folded and his expression that of contemplation. He did not know what Ulaume planned to do and Ulaume did not intend to enlighten him, because part of the reason for his incandescent fury was that Lianvis had a soft spot for the loathsome Pellaz, even though he wouldn’t admit it. It was this softness that had inspired Lianvis to upbraid Ulaume for his behaviour after Pellaz had left the Kakkahaar camp. Ulaume hadn’t intended to attack Pellaz physically. He’d had seduction in mind: seduction in the manner he most enjoyed, which invariably involved some kind of struggle for power. Pellaz had not been interested. He’d revealed his contempt, so what other choice had Ulaume had other than to lash out? His hair often had a mind of its own. With hindsight, Ulaume realised it might have been better not to have allowed it to try and strangle Pellaz. Afterwards, Pellaz must have whined to Lianvis about the incident, because the Kakkahaar leader had punished Ulaume: first with scorn, then with silence. It had been weeks before Ulaume had won back Lianvis’ favour.
Now, the need for secrecy interfered somewhat with Ulaume’s desire for everyhar to know what could happen to those who crossed him, but he would work out the details of how to spread the news later. Events were still too raw to be addressed with Lianvis now. Pellaz had been gone for less than a year.
Perhaps Lianvis was now thinking of Pellaz too. He might be remembering the jet black hair, the jet black fire of condemnation and virtue that could shoot from Pellaz’s eyes. He had despised the Kakkahaar, full of judgement and morality. Stupid, misguided and outdated human notions. Fear hid inside it all. No true Wraeththu, he. Lianvis must not think of him. No, as a leader, he must be considering other things: his own power, how to increase it. Fair Lianvis. Fair and wicked king. His hair was the colour of honey made by bees that feasted on poisonous flowers and was braided into three plaits, each of four sections of hair. Two hung over his breast to his waist, the other trailed like a serpent down his back. His face was like that of an Ancient Egyptian pharaoh. His pale robe was embroidered with a grimoire of arcane symbols. By any standards, he looked like a divine sovereign and knew how to behave like one. Ulaume prowled to his side and laid a hand on Lianvis’ shoulder. Lianvis started in surprise, then smiled. ‘You fold out of the darkness,’ he said.
‘Or into it,’ Ulaume said.
Lianvis took hold of Ulaume’s hand and kissed it. ‘Work well tonight. I’ve a feeling we have need of it.’
‘You look thoughtful. What worries you?’ Ulaume supposed that Lianvis’ sharp sensitive mind might well be picking up on his own intention. He must allay such suspicions.
‘I am unsure,’ Lianvis said, frowning slightly. ‘There is a flex to the air tonight. A strange feeling. Can’t you sense it?’
Ulaume could sense nothing but his own desire, which was strong enough to eclipse all other sensations, and smelled strongly of smoke and blood. It filled his entire being. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine why you should feel like this.’
Lianvis gave him a considered glance, because it was rare he could feel something Ulaume could not. ‘Then perhaps I am wrong,’ he said, in a somewhat dry tone.
‘Perhaps you sense what is to come,’ Ulaume purred. ‘Perhaps we shall conjure something tonight beyond our imaginations.’
Lianvis laughed. ‘I am not sure I would like to confront something beyond my imagination – or yours, for that matter. But for that reason, it is an idea to cherish.’
Hara were gathering thickly around the fire now, which had begun to reach for the stars with more intensity, fed by tinder and intention. The high cabal of tribe shamans was already circling the flames. They dragged carved staffs through the dusty sand, marking an area of sanctity. Ulaume’s arrival at the site had signalled the ceremony must begin.
Lianvis judged the moment and stepped away from Ulaume. He raised his arms and immediately everyhar became silent and still. For some moments, he appeared to bask in the hellish light of the fire, his eyes closed. Ulaume stood like a statue behind him, the hood of his cloak shadowing his face.
‘Hubisag!’ Lianvis called in a hollow, chilling voice. ‘We call to you, Father of Eternity, Lord of Iniquity, whose stride spans the abyss. We call to you. We conjure and