubble of quiet, the sounds of the party feet away from us now muffled and distant. One of his new Nahir Nuri tricks, no doubt. I presumed that the dignitaries glad-handing nearby could hear us no better than we could hear them.

“A messenger arrived from the Kakkahaar,” he informed me without preamble. “He reports that the Gelaming have come. The intelligence is reliable; our allies have confirmed it.” His lips thinned into an unpleasant smile. “It’s happened, Terzian. Gelaming boots have defiled our soil.”

My head was reeling, though I felt strangely calm. We’d known it was coming. It had to happen sooner or later.

“Where?” I asked.

“The southeast coast. That’s all I know for now, the messenger was on the brink of expiring. Presuming the healers revive him, he’ll need to be debriefed much more thoroughly.”

His eyes were dark, all pupil, as if he’d taken something, though I didn’t think he had. I found myself wanting to hold him. It wasn’t the right time or place, and even if it had been, he would’ve resented the gesture. He didn’t need comfort, but I wanted to give it all the same. I settled for laying a hand on his arm. He did not shake it off.

“I have to go south,” I said.

He frowned slightly. “Soon. Before you go, it’s important that I teach you some of what I’ve learned. To send you to the Gelaming otherwise would be like sending you unarmed.”

I balked. I didn’t want to feel what I had felt before, in the desert– magic crawling under my skin. “No!”

He raised his eyebrows. “Terzian, your childish phobia of the occult now threatens to impede military objectives. I will not indulge it any longer.”

He held my gaze until I dropped my eyes. “Understood, Lordra.” Still, I didn’t like it. I knew how to fight, with sabers and guns and grenades. Trying to learn a whole new way felt like starting from scratch– like admitting all my training had been a waste of time.

He heard my thought, and clicked his tongue. “It wasn’t a waste. With what you know, Megalithica was won. But now we must adapt, Terzian. We must try something new.”

How did he always know exactly what I needed to hear? I loved him for it. “Yes, Lordra.”

He placed a hand on my shoulder. Mine was still on his arm. We stood that way for a long moment, and looked seriously into one another’s eyes, until we both started to smile.

He released me and stepped back. “We’ll worry about that later. For now, I need you to go see how soon the healers can get that Kakkahaar ready for debriefing. Handle it for me, Terzian, while I deal with this circus.”

I saluted, pressing my fist to the heart that beat for him. He saluted back, then did that thing with his hand again. The bubble of quiet dissolved; once more the music and chatter of the party was nearly deafening. With a strange smile on my face, I hurried off to do my Lordra’s bidding. My foolish fear had evaporated, leaving only exaltation. After all, the messenger had brought good tidings, not bad. Any true soldier would hear them with delight.

At last, war is really coming.

LIANVIS

I did my best to keep my mind on the conversation at hand, although I saw the messenger was of my tribe, and he seemed to be wounded. Sashtri saw the anxiety on my face.

“Tiahaar, you look worried,” he said gently.

“I apologize, Tiahaar, I am rather concerned,” I replied, flicking my gaze downwards, playing the soume even when no ouana was there to appreciate it, “but of course… I’m sure Ponclast will ensure that whatever it is is sorted out promptly.”

It felt alien to be away from that rush of intrigue, sidelined with all the others. Away from the action, with all the hara who weren’t of crucial importance to… whatever it was that was going on.

Sashtri nodded sympathetically, and took my hand and patted it.

“It’s difficult for us,” he said gently, “but of course, one can only trust in them, and allow them to tell us the news when the crisis has passed.”

Was that what it would be like when I returned here when the war was won? Would I be left to be pretty and charming while he had the conversations that meant everything to everything? I had to admit I hated the thought… but perhaps, perhaps there was a purpose to this. After all, if I was anxious, what of all the others?

I gave Sashtri my most dazzling smile. “Of course,” I agreed, composing myself, “and it can’t be anything so terrible in any case, and besides, you were telling me about how you’d arranged your apartments, and how you’d gathered your staff.”

He looked momentarily confused, but seemed to catch on, and smiled a secret subtle sort of smile at me. The smile said I had gotten something right. So that was to be my role, I would keep the crowd calm, keep the world turning while he changed its axis as he saw fit. I could do that, couldn’t I?

With Sashtri’s assistance it was easy enough to collect important hara to be amused by our little anecdotes and flattered with laughter at their own. When I thought it might be of use to him, this came as naturally as breathing.

My flow was interrupted however, when Ponclast himself parted the little crowd of hara around me to interject.

“Pardon me,” he said smoothly, “I hate to interrupt, but the band is about to begin and I must have my dancing partner.”

He took me by the arm and directed me out onto the dance floor, pulling me in close and leaning down as if to nuzzle my ear.

“Viss, news has just arrived that the Gelaming have landed in the south east,” he spoke softly but quickly. “I have two options in mind. I can wait until tomorrow to break the news, allowing this gathering to proceed as planned for the sake of morale. Or…” here he hesitated slightly, as if for once almost doubting himself, “...I can announce it tonight, as joyous tidings, which only herald our glorious victory.” His tone was very dry.

I listened as he whirled me round the dance floor. I had picked up more of the Varr way of dancing by then, having practiced on our journey in preparation for my visit to Fulminir. I knew the answer already. He could easily whip up a militaristic fervor among his soldiers, but the consorts and hostlings would be less swiftly won over.

“Have all the soumes but for me, and perhaps a few you know to be made of sterner stuff than most, cleared from the room. Do this, and the announcement will go over smoothly.”

Ponclast raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “Get Sashtri on it,” was all he said, and so when the song ended, the band was halted, and Averen’s consort and Nethenya were engaged to remove the hostlings to the dining room so they could be seated as Ponclast wished to address his troops.

When it had been done, I stood beside him on the stage, looking at him with all the pride and adoration I could muster, as if my heart were afire with the love of Varr. He saluted, the room saluted in return.

“Soldiers of Varr,” he declaimed, “tonight I received glorious news.” He stood in his customary posture, hands clasped at the small of his back, his spine straight. A princely smile was on his lips. “Too long have we suffered for want of a real enemy. We have broken the back of humanity. We have brought Uigenna to heel. Since then, we have had only to contend with stragglers– bandits and barbarians who were as easily defeated as a mouse is by a lion. Lacking a worthy foe, we have grown soft, and fallen nearly into decadence.” His tone was withering, but he made it sound like self-reproach as well, softening the blow.

Then he smiled again, and held up a hand. “No more. Tonight, our loyal allies, the Kakkahaar, have confirmed that the Gelaming are here, on our very shores.” He exhaled slowly, and his smile became cruel. “With this act of aggression, the foolish Gelaming have done us an unwitting favor. They have freed us from the bondage of peace.”

The spotlight shone directly down on him. His face glistened with sweat as his voice rose in exultation. “Rejoice, Varrs! War has come to harden us again.”

His gaze swept the crowd, seeming to take in every face, to study each and assess its worth. He nodded slowly, as if pleased with what he saw. “So celebrate tonight,” he continued, with a touch of condescension. “Kiss your harlings, and hold your soumes tight. Glut yourselves with the pleasures of domesticity until they sicken you, and make you crave the ecstasy of battle!”

The crowd cheered. Varrish salutes. Shouts of “Ponclast eternal!” came up from the black clad audience, with only a spot or two of colorful soume attire to relieve the sea of leather.

I clapped loudest of all, looking at him with my eyes aglow with adoration, even as the whole situation sent some instinctive chill down my spine. When he left the stage I followed silently behind. What could I say after that speech? He was an impressive orator no doubt, and the fact that he had improvised such a rhetorical triumph could not fail to impress, and yet it all had some eerie quality, something morbid in it, something that reminded one that for all Galhea’s golden fields, Fulminir’s blasted stone was the true heart of Varr.

PONCLAST

A triumphant mood reigned as the Varrs went into the great feasting hall, where their consorts were already seated. They fell to eating and drinking with wild fervor, their discussions excited, their eyes alight. The soumes, when brought up to speed on the news, mostly looked less than enthusiastic, but soon even they seemed swept up on the wave of patriotism, or at least, swept under it.

The fare was lighter than the previous night, for tonight there would be dancing. The aggression with which serving-hara refilled glasses with wine and sheh probably made up the difference in calories. The profusion of alcohol combined with anticipatory bloodthirst to create an atmosphere of license. The Varrs sat with arms looped around their soumes’ waists, hands straying beneath the table. Spontaneous bursts of drunken song, usually military airs, erupted at intervals from the lower tables. Ponclast watched with an indulgent smile.

While servants cleared away dessert plates and coffee cups, the mass migrated into the grand ballroom. The orchestra struck up a jaunty melody and the officers clutched their consorts and swept them into the dance. With dining tables out of the way, the groping became more overt. Delicate robes were shoved aside, elaborate hairstyles knocked askew, as the drunken ouanas became more insistent on claiming what was theirs. The soumes protested, as was only modest and becoming, but did not struggle hard. To do so would’ve been a faux pas, and might even have provoked greater brutality.

In the midst of it all, Ponclast danced with Lianvis. He held him and turned him with relative propriety– one hand upon his waist, no lower, the other clasping Viss’s fingers, not his wrist. But their bodies were pressed close together, close enough for the archon’s arousal to be obvious even through stiff leather, and fire was in Ponclast’s eyes. His lips wore a rare, true smile.

Lianvis melted for him, seeming to nearly swoon in his arms, as if letting himself be held up only by his partner’s grip. He followed with no resistance, allowing himself to be borne along in the steps of the dance like a petal on a stream. In the waltz, they seemed to be one body, almost as truly as in aruna.

“The party will degenerate further,” Ponclast murmured in Lianvis’s ear. “We can watch, if you like, but it would not be proper to participate together. They would see it as cheapening you.” He lipped at Viss’s earlobe and purred, “We can retire, if you would prefer.”

Lianvis’s eyelids shivered closed at his tone.

“I would very much prefer, Lordra,” he whispered.

Ponclast bent him back and feasted on his lips. Varrs hooted and clapped, and cries of “Ponclast eternal!” and “Long live the archon!” assaulted the pair from every side. Ponclast did not break the kiss for many moments. Lianvis returned it with fervor, his arms twining around his ouana’s neck like clinging vines. When Ponclast finally pulled away, the Kakkahaar gasped for breath, his hair mussed and his eyes shining with love and desire.

They finished another dance, then departed with little fanfare. It was best for all concerned if the archon was strategically absent while his officers made beasts of themselves. As they left the room, they passed a lieutenant with his pants around his ankles, enthusiastically rooning his consort against a pillar; and another Varr pisssing in a potted fern.

As soon as they turned the corner and reached the privacy of the hallway, Ponclast slammed Lianvis back against the wall and devoured his lips. Lianvis responded with equal hunger. They were like a pair of teenagers, their hands all over each other, fumbling over and beneath clothes.

“Wouldn’t it cheapen me to have me out here, Lordra?” Viss gasped, his lips momentarily free of the suffocating mouth.

Ponclast laughed softly and hitched Lianvis’s legs up, hoisting him against the wall. “Only if anyhar saw, and there are no witnesses.” He thrust his crotch against Viss’s to make his point, grinding on him through his gown, then relented and released him. “But I’ll have you in my bed, as is proper. Come!”

He grabbed his soume by the wrist and dragged him into the elevator. The closed doors enabled more groping and grinding on the journey up.

By the time they reached the suite, Ponclast seemed to have cooled strangely.

“I’m told you received Terzian here, alone, for quite some time today,” he remarked as the doors closed behind them.

“Yes, Lordra,” Lianvis answered. “I was only trying to smooth things over, apologizing to him for the names I called him the other night.”

Ponclast nodded tightly, and went to pour himself a brandy. “Excellent instinct, poor choice of venue. You must not get into the habit of entertaining ouanas in my absence, Viss. This is the stuff rumors are made of.”

“Of course, Lordra,” Lianvis murmured.

Ponclast, drink in hand, turned to look at him. The soume was standing in the center of the room with his head prettily bowed. Something softened in the archon’s gaze.

“I’m not angry with you,” he said. “You are still unused to our ways.” His mouth twisted, a bit wryly. “You must think of yourself as a member of the fairer sex. Your virtue is your treasure, the measure of your value. The only way to retain it is by leaving no doubt that it belongs to me.” He laughed. “As they used to say, the wife of Caesar must be above suspicion.”

Lianvis raised his chin. “In that case, Lordra, I must ask that you not leave me unattended.”

Ponclast inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I was wrong to do that. Terzian told me what happened. If it makes you feel better, Rove and Wagner face the firing squad at six tomorrow morning.” He knocked back his drink and set the tumbler down. “Still, inviting Terzian in was an unfortunate choice. The fact that he was your rescuer today almost makes it look worse.”

His eyes had darkened, the way they often did when he was about to turn nasty.

“I’m sorry, Lordra,” Lianvis said meekly. “I should have waited until you were present to make my apologies to him.”

“Quite right,” said Ponclast, but the set of his jaw did not ease.

“Do you not trust me with Terzian, Lordra?” Lianvis asked softly.

Ponclast laughed. “Implicitly,” he enunciated. “But just because I trust you with Terzian does not mean I entirely trust Terzian with you.” He smirked. “Making a pass at you would be very stupid, and the last mistake he would make, but you never quite know with that har. He’s like a spirited horse. Sometimes he tries to throw me, because he likes to feel the lash.” He approached Lianvis with a slow, measured step, stopping when he was very close to him. “Besides, he absolutely detests you. Be on your guard with him.” He reached out and let a strand of Lianvis’s golden hair run over his black glove. “If he can find a way to ruin your reputation, he may take it– and then I’ll be down by my bride and my best soldier.”

“Yes, Lordra,” Lianvis murmured, his eyes downcast.

Ponclast smiled coldly. “Then that’s settled, and we need say no more about it.”

He placed a hand on top of Viss’s head, and pushed him down to his knees.

LIANVIS

So I knelt for him, in that gemstone encrusted gown, thinking that I would need attendants I trusted to act as chaperones if my reputation was in danger from simply meeting with Terzian alone. My effectiveness depended upon my ability to spread whispers, gather rumors, smooth relations with words and gestures. I needed servants of perfect discretion, and ideally perfect loyalty to Ponclast, so as to quell any possible suspicion on his part that I might be using my political gifts to scheme against him. It made my heart ache to know he would never fully trust my love, and yet I understood his paranoia well enough.

He pulled his ‘lim out with his characteristic efficiency, and when presented with it, I knew well enough what to do. I wrapped my lips around it, letting my eyes turn upwards under my lashes to meet his. How must I look down there? Done up as I was, I was an oil portrait of some royal but brought from the state gallery down into the bedroom. I was propaganda turned into pornography. Perhaps with Varr the two were one and the same.

For a while he let me work, let me use every skill I possessed to try to please him, but soon enough his fingers tightened in my hair and instead of suction and glossial dexterity, it became a performance of endurance. The gagging brought tears to my eyes which spilled readily over. I wanted him and yet somehow, I felt a million miles away. I felt like a performer in a play, distant from myself.

What a funny thing it was, observing myself as I choked and drooled onto my skirts. This dress will have to go to the cleaners, I thought from an opera box in the ethers.

A sharp slap across the face brought me back to myself.

“Don’t let your mind wander, Viss ,” he spat in irritation.

I leaned into the hand that had hit me, nuzzling it like a cat that wants to be petted. He smiled slightly, amused.

“As usual, you want affection after scolding.” He laughed. “You’re such a child sometimes.”

He resumed thrusting down my throat, and I looked up at him, keeping myself utterly present, fully aware of every movement. I would show him I was good. My ‘lam was wet, and I knew that now, soaking the delicate knickers beneath my skirts. I felt flushed, that moment of connection was all it had taken. I was in his grasp again. No etheric opera box to run to now, only the here and now.

I lost myself in the action, in his movements and my body's inevitable responses. I bathed in a liquor warm as a summer breeze and smooth as silk that stung my wounds like salt. I relaxed into pain. I melted into softness and sizzled in the heat of him.

Eventually, he dragged me breathless to my feet.

“Lordra,” I murmured, slap happy, a little drunker than I thought I’d been or simply intoxicated by his presence.

His dexterous hands, even gloved, made quick work of the lacings of the dress, and I was left in stilettos, a corset, a scrap of lace, and that curious almost halo-like headpiece. I suppose sartorial subtlety was out of fashion with Varrs.

He ran his hands along my body, setting every micron of skin he touched ablaze. The thin leather of his gloves only intensified the sensation.

PONCLAST

Lianvis stood before him, not quite naked but perfectly accessible. The corset nipped in his waist so tightly that Ponclast’s hands nearly fitted around it. Above that slender stem, his flat chest seemed incongruous. There should have been swells of breasts there. Ponclast grabbed the rosy nipples and tugged them out as far as they would go, as if trying to stretch the uncooperative flesh into a more feminine shape. Lianvis moaned in pain, and his eyes flickered closed, but he did not resist.

It was time to put his jewels to their intended purpose. Ponclast locked the diamond bracelets to the glittering collar, so that Lianvis’s wrists were secured just above his heart. It was a very helpless posture. Lianvis enhanced the effect by clasping his hands.

The archon drew back for a moment, as if to admire the image. Once Lianvis had been har, man and woman in one body. Now all the masculinity was gone from him, yet still he encompassed duality, that of madonna and whore. With his eyes gently closed, his hands locked together as if in prayer, and only a whisper of lace between his ‘lam and the chill air of Fulminir, he was truly an icon worthy of desecration.

Ponclast threw him brutally to the floor. Unable to catch himself, Lianvis twisted as he fell. His hair, which had been coming loose under Ponclast’s untender ministrations, shook off the last of its bindings, and fell in a golden cascade around him. He sprawled, supine, whimpering in pain.

Ponclast planted his boot on the small of his back. The sharp spur hovered over the tender flesh of Viss’s shapely ass. Ponclast smiled cruelly, and flexed his foot so that his heel dug in and the spur bit down. Ruby-red drops appeared on silky skin. Lianvis cried out, but the sound was ecstatic.

Ponclast rolled the spur forward so that it sliced through the strap of the lace thong. The elastic material sprang apart and fell away. He stared at the spur as if hypnotized as he rolled it up along Viss’s back. The little weeping wounds it left were perfectly spaced, like a line of bright beads. Lianvis’s moans changed in pitch; evidently the skin near his spine was a bit more sensitive than his well-padded ass.

Ponclast’s face spasmed with some indefinable emotion. Giving up on the subtle and slow, he lifted his boot from Viss’s back and kicked savagely, slashing the spur across the har’s hindquarters. It left a long cut which bled profusely, trails of scarlet dripping down to trace the curves of Viss’s thighs. Lianvis screamed shrilly. Ponclast laughed.

“My blood is yours, and yours is mine.” His tone was icy, but his features were tense with arousal.

The glittering spur sliced flesh again, and again. More blood spilled out, and soon Lianvis’ ass was completely coated in a sheen of scarlet, blood pooling between his thighs. With a sharp intake of breath, Ponclast knelt down and buried his face in it.

LIANVIS

It was agony. He was ripping me open, tearing long gashes along my haunches, and I could feel the blood spilling. I screamed into the carpet, sobbing, but I did not move. I did not even flinch, and then came his mouth, his wicked tongue searching out the blood here, and there, and there, and then finding its way between my legs.

I loved him. I loved him with all my heart and I was grateful. To think we had both come so far after Oomar. He was beautiful too, my Ponclast , a thought I barely dared think. ‘My Ponclast’ only in the way someone might say ‘my king’ or ‘my judge’ or ‘my god.’ But he was in some sense mine, because he had given me his blood, and had taken mine in return, and because I worshiped him.

I had loved him for so long. I had never stopped loving him. He had changed even since that meeting in Galhea. It was partially my doing. I had initiated him, helped him develop his abilities yet further, and now he was on me, radiating power, turning the air around him to a living thing which tormented and caressed my bare flesh like skillful hands, and that vicious mouth that gave pleasure so intense it was a torment. His tongue invading my ‘lam, making me gasp in ecstasy, as gloved hands kneaded my ass.

Oh my lordra, oh beloved, I am yours.

I arched against him. He was my absolution. I was washed clean of all the wrong I had ever done by the blood he drew from me. The brutality, the violence, that all belonged now to Varr, it was out of my hands. I could observe it, up close, close enough to feel the heat of it and feel gentle pity and cruel pleasure all at once, and none of it, none of it was mine to answer for. How could it be? I was merely soume, acting out of love and utterly at His mercy.

How sweet to be the victim rather than the villain. How sweet to be given such pleasurable agony. I could drown myself in it, sink and allow myself to be lost on its tides. He gave me such beautiful gifts.

PONCLAST

Lianvis was open for him, ready. Ponclast lifted his head, gorged on blood and cunt. Beneath his cap, his entire face was smeared with scarlet.

He lifted Lianvis up and carried him, bridal style, to the bedchamber. The har was featherlight in his arms, and trembling in ecstasy. Ponclast threw him down on the bed, and crimson smeared across the fine, crisp cotton sheets.

The archon stripped rapidly, throwing his garments aside, his usual meticulous respect for his uniform abandoned. The taste of blood had awakened the beast in him. He growled in his throat as he mounted Viss. The mass of his powerful body seemed to utterly dwarf the other har, who appeared pitifully small and delicate beneath him. Ponclast effortlessly folded back his legs, pressing his knees to his shoulders, and drove into the slick, helpless, twitching ‘lam.

Lianvis mewled and whimpered like a prey animal. Ponclast was mostly silent above him, save for his heavy breathing and that strange soft purr that came at intervals from his throat. His thrusts were cruel and deep, as blunt and syncopated as a battering ram.

Visible darkness gathered around them like a mist, filling the room, smothering the light of the candles. The air smelled of gunpowder and ozone. There was a nearly unbearable sense of pressure, as if they were deep underwater.

Ponclast’s teeth were barred. One hand fisted at the back of Viss’s hair, pulling his throat into an arch. The other was clamped firmly over his consort’s mouth, muffling his screams. Lianvis, unable to speak, projected into his mind:

Grissecon, Lordra?

Though Ponclast’s expression was bestial, and he seemed somehow beyond human speech, the psychic reply was cold and clear.

Send out your mind. Find the ships of the Gelaming. Tonight, we fire the first shot.

LIANVIS

I felt so fragile with him. He was so much taller than I, so much more heavily muscled, he could throw me around, break me in half, and then came the magic, energy gathering like storm clouds, crackling with electricity.

Oh he had learned and learned well. I went with his impulse, allowing the pleasure to send me out of myself as a spirit, as his familiar, out into the world seeking what he instructed me to find.

I flew towards them, attracted by woven threads of etheric energy, a hound on the scent of occult power. I knew their trail from when they had come to me, asking for my cooperation in a tone that made it clear I was not to be granted a choice, telling me how useful it would be if I could ally my tribe to the Varr, words all honey and underlying threat. They would not know me, cloaked as I was in this magical raiment, and if they did, well, then they would think it all part of my service to them. To them it would be acceptable losses in exchange for information, and I would feed them pretty lies for their trouble.

I saw no ships at their encampment, only those strange white stallions they had ridden into my camp. Strange stallions indeed, for they had paid no mind to several mares in heat. I would not return empty handed. I would show these Gelaming in their bright tents just where it was they had come to. These were not their shores, and they would need to learn that lesson soon. I gathered the storm he had built up, whipping it into a whirling vortex of wind and water, and releasing it suddenly upon the camp– and I found myself repelled, hurled back into my body, coming back gasping and coughing up blood beneath him.

I shuddered, climax coming hard and fast on the heels of my return, barely allowing me a moment to breathe, as he joined me, buried to the hilt and crying out. I felt him in all of me, bodies merging, overlapping like a double exposure. Thunder cracked outside Fulminir, and then the bright flash of lightning, turning the room to icy black and white chiaroscuro for a moment. A thunderstorm in winter, some of what I had created must have come back with me. I shuddered.

He looked at me, something on his face bespeaking disquietude.

“What happened?” he demanded. He was not worried about me, despite the blood. “A barrier,” I managed between coughs, “something that threw me back. I think I landed a hit, couldn’t tell. There were no ships, only horses, but I tried to send down a hurricane on the camp.” I shook my head. “It's strange. It felt strange.”

Chapter 5: Fitness to Purpose

Summary:

"The machinery of war stretches every totality-machine to the limits of its capacity; day by day, war holds the promise of massive velocities, explosions without number—the promise of consummate pleasure for the totality component. The peacetime machine, by contrast, delivers no more than meager quantities of the intense pleasure of domination. Only the machinery of war allows the component to transcend its own self while remaining whole; only war produces sufficient quantities of internal explosions."
-Klaus Theleweit, 'Male Fantasies, Vol. II'

Chapter Text

LIANVIS

I slept poorly that night. My dreams were troubled, lashing seas that rose up around Fulminir, and something unspeakable issuing from my lam’. It looked like it should have been a live birth, not a pearl, but was hard and brittle as if it were made of burnt wood. “RUIN” was carved into its small forehead and its eye sockets were empty. A charred doll. A terrible thing. I flung it from me and wept.

Then it seemed I was in labor again, bleeding everywhere, blood pouring out of me, and then a pearl, glistening with nacre, as if from the sea, was born from me, glowing internally, and the blood was turned to sea water that formed waves around me, filling the room.

“I am the end of Varr,'' came a voice from nowhere and everywhere, but it was the voice of my harling. It was at once a child’s voice, high and piping, and a fully grown har’s, deep and sonorous as the depths.

Fulminir was dissolving into the ocean, and a forest growing up from those stormy waters. I saw Ponclast dragged away by the wind, striding against it, marching even through the rising flood, but nature rebelled, pushing him back, and back into that streaming wood, filled with thorns; and I clutched the pearl to my chest, because it was his, even as part of me longed to cast it away, back into the primordial sea, because somehow I believed it or its flame-wrecked twin to be the cause of all this.

I cried “LORDRA!” howling the title again and again as I tried to reach him, but my drenched skirts were heavy as lead and tangled around my legs in the current. He could not hear me. He did not turn, just marched dauntlessly against the wind even as it swept him closer and closer to that forest which seemed to me to be someplace worse than death.

I awoke sobbing, still screaming and quite alone. I rang for my attendants. My entire body hurt. My blood had adhered parts of me to the sheets, and I felt shivery and ill.

Glory and Veta came quickly. When they saw the state I was in, they looked chagrined but not surprised. Glory rang for a healer while Veta carefully detached me from the bed sheets and ran me a bath.

“Tiahaar, you look awful,” said Veta, shapely brows knitting in worry, a hand on my forehead like my mother’s long, long ago when I’d been a boy.

“Oh you needn’t flatter me, Vet,” I said, slightly testy. I wanted Ponclast, there was no other har who could comfort me in my fear. I would need to ask my consort if I might trust my attendants with at least the fact that I was with pearl, and that the pearl belonged to Ponclast, because I could only imagine the consequences if it were suggested that it had been sparked by some other har. I thought of those efficient, deferential hara who had attended me in my tent during that first labor. Were they here? Would they be at this next birth?

The healer brought to me was surprisingly soume in appearance, but I supposed if it would spark gossip for me to see Terzian without a chaperone, what scandal might it produce for a Varrish Ouana to be allowed to go around examining other Ouana’s Soumes.

He tended to my wounds without comment, took my temperature, examined my throat, and made interested noises.

“Well, Tiahaar, I diagnose exhaustion, and some degree of difficulty with the climate,” he said. “Have you been sleeping well?”

“Not last night,” I admitted, “unpleasant dreams… my– Lordra Ponclast never came to bed.”

He hummed again, and prescribed a sleeping draught. After my dreams the night before, I did not feel comfortable taking it. Besides, I was not sure if I could mention… my condition to him, and I didn’t know whether it was safe to take when with pearl. I needed to ask Ponclast so many questions. I sent out a mind touch, calling to him through the ethers.

There was no reply. I felt by instinct where he was though, and my heart ached. I needed to think this out. I needed to figure out how to counter whatever it was that had thrown me back so violently the night before.

PONCLAST

He did not sleep that night. He lay awhile beside Lianvis, eyes staring watchfully into the darkness, then rose and went from the chamber. He showered, washing the dried blood from his face and neck, and dressed again.

In the sitting room, he rang for coffee, which was brought to him by a bleary-eyed serving har. With the steaming cup beside him and a cigar in hand, he sat at his desk pouring over maps and papers, as intensely as if they held a secret code to decipher.

Eventually, with a sigh, he swept them all aside. He stood and went to the dying fire. He settled himself cross-legged on the wolf-hide rug, relaxed his shoulders and closed his eyes. He remained that way for a long time, sinking into a deep meditation. Dark power seethed around him, and his skin began to glow from within with an odd, purplish light. So absorbed was he that he did not hear Lianvis’s nightmare screams, even though they went on for hours. Yet despite the intensity of his focus, the Gelaming camp remained invisible to him.

Bleak gray light began to seep through the windows, heralding the dawn. Ponclast stood and stretched. He downed the last of his now-cold coffee, then walked purposefully from the chamber. His face was drawn from exhaustion, but his step was energetic.

The elevator took him down into the bowels of Fulminir. Below ground were the dungeons, several levels of cells outfitted for any conceivable penal purpose. The block reserved for traitorous or disobedient military was on the highest of these levels, and its appointment was not quite so barbaric or medieval as some of what lay further below.

As Ponclast made his way along the passage, a pair of guards saluted him. They were the only ones stationed on this level, which was for the most part unoccupied. Problems with discipline were not common in the Varrish military.

“I trust I am not too late?” Ponclast inquired, though he knew he was not. His watch read five thirty eight; Rove and Wagner would not be marched out for their execution a moment before five fifty AM, if regulations were properly followed.

“No, Archon,” the guard replied. “You wish to see the prisoners?”

Ponclast nodded. The guard unlocked the cell for him, and he stepped through the open door.

Rove and Wagner lay dejectedly on a pair of hard cots. They were not in chains; Varrish soldiers, even those condemned to die, were usually spared such indignities. When Ponclast entered they sprang up and came to attention with stiff salutes. Their eyes betrayed a mix of terror and desperate hope.

“At ease,” Ponclast commanded, and the two relaxed slightly into parade rests. The archon’s gaze swept over them contemptuously. He allowed them to squirm beneath it for several moments before speaking.

“Both of you committed a grave, personal offense against me yesterday,” he remarked, his voice like ice. “Such a thing is not easily forgiven. But you acted in ignorance, and for that reason, I am prepared to show clemency.” He lifted his chin and favored them with a stony smile. “I come to offer you an alternative to the firing squad. It is a dangerous duty, but should you volunteer for it, you will not stand against the wall today.”

Rove cleared his throat. “Permission to speak, Lordra?”

“Granted,” Ponclast intoned.

“Thank you, Lordra.” Rove kept his eyes fixed correctly straight ahead, not meeting the Archon’s gaze. “We apologize sincerely for our mistake yesterday. It is always a pleasure and a privilege to serve you in any capacity. We volunteer enthusiastically for this duty, and thank you for your mercy, Lordra.”

Ponclast nodded. “That’s what I thought, Lieutenant. Report to General Terzian’s suite at noon today.”

He turned on his heel and left the cell. “Clean them up and get them presentable, then release them,” he told the guards. “They know their orders.”

The guards saluted and barked out a “Lordra, yes Lordra!” to his already departing back.

TERZIAN

I was barely awake before Ponclast was in my head, telling me when to see him and where. I groaned aloud, but my mental reply was a deferential Yes, Lordra. I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, missing the days when his orders were brought to me by courier. This was doubtless more efficient, but far more invasive.

I’d been dreaming of Galhea, and of Cal. He was sitting on the front porch of Forever, a harling with my eyes on his knee. Both of them were grinning the same grin at me.

I missed home. I longed to meet my new son, as yet unborn, of whom I’d had news only through hastily scrawled missives from home. Ithiel had written me a letter of congratulations. Cobweb had included a brief, frigid note as well. Cal had not written anything. Naturally, he couldn’t be bothered. I tried not to let that hurt me. It was his way, and somehow reflected part of what I liked about him. He wasn’t the kind of har who’d often be caught at a writing desk. He wouldn’t sit still long enough. That was part and parcel of his seductive wildness.

I stepped from the shower and dried myself. As I zipped and buttoned my uniform, my mind was still consumed with thoughts of his violet eyes and his warm, plush lips, of his claws digging into my back as I fell into the wet, intoxicating heat between his thighs. Rooning him was like drowning, like being eaten alive. When he submitted was precisely when he was at his most dangerous. That was part of why I’d begun to let him play the ouana role with me. It was less overwhelming.

I hoped that Ponclast had not guessed that I’d transgressed my vows so utterly with Cal. If he had, I hoped he would understand my reasons.

As I stepped into my boots I pondered, as I often did, why Ponclast had not yet taken Cal from me. He’d had Cobweb once, not long after I acquired him, a sort of mildly delayed ius primae noctum that I had not even resented. I’d let him use my consort freely, in the spirit of hospitality. It was not much different from feeding him from my table or having him drink my sheh. Besides, there had been a spirit of friendly concern present when he made the request. He wanted to sample the goods, make sure my consort had been well-chosen, assure himself of his suitability and loyalty. The demand was not to be denied, of course–but it was nonetheless essentially benign.

Never had he shown any interest in availing himself of Cal. That was a relief, and yet it also made me nervous. Ponclast had made up his mind about Calanthe without even bothering to investigate. A single piercing glance had summed the Uigenna up for him, and I’d watched those pale, cold lips turn down with instant contempt and antipathy. His disapproval, in some ways, was more threatening than his lust would’ve been. It would have been agony to see Cal’s body marred with welts, bites and bruises after a thorough mauling from my archon, but at least it would’ve been over and done with. Ponclast’s icy dislike of Cal kept me in suspense, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I realized I was dressed and had been standing before the mirror, anxiously chewing my lip, for quite some time. I shook myself and left my chambers, heading for the small downstairs parlor where my Lordra awaited me.

The room overlooked the courtyard through large french doors. A breakfast table was set before them. Through the frosty panes of glass, Ponclast was watching the troops at their morning drills. Last night’s unseasonable thunderstorm and rain had turned the snow on the ground partially to slush, and it was filthy from the prints of Varrish boots.

Ponclast glanced up at me as I entered, and waved me down from my salute. “Terzian. Come, eat.” He gestured to the chair opposite him.

I sat. A map was spread out on the table, between the plates. He was ready for business as always.

“Were you able to debrief the Kakkahaar?” He asked.

I nodded, my mouth full of coffee. It was sweeter, stronger and grittier than I liked, flavored with exotic spices. Since returning from the desert, Ponclast had been drinking it Kakkahaar style. I swallowed it, barely suppressing a grimace, before I replied.

“Yes, Lordra. He had few additional details to provide.” I smoothed the map and pointed. “The Gelaming should be just here . As you can see, they’ve already moved a bit inland; but they appear quite entrenched at their camp and show few signs of advancing any time soon. They have been receiving defectors and refugees, and this seems to occupy quite a bit of their resources.”

Ponclast laughed harshly. “Their soft-heartedness may be to our benefit. Are they conscripting any of these stragglers?”

“Strangely, it seems they are not,” I replied. “Even though their force is relatively small.” I frowned. “The troubling thing is that the Kakkahaar have been unable to locate their fleet. They must have come by sea, but so far the ships are nowhere to be found.”

Ponclast drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table. “It could be that their resources are limited. Perhaps they have so few ships that their fleet has been obliged to return to fetch more troops. It would be a risky, foolish maneuver, to cut off their own retreat in such a way, but we know very little about these Gelaming. It’s not out of the question that they would make such an error.”

“Perhaps,” I said dubiously. In the old days, when we’d taken Megalithica, many hara had known little of war, and such a disastrous blunder would’ve been in character for our enemies. Now, most tribes knew better from experience, or had at least taken the time to study military history. “They would need to be very naive or very overconfident.”

Ponclast picked up on my skepticism. “Believe me, Terzian, I’m not counting on it. It’s far more likely that the Gelaming adepts have found a way to conceal their fleet for the time being. Locating it is a top priority. I have confidence in our Kakkahaar allies to accomplish that objective.”

Did he really? Something in his tone made me wonder. I looked up from the map and carefully studied his face. There was a tension in his features, in the way his lips compressed and his brows drew down, that worried me.

“Something is troubling you, Lordra,” I said.

He nodded in admission; but when he spoke, his tone was dismissive. “It’s of little consequence. Lianvis and I attempted an attack by grissecon on the Gelaming camp last night. It was quite forcefully repelled. It means little, only that I somewhat underestimated their strength.”

No wonder he was irritable. Ponclast didn’t like to lose.

“That brings me to our next topic,” he said, pushing his chair back slightly from the table. “Your training.”

Typical of him to change the subject, and naturally it would be to something that made me deeply uncomfortable. “Yes, Lordra?”

He smirked at me, and dropped his voice. “Don’t look so apprehensive, Terzian. We aren’t in the desert anymore. From this point forward, I’ll handle your initiation personally. ”

I flushed and looked down at my plate. It was a relief to hear. I’d half expected him to let Lianvis train me. The idea of learning under him was admittedly much more enticing, but also more terrifying.

Of course my fear increased my arousal, and of course he saw that in my face. He stood and walked around behind me, and placed his gloved hands on my shoulders. They felt like a yoke. I froze, unable to so much as lift my eyes from the smears of egg and crumbs of toast upon my empty plate.

“You’re going to enjoy this,” he said, just loudly enough so I could hear. “You won’t find it so different from what we’ve done before. With me, you’ll take to it quite quickly. You will know great pleasure in letting my will flow through you. And then, when it is time, I will show you how to force your intention through another har. You may find that even more exciting.”

I was trembling under his hands. Already I could feel his power seeping into me, numbing and narcotic.

“Lordra,” I whispered, “I can’t help but feel guilty about taking time for this, when so much is to be done…”

He cut me off. “Believe me, this is the most important thing you will do for the war effort today.”

He took his hands off me, and it felt like having chunks of my flesh ripped off. I moaned low in my throat. I couldn’t help myself.

“I will be in your chambers,” he said. “Follow me in ten minutes.”

Discretion was our watchword. I was certain every har knew, or at least suspected, what he did with me, but no har must ever speak of it. He left the room. For ten agonizing minutes I waited, watching the clock with baited breath, my blood pounding a battle charge. Then I followed him.

I believe that as I made my way through Fulminir, my features were composed. I believe that because nohar stared. I felt like a slathering curr, tongue out and drooling. Apparently I looked like an officer, because hara saluted me.

My door was unlocked. I hesitated for a moment with my hand on the knob, torn between terror and longing. I drew a deep breath, and then I entered.

There he was, sitting on my bed in his gleaming leather, smoking a cigar. The fumes were intoxicating, but not so much as the very sight of him.

“Strip,” he said.

I did it on the double, taking great care, as always, to correctly fold my uniform and stand my boots neatly side by side. Naked, I sank to my knees. His presence seemed to suck the oxygen from the room. There was only him to breathe.

He pointed with his cigar at a small wooden chest in the corner. I knew what he wanted from it without having to be told aloud. I crawled to it on hands and knees, retrieved the required items, and brought them back to him.

There were certain things he kept in my room. They stayed shut up in that box, but still their presence tormented me. I was always conscious of what lay under that lid– lewd symbols of his ownership, and my degradation. I laid them out beside him on the bed. He set his cigar on the ashtray, and went to work adorning me for his pleasure.

First came the collar, heavy steel with a heavier padlock. I leaned forward to allow him to fasten it. It was cold against my skin. Its edge was rough, and it bit into my collarbones. When I heard the lock click, my mind went quiet. This wasn’t what I had expected from grissecon, but of course grissecon with him would be like this.

Next came the steel hook, sliding easily into my anus with the cool lubricant. It attached to the collar by a short chain, forcing my back into an arch and digging hard into my secret sweet spot. My thighs were already trembling, and I thought my eyes would roll back.

Then came the cage. It was a device designed for human males. On a har it had a strange effect, simultaneously preventing the ouana lim from achieving either erection or withdrawal into the body. I found it particularly humiliating. It made me feel like a faggot, like a boy. As he locked it into place, I groaned in ecstasy and thrust my hips convulsively. He laughed.

Ropes went on next, binding my wrists behind my back, and securing my calves to my thighs so I was forced to remain in a kneeling position. He added the metal clamps to my nipples after that, a calculated decision. My nipples were very sensitive, and I couldn’t stay still for the clamps, no matter how hard I tried to be good and compliant. The bonds prevented me from resisting. He got them on me easily.

Finally, there was only one thing left. I stared in apprehension as he lifted the huge rubber phallus off the bed sheet. It was a monstrous thing, I would’ve said larger than life had I lacked first-hand experience of Lianvis’s ‘lim. Perhaps it was a little bigger even than that. Hard to calculate, when I was dripping down my thighs. No matter how wet I was it still hurt like a bitch going in. I screamed. Ponclast forced it most of the way into me, then angled its base so that it sat on the floor. Gravity and my bound legs did the rest, forcing me to sink all the way down onto it.

Naked, bound, and impaled, I stared up at him through a mist of tears. I was a vile thing, a quivering squirming mass of flesh helplessly emitting smells and fluids. He was a god. His face was cold and white above his uniform. He was the colors of Fulminir in winter, a black stone edifice topped in snow.

I wanted to put my mouth all over his leather, all over his boots and trousers. He let me, grabbing my hair and guiding my face to worship. My tongue left trails on his immaculate uniform, marks of defilement that I felt ashamed of. He fed his gloved fingers into my mouth and I greedily sucked them. My head was spinning with desire.

He pulled back then, surprising me. From his breast pocket he drew a little packet of powder that sparkled like snow in the sun. He deftly laid a trail of it across his finger, and sniffed.

I reeled in shock. I had known of one incident when Ponclast indulged in such a thing, and that had been under the influence of Lianvis. That influence continued, it seemed. I did not approve. Drugs were for degenerates.

He wiped his nose with the back of his glove. A small trickle of blood descended from his nostril. White as snow, red as blood, black as ebony. He licked it away absently when it reached his lips. Already he was laying a second line on the glove.

I don’t know why I was surprised when he held it under my nose. I recoiled, but there was only so far I could pull away in my bondage.

“Do it, Terzian,” he ordered, his voice deadly.

Ag help me, I did. I barely remembered how, it had been years. Of course there isn’t really much to it. I screwed my eyes shut and sniffed.

The chemicals hit my brain like Fourth of July fireworks. My whole body came fully awake– screamingly awake. I’d been painfully aroused before, but that was nothing compared to what I was feeling now. It was as if he’d stripped off my skin and revealed every inch of me to be made of erectile tissue. I was all cunt.

“Lordra!” I gasped, a cry for mercy and prayer for damnation.

He forced his fingers into my mouth again, and I hungrily licked away every stray particle of the powder. I was alert, on the edge, ready for anything. He could’ve slit me open from breastbone to belly, and all I would’ve done was cum for him. My hips were writhing, fucking myself on that enormous cock. I was open beyond all openness, soume in a way that only an ouana can be.

“Fuck me,” I babbled, “Fuck me fuck me fuck me.” It was both a plea and an expletive, senseless words that bubbled from me in my overwhelmed state.

He thrust his ‘lim into my mouth to shut me up. I continued to moan helplessly around it, loving the meaty taste of his flesh, the way the saliva rushed up to meet his thrusts. He fucked my face, holding me by the ears. My every hole was stuffed and he had ordained it so. I only wished there could’ve been three Ponclasts to fill me. It almost felt like there were just then. I gagged on him, fighting to keep down breakfast. I hardly even cared if I vomited at that point, but some part of me balked at the thought of dirtying his leather.

He pulled me off him and lifted me up, my thighs on either side of his waist. The big dildo slid out of me and fell on the floor with an embarrassingly wet-sounding thud. He threw me onto the bed and buried his ‘lim in my sore cunt, stuffing four fingers into my mouth to muffle my shrieks.

I had forgotten the point of the exercise until then– how could I have remembered anything at all?-- but the instant our harrish parts were joined, his purpose became crystal clear. He was a tidal wave of intent, my thighs were a delta and the rest of me a narrow channel. He came rushing through me, power beyond power, until all of it broke the damn that was the top of my skull; and I yelled myself hoarse as the torrent poured through me, ripping me apart, overflowing the banks. I disappeared completely, annihilated by his orgasm and mine.

When I came back to myself, he was smiling and stroking my face. My bound legs were trembling. My hands, tied beneath me, had fallen asleep. The hook in my ass felt torturously uncomfortable, no longer erotic but more like the kind of pressure in the bowels that sends one rushing for the toilet. My nipples were on fire– one of the clamps had pulled off in all of that, but the other was still attached, and the flesh it pressed appeared nearly blue. My ‘lam was a sticky mess of mingled fluids, and on top of all that, I, too, had a nosebleed.

I had never been happier in my life.

“Thank you, Lordra,” I gasped, “Though I’m not sure I understand the lesson.”

He laughed softly, a bit winded.

“Yes,” he said. “It was almost too easy with you. You’re so beautifully attuned to my will already.”

Something about it should’ve felt like an insult, but I basked in it as praise. “Thank you, Lordra.”

He studied me intently, still stroking my cheek. “You know how to enforce your will on other hara,” he said slowly. “That too, will come easily to you. Let me show you how to do it the other way, before I give you a real chance to practice.”

“Show me?” I asked breathlessly. “How?” I knew he wouldn’t break his vows for me, not even for this– yet still it felt as if he intended something deeply taboo.

His hand trailed down from my cheek to my belly, moving slowly, almost hesitantly. He unlocked the cage around my ‘lim. It sprang gratefully from its prison, already half-hard.

His gloved hand wrapped around the shaft, dead skin massaging living flesh. I melted, moaning, as mouth covered mine, and he breathed images into me.

He showed me Lianvis beneath him, beneath me. I saw from his perspective, yet somehow I was myself. The har I was falling into looked like Viss, but did not feel like him. It was Ponclast’s breath invading me, and the dream-har was also Ponclast with a different face. I felt the hidden power between his thighs, the seething forbidden caldera sucking me in. All of me flowed into him, will and power thrust into the breach, a catalyst to the coming eruption. I became a fireball barreling down a tunnel that exploded and washed the world in flames.

When my eyes opened, I had splattered aren all over Ponclast’s glove. With an expression of mild distaste, he held it up to my mouth for me to clean.

“Do you see?” He asked.

I nodded. I understood now, instinctively, if not quite in words. It was not so different from sparking a pearl: aruna with a deeper level of focus, directed towards a goal. The aim was different, and the physical mechanics were not quite so important. In some ways it was actually simpler than procreation.

“In traditional grissecon, the ouana builds the power, and the soume channels it in the right direction,” Ponclast lectured, his tone absurdly didactic given the situation. Perhaps he realized this, for he began to untie me as he continued to speak. “You have experienced both sides of this, but there is more to teach you. I’ve developed a more Varrish method.”

I thought back to what had happened, and began to catch on. “Everything you did to me…” I began.

He nodded, seemingly pleased that I understood. The ropes were off. I rolled to my side to allow him to remove the hook, massaging my wrists.

“You were the channel. You could’ve controlled the magic, used my power for your own intention. All that setup served a simple purpose– to render your mind blank, your will null.”

He was a bastard. I couldn’t help but admire him. “A useful trick. I can see how that would work with a lot of hara.” The clamp was still on my nipple. I wanted desperately to pull it off, but knew I would be punished if I did so without permission. “Lordra, may I…?”

He yanked it off. Blood and sensation flooded back into the long-compressed nub, and I bit back a shriek.

“There are other ways,” he said, “To ensure the ouana remains in complete control. I will show them to you in a little while, after we get you cleaned up.”

He swatted me on the ass to propel me out of the bed and towards the shower, and followed me.

In the bathroom, I turned to him and asked, “What did you use that grissecon for?”

He raised his brows slightly. “You couldn’t tell? Your mind must have been even more effectively suppressed than I thought.”

“Completely,” I admitted, flushing. “I had not a single thought in my head.”

He grinned and gave me a pat on the cheek that was nearly a slap. “Blond moment, Terzian?”

I wrinkled my nose at him and growled, though I couldn’t help grinning. I was still flying high on everything that had happened.

“I used it for something easy,” he said, “Since it was your first time. We empowered the troops, gave them a morale boost.” He laughed. “I suspect it may have worked better than expected. We’ll need to keep them busy before they ship out; they’ll have a lot of energy to burn.”

I laughed too. “We’ll have to do this again, before I leave.”

His eyes were glowing. I was sweaty, mussed, and crusted in unmentionable substances, but I could tell that he found me utterly beautiful. “Oh, we will,” he purred. He gave a tug at my hair, and his tone changed. “Speaking of blond moments, I told you to get this cut. We’ll have to handle that before you wash off.”

I groaned. Whenever Ponclast cut my hair, I always ended up down to stubble. I found it embarrassing somehow– that space-monkey, jarhead look. It made me feel vulnerable, and oddly sexualized.

“Yes, Lordra,” I said, and sat myself down on the toilet, resigned.

He pulled the clippers from under my sink and made quick work of it, shearing me efficiently. The hair fell away and clung to my sticky body. When he was finished, he shooed me into the shower. I reached for the knob, but he pushed me to my knees.

“No,” he said, pulling his ‘lim from his trousers with a smile, “I’m going to hose you down first.”

So, perforce, I knelt there with my eyes squeezed tightly shut while he pissed all over my freshly shorn scalp. The sensation was indescribable, both disgusting and arousing. Partway through he ordered me to open my mouth, and so I did. The piss was mostly that fiendishly strong coffee. It had an incredibly offensive smell and flavor, not like when he’d been drinking plenty of water, and it came out clear and almost innocuous. This was a richly golden rain of absolute vileness. Naturally, I loved it. When he finally turned on the shower, I was almost disappointed. I didn’t ever want him off me.

PONCLAST

While Terzian dazedly cleaned himself up, Ponclast rang for a serving har, and ordered a light lunch. The clock read eleven thirty. They had just enough time before Rove and Wagner were due to report.

As the serving har left, Ponclast swayed slightly where he stood, and rubbed tiredly at his face. With a trembling hand, he pulled the packet of powder again from his pocket and laid two more lines on Terzian’s coffee table. He sucked them up his nose efficiently. If it gave him any pleasure, he showed little sign of it, save for a quiet gasp.

He sat down in a hard-backed chair beside the fireplace. Terzian’s suit at Fulminir was small and Spartan. It consisted only of the bedroom, the bathroom and the sitting room in which Ponclast now waited. All the furniture was plain dark wood, with little ornament– unassuming, but of excellent quality, and very expensive. Terzian had not bothered to decorate, and the room showed little evidence of his tastes. Then again, neither did Forever– most of its decor had been lovingly selected by Cobweb. What little artwork adorned the walls here was dreary and conservative: a green pastoral landscape, a cavalier on a rearing horse, a ship in a storm at sea.

Terzian came back into the sitting room at eleven forty-five, and found Ponclast on his knees before the coffee table, doing another line. He raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve rarely known you to indulge so much, Lordra.”

Ponclast straightened up. His cheeks were slightly flushed, whether from the drug or from actual shame. Blood trickled from his nose again, and he swiped it away with a silk handkerchief.

“I did not sleep,” he confessed, rising. “I have much to do today. This keeps me sharp.”

Terzian nodded. His eyes betrayed a mixture of concern and curious hunger. Seeing his expression, Ponclast laughed.

“Did you want more?” He demanded mockingly.

Terzian cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Actually, I was thinking we should mass-produce it for the troops.”

Ponclast smirked, and laid out another line for him. After a moment’s hesitation, Terzian, too, went to his knees and sniffed it up with relish.

They ate the food the serving hara brought. They chased lunch with sheh, and shots of bourbon, and then another line or two. But the most intoxicating thing was not the liquor or the silver ice, but their talk– reminiscences of wars and musendas past. As they spoke of their conquests in bed and in battle, they shared in that nasty laughter which had haunted the watering hole and gathering places of human men since time immemorial. That laughter, and the bond it makes, lived on in them.

At last came the rap on the door.

“Enter,” called Ponclast carelessly.

Rove and Wagner came in and saluted, standing stiffly at attention. Ponclast and Terzian slowly got up, both grinning like wolves.

“What’s this, Lordra?” Asked Terzian. “I see the ghosts of Rove and Wagner.”

Ponclast smiled as he paced around behind them. “You see walking dead hara,” he corrected. “They escaped the firing squad today because I came up with a better idea.” He placed one hand on each of their backs, then abruptly shoved them forward. “They are yours.”

The two soldiers fell to their knees. They remained there, blinking in confusion. Fear had begun to dawn on their features– the knowledge of impending death, that which should be the ultimate fear. It was not so for them. A greater terror existed– that of defiance against the archon.

They had been well-trained. They would not resist. This message passed between Ponclast and Terzian’s eyes as their gaze met over the condemned hara.

“You spoke of practice, Lordra,” said Terzian.

“And practice you shall have,” Ponclast affirmed.

“Yes, Lordra,” growled Terzian. His eyes shone with anticipation, and the front of his trousers was bulging.

Ponclast pursed his lips, then drew out his dagger. He grabbed Rove by the ear, and used the sharp tip to carve the sigil ara into the Varr’s stubbly scalp. The soldier made no sound except for a small hiss of pain. Ponclast did the same to Wagner.

“This sigil will open them to the energy of the universe,” Ponclast said, wiping his blade on the already bloody handkerchief. “Through this, you can draw more power through them than what they have.” He sheathed the dagger. “Take, plunder. Drag out the life force and put it in service of your will. But do not cum inside. For you to remain both the will and the channel, you must send your might into the universe, not back into them.”

Terzian nodded comprehension. He was already prowling closer, fists clenching at his sides. He was more than ready for this. Ponclast stepped back to watch him work.

It wasn’t, perhaps, the way Ponclast would’ve done it. There was no slow, torturous building of dread, no methodical destruction of the spirit. Terzian simply let the beast in him loose. Blood flew as he turned faces to pulp with his boots and fists. All that was merely a prelude to the pelki. He took Rove first– though by now it was difficult to tell the two apart, save by differences in the insignia their uniforms bore. He had him on the floor, choking him with his dog tags, as he brutally thrust into him.

“Remember your intention,” Ponclast cautioned. Terzian seemed near the brink, the point of the exercise likely to get away from him.

“I do,” Terzian ground through his clenched teeth. His eyes were afire with the pleasure of cruelty. “I will erect a barrier around Fulminir, a wall of power no Gelaming shall penetrate.”

An ambitious goal, but perhaps Terzian had the strength. He had begun to glow with a harsh white light. Rove, beneath him, seemed to be taking on the aspect of a dissected corpse– though his face was an indefinable mass of bloody flesh, the hands which weakly clawed at Terzian’s uniform were beginning to look grayish, withered, aged.

Ponclast watched with parted lips and a dreamy look in his eyes. For long moments, the rhythm of Terzian’s thrusts seemed to hold him mesmerized. Then he shook himself, almost angrily, and went to the other discarded body. He prodded Wagner with his boot to determine if the har still lived, prompting a weak moan of pain. With this confirmation, Ponclast knelt over the second soldier and mounted him as well.

They worked in tandem, and in near silence. There was no need now for undignified grunts and growls. Their intent was pure; the blood that linked them united their wills. The deathly white glow around Terzian soon illuminated Ponclast, too, as the struggling har beneath him faded into a weak husk. The tang of blood was in their nostrils. Life force poured into them like warming liquor down their throats. This was something more than grissecon. This was the magic of battle taken to its logical conclusion. No import from the dessert here– this was the essence of Varr.

They climaxed violently but voicelessly, teeth clenched as they writhed atop the near-carcasses. The white light burst from them and flooded outward, filling the room and continuing to expand. In their minds eyes they could see it sweeping through every room and every corridor, from the deepest dungeon to the highest parapet, flashing across the courtyard to the outer wall. Frightened hara cowered, covered their eyes, or tried to jump out of the way. They had nothing to fear from it, but of course they could not know that.

For a moment, the glare even bleached the sky outside. Then it faded from visibility, sinking into the stones, absorbed into the atoms of the very air.

Ponclast and Terzian returned to themselves, panting, atop the dry, crumbling, mummified ruins of what had once been hara. Their eyes met across the room. There was no need to speak with both of them knew: victory was theirs.

Chapter 6: Obsidian Mirrors

Chapter Text

LIANVIS

Vashti came to my quarters that day. I thought again what an interesting choice he was for the hostling of Ponclast’s heir. I think it was because he knew the score, understood the artificiality of power in some ways. How the game worked. He found me in palest green silk that day, bias cut, draping over my body like liquid, forming a puddle at about my feet, as I lazed on a chaise in the bedroom, attended by Veta and Glory. I did not intend on going anywhere that day unless it was by Ponclast’s order.

Was Vashti included in the category of ouana hara? I was not sure, so I did not dismiss my attendants. Like good servants they could make themselves fade into the background when it was needed.

“Tiahaar Kakkahaar,” Vashti said with a polite bow, and I inclined my head to him.

“Vashti, to what do I owe the pleasure?” I replied. I was still assessing him. I could tell he did not entirely like me, though he concealed it quite well, but I could tell he also lacked Terzian’s passionate hostility. “Will you take tea? Coffee? A bite to eat?”

“Coffee,” he said, and Veta was instantly off to the kitchen to prepare it. Glory remained, quietly attending to things, though surely hearing every word and doubtless interested.

“I come to you, Tiahaar Kakkahaar, to show you around Fulminir. I was informed you got a little lost the other day, which is, of course, understandable. It can be a bit of a labyrinth around here,” he said, all light smiles and easy charm.

“Yes, it certainly can be. I am tired today, there was a magical incident last night that has left me rather drained,” I explained, adjusting the soft white fur wrapped around my shoulders and pouting slightly, flipping my hair back. I knew how to play the part, and I think perhaps Ponclast’s absence had made me feel pettish and sulky, and of course I really was exhausted. The doctor had said so.

“I’ll call for a litter, so as not to tire you further, Tiahaar,” he said.

“In that case,” I said, with a languid wave of my hand, “once we have finished our coffee, we shall go.”

“Yes, Tiahaar,” came his reply.

“So, while we finish our coffee, why don’t you tell me about yourself?” I asked, cocking my head coquettishly to the side. I doubted such tricks would work on him, at least in the realm of making him foolish, but they might make him think me foolish, and that was nearly as useful.

“There isn’t really very much to tell,” he said, between polite sips of the steaming brew, prepared,, of course, in the Kakkahaar manner. It seemed to be all the rage in Fulminir now. “I’m second generation, born Varr. I came to Fulminir after Averen and Sashtri noticed me after a performance at my– school.”

“School?”

“Yes, many Varrish harlings attend boarding schools,” he explained. It was strange how much and yet how little I knew of Varr. I wondered what had made him falter before the word school, as if thinking how to describe the institution. But of course, he was second generation, born after the collapse.

“How interesting!” I replied. “And you were selected then for Ponclast’s service?”

“No, I was in Sashtri’s service for some time before I was tapped for that honor.”

“Indeed! And how did that come about?”

“It really doesn’t matter, Tiahaar, though your curiosity about me is most gratifying.”

“Oh, but I’m sure it’s a terribly interesting story,” I practically purred.

He kept his manner smooth and face politely interested. I wondered if I discomfited him at all?

“Well, after a time, Sashtri assigned me to his consort, Averen, to aid him in his work. He visits the… schools, you know, and selects hara who are… graduating, I suppose you’d call it, for officer training and such things,” he explained. “It turned out I had a gift.”

“Ah yes, for seeing which hara would… bear well?”

“Yes, Tiahaar, and that eventually brought me to Ponclast’s attention. We worked closely together for a time, and now… well you see here I am.”

“Thank you, Vashti, it was most interesting,” I said, setting down the delicate demitasse cup, as I had finished.

He set down his as well, and used the intercom to arrange for a litter and bearers to be brought up. Reclining among cushions, wrapped in my furs and shielded by a small canopy, I was carried through Fulminir’s halls by a pair of warriors in full leathers, with Vashti leading the way, and my attendants following after, because my being alone with three ouanas was surely even worse than my being alone with one.

The first stop was Azvith’s laboratory. It was already a mess, full of papers and taxidermied samples of various entities– human, harrish, animals– and of course the requisite alembics, spiraling copper coils, strange plants, tanks of chemicals and so on. In other words, it was usual for Azvith.

“Tiahaar,” he said, arching an eyebrow at my attire and position, supported by Varrish bearers. Of course he did. Azvith had always had a tendency towards insubordination. I was allowed to alight from my conveyance with a hand proffered by Glory to ensure my stability.

“Quite the… entrance, ” he said, dark eyes almost amused. I gave him the sort of look that indicates ‘it would be wise for you to desist,’ and clasped his hand.

“Azvith, always a pleasure,” I said, rearranging my expression into a gracious smile. “Please, tell me about your plans?”

That, of course, brought out some genuine enthusiasm in this troublesome har. He led me over to an obsidian mirror attached by tubing to bubbling copper tanks.

“I have been contacting another world,” he said, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, “It’s marvelous, there are beings there of incredible power. From what I understand, if I can find a way to assist them in… merging with a developing harling, in-margaritum , they can create some fascinating abilities.”

“Such as?” I inquired.

“The ability to kill with aruna, strength, flight… a few other things. I believe they are not entirely sure of the extent of the powers that might be gained, but from what I sense, they are truly capable of delivering a cornucopia of benefits,” he explained eagerly.

It fascinated and horrified me. My hand unconsciously drifted to my stomach, flat as ever, and yet so laden with meaning now. I knew what it was to bear a pearl now, and yet I still had never had a son.

Vashti was looking at me contemplatively. I smoothed my gown. This place is a den of serpents, I thought, and I am used to dens of serpents.

“How fascinating,” I said, knowing my eyes were glittering with the same occult enthusiasm. I think I have always been interested in power. I had so little growing up, and had wanted it desperately. “Tell me more?”

“They can travel through mirrors, or at least that’s how they like to come in, there may be other ways,” he said. “I discovered this when I happened to glance at my reflection as Lordra Ponclast discussed his encounter with that fascinating voice that came to him recently.”

Mirrors. They came through mirrors. I recalled that strange impression I had had while sitting at my vanity so recently. Suddenly I wanted to back away from that eerie black glass, throw something into it, smash it to bits, anything to keep it away from his harling… our harling, but of course I could not, so I merely moved towards the peculiar metallic tanks.

“And these?” I asked.

“Ethero-chymical baths intended for pearls which have just been dropped… when the skin is still soft, and perhaps permeable.”

I would hide my pearl away, like a hen from whom too many broods have been taken, rather than let it come here. Some instinct in me told me to keep far away from this thing, and yet I was also fascinated. I recalled that strange face in the mirror, it made me curious. Perhaps they held the kinds of secrets, the kinds of power, I have never been able to resist pursuing. I wondered if they would even speak to me as they did Azvith, perhaps he had some line to this other realm that I did not, and yet… I felt some pull, drawing me in as much as instinct told me to keep far away for the sake of the harling.

I wished I could trust Azvith, that he was wise in the way of these things, and kind, and could hear my troubles and quandaries and offer advice. I longed for Velasarius–not the Velasarius who had retreated from the world and left me to manage the practical realities of our tribe, unable to face the ugly realities of power himself, but the Velasarius whose castles in the sky, built of mystic words, had drawn me to the desert in the first place. I had thought him such a good advisor, and perhaps compared to my other options at the time he was, and yet, given the age I was then, I could not help looking back and thinking how ill prepared we all were for the world we grew up into, or for any world at all, I suppose. We had become something new, and we had to grow up without parents.

I wondered what Vashti’s parents were like. Had they been some happily pastoral Varrish couple, distressed by their son’s… androgyny? Soumeouanacy? Perhaps they had been the Varrish equivalent of gentry? I did not know. Were second generation hara so different from us because they had never been men, or because they had had parents?

There had been a lull in the conversation. Vashti looked between us and seemed to read the situation quite clearly.

“Oh, but Tiahaar Lianvis, you mentioned you are quite tired,” he interjected smoothly.

I thanked him and realized I was in fact quite exhausted, and had been unsteady on my feet for some time. The night before had truly drained me.

“Would you like to go back to your suite?” he asked, helping me back towards the litter as I wobbled slightly. I nodded.

I was handed back into my conveyance, and returned to the room. Vashti decided to stay, pulling one of the ornate and heavily carved wooden chairs against the wall that faced onto the balcony over to my bedside.

“Lianvis, I have a question for you, and I beg you not to think me impertinent. I promise there is good reason for my concern. Was there a– personal reason for your look of anxiety as you were hearing of Tiahaar Azvith’s projects?”

Good reason for your concern indeed, I thought. You’re worried about your son’s status as Ponclast’s heir aren’t you?

Though, it didn’t seem that way somehow. There was genuine worry of some other kind in his eyes. Was it for me? I doubted it. Ponclast’s son? Possibly.

I considered for a moment how to answer. How would Ponclast want me to respond? The question was vague enough, of course, for plausible deniability, but what was only wise. I think Vashti saw the veil of wariness rise over my expression. He had at least eighty percent surety of his answer by then. After all, why would I hesitate if the answer was no? He seemed to understand my silence as confirmation.

“I see. Is–” he paused, again delicately, “-is Ponclast the cause of your concern, Tiahaar?”

At that, I gave a twisted smile.

“Yes,” I said, almost smug in my triumph. I was carrying Ponclast’s harling. I had won.

You have won one war and lost another, came the voice, whispering, it is decided even now.

“It is well that it is so,” he replied. “Keep your mind on him, and I will send hara for your comfort. Would that suit? I suspect Ponclast may have neglected to… ease your concern in this way. Great hara may sometimes miss details.”

I nodded.

“Of course,” I agreed.

Vashti stood. “Well, it’s been a pleasure. You should get some proper rest. There may be more for you to do tomorrow, and perhaps we can complete our tour then.”

With that, he left me, so rest I did.

PONCLAST

It was a long day for the Varr archon. Once he’d cleaned up after his business with Terzian, he had barely a moment of rest left in his itinerary. He addressed the troops, making the formal announcement of war. He did this from a balcony outside the war council chamber, so that he could walk back inside the moment the cheering faded and speak with his generals. That meeting dragged on for several hours. Afterwards, there were petitions to hear. That occupied him until near sunset.

Just as he thought he might be able to snatch a moment of peace, a courier arrived with tiresome news about Varrish coal miners striking for better pay and safer working conditions. Such a stoppage could not have come at a worse moment; war time production would be hamstrung by any shortage of fuel. Sending in troops to suppress the uprising was not a particularly elegant solution, as casualties might result in a labor deficit that would leave them in much the same position. Besides, committing any of his forces to such an operation would be infuriating at a time when he wanted all Varrish guns pointed squarely at the Gelaming. After some brooding, Ponclast summoned a lieutenant from his special forces, and instructed him to take his company and ride to the mines without delay.

“I give you authority to conscript the locals for forced labor,” he instructed. “If they protest, tell them they have the miners to thank, and that they will be given their freedom as soon as these selfish workers stop shirking their duties.”

The young lieutenant looked uneasy, but rapped out a crisp “Yes, Lordra!”

After that, Ponclast made a heroic effort to return to his suite, but was waylaid en route by Azvith, who wanted to babble at him about his doubtless very interesting discoveries. Ponclast allowed himself to be dragged to the laboratories to survey equipment he probably would’ve understood better if he’d had any sleep at all. Azvith, characteristically oblivious to all that did not concern the esoteric, prattled on happily for quite some time before Ponclast finally cut him off with a curt, “Keep up the good work” and left him in mid-sentence.

By the time he finally gained the safety of his sanctuary, it was after nine o’clock, far past time for dinner. Ponclast’s first act upon returning to his chamber was to ring for the meal. His second act was to pour himself a drink. He downed it and lit a cigar in almost the same motion– cigar clenched between the fingers that gripped the glass, lighter coming up as the glass went back down. He drew a long puff, and exhaled smoke and exasperation. Only after that did he look around for Lianvis.

He was near the fire, as always, sitting cross-legged in meditation. He wore a dusty pink robe of velvet, the pile of which had been scraped nearly sheer in some places to make room for delicate beadwork. It was open, and though he sat with his back to Ponclast, the translucency of the burn-out sections allowed one to see that he was wearing very little under it. He looked comforting, touchable–not, for once, like an ornament of the state, just like someone’s wife waiting for him to come home.

Ponclast walked over to the fire, to him. The sound of his footsteps roused Lianvis. He looked up with a wan smile.

“Lordra,” he greeted, gracefully rising. He came towards Ponclast, all smooth long legs and swishing hips. Hard to believe a child was growing under that flat, hard belly.

Ponclast drew him close and kissed him, once, twice, thrice, upon the lips.

“Lianvis,” he breathed into his hair, holding him close. Through leather and velvet and walls of flesh, their hearts beat against each other, but only for a moment, before Ponclast pulled away.

“Come,” he said, capturing Lianvis’s hand. “Dinner will be served soon.”

He led him into his dining room. It was a chamber of dark wood panels, barely brightened by candlelight. There was a fireplace here as well, but in contrast to the gargantuan hearth in the sitting room, this one was oddly diminutive in proportion. It was visually too small for the space, and not sufficient to heat it in practice.

Ponclast sat at the head of the table. A serving har materialized to pull out a chair for Lianvis, then disappeared again.

Finally seated and in some semblance of privacy, Ponclast wearily rested his head on his hand. His cigar was still clenched between his knuckles, its red eye glaring while Ponclast closed his own.

“I was rough on you last night,” he said at last. “How are you feeling?”

LIANVIS

When Ponclast returned it was as if some part of me had come back with him, and he kissed me, tenderly almost, as if it was good to be home. It felt like that, like him returning home.

And so we went to the dining room. The cold room with its too-small fire made me regret not having brought my fur wrap, but when he spoke the surprising warmth of his tone took away the chill.

“I am a little tired, Lordra. The healer came and had a look at me, and said that exhaustion was the only thing wrong. He prescribed rest, and so I endeavored to relax as much as I could manage today… but how are you?”

He paused between bites of exquisitely cooked coq au vin, seeming to consider it.

“I started Terzian’s training today. He's progressing nicely. We built a magical shield around Fulminir today and disposed of those swine you bothered you yesterday in the process,” he said, and I knew he included the last as a kindness to me, in a way. I gave him an adoring smile.

“Your instinct for magical innovation is quite incredible, Lordra,” I replied, and it truly was, but I also knew he would like to hear it. Perhaps it might soften any potential anxiety or irritation my revelation about Vashti might cause. “How did you do it?”

He smiled enigmatically.

“Those are ouana’s mysteries, my rose,” he said, almost teasing. Whatever they were, I thanked Hubisag for them if they left him in such a humor. Perhaps I did not want to know. The thought chilled me for a moment, what was there in the world that I would prefer not to know? But there were more important matters at hand. I smiled at him.

“Of course, Lordra. It seems you have come up with ways to make these things truly Varr, and it gives me pleasure to know my little lessons have allowed you to progress to such heights,” I said, before biting my lip and looking pleadingly at him.

“Lordra, Vashti came to see me today. I made certain we were never alone, of course, as I could not tell whether to treat him as fish or fowl, and so I thought discretion was best, but Lordra, I do believe he knows .”

He sighed, and seemed to consider.

“I expected he would figure it out eventually. I hoped it would not be so soon. Vashti is an observant harr, and he always has an angle. I’ll tell you what I’ll do– I’ll put him in charge of your prenatal care. That way it’ll be his neck if someone goes wrong. He’ll guard you with his life.” He smiled grimly.

I sighed with relief.

“Oh thank you, Lordra,” I replied. With that, he had put to rest my other primary concern, which had been who might I trust to coordinate the sort of care a har might need before dropping a pearl.

He nodded, and silently returned to his food, eating with perfect neatness as he always did. I let my knee drift against his.

The food was delicious, rich with wine sauce and pearl onions. The wine was sparkling and dry and exquisite on my tongue. Ponclast himself had poured it for me, and he would know better than I what was alright for a hostling with pearl to consume. I kept my manners but I ate well, hungry with the appetite of one who is creating new life.

“One other thing of slight import happened today,” said Ponclast after a time of eating in nearly companionable silence.

“Oh?” I asked.

“Yes. Some miners south east of here are striking, complaining of their pay and the danger of the work. I have sent in special forces to conscript the locals into serving as replacement labor until their pique ebbs and they remember their patriotic duty.”

I thought of the matter. My mother, before everything had fallen apart, had been a nurse, and proud of her union, how they fought for better conditions; until the hospitals had ceased operating in all but the richest sections of the city, staffed only by those favored by the upper classes for their loyalty and uncomplaining obedience.

She had refused such a life, and for all that that awful little flat and my father were likely worse than whatever depredations the rich might have visited upon her directly, she had impressed upon me the reasons she had made her choice. But, of course, my mother had been an idealist, for all her practicality in the face of a collapsing world, and this was different. We were at war after all.

How was it that this bothered me now, when I had a collection of enslaved Aralids at home? What were these hara to me? And yet I thought of my mother’s pride in her family. Her grandfather had been a coal miner in West Virginia, and all the men in her family, going back generations. All those union men had fought the bosses on picket lines and in gun battles in green hills of that distant country. It struck me that I had never been there. For all my sophistication, and all the lands to the south through which I had journeyed with my tribe, there were so many places I had not been. She had told me the stories, like heroic legends; had grown up there herself with her school teacher father, the first man in her family had gone to college. I knew the stories of Matewan, the battle of Blair Mountain, the strike wave of 1946, Pittston, the Kanawha and Logan rebellions, and so many others practically by heart. I thought of her so rarely, my beautiful golden mother, strong and as kind as she could be when she herself had so little, but I thought of her now.

Suddenly I had a thought, a concern that might actually affect his policy and its effectiveness.

“Lordra, are the hara there native to the area?”

He looked at me oddly. “I believe so. Why?”

“Miners, Lordra, if they’re from mining families, they’ll be prepared for a lot of retaliation,” I said.

“Oh?” he looked almost amused.

“I have rather an extensive… knowledge of the history of labor relations in the coal industry,” I replied, cocking my head to the side. “I had family from the region.”

“Did you? Are there insights you’d care to share on the matter?”

“They’ll fight hard,” I said, “especially if they feel the conditions in the mines are unsafe. They’re used to armies being called in, and will know how to sabotage operations effectively. They’re Appalachian, are they not, Lordra?”

“Yes, they are,” he confirmed. “Tell me more, Viss.”

He looked at me, eyes intent, interested now by what I could tell him.

“They’ll know the terrain well, and how to use it to their advantage. They will be well armed, and braced for retaliation,” I replied. “They've been fighting armies coming in there for a long time.”

I hoped he understood it would be a costly victory, even if it were a victory for his side. During wartime it was far better to save time, equipment, and forces, and simply give them the raise and safety measures. That was just common sense, wasn’t it?

I feared it might not be.

PONCLAST

Ponclast chewed on his lip contemplatively, digesting Lianvis’s words.

“They may be used to armies,” he said at last, “But they’ve never faced the Varrs. I think they’ll find themselves outmatched.”

Lianvis spread his hands on the table, palm up. “Lordra…” he began, and stopped. His face bore a look of apprehension.

Ponclast’s brows beetled in irritation. “Spit it out, Viss.”

He lowered his eyes, and folded his hands demurely in his lap. “I only fear they may prove more trouble than they’re worth, Lordra.”

Ponclast scoffed. “I fear that too, Viss. I greatly fear it. This is an irritating waste of our time and resources already. But what alternative do I have? I can’t countenance this type of impertinence, and I certainly can’t reward it.”

He stood up, pushing back his chair, and prowled restlessly around the periphery of the room. He paused by the liquor cabinet to pour himself another drink. “If I don’t punish this infraction, and severely, other workers might get ideas. Any further work stoppages could ruin us.” His fist clenched. “No, I will not capitulate to the childish demands of lazy, entitled hara. This action is nothing short of treasonous; it could not be more damaging had it been coordinated by the Gelaming themselves.”

He let out a sharp, sudden, mirthless laugh, and his fist pounded on the top of the bar, rattling the glasses. “By Ag! It probably was the work of Gelaming infiltrators, after all. With such petty maneuvers they think to bring me down?” His jaw tightened. “They will soon realize their error.”

Lianvis sat still and silent, though he twitched a little at the rattle of the glasses. “Of course, Lordra,” he murmured. “You know best.”

Ponclast turned his ferocious gaze upon his soume. He stared at him stonily for several seconds, and it almost seemed the words had incensed him further. Then he exhaled audibly, and his hands unclenched.

“It may not be true,” he admitted, in a conversational tone that sounded odd after his outburst. “It is, however, excellent propaganda. If we paint them as Gelaming collaborators, they’ll get no sympathy from any Varr.”

“Very wise, Lordra,” Lianvis agreed.

Ponclast glanced around the dining room, and seemed to find it somehow lacking. “I am tired,” he said petulantly. “Come to bed.”

Lianvis followed him obediently to the bedchamber. Ponclast stood waiting for him in the center of the room. He snapped his fingers for his soume to come close. “Undress me,” he commanded.

Lianvis obeyed, reverently peeling him out of the layers of leather. Ponclast was uncharacteristically passive during the procedure, standing still with his eyes closed. He was swaying from exhaustion again as Lianvis knelt to remove his boots. Once he was finally bare, he staggered to the bed and lay down.

“Relax me,” he ordered.

Lianvis tried. He massaged Ponclast’s broad, powerful back long enough for any har’s fingers to be aching; yet when the archon finally rolled over with a grunt, he looked less pacified than merely bored. He guided Viss’s lips to his ‘lim, then let his hands fall by his side. He wasn’t hard, and tonight, all of Lianvis’s skill was not enough to rouse him. Still Viss persisted, undaunted, until a soft snore alerted him that Ponclast had actually fallen asleep.

Lianvis drew back, abashed. He knelt over his Lordra, watching him for several moments. Hurt and worry were on his face, but his eyes were tender. At length, since there seemed to be nothing else he could do, he extinguished the lights and went to remove his makeup.

Chapter 7: Drop

Chapter Text

LIANVIS

In the next few days, I saw rather a lot of Vashti and relatively little of Ponclast. I longed for him, worried over him. I made myself lovely for his arrivals late in the evening, and awoke early to ensure I was ready for him to give him a goodbye kiss in the mornings. I directed the cleaning staff with a fervent imperiousness that raised eyebrows. I meditated, napped, and gossiped with Glory and Veta. I was prodded at by the healer who Vashti dutifully brought to me, and declared to be “recovering” after my strange encounter with the Gelaming. I heard no news of the strike, and almost none of Terzian’s training. I saw Ponclast most when he was sleeping, watched that beloved face relaxed in slumber. He was almost vulnerable then, his pale skin smooth as when we’d been seventeen, something delicate about his features. It made my heart ache with love for him, and the desire to do all I could to protect him.

On this particular day, it was after breakfast when Veta was enthusiastically describing the plot of a Varrish novel to me.

The book was entitled His Commander’s Consort and Veta described it glowingly thus:

“Oh it’s a lovely book Tiahaar, there’s this poor soldier, his name is Akion, and he’s lost his leg, and so can’t go to war with his best friend and commanding officer, Raziel, and so Raziel leaves Akion in charge of his consort, Margarete, who is terribly young, and who came to Raziel for his feybraiha, and has been with him ever since, so no har but Raziel has touched him, and of course he’s absolutely lovely too. All this of course with the understanding that Akion will be the one to take aruna with Margarete while Raziel is away, but Margarete out of love for Raziel refuses Akion, wanting never to be touched by anyhar who isn’t his chesnari.

“Margarete, of course, gets terribly ill from the lack of aruna, and from pining for Raziel, and so eventually, Akion has to force himself on Margarete. Akion then falls absolutely dreadfully in love with Margaretta for his sweetness and love for Raziel, and for a time Akion is worried that Raziel may be dead as there are no letters home for quite some time, and he wonders if it would be right for him to take Margarete as his own consort if that is true, although he of course worries that a cripple like him has no right to burden a har as beautiful and sweet and charming as Margarete.

“But then Raziel comes home, and Akion dutifully returns Margarete to Raziel even as his heart is breaking, but then Akion’s loyalty is rewarded as through some magic, he wakes up after having had to drink himself to sleep alone to find he’s become whole again, and can ship out the next time Raziel goes on campaign, leaving Margarete with his serving hara, and of course a personal guard to ensure his safety. Akion asks only that Margarete give him a handkerchief to remember him by.”

After this fascinating recitation, Glory rolled his eyes as Vet sighed dreamily.

“Oh Vet, I wish you wouldn’t read those things. He’s always got one, Tiahaar. It’s bordering on an addiction,” said Glory, teasing.

“It sounds very– engrossing,” I said, hoping not to spoil Vet’s enjoyment too much. I did have to admit, Vet’s recitation at least was amusing. Perhaps I would ask him to summarize more of his reading material on a dull afternoon. I found the whole idea rather silly and frankly a touch disturbing. I loved Ponclast. I did not love Varr, nor what Varr did to hara, but perhaps it would change when there was peace. Perhaps. Or perhaps it would just get bloodier. I did not know. I think perhaps on some level I wished Vet wouldn’t read those things, wouldn’t find them sweet. It seemed wrong somehow that a har should be raised to find such a story romantic.

Veta shrugged. “I like them, and if you don’t, Glory, that’s your business.”

Glory gave me a rueful look, before his lips curved in a conspiratorial smile.

“Personally, I think it would have been more exciting if Akion had offered to be soume for Margarete instead,” he said, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Vet gasped.

“Glory!” he said, shocked, “you shouldn’t talk like that in front of Tiahaar Lianvis!”

“Oh come on, we all talk like that when the ouanas aren’t around, even you .”

Vet pursed his pretty painted mouth before sticking his tongue out at Glory.

“So? You still shouldn’t talk that way in front of an Archon !”

Perhaps it was then, even for Vet, not so simple.

“At least I got to be ouana before I got here, you’ve never even gotten to try it.”

“I have so. Creed lets me sometimes when he’s drunk and in a good mood. He says I do it very prettily.”

It was Glory’s turn to be shocked. “Vet! Your mouth is going to get you in trouble if you go around telling hara things like that.”

“You know… except for Ponclast, I’m always ouana now,” I confided, wanting to join in them for a moment. Be like one of them rather than their… what was I to them? Their master? Their boss?

“Oh?” said Vet, going a little wide-eyed. Even Glory looked curious.

“He doesn’t like me to be soume for anyhar but him,” I said, allowing my eyes to drop modestly to the floor.

Veta sighed dreamily.

“Oh that’s so romantic!” he cooed.

Glory cocked his head to the side.

“That’s how he is with a lot of his soumes,” he said. “Possessive, you know.”

There were footsteps in the hall and we all went still for a moment. I recovered first.

“I forgot myself, I apologize. We should be more careful of our words when we’re here,” I said, but not unkindly. I could only imagine what would happen to them… and possibly to me…. if Ponclast were to walk in during such talk.

“Alright, Tiahaar, I’ll be good,” Glory said with a chuckle.

“Though… as we’re unobserved for now,” I said, “what’s it like for you here?”

Glory’s black eyes seemed to go far away, and he bit his lip.

“It’s…” he trailed off, seeming to think, “I mean, I was incepted Irraka so it’s… I mean, it’s sort of what we were all scared of. But there’s food, and I’m probably safer here than I was there. I think the worst thing is missing my horse,” he added, looking away, clearly embarrassed to have admitted to attachment to anything, let alone something living that could hurt. It was a dangerous thing to do in Fulminir. “My tribe mates were mostly a pack of ‘lims to me anyway. I don’t know, my bed’s comfortable, and I’m indoors.”

“You were Irraka?” asked Vet, looking suspiciously at Glory, “Don’t lie to Tiahaar Lianvis, they say the Kakkahaar can smell lies. He doesn’t mean anything by it, Tiahaar, I promise, he’s only trying to make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you, Vet,” said the redhead, “and just what do you know about Irraka anyway?”

“...sometimes they’re in my books, they renounce their old tribe and realize the folly of division among the hara of Megalithica and become Varr warriors after falling in love with a soume they saw from afar, and then they have to prove themselves worthy of him,” explained Veta, “and they all have short hair and wear leather.”

“So did I when I came here,” said Glory, flipping his thigh length mane of titian waves back over one shapely shoulder, “I think I have a photo somewhere if you don’t believe me.”

Veta seemed puzzled for a moment, big cerulean blue eyes blank and then inspiration seemed to strike him.

“Ohhh! So you were like in Warrior Rose , when Crimson, the spirited and beautiful soume son of a poor healer who is desperately in love with Thrave, the warrior son of the Lordra of the local manor house, finds out that Thrave is going to war, and so he cuts off his beautiful long hair even though it makes him cry dreadfully, and steals leathers from the local garrison and bribes one of the hara in Thrave’s unit to let him go instead,” he said excitedly. “I loved that one! Crimson is, of course, no use at all as a warrior, because he couldn’t bring himself to kill, but he was so brave and such a good medic because of his hostling’s knowledge of healing herbs and medical training that he manages to get them to accept him. And then Thrave is wounded and Crimson is the one who tends to it, and it’s quite alright but only because Crimson was there to take care of it promptly, otherwise Thrave would have died and so, of course, Thrave gets close to him, and is struck by how wrong it is for such a beautiful, gentle, sweet creature to be a warrior, and eventually he asks Crimson about it, feeling suspicious, and Crimson can’t help but confess to the ouana he loves what he’s done, and Thrave, of course , has to take Crimson over his knee and spank him for being so willful, and putting himself in harm’s way, but then he remembers how Crimson saved his life, and realizes he’s angry at him because he loves him, and so he takes him as his consort, and Crimson teaches his healing arts to the soldiers so they’ll be safe and he can stay home with Thrave’s harlings, and Thrave gets a promotion for his bravery and it’s just such a lovely story.”

Having managed this recitation seemingly without pausing for breath, Veta beamed and was silent. Glory seemed somewhat speechless, and to be quite honest, I was too.

Eventually, Glory managed to say “I suppose you– could compare it to that?” in a doubtful tone, “I think– there was quite a lot of it.”

“Because you’re a soume who dressed up as a warrior,” said Veta, in a tone to indicate that the comparison should have been extremely obvious, “and of course you both have red hair, I mean that part’s not important, but you understand?”

TERZIAN

I was in a place far away, above the clouds, beyond the stars. Seven gates of glory opened, seven worlds trembled, seven times seven came the lightning and the thunder, blasting me, shattering my soul. His was the eye of heaven, the cold white radiance of an alien sun. I heard myself cry out as the light washed over me, obliterating me, making me anew.

Then I came back to myself, gazing up at the dark, barren trees above me. I was on my back in the snow– naked, but it had ceased to chill me hours ago. Ponclast was on top of me, draped over me, also naked, white as the drifts themselves. There was snow in his black hair, and on his eyelashes, but he, like me, was unbothered by the cold. We were panting in unison, as if we were one exhausted, exhilarated body. His ouana-lim in me was still rigid as a rod of steel, though I could tell by the leaking wetness beginning to freeze on my inner thighs that it had discharged its arsenal thoroughly.

“Lordra,” I whispered, full of wonder and love.

He placed an icy kiss on my brow. “My star,” he murmured, in a voice almost tender. “You are Nahir Nuri now.”

I stared up at the reddish sky above us. We had been here all night, and now it was morning. I had died last night– I think I really had, when he knelt over me and drove his dagger repeatedly into my chest. Had that been real, or a hallucination, or something else, something more true that reality itself? I’d seen the scarlet drops fleck his beautiful, savage face, had heard my tortured inhalations turn to gurgling as my lungs filled with blood and I started to drown. But then he’d entered me, resurrecting me. With the coming of dawn I was reborn. There was no trace of any wound on my chest, and I felt clear-headed, powerful, vividly alive.

It had been a week like no other I had lived through. It was brutal, boot camp. Ponclast had prioritized my training, devoting every moment he could spare from other vital matters to me. It had not been easy, but it had been a precious time. Never before had I enjoyed– or endured– so much of his attention.

He’d made me meditate for hours while he whipped me brutally, berating me like a drill instructor. I had to learn how to focus through the pain and the shouting. When I finally got the trick of it, I succeeded so completely that I didn’t notice he had stopped, and only returned to myself when he pried one of my eyelids open manually, with his thumb and forefinger, and informed me that I was slightly levitating. I’d never seen him so pleased with me. His approval was an addictive drug. I wanted more, and it made me an eager pupil.

He fast-tracked me through the castes at the rate of one per day. When I couldn’t feel my chakras he forced them open, energetically raping each center in turn, his penetrating will feeling like an iron fist. When I couldn’t manage to erect a magical shield around myself to repel his whip, he pulled his sword from its sheath and swung it at my neck. I am certain he would’ve severed my head if I hadn’t managed to throw up a barrier of protection in the nick of time. He always had known exactly what kind of motivation I needed.

Now, lying in the deep imprint my body had left in the snow, with the weight of him on top of me and his rod of iron inside me still, I wished the moment might never end. I had achieved the highest attainment, and I was ecstatic, but there was also a sense of bittersweetness. He had forged me into his perfect weapon, and now I must leave his side. I must go serve my purpose, wherever he might send me.

I love you, I wanted to tell him. Lordra, I adore you, I am yours. I knew he would only smile coldly at my foolishness if I said so, and that made me worship him more. I didn’t want him to love me the way I loved him. That would diminish him. If he could love like this–slavishly, devotedly– that would make him just another har. And he was so much more.

His ‘lim had finally softened. It slithered out from beneath my legs. He stood, stretching, backlit by the rays of morning sun.

“Get dressed,” he told me, so I reluctantly stood as well, and obeyed. Putting on clothes, even my beloved uniform, felt somehow counterintuitive this morning. We were not mortals, but gods; our flesh was impenetrable, the only armor we needed. To clothe ourselves was to partially eclipse our own brilliance.

“Good,” he said, as I buttoned the final button and set the cap on my head. He was already fully dressed and immaculate, a dark monolith in the winter-bleached landscape, more stark and imposing than any of the trees. He set off briskly, back towards the tower. I followed him. My boots sank deep into the snow, yet I felt that I was floating.

“You head south today,” he informed me as we walked. “You will be taking the bulk of our army with you, to confront the Gelaming.” He smiled grimly. “Would that I could go with you!-- but is not yet to be, Terzian. While the cat is away, little mice may try to play. I need to remain here, to consolidate morale and crush dissension.”

I nodded. It made perfect sense. The memory of those defectors was still fresh, and now there was this business with the coal miners. Stupid hara, especially the rawer recruits, would call Ponclast a coward, and say he was hiding in Fulminir while we went out to fight. I knew better. I did not envy his job, and it was a job nohar but he could do.

“I want Varr united completely in the war effort,” he said. “Commitment must be total. We are not there yet.”

“Yes, Lordra,” I agreed. “There is no need to explain your decision to me.”

He glanced at me, amused. “Of course not, Terzian. I was merely thinking aloud.” There were a few moments of silence, save for the crunch of our boots breaking through the crust of ice that lay atop the snow. “There is one other thing,” he resumed. “An essential duty, which I entrust to you alone. You must take Gahrazel with you, Terzian.” He stopped, and turned to me, his eyes serious. “Mold him, as I have molded you.”

I stopped as well, and stood facing him, my legs planted in a wide stance, my hands clasped behind my back. “Yes, Lordra,” I said. I tried to make my tone convey my reverence for the honor he was conferring on me.

He sighed softly. “If anyhar can make a soldier out of him, it’s you.” With a firm nod, he turned away and began to walk again.

I followed a few steps behind. Something was weighing on my heart. I had been ignoring it for weeks– months, now– but the prospect of shipping out caused it to press on me heavier.

“Lordra,” I began, “May I ask a boon of you before I go?”

He did not pause, or look back at me, but his voice, when he replied, was warm with amusement. “You may ask.”

I drew a deep breath. “What happened to the pearl?”

He halted where he stood, his shoulders stiff. He didn’t have to ask which pearl I meant, he knew: Lianvis’s and mine. “Why do you ask this now?”

I shrugged. “In war, there is always a chance one will not return.”

“Come here,” he said sharply.

I obeyed, approaching until I drew even with him. When I came within arm’s reach, he grabbed me by the front of my uniform and threw me back against a tree. I gasped as his mouth covered mine and his tongue invaded me. His body pressed me back against the trunk, his hands possessively cupping my ass.

When he finally pulled away, my head was reeling.

“ Return ,” he commanded. That was all. No answer to my question.

“Yes, Lordra,” I said breathlessly.

He turned on his heel and walked off, his step quick and purposeful, boots stabbing down into the snow like pistons. I hung back. We were nearly clear of the tree line. This was where I should wait, for purposes of discretion. We would not be alone again before I left.

I sighed and checked my wristwatch, preparing to wait the requisite ten minutes before I followed him into Fulminir.

LIANVIS

I had bled occasionally from my ‘lam in the first few days after the incident, but the healer had assured me such bleeding was common enough in hara who were carrying a pearl, especially if it were not their first, so I tried not to let it worry me too much. Ponclast had been returning to me tired and elated. Terzian’s training seemed to be going well, although he told me little about it.

Without Ponclast and without my tribe, finding enough activities to fill my days was strangely difficult. I meditated. I sent my consciousness out to examine the Gelaming’s strangely woven etheric shields. They were strong, and I knew they would be difficult to break, but as I examined their structure I learned their weaknesses. I believed firmly that it could be done, with the right combination of finesse and brute force we would be able breach the barrier and attack. Still, I could only spend so much time examining the structure of Gelaming defenses. Occasionally I would feel somehar looking for me etherically, searching for the one who plucked the strings of their web, and thus was forced to turn tail and rush on the wind back to my body where it sat in Ponclast’s chamber before a roaring fire.

When there was little else to do, I would wander the bleak corridors of Fulminir, searching for I knew not what.

I felt a strange sense of foreboding, and was nervous, prone now to bad dreams. I felt simultaneously claustrophobic, shut away in that suite of rooms, only able to leave when accompanied for safety’s sake, and also afraid of the vastness of the place. It seemed the sort of building one could get lost in and never be found; and yet somehow this fear compelled my exploration. I needed to know the way. I needed to understand Fulminir, for Ponclast was Fulminir, at least as much as Ponclast was Varr. These echoing galleries, these crowded stone halls where soldiers ate and were merry and cruel, the ballroom with bullet-proof glass in its windows so that we could dance while the world outside burned… all of this was him.

I wondered about my harling, the one that was Terzian’s and not Terzian’s. I wondered who to ask about it, and what phrasing would be most likely to get results without eliciting suspicion.

‘ Was a pearl brought here, and did it hatch? Was the harling inside blond? Did he look like me?’

I thought I caught a scrap of one of my child’s thoughts once:

‘ I am climbing. I am going up, and up, and up, and that will make the one who sings to me make funny faces and wring his hands.’

“Who is it who sings to you, little one?” I called out, but he didn’t seem to hear me, and the voice was lost in the echoes.

I would have a son soon, a son by my consort, a son who Ponclast might let me hold close and sing to myself. A son made from our essences intermingled, who could grow up with nothing to fear save the ghosts that lived in these walls, and even those my care might keep back. He would grow up in a peaceful world, safe, and without the scars and scuffs the world had inflicted upon his parents. We would do this, bring this sacred thing into the world, and we would love it. Even he would love it. I knew he would.

I touched my hard, flat stomach and felt the life growing there. I could practically see the tiny, exquisite face as it would be in a few short months.

“I’m sending Gahrazel with Terzian,” Ponclast told me one evening, and I felt his eyes on me watching carefully for a reaction. That scrutiny made me afraid. Did he expect some glitter of ambition in my eyes? Did he wonder if the thought that Gahrazel, his son , might die and leave our son, the son inside me, to inherit, would make my heart leap with hope?

Perhaps, it might have once, though if I had still been the har I had been then, I would not have been there carrying his son. Instead I felt afraid. I had met Gahrazel only briefly, but he was like Jarad, not Ponclast. One could feel it on him, the jaded stare and timelessly teenaged sardonic curl of the lip as he judged the absurdities of the world.

“Lordra, please forgive my ignorance. I hardly know him, although I would very much like to,” I said, putting down the needlework I had been busying my hands with, “but from what little time I have spent with Gahrazel, he seems the last har to take well to military discipline.” I chose my next words carefully. “He impressed me as like you, a natural leader, not inclined to following others. Would training as a strategist not be more suited to his talents, and safer for a har of such importance?”

Ponclast arched an eyebrow, looking at me curiously, before letting out a low chuckle, something between a purr and a growl.

“Prettily said, Viss,” he replied. “Unfortunately, Gahrazel has as much of the commander in him as he does the foot soldier, which is to say, almost none at all. That’s why I’m sending him out. Seeing a little action might teach him to take it seriously.”

He smirked.

“Sweet of you to worry though,” he added, a note of humor in his voice.

When Vashti came to see me next, I asked his opinion on the matter. He remained carefully neutral, but I could see something in his eyes before the painstakingly crafted veil of indifference fell into place again.

“It just seems mad to me,” I said, “sending your heir to the front, especially a har like Gahrazel.”

“Like Gahrazel?” asked Vashti.

“Yes, he’s… he’s not the type to take well to following orders, and he doesn’t have that… killer instinct. He’s gentle in a way I think, sharper of tongue than of claw, you know?”

“Oh.” said Vashti. Full stop. No question mark. No comma. Oh.

“I’ve only met him a few times, but he’s so young still as well, painfully young. A teenager, an adolescent. It feels wrong.”

“It is unwise to question the Archon’s judgements, Tiahaar,” he replied, his tone still utterly flat. There was almost something robotic about him. I wanted to shake him.

“You’re his hostling, surely you feel some concern?” I said.

Vashti’s eyes suddenly flashed. “I’ve never met him. I merely incubated him,” he snapped. “I am not a hostling. I am not what you will be, Tiahaar, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”

Well, at least irritation was an emotion. I nodded dumbly.

“I apologize for my assumption,” I replied. “I suppose I must have misjudged the universality of the traditions of my own tribe. I am sorry.”

He shrugged.

“It’s alright. Shall I have Veta arrange for your tea?” and with that the moment was over. For an instant I had managed to see something of the real Vashti, of the anxieties and anguishes that lived behind the perfect mask. It had only been a glimpse, but it was confirmation that it was all, indeed, there.

“Yes, thank you. Will you stay?”

“I have matters to attend to with Averen and must leave Fulminir. I will send a healer who specializes in this area to keep an eye on you while I am away,” he replied, offering me a polite bow and walking out.

Glory stretched languidly.

“Well, I say good riddance. I’ll be glad of a few days without Tiahaar Stick-up-his-ass around. I hope we get Ness as your healer. He’s always great fun.”

Veta sighed.

“Don’t be so callous, Glory. I’m sure Vashti must be secretly heartbroken over all this. What hostling wouldn’t be? He’s just trying to put on a brave face so we won’t see how much it hurts him.”

Glory snorted.

“Vashti is as heartbroken as I am archon of the fairies, Vet,” he said. “Vashti doesn’t have a heart to break. Never has”

“You don’t know that,” said Vet, pouting, “I think that there must be a deep well of sentiment buried somewhere in a har like that. There just has to be.”

“Christ, you’re young,” said Glory with a shake of his lovely head. “Vashti’s got loads of sentimental feelings in him, it’s just that they’re all concerned with only one thing, kiddo.”

“His one true love! A har who went M.I.A, right?”

“No, Vet, all Vashti’s concern and tender loving care is for his own oily hide.”

“How do you know?”

“Believe me, I know,” said Glory. His tone was relatively light, but he was gripping the back of a chair with white knuckles.

“It sounds like you’ve had some experience with our… clever friend,” I said.

“I have, more’s the pity,” said Glory.

“What happened?” I asked, tone gentle. Vet was watching in fascination.

“I had a har I called my chesnari when I came here, we were brought in together. He was an asshole, but we were close. We’d survived together for a long time. My friend had taken a bullet in the leg trying to run to help me because I’d stumbled as we were trying to escape. Vashti looked us over. It took him maybe thirty seconds. He said Rictus wasn’t worth the effort of healing cause the bullet had shattered the bone and he wouldn’t be able to walk again, so they should just send him to the butcher for meat. Then he looked at me, and said I was pretty and I’d breed well. He told the guards to pull us apart, and then he just walked on down the line. Like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter. They didn’t even let us say goodbye. They shot him right there, both of us begging for them to just give us a minute, just let us… anything. I was calling after Vashti, begging for him to look again. The bullet hadn’t shattered the bone, just nicked it, is the fucked part, but he wouldn’t even look. ”

Veta looked slightly green.

“Your chesnari must have done something really bad,” he almost whispered, wide eyed.

I think Glory would have slapped him if he hadn’t stopped himself. “Bad like what, Vet? What kind of bad do you think a har has to be to deserve that?” he snarled.

Vet looked nonplussed for a moment.

“Did he try to assassinate somehar important?” he asked.

“No, he didn’t. We didn’t do anything but try to survive, and happen to be there when a Varr patrol came through.”

“You tried to fight though, didn’t you? I mean you must have at least shot at them.”

Again, Glory shook his head.

“Are you crazy? We had maybe ten rounds between us and there were twenty of them, all armed to the teeth. We ran, Vet. We didn’t try to fight.”

Vet bit his lip, brows knitting.

“Someone must have gotten confused then,” he said, almost to himself.

“No, Vet,” said Glory, voice gentle now, “They knew who we were. The har taking Vashti down the line explained how we were found. He did that with every har there.”

Vet looked at Glory with horror in his eyes.

“You’re lying, aren’t you Glory? You’re teasing me again, right? Right? Please, Glory?” he begged, hands clasped in supplication.

Glory looked at him as if his own heart was breaking, and put his hand on the brunet’s shoulder, shaking his head.

“No, honey, that’s what happened. I’m not teasing you. I wouldn’t tease you about a thing like that.”

Veta’s lower lip quivered, before an idea seemed to come to him.

“We have to tell Ponclast!” he announced, as if he had hit upon the solution to all worldly ills.

“Ponclast? Have you lost your agdamn mi–” Glory paused, and collected himself. “I mean, Veta, I am sure Lordra Ponclast is far too busy to hear the petty concerns of a har like me.”

“But Ponclast cares about all of us, and besides, he loves helping hara in love. He would never stand for what Vashti had done to your chesnari,” said Veta, “and besides, we’re his secret chesnari’s attendants! Surely that must mean something.”

I looked into Veta’s clear, cornflower blue eyes. He was a lovely har, truly lovely, with thick caramel coloured hair, and a clear peaches-and-cream complexion. He also looked terribly young. He was second generation. He might have been a child still by human metrics, maybe ten or twelve years old. He seemed so ill suited to Fulminir. He didn’t belong in Ponclast’s grand dark suite. He was meant to be off somewhere in a field of flowers in warm sunlight. This place had turned his sweetness, his innocence, into something horrible– made his trust into a kind of complicity with crimes it seemed he could hardly comprehend.

“Where did you get that idea, Vet?” I asked, voice so so gentle, so gentle that Veta looked worried.

“My books, he’s in lots of them,” he admitted, “but those are always the ones based on true stories, so I know he’s at least a little bit like that.”

“Oh Veta,” I said, trying not to let the emotion creeping up on me show too much, “let me be the one to talk to him. You just put all of this out of your pretty head, alright?”

Vet smiled, pleased to have been called pretty.

“Thank you, Tiahaar,” he said, though I could see I had not entirely extinguished his worries. Glory looked at me gratefully and sighed.

“Well, anyway, we’ve wasted enough time with my stories. We need to get Tiahaar Lianvis ready for dinner with Lordra Ponclast, don’t we Vet?” he said brightly.

PONCLAST

It was the first night in a week that Ponclast was able to return to his suite before nine or ten. He came in at the respectable hour of six o’clock, with a spring in his step and a smile on his lips.

The soldiers had departed at noon– he’d seen them off from a balcony with a few properly laconic words of encouragement and a parting salute. As trumpets sounded and the iron gates slid open, he’d stood unmoving, his fist fixed to his chest, as he watched them file out. His eyes had followed keenly until they were out of sight. Part of him seemed to go with them, a bit of his spirit detached from his body; but it was a restless part, filled with tension. As they vanished down the mountainside, he sighed and smiled.

There had been more for him to do that day– there always was– but so much of his life this week had been devoted to preparation and planning. Now his army was on the move, and for a while at least, all he’d have to do on that front was wait for news.

He’d taken lunch with his remaining generals to discuss Fulminir’s defenses, and then spent an hour or so with Asvith, looking at beakers and crucibles and flasks of odd-colored fluids. The har had babbled on about esoteric topics for nearly forty-five minutes before showing Ponclast what he’d really come to see– the pregnant har, drugged unconscious, who lay in a curious glass coffin. Sigils had been drawn upon his bared belly, and IV tubes fed his veins a greenish liquid. A dark mirror lay face-down on the coffin top, reflecting his abdomen.

“Is this one Irsa or Revna?” Ponclast asked idly.

Azvith frowned distractedly. “I can’t recall, Lordra. I’m sure it doesn’t matter.” He went on to explain that the sigils were designed to attract the attention of the extra-dimensional entities which had so caught Azvith’s interest.

“Their energies are remarkably similar to the ones attached to the spirit who visited you, Lordra,” he enthused. “I am certain that these are the beings who can help us.”

The contents of the IV were more complicated, a cocktail half-magical and half-medical in purpose. Some of it, Ponclast had gathered, was an anesthetic, some of it was composed of nutrients a hosting har needed. The rest was a mixture of alchemical substances that Azvith hoped would entice an alien intelligence into embryo.

Before Ponclast left, Azvith had handed him a flask.

“You should impregnate the other twin as soon as possible, Lordra,” he’d advised. “Before you do, make him drink this.”

Ponclast had taken the flask, regarding it curiously. It seemed to be glowing, and looked similar in color to what was in the IV. “What is it?”

“More of the same,” Azvith confirmed. “I hope it may help us get a head-start on the process, beginning with the moment of conception.” He fished in the many pockets of his robes, coming up first with a handful of lichen, then a sheaf of crumpled papers. Finally, he found what he was looking for– an amulet. It was inscribed with the same sigils decorating the unconscious har’s torso. “Have him wear this.”

Ponclast took the flask and the amulet and duly headed to the hostling’s wing. Not much happened there that he considered worthy of note. The har was impregnated. He was in and out in less than twenty minutes.

As he walked away from the hostling’s suite, the sound of a wailing infant followed him. He did not pause or turn his head at the sound. No harlings were kept with the hostlings. It could only be the voice of a ghost. The dead were not worth his attention.

Dion intercepted him in a hallway on his way to his last appointment. “Lordra,” he said breathlessly, “Forgive me for bothering you, but I must beg you to look over this edict. It grants the military broad authority to requisition any goods or personnel which may be necessary to the war effort.”

Ponclast snatched the paper from Dion’s hand. He barely scanned it before pressing it against a wall and fishing a pen from his pocket. He signed.

“Thank you, Lordra!” Dion exclaimed. There was a gloating note in his tone.

Ponclast gave him an amused look. “You wouldn’t be thinking of abusing this to enrich yourself, would you, Dion?” he purred.

Dion snapped to attention. “No, Lordra!”

Ponclast laughed. “Not too much, at least. Keep your eyes on the prize, eh? The Gelaming must be destroyed.” He clapped Dion on the back and looked around him. A candle stood on a nearby end table. Ponclast set the paper down beside it, dripped a pool of wax beside his signature, and stamped it with his signet ring. “There you are– signed and sealed.” He thrust the paper back at Dion and headed off without another glance at him.

His last meeting was a dreary summit with the wealthiest Varr landowners. They were concerned that the war might impede their favorite pastime of feathering their own nests. Mostly they’d just needed soothing.

Now Ponclast stood in his suite barely an hour after sundown. An evening of leisure lay before him. He stretched his neck from side to side, making muscles creak and pop; then languidly cast himself down in one of the chairs before the fire, and tossed his cap onto the coffee table.

“Lianvis!” he called peremptorily.

Lianvis emerged from the bedroom, looking abashed. “Lordra! I did not expect you back so soon.” His voice was warm, and his eyes shone with elation.

Ponclast laughed. “What of it? Did I interrupt one of your liaisons? Have you a secret lover hidden in there who I shall have to skewer with my sword?” The question was transparently a jest, his tone merry and good-humored. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the carpet by his feet. “Come here and remove my boots.”

Lianvis hurried over and dropped to his knees to offer the required service. He stripped off the boots and socks, and commenced to massage the sore feet underneath. Ponclast lit a cigar.

“How was your day, Lordra?” Always the same question, every evening– a ritual of domesticity that was fast becoming an institution.

Ponclast flicked some ash from his cigar, letting it fall carelessly onto the bare floor. Such boorishness was unlike him, yet seemed somehow in keeping with his jovial mood. “The army has departed. Aside from that, it’s been positively boring.” He captured Lianvis’ chin in his fingers, tilting up his head so he could examine his face. His feet were bare, yet his hands remained gloved– an odd combination, strangely fetishistic. “What about you? How have you occupied yourself this long week?”

LIANVIS

I was… mostly ready by the time he returned. I had been in the midst of deciding between two necklaces when I heard his call. Diamonds or the delicate peach morganite? But I heeded the call, and so left with the morganite on, despite my having just decided that the diamonds would have suited my attire that evening best.

“Well, appointments with healers of course, and learning about Fulminir with Vashti, and making arrangements to have tea and things with the consorts of notables,” I said with a slight shrug. “I’ve also gotten to hear Veta summarize quite a number of Varrish romance novels”

“Veta?”

“The brunet.”

“Ah.” His lips curved in one of those smiles, and his eyes grew distant for a moment, as if recalling more than Veta’s face. “He’s quite young, I believe. A silly creature, like most soumes.”

I didn’t like thinking about Ponclast with Vet, though of course I knew he’d had him. It wasn’t even jealousy. Vet was simply too fragile and innocent to be subjected to Ponclast’s appetites.

“I’m thinking of trying to organize the soumes into a knitting circle to provide socks and things for the warriors,” I said, to change the subject. He nodded approvingly.

“Very suitable, and much less silly than romance novels,” he replied, unbuttoning his uniform jacket. Other hara might have changed out of their leathers and into lounging attire as soon as they could get away with it, but for Ponclast this was unusual. He typically preferred to remain dressed for dinner, even in his own chambers. I kept my eyes cast down as he stripped. Eager, uncomplicated physical lust bored and irritated him, and so I endeavored to avoid displaying the desire the beauty of his form sparked in me.

He tossed the various items of clothing to me. I folded each neatly, and set them aside for the cleaning hara to take care of later. This, at least, had become routine. When he undressed, I cared for the cast off clothes. It pleased me to do this for him– to be allowed to perform this intimate little act of service.

He slipped into a bathrobe, and returned to me, nimble fingers unpinning my hair from the elaborate upsweep Veta had spent hours arranging. He ran his fingers through the honey coloured tresses, sending a shiver of pleasure down my spine.

“Lovely,” he murmured, and the word made me melt, as any compliment from him always did. I leant into his hand, like a cat when stroked.

“Thank you, Lordra,” I murmured, before remembering, “Oh! I have also been attempting to solve the problem of the Gelaming shielding.”

Ponclast burst out laughing, shaking his head. He really must have been in a good mood that evening. “So you’ve been prattling away about soume nonsense, and you forgot to mention that?” he said incredulously. “Well, out with it!”

“I believe, Lordra, that the spell is… not very secure.”

“Oh?”

“It would be nearly impossible to penetrate with a direct attack, but since it took the work of many hara to build, they left the weave of the magic fairly open, to allow essentially any har on the team to get in and add to or modify the spell. It was careless on their part, but I imagine it made it much easier for them all to work on.”

Ponclast nodded, a pleased predator closing in on his prey. “Perhaps they were counting on my presumed magical illiteracy. Fools,” he scoffed. “What do you have in mind?”

“So, my idea is instead of trying to go through it, we modify it. Trap them inside their own shield and make it rain fire down upon their heads. It will require quite a push to override the intent of so many hara, but if anyhar can do it, Lordra, it’s you and I.”

I could see he was pleased with me.

“Clever pet,” he said approvingly, stroking my cheek, nearly tender. “We'll carry out the plan tonight.”

“Thank you, Lordra,” I replied. I was so glad he approved. I knew it would work. Outside the wind howled, and snow pelted against the window, but here, by the roaring fire, with him, I was nearly warm enough.

PONCLAST

They dined. Ponclast had been particular with the kitchen staff about this evening’s menu– the meal had to be nourishing, but not too rich or heavy. He wanted nothing that would weigh a har down and leave him lethargic for hours. He had also requested foods known for their aphrodisiac properties. The kitchen staff had smiled to themselves. The archon finally had time to spend with his consort– his guest, as they thought– and evidently he had plans. That was characteristic of him.

The first course was oysters on the half shell– bringing these fresh to land-locked Fulminir had been a costly endeavor, but it was the place of lesser hara to fret over the details of providing for their archon’s appetite. This was followed by a salad of arugula, red walnuts, and figs sliced to translucent thinness. The entree was salmon, accompanied by saffron rice. They had red wine to drink, though it was thick and strange, with a tang of iron beneath its sweetness. A connoisseur of Varrish haute cuisine would realize it had been fermented not from grapes, but from harrish blood. If Lianvis realized what he was drinking, he did not comment. Dessert was a small slice each of dense, flourless chocolate cake, dusted in powdered sugar and garnished with wild strawberries.

As usual, they ate by candlelight. After the plates were cleared, Ponclast called for coffee and a cigar. When the serving hara brought them, the archon demanded that his gramophone be wheeled in to the bedchamber, and the door from thence to the dining room be left open, so that they might have music. “After that, leave us,” he instructed, with a wolfish smile at Lianvis. The servants complied and departed, leaving them with the strains of Saint-Saen’s ‘Bacchanale.’ Ponclast smoked with his eyes closed. The hand that held his cigar sometimes made small gestures, as if he were barely restraining himself from conducting the absent orchestra.

Lianvis watched in silence, sipping his coffee with his pinkie out. There had been little talk during the meal, but many meaningful glances between them. This had been a ritual supper, as somber as it was decadent. The working had already begun, and the atmosphere was charged. The air in the usually chilly room felt hot, almost humid, and that had nothing to do with the inadequate little fireplace.

After a time, Ponclast opened his eyes to slits, and looked at Lianvis. “Come,” he said, and his lips curved into a smile that was both threat and invitation.

He stood, and went into the bedroom. Lianvis followed him.

Ponclast shed his robe, laid his cigar on an ashtray, and lit a stick of incense. The incense holder was bronze, and shaped like a satyr. The stick protruded lewdly from its crotch. It was the only object in Ponclast’s possession that betrayed a sense of humor. The sweet, cloying smell of sandalwood mingled with the acrid smell of the cigar.

The massive canopied bed loomed freestanding in the center of the room, like a monument. Its drapes were currently closed, shrouding it from view. Ponclast pushed Lianvis backward toward it, shoving him through the curtains. Lianvis sprawled on the bed with a little laugh that verged on a girlish giggle. Ponclast followed, first his head and then his powerful bare shoulders parting the dark velvet curtains. He crawled on top of Lianvis, his breath heavy with smoke. His mouth tasted of chocolate, coffee and bloodwine.

Lianvis nearly swooned beneath him. He did not resist as Ponclast pulled his wrists towards the headboard and buckled the soft leather cuffs around them. Ponclast growled against his neck and bit into his throat as he made the bonds secure, then drew back to admire his handiwork. Lianvis lay with his arms spread, as if in an attitude of crucifixion. He was still clothed, although the thin, clinging shift of ivory silk hid little, and the heat of his skin radiated easily through it. It was another costly article, ostentatious in its simplicity and the precision of its craftsmanship. Ponclast easily tore it open from hem to throat. Lianvis let out a low moan of pleasure, and perhaps of dismay at this cavalier vandalism.

Ponclast knelt over him, his knees on either side of Lianvis’ hips. His gaze lingered intently for several moments on Viss’s face, as if he were memorizing it; then wandered down, over his collarbones, his chest, to his belly. Ponclast laid his hands there and closed his eyes. Hpent several moments evidently in deep concentration.

“He is healthy,” he murmured at last, “and he is growing.” His expression was one of rapturous satisfaction.

He lowered himself onto Lianvis, pressing their bodies close, and allowed their mouths to melt together. His legs remained where they were, straddling Lianvis, his ass pressing down against the other har’s pelvis.

Lianvis’s breath quickened. His eyes flew open, a look of panic in them, as he tried to read his Lordra’s face at close range. Ponclast’s eyes stayed closed, his expression betraying nothing but lazy enjoyment as he continued to feast on Viss’s lips. He shifted his weight slightly, as if unintentionally. The movement caused his crotch to grind against the bud of Lianvis’s dormant ouana-lim. Lianvis groaned and wriggled in consternation, but there was nowhere he could go, pinned beneath Ponclast’s weight. The only fruit of his struggle was further stimulation.

“Lordra,” he whimpered, “Lordra, please–”

It was too late to stop it or hide it. Lianvis abruptly fell silent as the stirring of his ouana parts became painfully obvious. The shaft sprouted forth and curved up, hot and straining, against the crack of Ponclast’s ass.

Ponclast pulled sharply back from the kiss and sat up. As he straightened his legs, the offending appendage slipped out of its cozy niche and smacked down against Lianvis’s belly. The archon stared, haughty and expressionless, at Viss’s face. He did not glance at the incriminating tumescence itself, as if he refused to grant it even so much acknowledgement. His eyes were dark, his countenance like a marble mask.

Lianvis slumped in his bonds. “I’m sorry, Lordra–” he began.

Ponclast smacked the words out of his mouth, and then he was on him like an animal. His hands fastened around Viss’s already pinioned wrists, and his teeth savaged the har’s chest, neck and even cheeks as if he wanted to tear out chunks of flesh. His ouana-lim invaded the orifice that had begun to close up, forcing apart the petals that wanted to seal. Lianvis shrieked, unused to being taken when he was not at least physically ready. His ‘lim attempted to retreat but it was trapped, crushed between two hard bellies that ground against each other with the archon’s vicious thrusts.

LIANVIS

He was a beast on top of me, breaking me open, pinning me helplessly under him, forcing my body to respond in ways I knew he didn’t want it to– ways that would make his violent eroticism more violent than ever. He bit me like he wanted to tear me to pieces. I was afraid, genuinely afraid. I prayed to Hubisag, the dehar of my tribe, to protect the harling. I wished grissecon with Ponclast didn’t always need to be a fight. I longed to be his collaborator rather than a surrogate enemy, and still, for all this, I wanted him. The cigar smoke smell of his cropped hair, the strength of his body, melted me. My ouana-lim was still out. The friction against it, trapped as it was between our bodies, combined with his ‘lim in my half closed ‘lam, was agony, and I loved it. I screamed so that my voice echoed through Fulminir’s stones. Perhaps they echo with it still.

“Ponclast,” I cried out, and I think in that moment, though only for a moment, he saw me. He didn’t soften his assault, but there was desire in his eyes, and that allowed me to lose myself fully, be carried away on the tide of pain and passion.

I arched against him, forgetting myself. Forgetting the whole world but for him. His weight atop me, his mouth on mine, breathing images of destruction into me. He was all consuming.

He took me where he wanted to go, tossing my soul about as easily as he manipulated my body. We were a whirlwind, a pair of mythic beasts tearing into the night sky. He ravaged me through currents of air, across mountain ranges and valleys. He chased me like a wolf in a fairytale through dark unfamiliar forests. His assault was tireless, ceaseless, and again and again I let myself fall, let myself be his victim. This was his method of building power, the way he gathered his strength, and how could I resist him? Not after I had broken for him so many times before, and besides, how could I possibly want to? I wanted these interlopers pushed back as much as he did.

By the time we got to the camp, the energy we had gathered crackled in the air, a force so powerful it might be visible even to the human eye. I did my best to compress it, to gather it close for the infiltration. When it came to that he let me work, finding the unguarded entrance to the spell, and slipping us both in, stealthy as cats on the etheric currents.

We felt our way to the center of the magic, bound up in each other, my whole body vibrating with the sheer force of his will coursing through it. And when we got there–

PONCLAST

They were a whirlwind, a force of nature. There was no difference between what was happening on that bed and what was taking place on the astral plane. As Ponclast forced his way deeper into the struggling body, so, too, the etheric mesh was pierced and infiltrated. The sensation of being inside, behind enemy lines, of true, deep and dangerous penetration, sent a shudder through Ponclast’s being. They were fused with the Gelaming shield as completely as with one another’s bodies. Its bright, golden mesh clung to their skins, moved with them, distorted with them, vibrated with Ponclast’s pleasure and Viss’s pain.

The headiness of conquest was an accelerant to his fire. He bit and tore, grabbing fistfuls of hair, yanking this way and that in a savage frenzy. At the same time, it was all perfectly calculated, the preordained steps of a dance choreographed by a madman, the first performance of The Rite of Spring. The filigree of magic meant to repulse them was now infested with their rhythm, shuddering with every thrust, every twist of Viss’s wrist, every clash of teeth in every brutal kiss. Their power built, filling the occult orb, and slowly but surely it changed from threads of gold to veins of red.

“Now,” Ponclast snarled in Lianvis’s ear, and they both came at once, power and intention so commingled that one could not be separated from the other. Their bodies arched and twisted as if in agony, but it was pleasure rushing over and through them, pleasure like the wind beneath the raptor’s winds, like the joy of lightning as it strikes. The invisible dome that sheltered the Gelaming grew, for a moment, terrifyingly visible against the night sky, as sparks and molten drops of fire hailed down from every matrix in the etheric lattice, setting canopies and tents aflame. Tiny ant-like figures swarmed out of them, sounding the alarm. Their faces were too distant to perceive, and also too unimportant, but their arrogant disbelief was palpable, as was their satisfying fear.

Ponclast drifted back to his body borne on currents of power that were like warm winds, like clouds of fragrant smoke, like a frothing gush of champagne. He found himself draped over Lianvis, their bodies stuck together with sweat and the jet of aren Viss had sprayed between their torsos. The soume-lam from which Ponclast’s softening shaft was slipping felt soaking wet as well– almost too wet.

A tang of blood touched the archon’s nostrils. His back stiffened, and his eyes went wide. He pushed himself up from Lianvis to see the sheets stained with crimson. It was all over his ‘lim and his thighs as well, his guilt smeared upon him.

“No,” the Archon breathed. He was strangely still, his expression blank and frozen. He stared for a second more, blinked rapidly once or twice, then sprang from the bed, rushed to the bell, and began to frantically ring, bellowing aloud for a healer.

LIANVIS

I came back to myself in agony. Something was wrong, I knew in my bones something was wrong. My insides felt like they were tying themselves in knots, like someone had stabbed me in the gut, like every muscle in my body was moving inexorably towards some terrible purpose, and then suddenly I knew. Ponclast was screaming and I joined my voice to his. Serving hara came running. I felt Ponclast desperately pouring healing energy into me. It eased the pain, but the contractions that wracked my whole body would not cease. I could feel something moving, something far, far too small, too fragile to come out, shifting inside me.

Hara were running. I recognized Veta and Ness among the fray. I screamed. Something about the working had done this and I knew it– strain, or the sheer amount of fiery energy that had flooded my body, something had forced the pearl to start to drop far before it was ready. I know I was weeping.

“Please, save the pearl, do anything you can, anything you have to, please, please!” I wailed, clutching for Ponclast’s hand. I was a wild animal. Who wouldn’t be in such a situation? I couldn’t bear what was happening to me. What I knew was happening. I think I would have exchanged my life for our pearl’s then.

“Stop it from coming, it is too soon!” I ordered the healers surrounding me on my bed of blood. “Do whatever you must, just prevent this!”

But the healers and midhara sadly shook their heads, and eventually in a gout of gore it came, a tiny translucent thing. I could see the strange shape of the thing inside the egg in the light once the blood was wiped from it. It was eerily beautiful, this child of mine, too soon born. The huge dark eyes just visible through the membrane of the shell seemed to turn towards me in my grief.

It floated, still alive, still moving within its terribly fragile shell. It was so small it fit in the palm of my hand. I loved it. I loved it with all the fierce intensity I had not allowed myself for that first pearl. Strange colors flitted over the surface of the membrane. I felt fear in its tiny heart, confusion, loss. The light was too bright for it. This place was far too cold. He needed my warmth, my darkness to live.

“Save him,” I cried again, holding out the tiny creature, imploring all the hara around me, “please.”

Chapter 8: White as Snow

Chapter Text

PONCLAST

The great drafty bedchamber reeked of viscera, and reverberated with Lianvis’s screams. Ponclast stood turned away, leaning heavily on a dresser. His jaw was clenched, his eyes squeezed shut. A vein stood out on his brow. Intent as the healers and midhara were on their patient, they could not help stealing glances at him. Never had they known their archon to avert his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Lordras,” Ness announced, his voice trembling. “This is beyond my skill. There is little I can do.”

Lianvis let out a fresh wail. Ponclast’s head arched back, face tilting towards the ceiling. His teeth were gritted, and tears leaked out from between his tightly sealed eyelids. His fist slammed down on the dresser.

“Drug him!” he snarled, spinning around to face the attendants. Every muscle in his stark-naked body stood out, tensed. His teeth were bared in a rictus of anguish.

The hara hurried to obey. Lianvis fought against them, but he was weak from grief, from exertion, from blood loss. The syringe slipped into his neck and he fell limp, open eyes rolled back.

Ponclast snatched up his robe and wrapped it around him. “Give me my son,” he commanded. There was a catch in his voice, but it only made him sound more dangerous.

Ness looked as if he wanted to hesitate, but dared not. He approached and carefully deposited the premature pearl into Ponclast’s bare, outstretched hands. The surface was malleable, gelatinous. Ponclast cupped it carefully and raised it towards his face. The healers and midhara tensed, as if expecting him to swallow it, Saturn devouring his children. But Ponclast only stared at it intensely for a moment, then breathed upon it, a warm, tender breath, his eyes closed.

“Get the door for me,” he ordered.

A healer leapt to obey, letting Ponclast out of the suite so that he could carry his precious cargo in both palms. In the corridor, Ponclast broke into a run. He pressed the buttons in the elevator by slamming his hip against them. For all his violent haste, he kept his grip on the pearl quite tender, desperately careful not to jostle it. It felt as if its soft shell might burst at any moment, letting the life-sustaining fluid run out.

He veered down corridors and sprinted up stairs until he reached Azvith’s laboratory, and bellowed to be admitted. Azvith appeared in the door momentarily, rubbing his eyes.

“Lordra?” he mumbled blearily.

Ponclast thrust the pearl towards him.

“Save this,” he demanded.

Azvith blinked at the strange object, and ran his fingers through his sleep-tangled hair. “I don’t know that I can, Lordra,” he said. “It is very premature.”

“Your life depends on it,” Ponclast said, his voice soft and deadly. “Not only is it Tiahaar Lianvis’s, it is mine.”

Azvith’s eyes widened. “You’d better come in, Lordra,” he said.

Ponclast strode past him into the laboratory. Azvith clattered around with beakers and cauldrons, swearing.

“If I can get it into a nutrient bath, it might survive,” he muttered. “But it will take hours to concoct the serum. Too long.”

Ponclast jabbed his finger at the glowing bag of IV fluid connected to the har in the coffin. “What about that?” he demanded.

Azvith’s brows flew up. “Well, yes, theoretically it might keep the pearl viable… but it might also tempt the entities into your harling, Lordra. Besides, if I disconnect that IV, the hostling and his pearl will die.”

“Do it,” Ponclast ground out. “It’s the only chance we have.”

Azvith hesitated, then reluctantly pulled the IV. He clamped the lines, removed the bag from its hook, and emptied the contents into a glass tank. He switched on a small burner below it, turning it down to the lowest possible simmer.

“There, Lordra,” he said. “I’m afraid I cannot guarantee results. But theoretically, if I can maintain this tank at something close enough to harrish body temperature, it may gestate in there well enough.”

Ponclast took one last look at the fragile orb in his hands, then eased it carefully into the greenish liquid, and sealed the lid. “Get it done,” he snapped, “I don’t care if it takes hara watching a thermometer around the clock.”

Azvith frowned, and shook his head. He stepped close to the tank, and placed his hands on the sides. His eyes closed for a moment, then opened. “It shouldn’t be necessary,” he said. “I’ve attuned myself to it. I’ll wake up if it begins to get cold.”

“He,” Ponclast corrected sharply.

“If he gets cold, Lordra,” Azvith amended. He attempted an encouraging smile. “It is unorthodox, and untested. But for what it’s worth, your son has a strong will to live.”

For a moment, Ponclast’s steely eyes softened. “I know,” he said. He made an abortive movement towards a chair near the tank, as if he was tempted to sit by it all night, but stopped himself. “I can’t be sentimental now,” he murmured. “Lianvis is going to need me.” He nodded firmly to Azvith, and his voice returned to its normal curt tone. “Thank you in advance, Azvith, for a service well done. Your archon and I are both counting on you.”

The words held a world of threat. Azvith nodded with perfect understanding, his lips tight.

“I am keenly aware of that, Lordra,” he said drily. “Rest well.”

With a final glance at the tank and its treasure, Ponclast left them.

The har in the coffin remained as still as ever. He looked no different. He had died without noticing, and without anyhar noticing him.

LIANVIS

I awoke I knew not how many hours later, still dazed, my lam sore, weak with the bloodloss. Ponclast was by my side, stroking my hand. There was an IV in my arm, pouring harrish blood back into my veins to replace what had been lost. But fresh blood could not replace the greatest loss. My heart ached.

“My son?” I croaked, my voice sounded as if it had stood still too long without oiling.

Ponclast looked away from me.

“I took him to Azvith,” he said.

My heart leapt with hope even as my blood ran cold. Somehow I had known this danger was coming. My son in that har’s hands.

“Azvith,” I repeated. I was afraid. Would my son live? What would the price for his life be if he did? Outside the wind still howled. I wrapped the furs more tightly around myself and wept, “I’m so sorry, Lordra, I failed you.”

He paused for a moment, eyes intent on my face, before he spoke, voice almost gentle.

“No, my rose, only the Gelaming are to blame for this,” he said, though something in his eyes told me he felt the same guilt I did. I didn’t blame him, and he was right in a way. Best to turn the blame outwards, use the anger at this loss to fuel our work against them.

“Of course, Lordra,” I murmured, reaching weakly to rest my hand on his elegant jaw. He turned his face towards my palm and kissed it.

“We’ll make more,” he assured me.

I nodded. What if this had broken something inside? I was a failure. I had failed at the task that was to soumes as war was to ouanas, our glory, our crown. Even if I had succeeded at war it had cost me this most precious thing. If I could not give him sons I would leap from the top of Fulminir, end my life rather than be barren at his side. What use was I if I could not give him sons?

I was in bed for several days, feverish and weak. I dreamed I heard the voice of my child crying out for me in the night. In my dreams I would hear him crying out somewhere in the corridors of Fulminir and I would run through them, dark, abandoned, crumbling, and find only bones. I wept. Ponclast was uncharacteristically gentle with me during this time– remembering perhaps, the incident at Forever. He told me he was proud of me for my cleverness in overcoming the Gelaming defenses, but I would rather have had my pearl safe within me than a few tents set aflame.

When Glory brought me a mirror, I saw that my loss had stolen the sun from me, bleached me pale as moonlight, skin and hair, even my eyes seemed an eerie shade of celadon. I was a vampire, a revenant, an undead thing. I wept, and wept, and wept, swathed in my furs by the fire, drinking the Kakkahaar coffee that tasted of home. I ached for the pulse of life within me. The life that had been mine and his, ours. Our son.

Ponclast brought me gifts, new clothes to suit my changed coloring, boxes of sweets, jewels, bottles of exquisite liquor and perfume, and a locket containing a miniature of his face and mine. The likeness captured me as I was now, a ghost, beautiful still but haunted. I looked at my face, porcelain as the snow on the ground. It made me look fragile, with the new silvery blond of my hair. I worried I might no longer appeal so much to him, my Lordra, my love. I no longer matched Terzian’s coloring so well.

I would ask him what he thought of it, I supposed, and perhaps my color would return with time. For now I could wear crimson and look more striking in it than ever before.

Glory and Vet both did everything they could to cheer me up.

“Tiahaar, I brought some books I could read to you,” offered Vet, and so I heard ‘Sweet Inception,’ ‘Lordra of Hearts,’ ‘The Wolf and The Dove,’ ‘Desire’s Prisoner’ and ‘ A Warrior’s Tenderness’ one after another. I could not describe the plot of any of these. His reading left me with a vague impression of stories involving a lot of ‘turgid blossoms’ and ‘quivering rose petals’ and a lot of weeping, and delicate white hands beating fruitlessly against hard muscular chests. Sometimes bits of them almost felt familiar, though their heroes’ hearts were always melted slightly by story’s end, and their brutality rarely drew blood.

Glory read me other books, ‘ The Castle of Otranto’, ‘The Histories’ by Herodotus, ‘Les Fleurs Du Mal’ by Baudelaire, ‘ Naked Lunch’ by Burroughs, books by Huysmans, Zola, and Wilde. He read to me in French and Latin, languages long mutated or dead. His selections were eerie, almost psychedelic at times. I preferred them, although somehow they made me sadder. Perhaps that was why I preferred them. They allowed me to be sad.

TERZIAN

Four days ride brought us to Galhea. Forever lay blanketed in snow, not so deep as what lay around Fulminir, just enough to be picturesque. My shoulders relaxed as I stepped over the threshold. It was good to be home, however briefly. I was master here.

Cobweb materialized at the top of the grand stairway, wearing a sulky expression. He was dressed in a robe of dark green silk that slipped off his pale shoulders and trailed along the steps behind him as he descended. Ivy was twined in his dark hair. His entrance was perfectly staged and choreographed, and I suspected he had spent hours getting ready for it.

I was not impressed. Soume artifice does not move me. Ponclast loves that sort of thing– he may not fall for it, but it flatters his vanity when a har primps and preens and poses for him. The desperation behind the theatrics turns him on. I find it exhausting.

“Hello, my love,” Cobweb breathed as he drew near, but his voice was cold, his eyes filled with the chill of resentment. He wrapped his arms around my neck and kissed me. I turned my face away, giving him only my cheek, not my lips.

“Where is my son?” I demanded brusquely.

Cobweb drew back, pouting. “Not even a hello, Terzian?”

I sighed. “Hello, Cobweb,” I amended with bad grace. “Where is my son?”

His eyes narrowed. “Swift is upstairs.”

Just like him, to pretend not to understand. “I’ll be happy to see Swift after I see the son I have yet to meet.”

Cobweb turned away, and fiddled with an arrangement of flowers on a console table. “He’s upstairs, with Cal– who couldn’t be bothered to come down and greet you,” he added meaningfully. “And I did ask him.”

I laughed. It was just like Cal– insolent, indolent Cal. I didn’t particularly mind. It was all part of our game– he provoked me, I exacted punishment, then he flipped me over and exacted a little punishment of his own. This visit, unfortunately, I would have little time to play it with him.

“Thank you, Cobweb,” I said. “That was all I wanted.”

I began to ascend the stairs, not meaning to spare him another word or glance; but then I thought of the other member of our household, and I halted. “And Gahrazel?”

“Are you still here?” Cobweb asked sweetly from his place by the bouquet. “I thought that was all you wanted.”

I growled in my throat. “Gahrazel, Cobweb.”

Cobweb shrugged, not looking up at me, still affecting absorption in his lilies. “I believe he’s at the garrison,” he said languidly. “He stays there late most evenings.”

He would. I sighed again, through my nose. I wasn’t sure whether to approve or disapprove. On the one hand, it was good that he was spending time among warriors; perhaps some ouana spirit would rub off on him. On the other hand, too much fraternizing with the enlisted hara was not appropriate to a person of Gahrazel’s status, and I rather suspected he was mainly fraternizing with his little friend Purah in any case.

“Send Ithiel to fetch him,” I ordered, and continued on my way.

I anticipated that I would find Cal not in his chamber, but in mine. I was correct. He was sprawled like a starfish in the middle of my king size bed, apparently fast asleep. I quickly saw what Cobweb had meant by my son being ‘with him’-- he was, in fact, very plainly still inside him, as Cal’s belly was heavily swollen with pearl. It was strange to see him like that, and a little disconcerting. I’d hoped so much that the pearl would’ve dropped and hatched by now.

I stood in the doorway for a few moments, digesting my disappointment. The room was dark, and I surmised Cal had been napping since long before sundown. I closed the door softly and went to light a taper on the dresser.

“Hullo, Lordra, ” Cal drawled from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see him regarding me lazily through slitted eyes. Either I’d awakened him, or he’d only been pretending to be asleep. It didn’t matter to me. I was just happy to see him.

“Cal,” I purred. I went to the bed and crawled on top of him, pinning his wrists. He let me. This close, it was very obvious he was naked beneath the sheets.

“You only want one thing, you brute,” he teased.

I bent down and smothered him with a kiss in answer.

“With me in this state?” he mock-gasped as I abandoned his lips to feast on his neck and collarbones. “How outre.” As I pressed more of my weight onto him, he groaned. “Seriously. Mind the baby.”

“He won’t be hurt,” I said, and tried to push down the sheets.

Cal held onto them. “I feel like shit,” he said. “Thanks for asking.” With a groan he added, “and good Ag do I need to piss.”

My ‘lim was straining against my trousers, but I dutifully rolled off of him. Cal wasn’t the type to make excuses about headaches. If he was turning down aruna, he must indeed be feeling like shit.

He went into the bathroom, and I listened to the prolonged melodic tinkle of a great deal of urine falling into the porcelain bowl. Through the doorway, I could see that Cal had not abandoned his habit of pissing standing up. I’d never really make a soume of him. I’d always known that.

Secretly, I loved him for it.

Just as the stream seemed to be slackening, I heard a rap at the door. “Lordra,” called Ithiel, “I have brought back Gahrazel.”

Damnable timing. Reluctantly, I pushed myself up onto my elbows, and called back, “Send him to my study.”

Through the bathroom door, I could see Cal shaking off his ‘lim, an odd gesture juxtaposed with his pregnant belly. He emerged a few moments later, naked and glorious.

“Business before pleasure,” I told him, rising from the bed.

He snorted. “What’s pleasure? I’ve forgotten all about it while incubating.”

I approached him, and laid my hands gently on his distended abdomen. “I know, Cal. Later I intend to remind you. I’m sure we can find something you’ll enjoy even in your present state.”

“A blow-job,” he said matter-of-factly. “Best of all, I won’t even have to see your face over this gut.”

I flushed. “I’ll make you pay for that,” I said, “After you’ve delivered my son.”

“If you make it back from the war,” he said, with a toss of his head.

I growled, and nipped his neck. “Don’t bank on me dying. I intend to live to take it out of your hide.”

“Promise?” he said, and I saw a little spark of the old Cal in his eyes.

“I promise,” I enunciated, and with that, I left him.

I found Gahrazel in my study. He was dressed in his leathers, but looked anything but regulation. His jacket was fully open, his shirt halfway unbuttoned, his hair overgrown. He reeked of sheh. He was half-leaning, half-sitting on my desk. As I entered, he looked up at me with a defiant smirk.

“Hullo, Terzian.”

“Attention!” I snapped at him.

He came to attention sloppily, failing to wipe the smirk off his face. “Lordra, yes Lordra!” he intoned, rolling his eyes.

I believe I kept my face expressionless, but my thoughts were racing. Clearly Gahrazel had gone from bad to worse in my absence. He’d always been a bit of a brat, but it seemed his tendencies towards surliness and insolence had blossomed into full-blown insubordination. Ponclast would be most displeased. How would he want me to handle this situation? Before I’d always been cautious about disciplining Gahrazel, never quite sure of the limits of my authority. But Ponclast had been fairly explicit when we last spoke.

Mold him, as I have molded you.

I yanked the riding crop from my boot and gave Gahrazel a smart smack against the cheek. His hand flew to the stinging spot. “Ow!” he exclaimed, surprised and resentful.

“Attention!” I rapped out again.

Jaw clenched with anger, he lowered his hand and stiffened his posture once more. His eyes were simmering with anger, but there was a new wariness in them.

“My father might not like that, Lordra,” he said. His lower lip was thrust out petulantly, and it trembled a little. That smack must’ve been a good one.

I approached, looking sternly down my nose at him. He wasn’t anywhere near as tall as Ponclast, in terms of height he took more after Vashti. “Your father has instructed me to whip you into shape and make a soldier out of you by any means necessary. Apparently discipline has been slack in my absence. That ends now.” I stopped, toe to toe with him. “The party’s over, Gahrazel. Tomorrow, we ride to face the Gelaming.”

His fists clenched at his sides. “No,” he growled.

My crop snapped up again, and left an angry red patch on his other cheek. “What do you mean, ‘No?’”

His eyes were brimming with tears. “I’m not going,” he said. “You can’t make me.”

I grabbed his chin. “You are, and I certainly can. Get this in your head– I am your commanding officer. My word is law. I’m not saying it doesn’t matter who your father is, because it very much does– your father put you under me.”

I was being harsh. I was angry, but in truth, part of me was afraid for him. Having seen what I had of Ponclast’s new abilities, I had no doubt that he was capable of reaching through the aethyrs and snapping this willful child’s neck from hundreds of miles away. Gahrazel did not understand that yet, and I knew he would not believe me if I tried to explain. He’d scoff, and accuse me of making up stories, of trying to frighten him as if he were still a harling. In reality, he should have been frightened. He had no comprehension of how serious this was. I wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled.

I released his chin, trying a new tack. “Even if you think you’re not coming, your friend Purah certainly is. If you don’t want to get him killed, you better shape up, and fast.”

He was breathing hard, his teeth clenched, trying to fight back sobs. “Terzian,” he appealed, and for a moment he sounded like a harling again. I’d been almost like a father to him– maybe more than Ponclast had– and he was trying to reach that part of me. I almost wished that he could, but that part of me was not for him, not anymore. I had to harden my heart to this har who had grown up in my home, playing with my son.

“I’m not cut out for it,” he whispered, shaking. “The sight of blood makes me sick. Sick, do you understand? If I were anyhar else’s son I’d have washed out already. They’d have marked me out for a hostling long ago.”

What he was saying was true. I could see it so clearly in that moment, with the tears streaming prettily down his face, his shivering lower lip looking so soft and vulnerable. I tried my best to appear unmoved by his pleading.

“A hostling?” I sneered. “Is that what you want to be?”

“No– maybe,” he stammered. Then he threw back his head and squared his shoulders. “Yes,” he said defiantly. “Anything but a warrior.”

I stared at him a moment more. My blood was pounding in my head. I knew what I must do. It was as obvious as if Ponclast himself had been whispering orders in my ear. Maybe he was there in my mind. Maybe that’s why I did what I did.

I grabbed Gahrazel by the waist and crushed his body to mine. I mashed our lips together so forcefully that I tasted his blood. He made a startled sound, then broke into muffled, incredulous laughter, his breaths puffing into my throat. My hands slid down his breeches, cupped his ass. He felt strangely familiar. While he wasn’t as tall or as muscular as his father, his build and proportions were similar, long and lean and graceful. The thought excited me. I pushed him back against the desk, pressing my erection against his thigh.

“Is this what you want?” I snarled into his ear. “You want to be a soume?”

He was stiff in my arms, resistant, but at the words, he let himself melt. “Yes,” he answered, in a breathy, mocking voice. “Take me, Lordra .”

I wasn’t fooled. This was more defiance. He was trying to aggravate me, to prove his point. He would be wanton about his violation, try to negate it by pretending to want it. I wouldn’t let him.

I grabbed him by the scruff and spun him around. My forearm made a bar across his throat, pressing on his windpipe. “You can’t,” I hissed at him. “You can’t be soume. You’re not allowed to be.” My other hand undid his belt and yanked down the waistband of his pants, exposing his behind. “You are going to take this like a soldier and ship out with me tomorrow.”

I bent him over the desk, as his father had once done to me. At first he tried to fight the pain, to act like it was pleasure. He made lewd girly noises for as long as he could until it became too much for him. I knew well enough how to make it too much. Then he tried to fight me, but I was stronger. Our struggle took us from the study into the adjoining bathroom, where I slammed him down over the sink and took the clippers to his hair. He cried then, trying to push my hands away as I efficiently sheared him, buzzing his hair down to mere stubble. Once his hair was gone, he became quiet. Perhaps he knew his crying wouldn’t look so pretty anymore.

As he slumped over the sink, I could see part of his face reflected in the mirror. With his hair so short, his resemblance to Ponclast was far more pronounced. I allowed myself to forget who he was and became lost in the most forbidden fantasy of all– screwing the archon. Once I thought about it that way, it became exquisite. I don’t know if I’ve ever cum harder.

It was late when I found my way back to bed, and Cal. He purred sleepily as I slid under the covers, and wrapped himself around me, kissing my neck. It seemed he was in a better mood. Unfortunately, I was spent.

“I’m too tired,” I mumbled through Cal’s kisses.

“You can just lie on your back and let me do all the work,” he suggested wickedly.

I tried to imagine Cal being ouana right now– the feeling of his baby bump grazing the top of my ass as he thrust into me from behind. I recoiled from the thought, repulsed. “Ugh,” I muttered. I was bone-weary, and already half-asleep.

“You smell like somehar else,” he teased. “Should I be jealous?”

“Probably not,” I mumbled, and let sleep take me.

LIANVIS

On the day the healers pronounced me fit to leave the bed, I rose, unsteady as a newborn colt. I wanted Ponclast, and so I called Glory and Veta to make me ready, to dress me in blood red velvet, paint my face and brush my silvery fair hair until it shone bright as a mirror. On the subject of mirrors, I felt again that the face in the mirror was not my own, though now I had more reason to think so. I was so changed, alien to myself as I met that strange pale gaze in the glass. Eyes like palest jade. At least my lashes had stayed dark, and yet that sable frame did nothing to make my eyes more familiar, the contrast only made them seem more alien, more strange.

I was still beautiful. I knew that much. But it was a very different sort of beauty. Perhaps I was like one of those animals that changes its coat in winter, and living as I had, in the desert, I had never noticed the fact. It was a foolish notion. I had been born and incepted in a place not far from here, but even then I had craved the sun.

I would find Ponclast. There was nothing else to be done. I needed him. I would seek him out. I wanted to cling to him and weep. I wanted to pound on his chest like the soumes in Veta’s novels. I wanted aruna. No, I needed it. It had been far too long. Whose beds had he been in while I had convalesced in his? It didn’t matter. It hadn’t been Terzian, and it hadn’t been Vashti, and anyhar else didn’t matter enough to bother me. Still, it was time to reclaim my place.

PONCLAST

Fulminir should’ve been shrouded in mourning, its flags at half-mast. But the nature of the archon’s grief was more than private– it was highly classified. There could be no state funeral, no public and mandatory display of solemnity and reverence. Meanwhile, as always, he had his duties to attend to. Grief was a luxury he could not afford.

When he could steal time for himself, he spent it in the chapel. He did not kneel, nor did he appear to meditate or pray. He merely spent long minutes standing still, hands clasped behind his back, gazing up at the Varrish flag that hung in place of the old messiah.

Other times, late at night, his steps took him to Azvith’s laboratory. There he gazed at the pearl suspended in its alchemical bath. It seemed to be growing, its shell becoming more opaque. A good sign, but it concealed the shape of his child from his eyes. Azvith spoke little to him during these visits, too prudent to disturb the archon, though he dutifully answered his curt questions about the embryo’s health.

Outside, winter blew cold. Spring should’ve been drawing close, but the frost only seemed to grow more bitter every day, and every night piled fresh drifts of snow upon the ramparts of Fulminir. As the season dragged on, hara marked a change in Ponclast. He was no crueler than usual– if anything, less so–but neither was he ever merry. He carried out his office immaculately, and appeared neither tired nor distracted, but the fire had gone out in his eyes. It was unnerving. Ponclast had always been cold and terrifying, but previously he’d had whims and passions. Now he was more like an automaton than a har, governed not by feelings but by some precise and mysterious algorithm beyond mortal comprehension.

He spent little time with Lianvis. When they were together, he was uncharacteristically soft-spoken and patient, but never passionate and rarely even lustful. He was remote in his very gentleness. He made him take Lianvis sedatives at night and held him as he slept, lying awake himself for long hours with open, tearless eyes.

He was in the chapel again the day Lianvis came to find him. It was late afternoon, and a meeting had been canceled– the heavy snow had prevented the Uigenna delegation due that day from reaching Fulminir in time. Ponclast was standing where he always stood, squarely in the patch of colored light that fell to the floor from the high stained glass window. It was not a noise that alerted him to Viss’s presence, for the har came in quietly, without even a creak of the door to announce him. Perhaps it was merely the sense of a ghostly intrusion, of an unquiet spirit drawing near.

He spoke without turning. “You should not be out of bed.”

“The healers said I was fit, Lordra,” replied Lianvis.

“Oh,” said Ponclast tonelessly. “That is good. You must be recovering.” He still did not move, keeping his eyes fixed on the banner of black and red.

Lianvis drew closer. The whisper of his train as it dragged along the floor was louder than his soft footsteps. The scent of his perfume somehow disturbed the atmosphere– jasmine and gardenia. Only funeral flowers belonged here.

“Don’t you desire me any longer, Lordra?” Lianvis asked. His voice was high, almost childlike. His fingers, as he laid them upon Ponclast’s arm, seemed brittle.

Ponclast closed his eyes and tilted his head back. The kaleidoscope of colors from the stained glass played across his upturned face. For a long time he was silent, and it seemed he would not answer.

“Lordra?” Lianvis queried.

Ponclast let out a sigh and finally turned towards him. His lip curled in a bitter smile.

“I desire nothing,” he said, and his voice was harsh. “Feeling has died in me. My body lives on, and performs its functions– yes, some of them atop my other soumes, Viss, but it means no more than the function it performs on the toilet, and is no more pleasurable. I have nothing to give you, or to any har.” A glint came into his eye, a little trace of the old cruel fire, like the final flicker of dying embers. “Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, Lordra, thank you,” said Lianvis, a catch in his voice, tears forming. “I’m sorry, I know it’s my fault. I should have been more careful.”

Ponclast snorted delicately. “It’s not your fault,” he said dismissively. Looking him up and down, he added, “Don’t think I don’t see your pain, and don’t think I don’t feel pain myself. I know what you need. You need your ouana to hold you, to give you comfort. To fill up what has been made empty. But I cannot fill you. I am all emptiness.” He stretched out his arms, as if crucified, and smiled a mordant smile. After a moment he dropped his hands by his sides, as if disgusted by his own dramatic posturing.

“Ponclast,” the name murmured so softly it was almost inaudible, as Lianvis’s hand reached to press gently against Ponclast’s heart through the heavy leather. The archon suffered it to remain there only for a moment before pulling away.

“I can only think of two things I could give you,” he said. “Only one, in fact– death is not an option. Even if you begged me to end you I could not do it now. We have a war to win.” He reached for his breast pocket and pulled out his packet of silvery powder. “This is the other. Join me in my emptiness.”

LIANVIS

I looked at the packet. Silver ice. I nodded. He at least would let me this close, allow me to see his hurt.

“Thank you, Lordra,” I murmured, and watched as he took the packet over to the altar, where a silver paten remained, two lines, one for me one for him. He grabbed me by the hair when he’d finished laying them, an act of savagery after the delicacy of arranging them, and forced my head down to the plate. I snorted obediently, and then he did his with an efficiency that told me he had been getting practice in the art during my confinement.

When he had done he kissed me, pulling my body to his. He was like ice, even though his skin was still warm, his breath chilled my blood.

“Is this what you want?” he demanded.

I didn’t know. I had thought I had wanted him, wanted whatever he would give me, but this? I couldn’t rekindle his fire. I had thought somehow that perhaps I could comfort him, bring the light back to his eyes, but I think my presence only made it worse.

“I don’t know,” I replied, the drug making my nerves jangle like plucked strings.

He slapped me across the face.

“Indecisive bitch,” he spat, though it sounded almost like a sigh.

“Am I still beautiful?” I asked, eyes imploring.

“Nothing is,” he replied, his hand fisting in my hair.

I wept more, and he lifted me onto the altar. The room was freezing. One of the windows had been left open. I struggled weakly, unsure why I bothered. Did I hope it might please him? Rouse his iced over passion? Or was it genuine? I didn’t know. I wept and the tears seemed to crystalize on my cheek. He pinned me to the altar as he knelt between my legs, mouth savaging my ‘lam. My ‘lim twitched and he pinched it viciously until the bud closed fully.

His mouth was exquisite as it had always been, hot and cruel, and consuming. I thrashed and bucked under his ungentle ministrations, and I felt him laugh against my flesh. I was a body, a thing to be used, and in some ways that was a relief now.

“Lordra,” I breathed, and he pulled back, rising to his feet to spit in my face.

“Shut up,” he hissed, eyes cold fire, “I can’t stand your whining.”

I was silent as he returned to his position. I was silent and still as he devoured me, only shaking when he finally pushed me over the edge into orgasm. He rose to his feet, unzipped and was inside me in an instant.

Another slap.

“Don’t just lay there like a dead fish,” he snapped, and so I wrapped myself around him, a hand brushing over the velvety bristle of his cropped hair, allowing a soft moan to escape my throat. That almost seemed to please him, and he pulled me up against him. The drug was forcing sensation into me, a tingling agonized chemical ecstasy sparking neurological fireworks in my grief stricken brain. It made me long for pain.

“Hurt me, Lordra, please,” I gasped, and he obliged, lifting me into the air without leaving my body, yanking the gown up and over my head in a single smooth motion, leaving me naked in the icy room, before slamming me back against the altar. I hardly had time to comprehend what was happening to me when the first splash of hot wax came against my bare chest. A bright spot of agony. I cried out. I was afraid, and then he tilted the large wax pillar and poured, drizzling it over my body and up, until it spattered against my cheek, close to my right eye, and I shut them instinctively, flinching, struggling again.

“Is this what you wanted?” he demanded, and I shook my head, shaking helplessly, as he took me.

“Then what is it?” came his voice, the voice of a wrathful god.

“I don’t know, Lordra.”

“I could set you alight, burn us both, let the inferno take us.”

I screamed, raising my arms to shield myself and he threw the candle across the room where it shattered against the wall.

“Bitch.”

His hand on my throat, squeezing. My hands on his wrist, pulling, trying to get some air, on his fingers, prying as I tried to free myself, and again he laughed.

‘He is mad,’ I thought, even as I could not help shaking with bliss at his cruelly expert touch. I was getting closer, and I could see he was too. Black spots appeared in my vision as I reached my second climax, and in my convulsions he found his. He collapsed atop me weeping, and I reached tentatively to wrap him in my arms. He allowed it.

PONCLAST

He rested in Lianvis, shaking with exertion and silent sobs. The emotional outburst was brief, however– as sudden and violent as his orgasm, and not much longer in duration. Within mere moments the tears ceased and his breathing grew even. He stood, pulled out his silk handkerchief, and used it to wipe first his face, then his ‘lim. By the time he had zipped his trousers, he appeared perfectly impassive again.

“Clean yourself up,” he ordered Lianvis. “There’s something you should come and see.”

Dazedly, Lianvis picked the dried wax off his chest, neck and cheek as best as he was able, then straightened his hair and pulled on his n. He looked disheveled but presentable. Ponclast took one last look around the chapel– silvery powder and bodily fluids smeared on the altar, smashed glass on the floor– and nodded grimly, as if satisfied with the tableau. Then he took Lianvis by the wrist and led him out into the hall.

Ponclast marched him through the labyrinth of Fulminir up to Azvith’s laboratory. At the door, Lianvis flinched and tried to draw back, but Ponclast’s grip on his wrist was tight.

“No,” Lianvis moaned. His face was deathly white. His lip was split again, and the oozing gash showed vivid against his pallor.

“No?” Ponclast echoed, his voice rising dangerously.

Lianvis shook his head violently. He was silent, save for a soft, keening moan rising in the back of his throat, but he resisted Ponclast with a hysterical strength.

“A hostling should love his pearl,” Ponclast growled, backing Viss against the wall.

“I loved him!” Lianvis cried, his voice breaking. “I loved him so much, but oh, Lordra, that isn’t him in there! I hear him, I feel him, that isn’t our child!”

Ponclast took him by the shoulders and shook him. “It is our son,” he insisted, but there was a wildness in his eyes, a desperate need to believe. “I’ll hear no more of this feminine nonsense. You are going in there, Viss, and you are going to look at our pearl with me. When you calm down and face facts honestly, you will admit I am right.”

Lianvis had stilled, staring up at him. Ponclast stared back stonily. There was a tear trickling down his cheek, but he seemed completely unaware of it. Lianvis’s eyes followed its course as it ran down the side of Ponclast’s face and disappeared beneath the curve of his jaw.

“Yes, Lordra,” he said, subdued, and dutifully followed Ponclast inside.

LIANVIS

Then why do you weep, Lordra? I thought, if it is our son, if he lives and thrives, why do you weep?

But I would go to him. I felt a presence, alien and yet achingly familiar. It was him and yet not him. Inside the lab I found the pearl, floating gently in a vat of that gleaming oily liquid.

Mother, you have my father much offended, came a mocking voice inside my head, I am no longer alone. I lost you but I found a new companion here.

My child and yet not, the thoughts of something alien and intelligent and cruel.

Perhaps he was truly still my son after all, I thought, for what else could be more like me? Seeing it again, its leathery shell opaque now, hardening, broke something in me.

You are my son then, still? If you are, I will always love you, no matter what. Forever. You are his and mine, and whatever else you might be doesn’t matter, I found myself speaking without words, without thought even. It didn’t feel like mindtouch, simply the voice of my heart.

I’m safe, came the voice, and I found myself weeping again, reaching for it though Ponclast held me back. It was him. It was still my son, though something flashed across my mind even as I knew he was still there. The rattle of a rattlesnake, a hiss and a strike, some premonition of what he would grow to be. My son was safe. He would be predator and never prey and I did not know whether to grieve or laugh with relief. Something had been lost, and something else found, but he was still there, something of him at least was still ours.

“He’s ours,” I pled, “Lordra, let me go to him. I need to hold him. Please.”

Something in him seemed to thaw then. His relief at my judging the pearl thus was almost palpable. He loved him. He loved our son. He loved our son who would live . This knowledge was almost too much for me somehow.

“You mustn’t,” he murmured, pulling me close, “He is growing stronger, but it would be to risk everything to interrupt Azvith’s work.”

I let myself lean into him, the comfort of his arms.

“Oh Lordra,” I breathed, “thank the dehara.”

“Thank the strength of Varr,” he replied, stroking my cheek, and I nodded, crying tears of intermingled relief and anxiety.

What was this creature we had created? I loved this harling to be, and feared him, as I loved and feared his father. I feared not for myself though, I feared now for the world. What had we done? What sort of creature had we brought into existence? I could do nothing to stop it, although I knew in my bones there was something in him that was not of this plane, something terrible, but he was still my child, and that meant that no matter what else he might be, I would have given my life to protect him.

Chapter 9: Black as Coal

Chapter Text

LIANVIS

As I left the chamber I had a horrifying thought. What if the pearl in the chemical bath had never been mine? What if some other hostling’s pearl had been substituted for the tiny frail thing that had come out of me. What if my son lay rotting somewhere, his grave unmarked, his death mourned only until I had seen this cuckoo. Every magical sense told me it was mine. My eyes told me it was mine. The creature itself told me it was mine, and yet somehow this fear struck me. I brushed it away as the nonsensical reaction of a mind subjected to too much stress. I dared not speak of it to him, he would only scoff.

“Lordra,” I said, looking up at him. It was still so strange to have to look up at another har, especially when I was in heels, but then he’d always been unusually tall.

“Mm?”

“May I ask a favor?” The idea had come to me as we walked, the memory of Glory’s story. The pain in his eyes coming to mind as I felt my own anxiety and loneliness.

“What?”

“Glory, my serving har,” I began, “he had a horse when he was taken, a good horse. He was Irraka, he misses it. May we visit the stables to look for it?”

Ponclast nodded absently, seeming to be lost in thought, with no time for something so trivial as my little request.

PONCLAST

Just outside the door of the Archon’s chambers, a courier intercepted Ponclast.

“Lordra,” he said, saluting, “The company you sent to the mines has returned. Their commanding officer is ready to make his report.”

Ponclast frowned. “Returned? My orders were that they remain and ensure that work in the mines proceeds on schedule. Imbeciles,” he muttered under his breath, and added to Lianvis, “You must excuse me.”

Lianvis bowed his head, and with a whispered “Lordra,” withdrew into the suite.

“Where is the lieutenant?” Ponclast demanded.

The courier’s face was tense, as if he was contemplating that idiom about shooting the messenger. “At present he is with the healers, Lordra,” he said, “Being treated for his injuries.”

Ponclast cursed, and stormed off in the direction of the infirmary.

The infirmary was quite busy. Nearly every bed was occupied– evidently the Lieutenant had been joined there by nearly half of his company. A hush fell upon the ward as the archon entered, and hara froze in place to salute. The antiseptic chill of the air intensified as Ponclast strode between the beds, the silence unbroken save for the ring of his boots. His cold eyes searched among the ranks of wounded for his officer.

He was there, in a bed at the end of the row, beside a window. Ponclast halted before him, planted in the wide stance of a parade rest with his hands clasped behind his back.

The Lieutenant was a mess. He had one arm in a sling, and his face was half-swathed in bandages. His injuries looked less consistent with gunshot wounds than with blunt force trauma. His single visible eye was swollen, surrounded by purpling bruises.

“Archon,” he mumbled through fat lips, saluting with the wrong hand since the other was out of commission.

Ponclast stared at him silently for several moments, expressionless save for a slight flare of his nostrils.

“Report, Lieutenant,” he said at last.

The har groaned in pain as he struggled to sit up straighter in the bed. His expression was dazed, as if he were heavily sedated. “I offer my sincere apologies, Lordra. We were not prepared to meet such resistance–”

“You look as if you were beaten with sticks, ” Ponclast interrupted disdainfully. “What the hell were you doing out there? Fighting with one hand on your ‘lims?”

The rebuke was pitched to carry throughout the ward, and was meant for every single soldier. The other injured hara– those who were conscious, at least– quailed. The healers continued to quietly attend to their charges, their eyes downcast. None of them had the slightest desire to run afoul of Ponclast’s wrath.

“They were surprisingly well-trained and well-equipped, Lordra,” the lieutenant said defensively. “We managed to drive them back into the mines on our first encounter, but then they wouldn’t come out. We held our position for days, thinking to starve them out, but soon we realized there were entrances and exits to the tunnels we were not aware of. They would come at night, as if from nowhere, and harry us. Eventually, Lordra, there seemed to be nothing for it but to go in…”

Ponclast, who had been listening impassively up til this point, hissed angrily. “Idiot! You should’ve scouted for the hidden entrances, found out how they were getting supplies. You could’ve broken them easily.”

“We tried, Lordra,” said the Lieutenant helplessly, “But the hara around there are a closed-mouthed bunch. They’re in league with the miners. We couldn’t find a local guide, or get anyhar to talk.”

Ponclast said nothing to this, but a vein twitched in his brow. “What of the hara you conscripted to do the work of these shirking miners?”

The lieutenant shrugged helplessly, then seemed to regret it– a spasm of pain contorted his face at this movement of his shoulder. “We sent them into the mines but they never came out. I assume that either the miners killed them or they defected, Lordra.”

Ponclast nodded slowly. “Is there anything else you can tell me of use?”

The young officer shook his head helplessly. “I’m sorry, Lordra. I have failed you.”

He’d barely uttered the words when Ponclast drew his sidearm and fired. The report echoed in the large marble room, the flash and the smell of powder seeming to flood the place. Several hara flinched but did not otherwise react. The lieutenant lay motionless, a bloody hole oozing scarlet down his bandaged brow. With a single bullet, he’d been permanently relieved of his command.

Coolly, Ponclast holstered his pistol. “Which one of you washouts was next to him in rank?”

There was silence for a moment. Then one of the soldiers called tremulously, “Second Lieutenant Ivar, Lordra. He’s… over there.”

The private was indicating a bed containing a har who gave every appearance of being completely unconscious.

“If he ever wakes up, inform him of his promotion,” said Ponclast coldly, and strode from the room.

LIANVIS

In Ponclast’s chambers, I was alone again. The door shut. Where Glory and Veta were, I had no idea. I was shaky. I could feel the silver ice wearing off, and I was cold and suddenly painfully lonely.

I sank onto one of the chairs by the fire and thought of my pearl, floating in that strange fluid. I ached for it. Would it be mad to ask him to give me another so soon? More snow fell against the windows, the sky weeping tears that froze in the cold. I rang for my attendants and waited.

I could feel them, Ponclast and my harling, an awareness somehow of heartbeats that were not my own. I ached for them. The distance, physical and emotional, left my chest feeling as if it were weighted with lead. I tried to remind myself of how fortunate I was. My beloved and my son were alive. They would be alright.

My attendants arrived. After they had repaired my appearance, I informed Glory he might go to the stables and see if his horse was there. I even wrote him a little note to inform the staff. Veta I sent to find Vashti. I had realized there were matters I wished to discuss.

He arrived arching a brow at me.

“Tiahaar Kakkahaar,” he said, offering me a deferential bow.

“Vashti,” I replied politely, “...you are more… connected here than I am, and there are things I wish to know.”

“Yes, Tiahaar?”

“How do the attempts to put down the coal miner’s strike fare?”

A look of anxiety crossed his face and he looked away for a moment.

“Poorly, Tiahaar,” he replied, eyes downcast.

I nodded. I had assumed as much. Ponclast’s inconsistent behavior towards me was maddening at times.

I did not speak, waiting to see if the silence might get him to give me more information, and after a time he added:

“The hara who were sent out returned– well, Tiahaar, to be honest, not many of them returned and those that did were in a bad state,” he replied, shaking his head slightly. I saw no real regret in his eyes though. He cared little for anyhar as far as I knew. Not even his own son moved the heart in that chest. Colder even than his Master by half, I thought. How had he gotten that way? I’d met other hara raised Varr who hadn’t been like that. Perhaps it was because of his resolute androgyny that Vashti had developed this icy reserve. He didn’t fit within Varr and so he had learned to absolutely fit within Varr.

“As I suspected,” I replied, almost abstractedly, for another topic had come to mind, “Vashti, what do you know about Ponclast?”

He blanched slightly.

“Tiahaar, I do not think it is my place to comment on su–”

I interrupted him.

“Nothing like that,” I assured him, “I– I miss him right now, and so I just want to hear stories about him. Things he’s done and said, preferences.”

He nodded.

“Yes, Tiahaar,” he replied. “I met him at a party, a few years ago now. He told me to remember the importance of symbols. He’s a smart har, dangerous, but very intelligent. I don’t know… mostly I’ve just worked with him. We were– friendly for a time, as you know,” he added, glancing away.

“Yes,” I said, with a slight smile.

“I know–” he paused, “I know in his past there was great suffering. It was a trial by fire, I think, and it changed him.”

I smiled sadly. How well I knew the truth of that.

“I knew him– or a har very like him, many years ago,” I replied. “He also suffered and was changed by his suffering.”

“You loved him?”

“I love him,” I replied, twisting my skirts in my hands. A silly schoolgirl. A weak fool. That was what I was.

Vashti looked at me with an expression somewhere between condescension and sympathy.

He’s a hostling, a silly soume with romantic ideas about Ponclast, I could hear him think, even as I felt his thoughts mingled with some strange kind of respect for me. I’d climbed the ladder after all. I was here, and I was smart, and he knew it.

“I can hear that, you know,” I said.

Vashti went pale and pink at the same time.

“I apologize, Tiahaar,” he said nervously, attempting to leave his seat.

“Stay,” I said and he sat down again, head in his hands.

I never thought I would die like this, he thought, can he still hear me? I suppose it doesn’t matter now.

“I’m not angry,” I said, with a wave of my hand. The fire to one side of me made me feel like Janus, one half of my countenance warm with the fire and the other chill as the air of Fulminir.

PONCLAST

He stormed through the hall of Fulminir, boots rapping out the rhythm of his anger. His face was grim and set. Hara flinched out of his way as he passed, but he took no notice of them– not until he spotted a military courier. This har he grabbed by the front of his uniform.

“Get me Dion,” he ordered in a taut voice. “Tell him to assemble his best officers and report to the war room immediately.”

With that, he shoved the courier out of the way, ignoring his petrified squeak of “Yes, Lordra!” and proceeded directly to the chamber that was, in so many ways, the heart of Fulminir.

He waited at the head of the mahony table, fingers drumming on the polished wood, cigar clenched between his teeth. The Varr banner hung over his head, and outside the window behind him, snow was falling thickly, buffeted into flurries by the sharp wind. It was barely four o’clock in the afternoon and the sky was already darkening. Its forbidding aspect was nothing to the archon’s face.

After a time, he pulled papers and a pen from the drawer beneath the table and began to write. His script was more jagged than usual, and ink spots spattered the paper as he scribbled violently, bearing down so hard that in some places the page ripped. He finished with his signature, the uppercase P arrogantly oversized, the rest an illegible scrawl, and applied his seal in blood-red wax.

Dion arrived in short order, his officers in tow. Ponclast surged to his feet when they came in, and returned their salutes sharply. Dion’s eyes widened– it was quite unlike Ponclast to bestir himself for anyhar. It quickly became clear that his reason was an excess of nervous energy, as Ponclast proceeded to pace up and down before the window as he spoke.

“Tiahaara. Time is of the essence, and I will be brief. The company sent to the mines has failed spectacularly in the simple task of breaking the miners’ strike. It has already dragged on for more than a week; we shall soon be receiving reports from our factories of fuel shortages. As I need not explain, this is unacceptable.” He huffed out breath, as if merely exasperated– but fury was written clearly on his face. “I am loath to divert military resources from our primary target– the Gelaming– but these treasonous laborers have made it necessary. If production is compromised it could hamstring our efforts.”

He sucked in his cheeks as if he were biting on their insides, and his eyes narrowed to slits. After a moment, he continued. “Therefore, you will ride for the mines straightaway, with all of your troops. You, Dion, will read them this proclamation, written in my own hand.” He shoved the paper across the table towards Dion, his mouth twisting sardonically. “If they do not heed it, as indeed I suspect they will not, you will enforce it to the letter.”

Most of the officers sat woodenly through his speech, their faces devoid of expression. The archon’s rages were famous. Whatever they thought of their assignment, they would not give it voice. Dion, however, was young, brash, and a favorite of Ponclast’s. He did not bother to conceal his incredulity.

“Forgive me, Lordra–” he began.

Ponclast rounded on him. His fierce grin bared teeth and showed no trace of humor. “Dangerous words, Dion,” he purred. “Proceed carefully.”

The other officers tensed. Dion held up his hands in a gesture of placation. “I speak only out of concern for your best interests, Lordra, and the interests of Varr,” he said. “Is it really necessary to waste one of your Nahir Nuri upon this task?”

Ponclast laughed sharply. “What you mean to say, Dion, is that you find this assignment to be beneath you,” he returned with scorn. “You got where you are now by chasing glory and constantly bucking for promotion. That’s fine, but now it’s time to prove you can be good for something more than chasing the spotlight.”

Dion flushed. Beneath his bravado, he actually looked quite hurt. “Lordra,” he protested, “I’m merely wondering if the specialized training I have received would not be better utilized elsewhere.”

Ponclast brought his fist down on the table, making it rattle. His voice, when he spoke, was not raised– indeed he sounded strangely calm.

“If you refer to your new occult abilities, they may indeed be necessary. The miners are taking full advantage of the landscape and of the maze of tunnels they occupy. Psychic aptitude will make this mission infinitely more efficient.” ” He straightened up, absently smoothing the front of his jacket. “Debrief the soldiers of the defeated twenty-sixth company thoroughly. Do not neglect intel on this mission; it will be absolutely crucial.”

His eyes grew distant; he looked far off, over their heads, as if he had already dismissed them. “If you fail, and the munitions factories grind to a halt, we may find ourselves weaponless when the Gelaming arrive.” His focus shifted back to the room and its occupants abruptly; he glared at them as if they were, themselves, the enemy. “Go!” he snapped, and turned his back to them, stalking to the window to nurse his cigar and watch the snow burying Fulminir.

LIANVIS

He sighed, slumping into his chair.

“You aren’t, are you?” Vashti asked, looking at me as if he were really seeing me for the first time.

“I’ve lived too long and too much for that,” I replied with a shake of my head, “I do know how things work, but that’s never stopped anyone from this sort of folly.”

He was really very young, I realized as he looked at me then. He was no romantic, and yet I could tell something stirred in him as he saw me.

“...I grew up chasing freedom,” he told me, “everything was stacked against me, and now I have it.”

“Do you?”

“As much as any har here does.”

I nodded. Veta was making tea with the polite inattention of a well trained servant.

“It’s understandable; I suppose I’m not so different,” I replied, turning my Janus face towards the fire, letting it warm me. He didn’t need the details, probably wouldn’t understand them if he had them. He’d never seen the world before Wraeththu.

“You had it, though,” he said, half reproachful, half imploring. As if he wanted me to come to my senses.

“I did, so much freedom and in so many varieties, and now…” I turned up my hand helplessly, “I have loved him since I was seventeen… I suppose that doesn’t seem very young to you, does it?”

He shrugged. “No, but humes do grow up slower, don’t they?” he said, and again I felt how young and how different he was.

“They do,” I replied, remembering those years, the childhood and adolescence of a human male. The strange mixture of evanescence and endlessness of sunshine on cracked cement sidewalks, and cheap chalk in summer and old textbooks with doodles in the margins in autumn. How strange it must be to grow up so fast! “I think really seventeen should be young for anyone, especially us, we seem to be so long lived after all.”

He shrugged.

“I have no idea how old I am,” he said, “we never really counted years when I was growing up.”

“Your parents never threw you birthday parties?” It was an odd question. ‘Birthday parties’ such a human phrase, conjuring such human images of icing letters on cake and balloons and crepe paper. Kakkahaar harlings had celebrations and rituals to commemorate the day their pearl was dropped and the day of their hatching, and we recorded such events to use in astrological prognostications. The Varrish lack of sentimentality when it came to such matters still surprised me, for they could be sentimental in their way. Surely Swift had parties for such occasions. The harlings of the soume-heroes of Veta’s romance novels also had parties to celebrate their births, didn’t they?

“There’s not much point in me lying to you, is there?” he asked, and I shrugged with a rueful smile.

“I thought not,” he sighed, pushing back his mane of hair, “I never knew them.”

“Dead?”

“Not as far as I know, though they might be,” he admitted, twisting a lock of hair around his finger, winding it tight. An anxious gesture rather than one of coquetry. “The place where I was born was a place where hara are… bred. We need a lot of hara, and there aren’t as many humes around to incept now.”

“And so you didn’t know who your hostling was?”

He shook his head, and looked as if he were about to say something. I caught a flash of a thought, a har with a funny pretty wide-mouthed face and eyes that should have held mischief but held fear and sadness instead. It made the idea real somehow. This har might have been his hostling, there was some element in common between them, and the way he looked at Vashti was so sweet and sad and hopeful yet hopeless.

“I’m sorry,” I said. He waved it away, pulling himself back together, trying to find his mask again.

“It doesn’t matter. He was just some hostling, no har important. If he had been he would have found a way out,” he said.

How broken must a heart be to think that way?’ I thought, what a strange thing to come into my head. It was awful. Unthinkable, that achingly clear memory brushed away in a moment. The sadness in the dark eyes must cut like a knife. Vashti’s important, couldn’t he have saved him from that forsaken place? but of course he couldn’t, not while remaining Vashti.

I nodded though. Vashti was not the sort of har who welcomed sympathetic clucking or fuss.

“Well, you clearly must have impressed the right hara,” I said. Flattery, however, I thought, will not go amiss.

It didn’t. It rarely does. He smiled slightly, though I could see the pleasure plainly under the icy composure. He was cruel in the way the young and ambitious are often cruel. I pitied him then.

PONCLAST

He flung open the doors of his suite to find Viss and Vashti tete-a-tete . At the sight he paused, a new layer of tension added to his already strained face. The two hara looked up at him with nervous expressions. Ponclast stared back, impassive save for the clenching of his jaw.

“What a lovely little tea party,” he said after a moment. “A shame that I have to break it up. I require peace to work.”

Vashti, who had already risen, nodded deferentially. “Of course, Lordra. I shall intrude no longer. Tiahaar,” he added, with a polite nod to Lianvis. With that, he vacated.

Ponclast did not move to his desk, in spite of his mention of work. For several moments he studied Viss with a piercing stare, as if trying to read his thoughts.

“Getting better acquainted with Vashti?” He asked at last. “I would advise against it. That har has many reasons to wish you ill.”

Lianvis gave a dainty little shrug. “I believe we are coming to a peace between equals nonetheless, Lordra.”

Ponclast scoffed. “Equals! Never believe that Vashti is any such thing. He is a glorified servant, nothing more.” He strolled over to the easy chair recently vacated by the har under discussion, and beckoned to Viss. “Come, lay your head on my knee. There are things we must discuss.”

Lianvis obediently left his seat and settled himself on the rug at Ponclast’s feet, resting his cheek against the leather-clad leg. Ponclast toyed with his silvery blonde hair, not looking down at him. He gazed instead at the larger-than-life portrait of himself that hung over the mantle. It looked back down at him with his own mocking eyes, his own distinctive cold curl of the lip.

“The company I sent to deal with the miners has been repelled,” he said. “As you predicted, they turned out to be more than we bargained for.”

Lianvis, too wise to say ‘I told you so,’ remained silent, merely nuzzling his head against Ponclast’s knee like a sympathetic pet.

“Clearly different tactics will be required,” Ponclast said. “As well as a lot more firepower.”

At this, Viss stiffened and looked up. His eyes were wide and questioning. Though he was usually a master of psychic self-control, his thought in that moment was too loud– won’t he at least consider negotiating?

Ponclast laughed. “All this time you’ve known me, Viss, and yet you hardly know me at all. Of course I won’t negotiate with them– certainly not now that they’ve resorted to violence.” His lips thinned with distaste. “I’ve sent Dion with four companies. That should be more than sufficient, provided Dion doesn’t fuck it up, which he induibitably will. Unfortunately I can’t send anyhar more capable– Creed or Elaire would see such an assignment as a slight, or even as covert discipline, and wonder what he’d done to lose my good graces.” He frowned, and his fingers tightened unconsciously in Lianvis’s hair, gripping it as absently as he might clutch the arm of his chair. “There is only course of action open to me.”

“Yes, Lordra?” Lianvis gasped, trying to keep the pain out of his voice.

Ponclast, seeming only then to realize what his hand was doing, opened his fingers and gave Lianvis’s scalp a soothing pet. “I must go with Dion. I made up my mind between the war room and here. Unless I handle this personally, there’s little chance of a quick resolution. I ride out tomorrow.”

LIANVIS

I wished he wouldn’t. Ag, how I wished he wouldn’t. But there was nothing I could do to stop him. He stroked my hair and I wept. This was going to be bad and I knew it. Would he be gone until after the pearl hatched? How long would such a pearl take to hatch? I felt myself beginning to weep. I would be alone here. I could return to the desert, but my son… and besides, he had not given me permission to go. I felt in the marrow of my bones that this could not go well.

I looked up at him, trying to read that exquisite, cruelly impassive face. I wished my concerns now were merely whether he still desired me. That I could work on. This was a problem he would not let me aid him on. Nor would I aid him in solving it in the way he intends, I thought quietly to myself, only half acknowledging the thought was even mine. It wouldn’t work anyway, somehow I knew that. This was not a movement that could be quelled this way. If he killed them to the last har, their ghosts would seep into the earth and infect the next batch with their spirit.

Still, I turned my eyes towards him appealingly, and asked softly, “Lordra, please let me go with you.”

“No, you’re not yet recovered. Besides, it’s no place for a soume, especially one with a fragile pearl dropped but not yet hatched,” he replied, and so I quieted, settling disconsolate against his knee again.

“Yes, Lordra,” I said, keeping my eyes down, “I’ll miss you.”

The catch in my voice was quiet but he caught it, of course.

“Don’t be so sentimental. Aren’t you an archon?”

The note of impatience in his voice cut me to the quick.

“Yes, Lordra,” and suddenly I was angry. His cruelty, his distance, and now his contempt for what he had made me. I didn’t move. I was too wise for that. “I shall endeavor to remember that in future.”

Was there a threat there? I didn’t know. Not of anything like a broken treaty certainly, but perhaps something that might have seemed like a threat to a har like him. I threatened to remember my dignity and my own power perhaps, threatened him with the har I could be if he were not my achilles heel.

I wondered what he would do to me for my little act of defiance. He might smack me down again, which might almost be comforting. He might say something cold and dismissive like “perhaps you should,” which would hurt.

Instead, his look softened. He reached for me, laid a hand against my cheek. “I’m not being fair to you,” he said. “What you really are is my consort. Naturally you’ll miss me, but I need you to be strong nonetheless.”

It shouldn’t have soothed me, but of course, starved as I was for him, I melted.

“Thank you, Lordra, your blood will keep me strong while you are away,” I replied.

“My winter rose,” came that velvety tone of voice he used with me when he needed to draw me back again. It always worked. I looked up with him with the helpless adoration of a dog. Did it please him? “Come to bed.”

Chapter 10: Red as Blood

Chapter Text

TERZIAN

We traveled south, with hearts full of bloodlust, eager to confront the Gelaming. I kept marches long and urged a punishing pace from my army. It was not my intention to exhaust them before we encountered the foe, but we had a lot of ground to cover. Later, as we drew closer, we would slow, and make camp for longer periods to recuperate our strength for the assault. Since we were unlikely to encounter much resistance along the way, we expended our might liberally on sheer speed. There was grumbling about it, of course, but I knew perfectly well that a bitching soldier is a happy soldier. Such grousing is ultimately good for morale.

We crossed the swamps of Astigi with little incident. It was a repulsive place; the marshy ground made awful sucking sounds at our boots which caused some of the enlisted hara to begin referring to it as “the Great Cunt.” The hara who lived there, the Froia, were no more charming. Effeminate and habitually swathed in veils, they had an aura of unwholesomeness despite their ostentatious modesty. There was something about them that was as sickly as their home. Still, they were not such fools as to refuse us the boats we needed for passage.

It was only a few days after the crossing of Astigi that the mist came. It arrived with the dawn, and so naturally we thought nothing of it. When it failed to clear even as morning faded into afternoon, we began to remark on it, but still believed it was merely bad weather. It grew thicker and thicker as we proceeded. By the time darkness fell, the fog had grown so dense that torches twenty feet ahead could barely be seen. I bad-temperedly called a halt for the night and ordered my hara to make camp. As I went to sleep, dark misgivings had begun to nag at my mind; but I pushed them aside and drowned them in Gahrazel’s ‘lam.

When morning came, the fog had not cleared. It seemed, if anything, thicker than before. My captains and I met and conferred. The fog was making navigation supremely difficult. Since supplies were more than sufficient and the soldiers were, after all, in need of respite, we determined to maintain our position until the sky cleared.

Three days we camped there, enveloped in that grim, gray veil. In spite of the opportunity for rest, the soldiers seemed to grow more listless with every passing hour. There was something about that fog that sapped our strength. By the second day, many were muttering about strange dreams. I chided those I overheard complaining not to let nightmares bother them– we were warriors, not harlings, after all. I breathed not a word of the truth that my sleep was troubled too, and though I could not remember what I dreamed, I woke trembling in terror.

On the third day, a cold, sharp wind blew up from the south. We rejoiced, for we believed it would shred the mist and return us to the sunlight at last, reveal to us the sky whose color we had almost forgotten. Our relief was short-lived. Instead of light and clarity, the wind only brought more mist, thicker still and darker in color. It swirled about us in a confusing miasma, making even simple tasks a struggle. The wind strengthened, beating against our tents, tugging at our uniforms. It seemed determined to push us northward, back the way we came.

That was when I knew for certain that this was a Gelaming trick. They should not have shown their hand so far. Had they allowed us to believe we were merely suffering from freak weather, we might be camped there still, allowing our will and vitality to be sucked from us by their suffocating fog. As it was, my anger at the enemy rekindled my guttering fire.

That night, I summoned Gahrazel to my tent as usual, but with a loftier purpose in mind.

“We should never have come here,” he said as he brushed through the tent flap. “This place is cursed.”

I dealt him a cuff on the ear for his lapse in formality, and threw him on the cot. He laughed bitterly as he landed on the hard little pallet.

“Even less foreplay than usual, Lordra,” he remarked, as I drew my weapon.

I did not reply. I took him in the way Ponclast had taught me, first forcing him open to the power of the universe, then drawing it all through him and into me, stealing it from him in the act of violation. The pleasure was exquisite, his tears as always gratifying, but as magic it was no good. I could not kill him, after all– could not consume his life force and leave him a husk, as we’d done with the others.

I pulled out of him and flipped him onto his back. “We have to do this a different way,” I said.

Gahrazel’s hands were over his face, ready to shield him from a blow. They clenched into fists above his visage as I began to work at his ouana-bud with my fingers, massaging it to draw forth the flowering stalk. “No,” he whimpered. “Not this, I can’t. Please.”

“You can,” I said, “and you will. Grit your teeth and do your duty.”

He was young. It was not difficult to get his body to respond, especially not once I slid my mouth over him. I have certain skills, after all. When I pushed down my trousers and settled myself over him, he looked up at me in utter terror. I sank down on him with a sigh. He filled me well. Like father, like son.

He didn’t move, just lay still, looking up at me. In spite of his fear, in spite of his passivity, I could feel the potency in him. It throbbed inside me.

“Fuck me,” I ordered, and slapped him in the face.

He let out another strange, despairing laugh, and, at last, obeyed.

It was what I needed. I let him, the tent and finally myself dissolve away as I rode, focused only on the sheer intoxication of ouana-power which is always, in essence, the same. His was flavored with desperation and pain, which strangely seemed to suit my purpose. When his climax came, I was ready. I came too, flinging all of our combined force out into the universe, like the sorching brilliance of the Kakkahaar sun, to melt all the mists away.

I rolled off him and fell asleep content, knowing I had succeeded.

In the morning the skies were indeed clear. I gave the order to move out. As my horse was being saddled, one of my officers approached me and whispered that Gahrazel had been seen stumbling from my tent that morning, slashing his own arms with a knife. The wounds had not been serious, and had already been attended to.

Hearing this, my heart spasmed, but I did not let my feelings show on my face.

“Good,” I said curtly. “Perhaps he is no longer so sickened by the sight of blood.”

LIANVIS

The first night he was gone I dreamed of Fulminir as a ruin, overgrown by the vegetation that overtook the rest of the city in summer. I had seen those green monoliths in Ponclast’s breath occasionally, in those rare moments when he had not been giving me images of his atrocities. Then I was in the Fulminir of now again, or a place very like it, and I was looking for my heart, running through halls and galleries, dashing up strange winding staircases and opening doors. I found nothing and nohar, just furniture and strange tableauxs– mannequins, not real hara. Eventually I encountered the real Terzian down on his knees before a mannequin of Ponclast, nuzzling at an absurd dildo protruding lewdly from the mannquin’s pants, but as Terzian ministered to his master heedless of my presence, the mannequin began to weep tears of blood; and then they were both wolves and the wolf that had been the mannequin of Ponclast had torn open the belly of the Terzian wolf, and there was my heart inside it, the photo negative of Terzian’s own, a heart which matched something in Ponclast’s hand as he entered the room from behind me, the two objects fit together like puzzle pieces, my heart and his… it was like a puzzle box in his hand and my heart slotted perfectly into place on it. I heard strains of music, a bit of the Tsar’s Bride overture, and then I awoke in the dark room.

I had never truly been alone in Ponclast’s suite before, there had always been the possibility of him sweeping in at any moment, but now nohar would come here unless it was at my invitation, and even then only reluctantly.

It was too early for breakfast, well before dawn, but I could not return to sleep. So I lit a candle and wrapped a gauzy robe over my equally filmy nightdress and went to light the fire in the grate. That done, I rang for cocoa and once it was delivered, I paced about the rooms. How much of their design was Ponclast’s doing and how much had come with the building? The furniture was obviously his. Had he selected that checkerboard marble tile?

I went to his closet to run my fingers over the leather of his uniforms, to touch something of his. His absence ached, throbbed in me. I had been strong for him, I had not irritated him with floods of tears, but now I could cry close to these reminders of him unseen. What if he died there? He was a har of terrible power, but so were a lot of hara who had long since gone.

I could feel his heart beat though, felt him in the marrow of my bones, because his blood flowed in my veins intermingled with my own, and mine in his. I put my hand on my heart and tried to send him that feeling with every bit of my power, that feeling of warmth, trying to wrap a protective barrier of my love around him. There was no response, but I had not expected one.

I wept a bit more, then I began to look through the uniforms. I didn’t think of it as snooping, though I was aware I would not have done it if Ponclast had been near, but I was his consort. We were bonded in blood, and I needed those traces of his presence so much then. I had not even our pearl to soothe me, and so I settled for the scent of him on the leather: cigar smoke, his soap, his cologne, and some scent that was just… him , chilly and yet somehow spicy, and to me now, the most comforting thing in the world.

There were mostly dress uniforms, and variations upon dress uniforms. There were black button down shirts impeccably pressed; black briefs, black undershirts, all perfectly folded and organized; well polished black boots; black socks, neatly paired in a sock drawer; and of course heavy black leather jackets and trousers in profusion. Towards the back of the closet I found uniforms that were not like their impeccable fellows, uniforms with scarring from knife slashes or falls onto gravel. Some in garment bags even retained blood spatter and dirt. These were historical pieces, ones worn at particular battles or other moments of historical importance. I could smell the momentousness of the occasions they had been worn at, the fire, the gunpowder, and the blood of battle, or the terror of other hara at the negotiating table. These were the moments he cherished, treasured like a sentimental har might have clung to something from the day they dropped their first pearl, or the day they met their chesnari.

I checked the pockets. I didn’t expect to find anything of course, but in one pocket I found a white rose petal, just one, crushed and battered. It made me smile somehow, it must have gotten there from one of the white roses he always kept on his desk.

My winter rose.

The image of his torn ‘lam on Velisarius’s operating table came to mind then for some reason, and my heart ached. I had been so young. He had been so young. We had been so, so, painfully young. I knew he’d loved me once, Jarad, the dead har, and I’d teased and delayed, waiting for the opportune moment. I would never forgive myself for that.

In another pocket there was a gold cigarette case. I didn’t dare steal a cigarette. He would know if I had.

I finished my investigation of the closet and went out back into the dark bedroom. I was bored, anxious, pacing like a nervous cat, afraid to go back to bed on the chance I might find myself dreaming again. There were books, but none held my attention. Any record I put on merely jangled my already taut nerves. I could have called Glory and Veta to arrange some har to set up the projector and a film, but I would have been unable to sit still. I am alone, there is no god where I am.

I remembered our days in the desert with a strange longing. What a comfort the warmth and sand and my hara had been, though they had felt as if they were on the other side of a pane of unbreakable glass at the time. Then my mind turned to the last aruna before we had parted this time. Brutal, leaving bruises on my thighs, and as intoxicating as ever, but I had known he wasn’t fully mine even then, in those most intimate of moments. His thoughts had already been on his upcoming journey and the object of his current fury.

He’d been only half out of his leathers, bending me over the bed, shoving my face into the covers, grabbing my hair until my back arched like the curve of a bow.

I had tried not to weep. I wanted to be as strong as he needed me to be, at least in his presence. I had time enough now for my tears.

I wandered along the wall of the room next to the closet, and realized a peculiarity in the layout of the room. Between the entrance to the closet and the bathroom there was a space… which was not accounted for. The hallway outside did not expand at any point along its length, and the two rooms did not take up enough space to account for all the area in between. It was too big for a chimney, and surely it was not simply wasted space. Ponclast would never have allowed that. He approved, at least in concept, of ruthless efficiency.

I felt along the wall, knocking here and there, not quite sure what I was looking for. A seam? A hollow sound?

Eventually I came to the full length mirror, the one I had first gazed into on my… wedding day. My strange pale reflection gazed back at me with unfamiliar eyes. I shuddered and went to take the mirror down from the wall but I noticed a strange… shifting as I tried to move the mirror. So this was the door. Through the looking glass. It was locked, but a little agmara channelled properly would remove that barrier to entry. I knew it was unwarded, because of how thoroughly familiar I had become with his magic.

As I summoned the energy, I remembered an old fairy tale I had read somewhere, the tale of Bluebeard and his locked room for curious wives. The thought curbed my enthusiasm for further investigation. I would ask about it when Ponclast returned. I would not stoop to such a level as to invade his sanctum without permission. Somehow this revelation and resolution had settled something in me, although I was still uneasy, I could rest now. I summoned Glory to me and asked for a hot toddy and to be read to until I slept. I promised him that we would go and search for his horse the next day. His presence and the steady sound of his voice allowed me to finally find dreamless sleep.

PONCLAST

He fell back into the rhythm of life on the march swiftly and with grace. Strict routine had always suited him. He rose before the sun, wolfed down his breakfast, and joined the soldiers in their drills. Since he’d been with Lianvis, he had lapsed somewhat in his devotion to physical exercise, not that it showed much on his hard body. He returned to the drill like a fish to water, sweating and straining alongside his hara, proving himself the steeliest and most indefatigable of them all.

From the drill, they went all straight to the saddle and back onto the road. They kept a brisk pace, pushing east towards the mines. Rests during the day were rare and brief, and lunch was rations chewed on the march. Every night they made camp, ate with joyless efficiency, and bedded down exhausted for dreamless sleep.

Galhea lay along their way. Ponclast shamelessly imposed his army upon the town for a day’s rest and a night of R&R at the taverns and musendas. Insistent as always upon having the best bed in Galhea, he himself rode straight to the gates of Forever.

Cobweb received him upon the porch. He stood very straight, a slim pale pillar in a long black robe. He looked as if he were in mourning. Though his hands and throat were bejeweled and his face was made up, he appeared overly thin, and his eyes were red-rimmed as if from weeping or insomnia. Nonetheless, he greeted the archon with perfect dignity and grace.

“Lordra,” he murmured, sinking into a courtesy as Ponclast strode up the front steps, “You honor us.”

Ponclast nodded coolly to indicate that he might rise. “I shall not trouble you for long, Cobweb. We are bound east tomorrow morning.”

Cobweb gracefully straightened, nodding. “Our house is ill-prepared to host you, Lordra,” he said, with a faint touch of pique. “There is a pearl ready to drop at any moment.”

Ponclast smiled cruelly, and let his eyes drift to Cobweb’s flat belly. “Not yours, I take it,” he remarked– as if he did not know perfectly well that the son would issue from Terzian’s other consort.

Cobweb’s lips thinned, but he disguised his pain as a sweet, tight smile. “No, Lordra,” he said.

He beckoned Ponclast into the entryway, and they passed from the cold winter evening into the relative warmth of the house. “Had you arrived but a few days sooner, you could have seen your son off, Lordra,” Cobweb remarked.

Ponclast waved a hand in vague dismissal. “It was far more important to me that he left on schedule with Terzian.”

Cobweb cast him a sidelong glance of disapproval from beneath his darkened eyelids, but prudently kept his comments to himself.

Ponclast stood in the center of the entry hall, boots planted on the antique carpet, surveying the exquisite decor with little interest. In a moment he fished out his cigar and lighter. Cobweb coughed delicately.

“Lordra,” he murmured deferentially, “Would you mind terribly taking that into the smoking parlor?”

Ponclast paused, arrested in his motion, and gave Cobweb a piercing look. After a moment, he smiled tightly, and inclined his head, almost in respect. “As you wish,” he said. “It is your house.” He moved off in the direction of the smoking parlor, saying over his shoulder, “Attend me.”

Cobweb followed him uneasily into the masculine sanctum. It was one of the few rooms in Forever that he rarely set foot in. The furnishings and decorations seemed deliberately designed to ward off the soume principle– the hard, leather-covered chairs and sofa, the heavy oak coffee table. Nothing there was soft or lovely. Everything was in shades of brown. Even the colored glass on the antique tiffany lamp was restricted to muddy tones of amber, sepia, and rust. It cast a dim, unflattering glow not intended to set off soume beauty.

Ponclast sank into an easy chair. He gestured for Cobweb to light his cigar. His host hesitantly obeyed, perching on the ottoman, squeezed in beside Ponclast’s boots.

Ponclast puffed and asked bluntly, “It’s Cal’s, is it?”

Cobweb laughed dryly. “Whose else would it be?”

A servinghar arrived with refreshments, prompted doubtless by a psychic call from Cobweb. Conversation paused briefly while the domestic poured drinks, and resumed only when he had left the room.

Ponclast sipped his sheh, and regarded Cobweb keenly over the top of his glass. “What I don’t understand, Cobweb, is why you don’t do something about him.”

“I tried,” said Cobweb bitterly. “It backfired; all went wrong somehow.”

He looked very young then, with his lost eyes and his thin arms sticking out of his shroud-like garment. Compared to Ponclast and Terzian, who were of an age, he was very young, in fact.

“Your witchcraft failed you?” Ponclast pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Strange.”

Cobweb shrugged. “Cal is like that. He turns everything upside-down. He’s an ill omen, a force of chaos.”

“I don’t disagree,” Ponclast purred. “But you know what they say– if at first you don’t succeed…” he took another drag on his cigar before continuing. The smoke hung like a sinister veil before his face. “Things go wrong during pearl-bearing all the time.”

Cobweb pouted miserably. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it, Lordra. Only… only I couldn’t bear if anything happened to the harling.”

Ponclast’s brow creased in annoyance. “Such a child can only be a curse to you.” He sighed out smoke and waved a hand dismissively. “I suppose I can’t fault a soume for being soft-hearted. It’s a feminine virtue; it does you credit.”

Cobweb watched him closely, his green eyes feline in the dimness. “You’ve always been kind to me, Lordra,” he said, and then paused, an unspoken question hanging in the air.

Ponclast smiled thinly. “Yes. As you are aware, I approve of you. You are an ideal consort for Terzian.”

Cobweb looked down, and his fists bunched in his skirts. “Would that Terzian shared your opinion, Lordra.”

Ponclast nodded slowly. “He can be foolish at times, our Terzian. This bit of Uigenna trash he’s inflicted on your household… I don’t like it. It’s unseemly.”

Cobweb looked away. His lip was trembling, and his eyes glittered with tears. In that Spartan room, there was nowhere for him to rest his gaze, no object that could convincingly seem to hold his attention while he tried to hide his distress. Finding no refuge in the paintings of boats and hunting scenes, he burst out:

“I know Terzian never loved me. I thought he could not love. That, I could accept.”

“Some hara cannot love,” Ponclast murmured.

“But Terzian can ,” Cobweb cried. “He loves Cal. He loves Cal and not me.”

“You think he loves Cal ?” Ponclast scoffed.

“I know he does,” Cobweb insisted. “Perhaps that is why I cannot hurt him. I love Terzian too much to hurt something he loves.”

“Cobweb,” said Ponclast sharply, “Look at me.”

Cobweb obeyed, unwillingly, staring at the archon through glistening eyes. Tears coursed freely down his cheeks. Ponclast sat at ease, immaculate from the peak of his cap to the toes of his boots. His expression was one of cool amusement.

“This is all that Terzian loves,” he said. It was not necessary to gesture at himself. His posture, the way he displayed his own magnificence, said it all.

Cobweb opened his mouth as if to argue, then prudently reconsidered.

“I know, Lordra,” he said helplessly, in a tone of despair– though it was not despair born of the envy that Ponclast wanted him to feel.

“Good.” Ponclast set his cigar aside. In a businesslike tone, he asked: “Now, is Ithiel taking good care of you in Terzian’s absence?”

Cobweb looked at him sidelong, under his lashes. “Are you asking me if I need more… taking care of, Lordra?”

Ponclast put his head to one side and smiled predatorily. “Perhaps.”

“I wouldn’t say no, Lordra,” Cobweb said softly, his voice barely shaking.

“Naturally not,” said Ponclast. “You’ve always been a clever har.”

He stood, hands already at his belt buckle. Cobweb went to the couch and lay down for him, his eyes closed submissively, tears still leaking from beneath his lashes.

Ponclast settled over him, a dark heavy mass of muscle and leather.

“I’m going to show you exactly what Terzian needs,” he whispered in Cobweb’s ear, and lewdly licked the side of his neck.

Cobweb lay still and stared at the ceiling above, dutifully making all the necessary noises as the archon fulfilled that promise.

LIANVIS

I awoke the next day with my heart aching for him. I had borne his absence well enough between our time in Forever and his coming to the desert, but now? I felt lost without him. In these lonely rooms, his rooms, every object was a reminder of him and the pain of his absence.

Still, I had made Glory a promise, and it was a promise I intended to fulfill, so with Vashti as an irritable escort down we went to Fulminir’s vast stables. The smell of hay and manure and animal was familiar, comforting. It reminded me of home. I approached a buckskin mare and stroked her soft nose as Glory went from stall to stall until he stopped.

“Savil!” came Glory’s delighted voice. I’d never seen him that happy. Savil was an exquisite beast. His coat glimmered with a creamy golden sheen and the long white mane was thick and wavy, a stunning horse.

“You found him,” I said, unable to keep the pleasure from my voice. I do not like to sound excited. It seems childish, but that moment somehow robbed me of my composure. Perhaps it was because I had so little to be happy about recently that this small victory affected me more than it would have otherwise.

“I did,” he said, and so I went to him, and he took my hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Tiahaar, thank you so much.”

The sincere gratitude felt like a balm to my heavy heart. “I will ask Ponclast if you may care for and ride him, if you like?” I said.

“Tiahaar, are you serious?” he asked, turning to me. His face was wary, but hopeful.

“I can ask, or at least try to… if he’s in a bad mood when he returns…”

I trailed off. We both knew what I meant.

Glory nodded.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “...if he is… just getting to see Savile sometimes is good enough.”

PONCLAST

In less than a week, the Varrs rode into the mining town of Mingo. It was a grim, grimy place, half a ghost town. The buildings were dilapidated, and many looked abandoned, their wooden boards worn gray by weather. The snow that lay on the streets had been trampled into muddy slush by passing feet, and Varr boots and horses further dirtied what few drifts remained white and unviolated. Ponclast’s proud charger minced distastefully across this ground, lifting his hooves high as if even he disdained to sully himself with the muck of this place.

There was no welcoming committee– only a few tired, hollow-eyed hostlings watching them from porches, and some feral-looking harlings peering at them from behind hanging laundry.

“Where is everyhar?” Dion wondered aloud.

Ponclast closed his eyes briefly, reaching out with his mind. “Mostly holed up in the mines,” he said at length. “More are hiding in the woods somewhere. I see their camp, but not yet the path to it.” He opened his eyes, and smirked coldly at his lieutenant. “It’s only a matter of time,” he said. His breath misted on the frigid air as he spoke.

Dion scowled. “Yes, Lordra,” he agreed. “Orders?”

Ponclast pursed his lips. “Have the hara set up the loudspeakers, and then round up whoever they can find. Half an hour from now, I want every last miserable soul in Mingo assembled in the town square.”

Dion raised his voice and relayed the orders. As Ponclast willed it, so it was done. The Varrs fell out, roving across the town in pairs, pounding on doors and kicking them in where there was no answer. Many homes were found deserted.

Ponclast sat on his horse with his pocket watch in hand, smoking and watching the minutes tick by. In half an hour on the dot, there were some thirty hara assembled in the square, nudged by Varr rifle butts into two neat rows. They were a surly lot. Nearly half of them were harlings, including many for whom feybraiha was years away. The rest were mostly hostlings in drab skirts and stained aprons, with rolled-up sleeves revealing work-strong arms. There were only two adult ouana-types, both of them obviously infirm– one wracked with constant coughs and wheezing, the other standing unsteadily supported by a crude peg leg.

Ponclast looked them over expressionlessly. He dismounted, and strode up to the bullhorn. He saluted. All his Varrs returned it; not one of the townsfolk copied the gesture. The archon’s lips thinned, but his expression remained otherwise fixed as he pulled his proclamation from his breast pocket and broke the seal. He read in a clear voice, rendered booming by the speakers:

“Hara of Mingo, we are at war. Ensconced here in your mountains, the conflict may feel remote to you; but rest assured, without the zealous effort of every har in the Varr dominion, it will reach you even here. The fire and fury of the Gelaming will come to crush you, to rob you of your freedom and your way of living. Coal is the lifeblood of the Varr war machine. If it is rendered anemic, you will be the ones to pay the ultimate price.”

His tone changed, from stern to stirring. “Remember your patriotism! Remember that you, too, are Varr. Varr is duty, Varr is sacrifice, but above all, Varr is victory. Stand strong with your country to resist this foreign incursion. Those who prove their devotion will be rewarded.” His voice dropped slightly, and a warning note crept in. “Those who shirk their labor will be considered as Gelaming collaborators, and treated accordingly, without mercy.”

He glanced down at the paper in his hands and frowned. The final lines had been drafted with the assumption he would be speaking to the miners themselves. Before this crowd of hostlings and children, he would need to improvise. He laid the proclamation aside on the podium, and swept his haughty, piercing gaze over those assembled.

“As hostlings, you are custodians of the home front. It is your place to remind your ouanas of their purpose, to invigorate their hearts when their courage flags, and to raise your children with a proper love of their Fatherland. I trust and believe you will do your duty.”

There was a ringing silence after these last words were spoken. The hara of Mingo were staring at him with blank expressions, mute as posts.

After several long moments, one of the hostlings spat on the ground.

Ponclast’s nostrils flared and his jaw tensed. The leather drew tight over his knuckles as he gripped the podium. A Varr started forward, rifle butt raised to chastise the impudent har, but with a single lifted finger Ponclast halted him in his tracks.

“Was I in any way unclear?” The archon demanded into the bullhorn.

The peg-legged ouana wobbled forward. Fear and defiance were in his eyes. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. He wet his cracked lips nervously with his tongue. And then he spoke.

“Yeh,” he said. “It was a little unclear. I didn’ hear anything about a wage raise or givin’ us more modern equipment.”

Ponclast’s chin jerked up. He glared frostily at the speaker.

“Being that this is a time of war,” he enunciated slowly, as if speaking to somehar very stupid, “The treasury is stretched quite thin. As to more sophisticated explosives, greater efficiency would be to our advantage, and could possibly be managed if the munitions factories had enough coal to resume production.” He practically spat the last words.

A hostling stepped forward, putting his arm around the peg-legged har and allowing him to lean on him for support. “What about hoses, then, to wet the walls and keep down the dust? Fall restraint systems? Safety gear? Can’t you get us any of that?” His face was flushed with fury. “Did you even glance at our list of demands, Lordra?” In his mouth, the title became an insult.

All the color had drained from Ponclast’s face. He leaned very close to the bullhorn and hissed, “Nohar makes demands of me. ”

A harling darted forward to stand beside the defiant pair. “We do!” he cried, and then buried his face in his hostling’s skirts as if in terror at what he had just spoken. His words were echoed– first hesitantly, by a few scared, scattered hara, and then taken up as a chant by all. “We do! We do! We do!” Their voices grew stronger as they repeated the words in unison, their backs straightening, fire coming into their tired eyes.

Ponclast’s face had gone from deathly pallor to a beet-red flush by the time the chanting faded into silence. He looked as disgusted and mortified as if he’d just been doused in warm piss. It took him a few moments to collect himself, and muster up a shadow of his usual cold smirk.

“I see,” he said drily. “You have until sunrise to meditate on the consequences of your attitude, and to convey my words to your ouanas, wherever they may be hiding. My troops will quarter in your town tonight. If mining does not resume tomorrow morning, there will be reprisals.” A cruel gleam came into his eyes. “Note that a strict curfew will be in effect after sundown. Any har found outside will be shot on sight.”

With that, he turned sharply away from the bullhorn and stepped down from the podium.

“So how’re we supposed to get word to our ouanas, then?” somehar shouted.

Ponclast did not turn back towards the crowd, but raised an eyebrow at the words, the sardonic expression on his face saying plainly that this was precisely the point.

As night fell, Ponclast sat on the porch of the largest, most comfortable house in the town, which apparently belonged to the absent phylarch. The Varrs had quartered in all the abandoned homes, and once those were filled, the rest had imposed themselves on occupied households as unwanted guests. When all was done, nearly every building in town had Varrs in it. The villagers were hemmed in on every side, forced to give up their beds and sleep on the floor in the watchful presence of their persecutors.

The town was quiet now, not a soul stirring. Ponclast watched with sharp eyes as he smoked and nursed his sheh. His pistol was lying on the table close at hand, safety off. If anything moved on the streets that was not in uniform, he would take a shot.

The windows of the house next door were glowing with candlelight. The door opened, and a pretty if hard-bitten soume emerged onto the porch. Ponclast’s hand moved towards his gun, but the hostling had only come out to take down the laundry. He sang as he did, in that sharp, quavering mountain voice that pierces the soul:

“Oh can't you see that pretty little bird

Sing with all his heart and soul?

He's got a blood red spot on his wing,

And all the rest of him is black as coal.

“Of all the colors I ever did see

Red and black are the ones I dread–

For when a har spills blood on the coal

They carry him down from the coal mine, dead.

“Oh, fly away you red winged bird!

Leave behind the miner's wife.

He'll dream about you when you're gone.

He'll dream about you all his life.”

The final note of the song hung quivering on the winter air. When it faded, Ponclast applauded. The hostling did not glance his way, but gathered up the laundry and went back inside.

Chapter 11: The Vale of Death

Chapter Text

LIANVIS

I sang to myself an old song my mother used to sing to me that evening, as I thought of him as I sat by the fire, my voice keening and strange echoing against the marble tile:

“The cruel war is raging, poor Johnny has to fight,

I long to be with him, from morning till night.

I long to be with him, it grieves my heart so,

Won't you let me go with you? No, my love no.

Tomorrow is Sunday, and Monday is the day

Your captain calls for you, and you must obey.

Your captain calls for you, it grieves my heart so,

Do let me go with you? No, my love no.

I'll go to your captain, I'll get down on my knees,

Ten thousand gold guineas I'll give for your release.

Ten thousand gold guineas, it grieves my heart so,

Do let me go with you? No, my love no.

Your waist is too slender, your fingers are too small,

Your cheeks are too rosy to face the cannon ball.

Your cheeks are too rosy, it grieves my heart so,

Do let me go with you? No, my love no.

Yes, my waist is slender and my fingers they are small,

But I would not tremble to see ten thousand fall.

I long to be with you? No, my love no.

I’ll cook for you Johnny, I’ll wash all your clothes.

Oh take me with you Johnny! Yes, my love, yes.

Oh, Johnny, oh, Johnny, I think you are unkind,

I love you far better than all other mankind.

I love you far better than tongue can express,

Please let me go with you, Yes, my love, yes.”

There was another verse about putting on men’s clothes, but even in Ponclast’s absence, such an utterance felt taboo. I could do such a thing, borrow one of his uniforms and tuck my hair away under the cap, and a little glamour and I could be some high-ranking officer demanding a horse with which I could chase after him.

It wouldn’t have done anyone much good, but some part of me wanted to, wanted to refuse to let him abandon me. Cobweb had been like that with Terzian in the beginning I knew, before he’d gotten hurt and he’d learned how to be the grande dame he had turned himself into. It hadn’t done him much good in the end either, only brought Cal into Terzian’s orbit, which would have been the last thing he’d’ve wanted.

I embroidered as I sang, clothes for the harling, for what else could I do? No, I could not leave my son behind chasing after his soldier father. Ponclast wasn’t like Johnny, of course, he was the officer who ordered the soldiers away from their homes and sweethearts, but they don’t write songs about the sweethearts of the people who start wars generally, and it was easier in some ways to pretend his absence hadn’t been his decision, that this was by necessity rather than choice.

He would never have admitted it, but I wondered if one of the reasons he had gone had been to escape me, and the reminder of our harling up in that vat.

I would wake my attendants at all hours to go to Azvith’s laboratory, to see my pearl, to watch as it grew, and its shell hardened. I would sing to my son on those long nights as strange shadows flitted around the room, and I caught glimpses of faces in mirrors that were not my own. I sang to him sad old ballads of lost loves, and murders, and instruments that reveal the truth when it’s too late.

I sang Kakkahaar songs to him as well, hymns to the desert and to wild places and wild things. Sometimes Azvith joined me, more out of a desire for something to do than out of sentiment I think, but I was glad of the company. Still, he was not precisely a comforting presence, and the way he watched my pearl continually chilled my blood.

At least this was better than the harling being dead.

Sometimes we had conversations in the dead of night.

“We’re not so different, you and I,” came the voice.

“Of course not, son of mine,” I replied.

“As you like, dear mother.”

“I’m not a mother, am your hostling. Mothers are women.”

“Semantics,” replied the voice, and that was all we said that night.

PONCLAST

He rose with the dawn, as always, and breakfasted on the gray little porch while his officers came and delivered reports. Unsurprisingly, work had not resumed in the mines that morning. More surprisingly, nohar had been caught in violation of last night’s curfew.

“There was some trouble, however, Lordra,” Dion told him, pitching his voice lower. “I fear you will not be pleased.”

Ponclast said nothing, merely sipped his coffee and raised his brows to indicate that Dion should continue. The young general swallowed nervously.

“One of our hara has been killed, Lordra,” he explained. “The hostling he was boarding with shot him dead. His comrades who quartered with him were able to subdue the slut. We’re holding him awaiting your judgment, Lordra.”

Ponclast set down his mug with a clatter and stood decisively. His face was calm, but his eyes flamed with rage. “Show me where.”

Dion led the way. A little shed had been hastily converted into a holding cell. Although its weathered boards looked no sturdier than matchsticks, the six armed Varrs standing guard around it made structural security unnecessary. Dion unlocked the rusted padlock on the door and swung it open.

Crouched on the floor inside was a soume surrounded by three small harlings. He looked up defiantly as the door swung open, and clutched his children closer to him.

“ I did it!” He cried. “These little ones did nothin’. Saw nothin’ neither.”

Ponclast examined him impassively. He was a hard-faced, weather-beaten creature, taller and stronger than the soumes Ponclast preferred to keep. His dark hair was chopped off at the shoulder, and his hands were rough from work. In spite of all that, he had a certain distinct femininity about him. No, not even femininity, for he had none of the charm, grace or appeal that term implied– it was femaleness. He seemed more like a coarse hume woman than a har. Ponclast pursed his lips in distaste.

“At present, your harlings are not in danger,” he said. “I cannot say the same for you.” He folded his arms as he stared down his nose at the har. “Explain your treasonous actions.”

The hostling shuddered, his hollow eyes haunted. “I don’t want to tell it in front of the children,” he said. “It’s not fit for them to hear.”

Ponclast’s lip curled into an unpleasant smirk. “Very well,” he said. “Come walk with me.”

The har hesitated, glancing at the children. “Can’t you just set ‘em loose, please, Lordra?” He begged. “They’re good harlings, I swear.”

Ponclast shook his head. “They’re staying here as a guarantee of your good behavior. After I’ve heard your story, we’ll see.”

After a moment longer, the har stood. The manacles on his wrists clanked as he did. One of the harlings began to cry. The hostling bent down to tousle his hair, murmuring, “Don’t fret, I’ll be back.”

“Are you sure about this, Lordra?” Dion murmured to Ponclast. “This is a vicious creature. He’s already committed one murder.”

“I think I can handle a hostling,” Ponclast sardonically returned, at the same low volume. “Besides, he’ll do nothing while we hold his brats.”

The hostling stepped forward, and shuffled out the door. Dion locked it behind him.

“Come,” said Ponclast to the prisoner. He set off down the muddy road, towards the woods. The hostling limped along beside him. Ponclast cast him a sidelong glance, curious as to the cause of his gait, but could see no obvious sign of injury. Dion and four of the guards followed them several paces back, giving them room for their conversation.

“What is your name?” Ponclast asked, as they drew beneath the shade of the trees.

“Juniper, Lordra,” said the hostling. Hope seemed to have made him meek. His eyes, Ponclast could now see in the morning light, were dishwater gray.

Ponclast naturally did not bother to introduce himself; he was known. “What happened last night, Juniper?”

Juniper drew a deep breath. “Cross my heart I’m telling true.”

Ponclast responded only with an indifferent shrug. There was a lull of silence, broken only by the tramp of their feet in the slush. Presently, Juniper went on:

“That har forced himself on me, Lordra, in my own bed. I was quiet for him, ‘cos I didn’t want the little ones to hear me screaming.” He shuddered and drew into himself. “When he was done, he said I was a good lay, and he was going to get his friends, so they could enjoy me, too. I couldn’t take more of it. I grabbed the shotgun from the wall and I… I did what I did.”

Ponclast’s face was smooth and hard, his gaze fixed directly ahead. He looked as blank as if he hadn’t heard a word that Juniper said.

“Is that all?” he asked at last.

Juniper let out a noise between a sob and a laugh. “Ain’t that plenty, Lordra?”

Ponclast did not deign to respond to this. “Did it hurt?” He asked instead.

“Yes,” replied Juniper sharply. “What’s it to you? Get you hard or something?”

The jibe was seemingly ignored, like so much of the rest of his words. “And how do you feel today?” Ponclast asked.

Juniper halted where he stood, and Ponclast turned at last to look at him. They stood gazing at one another beneath the branches of a pitch pine, which was steadily dripping melt-off from its needles. A drop of cold water landed on the hostling’s otherwise dry cheek.

"I don't feel much today," he said.

Ponclast nodded. “Then I’ll do you a favor.”

He pulled out his pistol and fired, hitting the hostling dead between the eyes. The har crumpled to the ground without a noise. He hadn’t even had time to be afraid.

Ponclast stood staring down at him for a while, his face expressionless. Then he knelt impulsively, and closed the har’s dead, staring eyes with a gentle brush of his hand. He straightened and walked back up the road towards his hara.

“Clean that up,” he ordered, without a backward glance at the body.

Dion fell into step beside his archon. “What of the brats, Lordra? Shall we give them the same prescription?” He laughed at his own weak joke.

Ponclast shot him an irritable glance. “No, send them off to Harling Gardens. The young can be indoctrinated. Take them out of his miserable place and they’ll be only too eager to forget it all. They’re hardy stock; they might grow up to be useful.”

Dion looked dubious, but only said “Yes, Lordra.”

As they proceeded up the street, hara came out onto their porches, drawn forth by the noise of the shot. Down the road, the Varr guards could be plainly seen digging a ditch to roll Juniper’s body into. The Mingoans were silent, their faces set.

Ponclast paused in the middle of the street. He delivered his next order to Dion loudly enough for everyhar to hear.

“I want every home searched and all the weapons confiscated,” he commanded. He clapped Dion on the back. “Time to put that proclamation about requisition of civilian property into use. That was a good idea you had, Dion. Along with the weapons, authorize your soldiers to take anything they might find useful. Encourage them to use imagination and forethought. You never know what might come in handy.”

LIANVIS

I paced his rooms. The only other place I went was to Azvith’s tower to see my harling. The only other har I knew to any significant degree with any power at all who was still in Fulminir was Vashti, and so I hounded him for news.

He’d only shake his head. “News only travels as fast as a rider, you know that,” he’d say, and I’d want to scream at him, because there were Nahir-Nuri down there. Shouldn’t they have been able to get word back faster somehow? But there was nothing, no letter came for me.

I thought of the few scraps of his writing I did have. Wear this to dinner on that white dress, the first white dress he’d got for me. I had so many now. So many white dresses he’d given to me and so few words. That dress, the gowns for the desert, my wedding gown which somehar had carefully mended after I had brought it back with me to his chamber. Glory or Veta or some har working under them perhaps. I didn’t know the details and in some ways preferred not to. I didn’t want to think of the har in Fulminir who was tasked with sewing all those tiny seed pearls back in place and mending the spiderweb fine netting so that no stitch showed. I wanted it to have been done by magic.

It was not a replica, it was the dress I had worn that night. I knew merely from touching it. That was the night I had conceived. If he hadn’t torn the dress perhaps I might have carried the harling to term. Perhaps we would not be here now. It had been bad luck, like breaking a mirror. He’d seen me before the ceremony too. Surely all of that had brought misfortune upon us.

I would ward the rooms. I would call for rosemary, pansies, fennel, rue, daisies and violets, and I would put bunches of each up at the windows, and burn more in the fireplace until the chamber smelled as sweet as a spring garden. I would clear away the stench of death and then I should bear him a hundred harlings, all happy and healthy and whole, and nothing haunted or wrong with any of them. I was wise, was I not? I would make it alright. Of course I would.

I determined this as I sat one night, pacing, pacing back and forth across that black and white tile floor of his sitting-room. His portrait watched me from above the fire. His expression as always was cold, his eyes chilled me.

“Would that I could make you smile,” I said to his picture on the wall. The photo of us from the desert had been in the Varr papers. I wanted a copy of it, but just as I thought that, I felt something deep in my soul and knew from my bones that I had to go to Azvith’s tower right at that very moment.

Propriety no longer mattered, I had to go right then . Veta was dozing in the armchair and awoke as I threw open the heavy wooden doors.

“Tiahaar?”

“We have to go!”

“Where?” he asked, but I didn’t answer, and he ran after me without further question as I flew down the dark hall and up the stairs barefoot in my nightdress. Azvith was half asleep when my frenzied banging drew him to unlock the door.

“Tiahaar Lianvis--?” he queried, but again, there was no time, as I went to the place where I knew my son lay in his shell.

“Bring me a candle, now !” I ordered, and so it was done, flickering light showing just in time for me to see the first crack form, and then another.

“Get him out! Now, now or he’ll drown!” I cried, Veta having to restrain me from reaching into that evil-looking fluid myself. Azvith was quick with his forceps though, lifting the now brittle pearl as gently as if he were using his own nimble fingers, and placing it dripping onto a carefully folded towel. I watched with my heart stopped in my chest as the shell cracked further and further, until at last there came a tiny arm, emerging from its leathery home. It was perfect, as perfect as anything I had ever seen, ten tiny fingers, little fingernails shining softly in the candlelight, and then a plump little leg, equally perfect, and then the exquisite miniature face, a blend of mine and his fathers in infant form. He was as pale as I was now, with fair hair and eyes the same startling shade of green as my own, visible even in the glow of the candle. He was perfect . There was no demon in this creature any more than in me or his father.

I reached for him and he smiled and made a soft cooing harling noise.

“Lavaine,” I murmured, it would be his name. Our son, Lavaine.

TERZIAN

It took us a week to cross those plains, or so we believed. When we came upon a settlement, they were celebrating Bloomtide, for which it should not have been even close to time, according to my logs. The soldiers laughed at these rustic hara with their doubtless faulty calendars, but I was uneasy. This far south the seasons were quite different than they were at Fulminir; winter here did not bring snow. Even so, the landscape I surveyed seemed consistent to me with early spring. These hara, who quartered us more or less willingly in their town, were farmers. Surely they could not be so out of step with the rhythm of the earth?

Horribly, it seemed more plausible to me that we’d lost nearly a month caught in the Gelaming’s web of deception.

I kept my fears to myself. I had no desire to destroy morale. The Gelaming themselves were hard at work on that. I knew that they meant to drive us mad. Worse, I had realized that they could do it. We were strong, and hardly easy to frighten, but the situation was monstrously abnormal. No har of a sound and healthy mind could endure it. To bear such inconsistencies, to adapt to them, one would have to go a little mad.

Inconsistency and irregularity became facts of our existence as we pressed on. For awhile it was small things– pieces of equipment going missing without explanation, objects never seeming to stay where you left them. If you set something down and turned your back on it for even a moment, it would have moved, if not simply vanished. This being the case, supplies eventually became a slight problem. Most of the time we requisitioned what we needed from nearby settlements without much difficulty.

Gahrazel went into hysterics one night over a silver comb that disappeared. Evidently, it had been a token from Purah, of whom I made sure he saw very little. I slapped some sense into him and that was the end of it.

Things went on in this vein for so long that I adjusted. I even grew cheerful. I thought the Gelaming were losing their touch if the best they could manage was these minor annoyances.

That was what I thought until we saw the forest.

I am no wordsmith. Even if I were, it would still be beyond my power to explain what was so terrifying about that place. To the eye, it was only a forest. We saw trees, dark and dense and probably difficult to navigate, but with nothing obviously extraordinary about them. But that was only what appeared to the eye. The heart saw something different. Somehow, when one gazed upon those woods, one responded as if every trunk had been garlanded with intestines, every branch festooned with hanging corpses, every leaf and pine needle dripping gore. Even that description falls short. A Varr would be able to bear such a sight, but the spectacle of those plain, simple trees was unendurable.

The whole column halted as the forest came into sight. No order had been given, it simply stopped us in our tracks. We stared, mesmerized, into the shadows beneath the trees. It was like staring down into the darkness of a vast, hungry maw that wanted to swallow us whole. Though few of our number had any training in psychic perception, we all were har, with a certain natural sensitivity, and every last one of us felt it– the potent, concentrated malice that emanated from those woods.

As I sat motionless in my saddle, I was gripped by two fears– the first, that I would be unable to force myself to enter, and the second, that I would be compelled to do so by some perverse desire that would move my body forward against my will.

We stayed still for I know not how long. During that time the silence was near-absolute, and we all realized that no sounds of life issued from the forest. There were no cries of birds nor buzz of insects, not even a rustle of leaves. The air was perfectly still.

Gebaddon. The name came to me from nowhere. I knew at once that it belonged to her, the forest, and that the forest was undeniably a she. In my mind, I saw a flash of grinning fangs and felt claws reaching for my throat. It was all I could do to keep from flinching.

“Burn it,” I ordered.

It is a testament to our unanimous horror that my strange order was obeyed promptly and with enthusiasm. Varrs instantly set about clearing brush and grass from the earth to form a generous buffer between us and the spread of fire. This done, flaming projectiles were shot into the trees. They caught instantly. We retreated to escape the smoke and the punishing heat of the conflagration and watched from a safe distance as the forest turned into an inferno. It burned for hours and hours as we made camp, painting the night sky orange with its hellish light.

It was still burning when I went to bed, tired by satisfied. I knew it might take a long time for the fire to burn out, but at least our path would be clear when it was over. I knew in my heart that this was the last obstacle between us and the Gelaming, their penultimate line of defense before we would face their soldiers.

I slept badly, and was plagued by nightmares. In my dreams Ponclast ran out of the burning forest. His hair was long, longer than any sane soume would keep it. It hung almost to his ankles, and it was matted with twigs and leaves. His bare body was emaciated save for his obscenely swollen belly, bulging with pearl. He ran straight at me. At first I thought he was screaming, but as he drew closer, I realized it was the forest that shrieked as it burned.

“You fool!” he cried as he reached me, “What have you done?”

I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong, stronger even than I remembered. He fell upon me, tearing at my face with his nails, his bony fingers clenching around my throat. I fell to the ground with him on top of me, choking with the stench of forest rot and wildfire smoke and unwashed cunt that rolled off him. His hair fell over my face, and it was like being swallowed up by darkness.

“What have you done with my son?” He was screaming in the tone of a hostling driven mad by grief. His teeth and claws ripped at my skin. A great gout of hot blood poured out of me and over me as he bit through my jugular. That should’ve ended it, but didn’t– he tore me apart, ripping off limbs as easily as one might shred a paper doll. I lay dismembered, awash in my own gore, with his arms plunged to the elbows in my entrails. As those stick-thin fingers closed around my heart, as I felt it struggle to beat in his savage grip, he mounted me, spearing himself wantonly on my ouana-lim. He rode me until I was drained of both blood and aren, and with my final paroxysms, glittering darkness drowned my vision and I expired.

When we woke the next day the forest stood intact, not a single trunk fallen, not a single leaf scorched, no sign that the fire had burned at all.

PONCLAST

The Varrs settled in ever more comfortably over the next few days. Nightly curfews continued to be enforced. Every weapon in town had been confiscated, including all shotguns and hunting rifles, but also several kitchen knives and walking canes.

Without announcing that they had done so, the Varrs had essentially taken every harr remaining in town hostage. They occupied their homes, keeping them under constant watch. They slept with their guns unholstered, under the same roofs as their children.

The homes that had been left empty by those who hid in the hills were thoroughly looted. Anything that the Varrs determined to be of value was kept; everything else was burnt. At night, a huge bonfire was heaped in the town square. Family Bibles, almanacs, and the painstakingly hand-sewn contents of hope chests were thrown onto the blaze while the Varrs sang patriotic songs. They cracked the open bottles of home-brewed sheh and moonshine left behind, and toasted their archon with the contents. From outside the ring of firelight, the villagers helplessly looked on.

Sunday was church day, naturally. The hara of Mingo still cleaved to the old hume religion of the dead God, though they called him Elisin now. Ponclast attended the service, seated in the back with several of his Varrs. Heavily armed, they kept a keen if bored watch on the proceedings. The hymns were beautiful, sung without accompaniment in that eerie mountain warble. More than once, Ponclast allowed a spasm of emotion to cross his face as he listened.

He eyed the congregation predatorily. The hostlings had cleaned up for church. In their Sunday best, they looked far more appetizing. His gaze lingered on a slim sandy blonde, dressed in an old but well-fitted gown of moss-green cotton. His voice was even sweeter and more piercing than all the rest. It took Ponclast several minutes to recognize him. This had to be the har who had sung on the porch that one memorable night; the same hostling, in fact, who had defied the archon in the town square.

When he felt himself being stared at, he brazenly met the archon’s eyes, and held them as he sang:

“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.”

The words were plainly a challenge, but Ponclast accepted them as if they had been praise. With eyes closed in pleasure, he allowed the hymn to be sung to him.

When the song at last concluded, the preacher went to the pulpit. He was a young har, perhaps only a year or two past Feybraiha. He glanced nervously at the Varrs, and his lips moved as if he were murmuring a silent prayer. Then he cleared his throat and spoke aloud. His voice was loud, his words slow and quavering, like the spoken version of the way they sang.

“The Lord be with you. May Elisin, the child of light, shine his blessings down upon you. Being this is a time of war, and being our town is short on ouanas just at present, I come to preach to you today about a hostling’s duty in the hour of strife. Our archon Lordra Ponclast, honors us by bein’ here, got me thinkin’ about that in his speech the other day. I’m no fancy speaker like he is, but I’m gon’ do my best.

“In Biblical times, there was a hostling name of Judith– a widow, like many of you here. His lands were under assault by invaders, just as our lands are by these Gelaming today.”

Ponclast’s brows drew down. The preacher had said the word ‘Gelaming’ without a moment’s hesitation, but the double edge of his words was clear. He was speaking about another invader.

“Now all the other hara of Judith’s tribe were too scared to fight and stand up about Lordra Holofernes. Judith was a brave and capable hostling, and he was gon’ do what needed doin’, even if he had to act alone. So he prayed to god and he said ‘God make me strong as Samson, and as slick and as good a liar as Jacob,’ and he went at night to where Holofernes’ army was camped dressed in his finest clothes and painted and scented and as pretty as could be, and he seduced Holofernes and was soume for him. But when Holofernes fell finally fell asleep from wine and roonin’, Judith took up a blade an’ he–”

Ponclast’s clear, loud voice interrupted. “Preach on another verse,” he commanded. “Maybe ‘Render unto Caesar.’”

There was a stir and murmuring all around the small meeting hall. Heads turned to stare at the archon, seated at the back of the room. His legs were stretched out, boots resting on the pew in front of him. His expression was coolly sardonic. The Varr guards put their fingers on their triggers until the congregation turned to face the front again.

The preacher looked flushed and afraid. “Yes, Lordra,” he stammered. “I’m sorry if my preachin’ offended you. I was just gonna say it’s sometimes right for soumes to defend their homeland, is all– even if it means spillin’ blood.”

“The only time a soume should spill blood is when he drops a pearl,” said Ponclast coldly.

The preacher ducked his head and bit his lip, murmuring another “Yes, Lordra.” After an awkward pause, he resumed extemporaneously, stumbling his way through some harmless platitudes about the lordra and savior Elisin, who died but rose in three days’ time. The sermon was short and toothless. There was some more singing after, and then the service hastily concluded.

As the hara filed out of the church, Ponclast caught the sandy-haired soume by the arm.

“You sang one night about a red-winged blackbird,” he said, “From the house beside mine.”

The har froze in his grip. He was a skinny thing, underfed, but undeniably pretty. “I live next door to phylarch Duv’s house, where you’re staying Lordra, yes.”

Ponclast’s leather-fingered grip tightened. “What do they call you?”

“Bird, Lordra,” said the blonde. He did not meet Ponclast’s gaze now, but kept his eyes cast down. His moss-green dress was printed with small, delicate flowers. A harling of about three years old was gripping his other hand, cowered half-hidden behind his hostling’s skirts.

“A fitting name,” said Ponclast. “You do sing beautifully. And who is this?” He demanded, indicating the child.

“Tansy, Lordra,” said Bird, with a small tremor in his voice. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. There was something perversely feminine about that lump in the front of his slim throat.

“Tansy,” repeated Ponclast. “A good name. Tell Tansy to run along and play with the other harlings, Bird.”

Bird glanced up at him, and terror flickered in his eyes. It was gone in an instant, veiled beneath his lashes. “Go play with Rindy’s kids,” he said, giving the harling’s hand a quick squeeze. “I love you, pearl. And stay off the roof!” He called after the child as he bolted merrily away, oblivious to his hostling’s danger.

Ponclast smiled and hooked his arm through Bird’s. “You’ll see him again, soon,” he said. “For now you’re going to come with me, and prove that at least one soume in Mingo deserves to lie someplace other than a ditch.” He said it so lightly that it hardly sounded cruel, until the meaning of the words sunk in.

Bird chewed on his lip, but he said nothing, and allowed Ponclast to lead him back to the house.

In the room that had belonged to the phylarch, Bird stripped off his Sunday dress without being told. He lay down on the hand-sewn quilt covering the bed. His eyes were closed, his arms at his sides, his feet together. He lay stiff as a corpse. Ponclast settled on the edge of the bed and ran his gloved hands lightly over that still body, searching for a spots that might force a response.

“You’re pretty enough,” he remarked. “You must have a chesnari somewhere.”

Birds eyes twitched beneath their lids, but he did not open them.

“I wonder where he is,” Ponclast mused, his palm absently cupping Bird’s crotch. “Hiding in the woods with the rest of those lazy cowards?” He kneaded the flesh beneath his hand, gazing intently at Bird’s taut, tortured face. “Have you been out there in the woods, Bird?” His voice grew softer. “Do you bring food and supplies out to your traitorous lover?”

“No,” said Bird with gritted teeth. “I don’ know where they are.”

“You don’t know?” Ponclast mocked, his voice slipping into a half-conscious imitation of Bird’s accent. “I hope for your sake that’s true, because I am about to find out.”

Bird tensed and his eyes flew wide open in anticipation of torture, but Ponclast merely leaned down and covered his mouth with a smothering kiss. His tongue forced its way between Bird’s unwilling lips the same way his consciousness invaded Bird’s mind. He sucked in the captive har’s breath, feasting on the images he drew from it. He saw the town and the church and the harlings, the wash on the line blowing in the wind, and a strapping young har coming out of the woods with a dead buck slung over his shoulders. Of secret pathways, hidden caches and concealed encampments, he saw nothing.

“Perhaps he really has kept you ignorant,” Ponclast murmured against Bird’s lips. “Maybe he isn’t such a fool as to let his soume know ouana business. Probably he realizes what an easy slut you are.”

Bird’s hands came up and gripped his shoulders, as if he was about to try to push him away; but in a moment he let them fall back, limp, on the pillows. “So just ‘cos I hafta lay down for the archon like anyhar else, that makes me easy?” he asked in a toneless voice.

Ponclast pushed up on his arms so he could look down at him. There was a cruel gleam in his eyes. “You could cry. You could beg me to stop. Yet you don’t.”

“If I scream an’ cry, will that get this over with quicker?” asked Bird.

Ponclast’s gaze sharpened. “This will take exactly as long as I want it to,” he promised. “And when I wish you to scream, you will scream.”

Bird met his eyes doggedly. “That make you feel big n’ strong, Lordra?”

Ponclast wound up for a blow, then froze where he was. A cascade of sounds and images had invaded his mind. He saw blood, broken glass, snow swirling in through a shattered window, Lianvis screaming. He could feel the thickness of the air, the heavy atmosphere of panic. There was a harling, too– tiny, newly hatched, peering from under a cabinet with eyes wide in fear. His consort and his son were in awful danger.

When he came to himself, Ponclast was off the bed and across the room, backed all the way against the wall. Bird had sat up and was looking at him strangely. Ponclast shook himself and left without aword, slamming the door behind him.

“Dion!” he bellowed as he strode through the house.

His general stepped in from the porch and saluted, looking at him with questioning eyes.

Ponclast spoke fast and low. “I am urgently needed at Fulminir. I leave the town in your capable hands. On my way back I will order human laborers sent from Galhea. Get them working the mines as swiftly as possible. You can probably force those crippled miners in town to instruct them.” He paused to draw a breath, then continued just as quickly. “While you’re waiting for them to arrive, focus on locating the miners’ camp. Somehar here has to be supplying them. Somehar knows where they are. Go after the harlings, it’s the quickest way to get a hostling to break. If you don’t smoke those miners out before the human labor arrives, they’ll murder them as scabs before work can start.”

Dion’s expression had gone from confused to exhilarated during this speech. “Yes, Lordra!” he affirmed, drawing himself up straighter. “I will not fail you.”

Ponclast spared him an irritated glance. “If you do, the war is sunk. This front is just as important as the fight with the Gelaming. We must have coal, Dion.”

He swept his gaze around the small house a final time, then headed for the front door, gesturing Dion to walk with him. He continued speaking even as he untethered his horse and swung into the saddle. “Keep an eye on the preacher, and that soume-har Bird. They’re leaders of some kind, I know it. I don’t think Bird can locate the camp, I’ve been over him for that already– but watch him just the same.” He snapped his fingers at a handful of nearby Varrs. “Mount up. You will serve as my escort back to Fulminir. We leave immediately.”

In less than ten minutes they were galloping out of town, their horses kicking up mud and slush behind them.

LIANVIS

It was only a few days after that it happened. I was in Ponclast’s suite, rocking the cradle where the harling slept, peaceful with a stuffed animal of indeterminate species Veta had made for him. I sipped coffee and watched the snow fall outside the windows. Things had been almost tranquil since the Lavaine had cracked his pearl, an eerie calm but calm nonetheless.

It was then that the door burst open and a giant of a soume-har, dressed in a filthy nightgown, hurtled into the chamber. His eyes were so black it looked as if there was nothing in the sockets, and strange viscous black fluid poured from them and from his mouth. His fair hair was loose about his eerily rosy face. He looked like something from a horror film, and I had seen many sights that perhaps belonged in horror films, but this was worse, for it was in the presence of my harling.

I was up instantly, instinctively hurling the delicate porcelain coffee cup at this monstrous creature. It did nothing to slow him. I screamed for Glory, for Veta, for the guards, for anyhar to come and help me. I screamed for my harling to run, run and hide, to run and fetch someone, anyone. I saw him obediently scramble out over the side of his cradle and slither down the side out of sight.

I retreated, drawing this thing after me and away from my harling. It was all I could do. I tried to dash past the creature into the hall, but he grabbed at my hair and caught me. I hurled a blast of magical energy at him, but he was unflinching. A cold, alien intelligence stared back at me through his black eyes. In his gaze I saw no trace of har, or of anything that understood mercy.

The world was slow motion. The creature was dragging me towards the window, the one that overlooked the sheer drop to nothingness. He thrust his hand through it, tearing at the glass as his fingers poured blood, trying to make an opening to… to what? Then he was lifting me by the throat, and his intentions grew all too plain. I scrabbled at its arm, scratching and attempting to kick even as the world went fuzzy at the edges, and I was moving inexorably towards the snowy void. I would be thrown out into the howling wind and raging storm.

I tore at the threads of magic that governed our universe, yanking on them frantically as one might the pull of an alarm bell. The creature’s grip loosened for a moment and I fell to the ground. I felt my ankle twist but had no time to process the pain. My eyes searched frantically for my harling, and my heart lifted as I saw a tiny figure disappear around the door to the hall. I had to make a decision then, flee and risk leading this-- this thing towards my son, or stay and fight a battle where the odds seemed utterly against me.

I fled towards the bedroom. Surely the heavy door would buy me time, time for someone to hear and come and put down this unspeakable juggernaut, or at least grant me the time to prepare a spell to defend myself. I shut and locked the door after me, but I could hear the heavy dark wood splinter as its body battered against the door.

I murmured words to myself, making signs in the air, feeling the familiar sensation of power building up within me, readying myself for his onslaught. I needed to time this just right, there was no margin for error.

It seemed an eternity waiting for him to get through, gathering power for my spell. And then with an awful crack, he came, and I released my magic like a thundering wave. It crashed against him, and he fell with a wet crunch I knew meant a broken nose. I sincerely hoped a sliver of bone had been driven straight back into his brain, killing him instantly. It must have done, for he did not move again.

It was only then that I became aware of the thundering footsteps of a whole host of Varrish soldiers, and Azvith along with them streaming into the room.

“Tiahaar,” gasped the alchemist, my son in his arms, “I am truly sorry, this-- har became possessed by one of the extra-planar intelligences after impregnation. I had not suspected it until today when I found him suddenly absent and his bed near the laboratory stained with the ectoplasmic substance you saw here. I was coming to inform you when I ran into Lavaine and realized the situation you were in, and thus summoned the guards as quickly as I could.”

“He tried to throw me out the fucking window!” I screeched, before falling to the floor, shuddering with the horror of the whole thing.

“He’s dead,” came the voice of one of the soldiers as they turned over the fallen body. Through my hair I could see his dead eyes, blue now that whatever was in him had gone. I wondered whether the har who this corpse belonged to had even been alive when his body came rampaging in to end my life.

Chapter 12: Father of Lies

Chapter Text

PONCLAST

The morning sun slanted in through window panes half-covered in drifts of snow, illuminating the war room with wintry light. Ponclast’s splintered bedroom door lay upon the great table top. The archon examined it closely and with interest, his gloved fingers probing at the various cracks and gouges.

“That would’ve been his shoulder, Lordra,” said Azvith, pointing at a deep crater in the wood. “Which means,” he added, indicating a dent a little further up, “That was probably his head.”

Ponclast raised his brows, impressed. “I’m surprised his skull didn’t shatter instead. This is solid mahogany.”

Azvith simpered, clearly delighted with himself. Every general and tactician left in Fulminir was gathered in that chamber, and the Kakahaar mage had their full attention. He was clearly savoring it; never before had he been paid much notice or respect by Varrish top brass.

“Indeed, Lordra,” he purred, “It is most surprising. We can only surmise that the possessing entity confers not only tremendous physical strength, but also relative invulnerability, upon the vessel.”

General Creed frowned at him through a haze of cigar smoke. “It’s very impressive,” he commented, “but worse than useless to the military unless these creatures can be controlled.”

Ponclast inclined his head to acknowledge the point. “Yes, clearly they can be a liability, as Lianvis’ experience makes plain. Was it Irsa or Revna who burst in on him, Azvith?”

Azvith merely shrugged. “The subject’s name is of little importance, Lordra, now that he has been neutralized.”

Ponclast shrugged. It had been an idle question in the first place, asked with little interest.

“Lordra,” Creed broke in, “If you’ll excuse my asking, where is Tiahaar Lianvis? It would be most useful to debrief him about the encounter.”

Ponclast’s jaw tensed. He had shadows under his eyes no har should have. His generals probably put it down to his arduous and hasty journey back from Mingo. They knew better than to think any harder about it.

“He is not well,” was all the archon said.

Creed nodded. “Very natural, Lordra. He has had a great shock. Please convey my best wishes for his recovery.”

Ponclast sneered slightly, as if he did not appreciate Creed’s solicitude. His scarlet cape flared as he turned to face Azvith.

“Tell these hara what you told me,” he commanded, “about what you believe went wrong with the subject.”

Azvith bowed his head in deference. “Yes, Lordra.” He cleared his throat and addressed the officers. “I will not bore you with the technicalities, Tiahaara. Suffice to say, I believe our mistake was performing the invocation of the entity simultaneous to, ah, the impregnation.” His eyes flicked sideways to Ponclast, unconsciously betraying the archon’s role in the disaster. “This was the method we used upon the subject who became possessed. The result was that the extra-planar intelligence entered the hostling, and not the pearl.”

He frowned, and tapped a finger thoughtfully against his lips– a very pompous gesture. “I hypothesize that the entity grew enraged due to the difficulty of controlling an adult, harrish mind. I have spoken with Nethenya from the hostling’s wing, and he remarked that in the days leading up to the incident, the subject exhibited very little by way of strange behavior, merely appearing somewhat withdrawn. He did experience what was taken to be a seizure, which may have been an instance of the entity temporarily gaining more control. The invocation and the quickening took place nearly two weeks ago, which means that during all that time, this powerful being was trapped in a flesh that would not obey its will. No wonder its response, upon finally breaking free, was violent.”

Many of the generals wore dubious expressions by the time this speech was done. Creed’s brows were inching up his forehead. “I must say,” he remarked, “This seems like a particularly volatile project.”

Azvith gave him a condescending smile. “Weapons research often is, tiahaar. In any case, we’ve had more promising results with the other subject– a pearl gestated in vitro, in which one of these beings has successfully been implanted. The harling hatched recently and is developing normally, other than his unusually rapid rate of growth; the entity within him seems quite rational and content with his present situation.”

Ponclast’s eyes had darkened and turned inward as he listened. He sat silently brooding for a time, his chin cupped in his hand, staring at the shattered door. His officers sat quietly, prudently refraining from speech– it was not healthy to interrupt the archon’s thoughts. Was he contemplating the damage wrought upon the wood, and how much more devastating those blows would have been to soft flesh?

“We shall proceed with the project,” he pronounced at last. “Vashti, find us more test subjects immediately. It is of the highest priority.”

“Yes, Lordra,” Vashti murmured.

Ponclast rose. “That will be all for now, tiahaara.”

The meeting adjourned. The generals rose and drifted out into the hall, speaking jovially amongst themselves. If they had doubts about this course of action, they would not show it before their Lordra. Azvith made to depart with the rest, but the archon called after him. “Come with me,” he ordered. “I have need of you.” He snapped his fingers at Vashti’s retreating back. “You too. Attend me.”

He found Lianvis in the bedroom, fast asleep in the middle of the day. The curtains were drawn, and the air had a stale odor of sickness. The door had already been replaced, and had stood closed and locked before Ponclast entered. Vashti and Azvith peered in after him, but Ponclast gestured for them to wait at the threshold.

Viss lay burrowed in the bedclothes, the sheets pulled up to his chin. His hair was matted with sweat, and his face looked pale and thin. Beside him, a second, smaller face protruded from beneath the covers. Its eyes were open, and regarded Ponclast with eerie intelligence.

Moving quietly, Ponclast drew a syringe from his breast pocket. He inserted it delicately into the vein on Viss’s neck, then eased down the plunger. Lianvis, whose sleep had previously seemed uneasy, subsided into total stillness. Ponclast pocketed the syringe again and, with less caution now that his consort was sedated, scooped the child out from under the blankets. He was quite big already, the size of a newborn hume, which are much larger than new-hatched harlings. He did not make a sound as Ponclast lifted him, but merely lay quiet in his arms and continued to stare intensely.

The archon carried him carefully out into the drawing room. Vashti closed the bedroom door quietly behind him. Only then did Ponclast finally speak to the hara who waited on him.

“This child cannot remain with Lianvis,” he said softly. “He is too dangerous.” Even as he spoke the damning words, his finger tenderly caressed the harling’s soft cheek. The little hand curled around it.

Azvith nodded. “Yes, Lordra. I assume you believe, as I do, that the entity came here searching for his fellow?”

Ponclast exhaled softly. “Yes, I do.” His gaze was locked on the infant in his arms, and though he spoke of entrusting it to other care, he looked loath to let it go. “Honored guest,” he said quietly to it, “I speak not to my son, but to the one who lives in him. I ask that you protect this child, so that through you, he may one day do great things.”

The infant grinned.

“I understand, father,” he said. The voice was high-pitched due to the tiny vocal cords that formed it, but no hint of a childish lisp. The intonation was perfectly adult.

Behind Ponclast’s back, Vashti shuddered.

Ponclast looked not the least bit perturbed. He smiled, and ran his finger over the exquisite little chin. “Good,” he said. “I do this for the love of you.” He raised his voice. “Azvith and Vashti, this child is now your ward. Find him a suitable nurse, and quarters near Azvith’s suite. Be discreet about it,” he added. “Lianvis should not see him, for the time being. Best if he does not know where he may be found.”

LIANVIS

I awoke screaming. I had been dreaming, a huge spider had come in and bitten me, and the enervating effect of the venom had meant I could not stop it when it wrested my harling from my arms; and when I awoke to find him gone, I had the horrible thought that my dream had been real.

I was weak with hunger, I’d been hardly able to bear the sight of food since the attack, every time I tried to eat the gouts of black fluid pouring from that poor har’s eyes came back to me and I felt sick.

But when I woke Ponclast was there by the bed. I thought for a moment he was a dream, I felt so dazed, my limbs so heavy as I reached for him.

“Lordra,” I murmured. My voice sounded raspy, like I hadn’t used it in years.

“Viss,” he said, touching my cheek, gentler than I was used to.

“Lordra, Lavaine… where is he?” I asked, remembering suddenly what had disturbed my sleep.

“Lavaine?” he asked, concern in his eyes.

“Lavaine, our son, our harling,” I replied. I could tell instantly that something was very wrong, the look on his face was all wrong, there was pity there, the wrong kind of pity.

“Viss,” he said, and the softness of his voice chilled me to the bone, “you’ve been unwell.”

“I know, I know, but our son! Where is our son?” I said, knowing my voice was going shrill as panic gripped my heart.

He flinched, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. “Buried, my rose.” He sounded unspeakably exhausted, as if he was having a painful conversation he’d had many times before.

“Buried?” My voice rose to a frantic pitch. “No, no, he was just here, what happened?” Had another one of those awful creatures come? Why hadn’t I woken up?

“No, Viss,” and again there was that terrible solicitude, “you miscarried. You’ve been bedridden since then. I-- I wasn’t sure you would live.”

“What? No! I was out of bed before you left for-- to end that strike,” I said. I caught myself thinking I sounded insane. Then I wondered why I would think that, for what he was telling me was unbelievable. That catch in his voice had been good, but not quite good enough. He was lying to me, I knew in my bones he had to be lying. Our harling was alive, I could still feel him, his life force somewhere not too far off. Our son lived. Why was he lying to me?

“No, my rose,” he replied, devastatingly calm as ever. “You’ve been in bed for nearly a month, delirious.”

“No!” I howled, “I saw him hatch! He was here.” I grasped his arm as tightly as I could, my pitifully thin fingers curling claw-like against the leather. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

He did not pull away from me, but lay his gloved hand quellingly over mine. “When did you last take aruna?” he asked, calm and matter-of-fact.

“Is that all you ever think of?” I practically shouted, attempting to get up and out of the bed. I wanted my harling, had to see him alive and well, to hold him and touch him and feel those perfect little fingers curl around my hand. I needed it to dispel that nightmare and the hideous fictions Ponclast was telling me. I would go find Lavaine myself.

He pushed me back to the bed, pinning me in place. I was still so weak, he hardly had to use any force at all. My struggles were as useless as my child’s might have been.

He slapped my face, not hard. It still stung. “Get a grip on yourself,” he said sharply. “Have you taken aruna since I left, Viss?”

He was treating me the way the heroes of Vet’s novels treated hysterical hostlings. The slap had not brought me out of it though, instead it had increased the sense of disorientation. “No, not since you left,” I replied after a moment’s pause.

He tutted disapprovingly, as if it hadn’t been for his sake I had denied myself.

“You didn’t tell me I might,” I added, unable to keep a note of reproach from my voice.

He shook his head in utter condescension, his hands already at his fly, yanking the zipper down.

“Viss, you’re har. Was it necessary that I specify that you should eat and sleep as well?” He demanded. “You hardly look as if you’ve done either. You’re deranged from deprivation. We’ll handle that now,” he said grimly, pushing me down on the bed.

“No!” I protested, struggling against his grasp.

“Don’t be difficult,” the irritation in his voice frightened me more than all that had gone before somehow.

“Please, our son, I don’t understand,” I was weeping then, helpless to fight him off.

“Stop it. If you’ll just let me--”

“No!” I cried, “Why are you lying to me? Where is he? I need to see him!”

He raised his hand as if to slap me again, this time harder. It hung suspended in the air for a moment, then dropped to his side. He sat back, shaking his head. The sadness in his eyes shocked me.

“I should have known this would never work,” he said, sounding as defeated as if the Gelaming had just breached our walls.

“What? What should you have known wouldn’t work?” I was verging on hysteria by then. I was rapidly losing track of the snaking, ever-shifting course of our conversation. Was I mad? Was he?

“This,” he replied, gesturing around us. “You here, at Fulminir, as my consort. I should have known you were too fragile.” He sounded regretful, as if he was truly hurt. “Your experience in the desert was so recent, and then the loss of our child…”

His shoulders slumped, and his head bowed. I had never even seen him slouch, no matter how heavy the weight upon him. “I asked too much of you,” he said.

“No, please, I can manage, I will, it’s just--” I stammered, crying harder. The thought of losing my place at his side, of losing him, was far more than I could bear, “I just-- I thought you took him to Azvith.”

He leaned close again, running his knuckles gently over my cheek. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes– hope? Relief? … Triumph?

“Oh Viss, I did,” he said quietly. “But it was too late. There was nothing to be done.”

I didn’t believe him, I couldn’t; and yet I threw my arms around his neck, pulling us together. He was the only comfort I had. If I drove him away, I would have nothing at all. He buried his face in my hair, murmuring soft words.

“Please don’t send me away,” I begged.

He gripped me tighter. “I don’t want to,” he said against my neck. “Just be strong for me, Viss. Accept this loss. I don’t want to accept it either. But I can’t move on with you like this, insisting he is still with us.”

His voice was strained with grief, and it sounded real. Half of me believed him, couldn’t imagine he would lie to me about such a thing, the other half of me knew from the bottom of my hostling’s heart that our son was alive. That he had hatched from his pearl, that Ponclast had taken him from me. But I couldn’t believe that, couldn’t let myself think it; and besides, I had been crazed with grief, hadn’t I? But still, I felt him, could practically hear his voice calling out for me.

“I saw him, Lordra,” I breathed, salty tears still spilling from my eyes, “he was perfect, perfect , he looked like both of us, a child of snow and ice.”

“You have an unusually strong second-sight,” he replied, and the terrible logic of it broke my heart. Had that warm solid little creature sleeping so peacefully on my breast been a little ghost?

“Where is he buried?” I asked. “Did that thing… was the attack real?”

“When you’re well enough I’ll show you,” he said, “And yes, that was real.”

“But-- but then… he ran for help, how did anyone know to come get me?”

“It made quite a noise breaking down that door,” he replied, stroking my back with a strong hand. The warmth of his body seemed to melt the ice of my heart a little. “I should never have let them give you the bassinet, to indulge your delusion that way was cruel.”

That reminder brought me again to tears.

“I can’t bear to believe it. I feel him, Lordra.” I clung to him, sensing that little soul somewhere.

“You must let him go, my rose,” he said. “For his sake. Let the poor little thing move on.” He pulled away slightly so he could look me in the face, and smiled sadly down at me. “I was right. You do have a hostling’s heart.”

“I will have your sons?” I asked, the pleading note in my voice made me want to cringe with shame, but I needed to hear it.

He buried his face in my neck again, nuzzling into my hair. “When you are strong enough,” he purred, “You shall have a thousand.”

PONCLAST

He lay atop Lianvis, feeling the body beneath him rise and fall with the rhythm of sobs. His eyes were wide open, staring unseeingly towards the headboard. Here Lianvis had slept peacefully beside that tiny accursed thing that was their own. How easily might those little teeth have found his hostling’s throat? Would Lianvis have even had the heart to fight him off, or would he have allowed his infant to suckle on his blood until it drained him dry?

Ponclast shuddered, and a strange noise came from his throat. It repeated, convulsively, an odd wet rasp– the sob of a har who was out of practice at crying.

Lianvis, realizing belatedly what was happening, wound his skeletal hands around the back of Ponclast’s neck. It was a gesture more of comfort than of seduction, but Ponclast responded avidly to the touch. His sobs stopped abruptly as he pushed his breeches down, and pressed his pelvis between his consort’s thighs. They felt bony, not sleek and lush as they had. Lianvis’s hip bones pressed sharply against his nearly translucent skin. This would be like making love to Death himself. Perhaps that was what was necessary.

Ponclast’s fingers slipped between the petals, which were pressed tight together. There was little moisture between them, no life even here. That did not matter. Ponclast would stir what lay dead. He gently pried apart the flesh and pushed in, the bead of wetness at the head of his ‘lim the only lubrication.

As he entered, Viss moaned in pain, and fresh tears began to roll down his face. In spite of that, he did not push Ponclast away, but pulled him closer, pulled him in. The friction of dryness made the penetration slow and agonizing, centimeter by centimeter; but the deeper Ponclast plunged, the more Viss loosened and slickened around him, arousal increasing in response to the pain, until his Lordra with sheathed to the hilt, and he, pierced to the core. A wild sob escaped Lianvis, wracking his body. The subtle contractions provoked exquisite sensations in Ponclast. He rested in him for long moments, leaning down to kiss and lick the tears on Viss’s face, savoring the taste of salt as if it were a sacrament.

Presently he began to thrust, deep and slow and hard. Lianvis’s sobs redoubled. His hands dropped from Ponclast’s shoulders and lay twitching and clenching on the pillows. His face was crumpled into a mask of misery.

The cold light of dead stars was in Ponclast’s eyes. He watched, in sick exhilaration, as Lianvis came apart beneath him, felt his own pleasure building while his consort dissolved in despair. The fire of lust was invigorating, reviving. Let the dead bury the dead. He was alive and here, on top and inside. His hands closed on Viss’s wrists, pinning the weak arms unnecessarily. Lianvis had been slim to begin with; he’d lost mainly muscle as he wasted away. No trace of masculine strength lingered in him as he lay there, bawling like a bereaved woman.

So many hostlings Ponclast had robbed of children. So many widows he had made.

His pace quickened, and his breath took on that odd, rasping sound again as a keening rose in his throat. His son was dead, or worse than dead. His son was a monster. Like father, like son. Let both be what they were.

Let all be exactly what they were.

Viss wailed as Ponclast climaxed, his voice spiking with agony as the seed poured into his ‘lam. It was a fallow field. No seals had been broken, the cauldron had not been penetrated. This was no conception. It was a wake.

Ponclast pulled out, dripping onto his own leather, and shoved his gloved hand in up to the wrist to finish Viss off. It was rough and unceremonious. Lianvis thrashed in anguish through his orgasm as Ponclast’s fingers probed and twisted within him, gestures of disemboweling. His soume waters were tinged pink with blood as they stained the sheets. When it was over he lay wrung out, wide-eyed and gasping, emptied of tears and indeed of most other fluids. He was a mess, but his color looked a little better– still pale, but not so waxy or dull.

Ponclast cast himself down on the bed beside him. Lianvis rolled toward him and buried his face in his shoulder while Ponclast fished out a cigarette. He nursed it in silence, watching the smoke spiral up towards the great canopy of the bed.

“Lordra,” Lianvis mumbled timidly, “Might I have a drag?”

Wordlessly, Ponclast passed him the smoke.

Viss was induced to eat a little, and to let himself be bathed while the bedding was changed. After food and aruna he seemed a bit more animated, and even interested in rising and getting dressed, but Ponclast firmly forbade it.

“You must rest, my rose,” he insisted, pushing Viss back towards the bed. “The most important thing you can do is get your strength back.” He smiled wryly. “Don’t let yourself believe aruna with me has cured you,” he teased, as he settled Lianvis on the pillows. “You have a long recovery ahead of you yet.”

Lianvis looked as if he wanted to protest, but was still too weak. He obediently accepted the sleeping draught that Ponclast offered him. It took effect quite quickly.

Ponclast put out the lights and went into the sitting room. He poured himself a rather generous drink, and then rang for Viss’s attendants. They arrived promptly, as was proper, but seemed startled and a bit spooked to see not Lianvis, but by the archon himself.

“Be seated,” he told the wide-eyed soumes, with a gesture at the chairs by the fire.

“Yes, Lordra,” they nervously murmured. They perched on the edges of their seats, as if unable to believe they were permitted to sit in Ponclast's presence– or as if ready to flee at any moment.

Ponclast strode leisurely over and stopped between them, boots planted on the bearskin rug. He looked first at one and then the other, giving each a cold smile. There was a willowy redhead, and a petite brunette, both unmemorably beautiful. Their names were not important, but Ponclast asked for them anyway. No sooner had they been spoken than they left his mind.

“Thank you for your service to my… guest,” he said. “I have summoned you to ask if you wish to continue this assignment.”

The little brunette– Veta?--looked panicked. “Oh yes, Lordra, of course Lordra, he is such a dear! I couldn’t bear to be sent away, if you please, Lordra.” He blurted all this out without pausing for breath.

Ponclast smirked, and his brows lifted. “Indeed? Did you find serving my pleasure in the hostling’s wing to be so uncongenial?”

Veta stammered and blushed, floundering for words that weren’t “Lordra.” The redhead came to his rescue.

“Lordra, I believe what my colleague meant to say was that we’ve both grown quite fond of Tiahaar Lianvis in our time, and would be honoured to continue in his service, if that is what your Lordraship wishes.” He smiled ingratiatingly; to a lesser ouana than Ponclast, that smile would have been irresistible. “He has been very kind to us both, you see.”

Ponclast’s eyes raked over his body. “Did you find me so unkind?”

“No, Lordra,” said the har. Glory, that was his name. “In fact, the honor of greater time spent in your presence is another reason why we both so enjoy the assignment.”

“And the dear little harling of course!” piped Veta. “Lordra,” he added quickly, in a tone of terror.

At the mention of the harling, Ponclast’s fingers twitched at his side. He kept his attention focused on Glory. “I could give you greater honors still,” he said, leaning down to cup the redhead’s chin. “Honors you would never forget, so long as you lived.” His tone was soft, almost caressing, but the threat of his words was unmistakably. He spoke of honors that would mark a body permanently, honors that might prove lethal.

“Of course, Lordra,” said Glory, “And we would of course be grateful.” He was better at concealing his fear than the other, but Ponclast could smell it. It rolled off of him, thicker than his perfume. Ponclast held his gaze for a moment longer, then released his grip on his face.

“Very well,” he purred. “If you are truly so eager to continue your service to Lianvis, there are certain things you must understand. The situation has changed.” He glanced at the Veta. “That ‘dear little harling’ is in fact very dangerous. He is no ordinary child; in fact, he is the prototype of a weapon.”

The brunette gasped in shock, and covered his mouth with his hand.

“It seems the wonders of Varrish ingenuity will never cease, Lordra,” said Glory. “What is it you wish us to do?”

Ponclast narrowed his eyes at the shrewd soume. “You’re a slick little thing,” he said. “Bright, too. Not too bright or too slick for your own good, I hope.” He clasped his hands behind his back and straightened his shoulders. “It is no longer safe for the harling to remain with Lianvis,” he said. “Lianvis, of course, is dangerously attached to the creature, as any hostling would be. Unfortunately, he also has means and wiles beyond what any other hostling possesses. To keep them separated will not be simple.” He raised his chin, and looked down his nose at the two soumes. “To the point: Lianvis has been told, and I will make him believe, that he did indeed miscarry, and has been bedridden and mad with grief ever since. The child was never here; he is dead.”

Glory’s expression registered horror, but only for a moment. He mastered himself quickly and swept down his eyes in deference.

Meantime, the brunette was babbling eagerly: “Oh, just like in Love’s Tender Chains when Melanthis has to be separated from his harling with Abid, because of Abid’s betrothal to Wreylianys, Lordra!”

Ponclast stared at him in utter bemusement, and blinked several times. Glory regarded his colleague in much the same manner.

“I presume that is some sort of… book?” the archon said at last.

“He is an avid reader, Lordra,” Glory said drily.

“Oh yes, Lordra! It’s a lovely boo--” Veta began to rhapsodize, before being quelled by the most discreet possible kick in the shins from Glory.

Ponclast cleared his throat. “Well, it appears you understand what is required,” he said, rather dubiously. “Veta, you may go.” He pointed at Glory. “You, stay a moment.”

Veta stood and curtsied, his face flushed, his eyes shining. “Thank you, Lordra, for this opportunity!” he enthused. “You are truly the kindest archon a har could have.”

“Yes, yes,” said Ponclast, in a tone of boredom. “That will be all.”

The brunette made himself scarce, though not without an envious backward glance at his fellow. He was obviously wondering what secret information the archon might impart in his absence. Ponclast waited until the door was closed to speak.

“Can you restrain your colleague from overzealousness in the line of duty?” he asked Glory. “This must be handled delicately.

“Of course, Lordra,” Glory said wearily. “I believe he was merely excited. I will ensure there is no stage whispering or hiding of mysterious notes.”

Ponclast blew out a breath. “I much prefer commanding soldiers,” he said, as to himself. “Today I have gained immense respect for my steward, and also for Nethenya.” His eyes refocused on the har before him. “Consider yourself in command here,” he said sternly. “You are the one responsible; success or failure is on your shoulders. The most important thing to do, for now, is ensure that Lianvis gets plenty of rest and doesn’t wander.” He paused, and regarded the redhead closely. “Aren’t you the one who wanted to find his horse?”

“Y-yes, Lordra,” came the reply. The har was trembling now, his composure finally gone. He looked more terrified than he had when Terzian had disciplined him. Beneath that vivid hair, his face was very pale.

Ponclast smiled poisonously. “Do this thing well, and he is yours, all yours. You may care for him, ride him at will; whatever your heart desires.” His voice grew quieter. “Fail me, and you will live long enough to feast on horseflesh. I trust that is clear?”

“As crystal, Lordra,” said Glory. “I will not fail you.” He was still shivering, but his mouth was set with determination.

Ponclast waved a hand in dismissal. “That will be all, then. You may go.”

Chapter 13: Broken Doll

Chapter Text

LIANVIS

It was easier to eat with him back at Fulminir, and I found myself craving the fresh fruit of my desert home, or of the tropical jungles to its south, and so riders were dispatched with bags enchanted by Azvith to bring it to me as I rested in that gloomy chamber in Fulminir’s icy northern walls. If it hadn’t been for him, Ponclast, my beloved, I would have longed to go with them, but I was not well enough to go out, let alone travel. I put flesh back on with relative ease, muscle again covering the sharp edges of bone as my appetite returned though perhaps not as much as there had once been. I dreamed of oceans and sunlight. Of someplace quite unlike this Fulminir. I wanted verdance, I wanted life. I wanted Ponclast with me again, away from war and politics. It was unfamiliar to me, for when had I ever shunned war or politics? --Well war perhaps, once upon a time, long ago. I think he felt my longing for peace, for he was forever looking at me contemplatively. I dreamed often then, for I was always tired. In my dreams my son was in my arms and Ponclast could sometimes love me. The draughts the healers gave me sweetened my dreams and held past terrors at bay.

I wept for my son, sang to him when I was alone, still hearing his little shade at times through the ethers, but I never let Ponclast know I had not let him go completely. I felt I was living half in my dreams, I found myself sketching us, the three of us together and then the two of us. I could show my Lordra those at least when I saw him, which was not as often as I would have liked. Still, he was attentive, solicitous almost, bringing me draughts from his healers, and exotic delicacies to whet my formerly feeble appetite. Glory and Veta wore mourning for my sake, and walked as softly as cats in my presence. He would come to stroke my hair, and whisper soft words. Eventually, I seemed to be regaining some strength, or at least I thought so. I was not so drawn as I had been, and yet even as sinew returned to my limbs I felt terribly languid much of the time. Perhaps that was just my body insisting upon being given time to recover itself after such an ordeal. I had apparently not allowed myself to be properly examined following the loss of our pearl, and so a stream of hara came through to poke and prod at my intimate regions to ensure I was healing suitably and would have no trouble bearing again in the future. They assured me it was a result of Gelaming magic and nothing to do with me, or my ability to carry a pearl. They also said however that I needed to rest and heal more. For all my exhaustion I didn’t want to rest. I could hear my son’s ghost calling out to me, and I longed to be at my chesnari’s side. He was my chesnari even if I was not his.

I didn’t feel sick, all my senses told me I was whole, but my senses were not to be trusted. After all, although I was certain Ponclast was not above lying to me, Glory and Veta wouldn’t betray me in such a way, and besides, if I had not lost the pearl, what conceivable reason could he have had to keep our son from me? He wouldn’t do that. Even he wouldn’t do that. Not to me. He had chosen me as his consort. Bonded in blood with me, brought us together irrevocably and eternally. Even if he didn’t love me, he had chosen me for at least that much. I could feel his tension. It must have been over me, his other duties never seemed to actually leave him anxious, but I could see it in his face and feel it in his blood as it coursed through my veins.

My body seemed healthy, strong even, at least by comparison, though I didn’t dare test its strength for fear of his wrath and besides any display of physical strength would have seemed vulgar for a soume. I could sit up at my vanity and he allowed it, and that was enough, wasn’t it?

PONCLAST

He kept Lianvis ensconced in the bedchamber, like a jewel locked away in a velvet-lined box. He ordered that the room be kept full of fresh white roses, the soft light of candles and the languorous aroma of sandalwood incense. No longer did he order gowns for Viss, now he sent tailors to fit him only for silky bits of lingerie and sheer, clinging robes. Veta and Glory still spent hours bathing him, making him up and coiffing him, but it was all only to prepare him for the night and Ponclast’s pleasure.

Healers visited to dose him with potions on a strict schedule. Ponclast was exacting about what they were to tell him. “Do not indulge his delusion,” he commanded them sternly. “If he talks about the child, you must gently remind him of his loss.” The doctors obeyed him. They did not know any better, and even if they had suspected something, they valued their lives.

Lianvis was fed only on sweet, light things, principally fruits and very little meat. It put a little flesh back on his bones, but not too much. Ponclast discovered that this diet also gave his juices a more appealing flavor.

Under this programme, Lianvis was rendered more pliant and docile than ever before. The drugs kept his pupils pinned and his eyes feverish. Since the curtains stayed drawn and the candles forever burning, the bedroom was a place out of time, a shrine, a sanctuary wholly removed from the world. When Ponclast returned to it in the evening, his shoulders relaxed and the tension in his neck released. Here, he could forget everything and lose himself in pleasure.

By day, he had many weighty matters to consider. Worldly events moved at a breakneck pace that was taxing even to hard-driving Ponclast. Here, in the bedchamber, there was only helpless flesh, weak and willing, perfumed and adorned. Even during the day, it was a relief to remember that Lianvis lay waiting beneath the velvet canopy, like a holy corpse in a reliquary.

The nights were savage. Ponclast fortified himself for hedonistic marathons with rails that he snorted off of Viss’s creamy thighs before burying his face in blossoming ‘lam. That was usually how it began, and from there it could go in any direction. Ponclast’s arsenal of whips, blades, and restraints had a full workout. The healers who visited in the morning dealt with the cuts and the bruises, dutifully providing their archon with a clean canvas for the night to come.

Once or twice a week, Ponclast descended, alone, into Fulminir’s dungeons. There he would select a prisoner, slit his throat, and drain his blood into a large bowl of polished stone. This was his preferred medium for scrying. No messengers had arrived from either front, for horses can only travel so fast, but gazing into the blood kept Ponclast informed. He witnessed the stalemate at Mingo, the futility of Dion’s efforts and the dogged resistance of the miners. He watched Terzian turn dejectedly back from the forest that would not burn. He saw other things that Terzian did as well, but his face as he scryed was always more or less impassive. He kept most of this intelligence to himself for the time being. It would only demoralize his generals.

On the day when he saw Terzian’s retreat, Ponclast visited the infirmary to collect certain supplies. He also sent a rush order to a jeweler, to be ready for that night. He was not disappointed; when he finally retired to his suite, he found what he wanted in a small inlaid box upon his desk. He lifted the lid and gazed with satisfaction at what lay within, and his lips moved as he silently counted. Everything must have been as ordered, for he smiled. Snapping the box shut again, he took it into the bedroom.

There lay Lianvis, just where he had left him. He stretched languidly across the bed, wrapped in lingerie that was barely more than ribbons. The jeweled collar and cuffs were locked, as always, on his neck and wrists. His hair was loose but carefully styled, having been curled that morning and then brushed out into luxuriant waves. Gardenias had been artfully woven into it. His lips were painted scarlet, and smokey kohl rimmed his eyes. His pupils were so small that they almost disappeared into the golden irises, which gave his gaze an eerie but appealing blankness.

“Lordra,” he murmured in a low, husky voice. His hips lifted invitingly. Keeping him sequestered had many advantages; aruna was the only distraction he had from the pain of his grief. His dependence on sex as a painkiller had given him a voracious appetite.

“My rose,” Ponclast replied. “I come bearing gifts.”

He placed the box on the bed, then proceeded to disrobe. He watched Lianvis as he did, smirking as his consort lifted the lid and gazed into the cofer with little comprehension.

“Thank you, Lordra. They’re very beautiful,” Lianvis mumbled dazedly. “I’m afraid I don’t know how I’ll wear them.”

Ponclast chuckled softly. The drugs had rendered Viss charmingly slow on the uptake. “You’ll wear them in holes you don’t have yet, my rose,” he explained. “A situation I plan to remedy.”

He pulled a packet from the pocket of his discarded jacket, and opened it to expose a handful of sterile needles. Lianvis blinked at them, for a moment still seeming not to understand. Then he paled, drawing in on himself in fear, even as his lips parted in arousal.

“Yes, Lordra,” he breathed.

LIANVIS

I had been half asleep all that day, drowsy from whatever decoction the healer had given me this time. I felt like a lovely doll so often, waking up arranged in tableaux for Ponclast’s pleasure, the air heavy with the scent of flowers.

He was there, and he was lovely. I know my brows knitted as I reached for the box. I was so tired, comprehending was a struggle and everything always seemed so dim in that flickering candle light. Inside the box stones glittered and the soft glow of the candles was reflected by precious metal. I touched a piece. I couldn’t place it. My somnolent mind refusing to piece things together, I stared blankly.

I think I smiled the soft smile of the dreamer as I watched him undress. Aruna with him was brutal even now, weak as I seemed to be. I wondered often why I wasn’t better yet, but attributed it to grief. I didn’t want to be better. I didn’t want to face the world. It was far easier to lie among the roses and gardenias and be fed on morsels of fruit and fussed over by Veta and Glory. When I wasn’t in bed I was propped in one of the vast wing-back chairs at the fire wrapped in a fur, or at that vanity where the mirror seemed more and more to show scenes and faces that did not belong. I saw Terzian bloodied and afraid. I saw a har who looked half familiar as he melted away to nothing. I saw ghosts. It didn’t matter though, he was here, and although he hurt me, brutalized me, I craved his touch. When I saw the needles I had enough sense to be afraid. Here again, as he had with his signet ring pressed red hot to my buttock, he intended to mark me.

I melted back against the pillows. I was bound and hadn’t the strength to resist in any case. Lately, I had only been fully present when he was hurting me, the rest of the time I slept or sleepwalked.

I wore red silk, a blood stain against the whiteness of my skin and the waving masses of my hair on that bed of roses.

“Thorns in my bosom to lodge to prick and sting me?” I hummed, gesturing to the packet of needles.

He gave me an enigmatic half smile and walked like a stalking predator towards the bed. His caresses were careful, touching every inch of me, cupping my face in a long-fingered hand, expertly drawing sighs and gasps of pleasure from me with lips, tongue and fingers. I felt like an instrument masterfully played, an inert thing until he brought music out of me.

PONCLAST

He subdued Lianvis with gentle caresses, stroking his body until every last particle of resistance drained from him. He lay languid beneath Ponclast, so absorbed in sharing breath that he hardly seemed to notice his wrists being pulled towards the corners of the great bed, or the chains being locked onto his diamond cuffs. Once he had Viss restrained, Ponclast became more businesslike, pulling abruptly away from the kiss to rise and secure Viss’s ankles in similar fashion.

Lianvis gasped, glassy-eyed and out of breath, his lipstick smeared from the kisses. It was all over Ponclast’s face as well, a streak of scarlet across his mouth and cheek. In the candlelight, it looked like blood, and made him appear even more sinister. He went briskly around the bed, adjusting the chains to ensure that they had no slack in them at all. Lianvis was stretched spread-eagle across the satin sheets, unable to move in any direction. His flimsy garment was already slipping scandalously, a couple of quick tugs at the material was all it took to bare his chest and expose his wet ‘lam. It was in full bloom already, soft and wet between thighs forced hard by the tension of the bondage.

“Lordra,” Viss whimpered, a hint of protest in his tone. Perhaps it offended him, somehow, to be bound– he wanted to prove he would lie still for Ponclast, and submit to any pain or indignity of his own free will. The chains were an insult to his obedience.

Ponclast ignored him. He had already seated himself on the bed and was arranging his tools. The needles were thick, a healthy-sized gauge to accommodate the jewelry. Sterile packaging was a thing of the past, but autoclaves, a steam technology, were not. They were clean enough. Besides, hara were not nearly so prone to infection as humes had been. Ponclast picked up a needle and held it up to the light, contemplating its sharp tip. He smiled dreamily.

Lianvis wore a stoic expression. He had been pierced before– several times through each ear, through the navel, and back in Oomar, he’d even sported jewelry through his tongue. Nipples were sensitive, but presumably couldn’t be much worse than all that. Still, he twitched as Ponclast inclined the shining sliver towards one rosy nub, which flushed and hardened as the steel approached.

Deftly, Ponclast shoved the needle through flesh. Lianvis shrieked. The penetration was abrupt and indelicate, but precise. Unlike the hara who had pierced Viss before, Ponclast had no desire to be gentle.

The jeweled golden ring followed the needle through the new hole. It was sizable, stretching Lianvis’ nipple and making it stand out further from his chest. The effect was surprisingly feminizing, even though there was no swell of breast behind it. Looking down at his new adornment, Lianvis moaned and bit his lip.

Ponclast paused to lean down and lick a little smear of blood away, then did the other. He was even crueler this time, shoving the needle through flesh at a torturously slow pace, even giving it a little twist. Once both rings were installed, Ponclast amused himself for a few moments by tugging at them, causing more blood leak from the small fresh wounds.

“Thank you, Lordra,” Lianvis gasped. His eyes were gleaming with unshed tears, but the tension in his body had eased, as if he believed the worst to be over.

Ponclast laughed softly. “Don’t thank me yet, my rose. I’m not nearly done with you yet.”

LIANVIS

I was breathless with pain by the time he had finished on my chest, the rings which forced my nipples erect felt huge and made me throb with pain. Tears fell even as I did all in my power not to cry out. When he assured me he wasn’t done yet I shuddered. What else did he intend to do with me? I soon found out as he forced my mouth open and applied a clamp to my tongue. I recalled the first time I had had it done, a needle heated on the campfire and hara gathered around me to watch as Velisarius did the honours. Everyhar had been eager to the first to bed me once it had healed, wanting to feel the jewelry caressing lam or lim. I had indulged most of them. I had been thrilled by our collective beauty, intoxicated by the ease of sharing passion. I had taken the stud out shortly after leaving for the desert. My new image simply did not work with the little silver bar that had gone through my tongue in times past.

I felt absurd with my tongue forced out like that, held immobile by the cruel pincers of the clamp, but the humiliation was nothing compared to the actual pain. He was not gentle about it. I was not even sure the old hole had closed. This might have been not at all necessary but he did it anyway, shoving the needle through with agonizing slowness, showing all his sadism as I tasted blood. I wanted to cry out but any sound I might have made would have come out sounding absurd so I was silent and stoic throughout the operation. He inserted the jewelry with the same vicious care, making sure it hurt as much as it could, and was done perfectly. I felt the bar go through, and the ball screw on, with its attached slave ring. The taste of metal, the sensation of something inside my tongue was strangely erotic for all that it was agonizing. I would not speak once he had done, not until I had had time to heal the wound. Somehow the thought of how I would sound, sloppy, wet and graceless with the fresh piercing was quite unbearable to me, so I would simply not use my tongue for speech. Such a development would likely only please my Lordra.

PONCLAST

He held Viss’s tongue in the clamp a bit longer than was strictly necessary, savoring the visual and his consort’s obvious humiliation. Lianvis’s tongue was bleeding profusely, filling his mouth with scarlet. The scent of blood was intoxicating to Ponclast. He tossed the pincers aside, then swooped down to violate Viss’s mouth with his tongue. His kiss was ravenous, probing. Lianvis moaned in pain as Ponclast licked at the new jewelry and the fresh wound, his noises muffled by smothering lips.

Ponclast broke away, his face now smeared in crimson that was not only lipstick. His eyes were feverish with lust as he looked down at Lianvis, who lay dazed in pain, licking the blood from his lips.

“Stick out your tongue,” Ponclast commanded. “Let me see.”

Lianvis obeyed. Ponclast drew two thin chains out of the jewelry box. These had been intended to hang between the nipple rings as decoration, but they looked long enough to serve another purpose. Ponclast clipped one to each of nipple rings, and then both to the slave ring on Viss’s tongue jewelry. Lianvis made a miserable noise in the back of his throat, but it was wholly inarticulate since his mouth was now forced open. The chains pulled taut between tongue and teat, tugging on fresh piercings in every direction.

“Beautiful,” said Ponclast, giving Viss a condescending pat on the cheek. The har flushed, utterly humiliated. Pinkish drool was already running down his chin from his open mouth and extended tongue. In spite of his obvious mortification, or perhaps because of it, his ‘lam was nearly as sloppy wet as his face.

Ponclast reached down between Viss’s legs and fondled him, pinching the fleshy petals and rolling them between his gloved fingers.

“I like you like this,” he remarked. “A soume always looks better in chains.”

Lianvis’ eyes rolled back in delirious pleasure as Ponclast worked a finger into him, teasing the first sikra. The archon’s face was tense with lust, his eyes gleaming with cruel intent. His free hand reached for another needle. Lianvis, lost in bliss, did not even notice. He was oblivious until the very moment when cruel steel skewered the outer lip of his ‘lam.

Viss screamed, and his inner muscles clamped down on Ponclast’s finger. Ponclast laughed breathily, near giddy with delight at his own viciousness. As his victim squirmed in agony, Ponclast threaded another gold ring through the hole he had made. It was a bit fiddly to get it in– between the blood and Viss’s arousal, the whole region was quite slippery– but eventually he succeeded.

“Relax,” Ponclast said in a tone that was nearly fey. “There’s only five more to go.”

LIANVIS

Agony and ecstasy, bliss and torment. He painted my world in black and red. I was terrified I would move wrong, tear the jewelry from my tongue or my nipples. The root of my tongue ached dully from being extended for so long. I could not even give myself over to the pain, let myself respond fully for that fear of injury. I drooled. My chin itched, but I knew how I must look, beautiful in my agony.

So, I took it for him. More needles through the sensitive petals. I wept. I hated it. I hated every moment of it. I had never felt so lonely with him as I did then. I had suffered of course, felt worthless, ashamed, any number of things, but never so achingly icily alone, even as the needles pierced me felt as if they were white hot as they slid through flesh.

I wished he’d let me speak. I felt outside myself, looking down at the image of the bound har on the bed of white roses, painting them red with his blood.

I was silent and doll-eyed.

I was frozen even as the world outside began to thaw. I wanted something, some connection that simply was not happening.

Would he notice if I simply vacated my body for the duration? He might, and then he’d be angry, so I would take it. I would stay through it.

Another needle. I screamed from the back of my throat, and flinched in a way that made a fresh gout of blood pour down my chin. At the sight he came in for a kiss, his tongue against mine, lapping up the blood, breathing calm into me, as he stroked my side as he might have touched a spooked horse.

I took the third needle. I was worried I was going to vomit from the pain.

“Take it for me, my rose,” he murmured, and so I took the fourth, every muscle in my body tensed to hold myself still. I was making noises that sounded unearthly, strange grunts and howls as he struggled to push the jewellery through.

I was panting. This was like trying to drop a pearl while walking a tightrope. But he thought I could do it. Something about that thought bolstered me. He believed I could take this, because otherwise, he would not have done it.

It buoyed me, and I only flinched a little at the fifth. Tears poured from my eyes, but I was still. One more to go.

He took his time with that one, twisting it so that agony burned through me, but I only tensed, shutting my eyes tight. I wished I could grit my teeth, but I managed somehow, and the jewelry, the messy bloody process of putting that through? It burned and it ached, and it felt like I imagined having a bullet fished out of me might have, but he did it.

PONCLAST

He drew back to admire his work. The pierced ‘lam looked obscene, golden rings embedded in slick, bloody flesh. It was a surreal image, meat and metal, treasure glistening in the cavity of a butchered carcass. Ponclast’s lips parted at the sight. Dreamily, he ran a finger along the insides of the fleshy petals, tracing the lines of the piercings, all in a row. Blood stained the fingertip of his glove; he eyes closed in pleasure as he licked it away.

He produced two more slender chains from the jewelry box. These he carefully threaded through the rings before fastening them around Viss’s thighs, thus pulling his ‘lam wide open and holding it just so. Lianvis let out a startled whimper of shame, and more fluid trickled from his exposed orifice. With the soume lips held aside, the response of his body was even more lewdly obvious now.

Ponclast buried his face in the captive cunt. It convulsed against him; he felt the petals trying to twitch against his cheeks, but everything was pinned firmly in place. Nothing could get in the way of his cruel tongue. It swept up and down the insides of the pinioned soume lips, lapping up blood and yaloe from the sensitive, stretched skin, circling the hole mockingly before it invaded. He devoured Viss from the inside, as ferocious as a beast pushing its snout into a carcass. Viss’s hips jerked, and a keening noise escaped his throat, but perforce he remained wordless and mostly still.

Ponclast strained to shove his tongue in as deep as it could go. It was easy to reach the first sikra. He could just barely hit the second with glancing strokes that seemed to drive Viss wild with frustration. Ponclast growled against the wet, helpless flesh, his subconscious vocalizations sending vibrations through the whole excruciatingly sensitive region. His ‘lim was rigid, trapped between his belly and the bed, and his hips ground convulsively against the satin sheets. There was nothing cold or contained about him now– bloodlust had rendered him nearly feral, more wolf than har, a lycanthropic transformation.

Lianvis came, bucking and shuddering against his face, but it was not enough for Ponclast. He stayed down, gripping the tops of Viss’s thighs as he continued to feast, his tongue merciless. A second orgasm, a third– blood ran afresh from piercings tugged too hard by uncontrollable thrashing, and Lianvis mewled piteously all the while. Only after forcing a fourth paroxysm did Ponclast surface, his eyes gleaming with predatory ardor, his face smeared in his prey’s fluid. Blood shone between his bared teeth. The phrase “slavering jaws” seemed unavoidably apt.

He rose to his knees, stretching his arms above his head, graceful muscles rippling with the movement. He twisted his neck from side to side to work out a crick, and that was all the pause he took. He was on Viss again in a moment, kneeling over his shoulder to slide his ‘lim into the waiting open mouth. Naturally, Lianvis wasn’t able to perform his art as skillfully as usual, unable to even close his lips fully for proper suction. Ponclast seemed content enough to slide the underside of his shaft back and forth across the helplessly outstretched tongue. He amused himself in this way for only a few minutes, as if he merely wanted to make a point about what that gaping mouth was good for, then slid back down Viss’s body to enter that other, equally stretched hole.

LIANVIS

The pleasure was agony, I felt like I was being consumed, devoured, and the throes of orgasm felt like the old French term la petite mort except there was nothing petite in the sensation roaring through my body. His was so beautiful, and I was in pieces. He was a sleek animal, a carnivore and I was his kill, bloody and open and available on the bed. I felt useless as he thrust into my mouth, and then he took me, thrusting his lim like a rod of burning iron inside my ‘lam.

A sacrificial ‘lam, I thought hazily as he thrust deep inside me. I was his for the taking. I could do nothing to stop him. I was an animal in a hunter’s trap. I keened and wept and pled for mercy or death or more, I didn’t know which.

I wanted to hold him, but the jewelled restraints held me fast. He was ferocious as he had me, took his prize, a body he had claimed a thousand times over in various ways, simply more his now that he had marked it so. Another mark to bear forever along with the brand on my buttock.

He shoved fingers into my mouth, playing with the stud in my tongue, tugging at it with his teeth to make me bleed, and lapping up the blood that welled up as a result of his ungentle ministrations. I’m not sure if what happened to me that night could be called a climax. It felt more like falling than flying. It felt like being consumed, devoured by some ancient and unspeakable abyss. I was on fire. He played my body so I hurt in every way he wanted, hurt so much I think I came from it.

PONCLAST

Lianvis looked grotesque and idiotic with his tongue pulled down his chin and his eyes rolled back in his head. His beauty was still obvious, of course, but it had been rendered absurd and obscene, all the dignity stripped from it. This was vandalism, desecration– the sleeping beauty kept enshrined his bower transformed into a profane fuck doll.

Ponclast pressed himself down against Viss, body to body, allowing his chest to grind against the newly pierced nipples. The friction tugged at the delicate chains. He spat generously into the lewdly gaping mouth before fastening his lips over it a final time, drinking in the flavor of blood and panicked breath. The taste sent him over the edge, and he poured into Viss like a torrent, pumping him full of aren until the final spasm wrung him dry.

He rested there a long time, draped over the tortured and imprisoned body. His eyes were closed, his breath slow and mellow, and one could have believed he had fallen asleep. Lianvis whimpered pathetically under him as the arousal which had taken the edge off his pain receded. Ponclast paid no attention. He lay atop his helpless victim as blissfully as somehar else might in the arms of a lover.

At long last, Ponclast slowly opened his eyes. They held a strange expression, almost of gratitude, as he looked down at Viss. He planted a kiss on his brow, half-tender, half-condescending, and rolled off of him.

Lianvis made a strangled noise of query, which Ponclast ignored. He had opened the jewelry box again, and withdrew its final treasures– a set of dainty gold padlocks, and a key.

“These, my rose, shall be another reminder that you’re mine,” he said.

Viss’s eyes widened as Ponclast removed the chains stretching his ‘lam. The petals fell back together with an almost comedic click as the rings collided. Ponclast smirked, and planted a kiss on Viss’s pubic mound, before applying the padlocks to the rings. They closed with satisfying little snicks . Once all three were in place, the lips were held snug together, the orifice closed and inaccessible. Ponclast hung the key around his own neck, on one of the chains that had recently served a very different purpose.

“I’m half inclined to leave you bound like that all night,” he casually remarked, “But you’ve pleased me. I suppose you deserve some relief.”

With that, he finally removed the chains connecting Viss’s nipple jewelry to his tongue. Lianvis opened and closed his mouth several times, stretching out his jaw.

“That you, Lordra,” he slurred. The abuse of his tongue had taken a toll on his diction.

Ponclast ruffled his hair indulgently. He unclipped his cuffs from the bed, then rolled Lianvis onto his side and pulled him into the crook of his body, ass pressed flush against his crotch. With a muttered word of power, he extinguished the candles. The room plunged into darkness.

“I may use you again in the morning,” he murmured sleepily into Viss’s hair. “Conveniently, you still have a hole I won’t have to unlock.”

LIANVIS

The sound of my slurred voice made me want to weep. I couldn’t bear it. I felt sloppy, as if I was coming apart at the seams. I’d hallucinated a harling, spent my time chasing ghosts and now here I was unable to speak clearly. I felt more and more disconnected from the world. My body wasn’t mine, it was a pretty doll that lay in bed while my mind floated away. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t leave the room. It felt like being locked inside a corpse with a lovely exterior and my insides putrefying. I was filled only with death. He’d locked up my lam because it contained only death.

I slept my strange sleep thanks to another swallow of the draught some doctor had brought for me. Part of me wanted to rip all the rings out, it would be self mutilation but at least I’d be free. I’d be a har who made choices, with agency, but of course, that was madness too, wasn’t it? No wonder he’d stopped paying me much mind aside from this one thing. I was a broken har, useless for breeding, no use to the war effort, an albatross around his neck.

He’d been right, I wasn’t made for Fulminir. Perhaps no har who loved him could be.

I woke before he did, even the drugs couldn’t keep my ghosts away for long. I heard him. I heard my son outside the window.

What if he had lied to me? What if the harling had lived? But what if my madness had begun the day of the attack? What if it hadn’t been me that monster dragged to the open window. Images of a tiny broken body in the snow many stories below appeared unbidden, sharp as memory. Had he sought to shield me from the knowledge I had failed to protect our son?

He called to me.

He needed me. Even in death he was my son. I went without question. Outside a blizzard had begun sometime in the night, even now into what should have been spring the snows of Fulminir raged on. It suited my mood. I was not conscious of my discomfort as my bare feet crossed the frozen stones of the balcony. I could see the cursed window from there. He had to be beneath that, didn’t he? I looked over the parapet into the blinding white of the storm. I thought I saw a shape. He’d been so pale, I couldn’t distinguish, I leaned further. Perhaps there was a faster way to reach him. I knew now. The truth was right before me. I called out to him.

PONCLAST

When Viss got up, Ponclast woke, for he was a light sleeper. He did not open his eyes, for he presumed his consort had merely gone to answer the call of nature. The gray light of early dawn teased at his eyelids; in less than an hour he would have to rise, but not just yet. He lay still and waited for sleep to take him back.

It did not. Ponclast was wide awake, there was no chance he would get more rest. His lips pursed in annoyance. The wind was howling loudly around Fulminir. Perhaps that was what was interfering with his sleep. That was strange, of course, for he usually found the noises of a blizzard lulling…

A breath of cold air touched his face. He cursed and sat up. Something had been left open. Doubtless Lianvis had been careless.

Not even bothering to throw on a robe, Poncast rose and made for the bedroom door. It had been left ajar.

A frigid blast of air hit him as he opened it fully. He growled in fury as he saw the snow blowing into his sitting room, wet flakes melting onto the documents on his desk, a miniature drift forming before the wide open french doors to the balcony. He drew a deep breath, preparing to raise his voice and upbraid Viss for his goddamn negligence, but the words died on his lips as he glimpsed the pale figure on the balcony. The slim form and fall of white-gold hair was unmistakable. There was Lianvis, naked in the snow, and halfway over the railing.

It seemed as if he closed the distance between them in two steps, though that was of course impossible. He had his arms around Lianvis in an instant and was dragging him down from the railing. Viss clung to it, hanging on by his fingernails, wailing like a desperate animal.

“Lavaine!” he shrieked, again and again. His hair, matted by the wind, was full of snow and withered gardenias.

Ponclast managed to get his arms around the struggling har’s waist. He lifted him bodily. Viss kicked and clawed at the air as Ponclast carried him back into the suite, shouting for attendants.

When they came, they found the archon holding Viss pinned on the bearskin rug before the fire. The french doors were still open, the icy wind howling through them and the snow piling up on the black and white tile. Ponclast hadn’t had his hands free to close them. He’d been occupied constantly in trying to restrain his hysterical consort, who was fighting him with the strength of madness.

Veta stopped short at the sight, and his eyes grew wide. Glory, more intrepid, rushed over. “Lordra!” he cried. “What has happened?”

Ponclast ignored the question. “Get the syringe and the vial from next to the bed,” he growled through clenched teeth, “And bring them here. Quickly!”

Glory rushed to obey. Veta wrung his hands and flapped about, making noises of consternation. “Tiahaar Lianvis! Please calm down. Can’t you see that’s your Lordra? Oh, tiahaar, please calm down…!”

“Get the door,” Ponclast snarled, and Veta fluttered to obey.

Lianvis continued to thrash in his grip. The archon had to hold him down with both hands to protect himself from frantic nails. There was a ragged gash on his forehead already.

Glory was back with the sedative. “Would you like me to administer it, Lordra?” He asked.

Ponclast grimaced. “That would be best; my hands are full. Fill the syringe half way and put it in his neck. You shouldn’t have any difficulty finding the vein,” he added drily. It was bulging out of Viss’s neck.

Lianvis flung his head from side to side trying to avoid the shot, sobbing “No, no, no!” In the end, Veta had to come and hold him by the hair so that Glory could dose him. It took effect more slowly than usual, for Lianvis fought the drug, continuing to moan and struggle until the very last moment, when his eyes rolled back and his body fell limp.

Ponclast remained on top of him for a few heartbeats more, until he was certain Viss was out cold, then rose. He was still unclothed, of course– both of them were– but his nudity detracted not at all from his authority. In fact, he hardly seemed naked at all. He wore his musculature like armor, his ouana-lim like a weapon. His expression was grim.

“Glory, bring us a healer and then start making arrangements for Tiahaar Lianvis’s travel,” he ordered. “Veta, pack his things.”

Veta’s brows knit. “Oh but Lordra, you aren’t going to send him away, are you? He got so ill when you were gone!”

Ponclast closed the distance between them in a few quick strides, and grabbed the soume by the throat.

“Did I hear you question me?” He demanded.

Veta emitted a startled squeak before his oxygen was cut off by Ponclast’s strong hand. His eyes bulged and his face quickly turned red.

Glory, halfway to the door, stopped and turned. “Lordra, Veta only hoped you would allay his anxieties. We soumes don’t understand such plans as ouanas do.”

“Didn’t I dismiss you?” Ponclast snarled, but he let go of Veta just the same. He shook his head as if to banish the wrath clouding his mind. When he spoke again it was in a cold, clipped tone. “Lianvis is ill. The climate of Fulminir does not agree with him. The only hope for him is to return him to his desert, quickly. Now do as I told you and don’t delay.”

“Yes, Lordra,” murmured the soumes, and hurried off to obey.

Ponclast stood and stared at Lianvis, unconscious on the floor. After a time, he went and retrieved a robe from himself, and a blanket to cast over Viss. This done, he settled himself in his easy chair by the fire and smoked. Coffee was brought to him, and breakfast. He consumed these mechanically, nursing his cigar between sips and bites. He did not look at the har who lay at his feet. He did not look at anything at all– his eyes seemed focused on something invisible and remote.

At length, the clock on the mantle tolled the hour. Ponclast rose from his seat, went into the bedroom, and dressed. He reappeared in his leathers, impeccable as ever. His boots rang as he strode to the doors of his suite, flung them wide, and departed to go about his day.

He was not there when the Varrs came to take Viss away.

Chapter 14: Interlude

Summary:

Here begins Book Two of The Tower

Chapter Text

LIANVIS

I faded out on the floor before him, still half-crazed. Then I was in a carriage traveling over bumpy hume roads, with some Varrish soume I didn’t recognize beside me, watching me anxiously.

I ached. I wanted to go back. He was sending me away. I needed to go back. He was there. My child was there. I was being sent away without ever seeing his grave.

“Please,” I said to the healer beside me, “I need to go back.”

I was so heavy-limbed with the drug. I could do nothing.

“We have orders,” he said gently, patting my hand.

And I could make all the noise I wanted but no har would hear me and besides, what would I do if I went back?

He didn’t want me there. I wanted to die.

Was this it? Our blood bond broken by a stillbirth?

I wanted to be angry. I could still feel the locks on my lam. Had that been why he’d put them there– wanting to keep his power over me without wanting me any longer?

I felt like my heart had died. A dead weight lived in my chest, like the dead child that had lived so briefly inside me.

I clenched a weak hand as hard as I could. Had I lost my appeal? Was I too mad? Too fragile? Too demanding? Why! Why couldn’t I have made my company pleasing? What was wrong with me? Why hadn’t I been able to control my grief, keep my expression and demeanour pleasant? He had needed me and I had failed him.

I punched a cushioned seat in frustration. I had once had such a gift for such things. It had deserted me.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, trying to keep the tears from my voice.

“We are returning you to your home, Tiahaar Kakkahaar,” replied the healer. “The climate of Fulminir seems injurious to you in your delicate state.”

“Being away from him is injurious to me!” I howled, knowing I sounded petulant, knowing I was exposing too much. I was his consort . But perhaps he was right. The winter had robbed me of my son, of my colour. Perhaps I needed the desert.

It was then I noticed the rings on my left hand. He had slipped my wedding and engagement rings back on.

So this was not to be permanent. It was cold comfort as the horses drew us farther from him, the carriage rattling away into the night.

PONCLAST

That night, Ponclast summoned Vashti to his chambers. He had not done so in a long time; at least, not in this way. Vashti found him standing in front of the french doors, gazing out at the falling snow. The archon wore only a black silk robe, but stood as if he were in uniform, hands clasped at the small of his back.

Several serving hara were also there, laboriously engaged in removing the gold vanity from the suite. A fire blazed on the huge hearth, and tea for two and light refreshments for two laid out on the coffee table. One of Ponclast’s records was playing– Beethovan’s Ninth, the Ode to Joy. It seemed an odd choice for the moment, the ecstatic chorus trumpeting from the gramophone with militaristic fervor. There seemed to be a sour, hysterical note to the music, as if it were a desperate attempt to banish all sadness.

“Lordra,” Vashti greeted.

The serving hara finally managed to maneuver that whale of a vanity out on rollers, and the door closed behind them. Ponclast turned, and favored Vashti with a wan smile.

“Be seated,” he said. It was more order than invitation.

Vashti took his place by the hearth. Ponclast sauntered over to sit opposite him. The pungent fumes of his cigar nearly made Vashti’s eyes water. The whole place reeked of the archon’s tobacco even more than usual. He must have been smoking incessantly, as if trying to purge any lingering whiff of jasmine and gardenia.

Vashti was quiet, too smart to speak without being spoken too. Ponclast poured himself tea and sipped it desultorily, his eyes far off. There was no need to break the silence by stating the obvious. Vashti could be presumed to be up to speed. He already knew what he needed to know.

“It was an interesting experiment, Vashti,” said Ponclast finally, as if continuing aloud a conversation they had been having silently. “But now he’s gone. It was to be expected; it couldn’t last. It’s for the best. He was becoming more of a distraction than anything else.”

Vashti inclined his head. “I see, Lordra,” he murmured.

Ponclast finally looked directly at him. He smiled without humor. “I’ve gained a greater appreciation for you through this experience.” The firelight played over his face diabolically as he spoke. “You are uncomplicated. You feel nothing for me, I feel nothing for you. I know you are purely mercenary; I can trust you to behave rationally, from self-interest.”

At this, Vashti flushed and looked away. Ponclast caught the expression, and his brows lifted.

“Don’t tell me I’ve misjudged you, Vashti,” he said derisively. “You can’t expect me to believe you cherish finer feelings for me.”

“You are my archon,” said Vashti woodenly. “I live to serve you, Lordra.”

Ponclast’s lip curled. “That’s what I thought.” There was a harshness in his voice, almost as if he were covering hurt. “You will now be serving me in other ways again.”

“Yes, Lordra,” said Vashti. He sounded as if he had expected this.

Ponclast stood. Vashti stood as well, and let Ponclast pull him close. They shared breath. It was not without spark; Vashti clearly felt something for Ponclast more than cold duty, though it came from someplace lower than the heart. His eyes were closed, his head was tilted back into the kiss.

Ponclast held him firmly, but without violence. His touch was skillful as he slid his fingers into the other har’s trousers. He worked steadily at what he found there until Vashti shuddered and moaned. In the grip of arousal, Vashti no longer looked so much like a ouana with long hair. Now he was a soume in a uniform.

There was fire in the archon’s eyes, but detachment in his gestures, as he stripped the other har and lowered him down onto the hide rug. He entered him with controlled movements, keeping the upper hand effortlessly with Vashti, but keeping an even tighter leash on himself. He appeared a perfectly conventional lover, if an obviously dominant one, inflicting pleasure but dealing no pain. It did not last particularly long. The whole thing had the air of a formality, though an enjoyable one– a decorous partnered dance, perhaps. Both knew the steps perfectly and executed their parts well, both had a pleasant enough time, and when the music ended and they parted, both would think no more of each other.

LIANVIS

I did eventually recover a little, even though my heart ached for the lack of him, even though I still felt him in my blood. My colour returned, although when I first appeared the sight of me had unsettled everyhar. Hara had rushed to me, anxiously asking what had happened to me, what the Varrs had done to me. I assured them I had merely been ill.

Only to Ain and Tethys né Gumby did I tell anything of what had happened. Tethys had become a close companion. He was a smart har, but not a sharp one. He didn’t scheme, he didn’t plot. I think he thought it strange that I told him so much, but I knew as a new-comer and with his background, if he started telling tales of what he’d heard from me, hara would think he was merely trying to make the fact that I was rooning him to seem important. For the record, I wasn’t rooning him.

I took aruna, of course, as any har must. I was always ouana. Even if I hadn’t wanted to be, I had no choice. At least that’s what I told myself. In reality, of course, I could have sprung the locks easily enough, by magical or even physical means. I thought of that locked door behind the mirror in Ponclast’s suite. Another lock I could not open for it would mean death if he found out I had opened them. So I was ouana, not that I would not have been loyal to him had they not been there, if only out of the spiteful desire to show him that I was good and obedient and loyal so there. It was a foolish form for spite to take, but there are no turn-offs on a tight rope. I had hara come in to ride me while I reclined on my bed, lounging against pillows. The effort to thirst seemed simply too exhausting. I had harrish beauties lined up all around me, and their loveliness and charm were pleasant enough, the scent of roses and the sensation of long hair… I imagined they were him in a world where things had not gone so horribly wrong. Still, I helplessly gravitated towards pale hara with dark hair and grey eyes, tall hara, hara who bore some slight resemblance to him.

Sometimes I wanted to ask them to hit me, but I didn’t need the gossip and he wouldn’t have liked it.

He probably wouldn’t have liked me being ouana for hara who looked like him. I hardly even realized I was doing it at the time. They were just the ones who caught my eye. My time with him had even changed the way I was when I was ouana. I found myself constantly wondering how I looked as I moved. Was I pretty? Was I pleasing? I performed. I was a siren, a sex kitten even with my ‘lim down somehar’s throat.

I wrote him letters. Sedate, polite little letters that betrayed nothing of import, nothing of feelings and nothing of military matters. One could not be too careful.

Dear Tiahaar Varr,

I am recovering well, although it is very difficult being out in the desert again without the creature comforts of Fulminir and all its many diversions. I do seem to fare well in warmer climates, and yet… still there is something to be said for having seasons.

I have got my color back quite thoroughly, through what mechanism I do not know, it faded in like a developing polaroid over the course of a week or so. I feel a bit like one of those plastic toys that changed color depending on whether you put it in hot or cold water.

I hope you are well, and that you feel my warmest regard even at a distance.

Yours,

Lianvis Har Kakkahaar (or Kakkavarr, those few letters were somewhat unclear.)

He didn’t send me anything back.

GLORY

It had been hard enough keeping the secret of the harling from Lianvis, especially after watching him deteriorate in Ponclast’s absence. But that morning, the agony in his wild eyes made my heart ache. Of course, there was nothing I could do. There was nothing I could have done; excepting, of course, getting myself tortured to death and causing that poor har even more pain. Being brave when you’re alone is for fools. I might be many things, but I’m no fool.

It was strange with Lianvis gone. Ponclast was as good as his word. Savil was mine. I was free to ride him as much as I wanted as long as I kept up with my duties.

I noticed I was being treated a little better than the others in Ponclast’s collection. I got nicer wine, my own room, sweets and more expensive clothing. I also got the sense that the guards had been told to be kind to me and ensure no har bothered me.

Ponclast happened to be in the wing for one thing or another one day, and I managed to catch him. I had to admit, I worried over the state of the Kakkahaar archon. He was no innocent to be sure. But he’d been kind to me, and I’d repaid him by helping Ponclast pull a dirty trick on him when he was fragile.

I didn’t like that I’d done that.

“Lordra,” I said politely as he ambled along the corridor.

He remembered me. I don’t know why that surprised me. I had been a near constant presence in his apartments for months.

“Glory,” he said, almost warmly, the charm clicking on like a light switch.

This was good. He had reason to keep me loyal. I had been useful. I was a good sensible soume who knew where his bread was buttered.

“Lordra…” I kept my eyes downcast, being a good soume. I wished I could drop the pretense. We were both smarter than this, but we were both trapped. “If I might… I wondered if you had heard from Tiahaar Kakkahaar? I worry over him, Lordra.”

He gave me an indulgent smile. Did my concern please him? Did my caring about the har he’d half-demolished please him? I wasn’t blind. I’d seen the way he was with Lianvis, seen his distress when Lianvis dropped a pearl that belonged quite obviously to both of them. It was plain to any har that looked at that harling after having seen both of them.

“Why don’t you show me to your rooms. I believe you have received new ones,” he said.

He wanted privacy. I could give him that. I lead him to my little suite, it was of the more gilt harrish imitations of classical statuary, ceiling mirrors and black marble school of hostling suite decor. I didn’t mind. Pink never suited me anyway.

“Here, Lordra,” I said, “I’m very grateful. They’re so lovely.”

They weren’t lovely. They would have been kitschy and ridiculous if what happened in them hadn’t been so deadly serious. But he took the compliment graciously.

“With regards to tiahaar Lianvis– I’ve had letters from him. He reports he is recovering well. He seems… lucid.” He spoke the final word after a pause.

Lucid, no thanks to you drugging him up and telling him his kid’s dead. No wonder he cracked up. I took care to shield my thoughts of course. He probably knew them anyway, but he was a smart enough har to care less about what I thought than what I did.

“I’m very relieved to hear it, Lordra,” I said, letting my pleasure at hearing it creep into my voice. I suppose it wasn’t strange that I missed our foreign charge. He’d been a relief from being constantly within the hostling suite. He’d been smart. The things he did, for a while at least, had mattered. I hoped he’d come back stronger. Maybe then they’d have a pearl the old-fashioned way. Maybe once the war was over, having a consort might cool our Archon down a little. I doubted it somehow, but I wanted it to be true. I wanted a good consort and a beloved harling to fix whatever was broken in him. That wasn’t how the world worked. I knew that. I thought Veta must have been rubbing off on me.

“He’s a special har, he was very good to me and Vet, Lordra,” I added a moment later.

He gave me a penetrating look. Sat down on my bed. “Take off my boots,” he said. It was an order.

“Yes, Lordra, of course, Lordra.”

I knelt down and got on with it. I’d worn boots a lot like that not so very long ago. If Zenith could see me now, what would he say? Probably laugh his ass off before trying to break me out. Idiot. God, I missed him.

Ponclast watched me intently. Perhaps trying to read my thoughts. I had nothing to hide in that respect. If he wanted to see, let him see. I thought of Lianvis’s desperate efforts to please. Of his political savvy. Of his desire to be useful in any way he could be. Of his little kindnesses towards me. He’d helped me get Savil back, and given me various little gifts. Some of them of shocking value. But everyone knows the Kakkahaar are rich.

“Is that truly your impression of him?” Ponclast asked. “Speak plainly; I want your honesty.”

I considered.

“Yes, Lordra,” I said, before adding, “Perhaps I am speaking out of turn, but if there has ever been a har who seemed less prone to lovesickness so utterly lovesick I have not met him-- I don’t know whether it’s a good thing that he’s got a heart in there somewhere, but he does, at least for you. And he rewards good service, as do you, Lordra. I almost wish you’d been able to see him with the harling--” he cut me off.

“ Now you are talking out of turn.”

“I apologize, Lordra.”

He looked at me consideringly, as if deciding whether to strike me or invite me to elaborate. In the end, option two won out. “Why?” he asked.

“Why what, Lordra?”

“Why do you wish I’d seen him with the harling?”

“I thought you might have found it interesting, I didn’t expect him to be…” I paused trying to think of how to explain it, “I didn’t expect him to be good with harlings. One could see him as being the sort to eat his young, you know what I mean, Lordra?”

He nodded, with just the hint of a smile.

“I see,” he replied.

“Lordra, he took to it like a duck to water, he told about what happened with that… thing. He didn’t escape himself though he had the chance. He didn’t want to draw it after the harling. And after, when he was almost catatonic, the harling was the only thing that’d rouse him. I think you were right about… well if you wanted to get that harling away from him, Lordra, you didn’t have much choice but to do what you did.”

He cupped my face in his hand. I think my candor pleased him.

“I’m pleased you think that way. Such rationality is rare in soumes.”

It was then that he unzipped his fly. I pulled out every move and trick I knew to do a good job. After all, even if he found me useful, I was replaceable. He was a sadist. He was a killer. I knew that well enough. I just didn’t want to be one of the ones the cleaning hara carted away quietly now and then.

TERZIAN

Galhea was a sight for sore eyes. I had taken us long enough to reach it.

We tried to turn back after the forest refused to burn, but for torturous weeks we somehow went in circles– marching for days, sure we were making headway, only to find ourselves confronted once more by that grim wall of trees.

Ritual grissecon had worked against Gelaming tricks before. I tried it several times, first with Gahrazel and then with others of my warriors. It did not avail. The forest was like a whirlpool that had us in its tow, dragging us back again and again to its treeline. I became quite certain that if this went on any longer, it would actually suck us inside. We would be swallowed in its darkness. Branches would tear us asunder, and roots would dig into our corpses.

A group of travelers unwillingly became our salvation. They were Froia, swathed in their veils, the perfect victims. I think their foolish pretensions of modesty added something special to the rite. When we stripped them naked, they screamed and tried to hide their bodies with their hands. I ordered them tied spread eagle on the ground, helpless and exposed, their wrists and ankles bound to tent posts driven into the earth. I instructed my officers as I mounted one, telling and then showing them how to devour the life-force and make it ours. The screams of the victims only fueled our savagery and empowered our magic.

It was enough, barely enough, to tear us free of the forest’s sinister magnetism. From then on we continued mostly unimpeded, except by our own weariness and demoralization, and made it to Galhea in half a fortnight.

It was late afternoon when we rode into the courtyard of Forever. Swift came out to meet us, accompanied by his hostling. Cobweb was carrying a little bundle in the crook of his arm– a bundle that cooed. They came up to me before I had even dismounted.

“Your new son, Lordra,” said Cobweb coldly.

I looked down from my horse at the perfect little features. He looked just as I had seen him in my dream– fair hair, violet eyes. I slid from my saddle and held out my arms for him.

Cobweb handed him over. As soon as his slight weight transferred into my arms, the child gulped in a breath and let out a mighty, keening wail. I scrunched my face up in distaste. This was flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood, the son with Cal who I had wanted for so long. I should have been ecstatic– but at the moment, I was far too exhausted to cope with the piercing shrieks of an infant.

“Healthy,” I said drily.

“Very,” said Cobweb, with a hint of spite. He made no move to take him back from me.

“Where’s Cal?” I demanded, speaking quite loudly to be heard over the squall.

“I have no idea,” said Cobweb.

The harling’s bawling was increasing in volume. I thrust him back at Cobweb, my nerves and my eardrums shattered. He took him from me with a smug expression, and carried him back into the house, making soothing hostling noises at the wailing babe.

“Welcome back, father,” said Swift, who, I realized, I had so far failed to acknowledge. He had grown since I had seen him, and now stood almost as tall as I. I embraced him.

“Swift,” I said as we broke apart, “You’re nearly an adult now. We must think of your feybraiha soon.”

His face colored. “It can’t be time yet,” he protested, though I could tell by the way he was blushing that he’d already felt the symptoms.

I gave him a rough pat on the back. “Adulthood comes quickly to the pureborn. Don’t be afraid, Swift. You’re going to enjoy it.”

That was all the fatherly reassurance I could manage. I headed to the house. It was all decked out for a celebration, laurel garlands everywhere. I could smell a mouth-watering feast being prepared. My lips thinned unhappily. We were not victors. We were cowed and beaten.

The place was teeming with hara, all of whom wanted to greet me and congratulate me on my safe return. I brushed off my well-wishers and admirers, pleading tiredness and a need to clean up after my journey, then headed up the stairs.

The second floor was blessedly quiet and dim. I shambled down the corridor, my fingers tugging open the buttons on my uniform coat as I went. I hardly saw where I was going, moving through the dark halls on pure instinct. Away from my soldiers, away from that unwanted welcoming party downstairs, I finally felt the full weight of my shame. It was suffocating, like that dark fog that had consumed us on the march, like the black spaces beneath the cursed trees.

I found myself standing before the door of Ponclast’s guest suite. Coming up short, I balked. I had no idea why my weary, wandering feet had taken me here, instead of to my own chamber. I stared up at the dark paneled door, which seemed as foreboding as a displeased face, and I swallowed.

Ponclast. What was I going to tell Ponclast? I did not relish the prospect of writing that report.

I stood there for a time, simmering in my dread, then pushed the door open. The chamber was empty, as I saw with a foolish sense of relief. Of course it was. Ponclast was far away at Fulminir. I did not have to face him yet.

My shoulders dropped, releasing their tension. After a moment more I went in, reasoning that here I would be guaranteed to have privacy. Cal might be in my chamber. Even if he wasn’t, hara might come looking for me there. Nohar would find me here. Absurd as it was to hide from my own servants, in my own home, I allowed myself that weakness.

The air in the room was stale. It had been some time since his last visit, and clearly the place had remained shut up since. Nohar else ever used this suite, it was his alone– a little piece of Fulminir displaced into my home. Even in his absence, it was infused with the essence of him, his tastes and appetites. Evidence of his perversity was brazenly displayed everywhere, in the chains that draped the bed and the implements of torment hanging on the walls. Somehow by flaunting his deviance, the archon made it seem natural. His whips and crops were signifiers of his sovereignty as appropriate to him as a monarch’s orb and scepter.

I wandered into the bathroom. In addition to the shower, there was a deep sunken tub in the floor, which I doubted he had ever used– Ponclast was more partial to brisk, cold showers than hot soaks. So was I, as a general rule, but now my muscles ached and I craved a deeper sense of cleanliness.

I drew myself a bath, so hot it was almost scalding, no less punishing than the frigid water in which I usually bathed. I submerged myself in it, and instantly turned lobster-red. I closed my eyes and lay back. The swirling steam felt smothering. It made me drowsy and prohibited thought.

I do not remember falling asleep, but I suppose I must have. When I opened my eyes again, the steam was gone and the water had turned cold. With chattering teeth, I clambered out and toweled myself off. My fingers and toes had gone pruney, and I realized I was probably overdue at the party below. The thought of facing it filled me with dread.

My uniform was filthy. I would need to fetch a fresh one. I wrapped myself in one of Ponclast’s white robes and teetered out into the bedroom, bracing myself for the trip through the hallway and the possibility of encountering Cal in my chambers. With any luck he’d be downstairs and drunk already. He might not ask many questions. With Cal you never knew. He probably had very little genuine curiosity about my campaign, but if he sensed my discomfort, he might grill me just to see me squirm…

Consumed with these thoughts, I had made it halfway to the door before the voice stopped me in my tracks:

“Terzian.”

The voice, the cadence, was unmistakable. I froze in terror. Not him, not here, not now…

I swallowed hard, and turned.

A specter was sitting in the armchair by the bed. It looked like him, but not as I had ever seen him before. This being was even taller, long legs sprawled out too far on the ottoman, and even paler, with skin of deathly white. His eyes were eerie voids of blackness. His garb was indistinct, in silhouette similar to our uniform, but lacking any visible seam, button or feature. It seemed less like clothing than an organic part of him.

I raised a hand and shakily wiped my sweating brow. “Another Gelaming trick,” I mumbled.

The apparition snorted delicately. It held one of its hands upraised, as if holding an invisible cigar. The hand was empty, but smoke rose from its fingertips. “No trick of the Gelaming. It is I, your Master, Terzian– though not in the flesh.”

He had never referred to himself as such so blatantly– but it would be just like him to do so for the first time at a tense moment like this. All doubt vanished from my mind. I dropped to my knees, head bowed.

“Lordra,” I said. I was trembling violently. His real presence was far more fearful than any Gelaming illusion.

He stood. I dared not look up to see him towering over me. I did not want to know if he had to stoop to avoid brushing the ceiling in his present awful form.

“Shed your blood for me,” he commanded. “I believe it will grant me greater corporeality.”

That was the last thing I wanted, but I obeyed. I was near enough to the wall to snatch a blade down from the rack without rising. I slashed myself across the palms and held them out to him. I felt the lightest possible touch, like a whisper of my breeze, against my fingertips. In a moment it solidified, and I found my hands gripped tightly in leather gloves encasing what felt like real flesh. It was even warm. He was always warm to the touch, no matter how cold he looked, the bloodless bastard.

“Better,” he sighed. He dropped my bleeding hands and stepped back, and I heard the convincing ring of ironshod boots on the floor. He seemed to have assumed more normal dimensions along with a fleshier form. I did not want to know if his eyes were still black. I remained kneeling, head bowed as if awaiting the killing stroke of an ax.

“You failed me, Terzian.” His tone was icy.

Tears stung my eyes. I had not just failed him. I had failed myself. I had failed Varr. In the face of that, I almost couldn’t care about letting him down. But I still dreaded his rage.

“I know, Lordra,” I said.

He cut me off, almost as if he didn’t care that I had spoken– as if he had paused not for a reply, but merely for dramatic effect in his monologue. “You could not help but fail. You are still weak.”

I bristled. My head snapped up so I could look at him. So incensed was I, that I forgot to be afraid that his eyes might still be black and empty. My god, they were.

“I am many things, but I am not weak, Lordra,” I said.

He backhanded me across the face. He was solid indeed– the blow sent me sprawling. My temple smarted from the signet ring he wore beneath that glove.

“The Gelaming are stronger,” he said. “So for all practical purposes, that means you are still too weak.”

That silenced me. His logic was irrefutable.

He crouched down before me. Those empty eyes bored into me. Corporeal he might have been, but something about his form was not as it should have been– his limbs too long, perhaps. It gave him the aspect of a spider.

“You will be made stronger,” he said. “Beginning now.”

I can’t describe what he did with me, there on the floor. It wasn’t an act of physical violence, though he held me down as he entered me. The real violation was metaphysical. His mouth over mine was a black hole in reverse, filling me with emptiness. The breath he poured into me stole my sight. There were no visions at all, only darkness, as he moved in me. It didn’t feel at all like aruna with a har. There was a body of some form, definitely a phallus of a kind, but I had the distinct impression it was of a bestial nature. A wolf was rutting in me, or perhaps a goat, or maybe some eldritch monster, all legs and eyes and tentacles. I would have sobbed, but the rhythm of his breath did not permit it. I could not move at all, in fact–as if instead of an ouana-lim, he had a stinger which injected me with paralytic poison.

It seemed to last for centuries. I do not recall an orgasm, but when the room came into blurry view again, my thighs and belly were coated with the evidence of at least one, probably many more. I could no longer see or feel him, but I could hear him, just barely, above the deafening beat of my own heart–

Find a victim. Find one tonight. Drain him of his power and hold it in you. Do this whenever you can. You will need the strength of ten thousand hara to accomplish your task.

I thought dimly of werewolves and vampires. What was he making me into? Bleary, my vision still swimming, I nodded.

His last words seemed to come over a great distance. Return to Fulminir soon. Return to me, and I shall forge you.

I lay there long with his words echoing in my head. When at least the final reverberations faded, I rolled onto my side and wept. I didn’t want him. I wanted Cal, but I couldn’t love him. Not really, not truly. He did not understand what really mattered, and never would. Only Ponclast knew what lay in my heart, and for that I adored him–unwillingly, helplessly, completely. It was a love as powerful as despair, with a gravity as irresistible, pulling me forever deeper, to burn and drown and perish in him.

LIANVIS

Ain worried over me, but I put him off with stories of the incident with the Gelaming. I made no mention of my lost son. He didn’t need to know. The desert no longer felt like home, its familiarity empty. Perhaps something had left the place with the ruin of my temple, perhaps the stone in his ring now held the magic that had once lived there. I was homesick now for him, for his frigid tower. Still, I was nourished by my home and by my hara. I gathered my strength. I would need it. He needed me. I knew it. I knew him. I had seen in my scrying the returning columns of the Varr, defeated, unable to penetrate the Gelaming defences. They had not wanted any of my hara along, and look at where it had gotten them.

If they’d had us, perhaps… but then of course, the Gelaming might have suspected something about the validity of my arrangement with them. I didn’t need them suspecting my duplicity.

Still, Terzian was coming home. Ponclast knew it. I knew it. I needed to be back at Ponclast’s side. I would not have that poisonous tongue in his ear without me there to remind him of my worth, of our bond.

I puzzled and schemed without explaining to anyhar what I was considering, until one day I got a missive in my Lordra’s hand:

Tiahaar Kakkahaar,

I require your presence at Fulminir. Leave immediately.

-P

Chapter 15: The Rose Returns

Chapter by Jarad

Chapter Text

TERZIAN

On the day that Lianvis arrived, the sun was shining and the land around Fulminir was lush and green. That long winter had thawed into a belated spring which was abridged by the prompt arrival of early summer. The ivy vines that climbed the walls, bare and black in winter, were verdant again. The merciless heat drew forth the fragrance of sweet grass. Within, the halls of Fulminir retained their cold, metallic smell, but as soon as one opened a window, that dreamy scent crept in.

I was in the Archon’s chambers. For several hours he had made me forget what day it was and whose coming would be celebrated that night. For most of it, I don’t think I had even remembered my name. He’d ordered me to fight him, demanded even that I try with all my might to attack and subdue him, provoked me with insults and slaps until rage had overridden my common sense and I obeyed, struggling passionately to master him. The contest was protracted, tumbling us from the bed to the floor as we grappled, sweat coating our straining muscles, teeth bared in identical rictus grins. It was a battle not just of bodies but of wills. I held out for a long time, but of course he won in the end.

Now he was sipping champagne on his balcony. Uncharacteristically out of uniform in deference to the heat, he was dressed in a breezy white linen suit. He looked handsome and at ease as he leaned on the railing, looking down on the procession that passed below.

From where I was, sprawled and still naked on the floor inside, I could hear them but not see them. Lianvis had arrived in style this time, heralded by trumpets, drums and bells. I didn’t even need to look to picture it– the garish Kakkahaar caravan, Lianvis sprawled on a litter borne by comely half-naked hara, surrounded by lilies and roses with gold sandals on his dainty feet. The whore of Babylon, I thought bitterly.

Since returning, I’d had Ponclast all to myself, and I had treasured that time. Yes, there had been reprisals. I had suffered the consequences of my failure many times, but I had grown stronger through the correction. Now that the Kakkahaar had returned, I already felt his attention slipping away from me.

I clenched my fists. My fingernails dug into my palms as I vowed to myself that I would not lose him.

I rose and dressed. I had only my uniform to wear. I felt it would have been better if I’d had a suit to match Ponclast’s– it was strange to not be dressed identically for once. When I was decent, I opened the french doors and prepared to step outside.

At the creak of the hinge he spoke, without even turning his head.

“Go back inside, Terzian.”

So, he did not want me seen with him. It begins, I thought bitterly, and obeyed.

LIANVIS

I arrived side saddle on a white horse, an elegant, gracile, high stepping beast whose long mane I had had my attendants deck with pale pink roses. I wore a gown Ponclast had given me, a confection of gauze and pink silk with further roses, that displayed my shoulders. Accented with ropes of pearls, it set off my revived complexion perfectly. Tethys rode beside me, carrying a parasol over me against the summer sun, as further hara operated elegant feather fans to cool me. Yet more hara scattered rose petals in my path, as if I were one of those divine beings whose feet could not be allowed to touch the floor… as if even the hooves of my horse could not be allowed to touch the ground. It was a show of femininity and a show of force. I was an archon in my own right, wealthy and powerful, but I was not the same kind of archon he was. The pearls were also, of course, a statement of fertility. I would give him sons.

I saw him looking down at me from the balcony and I looked up at him, before quite dramatically casting my gaze down and hiding my face behind a feather fan in a gesture of coquettish modesty.

I wanted him to see that I was myself again, capable of playing the part he needed me to. I was an ally, an asset. I could and would handle myself, even in this den of serpents.

Again came the Varrish children, this time with bouquets of red roses. I hoped that their rich, full-blooded color was Ponclast’s way of acknowledging my renewed vitality. I took them gratefully, and hugged each of the harlings in turn, with all the maternal fondness I could muster. I would be perfect. There would be nothing, nothing anyhar could whisper about.

In the great hall, I greeted the line of hara who had assembled in anticipation of my arrival. Suddenly, the room went quiet and there he was, descending the stairs. My heart stopped at the sight of him. Glorious as always in uniform, he sauntered over to me, slipping an arm about my waist and pulling me in for a passionate kiss, dipping me skillfully as he did so.

A cheer rose from the crowd. I reveled in that cheer. Their approval was second only to his. I let my arms slide around his neck and returned the kiss. I had hungered for him for so long. When we straightened, I gave him my most dazzling smile.

“Tiahaar Varr,” I said, letting as much fondness as I dared colour my voice.

“Tiahaar Kakkahaar,” he said, with a subtle note of irony in his voice, as if to say, ‘you should be calling me Lordra.’

The desire his touch sparked in me from the first moment stunned me yet again. The separation had again allowed me to forget the intensity of Ponclast’s effect on me, and there could have been no more intense reminder than that kiss. I stared up at him for a long moment, letting the startlement and desire mingle in my gaze.

Be prey, I thought, be healthy, lively game, a worthwhile quarry for a hunt.

At the feast, I was again at his left hand. The food was seasonal, and well prepared as always. I hardly noticed it.

“To Tiahaar Lianvis’s health!” toasted Ponclast. Everyhar drank, though Terzian looked a touch bitter. Let him be bitter. I could respect his role if he respected mine. Of course, he couldn’t, and that was his problem. Terzian didn’t trust soumes, and I was soume.

Only a little while ago I might have thought ‘Terzian saw me as soume,’ but of course, sometimes we become our masks, don’t we?

Perhaps it never really had been a mask. Perhaps I had always been this creature beneath some mask he had torn away.

I made small talk, charming and light. I had had a glimpse of this before, that night at officer’s ball when war had been declared. I had seen the har I would need to be. I just needed to continue to be that har. Nothing would break me this time. I had already done all my breaking. The way Ponclast looked at me though. Nothing compared to that. That made everything worthwhile.

PONCLAST

The archon’s pale, cold lips curved with amusement as Lianvis clung to his side. His expression was indulgent, and almost affectionate, but there was no feeling in his narrowed eyes. The candlelight glistened on his polished leather and the many medals decorating his breast, and made Viss’s hair shine like spun gold. Together they were beautiful and perfectly regal, the epitome of a royal couple.

Terzian gazed upon them with frustrated longing. Ponclast, catching his glance, raised a cup to him in silent, mocking toast. ‘To me,’ the gesture seemed to say. Terzian lowered his eyes, his expression that of a suffering saint.

There was feasting, there was music. There were several long speeches given by various generals. As the night wore on, the speeches gave way to drunken toasts which were almost as lengthy and verbose. Ponclast listened with the same sardonic expression he had worn all evening. Under the table, his fingers slipped between Viss’s legs, and felt through the thin material of his skirt for the gold padlocks. He found them where he had left them. Lianvis blushed charmingly and looked away. Humiliated arousal suited him– the color in his cheeks made him even more radiant.

“If anyhar has unlocked these, I shall know,” Ponclast purred in Viss’s ear. His breath stirred the delicate, invisible hairs on the side of the other har’s neck.

“Nohar has, Lordra,” Lianvis murmured back. “I swear it.”

Terzian, seated on the archon’s other side, caught most of this exchange. He stared ahead tight-lipped and pale-faced, pretending to be absorbed in the performance of the military orchestra.

Ponclast ignored him completely. His gloved fingers continued to toy with the locks beneath the table. Imagine if I stood you up and stripped you naked before all these hara, he said silently to Lianvis. Imagine them seeing you for what you are.

Lianvis swept his eyes down demurely. I would be proud, Lordra. There is no greater honor than to be yours.

Ponclast laughed aloud, a deep, throaty, filthy chuckle that made other hara glance their way. He stood, pulling Lianvis up with him. “You must excuse us,” he said to the others at the table.

All the generals guffawed knowingly, with the exception of Terzian, who still sat staring straight ahead, and appeared to be gnawing on one of his thumbnails.

Without further ado, Ponclast grasped Lianvis by his upper arm and dragged him from the banquet hall. He did not hustle him into an elevator, but instead pulled him outside, into Fulminir’s gardens. The moon was high and bright, stained red by the smoke and fires of the nearby factories. Beneath its sinister glow, the manicured garden looked surreal.

Ponclast tugged Lianvis through the garden’s mazelike paths, past statuary and burbling fountains and monumental sundials, past enormous topiaries trimmed into silhouettes of soldiers and innumerable artfully overgrown arbors. If the archon had a destination in mind, it was not clear. Lianvis glanced wildly around him as he was dragged along, already hopelessly lost. Ponclast laughed softly at his confusion.

Finally, they reached a circular stone patio surrounded on all sides by tall rose bushes. In its center was a wide marble bench, a sacrificial slab beneath the silvery moonlight. Ponclast cast Lianvis down upon it, and mounted him.

“It began in a place like this, didn’t it, Viss?” He asked, inches from his face. “One summer night, in a garden.”

Beneath him, Lianvis squirmed against the bench, twisting lasciviously in his tight grip.

LIANVIS

He had me breathless already, and of course the memory had come up. I remembered the gardens of Forever, that idyllic landscape outside of time, so unlike this place with the industrial glow in the distance turning the place unnatural, a stage set, a dream. The scent of the flowers hung heavy in the air. No har but he could stir me to such heights of passion. The air was warm, and I wanted to wrap my arms around him, but he had me pinned in place, his grip on me preventing me from getting a hold on him.

I looked at him. His pupils were blown with desire and the night. Lips parting, I nodded.

“Yes, Lordra,” I breathed, the weight of him familiar and utterly desired, but of course, he didn’t want my desire, not that way at least. My eager adoration, wanton and willing for him, would not please him, and so I tugged at his grip and struggled, though he and I both knew well my struggles were less for freedom and more a plea for him to continue.

The knot of desire in me tightened, hot with friction and frustration and the way the little locks clicked against one another when I moved.

I wanted to beg as he took his time reaching under my skirts. Had I changed so much since that night just less than a year past? I remembered that har, in his Kakkahaar robes, already caught, caught from the moment he had seen those familiar gray eyes. Was I more trapped now or freer? I couldn’t tell, it didn’t matter as his lips met mine, and that same electricity thrilled through me.

My eyes fluttered shut. No, no other har could compare to him.

I arched. He tore the delicate scrap of silk and lace I wore beneath the gown off in a single movement. When he ignored the locks and tugged off a leather glove, I knew what was coming, and let out a whine of frustration. My ‘lam ached with need, the jewels were slick with yaloe and he didn’t touch it. Instead he his fingers into my mouth and ordered me to suck. I knew what came next and so I obeyed, whimpering in frustration as I prepared for what was to come.

“Good cunt,” he purred. I pouted as much as I could around his digits. If he was going to use that word, he could at least have the decency to touch it, but of course, he wasn’t going to. Instead he slid a finger into my other hole. I was grateful I had prepared for this eventuality. I had begun to learn how his mind worked.

I felt my empty lam clench, desperate for contact, as the digit worked itself inside me.

He laughed.

TERZIAN

What possessed me to follow them, I do not know. Maybe it was sheer masochism. Or maybe it was that taunting look Ponclast shot my way as they left the banquet hall. That was the secret soume in him: vain, manipulative, and insistent on being desired. Fucking pricktease. I followed.

I trailed them through the garden, staying out of sight. I didn’t need to have eyes on them, I could easily follow the miasma of lust they left in their wake. As they proceeded I realized where they were going, and bitterness filled my heart. It was not a place where anything had happened to me, oh no– merely a place I had dreamed of. I was not for rose-garden trysts. That privilege was for his soume.

As I drew near, I squatted low behind the bushes and peered through. There they were– both still mostly clothed. Lianvis was on his back with his diaphanous skirt flipped up over his face. Every time he gasped, the sheer material over his mouth puckered in. It looked like the maw of a hungry ghost. Ponclast straddled the bench, one boot planted firmly on each side. He was working his fingers in and out of Lianvis’s back door. I could see the gold jewelry glittering in the moonlight, three padlocks to protect his most prized possession, and my stomach lurched with jealousy.

He’d threatened, once, to do that to me. I would’ve hated it, of course. Physically, the lust and frustration would’ve been constant torture. I did not envy Viss’s fate. But the fact that Ponclast had done to him what he’d spoken of doing to me… that was like a spear through my heart. Were we so interchangeable to him, mere canvasses for his fantasies?

As I watched, he flipped Lianvis over, pulling up his hips, and plunged into him from behind. The soume shrieked with pain and ecstasy, and clawed at the marble bench beneath him. Ponclast held him firmly and fucked him steadily, silent save for his heavy breaths. He was magnificent, ouana-rampant, his spine straight, his strong arms and powerful thighs flexing as he thrust, making the gleam of the moonlight undulate on his leather.

I craved him. I needed him. I wanted to crawl out of the bushes on my hands and knees and beg him to use me instead, or at least, to let me suck him clean when he was done with his whore. But I could not do that. Surely that was the weakness he had spoken of, that thing he hated in me.

I must be strong. He had told me how to become stronger. I would do as he had instructed.

I tore my eyes from the unfolding spectacle and quietly crawled back through the bushes to the path. Once safely out of sight, I straightened up and brushed myself off. I would not debase myself by stealthily finding release in the dirt beneath the briars. I would go and find a victim. The dungeons were well-supplied with doomed souls. I would eat somehar alive.

PONCLAST

Lianvis writhed in pain beneath him, panting and begging and trying to crawl away, but Ponclast’s hold on his hips was tight, his intent inexorable. The struggling hole was hot and tight and perfect. As that delicate ring of muscle spasmed in agony, it seemed to suck at his shaft like a hungry mouth. Beneath the abused orifice, three golden locks sealed the ‘lam petals tight. Glistening yaloe seeped out between them and smudged the shining metal.

“I can lock up your cunt but I can’t lock up your fucking smell,” Ponclast said, with a scornful laugh.

He slid a gloved finger into the space between two of the locks. It was too tight to allow any substantial penetration, just the most maddening tease. Lianvis moaned and his eyes rolled back.

Ponclast grabbed the back of Viss’s hair and roughly shook it loose of its coiffure, so it fell free in a golden cascade. He wrapped it around and around his hand, pulling Viss’s neck back into an arch. Lianvis yelped, and clawed ineffectually at Ponclast’s hand, struggling to free himself from the painful tugging at his scalp. Ponclast clapped his other hand over Viss’s mouth to stifle his scream, and continued to thrust within him, pumping slow but deep.

~~I want to fuck you, so deep it hurts.~~

Viss’s resistance seemed sincere. It had never been difficult to overwhelm him with sodomy. His rectum simply couldn’t take the same kind of punishment his ‘lam could withstand. But desire made Lianvis weak, while Ponclast’s lust made him strong.

“I’m going to tear you,” the archon growled in his ear. “I’m going to make you bleed.”

The locks clicked together with every thrust. Viss’s body was trembling like the white roses shaking in the breeze. Perhaps Ponclast subconsciously noticed the similarity, perhaps this was what suggested his course of action. He closed his eyes, which shuddered delicately beneath his lids as if he were dreaming.

“Come to me,” he softly chanted, between his panting breaths.

The rose vines twitched and began to lengthen, reaching slowly out towards them, sprouting new growth as they extended. Viss’s eyes widened and he made a muffled sound of terror and arousal into Ponclast’s hand. The growth accelerated abruptly, new thorns sprouting rapidly along the lengthening stems, roses budding and blooming in an instant as they snaked toward Lianvis.

“Bind him,” Ponclast commanded. “Bind him fast.”

He shoved Viss away from him and pushed him down onto the bench just in time. A riot of rose vines crawled over Viss, wrapping around his wrists as he stretched out his hands to catch his fall, whipping around his waist, encircling his thighs to spread them wider. Lianvis screamed as thorns tore at his dress and bit into his flesh, and a rope of brambles wrapped around his neck and lashed across his open mouth, interposing itself between lips and teeth like a cruel bit. Viss whimpered helplessly as more vines still criss-crossed his back and shoulders, firmly imprisoning him. Brambles tangled in his hair, yanking at it and scratching his scalp and the back of his neck.

Ponclast drew a deep breath. His eyes shone with lust and exhilaration. The thorns would pose little problem for him, since he was mostly still in his leather. He lowered himself onto the helpless body, his weight causing thorns to bite deeper, and shoved his ‘lim inside once more.

LIANVIS

I screamed helplessly as thorns bit into my vulnerable flesh, tearing at my gown. If I struggled the barbs merely cut deeper into me, so I was still. For a moment I thought he meant to leave me there, an object for anyhar to find, to use. My mouth was bleeding, barbs holding my tongue like a scold’s bridle. I knew I must be a beautiful sight. The heady perfume of blood and roses filled the air around me as I lay there bound for him, and then he was inside me again. It was agony as he took me, every thrust scratching me further, tearing me more. The sensation overwhelmed me. I knew I was weeping, hot tears spilling over my face. Did they glisten like dew drops in the moonlight? Did my blood gleam like rubies?

He used me hard, every thrust making my empty ‘lam ache with desire. I wanted to hold him, to touch him, I wanted him out of those leathers and warm and alive against me, but a consummate torturer as always he kept me at arms length. He knew how I burned for him.

Please, Lordra, I reached out with my mind, my back forced into an extreme arch by the rose vines twining through my hair. I was at his mercy, getting closer and closer to a brutal climax and afterwards? I didn’t want to think of afterwards.

Lordra, please, I begged. What did I want?

He ignored me, pounding without mercy until finally something inside me broke. I shuddered helplessly as I yaloe dripped down my thighs, and I heard his mocking laugh.

“Of course you like this, slut,” he purred. Despite the spasms wracking my body, still my ‘lam ached for contact. I panted like a bitch in heat. I wanted to look at him, wanted to meet his gaze, but my thorny bindings held me fast.

PONCLAST

He took his time about his climax. Lianvis’s bowels clenching around him had driven him to the edge, but he held off, intent on prolonging his pleasure and his victim’s suffering. Viss was mostly hidden by now in the mass of briars that had grown over him, only his shapely haunches fully exposed. His face was almost completely eclipsed by full-blown white roses. The moonlight made the scene even more surreal, like something from one of the nightmares that passed for Ponclast’s fantasies. This was not reality as he had known it and disdained it– this was reality fully bent to his will.

He savored it, with eyes gently closed, tongue flicking out periodically to lick his lips. There was something peaceful about his expression. His breath, though heavy, grew slow, his thrusts more languorous. He appeared completely lost in rapture, absorbed in the fever dream he had brought to life.

~~Do you finally feel safe?~~

Whatever smothered voices from the past whispered to him, he ignored them, completely absorbed in the warmth and darkness of the hole he plundered.

His hand crept behind his back, slid almost shyly down his trousers. Two gloved fingers delicately probed, and found their marks– a digit for each hole. He clenched his teeth against a gasp. Lianvis could not see what he was doing, could not feel it. His remaining fingers uncurled and also slid into his wetness. He pushed back against them, then forward into Viss, rocking slowly. His eyes had opened, and stared blankly up at the moon as if hypnotized.

With a shudder and a sound almost like a sob, he poured himself into Lianvis, squeezing his own fingers desperately as he came. The ravenous snapping of his holes astounded him, shocked him from his trance. He quickly withdrew his hand and flung the sodden, incriminating glove off into the bushes.

He straightened up, zipping his fly, and stood still for a moment. His face and neck were glazed with sweat, his eyes wild and unfocused. Then he drew out his dagger and began hacking at the vines that bound Lianvis. They recoiled as if in pain as he sliced through them, retreating quickly back to twine themselves onto their trellises. Freeing Lianvis took some time– it was practically an excavation. Each briar that came loose left behind angry scratches and weeping gouges. When Viss was finally free to sit up, he was able to take on the most daunting chore of all– that of disentangling the shorn vines from his hair. Ponclast left the shell-shocked, trembling har to handle this mostly by himself. He was occupied in the much more pressing task of lighting and smoking a cigar.

“Best fuck I’ve had in months,” he said lightly. “Try to get yourself presentable before we return to Fulminir.”

LIANVIS

I had been terrified he’d cut my hair as he hacked at the vines, but he hadn’t. Still, removing the tangle of thorns was quite a challenge. Thankfully I had certain abilities, and my time in the desert had given me my strength back. I focused on healing and mending, detangling, and rearranging myself. I would not return a bedraggled ghost, even if I still felt like one. I used the energy of my sexual frustration to put myself back together. I left my hair loose to tumble down my back, magicking the complex coiffure back together was simply too taxing for the moment.

“How do I look, Lordra?” I asked as I cast off the final vine.

“Lovely,” he said, barely glancing at me. “Come on.”

Off we went, back to Fulminir, me hurrying after him in my impractical footwear until I could catch up and cling to his arm.

I leaned on him as we went. I needed to, to maintain my balance. Something had happened. I didn’t fully understand it, but something about what we had just done had disturbed him, and as we wound in a rush along garden paths, I didn’t quite understand what.

Of course, I couldn’t ask about it. To notice that something had shaken him would be to break a key part of the contract.

TERZIAN

The bound body writhed beneath me, thrashing against the concrete floor. The face was a pulp already, beaten, clawed and bitten. I had blood under my nails and harrish flesh stuck between my teeth. The orifice I violated had not been god-given, nor produced by inception, but had been made with my knife.

Is this working? Am I getting stronger?

My victim had stopped screaming. His voice had given out. Now he wheezed pathetically in his agony. Not a he. An it, I told myself, and yanked on an arm until it popped from the shoulder socket. The sickening sound jarred me, shocked me into orgasm. I buried my teeth in the thing’s throat as I came, sawing through the jugular. Gouts of blood coated my face, more than I had expected, getting in my eyes and my nose. I choked on it, inhaling by accident, and rolled off onto the floor.

I curled up on my side, panting, nauseous, feeling both exhilarated and empty. The thing was dead, I lived. It had gone through a transformation, I remained the same. Perhaps that was the power of this, to not change. To still be here, and myself.

I wanted to be anything but here, and myself.

Chapter 16: Raw Wounds

Chapter Text

PONCLAST

He escorted Lianvis back to Fulminir. As they approached the building, Lianvis grew increasingly visibly nervous, smoothing his hair and tugging fretfully at his ripped gown. He had cleaned up the best he could, but there had of course been limitations. To look properly presentable he would need a bath and a change of clothes.

“Ashamed to be seen as you are?” Ponclast asked, his voice softly sardonic.

Lianvis swallowed. “A little worried what hara will think, Lordra.”

Ponclast snorted delicately. “They’ll think nothing at all, if they know what’s good for them, and they’ll say even less. But if you’re so concerned, use your magic to repel their notice. I do it all the time.”

“Of course, Lordra,” Lianvis murmured. He closed his eyes momentarily in concentration, and the air around him seemed to subtly shimmer.

As they entered the tower, hara saluted Ponclast, but seemed to pay no attention to Lianvis trailing along behind him, or even to the drips of aren he left on the floor in his wake. The spell had no effect on Ponclast– he paid as much or as little attention to Viss as he might in any case, striding along ahead, absorbed in his thoughts.

When they reached the elevator, Ponclast selected the button for the third floor, not the second. Lianvis, battered and bedraggled, looked askance at him.

“Lordra,” he began timidly, “I had hoped we might retire, and rest.”

Ponclast smirked coldly, his eyes on his own reflection in the mirrored wall. “And you shall, Lianvis,” he said cryptically.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, revealing another checkerboard hall. The doors lining it also looked identical to the floor downstairs. Only by paying close attention to the paintings and statuary would one realize that this wasn’t the corridor outside Ponclast’s rooms. Beside the double doors opposite them was a reproduction of the Venus de Milo, perfectly done, tacky in its very exactitude. It diverged from the original only in its obvious newness, and by lacking breasts as well as arms.

“Here we are,” Ponclast announced, stepping from the elevator. Dazed, Lianvis followed him.

The archon swung the doors open to reveal a cloyingly feminine parlor. In size and layout it was quite similar to Ponclast’s sitting room, which must have been directly below them. Aside from that, it could not have been more different.

The drapes were velvet of dusty rose pink, the Persian carpet on the floor was predominated by a similar color. The furniture was covered in pink brocade of a slightly deeper shade– couches and chaises and loveseats and armchairs and poufs, all matching. Every painting on the wall was of flowers, each set in an ornate gold frame, not square or rectangular but oval or round. In fact, there didn’t seem to be a single hard angle or straight line in the place, everything was scrollwork and curves. Neither was the decor as spare as in the room below– in fact, it was positively cluttered, a maze of seating and coffee-tables, every surface swarmed with porcelain nicknacks and floral arrangements. The lampshades all had lace or fringe or beadwork or all of these at once. A familiar gold baroque vanity stood opposite the fireplace.

“Welcome to your home, Viss,” Ponclast said, shutting the door behind them.

LIANVIS

At least it wasn’t yellow. Pink had its own shades of meaning, of course, but that mattered far less than the barred windows, and the worst fact of all, the fact that these rooms were not his. We had shared a bed when we were together ever since the desert. No! We had shared a bed my last night at Forever as well, and the night before that. It had been his idea! Not even something I had prompted, though I’m sure he knew I took pleasure in it. All that time I had shared his bed, slept beside him… and now I had my own suite.

I had to be careful. The shifting sands of his favour were more treacherous than those of my desert.

“Lordra,” I said softly, turning my gaze up towards him, beseechingly, “these are extraordinarily beautiful rooms, and I’m sure I will take great pleasure in using them, but…” I put a little catch in my voice and turned my gaze down, “I hope I shall be allowed to share your bed… at least for tonight.”

I didn’t mind the pink. It was the right shade for my complexion, the kind that would set me off like a jewel. Nothing to wash me out or compete with me, a suitable frame, but even if his rooms did not flatter my colouring so well, they suited me much better in terms of temperament. Or at least they brought me closer to him. These rooms were warmer, and even though they were a touch on the… excessive side, my tastes ran to the opulent anyway.

But no, they didn’t smell of him, the scent of roses was not the balm to my soul that the leather and tobacco scent of his rooms was. They were wrong because they were apart. I could dress here, I could bathe here, but the thought of not being there when he returned to his suite after a long day tore at my heart.

He looked at me.

“Perhaps later, my rose, but not tonight,” he said.

‘Who will be sharing it then?’ came that vicious little inner voice. I silenced it. If I started in with that, he’d be done with me in a heartbeat, but I wanted to scream and sob and throw vases. Was it Terzian? Triumphant after my humiliation? Ponclast hadn’t even touched my ‘lam. I held myself together. It would not do to be unpleasant, especially not after such a luxurious gift. No matter how little I wanted it.

“Of course, Lordra,” I said, keeping my eyes down, and letting perhaps the tiniest note of pretty disappointment colour my voice, “I’ll… freshen up then.”

I was going to cry. I did not want him to see me cry. These were not the kind of tears he would have relished. They would have been annoying to him. They would have made him question my ability to tolerate Fulminir. We could not have that. I would be strong until I was alone… or at least with some hara I could trust.

“I will-- have the same attendants I hope, I have brought a few of my own hara this time, but if Glory and Veta could be brought to serve me again, I would be obliged, they are-- more in touch with Varrish fashions, Lordra,” I said, trying not to choke on the last word and making an effort to distract myself with practicalities from the horror of a night yawning before me without him there beside me, yawning with the hours of visions of him choosing somehar else to bring to bed.

‘ I should have brought Ilasi with me, that would have given him pause about putting me in here,’ I thought spitefully, but took care that he did not overhear.

Of course, really it made sense, didn’t it? Everything was always going to be on precisely his terms, and I had to make the best of it. If he didn’t want me in his chambers, he wouldn’t have me. He wouldn’t keep me if I insisted.

He seemed distracted.

‘ Probably by Terzian’ came that bitter little voice again. But… no, it could be worse than that. It could be that some other soume har had supplanted me while I’d been gone. After all, he couldn’t spend the night with Terzian. And really Terzian wasn’t actually going to be a problem for me, he couldn’t take him away from me, he could never be his consort, and even behind closed doors, their affair could never be… like what we had, but another soume… I’d ask Glory and Veta. I’d send Tethys to spy for me. I would find out. I’d do anything, anything I had to do to keep him safe, and keep him mine.

I didn’t trust any other har with him. None of them cared the way I did. They couldn’t care the way I did, because they weren’t here by choice, none of them were. I was the one har who could love him the way I did.

It was so funny that it was me the Gelaming had chosen to contact out of everyhar. They had chosen precisely wrong. It was a good feeling, knowing that misstep of theirs. I clung to it, even as reports of their power sent shivers down my spine. That miscalculation meant they could be beaten, would be beaten if I had any say in it.

“Yes, of course,” he said carelessly, leaning down for a kiss that melted me before he left. My suspicions melted in its heat. I couldn’t think such things when I couldn’t think at all.

PONCLAST

He returned to his chambers with a measured step, not hurrying, his expression as cool as ever. Only when the doors closed behind him did he let the mask drop. He stood still, leaning against the double doors, his palms pressed back against them as if to be sure they were tightly sealed, and let out a long, shuddering breath. The exhalation did not relax him; instead his shoulders tightened, inching towards his ears. He was clearly in the grip of some powerful and unpleasant emotion– horror, or disgust perhaps, or even shame– but his expression remained eerily blank. His eyes were distant and unfocused as he stayed there, rooted to the spot, motionless save for the violent shivering that gripped him.

He remained that way for an unnaturally long time. Had there been an observer, they would’ve been shocked to see it. He did not seem like a living har so much as a ghost, caught eternally relieving the moment of his own demise, completely unaware of the world that went on around him.

The minute hand ticked around the clock a full five times before he moved again. He started jerkily away from the door, and with similarly abrupt, choppy motions, headed into his bedroom. The vacant look had not completely left his eyes. Before the full-length mirror, he staggered once more to an abrupt halt. He stared at it for a few moments– not into it so much as through it, seeing not his reflection so much as the secret room that lay beyond.

At length, his fingers found the hidden latch, and with a gentle push, the portal swung open.

Beyond the mirror was blinding, antiseptic white, interrupted here and there by the cold gleam of surgical steel. A shape lay on a table, shrouded in a pale drape.

Ponclast stepped towards it, pulling the door closed behind him.

The mirror’s gold frame settled flush against the wall. Once more, it revealed nothing but the dim reflection of the empty chamber.

From behind it came the screams.

LIANVIS

In my new chambers, I awaited my attendants. My bags had already been brought up, and a tug on a bellpull had brought some nondescript serving har with tea from Ponclast’s kitchen. There was a connecting stairwell then. How thoughtful. It made me feel better somehow. This was a consort’s suite, not just another addition to the soume’s wing.

Glory and Veta arrived shortly thereafter. They looked well, much the same as they always had, though now their attire was more costly than it had been when I had first met them. A reward, I supposed for good service. I did not know then just how good their service to Ponclast had been, though even when I learned the truth, I could never fault them for it. The cost of honesty would simply have been too great for them.

“Tiahaar Kakkahaar!” exclaimed Vet, running up to embrace me, an embrace which I returned, admittedly perhaps less enthusiastically than would have been truly friendly, but I was not then, nor am I now, a har who is generally hugged.

“Tiahaar,” said Glory more mildly, but the fact that he too seemed genuinely pleased to see me back and recovered touched me somehow.

Really, they both did. It felt like a homecoming. They had been there for all those months I had been away from my tribe, and I felt closer now to them than many of my own hara. After all, they knew far more than my own hara about that which was closest to my heart.

Tethys showed up a little later, having gotten slightly lost, and looking rather ill at ease dressed up as a Varrish soume. He’d only just gotten used to being a Kakkahaar, and now here he was all powdered and laced, genuinely pretty, but somehow giving off the aura of a pantomime dame for all his beauty.

“Tethys, these are Glory and Veta,” I introduced as they brushed through my hair and helped me out of my rather-the-worse-for-wear gown, “Glory and Vet, meet Tethys, who is one of my attendants in Kakkahaar territory.”

He gave a sort of strange approximation of a curtsey before looking at me and making a face.

“Do I have to keep this up even when we’re on our own? I’m not Varr, I’m not even Kakkahaar, and I don’t do so good with pomp and circumstance, y’ know, chief?”

I considered whether it had been wise to bring him along. He was a smart har, and adaptable, but I wondered if I should have thought more about whether he could be pressed into service as the kind of… soume’s-soume servinghar Glory and Vet were so suited to playing.

Vet looked worried. Glory looked amused.

“He is a soume, isn’t he?” asked Vet, big blue eyes anxious.

“He’s Kakkahaar, so by Varrish standards…” I shrugged.

“But he just said--”

“I’m unthrist… or I was, sort of, and before that Uigenna, but I mean I’m not Varr,” he said, and shrugged, “I don’t know… I think I’m just a har really.”

“...Is that… appropriate? I mean him being around while you’re undressing and such?” asked Vet, seeming potentially scandalized.

“His name used to be Gumby?” I said, as if that might help to resolve the issue.

Glory stifled a laugh, while Vet merely looked mystified.

“Why?” asked Vet.

“Why not?” said Tethys.

“It… doesn’t sound very… elegant?” ventured Vet.

“I wasn’t particularly elegant then… frankly I’m still not, though Viss has been trying to fix that,” he said, “and well, okay, I was called Gumby cause of how far I could bend my legs over my head.”

Vet blushed furiously.

“Oh, so he is soume, he just wasn’t… well, a proper soume,” said Vet primly.

Tethys looked at me with a degree of concern. I understood his feelings, and yet, his lack of understanding of the rules of this place, and why they meant what they did to me, placed some barrier between us.

“Not everyone is Varr born and bred, Vet. I’m sure he’ll acclimate,” said Glory, giving Tethys kind smile and a ‘we’re all mad here’ sort of a shrug.

His presence felt strange here. Almost an intrusion into the cozy little dynamic I had developed with the others. I felt for him, and yet part of me wished I hadn’t brought him here. Him seeing me here, in this place, made me self-conscious somehow. I wondered if what was drama to me, seemed farce to him.

That wasn’t fair. He cared about me, more than I deserved. I knew he would never laugh at my suffering, but it still might seem absurd to him. I didn’t want anyone to ask me “What the fuck are you doing, Viss?” because being asked meant examining what I was doing, and not being able to stop. It meant accepting that on top of the gothic high-drama of it all, to some observer my behaviour might seem absurd, and I couldn’t bear to be laughed at even by an imagined observer.

PONCLAST

In the early hours of the morning he moved, silent as a ghost, up the hidden staircase that connected his suite to Lianvis’s. He had slept only a few hours, but for him this was often sufficient, especially when he laid a rail or two of silver ice out on his coffee tray beside the cup, as he had done today. The combination of stimulants had left him energized, but also achingly ouana. The front of his black silk robe was lewdly tented as he ascended. The only light he had was a small oil lamp he carried before him; the shadows it cast on his face made him look like a conspirator, a criminal.

At the top of the stairs, he paused and listened at the door. Sneaking was not required, of course– he was archon, and could come and go as he pleased. Still, it pleased him to have the precise location of his entree to Viss’s chambers remain mysterious. Hearing nothing, he snuffed his light and eased open the door, taking care that the hinges did not creak.

He emerged from the paneling in Lianvis’s bedroom like a specter gliding through the wall. It was dark. He paused to let his eyes adjust. At length he could perceive Lianvis’s unconscious form sprawled on the bed. His limbs were twined in the sheets, as if he had tossed and turned during the night. His long hair was in a sleeping braid, coiled on the pillow like a thick rope of gold.

Ponclast smiled, and stalked towards his prey. He placed his hand over Lianvis’s crotch, and murmured a word. The locks fell open; for him, no key was necessary, because this treasure belonged to him alone. Lianvis murmured and shifted, but did not wake. Still moving with the stealth of an assassin, Ponclast lowered his weight slowly onto the bed, parted his robes to free his erection, and took aim. Then, abandoning furtiveness at last, he thrust his weapon home, grabbing Viss’s braid and wrapping it across his throat like a garotte in the same instant.

Lianvis’s eyes flew open to see the handsome, diabolical face leaning over his. He emitted a startled whimper before the ligature across his neck choked him into silence.

“Be still,” hissed Ponclast.

Lianvis did not struggle. The hot rigid ‘lim flamed within him, filling a space too long left empty, that seemed to have been made for this. To every sword, its sheath. Ponclast’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the braid harder, pushing it down to dig into flesh, determined to leave a bruise. Only when Lianvis’s eyes rolled back in unconsciousness did the archon begin to thrust. He did his business quickly and brutally, paying no attention to finesse this time, bent only on satisfying his animal need. Within mere minutes he had discharged his weapon in Lianvis, pulling it out before the last spasms passed so that spraying aren painted his soume’s thighs. He paused for a moment, drawing a deep breath, and then his deft fingers quickly closed the locks. This procedure left his hand sticky, so he wiped it on Lianvis’s face.

He had vanished through the secret door again before Lianvis, coughing, returned to consciousness.

LIANVIS

I might have believed his visit to be a dream if it weren’t for my aching throat and the stickiness on my face and thighs. I had thought for a moment he might kill me, I had been too weak though to raise a hand to defend myself, and… how could I defend myself against him anyway? I couldn’t. I never had been able to, and so as the darkness took me I surrendered to it, and to him.

I didn’t know where he’d come from. The door had a deadbolt on the inside and I’d warded it well in case of an errant Terzian deciding to make trouble. He must have some secret entrance of his own. The thought was both comforting and anxiety-provoking. It made me feel as if I hadn’t been demoted to a mere hostling, he would not have had the secret entrance come from anywhere but his chambers, after all, surely… perhaps this was where the door behind the mirror had led? I couldn’t be sure. At least my lam had been used and despite my unconsciousness during the act itself, and it had somewhat relieved the constant aching need of said orifice.

Shortly after rising I received a message informing me that my presence was expected at a war council happening that afternoon, and that I should have my attendants make me ready to be seen in the highest echelons of Varrish society.

And so they did, at home I had worn the things I used to wear, the lavish yet comfortable robes. I had felt almost naked in them, the Varrish fashions could be equally drapey but they were cut to show off the figure, close to the body, to make the soume wearing them appealing in a very particular way, whereas Kakkahaar dress was often loose enough that it barely touched much of the skin. I selected a garment I had had made in the interim, it was a throwback to before the world had collapsed. An elegant and well-tailored little skirt suit in a creamy ivory linen/silk blend, worn with a shell pink silk blouse and a strand of pearls, my hair back in a chignon and topped with an elegant little hat. It fit close to the body, displaying the figure, and suggesting costly underthings beneath, but it also had a demure quality, suggesting that appealing as I might be, access was decidedly limited. I’d like to see a Varr call my tribe uncivilized while I was dressed like that. Most of them were old enough to remember that sort of attire, and what it had meant.

I had Veta do my nails to match the blouse, Glory make sure my face was perfect. A touch of perfume and I could have faced down the Aghama himself.

I took the private elevator across the hall and up to meet my Lordra. We could walk in together, after all, it would look right, I thought.

He was as always impeccable, black leathers, cropped hair perfectly neat, tall and elegant.

He looked me up and down, lips quirking in amusement.

“Very pretty,” he said, eyeing my legs. I realized for the first time that if there was one thing one didn’t typically see among Varrish soume types, it was exposed leg… even the shape of legs were concealed beneath robes or loose-fitting trousers. Had I miscalculated? He seemed to approve however, and so on his arm off we went to the war room.

All eyes turned towards us as we sat, side by side at the head of the table. It was pleasing to remember I still had authority here. I was still an archon in my own right, still I was also a guest, and this was Ponclast’s military, not my own, so he took the lead.

“Tiahaara,” he said, giving each har a quick glance of acknowledgement, “with Terzian’s return, we have learned much about the powers of our enemy. The Gelaming are cowardly and underhanded beyond belief, but their occult powers make them dangerous opponents. We will need to bring the full potency of the Varr army to bear to bring about victory.”

TERZIAN

The mood in the war room was grim that morning. Copies of my report had been distributed to the entire general staff in advance, and I could tell by the looks on their faces that all of them had taken plenty of time to peruse it. I recognized the necessity of sharing the intel. I had even agreed with Ponclast that this time, my report should not be for his eyes alone. Still, I experienced it as an excruciating humiliation.

I had seen hundreds if not thousands of battles. Hara are long-lived and ageless; a Varr warrior, if not felled by combat, can continue his military service for a term that would put the most grizzled hume veterans to shame. It had been more than thirty years since the founding of Varr, and I had been there from the beginning. I had walked through blood and fire and carnage and quickly forgotten how to flinch. In all that time, nothing had come as close to breaking me as the Gelaming’s contemptible tricks.

Now I had almost been broken, and every har in the room knew. They looked at me differently. They did not regard me as if their respect had decreased– that would’ve burned me up, but it would’ve been almost preferable to the haunted glances they cast me. Terzian, brave Terzian, had been shaken– and what could that mean? I was poison to morale, a harbinger of defeat.

That I could not bear.

And he was here now, Ponclast’s tramp, the little slut from Oomar who used to run around bare-legged under robes slit to the hip, flashing his tattoos at the whole gauntlet of randy hara who stopped to gawk when he went by. Now he was manicured, perfumed, groomed, dressed like… Princess Diana, or Eva Peron, or someone else who should’ve been equally irrelevant by now. He raised the dead specters of first ladies and queens, ghosts better forgotten.

I clenched my jaw. Was I the only one who saw it? The last thing Ponclast needed was domestication. The archon of Varr must stand alone, atop his pyramid of soldiers and concubines. Lianvis’s presence near the top threw off the symmetry of the entire structure. This wasn’t a wedding cake, to be decorated with a bride and groom. This was a cathedral, with a single steeple, high above the rest, to pierce the heavens…

Ponclast was speaking. I needed to pay attention.

“Bear up, tiahaara. In every setback, there is an opportunity.” He leaned over the table as he spoke, gloved fingers splayed carelessly across a map, his hand spanning rivers and mountain ranges. His beautiful pale lips quirked with dry humor. “We have two opportunities, in fact, as we have had two setbacks. So much the better for us.

“Dion is still embroiled in the fiasco at Mingo, and reports little progress. He has accomplished nothing save for the execution of a few rebels and collaborators. While his ferocity is to be commended, it has yet to return the mines to operation.”

He clenched his fist, settling it decisively against the map. “This is what I feel we should do. Terzian will be deployed to Mingo.”

The protest broke from my lips even before I had processed his words. “Lordra!” The spike of anguish in my voice shamed me. I hadn’t wanted them all to hear that.

Ponclast cast me an amused glance. “Naturally you are concerned about missing your son’s feybraiha. Don’t be, Terzian– you shall have time to attend that first. I, myself, wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

I swallowed my words. He was covering for me, giving me a plausible excuse for my mortifying outburst. I could look like a properly doting Varr father, not like an officer humiliated by a shit assignment.

Creed cleared his throat. “Lordra, if I may interject?”

“You may,” replied the archon coolly.

Creed’s brow furrowed. “Have you considered the message that this sends to the Gelaming, Lordra? To deploy your star general to Mingo will make it appear that the situation with the rebels has gotten well out of control.”

Your star general. That was very gracious of Creed. Usually he would’ve taken care to include himself in that category, even if he deigned to refer to me as such. He was throwing me a bone, trying to salve my pride. I hated that. It felt like pity.

Ponclast smiled tightly, and nodded. “I have considered that, Creed, very carefully. If you will allow me to finish, all will become clear.”

Creed inclined his head. “My apologies, lordra.”

Ponclast straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back, and turned his gaze upon Lianvis. “This is where our Kakkahaar allies come in. While our attention is seemingly absorbed in Mingo, a band of carefully selected Kakkahaar will appear to defect to the Gelaming.” His smile widened, until he was beaming paternalistically down at the soume by his side. “You will recall, tiahaara, that while our troops have as yet been unable to reach the Gelaming camp, defectors have never seemed to have that problem. A Varr army cannot hide its hostile intentions; a group of Kakkahar adepts could probably veil theirs. Better yet, they will be capable of relaying intel psychically, over a great distance.”

A murmur went up from around the table. I was in perfect sympathy with it, though I stayed silent. I was, quite frankly, speechless with horror.

Ponclast continued, unphased. “The Gelaming will believe us to be mired in internal conflict, and will perceive our allies beginning to desert us. Meanwhile, our Kakkahaar infiltrators will be able to inform us of their vulnerabilities.” He lifted his chin. “In our moment of seeming weakness, we will be most strong. There is a strong chance that our apparent disadvantage may even draw the Gelaming out and provoke a direct attack. All the worse for them; while all the rest of this is going on, General Creed, Tiahaar Lianvis, and myself will be devoting our energies to strengthening Fulminir.” He let out a small, exhilarated laugh. “I for one would love to see them try it. I guarantee that in open warfare, they will break against us.”

LIANVIS

I saw the mood in the room, the tension in the faces of the generals. I stood, and gave a courteous nod to the company.

“Tiahaara, Lordra,” I said, giving Ponclast my best adoring smile as I used the title that I normally reserved for behind closed doors. Let them see me as a fool in love with him. Let them see me as loyal to Varr as any of its native-born sons. Let them see me as the perfect consort.

“Your tactical genius is, as always, unmatched,” I purred, “Given our reputation as occultists, the Gelaming will be more than likely to view us not simply as refugees but as useful allies, which will give us far greater access to the working of their defenses. I can see that some of you may have remaining doubts as to where our loyalties lie, and I wish to assure you that we love our land, as Varrs love theirs, and we have no wish to allow Gelaming conquerors to dictate how we conduct our affairs, to force us to break with the traditions of our tribe. We are like Varr in that what the Gelaming call barbarism, we call Patriotism. And we shall do all in our power, to aid you in showing them what a har who does not faint at the sight of blood can do.”

Creed took the lead in applauding when I had finished my little speech, Terzian managed to clap sarcastically, but I didn’t care, because all the others seemed delighted with me. I was proud of myself. The plan had taken me by surprise, but I had improvised and, I think, improvised well.

Once the applause had died down, I turned demurely to Ponclast. “It should be simple enough to send my hara through, and keep the operation under wraps, Varr patrols don’t need to be informed of the plan as we have free movement through Varrish territory and if it becomes a worry as they come to the contested territory, well we’ve always had a knack for blending into the landscape.”

Again that paternalistic smile, as if I were a pet that had learned a particularly clever trick, a party piece to be performed in front of company, and perhaps I was, but if it allowed me to aid him even slightly, I didn’t care. It was especially wise as it kept the newfound Varrish occult abilities as a secret weapon, unknown to our adversaries. They didn’t need to know what secrets we had shared, or what the Varrs had managed to develop on their own.

And of course, knowing what the Gelaming believed I was, the plan was even better than Ponclast realized. Sending my hara into the Gelaming camp, they could spread disinformation and they’d be trusted. Spin whatever tale needed telling to lure our enemies into a vulnerable position, and do it so subtly that the Gelaming would never know it had been a lie.

Yes, this would work. I had said my piece and I sat down, looking up at the dark figure beside me to hear more about his plans. For they were his. He was the de facto military leader for both our tribes now, even if we still acted independently, the grand strategy was his to decide, not mine.

It was probably for the best. We Kakkahaar had always been a small tribe, a magical few. Large scale warfare was not in our wheelhouse. We relied on our wealth, and the inhospitality of our homeland to avoid such things, when we raided other tribes we had border skirmishes where we made off with hara and horses. We had never been much for pitched battle.

When he’d finished Ponclast settled back into his seat beside me, a leather gloved hand on my thigh, pushing up my skirt as he listened to his generals argue and ask questions. I let him play with me, it was comforting in a way, his touch, even under Terzian’s hostile gaze. He never touched Terzian like this in front of me, it was always the other way around, my presence flaunted in his face.

PONCLAST

The meeting wrapped up more or less efficiently. The archon seemed satisfied as he rose from the negotiating table, a small smile playing about his lips. He made eye-contact with Vashti and snapped his fingers at him, summoning him to his side.

“Escort Tiahaar Lianvis back to his rooms,” he instructed, “and review his schedule with him.” He glanced at Viss, who was clinging to his arm. “You have quite the social itinerary.”

Lianvis drew closer to him and looked coyly up under his eyelashes, gently biting his lip. “When may I attend you, Lordra?”

Ponclast’s lips thinned, as if he were irritated by Viss’s clinginess. “This evening. I have quite the itinerary myself.”

With a certain brusqueness, he detached the soume from his arm and handed him off to Vashti. Looking up towards the door, he saw Terzian staring at him with slavish hunger, and his lips thinned more. Ignoring him, he strode past and exited the war room.

His iron-shod footsteps took him back to his chambers. Pausing before the door, he glanced at his wristwatch, then entered.

Gahrazel was inside, seated in one of the chairs by the fireplace, which was flameless in deference to the summer heat. As he father entered, he rose and came to attention, his fist pressed to his heart in salute, his eyes staring straight ahead. His gaze was as cold and empty as the hearth.

“You’re punctual, for a change,” Ponclast remarked.

“Yes, father,” said Gahrazel. In his mouth, the word sounded as formal and deferential as ‘Lordra.’

“At ease,” Ponclast intoned.

Gahrazel relaxed his stance into a parade rest. Ponclast gestured to the chair behind him, and he resumed his seat. Ponclast sat down opposite him. He picked up a bottle from the coffee table.

“Drink?” he asked.

Gahrazel nodded. Ponclast poured two fingers of the liquid into each of two crystal tumblers, and pushed one towards his son. Gahrazel knocked it back swiftly, with all the soldierly panache one might wish to see in a young ouana Varr. Ponclast studied him, not touching his own drink.

“I surmise Terzian has been giving you trouble,” he said at last.

Gahrazel paled. “No, father,” he murmured.

It was a weak and unconvincing denial. Ponclast ignored it. “This is a normal experience that many young Varrish warriors have with their commanding officers,” he said, continuing as if Gahrazel had not spoken. “It’s an institution, a rite of passage, almost an unofficial part of the training.” He picked up his tumbler, and raised an eyebrow at his son. “But that is not to say you’re meant to simply take it. Terzian is mine, and you are my heir. He belongs to you by birthright. Understand?”

Gahrazel was silent. His body had grown stiff and tense in the chair as he listened. His gaze rested on the toes of his boots.

Ponclast clicked his tongue and sipped his whiskey. His tone was gently chiding, as if he were explaining something very simple to a child. “The next time he tries it, get on top. Show him whose son you are. It shouldn’t be difficult. He won’t fight hard. He likes it better that way. Good?”

He paused, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement of his words. Gahrazel managed a weak nod, but could not lift his eyes.

Ponclast knocked back the rest of his whiskey. “Good,” he said, as if everything was settled. “You may go now; I have work to do.”

Gaharazel rose jerkily, and managed a shaky salute. He left very quietly, his footsteps soft, and closed the door noiselessly behind him.

Ponclast stared into the empty fireplace. His face twitched, a spasm that pulled it from its cool equilibrium and settled it into something miserable and ugly. He hurled his tumbler onto the stones of the hearth, where it shattered.

“That stupid cunt,” he snarled. Whether he was speaking of Terzian, Gahrazel or somehar else entirely was ambiguous. After a moment, he rose and rang the bell for a servinghar to clear away the broken glass. He didn’t wait for them, but went into the bathroom instead. It was not so easy to stay fresh all day under Varr leathers in summer, and he desperately needed a shower. As he stripped out of his uniform, his skin clung to it with its sheen of sweat.

About to step into the shower, he glanced down at himself. A trickle of blood on his inner thigh caught his eye. He froze, his brow creasing. His fingers shook as he reached down to pry apart folds of flesh so he could follow the trail of blood to its inevitable source. The hands that were so savage with other bodies seeming curiously reticent to handle his own. The drip was, indeed, coming from within him. It was not much, less than a teaspoon of blood so far, but steady.

His face had gone dead white. He stayed like that for a few moments, frozen, half-bent over to look at himself. His breath hissed raggedly through his teeth, a noise like a death-rattle. Purple-black light flared at his fingertips and quickly faded, an abortive attempt at self-healing for which he did not have the focus.

He straightened up, threw a robe around himself, and burst out into the sitting room again.

“Get me Azvith,” he hissed at the servant who was sweeping up the hearth.

“What is happening to me, Azvith?”

“I cannot say, lordra. I can see no wound, nor other obvious reason for the bleeding. Presumably this cannot be related to arunic activity…”

“I will have your head on a spike if you imply as much again.”

“Forgive me, lordra.”

A silence.

“You were at Oomar, weren’t you?”

“Yes, lordra.”

“Do you remember me then?”

“I do, lordra.”

A ragged sigh, like the harsh wind that scrapes the branches against Fulminir’s walls and window panes.

“It still gives you trouble at times, lordra?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” The words were bitten out, crisp and curt.

“I see.” Pause. “Has this happened before, lordra?”

“Not for quite some time. More than a decade, in fact.”

“The surgery seems to have been inexpert, as you doubtless are aware, lordra. Normally hara heal perfectly, of course, but sometimes, under very egregious circumstances, even we–”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps during athletics you might have torn something, lordra.”

“Perhaps.” Another sigh. “It comes and goes. There never seems to be much reason.”

“You are under quite a bit of pressure, lordra. It could be stress.”

A laugh, bitter and humorless. “If that were so, I should be bleeding all the time.”

“We still know so little about our bodies, lordra. If you would permit me to look deeper–”

“No.”

This sigh was softer, and came from Azvith. “Of course, Lordra. Forgive me for seeming presumptuous. I have only your best interests at heart.”

“You have only your best interests at heart. That being the case, you’ll speak to nohar of this.”

“Of course, lordra.”

“Just give me what healing you can without being… invasive.”

“Lordra, I realize I take my life in my hands when I say this, but if you would permit me to be invasive, I could do much more. It’s only a medical procedure. I’m confident I could fix the problem permanently.”

“Azvith, I swear I will cut out your tongue.”

“As you wish, lordra.”

A creak as Ponclast leaned back on the leather seat, thighs opening and pelvis tilting forward.

“Get it over with. And then I’ll need more pills, Azvith.”

“The pills won’t stop the bleeding, Lordra.”

“For the stress , then, as you say.” Another harsh laugh. “And at least I won’t bleed from the nose.”

“You make an excellent point, lordra.”

Chapter 17: The Hearts of Heartless Hara

Chapter Text

LIANVIS

Vashti greeted me courteously, and guided me out and back to my suite so I could change. He stayed as I changed into peacock blue silk behind a screen. I could feel his turmoil though he’d gotten better at shielding his mind since we’d last met.

Are you alright? I sent the mind touch, a tendril of connection between us.

His own facility with it was perhaps a touch rusty, but serviceable.

Of course, Tiahaar, just a little weary, there is a new har I selected for Ponclast’s breeding project…

He trailed off, looking away.

What about him?

I don’t know, I can’t stop thinking about him. There’s just something about him, he’s not particularly lovely, not particularly anything really, but there’s… something about him. He’s like a rabbit, scared, but also… I don’t know.

I felt the whirl of his emotions, the pain and unutterable, unthinkable longing. The desire to just be two ordinary hara, so that these emotions breaking through everything he’d so carefully constructed himself to be wouldn’t destroy everything. I doubted whether he would have confided in me but for the fact that he had so few hara he could confide in. He didn’t realize, I think, what it was he felt for this har whose face was so indelibly etched on his heart. It had been inevitable, of course, with his having been raised here, in Varr, clawing his way to the top.

He sounds interesting.

He is… I think.

He was so painfully young. His heart was as open as a wound to me. It bled metaphor all over the soft pink carpets.

It worries you though, I replied. Poor Vashti, little as I liked him after what I’d heard from Glory, I couldn’t help but feel for him then. Not so heartless after all. It’s easy to be heartless until someone comes along and reminds you that it’s been there all along. I’d been like that once, a heartless creature until Jarad had come along. Before him I’d taken aruna as a sport, had followed my fellows in the orgiastic violence that Oomar had been famous for, had built myself up as seductive and vicious. I had wrapped hara around my finger as a game, just for my own amusement. I’d felt so in control and then… there he was, and I realized what a corner I’d painted myself into.

Yes, I know how it could look… and I don’t know, he seems… kind I suppose, the others like him, I don’t want things to go badly for him. I shouldn’t be telling you this. Sashtri says I should just stay away from him, and of course he’s right but… I felt his youth more than ever, Gahrazel’s hostling, and yet barely more than a child himself.

It’s hard to? I replied.

Yes, came his baffled reply, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. There’s nothing special about him, except his fertility.

He’s probably special to somehar… The mention of fertility almost made me flinch. This har, this har would bear Ponclast’s harlings, even if they were modified by Azvith… even if they were like the dream of our son, they would be born, they would live as my son had not.

So? Why should that matter to me?

I don’t know… perhaps if you found something he was suited to better than being a broodmare, Ponclast speaks the language of utility.

Once a har is Ponclast’s, he doesn’t let them go. You know that.

Of course I did, I held it as a tenant of faith. I prayed it would prove true for me, that he would never let me go. Still, it did not bode well for Vashti or his beloved. I had so little influence with him. I would need to think on this. Why did I want to help? Why should Vashti get a happy ending after what he had done to Glory’s chesnari?

Because the har he loved was an innocent, perhaps, and because the ending couldn’t truly be the kind of happy one thinks of. There was no way they could be together. Vashti was Gahrazel’s hostling, and on top of that, his androgyny in Varr meant that his having anything resembling a chesnari simply wouldn’t do. He could be accepted on his own, but a relationship would call too many assumptions about romance between the Varrs into question.

Still, I would not want the har I loved subjected to my lover. I would not want my lover subjected to himself. If I could help this har, Sethra, the name inscribed bold as a neon sign for me on Vashti’s heart, I would.

It would be delicate. I could not let Ponclast think I was jealous, jealousy irritated him when it didn’t arouse him.

If I can help I will, I sent him.

The gratitude in his eyes as I rounded the curtain was an obscenity.

TERZIAN

I spent the next several days in an agony of confusion. I had thought I’d been forgiven for my failure to reach the Gelaming, that he had chastised me to his satisfaction and I was out of the doghouse. Yet I’d been put very publicly back into the doghouse at that meeting, and the name of that doghouse was Mingo. Meanwhile, Lianvis, the soume slut, had somehow usurped my position as Ponclast’s weapon of choice.

I could not understand it. I was given no opportunity to clarify where I stood, for Ponclast barely spoke to me in public and not at all in private for the remainder of the week. Since the only thing that had changed was Lianvis’s arrival, I could only assume that this was his doing. The cunt had turned my Lordra against me.

Hatred was a bitter taste in my mouth, like a constant sourness of vomit at the back of my throat. I went about my duties with as much of my usual zeal as I could muster, though since my tasks primarily had to do with planning my campaign in Mingo, my enthusiasm was very limited.

I didn’t think it showed, but it must have, for on Sunday night I received a curt, unsigned missive from Ponclast.

Your performance has been lackluster. See Azvith about pills.

I cursed him, but made my way to Azvith’s laboratory just the same.

I had never been up there before. Its atmosphere was oppressive, and not merely on account of the clutter. My developing occult sensitivity made me painfully aware of profoundly foreign energies in the room, powers that were not of this plane. The hairs rose on the back of my neck.

Azvith was puttering around with a beaker full of poisonous green fluid. When he saw me, he smirked and put it down.

“Terzian,” he purred, “What a pleasant surprise.”

I did not return the greeting. There was something almost amphibious about Azvith, he was so slimy. I crossed my arms and stood in the middle of the room, looking around at the esoteric bric-a-brac with profound distaste.

“Ponclast told me to see you about pills,” I said.

Azvith smiled slyly. “Ah. You too. Just a moment.”

He went over to a large desk and dug around in the drawers. I stood watching, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. There was something so smug and knowing in that ‘you too.’

“Here,” he said finally, fishing out a little paper packet. I did not approach him to take it, so he rolled his eyes and tossed it to me. I caught it. It was a little heavier than I had expected, and rattled.

“Don’t take them every day,” he said, “If you don’t want to get addicted.”

I examined the packet with foreboding. “What are they?”

He smirked. “Just a stimulant. An energy boost when you need it.” His eyes slid away from mine. “Of course, there can be side effects… erection being the most common, and difficulty sleeping…”

I heaved an exasperated sigh. “It’s silver ice, isn’t it?”

Azvith spread his hands. “It’s derived from silver ice. The chemical formulation is a little bit different… longer lasting, less intense…”

I looked at the packet, back at him, and then at the packet again. I shook my head and put it in my pocket, and left without another word.

This was what he thought I needed? A chemical fix to sharpen me up? I wanted to cry and gnash my teeth. I needed him. I needed a task worth performing, a battle worth fighting. If he wanted wonders, I would perform them. If he’d given me the labors of Hercules I’d have done them in a day. But as long as he gave me mediocre assignments, I would be mediocre. I couldn’t help it. That was my nature.

Once, he had known how to stir my soul. Now, all he gave me was… this.

The packet in my breast pocket weighed heavily against my heart. The worst part was knowing he was on them, too.

LIANVIS

I had tea with Sashtri in his elegantly decorated apartments. The colors were soft and the rooms filled with light, so different from most of the fortress. He poured the tea from a silver pot, a pillaged relic of the human past in all likelihood, into dainty bone china cups. There was fresh fruit from Fulminir’s orchards, warm cakes just out of the oven, every delicacy one could wish for.

“Tiahaar Kakkahaar,” he greeted me, bowing deeply. Servants pulled out my chair, and I sat with him.

“I’m glad to see you well,” he said, eyes appraising, “I had heard you were in ill health after a run in with the Gelaming.”

I nodded politely.

“Yes, there was an-- unfortunate incident,” I agreed, “but I am quite well now, and looking forward to getting to know more of Fulminir society.”

“I’m sure you shall be an asset to it. I heard your speech in the war room today was most inspiring,” he replied.

News traveled fast here, it was to be expected. As with any court, the walls had ears.

“Thank you, tiahaar, you flatter my minor remarks by even calling them a speech,” I replied, bowing my head courteously. I was playing the game, polite small talk, though he was letting me know he knew everything that went on here. I believe he was sizing me up, getting to understand what I was and where my loyalties lay. “What do you think of the plans?”

“Oh! I haven’t the foggiest what they are, it wouldn’t do for me to concern myself with such matters, managing the household is quite enough work for me,” said Sashtri airily. I was unconvinced of course.

“Of course! I’m not entirely sure I fully understood them myself,” I agreed with a laugh, toying with a scone, before tilting my head to the side, and looking at him steadily. “You’re a clever har, can we speak frankly?”

He laughed and tossed his mane of glossy dark hair.

“Yes, thank god, I’m very careful with my choice of staff,” replied Sashtri with a wry smile.

I still didn’t trust him, of course, but it was nice to unbend a little.

“Good, I can tell you know which loyalties are intelligent to have… tell me about what rumors you’ve been hearing? What whispers are there around the court?”

He looked at me, consideringly for a moment.

“I know Ponclast trusts you… or at least keeps you close,” he said slowly, as if he was still deciding how much to reveal.

I nodded.

“We’ve known each other for a long time,” I replied without elaborating on that point before going on quietly, “I’m worried about Vashti, he’s in love with that har… the one he can’t stay away from.”

Sashtri froze for a moment.

“How do you know that?” he demanded, tone sharper than he probably intended.

“He told me, not about being in love, I guessed that, but the rest,” I replied.

Sashtri looked incredulous, and then shook his head.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s always been so sensible, ever since we brought him away from the farm--”

“The farm?” I asked.

“The breeding farms,” he replied simply, and in a flash of mind-touch I understood what Vashti had concealed from me with his tales of school and distant parents. The true horror of the situation. Pearls ripped from hostlings-- I could only think of Herien and Rarn’s harling, the one I had consigned to the desert. Was the fate of these pearls really so different, destined to be incubators or canon fodder? No wonder Vashti had been sensible; he'd been terrified. Acting with all the calculation and ruthlessness of a cornered animal. And now, with his nest just barely feathered, with a little favor, a little influence, his heart was unfreezing and he was realizing just where he’d run to.

Poor little monster. For in the grand scheme of things, he was a little monster. Was he even a cog in a machine? No, he was a ball bearing, something that reduced friction, kept the mechanism running nice and smooth. What else could he be?

“He lied to me about those,” I admitted.

Sashtri looked abashed.

“I shouldn’t have told you.”

“It’s quite alright. I expect our Lordra has failed to explain them to me more as an oversight than as concealment,” I said, laughing as my blood ran cold. Why should it run cold? Did I have such scruples now? I considered that I might indeed be getting soft. Here I was, clutching my pearls over weeping hostlings, and trying to disentangle the fates of star crossed lovers. Who was I? But no, this would be of use, I needed Vashti’s trust and Sashtri’s friendship, they played the game. They knew the secrets of Fulminir, and so I would play my part in this cutthroat’s comedy of manners.

“Can you help? Will you?” he looked at me pleadingly. I was an outsider, a step outside this precarious system. Perhaps I might help because I did not belong to Varr and its ways. Perhaps I had a heart less tainted by fear. I would help, but of course, it was not for principal that I did it, even if some part of my heart did bleed for the poor young fool.

No, I would do all I could for him, because I needed him under my control. His son was heir to Varr, a fact that gave him power. He was close to my beloved. I would not have him again move as close as he had been once, but equally, his proximity made him a valuable asset, and he was so young. It was not simple jealousy that made me long to keep him far from the archon’s bed. He was diamond hard, but like diamond, having been formed under agonizing pressure, diamond brittle, and I would not have the sharp edges of broken things injuring the one I loved, nor did I wish to see him break. Was this compassion? Was it prudence? Perhaps the two align now and then.

“I will do what I can, what did you have in mind?” I asked in my gentlest tone of voice, giving him all the kindness my cat’s eyes could offer.

Sashtri bit his lip, anxiety on his lovely face.

“I am not so close to the great Lordra as you, perhaps you could advise me on what might sway him?”

“Sway him towards what?”

“That is the question isn’t it… their union, of course, is out of the question, so long as they both remain here. Vashti is Ponclast’s and now so is Sethra,” he said, with regret in his voice. “I don’t know what possessed him. He should have thrown the little rabbit back!”

I nodded.

“Selfish and impetuous as befits his age,” I replied.

Sashtri smiled sadly.

“I suppose he always has been, though he was always so methodical I never saw it that way.”

“We have discussed Ponclast’s views on what is his… Vashti mustn’t betray his preference for this har, if Sethra does all he can to be unremarkable, he can be set on some set of duties that will keep him out of Ponclast’s eye, and eventually if Vashti perhaps… moves towards presenting himself as more ouana than soume and Ponclast forgets about Sethra’s existence… there are so many concubines after all, then perhaps some day…” I suggested tentatively. It was treasonous to even think such a thing, but with patience it seemed the only way. There were hara who got lost in Fulminir’s bureaucratic shuffle, weren’t there? To lose this har would save him an ally in Vashti, and Vashti, for all his youth and foolishness, was an asset.

I prayed to Hubisag, my distant dehar, that we might find a way to make it so.

“He can’t stay away from him. It’s like a sickness,” lamented Sashtri.

“He must be made to,” I retorted, “if he wants even a hope of a happy future with this har… drug him, poison him a little if you have to, lock him up.”

Sashtri laughed bitterly.

“He has the ear of the archon more than I, Tiahaar,” he said.

I considered. This was true. If Sashtri were to get caught doing anything, and it didn’t all come out… or worse, if it did . It would spell his doom.

I wished I had Ponclast’s ear the way Terzian feared I did. If it were so, a word to him and all this trouble could be waved away as if by magic.

Magic… Ponclast’s status as an adept could complicate such an intervention, it could be noticed, but if I was subtle, if I was clever. Would he notice some subtle spell woven around Vashti? A binding? Some little charm to aid his self control?

PONCLAST

“Infiltration is the focus of our new strategy,” Ponclast declared. With his gloved hands, he delicately lifted an empty glass retort; he gazed into it as if it might have been a crystal ball before setting it down again. “Given what we have learned from the breeding program so far, these beings could be ideal spies and assassins. Therefore it seems natural to redouble our efforts in this direction.” He gazed fondly down at the harling who stood beside him, and ruffled his hair. “Especially since you are growing up so rapidly,” he added. “I could not be more pleased with you.”

Lavaine grinned up at him. He was an odd looking thing– beautiful, beyond a doubt, but eerie. Everything about him had a grayish-purple cast, from his pale skin to his thick hair. The only contrast came from his pale green eyes, which were luminous and seemed too large for his face. Nohar who saw him could have believed he was less than a year old. He already reached hip-height on the tall Ponclast, and was proportioned like a human child of six or seven. His diction, when he spoke, implied even greater maturity. “Yes, father.”

Ponclast squeezed his little hand. “Keep growing,” he said. “We shall need you soon.” With a final smile at his otherworldly son, he released his fingers and turned his attention back to the adults in the room. “Even if they do mature far more quickly than we could have hoped, it still clearly takes some time. I want to get more started as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, Lordra,” said Azvith. He paused ostentatiously, pursing his lips to telegraph his intention to ask an indelicate question. “So far your only success has been with tiahaar Lianvis… do you intend him to host more of these pearls?”

Ponclast laughed grimly, and shook his head. “Of course not, Azvith. Your concern for your archon is admirable but unnecessary. It was far too much trouble to separate this child from him. We must find other hostlings.” He turned to Vashti with a mocking smile. “That is where your talents come in.”

The cruel curl of his lips, the insinuating tone of his voice, and the way his eyes flicked to Vashti’s belly made the meaning of his words ambiguous. Vashti paled visibly, but managed not to flinch.

Ponclast let the silence stretch forebodingly for a moment, before breaking the tension with a chuckle. “Let’s see what you have for me in the hostling’s wing.”

Vashti’s color returned, but his tension did not entirely ease. “Of course, Lordra,” he said. “I do in fact have some new acquisitions for you to inspect.”

Ponclast clapped his gloved hands together jovially. “Then let us waste no time.”

Taking their leave of Azvith, they proceeded to the hostling’s wing. The atmosphere there seemed a bit less lethargic than usual– the arrival of new hara always brought an infusion of energy, even if it was an energy born of envy, bickering and mistrust. Vashti spoke a few soft words to Nethenya, who promptly disappeared to fetch the newcomers.

While they waited, Ponclast flapped his hand in front of his face to waft away the fumes of the cloying rose incense that pervaded the chambers. He looked around at the hara he owned with an expression of boredom. As usual, there was little here to whet his appetite. The hostlings were as beautiful as ever, as heavily perfumed, as elaborate coiffed and as scantily dressed, but they had no spirits left to break. The archon required fresh blood.

Nethenya returned momentarily with five or six hara in tow. A little interest finally kindled in Ponclast’s gaze. The new hara were as thoroughly scrubbed, scented and made-up as any of the others, but they moved with a certain awkwardness in their glamorous new get-ups. They had not yet settled into their new role. They avoided the archon’s gaze, but stared at him in horrified fascination whenever he looked away. Ponclast smirked coldly. There were things that he could teach them.

“Tell me about these, Vashti,” Ponclast commanded– as if prompting an auctioneer to sell him on his goods.

Vashti began to narrate the names of the hara and the circumstances of their capture. Ponclast, meanwhile, walked between them, tilting up chins and gazing into eyes as if examining livestock. He seemingly paid little attention to the explanation he’d demanded, more focused on pushing aside robes to inspect intimate details of anatomy. They were all reasonably lovely, being har, but with little in particular to set them apart. In fact, oddly, it was the plainest of them all that drew his gaze– a har with soft mousy curls, a rather large adam’s apple, and wide, twitchy brown eyes like a frightened rabbit’s. Everything about him was rabbity, in fact– his strong nose and comparatively weak chin, the tremors of his body, the impression he gave of being ready to run. His fear had a smell. He was, consummately, prey .

“And this?” Ponclast interrupted, running a gloved finger up the shivering har’s cheek. “What on earth is it?” Contempt and amusement dripped from his tone, as if he might be offended by such a lackluster offering, but there was fire in his eyes.

Vashti cleared his throat. “Ah– that one is Sethra, Lordra.” His hands fidgeted at his sides, betraying his nervousness. “I’m not too sure about him,” he confessed. “I picked him based on a first impression. Instinct, I suppose. If my Lordra is not pleased with him, I apologize.”

Ponclast smirked. “Your instincts are generally good, Vashti. That’s why I trust you with this.” He tilted his head consideringly. “There is something about him,” he mused. “More than meets the eye.”

As Ponclast continued to contemplate the har before him, Vashti broke in, as if suddenly remembering. “Oh! Lordra, I believe there is supposed to be one more. Where is he, Nethenya?”

Nethenya crossed his arms, his expression dour. “I was trying to tell you, Vashti. He is currently being disciplined.” He jerked his head towards a door. “We have him on the wall in the main chamber, Lordra, if you would like to see– although perhaps he is not looking his best.”

Ponclast’s attention was diverted. His eyes narrowed, and a bloodthirsty smile came to his lips. “Show me,” he purred.

Nethenya led the way. Vashti trailed behind, digging a handkerchief from his uniform pocket to wipe the sweat from his brow.

The hostling’s main parlor was in one of the corner towers of Fulminir, and was thus circular. The decor here was starker than in the rest of the suite, leaning more towards medievalism. The walls were softened here and there by tapestries, but these were widely spaced, with large iron rings bolted into stonework between them. The function of these was made obvious immediately, for a naked hair was hanging by his hair from one.

His hands were not bound. His hair was so long and the ring so high that his fingers could not reach it to free himself. He gripped at his own scalp in agony, tears streaming down his face. His body was covered in scratch marks and bits of lipstick graffiti– ‘whore,’ ‘cunt’ and similar. Many of the hostlings relished a chance to take out some of their pent-up aggression, even on one of their own.

“Here is his, Lordra,” Nethenya said.

Ponclast halted, his hands clasped behind his back. He stared up at the suffering har, and his lips parted in obvious arousal. “I appreciate your efforts towards maintaining order, Nethenya,” he said. “I assume the other newcomers have been shown this spectacle?”

Nethenya nodded, and managed an insincere smile. “Naturally, Lordra. They found it most instructive.”

Ponclast’s fingers flexed within his gloves. “Bring me a whip,” he commanded.

The har on the wall let out a wail of fear and protest. Vashti nodded, his face a mask, and vanished briefly, returning with the required item. It was a nasty thing, a black leather bullwhip six feet long, more than sufficient to reach the suspended har when gripped in the tall archon’s hands. Ponclast took it from Vashti and cracked it experimentally. The noise echoed around the stone room.

“Would you like us to give you privacy, Lordra?” Nethenya delicately inquired.

Ponclast glanced at his wristwatch. He had just enough time for this in his packed schedule. “Yes,” he answered. “Come back in half an hour. Bring a healer. Have him transported to Azith as soon as he is stable.”

Nethenya nodded. With murmurs of “Lordra,” he and Vashti both withdrew, closing the heavy wooden doors behind them.

Ponclast hefted the whip, smiling coldly up at the har on the wall. He had quieted, his screams of protest reduced to muffled, terrified whimpers. He was a mess– makeup smeared, body bruised, his abused hair a knotted tangle from all his twisting and struggles. Nonetheless, it was clear he was beautiful.

“You don’t understand how simple life is here,” Ponclast said. “Please me, obey the rules, and you will live long.” He paced closer, footsteps resounding in the near empty chamber, as he continued to speak. “Pain is inevitable– the pain of pearl-bearing, the ordeal of submitting to my appetites. But how much pain there is, and how often unendurable, is entirely up to you.” Reaching the har, he ran a gloved hand along his smooth thigh, smiling up at him. “Do you understand?”

“Fuck you,” the har croaked.

Ponclast’s expression did not change. He grabbed the har’s ankle and spun him to face the wall. The captive har shrieked and clutched again at his scalp. Before he had a chance to recover from this fresh pain, Ponclast stepped back and threw the lash. It tore across the hostling’s back and buttocks, leaving a long red gash.

“That’s no way to speak to the father of your harlings,” Ponclast said coolly, and raised the whip again.

LIANVIS

I was in his chambers when he returned from his day’s business, pretty and perfumed, ready with a glass of sheh and a cigar cut to his preference. Objects of pleasure. Objects of desire. Cups and staves, coins and swords. Cigars and glasses of sheh. Soume and ouana.

“Lordra,” I greeted him, deferential in the scraps of nothing I wore for him alone.

“Viss,” he greeted me, taking the glass from my hand and setting it on a side table. He kissed me. Something about the domesticity of it, the way it recalled what had once been our little routine tugged at my heart.

“How was your day, Lordra?” I asked, letting the feeling color my words.

“Pleasant enough,” he replied, sinking into his armchair and beckoning me over to him. He held out the cigar. I lit it. He gestured to his lap and I sat. At six foot one, I am tall even for a har. However, he made me feel tiny. My hands seemed absurdly feminine next to his. A funhouse mirror of hume dimorphism.

Let’s play lords and ladies.

Was it all absurd? Was all this a daydream I’d concocted, and I’d find myself back in that awful little apartment where only half of the windows opened? Or maybe back in Oomar, back before we’d gotten so powerful, before we’d been civilized.

I leant my head on his shoulder.

“Tell me about it?” I asked, looking up at him.

He blew cigar smoke considerately away from my face.

“I consulted with my officers about affairs in Mingo, and saw to some business in the hostlings’ quarters,” he said, as if the subject bored him, “Vashti was eager to show me his latest batch.”

I kept a veil over my thoughts, but still, Vashti’s name… the mention of the quarters… it sent a chill through me. Had that one har, the one whose soft dark eyes haunted Vashti, been among them?

Ponclast looked at me strangely.

“What is it?”

“What is what, Lordra?”

“You tensed when I said Vashti’s name,” he replied.

“Did I?” I said, mind racing to find some suitable explanation for my state.

“Are you jealous, my rose?” he asked, amused.

I froze.

“Of Vashti, Lordra?” I laughed, hoping the lightness of my tone would dispel suspicion..

His eyes sharpened. I felt like a small animal caught in the talons of a bird of prey.

“Why not?” he asked.

“He’s--” he was what? The hostling of Ponclast’s heir? A har who there had been whispers about Ponclast considering for a consort? And yet, I wasn’t jealous of Vashti. How could I be? He didn’t love Ponclast. He wasn’t jealous of me. He wasn’t Terzian. “He’s-- the help ,” I said raising my hands.

“Then what is it?” he said, and then miraculously, blessedly I struck upon it. I cast down my gaze again.

“He bore you a son, Lordra,” I said meekly.

He stared at me silently for a long moment, then blew out a breath, whether of sympathy or exasperation I could not tell. Unexpectedly, he clasped me closer to him. “He bore me a son,” he murmured against my hair, “But you will bear me many sons.”

I buried my face against his shoulder, and of course, it was true as well. I did envy Vashti that, even if he cared little for what would have meant the world to me. But of course, he couldn’t care. Ponclast hadn’t let him care, and that was another reason I could not truly envy him. I would not have my sons torn from me like that. Not as Ponclast’s consort.

Still, this was workable.

“It makes me feel… half a soume, having no sons,” I said, “to be no har’s hostling, and of course, Vashti’s so… ouana, I suppose I must feel a bit… like a sparrow out flown -by a salmon.”

What a ridiculous turn of phrase. Did I really feel that way? A little bit. I hated that, but it was true wasn’t it? Ponclast laughed.

“It seems you’ve taken root in the frigid soil of Fulminir after all,” he said.

“I know--” I shut my eyes and shook my head, “but I mean… this is Varr.”

And it was Varr. Even if I knew he didn’t believe it all himself, he’d made it real for every har around him. Except perhaps Vashti. Curious that he should be the exception, except… suddenly I understood. Vashti was like Jarad. A non-conformist in a way, though he was unlike Jarad in his willingness to play the game, but I saw him from Ponclast’s angle, and then… it made a certain sense. I didn’t want to remind him of himself. I didn’t want to be his reflection, his portrait of a past self. I wanted to be his lover, his companion. I wanted to be the har beside him.

“When in Rome, Viss?” he said with an ironical smile.

“Yes, though of course, there’s also how it looks,” I replied.

He stroked my back, and took me to bed. He did not give me another son that day.

Chapter 18: Ouana Fantasies

Summary:

With apologies to Klaus Theleweit.

Chapter Text

TERZIAN

My Lordra ignored me steadfastly for another solid week. During that time, my resentment gave way to desperation. He had forcibly converted me to pleasures no Varr warrior should ever taste, and then taught me to crave them. I had never realized how hungry my ‘lam could get, not until he awakened it and then deprived it of satisfaction.

Every night, the locked box of forbidden objects that he kept in my room tormented me. There were things in there that I could use to scratch my itch, but only he had the key. Several times I was tempted to try and wrest it open, but I did not dare. I did not even dare to impale myself with my own fingers. I was certain he would be able to tell I had touched what was his without permission, and that such an action would only prolong my exile from his bed.

On the night before we were set to leave for Galhea, I received another unsigned note:

Come to my suite immediately.

I stared at it with hatred in my heart. I had packing to do, and was desperately in need of a good night’s sleep before traveling. I wanted to crumple his note up and throw it in the trash where it belonged. Of course I did not. Of course I went to him.

As I walked through the corridors, I tried to convince myself I was about to give him a piece of my mind. Once I’d had the confidence to stand up to Ponclast. It had not even been so very long ago. We had won Megalitha fighting side by side– he the archon, I his right hand, subordinate in action but at times quite insubordinate in speech. Back then, I believe he had valued my sometimes differing opinion. What had happened to me? What had I become? Ponclast was mighty but even he was not infallible. Was it even in his best interest to keep me on such a tight leash?

Part of me thought that perhaps, a swift punch to the jaw would better serve my illustrious archon.

I came to his door. I knocked. I heard him call “enter” in that same laconic tone he always used. My heart pounding, I went inside.

He was at his ease, lounging in an easy chair with his boots kicked up on an ottoman. The ever-present cigar was in his perpetually gloved hand, and that implacable expression of bored contempt was frozen, as usual, on his face. Ponclast eternal indeed. He never changed.

I came to attention. I saluted.

“At ease,” he intoned.

I relaxed into parade rest, but moved no closer to him. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Lordra?” I asked stiffly.

I was doing a poor job of hiding my resentment. He laughed. “Don’t be a stranger, Terzian.”

“Haven’t I been, Lordra?” I demanded. This was not how I had planned to confront him. My best approximation of a stiff upper lip could hardly keep my mouth from trembling. Already he almost had me in tears, just by being how he was– by the way he sat, the way he smoked, as if nothing was wrong between us– as if nothing was between us at all.

He drew another puff on his cigar before delicately laying it aside. He stood and came towards me at a leisurely pace, each deliberate footfall ringing on the marble floor. He stopped when we were nearly nose to nose, and looked down at me. I had to look up at him. I’m no shrimp, but Ponclast is tall even by the standards of hara, who are taller on average than humans, and he stood nearly six foot seven. He held my gaze like that for a moment, those piercing cold eyes staring into my soul. Then he grabbed me by the waist and bent me back into a kiss.

My breath caught. I melted into him. There were no images, no thoughts, nothing so tangible as that, but somehow with that kiss he let me feel how much he wished I could bend him back like this, could sweep him off his feet. The poignancy of that forbidden desire, the silent way he confessed it to me by the very savagery of his lips and teeth, thawed me utterly. I wound my arms around his neck, shyly at first, but he permitted it. Ecstatic, I held on for dear life, clinging to him as my knees grew weak. He owed me neither apologies nor excuses. I was his, to do with as he wished.

After what seemed an eternity, he suddenly pushed me back, so hard that I fell to my knees. I didn’t mind at all. The violence of the gesture enraptured me, returned me to the rhythm of our dance. I stayed there, gazing up with parted lips, worshiping him. He always looked his best when viewed from below.

“Strip,” he ordered.

I did so without question. He did not stay to watch, but moved off behind me. I did not turn my head to see where he was going or what he went to fetch; I was used to his games and knew better than to deny him the pleasure of surprising me. I focused instead on folding my uniform neatly. I heard the door creak as he went into the bedroom, then in a moment heard him re-emerge, carrying something that softly jingled. He approached me from behind, hobnailed footsteps making me shiver as he drew near.

Just behind me, he stopped.

“Do you trust me, Terzian?” he asked.

I thought it was an odd question. He had never bothered to ask it before. Dread crept deliciously up my spine.

“Yes, Lordra,” I managed.

“Good,” he said softly.

Before I had time to wonder, the leather hood was pulled over my head. It had no eye holes; I gasped as I was plunged into darkness. The rasp of a zipper pulled it tight in the back; a collar buckled it around my neck, and I heard the small click of a padlock. The sensation was claustrophobic yet somehow comforting. I thought immediately of hooded hawks perched on their masters’ wrists. The mouth was cut out– the sensation of cool air on my lips felt lewd and suggestive. My face heated within its prison. The mask had reduced my mouth to a naked hole, a sexual orifice that it was indecent to expose. Strange how it never felt that way on a bare face.

As if to emphasize this revelation, a ring-gag was promptly shoved in, holding my teeth apart and my lips wide open. Three or four leather gloved fingers probed into my helpless mouth, as if testing that the aperture was wide enough. When they withdrew, a string of drool distended immediately down my chin. I was powerless to swallow it or hold it back. My soume ‘lam spasmed with arousal and shame, squeezing out its own kind of saliva. I whimpered piteously, then stopped when I heard how obscene and pathetic I sounded through the gag.

Ponclast laughed softly– or I think he did, the hood muffled my hearing. He pulled my arms behind my back and secured my wrists with metal cuffs. I did not resist. Something about the hood deprived me of agency. Even had he left my hands completely free, I could not have struggled. I had become an object, a thing for him to use.

The clamps went on last, forcing my nipples erect and squeezing them painfully. Then I felt his hand on the back of my head, guiding me. I shuffled along the floor on my knees, shepherded by him, moving through a world of complete darkness. The fronts of my thighs bumped into something– the coffee table. He took his hand off my head. I faintly heard tapping noises, the significance of which I might have recognized in a less hazy state of mind. Then a small tube was being forced into my nose. I felt his hand pushing me forward, and understood. I sniffed, and again as he inserted the tube into my other nostril. Both lines hit me with the force of an oncoming train. My ‘lam clenched, already so wet it had turned my thighs sloppy. I knew I was slobbering uncontrollably all over the table. Would he take me right here, like this, my hooded face shoved into what was left of the powder?

But no. His gloved hand gripped my shoulder, pulling me up, raising me to my feet.

“Good,” he said. “It’s time to go.”

Go? I could barely process the word. He was already moving me, guiding me across the room. Unsteady on my feet, I went where he pushed me. I heard a door open, felt myself shepherded through it. The bedroom, I thought at first– where else could he be taking me like this? The air felt oddly cold on my naked skin, however, and the walk seemed long. Only when I heard the muffled ding of an elevator and the distant sound of voices did my mind reorient itself and grasp the truth. We had left his suite. He was taking me, naked, through the halls of Fulminir.

Terror gripped me. I stopped short and pulled against his grip. His fingers tightened on my bicep and tugged me forward, so, perforce, I followed.

My drugged, lust-addled mind was trying to race but, like an overturned car, it could only spin its wheels. In the hood, could anyhar recognize me? I had a couple of tattoos, but they were fortunately very generic– a Varrish wolf over my heart, a lion’s head from Oomar on my left shoulder. Several other Varrs had been in Oomar. Any number of us had nearly identical ink. I might not be identified from that. Few hara in Fulminir had detailed knowledge of my naked body– few hara who mattered, anyway. Still, somehar had doubtless seen me coming to Ponclast’s suite, and now they might see me, naked and anonymous, leaving. Would they make the connection?

Recognized or not, my skin crawled at the very thought of being seen like this– naked, bound, gagged and very obviously soume, with the evidence of my arousal dripping down my legs. My holes twitched again, against my will.

I was herded into an elevator, shoved into a corner. I imagined the mirrored walls misting from my body heat. We went up, or maybe down– without my sight, reeling with lust and terror, I was unable to tell. I heard a ding, and the doors sliding open. Perhaps we were near our destination? But no, I heard footsteps, felt the heat of another body invade the space.

“Aha, Lordra!” somehar said. “I have a notion we’re going to the same place.”

The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t immediately place it. Not until Ponclast replied, and fresh panic gripped me.

“Indeed we are, Creed. As you can see, I’ve brought a party favor.”

My knees almost buckled. I slumped against the wall, cowering against it as booted footsteps drew nearer. Creed might recognize me. We’d bathed in enough rivers together on campaign. Surely he, of anyhar, would be able to identify my body.

“A pretty little piece of flesh it is,” he sneeringly said. “Do you mind, Lordra?”

“Not at all,” Ponclast answered.

A rough, gloved hand slipped between my legs. It was bigger and coarser than Ponclast’s, revoltingly so. There was something repulsively human about Creed, he was so hulking and unrefined, not so much properly ouana as grotesquely… male . My skin crawled as two or three large digits were shoved unceremoniously into my ‘lam.

“Wet and ready,” said Creed with a laugh. “No matter how much it hates it, it loves it too.”

“Oh yes,” said Ponclast dispassionately. “In fact, if you keep that up, it’ll probably make a mess.”

“Really?” Creed’s voice crept up half an octave with sheer salacious glee. Experimentally, he curled his fingers within me and tugged forward, pulling toward my pubic bone. I gasped helplessly at the sensation, already perilously close to the edge. He only had to repeat the motion a few times before I gushed, yaloe spilling from within me and splashing down my legs.

“You weren’t joking, Lordra,” Creed snickered.

The elevator dinged.

“I’ll hold the door,” said Ponclast. “Make it clean that up.”

Creed grabbed me roughly by the back of my neck and shoved me down on all fours. He hooked the toe of his boot under my crotch and yanked it up, reminding me to keep my ass in the air.

“Clean it, whore,” he said coldly.

I obeyed. The gag made me inefficient, since I couldn’t help drooling and was unable to properly swallow any of the stuff. I could only imagine what this must look like to hara passing the elevator– a naked faceless har lapping pathetically at the floor, bare ‘lam on display to the world. How many times had I walked past such scenes in Fulminir with little more than a casual leer?

“Enough,” I heard Ponclast say impatiently.

“Yes, Lordra,” Creed agreed. “We have better things for that tongue to do.”

I was pulled to my feet again– by now I could hardly tell whether it was Ponclast or Creed who manhandled me, dragging me along by my arm and the chain between my nipple clamps. I was hustled down another interminable hallway and, at long last, through a door.

The smell of cigar smoke, sheh and leather hit my nostrils immediately. Nothing in the world smells like a Varr officer’s party. Few things sound like one, either. There was a tinkle of tinny, civilized piano music through a speaker, on low volume in the background, nearly drowned out by boisterous talk and laughter. Applause broke out as we walked in, accompanied by appreciative exclamations of “Ponclast eternal!”tinged with lewd gratitude for the archon’s latest bounty.

“Enjoy, Tiahaara,” I heard Ponclast say.

I was shoved forward. For a split second I stumbled through open air, unsupported by grasping hands. Then rough arms seized me, somehar laughing in my face before placing a grotesque parody of a kiss upon my gaping, sloppy mouth. Another pair of hands grabbed my hips, pulling my ass against a bulging crotch. Fingers invaded my ‘lam– two sets of hands, I think, the har who held me in front and the one from behind greedily vying to be the first to violate my dripping pussy. The one in front quickly gave up and pushed my head down to his crotch. It all happened so fast. Before I knew it, I had a mouth full of ‘lim and a cunt full of it too, and was being dragged back and forth between them. I gagged violently, unable to control the depth and force with which my throat was being invaded. The gagging made my whole body clench, which seemed to delight the har behind me.

Did I know these hara? Almost certainly. Who were they? Would I ever be able to sit through a general staff meeting again without wondering which of my colleagues had taken me? Was Ponclast watching this? Was he pleased?

The first assault ended almost as quickly as it had begun. The hara using my holes discharged their arsenals swiftly, leaving me oozing even more fluids out both ends. Another pair quickly grabbed me, utilizing me in much the same way. The taste of aren was searing; I was sure I’d never get it out of my mouth. More of the stuff splattered across my back– apparently somehar too eager to wait his turn had simply jacked off over me while his buddies took their fill.

“Where’s the deference due to superior officers?” I heard Creed yelling merrily from across the room. “Bring that over here while any of its holes are still worth a damn!”

I was lifted up and passed along by laughing hara, finally to be deposited on a leather clad lap. Creed was seated in a big armchair, I think; he held me from behind, facing away from him. I could smell the smoke from his cigar which he still gripped casually in one hand; a little of the hot ash fell off and landed on my thigh. His other hand slid across my ‘lam, smearing the mixture of juices back towards my anus.

I started to struggle as I realized what he was about to do. That had only been for Ponclast. I had not given it to anyhar else, not even Cal. It was too painful, too dirty, to be for anyhar but my Lordra. I thrashed and twisted and screamed in protest, but I was bound and gagged and somehow weak from all that had already happened. There was nothing I could do as the blunt, fat head of his ‘lim pressed against my hole, or as his arm around my waist pulled me steadily down against it until it split me open and plunged into my guts.

I screamed in agony, and I suspect my eyes rolled back beneath the hood. It was so much, too much. Creed chuckled softly. His ‘lim throbbed inside me, every twitch of it seeming to mock me as he dragged me slowly up and down on his shaft. I felt as if my bowels were being shredded, and yet my ‘lam was absolute soup, dripping my yaloe and other hara’s aren down onto Creed’s trouser leg. It was beyond mortification, being sodomized facing the room like that, feeling my ‘lam petals twitch with every thrust and knowing everyhar else could see it, too.

Before I knew it, I was flexing my buttocks, lifting and lowering myself to ride, to take it deeper. I didn’t even realize what I was doing until a peal of laughter struck my ears.

“The slut fucking loves it!” somehar exclaimed, breathless with hilarity, and somehar else, “I didn’t even know a ‘lam could get that wet!”

It’s half other hara’s aren anyway, idiot, I wanted to yell, but on second thought was glad that I could not, because really, that was so much worse.

“I bet the slut could love it more,” Creed purred in my ear. His hand crept to my crotch— the fucking cigar hand, it had to be, I squirmed as more ash hit my thigh. Still gripping the stogie– between index and middle finger, perhaps, or else between his forefinger and thumb– he massaged the sikra just within my opening with two fingers he held curled toward his hand, his leathered palm incidentally rubbing against my ouana bud. It was desultory, inexpert stimulation. It wouldn’t have been enough for me under normal circumstances. These were not normal circumstances. I came all over him, bucking between his hand and his ‘lim, thrusting up against his palm and back down onto his girthy member, mewling like a whore all the while.

Things got fuzzier after that. In reward for my service, somehar came and poured what seemed to be an entire bottle of champagne into my gaping mouth. Between that and what Ponclast had given me earlier, my recollections of the rest are hazy. That’s probably for the best. The Varrs grew more violent as they grew drunker, and before the night was out I was subjected to fists and boots as well as ‘lims. I have no idea how many hara used me and I don’t want to know. Even less do I wish to contemplate how many times I came. When I look back it’s all a confusion of sensations. Fingers twisting and tugging at my nipples, and slapping my ass and my ouana bud. ‘Lims shoved into anywhere they could possibly be shoved, and rubbed against my naked body when all orifices were taken. Throughout all of it, I never once heard Ponclast’s voice or sensed his presence. He had vanished, and abandoned me.

The next thing I remember clearly is lying on the cold floor with something shoved inside me– a champagne bottle, perhaps— and sticky substances drying all over my body. I was forgotten, discarded. The party was winding down– I could only hear a few hara still puttering around the room, their conversations slurred and sleepy.

“Good night. Fine party.”

“Yes,” another voice agreed. “Though I wonder why Terzian wasn’t here.”

My blood froze.

“Idiot,” returned the other. “He’s probably in the same place Ponclast disappeared off to so fast.”

A drunken guffaw in response. “You’re probably right. Why should Ponclast bother with trash like this when our Terzian has such pretty lips?”

The laughter in response to this was even longer and more excessive.

“Two sets of pretty lips, I bet,” the first har finally managed, setting off a fresh round of hilarity.

I lay where I was, shame and relief at war in me. They did not suspect my identity. That was for the best. On the downside, now I knew how they talked about me behind my back. So much for discretion and well-kept secrets.

Two pairs of boots shuffled towards me. “Wonder who this is,” one of the hara drawled. “He’s clearly a soldier. He must’ve pissed off some top brass but good.”

The other har shushed him. “For tonight, that’s nobody. Let a har keep his secrets.”

“Yeah,” the first said, with little enthusiasm. “I still wonder, though. Hot mouth, tight ‘lam. I’d like to run into him again.”

He knelt down over me, and to my horror, I felt his fingers fumbling with the back of my hood.

“Fool!” his comrade’s voice cut in. “The archon put a lock on that. Whoever this is, he doesn’t want it known! Got it?”

The probing fingers drew back sharply.

“Right.” The voice sounded more lucid, if a bit shaken. I felt a hand creep down my body, and yank the penetrating object from between my legs. “He didn’t lock this up, though,” I heard the soldier say slyly.

My jaw ached from behind held open for hours. The back of my throat felt raw. My ‘lam and my anus were on fire. And yet I wanted it, still. I felt as if I could stay like this forever, here in the pit of degradation. I wanted to be held down in it and never let up.

I lifted my hips, beckoning. The officer laughed and unzipped his fly.

When the stragglers were done with me, they left me there.

I lay alone, helpless, bound, with no way to release myself. Left abandoned, I began to be truly afraid. Would Ponclast send somehar to get me? Would he even remember to do so? Had he bothered to think his plan through so that far? Did he even care? Would I just be left here, prey to anyhar else who might happen along?

Hours seemed to crawl by. At some point, I must have fallen asleep.

I woke up to fingers in my ‘lam again. This time, I knew immediately that they were his. Even blindfolded, there was no mistaking his presence, his touch. I could have wept with joy.

He was silent, pressed against me from behind, running his hands all over my body to check what had been done to me. I felt a tug at the gag as he pulled at the buckle, before it went slack and I was able, at last, to spit it out.

“Lordra,” I croaked.

He turned my face towards his, and pressed his lips to mine. I wanted to recoil from him– how could he stand to kiss this mouth? I was a wretched thing, dirty and polluted, not clean enough for him to touch. But he wouldn’t let me pull away, holding me close as his tongue swept around my mouth, the same mouth that still tasted of other hara’s aren. His breath held tenderness, but also pain and horror. It showed me things few hara know about, things which, up until that night, I had assumed might just as well be vicious old rumors from Oomar. I understood immediately why he had done this to me. He was trying to draw me closer to him. He could not put me through what he had been through, because he could not force me to be unwilling. Still, in his way, he had given me a taste of the fear, the pain, and the degradation that had tempered him, and made him so hard and strong.

I knew now, also, why he had not stayed to watch.

“Lordra,” I gasped again as he broke away. There were tears on my face now, dampening the inside of the hood. I wished I could see him, look into his eyes for confirmation that he was all right, that his soul was not broken in spite of it all.

“Now you understand,” he said, and because I could not see if his lips moved, I did not know whether he spoke aloud or into my mind. “The putrefaction stage of alchemy, Terzian, is when all which is impure withers, rots, burns. It is all burning, the oxidation itself is burning, so to decay is to burn in slow motion. Without this blackened mass of putrefaction, the philosopher’s stone cannot emerge. Pain,” he said, squeezing me tight against him, “Is the price of perfection, my star.”

“Yes, Lordra,” I murmured, for I knew he was telling the truth.

Time lost meaning as I lay in his arms, letting him touch me and take me and mumble soothing words over me. How I returned to my bed I do not remember, but in the morning I woke in it, clean, free, healed and without a mark upon me.

Chapter 19: Reflections and Doubles

Chapter Text

LIANVIS

That night my Lordra invited me to share his bed. He held me close as we drifted off. I awoke sometime past midnight to him thrashing, crying out in his sleep, images from his nightmares thrusting themselves into my mind. Ones I knew, Oomar, the bottle, the bat, Mikael, grinning nasty faces, pain; the desert, me, dirty hides, gunshots and guts strung out across the sand, and others I didn’t, ouana Varrs, sheh, cigar smoke, Terzian in a hood, violated, over and over, lewd remarks and violent posturing. They put on a show for each other. Just like their predecessors.

Again, Ponclast had made Terzian my mirror as well as his own. What had happened in the desert. Ponclast had rescued me from that little encampment on the sands, the site of… I didn’t like to think of it. He had rescued me, and I had left with him to be safe in Fulminir’s strong walls.

Now Terzian had had-- a parody of violation. Why now? Was it because I had come back around the same time he had? Had it reminded him? Was it to make him more like his Lordra? To forge him in some small version of that fire?

Things were moving in Fulminir. Wheels turning in its steel heart. We were moving towards destiny. Vashti’s heart. Terzian’s violation. Mingo. Ponclast’s empty soul. My fate. All of it was intertwined. This was a dangerous time. I had to step carefully. We all did. I sensed somehow that the wrong move could doom us all. I would not step wrong. I would read the cards. I would watch for signs. I pluck delicately at the strings of fate so nothing would be disturbed and our fortress would not fall.

He didn’t need to know that I knew. I stroked him gently, channeling soothing agmara into him to help calm him until the nightmare ended, and he was peaceful once more. In his sleep he looked so much like Jarad. With the black satin pillowcase beneath his head I could almost see the shadows as long black tresses cushioning his cheek. My Jarad, beautiful Jarad, dead Jarad. I snuggled against him, feeling cold as ice even in summer’s warmth. It’s funny how lonely you can find yourself in bed with someone you love. I eventually slept, and woke alone.

I swept away my lingering emotions from the previous night. I had no time for sadness or sentimental recollections. After much consideration, I had decided the best magical avenue for solving the Vashti problem.

As soon as I was dressed I sent for him and for tea. A drop of iridescent liquid dropped into his portion. “Make him like his Lordra, as ice-hearted as Ponclast, give him all his coldness and incapacity for love,” I incanted, lips soundlessly forming the worlds over the steaming liquid.

It was but a few minutes later that he arrived, and I played the gracious host. The spell was dispersible easily enough, but I prayed it would hold him back for now. Sweep away this fascination with a har he could only doom through his attentions.

“Vashti,” I said with genuine warmth, for I was glad to see him.

“Lianvis,” he murmured. He looked distracted.

“That har again?” I asked.

He sighed. “Yes… though also everyhar’s been in a whirl getting things ready for the Lordra’s trip to Galhea,” he added.

Indeed we were to leave that afternoon, and Veta, Tethys and Glory had been in a flurry of preparation getting my trunks packed for the journey south. The journey would be lengthy, for after Galhea, there would be visits to various phylarchs and archons of smaller subject tribes to recruit their support for the Varrish cause.

“Don’t forget where you are, Vashti,” I warned.

His face flashed irritation for a moment, before relaxing into its usual blandly pleasant expression.

“Thank you for the advice, Tiahaar Kakkahaar,” he replied.

I sighed. “I’m sorry, you must forgive my Archon’s propensity for giving advice,” I said, and he smiled slightly.

“You’re forgiven,” he said, sipping his tea absently. I could tell for the moment his heart was still elsewhere. We talked of nothing. Of the weather, of travel and the quality of the roads, of places it might be pleasant to stop along the way. Aside from the drops of the love-killing philter in the tea, it was a non-event. Nothing I’d remember a week later.

And so an hour or so later, dressed in one of the riding habits Ponclast had so thoughtfully provided, I was side-saddle again, beside him at the head of a seemingly endless caravan of horses and wagons and carts and goodness knew what else. There were scouts ahead, with a troop of soldiers to ensure our safety on our way. The whole parade was heavily guarded. One could never be too careful between settlements, even in the heart of territory held in Varr’s iron fist.

I had helped select the gift for Terzian’s son, an exquisite if impractical jeweled dagger. Ponclast had laughed when he saw it. “Purely decorative,” he commented, “Just like the pup himself.” From my own tribe I had brought a case of the fine spirits my tribe aged for years in barrels buried in the desert sand. The liquor, I thought with amusement, was older than Swift.

How quickly our children grew. A human at seven would likely still be less than four feet tall, while a har could have reached his full adult height, and able to easily meet the gaze of hume men three times his age. It seemed wrong somehow. But that was the old human way wasn’t it? ‘Kids these days grow up too fast,’ said generation after generation of humans. Now they grew up so much faster. Was that irony? I wasn’t sure.

I looked at the har beside me, back straight gaze ahead. My Lordra. My lover. He seemed to be in a good mood. Travel suited him. Perhaps he would have been happier as a Kakkahaar, I thought, with his love of travel… but of course what he likes is the marching of an army, not the wanderings of a mystic. He would never seek out such lonely places, for there is no one to conquer there. He might visit them along the way, but as destinations, never. He must always have someone to conquer, or remind of his conquest.

The rhythm of the horses’ hooves over the pavement was almost hypnotic, and Ponclast, for all his good cheer was taciturn by nature.

Who is the greater fool, Vashti or me? Is it more suicidally stupid to love another when you belong to Him, or to love Him and make yourself His?

I love my love with a J… with a P… because he’s perfect and powerful and perverse. Hate him because he’s pitiless, peremptory, pugnacious… it was an old game, learned from a book of nursery rhymes. Why did it come to me then? I don’t know.

I wished he would talk to me. It would make it easier. Silence between us was rarely comfortable for me, though I think he often found it so.

At least one of us enjoys it, I thought. Best not to prattle of course. I had been fitting too well into my role to have anything to say he might be interested in… except of course those words which I could not say. Words that would interest him in all the wrong ways, the ways that would leave hara dead.

He must have sensed my gaze, my longing, for he turned to me and said, “That riding habit suits you particularly well. You look lovely.”

I thanked him, and the silence shut again over us as if it had never been broken. How stiff we were, playing our proper roles. He could not show the others how fully I was his, lest it break the alliance between our tribes. I could not be anything but perfectly, appropriately, regally soume, and so that was what I was, on my lovely palomino mount.

Behind me rode my retinue–Glory, Tethys and Veta, along with a few of my own important hara. I had taken care to choose those with whom I was not socially close, and who were not close to Ain. I did not need him hearing too much of what went on in Fulminir. And so he would not.

Terzian rode close behind Ponclast, another impediment to conversation. Of course, he was still behind me and that counted for something; besides, the faintly bruised look about his eyes reminded me of the night I knew he’d had. Though of course, Ponclast’s presence made it unwise for me to make any comment on the fact.

‘ Sleep well, Terzian?’ I imagined asking, in a tone of polite solicitude. I could imagine the gaping fish look on his face as he went pale. But that would be beneath me. He wasn’t my rival now, not any longer, not in any way that meant anything. He was the one who got the closed fist. He was dragged into danger and degredation at the hands of other hara, rather than being rescued from it.

I smiled, again pleased by my place. I had indeed won. He and Terzian could have their soldierly brotherhood, their ouana eroticism, but it is the Queen whose throne is beside the King’s on the dais, and the Queen who gives him heirs. Let Terzian grant him the deaths of his enemies, I would give him life and a dynasty that would last beyond ten thousand years.

TERZIAN

He rode at the head of his glittering retinue, composed of armed hara whose weapons glinted in the sun, through lands loyal to him. From horizon to horizon, all he surveyed belonged to him. That fact barely brought a smile to his cold lips.

And I rode with him.

Some days I hated Ponclast. Some days I loved him. On this day, he awed me. Perhaps it was because I was still reeling from what he’d had done to me, the nightmare into which he’d plunged me for his pleasure; but I think it was not only that. It was his sheer presence, the way he sat upright but relaxed in his saddle, the impeccable fit of his uniform, how the sunlight gleamed off his leather-gloved knuckles as he gripped the reins. He was an icon, history in motion. I could not help but worship him.

As if sensing my regard, he slightly turned his head and beckoned to me. I rode up beside him.

“A son almost fully grown. How does it feel, Terzian?” he asked. There was a certain warmth in his gaze, in his voice. He was initiating me into a ouana mystery– the elite society of Varrs with adult heirs. He had been first. I had followed close behind, as was only proper.

Not that there hadn’t been other children of Varr– hara like Vashti, born on the farms. But those were breeding stock and canon fodder; offspring, not heirs. Gahrazel and Swift were the first two legitimate sons of our tribe– the first princes of Varr. All those others hardly counted.

I grinned at him. “Ask me again when it’s over, Lordra,” I said.

He returned my grin with a thin smile. “Fair enough.”

Briefly, he reached over, caught my hand and clasped it. It was a perfectly ouana gesture, almost brotherly. Still, something greater passed between us in that touch, and the scorching eye contact we made to go with it. He was talking of Swift’s feybraiha, but he was thinking of last night. I flushed slightly, suddenly very conscious of the way my crotch pressed down against the saddle.

“Leef was an excellent choice,” he said, releasing his grip.

Dazed, my mind elsewhere, it took me a moment to comprehend his words well enough to appropriately respond. “Leef? He would have been, Lordra,” I agreed, “but it will not be Leef after all.”

Ponclast laughed softly. “Why, did Swift have his eye on somehar else?”

“Yes, Lordra,” I admitted, and my flush deepened. Somehow I had assumed the archon had been apprised of the change in plans. I did not relish delivering the news myself, for I knew he would not approve.

Ponclast’s nostrils flared, as if he could smell my discomfort; and his brows drew down. “Who’s the lucky har, then?” He asked impatiently.

I didn’t want to meet his eyes, but I forced myself to do so, defiantly. “Calanthe, Lordra,” I said, and waited.

Had we been alone, I think he might’ve laughed aloud in scorn. As it was, he was silent, and that was worse. That momentary hilarity, even at my expense, might’ve softened what followed– the inevitable displeased thinning of the lips, the sidelong glance of contempt.

“Calanthe?” He repeated at last. “I’m surprised you agreed to that.”

I knew what he was thinking– he would never hand over Lianvis to Gahrazel. He was right, of course– there was something distasteful about, with a whiff of incest, even if only by some kind of… transitive property.

Maybe it should’ve bothered me, but quite frankly, it just didn’t. I found it encouraging that Swift was… well, if not exactly developing a discerning taste in soumes, at least expressing interest in somehar a bit more feminine than the resolutely ouana Leef. We might make a warrior of him yet. Ponclast didn’t know how many times I’d despaired of the harling ever amounting to anything more than hostling stock– at least, I didn’t think he knew. I’d never told him. I’d been too mortified to confide in him about that.

“I don’t see my son as a threat to me, Lordra,” I replied, and then wished I had bitten my tongue. I hadn’t meant to imply that he might feel threatened by Gahrazel. Such an insinuation was well beyond rude, verging on treasonous.

He said nothing, merely looked at me sharply for a moment, then turned away. That, on its own, was sufficient gesture of dismissal. I let my horse drop back behind, to give him space.

It was noon, the sun standing directly overhead, when I saw Ponclast’s back stiffen. He reined up, but only for the briefest moment before kicking his horse into motion again. He said nothing, not even mind to mind, but it was not necessary. Attuned to him as I was, I knew that he needed me. I rode forward again.

“Lordra?” I asked.

He did not turn to me. His face was expressionless but his nostrils were flared, a telltale sign of alertness. “Humans, Terzian,” he said to me in a low tone, too quiet for anyhar else to hear. “A great number, and close. Can’t you sense them?”

I reached out with my mind. I could not. Frowning, I shook my head. “Are you certain, Lordra?”

He sniffed irritably. “Of course. Just watch; in fifteen minutes or less our scout will be back to tell us so. Will you wager against it?”

I would not. He was still stronger than I was; probably he always would be. If he sensed them, I believed they were there. “Seems unnecessary to wait for the scout, Lordra.”

He smiled then. “I whole-heartedly agree.”

I glanced up and down the line, assessing the hara at my disposal. “How many?”

“Forty or so,” he murmured back, “Armed, but exhausted.”

Lianvis, who was riding not far off, appeared to be attending to this sotto-voce conversation. Though we were out of earshot, I was sure he could hear every word if he wished. His gaze had sharpened, not with the solicitous worry that might befit a soume catching wind of impending battle, but with unseemly excitement. Envy, too, was there. He knew enough by now not to expect to share in the bloodletting.

I tore my eyes away from him and looked back to Ponclast. “Would you like me to take a few hara and deal with the trash, Lordra?”

Ponclast glanced back at his soume as well, and smirked coldly. “We will go together,” he said, softly but decisively.

My blood stirred and my heart lifted. It had been a long while since we’d fought side by side. It would be like old times. “Yes, Lordra!”

He reined up and lifted a hand. The column came to a halt behind us. “Pick ten of the best,” he ordered, “And follow me.”

I swiftly obeyed. In no time at all we had peeled off, leaving the soumes and the servants behind with just enough soldiers to guard them. The wind was at our backs and the sun on our faces as we galloped off in search of our quarry.

LIANVIS

I watched as Terzian went to him, while I was left behind with my attendants and the guards. There were humans ahead, I could feel them as clearly as could Ponclast, sense their shadowy presences among the trees.

They were making for the Gelaming in the South. Poor desperate fools. I was not sure what to feel. I was not a fighter like Terzian, not precisely, though I have often been deadly and delighted in the shedding of blood. I had enjoyed driving helpless frightened beings before me, thrilled in my power to inspire fear. Were they a worthy foe, I might have envied Terzian. Was I glad they were nothing? I was glad my beloved would be safe. There was no chance of a stray bullet piercing that marble brow. Not with the magic my love wove round him, not with his own ever increasing ability. But for that bedraggled exhausted complement of my former species? I almost felt pity. I wished they’d turn, wished they’d run, but it was already too late. The hunt was on and they would be run to ground. They were too exhausted even to make it very far, I could see it in their worn faces. I saw with second sight a hume girl far too young to be a mother clutching an infant to her skinny chest over her swollen belly. I could only imagine the fate that awaited her. Poor things. Poor things, but I had no heart to spare for them.

Where had this capacity for pity come from? Where was the ruthless har I’d been once upon a time? He’d vanished. But even for all this flood of returning feeling, I had too much at stake to let compassion govern me. My own nest needed feathering, and my own eggs needed to be laid and hatched.

TERZIAN

We gathered speed as we charged down the slope, hooves pounding along the forest path. My heart was beating like a war drum. I was intensely conscious of my body, and of Ponclast’s body– though he did not ride close, I was as aware of him as if I’d been inside his skin, for I knew we were feeling the same things. The rushing blood, the racing pulse, the throb of an erection inside stiff trousers– I could feel the thick, well-crafted seam pressing against my shaft like a vein against a vein, driving me wild.

We rounded a curve and suddenly there they were, just ahead of us– halting abruptly, frozen in terror and then turning to flee, too late. There were indeed about forty of them, on foot, on horseback, and several piled into a ramshackle wagon. The wagon was unwieldy; it could not turn quickly. As the panicking driver struggled to direct his horses, it turned into a roadblock, trapping the rest of the party between us and it. I had only the most confused impression of the humans– dirty faces, whites of the eyes showing in terror.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ponclast swing his rifle to his shoulder, and I felt myself doing the same. Then the shots rang out, and the air was filled with the smell of hot blood and powder, and with screams.

We moved like one– he, and I, and the rest, and the horses beneath us; nothing but sinew and thundering hooves and blasts of gunshots. I pulled the trigger again but there was no kick; I must have emptied my clip already. My grip shifted effortlessly as my charger came into a rear; there was a crack as his flailing hooves found an unprotected skull; my bayonet slashed across a throat. My teeth were bared in a rictus grin; I didn’t have to look at Ponclast to know his face was just like mine at this moment. We wore the same mask of death.

A pulp of flesh and organs was underfoot, and the screams were dwindling as fewer and fewer were left to scream. I leapt from my mount, and reloaded. Ahead of me I saw Ponclast crawling spider-like up the side of the now overturned wagon; he fired from behind it like a barricade. I joined him and let off a couple more shots, aiming after the last two survivors who were dashing off into the trees. I hit one, a child– it collapsed in a pile of small limbs and muddy skirts. The other, its mother, turned back with a cry that tore open her face as Ponclast’s bullet ripped apart her skull. Then it was over.

We rested there, side by side, breathing heavily, like lovers basking in the afterglow together, letting our heart rates slow. The greenish light filtering down through the leaves flattered his pale, pure face, and I wanted to kiss him. But it was not to be. We had no time to linger. After a moment, he slapped me on the back and we rose.

We walked among the corpses and almost-corpses, bayonetting bodies that still breathed. There was not much to do by way of cleanup. Ponclast had told me to pick ten of our best, and the hara I had chosen were good shots.

Among the dead I noticed a few boys, fair of face, who looked about inception age. My gaze passed over them indifferently, with little regret. There was a time when boys like that had been precious to us. In the early days of Varr, we had always been careful to take them alive, so we could give them the blood. But that was before we learned how to breed. Now, we had little need for inceptees, especially not from amongst such trash.

“Refugees,” I said aloud. “Making for the Gelaming.”

I had not been speaking to Ponclast, merely thinking aloud, but he heard me and nodded. “Doubtless the Gelaming would have used these boys to swell their numbers,” he said. “It cannot be allowed.” He pitched his voice louder. “We must apply ourselves fiercely to wiping out the last of the human scum on this continent,” he declared. “Before the invaders came, vermin like these were almost beneath our notice; now they are a domestic threat colluding with our enemies.”

The affirmative cry of “Yes, Lordra!” resounded beneath the trees, shaking the leaves.

I looked up at the patches of sky that I could see between the branches, and at the sunlight breaking through, and I wondered how a soul as pure, as prideful and as fastidious as his had ever survived violation.

LIANVIS

They rode back heads held high, the sunlight gleaming on their leathers. They were beautiful. Terzian’s hair shone like gold, and Ponclast was as always a mythic figure, taller than any other har there on his huge black horse, back straight and with the carriage of a har who was rarely far from the saddle. My heart ached even as it leapt at the sight of him.

I went to him, of course, showing my appropriately soume delight at his safe return, even if he had been in no real danger– because it was proper, and also because I needed his proximity to make myself forget what he had done.

“Lordra,” I purred. Let the others hear it. I didn’t care. Terzian might kill at his side, but it had just been a defenseless pack of humes. I had more important concerns. I was the one at his side here. Of course, the only way to ride beside the Archon of Varr was to be less than he. But I had always excelled at being just right for the place at power’s right hand. Velisarius trusted me more than Ponclast trusted Terzian. He had left me in charge even through the current chaos. I knew Ponclast didn’t think Terzian as clever as he might have been, although even I had to admit that for all his lack of tact and intelligence in certain matters he was a competent general. Still, Ponclast would never leave the whole political realm of Varr to Terzian.

Why was I comparing myself to him? Ponclast and Velisarius were utterly different, as different or perhaps more different from one another than each had been from Wraxillan, whose favor I had also had to some little degree. Not his inner circle, but certainly well liked enough. Popular enough to cause problems for Jarad when it had become clear how well I had liked him.

It was foolish to think of that now, although… perhaps it was that subtle scent of human blood that recalled those long past days to me.

Ponclast looked at me, and gave a slight nod and the ghost of a smile, and the past was gone and dead. What need had I of dusty memories with him as my glorious present?

When we arrived at Forever a few days later, I could not help but think how different I was from the har I had been on my first visit. Physically and emotionally, I could hardly recognize the Lianvis of memory, that strutting prince of the desert with a knife at his belt. Lianvis with his unshaven, unpierced ‘lam, with his practical riding clothes. I remembered my dismissal of the Varrs as ouana-be humes, oafish and unenlightened. Swift had looked at me in fear that first time. This time I doubt he recognized me. Now I seemed merely a pretty soume Varr, Ponclast’s companion for the visit.

I walked half a pace behind my Lordra, in every respect a Varrish soume. No, more than that, a paragon of Varrish soumeness. Ponclast himself helped me to dismount, and again there were the flashes of flashbulbs. Another charming moment for the papers. I had never let myself deign to read them for rumors, as much as I was tempted. His heart might be cold and dead, but other hara believing he did love me… that would be almost as good, wouldn’t it? If other hara could believe he did, then he acted as if he did, and if he acted as if he loved me… wasn’t that just a bit like loving me?

Once he had given Terzian the obligatory greeting, Cobweb embraced me like an old friend, and there was a gaggle of high ranking Varrish couples to surround us and fawn and ask eagerly about our trip and our health as we entered the grand old house. It was so easy to allow myself to be swept away into the rhythm of the time and place. Forever was like that. It drew one in, made whatever happened within its walls feel like the most natural thing in the world.

It would, I think, have made a lovely painting. The shining leathers of the Ouanas and the colorful loveliness of the Soumes in their robes and soft trousers and even the occasional gown. It seemed I was indeed setting fashions. Varrish soumes had not worn dresses, or at least not commonly enough for me to see them before. But now there were frocks scattered here and there through the crowd. It was not the most common choice of attire, but it was present. Had it been deemed “foreign” and thus potentially rather outré with me for its ambassador? Or was it simply that even among Soume Varrs, those who had been men were still reluctant to so fully embrace what had been the province of woman?

I didn’t know, but it was clear that I was changing all that, or Ponclast was using me to change it. A year ago, perhaps that would have disturbed me. Now I felt only… vaguely flattered.

TERZIAN

Galhea was a sight for sore eyes. Wheat was golden in the fields, and the orchards were laden with fruit. Soon it would be time for harvest, but for now the summer lingered. It was my favorite time of the year here, and it was good to be back for it. It seemed both fitting and auspicious that Swift should come of age at this time. Like the crops he had matured, and his virtue was ready for reaping.

When we arrived midday at Forever, hot and sweaty from the ride, we were greeted with offerings of iced tea, lemonade and cold sheh. I gave Cobweb a chaste, formal kiss in greeting, as was required of me– mainly for the benefit of our son. Cal came hot on Cobweb’s heels. The kiss he claimed from me was less decorous. I flushed as his wet, hungry mouth pressed to mine, as irritated as I was stirred. It was an hour past noon, and he already tasted like liquor.

“Don’t cause a scene,” I growled in his ear as I pulled away.

He gave me a lazy, flirtatious look beneath his eyelids. “I thought I was to be your consort in every way,” he purred, “Just as much as Cobweb.”

My jaw clenched, and Cal batted his lashes at me innocently. Glancing around for an escape, I saw Ponclast looking in our direction, though not precisely at us, letting his gaze slide past with an expression of cool contempt.

“I must be gracious to Cobweb now. His son is coming of age. As for you, you should be more attentive to Swift ,” I hissed at Cal. “This is his time.”

Cal’s brows lifted. He glanced sidelong at Swift, who was with Gahrazel across the room, sipping lemonade while the latter nursed a sheh.

“I would’ve thought you’d be more anxious about being supplanted by your own son,” Cal purred, laying a hand on my arm. “Aren’t you jealous at all, Terzian?”

I felt Ponclast’s gaze pass over us again, chilling me like a blast of icy wind. The longer I remained embroiled in this embarrassing little sotto voce drama, the more ridiculous I would look, and the more his displeasure would grow.

“You’re being rude, Cal,” I said. “Go greet Tiahaar Lianvis.”

With that I pulled away from him and walked off, though not so fast or so far as to miss his soft, mocking laugh.

I tried to lose myself in the obligatory socializing, letting hara greet me and congratulate me and toast to me, but I could not enjoy it. Truth to be told, it was hell. Ever since I had stepped over the threshold of Forever I had been seized by a grim sense of foreboding, a premonition of some shapeless doom. It had been with me, I realized, even before the debacle with Cobweb and Cal. I was haunted by something darker and far more potent than my anxieties about my two consorts. It cast a pall over what should have been a joyous occasion. Even as I stood with my arm around Swift and raised a toast to my son’s Feybraiha, my heart wasn’t in it, and my mind was elsewhere.

After the toasts, Ponclast clapped his hands for silence. “Tiahaara,” he spoke loudly over the clamor of happy conversation, “we have had a long journey. Please excuse us for a little while; we will rejoin you shortly.”

As he headed for the grand staircase, he shot me a look as high-handed and arrogant as a snap of his fingers. It brought me to heel just as quickly. My dread mounting, I followed him.

He led the way, silently, to his guest chamber. His walk was slow and measured, his hands clasped calmly behind his back, but I knew by the stiffness of his neck that he was furious with me. I could guess some of the reasons for his rage, though likely not all of them, but how and when his anger might manifest was a mystery to me. When we were at Fulminir, it was simpler in many ways. There he was free to vent his spleen at me as swiftly and violently as he pleased. Here, things were more complicated. He was too sensitive to politics to beat me like a curr in my own home; my authority here was essential to him, and he refused to undercut it in any overt way. As a consequence, his anger tended to come out sideways.

I preferred the beatings.

He reached the bedroom door and swung it open. I halted outside, recalling the last time I had entered that room. That thing, the vision… had it really been him? Did he remember, as I remembered– or had it all been in my mind? The memory chilled my blood.

The real, present, flesh-and-blood Ponclast was standing in the doorway, half-turned back towards me, glowering at me in irritation. “Come in,” he snapped.

I stayed where I was. “Should I, Lordra?” I’ve no idea what mysterious power granted me the ability to question an order from him.

His lips thinned in displeasure. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. The words were simple, but the dismissive tone was eloquent. You have nothing to fear from me here. No need to clutch your pearls.

“Yes, Lordra,” I murmured, and followed him into the room– though the gloom within raised the hairs on the back of my neck, and the sound of the door closing behind us nearly made me jump.

The curtains were all still drawn. Ponclast liked his bedrooms dark, even in the middle of the day. Behind the drapes, a window must have been cracked, though, because I felt a draft. Ponclast lit an oil lamp, which shed a dim but sufficient glow. Even the yellow light could not warm his skin tone, or the icy gray of his eyes.

I stayed near the door, hanging back awkwardly. “What did you need me for, Lordra?” I asked. I was skittish, probably comically so. Against all reason, I still feared he might violate our agreement, and force me to be soume in my home. Worse, I knew I would let him. How could I hold up my head, look him in the eyes and answer ‘no’ after everything he’d had done to me just a few nights ago? I had no warrior’s purity left to protect, indeed not even the illusion of it. I could no longer take my own ouana virtue seriously– why should he?

He drifted over to his armchair– yes, that armchair, the one in which the hideous apparition had been seated– and flung himself lazily down. “My leather needs polishing, Terzian.”

I nodded stiffly. “Very good, Lordra. I’ll summon a househar to attend to it.”

He tilted his head back and looked down his nose at me. In the dim, the shadow cast by the brim of his cap completely hid his eyes, but the smirk on his lips was plainly visible. “ You’ll attend to it, Terzian. Now.”

I flushed. This was utterly beneath me. It was one thing to get on my knees and swallow his ‘lim, but that duty, at least, had a kind of intimacy. Besides, I got a certain pleasure from it– sick pleasure, but pleasure nonetheless. I couldn’t see myself down on the floor polishing his boots. Rather, I could see it, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to do something one of my own servants could just as easily do. That was too insulting. It reduced me to their level, interchangeable and anonymous. As for pleasure… well, I’d probably find some in the task, in spite of myself, but that would only make it worse.

Seeing me hesitate, he clicked his fingers at me. “The kit is in the bottom of the wardrobe,” he said. “Fetch it and hurry. I want to get back downstairs.”

What would he have done if I had walked out right then? Probably nothing. There would be nothing he could do, here, except wait, and seethe, and make me pay for it later. He could do nothing, in short, save be displeased with me.

That I could not bear.

I went to the wardrobe. There, just where he had said it would be, I found the wooden boot-blacking kit. It was an old fashioned one, with a shoe rest on top. Dreamily, I opened the lid to check the contents. The scent of saddle soap and leather polish assailed me. It was an intoxicating smell, bringing back many memories– parades and formal occasions, the beginnings and ends of campaigns, and most of all, moments when my face had been pressed into the freshly polished front of Ponclast’s uniform, inhaling those fumes along with his clean, masculine odor.

I lifted the kit and carried it over to him. He’d taken out a cigar and was smoking it, his eyes half-closed. He looked drowsy, relaxed and inattentive to me.

“Do my cover first,” he said, dropping his cap onto the carpet before me.

That was the right way, of course. Shine the cover first and then set it aside so it would have plenty of time to dry and would not leave a smear of polish across the brow when put back on again. I knew the proper maintenance of a Varr uniform, though it had been quite some time since I’d had to care for my own. I had hara to do this sort of thing. So did he. But he wanted me to stoop to this task, and so, Ag help me, I would.

I made quick work of the cap and set it carefully aside, then looked up at him, unsure what to do next. He wordlessly thrust his boots towards me. From where I knelt on the floor, he looked massive, a monolith of dark shiny material, like a statue cast in bronze.

My cheeks burning, I set to work on his boots. They were dusty from the journey, and needed saddle soap before anything else. The white flecks of foam looked obscene, like smears of jism, but when I wiped them away, they left the leather clean and shining. There was something hypnotic in the task. Before I knew it, I had become utterly absorbed, my whole focus narrowed to the expanse of gently curving, dimly gleaming blackness. Sometimes when I kissed my way down Cal’s body I became lost like that, intoxicated and entranced by the smoothness of his skin. I’d never been allowed to touch Ponclast like that, never would be. This was almost as good, maybe better. More appropriate to him.

I followed the saddle soap with the polish and the buffing brush. I wanted to linger, to stay at his feet and worship his boots forever. Once I had them shining, I shyly bent my head to kiss them, extending my tongue.

A sharp tug at my hair pulled me up.

“Have you no dignity?” He sounded disgusted with me.

Indeed I had not. He had stripped me of it, along with everything else. I’d forgotten where I was. I could not even manage a murmured apology. I was mute, drugged by the smell of the polish and the proximity of his body, so close and yet sealed away behind that forbidding layer of dark material across which my hands were condemned to travel.

“This is no time to dawdle,” he said impatiently, “You’ve a lot of work left to do.” And so, obediently, I began to work my way up the legs of his trousers, smearing the polish over the leather that encased his hard thighs. He rose to allow me access, taking a wide stance that assured me he expected thoroughness. My face felt fiery hot and my hands trembled as I worked the conditioner into the inseam and rubbed it over the bulge behind his fly. It was obscene, undeniably erotic. I saw him rigid beneath the leather, knew that my massaging motions, even with the brush, must be giving him pleasure, but he gave no outward indication, either through noise or movement, save to gently close his eyes.

Presently he turned around and presented his gleaming leather-sheathed rear before my face so I could shine his seat. I had never dared touch him there, not even to grip his buttocks and pull him deeper into me. There were zones of Ponclast’s body that were forbidden– most of him seemed to be, in fact. How rarely he allowed me to touch him at all, usually keeping me in bondage to enforce my passivity. Even unbound, I knew to keep my hands to myself and work his ‘lim only with my mouth or whatever other orifice he might be using. Shining his leather was a pretense that allowed me to touch him– and one, perhaps, to allow himself to be touched. I was being given a rare gift, and as I realized this, my resentment and mortification evaporated. I touched him gently, reverently. His haunches flexed beneath the leather, whether with enjoyment or skittishness I did not know. I wished I could bury my face between his cheeks and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, even if there was leather in the way.

All too soon, it was done, the most erotically charged regions gleaming and devoid of any road dust. I stood and commenced work on his back, allowing my touch to take on the character of a massage. He grunted softly, tense as always, but otherwise stood with mannequin-like passivity, allowing me to raise his arms as I worked on the sleeves. When I slid my fingers beneath the cross-body belt so I could move it aside and polish under it, the unavoidable tug made him sway slightly in place, giving me a dizzy feeling of power. Just for a moment I was able to imagine that if I pressed my advantage, wrenched at the leather strap and pulled him flush against me, he would submit to the attack as gracefully as he was accepting my worship.

He would not, of course. And I could not force him. Not merely because he was stronger than I, not merely because it would be the death of me to commit such a deed, but more importantly, because I could never have brought myself to do it. He was sacred to me.

His back and shoulders were shining like black marble. I moved shyly around to the front of him, and finally we stood toe to toe, face to face. He looked down his nose at me. His back was straight, his body still, his face impassive– but his eyes held a keen interest he could not conceal, and a certain apprehension. I swallowed hard in spite of myself. Why should this be the most difficult moment of all– to stand before him, eye to eye, and dare to raise my hands to touch him?

The dauber brush in my hand seemed suddenly extraneous, pitiful. Without taking my eyes off his face, I crouched slowly down to set it on the floor. He watched me as I did, expressionless. Neither did his demeanor change as I stripped off my gloves and smeared my bare hands in the black polish. My heart was beating fast. Was this too much familiarity? Would he suffer such intimacy? I stayed on the floor looking up at him, my fingers smeared in dark grease, until finally he gave a slight nod. It was permissible. He would grant me this boon.

Weak-kneed I rose, and finally dared to slide my hands over his abdomen and chest. The heat of my skin melted the wax polish well, and it went on with a high sheen. The muscles of his torso were incredibly hard beneath the leather, and between that and the fact that he barely seemed to breathe, it was like touching a statue. Why did his chest not rise and fall? Stealing a glance at his face, I found it tense and suffused, his eyes lightly closed beneath shivering eyelids. Ecstasy? Or was it terror? I melted before it, my adoration spreading over him warm and glistening like the polish I lavished across his jacket with my sweaty hands, and worked into every seam and cranny with trembling fingers.

It seemed an eternity before he spoke. “Buff it out.” His voice was hoarse and curt. He’d had enough of my hands on him; he could submit no longer to my touch, no matter how gentle and servile it was. I ached with grief, but obediently removed my offensive paws and retrieved the buffing brush. I moved it briskly and lightly over the surface of his coat, but still he twitched uneasily at every pass of it, like a nervous horse plagued by flies.

He was only too happy to pull away from me completely at last, and stalk to the mirror to examine himself. His immaculate reflection gazed back at him imperiously, somberly judging what it saw.

“I am satisfied,” he pronounced.

I nodded, and looked down at myself. My hands were filthy, blackness embedded under my nails and creased into the lines of destiny on my palms. Worse, the knees of my own leather trousers were badly scuffed. The sight of that made me flush with shame. This was meant to be the uniform of a conquering hero, not of a cowering servant. Usually when he defiled me he allowed me to undress first, so as not to defile my leathers. I was almost angrier at him for shaming my uniform than for shaming me.

“That will be all , Terzian,” he said, and his tone was final.

Face hot, with my trousers feeling miserably tight, I fled that place. As soon as I gained sanctuary in my rooms, I rushed to scrub my hands and then summoned Ithiel. It took him less than fifteen minutes to give my leathers a buff and assuage my tension with his skillful throat. He was a well-trained Varr soldier indeed. As he departed, I wondered if he would now go find somehar to use as I’d used him, as Ponclast had used me before, and how far down the chain of command the vicious cycle would continue.

Chapter 20: Silver Eyes

Chapter Text

LIANVIS

I knew from Terzian’s stray thoughts of Ponclast and Terzian’s little arrangement. I wondered what they might be up to. I didn’t think Ponclast intended to breach his promise to allow Terzian remain purely ouana in his own home. Anyhar with decent caste training would know certain aspects of Terzian’s mind. Did Cal know? I couldn’t be sure. He kept his mind well and truly closed. I gave Cobweb a warm smile, knowing that he would be furious if I showed him pity.

“You’re looking well!” he said brightly, “and lovely as ever of course.”

“You as well, the jewel of your house,” I complimented, and in his lilac coloured draperies he was a jewel, his dark hair flowing gracefully around him and his pale skin luminous. “Though I’m sure I need to freshen up,” I added, touching my hair self-consciously.

“I assure you, Tiahaar, your appearance is unmarred, although I can certainly understand the wish to change costume after so long a ride,” he replied, as consummately charming as ever. “If it would please you, I’d very much like your company in my sitting room after you’ve changed,” he added, a note of portent in his voice.

So I went and had Veta assist me into an ivory silk… I would say robe but it was a gown, worn under a delicate burnt-out velvet over robe. I allowed my hair to flow loose down my back. I had had it up for travel. This was far more comfortable than my riding attire, especially in the warmth of the weather.

I went down to Cobweb refreshed. He had tea waiting and greeted me with genuine pleasure, although I could see how Calanthe still stung him. The little bitch. I had never liked him, not when he was with Pellaz, not now with Terzian. I wondered what had happened between him and Pellaz for Cal to end up here. Their chesna bond had seemed unbreakable, but now Pellaz sat on the throne of Immanion and had a son with Caeru, the exquisite Tigrina.

Did Cal know where his former lover was now? Who he was now? And if Cal knew, did Terzian? If Terzian knew then surely Ponclast would know. Cal had seemed hardly there on my previous visit. Broken somehow, but now he was wide awake, the same sharp thorn in the side of the world I had thought him in my camp, although perhaps sadder and more cynical… well, the breakdown of a relationship can do that to a har.

Could he be trusted? Wouldn’t the Gelaming have let me know if he was also on their side? If he was, Terzian wouldn’t know who it was who sat on Immanion’s throne. If he was, there was no reason I should know just who it was that sat on Immanion’s throne. When Cal had seemed half mad, his memory broken, I had been able to dismiss him. But now, with the way he had Terzian wrapped around his finger… I didn’t like it.

How could I explain what a danger he was without revealing a knowledge of the Gelaming I had no right to have yet? Due to Ponclast’s infiltration project, I would eventually have my hara among the Gelaming, and could use them as a shield against seeming to know too much, but I did not yet; and now, even now, Cal could be relaying crucial information to the enemy.

Did he know I was supposed to be working for the other side? Would he be reporting on me to them?

How had I failed to see it before? This petty domestic drama had suddenly become something so much more.

I refocused on the har in front of me. He had been speaking and I had not heard him.

“I’m sorry Tiahaar, I-- I was distracted for a moment by thoughts of military matters,” I said, shaking my head.

He smiled and gently inclined his head.

“Of course, if I were in charge of such things I’m sure they’d be ever on my mind… but, Terzian doesn’t like me to think of such things, and after the incident with the Irraka, well I suppose I’ve accepted my lot,” he replied.

“The incident with the Irraka?” I asked.

“Well, yes, that’s how Terzian met the little Uigenna tart for the first time. I’d managed to get myself captured by the Irraka, a tiny little tribe really, but it was before we got properly settled and strengthened the borders,” he explained, keeping his tone light, though I could hear regret there, and longing. “I used to go out with Terzian. I couldn’t bear to let him go into battle alone, I wanted to be beside him. Varr had no capacity with magic then… and I thought I could help him.”

I could see him, this lovely vision of Soume perfection, on horseback, hair flying. A war-witch.

“Things got ugly. It should have been just a little skirmish, but there was a rather large phyle of Uigenna the Irraka had gotten themselves allied to, and I got shot in the leg and fell off my horse. Terzian was forced to retreat, and so I ended up a prisoner of the Irraka for some time until Pellaz and Calanthe came and saved me. If I hadn’t been such a fool, Terzian might never have met that… har ,” he said the final word as if it had replaced a less diplomatic expression.

“Pellaz?” I asked, feigning surprise.

“Cal’s chesnari back then, lovely har…” he said wistfully.

“You know-- I believe I met him, perhaps shortly before you did. The two of them came to my camp so Pellaz could receive caste training years ago. I never cared for Cal. Pell was… well, he was very sweet, a little unrealistic about the way the world works, but he was very young,” I said. “Whatever happened to him?”

What did Cobweb know?

“Dead,” said Cobweb, “or else Cal’d never have come back to us. He killed some har who he blamed for the whole thing… I’m not quite sure I understand why, but he was on the run and half-starved when he came back, his memories all mangled as well… I rather sorted that out for him,” he added with another rueful smile.

He sent a set of psychic impressions to me. He’d tried to kill Cal with his own guilt, and he had failed. I nodded, understanding. Calanthe had blood on his hands, fresher than the Uigenna kills I’d smelled on him when we’d first met. Curious that I hadn’t noticed. But I’d had a lot on my mind the last time we’d met, and his mind had been fragmented apparently. Could that have been the Gelaming playing Manchurian Candidate with him?

If not for the war, I would simply have felt for Cobweb. Of course, if it had not been for the war, perhaps Cobweb wouldn’t have Calanthe on his hands in the first place. Perhaps none of us would. Perhaps Cal and Pell could have gone their own way, and done what they wished. Who then would rule Immanion? I didn’t know.

I wished sincerely that Terzian did love Cobweb, love him with the force and intensity of a chesnari. Did Ponclast feel towards me as Terzian did towards Cobweb? Was Terzian Ponclast’s Cal? My heart ached at the thought.

Cobweb seemed to pick up on it himself.

“I suppose we’re alike in some ways, fighters learning how to stay at home,” he said with a wistful little smile. Silently he added, Chasing after the hearts of heartless hara.

I couldn’t help but be grateful to Ponclast then, he had not snubbed me the way Terzian did Cobweb. He had had others, I always knew that, but no other har dared to touch him the way Terzian had allowed Cal to crawl all over him. Perhaps it was partially due to my own reputation, but more likely due to Ponclast’s. He was not one to greet public displays of affection initiated by others fondly. He was the unmoved mover, touching others, but not to be touched.

“You know,” I said, stirring my tea with one of the exquisite silver spoons, “I suppose we don’t know one another very well… but I expect we will”

He really smiled then. I think he must have known what I was–another consort of a high ranking Varr. Had Terzian let it slip during aruna? Or did Cobweb simply know because he was Cobweb? One day perhaps I shall ask him, although it seems cruel to bring back memories of that time.

“Oh, I think we will. I suspect we’ll be seeing a lot of one another” he said, with just a hint of humor in his voice, as if we were sharing a secret. I wished then that we were friends already. He understood, better I think than any other har I might have encountered then, the position I was in. I wanted to tell him everything.

Instead I said, “I don’t trust Calanthe.”

His deep green eyes seemed to focus and sharpen, the softness of his presence vanishing in an instant.

“Why ever not?” he asked, voice kept light with great strain. He didn’t trust me yet, which was wise of course, but he would. Our interests were, after all, fundamentally aligned.

“I just think it’s odd he’s here, behaving… like that . He hardly seemed the type before, and I think… perhaps I’m wrong… but I believe he said something about being on the hunt for Immanion when I first met him,” I said, arching my eyebrows meaningfully.

Cobweb looked at me thoughtfully, teacup frozen midway between the saucer and his lips.

“Did he?” he said, curiosity obviously piqued.

“I think so… I didn’t remember until now because I don’t think I took it very seriously at the time. Immanion was only a rumor then, many of us thought it a myth. He might as well have said he was off to see the wonderful wizard of Oz. But now…”

Cobweb seemed to consider, mouth twisting before he shook his head.

“I don’t think he can be an agent of the Gelaming. He was half dead when we found him,” he hummed, though I could see on some level he wanted to believe it. How convenient would it be for Cobweb, after all, if his rival were executed as a traitor! “--If he were though… I mean I couldn’t say anything myself. Terzian knows all too well how I feel about that little Uigenna--” he cut himself off before the last word could come out and show itself too indelicate for the rooms of Forever.

I nodded sympathetically, for I was sympathetic.

“Perhaps I could suggest to Ponclast--” I hummed.

Cobweb’s graceful brows knit in concern. “But Cal’s wormed his way so deep into the household, Terzian’s concubine, Tyson’s hostling, and now he’ll be Swift’s Feybraiha…” he chewed his lower lip.

There was of course that danger– guilt by association. Ponclast was not one for mercy, or for leniency when carelessness was concerned. His vengeance might fall on both of Terzian’s sons as well as on Cal. Not to mention of course, Ponclast knew how I felt about Terzian. An accusation against Cal coming from me would be barely more credible than if it came from Cobweb.

I changed the subject. We talked of clothes and intrigue and the coming party before returning to see the others, ready to be bright and charming again.

PONCLAST

Having dismissed Terzian, Ponclast stood long before the mirror, appraising his reflection with cold eyes. The front of his trousers was bulging; he reached up towards his crotch, as if intending to relieve his tension, but dropped his hand to his side again before his leathered fingers touched his fly.

Presently he reached into his pocket and brought out the little packet of pills. He popped one, two into his mouth, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, a third. His pupils bloomed like spots of ink dropped into water. He watched his eyes darken in the mirror.

Inside his trousers, a trickle of fluid ran down his thigh, yaloe mixed with blood. If he was aware of it, he did not choose to acknowledge it.

He strode from the room, letting the door bang thunderously closed behind him. As he stepped into the hall his back straightened and his chin lifted; his eyes flashed with purpose as he stalked down the corridor and descended the sweeping great staircase of forever. Cries of “Ponclast Eternal!” rang out in greeting. He accepted the shouting and salutes with a steely smile, once more fully the archon, the icon, the head on a coin, not flesh at all, not a thing that feels or bleeds.

He rejoined the party with gusto, accepting every drink that was offered him, ostentatiously kissing the hands of all the soume hara and clapping the ouanas hard on their backs. He was jovial, exuberant, completely out of character. His jocularity was obviously false, his laughter sour and too loud, but nohar dared to notice or think twice about it if they did.

In this fashion he made his way across the room to Lianvis, who stood with Cobweb, clearly absorbed in deep conversation. Ponclast’s eyes narrowed as he approached them– perhaps with displeasure, or perhaps because they stood near a blazing candelabra and with his pupils blown, the light rather hurt. The two soumes were thick as thieves, their heads bent together as they spoke softly.

Ponclast shouldered his way between them, forcing them apart, and looped an arm around the waist of each. He kissed Lianvis hard on the mouth, then turned to Cobweb, who demurely offered his cheek.

“The hostling whose first-born is to be feybraihaed must have a proper kiss,” Ponclast purred in his ear, all jovial menace, and so Cobweb, perforce, surrendered his lips.

As the archon raised his head from the kiss, he caught a glimpse, from the corner of his eye, of Terzian coming down the grand stair. He ignored him save for a faint smirk. Cobweb’s body tensed slightly in Ponclast’s grip; Ponclast unlooped his arm from around his waist with exaggerated magnanimity and a condescending smile. He did not look at Lianvis. He did not need to do so in order to sense his confused indignation.

LIANVIS

I looked to the hara around us, gauging the reaction to Ponclast’s behavior. A few other hara approached, aping their archon more or less chastely depending on their rank. Cobweb took it with grace, keeping his mouth shut, and acknowledging each har with a good-natured smile, managing to look quite convincingly like he wasn’t seething.

I looked at Ponclast. If he had intended to humiliate me, if he intended to imitate his pathetic little underling, I would kill him myself, but his pupils were blown. I could practically smell the bitter metallic scent of it on him– silver ice. It seemed parties at Forever bored the Archon enough that he needed a little chemical enhancement. He’d obviously taken a lot and wasn’t quite himself. I could forgive him. I stayed at his side, smiling as if it was all in fun.

I couldn’t tell what his goal was this evening. Something about his intoxication frightened me. This wasn’t like that first night of silver ice at Forever. I felt so much older now than I had then. I had been an Archon already, but I had been a mystic of the desert, far freer then than I was now. Of course I had played my devious politics in my relentless pursuit of greater power, but I’d had relatively few true worries. Being light-hearted is easy when one is heartless. But now it seemed I felt the weight of everything. My responsibilities were no longer weightless baubles to play with, they now felt heavy as chains.

Still, I had the strength to hold up my smile, to be graceful and charming at his side as the time for dinner arrived and we were all called in.

I looked to him as we sat. He seemed in excellent spirits, positively jovial. Perhaps my sense of foreboding was silliness, some lingering effect of the grim conversation I had had with Cobweb earlier. It was a beautiful evening and Forever was redolent with the scent of late summer flowers. The French doors to the dining room were open to the garden, allowing music played by a Varrish band to drift gently in with the still warm night air. Dinner was as always exquisite: caviar, oysters and smoked salmon, delicate little spinach pastries, a soup course of a perfectly seasoned chicken consommé, and on and on through a full twelve courses.

We ate. Though neither of us seemed to have much appetite, I tasted and commented on everything so as not to hurt Cobweb’s feelings. My Lordra, though he was not hungry, did seem powerfully thirsty, for he went through glasses of sheh as if they were water and he had been on a march through my desert home.

Still, his jollity continued. He joked with his officers and complimented their consorts. At one point somehar’s son managed to sneak in from the area where the harlings were being fed, and he bounced the little fellow on his knee. It seemed a brittle sort of cheerfulness to me, something sharp-edged and dangerous about it. I remembered the pregnant hume girl and her infant in the forest. I was glad when the child’s hostling took him away.

And then there was dessert and dancing. He did not eat dessert, though he downed two glasses of the wine that was paired with it. As he led me onto the dance floor, his blown pupils were black and eerie with the grey of his eyes, like ink bleeding gradually outwards on paper, dark fading at the edges. Like his whole eye could be taken up if the black spill continued.

He swung me around on the dance floor with a wild vigor, tossing me up and catching me as if I weighed nothing at all. I could tell Terzian was on edge when I caught sight of him through the dancers. He wasn’t dancing, just watching, lips pressed thin in disapproval. I wanted to be caught up with Ponclast’s mood, no matter how false it rang. For all my premonition of danger, I wanted to lose myself in this moment of celebration too. I wanted not merely to wear pleasure’s mask but to feel it as well, to be with him rather than watching from that internal remove, in case. In case of what?

Somehow it reminded me of Mikael, nights where he’d get too drunk, too dangerous, and I’d have to hold everything together, but if I didn’t laugh and put on the pretense of joining in his fun he’d punish me for it later, or right there. I’d always tried to prevent it from happening in public, too ashamed to let others see what I put up with from him.

This was different though. Had I loved Mikael? He’d been exciting once, had flattered me, but he’d become a burden quickly enough. A millstone that could break my bones as easily as it could weigh me down if I didn’t take care. I loved him though, my Lordra, and I would have done anything to keep him from harm.

When the song had ended he excused himself. He needed something from the room, and handed me off to Terzian, who looked at me so strangely I wondered for a moment if he was the danger I sensed lurking in the shadows of that lovely garden. Then the impression passed, and I realized the odd look in his eyes was nothing but the concern for Ponclast that I shared with him.

‘I’m worried about him,’ I sent via mind touch.

‘He’s acting odd,’ came his reply, along with a wave of anxiety I wasn’t sure if he’d been conscious of sharing.

We danced through another song, a rather lengthy waltz. When the music ended, it had been too long. There wasn’t even the need for mind touch for that wordless conversation.

He’s been gone too long.

Someone should go after him.

It should be you.

And off I went, remembering my last visit to Forever when it had been he who had rushed up the stairs to reach me in a moment of weakness. I kicked off my delicate high heeled sandals at the door so that I might reach him faster, and dashed barefoot up the stairs and through the halls until I reached his chamber. When I found him, I was grateful I had done so.

He had collapsed near his bed, unconscious. He was pale, but burning hot to the touch. I wanted to scream for help, but I didn’t dare. He would never forgive me if I showed him in such a state to anyhar. I wondered if he would be able to forgive me for seeing it? Would I be punished for saving him? Almost certainly, but there was no time to worry about that now.

I got him onto the bed. His pulse was frantic. I poured healing energy into him even as I hurriedly undid the buttons to his uniform. His temperature was unlike anything I’d felt before. Hara didn’t get sick. Had he been poisoned? It takes something truly nasty to hurt one of us. I sent out a call for ice water, demanding a servant bring it immediately to the door. I hoped it sounded more like a fit of pique than an emergency.

With Ponclast undressed I saw… I saw that he was bleeding. Bleeding from that old, old wound. What they had done to him. What Velisarius had done his best to repair all those years ago.

I checked his eyes, irises entirely consumed by pupils. I searched the room for some hint, some sign of what had happened. Seeing the empty pill packets, I sniffed delicately. Silver ice, I knew the scent of it instantly. How much did he take? What do you do when a har has ODed? A towel around his hips for modesty… what to do? What to do?

The tentative knock of a servant. I bade them leave the tray and retrieved the water once they had gone so that no one would see and no one would know. Let them think we were having a rendezvous. I put a cold compress on his forehead. I was an arch-magus, who there was better qualified than I to care for him? I had studied under Velisarius. He could have been in no better hands, and yet still there was the urge to cry out for help, for someone, anyone, to make this nightmare end. But there was and could be only me. No one else could know about the blood.

I needed him to wake up. If he just woke up, he would know how to stop the bleeding. Wouldn’t he? It must have been an effect of the silver ice somehow, some effect of that dangerously high blood pressure on that old scar tissue.

I put him on his side, so that if he were sick he would not choke on it. I could not give him healing there. Not after what he had been through. Not when he was helpless, unconscious, vulnerable. I put a hand on his abdomen, and did my best to heal him that way, but even that felt somehow like a violation, and it did no good. I focused on the rest of him, healing Agmara and cold water. I did what I could to slow the rhythm of his pounding heart, to cool the blood in his veins. His breathing seemed to slow a little, and he stirred.

PONCLAST

He opened his eyes. His shoulders tensed, his hands twitched as if with the barely suppressed impulse to lash out. He lay still for a long while, his body slick with sweat, gooseflesh coming up all over his limbs as the perspiration cooled him. His eyes roved slowly, first scanning the velvet drapes of the four poster bed, then taking in his own unclothed form and the towel draped over his hips, finally coming to rest on Lianvis.

“What did you do?” he asked in a strange, cold voice.

Lianvis’s eyes were big and scared. He sat at the edge of the bed with his feet tucked under him, hands wringing each other as they clasped on the coverlet. “Lordra, you had… an attack of some kind,” he said haltingly.

Ponclast cut him off. “What did you do?” He repeated, more loudly.

Lianvis shuddered at his tone. “I… very little, Lordra. I merely undressed you, as you seemed to be overheating.” He paused, risking a terrified glance at Ponclast’s face, as if to assess his own danger, before adding: “You seem to be bleeding, Lordra.”

Ponclast said nothing, did nothing. His face was utterly still, as if he hadn’t heard. In the silence, the noise of the party below filtered up through the floor, muffled music and talking voices and laughter.

“Get out,” he said at last.

Lianvis sprang up promptly from the bed, as if obedience was a reflex by now. However, he did not move toward the door. “Lordra, I believe you may need a healer.” Softer, voice shaking, he added, “Or if you’ll let me–”

Ponclast’s fist lashed out to hit the pillow. “You’ll need a healer if you don’t get out of my sight!” he yelled, loudly enough to rattle the old windows.

He’d raised his voice to Viss before, but never so much. It was disconcerting to hear him bellow, unusual for the archon to lower himself to shouting. Nevertheless, Lianvis stood his ground with a steely resolve; and strangely, the fear had faded from his eyes.

“That’s alright with me, so long as you see a healer too, Lordra,” he said.

Ponclast went for him with all the sudden viciousness of a wounded animal, but he was no more effectual. In his lunge, he slipped from the bed and collapsed to the floor. He landed with a loud thud from all the weight of his considerable height and muscle. His hand snaked out and grabbed for Viss’s ankle, but Lianvis reacted quickly, and held onto the bedpost to avoid being pulled from his feet. He looked down on his Lordra with pity and love in his eyes.

“Damn you,” Ponclast mumbled from the floor. “Damn you, Viss, damn you.” His grip on his consort’s ankle slackened. He let his hand fall open on the ground, and buried his face in the carpet. His sobbing was quiet, but audible. Lianvis ignored it with prudent grace.

“Shall I get a healer, Lordra?” he asked quietly in a moment.

Ponclast lay naked and prostrate at his feet. His magnificent shoulders bunched with effort in one final, desperate attempt to raise himself, then, with a rippling of muscle, relaxed once more. “No,” he said at last, in a strangely normal voice. “Best to keep this need-to-know. Help me up.”

Lianvis, with some difficulty, assisted him. Though he was strong like all hara, the disparity in their heights and weights posed a challenge. Ponclast, though built like a titan, was currently weak as an infant, nearly dead weight. It was an undignified procedure, but at least it had no other witnesses.

When at long last he was back on the bed, Ponclast opened his blood-smeared thighs without ceremony. The towel that had covered him lay discarded and stained on the floor.

“I’ve no idea why this is happening,” he said curtly. “Azvith’s had a look at it. He was useless.”

Lianvis cautiously scooted closer on the bed. His gaze was clinical. Ponclast stared up at the canopy, his expression suggesting that he was vacating his body.

“Lordra, may I…?” Lianvis began, then let the words trail off. What, after all, could he possibly ask to do? Look more closely? Touch? All were equally unthinkable.

“Yes,” snapped Ponclast, his eyes distant, his face unreadable.

Perhaps it was better that the specifics not be negotiated. Lianvis leaned forward, and with careful fingers, delicately pried apart the soume petals to look. As the aperture opened, Ponclast’s eyes closed.

“I cannot see the wound, Lordra,” said Lianvis softly, after a moment. “It has to be internal.”

Ponclast moved an arm across his face, shielding himself from the world. “Do whatever you must,” he said, “since it pleases you to play nursemaid.”

In context, his condescending tone was pathetic, a transparently petty defense against humiliation. A small smile, equal parts bitter and tender, moved Lianvis’s lips, but his eyes were sad.

“I have to insert my finger, Lordra,” he warned, in a gentle voice just a breath above a whisper.

“What does it matter?” said Ponclast from behind his arm. “I’m polluted already, anyway.”

The open secret, known so well to both but never once articulated, hung in the air like a blasphemy. Lianvis’s face was stricken, Ponclast’s hidden.

With exquisite care, Lianvis slid a finger into the archon’s ‘lam. A trickle of blood oozed out around it.

Ponclast did not make a sound. His body was frozen. He did not even breathe. He was a corpse, and this was an autopsy.

Lianvis’s brow creased as he felt around. “I cannot touch it, Lordra, but I think I sense where it is. It is… very deep.”

Ponclast was motionless for a moment. Then, without speaking, he closed his hand around Viss’s wrist, his grip like iron and his touch like ice. He pulled it towards him, into him.

Viss resisted. “Lordra, this is a delicate procedure.”

“What am I,” asked Ponclast scornfully, his face still covered by the back of his hand, “spun glass?” But he released Viss’s wrist, allowing him to withdraw his hand and lubricate it before reaching deeper.

LIANVIS

I was as gentle as I could be, putting everything I could into making sure there was no roughness to my movements. Eventually, found it, an inflamed Sikra, the final one, weeping blood as a grieving parent might weep tears. He hissed when I touched it. The pain must have been unimaginable. I began to direct healing agmara into it, soothing the inflammation and the buzzing pain receptors, closing blood vessels. Azvith had had a look at it, which meant this had been going on for some time.

“Lordra… how long has this been happening? It must have been agony,” I said. He grunted.

“Just heal me,” he said, and so I did, running my fingertip ever so lightly over the tender bud deep within.

He was silent, and seemed hardly to even to breathe as I worked. His jaw clenched, and then suddenly, as if with a trumpet blast, the walls of Jericho came down. On some etheric level some barrier broke, crumbled, and what was behind it was brightness itself. It was the cracking of the cosmic egg, a sonic boom, beyond description, and he was clenching desperately on my fingers, back arching as he came, hands fisting in the silk sheets. The deep back-of-the-throat groan of his satisfaction sent a shudder down my spine. Then he fell back, utterly relaxed for a moment on the bed. The bleeding had stopped.

“Lordra?” I asked cautiously.

He did not answer. He was breathing as if he had fallen asleep. Perhaps he had. Perhaps he only wanted me to think so. Of course what had just happened could not be discussed or even acknowledged. Tomorrow, it would be as if it had never happened. I sat there watching him for a long time, stroking his close-cropped hair.

PONCLAST

He dreamed of galaxies that sucked him in like whirlpools, of spiral staircases that led down and down into the core of the earth. In the heart of all matter he found the heart of himself, and it was molten-red and hungry, a fiery pit that opened like a hungry maw. He fell into it and burned up until there was nothing left of him except that desperate, gnawing craving.

He woke with slick thighs, but there was no trace of blood upon them. Lianvis lay curled up at the foot of the bed, on top of the covers. He had fallen asleep there like a faithful dog, wearing all his clothes.

Ignoring him, Ponclast went into the bathroom and took a cold shower, washing the slime from between his legs with freezing water.

Chapter 21: The End of Innocence

Chapter Text

TERZIAN

That night I sat up late. Although I was exhausted, I could not sleep. The day’s events had jangled my nerves.

I should have been sleepless in anticipation of the morrow and my son’s feybraiha. My heir would become an adult, a momentous milestone in both our lives. But my worry for my Lordra overshadowed the excitement I should naturally have felt.

I resented him bitterly for poisoning this a time of joy. That was Ponclast for you: everything was always, ultimately, about him. I couldn’t entirely begrudge him that– as Archon, the world of Varr did indeed revolve around him. Let him put his face on currency and posters to his heart’s content, that was his right. That wasn’t egotism, that was just politics. No, it was his petty, personal selfishness that bothered me, in those moments that revealed him to be just a har.

Just a har. The thought brought with it a wave of disgust, but also a flash of tenderness. As a leader I followed him, as an icon I worshiped him, but as a har, I worried about him.

I’d received no communication from Lianvis. No news was almost certainly good news– if Ponclast had been in serious trouble, surely the Kakkahaar would have let me know. Right? Surely not even Lianvis would be so foolish, or so vindictive, as to keep it from me if our Lordra was in danger?

I tried once more to reach out with my mind, to sense Ponclast’s energy. But his chamber was well-warded, his psychic defenses impenetrable. Presumably that meant he was in stable condition. Lianvis was certainly powerful enough to veil him so, but somehow the implacable wall of blackness I encountered had Ponclast’s signature.

The moon was out, very bright and almost full. It made me feel strange, as if my outline was wavering, on the verge of blurring into another form. The sensation was horrible. Probably I was just sleep deprived.

The clock on my nightstand read three AM. With an irritable sigh, I rose to undress for bed. Probably Ponclast wasn’t dead. If he was, I’d find out in the morning, and then we’d have a state funeral. If he wasn’t, my son’s feybraiha would proceed as planned. Either way I would have a lot to deal with, and needed to sleep.

PONCLAST

He was downstairs early, even before breakfast was ready. He killed time until the morning meal smoking on the veranda with a cup of coffee close at hand. His expression was impassive as he watched servants bustling about the grounds, setting up outdoor tables for the evening’s festivities, decorating them with arrangements of late summer flowers, and red-gold sprays of autumn leaves.

“Lordra Ponclast?”

He started at the voice, but his face was composed as he looked up. His interlocutor was a Kakkahaar, a favorite of Lianvis’s.

“Yes?” He sounded testy. There was still coffee in his cup. His own hara knew better than to disturb him when such was the case.

The Kakkahaar smiled. “I bring great news, Tiahaar Varr. We have broken through the Gelaming’s magical defenses. It happened late last night, when you had already retired.”

Ponclast abruptly turned away, and stared blankly out across the lawn. Now the house-hara were busy winding garlands of grapevines over a lattice arch.

“Indeed,” the archon murmured. “How was this marvel accomplished?”

“I admit we are not certain, Lordra,” the Kakkahaar replied, his tone one of mild chagrin. “We have been working on it for quite some time. It may be we finally wore them down through sheer persistence.”

“Yes, that must be it,” said Ponclast. “Excellent work.”

The Kakkahaar was not perceptive enough to recognize he was being dismissed, or else he was insolent enough to ignore it. He actually sat down in the white wicker armchair beside Ponclast’s and tried to make conversation with him. It was one-sided– the Varrish archon stared straight ahead, silently smoking, as the har prattled. After a few moments more of this he abruptly stood, stubbed out his cigar, and went inside, leaving the baffled Kakkahaar to gawk at thin air.

LIANVIS

I woke at Ponclast’s first stirring, and followed him downstairs as soon as I had had my attendants ready me for the day. I was subservience itself, the perfect soume. I wanted him to know that nothing had changed between us. That the blood was nothing, that what I had touched for this third time changed nothing. He was still himself, and I was still what he had made me.

I found him coming in from the porch, a look of slight irritation on his face. Was he displeased to see me? No, he seemed hardly to notice me.

“Lordra,” I said softly, and he seemed to notice me.

“Oh, Viss,” he said, as if shaking off the remnant of some distant vision, “there’s good news. Your hara have broken through the Gelaming defenses.”

He said it with a disinterested matter-of-factness that worried me. Where was his mind that this development hardly seemed to register? I wondered whether the breakthrough had been real, or something the Gelaming had allowed because they saw me as an ally. Was this a ploy or a true victory? I couldn’t yet say.

And, of course, then there was the matter of the false refugees, the infiltrators we would send. Now that the barrier had been broken, they would get through, and that might lead to awkwardness. No har of my tribe, save Velisarius, knew of my status as a triple agent. I could not risk having my unprepared hara greeted with debriefings. Who knew what they might think if I failed to warn them?

I would have to explain. I would have to share more with them than I could with Him. The thought made me feel ill.

It was a beautiful day, supposed to be a cheerful one, and I put on my sociable charming smile with all the comfort of a scold’s bridle. My heart ached as the sun bathed the lush gardens of Forever outside the windows.

“That’s marvelous, Lordra!” I enthused, without missing a beat, even as I felt a hundred miles away. At what cost had this discovery come? I wanted to believe it had been the others, the adepts of my tribe hard at work. To believe that what we had done the night before had no part in this. But I knew it wasn’t true. I had felt that rush of power in the very depths of my soul.

I thought of the Fisher king, the health of the land tied so intimately to the health of the king. At what price might this victory have been bought? I feared the cost.

I shook away such dark thoughts. We had breached the defenses. We were getting stronger every day. No matter how impressive the Gelaming made themselves appear, they were still a foreign force in hostile territory. We had the defender's advantage on our side, and none of their petty moral scruples to hold us back from the full embrace of our power. And besides, he had me, and I would take on the whole world to protect him and his. And I was Lianvis Har Kakkahaar, Ag-damnit! That had to count for something.

“I will select hara to implement the plans we discussed at Fulminir then?” I said, making it a question, not a statement.

He nodded abstractedly.

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, as if it were the most trivial thing in the world. “For now run and ready yourself so we can have breakfast. It’s a day for celebration.”

“Lordra--” I said touching his arm to draw his attention to my appearance. He seemed to look at me properly for the first time that day. I was dressed in layers of peachy pink silk chiffon, a halter necked bodice held together by silk ribbons which displayed my flat chest, shapely shoulders and slim waist to great advantage leading down to a full skirt that fell in graceful folds nearly to the floor. With it went a matching picture hat and delicate kid leather pumps. My hair was loose in soft waves, pearls were at my throat, and my face was delicately painted to complete the picture of pastoral refinement.

He chuckled. “Ah, you’re dressed already. I hadn’t thought you capable of such efficiency,” he said.

“I think my staff’s developing a rapport that makes things run rather more smoothly,” I said, with a little laugh. His attention seemed to stabilize me, make me solid and real in a way I wasn’t when his gaze turned elsewhere.

I felt safe when I had his attention, and so I savored it as we went into breakfast. I knew I had frightened Swift when he had seen me during that first visit to Forever, but I was a changed har now. I had been almost as afraid of him as he had been of me. We had had few births among my hara, and harlings had unsettled me. I was so changed now. I envied Cobweb. I wanted my sons close to me. Seeing Gahrazel out of the corner of my eye, I thought briefly of Vashti. How could he bear it? The same way I bore the mystery of my first pearl, I supposed. He’d never loved Ponclast anymore than I loved Terzian, so perhaps that made it easier. Still, I wondered.

Gahrazel looked so like his father in some ways. He reminded me of Jarad, all sullenness and boredom with everything before him. He’d been sent on campaign with Terzian. I could only imagine what he’d witnessed there to give him the same look I knew so well on his father. He worried me.

Was I afraid he would share his father’s ruthlessness, afraid of what he might do to his half-brothers (for I knew there must be more) if… when… he took power? Or was I afraid for him, because he reminded me so much of Jarad, and the thought of Jarad’s pain reverberating down the generations in a cycle of anguish and cruelty was unbearable?

Ponclast noticed me staring as I sipped my Varrish coffee and put a gloved hand on my leg under the table and leaned over to murmur, “Jealous, my rose? Wishing your son was my heir?”

I started, and turned to him.

No, Lordra, I replied in mindtouch, I was just imagining what our future sons might look like.

He gave me a little look and sent back, We’ll find out soon, many times over.

I thought of poor little Lavaine, dead before he’d been born, and yet still the thought warmed me. I had carried his child, no matter how briefly. One day, I would do so again.

I thought of how we would get to that day. I would have to be careful. There would be no sons for me if He thought I’d betrayed Him, and I could not risk the Gelaming learning my true allegiance just yet. The scraps of information they fed me were too useful… unless they suspected. But then, I would soon have agents in their midst.

Who could I send? Ain might be offended not to be considered, but I needed him with my tribe, holding things together. Besides, although I trusted his loyalty to me implicitly, his loyalty to our allies was something I wondered about. I did not think he quite liked the Varrs, and it would have been small wonder. Ain’s tribal pride and sense of his Archon’s honor seemed to have been injured during Ponclast’s time in the desert with me. He might decide the Gelaming were a lesser evil. He might decide it was best to play both sides and see who came out on top. I could not allow that. If we let them come in, if we let them impose their strictures and mores on us, we would never be free again. The Varrs at least made no demands about how we were to conduct our own internal affairs, did not clutch their pearls at the sight of blood.

I nibbled my toast and considered. I was going round in circles. I needed to talk to somehar. Was I really going to talk to Tethys neé Gumby about matters of tribal security and espionage ? Was there anyone else I could talk to?

I desperately wished I could talk to Jarad, the Jarad who had lived before Mikael and his friends killed him. Even if he had none of Ponclast’s masterful grasp of military tactics, he had been a good har to confide in. The best. And he’d been smart. Of course, he’d probably have laughed his ass off at me for getting myself into this mess. Tell me it served me right for being such a tease, ask me how good I’d gotten at sucking Velisarius’s ‘lim to end up acting Archon, and what kind of an idiot was I to want to be an Archon anyway. But then he would have turned serious, and I knew exactly what advice he would have given.

“Fuck Viss, run, run as far and as fast as you can! What the hell are you thinking, going with a har like that?”

“But I love you-- him,” would have been my pathetic reply.

Well fuck him anyway, if he’d just made a fucking move the way hara did back then, if he’d just chased me when I had so obviously wanted to be caught. If he’d just been… a little more like his successor, then we might not be here now. But then again, if he’d been more like what he was now then, I wouldn’t have been able to talk to him about what was going on.

I tried to take comfort in His mere presence, the strength of his leather clad body next to mine, but it was no good. I would put it from my mind for now. For now all I needed to be was beautiful and charming, and in this I felt on solid ground. I let myself settle into the role, bright and filled with good humor and a kind word for every har. I let myself flutter around him, again intent on reenforcing our roles as soume and ouana.

PONCLAST

By late afternoon, all the guests had assembled. The lawn before Forever was set with rows of white chairs, facing that grape-twined arch. It looked very much like the layout of an old human wedding. A gentle wind, still carrying some of the warmth of late summer, scattered vibrant autumn leaves across the green. Musicians played soft music as hara of importance milled about on the veranda, drinks in hand, making polite conversation about nothing in particular.

In spite of the occasion, Terzian appeared less joyous than harried and tense. He strode two and fro, barking orders at the servants, waylaying them in the midsts of their tasks to ask terse questions about one trivial detail or another. It would have befitted his dignity better to leave this role to Cobweb, who trailed discretely after him, often murmuring an order to countermand whatever Terzian had just said before.

Ponclast swilled his sheh and nursed his cigar, a sour expression on his face. His boredom was ill-concealed. Many times his eye fell upon Gahrazel, who was engaged in animated conversation with some of the younger officers. Each time Ponclast glanced at his son, his expression darkened.

As Terzian passed by on some fatherly fool’s errand, Ponclast summoned him over with a snap of his fingers. He picked up a glass of sheh from the table behind him, and forced it into Terzian’s hand.

“Drink,” he snapped. “You’re running yourself ragged.”

Terzian’s brows were creased in a frown that seemed to be becoming permanent, but he downed the drink just the same. Apparently it was restorative; his shoulders relaxed, and he even tried for a weak smile.

“I know, Lordra,” he admitted, “and you need me fresh for the real campaign.”

Ponclast smiled coldly, and nodded. “Sit with me awhile,” he commanded. “Cobweb has things well in hand.”

Reluctantly, with a last despairing glance towards the preparations, Terzian obeyed. He and Ponclast took seats at the far end of the porch, away from all others. The archon lit a cigar for him, and Terzian accepted it gratefully, dragging on it with closed eyes.

“This is your last chance, Terzian,” said Ponclast, in a jocular undertone, “to have your son deflowered by a real ouana, rather than that simpering tart.”

Terzian twitched and his eyes opened. He looked at Ponclast questioningly, not following.

“I mean it.” The archon’s voice had grown more serious. “Say the word, and I’ll fill in for Cal.”

Terzian paled. “No! I mean–” he corrected himself, “Thank you, but no thank you, Lordra. Swift chose Cal. He was almost in tears when he came to me, asking for him instead of Leef… I don’t think he can stand to let anyhar else touch him. Not this first time.”

Ponclast snorted delicately. “I see.” He rose, stubbing out his cigar. “You’re too soft on your son, Terzian,” he said. “You’re lucky I’m not so prudish about mine.”

Terzian’s mouth fell open to retort, but Ponclast had already stalked away.

At last it was time. The esteemed guests were ushered to their lawn chairs. To the strains of a marching air, Terzian and Cobweb paraded down the aisle, Terzian in his uniform and Cobweb resplendent in pale green. Cal followed them, opulently but androgynously dressed in tight velvet trousers and a ruffled shirt. As the march swelled triumphally, Swift came last of all, demure in white. His face was painted, his hair twined with flowers, his eyes cast down. He looked very pretty– too pretty, perhaps– but his cheeks were flushed with his embarrassment, and his hands were visibly sweaty.

When he reached the arch, the music stopped. Terzian launched into a long-winded speech. Lianvis leaned his head on Ponclast’s shoulder, bored nearly to sleep as the proud father droned on. As the recitation finally wound down, Terzian guided Cal’s hand to Swift’s with an admonition to “bring this Wraeththu flower to fruit.” Ponclast’s wince was furtive; nohar saw it.

And then it was done– the public part of it, anyway. The important part, the part that all this ceremony, with its prim manners and florid language, both honored and sought to conceal, would take place later, in a tangle of bodies and sheets. Now it was in to dinner, then off to dancing, and the primary remaining duty of the guests was to get drunk enough that the young lovers might slip away with minimal embarrassment. Terzian spoiled that with another speech at midnight, after which Swift was allowed to escape without further humiliation. But when Cal followed him up the grand staircase half an hour later, his ascent to the feybraiha bed was heralded by raucous cheers.

The drink was affecting Ponclast strangely that night. His eyes were too bright, and more than once he furtively swiped at them with the back of his hand– an angry gesture, one that resented itself. The hara who noticed thought no less of him. In fact, they murmured to each other that even their icy archon had a touch of sentimentality when it came to a young har’s feybraiha. Who could blame him? The ceremony had been touching, they agreed– very touching. Terzian had been particularly eloquent that day. And Swift had been so radiant. Why, I’m ouana enough to admit I got a bit choked up myself…

Around two AM, as the party limped and staggered to its conclusion, Ponclast accosted Gahrazel and pulled him aside.

“What is it, father?” Gahazel asked. His body had stiffened at Ponclast’s touch.

“Come with me,” said Ponclast.

He drew him out into the garden. The moon was full and bright, painting the scene in monochrome. Ponclast stared up at it for a moment, then looked searchingly into the face of his own son. He did not speak.

“What is it?” Gahrazel repeated. There was a note of fear in his voice.

Ponclast stayed silent a moment more. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “It seems only yesterday…” he began, then trailed off.

Gahrazel rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental in your old age.”

Ponclast put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “You grew up so fast,” he said. “I hardly know you.” He spoke as if to himself, as if Gahrazel were only a statue or a painted image, or as if to a figure in a dream.

Gahrazel tried to pull away. “You’re drunk, father.”

“No,” said Ponclast. He still held him firm, his grip, as ever, like iron. Gahrazel bit his lip in frustration and stared at the ground while Ponclast inspected him, his expression strange– almost tender, yet filled with foreboding.

“May I go now?” Gahrazel demanded.

His words were cut off in an oof as Ponclast pulled him suddenly into a bear hug, crushing him against his leatherbound chest. It was an embrace without expectation of reciprocation– indeed, it precluded reciprocation, for it pinned Gahrazel’s arms to his sides. Ponclast held him like that for a while, his face pressed against Gahrazel’s hair, his breathing slow and deep. Gahrazel’s eyes were wide open, staring off into the night sky as if he wished it might swallow him up. When at last his father released him, he bolted back into the house without another word.

TERZIAN

The lovebirds had departed. The toasts had been drunk. The party was dispersing. Having said my farewells and done my duty as host, I went upstairs.

Ponclast was with Lianvis. Cal was with my son. Cobweb… I didn’t want to be where Cobweb was. Probably we should have been together tonight, for old time’s sake, to rekindle that fire from which Swift had been made. I could not find it in my heart.

The moon was full now. It called to me. I was tired, so tired I could barely think, but I could not sleep. That strange silver light would not allow me to rest. Instead I drank, and I paced.

I don’t know how many tumblers of liquor I mechanically put down my gullet, or how many times my feet traversed the perimeter of the room. In fact, I don't remember much of that time between beginning to drink, and my impulsive decision to go out the window. Why I chose that path for my exit I cannot explain. It would have been easier and much more sensible to go through the house. But the moon and the night air were drawing me; I took the most direct route towards them.

It wasn’t hard to clamber down the trellis of roses on the side of the house. I was still in my leathers, gloves and all, so I was protected from the thorns. I don’t think anyhar witnessed my strange descent, but even if somehar had, I would not have noticed or cared. I drank in the night like strong wine, intoxicated by moonbeams. My mind was empty, but my spirit was stirred by a deep ferocious hunger, which gave my body its impetus.

I saddled up my horse and rode into the town. I wanted something I had not had in a long time, so long, in fact, that I could not name it. Still, somehow I knew where to find it. My hard ‘lim pointed me in the direction of the musenda, and I followed it as I had so many times before.

I reined up in the courtyard, and attendants came to take my horse. As I dismounted and strode towards the doors of the brothel, I watched myself with some cunning, animal consciousness that lurked in my brainstem. How elegantly I moved! How civilized I appeared in my uniform! There was something so human about me, about all hara. The beast in the back of my brain snarled at the thought. Why did we do this? We were human no longer, so why play at being people ? It was beneath us, really.

The beast watched, the beast listened, as my lips moved and I spoke to the proprietor. “Do you have a woman?” I asked, my voice soft for discretion.

Woman . Ah. That was the word. The name of the meat I craved.

The har’s brows lifted, but he schooled his face to neutrality. “You are in luck, Lordra,” he confided, his voice dropping low to match mine. “At present we do, which is rare for us. They don’t last long.”

“Is she young? Pretty?” I asked idly, as if I didn’t care. Perhaps I didn’t.

The har pursed his lips. “Pretty enough, and young enough, I suppose. Humans fade so quickly, Lordra. If it’s beauty you want, our hara might better meet your standards.”

He was doubtless right, but I needed blood more than I wanted beauty. “Show her to me,” I commanded.

He led me through the chintzy parlor where the whores reclined and into a drab back hallway. It was clearly an area for employees only, lacking the scarlet wallpaper and gaudy decor of the front of the house. The proprietor stopped by a door at the end of the hall. He pulled a key from his pocket, glancing furtively from side to side as if he were doing something shameful, as if he might be caught.

The door swung open. “Here she is, Lordra,” he said, and stood aside to let me peer within.

It was a storeroom transformed into a makeshift prison. The space was mainly occupied with barrels of wine. Squeezed into a corner was a wooden chair. My prey was slumped on it, leaning forward. She had to, since her wrists and ankles were chained to the legs of the chair. I could not see her face, merely a mass of tangled hair, but it was extraordinary hair, thick and curly and red as autumn leaves. She was naked; her body seemed comely enough, though it was smudged with dirt.

“I want to see her,” the beast heard me say.

The brothel-keep gestured that I should help myself. I strode forward, gripped her hair, and yanked back her head. Her face was defiant as she stared up at me. She had a black eye and a split lip, but she was pretty. Not young, exactly, but not older than thirty. I remember she had dark brows and a strong chin. I don’t think I noticed the color of her eyes.

“She’ll do,” I said.

“I don’t advise it, Lordra,” said the brothel-keep, though his voice was resigned. “She has some fight left in her.”

“I see that,” I said, tracing her full bottom lip with my finger. She snapped at it like an animal. I let my hand drop away. “I like it.” Turning to the proprietor, I ordered: “Give me the keys to those chains.”

He shook his head, finally locating his backbone. “I won’t have her loose in my house, Lordra. She’ll cause havoc.”

Bold of him to refuse me. I stared him down until he remembered I could have his head if I wanted, and then, when I saw the fear in his eyes, I relented. “Then I’ll have her outside. Give me the keys, and I’ll give you my fee and be gone.”

He caved to this, of course, then quickly made himself scarce. I turned back to the woman. She was shaking, whether with cold or fear or rage I neither knew nor cared. I bent down to unfasten the chains. She stayed still for this, naturally, her eyes glinting with desperate cunning. She remained compliant as I led her through the hall to the back door. But as soon as she felt the night air on her face, as soon as that moonlight touched her skin, she broke free and bolted.

I watched her run, softly laughing. I had expected this. I realized, in fact, that this was what I wanted. I watched her lithe white body scramble over the back fence and dart down the hill, until it became lost in the trees below.

I took my time walking back to the front courtyard and saddling up my horse again. I had another swig from my hip flask before mounting. Then I swung into the saddle, set my spurs, and set off at a gallop, thundering over the cobblestone streets of Galhea and out into the countryside beyond.

I had the scent of her. I could see her in my mind’s eye– the fallen tree-trunks she clambered over, the brambles that scratched at her feet and ankles as she ran, the night birds that took startled flight as she passed. She ran in panic, but not blindly. She knew these woods. She had lived hidden in them a long time before she was taken.

But I could smell her blood, and her fear, and her dirty ripe cunt. Her terror pulled me like a magnet. She would not escape me.

I know I rode through the woods, I must have done– but I remember myself running on all fours like a wolf, low to the ground, close to her tracks and her smell. The dark trees flashed by, the branches tore at me, but I barrelled through them. My purpose was singular. It could not be described in words so civilized as pelki or even murder. It could not be described in words at all. It was the pure, primal instinct of the hunter.

I could see her in my mind’s eye, naked and filthy as she ran, her long hair tumbling around her and getting into her face. I could feel her incongruous annoyance, absurd within her terror, at having nothing to tie it back with– what a ridiculous thing to be without at a moment like this, what a ludicrous thing to slow her down and hinder her when delay could be fatal. Her feet were calloused, for she had long been a wild thing, but much of her flesh was still vulnerable to the twigs and thorns that caught at her. The cold she did not feel. Her blood was pumping too fast. Her breath came in labored wheezes.

I drew it out. I could have caught her quickly with ease, but I relished the chase, stalking her through the woods. Her fear and my anticipation were delicious to me. I wanted to be glutted with them before I feasted on anything else. After all, I could afford to wait. She would tire before I would.

A treacherous fallen log was her undoing. It caught at her foot, sent her tumbling forward, wrenching her ankle into a twist. I sensed it even before I heard her stifled cry of pain, for my prey and I had become one. I moved in swiftly for the kill. I remember seeing her lying sprawled on the dead leaves, her hair wild, her body streaked with mud, her eyes wide and her hands outstretched hopelessly to fend me off. I thought I saw a tall dark figure watching us from the trees, and my heart swelled with pride in the belief that my Lordra approved.

And then all was lost in the bliss and intoxication of warm, spurting blood.

When I returned to myself it might have been some time later, for the viscera I found myself surrounded with was quite cold. Nothing recognizable remained of my victim; it was all just meat. I suspect I was barely recognizable either. I was sticky with fluids, caked in bits of flesh and organ. It was all over my face, my hands, my clothes; it had dried in my hair and turned it stiff.

The beast’s consciousness had disappeared from my mind. I was alone, afraid, and nauseated. I retched into the splayed body cavity, the ribcage I had wrenched open, my vomit splattering onto mangled guts and clotting blood. This is all I can produce, I remember thinking, though I do not know what that meant to me at the time.

My muscles were stiff. My jaw ached. I had stringy bits of something stuck between my teeth.

As soon as I could manage it, I got to my feet. The Varrish warhorse had not fled. He stood where I had left him, waiting patiently, unphased by whatever he had witnessed. I mounted him shakily and fled that place.

It seemed inconceivable to return to Forever in such a state, but I had little other choice. Judging by the position of the stars, I thought it must be quite late. Perhaps nohar would see me. I had good luck in the courtyard and the stables. The lights in the house were all dark, so I assumed my luck would hold. But as soon as I opened the front door, I was confronted by a pair of catlike eyes, gleaming at me through the gloom.

“I waited for you tonight,” came the soft, accusing voice.

I halted where I stood. It was dark in the entry hall. I could barely make out Cobweb’s pale figure huddled in an armchair. Probably he could not see what a mess I looked.

“Then that was your mistake,” I said. I was shaken, exhausted.

“Went out carousing, did you?” He was quiet, speaking barely above a whisper, but his tone was venomous.

I rubbed at my face, and then regretted it, as the caked blood on both my face and hand pilled.

“Something like that,” I said.

“Couldn’t bother to spend some time with me, even on the night of our son’s feybraiha?” His voice rose. He reached toward the gas lamp on the end table near him. A light flared; suddenly the entry was illuminated.

There I stood in all my gory glory. There was no hiding it now. I was too tired to want to hide it; and as deep as my shame was, I could not bring myself to feel it before Cobweb. So I stayed still, and simply looked at him.

He looked back at me. His expression, which must have been furious moments before, had grown quite calm and blank. After a moment, he gracefully rose from his seat. Moving slowly, as if in a dream, he drifted away up the stairs.

I watched him go, marveling. I knew there were many things that Cobweb simply chose not to think about. I had not realized that he could also choose not to see.

Chapter 22: The Serpent's Tooth

Summary:

"How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child!"
-Shakespeare, King Lear, Act 1 Scene 4
This chapter contains by far the most direct re-write of Storm Constantine's work in any of our fic so far. All of the dialog, and most of the descriptions of the action, in the scene between Swift and Terzian comes from "Bewitchments of Love and Hate." There have been very slight alterations made. I like to think the differences could come from the disparity between Swift's and Terzian's memories.

Chapter Text

PONCLAST

They departed from Forever on the very next day. Ponclast’s business now lay to the north, among the independent tribes. They were unclaimed pawns on the chessboard, as tempting to the Gelaming as they were to the Varrs. Ponclast was determined to take them before his enemies could, and whether they ended up as allies, as slaves or as smoking corpses mattered little to him.

Terzian had remained in Galhea to prepare for his coming march on the Gelaming. Ponclast was without his right hand, but he still had his left. Although Lianvis was no warrior, he had his uses. He showed the tribal archons that even the wise Kakkahaar had submitted to the Varrish agenda. When a tribe received them willingly as guests, Lianvis sat beside Ponclast at the welcoming feast, a complement and ornament to his power. When resistance was shown, it was crushed all the more quickly through the combination of Varrish prowess and Kakkahaar battle magic. Few tribes tried to fight. All of them ultimately agreed to Ponclast’s terms.

They had been on the road for less than a week when a courier from Galhea caught up to them. It was night when he came, and Ponclast’s retinue had already made camp. The archon received the messenger in his tent. Their conference was brief. In less than five minutes the messenger emerged, looking pale as a ghost. He remounted his horse and road swiftly back the way he came.

Ponclast did not come out so swiftly. Through the canvas of his tent, lit from within by the glow of a candle, his silhouette could be seen sitting motionless at his traveling desk for long minutes that stretched into hours. He remained there long after all the other lights in the camp had gone out.

Around midnight, he reached for paper and a pen, and drafted a curt note. He sealed it with blood-red wax and called for a lackey to take it to Lianvis. Then he rose and went out into the dark, moonless night. He roused a handful of sleeping soldiers, and in a soft voice, ordered them to saddle their horses and come with him at once. While the rest still slumbered, the archon and his small party departed, slipping off quietly into the darkness.

By dawn, all that was left there of Ponclast was a crimson-sealed parchment, sharing a pillow with Lianvis’s head.

Viss:

An urgent matter has compelled me to return to Galhea.

Proceed immediately back to Fulminir and await me there.

-P

TERZIAN

In Galhea, there is a little jailhouse. Like the town itself, it is old– older than Wraeththu– but this building is still new enough to be ugly. It is a rectangle of concrete and cinder block, plain as a cheap tombstone. Humans are kept in pens on the far side of town, and captives from other tribes are generally quickly enslaved, so Galhea’s jail generally serves as little more than a drunk tank. Now, its unassuming walls imprisoned Ponclast’s heir.

I paused outside to draw a breath, to brace myself. It was the dead of night and the air was chilly. Usually I find brisk weather energizing, but on this occasion the cold drained me. I could draw no strength from it.

Things had moved very quickly since I’d found that anonymous note, tucked in with the rest of my mail. PONCLAST’S SON IS A TRAITOR. HE GOES TO THE GELAMING. THIS I OVERHEARD. And just like that, with a few hastily scrawled words, our world turned upside-down.

So much had happened tonight, and none of it felt real. I’d roused Ithiel immediately, and together we had gone into town to make the arrest. Though less than an hour had passed, the awful memory already felt ancient– Gahrazel pushed against the wall, his arms pinned behind him by his fellow soldiers, defiantly screaming his innocence and taking his Father’s name in vain, until Ithiel pulled that bulging rucksack from beneath his bunk and a month’s worth of stolen supplies spilled out of it onto the floor.

Purah went for the door– he had been frozen, unresisting up until that moment, so nohar had been holding him. I’d followed him into the hallway and shot him in the back of the head. He’d crumpled instantly, inches from the barracks door and escape. The shot ran in my ears; I could barely hear Gahrazel’s screams over it.

I’d walked back into the room. The young har had tried to lunge at me, but the soldiers held him fast. His face was contorted with fury and grief, red from shouting and streaming with tears and snot. He looked like a child having a tantrum. I’d heard myself say “This ends now,” calm words of little meaning, and then my fist shot forward and connected with Gahrazel’s temple. He’d gone limp in his captor’s arms, his eyes rolled back. My hand was smarting, and the inside of my glove felt wet. I peeled it off and saw it had not saved me from splitting my knuckles on his skull.

Then he was dragged away. After the violence of that scene, after the tears and shouting and bloodshed, had come… paperwork. That is the life of an officer, of course. After atrocities and abominations there are reports to be written. I sat at the cramped desk in the barracks office, writing and signing I know not what. I lingered long over what to write to Ponclast, dithering over impossible words, before crumpling up my draft and hurling it into a bin. I’d have a trusted messenger delivery it verbally. This intel was too hot to be committed to paper.

Now as we stood before the jailhouse, Ithiel put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Awful night,” he said sympathetically.

He wasn’t out of line– or wouldn’t have been, had I decided to tolerate his familiarity. I was in no mood. Testily I shrugged off his hand and his words of comfort. “Lets get it over with,” I said.

Into the building we went. The heavy metal-rimmed glass doors thundered shut behind us. It was cold inside the jail, and dark. We had never bothered to restore the building’s electrical supply, so the guards had to rely on oil lamps. One was sitting behind the desk in the lobby, huddled in a wolfskin coat against the cold. He stood as we entered, saluted, and wordlessly guided us down the row of cells. All of them were empty save for the very last.

Gahrazel sat on a narrow bench, huddled into a corner. His hands were stuffed into his uniform pockets for warmth. His eyes were closed, and his slow, shallow breaths misted on the air. There was a purpling bruise on the side of his head, where I’d hit him. At the sound of our footsteps he stiffened, but did not open his eyes.

The jailer handed me the keys. “Thanks,” I said to him. “Leave us now. I have Ithiel for backup.”

The guard nodded and withdrew. I was confident he understood what I had not said– sensitive matters of national security might very well be under discussion.

I nodded to Ithiel, and he retreated up the hallway to give us some space. Then I put the key in the lock and entered the cell.

Gahrazel did not open his eyes. “Must be you, Terzian,” he said. “I know you by your stink.”

I did not take the bait. It was childish. He was acting like a child because that was still very much what he was. I stood in the middle of the cell staring at him, so small and frail, mostly lacking the muscle he should have put on as a soldier. All my righteous fury had abandoned me, and I found myself feeling sick and sad. This child had grown up in my home. This child would have to die.

“I have to ask you questions, Gahrazel.” My tone was almost gentle.

He laughed bitterly, finally opening his eyes. His gaze was full of contempt. “Go ahead. I have nothing left to hide anymore. I’ll talk as much as you like.” His voice rose. “In fact, maybe I’ll talk and talk and talk, to just anyhar who comes in here. I could tell them lots of things. Things about you, for instance…”

It was a weak threat, hardly any threat at all, yet somehow it still made my skin crawl and my hackles rise defensively. “No one would care, Gahrazel,” I said.

“My father might,” he said.

I shook my head. “Your father knows. He’s made that clear to me. Anyway, you’re nothing to him anymore.” Why did speaking those words make my eyes sting with tears? It wasn’t my loss. I suppose it was all just very sad.

Gahrazel didn’t relent. “I still don’t think it makes you look so good,” he retorted. “You were taking aruna with me and you didn’t suspect a thing. Makes you seem soft.”

I had to laugh at that. It was so weak, so pathetic– desperate. “Gahrazel, you’re the archon’s son. Anyhar would have to be soft on you.” A peevish note crept into my tone. “Have you any idea what an impossible position you’ve put me in?”

He just stared at me as if I was insane. I realized that from his perspective, it really was a very absurd thing to say.

The cell was too small, and I felt overheated in spite of the cold air. Compelled by the sense of confinement, I paced.

“Are you in contact with the Gelaming?” I demanded, coming to a stop before him. I planted my boots firmly in a wide stance and held his gaze.

He snorted. “No.”

“That is, of course, only what you can be expected to answer,” I said.

He rolled his eyes. “Get out the thumbscrews, then. It won’t change anything.”

I glared at him, simmering. I didn’t want to hurt him. I hated him because I might have to, and that was, after all, his fault. But I had learned much from Ponclast, and remembered, now, that I had options.

“No,” I agreed. “There are better ways than torture.”

With that I swooped down, grabbing his face between my hands, and crushed my mouth to his. He tried to fight me, beating at my chest with his fists, but I was stronger, just as I had always been stronger. I held his skull in a viselike grip as I sucked his breath into me, devouring all that there was to see. He tried to resist at first, but I’d always been good at cracking him open and seeing his mind. I should have done more of that. If I’d made time to enjoy him recently, we might not be in this situation.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a battle. Saliva poured from our lips as he struggled to pull away, teeth bruised lips and gums and clashed against each other. I was barely aware of the messy, physical realities of it as I clawed relentlessly through his memories, scouring his mind for secrets. I did not find what I sought. Instead, I got more than I bargained for– wave upon wave of dark emotions, resentment, hatred, bitterness, dread, despair, all of it centered upon… me. It was his molten core, the engine that powered him. Not even his loathing for his father could touch it.

I pulled away and stumbled back. I stared at him in shock and horror, seeing him, for a moment, the way he saw me, shaking with his borrowed terror.

“Why, Gahrazel?” I finally managed.

He had slumped back against the wall, his lips swollen and moist from my attack. He wiped at them with the back of his hand, and laughed– a cold laugh, without humor, that reminded me of his father.

“Ask your son,” he said poisonously.

My world tilted, again, on its axis.

“Swift?” I demanded, incredulous. “What does Swift have to do with this?”

Gahrazel shrugged with one shoulder. “Ask him,” he repeated. “I’m sure you’ll find it educational.”

I was filled with dread as I left that place. My thoughts raced the entire ride home. What could Swift possibly have to do with this? This sordid affair would cost Ponclast a son– would cost me mine as well? Fury and terror sloshed around in my guts, making me queasy. As distant from Swift as I had been, I did love him. Now, more than ever, I felt the full intensity of that love, love that threatened to turn into grief and crush me beneath its weight. Even if the unthinkable were true, and Swift had indeed betrayed us, my hatred and fury could never become black enough to smother the fire of that love, or drown the agony of loss. My son, my first born. Blood of my blood.

As we reached the house, I curtly ordered Ithiel to rouse Swift from his bed. He rushed upstairs to obey. I remained below, and paced, my boots ringing as I strode aimlessly around the entry hall. I wanted to drink, I wanted to smoke, I wanted to weep, but I would not let my son find me doing any of those things. For this conversation, I would have to become as stone. I would have to freeze my heart.

In what must have been a short time, but felt like an eternity, Swift appeared at the top of the stairs, sleep-tousled but fully dressed. Wordlessly, I pointed at the floor by my feet. He hurried down to join me, his robe rustling, his sleep braid bouncing over his shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked breathlessly.

His innocent tone sounded false, put on. Perhaps it was only my suspicion that made it sound that way, but even so I couldn’t bear it. I turned my back on him and made for my study. He followed, bare feet padding softly behind me. That same gait had haunted the halls of this house since his childhood. Might this be the last time that I heard it?

When we reached the study, I locked the door behind us. I turned to him, searching his face. In it I saw myself, and Cobweb– a composite of the known and the unknown, the Varrish and the foreign, the trusted and the dangerous.

“My son,” I said.

Though he smiled, he was trembling, wringing his hands, his teeth nearly chattering through his forced grin. His guilt seemed plain as day. He tried to sit down.

“Stand up!” I snarled, and he shot back up out of the chair like a startled cat.

“What’s wrong?” His eyes were too big, his voice too high. Guilty, guilty, guilty!

“Don’t you know?” I spat.

He shook his head jerkily. I stared him down until he had to look away. He stood there nervously twisting his braid, so frantically that I thought he might regress to his childhood habit of chewing on it. I could barely contain my rage.

“Well, Swift,” I said, “I shall tell you.” My blood was pounding in my ears, and the adrenaline pumping through me made me feel light-headed. It drove me into motion and I found myself pacing again, prowling around the room I spoke. He flinched every time I came near. That was good, for now. Let him fear me. Let him break. Let anything he had to hide come pouring out. “I’ve just returned from Galhea,” I said. “Tonight, I find our enemies are nearer to us than I’d thought. Much nearer. Not in the South. Not even beyond the fields of Galhea. Closer even than that!”

I rounded on him, smashing my fist down onto my desk. “Here!” I barked. “In Galhea, perhaps even in my own house!”

Swift’s body had gone rigid, stiff as a rabbit about to die from fear. “I don’t understand,” he said indignantly, the universal tone of bad liars and the justly accused.

I lunged at him. He started back, but the chair behind him caught him at the knees, knocking his legs out from under him. He sat down hard, staring up at me. I swooped over him, planting my hands on the armrests, trapping him there.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” He babbled, and some other nonsense of that nature. In that moment he was nothing more to me than a prisoner, a traitor. He had nothing to say except for the stupid things I’d heard a million times before in interrogations, all of it boring, an infuriating waste of time, energy, and military resources, a doomed and pathetic last gasp of resistance before breaking, because they all do, in one way or another, and everything before that is merely a postponement of the inevitable.

My hand wrapped around his throat. I felt his pulse and his Adam’s apple and the shape of his fragile trachea beneath my palm. I gripped, I pressed. I’d have it out of him. I would get what I needed. This one was weak, he’d be easy to break…

The choked gurgle that broke from him brought me back to myself. It was a sound so much like the noises he’d made as an infant harling. Suddenly, before me, there was not an enemy of Varr, but my own son. Horrified, I dropped my hand and stepped back, retreating from him and from what I had done. How could I have forgotten who he was so quickly? Under suspicion he might have been, but this was my Swift. I must not be rash. I must be certain.

I fell into the chair behind my desk and put up my feet, heedless of the documents that scattered and tore beneath my boot heels. For a moment I hid my face in my hands, overwhelmed with this night and the awful work before me. I could not look at Swift, could not let myself see the pain and terror I had caused him, because if I saw tears in his eyes I would not be able to continue, and this questioning had only begun.

“Gahrazel,” I said.

“What?” Swift squeaked.

“Gahrazel,” I repeated, and dropped my hands from my face. I had to look at him now, had to force myself to stare at my panicked harling and coldly gauge his reactions. Strangely, the sight of him, sniveling, cowering, did not inspire pity, but rekindled the heat of my rage. “Surely you remember Gahrazel, Swift,” I snapped. “Ponclast’s son? In my care? Surely you know the one!”

“Yes,” he mumbled.

“Well,” I said, “apparently he wants to leave us.”

“Leave us?” Swift whimpered. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

He really did protest too much. It couldn’t be my imagination. Swift knew something. I was growing certain of it, in colder blood now, and it was tearing me apart inside. “I mean what I said. Perhaps I should add, his intended destination was the south and the Gelaming.”

He laughed weakly. “Gahrazel? Never!”

It was all so forced. I saw no shock in his eyes. “Really, Swift?” I sneered.

He said nothing. Did he really have nothing to say? Useless, I thought, and next to worthless.

“Let’s not waste time,” I said, with an exasperated sigh. “I know you were his closest friend. He must have talked to you. I can only assume you knew something of what he was planning. Even I could see how dangerous he was becoming, his strange fancies. Don’t tell me you knew nothing. Are you really such a fool?”

He lowered his eyes. “I…” There was no more to that sentence. It trailed off.

I stood, scattering papers. One landed at Swift’s feet and he reflexively bent down to pick it up, staring at it as if to avoid my eyes. I snatched it from his hands and tossed it aside. “Swift, nothing that happens in this house escapes my notice!” I snarled. “Nothing! You can be sure of that. I know Forever inside out. I know its deepest secrets, but…”

Abruptly I crouched down before him, forcing myself into his downcast line of vision. I laid my hands on his shoulders, felt his trembling vibrate up my arms. My voice grew quieter, deadly quiet. “But there are two things here, that I shall never know, never understand, not completely. Those two things are Cobweb and yourself. You’re closed doors, both of you. Too much Sulh blood in you, too much magic. I’m wary of that, my son, very wary. If either of you should ever want to betray me…”

“Terzian, no!” Swift cried. “Never, I swear, never!” His eyes were pleading, desperate. It did not escape me that he had not called me ‘father.’ And why should he? That was not who I was to him now. I was his torturer.

“I have seen Gahrazel,” I told him. “This afternoon, somehar, I don’t know who yet, gave me a message that implied something of what Gahrazel was up to. When confronted, he tried to deny it at first, but then his quarters were searched and all the supplies he’d been hoarding were found. He was taken into custody and after a while admitted the accusation was true. I asked him one thing only and that was ‘Why?’ All he did was laugh and the one thing he said to me was, ‘Ask your son, Terzian.’”

His face was turned away, his eyes squeezed shut as if to block me out. I took hold of his chin and turned him back towards me. “Why did he say that, Swift?”

His expression was horrible, not just his lip trembling but every muscle in his face twitching. “I don’t know!” he stammered, squirming. I could feel him on the verge of cracking. I dreaded what I was about to hear, but I had to get the truth.

“What do you know?” I pressed.

“All right!” he howled, still struggling in my grip. “Just let me go. Please. Please!”

I released him and stood back, leaning against my desk. When they say they’ll talk in return for mercy, you have to give it to them, if only for a moment. They become grateful to you for the relief, in spite of themselves. Often they feel strangely obligated to keep their word, to give you something, even if it is small or a lie, but often tell more than they intended just the same.

Swift was crying, snot running down his face. He swiped at it with the back of his hand and then stared dully at the smear of mucous left on him. “I never wanted to know what Gahrazel believed in,” he babbled. “We’ve drifted apart. We’re no longer close friends. I don’t know him, not anymore, not since Purah came. Once he did try to tell me something, but I didn’t want to know. I told him that. I wouldn’t listen.”

It was weak, and it was bullshit, but at least he was talking, giving me more than ‘I don’t know.’ “When?” I demanded.

He shrugged. “I… I can’t remember, exactly.”

Lies. I’d jog his ‘faulty’ memory. “Swithe tells me Gahrazel was here at the house yesterday.”

A flicker of panic in his eyes again. His cheeks sucked in as if he were biting the insides of them. Biting back what? “Yes,” he admitted after a moment. “Gahrazel was here. He came to say goodbye to me. By that, I assumed he meant because he was going south again, with you…”

My own son, still lying to me. I couldn’t stand it. I tilted my head back to stare up at the ceiling, trying to let the swirls and curlicues of the molded plaster trap my fury. “And why did you take him to the long gallery?” I demanded.

I looked back down at him. He was silent, frozen. I sighed.

“You needed privacy, Swift, that’s obvious. What did you talk about?”

“Nothing, nothing important!” He yelped. His face was corpse-white.

I pushed off the desk and advanced on him, one menacing step at a time. “Why there?” I growled. “Why?”

“Because…”

“Why?” I bellowed. He jumped at my sudden volume. I almost jumped myself. I had not meant to yell, not that time. It worked, though, seemed to jolt him awake, make up his mind.

“Because we… because…” He looked down, flushing. “He didn’t want anyhar to know…”

“What?” I spat. To hell with all of this. I was ready to put hands on him again and shake him.

Swift raised a trembling hand to his brow. “That… he wanted to take aruna with me. He said I might never see him again… but he didn’t want anyhar to know. Because of Purah, because of Bryony… oh, I don’t know!”

I had stopped dead in my tracks. Everything was falling into place now. My anger was ebbing, rushing away like the tide going out, and it left me feeling very cold. “Because of me,” I murmured.

“I just went along with it,” my son said. “It was… like a game.”

My breath escaped me with a long shudder. Like a game. They were the words of an abused child. Swift was still barely more than a child. I knew then, exactly what had happened. Gahrazel had taken Swift to spite me, the same way I had taken Gahrazel to spite his father. This was why he’d told me “ask your son.” This was what he’d wanted me to find out, another dagger to twist in my chest. He was more than a traitor. He was a venomous little monster. Suddenly my son’s trembling, his terror, made a new and awful kind of sense. Just going along with it, after all, is not the same as being willing. Whether Swift fully realized it yet or not, Gahrazel had violated him.

A different kind of fury swallowed me, heavier and darker, a fury akin to grief and enmeshed with guilt. After all, I was the source of all this filth and poison. I had hurt Gahrazel, had kindled his lust for revenge, and it had fallen not on me but upon my son.

I felt sick. I rubbed at my brow with both hands, as if I could wipe away my sudden pounding headache. “So, Swift, Gahrazel really didn’t tell you he was thinking of running away... or anything else? You knew nothing. Can you swear to this?”

“I knew nothing," he said softly. "His mind was closed to me of all but memories of our friendship. Nothing else... at all.”

I needed a drink. I went to my liquor cabinet and poured myself a sheh. After a moment, I poured one for Swift, too, and carried them over to him. “I’m sorry,” I said inadequately as I gave him his glass. “I had to ask you. I hope you understand.”

“Of course,” Swift said.

The promptness of his reply should have reassured me, but somehow it saddened me instead. He was Varr, after all. Of course he understood. I knocked back my sheh.

Swift sipped at his drink more desultorily. He wasn’t a big drinker, never had been, but I suppose just now even he needed it. “I should have told you at once,” He said. “But... What will happen to him?”

Indeed, what would happen to Gahrazel? I suspected it wouldn’t be anything so simple or merciful as a bullet in the head. The thought of what Ponclast might do to him shouldn’t have made me feel queasy, but it did. I sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t say. Ponclast went to a settlement farther north two days ago. He’s not expected back until the end of the week. Of course, I’ve sent messengers. Obviously, I can’t make any decisions about this. It’s his problem, I would say, wouldn’t you?’ Those last words carried a tone of peevishness. I shouldn’t have let Swift hear that. I topped up my sheh again.

"Who do you think sent you the message?" Swift asked.

He tried to sound casual, but the second the words were out of his mouth, I knew, and my heart broke for my son again. I did not look at him, did not let him see in my eyes that I had guessed. “I don’t know,” I said. “Somehar who’s well known to Gahrazel, I’d have thought. Somehar loyal to his tribe, who would prefer to stay anonymous because he had to be disloyal to a friend. I think it’s best to leave it at that, don’t you?”

I looked up in time to see Swift nodding in vehement agreement. The relief on his face was almost funny, or would’ve been had the situation been less grim. I wished he could’ve told me directly. I wished he could’ve trusted me, but I was proud of him for doing the right thing, even if in a roundabout, cock-eyed way.

I thought back to myself at Swift’s age– or rather, an age equivalent to his. How would I have handled something like this, all on my own? The answer was that I wouldn’t have had to. By that time I was already firmly embedded in a hierarchy, with a clear chain of command. Somehar else would’ve told me what to do. As much as I have been insubordinate, as much as I have sometimes resented being under authority, I suddenly realized how lucky I had been– and felt like a failure for not making it clear to Swift that I was the one who stood above him, and would decide all things.

Ponclast returned more swiftly than any of us expected. He came on a pale horse– a lean beast built for speed, not like his usual heavy black charger. Little fanfare announced him– I simply glanced out the window into Forever’s courtyard one morning and saw him there with his retinue. I found myself riveted as I watched him dismount, searching his every movement for signs of agitation and grief. I did not see it in the smooth way he handed off the reins to the groom, nor in his elegant decisive stride as he turned on his heel and strode towards the house. Pain did not etch itself on his features– they were as smooth and implacable as ever.

One might have wondered then, as one is apt to wonder about Ponclast, whether he had a heart at all. But I knew him. He buried his feelings six feet deep, and tamped the frozen earth above them firmly down so that no revenant might ever rise.

He passed onto my porch and out of my view through the window. I went to the entry hall to meet him. The door swung open, letting him in with a little autumn sunshine. Then he closed it firmly behind him, leaving the hall seeming darker than before.

He did not speak, merely nodded towards my study. I followed him there.

Within, he seated himself promptly behind the desk. “Your report,” he said.

I handed it to him, along with all the other relevant papers– the records of the arrest, and of Gahrazel’s service, of his feybraiha, his education, his birth– everything. It was all in one file now. Ponclast flipped it open to peruse it, holding up an empty cupped hand as he did. I deposited a tumbler of cognac into it, which he accepted without looking up from the documents. I also lit him a cigar, which he took from me similarly without acknowledgement. For once, I felt no resentment at all of his high-handed ways. At a time like this, I was glad to wait upon him like a servant. It was the least I could do, and also the most, for I knew I would be permitted to offer no further comfort.

As he read, I watched him closely, scanning his face for the tiny telltale signs of emotion I had come to know so well– a tightening of the lips, a flare of the nostrils, a slight constriction between the brows. There was nothing. That chilled me.

He took his time with the file, even the parts of it that must have been abundantly familiar to him, concerning Gahrazel’s childhood. His gaze was cold and clinical, but I knew, as he scanned the birth certificate and medical records, that he was allowing himself a sort of goodbye.

“Well done,” he said at last, setting the papers aside. “You have acted commendably, Terzian.”

I came to attention at his words. “Thank you, Lordra.” After a moment’s hesitation, I asked, “Do you wish to interrogate Gah– the prisoner yourself?” I wasn’t sure why I stopped myself from utterly the name. It seemed kinder somehow.

“No,” said Ponclast coolly. “That is not necessary. Everything has been done to my satisfaction. The only thing left to discuss is the sentence.” He pointed at the chair across the desk from him, the one in which my little Swift had so recently sat and trembled. “Sit.”

I obeyed. My heart was beating fast, and I felt dizzy and ill again. I would not let it show. The dreaded time had come, when Gahrazel’s fate would be pronounced. I knew I should be silent and listen, but I could not prevent myself from speaking

“If I may offer it, Lordra, I would be happy to handle it personally, to relieve you of the burden.”

He laughed, then. Actually laughed. It was the most expressive thing he had done since arriving. He looked at me as if I were insane. “You know me better than that, Terzian. It is not my way to flinch.”

Usually it wasn’t my way to flinch, either, but Ponclast could make me flinch. I was afraid, now, in a way I had rarely been in his presence– afraid for him. I already knew, with a sinking feeling, that Gahrazel's end would be neither quick nor easy.

“My apologies, Lordra,” I said.

Ponclast sat back in his chair– my chair– and picked up his cigar from the ashtray. He puffed on it once, twice, three times before he spoke again. “I have already put considerable thought into it, and I have made up my mind. It is not enough for my son’s treachery to be punished. His death must be made to benefit us as well.”

I twitched. “How could such a tragedy possibly be turned to our benefit, Lordra?” I asked. In my heart I knew, though– not the specifics of his plan, but the general shape of it. I remembered the desiccated bodies of Rove and Wagner, the taste of female blood. A portal seemed to yawn before me, a chasm in reality itself that breathed forth malice and freezing cold.

“Easily,” said Ponclast, sounding as little concerned as if he were discussing the weather. “Think about it logically. There could be no greater sacrifice than that of my first-born son. The occult potential is immense, Terzian. There is power to be gained here, power beyond even what we have dreamed. This opportunity will not repeat. We must seize it with both hands.”

And yet there was no light in his eyes as he spoke of power, no fervor in his voice to match his words.

I saw him clearly then, not Ponclast as he sat before me in my office, but the real Ponclast, as if in a vision. He was standing on the brink of the abyss and there was no desire left in his heart save to hurl himself down into it. His resolve was of iron, there would be no dissuading him, no saving him from himself or of all of us from him. I marveled at it even as I thrilled with fear. There was beauty in this, such eerie, aching beauty…

“Will it be worth it, Lordra?” I asked.

He looked at me with his eyes like dead stars, continuing to shine without life. “For victory, Terzian, anything is worth it.”

Perhaps, in some other universe, I argued with him. Perhaps there is even one where I killed him where he sat, and prevented him from tearing any further at the fabric of fate, and spared us all at least a little pain. I do not live in either of those realities. Instead, I bowed my head to him, and bunched my fist upon my heart.

“Then, Lordra,” I said, “I will do as you command.”

Chapter 23: Where the Whore Sitteth

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

VETA

And so it came to be that Lianvis, his slender form standing straight even as the winds of fate buffeted him, came again to the gates of Fulminir. No retinue came to greet him, for Ponclast, his protector, had rushed off, as ouanas are wont to do, for some business in Galhea to the south. For all that his heart was Varrish, some saw this flower of the Kakkahaar as an untrustworthy outsider, an intruder who had bewitched their Archon and was thus to be treated as coldly as could be permitted. Yet he did not weep where other hara might see, and gossip more than they already did. He knew all eyes were on him.

I, of course, am able to pass quite unnoticed, plain little creature that I am, especially next to a legendary paragon of loveliness like Lianvis and my striking companion Glory. Even Tethys, for all his unpropitious and improper upbringing, is a striking har. And I? With my chestnut hair and wide blue eyes, I am a sparrow next to these birds of paradise. Yet I fancy, I am at least wiser than they, for I, being unremarkable, have gotten to see a bit more of the world than they in certain ways, and have had the advantage of a thoroughly Varrish education. It is also perhaps because I am also blessed with almost the soundness and sense of an ouana, although I, of course, maintain the modesty and deferential character that is right and natural to we soumes. (After all, General Creed sometimes lets me be ouana for him when he is in a good mood, and he says I do it very prettily.)

So of course, I knew that the letter the Archon received must have been a dreadful notice of terrible import, in all likelihood regarding a forbidden romance between his heir and some har of low rank, who would of course be a har of great nobility of character who would agree to the Archon’s plan to have him made consort to a brave and virtuous officer, despite his knowledge that under the brave face Gahrazel was obliged to put on, his young heart was breaking behind the leather uniform he, like his father, wore with such valor.

And of course, Ponclast, for all his sternness and all his knowledge of his duty to his hara, would perhaps shed a single ouanic tear in his study for this love that could not be.

Or perhaps the trouble we’d vaguely heard of surrounding Gahrazel had to do with some scheme of his duplicitous hostling Vashti, whose seeming virtue had deceived even me , dear reader!

Glory, in his innocence, had exposed the truth to me, telling me in his simple way a tale of ruthless calculation that went against every ideal I held dear in my patriotic Varrish heart. Glory had insisted, with that foolish cynicism of his (the tragic result of so delicate and sensitive a nature as a true soume’s being exposed to the roughshod world outside the sweet bastion of Varrish civility) that I not inform Ponclast of Vashti’s unthinkable cruelty towards Glory’s valiantly wounded beloved, for the silly har believed our Archon would not care! And although it pained me, for I knew him to be quite mistaken, he had sworn me to secrecy, and I cannot break a vow.

So when, as I was attempting to rouse some of the staff to prepare my precious charge’s chambers for his occupancy and serve him dinner, I heard whispers of Vashti’s indiscretion with one of Ponclast’s hostlings, I knew he must be informed.

I saw now that I had underestimated Vashti’s evil. I had thought him a scheming soume with too much ouana ambition, like the wicked Wrev from Bound by Blood– but no, he was an ouana with a soume’s subtlety, a shameless ouana willing even to host a pearl to facilitate his ascent. He had flaunted himself in his androgyny, seduced our Lordra and gotten his son into the very heart of Varr. I shuddered at the implications. He had made himself trusted, been allowed to go between worlds, and all that time he had simply wanted access to his Lordra’s… his Lordra’s… it was too vile to even write down! He had deceived us all, the long hair and the son he had borne, all a deceit! He was like any ouana, only weaker and more cowardly.

Poor Lianvis! Sweet as he was, I think he had worried over Vashti. I could not tell him of this betrayal, not before I informed Ponclast at least.

LIANVIS

Arriving at Fulminir without my Lordra there either at my side or to greet me was strange. I made no grand entrance. Without him the entire fortress felt as if it held its breath, and I felt myself an outsider in those thick stone walls.

My arrival seemed to go almost entirely unnoticed until Glory and Veta went to summon a few attendants to arrange a meal for me and prepare my rooms. Glory and Veta were warm towards me as always, but the other attendants seemed displeased at my presence, as if it were an imposition.

When I asked after Vashti, there were only whispers and cold looks, and when I inquired for news of my Lordra, the response was no better. The serving-hara responded with grim, almost censorious stares and silent shakes of their heads.The food I received was cold, leftovers from the meal served earlier that evening, not cooked fresh for me as it would have been had Ponclast been in residence. The wine was uncorked, more leavings of the Varrish elite. I would not have objected, as it was all still delicious, if it were not for implicit insult.

Nohar would tell me what urgent business had called Ponclast away. They said they didn’t know. Was that true?

The chilly reception only heightened my longing for his presence. I insisted on being allowed to sleep in his room that night. The serving hara did not prevent me, in fact one begrudgingly pointed out the concealed private stair that connected my suite to his. That explained certain mysterious visitations I had experienced while my door was securely bolted. Something about the existence of such a connection between our rooms touched me. Even if it were merely for his convenience, it meant he wanted me in easy reach, and simply that assurance that I was wanted was a comfort.

His rooms felt like home– their marble chess board floors, their heavy dark wood. Even in the immaculately clean apartments his scent still lingered, a haunting whiff of leather and tobacco. I ran my hand along an ornately carved bedpost and remembered our nights there. It was here that I had lost our son, here that He had taken that tiny barely formed pearl and run with it to Azvith to try and save him. Here I had dreamed our son still lived with me. I remembered all too well Ponclast’s visit to Mingo, the last time I had been in this suite alone…

I shook my head, trying to distract myself from painful memories. My eye fell on the mirror which I knew hid a secret door. I’d found it the last time he had gone away and left me alone. I had not opened it then. I was not sure that I would open it now, but when I tried the knob it turned, unlocked.

Had he left it so? He was such a careful har, so meticulous in all he did. I could not believe he would leave his secret place unsecured. Was this some strange trick of Fulminir and its ghosts? I gazed at my reflection in the mirror for a moment, golden again, not the strange pale wraith I had been that first time. Only after that did I pull it open, and step into his White Room.

It was clean, perfectly clean. It was furnished with a desk on which lay a notebook and a fountain pen. Beside them were another turntable and several records. The desk had a comfortable leather armchair. Those were the only innocent objects in the room. They could have come from an ordinary office, but everything else was straight from a nightmare. Incongruous next to those trappings of almost domestic innocuousness were the implements of death and pain. My dazed eyes took in the steel operating table, the chains, the knives, and bone saws, all sterile and gleaming as if they had never tasted blood, although I knew of course that they had.

In the far wall was another door, a small one coming up no higher than my waist. It, too, was of brushed steel. I pulled on its handle. It opened inwards. Beyond it… a shaft, a chute, wafting warmth upwards from a pit of endless darkness. This I closed quickly.

I could interpret the scene easily enough. This was an interrogation room, a torture chamber, close and private for his own pleasure.

I could almost feel him there, the phantom sensation of a leather gloved hand on my shoulder. No har but him had entered this place and come out again through the same door. They exited through the other door, down that metal chute into the dark. I knew this as surely as if the walls had spoken aloud. I also knew that the room wanted me to see it. Perhaps, even, He wanted me to see it.

I walked to the desk as if in a trance or dream. It seemed inevitable. All the spirits of that place were clamoring in my head, urging me to read that book. I still managed to pause and examine the vinyl records. All requiems and funeral marches– Mozart, Brahms, Mahler. I smiled then, bitter and tender. It was so like him to do that, to play dirges for his victims.

The book was bound in matte black leather, softer than soft. The paper was creamy and smooth. Had I opened it myself? Had it been open when I came in? I didn’t recall. There was his flowing elegant script, and his illegible signature. “Ponclast: Year [Redacted] -” with the date unfinished. I was afraid to touch it, as if doing so would alert him to my presence.

It was then that door on the other side of the room, the door to nothingness, blew open with a thunderous crash, forced by some unnatural gale which took the matter of page turning out of my hands. I fancied I heard ghostly voices in that strange wind urging me to read, and so I did.

September 3rd

It is dangerous folly for me to set down my thoughts, even in this form. I cannot explain what moves me to do it, or what I hope to gain from this exercise. Here are words that no eye must read, which I doubt that even I shall ever look at again. What is the point?

Knowing my passion for organization, Terzian made me a present of this elegant notebook. It is bound in the softest leather of all– human hide. I suppose he thought I would use it to keep my schedule or for some other practical purpose, but naturally I have dozens of such ledgers already.

The gift annoyed me, so thoughtful and yet so thoughtless. Typically Terzian. Still, it is a beautiful object. Its velvety, matte-black surface pleases me. I admire its graceful but unusual proportions– slimmer and taller than any notebook I have.

Such objects, both functional and aesthetically pleasing, are… comforting, I suppose. I like to keep them around me, but never in excess. They must always have a purpose. There is no point at all in hoarding things. Useless objects are offensive; they quickly become clutter.

I wanted to keep this thing, so I have put it to a use– even if I had to invent a use to justify its presence.

When I am surrounded by the tasteful, the beautiful, the purposeful, I feel a sense of peace. These objects constitute me, become extensions of myself. The heavy fountain pen with which I write, the watch on my wrist which ticks the seconds, providing a counter-rhythm to my pulse, the solid and comfortable chair which supports my body (a genuine antique)... and the uniform, of course, which seems to hold me together the way my skin binds my muscles, and my muscles bind my bones, and my skelton armors the organs within– these things seem as vital to me as those bones and sinews and organs, seem more real, in fact, than what is, after all, hidden away within my body and cannot be seen. I am the watch, the uniform, the chair, the pen, the book. I am this clean white room and the fortress that contains it, as much as or more than I am the hand that writes.

I look at what I have written, and it is nonsense. Sublime nonsense? Perhaps. It certainly has the ring of a fatal truth.

Now there is nothing more to say.

September 4th

There exists in me a polar emptiness. A vast, frozen expanse. Profound stillness and silence, broken only by the occasional howling wind.

I believe I experience things very differently from other hara. What seems important to them does not seem important to me. What seems important to me rarely seems important to them, unless I forcefully bring their attention to it. I am able to do this. I can impose my vision on the world. I can make them live in it, but I cannot make them understand it. I despise their failure to understand.

It is perhaps foolish of me to write so candidly, even though it resides here in a secret room no other har can leave alive.

The thought of showing this book to some of the hara who come here almost pleases me. Perhaps I will do it. Perhaps I will read aloud to them.

That is why I bring them here, after all, is it not? To expose myself. To let them see me in all my glory (none shall see my face and live). To share with them the only moments when I feel real, and alive.

They constitute me too. Their flesh and sinew and blood and bone is part of me. Their screams enter me and awaken what is dormant. Their suffering touches my soul. I feel something for them, only for them. I devour them, even when I do not actually devour them– they blur into me in their final moments, our beings run together like watercolors or like the vital and intimate fluids that mingle on the floor.

I long for these moments of exquisite sensation, of vivid color and piercing sound. Pulses racing, bodies struggle and writhe, my flesh atop his, within his, the consummation of a union lasting til death do us part.

Perhaps I will devote this book to them, and make it a journal of my conquests. I may as well, since I keep it in this room.

I could not tear my eyes away until I had done with those pages. Did I envy them? Those hara whom he loved for a moment as he killed them, the only hara he could show himself to? The entries were from last year though, in fact, from just before we had renewed our acquaintance. Had anything changed? Did he still need them now that he had me?

I could not bear to read further to get an answer. I was afraid of what I might find, and so I closed the book, and the door, and fled the White Room for my own suite above, wanting Tethys and Glory and Veta around to keep me company, to banish these ghosts.

PONCLAST

When Ponclast returned to Fulminir, he brought the winter with him. He and his hara rode in just ahead of a blizzard, the leaden clouds following as if dragged along by the hem of the Archon’s cloak. Darker still than the weather was his mood. Though he kept his expression controlled as ever, his black temper was palpable, and anyhar who got close enough to look into his eyes quailed at what he saw there.

Yet there was one who was bolder than all the rest. While the ouana hara ducked their heads and avoided Ponclast’s gaze, scattering to get out of his way, one petite soume approached, accosting his Lordra in the courtyard before he had even dismounted.

“Lordra,” he murmured breathlessly, “Please forgive my importunity, but I must tell you something dreadfully important.”

Ponclast tugged sharply on his horse’s reins to prevent it from trampling on the little har who had so recklessly thrown himself into their path. From his saddle he stared down at the soume. His hand went automatically to the riding crop in his boot, ready to raise it and deal this insolent creature a blow across the face. But then a glimmer of recognition lit his eyes, and he dropped his hand.

“Veta, was it?” he asked gruffly.

The little brunette cast down his eyes and curtsied demurely. “Yes, Lordra.”

Ponclast snorted contemptuously. “Very well. I suppose it's just barely conceivable you have something to say worth hearing. Spit it out and be quick.”

Veta glanced conspiratorially around. “It is not for other hara’s ears, Lordra.”

Ponclast huffed, his breath misting on the cold air. “Then go inside and await me in the small anteroom behind the throne. I’ll grant you five minutes, no more.”

The soume squeaked out some expressions of servile gratitude and scampered inside, drawing his fur coat about him. Ponclast dismounted, handed his reins off to a groom, and unhurriedly followed. He went straight to the anteroom and shut the door behind him.

The door remained closed for no more than five minutes, as promised– probably considerably less– before the door banged open and Ponclast emerged. He was white with fury, his lips pressed thin and his leather gloves stretched tight over the knuckles of his balled fists. He walked quickly to an elevator, his swift strides ringing louder than usual on the marble tiles.

Reaching his chambers, he summoned a servant and demanded that Vashti be sent for. As the servinghar left Ponclast did not seat himself, but remained on his feet, pacing back and forth. He did not reach for a drink or a cigar. He did not go to change out of his traveling clothes, nor did he even remove his cape or heavy wolfskin overcoat. He seemed too unsettled for any such thing, as if he were still on the weary road and not at home.

Presently there came a diffident rap at the door.

“Enter,” growled Ponclast through clenched teeth.

Vashti came in. He looked the same as ever– his leathers neat, his dark hair scraped back into a long braid down his back.

“Lordra,” he greeted.

Ponclast nodded curtly. “Vashti,” he returned, pronouncing the name with extreme distaste.

He did not invite the har to sit. Vashti, perforce, remained standing.

“Did your negotiations go well?” he inquired.

Ponclast glowered at him. “Everyhar knows what’s brewing. Naturally they went well.”

The air was chill. No fire had been started on the hearth yet. A servant entered quietly with the aim of remedying this, but Ponclast wheeled on him and barked “Out!” and the har went scurrying.

Vashti watched his lordra with wary eyes. He knew his master well. He had studied all of Ponclast’s moods with great attention, and was attuned to the minutest indication of his displeasure. He was an expert on Ponclast, but it didn’t take an expert to see the danger now. The archon was seething with fury.

The silence stretched ominously. “How far south did you go?” Vashti asked, to fill it.

“Far enough,” said Ponclast shortly. “Vashti, build a fire.”

“Yes, Lordra.” Vashti went to the hearth and knelt before it, capably arranging the logs and kindling, and then busily working the flint to strike a spark. As the flames roared to life, Ponclast stalked over and stood behind him, trapping the kneeling har between the fire and his boots.

“There was an unpleasant business near the Marsh Thickets,” he said.

Vashti had frozen. He did not attempt to rise. “Oh?” he asked. “What was it, lordra?”

Ponclast shifted his weight, taking a still broader stance. He was standing over Vashti as if poised to shove him headfirst into the blaze at a moment’s notice. “The phylarch had some trouble to deal with– a consort who betrayed him.”

Vashti’s shiver was almost imperceptible, but Ponclast, with his keen predator's eyes, did not miss it.

“Such is the danger of taking consorts, I suppose,” Vashti said.

“Quite so,” said Ponclast coldly.

“I hope the phylarch dealt with the situation satisfactorily, Lordra,” Vashti said.

He attempted to rise, but Ponclast arrested him with a hand on his shoulder. It was not a violent gesture, not yet, but it held a world of warning.

“So he did,” said Ponclast, “with my guidance.” The pressure on Vashti’s shoulder increased slowly, pressing him forward, bit by bit, towards the flames. “The consort and his lover had their hands bound fast behind their backs. We took them outside to the rain barrels. The lover was drowned first, while the consort watched. This was my counsel. Let him and all the rest witness the consequences of treachery.”

Ponclast’s voice rose and grew passionate. “Every phylarch is a har who would die for his tribe. His hara must respect that and be unswervingly loyal. Their survival might depend on it. But alas, hara are no different than humans– petty, greedy, and stupid.” This last was spoken with acrid bitterness.

Even with the menacing heat of the fire upon his face, Vashti had kept his expression blank. His breathing, however, had grown shallow with fear. “Lordra, is this story meant to frighten me?”

Ponclast laughed sharply. He withdrew his hand from Vashti’s shoulder and stepped back, allowing him room to stand. “Frighten you, Vashti?” He spoke with an approximation of humor, but there was still a growl in his voice. “Why should I want to frighten you?”

Vashti got up, rubbing his palms together to brush off the dust of ashes. He turned to Ponclast with a mild expression. “Because lordra, as you said, many hara are petty, greedy, and stupid. I should have foreseen this.”

Ponclast raised a brow, inviting Vashti to continue. He listened intently to the smooth, honey-tongued explanation. Other hara envied his position, Vashti said. They resented the favor that Ponclast showed him. They had twisted events to portray Vashti in a bad light, to make Ponclast think the worst of his devoted servant. In reality, his intentions had been quite innocent, his actions all in the service of Varr. He had only been testing out the hostling, assessing his fertility. He knew that was unusual– he was well aware that the archon preferred the objects of his pleasure presented to him untouched, but he begged his lordraship’s pardon for this unusual case. Sethra, he said, had not been chosen for enjoyment. He was too plain, too common, to be a proper concubine. But he was hearty and strong, and he had a special something, Vashti couldn’t say quite what , which made him ideal for Azvith’s project.

As he listened, the archon’s face was grim. He appeared neither impress nor convinced. However, the required tribute had been made. Vashti had cast his beloved onto the altar of Varrish science without so much as the shiver of an eyelid to show that it gave him pain. Oh yes, the har knew very well how to save his hide. It was a pity that his son could not have inherited, at least, his prudence.

At last, the obsequious recitation ran down. Vashti’s eyes, as they lifted to scan Ponclast’s face, held wary calculation of a chess player. He had made his move, and he’d thought it had been well-played. All that remained was to see how his opponent responded to a pawn sacrifice.

Ponclast let the silence stretch long and cold between them. “You’re a very clever har, aren’t you, Vashti?” he finally said.

“I don’t know about that, Lordra,” Vashti replied. “But I am loyal.”

There was quiet for a moment more, like the hush before a storm. Then Ponclast stepped toward him. Fear flashed in Vashti’s eyes, but he held his ground and did not flinch. Reaching him, Ponclast ripped open Vashti’s uniform jacket, causing buttons to pop off and scatter dancing across the floor. Vashti shuddered and closed his eyes as Ponclast stripped him, tearing what could be torn, wrenching away the leather that would not rip and tossing it aside. He shoved Vashti forward. The har fell to his hands and knees before the hearth, eyes wide and staring into the fire. He made no attempt to move. Ponclast only paused to free his ‘lim before he was on him.

This was not their usual decorous dance. He was savage with Vashti this time. He forced his way into the dry, unprepared ‘lam without even the courtesy of spit. Delicate skin tore, and Vashti cried out in pain. Ponclast gave no quarter, his thrusts deep and sharp, a merciless staccato rhythm intended to rip and rend. Vashti’s hands slipped and slid on the bare marble as he struggled to hold himself up, until finally his fingers found purchase on the rough stones of the hearth.

The archon’s hands were all over him, grabbing and twisting and kneading at flesh, digging into his hips and yanking nipples. His teeth dug into Vashti’s back, his shoulder, the sides of his neck. The bites left imprints that welled with blood. Vashti’s face showed panic, his eyes wild as they reflected the fire. No merciful haze of dissociation had descended upon him to blunt the pain. He looked as if he were battling with himself to endure every single second of it. He did not swallow his cries, but his muscles were tense with the instinct to fight back, shaking from the exertion of self-restraint.

Ponclast was silent, save for the hissing of his breath through his clenched teeth. His pounding hips forced Vashti forward, closer and closer to the fireplace, until stray sparks kissed his skin. Realizing his danger, Vashti finally tried to twist away, but Ponclast grabbed his braid and wrapped it around his neck, half-choking him with it. Using this as leverage, he shoved Vashti’s face right up against the iron grate. Between strangulation and smoke inhalation, Vashti was reduced to coughing and gagging as he struggled to breathe.

Ponclast held him there for some moments, his countenance registering cruel satisfaction as he watched Vashti’s face turn red. Then suddenly he let go, and pulled out of Vashti’s ‘lam as if it disgusted him. The har slumped forward, the lattice pattern of the grate scorched into his cheek. He gulped in several gasping breaths.

Ponclast ignored his suffering entirely. He was intent only on the dark hole nestled between Vashti’s haunches. He plunged his shaft into it with no more care than he’d taken with his ‘lam. Vashti howled in pure pain, a scream without the least sexual tinge, as Ponclast buried himself, inch by inch, within his bowels, overcoming friction and the resistance of the sphincter with merciless determination. By the time he was sheathed to the hilt, Vashti was reduced to sobbing.

After that, whether it lasted five minutes or a hundred years was hard to say. It all became quite repetitive at that point– the brutal thrusts, the cries of anguish, the naked body twisting and writhing in agony beneath the silent, relentless form that loomed above it. A gloved fist bruised bare skin; hair was yanked loose of its braid and ground in a tangled mass across a weeping face. Neither of them were people anymore. They had become a tableau of archetypal brutality, ugly and idiotic. In a way, this was part of the dance after all– yet another ritual that had to be performed for the sake of etiquette. It had to be done just so, in every particular, right down to the moment when Ponclast pulled out and sprayed his aren across Vashti’s back, then stood up and kicked him away.

“Out,” he ordered. “I have no further use for you.”

“Yes, archon,” mumbled Vashti through his swollen lips.

Ponclast stalked over to an armchair, where he lit himself a cigar and poured himself a cognac. He ignored Vashti as the har struggled to his feet, and, stooped and trembling, gathered up his clothes to dress himself. He spared him no further glance or word, merely stared fixedly into space. His only motions were the mechanical raising of glass or cigar to his lips, the sipping and the puffing at intervals.

Only when Vashti had staggered to the door, when he had his fingers upon the knob ready to turn it, did Ponclast speak again.

“One moment, Vashti.”

The har’s slumped shoulders stiffed, and his head lifted. It took him a few seconds to turn around and face his master, but by the time he had, his face was composed, if bruised. “Yes, Lordra?”

Ponclast didn’t look at him, still staring into space. “It’s best if you hear it from me,” he said. “Gahrazel was caught trying to defect to the Gelaming. He was executed.”

Vashti’s face did not change, but he jerked slightly, as if a small projectile had hit him in the chest.

“I am sorry,” Ponclast added, without tone.

“Yes, Lordra.” A pause. No tears from either of them. Not even a sigh. Just empty eyes staring at nothing. “Will that be all?”

Ponclast shifted slightly, as if shaking himself from a reverie. “Yes,” he replied. “You may go.”

“Good night, Lordra,” Vashti murmured, and fled.

TERZIAN

“Terzian. Terzian! Wake up.”

I jolted out of a dream, still thrashing in the sheets that had twisted around my legs. Cal’s face hovered over me, wearing an expression that mingled wryness and concern.

“You were having a nightmare,” he said. “I, on the other hand, was having a good dream, until you woke me up with your kicking and yelling.”

I groaned and rubbed at my eyes. My heart was pounding, my throat felt raw from screaming. Though the terror of the nightmare lingered, I could recall none of its substance. “Yelling?” I mumbled. “What was I yelling?”

Cal flipped his yellow hair back over his shoulder. “Oh,” he said insouciantly, “some other har’s name.”

“What name?”

He’d gone from playing with his hair to examining his nails. It took him a long time to answer. His hesitation made me uneasy. It was not like Cal, of the quick, irreverent tongue, to be so quiet.

“Gahrazel,” he said at last, and looked me in the eye. His gaze held pity.

Gahrazel. How had that name become so insubstantial? Once it had belonged to a living har. Now it was merely a breath, a sigh, a puff of dust blown away on the wind. The only way to hold it was to speak it, and it was gone again as soon as it was past your lips. It was all that was left of him.

I couldn’t say anything. My throat was too tight. I just lay there on my back staring up into the shadows of the ceiling.

The bed creaked as Cal got up. “I think I’ll go sleep in my own room,” he said, wrapping a robe around him.

I didn’t want him to go, but couldn’t bring myself to ask him to stay. I didn’t deserve the comfort of a warm body beside me. I stayed silent as he left, silent as the door closed behind him. Tonight, I would sleep only with ghosts.

Notes:

Now we come to a part of our tale wherein we must confront some inconsistencies in the timeline between “Bewitchments of Love and Hate” and “Blood, the Phoenix and a Rose.” We mention this not to blame or criticize Storm Constantine– we love both books very much, as the tremendous amount of fan fiction we have written primarily based on them should demonstrate.
In fact, we think it kind of works. Both books are narrated in first person, by two very different hara, Swift and Vashti, who have different perspectives and both have their own reasons to have distorted or self-serving recollections of Varrish history.
Part of the timeline difficulty seems to begin with the introduction of the hostling farms in Wendy Darling’s “Breeding Discontent,” an idea Storm liked so much that she made it a key point in “Blood, the Phoenix and a Rose.” However, it requires retconning or ignoring certain matter from books one and two. In “Blood,” the Kakkahaar alliance has already been made before Gahrazel is born. However, in “Bewitchments,” it begins when Swift is already well into his childhood (and Gahrazel is older than Swift!). Furthermore, in “Enchantments” Swift is portrayed as one of the first born children of the entire Varr tribe, and yet Vashti is a second-generation har born on the hostling farms who is many years Swift’s senior, old enough to be the hostling of Gahrazel (who is, again, older than Swift). Furthermore, Vashti is not even portrayed as one of the first batches of harlings to be born on the farms.
In other words, “Blood” gives an overall much longer timeline of Ponclast’s regime and its connection to the Kakkahaar than does “Bewitchments.” This means that, in incorporating matter from both books, we are forced to take liberties. Making Gahrazel’s betrayal come right before Vashti’s definitely compresses together events which had more distance between them in “Blood,” but we were having to play fast and loose with time anyway and it felt right.
As a final note, I decided to reproduce Vashti’s confrontation with Ponclast from “Blood” rather less faithfully than I did Terzian’s interrogation of Swift from “Bewitchments” in the previous chapter. I did this partly because Vashti seems like a less reliable narrator than Swift. The idea that Vashti’s recounting of his story in “Blood” is censored and incomplete is something we have already leaned heavily on in this fic, for example to explain why we have Lianvis at Fulminir and yet Vashti never mentions him.
Personally, we believe one of the beautiful things about the Wraeththu novels, especially those written in first person, is that they are retellings of history by people who experienced being in the thick of it, and whose perceptions of it must have been colored by trauma, emotion, and their own agendas. This is why we do not mind the inconsistencies.
We only humbly wish that the inconsistencies in our own Wraeththu stories may be received in the same generous spirit.

Chapter 24: Fructus Ventris

Chapter Text

LIANVIS

Veta himself told me what he had done.

“Glory, Tiahaar Lianvis, I’ve done something wonderful ,” he cried out, exultant.

“Oh?” I queried, expecting to hear he’d written a romance of his own, or something of that nature. He seemed to be practically bursting with pride.

“Ponclast’sbackandItoldhimallaboutwhatVashti’sbeendoing!”

He said it all in one breath, no pauses, too pleased and excited to take the time to breathe. I was grateful at that moment for the years of practice I had in controlling my expression. My thoughts raced. He had returned? He had not come to me? Of course he hadn’t come to me. Of course he would put vengeance before love, or if not love, whatever the sick thing was that bound us together. I loved him, of course, but what I held him with I didn’t then know. But what had Vashti done?

I knew of Vashti’s love for Sethra, but what had he been doing? What had he done?

“I see,” I said, keeping my tone light and face mild.

“Mhm!” said Veta, who had managed to miss Glory’s frozen expression, “All that pretense of being in-between , when he just wanted access to the Archon’s… to us, and had no other way, being too weak a character to achieve any rank through honest means. After I heard… and with what he did to your poor Chesnari,” he added, nodding to Glory, “it all fell into place. He’s a lustful beast, and wants as many soumes as he can get to himself, the creeping reptile! I realized then he was planning to assassinate Ponclast and rule as a regent over his son, thinking Gahrazel would fall into line.”

I took a deep breath, and looked briefly at Glory who seemed sort of past the ability to comprehend what his companion was saying. I could not tell whether he was distressed at the mention of his lost chesnari, or whether he were about to burst out laughing at Vashti’s impending fall, or if perhaps, he feared for the life of the har Vashti had been seen with, Sethra. Sethra, who I had not met or even seen– an innocent, for all that I knew.

“Veta, what exactly was Vashti doing? Nohar has told me anything since I got back.” Again, my voice was calm, steady, although internally I was shaking.

“Oh! He was seen taking one of Ponclast’s hostlings, one he himself had selected even, to his own chambers and keeping him there for days ! It makes me sick to think of. He was probably thinking about what he might do to get his hands on you, Tiahaar, the very thought makes me shudder! It might have been me! It might have been Glory!”

I couldn’t breathe. My enchantment hadn’t worked. Why hadn’t it worked? My mind was spinning. It always worked. My one other failure had been the attack on the Gelaming that had cost me-- better not to speak of it.

I could not blame Veta for his actions. It would have had to be done, and yet that fool and his foolish tongue… I wanted to scream and weep. I wanted to beat my fists against Fulminir’s walls until the whole wicked place crumbled away to dust. I had tried to save Vashti from himself, and I had failed. It was then I recalled the words I had used as I mixed the draught intended to freeze his heart:

“Make him like his Lordra, as ice-hearted as Ponclast, give him all his coldness and incapacity for love,” that was what I had said. Was Veta right? No, that was absurd, even if Vashti had become like his Lordra he would not have had designs on Ponclast’s harem, the hunger for power was even greater than the hunger for flesh in that one.

However, there was another possibility. What if my error had been in my assessment of my Lordra’s heart? Could he love? Did he love? And if he did, had I a place in his heart?

It was all too much. Was Vashti dead? Did Ponclast love me? Why had Ponclast left in the first place?

But of course, I couldn’t puzzle it out now, because there was Veta, so pleased with his accomplishment, like a cat dropping some small dead thing at my feet.

I suppose it was ultimately preferable that Ponclast had been told immediately, for if I had appeared uninformed he would either have thought me foolish or disloyal, and I could not afford to let him believe either.

“Very good, Veta,” I said. “Why did you not inform me of his indiscretion earlier?”

“Oh! I knew you had taken pity on Vashti, and of course without Ponclast there was nothing you could do, so it would only have distressed you.”

Perhaps he was right. It was too much, I was overwhelmed. I told them as much, and took one of the little nerve pills I had gotten Azvith to concoct so I could sleep for a few hours.

My Lordra did not come to me that night.

PONCLAST

The next day, Ponclast drafted a proclamation. Seated comfortably at his vast mahogany desk with a heavy fountain pen grasped between his gloved fingers, he set down the words that would make his deed official and enshrine his firstborn’s death in public record. He wrote in black ink on creamy vellum, his lettering elegant and precise. The document was short on details about either the crime or the punishment, and long on flowery reminders of the importance of nation and fealty. It also contained certain instructions and prohibitions: nohar was to put on mourning for Gahrazel, no flags were to be flown at half-mast, no grave would be marked and no funeral performed.

It was a masterful piece of propaganda, and it flowed from Ponclast’s hand seemingly without effort. Not a single line was smudged, not a word blotted out. The first draft was the last. Once it was done, and his scrawling signature appended, he gave the ink a few moments to dry before adding his seal. Then he summoned a courier to have copies made (by hand, of course, by the secretaries laboring on the upper floors of Fulminir) before the original could be stashed safely away in the archives. The leaflet was to be posted and distributed widely, and the archon was to be given his privacy for the rest of the day.

He kept the curtains drawn and the lights dim. He listened to Mahler symphonies on his gramophone. He drank a little, and smoked much. He read, or at least he mimed reading, but his eyes rarely appeared focused on the page. He picked up and put down Les Chants de Maldoror, The 120 Days of Sodom, and Beyond Good and Evil. Near evening he called for a barber to freshen up his cut, then showered for almost an hour, meticulously scrubbing every inch of his body and cleaning obsessively beneath his fingernails. Clean, dried and attired in a fresh uniform, he rang for househara to prepare his dinner and to summon Lianvis.

Both his meal and his consort were brought to him in short order. Naturally, both were beautifully presented. Lianvis was coiffed, perfumed, and made-up to perfection. He arrived wrapped in a snowy fur, which was gracefully shed to reveal a gown of clinging white silk. The neckline plunged, and a slit at the side revealed acres of smooth, creamy leg. Diamonds sparkled on every part of him that might conceivably be bejeweled.

Ponclast received him in the dining room, already seated at the head of the table. He did not get up when Viss came in, merely opened his hand in a weary gesture to indicate the chair at his right.

Lianvis approached it, but did not yet sit. He gazed at Ponclast with eyes full of longing.

“Lorda,” he murmured in greeting. He looked as if he had hoped very much that Ponclast might greet him more warmly. His lips were lightly parted, aching to be kissed.

Ponclast did nothing of the kind. His voice was cold and curt as he began, without greeting or preamble:

“Doubtless, Viss, you’ve heard the news; so I’m sure you’ve deduced what I want you for tonight.”

LIANVIS

He was so beautiful. I ached for him from the moment my eyes met his.

“Veta told me,” I said warily, eyes downcast after that initial brush with his, “about Vashti. I’m sorry, Lordra.” I had chosen the white to emphasize my purity, my loyalty. I could be nothing else but chaste. The locks that shut me to all other comers were still in place.

His brows lifted. “Vashti?” he echoed, sounding almost as if the name were unfamiliar to him.

“Veta said he told you that Vashti had been seen with one of the hostlings–one of your hostlings, Lordra,” I said, still vacillating next to my seat. Was there other news? Did it have to do with the reason for his absence? “I was distressed to hear of it, I had to take a sleeping pill. But I don’t know details. Veta’s understanding of events can be-- creative, Lordra.”

Ponclast’s nostrils flared in irritation. “That stupid matter? It’s nothing, it’s all taken care of. You mean to tell me that you haven’t heard–” he broke off, and gestured toward the chair again, more sharply. “Sit,” he commanded.

I sat. “Yes, Lordra.” I waited for him to say more. I did not want to ask. Why hadn’t I sent Tethys out for news? He hadn’t been there for Veta’s revelation, busy with some errand or other, but I could have called him back. Stupid of me.

“It’s not like you to be uninformed,” Ponclast said testily. He seemed put out by my ignorance, but yet in no hurry to enlighten me. Instead, he took a sip of his wine, cut himself a morsel of rare steak, and broodingly chewed it while staring off into the middle distance, his gaze fixed somewhere between the candelabra and the exquisite floral centerpiece.

“I’m sorry, Lordra,” was all I could reply. “Without you here, hara seem far more close-lipped with me.” It was a pathetic admission, and likely a strategic error to show such weakness, but what could I do? What did he need me to know?

Finally, he broke the silence.

“Gahrazel is dead,” he said. He opened his mouth as if to speak further, then closed it again. I saw his jaw working as if he were biting the inside of his cheek. He did not look at me, just stared into the candle flames. The eyes that reflected them were overbright.

I knew better than to show him what I felt, the ache of pity in my heart for what he must be feeling in that moment, or at least, what any other har would feel. To lose two sons so quickly on one another’s heels... I wanted to go to him, to embrace him, but I knew my arms would offer him no comfort.

“Oh, Lordra,” was all I could think to say, letting the emotion color my voice. No condolences. No outright pity. If anything might help it would be that, wouldn’t it?

He looked at me then, or rather, looked in my direction, but his eyes still did not seem to see me. “He was executed,” he said tonelessly, “for treason. He tried to go to the Gelaming. My own son,” he said, and on that last word, emotion finally shook his voice.

I was surprised and not surprised. Gahrazel was so like him, right down to that self-annihilating rebel instinct. I was horrified, and now I knew what he had meant.

“I’m so sorry, Lordra.” I could say that now, couldn’t I? What else could one say? “I think I understand now.”

His lips curved slightly in a cold, mirthless smile. “I’m certain you do,” he murmured. There was something vicious in his gaze, which now fixed piercingly on me. He was looking at me almost as if he hated me. “I have no heir any longer, after all. From a certain perspective– which is to say, from your perspective– this can only be good news.”

“Is it, Lordra?” was the only possible response that came to mind. The paths to avoiding his anger were so narrow and so treacherous, sometimes I felt as if I hadn’t any choice in the matter at all, as if the route was preordained somehow.

“Don’t play innocent,” he snapped, but then seemed to catch himself. He drew a deep breath and sat back in his seat, and his flinty eyes softened a little. “I am being unfair,” he said. “It’s not only good news from your perspective, but perhaps from mine as well.” He picked up his wineglass but did not drink, merely toying with it so that it reflected the light. “In a way, that silly business with Vashti is not unconnected,” he mused. “I thought he would be an ideal host for my heir. I counted on him to produce a child just as cold as he and I. But Vashti has solved the mystery of Gahrazel by proving himself to be as foolish as his son, and nearly as disloyal. Not cold enough by half, after all. You, Viss…” he reached out suddenly and captured my wrist, holding it down against the table, “You still might have what it takes to breed me a proper successor.”

I would not remind him we had been young once, and foolish and disloyal even, it would anger him, or hurt him, and that would anger him.

“Perhaps so, Lordra,” I replied. I had considered a flowery compliment about how Vashti must be very weak indeed to produce so foolish a son with Ponclast for a father, but it would have felt like flattery, and he brooked that only slightly more than insult.

He held my wrist and my gaze for a moment longer, then suddenly stood up. I could feel the heat radiating off of him, could see the hard bulge in the front of his leathers. “I’m not hungry,” he said, with a trace of petulance. “Come.” Without another word, he stalked from the dining room.

I followed behind him. I was glad he wanted me. Perhaps this was some way I could be close, could offer him comfort. I could be a soft yielding thing for him to take out whatever he needed to take out.

He was standing in the middle of the bedchamber, stripping out of his uniform. Each piece that he shed was meticulously folded and placed on a nearby chair in a neat stack. He emerged from the leather in all his pale, cold glory, muscles rippling as he bent and twisted to remove boots, the veins in his hands standing out as he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. Naked, he turned to me, remaining where he was. His head tilted back, showcasing a tight tense jaw, and his eyes closed lightly. Tears leaked out between his lashes.

“Touch me,” he commanded. “Show me your devotion.” His voice was throaty and raw.

So I went to Him, my hands and lips all over Him, kissing Him like an icon. I was down to delicate underthings, all snowy silk and exquisite lace. I wanted Him, wanted to adore every inch of Him, to show Him that love no matter how little He might feel in response.

His hand fisted in my hair as he tilted his head back, seeming to revel in the touch, his lim’ throbbing in passionate response to my caresses. I nuzzled against the hard muscle of his chiseled thigh.

“Say that you love me,” he commanded.

“I love you,” I said, though I wish he hadn’t asked me to say it. He wouldn’t feel it as he might had the words been freely given. “Lordra, with all my heart, with all my soul, with every fiber of flesh I possess, I love you and only you,” I said, and meant it.

His grip on my hair loosened, and his fingers gently caressed my sore scalp. He still had his eyes closed, as if in pleasure or perhaps pain, as he stood towering over me, submitting to my adoration. “Even if…” he began very softly, and paused, almost as if– though it was inconceivable!-- almost as if he felt shy. “Even if I don’t love you?”

“Yes,” I replied tears pricking in my eyes, “I know you don’t, you have told me--”

“I don’t know,” he said very quietly, cutting me off.

I looked up at him from my knees, feeling tears he could not let himself cry wetting my cheeks. I clung to him.

“Lordra, you don’t have to--”

“Obviously I don’t have to,” he interrupted, his voice suddenly sharp. “All I said is I don’t know if I love you, or if I can love. I have killed my child. How can I love?” In the air hung the unspoken question– how can I be loved? I heard it, in his inner voice, which he had suddenly failed to muffle as usual.

His hand cupped around my cheek, and drew my face towards his crotch. “But you love me,” he continued, in a tired, frayed voice, “or so you say, and tonight, for some reason, I need that.”

“I love you, Lordra,” I repeated, before taking him in my mouth, reverent, looking up at him, trying to let him see into my very depths, let him feel precisely how I felt for him. I didn’t blame him for what he’d done. Couldn’t blame him. I’d wondered, I’d worried, but there had been nothing I could do to prevent this Greek tragedy of the post-apocalypse from running its destined course.

He drew my hands to him as I sucked, placed them on his thighs, his hips. Usually he hardly permitted me to touch him, but that night he seemed almost thirsty for it. His breathing was heavy, ragged. His thrusts into my mouth were subtle, almost as if they were purely involuntary, not his usual aggressive conquest of my throat at all.

He had all my love, all my tenderness, for I saw and felt and understood him more than I ever had in those moments.

IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIwillalwaysalwaysloveyou

The words I repeated like a silent mantra as I gave him my mouth, gave myself to him, somehow more fully and more freely than I had ever imagined myself capable of giving anything. I felt opened up, laid bare and yet it was by invitation.

Take whatever you want, was the message I knew gleamed bright as neon in my eyes.

He opened his eyes to slits, looked down at me. His lips were slightly parted, revealing saliva glittering between his white, white teeth. “You want me to hurt you,” he said.

I wanted to speak but could not take my mouth from him, so I just looked up, sending mind touch. I want whatever you want, Lordra , before casting down my gaze again, abashed.

“But you like it when I hurt you,” he insisted, his fingers threading menacingly through my hair again but not yet gripping.

I nodded. Yes, Lordra, you know I love it when you hurt me… do you want me to beg?

He grabbed my hair and pulled me back, so that his hard ‘lim bobbed free of my parted lips. “No,” he said. “I only want you to ask.”

I wasn’t sure how to just ask Him for anything.

“--Lordra, I want you to hurt me,” I said, and again my eyes met his. His gaze was, as always, intoxicating, leaving me drunker than the strongest sheh. His lips curved into a faint smile, a strange one– not so cold or mocking as his usual smiles, yet still holding a certain cruel satisfaction.

“There is a riding crop in my boot,” he said. “Fetch it.”

I fetched it, offering it to him on my knees, with the implement laid across my upraised palms in a gesture of supplication.

“I love you, Lordra, please hurt me.”

He took the crop in one hand, and pulled me back towards his ‘lim with the other. “I shall, Viss,” he said. “But while I do, I want you to try to make me forget to use this.”

Was he being kind or cruel? Setting me up in a situation that guaranteed me success regardless, his pleasure or my pain? Or was it supposed to be failure? I didn’t know, but I fell to it like I was starving for him, because I was. We had been apart too long.

But had pleasure ever made him forget to offer pain?

I had my answer soon enough. The more enthusiastically I applied myself to sucking, to licking, to worshiping him, the harder he seemed to hit. He held me by the hair as his riding crop battered my shoulders, heating the skin, I could feel it redden under his ministrations and every stroke was a kiss to me.

I was moaning, choking, weeping soon enough. I could feel his rigid ‘lim hardening still, caressed by the vibrations of my sounds of pain. His breath was hissing as if between clenched teeth, his fist twisting in my hair, his member throbbing in my throat. Still the blows hailed down, coming ever harder and faster, until suddenly he pulled away, leaving me breathless, bereft…

“Get on the bed,” he growled. His face was taut with pleasure. Freed from my mouth, his erection had leapt up stiff against his belly, shining with my saliva and the brightness of its own red bioluminescent glow. A pearl of fluid clung to its tip. It was as beautiful as the rest of him.

I picked myself up as gracefully as I could, and made my way to the bed, turning to look at him over my shoulder.

“How do you want me, Lordra?” I asked, voice breathy, no put on, no pose of seduction.

In answer, he spun me round and roughly shoved me backwards. I tumbled onto the bed face up. He was on me in an instant, tossing the riding crop aside, grabbing my face between his hands and devouring my lips in a hungry, probing kiss. In that instant, he was suddenly, shockingly open to me, all of his thoughts as loud as my own.

Tell me you love me, tell me you adore me, say you forgive me, say that you want me. Make me, for a time, believe all those impossible lies. My heart has broken, and it is no longer cold and hard but soft and rotten. Tell me that you want it anyway. Tell me you worship the ground that I walk on. Tell me you’re mad for me, that you’ll die if you cannot have me. Tell me you loved it, every minute of it, that there is not a single thing that you would change…

And I loved him, loved him with every bit of strength I had in me. I could feel him, not just his ouanic aspects, but the deep frigid waters of soume within him, and I loved him for that too. The only moments I would change were the ones where I had displeased him. I felt I held his ravaged heart in my own two hands and had the capacity to heal it, to give myself to it to heal it as he ravaged me, penetrated the depths of me. Depths he had plumbed before, but somehow it felt different now, deeper, like there was nothing in me held back. Like no part of me could hate this, could hate him, resent anything he did, because I was consumed with love, love that chased away pain, that chased away any consideration for self.

Was I worthy of him? It didn’t matter because I had ceased to be anything but my love for him.

He plunged into me roughly but with skill, the ridges of his ‘lim sliding along the sikras, igniting them with pleasure. Propped up on his strong arms he loomed over me, his brow gleaming with sweat as his powerful body moved atop me, abdominal muscles undulating with every urgent thrust. Each time he slid in he seemed to pierce me deeper, probing further and further into the core of me, and when he bent his head to kiss me again, his breath flooded me with fragmentary images. I glimpsed the horrors he was running from, each gruesome snapshot quickly washed away to nothingness by flashes of white-hot pleasure. I could feel his heart racing with exertion and ready to burst with grief. Most of all, I felt his pressing need to hurl himself into me, to lose himself completely in soft flesh and devouring cunt.

I could play that role, the infinite, the abyss, the dark place to lose oneself in. Run to me, throw yourself into me, lose yourself in me, every part of yourself, I love all of you , and I did, every filthy and unforgivable thing, every atrocity, and every secret anguished vulnerability. This was beyond sickness or health, or at least that was how it felt in that moment. We had transcended the petty concerns of normal relationships and were cosmic forces colliding, and I loved him, as I love him still.

Healthy or not, I cannot do otherwise.

Then, oh then, we were one, the universe was reduced to one bright spark that was the center of an atomic blast, a supernova, a climax like a calamity, and it burst and I felt as if our pleasure would shatter everything, destroy everyone but us two, leave us in a burnt out Eden to begin yet again.

He collapsed on top of me, arms wrapped around me, seeming to press deeper into my core even as his spasms receded. I could feel his ouana-tongue still buried in the seventh sikra, like a white-hot wire wrapped around my heart. His muscular chest pressed down against me as it swelled with a deep, steadying breath, the pressure emptying my lungs as he filled his. I knew that, as surely as He was inside me, our pearl was too.

His face nuzzled into the side of my neck as I felt the ouana-tongue finally let go, and his softening length recede from me. Still, he did not let go or roll off of me. He stayed atop me, his arms about my waist.

“I love you, Lordra,” I whispered against his pelt of jet black hair.

Of course, he made no reply.

Chapter 25: Decline

Chapter by Jarad, Lianvis (Madeira_Darling)

Chapter Text

TERZIAN

I looked up at the clear sky above. It was so blue, a blue with depths that seemed to get deeper the longer I stared into it, until it seemed the poles of gravity would shift, that down would become up and I would fall into the clouds. The sensation was dizzying and made me nauseous, but still I gazed up into the heavens,drinking in the blue of that sky in while I still could.

At last, I lowered my chin and looked straight ahead, at the forest before me.

Here I was again and there it was, too, just as I had left it– that grotesque place, so ineffably awful. The trees appeared as ordinary as they had when I’d last laid eyes upon them, yet the impression of malice that seeped from every trunk, stem and leaf seemed to have intensified.

I glanced behind me, down the column, and saw all the other Varrs doing as I had just done, taking one last look at the sky before setting their jaws and glaring into the trees ahead with trepidation and determination. A chill went up my spine. What was this place that caused us all to think the same thoughts, to feel the same feelings– to wonder and dread as one?

It’s nothing at all, I told myself. Just a bunch of trees . It’s only terrible because it’s dark, and darkness is only terrible because it’s female. Once the light penetrates, once these woods are no longer virgin, the spell will be broken and the terror will cease.

“Forward!” I gave the order in a loud, clear voice.

As one we surged into motion, and the Varrish line slithered forward like a great serpent until all of it, down to the tip of its tail, had disappeared into Gebaddon’s maw.

PONCLAST

High in the upper stories of the tower, there was a narrow chamber with narrow windows. It was taken up mainly by an imposing four poster bed of carven ebony. A miasma of sandalwood incense filled the room. Upon the bed, beneath the pall of smoke, lay a har. He was as far from beautiful as a har can be. His hair was the color of a rodent’s soft fur. His naked limbs lay stiff and motionless upon the mattress, his eyes stared glassily. If not for the rise and fall of his belly as he breathed, he might’ve been taken for a corpse.

He had been waiting there for some time, oddly still, although nohar had told him to be. Perhaps he was too afraid to move.

Outside that room, in a hallway filled with gilt mirrors that multiplied the little gold lights of many candles, Vashti also waited. He had undergone a transformation. Gone were his customary leathers. Instead he wore stiff robes of heavy brocade that seemed to give his movements weight. His hair had been tamed into braids and coils; his hands were burdened with rings and his throat with jewels. His lips and eyelids had been painted dark. No longer androgynous, he was now definitively soume, yet there was nothing soft about the vision he presented. Everything about him was hard and expensive and repelled touch. In his hands he clutched a sheaf of papers, holding them before him like a shield. His eyes were cast down.

The sound of hobnailed boots rang down the hall. Vashti lifted his head to see his archon coming.

“Lordra,” he greeted.

Ponclast looked him over. “You’ve changed your appearance,” he commented.

“I felt it was time I was taken more seriously, Lordra,” said Vashti. “Do you approve?”

Ponclast’s eyes were cold, disinterested. “If you feel it will influence hara’s opinion of you, then dress how you like.”

Vashti nodded and opened the door, ushering Ponclast in.

The har on the bed was unappetizing. He looked as lifeless and sallow as a wax doll. It was difficult to imagine what anyhar might have seen in him.

“Where is this one from, Vashti?” asked Ponclast.

“He was picked up in Sooth, to the North,” Vashti replied. “Unneah. Our mindscans confirmed he is suitable material. This is the one I selected especially for you, Lordra”

His voice was steady, his gaze unflinching. Nohar would imagine he was cutting out his own heart.

Ponclast smiled a tiny, icy smile. “Good. Administer the elixir then, and let’s get started.”

The har on the bed showed signs of life as Vashti approached with the vial, sitting up and trying to scoot away from him. Vashti grabbed his hair, forced back his head, and tipped the liquid down his throat.

A spark of interest livened Ponclast’s eyes. “He has some spirit after all.”

“He is perfect, Lordra,” Vashti said. Was that sadness in his voice?

Ponclast moved toward the bed, but Vashti brought him up short. “We must wait a few moments, Lordra. The elixir has yet to take effect.”

And so Ponclast waited, dispassionately eying his prey, while Vashti filled the long minutes with idle talk about things that did not matter. At last, Sethra leaned off the bed to vomit, and Vashti pronounced him ready.

Ponclast approached the bed slowly. The smell of sick tinged the air, and the archon’s nostrils flared with distaste. The har quailed against the headboard, looking up at him with twitchy, frightened rabbit eyes. He was not beautiful. His only appealing qualities were his youth, and his terror.

Behind them, papers rustled as Vashti shifted, inadvertently reminding the archon of his presence. Ponclast was aware of him moving away and taking a place at the window. Coward. He would not watch. Ponclast had half a mind to order him to do so, but forebore. Better that he look away, and regret it later. He would never stop hating himself for his cravenness. With this thought, Ponclast found he had at last grown stiff beneath his leathers.

He mounted Sethra, his leather creaking, the bed creaking louder. Sethra tried to shrink back into the mattress as if he wished it might swallow him. Ponclast loomed above, like a storm cloud blotting out the sun. His leather-gloved fingers pried Sethra’s legs apart.

Behind them, Vashti coughed. It was the only sound he made the entire time. Other than that he was silent, even as Sethra’s whimpers turned into yowls and screams, which quieted only when his voice grew hoarse from yelling. None of it had any effect on Ponclast, who pitilessly forced himself into Sethra finger by finger, then inch by inch, and thrust by thrust.

He pressed his cold lips over his victim’s, drinking in the sourness of his breath, invading his mind to distract himself from the banality of invading his body. He wandered through the har as if through endless dim corridors, seeking a dark enlightenment, but finding only his own emptiness. At last he found himself approaching his core, which he visualized as a gloomy sanctum lit by a single candle. A white rose sat beside it on the stone altar, otherwise bare. Ponclast was not surprised to find that there was another presence with them. That was rather the point of the operation. It was little more than a darker shadow lurking amid the shadows behind the altar.

“Pathetic hermaphroditus,” it hissed, “So sad, so empty. Would you not rather play host to us yourself?”

Ponclast did not dignify this with an answer. It was only a shadow. It could not hurt him. His boots rang against the stone steps as he ascended to the altar. There were seven steps, just as there were seven sikaara. Each time he set his foot upon another one, he heard distant screams.

A hand reached toward him out of the gloom. It was long and attenuated, with grayish skin. Six fingers, with four knuckles apiece, groped for Ponclast’s wrist.

“You haven’t been touched there in so long,” the voice purred. “I could make you faint away in ecstasy. Don’t you sometimes envy the helplessness of your victims?”

Ponclast had reached the altar. He managed to grab the rose before the hand could grab him. As he touched it, he watched it flush from white to red. That was the last thing he saw before his climax wrenched him back into his body, and that sepulchral room.

He raised himself on his arms, pushing off the body beneath him. The har was so still, his eyes so blank, that for a second Ponclast thought he had accidentally killed him.

Ponclast stood, wiping his ‘lim on a corner of the bedsheet and tucking it away into his trousers. “It is done,” he said. “I need more like that one, Vashti.”

“Yes, Lordra,” Vashti murmured. As he turned back towards Ponclast, the archon caught just a flash of the desolate pain in his eyes, and a sliver of stray thought–

There is none other like him.

LIANVIS

I woke up the next day replete, contented, bruised, and deeply aware of the tiny spark of life he had ignited within me. I was going to protect this one. Nothing would tear his child from me again. I would bear him a son. We would win this war. I was secure in his castle, and once the war was won and our son presented to all of Varr, all would know me as his consort. In the moment of conception, I had seen a flash of a future I had increasingly believed was impossible. The world would and could stabilize, and He and I could come out into the sunshine after this endless storm, and it would be our version of sunshine.

But what would a Varrish sun not burn to ashes? replied a traitorous voice within me. I pushed it away. It could all be mended. It must all be mended.

Do you really want it mended ? Came the voice again. I thought you wanted ruin? Destruction? Annihilation?

I didn’t know anymore. Was I madder or more sane than I had been when I had encountered Him in Forever? Could the intermingled hope and fear have something to do with the hormones associated with bearing a pearl?

Those questions weren’t really important. The future wasn’t here yet and I loved waking up in His bed. That alone made the world seem brighter. As long as we were together, all would be well– or at least, all would be as we willed. I clung to that belief as if it were a rope suspended over some bottomless chasm. But there were stirrings in the aethers. I could feel the net of fate tugged at here and there by hara as the universe worked out our collective destiny.

I returned to my rooms via the secret staircase. There I found Veta looking white-faced and anxious. Glory looked exasperated. Tethys looked mainly confused.

“Vashti’s not being punished!” Veta burst out when he saw me, a quaver in his voice threatening tears, “and Sethra… Sethra…”

His lip trembled, and then the tears came in a torrent, pouring down his face as he continued his speech. “Poor Sethra, there’s no har sweeter. He’s lovely, everyone who meets him adores him. He doesn’t deserve to suffer for this! Tiahaar, please, you must speak to the Archon.”

I held up a hand to stave him off for a moment, and let myself collapse onto an elegant divan.

“Tiahaar Lianvis hasn’t had his breakfast yet,” Glory reproached his companion. “Let him have a moment… Sethra is a lovely har, though,” he added sadly.

I didn’t want to hear it, but I listened anyway.

“But there must be some mistake!” Veta insisted.

“There is no mistake!” shot back Glory, as if something within him had broken, “for fuck’s sake Vet, I don’t understand how you can manage to be so blind, or maybe I do because you were raised not to see it.”

Tethys, looking spooked, quietly absented himself, presumably to fetch the aforementioned breakfast. I felt guilty for a moment for having dragged him here; having taken him from his friends; having killed those friends. I reminded myself it had been for the war effort, and besides, it was a brutal world.

Memories of dirty blankets and blood blooming on the sand.

I closed my eyes for a moment to clear my head, and focused on the matter at hand.

Veta was tear-stained, and Glory looked sorry.

“Look, I know it’s hard, but that’s life, Vet,” Glory said, voice gentle.

“But Ponclast knew what had happened,” Veta protested. “Why would he punish an innocent and let the criminal go free?”

“Vashti’s useful. Sethra’s nohar, and Vashti’s kelos over him. Ponclast’s punishing Vashti by punishing Sethra,” Glory explained.

Tethys, like the polished servant he had become, reappeared with a tray, set it down, and politely vanished again. I wished I could follow him. Glory’s plain speaking unsettled me. It felt alien in this tower of half-truths. I raised a hand for silence again. I needed caffeine and sustenance before I could cope with the melodrama playing itself out on the stage of my life.

“Give me a moment,” I said. I swallowed a few bites of perfect buttery toast, tossed back my coffee, and looked between my attendants.

“Glory’s right,” I said, “Vashti’s gift for judging breeding stock is rare and may prove crucial to the war effort, and he is kelos over Sethra.”

Veta paled, and shook his head.

“No, no!-- if he’s kelos over Sethra, why didn’t he just tell Ponclast? Surely the Archon would have understood? Vashti could finally have cut his hair and started acting like a real ou--”

The look on Glory’s face must have mirrored my own.

“Oh Vet,” said Glory, and he sounded sad, and tired, and far older than he possibly could be.

“With what just happened to Gahrazel,” I said softly, “Ponclast couldn’t possibly have allowed that. Even if things were different now, he would have had to ignore Sethra for long enough for him to end up transferred to somewhere else, and then maybe, just maybe , Vashti might have been able to ask for him. But this , now?” I shook my head. “Ponclast feels humiliated and betrayed. I know my Lordra, and this is not something he can or will forgive.”

The expression on Veta’s face, all peaches and cream and big cornflower blue eyes, was almost indescribable. I hated to have done this to him. I had finally shredded all those excuses that served as cotton wool padding for his fragile heart.

It started with sadness, but it went beyond sadness. Veta had been sad before. He’d cried at the tragic ends of some of his romantic stories, over lost kittens and harlings separated from their hostlings, but this had turned into a sort of horror beyond horror. He looked as if the universe had shattered around him and left him to see behind the scenes into emptiness, or something much much worse than emptiness. The noise that came from him was heart-wrenching, an unnatural keening wail, like a wounded animal-- like the ghost of a wounded animal. His eyes turned heavenward, and he tore at his own flesh with his nails as that unspeakable noise poured forth from his throat, a reproach to heaven-- and to himself.

Eventually words, a whisper.

“It’s my fault,” came that voice, sounding very far away, filled with anguish and revulsion at what he had done.

“He would have heard anyway,” said Glory gently, “it’s better for all of us that you told, there might have been questions if Viss’s-- sorry Tiahaar Lianvis’s– hara hadn’t been among the first to report it.”

“If Vashti’d only listened,” I said softly, closing my eyes for a moment. Glory nodded.

“I hated the fucker, but--” his mouth twisted grimly, “well, he was young and stupid, and it couldn’t be helped, I suppose. Wish it didn’t have to be Sethra, though. He didn’t do anything to deserve this.”

My own guilt, the fool’s error in wording that had rendered my spell useless, felt as if it were burning me, and yet I could say nothing. It was to admit to too many sorts of treason, to air too much of the Archon’s dirty laundry.

“But I did it,” said Veta, thumping his chest, “I don’t-- I can’t–”

He shut his eyes. I understood perfectly. The world of dirty politics, of compromises and “lesser evils” that weren’t really wasn’t for him. Veta had just realized where exactly he lived.

PONCLAST

The door swung open, and Ponclast strode in. His appearance was impeccable as always, but though he appeared in no way sweaty, rumpled or disheveled, he reeked of sex. There was a strange expression in his eyes, a vacancy. Ignoring the soumes, he strode to Lianvis’s liquor cabinet and mechanically poured himself a drink.

The soumes looked at each other, their faces guilty and fearful. They could not conceal the fact that they had just been speaking of him, but the archon’s empty gaze passed over them the same way it passed over the furniture, the same way it passed over everything. It had often been whispered that Ponclast’s body housed no soul, and anyhar who saw him then would have been convinced of those rumors. He was out of place in the fussy, feminine room. He loomed like a brutalist obelisk beside the beaded lampshades and the frilled throw pillows and the lace curtains and the fresh cut flowers. Although he did not look at Lianvis, none but Lianvis could’ve drawn him here, where he was not at ease and did not belong.

He did not tell the attendants that they were dismissed. He did not need to. His presence was enough.

As the soumes gathered up their novels and embroidery samplers and made their way to the exit, one paused at the door. His dainty fists were clenched and his lower lip was trembling.

“Lordra,” he said in a small voice, “I think you have been very cruel.”

Ponclast looked at him as if one of the Tiffany lamps or velvet poufs had spoken. His surprise was muted and dreamy, for such a thing could only have happened in a dream. He did not reply.

The soume, seeming to remember himself, covered his mouth with his hands and fled the room. His companions followed. Ponclast and Lianvis were left alone.

LIANVIS

I looked at him, my Lordra, after Veta’s hurried exit. How could I still want him? Did I still? Even now? He had brought back my capacity to love, and love him I did, but the har I had been could not love, and the har I was then should not by rights have loved him . I would have his son. I was with pearl and had until just a few moments ago been so happy. I turned my gaze towards my mirror and caught sight of a reflection of Lavaine’s pale face there for a moment, and the words faint as frost tracery he lives.

The place was bad for me. I was not going to let it drive me mad again.

“Lianvis.” He spoke abruptly, his voice deep and passionate. I turned and found him looking at me, his arms held out for me to come to them. But before I could, he dropped them to his sides again, as if ashamed he had ever reached for an embrace. The gesture broke my heart, and any introspection vanished. I went to him.

“Lordra,” I replied, kneeling at his feet. If my abasement could ease his shame, I would offer it gladly.

“I’ve just come from the hostling’s quarters. I’ve knocked up Vashti’s little whore,” he said flatly. I hated how much hearing it made me want to weep.

“I see, Lordra,” I murmured.

Tense silence reigned for long moments, punctuated only by the ticking clock. Then:

“I feel filthy,” he said, with sudden venom. “Like a rutting animal. Breeding these fertile specimens Vashti brings me… so sordid. It disgusts me– especially after what we had, last night.”

His eyes met mine. The expression in them was so unlike him, so unlike anything I’d ever seen in Ponclast’s eyes. The way he spoke-- it reminded me of Jarad.

I offered my hand, as tentatively as reaching out to touch a wild animal and he took it, squeezed it in his own leather-gloved grip.

“Will you bathe me?” the words took me by surprise– a request, not an order. “I need to wash that other har away. I want you to be the one to do it, Viss.”

I was almost unsure how to answer when he asked that way.

“Where?” I asked, because it seemed like a better answer than just yes, or ‘yes, Lordra,’ as if it had been an order.

He looked around himself and let out a short laugh, as if he had only just now recollected his surroundings. His lip curled with scornful amusement at the doilies, the tiffany lamps, the velvet poufs, the delicate bone china. “Perhaps not here,” he conceded. “Follow me.”

He led me to the secret door to the passage that connected our suites. I feigned surprise, and followed him down the narrow stair to his chambers.

In his bathroom, I ran water into that colossal tub. I considered possible additives, and settled on bath oil scented with labdanum and tobacco. I undressed him with all the tenderness I dared, and watched as he stepped into the ritual bath I had prepared for him. With candles lit, I tended to his needs, washing away the memory of his cruelty.

As I poured water over his hair from a black stone pitcher, he murmured, “Are you thinking of holding my head under, Viss? I wouldn’t entirely blame you.”

“How could I, Lordra?” I said, and referring to both my physical capacity to do so and any possibility of such a desire on my part.

He responded only to the first. “Of course you couldn’t, you aren’t strong enough. But you must want to. I am a faithless har.”

“No, Lordra. You are the father of the pearl inside me, bonded to me in blood--” I paused before allowing myself to be bold “and the only thing that gives my world any meaning, for me the earth turns on your axis. I trust in your--” and again I paused, “feeling for me. You do what you must for the good of Varr.”

He didn’t answer, merely closed his eyes and tilted back his head, offering me his lips. I leaned in and kissed him on the mouth that spoke my world into being. The mouth of a liar, a monster, a martyr, the mouth that belonged to the only har I have ever loved.

I wanted him to pull me in with him. If I had not been the vessel for his son I think part of me might have wished he would hold my head under, for even then part of me knew what was coming.

PONCLAST

He suffered Lianvis to wash him, to dry him, to rub lotion onto his skin, to lead him to his bed, to massage his sore shoulders, and eventually, to fellate him until he fell asleep. Unconscious, he could not send Viss away, and so his consort cuddled beside him in the big, cold, four-poster bed.

The Archon’s repose was unsettled. He thrashed in his sleep, and at one point shouted wordlessly, a bellowed syllable of inarticulable fury. Lianvis slept little, but held him for long hours, his eyes open and watchful. He stared up at the canopy above them, onto which images of Ponclast’s nightmares were projected, psychic bleed. Dark birds wheeled above, now and then diving down towards them in a flurry of insubstantial wings and claws.

Shortly before dawn, Lianvis finally managed to fall asleep. Just after that, Ponclast awoke. He rose silently from the bed, dressed in his customary regalia, and called for his breakfast as usual, which he consumed while reviewing the morning’s reports and correspondence. This done, he came back into the bedroom, leaned over Lianvis, and kissed him awake with the taste of bitter dark coffee still on his lips. His consort’s eyes fluttered open and blinked up at him blearily.

“Viss, I am leaving again today. I am bound for Mingo again.”

Lianvis let out a little moan and reached up, clinging to his arm. “Lordra, please,” he mumbled. “Stay with me.”

Sleepiness had made him bold. Usually he would have said ‘Yes, Lordra’ and that would have been all. Ponclast smiled grimly, and kissed him again, this time on the brow.

“I can’t, my rose,” he said, his voice strangely soft. “I have a thirst for bloodshed and an anger in my heart. Until they are satisfied, I won’t be fit for gentle company.”

Lianvis’s slim, manicured fingers contracted, clawing at the leather tunic, then released. “Yes, Lordra,” he murmured sadly.

Ponclast’s pale lips brushed his one final time, and then, like a ghost, his lover was gone.

TERZIAN

At first, I did not understand the forest. But that did not prevent the forest from understanding me.

This forest knows all things. This forest reveals all truths. This forest holds all of our nightmares and all of our memories, and it showed them to us.

It did not immediately betray its true nature. It waited. It bided its time. It allowed us first to be dampened by its mists, scratched by its brambles, bruised by its tangled roots over which we were obliged to lay our bedrolls at night. It gave us a few days to grow disoriented in its darkness, to exhaust ourselves trying to hack our way through its thickets.

I do not know if I was the first to notice. Most likely I was not. I am strong, after all. Probably others were more vulnerable. Maybe some of them wanted to tell me, but did not dare. So I was first alerted by the sickening squish and crunch beneath my boot that let me know I had put my heel through something less yielding than twigs and leaves. When I looked down at the mass of crushed organic matter, pulpy pink and gray with shards of bone, I didn’t understand at first what I was seeing until I noticed a tiny plump arm sticking out from under my boot twisted at an odd angle. I had crushed a harling.

I did not manage to stifle my scream, but that did not matter because everyhar around me was suddenly screaming, realizing at the same time as I had that beneath our feet, half-buried in the leaves and brush, were hundreds or thousands of tiny corpses.

After fifteen or twenty minutes of wailing and retching and sobbing and shuddering panicked guilt-ridden horror, we realized that what we had taken for little skulls were mere pine cones, tiny limbs again became pale mushrooms, and the bones that had snapped like twigs revealed that they had in fact been twigs all along. Still, we never recovered from that sight. We did not have time to recover, because the forest had so much more to show us.

The madness began then. It had no end.

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GermsBurn on Chapter 1 Sat 07 May 2022 05:37AM UTC

Just delightful.

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1. Jarad on Chapter 1 Sat 07 May 2022 06:01AM UTC
  
  <3
  
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floatingbuildings on Chapter 1 Sat 07 May 2022 05:58PM UTC

Y'all went all out on the gothic visuals and atmosphere, gorgeous, bizarre, unsettling... PERFECT. I love the juxtaposition of soldiers and harlings. Like there's this undercurrent that Vashti knew that these harlings are going to end up as hostlings or soldiers, nothing else, and it's tragic.
To you, Vashti, and to the charms and carnal talents of your exquisite son.
Fuuuuuuck yoooooou, Terzian, omg. He's as needling as any soume-har, isn't it? ...Oh good Ponclast is on to him. What a time to be Ponclast, with nearly everything going his way, nearing the summit of his power, but I still get the sense he's viscerally, desperately unhappy, and then so soon it's all downhill.
Ugh, I adore Vashti (and Sashtri ex machina, lol), and I feel sorry for Viss, and political machinations and couplings (Vashti and Terzian WHAT, I get it but I don't have to like it okay) are so intriguing... You guys. Just know that I'm screaming and I love it and I'm getting these great lush 60s Roger Corman gothic and 70s Dracula film vibes (but darker) and it is sustaining me. <3

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1. Jarad on Chapter 1 Sat 07 May 2022 07:12PM UTC
  
  I'm so delighted to read this comment. Sounds like we're getting exactly what we're going for.
  
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2. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 1 Sat 07 May 2022 08:02PM UTC
  
  It's so much fun to write, and yeah exactly what we're going for. It needs a cover with Viss in a white nightgown fleeing from the tower in the middle of the night.
  
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shootertron on Chapter 1 Sun 04 Sep 2022 11:23PM UTC

I saw the tags on this (specifically "bodice-ripper") and knew I had to read it.
I haven't read the Wraeththu books. Still, I was beguiled by the mix of cruelty and Gothic splendor of the setting. The court drama and polygamy!
Even as a race of hermaphrodites, the Wraeththu reproduce certain human hierarchies, it seems.

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1. Jarad on Chapter 1 Mon 05 Sep 2022 12:41AM UTC
  
  Thanks for reading! The reproduction of human gender hierarchies is actually unique to the Varr tribe of Wraeththu, which is obviously the setting of this story.
  
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2. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 1 Mon 05 Sep 2022 01:19AM UTC
  
  Yup!
  . Well not all of them, but yeah Varr is a special kind of messy.
  
  Last Edited Mon 05 Sep 2022 01:20AM UTC
  
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MalViveur on Chapter 1 Fri 21 Oct 2022 09:35PM UTC

"I was in pretty horrible shape. In fact I was on my way to a sanatorium to convalesce when a native scout told me a curious story. Man eats the flesh of another, he takes the other man's strength, absorbs his spirit. Well. Naturally I just had to try. Consequently I ate the scout first and you know he was absolutely right." - Ives, Ravenous, 1999
I read on in utter fascination and some exquisite horror, at the Dead Doves that we do not eat, of Chapter 1. Admittedly, I am impatient because I have not finished the books yet but, I got the *ding* in my email about a chapter 17 of the tower; I could no longer help myself, I had to peel back the cover and look beneath; if only for, pardon the choice of words, just a savory taste! I feel a pang of sympathy for Terzian, having been a somewhat similar position a decade ago; minus the cannibalism. Oh but that desire, that fiendish, undying loyalty that makes one feel like they should be the true inheritor of what they feel to be their sadistic lover's affections and, save no one but their Primary partner.
Well, needless to say, I am consuming pages of this story, very slowly; so as not to possibly ruin my appetite for the other books, that these pages weave in and out of. I don't feel like I've ruined my perception of the stories to come, which is a bit of a fear, when I read ahead of canon into illustrious fic. ♥

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1. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 1 Fri 21 Oct 2022 11:23PM UTC
  
  Awww thank you! I like to think our work plays well with canon, and like... although you get a sense of some stuff that will happen in one from the other, that there's a sort of like... each perspective is interesting enough to make them... improve rather than spoil one another. Or at least that's the hope.
  
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floatingbuildings on Chapter 2 Sat 07 May 2022 10:21PM UTC

I'm weak for massive fireplaces.
the sort of place a teenage boy who's listened to a lot of Cannibal Corpse would dream up as a fantasy of power
Noooo, huh-uh, teenaged Jarad whomst? XD Given his budget and might now, well, what a perfect home, Gothic fascist, as in Visigoths.
Oh no Viss is already weakening, I had made a mistake in coming here, poor Viss. :(
(Btw you'd mentioned a playlist for this? What do you imagine here?)
I can definitely see where your writing Terzian's POV would be fun and interesting, his lust for Ponclast.
The dynamics between these three are so vicious.
OHHHH did you have an image in mind for the wedding dress??
Fulminir as a living thing with a "black heart" is such a...it's so right, it breathes malevolence like any good citadel ought to.
...A CHAPEL, I screamed, I knew it!!! I love it.
I'M SORRY, A BLOOD BOND?!
X_X I'm dead. It's perfect.
He destroyed my temple when I lifted him to the heights of power in it, and he destroyed me in his temple when he raised or lowered me to… this.
its stone had once been a piece of my temple.
i_i I love Viss so much.
Oh fuck, A PEARL?! I can't. I cannot. I'm sobbing. It's literally everything I ever wanted, a Ponclast and Lianvis pearl. (Also like what the FUCK is Ponclast going to do to that pearl, but that's for later to worry about.) I love Lianvis's reaction.
Y'all are killing me. <3

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1. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 2 Sun 08 May 2022 02:57AM UTC
  
  Sort of something like one of these
  https://www.berta.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/BG6I2153-1.jpg
  https://www.berta.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/BG6I7452.jpg
  https://www.berta.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/BG6I4342-1.jpg
  https://www.berta.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/BG6I4638-1.jpg
  
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GermsBurn on Chapter 2 Sun 08 May 2022 05:22AM UTC

Yes, very good.

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shootertron on Chapter 2 Mon 05 Sep 2022 01:23AM UTC

That was some hot wedding sex. Ponclast is an asshole I love it.

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1. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 2 Mon 05 Sep 2022 01:24AM UTC
  
  He really is and that's why we love him!
  
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2. Jarad on Chapter 2 Mon 05 Sep 2022 01:40AM UTC
  
  And thus so much fun to write
  
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MalViveur on Chapter 2 Mon 02 Jan 2023 01:41AM UTC

I'm glad I waited to read this. I still have a ways to go in the canonical stories, taking my time but, now I believe I can catch up in the Archives without spoiling my appetite ♥

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floatingbuildings on Chapter 3 Wed 11 May 2022 12:03AM UTC

I’d force that tight frigid ‘lam of his wide open, and I’d make him like it. I’d keep him squeezing out my pearls.
Can you imagine if Terzian were still around during Gebaddon? Ponclast would still push him around but Terzian might get his wish. He's a bit pitiful, isn't he? Not something I'd really thought of him as till after the Gelaming were through with him.
because it wouldn’t be aruna with Ponclast without some degradation
XD
Veta and Glory chattering are so cute.
For a moment I had the unsettling impression though that the face in the glass was not my own.
VIBES.
...How did I forget about Violet being there at the same time? He'd be awfully young.
Fucking Azvith! I'd forgotten about him too. I confess my heart skipped for a second thinking Azvith + Lianvis with pearl = oh shit.
...Omg!!! Gavensel. ...Oh dear, this is barrelling like a freight train in the direction I don't want. 😭 Protect your harling, Viss!
I had the awful sense of something moving within. I turned and fled back down the hall and up towards the hall with the meeting room. I opened a door at random and went through, it was a disused sitting room, filled with the ghostly shapes of furniture draped in dust covers.
AHHHHH VIBES. It's like just when I get comfortable there's a sharp reminder, oh hey, you're in a stone and marble hell on earth that's probably alive in some way!
...Ahhhh I love all these Machiavellian machinations, Viss and Terzian actually sort of kind of holding a serious conversation and coming to an understanding, at least as far as Terzian is concerned, while Ponclast is off doing terrible things with Vashti alongside? Yessss.

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1. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 3 Wed 11 May 2022 12:06AM UTC
  
  I'm so glad you like it! I'm really enjoying the insane vibes we have going on right now. Also like Glory and Veta are so much fun to write. Fulminir is also SUCH a fun setting because you can make it fucking insane.
  
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2. Jarad on Chapter 3 Wed 11 May 2022 12:10AM UTC
  
  Yeah, I realized that this is concurrent with Violet, since I imagined that first scene where Ponclast meets Violet as happening once Ponclast gets back from the desert. Violet would be a few months old. We did math on traveling from Viss's desert to Fulminir on horseback (based on where in the U.S. we think those locations were supposed to be) and it's like a two month trip. Harlings grow fast!
  
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GermsBurn on Chapter 3 Wed 11 May 2022 06:33AM UTC

Ugh, I am dying! When does the other shoe drop?

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1. Jarad on Chapter 3 Wed 11 May 2022 02:22PM UTC
  
  Don’t you mean
  The other
  Boot?
  
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2. 1. GermsBurn on Chapter 3 Wed 11 May 2022 09:17PM UTC
    
    And once again, you've fallen into the trap I cleverly laid.
    
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  2. 1. Jarad on Chapter 3 Wed 11 May 2022 09:24PM UTC
      
      Curses! You must be an agent of the Gelaming.
      
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shootertron on Chapter 3 Mon 05 Sep 2022 05:54AM UTC

Lianvis drawing his hubby dreamily...and also wanting to drink and smoke while pregnant, lol.

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1. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 3 Mon 05 Sep 2022 10:25AM UTC
  
  Hara are... weirdly immune to poisons (mostly) it's one of their weird things
  
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2. 1. shootertron on Chapter 3 Mon 05 Sep 2022 06:37PM UTC
    
    ...just like Space Marines.
    
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  2. 1. Jarad on Chapter 3 Mon 05 Sep 2022 06:55PM UTC
      
      One must accept, in reading Wraeththu, that hara are Mary-Sued up to 11 and super OP.
      ...But when EVERYONE is super OP, ultimately no one is super OP, I guess...
      (except Thiede and Pellaz but you'll find that out if you read the books)
      
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    2. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 3 Mon 05 Sep 2022 08:22PM UTC
      
      sexy, sexy space marines... who lay eggs
      
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    3. 1. shootertron on Chapter 3 Mon 05 Sep 2022 09:02PM UTC
        
        There's actually fic of that.
        
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      2. Jarad on Chapter 3 Mon 05 Sep 2022 10:36PM UTC
        
        I’m sure lol
        
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MalViveur on Chapter 3 Mon 02 Jan 2023 03:27AM UTC

On to the next chapter, I have a lot of catching up to do!

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floatingbuildings on Chapter 4 Sat 14 May 2022 06:58AM UTC

“Twins?” Ponclast asked idly.
Ok Mengele settle down. XD
~~Nothing less than what happened can satisfy you ever again.~~
!!!!!!!!
The bodice was utterly encrusted with ... diamonds ... The dress was a shade of dusty rose with a corseted waist and full draping sheer sleeves. The full flowing skirts, made of layers of that same gauzy material,
PERFECTION. Pearl jewelry has got to be fetishistic among lots of hara.
Please him well, gilded serpent, came a voice in my ear. I started and turned but found no one there. Some spirit then? I extended my senses, feeling in the ethers for some trace of it, but it had gone. A shiver ran down my spine, though it shouldn’t have. Of course Fulminir was a haunted place, and ghosts should hold no terror for me, adept that I was.
I swear I get too "comfortable" and then suddenly like a jumpscare I'm reminded everything is haunted.
I've said it before but Creed intrigues me!
Terzian going south soon... :( I hate Terzian very, very, very much, but the fact that Cobweb and Cal care about him is painful, and it's utterly rotten what's done to him by the Gelaming.
propaganda turned into pornography. Perhaps with Varr the two were one and the same.
Well said, and c'mon Viss, you knew that.
Grissecon, Lordra?
Though Ponclast’s expression was bestial, and he seemed somehow beyond human speech, the psychic reply was cold and clear.
Send out your mind. Find the ships of the Gelaming. Tonight, we fire the first shot.
Asdfghjkl; I hate falling for their insane shit but POV is a helluva drug. But do they seriously think it's going to be that easy? Just the two of them?
– and I found myself repelled, hurled back into my body, coming back gasping and coughing up blood beneath him.
WELP. Idk what to think with Viss sometimes. He's brilliant and cruel and powerful and knows so much more than he lets on but then he just...is happily cut and bound in Ponclast's bed and what's he playing at? Does he even know? Does Ponclast? Sigh.
What do think the lifespan of the average Varr therapist is, lol?

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1. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 4 Sat 14 May 2022 09:56AM UTC
  
  Yeah, what happens to him with the Gelaming is fucked, but also I think sort of inevitable, I think it's kind of a metaphor for how fully consumed by Varrish ideology he is. Like Ponclast doesn't fully buy into his own bullshit. He kind of knows he's evil and so can cope with the moral reckoning that comes with a redemption ark. Terzian on the other hand, despite always having been a little sycophant, I don't think ever fully developed a moral compass, and Varr kept him in this state of arrested development, and he sort of knows that if he ever allowed himself to really self examine he would die.
  I think that's one of the reasons why he's so scared of Cobweb, because one of Cobweb's abilities is to force hara to self examine (like he does to Cal). I feel like what Cal feels for Terzian is mostly a really twisted kind of pity.
  I think Viss is pretty thoroughly headfucked by Ponclast by now, and Ponclast... well he's always been a little nuts and I think he really really lost the plot a little in the desert.
  I don't think they have therapists, I think they just take whatever their issues are to war with them.
  
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2. 1. Jarad on Chapter 4 Sat 14 May 2022 07:33PM UTC
    
    Yeah therapy is for sissies. Varrs just kill things.
    Fascism kinda stops works if men/ouanas address their underlying psychological issues at all. At least that's my opinion, but I do read way too much psychoanalytic theory about fascism.
    
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3. Jarad on Chapter 4 Sat 14 May 2022 07:34PM UTC
  
  You know what I hate about the twins moment?
  I was fully immersed in the story world and forget about the real-world reference until just after I typed it.
  Then I literally yelled "OK MENGELE" at the top of my lungs, and Madeira was like "what?!"
  Decided to leave it in because it does have an internal story world logic that prevents it from just feeling like a gratuitous call back to real atrocities with no justification.
  
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4. 1. floatingbuildings on Chapter 4 Sat 14 May 2022 09:16PM UTC
    
    No no, definitely makes sense in regards to the story, it took me another sentence to be like... wait... what does this remind me of... I just thought it was an intentional reference that fit the experiment (I doubt I catch a fraction of all the references tbh).
    
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  2. 1. Jarad on Chapter 4 Sat 14 May 2022 09:31PM UTC
      
      Honestly most of my references to real world fascism kinda happen this way, or else happen because they exist already in the canon. (By the way, actual fascists have done more cannibalism than you would expect. Not as much as Varrs but uh, they've still done it. Especially the Japanese fascists, but also the Germans apparently. It's very freaky. I wonder if Storm even knew that or if she was just riffing on exploitation movie stereotypes.)
      
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    2. 1. floatingbuildings on Chapter 4 Sun 15 May 2022 02:57AM UTC
        
        Vaguely related have you ever seen Dans ma peau? It's kind of lovely and haunting in an autocannibalistic way.
        
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GermsBurn on Chapter 4 Sun 15 May 2022 05:18AM UTC

And the plot thickens. And is also mixed with just so much blood.

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1. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 4 Sun 15 May 2022 05:34AM UTC
  
  Always more blood!
  
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2. 1. Jarad on Chapter 4 Sun 15 May 2022 07:38AM UTC
    
    MORE
    
    BLOOD
    
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shootertron on Chapter 4 Tue 06 Sep 2022 05:20AM UTC

Lianvis sure loves being slapped around. Mmm, scantily clad in a corset and a halo headdress.

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1. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 4 Tue 06 Sep 2022 05:21AM UTC
  
  He certainly does, because he is messy (also if you read the Willing Sabine and Dreamers of the Day, it's some background and more of the same)
  
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MalViveur on Chapter 4 Mon 02 Jan 2023 04:23AM UTC

ah Terzian, Mr: "ass up face down" and die at Ponclast's command while taking it up the 3rd Sikh but, balks when threatened with a Occult Education; Cobweb would snicker in secret pleasure ♥

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1. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 4 Sat 14 Jan 2023 11:01PM UTC
  
  Hehe, I do love that
  
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GermsBurn on Chapter 5 Tue 17 May 2022 06:53AM UTC

Great, but I find it inconvenient that I can't use emoji here.

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1. Jarad on Chapter 5 Tue 17 May 2022 07:51AM UTC
  
  (>")>
  
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shootertron on Chapter 5 Thu 08 Sep 2022 06:31AM UTC

1. Oooh, I wonder what this dream means for the unborn child...
2. Harsh punishment for those two soldiers, even if they were jerks.
3. Terzian thinking drugs are for "degenerates" when he's the one engaging in extreme BDSM, lol. This scene was very hot. "I was all cunt." mmm
4. Of course he loves tasting pee. Coffee-tinted pee.
5. Very sexy of them to have a sex ritual to boost troop morale.
6. Fucking two soldiers to death to cast a protective spell around the castle, oh my.

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1. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 5 Thu 08 Sep 2022 06:54AM UTC
  
  Thank you!
  
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2. Jarad on Chapter 5 Thu 08 Sep 2022 07:28PM UTC
  
  1. ;-)
  2. That's Fulminir for ya.
  3. Terzian's a fascist bitchboy, of course he's fully unconscious of his own hypocrisy.
  4. Terzian has pretty much every kink lol.
  5. Ah, yes, welcome to Wraeththu, where every problem is solved with sex magic. In canon as well as in fic.
  6. See above.
  
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MalViveur on Chapter 5 Thu 19 Jan 2023 07:29AM UTC

I thought that the use of Semenawa to be very apopros, it's one of those things that forces the mind and body in on itself, pure focus; creates total, persistent suffering, even long after the rope is removed, it leaves the recipient pliant and exhausted.
Combining this with Grissecon? Savagery! Given Ponclast's past proclivities, this comes as no surprise (anymore) to me.
I wonder though, since illicit drugs for Har have to be vastly different from hume origin, if the powder Ponclast is snorting isn't from the crushed pearls of his enemies. I can see it, very easily, deriving power from denying his underlings and enemies offspring and using them as a performance enhancing Grissecon drug. It's not far from his persona at all.
As for the more extreme elements of BDSM, we're all degenerates of varying degrees here, else, why would we be here reading of his Majesty's exploits, in and out of Terzian and Lianvis ;-)

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1. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 5 Thu 19 Jan 2023 09:27AM UTC
  
  Hehe, glad you're enjoying, and yes... I do very much enjoy his various bondage activities.
  
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2. Jarad on Chapter 5 Thu 19 Jan 2023 09:51PM UTC
  
  I like the crushed pearls drug idea! However what we went with is the idea that this meth/coke-like drug known as Silver Ice is Uigenna in origin, and since Uigenna haven't worked out pearl-making anywhere near as well as Varr, it's probably not that. That said, it would be fun to think more about wtf IS in it...
  
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GermsBurn on Chapter 6 Thu 19 May 2022 08:05PM UTC

So much for solidarity forever, Viss!

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1. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 6 Fri 20 May 2022 04:57AM UTC
  
  He's *trying* to convince Ponclast it's too much trouble
  
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2. 1. Jarad on Chapter 6 Fri 20 May 2022 04:47PM UTC
    
    While accidentally making Ponclast a better Union buster
    
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  2. 1. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 6 Fri 20 May 2022 04:56PM UTC
      
      Lianvis: Do not fight west Virginia coal miners, you will not win
      Ponclast: but like tell me more about them
      Lianvis: Do not fight west Virginia coal miners, you will not win. Especially during war time.
      
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    2. 1. Jarad on Chapter 6 Fri 20 May 2022 04:57PM UTC
        
        Ponclast: They’re just MINERS how bad can it be
        
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      2. Lianvis (Madeira_Darling) on Chapter 6 Fri 20 May 2022 04:59PM UTC
        
        Lianvis: Sure, just open up a second front with the Appalachian folk magicians with a twisting maze of underground tunnels that they know the layout of and you don't who also have a knowledge of high explosives. Great plan.
        
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        GermsBurn on Chapter 6 Fri 27 May 2022 06:12PM UTC
        
        How did I miss this discourse. Anyway, time for a Pride (2014) AU, I guess.
        
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        Jarad on Chapter 6 Sat 28 May 2022 05:29PM UTC
        
        Lol!
        
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